((June Madison continues from Medically Ineffective Intervention))
One announcement and a day later, June found herself laid on top of a pool table, one arm encased in its sling, the other splayed out to the side, like a body awaiting autopsy.
Above her, in the peripheries of her vision, were the heads of moose, caribous, wolves, ducks, geese, divorced from their bodies, staring her down. Below her, past the peripheries, were the bodies of Jack Anderson and Victor Grail, laid amidst the shattered glass and wooden shards and buckshot of the scene. Outside the building, at the back, Dick reported, was the body of Cassie Chao, a classmate of hers in their cooking classes, nice enough was how she remembered her, nice enough was all there was left to her. To her sides were Darryl and Dick, her two caretakers, either asleep or staring silently, keeping watch silently, she couldn't tell, she couldn't see, it didn't matter either way as it was silent all the same.
They were here solely because it was somewhere else. They had made a near twelve-hour journey through the dark, through the cold, from one end of the island to another, simply because it was not the infirmary. There were other reasons stated in the meantime about how this might be where the danger zones lead them to anyways, about how they needed to keep on the move, but they felt like reasons attributed after the fact. Her body had been worn down past the state of disintegration she was already at, they had done this journey for the sole purpose of distance.
She did not want to undergo the journey, but she did not want to do anything, then again. She felt untethered, unmoored. Her friends were dead, the girl she was supposed to make amends to was dead.
Jezzie was still alive, she reminded herself, and she felt the dim upwelling of grief and anguish that that name always brought her, but it was smothered by the guilt of Medea's listless expression, fixated at her still. Embers smothered by the unrelenting snow of this island.
There was nowhere to go to but here, so she was here. She was here, because Dick and Darryl seemed to care about her, she thought, and they might be sad if she left.
She was here, because untethered objects tended to float out into nowhere, into nothing, if left to their own devices.
She was here, but she was just here, and she had just been here. And she had just been here ever since her arm was broken, just lying down, just alone with her thoughts, oversteeped. For a moment more, she entertained the thoughts of revenge and vengeance, if only to feel something, but she stepped back from that precipice.
And, to pull herself further from that precipice, for nothing to be populated by something, she spoke a question into the air.
"What now?"
No answer came immediately. She pushed herself up with her working arm, let out a groan at the effort.
She looked at Darryl, the one carrying the least grief out of all of them, the one who seemed the most put together at the moment. She directed her next question at him, though Dick was free to answer if he wished.
"Is this all there is, or is there something else we're supposed to do?"
In essence, how were they supposed to live the rest of their lives?
no one knows where the ladder goes
Day 10, post announcement, private
The year was 1986.
The Boston Celtics stood atop the basketball world, for the sixteenth time, champions. It all was behind the will and the skill of White Jesus. The Second Coming. The Hick from French Lick. Larry Legend. Larry Bird, who some would say was the greatest white ballplayer to ever dribble. In the 80s, Boston loved the Celtics. They were hardworking, they were rough-and-tumble, and they didn’t so much need to win as much as they hated to lose. That was Celtics basketball and the ’86 team was it at heights it hadn’t reached since the 60s. Dynastic ambitions, national attention and a heated and hated cultural and strategic rival in Los Angeles. It was the stuff poems were written about, songs were sung in commemoration of and that stories were told. Nothing beat Celtic pride.
The Celtics were the defending champions but through administrative rigamarole and cunning, cutthroat business dealings, they had managed to secure the second overall pick. There was some discussion on who it should be spent on, but there really wasn’t much need for doubt. Leonard Kevin Bias, affectionately referred to as Len. Len was a University of Maryland product and had famously taken down the number one ranked team in the country, North Carolina led by legendary coach Dean Smith. Bias scored thirty-five points against UNC including seven in the final three minutes of regulation and four in overtime. Bias was dynamic and high flying, thought to be an answer to His Airness Michael Jordan drafted by the Chicago Bulls only a few years prior. It was a no-brainer. Take Bias and him and Bird go on to win every title until 1991.
So, the Celtics took Len Bias second overall. Duh.
And, two days later Len was dead of a cocaine overdose.
He was only twenty-two.
Most people don’t remember how good Len was at Maryland. Most who remember Len Bias just remember how he died. Outside the folks who loved him truly, the world only mourned Len for what he could've been rather than what he was.
Most of Dickie’s classmates had only been eighteen.
Tragedy was tragedy was tragedy. It didn't matter how important it was. Even with a changed location, shit mostly was the same. There was a listlessness that combatted the weariness and constant exhaustion that had made itself kin over their trial. Dickie’s face was peppered with red scruff, his gray suit stained in brown blood and his big protruding stomach seemed determined to contact his spine. He had been through the wringer, as most who remained had. The only thing Richard could stay focused on was moving forward, was staying strong.
Richard fiddled with his pistol, only capable of firing two shots, perfectly capable of murder. He didn’t have to use it, but Dick did anyway. After the announcement, everybody knew he had it.
“I,” he felt compelled to answer June, but guilty about speaking an unspoken truth. Richard had no ambition of escape, but he had no stomach for suicide. He wanted to help the people he could, he wanted to find the friends he had. Friends had been found, friends had died and been killed and nobody had been helped. What now? June's guess was as good as his. Her hands were cleaner if her heart and mind happened to be cloudy.
“The cake’s been baked, the goose is cooked, the horse has left the barn,” there was a resignation in his voice. “I’ve known for a long time that shit is sideways, y’know? There’s gonna be no kumbaya and throwin’ down the swords. I can barely operate the Bluetooth in my car let alone figure out how to get out these collars…”
Iris was dead. Chloe was dead. Donovan. Victor. Fred. Nearly one hundred kids already, if Dickie was counting right.
“I’m staying alive, I’m trying to protect my friends, I wanna help anybody and anyone I can, and I know I'm fuckin' up and not doin' enough,” he sighed. “I keep hoping and feeding a feeling that the longer we last, the more likely it is that we’re saved. Uncle Sam and the Cavalry. I'm just praying to God something good happens. Bad luck doesn't last forever, right?”
If he kept on thinking it, he might make it true.
That wasn’t a plan.
“I dunno.”
He was rambling, talking because he liked the sound of his own voice. Scared of silence much more than he was of being stagnant.
“What are we even supposed to do?”
