The vigilante lay on the floor at Mary's feet. There was no breath coming from his body, and if checked, no pulse. His blood pooled around both of them, staining the floor and everything that it touched.
For Johnny, there was blackness, but not silence. As if he were under several miles of water, listening to the world, he could hear the bubbly voices of those around him. He wanted to speak, to call out, but it was as if he were just a doll. His limbs refused to work on their own, and his throat produced no sound.
He couldn't really feel any part of himself, either. He wasn't aware of being the owner of any toes or fingers, and he only knew that he was laying on the speakeasy's tile because that's what made the most sense. There hadn't been enough time for anybody to move him, and he certainly wasn't going to be floating up by the ceiling for any reason.
The others were there, and Mary was safe. That's what mattered.