the red
The hollow hallway rang with shuffling footfalls, the rubber bottoms of Thomas' boots grating against dirt covered concrete. It broke the silence that otherwise heard nothing but the dripping of moisture from somewhere in the distance, toward where he entered the underground tunnel.
Labored breaths made his chest heave, searing pain radiating through his small figure as he stumbled through the last turn, pushing open the blue door with a smear of red across its front. He'd been gone two weeks, running an errand for Des. A courser had ventured too far out here, chasing those we'd freed... and though it now lay dead, the plasma from its rifle left holes in Thomas.
They festered for days, the skin unable to close around metal joints, turning pink and angry around the edges. Infection had so easily set in, as the last of his Stimpaks were turned over to the Synths he'd left behind in their safehouse. They need them more than me. They're safe now, that's what matters.
Thomas saw no one within the living space just beyond the door, the hour half-past decent with the quiet of night set in. He knew they'd be asleep, and he tried to stay silent, but the last of his stamina left him and he collapsed, falling into the chair half tucked beneath their rickety dining table.
Shit.