((Continued from Hiding in the Barn))
Gregory sat with his hands on his lap. It was getting progressively closer to the dreaded 6 hour mark. That was when he got to discover precisely which of his classmates had died. He had no idea if one of his friends died, or even if he had any friends on the island. As much as it pained him, he would be thankful if not a single one was on the island with him. No-one deserved this. Why did have to happen now? He had so much to do...
From a young age, Gregory had been MIT-bound. He had practically built his life around it. He was a math genius with a penchant for creating mechanisms. He was MacGuyver. He wished that there was a hole in the system, but there wasn't one. The collars were most likely almost completely tamper-proof. He'd need more than a few days to figure out which tools he'd need, and a couple of hours with a collar. Gregory knew that there had to be an emergency shut off system, or failing that, something that was vulnerable to a strong EMP. The only slight glimmer of hope was that these collars were removable.
The radio transmitter was probably offshore, either on another island or a ship. They proabably had a satelite linkage to all the cameras on the island. Somebody had to fucking notice! Hell, even Gregory could calculate their approximate location. He'd made a makeshift sextant out of some sunglasses he had on him, a drinking straw, his shoe lace (which had heavy metal aglets) and his handy protractor. You never know when you need a protractor. He used the sun as a guide to figure out what latitude they were at, someone off island could measure shadows. Gregory's unsychronized watch provided the other valuable clue. It was still on New Jersey time. By measuring the difference in times Gregory could figure out precisely what longitude they were on.
So all he had to do was to pass the information on to everyone he met, and say it as often as possible, before the Terrorists killed him. The collars probably had a small throat mike imbedded in them to allow for accurate dialogue and to keep tabs on the kids. The one thing going against the terrorists was the fact that the broadcast was unedited. If he got the info out there, they'd have to kill everyone. Including him. They needed this information to be kept secret. If someone found out...
Hell, if he told someone, once he figured out the longitude, they'd kill everyone! That was bad! Figuring out our location would only slow them down. They probably have several sites, that have been prepped just in case of this eventuality. They'd kill this batch, get a new one, rinse and repeat.
Gregory sighed and remembered how much his little sister wanted a pony. Irony is powerful force when you're hiding in a pony stall, being stalked by killer highschoolers.
Hiding in the Barn
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Endless_Helix*
- Posts: 92
- Joined: Mon Sep 24, 2018 3:54 am
((Continued from Scrounging for gear.))
Blake Ross ran as fast as he came away from the residential area. He had spent his time there scrounging for whatever gear he could in preparation of the game until he had come across the sadistic Walter Smith. Of all the people to come across, he came across Walter fucking Smith. He was like the Cillian Crowe of version two, and that didn't sit well with Blake. He was lucky to have escaped with his life. Some quick thinking, trusty pocket sand and a Bible for his body armour Blake had retreated virtually unscathed.
He made his way out through the expressway, and slowed himself down once he was sure he was out of harms way. He panted on the side of the road and ducked into a ditch at the sound of footsteps as four figures walked into the opposite direction. They were already a safe distance away by the time Blake had noticed them.
God damn. I should have noticed them sooner. They could have stomped me. If I'm gonna stay in this game I've gotta take some initiative. I've gotta be more careful.
The folded map protruded from his jacket pocket. He reached down and splayed the crumpled parchment across the grass. He quickly drew out his compass from with a hidden pocket and traced a path with his finger north. He thought of the four figures walking south. Chances had it that they had just come from the northern section of the island. Maybe they had left something behind.
He glanced over his shoulder and stared both ways down the asphalt path. His grey sneakers collided with the dark streets, his sweat drip down his chin as he broke out into another jog towards the mountain ranch. The wind began to hustle through his short russet bristles. He came over the hill overlooking the small mountain ranch. It didn't look very big or very sturdy, but it was a viable refuge. The ranch could be a bastion of supplies.
He had gathered a good amount of supplies from the residential area, but nothing he could use as a weapon, and he wasn't going to get very far with a Bible.
***
"Put on your spiritual armour so that you may stand against this evil!" The white hair evangelist was vitriolic in his preaching. Blake always got a kick out of religious zealot, being a bitter atheist it was practically his duty. His face was beat red as he preached and sweat rolled down his jowls. The stranded hairs of his cob-over flapped dangerously as he staggered about the stage. He held up the Bible high in the air. Blake started listening again after deducing that the preacher might have a heart attack if he continued like this. "Only this book can grant you salvation. The words of the Lord can comfort you and guide you through these dark times. A day will come when he will smite all of these sinners and send them to hell!"
Blake scoffed.
"I've read it you jackass," he pointed at the television. "I'm pretty sure that Jesus didn't want us to bombed Iraq."
He switched off the channel and lay upside down on his pink couch staring at an empty screen.
The comforts of faith are aging values. Justice, honour and righteousness hardly exists in a world such as ours. We live in perverse times. We are all voyeurs and we are all vicariously lively of the lives of one another. Old words on tattered pages can do little to comfort my soul or change the course of the present. Though it is admirable to put your faith in something, it can often free the body and mind from the drudgery of life, but it is dangerous to have a blind-faith. When we lose our perspectives we lose ourselves, and the most tragic and uncelebrated death, is the death of a point of view.
***
Blake descended on the mountain ranch. He put one foot in front of the other because he knew he had to. He knew he had to do whatever it took to come out of this alive, he might not be the most talented or cold-blooded contestant, but whatever he did from this point on would be to get him one step closer to freedom. Walter Smith had taught him this. Looking into his eyes Blake saw something that he didn't have, and that he didn't think he would ever have, but he had something else. Blake had his fear and his determination and he embraced them both wholly.
A cornered beast will thrash, bray and fight to escape. This is where I am this is what I have to do.
Blake crept up onto the barn. Walter Smith's makeshift knife had cut loose some of the duct tape holding his Bible to his chest. The book had saved his life than, but know it might have to take one later. He gripped it in both hands like a great cudgel and spun around the entrance of the barn. He saw the cowering form of Gregory Moyer.
Blake Ross ran as fast as he came away from the residential area. He had spent his time there scrounging for whatever gear he could in preparation of the game until he had come across the sadistic Walter Smith. Of all the people to come across, he came across Walter fucking Smith. He was like the Cillian Crowe of version two, and that didn't sit well with Blake. He was lucky to have escaped with his life. Some quick thinking, trusty pocket sand and a Bible for his body armour Blake had retreated virtually unscathed.
He made his way out through the expressway, and slowed himself down once he was sure he was out of harms way. He panted on the side of the road and ducked into a ditch at the sound of footsteps as four figures walked into the opposite direction. They were already a safe distance away by the time Blake had noticed them.
God damn. I should have noticed them sooner. They could have stomped me. If I'm gonna stay in this game I've gotta take some initiative. I've gotta be more careful.
The folded map protruded from his jacket pocket. He reached down and splayed the crumpled parchment across the grass. He quickly drew out his compass from with a hidden pocket and traced a path with his finger north. He thought of the four figures walking south. Chances had it that they had just come from the northern section of the island. Maybe they had left something behind.
He glanced over his shoulder and stared both ways down the asphalt path. His grey sneakers collided with the dark streets, his sweat drip down his chin as he broke out into another jog towards the mountain ranch. The wind began to hustle through his short russet bristles. He came over the hill overlooking the small mountain ranch. It didn't look very big or very sturdy, but it was a viable refuge. The ranch could be a bastion of supplies.
