He's panting like a fucking dog after the Demon exits, sweeping out of him with a flourish. His arm and leg are blazing, sharp with pain, and hot in a way the rest of him feels like it can never be, cold now that the Demon's taken all the heat with it. He stumbles to the ground and tries to vomit, his stomach only releasing thin sprays of sour bile.
Of course this would happen - no, wait, that makes it all sound like happenstance. Of course the Demon would choose to leave him by the wayside now, when it's gotten rid of the car they took from the hospital. He's broken and beaten and must look like shit - no way is anyone going to stop for him if he finds a road and tries to thumb a ride.
He's not even sure where he is. His consciousness had been flickering in and out while the Demon marked its territory; he judges, from the pungency of his sweat, that it's been two and a half or three days since he became a meat suit again, lit out from the hospital, and left his boys behind.
He doesn't know where he's going. Maybe more important, he doesn't know where it is going, if he managed to slow it down at all or if he only gave it more ammunition with panicked, desperately hidden thoughts about Missouri and Bobby and the Colt, the only weapon that counts right now.
His neck is agonizingly sore without its brace and the casts on his limbs are stained a dirty yellow like pissed-in snow. He crawls away from the puddle of acidic liquid on the ground in front of him and surveys the landscape as best he can. Dirt, dirt in every direction, some loose and kicking up in clouds because of the wind, some packed hard in narrow roads made by nothing more than time and the weight of insistent feet and wheels. No houses, no buildings visible anywhere. No promise of shelter and safety as far as the eye can see. He closes his eyes, trying to clear his mind, but all he can see is Sammy, looming over him, too many ugly emotions warring for dominance on his face, and with that picture firmly in his mind, he takes as deep a breath as he's able, rises to his feet, spits once more, and begins, blindly, to walk.
Still gen, still R-ish.
Word count (today): 407
Word count (total): 11,163 (37.21%)