Lead erupts beneath her collarbone. She thinks she should scream. All she can really feel is surprise. Surprise. A party for me? You shouldn't have! Surprise. A four-leaf clover? Wow! Oops! I'm modeling a thong. Surprise!

His arm twists around her chest and twists her out of the way. Deformed streaks of white skin pucker and bulge and criss-cross and tangle when he moves. There's movement on her ass, then metal shoved into her hands. His hand tugs her wrist out the door. She can't hear a thing anymore. But she can feel her own traitorous skin take a half dozen more bullets.

Mafia hitmen are clearly better marksman than the Tekkenshu.

Blood blossoms bright. It runs slick over her breast and naked stomach. It fills the cavity below her shoulder. It smears with her arm when she moves. Or maybe they're lousy shots, too. Steve seems to be entirely unhit. The waist of her jeans is soaking with red.

She finds herself being carried in his arms now. It's a bumpy ride. You know, I'll just bleed out faster this way, she says.

"You're not going to die from superficial gunshot wounds." He doesn't look at her. Since when did he have a gun? Superficial. Gunshot. Wounds. She can't quite digest the words as a whole. She's vaguely conscious of stairs and doors and objects they pass by. Superficial. What a silly words for pain. Did that mean it was fake? Or just shallow? If she swam a little deeper, would it wait for her to resurface? Or was he lying? Would it follow her down and tear her to shreds? Maybe he was the superficial one. She's covered in blood. She sticks to herself. She's rambling. She starts listening to herself.

. . . They're not after me, she continues. Just run. I'm only slowing you down at this point. Was the outside air always this cold? Suddenly she's back on her feet. His hands are arounds her wrists, and she wonders where they are.

"Listen to me. You've been shot. I need to get you to a hospital." Gunshot. Wounds. Did his teeth hurt his words? Gunshot. Shot. Shot? She'd been shot? She'd been shot.

I've been shot, she repeats softly. Her eyes widen. His eyes hurt her, and is that her blood all over him? The gun in her hands is gooey. When did the rain stop? She screams. She feels unworthy of a place as clean as a hospital. She screams louder. She can't remember a time she wasn't screaming.

She's in his arms again. A scream fills her head, and she won't take responsibility for it. She thinks he's telling her to shut up, and she scream because she doesn't have a choice anymore. She buries her face in his chest and screams at his shirt. She screams because she's paranoid. She screams because it's obvious. Little footsteps echo inside her skull. The scary people are working her brain again.

Clearly, it's the end of the world.

She swims deeper. Her chest fills with water, her scream finally drowns, and she shreds to ribbons as her fingertips grasp for the bottom . . .