forthedog | Derailment

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Derailment

He's not sure what wakes him. It could be any number of things. It could be the light on his face, the air moving over him, the shift of cloth against skin where before it had just been the cool of the sheets and the heat of two bodies. It could be the hard ground under his back, which would also explain the aches in him as consciousness drifts closer. He's gone soft, he thinks sometimes, fallen out of the habit of sleeping well on the ground, lost in the embrace of Tom's big bed. But he still roughs it sometimes, so at first the fact that he's clearly outside doesn't sound any alarms.

But it's the kind of outside. It's not the light but the quality of that light; not warm and glowing but thin, pale, anemic. When he opens his eyes it's not the trees swaying over him in the morning breeze but what they're like, them and the other plant life, still thickly growing and untamed but bad. Unhealthy. Sparse where it shouldn't be and dense where it shouldn't be. No birds, no fucking birds at all. The hints of a world knocked out of balance and gone horribly wrong.

There's a cold wet nose pressed against his cheek, and a weight pressing into his arm, numbing it. He rolls, pulls it away and sits up, shoving Neil harder than he meant to. Dexter steps back, whining softly, and Mike stares around and then down, absorbing it in quick shocked bursts. The car. The campfire, smoking ashes. Dexter. The two figures, curled together on the ground. Tom's old and ragged sweater. His own pants. Camo. Boots. The itchy feel of clothes that haven't been washed for a while.

His gun.

There's no mistaking what this is.

He doesn't want to wake them. As long as they're still sleeping, this is his nightmare and his alone. Maybe they never have to wake up. And yet he has no idea what's really worse: being back here or being back here on his own.

"No," he breathes, barely above a whisper. No louder, because he's honestly afraid that he might scream. "No. No. Fuck."

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It's quiet for a long time.

Long enough that I start to wonder if maybe I've been forgotten. That I start to wonder why I'm the only one down here. They've got others, they have to, so where are they keepin' 'em? I start to wonder, and inevitably, I start to worry. About what's gonna happen, what the fuck they're plannin' on doin' with me, what the fuck kind of asshole my pretty little ass is gonna get sold off to, what the fuck's gonna happen to all the others, and more importantly, what's happened to Mike and Tom.

The last hour, I've been searching every goddamn corner of this cellar, looking for a way out. Running my fingers over the dirty bricks, crouching in corners, peering through the tiny slit under the door. A fucking hour before I let out a frustrated groan, kick the plate of food splattered on the floor with my foot and pace toward the center of the nearly pitch black room, hands fisted at my sides.

And that's when it starts. Shouting, at first. Not angry or excited like last time. Frantic, afraid. Scrambling feet overhead, the doors upstairs bang open and closed, and right around the time I hear someone yell Fire! I think maybe I smell smoke.

"Jesus..."

Edited 2009-08-19 03:28 (UTC)

It spreads faster than either of them had intended, and for a brief series of moments Tom is convinced it won't work. They'd fucked themselves and boxed this private nightmare in with fire. Excellent. Wonderful. What they hell had they been -

But just then, three men stumble out of the front door, shouting to eachother.

"Fuck, look at that, what the fuck happened - where the fuck is Steve -"

"Dead," someone else shouted back, hauling hose out of a rusted closet at the end of the block, desperately using a wrench to coax the sad looking hydrant open. "Somebody's really fucking clever."

"Let the brats out too," a third man said. They had to shout now over the sound of the flames. "Watch yourselves, boys, we got a comedian on our hands."

Crouched behind the weak cover provided by corrugated metal and scrap, Tom glanced at Mike beside him and leveled his shot, taking aim.

"Here we go."

He nods. He barely even does that. His focus is narrowed down to a bright point, everything strangely clear and sharp. He can see the man moving in his sightlines. It's so easy, it always was, and that was always the worst part. Just a little squeeze of his finger and the back of the man's head explodes into a spray of red and he drops, flickers, is gone.

"Where'd--" one cries, and another yells, "Shit! Sniper!" But it's not even that much. Just a couple of schmucks with guns and it's like a fucking shooting gallery. You were stupid, boys. You're gonna pay for that now.

The man at the hoses falls to Tom's bullet, and the third went down to his or Mike's, he's not sure, but it's over in a moment and all that's left is a linger after image from the shutter of light. He'd almost forgotten what that looked like - once, more than once, he'd felt that static claw of it as it exploded across his chest.

After watching the door for a few more seconds, he and Mike share a look and start moving, crouched low against the lee of buildings as the fire lit up the sky like Armageddon.

"Can we get in the entrance Florence used?"

