Abigail crouched, frozen to the spot with no idea what to do next.
As the noise died down, she was unaware of anything but the ringing in her ears. Her vision blurred for a moment. After a couple of blinks she could see clearly again. Too clearly.
Her father was lying there, blood draining from a bullet wound in his chest. Her vision blurred again, this time with her own tears.
“Three people have died in the last three minutes,” she said, barely able to hear her own voice. “I won’t let you be next.”
She opened her dad’s jacket and shirt before looking around for something to stem the bleeding, using only past TV shows as a reference. “The bullet hit near your shoulder. If I can keep the pressure on I’ll slow down the bleeding. You’ll be okay.”
She noticed for the first time that her father’s chest was moving up and down. At least he’s still breathing.
As the ringing in her ears started to subside, she could hear him groaning in pain. A groan of pain is better than no sound at all.
She could hear distant police sirens. “So now they show up,” she said to herself in her usual sarcastic tone.
Looking around for some sort of bandage, her attention turned to the clothing of David, the photographer. He wouldn’t be needing it anymore. She looked at him and had to resist the urge to throw up again. There wasn’t much left of his head. Blood, as well as other matter were sprayed all over the room. There was no way she was using anything of his clothing as a bandage.
She looked down at her own clothing. As she considered removing her own shirt, there was a sound behind her, discernible only because her hearing had almost returned to normal. She froze. Dead men don’t usually move.
A second later, she was grabbed from behind again.
Joshua, it seemed, had not died in his fall.