The Boston Celtics stood atop the basketball world, for the sixteenth time, champions. It all was behind the will and the skill of White Jesus. The Second Coming. The Hick from French Lick. Larry Legend. Larry Bird, who some would say was the greatest white ballplayer to ever dribble. In the 80s, Boston loved the Celtics. They were hardworking, they were rough-and-tumble, and they didn’t so much need to win as much as they hated to lose. That was Celtics basketball and the ’86 team was it at heights it hadn’t reached since the 60s. Dynastic ambitions, national attention and a heated and hated cultural and strategic rival in Los Angeles. It was the stuff poems were written about, songs were sung in commemoration of and that stories were told. Nothing beat Celtic pride.
The Celtics were the defending champions but through administrative rigamarole and cunning, cutthroat business dealings, they had managed to secure the second overall pick. There was some discussion on who it should be spent on, but there really wasn’t much need for doubt. Leonard Kevin Bias, affectionately referred to as Len. Len was a University of Maryland product and had famously taken down the number one ranked team in the country, North Carolina led by legendary coach Dean Smith. Bias scored thirty-five points against UNC including seven in the final three minutes of regulation and four in overtime. Bias was dynamic and high flying, thought to be an answer to His Airness Michael Jordan drafted by the Chicago Bulls only a few years prior. It was a no-brainer. Take Bias and him and Bird go on to win every title until 1991.
So, the Celtics took Len Bias second overall. Duh.
And, two days later Len was dead of a cocaine overdose.
He was only twenty-two.
Most people don’t remember how good Len was at Maryland. Most who remember Len Bias just remember how he died. Outside the folks who loved him truly, the world only mourned Len for what he could've been rather than what he was.
[ Big Dick Buster Continued From: Medically Ineffective Intervention ]
Most of Dickie’s classmates had only been eighteen.
Tragedy was tragedy was tragedy. It didn't matter how important it was. Even with a changed location, shit mostly was the same. There was a listlessness that combatted the weariness and constant exhaustion that had made itself kin over their trial. Dickie’s face was peppered with red scruff, his gray suit stained in brown blood and his big protruding stomach seemed determined to contact his spine. He had been through the wringer, as most who remained had. The only thing Richard could stay focused on was moving forward, was staying strong.
Richard fiddled with his pistol, only capable of firing two shots, perfectly capable of murder. He didn’t have to use it, but Dick did anyway. After the announcement, everybody knew he had it.
“I,” he felt compelled to answer June, but guilty about speaking an unspoken truth. Richard had no ambition of escape, but he had no stomach for suicide. He wanted to help the people he could, he wanted to find the friends he had. Friends had been found, friends had died and been killed and nobody had been helped. What now? June's guess was as good as his. Her hands were cleaner if her heart and mind happened to be cloudy.
“The cake’s been baked, the goose is cooked, the horse has left the barn,” there was a resignation in his voice. “I’ve known for a long time that shit is sideways, y’know? There’s gonna be no kumbaya and throwin’ down the swords. I can barely operate the Bluetooth in my car let alone figure out how to get out these collars…”
Iris was dead. Chloe was dead. Donovan. Victor. Fred. Nearly one hundred kids already, if Dickie was counting right.
“I’m staying alive, I’m trying to protect my friends, I wanna help anybody and anyone I can, and I know I'm fuckin' up and not doin' enough,” he sighed. “I keep hoping and feeding a feeling that the longer we last, the more likely it is that we’re saved. Uncle Sam and the Cavalry. I'm just praying to God something good happens. Bad luck doesn't last forever, right?”
If he kept on thinking it, he might make it true.
That wasn’t a plan.
“I dunno.”
He was rambling, talking because he liked the sound of his own voice. Scared of silence much more than he was of being stagnant.
“What are we even supposed to do?”
"Well I had been hoping to play pool but we don't have any cues."
((Darryl Smith Jr. continued from Medically Ineffective Intervention))
Dark joke, but hey things were getting heavy and it was exactly untrue. That said, Darryl wasn't going to lie to himself, they had no plan, no ideas, and consequently nothing to show for it. Iris was dead via a combination of her own decisions and an itchy trigger finger which left them with a beat-up June and mentally drained Richard, so their threes team was fucked.
Richard had given a proper response first, but June hadn't actually been asking him. She had been asking Darryl himself. He knew why, he was the most put together, the most realistic, the least reeling from Iris' avoidable death. It meant that by and large he had been spending the most time figuring out further steps. The next moves they needed to make. But that had required taking stock, in an honest way as to where they sat and what that all meant.
Through Iris' death Richard had punched his card to be able to exit should he have made it to the finish line. A big if just from a probability standpoint and not even intending to throw shade at his friend there. Meanwhile, he and June were sat with big fat zeros, which in terms of their philosophical culpability wasn't so bad, but in terms of being able to actually leave the game, not great.
But a plan, next steps, they needed something and he had been asked so he had to offer. Any response he gave would feel somewhat disingenuous, however, since it would be attempting to avoid the unavoidable fact that only one of them could actually win and go home. They couldn't get around that detail, but Darryl could certainly try to ignore it.
"Way I see there's two main options, well three, if you count staying here until we're forced to move. But if we want to head out and actually achieve something we either have to remove stuff like uh, threats, y'know Kitty, Salem, Jezzie all them or we actually make an attempt like y'know," He pointed to his collar for emphasis. "There must be someone else out there thinking about making that move, if we all get together maybe we can put a plan in motion but hey." He shrugged.
"Ain't no one done it as far back as I can remember. Would be the real Hail Mary, full-court shot."
He threw his hands up and leaned back on the bar.
"Other than that I ain't got shit."
((Darryl Smith Jr. continued from Medically Ineffective Intervention))
Dark joke, but hey things were getting heavy and it was exactly untrue. That said, Darryl wasn't going to lie to himself, they had no plan, no ideas, and consequently nothing to show for it. Iris was dead via a combination of her own decisions and an itchy trigger finger which left them with a beat-up June and mentally drained Richard, so their threes team was fucked.
Richard had given a proper response first, but June hadn't actually been asking him. She had been asking Darryl himself. He knew why, he was the most put together, the most realistic, the least reeling from Iris' avoidable death. It meant that by and large he had been spending the most time figuring out further steps. The next moves they needed to make. But that had required taking stock, in an honest way as to where they sat and what that all meant.
Through Iris' death Richard had punched his card to be able to exit should he have made it to the finish line. A big if just from a probability standpoint and not even intending to throw shade at his friend there. Meanwhile, he and June were sat with big fat zeros, which in terms of their philosophical culpability wasn't so bad, but in terms of being able to actually leave the game, not great.
But a plan, next steps, they needed something and he had been asked so he had to offer. Any response he gave would feel somewhat disingenuous, however, since it would be attempting to avoid the unavoidable fact that only one of them could actually win and go home. They couldn't get around that detail, but Darryl could certainly try to ignore it.
