Static Shock Fan Fiction ❯ Banditos ❯ Comin’ Around The Mountain... ( Chapter 12 )
[ Y - Young Adult: Not suitable for readers under 16 ]
By: Manga-Chick 
“Yeah, actually. It’s Caine.”
Non Anime: Static Shock Fan Fiction | Genre(s): Supernatural / Horror / Hentai | Type: Alternate Universe | Uploaded On: 04.23.2006 | Pages: 5 | Words: 6.7K | Visits: 326 | Status: Completed
“Yeah, actually. It’s Caine.”
Non Anime: Static Shock Fan Fiction | Genre(s): Supernatural / Horror / Hentai | Type: Alternate Universe | Uploaded On: 04.23.2006 | Pages: 5 | Words: 6.7K | Visits: 326 | Status: Completed
Extreme AU, OOC, non-historic West, violence...supernatural themes, violence...Just be prepared for the amount of violence and utter chaos.
Disclaimer: I DO NOT OWN STATIC AND OTHER ASSOCIATED CHARACTERS!
Based somewhat on that thrilling vid-game, Darkwatch. Heh. My inspiration for something gory and dark.
I’m Alive: Erm...(looks around anxiously) WELL! I hope this chapter answers some of your questions...>.< If they ain’t, I’m sure they’ll be answered soon...hopefully...just...keep reminding me. XD Yeah, as for Hs’s role...well...I’m trying something different. I hope that some things here will explain what I mean.
Tri: Thankies so much for making me discuss EVERYTHING, man. XD Seriously–it helps me contemplate what I have in store for the charas.
Chapter Twelve:
Comin’ Around The Mountain...
Hotstreak frowned down at the books in hand–feeling undecided. He’d had these things, poring over them thoughtfully almost every day since he’d found them. His thoughts had examined all that he’d known of the kid since then; his behavior, his physical traits, everything that had been given to him in short amounts since their first meeting.
Every day he’d wondered if the boy were alive, if he were part of the undead.
And now that Hotstreak had the answer, he was at a loss as to what to do with him. After all, they’d parted with the redhead ranting at him, physically threatening him. Hating that he’d been duped, tricked, forced–it wasn’t as if he knew the kid. He knew about as much of him as the kid knew about him. And that was less than nothing.
He and Charger were milling around above the first road into Runner’s Valley–he was watching over the exodus of zombies that were still coming in from the south, moving over the mountains into the area over. None of them were straying much in their direction–it seemed as if they were all following a single command, and that was to walk until they got to their destination.
Charger was pulling at various edible greens around him, and Hotstreak’s thoughts weren’t on the zombies; but on the boy that he assumed was still sleeping back at the doctor’s house. He put the two books back with the others in his saddlebag, frowning.
At first, he’d felt guilty for using him; it had been unexpected, even to himself. He had thought he was in better control of himself–lust wasn’t supposed to be satisfied that way. He’d honestly felt like a monster, afterwards–too embarrassed and yet relieved that he hadn’t lasted long–after all, only monsters had sex with teenagers against their will, and while they were injured. He was fully aware of that.
At the same time, he was relieved that he was able to find out what it was like to actually have sex with the kid. It was almost as if he were being offered his very last meal, and he had to hurry to enjoy it. It made sense that way, for he wasn’t sure how long he’d have the opportunity.
All in all, Hotstreak felt very despicable of himself. The kid was going to look at him and put him in the same spot he’d put the others, in. Look at him with whatever wariness it was the kid had of those around him. That wasn’t the impression Hotstreak had wanted to give.
He wasn’t sure what he wanted to give to the kid. For someone that had been on his mind for days after meeting him, the kid didn’t need that sort of grief.
Hotstreak shut his eyes, giving a low groan as he wondered what in the world he was thinking that day. He entirely regretted–maybe. A little.
A whole lot of regret, some satisfaction, some interest–none of it good.
A small voice argued with him, persistently keeping him occupied.
But he’s a whore, that voice insisted. They have to put out. They have to satisfy the customer!
But he wasn’t bought, he heard himself argue. He’s fuckin’ sick, for Chrissake!
But he’s a whore...and whores don’t have that normal right.
