Fleetwood threw himself to the floor in conjunction with the explosion of the gun. It was close timing. The bullet thunked into the wall behind him. Whether it was by accident or some unconscious planning in his mind, his hand slapped down over the grip of the gun on the floor. All in one movement, he grasped the gun, rolled over and fired blind in Dermitt's direction. There was a scream of pain, a beat of silence, then a dull thud. Fleetwood jumped to his feet, holding the gun ready.
"Oh, my God!" Fleetwood gasped.
Across the room, huddled on the floor, Dermitt sat in a spattering of his own blood, clutching his stomach. Fleetwood ran to him.
"Dermitt!" he cried.
"I'm hit in the stomach," Dermitt groaned. "You've got to help me, Cassidy, you've got to!"
"Get out of the story!" Fleetwood said. "Get out of here before you die!"
"I can't. I can't move. Something's gone wrong with my legs."
"Let me help you up," Fleetwood said, slipping his hands quickly under Dermitt's arms. "I'll carry you."
"No!" Dermitt screamed. "No! I can't stand the pain!"
Fleetwood released him. "What can I do?" he asked helplessly.