"Fuck"
The bullet holes across my pickup went in a sharp, diagonal line across the windshield, as I tried not to stare at my companion, Zachary, who's brains were splattered all over the dashboard. Dammit man, that poor fucking kid. He didn't deserve it, not him.

The rounds had penetrated my body, and I could feel my blood flooding out of my abdomen at an exponential rate. The muzzle flashes, the loud pops, the lurch of the car as the shots rang out.

The shooter was dead.

I had put a .45 round straight through his cranium, causing his body to drop like a sack of flour. He was gone before the last breath escaped his lungs, and his sedan had smashed into my truck, as the momentum carried him into us. Or what was left of us.

I forced the door open, and gripped my .45 tightly, as if it could save my life. I was a dead man, and I knew it. Someone or something would find me, or I would just lose all of my blood like a broken water bottle.

As I shuffled across the open savannah, I watched the sun slowly slip to the horizon. The sky was full of vivid, beautiful colors and wisps of clouds decorated the descending day star. Ironic huh? This stunning scenery while I coughed up blood and watched my existence escape through a bullet hole in me.

I kept dragging myself along the endless field, watching the beautiful sun, the endless grass; the life, it was calling me, calling me so loudly I couldn't feel my pain. Couldn't feel the weight of the heavy pistol in my hand. Couldn't hear the pack of wild dogs running towards me. Couldn't react as they all pounced upon me and tore me apart. Couldn't feel that I was already dead