Of course, arguing with himself over the topic wasn’t helping much. He opened his eyes, looking up at the sky. A storm was coming in–the rumble of thunder was persistent. It had already drizzled a few times, but he could see that another front was moving in. Possibly snow. He wasn’t sure of the temperature, as the pelts kept him pretty comfortable, but if it snowed...the kid probably wouldn’t have a chance.
He was already sick–cold air would make it worse.
Then Hotstreak had to pull himself back–why was he thinking so much about him? It was insane how much room the stranger had in his thoughts.
He forced himself to think of Kangorr and the others. He was guilty in that his childhood friend was going to question his worth in their operations. After all, Francis Stone had up and left him a while back, because he himself couldn’t handle the situation.
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There was just too many–! Blayne had himself positioned on the rooftop across the road, picking off the zombies and Hounds that surrounded the building, screaming up a storm. Francis was frustrated as he hurriedly reloaded three weapons he had–a shotgun, a rifle, an impressive Smith and Wesson–hearing Hounds howl angrily at him in his position atop a shanty.
Looking up, he saw that spectres were gearing themselves up for releasing powers of their own, their faces disappearing as maws continued to widen, and Francis snapped the chamber shut. Grabbing the other two guns, he hastily left his position, jumping down onto the open cart of a wagon, the Hounds following with anxious snarls.
Spectres were everywhere–the most frustrating of creatures, for how could one shoot a spirit? Francis was panting as he hit the dirt running, hearing the Hounds chase after him, Blayne’s frustrated shouts racing after him. The Hounds weren’t that fast–their awkward front legs slowed them considerably. It was when they finally realized that running on their hind legs gave Francis something to worry about–but Hounds weren’t that smart. They usually discovered that on accident.
A spectres’ scream made his skin crawl–they were like banshees, their shrieks physically manifesting themselves into a hard, painful wave of force that were strong enough to tear down houses.
But, just like a physical force, they were easily avoided.
Weaving in his running, Francis made it to the barn, and he fumbled with the matches he had in his pockets. Loaded with dry hay, with the doors and windows boarded shut, the barn was going to be the place they’d planned on killing most of the creatures with. He climbed hastily onto the ladder that led up to the loft, hearing the Hounds veer after him, knocking over bales of hay, cluttering the small shelter with their lumbering presence. Francis kicked the ladder down so that they couldn’t follow him up.
He found the loose board of the wall that he and Blayne had found, and turned, looking over to see the Hounds leaping at the loft, teeth snapping frantically. Francis looked over at the glittering pools of oil that Blayne had drizzled over the hay. This place was going to go up in flames–the heat dissipated the spectres; sometimes, the spectres themselves blew like a vat of gas. Blayne always wondered about that. Since Hounds were practically impervious to everything else, it seemed almost impossible to kill them–but he and Blayne had learned that immense heat and dangerous gases caused by flame often did the trick. They died slowly, in agonizing pain, but the point was–they would die.
Francis lit a match, and crouched, lighting the torch that he’d set nearby. He looked up to see several spectres floating anxiously around the ceiling, looking for a way out. His eyes caught the barn doors that were being shut and locked, Blayne able to come through with that step.
Grinning, Francis lit the torch, grimacing at the heat that assailed him as both oil and cloth went up instantly. He looked down at the Hounds, and noticed a couple interested in a small trapdoor nearby. He furrowed his brow for a moment, wondering what had the creatures interested, but tossed the torch down onto the closest pile of hay, watching it catch instantly. The other Hounds immediately protested this with startled cries, lumbering away from the burning flames, Francis glancing up at the spectres that floated around with similar cries.
It bothered him how much these creatures understood their demises.
He kicked out the loose board, tossed out his guns, then followed their descent. The barn was flaring up with flames as oil caught hold of the heat, and the resounding shrieks of agony from inside were satisfactory. He grabbed his guns and headed around front, where Blayne was watching with a smirk of approval.
They grinned at each other with conspiratorial smiles, then watched the barn fill with flames. The agonizing shrieks were well worth the trouble the pair had been in, earlier. A loud, ear-ringing pop made Blayne chuckle.
“Wonder how it is they do that?” he wondered aloud, both of them moving back as overwhelming heat began licking at their exposed skin. “Made of gas?”
“Supernatural gas?” Francis questioned, then snickered. “Ghosts with gas.”
Blayne chuckled, and they moved back. Through the spaces between the boards, both of them could see Hounds running in panicked circles, searching for a way out–another pop exploded, followed by another.