He nods shortly, looking for it through the smoke, coughing and glancing back to see if anyone else is coming out to join the party. "Might be the best way. It's just a fuckin' crack in the wall. They probably won't be guarding it." Four down now. Or is it five? He doesn't know and that's not good, because he should know, he should have a running tally of the bodycount in his head. How many down, how many probably left to worry about. A place this size...

Who the fuck knows.

"Here," he says, ducking into the wall. The guard is still lying there in the rubble, unconscious. So only three or four. He looks at the man a second, raises his gun and pulls the trigger. The man jerks once and vanishes.

So, four. Or five.

Edited 2009-08-19 03:56 (UTC)

I hear the first gunshots, and for a moment, I'm not even sure what they are. Firing a handgun at a target in a clearing sounds different than this crackle snap snap pop coming from above ground. Standing there in the middle of the room, my heart starts to pound, and I let myself hope, just for a moment, that it's them.

Jogging up the steps, I jiggle the doorknob, banging and clawing at the thick, scarred wood. Each time my shoe hits the kick-plate, it's hard enough to make my teeth rattle. I'm stepping back to throw myself at it one more futile time when it suddenly swings open and I'm herded back down the steps by a gun barrel and a broad chest.

I look up, up, up and it's the same guy that brought me the food, tall and light-haired, with a craggy, scarred face and a mean grin.

"Where the fuck you think you're goin'?" he laughs, clamping a hand around the back of my neck and shoving me toward the back wall. Hovering in the open doorway, there's another guy with a gun -- wiry and nervous and really, really young. I only see him for a moment before I'm shoved face forward into the bricks.

There's a lot of noise, the fire, the shouts of the previous victims as they found their way to freedom somewhere on the other side of the building. If the death, the destruction, bothered Tom Hobbes at all after so long on the Island, it didn't show. He nodded Mike along as the grunt flashed out of existance.

"I heard something," he hissed, nodded down into the dark recesses of the theater. Somewhere, a transistor blew in a low explosion and the lights flickered once, twice, and went out.

"Oh, shit," he grunted. "Come on. You hear that?"

Edited 2009-08-19 04:27 (UTC)

He's looking for Florence as they go, hoping she might be able to tell them something. But while he can hear rushing feet and the bellowing of angry men, there's no screaming of anyone else. If there are any slaves left in the building, they're being very quiet.

Or they're somewhere else.

He glances into a big main room, and it's obvious what it was once used for: ripped up seats and a long stage on the far end, rich carvings on the walls and the ruins of something grand and ornate. And it's obvious what it was just used for: a row of toilet buckets in a corner, dirty rags on the floor. But as far as he can see, it's empty.

He glances up sharply when Tom says it, and whirls when the lights go out. Great. Flying blind and now in the dark. You deal with what's in front of you.

He hadn't heard anything besides the lights blowing. He stills and listens. Maybe... a faint pounding, somewhere. Not mechanical.

"Yeah," he says breathlessly, looking down a long hallway. "This way?"

"You fuckin' asshole," I say, laughing mechanically, slumping against the wall and just... wanting it to be over. I'm so fuckin' tired. I shouldn't be here. Every fuckin' inch of me's screaming to get back home and for one horrible, frantic moment I wonder whether getting myself killed here is the way to do it. "It's over with. People are dyin' up there, what the fuck are you doin' down here?"

He laughs, standing so close I can feel the warm dampness of his breath on the back of my neck, and I shudder, pressing myself more tightly against the wall like maybe I can get away. "You think just 'cause we're losin' a couple of hired guns, I'm gonna let somethin' like you go?" he says, his big, meaty fingers sliding up along my throat, curving over my chin and probing at my lips. What I do next, I do without thinking. It's a reflex, my lips parting and my teeth clamping down on his fingertips hard enough that I taste blood.

He roars in pain, rears back and shoves me forward by the back of the head, my face slamming into the bricks, light spangling behind my eyes, and I swear I feel something crack. I let out a sob of a sound, a kind of hysterical laughter clawing at the edges of it, spitting in the dirt in the few blissful moments I've got before he's on me again.

"You little shit," he sneers, his forearm clamped across my shoulders, holding me pinned against the wall.

"Hey, man. Let's just go," I hear from the doorway, that scared kid with the gun, but he's ignored, dismissed with an angry, "Fuck off, Martin! I'm teaching the kid a lesson."

Edited 2009-08-19 23:46 (UTC)

He hears the murmurur of voices, shouting and something lower, softer, followed by a sudden shout. It comes up through the floor boards, just barely on the verge of hearing. He spins on his heel, ducking back out of the dingy little salesroom and into the hall. There's a door, tucked beside an old concession stand, and it's open just a few inches, but there's a wicked looking lock on the door with key still in the lock. Where they keep the valuables, Tom thought hysterically, and glanced up, catching Mike's eye.

