He collapsed back onto his back, the impact driving the blade deeper. Or maybe it didn't go deeper, and the sensation was just his traumatised nerves interpreting any movement as catastrophic. Either way, the pain exploded through him. His vision didn't just flicker this time. It whited out completely, replaced by a blank emptiness that lasted several seconds.
When sight returned, he was staring at the sky again. Gasping for air that his restricted lungs couldn't quite process properly. Shaking so hard his teeth chattered.
The first attempt failed. Cost me blood. Cost me strength. Cost me time I might not have.
He lay still, waiting for the pain to subside to manageable levels. It took longer this time. Much longer. Minutes stretched into what might have been a quarter hour or more. The wound felt angry now, inflamed and protesting the abuse.
When he could think clearly again, he reassessed his approach.
Rolling didn't work. It's too dependent on my left side cooperating. I need something different.
Crawling seemed like the obvious alternative. It would be slower, would require more sustained effort over a longer period of time. But it might actually be possible if he could get onto his stomach first. Face-down, he could use his right arm to pull himself forward while using his legs to push.
The sword will stick out of my back instead of my chest. Might be better. Less likely to catch on the ground.
He turned his head to the left, looking at the open ground in that direction. Fewer bodies scattered across that section of the square. More clear space.
Roll left. Use the right leg to push. Let gravity do the work. The sword's weight will help pull me over.
He rested for another few minutes, letting his breathing settle into something approximating regularity. Then he began again, this time keeping his right arm tucked close to his body and using his right leg to push. The movement was awkward and inefficient, his body responding sluggishly to commands. But it worked. His torso began to tilt leftward. Slowly. Incrementally. Degree by painful degree.
The sword's weight actually helped, pulling him in the direction he wanted to go. Thirty degrees. Forty. Forty-five. The world tilted around him as his perspective changed.
Almost there. Just a little more.
Then gravity took over.
He rolled onto his left side with a muted thud, the impact jarring every bone in his body. The sword shifted with the movement, sending fresh agony radiating outward, but he was moving now, and momentum carried him further. Another half rotation and he was face-down in the dirt.
Face-down with a sword sticking out of his back.
I did it.
He lay there for a long moment, breathing hard, his right cheek pressed against the cold ground. His vision was limited to a narrow slice of earth and grass directly in front of his face. Tiny details came into focus. Individual blades of grass. Grains of dirt. A small stone worn smooth by time and weather.
Progress. Real, tangible progress.
He rested, gathering strength for what came next. The house with the open door was ahead of him somewhere. He couldn't see it from this angle, but he remembered its general direction.
Twenty yards. Maybe less now. One yard at a time. One foot at a time. One inch if that's all I can manage.
He brought his right arm up, bending it at the elbow and planting his palm flat against the ground near his shoulder. Then he pushed, using his palm as a pivot point to drag his body forward. His torso shifted perhaps two inches. Perhaps three. The sword scraped against something internal as he moved, and he had to stop and breathe through the resulting spike of pain.
When it passed enough for him to function again, he reached forward with his right arm and repeated the motion. Plant the palm. Push. Drag. Another two inches of progress.
This will take hours. But I have hours. I have nothing but hours.
He reached forward again. Pushed. Moved. The process became mechanical, each repetition identical to the last. Reach, plant, push, drag, breathe. Reach, plant, push, drag, breathe.
The young woman's body passed by on his left. He didn't look at her face.
I should be exactly like her. Dead. Still. Past caring. Why am I not?
He focused on the ground directly ahead, on the next handspan of dirt he needed to cover. One small section at a time. Nothing beyond that.
Reach, plant, push, drag, breathe.
His right palm found something wet. More blood. Someone else's blood, already cold and congealing. He pushed through it without hesitation, leaving a smeared trail behind him.
Anyone who comes later will see this. Will see where something crawled from the centre of the massacre.
Reach, plant, push, drag, breathe.
The sun must have been moving somewhere above the grey clouds, tracking its invisible path across the hidden sky. But he couldn't tell if it was rising, setting or holding steady.
Time means nothing anymore. Only movement.
Reach, plant, push, drag, breathe.
His hand brushed against cloth. Coarse fabric. Another body. He redirected slightly, angling his path to crawl around it rather than over it. The detour cost him distance and effort.
Climbing over a corpse feels wrong. Even now. Some dignity remains.
Reach, plant, push, drag, breathe.
The ground began to change underneath him. Less packed dirt. More stone. Rougher texture against his palm.
The edge of the square. I'm close. Closer than before.
He lifted his head slightly, trying to see the doorway he was aiming for. The movement pulled at his wound, the sword shifting fractionally, and he had to lower his head again immediately. But he'd seen it in that brief glimpse.
Ten feet. Maybe twelve at most. So close I can almost touch it.
Reach, plant, push, drag, breathe.
His hand found the first step leading up to the doorway. Just a single step, maybe six inches high.
A mountain. From here, it's a mountain.
He positioned his palm flat against the riser and pushed, putting all his remaining strength into the effort. His body shifted upward and forward simultaneously. The sword scraped against the edge of the stone, catching for a heart-stopping moment before breaking free with a grinding sensation that made him see stars.
Keep going, Li Wei. Just keep going.
One more push and his torso was level with the doorway. One more effort after that and he was fully across, lying face-down on wooden floorboards instead of stone.
Inside.
Li Wei stopped moving and let his head rest against the floor. The wood was cool against his fevered cheek, smooth from years of wear. Dust motes floated lazily in the dim light filtering through the doorway behind him.
I made it. Inside. Away from the bodies. Away from the sky.
Progress. Real progress. He was still alive. Still moving. Still continuing.
He closed his eyes and let unconsciousness take him.