He had gathered a good amount of supplies from the residential area, but nothing he could use as a weapon, and he wasn't going to get very far with a Bible.
***
"Put on your spiritual armour so that you may stand against this evil!" The white hair evangelist was vitriolic in his preaching. Blake always got a kick out of religious zealot, being a bitter atheist it was practically his duty. His face was beat red as he preached and sweat rolled down his jowls. The stranded hairs of his cob-over flapped dangerously as he staggered about the stage. He held up the Bible high in the air. Blake started listening again after deducing that the preacher might have a heart attack if he continued like this. "Only this book can grant you salvation. The words of the Lord can comfort you and guide you through these dark times. A day will come when he will smite all of these sinners and send them to hell!"
Blake scoffed.
"I've read it you jackass," he pointed at the television. "I'm pretty sure that Jesus didn't want us to bombed Iraq."
He switched off the channel and lay upside down on his pink couch staring at an empty screen.
The comforts of faith are aging values. Justice, honour and righteousness hardly exists in a world such as ours. We live in perverse times. We are all voyeurs and we are all vicariously lively of the lives of one another. Old words on tattered pages can do little to comfort my soul or change the course of the present. Though it is admirable to put your faith in something, it can often free the body and mind from the drudgery of life, but it is dangerous to have a blind-faith. When we lose our perspectives we lose ourselves, and the most tragic and uncelebrated death, is the death of a point of view.
***
Blake descended on the mountain ranch. He put one foot in front of the other because he knew he had to. He knew he had to do whatever it took to come out of this alive, he might not be the most talented or cold-blooded contestant, but whatever he did from this point on would be to get him one step closer to freedom. Walter Smith had taught him this. Looking into his eyes Blake saw something that he didn't have, and that he didn't think he would ever have, but he had something else. Blake had his fear and his determination and he embraced them both wholly.
A cornered beast will thrash, bray and fight to escape. This is where I am this is what I have to do.
Blake crept up onto the barn. Walter Smith's makeshift knife had cut loose some of the duct tape holding his Bible to his chest. The book had saved his life than, but know it might have to take one later. He gripped it in both hands like a great cudgel and spun around the entrance of the barn. He saw the cowering form of Gregory Moyer.
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Endless_Helix*
- Posts: 92
- Joined: Mon Sep 24, 2018 3:54 am
Things were looking down in the realm of Moyerdom. The was a boy with something sharp in his hand, a crazy look in his eyes, and an the quality most readily identified as driven. Gregroy had even been on the verge of a mathmatical solution to the problem of how to get home and stall the terrorists. It was kind of pathetic that his luck would run out now. He only needed another hour or two, to figure out precisely what time it was...
But more realistically, he was in a barn with no exits, except the one blocked up by a boy with a knife. And he had a doll. Smart move, Gregory old chum, he thought as he started shaking a little. He started to get up, thinking to try to duck behind cover, but his legs were paralyzed with fear. He kind of fell on his ass when he tried to get up. This freaked him out even more. His hastily scribbled notes fell to the floor. He only had one vairable left in the equations.
"W-Who are you? Please, don't hurt me! I've got a way off the island!" The final words came off of Gregory's lips at nearly a scream.
For some reason Gregory felt that his personal equation was going to be solved, very shortly.
But more realistically, he was in a barn with no exits, except the one blocked up by a boy with a knife. And he had a doll. Smart move, Gregory old chum, he thought as he started shaking a little. He started to get up, thinking to try to duck behind cover, but his legs were paralyzed with fear. He kind of fell on his ass when he tried to get up. This freaked him out even more. His hastily scribbled notes fell to the floor. He only had one vairable left in the equations.
"W-Who are you? Please, don't hurt me! I've got a way off the island!" The final words came off of Gregory's lips at nearly a scream.
For some reason Gregory felt that his personal equation was going to be solved, very shortly.
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OnceForgotten*
- Posts: 225
- Joined: Sat Aug 18, 2018 2:46 am
In all of Jordan McKiernen's wanderings of the great expanse of land he was trapped on, he had noticed one thing. It was very quiet. Other than the occasional scream or yell, he had not heard a single peep from wildlife, and the small ranchlike property he was approaching was no different. The front door to the house rocked open and shut as if an imaginary hand was repeatedly slamming it, and Jordan shivered, telling himself it was from the air.
It wouldn't be so bad, if those bastards would have given me something other than goggles.
Jordan did not consider himself a killer, but he knew that there were kids on this island that were scared enough to play this game, and he wanted to at least be adequatly equipped to defend himself if such a scenario arose.
This would be an awesome place to live...
Jordan studied the scene, standing on the gravel path in front of the small house portion of the ranch. Behind it stood a barn with a fenced in stable for horses, though it was rather dilapedated, and looked as if it had been abandoned for years. The silence was deafening, and each slam of the door echoed like a gunshot.
Jordan loosened his backpack, shrugging off a strap so that it was positioned on one shoulder. He was then able to reach inside and grab a bottle of water, which he took several grateful sips of.
This is rediculous...I still can't believe I'm here, after all the new government regulations and everything...These terrorists are organized...
His mind flashed back to the moment he had been abducted, along with many others from franklin high, from the busses.
No time for reflection, I have to figure out what I'm going to do...
Jordan moved to the rear of the house, cautiously picking his way around in case there was someone lurking on the other side. He breathed a sigh of relief when he saw that it was abandoned, and moved into the open. Looking to his left he could see the entrance to the barn, and he almost jumped out of his skin when he saw a flash of another person heading inside.
I thought it was a ghost...This is real, I could die, and I was scared of a fucking ghost...
Jordan made up his mind. If he was going to do something besides relegating himself to sneaking around all the time, he might as well meet somebody. He steeled himself, and moved towards the entrance to the barn.
((A Note to the Reader: From this point on, the character Jordan McKiernan becomes inactive. He is taken over by CycoKiller, who roleplays him up until the time of his death.))
((Continued in The Remake))
It wouldn't be so bad, if those bastards would have given me something other than goggles.
Jordan did not consider himself a killer, but he knew that there were kids on this island that were scared enough to play this game, and he wanted to at least be adequatly equipped to defend himself if such a scenario arose.
This would be an awesome place to live...
Jordan studied the scene, standing on the gravel path in front of the small house portion of the ranch. Behind it stood a barn with a fenced in stable for horses, though it was rather dilapedated, and looked as if it had been abandoned for years. The silence was deafening, and each slam of the door echoed like a gunshot.
Jordan loosened his backpack, shrugging off a strap so that it was positioned on one shoulder. He was then able to reach inside and grab a bottle of water, which he took several grateful sips of.
This is rediculous...I still can't believe I'm here, after all the new government regulations and everything...These terrorists are organized...
His mind flashed back to the moment he had been abducted, along with many others from franklin high, from the busses.
No time for reflection, I have to figure out what I'm going to do...
Jordan moved to the rear of the house, cautiously picking his way around in case there was someone lurking on the other side. He breathed a sigh of relief when he saw that it was abandoned, and moved into the open. Looking to his left he could see the entrance to the barn, and he almost jumped out of his skin when he saw a flash of another person heading inside.
