The worst part about this whole thing was that Brandon was aware. He could feel the fingernails and teeth digging into his arm and the dripping of his own blood onto the rest of his body. His opposite arm tried to come back to fight the creature away again but it was fruitless.
Try as he might, he couldn't quiet his voice. This fucking hurt. It obviously wasn't the first time he'd been bitten but he'd never actually been chewed on before. Whatever part of him usually told him to stay quiet when he was out looting was stowed away now and if he had any semblance of calm, he'd have known that any infected in the area could hear his voice loud and clear.
It felt like forever before he finally felt the pressure of the bites on his arm alleviate, but the enjoyment of that only lasted a split second before the ooze that was the leaper's insides came torrenting down on him like a hellish waterfall. He sputtered, half-blood, half-ooze, and looked helplessly up at his sister, before he stupidly glanced down to look at his arm.
Was that his arm? It was torn open and bleeding a cascade onto his neck and shirt. And his shirt was torn open in various places that the leaper's claws had managed to reach.
He was vaguely aware that Leah had asked him a question, and he flicked his gaze back up to her, stupidly blinking in response and trying to speak. But instead, he only coughed. He nodded instead, in response to her asking if he could stand, and lowered his arm just slightly, holding it tightly to his chest.
Slowly, a little bit wobbly, he made his way to his feet, and had he been any more aware, he'd probably have marveled at the sheer amount of blood pouring out of his arm and onto the ground as he moved. But as it was, it took all that he had to even remember "one foot in front of the other" to get around the truck and to the passenger's side.
"H-hurts..." he finally stuttered out, as he waited for Leah to open the door.
Once the door was opened, Brandon used that strange adrenaline that always came with getting hurt to lift his good arm and hoist himself into the truck. He still held his injured arm tightly to his chest, but he looked around, noting a group of runners on their way to the truck. "Hurry, Lele," he said, gesturing vaguely with his good hand out at the speeding infected.
And that was the last gesture Brandon Stone made that day, because seconds later, he was out cold against the headrest of the truck.