"Way I see there's two main options, well three, if you count staying here until we're forced to move. But if we want to head out and actually achieve something we either have to remove stuff like uh, threats, y'know Kitty, Salem, Jezzie all them or we actually make an attempt like y'know," He pointed to his collar for emphasis. "There must be someone else out there thinking about making that move, if we all get together maybe we can put a plan in motion but hey." He shrugged.
"Ain't no one done it as far back as I can remember. Would be the real Hail Mary, full-court shot."
He threw his hands up and leaned back on the bar.
"Other than that I ain't got shit."
"Sorry." June attempted to parry Darryl's joke with her own, but she worried she sounded caustic instead of sarcastic.
And then, Darryl mentioned Jezzie's name, and the hair on her skin bristled. Somehow, in this bitter cold that permeated the building they were in, June chilled even further, chilled rock-solid.
She found herself on the edge of a cliff again. All light-headed and nauseous and.
All confused and scared and.
And.
She didn't know what she felt. She didn't know how to put it to words.
Dick didn't know how to escape, didn't know what to do.
She,
she knew?
She slowly laid herself back down, facing back up at the ceiling again. She didn't have the strength to hold herself upright. She didn't have the strength to look them in the face right now.
"Medea," she began, voice quiet, monotone, "she was my best friend. She knew everything about engineering, she would make a drone just to get her snacks, so she wouldn't have to leave her bedroom. She was the hardest-working sloth I ever knew."
She gulped, tears pricked her eyes.
"The nicest sloth I ever knew.
"She, she told me she had this plan, and it involved duct tape, and the collars, and electricity, and I was never smart enough to understand it. She had all these ideas, and," voice choked, shuddered sigh, "she was so excited for it."
Shuddered breath.
The acrid taste of bile at the back of her throat.
"Jezzie slit her neck in front of me. She couldn't even— she claimed it was an accident. She couldn't fucking, she couldn't take responsibility for it. She"—she couldn't breathe again, she couldn't breathe again—"she said Medea loved me, she used Medea's love against me."
Deep breaths, deep breaths.
Deep breaths.
"Medea's love is why I came. I thought if I— she said I should try to make amends however I can. Make things right by those I've hurt. And I'd hurt Iris. I thought if I tried, it would just happen, and things would be better. And, well," she pointed with her working hand at her broken arm. Tear-streaked laugh.
Smile faded.
"All of Medea's escape plans lie with her body. Her body is, it is in a danger zone, along the coast, and none of us will ever ever get anywhere close to her body ever again."
Medea's frozen, unmoving expression.
She was heading closer and closer and closer to the cliff now.
Medea wouldn't have wanted this. But then again, she wasn't here anymore. And, what had Medea's wants ever gotten her? A bruised body? A bruised soul?
And what did June want?
Everything she ever wanted waited for her past the edge. It beckoned, and it told her to go further. Say more. Reveal all your secrets, reveal all the bile that resides within you, reveal it all. Step off the edge.
The acrid taste of guilt at the back of her throat.
She swallowed.
"I'm just saying, if we're talking removing threats, then it would be really, really nice if she went first. That's all I'm saying."
And then, Darryl mentioned Jezzie's name, and the hair on her skin bristled. Somehow, in this bitter cold that permeated the building they were in, June chilled even further, chilled rock-solid.
She found herself on the edge of a cliff again. All light-headed and nauseous and.
All confused and scared and.
And.
She didn't know what she felt. She didn't know how to put it to words.
Dick didn't know how to escape, didn't know what to do.
She,
she knew?
She slowly laid herself back down, facing back up at the ceiling again. She didn't have the strength to hold herself upright. She didn't have the strength to look them in the face right now.
"Medea," she began, voice quiet, monotone, "she was my best friend. She knew everything about engineering, she would make a drone just to get her snacks, so she wouldn't have to leave her bedroom. She was the hardest-working sloth I ever knew."
She gulped, tears pricked her eyes.
"The nicest sloth I ever knew.
"She, she told me she had this plan, and it involved duct tape, and the collars, and electricity, and I was never smart enough to understand it. She had all these ideas, and," voice choked, shuddered sigh, "she was so excited for it."
Shuddered breath.
The acrid taste of bile at the back of her throat.
"Jezzie slit her neck in front of me. She couldn't even— she claimed it was an accident. She couldn't fucking, she couldn't take responsibility for it. She"—she couldn't breathe again, she couldn't breathe again—"she said Medea loved me, she used Medea's love against me."
Deep breaths, deep breaths.
Deep breaths.
"Medea's love is why I came. I thought if I— she said I should try to make amends however I can. Make things right by those I've hurt. And I'd hurt Iris. I thought if I tried, it would just happen, and things would be better. And, well," she pointed with her working hand at her broken arm. Tear-streaked laugh.
Smile faded.
"All of Medea's escape plans lie with her body. Her body is, it is in a danger zone, along the coast, and none of us will ever ever get anywhere close to her body ever again."
Medea's frozen, unmoving expression.
She was heading closer and closer and closer to the cliff now.
Medea wouldn't have wanted this. But then again, she wasn't here anymore. And, what had Medea's wants ever gotten her? A bruised body? A bruised soul?
And what did June want?
Everything she ever wanted waited for her past the edge. It beckoned, and it told her to go further. Say more. Reveal all your secrets, reveal all the bile that resides within you, reveal it all. Step off the edge.
The acrid taste of guilt at the back of her throat.
She swallowed.
"I'm just saying, if we're talking removing threats, then it would be really, really nice if she went first. That's all I'm saying."
“We’re still here right now because we’ve been lucky and we haven’t been looking for trouble,” Dick said with some trepidation in response to both June and Darryl. “We don’t have enough firepower to deal with the killers, the real-life murderers. We can’t go looking for problems without a way to solve them. I’m not goin’ out suicide by Jezzie Stark. We're not goin' out like that.”
Dick was an only child. Darryl was Richard’s best friend. Just as Medea had been to June. That meant something when you were young and in their position. It meant you were family. It meant that Darryl was the brother Dick chose.
If Darryl was talking about Hail-Marys and last chances, it meant something different than Dickie doing it. Darryl didn’t believe in good-luck and rainbows, horseshoes, or blue moons. Richard constantly sought out pots of gold; Darryl was always quick to remind his friend that he was blinded by glitter. Optimism of the will versus the realism of the world. A boy with perseverance, a boy with pampered privilege. They were best friends, but even when they were on the same team, they hardly ever were playing the same game. Richard's position was different, he didn't have to worry about the things Darryl had to. The Fox & The Hound.
That’s how it had always been.
