Neville held the light up, trying to see, and only saw blood. It spilled over his hand as he fumbled for the wound, with no idea what to do except to stop the bleeding. The blade was still sticking out of him, but he didn't dare take it out.
"Dennis," he gasped, tears choking his throat. "Come on mate, please..." but Dennis was quiet. He wasn't even crying. All Neville could hear was his own breathing, ragged and sobbing. "Dennis," he called again. He wouldn't give up. He wouldn't give up. Dennis couldn't die, not like this, not after everything.
Angrily, almost roughly, he reached with bloody fingers for the rope around Dennis' neck. It was tight, but he tugged at the knot until his own fingers bled. "C'mon, c'mon," he begged aloud, managing to get the rope off and toss it away into the undergrowth. He reached for for Dennis' thin wrist. There was a pulse, faint but barely there, and his heart leapt, but Dennis was still pale, and not breathing. He didn't know what to do. "It's me Den, I'm here," he sobbed, cradling the small body in his arms. "Wake up, wake up, please..."