Me And A Gun
Posted: Mon Sep 10, 2018 6:17 am
(Alice Boucher continued from Wishing Well)
And now, a day later, she was here. A church. And a gun.
MP-40. Submachine gun. Alice knew this gun.
She didn't know many guns, but this one was different.
Alice's father had owned such a gun. Kept it under the floorboards, in a room that was not the bedroom, and had brought it out only once, when she was eleven.
"My father was a member of the Resistance. We stole this gun from a German paratrooper. I was small, of course; I don't remember it. Sometimes, I regret to say, I do not think he stole it. This gun was valuable, even to the Germans. Sometimes I think--I think he might have been a spy for the Germans instead. They gave it to him as a gift, perhaps. Our family's legacy isÂ…mixed."
He would always look sadly at Alice after that. As if she could fix it.
But she couldn't.
And the gun was back.
------------
The parish was windy. The church had been wrecked, dynamited, she'd heard. She could see the seashore, now, through the fallen wall, grey sand like stone and ash. The wind was cold, a bitter taste in her mouth. She was no longer heaving, like she had been when she heard the announcement. No longer crying, screaming, cursing Danya, like she had been. No longer thinking about Sarah's dead body, Sarah, Sarah.
She was dehydrated now. Hadn't eaten, hadn't drunk in a day. But she was still standing up straight. The Crusaders fasted for three days before a fight. And Alice's hands were shaking so much, too much. She would never cook again.
Mixed legacy.
The gun was smooth under her hands. Almost comfortable. She shifted it in her palms, getting used to the weight, the feel. That's what you were supposed to do with guns.
I'm going to use this gun.
She could, of course, finish Sarah's job. Kill Maxwell Lombardi. Kill the killers. She'd never killed anyone with a bullet before [she'd only killed one person before]. But perhaps she could be effective.
She wondered how many other player-killers there were on the island. She wondered how many were hunting her.
You're on your own now.
She didn't want to be on her own now. Not with her family's gun. Sarah, where are you?
No movement. Empty church. The wind blew softly, still audible. She stepped outside slowly. Rifle, submachine gun. It was obvious to everyone that she was carrying now.
Shouldn't throw out my old gun. If they take this away from me, they won't expect Brock's pistol, perhaps.
Directionless. It was cold outside. Maxwell's trail was far gone by now. She'd have to find him from scratch. Find others when she came to them. She hadn't been paying attention to the announcements. She didn't know who had killed.
And it's me and a gun.
No one on the beach outside, as far as she could see. There had been corpses in the church, too many of them, but the beach was bare. Danger zone yesterday? Yes, it had been. Something she could remember now.
Alone.
No. Another girl. Another girl, tall, short hair, dark skin, scarred, walking, slumped, alone on the old beach. A girl with a gun, looking angry, who had spotted her now.
Names. Aston Bennett. Aston Bennett was in an old danger zone, staring at her. Holding a small gun.
Going to kill me? The words wafted into Alice's brain, hopeful.
But Aston just walked up to her, to the edge of the danger zone. Fearless.
And Alice didn't do anything, and didn't speak.
(Alice Boucher continued in Cracking)
And now, a day later, she was here. A church. And a gun.
MP-40. Submachine gun. Alice knew this gun.
She didn't know many guns, but this one was different.
Alice's father had owned such a gun. Kept it under the floorboards, in a room that was not the bedroom, and had brought it out only once, when she was eleven.
"My father was a member of the Resistance. We stole this gun from a German paratrooper. I was small, of course; I don't remember it. Sometimes, I regret to say, I do not think he stole it. This gun was valuable, even to the Germans. Sometimes I think--I think he might have been a spy for the Germans instead. They gave it to him as a gift, perhaps. Our family's legacy isÂ…mixed."
He would always look sadly at Alice after that. As if she could fix it.
But she couldn't.
And the gun was back.
------------
The parish was windy. The church had been wrecked, dynamited, she'd heard. She could see the seashore, now, through the fallen wall, grey sand like stone and ash. The wind was cold, a bitter taste in her mouth. She was no longer heaving, like she had been when she heard the announcement. No longer crying, screaming, cursing Danya, like she had been. No longer thinking about Sarah's dead body, Sarah, Sarah.
She was dehydrated now. Hadn't eaten, hadn't drunk in a day. But she was still standing up straight. The Crusaders fasted for three days before a fight. And Alice's hands were shaking so much, too much. She would never cook again.
Mixed legacy.
The gun was smooth under her hands. Almost comfortable. She shifted it in her palms, getting used to the weight, the feel. That's what you were supposed to do with guns.
I'm going to use this gun.
She could, of course, finish Sarah's job. Kill Maxwell Lombardi. Kill the killers. She'd never killed anyone with a bullet before [she'd only killed one person before]. But perhaps she could be effective.
She wondered how many other player-killers there were on the island. She wondered how many were hunting her.
You're on your own now.
She didn't want to be on her own now. Not with her family's gun. Sarah, where are you?
No movement. Empty church. The wind blew softly, still audible. She stepped outside slowly. Rifle, submachine gun. It was obvious to everyone that she was carrying now.
Shouldn't throw out my old gun. If they take this away from me, they won't expect Brock's pistol, perhaps.
Directionless. It was cold outside. Maxwell's trail was far gone by now. She'd have to find him from scratch. Find others when she came to them. She hadn't been paying attention to the announcements. She didn't know who had killed.
And it's me and a gun.
No one on the beach outside, as far as she could see. There had been corpses in the church, too many of them, but the beach was bare. Danger zone yesterday? Yes, it had been. Something she could remember now.
Alone.
No. Another girl. Another girl, tall, short hair, dark skin, scarred, walking, slumped, alone on the old beach. A girl with a gun, looking angry, who had spotted her now.
Names. Aston Bennett. Aston Bennett was in an old danger zone, staring at her. Holding a small gun.
Going to kill me? The words wafted into Alice's brain, hopeful.
But Aston just walked up to her, to the edge of the danger zone. Fearless.
And Alice didn't do anything, and didn't speak.
(Alice Boucher continued in Cracking)