Richard had seen Darryl light it up in pick-up games. Dick was good, he was poised and smart with the ball—Darryl was special. He was flamboyant and fearless with a penchant for theatrics, and he derived a distinct pleasure in making shots in other’s faces. Darryl and Dick had dominated many pick-up and street games as a quick and tenacious back court. Sure, there were times when their opponents were too damn big and too damn skilled to do anything against…but against Joe Schmoe and The Average Alfreds? It was easy money.
Against the AT? The money was hard. Hard as fuck.
“Marshall West, Lilian Larsen.”
As a point-guard, Richard picked his shots based on what the game gave him. Some games he’d take ten shots. Some games he would take none. It wasn't complicated. Sometimes there was simply no shot to take. But basketball was a game of runs. Luck always changed and hope was always resilient. If Dick kept playing, he was guaranteed for a shot to open up.
If Richard kept trying, eventually he'd score. That’s what playing with Darryl meant. That was the chance none of Dick's teammates ever really had.
“They’re as good as any, as real as any and they know our intentions as well as any. They’re not out here for themselves,” could Richard ever truly and honestly say the same? Even when his heart was in the right place, it was always in his name. “We can’t let the Disease of Me lead to the demise of us,” good ol’ Pat Riley, the Godfather, the coach of those strategic and cultural rivals to the ’86 Celtics.
“We help others, we turn that into them helping us. We try to make something happen. You can’t throw a Hail Mary from the I, we gotta go five wide.”
Dick was an only child. Darryl was Richard’s best friend. Just as Medea had been to June. That meant something when you were young and in their position. It meant you were family. It meant that Darryl was the brother Dick chose.
If Darryl was talking about Hail-Marys and last chances, it meant something different than Dickie doing it. Darryl didn’t believe in good-luck and rainbows, horseshoes, or blue moons. Richard constantly sought out pots of gold; Darryl was always quick to remind his friend that he was blinded by glitter. Optimism of the will versus the realism of the world. A boy with perseverance, a boy with pampered privilege. They were best friends, but even when they were on the same team, they hardly ever were playing the same game. Richard's position was different, he didn't have to worry about the things Darryl had to. The Fox & The Hound.
That’s how it had always been.
Richard had seen Darryl light it up in pick-up games. Dick was good, he was poised and smart with the ball—Darryl was special. He was flamboyant and fearless with a penchant for theatrics, and he derived a distinct pleasure in making shots in other’s faces. Darryl and Dick had dominated many pick-up and street games as a quick and tenacious back court. Sure, there were times when their opponents were too damn big and too damn skilled to do anything against…but against Joe Schmoe and The Average Alfreds? It was easy money.
Against the AT? The money was hard. Hard as fuck.
“Marshall West, Lilian Larsen.”
As a point-guard, Richard picked his shots based on what the game gave him. Some games he’d take ten shots. Some games he would take none. It wasn't complicated. Sometimes there was simply no shot to take. But basketball was a game of runs. Luck always changed and hope was always resilient. If Dick kept playing, he was guaranteed for a shot to open up.
If Richard kept trying, eventually he'd score. That’s what playing with Darryl meant. That was the chance none of Dick's teammates ever really had.
“They’re as good as any, as real as any and they know our intentions as well as any. They’re not out here for themselves,” could Richard ever truly and honestly say the same? Even when his heart was in the right place, it was always in his name. “We can’t let the Disease of Me lead to the demise of us,” good ol’ Pat Riley, the Godfather, the coach of those strategic and cultural rivals to the ’86 Celtics.
“We help others, we turn that into them helping us. We try to make something happen. You can’t throw a Hail Mary from the I, we gotta go five wide.”
Well June's story was a real fucked up sequence of events. But it didn't surprise Darryl that Jezzie didn't take responsibility for her actions, she was around four or five kills deep, and it was unlikely she would feel any remorse. It also wasn't so surprising given Jezzie's general ability to fool herself about things, like believing she was one of the popular girls at JEM, when as far as Darryl knew most people only knew as 'that girl from the play'. But he did feel for June, that was a real fucked up situation she'd experienced. Then when she'd come to try and make amends with Iris...well...yeah, that was rough.
"We'll keep it in mind," Darryl said solemnly, looking over at June and giving a slight nod.
But, and Darryl had to admit it, Dickie had a point. They didn't have shit as far as weapons went, one handgun and a knife for opening up a coconut, and a coconut.
The rejection of his own idea did prompt Dick to action though. He had figured something out, something they could do and attempt. He even had names to go along with it, people to look for and locate. Darryl pretended to rub his face in thought to hide a grin. He had managed to jostle something loose from his friend's brain and it turned out there had been a plan up there the whole time.
He nodded along as Richard hit his high point, no doubt quoting some sports biography he'd read.
"Alright, alright, that feels like something, more like something we can work with anyway."
As Darryl stood there he had a sudden thought, to do with the coconut he'd remembered he had.
"Hey, you know what," He began as he dug around in his bag, before pulling the coconut out along with the pick. "I suppose it's as good a time as any to crack this thing open."
Setting it down on the surface Darryl tested poking it with the pick before deciding attempting to stab a hole in the coconut was a bad idea on a polished surface. Instead, he placed it on a nearby stool and then, holding it steady with his left hand, brought the pick down hard with the right.
There was a satisfying thunk and a perfectly circular hole was made in the coconut shell.
"Who wants first taste?" He asked, holding the fruit out to June and Richard.
"We'll keep it in mind," Darryl said solemnly, looking over at June and giving a slight nod.
But, and Darryl had to admit it, Dickie had a point. They didn't have shit as far as weapons went, one handgun and a knife for opening up a coconut, and a coconut.
The rejection of his own idea did prompt Dick to action though. He had figured something out, something they could do and attempt. He even had names to go along with it, people to look for and locate. Darryl pretended to rub his face in thought to hide a grin. He had managed to jostle something loose from his friend's brain and it turned out there had been a plan up there the whole time.
He nodded along as Richard hit his high point, no doubt quoting some sports biography he'd read.
"Alright, alright, that feels like something, more like something we can work with anyway."
As Darryl stood there he had a sudden thought, to do with the coconut he'd remembered he had.
"Hey, you know what," He began as he dug around in his bag, before pulling the coconut out along with the pick. "I suppose it's as good a time as any to crack this thing open."
Setting it down on the surface Darryl tested poking it with the pick before deciding attempting to stab a hole in the coconut was a bad idea on a polished surface. Instead, he placed it on a nearby stool and then, holding it steady with his left hand, brought the pick down hard with the right.
There was a satisfying thunk and a perfectly circular hole was made in the coconut shell.
