close__

hurt . . ."

hurt . . ." His mouth twitched. His tongue touched his lips. The shadow of a frown came over his face.
"It tickles in my head," he said. "I don't like it when it tickles in my head. I don't want the dogs to come, Jones. I'm afraid."
"The dogs?" I felt my scalp tighten. I twisted, staring into the forest, saw nothing. "Come on, Joel; I'm going to lift you into the heli." I put a hand under his back, half-lifted him. He screamed hoarsely. I lowered him again.
"It hurts too bad, Jones," he gasped out. "I'm sorry."
"Where are the dogs, Joel?"
"They're close." His eyes sought me. His tongue licked his lips again. "I know—you got to go now, Jones. I'm sorry I yelled and all."
I whirled on the broken man-thing. "How far away are they?" I snapped. "You called them; how long before they'll be here?"
It looked at me with the one eye that remained in its battered head, and said nothing. I kicked it in the side, sent the limp body skidding two yards.
"Talk, damn you!"
It merely looked at me, as impersonally as a morgue attendant taking inventory.