Dr. Mason O’Neil tried to judge how much blood he had left by looking at the puddle on the floor.

The outlook wasn’t good.

He was down at least a pint. His blood pressure was dangerously low, hypovelemic shock just around the corner. The tingling in his extremities and his rapid heartbeat confirmed the diagnosis.

Mason tried, once again, to put some pressure on his brachial artery to staunch the bleeding. His hand was knocked away.

“Don’t prolong it, Dr. O’Neil. I have other things to do today.”

His tormentor paced before him, like an expectant father in a waiting room, constantly checking his watch. David. When Mason had let him into his apartment fifteen minutes ago, he couldn’t have predicted this turn of events.

“I’ve done nothing to you. In fact, I always considered you a friend.”

“You conduct experiments on all of your friends?”

Mason’s mouth was dry; his tongue felt like a paper towel. It was getting harder to speak.

“You volunteered. All you had to do was say you wanted out.”

David sneered. “And go back to prison. Some choice.”

The doctor watched the blood run down his fingertips, still flowing freely from the deep wound on his wrist. Drip. Drip. Drip. Like sand in an hour glass, each passing second bringing him closer to death.

“So why are you still taking the drug? If you’re so against the experiment, why are you still using N-Som?”

David appeared confused.

“I’m not.”

“I can see the pill bottle, in your coat pocket.”

David shoved the bottle father down, as if it shamed him.

“You treated us like lab rats.”

“But you’re not in the lab now. Your free. So why are you still taking it?”

David’s face became pinched. He nervously twiddled the scalpel in his fingers.

“It’s addictive.”

O’Neil let out a slow, soft breath. He was getting sleepy.

“We both know it’s not addictive. You’re taking it because you want to. Because the experiment is important to you.”

The MD gently lifted his wrist above heart level, a pathetic attempt to stave the flow. David didn’t notice.

“If the experiment is so important, why am I killing everyone involved?”

Mason’s thinking was becoming blurry, and he couldn’t have made up a lie if he’d wanted to.

“Because you’re out of your mind.”

David laughed. The sound was forced, but it caught and quickly escalated into an hysterical giggle. Mason shifted, again pressing his fingers deep into his brachial artery. His pulse was rapid, weak.

“Okay, Doc. I’m crazy. I’ll admit it. But you did it to me.”

“I didn’t know, David. No one did.”

“Dr. Fletcher knew. Good old Red knew for a long time.”

“He didn’t tell us. If he had, we would have stopped this. No one wanted to hurt you.”

David knocked his hand away. Mason groaned, the blood coursing through his arm and spurting. It sounded like a small squirt gun.

“Do I have to cut off your fingers to get you to stop that? Consider yourself lucky. I skinned Townsend, and Red is hanging by his intestines in the forest preserve. I’m letting you off easy.”

Mason’s head titled forward. His eyes were rheumy.

“I’m going to die.”

“That’s the point.”

“Manny wouldn’t want me to die.”

David bit his knuckle. He paced away from the doctor, then back again.

“Call an ambulance.” His voice was barely above a whisper. “You can still help me.”

“No help!” David pointed at him, his finger accusing.

“Please, David.”

“You know how N-Som is made?”

Mason knew. They all knew. The fact that Rothchilde had somehow passed the FDA’s pharmacological review was amazing. The president of DruTech couldn’t have done it honestly.

“You know how it’s made, and you let me take it anyway.”

“You volunteered.”

“Not for this.” David’s eyes took a trip somewhere. Somewhere horrible. “I’ve seen things, Doc. Things no one alive has seen. Can you imagine?”

Mason couldn’t imagine. Once was bad enough.

“Do you know I’ve died forty-three times? And I remember each time, like movies branded into my head.”

“I’m… I’m sorry.”

His breath was becoming fainter, and consciousness was drifting away. All of Mason’s senses softened, grew fuzzy.

“Seeing things like that can really mess a person up, Doc.”

Mason felt as if he was sinking in a deep, dark pool. A small part of him wanted to protest, but didn’t have the energy.

“Manny… Manny…”

“Manny isn’t here, Dr. O’Neil.”

David cradled the doctor’s head in his hands. Mason only had a vague awareness of it.

But he became fully aware when David began to pound his head against the hardwood floor, over and over, trying to crack it open like an egg.

And he was still somewhat aware when David succeeded.