"Who wants first taste?" He asked, holding the fruit out to June and Richard.
June laid flat on the ground, muscles still and rigid, as Dick and Darryl responded to her in turn, Dick with sports-related platitudes her pain-addled mind struggled to decipher, and Darryl with the one-two follow-up. Some part of her stung when Dick talked about the 'disease of me.' She understood the broad strokes of what he said, if not the specific references: whatever course of action they took, they had to have more allies, be better prepared for it, lest they risk a premature death. But there were jagged edges in that phrase; like her selfishness was a disease, prepared to rot their group from the inside out. Like her yearning for catharsis, for justice, for something to relieve the constant hurt she felt, like all of that was just that, selfish.
She was good at that, at finding jagged edges. She didn't need to be, not right now. Their response was better than she'd expected: not a moral admonishment and a dismissal of all the grief she felt, just some constructive criticism for how to go forward. But she was still waiting for the other shoe to drop. The other shoe always dropped with people like her. Any time she ever showed her anger outside the island, the other shoe dropped. Friends faded away, parents looked at her different. Something always happened.
There was something else too about Dick's suggestion, about finding two other people, Marshall and Lily. It felt like kicking the can down the road, a road that at most had four days remaining before its end. Their logic was sound, they needed to be better prepared, they barely had anything. But, now that she had brought up the notion of revenge, the urge within her, it felt intense, relentless. Jezzie had killed Medea four days ago. June wanted her hurt to end now. She wanted Jezzie to die now.
But she was laid here, one limb down, no weapon on hand. So, she had to wait one more day.
And so here she was, frozen, rigid, shaking.
And then Darryl picked open something, there was a thunk. She propped herself up with her hand, looked over to her side, and she saw a coconut, of all things, on this island. First taste? he offered.
She took deep breaths again, and she felt her shoulders tingle, loosen.
All her worries still raged inside her, like always. But, for tonight, in this little bar surrounded by corpses, she had allies, she had people by her side, willing to offer a coconut apropos of nothing.
For tonight, for now, she was not alone.
"Can I?" she asked.
She was good at that, at finding jagged edges. She didn't need to be, not right now. Their response was better than she'd expected: not a moral admonishment and a dismissal of all the grief she felt, just some constructive criticism for how to go forward. But she was still waiting for the other shoe to drop. The other shoe always dropped with people like her. Any time she ever showed her anger outside the island, the other shoe dropped. Friends faded away, parents looked at her different. Something always happened.
There was something else too about Dick's suggestion, about finding two other people, Marshall and Lily. It felt like kicking the can down the road, a road that at most had four days remaining before its end. Their logic was sound, they needed to be better prepared, they barely had anything. But, now that she had brought up the notion of revenge, the urge within her, it felt intense, relentless. Jezzie had killed Medea four days ago. June wanted her hurt to end now. She wanted Jezzie to die now.
But she was laid here, one limb down, no weapon on hand. So, she had to wait one more day.
And so here she was, frozen, rigid, shaking.
And then Darryl picked open something, there was a thunk. She propped herself up with her hand, looked over to her side, and she saw a coconut, of all things, on this island. First taste? he offered.
She took deep breaths again, and she felt her shoulders tingle, loosen.
All her worries still raged inside her, like always. But, for tonight, in this little bar surrounded by corpses, she had allies, she had people by her side, willing to offer a coconut apropos of nothing.
For tonight, for now, she was not alone.
"Can I?" she asked.
“Sure,” Richard said with that boy-scout, Homecoming King grin on his face and with a white twinkle in his bright eyes. “Ladies first.”
It felt weird to treat June with so much kindness. She had attacked Iris on day one and it was Iris attacking her as payback a week later which led to the whole unfortunate incident in the infirmary. But Dickie couldn’t abandon June to her injuries back then and he couldn’t hate her for past sins now. To do so would be hating himself and Dick couldn’t stomach that. There was no competition in the ‘Fuckin’ Over Iris Olympics’, they both medaled. In some ways, the kindness Richard extended June felt disrespectful to the time he had spent with Iris. As if he was doing it more for his own mental well-being than out of respect to her memory.
But Iris was dead and Richard had killed her. If there was a heaven, Iris’d be more concerned with grasshoppers and beetles than respect. The dead didn’t care if they were disrespected.
That’s why the living had to waste so much energy respecting the dead.
That’s why the living spent so much time concerned with respect.
June had only been an enemy out of circumstance. Still, there was selfishness and sanctimony in forgiving her. Dick swallowed it whole and savored the taste. For him, the reward for being righteous was being self-righteous. That made him try harder to be more than his self-interest, even when he was mostly interested in self. If he walked the walk, then he was allowed to talk the talk. Richard knew that if he didn’t root actively for his enemy’s salvation, then he was not working with the spirit that God intended. When he forgave others, God forgave Richard. By accepting the sins of others, Dick could accept the flaws in himself. If he forgave people for their mistakes, Dick was able to make mistakes of his own.
His luck was able to change, he was able to move forward and take his shot.
After every loss, they could begin again. And they had already lost plenty. They were determined to sign-up to lose more.
“One more night and then after the announcements, we move out,” the grin grinned, the twinkle twinkled and Dick almost believed his own bullshit. “Together.”
The night passed easily, strangely. Richard dreamt of glory and days gone by. A basketball game with Darryl wearing JEM royal blue. A back and forth, fast-break, frantic type of game that only could be dreamed of and in which it was impossible to make sense. In which only the impossible made sense. Dickie dreamt of dunking the basketball in TD Garden during Game 7 against the Lakers. Darryl had thrown Richard the alley-oop. When Richard returned the favor a few plays later? Darryl's dunk was a 360 front-flip.
When they awoke and the announcement came, Dick had a fire in his belly and the spirit in the lodge was different. Least in Richard's eyes. There was a determination and a courage that could be felt. A jagged edge, that pricked him and made his skin prickle. They were together and they had a vision. Clear eyes, full hearts—couldn’t lose. They packed their things; they inched toward leaving and Dick inched to the door.
“I need to take a leak before we bounce,” a teenage boy’s frankness and casual speech. “I’ll meet y’all outside,” he wagged his finger like a disgruntled housewife chastising her children, "don't leave me!"
Pistol in his pocket, pocket-pistol in his hand, Dick went out to handle his business only concerned with what was possible rather than what could happen.