I thought it was a ghost...This is real, I could die, and I was scared of a fucking ghost...
Jordan made up his mind. If he was going to do something besides relegating himself to sneaking around all the time, he might as well meet somebody. He steeled himself, and moved towards the entrance to the barn.
((A Note to the Reader: From this point on, the character Jordan McKiernan becomes inactive. He is taken over by CycoKiller, who roleplays him up until the time of his death.))
((Continued in The Remake))
I am an archival account used by staff to port old posts from handlers no longer active. If you are this handler, get in touch with staff and we can get your posts back for you! Cody avatar by Kermit.
Gregory clearly could not recognize Blake in the dimly lit barn. He approached a bit closer, inching his feet through the hay and holding his poor excuse for a weapon; a good damn Bible. The musty smell of the barn did little to comfort Blake's sickly frightened mood, but the sight of Gregory Moyer spurred mixed feelings in Blake. He had seen the boy in his homeroom many times and had conversed with him on an irregular basis. From what he understood he was a very smart boy, but never-exactly level-headed, this was something Blake could relate too, but right now, Blake was very conscious of the threat everyone presented.
He walked up slowly and held out his Bible like a shield, it had saved his life once already; maybe a second go was in order. His knowledge of Survival of the Fittest was putting him on edge. His first encounter had been with the maniac Walter Smith, after looking into his eyes and seeing the raw animalistic inspiration, it was hard not to see others as a threat. This program brought out the worst in people, but Blake was determined to stay calm, to keep his wits about him. He could survive this thing, despite being ambushed by one of his classmates; he had gathered supplies, which was something he was certain others would not have thought to do. Blake knew there were still more steps to be taken in order to win...
That was just the step Blake was afraid to take. He honestly didn't know if he could kill anyone. It was impossible for him to completely rule out the thought. How could he? At this point people would do a lot to get back home, in his bitterness Blake cursed the sociopaths and maniacs how would be guiltless about their efforts. He wanted to go home as much as anyone; it was merely a matter of taking that step. He was already determined to trust no one, a step that would not be too extreme for the already isolationist Blake. He couldn't even imagine what the bottom would be like.
He looked at Gregory up and down once again. He was frightened beyond belief; with any luck Blake could take what he needed and not have to kill him. He walked up slowly, admitting to himself that he wouldn't attack unless provoked; it wasn't like he had much to attack with anyway.
"Gregory? Gregory Moyer?" Blake's voice cracked as he tried to keep it low and calm. He was hoping to inspire a little rationality in his peer. "I need you to tell me everything you know so far. I need to know who is here and what is going on. I'm going to approach slowly, I want you to kick your bag towards me and hold up your hands. Can you do that for me, Gregory?"
The shaky boy looked like a frightened animal. Thusly, Blake had only seen fellow Bathurst students here. He wondered how many of them they had taken, if it was only the two grade ten homerooms there certainly wouldn't be many people here on the Island. If he could find out who they were and where they were, Blake could have a distinct advantage. He looked down to Gregory again. He simply looked to be shaking and cowering in the dirty corner of the barn.
"Come on, Gregory," Blake looked down on his threateningly. He didn't intend to hurt him but he wanted information out of him. "Tell me what you know, and you won't get hurt."
He walked up slowly and held out his Bible like a shield, it had saved his life once already; maybe a second go was in order. His knowledge of Survival of the Fittest was putting him on edge. His first encounter had been with the maniac Walter Smith, after looking into his eyes and seeing the raw animalistic inspiration, it was hard not to see others as a threat. This program brought out the worst in people, but Blake was determined to stay calm, to keep his wits about him. He could survive this thing, despite being ambushed by one of his classmates; he had gathered supplies, which was something he was certain others would not have thought to do. Blake knew there were still more steps to be taken in order to win...
That was just the step Blake was afraid to take. He honestly didn't know if he could kill anyone. It was impossible for him to completely rule out the thought. How could he? At this point people would do a lot to get back home, in his bitterness Blake cursed the sociopaths and maniacs how would be guiltless about their efforts. He wanted to go home as much as anyone; it was merely a matter of taking that step. He was already determined to trust no one, a step that would not be too extreme for the already isolationist Blake. He couldn't even imagine what the bottom would be like.
He looked at Gregory up and down once again. He was frightened beyond belief; with any luck Blake could take what he needed and not have to kill him. He walked up slowly, admitting to himself that he wouldn't attack unless provoked; it wasn't like he had much to attack with anyway.
"Gregory? Gregory Moyer?" Blake's voice cracked as he tried to keep it low and calm. He was hoping to inspire a little rationality in his peer. "I need you to tell me everything you know so far. I need to know who is here and what is going on. I'm going to approach slowly, I want you to kick your bag towards me and hold up your hands. Can you do that for me, Gregory?"
The shaky boy looked like a frightened animal. Thusly, Blake had only seen fellow Bathurst students here. He wondered how many of them they had taken, if it was only the two grade ten homerooms there certainly wouldn't be many people here on the Island. If he could find out who they were and where they were, Blake could have a distinct advantage. He looked down to Gregory again. He simply looked to be shaking and cowering in the dirty corner of the barn.
"Come on, Gregory," Blake looked down on his threateningly. He didn't intend to hurt him but he wanted information out of him. "Tell me what you know, and you won't get hurt."
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Endless_Helix*
- Posts: 92
- Joined: Mon Sep 24, 2018 3:54 am
The shadow in the doorway walked toward Gregory. The sound had been replaced with a rumbling ocean, like just before a storm. The boy cowering in the corner waved his paper around in front of his face. Then the boy remembered his name was Gregory. The shadow said something, but it was drowned out by the roaring in his ears. It was like listening to someone's voice distorted through a wind tunnel. It never even occured to Gregory that the roaring was his blood, pounding through his ears.
The outline didn't seem familiar, so Gregory figured it must be are terrorist. They were onto him already! He hadn't even finished the calculations to get the coordinates and they'd got to him! If the paper fell into the Terrorist's hands... then there was no chance at all for the kids on this goddamn hell-hole...
"You! You're a nazi terrorist motherfucker and the kids need this fucking piece of paper!"
When the shadow didn't run away. Gregroy screamed, which was followed shortly by him charging at the shadow's middriff. The paper was left floating down to the makeshift table Gregory had been working on.
Gregory was having his first and last panic attack.
The outline didn't seem familiar, so Gregory figured it must be are terrorist. They were onto him already! He hadn't even finished the calculations to get the coordinates and they'd got to him! If the paper fell into the Terrorist's hands... then there was no chance at all for the kids on this goddamn hell-hole...
"You! You're a nazi terrorist motherfucker and the kids need this fucking piece of paper!"
When the shadow didn't run away. Gregroy screamed, which was followed shortly by him charging at the shadow's middriff. The paper was left floating down to the makeshift table Gregory had been working on.
Gregory was having his first and last panic attack.
Fuck me...
Blake had only met two people so far on the Island, a homicidal maniac and a crazy emaciated boy. He really didn't want to be doing all this fighting. At the same time, Blake knew this is what he would have to do. It was a battle uphill and through a swamp in winter, he kept trying to convince himself that he could do what needed to be done, but he wasn't so sure anymore.
