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Morse stared at the tiger as it stalked forward. Every instinct inside him was telling him to run or close his eyes so he wouldn’t see death coming. But he wouldn’t allow that. If it was between himself, Ms. Mortmaigne, and the child, he would make sure it was him. He didn’t have anything to lose, after all. Certainly not to live for.
Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
He could see the big cat’s muscles bunching. He blinked for only a moment, only a moment, and he was on the ground. There was screaming. Was that Julia? No, it was him. A gunshot. Did he shoot it? No. He didn’t bring one. A foolish idea.
The snarling tiger went slack and its dead weight landed fully on the constable. It took a split second until the pain registered, hot and furious.
“Morse?”
Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.
“Morse!”
He could faintly hear footsteps running towards him. “Morse! Get it off him!”
The shifting weight made him cry out. The claws buried in his stomach were ripped out as the cat was dragged off of him. Blood spurted out, quickly darkening his suit and the white shirt underneath a sickening shade of red. He was briefly blinded by the sun before it was blocked. “S’r? Is Ms. Mortmaigne…” A howl ripped its way out of his mangled throat as pressure was set against the grievous wound.
Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
“Easy, Morse. She’s fine.” Thursday’s tense voice filtered through the haze that had settled over his mind. “You’ll be fine. You have to stay awake for me, alright?”
Morse struggled to get up only to be gently pinned down by the inspector, but not before he could see the damage. There wasn’t a speck of white anymore. He had been torn from neck to hip, four parallel gouges. He knew that this wasn’t something Monica could fix, nor Dr. Debryn. He grasped at stray thoughts as everything began to blur and dim. Why had he left her? The way she smiled, the easy familiarity between them.
Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Thursday desperately tried to keep the young man awake, but could do nothing as he rapidly weakened. “Morse, stay awake! You got to stay awake!”
Bright had called the ambulance, but he feared they would come too late. “S’rry, sir…”
“You have nothing to be sorry for, son. We’ll get you patched up and you’ll be right as rain in a few days.” The confused look on the young constable’s ashen face made his heart break. He knew he was lying, but he didn't dare entertain the darker thoughts that waited in the wings.
Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Morse’s breath stuck in his throat as he struggled to draw air, blood spattering his lips. As his vision grew dark he thrusted his hand out, reaching out and grasping the hand that met his.
Unshed tears filled Thursday’s eyes as he grasped the hand that fell limp a moment later. “Morse, wake up! Morse!” His voice cracked and soon the rest of his composure crumbled with it. He gripped the bloodied hand. He wouldn’t ever let his son go alone. He wept as those brilliant blue eyes dulled and his hands stained with a red that would never come off.
And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.