He was dying. He could feel it; his breathing turning to gasping, his gasping turning to a horrible throaty sucking sound. There weren't any hospitals anymore, and no medical agents to operate them anyways. Richie felt his lung filling with blood--and although it wasn't an entirely unpleasant feeling, it signified his mortality, and filled him with a deep wariness. He was reminded of the old saying: You can run, but you can't hide. But he had hid, for a long period of time. Until his supplies had run out, and he'd been forced to seek more: sustaining his immediate existence was all he could think about, and the thought of waiting the situation out had never occured to him. He was but eleven, seperated from every figure resembling authority. And after hiding for so long, he finally ran...his track racing days finally paying off. The Windrunners hadn't spotted him as he left his meager shelter, but they had noticed when he tried to hijack a van. Motors sounded ludicrously loud in the hollow silence, that silence that had enveiled the town since the...
Since the whatever-the-hell-it-was happened. Recalling the day it all went down was too painful, full of bad memories. Better to just try and survive this new world rather than try and fight it.
But his days of surviving were over. His lung was punctured by a harpoon that a Windrunner had impaled him with, and, unable to even pull it out, his insides slowly pooled with blood.
He had two and a half days to live.