Bloodshot Comics Novels & Stories

That this flight wasn’t some nightmare too vivid to be real. This wound was real. Dreams didn’t put holes through a person’s thigh. She let her head fall back against the tree and stared up at the canopy. November’s stripped branches carved jagged silhouettes against a sky suspended between black and blue—the exact shade of someone caught at a crossroads. Her consciousness had started going cotton. Light, fraying at the edges—textbook blood loss, recalled from a first aid class she’d spent critiquing the city’s ambulance GPS routing. But enough logic remained to tell her one thing: stop moving.

Sharper this time. I swallowed. My hands were shaking. I hugged my sketchbook tighter. He exhaled through his nose. Looked at the blood on his knuckles like it had personally offended him. Then he reached into his jacket, pulled out a black bandana, and started wrapping his hand. I watched, stupidly mesmerized. “Why were you there?” I asked quietly. His eyes flicked to mine. “I was passing through.” “Twice in two days you’ve ‘passed through’ exactly where I am.”