Re: Campbells.
Ford answered each question as it came, eyes hooded and attention sharp on the treeline. He shook his head, no. No again. And then, finally, nodding, yes. His expression hardened at the affirmation, a weird combination of terror and satisfaction that didn't belong on the same face. Dying had been a good thing at that point, a horrifying thing. Ford's eyes squeezed low against his cheekbones as he remembered the pain. So much pain. Who knew anything could hurt that bad? It put the rest of his life in perspective.
With only Russell speaking, he was free to listen for the sounds of a slow corpse moving through the underbrush, but he only heard the breeze as it rustled through the old pines. He was trotting now, the old coyote lope in his strange new clothes. Ford wiped a sweaty palm across his chest, drying it, eying Russell sideways with a speaking expression of doubt. The hotel stuck on all of them, and there was no real possibility for escape.
Ford made a "what are you going to do" motion with one hand and then pointed at Russell. Did he do any dying?