It felt weird to treat June with so much kindness. She had attacked Iris on day one and it was Iris attacking her as payback a week later which led to the whole unfortunate incident in the infirmary. But Dickie couldn’t abandon June to her injuries back then and he couldn’t hate her for past sins now. To do so would be hating himself and Dick couldn’t stomach that. There was no competition in the ‘Fuckin’ Over Iris Olympics’, they both medaled. In some ways, the kindness Richard extended June felt disrespectful to the time he had spent with Iris. As if he was doing it more for his own mental well-being than out of respect to her memory.
But Iris was dead and Richard had killed her. If there was a heaven, Iris’d be more concerned with grasshoppers and beetles than respect. The dead didn’t care if they were disrespected.
That’s why the living had to waste so much energy respecting the dead.
That’s why the living spent so much time concerned with respect.
June had only been an enemy out of circumstance. Still, there was selfishness and sanctimony in forgiving her. Dick swallowed it whole and savored the taste. For him, the reward for being righteous was being self-righteous. That made him try harder to be more than his self-interest, even when he was mostly interested in self. If he walked the walk, then he was allowed to talk the talk. Richard knew that if he didn’t root actively for his enemy’s salvation, then he was not working with the spirit that God intended. When he forgave others, God forgave Richard. By accepting the sins of others, Dick could accept the flaws in himself. If he forgave people for their mistakes, Dick was able to make mistakes of his own.
His luck was able to change, he was able to move forward and take his shot.
After every loss, they could begin again. And they had already lost plenty. They were determined to sign-up to lose more.
“One more night and then after the announcements, we move out,” the grin grinned, the twinkle twinkled and Dick almost believed his own bullshit. “Together.”
~~~
The night passed easily, strangely. Richard dreamt of glory and days gone by. A basketball game with Darryl wearing JEM royal blue. A back and forth, fast-break, frantic type of game that only could be dreamed of and in which it was impossible to make sense. In which only the impossible made sense. Dickie dreamt of dunking the basketball in TD Garden during Game 7 against the Lakers. Darryl had thrown Richard the alley-oop. When Richard returned the favor a few plays later? Darryl's dunk was a 360 front-flip.
When they awoke and the announcement came, Dick had a fire in his belly and the spirit in the lodge was different. Least in Richard's eyes. There was a determination and a courage that could be felt. A jagged edge, that pricked him and made his skin prickle. They were together and they had a vision. Clear eyes, full hearts—couldn’t lose. They packed their things; they inched toward leaving and Dick inched to the door.
“I need to take a leak before we bounce,” a teenage boy’s frankness and casual speech. “I’ll meet y’all outside,” he wagged his finger like a disgruntled housewife chastising her children, "don't leave me!"
Pistol in his pocket, pocket-pistol in his hand, Dick went out to handle his business only concerned with what was possible rather than what could happen.
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VoltTurtle
- Posts: 1540
- Joined: Fri Aug 10, 2018 4:10 pm
- Location: Dreamland
((A bitter wind whistled down the streets near the bar.))
The night before, something that lived in the wild and the dark places had been watching the trio through the windows.
This disciple of Artemis was lost and alone, no pack left for it to turn to. It had traveled from very far away, on the run from those who hunted it in turn. It had prowled towards the bar, and heard them talking from outside the paper-thin safety of their walls. Unnoticed, it had lurked, listened, and observed.
As it did, it felt its brain slowly rip itself in two. One side was envious, it saw them enjoying themselves, and each other's company, and it despised every second of it. It remembered the boys, how they had been loved in the way it never had, how they always acted like they were better than everyone else. It hated that they still had each other, and had still held onto their innocence after all this time. They represented everything it had been denied. It wanted to make them disappear, to make the resentment go away. It reminded itself that they had to die anyway.
However, the other side was nostalgic, lost in the tearful memories of old times it would never have again. Eyes like pilot lights, staring into the once-was and what-could-have-never-been, unable to bring itself back to the present. It let itself live vicariously through them. A sad monster, prowling at the edges of comfort, never allowed to stray into the light. It wanted to stay and watch, and remember, and imagine. It reminded itself that its belly was full, and it didn't need to go hunting again, tonight.
The two sides argued back and forth, back and forth, in a standstill. Eventually, mournful and indecisive, the predator decided to leave them be.
It came back in the morning refreshed, with a sharper look in its eyes.
Sleep had killed the nostalgia, allowing only the envy to remain. Its prey had been given grace once, but they would not be granted it again.
Wood creaked under the stress of the wind as it crept towards the bar. It skulked just out of sight, at the edges of windows and vision, the rush of blood in its ears, listening intently for the squeaking of mice in the walls. It perked up as it heard a voice, before tensing and arching its back.
Prey, already in the jaws of the beast.
It was silent as a ghost as it followed the shape of the noise, startling when it heard a door open. It slithered closer, to the corner just out of sight, and poked its head around, ready to-
Oh, he was peeing.
Gross.
Kitty winced, and the rush of blood in her ears faded, leaving on the ringing behind. For a time, the beast was gone, and she remembered who she was. The practical came to her mind first. Now that Richard was outside, it was going to be harder to kill them all without being noticed. Her initial plan of popping a grenade through the window and rendering them all into a fine red mist before leaving had been foiled. Were they on their way out? If so, this was much too risky to commit to. She felt like backing out, but what if they saw her? Better to get the first strike, and then abscond. Guerilla warfare still fit her style.
Retreating back around the corner, Kitty slowly and carefully shifted the grenade launcher out of her grip, so as to not make any noise, and took hold of her shotgun. Her knife chafed in her boot, while the rest of her belongings remained behind where she had made her temporary nest. She stayed quiet, listening for any sounds of movement as she started to take another peek.
The night before, something that lived in the wild and the dark places had been watching the trio through the windows.
This disciple of Artemis was lost and alone, no pack left for it to turn to. It had traveled from very far away, on the run from those who hunted it in turn. It had prowled towards the bar, and heard them talking from outside the paper-thin safety of their walls. Unnoticed, it had lurked, listened, and observed.
As it did, it felt its brain slowly rip itself in two. One side was envious, it saw them enjoying themselves, and each other's company, and it despised every second of it. It remembered the boys, how they had been loved in the way it never had, how they always acted like they were better than everyone else. It hated that they still had each other, and had still held onto their innocence after all this time. They represented everything it had been denied. It wanted to make them disappear, to make the resentment go away. It reminded itself that they had to die anyway.
However, the other side was nostalgic, lost in the tearful memories of old times it would never have again. Eyes like pilot lights, staring into the once-was and what-could-have-never-been, unable to bring itself back to the present. It let itself live vicariously through them. A sad monster, prowling at the edges of comfort, never allowed to stray into the light. It wanted to stay and watch, and remember, and imagine. It reminded itself that its belly was full, and it didn't need to go hunting again, tonight.