This isn't Survival of the Fittest, its survival of the guiltless, survival of the selfish. I don't want to do this. It always looks so easy on TV or on a computer screen, or even in the books, but these are people. I want to get home but I didn't think it would be this hard. I have to do what I have to do... I have to do what I have to do... I have to do what I have to do...
"Garrah!"
He swung his Bible down upon the lurching shadow of Gregory Moyer aiming for the square of his back with all his might, hoping that the pain would snap him back awake. Gregory collided with Blake's midriff, sending them both tumbling onto the dirtied floor of the barn. The pages of the Bible fluttered as his ragged tool fell to the floor next to Blake's head. His head pounded hard against the barn floor as Gregory pinned Blake to the ground.
He looked up into Gregory's face and remembered being in the same situation with Walter. He was pinned, he was down, and he had nowhere to go but up.
Blake touched to his side; the Bible was flipped open right in front of his eyes. He looked onto the white page opened in front of him.
"The race is not to the swift, nor the battle to the strong."
The poetry rang true in Blake's mind as he grabbed the heavy book and swung it meaningfully at the face of Gregory Moyer. He hoped that it would hurt, and he hoped it would knock the feral Gregory Moyer off his chest.
"Wake the fuck up Greg!"
Blake had only met two people so far on the Island, a homicidal maniac and a crazy emaciated boy. He really didn't want to be doing all this fighting. At the same time, Blake knew this is what he would have to do. It was a battle uphill and through a swamp in winter, he kept trying to convince himself that he could do what needed to be done, but he wasn't so sure anymore.
This isn't Survival of the Fittest, its survival of the guiltless, survival of the selfish. I don't want to do this. It always looks so easy on TV or on a computer screen, or even in the books, but these are people. I want to get home but I didn't think it would be this hard. I have to do what I have to do... I have to do what I have to do... I have to do what I have to do...
"Garrah!"
He swung his Bible down upon the lurching shadow of Gregory Moyer aiming for the square of his back with all his might, hoping that the pain would snap him back awake. Gregory collided with Blake's midriff, sending them both tumbling onto the dirtied floor of the barn. The pages of the Bible fluttered as his ragged tool fell to the floor next to Blake's head. His head pounded hard against the barn floor as Gregory pinned Blake to the ground.
He looked up into Gregory's face and remembered being in the same situation with Walter. He was pinned, he was down, and he had nowhere to go but up.
Blake touched to his side; the Bible was flipped open right in front of his eyes. He looked onto the white page opened in front of him.
"The race is not to the swift, nor the battle to the strong."
The poetry rang true in Blake's mind as he grabbed the heavy book and swung it meaningfully at the face of Gregory Moyer. He hoped that it would hurt, and he hoped it would knock the feral Gregory Moyer off his chest.
"Wake the fuck up Greg!"
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Endless_Helix*
- Posts: 92
- Joined: Mon Sep 24, 2018 3:54 am
The bible swung upwards with a terrible momentum. Gregory had no time to even try to get away. He could feel it connect with his nose, and heard a terrible cracking noise as his nose broke, shortly followed by his glasses. There was something shiney in front of his eyes for a second, and then it all went black. Two shards of glass had punctured his corneas. He felt something wet pouring down his face as he was slammed backwards. He actually couldn't feel a damn thing; it was as if his eyes went numb. That was about when the back of his head found a hook on the wall.
It was a large hook, made for holding saddles up off the ground. It was probably installed about 5-10 years ago, and was consequently quite rusty. About a foot above it was the hook for the reigns, but thosee last two sentences didn't really didn't matter. Gregory's head was moving very fast towords the larger hook. There was an immense ammount of pain followed by a crunch and a "shluck". Gregory screamed in pain. There was a similar feeling to the one on his face, except it was dripping down his neck. The ocean in his ears stopped. He heard his own labored breathing as he cried hot tears mingled with blood. The tear stung, casing more tears.
"Wha- What h-h-happened? Who's there? Did I get the terrorist?"
Gregory thought for a moment, and tried to get up. But that tugged at his skull, eliciting another scream from his mouth. More burning tears poured out of his eyes. He smelled a coppery aroma, which seemingly permeated the air. If he had immediate professional medical attention, he would have had a 10% chance of survival, albeit as a blind paraplegic. As he was now losing an immense ammount of blood, he had no chance, and no knowledge of that. Endorphines were taking the worst of the pain away, but it still hurt a little. Then he coughed up a little blood.
"I think I'm hurt pretty badly. Is anyone there?"
It was a large hook, made for holding saddles up off the ground. It was probably installed about 5-10 years ago, and was consequently quite rusty. About a foot above it was the hook for the reigns, but thosee last two sentences didn't really didn't matter. Gregory's head was moving very fast towords the larger hook. There was an immense ammount of pain followed by a crunch and a "shluck". Gregory screamed in pain. There was a similar feeling to the one on his face, except it was dripping down his neck. The ocean in his ears stopped. He heard his own labored breathing as he cried hot tears mingled with blood. The tear stung, casing more tears.
"Wha- What h-h-happened? Who's there? Did I get the terrorist?"
Gregory thought for a moment, and tried to get up. But that tugged at his skull, eliciting another scream from his mouth. More burning tears poured out of his eyes. He smelled a coppery aroma, which seemingly permeated the air. If he had immediate professional medical attention, he would have had a 10% chance of survival, albeit as a blind paraplegic. As he was now losing an immense ammount of blood, he had no chance, and no knowledge of that. Endorphines were taking the worst of the pain away, but it still hurt a little. Then he coughed up a little blood.
"I think I'm hurt pretty badly. Is anyone there?"
Elation.
If only for a brief moment. It was a feeling of victory and the thrill of being alive and breathing for another moment. It was a feeling granted to few. Few people are put in a position in which they cherish a breath, or painlessness, or even a thump of the still beating heart, but this was a person, and this was his moment.
It was the moment just before the fall. It was the instant of prying oneself free from the shackles of the grim earth and the hunger of a cornered beast. This was a moment that lasted hardly long enough to register in the mind of Blake Ross, as it was suddenly and abruptly interrupted by waves of guilt, anger, dismay and above all else a familiar haunting fear. This was in the moment that Gregory Moyer fell.
His escape was his redemption, and his escape was his elation, but the fall was his damnation. He dropped the Bible, now smeared with a small patch of blood on its thick black cover, to the tarnished earthen floor of the barn. The cryptic air of silence was broken as the laden book landed on the floor pounding up dust and strands of detritus. The silence only seemed to permeate there after as Blake shot up and lurched out to catch the frail falling form of Gregory.
Not fast enough...
The battered boy plummeted, a small stream of blood trailed from his eyes and nose as he descended, panicked and despairing, to the hard floor and the rusty hook. Blake fumbled and strained to catch the young boy, but he seemed to glide away like a wisp of hair floating in the wind the harder Blake tried. He bolted upright just in time to hear the sickening crunch and graze of a rusty nail sliding across and into the visceral skull.
Blake stood up very slowly. He had only meant to defend himself; he hadn't seen what was behind him. He never looked. He stared down at the unfocused pupils and stiffened limbs of the young boy he had once considered something of a friend, and was utterly lost in the moment. Reality snapped back into place with a cruel lurch as Gregory began to speak out. Blake stood and listened. He brushed his hood back across his short auburn hair and fell down slowly into a kneel next to Gregory.
