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"I dunno Maybe it would have distracted it for a moment so we could lop its head off or something." Justin retorted back to Austin, taking the shovel in both hands and brought it into a more defensive stance. The words in his head made him woozy on his feet, the dull promise of taking away pain that made the whispers echo in agreement to the statement. He used the weapon like a crutch, steadying himself while Liam came in contact with the black ichor. The word NO was on his lips, but it wouldn't leave his throat

The girl with the dead eyes was in the hallway, staring and he knew what she wanted to say. it was as plain as her face. -You can't save anyone- He would prove her wrong.


HP: 45/50

"...what the ******** is your problem?" Austin reached out quickly to catch the back of Liam's shirt, to pull him away from any other goo that might be around. He shook his head, sharp and annoyed, as he stared down at the other man's fingers -- and then to his own shaky hand where it was bunched. His crowbar had some of the ichor on it as well, and he chewed on the inside of his cheek, then turned to search for something they could use to wash up a bit.

He didn't know what it was, but Austin at least had the sense not to touch it.

The sudden twist and jerk at the back of his shirt pulled a pained grunt and wince from the smaller boy, back arching away from the touch and momentarily ripping his attention away from the dark ichor on the tips of his fingers. "s**t, don't touch," he hissed through his teeth, reaching back with his clean hand as if he meant to touch the slash, but paused as if he thought better of it. ********, he'd forgotten it in the chaos, but he sure felt it again now.

Another grunt, and he turned his attention back down to his hand and the dark points on his fingers. "Now I will get better..." That's what it had said to him in the seconds before Austin had charged in to drive it back. He didn't feel better, and her certainly didn't look better. Ragged, bleeding, cheeks red from Harvard's attempts to smack some sense into him and the fever that had hit him some hours ago.

For at least this moment it seemed as if the pain in his back had pulled some sense from him. He went for the sheet Harvard had used on his knife, plucking it up to scrub the ichor from his fingertips before trying to clean it off the front of his shirt.

Austin grabbed the sheet, too, to scrub his hands clean -- and then paused, because there was blood on his hands, too, but this blood was just the regular red kind, instead of Charlie's ichor. He shot Liam another look, exasperated, and then looked to Harvard.

"He's messed up. We should take him somewhere, see if we can find more supplies to patch him up."

"What?" He frowned at Justin, confused for a long moment. "No. It was going to..." Stab him, he was pretty sure. "Death isn't healing," he insisted, matter-of-factly. Though is voice still didn't sound quite like himself, he sounded considerably more there than he had since entering the room. There were moments, brief as they were, where baby blues would loose focus, then snap back all at once.

Hand's cleaner, he reached back to pull carefully on his sweater, drawing it up enough to see the clean slice through it and the blood. "The shadow got me." The sweater fell back into place as he released it, and he let out a slow, pained breath. It was still bleeding, he could feel it when he concentrated on it(as few and far apart as those moments may be.). He could certainly use the first aid, or, at the very least, having it cleaned.

On his hip his radio crackled into life. There was a staticy thud, a hiss, then a voice they all knew. "Corey?" Clear now, he could make out every word as he pulled the thing from his waist to listen. He started walking purposefully towards the door. "We can't stay. We have to go back." Fear bubbled up, pushing at the paranoia. "They're going to count us as gone."

"Just follow him." If Justin needed extra encouragement, Austin would certainly give it to him -- in the form of a hand at his elbow, nudging him out. Harvard didn't need the same treatment, at least. He trusted that the doctor could handle himself in this situation.