The two sides argued back and forth, back and forth, in a standstill. Eventually, mournful and indecisive, the predator decided to leave them be.
It came back in the morning refreshed, with a sharper look in its eyes.
Sleep had killed the nostalgia, allowing only the envy to remain. Its prey had been given grace once, but they would not be granted it again.
Wood creaked under the stress of the wind as it crept towards the bar. It skulked just out of sight, at the edges of windows and vision, the rush of blood in its ears, listening intently for the squeaking of mice in the walls. It perked up as it heard a voice, before tensing and arching its back.
Prey, already in the jaws of the beast.
It was silent as a ghost as it followed the shape of the noise, startling when it heard a door open. It slithered closer, to the corner just out of sight, and poked its head around, ready to-
Oh, he was peeing.
Gross.
Kitty winced, and the rush of blood in her ears faded, leaving on the ringing behind. For a time, the beast was gone, and she remembered who she was. The practical came to her mind first. Now that Richard was outside, it was going to be harder to kill them all without being noticed. Her initial plan of popping a grenade through the window and rendering them all into a fine red mist before leaving had been foiled. Were they on their way out? If so, this was much too risky to commit to. She felt like backing out, but what if they saw her? Better to get the first strike, and then abscond. Guerilla warfare still fit her style.
Retreating back around the corner, Kitty slowly and carefully shifted the grenade launcher out of her grip, so as to not make any noise, and took hold of her shotgun. Her knife chafed in her boot, while the rest of her belongings remained behind where she had made her temporary nest. She stayed quiet, listening for any sounds of movement as she started to take another peek.
There was something innately human in the relief that came with relieving yourself, but forgive the potty talk. This wasn't exactly deep, high-brained thought. It wasn't rocket science or algebra in Ancient Greek. But it was stuff everybody understood. It was gross, but it was humanity. Humanity that even babies got. That your dog expressed when it was let out into the front yard in the morning or your cat when you cleaned it's box. When it came down to it, everybody sighed and shivered. Nobody had to have that groggy groan and mumbled moan translated or explained. Big Dick wasn't bigger than anybody or anything. Dickie had remained humbly, embarrassingly and grossly human.
And that was a privilege on this island. And Dick had always been comfortable showing his privilege and position off.
He zipped up his bloodstained trousers.
He stretched and yawned without turning around.
And that was a privilege on this island. And Dick had always been comfortable showing his privilege and position off.
He zipped up his bloodstained trousers.
He stretched and yawned without turning around.
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VoltTurtle
- Posts: 1540
- Joined: Fri Aug 10, 2018 4:10 pm
- Location: Dreamland
How indecent.
Kitty felt like a creep, listening to someone else pee. She certainly wouldn't have liked it if some voyeur had been observing her while she relieved herself. Granted, she also wouldn't like it if someone ambushed and shot her in the back of the head, but apples to oranges. Murder was one thing, but being a pervert on top of it was a bridge too far. She had lines she did not cross, dammit!
Thankfully, it sounded like he was done. Perfect timing.
Kitty leaned into view, and took aim at Richard's head.
Lights out.
Kitty felt like a creep, listening to someone else pee. She certainly wouldn't have liked it if some voyeur had been observing her while she relieved herself. Granted, she also wouldn't like it if someone ambushed and shot her in the back of the head, but apples to oranges. Murder was one thing, but being a pervert on top of it was a bridge too far. She had lines she did not cross, dammit!
Thankfully, it sounded like he was done. Perfect timing.
Kitty leaned into view, and took aim at Richard's head.
Lights out.
Lights please.
It was a sudden flash of paranoia. A familiar finger quick on the trigger and a mind determined to be decisive. The tingle in his tummy, the hairs rising on his neck. It wasn’t brain surgery or calculus in hieroglyphics. It was simple to understand if a little convenient to unpack. Especially for those who had never felt it before. It was a question of faith, a matter of belief. A chance of circumstance and an expression of luck. Intuition. A bad feeling. The heebie-jeebies.
Whatever you call it, it made Big Dick move.
Dickie’s hips twisted and his feet pivoted and turned suddenly, sharply. The pistol in his pocket was already in his hand and ready to go. Quickdraw McGraw style. His bad feeling was confirmed, Richard's paranoia proven. Big Dick stared eye to eye with the Big Cat. Kitty Graves with a muthafuckin’ shotgun and Dickie in her sights. The big, bad wolf preparing to huff and puff and blow Little Richard down.
Quicker than Dick could blink, hopefully quicker than she could shoot, he pulled his trigger twice.
Lights out.
It was a sudden flash of paranoia. A familiar finger quick on the trigger and a mind determined to be decisive. The tingle in his tummy, the hairs rising on his neck. It wasn’t brain surgery or calculus in hieroglyphics. It was simple to understand if a little convenient to unpack. Especially for those who had never felt it before. It was a question of faith, a matter of belief. A chance of circumstance and an expression of luck. Intuition. A bad feeling. The heebie-jeebies.
Whatever you call it, it made Big Dick move.
Dickie’s hips twisted and his feet pivoted and turned suddenly, sharply. The pistol in his pocket was already in his hand and ready to go. Quickdraw McGraw style. His bad feeling was confirmed, Richard's paranoia proven. Big Dick stared eye to eye with the Big Cat. Kitty Graves with a muthafuckin’ shotgun and Dickie in her sights. The big, bad wolf preparing to huff and puff and blow Little Richard down.
Quicker than Dick could blink, hopefully quicker than she could shoot, he pulled his trigger twice.
Lights out.
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VoltTurtle
- Posts: 1540
- Joined: Fri Aug 10, 2018 4:10 pm
- Location: Dreamland
Two ear-splitting cracks, a yelp of surprise, and then another, thunderous roar.
Those dreadful events played out so quickly. Richard turned and saw Kitty at the last moment, but his quickdraw had been lacking. The first shot went wide, and the second had torn open her sleeve before whizzing past, leaving only a stinging pain behind. Startled, she pulled the trigger herself, leading to a burst of sound and light, and then of red, and her ears were left ringing.
Kitty didn't stick around to see what had happened. Before she was even cognizant of it, she was already ducking back into cover, sprinting out of sight as fast as she could while clutching her slowly bleeding arm.
Soon, she was skulking around the edges of sight once more.
Those dreadful events played out so quickly. Richard turned and saw Kitty at the last moment, but his quickdraw had been lacking. The first shot went wide, and the second had torn open her sleeve before whizzing past, leaving only a stinging pain behind. Startled, she pulled the trigger herself, leading to a burst of sound and light, and then of red, and her ears were left ringing.
