He went back to the room Jeremy had died in, sneezing slightly in the combined dust and smell---the smell of death. It would be especially difficult to pick this man up the way he'd done Niko---the boy was lightweight, after all, thin, without much to him. John grimaced, grabbing the man's hands and turning him to the door. The dead weight just added to the heft. "God, I'm sorry for this..." He muttered, heaving the man out of the door and into the hallway. A thin trail of blood was following, but it soon became nonexistent before he got into the living room. "There isn't a... a towel... or blanket worth... wrapping you in..." He supposed Jeremy had used the blankets that weren't ruined on his wife and child---the thought of a dead little girl, buried beside her mother, somehow drew John into a burst of sorrow that he could barely bite back---he couldn't keep the tears from escaping, falling for a moment, reaching Jeremy's dirty shirt.

He growled loudly, butting the door open and tossed him onto the porch. John grimaced, wiping his eyes before going on despite his hair coming out of its ponytail. It flew in a sudden hot wind as he dragged the man to the grave and pulled him in, kneeling down to line his legs up and fold his hands over his stomach. "I figure this is goodbye..." He panted, straightening Jeremy's head so his face was turned toward the sky. "I hope... you found them." He sighed shakily, standing and grabbing the shovel he'd set against the well wall and raking earth into the hole again. Why did he feel so much for this man? Because he knew him, in a way? Knew his name, the fact that he had a family that hadn't made it? What had kept him going? John could barely handle the death of his own single-man family, considering he'd have been able to survive if John hadn't delayed them. And then John had been the one saved.

He sniffled, kicking the rest of the dirt onto the mound and stomping it down. Hopefully no one---nothing---would dig the man up, nor his family. And he couldn't mark the graves, or it would simply be a bright flag to any desperate scavenger snuffling along the ground. He took the shovel with him, dragging it along the ground and tossing it onto the floor of the back porch before trodding through the house, finding Niko on the front porch. He took a step forward, spying a rocking chair still in relative condition, and dropped into it. "I couldn't save him." He said, in reply to what the young man had asked before. "It... was so bad. Whoever shot him... they hit his lung. And you need two to breathe. And when one pops---like a balloon---it bleeds. And that blood comes up and into your other lung, basically. I couldn't do anything about what happened inside him, because... Well, I'm just not a doctor. I killed him as quickly as I could, so he didn't have to die in a hard way."

He breathed out, shaking his head and gathering up his messy hair, using a hair tie around his wrist to put it back up. "I couldn't let him suffer like that." He reasoned---perhaps more to himself than to Niko, but he was concerned the young man feared him. "But somehow this was different. Like this guy meant something to me. Like he was a friend. I don't know. I just don't want to do that again." He put his arms down, sighing. The digging, hauling, and burial had taken a lot of energy out of him.