"I just wanna get outta here," I say, barely even a whisper, my arm curling around his waist and taking the offered support without argument. I'm too fuckin' tired to argue, anyway.

There are no bodies. The only sign that anything happened up here at all, when we step up out of the stairwell, are the bullet holes, the scattered furniture and the splatters of blood on the floor and walls.

I don't wanna know how many it was. Honestly, I don't really care. Not about them, but...

"What 'bout the others. There were kids up here."