He slowly reached out his hand and wrapped them both around Gregory's slowly cooling fingers. He tried to warm them with his own, but realized his too had succumbed to the coming of night. He looked into his eyes, they were no longer focused on anything but they stared on forever.
"Is anyone there?"
The words seemed to come as a whisper, but they seemed genuinely confused. Was anyone there? Blake held on tighter and looked into the creeping puddle of black blood blighting its way across the floor, under Gregory's head. He chocked back a cold iron lump of dread that had seemed to fester in his throat.
"I'm here, Gregory," Blake's words came as whispers. They came one at a time; slowly chocked from the bottom of his stomach. "I'm here, Gregory. You have to hold on, okay? You have to hold on. I'm so sorry, Gregory. I didn't know what to do. I still dont know what to do."
Seeping like darkened metallic molasses, the blood continue to creep its way across the floor, and in-between the wooden boards of the floor. Blake's face was a pale white. His eyes were wide and his pupils narrowed.
"I didn't know what to do, Greg." Blake squeezed the tiny hands taut. "I'm just so fucking scared. I was just trying to stop you, Greg. I didn't want to die. I dont want you to die either, Greg."
The two had always been on good terms. Gregory Moyer was never one of the really popular kids at Bathurst, but neither was Blake. In their own obsessions they could see eye to eye. Blake would remember walking into homeroom and chatting the time away with Gregory. He was always a good kid. He was one of the smartest kids he'd known. Blake was often proud of himself being able to hold a conversation with such a wizened young man. He was erudite and clever, Blake could always see eye to eye with Greg, in a way that other students often didn't. They were more like colleagues, both yearning for more knowledge. They were friends.
But now, here on this living hell. Here in this waking nightmare, he had been reduced to this.
This is what they had done to him; this is what they did to people. This was the sacrifice for salvation. You have to look your friend in the eye as he dies and know that there is nothing else to be done...
These were the steps that would take you to the finish. These were the steps you went through to when. These are the feelings and these are the motions of your new life. Rinse and fucking repeat, right until the end.
The woods are lovely, dark and deep,
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.
If only for a brief moment. It was a feeling of victory and the thrill of being alive and breathing for another moment. It was a feeling granted to few. Few people are put in a position in which they cherish a breath, or painlessness, or even a thump of the still beating heart, but this was a person, and this was his moment.
It was the moment just before the fall. It was the instant of prying oneself free from the shackles of the grim earth and the hunger of a cornered beast. This was a moment that lasted hardly long enough to register in the mind of Blake Ross, as it was suddenly and abruptly interrupted by waves of guilt, anger, dismay and above all else a familiar haunting fear. This was in the moment that Gregory Moyer fell.
His escape was his redemption, and his escape was his elation, but the fall was his damnation. He dropped the Bible, now smeared with a small patch of blood on its thick black cover, to the tarnished earthen floor of the barn. The cryptic air of silence was broken as the laden book landed on the floor pounding up dust and strands of detritus. The silence only seemed to permeate there after as Blake shot up and lurched out to catch the frail falling form of Gregory.
Not fast enough...
The battered boy plummeted, a small stream of blood trailed from his eyes and nose as he descended, panicked and despairing, to the hard floor and the rusty hook. Blake fumbled and strained to catch the young boy, but he seemed to glide away like a wisp of hair floating in the wind the harder Blake tried. He bolted upright just in time to hear the sickening crunch and graze of a rusty nail sliding across and into the visceral skull.
Blake stood up very slowly. He had only meant to defend himself; he hadn't seen what was behind him. He never looked. He stared down at the unfocused pupils and stiffened limbs of the young boy he had once considered something of a friend, and was utterly lost in the moment. Reality snapped back into place with a cruel lurch as Gregory began to speak out. Blake stood and listened. He brushed his hood back across his short auburn hair and fell down slowly into a kneel next to Gregory.
He slowly reached out his hand and wrapped them both around Gregory's slowly cooling fingers. He tried to warm them with his own, but realized his too had succumbed to the coming of night. He looked into his eyes, they were no longer focused on anything but they stared on forever.
"Is anyone there?"
The words seemed to come as a whisper, but they seemed genuinely confused. Was anyone there? Blake held on tighter and looked into the creeping puddle of black blood blighting its way across the floor, under Gregory's head. He chocked back a cold iron lump of dread that had seemed to fester in his throat.
"I'm here, Gregory," Blake's words came as whispers. They came one at a time; slowly chocked from the bottom of his stomach. "I'm here, Gregory. You have to hold on, okay? You have to hold on. I'm so sorry, Gregory. I didn't know what to do. I still dont know what to do."
Seeping like darkened metallic molasses, the blood continue to creep its way across the floor, and in-between the wooden boards of the floor. Blake's face was a pale white. His eyes were wide and his pupils narrowed.
"I didn't know what to do, Greg." Blake squeezed the tiny hands taut. "I'm just so fucking scared. I was just trying to stop you, Greg. I didn't want to die. I dont want you to die either, Greg."
The two had always been on good terms. Gregory Moyer was never one of the really popular kids at Bathurst, but neither was Blake. In their own obsessions they could see eye to eye. Blake would remember walking into homeroom and chatting the time away with Gregory. He was always a good kid. He was one of the smartest kids he'd known. Blake was often proud of himself being able to hold a conversation with such a wizened young man. He was erudite and clever, Blake could always see eye to eye with Greg, in a way that other students often didn't. They were more like colleagues, both yearning for more knowledge. They were friends.
But now, here on this living hell. Here in this waking nightmare, he had been reduced to this.
This is what they had done to him; this is what they did to people. This was the sacrifice for salvation. You have to look your friend in the eye as he dies and know that there is nothing else to be done...
These were the steps that would take you to the finish. These were the steps you went through to when. These are the feelings and these are the motions of your new life. Rinse and fucking repeat, right until the end.
The woods are lovely, dark and deep,
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.
-
Endless_Helix*
- Posts: 92
- Joined: Mon Sep 24, 2018 3:54 am
"Blake? Is that you? Did I get him? Anyway that's not important... The paper I had; it's important. Get it, read it, finish it..."
Gregory coughed up a little blood, and tried to get up again. Something oozed out the back of his skull causing him to scream, but he couldn't feel a thing.
---
"Mom, I'm home!"
"Gregory, we were worried sick about you! Are you alright?"
"Yeah, I'm pretty good; can't complain. How about you guys?"
"Gregory, your father and I were worried sick when we heard, your brother hasn't come out of his room yet, and, well, your sister is still pretty young and doesn't understand really."
"Mom, you're crying... This should be a happy time..."
"Oh Bubelah, these are tears of joy, not sadness... Oh, let me give you a hug!"
"Awww... There you go..."
"Gregory, there's a hole... in the back of your head..."
"I know."
"It's bleeding! Oh God, your shrit... it's soaked in blood... You need a doctor!"
"Not anyore, Mom. I'm in a better place now. I just wanted to say goodbye..."
"Gregory!"
"Stay peachy Mom!"
---
Gregory's body spasmed a couple of times and then his heart stopped beating. There was a massive pool of blood surrounding his mortal remains, which promptly began to soak into the woodwork. Blood is one of those stubborn stains, very difficult to get out. It's a shame when it gets on one's hands. For some, that stain will never be cleaned...