No more talking. Now, this close to the door, he could hear the voices clearly.

He indicated the door with his gun, swallowing hard. Here, he mouthed, edging closer to the open door.

He sees it the second Tom does, nods, gun raised. Teaching the kid a lesson. Might be nothing, might be some other 'kid', but he doesn't think so. It's all too perfect.

He gestures to Tom, nods again at the door. You're pointman. I've got your back. Like everything else, they're going in blind, and there are a whole lot of things about that that he doesn't like at all. But like with everything else, there isn't really any other option. He slides to the wall, presses his back against it, nudges the door silently open with the toe of his boot.

"This is what you been wantin' the whole time, isn't it, you little slut?" he hisses into my ear, full of laughter, and my eyes flicker open, the world snapping into startlingly sharp focus. The texture of the bricks, flecked with grit and a tiny splatter of blood. My blood, I guess. It looks fresh.

I can remember the stark white of the fiberglass shower floor, right under my face. The smell of baby shampoo and the freezing cold water beating down on my back. I can remember how I didn't even have a chance to fight back. Not that time. Well, fuck that.

The world's going to shit around us, but I've forgotten, and I figure he has too. There are hands groping at my waistband, shoving impatiently and tearing at my clothes and I shove back, using the wall for leverage, as hard as I can. Kicking and clawing and snarling and sobbing until his knee connects with the small of my back and the air's choked out of my lungs, and he's just so fucking big, one arm clamped around my throat and the other working at his own zipper, it seems like there's no point.

Please, God. I just wanna go home.

It's just like any other hostage situation, Tom tells himself. They've racked up enough of them over the years. It's just like all those other times, you get in, talk everyone down, and you get out, and hopefully everyone walks away healthy, unharmed. One foot in front of the other until you're clear.

But everything has changed. They're dirty, hungry, dehydrated and the smell of smoke is getting stronger, and maybe Neil is halfway across town with Florence by now, or maybe Neil's already been sold off, beaten, rap-

Tom took a deep breath. This isn't like anything he's experienced. No bodies, but the whole fucking place smells like blood. Sharing one last look with Mike he shouldered open the door and waited just a moment for his eyes to adjust.

He sees a lot in just a few seconds and something dark and primal clawed it's way through his breastbone, all teeth and blood and hate. He forgets the gun for a brief moment and coldcocks the kid on the stairs - seventeen? eighteen? Could he convince himself he cared? - startling a bloody spray of spit out of him and a garbled shout.

"Hands off him," Tom said, hands shaking with adrenaline and restrained violence. He remembered the gun and pulled it up, leveling it at the man that was...that was down in the darkness of the cellar, with Neil. The kid had fallen to the bottom of the stairs and was cursing, scrappling for a weapon stashed in his clothes.

"That's enough!" he barked, easing down the stairs. "Hands. Off."

Edited 2009-08-20 02:57 (UTC)

He follows close on Tom's heels, gun up, and it's dark but he practically forces his eyes to adjust. And he sees a stairway, a kid standing in the way, a big guy down at the bottom, and he's almost too big to see past, but he sees a shock of dark hair, a bloody hand pressed against the wall, and then he sees red.

Tom knocks the kid down and he follows, leveling the gun at him long enough to know that Tom's got it under control, at least for now, before he lifts his aim to the man by the wall.

"Let him go," he says, his voice low. Steady. "Let him go and we all walk outta here." And he doesn't mean it in the slightest.

At first, I think I'm imagining it. The voices. And I think, Oh Christ, I've fuckin' lost it. But then I'm being hauled up, my feet practically leaving the ground, and he's panting frantically in my ear, dragging me deeper into the dark with his arm clamped so tight around my throat I can hardly breathe.

The room's swaying in and out of focus and as the adrenaline starts to burn off, the first real spark of fear laces it's way down my spine.

He's shouting something, shouting back at the voices in the dark -- I can feel the rumble of it in his chest pressed against my spine and smell the hot and rancid stench of his breath fluttering across my cheek -- but I can't hear him over the pound of my own blood in my ears.

Edited 2009-08-20 03:34 (UTC)

The shout is garbled, and crazed, and Tom's eyes are mostly on the kid at the bottom of the stairs and the deadly glint of metal in the shadows.

"Don't be stupid," he said, voice coming out like a sack full of gravel. "We can work this out. Give us the kid. This isn't worth your life."

Shit. He should have known that Neil wouldn't be handed over to them wrapped up with a fucking bow, but maybe he'd hoped that this would be easy. For a change.

So he has to remember what they're here for.

