Here’s the story developing:
The night rumbled as if dark was a sound. A slight breeze blew from no particular direction. It carried a pale scent of smoke. A wood fire sort of smoke. He forced himself onward through the trees, one arm limply held in front of him to acknowledge a clear path.
The man was bleeding, red soaking through the t-shirt he’d wrapped around his belly like a cumber-band when he felt the wind wet and cold in his guts. At first, there had been no pain.
The Lost Children: A Charity Anthology