B-05 Moyer, Gregory- DECEASED
Gregory coughed up a little blood, and tried to get up again. Something oozed out the back of his skull causing him to scream, but he couldn't feel a thing.
---
"Mom, I'm home!"
"Gregory, we were worried sick about you! Are you alright?"
"Yeah, I'm pretty good; can't complain. How about you guys?"
"Gregory, your father and I were worried sick when we heard, your brother hasn't come out of his room yet, and, well, your sister is still pretty young and doesn't understand really."
"Mom, you're crying... This should be a happy time..."
"Oh Bubelah, these are tears of joy, not sadness... Oh, let me give you a hug!"
"Awww... There you go..."
"Gregory, there's a hole... in the back of your head..."
"I know."
"It's bleeding! Oh God, your shrit... it's soaked in blood... You need a doctor!"
"Not anyore, Mom. I'm in a better place now. I just wanted to say goodbye..."
"Gregory!"
"Stay peachy Mom!"
---
Gregory's body spasmed a couple of times and then his heart stopped beating. There was a massive pool of blood surrounding his mortal remains, which promptly began to soak into the woodwork. Blood is one of those stubborn stains, very difficult to get out. It's a shame when it gets on one's hands. For some, that stain will never be cleaned...
B-05 Moyer, Gregory- DECEASED
-
narfinkool*
- Posts: 27
- Joined: Wed Sep 26, 2018 1:15 am
(Continued from Outside the School))
Stacy ran away from the school, she had hoped she could find a male, as it would be easier to manipulate than a girl. As she walked into the barn she yelled out loud "Hello"... "Hello". "Can anyone hear me?"
She approached more into the barn as she noticed a man sitting, stunned. She approached him and noticed the other man's head was bleeding as it landed on a spike. "O dear lord!!" "What happened?" "Did you do this terrible thing?" As she approached him with innocence and she batted her eyelashes. She tilted her head acting innocent.
I cannot believe this kid, how can he act so sad and shocked after seeing a dead body. It was just a DEAD body... nothing special. It was obvious he was weak... I can take advantage of weak! Weak males are my specialty. They are always looking for a good fuck once and a while. I can provide this and with that comes with great power. Power with dommineering and this man can be dominated. I will see to it!
She approached the some what good looking man and gave some sort of sympathy. "O you poor man, I hate this game, look at what it is doing to our lives." She kneeled down next to him, getting close and trying to listen to what he had to say.
"Please go on tell me what happened."
Stacy ran away from the school, she had hoped she could find a male, as it would be easier to manipulate than a girl. As she walked into the barn she yelled out loud "Hello"... "Hello". "Can anyone hear me?"
She approached more into the barn as she noticed a man sitting, stunned. She approached him and noticed the other man's head was bleeding as it landed on a spike. "O dear lord!!" "What happened?" "Did you do this terrible thing?" As she approached him with innocence and she batted her eyelashes. She tilted her head acting innocent.
I cannot believe this kid, how can he act so sad and shocked after seeing a dead body. It was just a DEAD body... nothing special. It was obvious he was weak... I can take advantage of weak! Weak males are my specialty. They are always looking for a good fuck once and a while. I can provide this and with that comes with great power. Power with dommineering and this man can be dominated. I will see to it!
She approached the some what good looking man and gave some sort of sympathy. "O you poor man, I hate this game, look at what it is doing to our lives." She kneeled down next to him, getting close and trying to listen to what he had to say.
"Please go on tell me what happened."
Darkness had now replaced the once sunny sky, and Tori was still walking on glass. She didn't want anyone to follow or see her, so she was very careful how she covered her tracks. When she was young in grade school, she used to play 'man hunt' where everyone hid, and someone had to find you. Only, you got to move around from place to place. This was like that almost. Only, it was Real.
Finally, the tired and exhausted Tori came to what her map referred to as the 'mountian ranch'. Already being as careful as possible, Tori tip toed to where she might be able to get either a better look inside, or atleast hear what might be going on. Figuring that no one was there, and that she might beable to rest and have a short nap.
"..tell me what happened."
SHIT! Tori thought. Very quickly, and without looking, she backed up behind her so that hopefully she wouldn't be seen.
Finally, the tired and exhausted Tori came to what her map referred to as the 'mountian ranch'. Already being as careful as possible, Tori tip toed to where she might be able to get either a better look inside, or atleast hear what might be going on. Figuring that no one was there, and that she might beable to rest and have a short nap.
"..tell me what happened."
SHIT! Tori thought. Very quickly, and without looking, she backed up behind her so that hopefully she wouldn't be seen.
((continued from Dan Birch))
Bryan had just kept on going north straight from the get-go, cutting right through the village and finally ending up here at this quaint little ranch isolated from the rest of the (former) community. Darkness had fallen in the midst of his journey, and this looked like a good place to rest for a while. Bryan had worn himself out a bit; it was hard going all day without any rest at all, not to mention very little food. He would usually pack away quite a bit of food each day, ignoring the fighter's diet because he didn't have the desire to be a stick. Plus, he loved food. While he was in above-average shape, he was never as chiselled as a couple of the other students at Neilson's Muay Thai, but that never bothered him. It was much more important, in his opinion, how much of a beating a fighter could take, not to mention dish out. And Bryan had those qualities in spades.
The moon was pretty much the only source of light here, and with much less light pollution going on than in Jersey, the sky was nearly pitch black. Darker, anyway. 'This place is beautiful,' he thought to himself, taking a deep breath of the island's fresh air. He was a real sucker for nice outdoor spots, spending most of his spare time back home in the States at the beach near the amusement park. Or walking there. It was quite a walk from his house.
Thinking of home didn't really get to him, as he expected it would, and he thought harder to see if he would become homesick. He thought of his parents, whom he loved very much and got along with well for a teenager. Bryan was always skeptical of kids who complained about their folks. Pussies. Faggots, all. They either weren't asserting themselves, or weren't well-behaved enough, he figured. He thought of his younger siblings; his sister Jillian and his brother Brandon. They would fight, as siblings often do, but they were all very close at the bottom of it all. He thought of his dog, a cairn terrier named Maggie, who was always waiting in the window for him when he got home from school, only to dissappear the second she saw him to wait for him at the door.
He still didn't feel homesick. It had only been about a day, but still. He would probably never see them again. At least not in this lifetime, anyway. Maybe it was that Bryan, although not particularly religious, was fairly optimistic about the afterlife. He just couldn't picture not existing anymore. It didn't make sense. Why exist in the first place? If he knew that nothing he did would ever matter, he'd waste himself the moment he was born, assuming he could pull it off being a baby and all. Besides, if that was the case, then he wouldn't have to worry about anything ever again. He didn't want to die here, but he wouldn't fear his death either. He would accept it. Like Neilson would. Or CJ. He was sure that they wouldn't falter when their time came. They would smile at Sister Death and meet their fate with dignity. He knew they would. That was what made you a man, in the end.
Bryan wasn't feeling homesick at all, but he sure as hell was feeling passionate. He grabbed the silver celtic cross around his neck and pulled it out from under his shirt, kissing it silently the way his grandfather used to do, back when he was alive. The cross had been left to no one after he'd passed, and Bryan had asked for it to remember him by. His grandpa, Charles Calvert, was born in Northern Ireland back in the thirties, growing up amidst the heated conflict of Catholics against Protestants. He'd even lost the sight in one of his eyes when a gang of boys through a brick through his windshield, a couple years before he and Bryan's grandma immigrated to the USA. He was a hard working man, a loving man, and Bryan wanted to be just like him.
