They Were All Dead.
And soon he’d be dead, too. He held out no hope of divine deliverance, harbored no illusions of the cavalry (police) riding up to his rescue at the last minute. Violent, painful death awaited him, probably at some point within the next few minutes. It was a strange and horrible thing, the idea of the remainder of your life being down to a handful of torturous minutes. Thinking about it elicited another helpless whimper. He didn’t want to die. Quite the contrary. He wanted to be around for many decades to come, even if that meant living with the guilt of being responsible for the deaths of his friends all that time. Yes, even then.
All he had to do was get to that axe.
Somehow haul his battered body upright.
And then be ready for the bastards when they came for him.
So he drew in a deep breath and began to crawl toward the axe.…