Wapun Meadow boorish

His eyes widen, then narrow, the cleanest pivot the facial muscles can manage under the nuclear onslaught. In his bunker, inside of his skull, he turns over, moans. The red-eye effect, glistening teeth in the dark, the sickly and dead sheen of night-vision— these were all Merrick.
These were all Taylor too. They had too much in common.
Breathing hard. Sweating under an operating light. The muscles you use to smile, well, they're the same you use to snarl. Taste mine. 
That clean drip of blood. Like someone drawing a line to split his chin into two. His teeth, his head, are still ringing from the snap. To think he had been sleeping just a few minutes before. This was a whole other world.
The red drop fattens, becomes bottom-heavy.
It stretches. It becomes unbearable.
Capillary action. It's so familiar. Like nickel. One carbon-based organism to another. This is where Taylor submits. This is where he moves forwards and aims to duck his head just beneath Merrick's chin from sternum to scapula. To feel the vibration, the up-and-down of his breath.