Death in High Places
“Pain drilling every tooth in his left jaw yanked him back. He lay in a fetal curl under the window, arms cradling his raging head. He heard himself whine like a kicked puppy, but his vision was worse than useless—a dark mist laced with shooting stars. He’d always thought that was a comic-strip invention, but like most clichés it was an accurate observation first.
He didn’t know which way was up, he hardly knew what had happened, but he knew he had to get back on his feet. He didn’t want to. He didn’t want to move, for fear of making the pain worse, for fear of being hit again. But primordial instinct wanted him to live even more than it wanted to spare him pain, and it drove him back ruthlessly to the reality of that cold, unlit room and the killer he shared it with. If he went on lying here he was going to die on this square of grubby carpet, adding his blood to the sum of its uncertain stains. That was going to be his obituary: a packet of Shake ‘n’ Vac in his landlord’s shopping cart.
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