John and Lynch

John gripped Lynch's shoulders so tightly his knuckles turned white. A ringing silence hung in the stale air of the abandoned building, broken only by John's ragged breathing.

John: “Lynch! Lynch, can you hear me?!”

His voice broke into a hoarse cry that echoed through the empty rooms. He pressed his fingers to his friend's neck again, peering into his motionless face, as if trying to will him to blink.
Tears blurred his vision, but John ignored them. He shook Lynch, then pulled him sharply toward him, pressing his forehead to Lynch's temple.

John (whispering, as if repeating a mantra): Please... anything... there's a pulse... It's there, which means you're with me!

Somewhere in the depths of the corridor something thudded dully, but John didn’t even flinch—now for him there was only Lynch and this desperate struggle for his consciousness.