––––––––
The gas left his flesh bleached, his eyes shot with blood. Wracked with coughing fits, he lay in the hospital swaddled in blankets. Santiago, long and pale as a trench coat, watched as a nurse took his pulse.
“I could use some water,” said Bill Nichols.
Santiago shook his head. “Water will only quicken the absorption rate.”
“The absorption rate of what? What happened?” He coughed again and blood ran down the sides of his mouth. The nurse fled the room.
“Christ, Bill. I don’t know what to say.” Santiago’s voice faltered. He was a lackey, a glorified butler. He was not used to delivering bad news. He sat, gripping the folds of his pants as if he hoped his clothing could save him. “How much do you remember?”
Bill Nichols tried to think. Shattered glass. An orb. Crimson smoke.