Bryan barely saw the small figure making its way toward the barn in the distance, but he immediately became alert and raised the shotgun, bending his knees and hunching over a little to make himself less obvious. He wouldn't go blasting away at them until he got a better look. For all he knew, it could be Tori. He made his way as quietly as possible towards the barn, trying to get a good view of who the figure was and if they had a gun. It was too dark. He was doing his best to stifle the shuffling of his gear, and was moving very slowly. He was closing in a bit, but he couldn't go much faster than a nimble walking pace. The person's gear was also making a bit of noise, however, and made it a little easier. He hadn't thought of what to do when he caught up, but then again he'd just spotted them.
Suddenly, a voice came from within the barn, soft and calm but still very startling if one hadn't heard anyone else for a while now. The figure backed away from the noise and straight towards Bryan, but he was close enough now to realize that she (it was definately a 'she') didn't see him. He didn't know quite what to do in response. Shoot her? Naww, that was probably a bad idea. His finger hesitated on the trigger, and instead of firing he let the SPAS-12 hang by its shoulderstrap and held out his arms to catch the figure as she approached, ready to cover her mouth in case she screamed. That was plan enough, and he commenced without a word.
Bryan had just kept on going north straight from the get-go, cutting right through the village and finally ending up here at this quaint little ranch isolated from the rest of the (former) community. Darkness had fallen in the midst of his journey, and this looked like a good place to rest for a while. Bryan had worn himself out a bit; it was hard going all day without any rest at all, not to mention very little food. He would usually pack away quite a bit of food each day, ignoring the fighter's diet because he didn't have the desire to be a stick. Plus, he loved food. While he was in above-average shape, he was never as chiselled as a couple of the other students at Neilson's Muay Thai, but that never bothered him. It was much more important, in his opinion, how much of a beating a fighter could take, not to mention dish out. And Bryan had those qualities in spades.
The moon was pretty much the only source of light here, and with much less light pollution going on than in Jersey, the sky was nearly pitch black. Darker, anyway. 'This place is beautiful,' he thought to himself, taking a deep breath of the island's fresh air. He was a real sucker for nice outdoor spots, spending most of his spare time back home in the States at the beach near the amusement park. Or walking there. It was quite a walk from his house.
Thinking of home didn't really get to him, as he expected it would, and he thought harder to see if he would become homesick. He thought of his parents, whom he loved very much and got along with well for a teenager. Bryan was always skeptical of kids who complained about their folks. Pussies. Faggots, all. They either weren't asserting themselves, or weren't well-behaved enough, he figured. He thought of his younger siblings; his sister Jillian and his brother Brandon. They would fight, as siblings often do, but they were all very close at the bottom of it all. He thought of his dog, a cairn terrier named Maggie, who was always waiting in the window for him when he got home from school, only to dissappear the second she saw him to wait for him at the door.
He still didn't feel homesick. It had only been about a day, but still. He would probably never see them again. At least not in this lifetime, anyway. Maybe it was that Bryan, although not particularly religious, was fairly optimistic about the afterlife. He just couldn't picture not existing anymore. It didn't make sense. Why exist in the first place? If he knew that nothing he did would ever matter, he'd waste himself the moment he was born, assuming he could pull it off being a baby and all. Besides, if that was the case, then he wouldn't have to worry about anything ever again. He didn't want to die here, but he wouldn't fear his death either. He would accept it. Like Neilson would. Or CJ. He was sure that they wouldn't falter when their time came. They would smile at Sister Death and meet their fate with dignity. He knew they would. That was what made you a man, in the end.
Bryan wasn't feeling homesick at all, but he sure as hell was feeling passionate. He grabbed the silver celtic cross around his neck and pulled it out from under his shirt, kissing it silently the way his grandfather used to do, back when he was alive. The cross had been left to no one after he'd passed, and Bryan had asked for it to remember him by. His grandpa, Charles Calvert, was born in Northern Ireland back in the thirties, growing up amidst the heated conflict of Catholics against Protestants. He'd even lost the sight in one of his eyes when a gang of boys through a brick through his windshield, a couple years before he and Bryan's grandma immigrated to the USA. He was a hard working man, a loving man, and Bryan wanted to be just like him.
Bryan barely saw the small figure making its way toward the barn in the distance, but he immediately became alert and raised the shotgun, bending his knees and hunching over a little to make himself less obvious. He wouldn't go blasting away at them until he got a better look. For all he knew, it could be Tori. He made his way as quietly as possible towards the barn, trying to get a good view of who the figure was and if they had a gun. It was too dark. He was doing his best to stifle the shuffling of his gear, and was moving very slowly. He was closing in a bit, but he couldn't go much faster than a nimble walking pace. The person's gear was also making a bit of noise, however, and made it a little easier. He hadn't thought of what to do when he caught up, but then again he'd just spotted them.
Suddenly, a voice came from within the barn, soft and calm but still very startling if one hadn't heard anyone else for a while now. The figure backed away from the noise and straight towards Bryan, but he was close enough now to realize that she (it was definately a 'she') didn't see him. He didn't know quite what to do in response. Shoot her? Naww, that was probably a bad idea. His finger hesitated on the trigger, and instead of firing he let the SPAS-12 hang by its shoulderstrap and held out his arms to catch the figure as she approached, ready to cover her mouth in case she screamed. That was plan enough, and he commenced without a word.
Scared now, doing so well not being caught by anyone and not wanting to risk it, Tori turned around to run away from the ranch. With her body running one way, and her head still turned watching where she just was, she had no idea what or whom she was running into.
Before she could even think to scream, she was stopped in her tracks and forcefully grabbed as a hand covered her mouth. It was still dark out, and the sudden shock of being stopped abruptly set her mind into a whirl wind of thoughts. The hands that stopped her felt harsh at first. Like the time she woke her dad up from a bad dream and his first instinct was to attack, as her then was to cry.
This time she didn't. It took alot for her not to though. She had never felt her heart beat so fast, or hear it so clearly and loud, before in her life. Thinking that it was going to jump up into ther throat, Tori backed away, pushing the hands off her mouth, so that she could get a proper breath.
It took a second, once she got her breathing back into normal pace, but in the second, she realized what just happened. She glanced at the figure, at the ground, then back up at the man in front of her.
"Bryan?" She whispered, so quietly that she herself strained her ears to hear her own words. She was afraid to speak. It was him though, she could feel it.
Immediately she was right up against him again, this time on her tip toes with her arms around his neck hugging him tight. She had never been so happy to see anyone in her life. From hugging him, she could feel that he had a gun as his weapon. Thankful, though still afraid, she could feel that maybe things were starting to look up for them.
"Thank god," She continued no louder than a hush. "I was so worried."
Before she could even think to scream, she was stopped in her tracks and forcefully grabbed as a hand covered her mouth. It was still dark out, and the sudden shock of being stopped abruptly set her mind into a whirl wind of thoughts. The hands that stopped her felt harsh at first. Like the time she woke her dad up from a bad dream and his first instinct was to attack, as her then was to cry.