Then, Francis stilled. Between the shrieks of the Hounds, the dying screams of the spectres, came something else. Blayne stilled as well.
Human screams sliced through the burning agony of the demons. Men, women–the higher pitched shrieks of children.
Both of them were paralyzed with disbelief and horror, staring at the burning barn, skin crawling upon hearing those agonizing screams.
Through the spaces of those boards, they were visible–human bodies running in the same panicked agony as the demons, set aflame and burning alive by both fire and heat. The two boys could hear their desperation and torment as they tried the doors, the windows–to no avail. No one in their panicked torture thought of kicking at the boards to escape.
Francis couldn’t breathe as he heard those screams, of men reaching octaves he’d never heard, before. Of women losing their breath with continuous shrieks–the telltale octaves of children in excruciating pain.
He turned away, feeling absolutely horrible as Blayne continued staring at the fire in stunned horror.
That next morning, Francis looked up from his breakfast as Blayne walked over, shaking his head in morose regret. He was carrying the skins of the Hounds, ready to make clothing with them–once the Hounds died, their skin was easier to peel from their bodies. Heat made the pelts supple and easier to handle before cooling into the imperishable hides that became useful.
“We didn’t know, man,” he said softly, crouching beside him. “We didn’t know...”
Francis felt horrible, thinking of those screams. Wondering how they’d missed them. He thought of the trapdoor the Hounds were starting to investigate before he’d lit the fire.
The scrambled eggs he was eating turned to dust in his mouth, and he spat, setting his plate aside. They couldn’t have known–but why hadn’t those people revealed themselves earlier? While the boys were planning their trap? He thought of the hour they’d spent walking around, patching up the windows and the doors, of Blayne struggling with the oil barrel.
Why?
He thought of the children that were in there, and felt instantly nauseated.
“We couldn’t have known, man,” Blayne repeated, mainly to himself.
Francis looked at him, swallowing hard. In his mind’s eye, he could still see those frantic movements of people afire running in the barn.
Looking for a way out.
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He’d left Kangorr after that. Fully immersed himself into other activities; finally planned out his first train robbery with a passenger train heading out of the Panhandle–felt royally screwed when a passenger challenged him, and he’d ended up shooting the guy.
It felt that his past with the creatures caught up with him, then. Spending all that time alone with his own thoughts, fending for himself–making all the wrong decisions–he took to drinking and raised Hell wherever he went, determined to avoid that zombie business. Just seeing all that he had, reliving them in dreams, made him realize just what they had done.
People were dying day by day, horribly gruesome deaths–almost every one left an impact on him. He’d wake up, shaking and sweaty, seeing faces twisted in agony–hear their screams, smell death and blood; every time, he’d push it away. He’d push himself to do more things every day, to travel. To get as far away from the place as possible.
He left Orleans and head up North, randomly hitting whatever place was closest for a quick robbery and scam. He’d had bounty hunters on him for awhile, but he’d lost them somewhere in Kansas–he’d heard of the invasion there, so he’d left the territory quickly, winding up in Texas for some time before heading once more northwest.
The West beckoned him. He’d found the Hawkins, and things had seemed fine. He hadn’t seen or heard of any zombies, any weird doings–and laid low to avoid anyone looking to make a quick buck. He thought Blayne had come through with ‘saving the world’. Unfortunately, he hadn’t.
Thinking about what he’d lost made Hotstreak extremely depressed.
As he watched the zombies cross the main road, their guttural cries slicing through the thunder, he wondered when it would all end.
He thought of the boy–wretched amber eyes–and gave a low sigh. Maybe...maybe this one could get his mind off things.
The boy wasn’t going to turn–that he was confident in. Whomever had possessed the individual that had bitten him wasn’t infectious–the spectre was probably independent. Caine and this ‘him’ were far away–he doubted they’d bother with some teenage whore from the East.
With all the sudden deaths, there were sudden spirits–hauntings, poltergeists. They lingered in their towns, terrorizing their own homes. These were spectres–they emitted banshee-like wailings that manifested into physical force. They were able to possess and ‘haunt’. Blood, Inc. had discovered that heat and sagebrush worked quite fine in fending them off.
As complicated as things seemed in the destruction of the invaders, it was actually simple. One just needed to have the means.