"Neil," he calls as he edges down the steps, down into the darkness. He isn't even seeing the kid down there anymore. "We're gonna get you outta here, okay? You hear me? We're gonna go home."

He's starting to panic. Hell, he left panicked a few fuckin' exits back. He's holding on too tight, I can't fuckin' breathe, let alone talk. I scramble at his arm, clawing and thrashing, but there's something cold and hard pressed against the side of my head and everything's starting to go black.

I can't see them. I squint out into the dark, I try so hard, but I can't. He's waving his gun between my and the sound of their voices, and I know that could be my chance to break free, but I'm too weak. My legs buckle suddenly and I slump against him but he hardly seems to notice or care.

"This worth your life, kid?" Tom said in a lower voice to the sack of skin and bones at the bottom of the stairs. He felt cold and sharp, very distant. It was hard to make the Realm feel real enough to care about.

"I'm gonna ask your friend to back down one more time," he said, not taking his eyes off the dark corner of the cellar as he eased down the stairs, feeling Mike as a source of strength behind him.

"And if he doesn't cooperate, things are going to get difficult for everyone."

"Neil," he calls again. He's letting his attention get too focused, too narrow a band, and he knows he shouldn't do that but somewhere in the darkness is one of the few people in his life that he'd give anything for, anything at all. "If you can hear me, say something. Say something so we know you're okay."

He's edging down further, slowly, gun raised, but he forgot about the kid on the floor forever ago, and there doesn't seem to be any reason to pay him any more mind.

Dragging in a harsh lungful of air, I try and call out to him, the sound of it nothing more than a strangled sob. I'm hauled up tighter against him, his breath hot against my ear.

"Don't tell me this little shit's worth yours," he calls out with a harsh laugh, "They told me you had a thing for him, Pinocchio. Said you'd be willing to cut a real sweet deal, but I just couldn't believe it. What's the world coming to?"

The kid is wild eyed, too young, and for a moment Tom feels pity. This is what the Realm did. Nuke a whole through the bottom of humanity and suddenly everyone's biting and scratching with their nails, turf wars and genocides. Maybe the kid had only be strung along...

But he was a slaver. He was young, but around his neck, Tom could see the iron stamp the traders used to brand their stock with when it was cherry red, and in his hand, the kid had finally gotten hold of a wicked looking cattle prod, well used and flecked with blood. Tom saw it it crystalline detail, every smudge of dirt and blood, the crap under his fingernails, and his thumb pressing down on the trigger...

No second thoughts. Tom leveled the gun and shot, catching the kid at the base of the skull. Flash, shimmer, he dissolved into nothing before he hit the ground.

"You're alone," he told the man, speaking clearly over the rushing sound of his own adrenalin. "There's no one here to help you. Let him walk away. We'll all just....walk away."

He hears the shot a second after it happens and he flinches without thinking, remembering the kid on the floor, remembering that he hadn't confirmed that he was unarmed, and he's suddenly sure that he must be dead. Dead here in this hellhole, and he'll never see Tom or Neil or his little girls again.

But then he blinks and there's nothing where the kid had been, and Tom there with his gun raised and an awful look in his eyes.

He feels a flash of cold pity and then equally cold gratitude, and he nods shortly. "Thanks." And he turns his back on that awful look and lifts his own gun, sliding down into the dark.

The floor feels slick, grimy, and the room is vast and shadowy. He can see a dim shape far ahead, half hidden behind a stack of crates, and he takes his own cover. There's no way to know for sure what's down here.

"He's worth fifty of you, you piece of shit," he hisses. "You know who I am? You know what I can do. You let him go now or you'll beg me to end it fuckin' hours before I do."

Edited 2009-08-21 04:05 (UTC)

He's considering it, I can tell, and that's when he makes a mistake. His arm loosens around my neck and I suck in another harsh breath, coughing roughly and then gritting my teeth, waiting until I know he's got the gun pointed blindly out into the darkness before I lean to one side and bring my elbow back as hard as I can into his face.

He lets out a roar of pain, rearing back and firing wildly into the darkness. Two shots, echoing loud enough in my ears to make my teeth rattle. Fucking stupid, I know it, because I can't overpower him, but I'm desperate and hoping for a fucking miracle. Right the fuck now.

"Neil!"

The shout comes from a place Tom didn't even know he had anymore, deep down in the foundations, dark and simple. It was the kind of emotion that made it much more than easy to kill, that sparked that delight, pushed you along the edge between savior and monster. He pushed forward, gritting his teeth, staring blindly into the darkness. Mike was okay, neither of the bullets had ricocheted.

"You're a dead man," he breathed quietly, almost entirely to himself. The shadows were deceptive, he could see movement but little else. "God dammit, Neil, are you okay?"

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