Broken ribs.
This thought was terrifyingly clear, piercing into my consciousness like an ice pick. Every time he took a breath, his lungs felt like they were being polished by sandpaper, and a sweet, rusty smell filled his throat. I huddled behind the cold concrete fragments, my left arm bent at an unnatural angle, and the pain made my eyesight go black.
But I didn't say anything.
Because just ten meters away, the guy wearing a tattered bulletproof vest and carrying a rusty iron pipe was turning his back to me, digging through a freshly cooled body. He cursed, took out a piece of compressed biscuit from the corpse's pocket, stuffed it into his mouth, and chewed it loudly.
"Poor guy." He spat, and the biscuit crumbs mixed with blood sprayed on the corpse's face.
I know him. Nicknamed "Hulk Tooth", he is the craziest dog among the three gangs in this neighborhood. Last week, he smashed an old man's kneecap with an iron pipe for half a bottle of expired cans, just to hear the scream.
Now, he's targeting me.
