The naked edge

40

"Take it easy," Carl whispered, pulling the rag from Cavanaugh's mouth as bile rushed into his mouth. "We don't want you to choke to death. Especially when you've got the alternative of the dreaminess of bleeding to death."

Cavanaugh spit acid and gasped for air. He understood. Carl had spoken about the plastic sheet above the roof, the barrier that kept water out. But the floor was now wet, the fluid rising, and the only explanation for that was blood-from Cavanaugh's wounded side, punctured chest, and sliced back as well as from Carl's stabbed thigh and bleeding eye socket.

"Aren't we a pair?" Carl said. "Just like being in a womb. From the cradle to the grave. Drifting away. On the path to dreamland. What's the best time we ever had together. No. Don't answer that. Instead of whispering, you might scream. I'm afraid I need to gag you again."

Carl crammed the rag into Cavanaugh's mouth, then nestled against him. "Blood sure smells like copper."

But Cavanaugh couldn't smell anything. Indeed, he had trouble feeling the wet, slippery wood beneath him. His mind again swirled.

"The best time we ever had was when we went camping in Colorado and…"