The bullets hit him like a punch to the gut and buried themselves in his solar plexus. His first thought was safety, and he pushed himself back behind the concrete wall.
His second thought was the President. Was he safe? Josh looked over his shoulder, straining, but he couldn't see anything, couldn't move. People were on the ground. People were screaming. Tires were squealing against the asphalt.
He'd been shot. He'd been shot. That had happened. To him. Like in the movies! He felt laughter bubble up in his throat.
Was he bleeding? He touched his fingers to his belly and felt wetness there. He lifted them, and saw the blood. Blood. The lights shone on the deep red, shone golden and blue and blinking. He looked at his bloody hand, and the shifting shine of light, with a fascinated detachment. Then he noticed his detachment - like watching from a distance - and wondered if he was dying.
The others. Were they dying? Were they already dead? Sam, Toby, CJ... Leo. God, please tell me they got Leo in the car. Zoey. Charlie. No, they must be OK. It was too cruel, too cruel for anything to happen to kids so young. The world wouldn't be that cruel.
The President. They'd aimed for the President. He'd seen - in a brief flash before the bullets hit - the Secret Service dragging him away from the rope line. Then he was gone and Josh was bleeding.
He lifted his hands again, looking down at the wounds they were covering. Blood was pulsing out and over his shirt. And he really might be the one who was dying.
He'd never get to help the President get re-elected. He was going to die. He was going to die, and let everybody down. Let Leo down.
They'd have to find a new Deputy Chief of Staff. If only he'd known, he would have helped them find one in advance. It felt wrong to die, and leave them in the lurch. Die with a job not even half-done.
At least Donna would be able to help the new guy get up to speed.
Donna. He winced at the thought of her, or the pain, or both.
The pain. He hadn't felt it to begin with, but it had crept in with his thoughts and wrapped its black razor-blade fingers around his insides and started squeezing. It felt good to feel pain. He didn't want to die all numb. He'd rather die feeling something. Feeling pain and grief and love.
That made him think of his dad. Was a blood clot an easier way to go? Guess I'll have a chance to ask him.
It would be good to see his dad again. But it came at the cost of losing... everything. Everything that was. Everything that might have been.
The thought caught in his chest and he felt a sudden desperation. He was dying. He'd never get to say... God, he was dying and he didn't even know. Say anything. Say hello to his friends every day. Say he loved them. Tell Donna... tell Donna...
He squeezed his eyes shut because he still didn't know. Didn't know what it was he felt or thought about that woman. He'd never known what it was, in the few years he'd known her and worked with her, side by side, every day. What it was they had. What it might, one day, have become. What he felt about it. He'd never looked it in the face. And now he'd never know.
He took a deep, shuddering breath and tried to call out, to say something, anything, just make some noise, but if he gave voice to anything it was swallowed up by the sirens.
And then Toby. Toby was there. Toby was saying his name, over and over, calling to someone, and he was safe, Toby was safe, and the others, he could hear CJ, Sam, and thanked God and Toby caught him as he fell.