This time she didn't. It took alot for her not to though. She had never felt her heart beat so fast, or hear it so clearly and loud, before in her life. Thinking that it was going to jump up into ther throat, Tori backed away, pushing the hands off her mouth, so that she could get a proper breath.
It took a second, once she got her breathing back into normal pace, but in the second, she realized what just happened. She glanced at the figure, at the ground, then back up at the man in front of her.
"Bryan?" She whispered, so quietly that she herself strained her ears to hear her own words. She was afraid to speak. It was him though, she could feel it.
Immediately she was right up against him again, this time on her tip toes with her arms around his neck hugging him tight. She had never been so happy to see anyone in her life. From hugging him, she could feel that he had a gun as his weapon. Thankful, though still afraid, she could feel that maybe things were starting to look up for them.
"Thank god," She continued no louder than a hush. "I was so worried."
Blake sat in wonder as the body of Gregory Moyer began to spasm out of control he held onto his hand tight and didn't falter as the last essence of his life escaped him. He stared at his still silent body after knowing full well that the boy was dead. He was gone forever and nothing was going to change that. Blake sat in silence, not weeping, but in shock. A single line kept repeating through his mind. Floating about like a lost feather in a harsh gale.
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep...
He couldn't help but be fixated on the body. Its eyes stared lifelessly into space and the blood continued to leak from behind his head. His head was outlined by a halo of black blood, his body was unharmed, save the small stream of blood that slowly drip from his nose and into the puddle of black ooze. He placed Gregory's hand on his lifeless chest and looked around the room. The whole world seemed to tilt a little then, and Blake found it difficult to find his balance as he lifted himself to his feet. He had always been a reserved young boy, but now his teeth were clenched in a determined attempt to keep himself from screaming.
He staggered as he brought himself to his feet. He felt like he was on some great and terrible stage. The wings were dark and unending, the viewing gallery stretched on for legions, but not a single soul occupied the seats. Blake stood on a dark empty stage, and no one was watching. He almost tripped, and a stray railing redeemed him from tumbling to the barn floor.
He heard someone come from the back of the barn; he had not seen or heard any of them before. It seemed difficult to see or hear much of anything since Gregory's death, but the world was slowly placing itself back together. Blake swallowed hard and searched about the room for his supplies. His coat was still heavy with scavenged gear from the residential district as he reached for Gregory's bag, hoping that its weapon may save him from the coming danger.
Pulling the soft baby doll from the bag, he silently cursed his luck. He threw it back in and was startled when a young lady entered the room. He had no weapons, he was completely unprepared for this incident and he didn't even know what he would do if he was. Maybe for once h would just tell her what he was feeling, what he really wanted. No more fake threats or defences. No more Walter Smiths or Gregory Moyers, he was telling this girl exactly what was on his mind and he didn't care if it didn't help advance his strategy.
"Look," Blake's voice was stern and angry, he admired the girl's bravery, and she hadn't run away when she found him, but he was far from trusting her. "My friend just attacked me and I just killed him. I didn't mean to, but it happened. Right now I just want to be alone. I'll taking everything in this room that belongs to me and I'm leaving, don't try to follow me... I need to get out of here."
The last line came only as a whisper.
With his luck this girl was fierceness embodied. He was almost on the verge of tears as he talked to her. He paid her no heed as he gathered up his Bible and his bag of supplies. He emptied Gregory's supplies into his own bag not caring what was in it anymore. He was sweating profusely as he attempted to walk out the front entrance. He paid very little attention to where he was going and tripped over the limp leg of Gregory Moyer.
He caught himself before spiralling onto his face but his palms hurt from the impact. He pushed himself up hard and pounded his back against the wall. A scoff and a half-chuckle escaped him then, as he sat prone against the wall of the barn. He had not eaten or had anything to drink since he'd been here. He'd been in two fights, he'd been bruised and tossed around, and he'd just watched his friend die. He was exhausted.
He sat against the wall of the barn and chuckled to himself. He scoffed and nearly broke into tears. His body trembled as sobbing chuckles escaped him.
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.
He looked up to the girl again. Dollish eyelash all aflutter; her huge eyes staring down on him he couldnt help but not feel threatened by the attractive young lady. Her words were soothing and calm. His own face was flush, he had not yet broken into tears but he felt like he was going to pass out.
"I need to get out of here."
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep...
He couldn't help but be fixated on the body. Its eyes stared lifelessly into space and the blood continued to leak from behind his head. His head was outlined by a halo of black blood, his body was unharmed, save the small stream of blood that slowly drip from his nose and into the puddle of black ooze. He placed Gregory's hand on his lifeless chest and looked around the room. The whole world seemed to tilt a little then, and Blake found it difficult to find his balance as he lifted himself to his feet. He had always been a reserved young boy, but now his teeth were clenched in a determined attempt to keep himself from screaming.
He staggered as he brought himself to his feet. He felt like he was on some great and terrible stage. The wings were dark and unending, the viewing gallery stretched on for legions, but not a single soul occupied the seats. Blake stood on a dark empty stage, and no one was watching. He almost tripped, and a stray railing redeemed him from tumbling to the barn floor.
He heard someone come from the back of the barn; he had not seen or heard any of them before. It seemed difficult to see or hear much of anything since Gregory's death, but the world was slowly placing itself back together. Blake swallowed hard and searched about the room for his supplies. His coat was still heavy with scavenged gear from the residential district as he reached for Gregory's bag, hoping that its weapon may save him from the coming danger.
Pulling the soft baby doll from the bag, he silently cursed his luck. He threw it back in and was startled when a young lady entered the room. He had no weapons, he was completely unprepared for this incident and he didn't even know what he would do if he was. Maybe for once h would just tell her what he was feeling, what he really wanted. No more fake threats or defences. No more Walter Smiths or Gregory Moyers, he was telling this girl exactly what was on his mind and he didn't care if it didn't help advance his strategy.
"Look," Blake's voice was stern and angry, he admired the girl's bravery, and she hadn't run away when she found him, but he was far from trusting her. "My friend just attacked me and I just killed him. I didn't mean to, but it happened. Right now I just want to be alone. I'll taking everything in this room that belongs to me and I'm leaving, don't try to follow me... I need to get out of here."
The last line came only as a whisper.
With his luck this girl was fierceness embodied. He was almost on the verge of tears as he talked to her. He paid her no heed as he gathered up his Bible and his bag of supplies. He emptied Gregory's supplies into his own bag not caring what was in it anymore. He was sweating profusely as he attempted to walk out the front entrance. He paid very little attention to where he was going and tripped over the limp leg of Gregory Moyer.
He caught himself before spiralling onto his face but his palms hurt from the impact. He pushed himself up hard and pounded his back against the wall. A scoff and a half-chuckle escaped him then, as he sat prone against the wall of the barn. He had not eaten or had anything to drink since he'd been here. He'd been in two fights, he'd been bruised and tossed around, and he'd just watched his friend die. He was exhausted.
He sat against the wall of the barn and chuckled to himself. He scoffed and nearly broke into tears. His body trembled as sobbing chuckles escaped him.
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.
He looked up to the girl again. Dollish eyelash all aflutter; her huge eyes staring down on him he couldnt help but not feel threatened by the attractive young lady. Her words were soothing and calm. His own face was flush, he had not yet broken into tears but he felt like he was going to pass out.
"I need to get out of here."