Blog as a weapon

In the opening scene of the screenplay that I wrote there is the colonel and his lady friend fleeing in a jeep after their group has been attacked. Two humans in a jeep, he is large and not fat, but bald, she is dark and slight, ethnic, maybe greek. They don’t get very far, she puts her hand on his arm, her head falls into his lap, something, she gets him to slow down, they are rushing through the woods. “Stop it,” she says, “Stop. Please stop.” They slow to nothing, and she speaks,

“I am dying.” Shows him a bite mark in her shoulder under her jacket. There is something green about it like fungus. I haven’t decided. Close up on her eyes which are large and dark brow and quivering.

He drags her out of the jeep, through low grass under the trees, onto the roots of a walnut.
He strips her jacket, grabs her up in two big arms and starts sucking on her shoulder. He is shaking. He sucks like a newborn, twice… three times…four times, then he spits. From the back it looks like he is devouring her. Her head rolls back on her shoulders, eyes at nothing, her arms drag loose knuckles back on the moss.

“No,” he gasps in this activity, “no…no…not you. Not now.” He holds her head up from the neck, hating the limpness, waiting and fearing any sign of something clenching. Is it her shoulders, or is she raising her hand to his cheek?

“Please,” he says. It’s her hand on his cheek and, yes, everything under him is tightening.

“Our promise,” she gasps, and the brown from her iris fades like a watercolor drowning.

The arm not cradling her goes under the other for the pistol. He does not know it but there is only one bullet saddled there anymore. Were there any gods left in the constellations they would be leaning earthward exactly now. Yet these raggedy elms standing over this green light will have to do. A single shot rings out through them and no other.