The urge to gasp was so strong, burning his lungs, causing each of his nerve endings to explode, setting his entire body on fire.
The darkness surrounding him earlier had turned into a thick grey fog, his numb limbs suddenly shaking, thrusting against the monster inside that made everything hurt.
He had to have been shot; that was the only logical explanation.
He got shot and his lungs were filling with blood, effectively suffocating him.
It was the only thing that explained his inability to breathe, along with the strange tastes and smells he had never experienced before, and yet were found everywhere now.
His body thrust again, his chest heaving, the wheezing noise straining his entire body so much he feared the return of unconsciousness.
Why was it taking so long to die?
People usually died a lot faster after being shot in the lungs. Had he only been grazed, the blood filling his capillaries agonizingly slow? But why was he feeling like he was throwing up blood, the warm liquid running down the side of his face and neck?
Something rammed his chest, creating sparks in the gray curtain that was his limited awareness, the pain shooting to his heart, and from there, to the rest of his body, his shoulder blades screaming in protest.
The motion brought on another wave of fire, more blood making its way up his throat, threatening to choke him.
Somebody wanted to make sure he was dead. That must be it. Probably some guy in a back alley, beating a downed victim to death while they bled out.
Great.
He couldn't move, his sluggish mind unable to put the random thoughts flooding his conscience back together in a way that made sense.
Breathing.
It was all that mattered right now. He had to breathe, but it had been a monumental effort to say the least, causing him to throw up more and more blood, his throat burning, his ribs straining each time he was heaving.
Suddenly he was pushed over on his side, nearly rolling flat on his face if it hadn't been for a hand grasping his arm tightly.
What was that? Was the silent assailant ready to slash his carotids, finish him off, the coup de grace, as if he wasn't already a sight for sore eyes in his current state?
More liquid made its way up his throat, slowly, painfully, singing his nerve endings along the way.
Steve gasped, the effort becoming more and more strenuous as he continued to fight whatever was killing him.
This was ludicrous. People didn't die that slowly, at least not from the injury he had suspected.
Then what could it possibly be?
Another wave of liquid rose up from within and he threw up more violently this time, feeling the burning juices escape his lips and end up on the ground he was lying on.
This time however, he felt a change. This time he could take a deeper breath, the pain subsiding enough to allow for his body to absorb some much-needed oxygen.
For the first time since this painful episode began, he could feel his chest expanding, the frantic need to breathe easing up.
The sensation raised his curiosity and Steve repeated the motion, surprised to find most of the pain in his ribs disappearing, his lungs, though irritated, welcoming the oxygen like a long-lost friend.
"Yes…live…"
A strange voice appeared next to his face, followed by warm fingers tracing the side of his neck, then his cheek.
He could feel the rough, calloused skin against his 2-day beard stubbles, gingerly touching him as if the stranger was afraid any undue pressure could break him.
Steve took another deep breath, this time ending in a coughing spell that made some of the pain return, and along with it, the stars in front of his vision.
"Shhh…", the voice said, the hand moving from his face to his back, where it was performing soothing circles.
This wasn't Mike by his side, so what the in the world was going on?
As his body slowly recovered, allowing his mind to return to a certain level of awareness, Steve discovered that he was soaked head to toe. Shaking from the cold and shock brought on by whatever trauma caused his pain, he was lying on his side, arms sprawled out in front of him, his head bedded on something soft.
Opening his eyes would be a monumental effort, but he had to give it a try, especially now that it seemed he wasn't going to die from a gunshot wound after all.
Drawing in another deep breath and enjoying the ability to do so, he fought the grogginess for several long moments until finally, he was able to open his eyes a slit, enough to see light and vague shapes in his general vicinity.
His newfound friend must have noticed him coming to and bent down, trying to make eye contact, his smile hidden beneath an unkempt beard and dirty teeth.
Wait a minute.
Wait just one minute here.
The realization hit him faster than his body could react to his mind's order to stay put. Instead, he scrambled into a crouched position, startling Carl enough that he jumped to his feet and retreated away from him.
Mike.
He had to save Mike.
The world began to turn the instant he got up, making him unsteady even when he got on his hands and knees, trying to speed up the process of returning to the world of the living. But instead, he crashed and burned, muscles wobbly, landing hard on his right shoulder like a wild animal fighting the effects of a sedation dart.
The pain in his chest returned with a vengeance, his lungs hurting, his back unwilling to move, but he forced himself to get up again, returning to the semi-safe position of being on his knees and forearms first, then slowly got his hands underneath him.
His cold, soggy clothes stuck to his body, chilling his stiff muscles even more.
Somebody had loosened his tie and unbuttoned his dress shirt halfway down his chest. What pale skin he could see was covered in a fine layer of brown silt and pieces of watercress and algae.
"Sit…"
It wasn't a command as much as it was a request and he could see Carl come closer again, his brown eyes scanning him worriedly.
"Can't…", Steve gasped in return, his chest hurting at the sheer effort of saying one word, the corners of his vision slowly closing in on him.
For quite a while he remained in his spot, staring at his outstretched arms, his dirty, waterlogged clothes, listening to the raspy sounds of his lungs trying to function.
He had to find Mike.
The last thing he recalled was Morris's appearance from behind the tree line, the group leading them to the pond.
Then nothing.
His gun was missing as well, not a good sign at all.
By now, backup should be well on their way, heading to the park, the place of their last 10-20. And yet, with so much ground to cover, it would take quite a while to find them here, time that Mike didn't have.
Summoning all the energy he could, Steve used a nearby tree trunk for balance and carefully rose to his feet, having to close his eyes for a moment when they threatened to roll to the back of his head.
Off in the corner, Carl watched him in undisguised astonishment, hands nervously fidgeting with a twig he'd found.
"Mike.", Steve urged, not having enough oxygen to croak out more than one word per breath, "F…ind…Mike."
Carl nodded, then hesitantly approached, never letting go of his twig.
"Rest?"
"No."
Shaking his head slightly, Steve felt the dizziness return for a moment and closed his eyes again, before glancing back up and pointing toward the woods.
"Must…find…Mike…"
Those three words nearly used up all his remaining energy and he staggered forward, only to have Carl jump to his aid and wrap a strong arm around his waist, carefully steering him towards the tree line.
"No. We find Mike."