"– hold on. Stay quiet."
His brother's voice is distorted, crackling like a bad radio signal and a mild charge registers along his nerve-endings, he can feel the static crawling and fritzing along his scalp.
Cold.
God, like a deep-freeze. His body temp's dropped and it's all dark–
…
Smell returns first. A dry, gaggingly-sweet-sour odour. Old rot. Mould. Fresh blood.
Opening his eyes. Shock wars with disgust and regret at the corpses surrounding him. Fuck, no, Corbett's alive. He tenses his body, the binding digging in.
"It stops hurting."
Gleam of candlelight on a keen edge.
"So don't worry."