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When Mark was eight years old, he broke his right arm. He fell off of his bike into a ditch and shattered his ulna into three pieces when he landed on it. At the hospital, a kindly nurse told him that this was the worst anything would ever hurt. If he could survive this pain, even if he cried the whole time, he could survive anything.
That was true for a very long time. All through his Air Force career, he never experienced a worse pain than lying in that ditch with a broken arm. Even fracturing his ankle during basic training wasn’t as bad as that.
Until right now.
Getting shot in the back wasn’t that bad. It hurt, sure, but he could still walk with some assistance. Leaning on Lee, then Brenda, hobbling along. No one has to carry him like his dad did all those years ago.
He hopes the kids don’t see him like this. It’ll scare them, especially Duck. Clem is a much tougher kid. Sometimes he wonders what she experienced to make her that way. Maybe he’ll ask here, when she’s older. If he gets to see that.
No, getting shot wasn’t that bad in the grand scheme of things.
Getting his legs amputated? Well, he was unconscious for that part. Brenda gave him something that knocked him right out. When he came to, he was in a bathtub, groggy and unfocused.
It took him a while to work out what had happened to his legs. His glasses are missing so all he can see are blurry splotches of crimson and white, getting redder by the second. His feet itch, but he can’t get his arms to move to scratch them.
His legs hurt. A bone deep, pulsing pain in his thighs that keeps getting worse. What happened? Didn’t he get shot in the back?
Eventually, his eyes snap into focus. None of what he sees makes sense. There was an arrow in his back. Where are his legs?
He has to find Lee. Lee is the smart one, the levelheaded one, the one keeping everyone together. If anyone knows how to fix this, to figure out what happened, it’s Lee.
Mark finally has a bit of wavering strength in his arms. He hauls himself up, over the edge of the bath. The floor hits him like a truck and something in his left leg rips, gushes. He tries to scream but all that comes out is a whine.
Events click together in his frantic, drug-addled brain. When they were fighting the bandits, one of them yelled something that didn’t make sense before. At the time, Mark thought it was a code word.
Cannonball. But he must have misheard.
Cannibal.
He has to find the others. Lee and Clem and Lily and Larry and Kenny and his family and Ben. He needs to warn them, to get help. Can he move?
Mark gives it his best go, rolling onto his stomach and trying to drag himself along with his arms. No. He’s too weak. His legs are soaked with blood now. He can smell iron and apple-scented bleach, stinging his nose.
The door opens, and in steps-
“Lee.” Mark croaks, finding his voice. “Don’t eat dinner.”
Lee, after a long moment of staring at Mark in horror, takes off, probably after Clementine. Part of Mark wishes he had stayed, but they both know Mark won’t survive this. Lee can still get the others out. It’s an unfortunate consequence that Mark has to die alone.
God, he’s so tired. His legs hurt so much but it’s fading. He’s fading.
Maybe a nap will help.