The Savannah Project

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Jake cradled her head in his lap, hand cramped from applying pressure to stem the fountain gushing from her neck. Warm, sticky blood oozed through his fingers, pooling on the floor beneath his legs.

He brushed his thumb across her cheek wiping away a tear. “Hang on. Help is on the way, just hang on.”

The historic old house reeked of burnt gunpowder. Its acrid tang stung his nose, his eyes filled with water. Water that threatened to turn to tears. He couldn’t let that happen. He wouldn’t let that happen. He had to be strong. For her, maybe for himself.

It had happened so fast, the massacre that left death all around him. A bloodbath — the result of an aircraft accident investigation gone horribly wrong.

“Jake? Jake, where are you? I can’t see anything, Jake. I’m scared.”

“I’m right here.” He stroked her hair. “I’m right here with you.”

His pulse quickened when he saw the man propped against the closed front door — lifeless eyes open, two gunshot wounds to the chest. A trail of blood smeared down the inside of the front door where he’d succumbed to death.

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