Kitty didn't stick around to see what had happened. Before she was even cognizant of it, she was already ducking back into cover, sprinting out of sight as fast as she could while clutching her slowly bleeding arm.
Soon, she was skulking around the edges of sight once more.
It was chaos. Frantic and panicked chaos.
Richard had always been faster moving laterally rather than moving forward. Fancy footwork, but fat feet—it wasn’t that he was slow, it was that his legs were short. Dickie had practiced and rehearsed his excuses to perfection. He knew the quips, cliches and justifications by heart. Dick was surprisingly quick for his size. Sure. But that was only because folks didn’t expect him to be quick at all. When it really came down to it, how fast was Big Dick really?
Not fast enough.
“AUGH! FUCK!!!”
After he had fired his shots, Dick clumsily twisted and turned and scampered to begin a sprint back to the lodge front door. A varsity athlete, Dickie was chubby, but he wasn’t a scrub. It didn’t matter. When Kitty fired back Richard was in a full gallop. The spray of the shotgun coated his back and backside, and its force sent him stumbling forward. Summersaulting to the ground. It was Donphan doing rollout, almost comedic in its spastic physicality and Richard’s reaction. Dick had always been faster moving laterally rather than moving forward, but the gunfire provoked a hidden power. Adrenaline, shock and panic had started his engine.
Someway, that Big Boy got up and kept running.
Somehow, Kitty was the big, bad wolf, but Dick was the one huffing and puffing.
Big Dick burst through the front door with all the dramatic flair the situation demanded. The door swung, his feet stomped and the entirety of his weight collapsed on the lodge floor. Dick didn’t waste time, his heart beating, his back bleeding, his eyes stinging and his head ringing. Richard desperately clawed and scampered to his duffel bag and began reloading his pistol. The terror in his blue eyes could be seen from space, his pale face was completely devoid of color and coated in sticky sweat.
“It’s Kitty! What the fuck,” Richard hissed in a panic. “She got me! She shot me! Fuck!”
That was more for himself than for the others. That was so there could be no doubt of what had just happened, what was currently happening.
“We gotta get the fuck outta here! Now!"
Richard had always been faster moving laterally rather than moving forward. Fancy footwork, but fat feet—it wasn’t that he was slow, it was that his legs were short. Dickie had practiced and rehearsed his excuses to perfection. He knew the quips, cliches and justifications by heart. Dick was surprisingly quick for his size. Sure. But that was only because folks didn’t expect him to be quick at all. When it really came down to it, how fast was Big Dick really?
Not fast enough.
“AUGH! FUCK!!!”
After he had fired his shots, Dick clumsily twisted and turned and scampered to begin a sprint back to the lodge front door. A varsity athlete, Dickie was chubby, but he wasn’t a scrub. It didn’t matter. When Kitty fired back Richard was in a full gallop. The spray of the shotgun coated his back and backside, and its force sent him stumbling forward. Summersaulting to the ground. It was Donphan doing rollout, almost comedic in its spastic physicality and Richard’s reaction. Dick had always been faster moving laterally rather than moving forward, but the gunfire provoked a hidden power. Adrenaline, shock and panic had started his engine.
Someway, that Big Boy got up and kept running.
Somehow, Kitty was the big, bad wolf, but Dick was the one huffing and puffing.
Big Dick burst through the front door with all the dramatic flair the situation demanded. The door swung, his feet stomped and the entirety of his weight collapsed on the lodge floor. Dick didn’t waste time, his heart beating, his back bleeding, his eyes stinging and his head ringing. Richard desperately clawed and scampered to his duffel bag and began reloading his pistol. The terror in his blue eyes could be seen from space, his pale face was completely devoid of color and coated in sticky sweat.
“It’s Kitty! What the fuck,” Richard hissed in a panic. “She got me! She shot me! Fuck!”
That was more for himself than for the others. That was so there could be no doubt of what had just happened, what was currently happening.
“We gotta get the fuck outta here! Now!"
Darryl was packing his shit away when he heard the gunshots from outside the bar. As soon as he heard them Darryl's head shot up and he looked towards the door, mouth going dry and heart sending out beats that reverberated through his whole body. There was a reply, in a louder, deeper bass, the sound of a bigger, meaner gun to DIckie's peashooter, and then as Darryl was approaching the window to figure out what was happening, Dickie burst through the door and collapsed to the floor, blood already seeping from his back and staining his clothes.
But as Darryl watched, too shocked by what was happening to react right away Richard crawled and dragged his carcass across the floor to his bag and began digging around for bullets. As Richard fumbled with his equipment he dropped a piece of information that hit Darryl like a punch to the gut. Kitty was outside. Kitty was outside and had shot his best friend, there was no way she wasn't going to follow him inside and try to convert her attempted murder to a murder one. He looked across at June, with her one working arm and then back down to Dick, pale as a ghost from Scooby-Doo and covered with more sweat than someone taking the game-winning free throw in Game 7 of the championship game. Between them, they had all of one gun and only one full-strength person, given Richard's blood was steadily leaking out onto the floor. He stole a glance out the window but couldn't see the assailant out there, the cat having gone back into hiding.
Dickie said they had to run and he was right but realistically how far would the three of them be able to get? If Kitty was just allowed to chase them down she would have caught them easily. Dick, even with adrenaline being pumped into his body like pure nitrous couldn't force himself to his feet.
There was only one option they had.
Darryl rushed over to his best friend's side and crouched down.
"Give me the gun homie," He said, voice stern and eyes hard. "You guys gotta go."
But as Darryl watched, too shocked by what was happening to react right away Richard crawled and dragged his carcass across the floor to his bag and began digging around for bullets. As Richard fumbled with his equipment he dropped a piece of information that hit Darryl like a punch to the gut. Kitty was outside. Kitty was outside and had shot his best friend, there was no way she wasn't going to follow him inside and try to convert her attempted murder to a murder one. He looked across at June, with her one working arm and then back down to Dick, pale as a ghost from Scooby-Doo and covered with more sweat than someone taking the game-winning free throw in Game 7 of the championship game. Between them, they had all of one gun and only one full-strength person, given Richard's blood was steadily leaking out onto the floor. He stole a glance out the window but couldn't see the assailant out there, the cat having gone back into hiding.
Dickie said they had to run and he was right but realistically how far would the three of them be able to get? If Kitty was just allowed to chase them down she would have caught them easily. Dick, even with adrenaline being pumped into his body like pure nitrous couldn't force himself to his feet.
There was only one option they had.
Darryl rushed over to his best friend's side and crouched down.
"Give me the gun homie," He said, voice stern and eyes hard. "You guys gotta go."