He must be really fucked up after three days, to hallucinate about the dark spectre of Death. Menacing, glowering over him.
He was parched and ravenous, light-headed but still walking, too hopeful to reach safety. He knew he was hallucinating, but he thought he must be at the end of his tether. To afraid to move, just frozen in the dirt.
His death was coming for him as surely as his throat was cracked. His sanity might well be lost. He thought of all he loved and lay down on the ground, staring at a single dead leaf and waiting for death to similarly claim him.
At least there was some symmetry, some meaning to his death. Even if there never was a meaning to his life.