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Virgil heard the door open, and he tensed. Upon hearing the heavy weight of a man walking in, he immediately pictured his friend wearing rain-drenched clothing and cursing tiredly about something he couldn’t quite accomplish. Grinning, he sat up on the bed and faced the doorway, ready to argue his forgiveness for being a hysterical ass.
Hotstreak walked in, and performed a double take, obviously very surprised.
“Hey, man,” Virgil greeted quietly, giving him a sheepish look. “Finally tracked you down. Took awhile...”
Hotstreak studied him for a few moments, then set down his rain-drenched pack. Due to the pelts he was wearing, he was dry and quite comfortable. His eyes roved quickly around the room, and his guarded expression to Virgil was something of a surprise to the younger man.
“You found me,” he said simply, his face not exactly happy with the information.
Virgil studied him, noting the new signs of strain on his friend’s face–the obvious facial hair and misery. “You don’t look so good.”
Hotstreak shrugged. “Been tough.”
“Yeah...I...I wanted to say how sorry I am, man. Fer...not bein’...quite right in the head.” Virgil leaned back on the bed, watching his friend shrug out of his coat, removing his hat. “I was in shock. I said things I shouldn’t’ve. I regret it. It weren’t your fault. Not at all.”
Hotstreak shrugged again, removing his belt. Taking the chair in the back corner, he heaved a tired exhale, and took up his rifle. “Where’s the kid?”
“...Junior took him back.”
Virgil caught the flash of irritation that crossed his friend’s face, and he sat up. “You know–”
“How’d ya’ll find me? Not much people around these parts, lately.”
“There were some. Said you were with...a buncha people in black. Kinda...took awhile. But there ain’t that many settlements up here since the gold rush last year.”
Hotstreak thought about it for a few moments, then ran a hand over his matted hair. “What’s Junior doin’ up here?”
“I...I don’t know. He...I guess it’s just him an’ that kid.” Virgil watched him for a few, silent moments, judging his mood. It felt different being there–that the person he was talking to wasn’t that person anymore. Looking at him, he could see the physical changes, but there were others that were hidden beneath that roughened surface. It was almost as if he were seeing Hotstreak as that man that had just arrived on Hawkins’ Ranch, drunk and quietly disturbed.
He gave a lopsided frown. “You okay, man? Been hard on ya?”
“...Yeah. But...y’know...guilt an’ all.”
“...It wasn’t your fault–”
“Don’t say that shit, Hawkins. It was. An’ you know it. It’ll always be my fault.”
“No, you didn’t know. You didn’t know at th’ time–!”
“Shut up, Virgil. Don’t wanna talk about it.”
Virgil quieted, a look of concern on his face as his friend lapsed into silence. He heard the steady beat of rain atop of the rooftop, and the gentle rumble of thunder. The chilly air wafted into the house, reminding him of the lack of fire or warmth. He sighed lightly, shrugging his shoulders.
“We can rest, man. Talk in the mornin’. Brought some of the boys wit’ me. Adam...Tom, Randy, Willie, James...” Virgil rose from the bed, shaking out his legs. “Stick around, man. Don’t run off.”
Hotstreak waved him off, sullenly staring at the floor, but Virgil persisted. “Please. Don’t run off.”
Getting no answer or expression, he turned and headed out of the house. Before he left, a severe chill raced through him, making him question whether or not he’d made the right choice in finding his friend.
The next morning, Virgil was awaken to furious shouting. Lifting his head from the saddle bag that acted as his pillow, he saw that the others were waking up to the same noises. Blinking himself to coherency, he realized that Junior was shouting and screaming up a storm. It was obvious the man was pissed.
Hurrying out, wiping away the crust at the corner of his eyes, Virgil saw Junior angrily gesturing at the correl nearby. From the looks of it, it seemed as if the horses he’d had the day before were gone. The younger Alva was screaming about the boy’s ineptitude, and finally tired of screaming himself hoarse. When the man advanced on the kid, fists swinging, Virgil hurried over to interfere.
“Hey, hey, hey!” he shouted, throwing himself between them, yanking Junior away from him. “What’s goin’ on? Calm down, man! Chill!”
“That fuckin’–that little bastard–fucking sonnavabitch good fer nothin’–! Lost our horses!” Junior panted furiously, yanking himself away from Virgil. He gestured at the correl, Virgil looking over and noting the same emptiness as before. “They ran away! Fuckin’ bitch didn’t tie the gate good!”
“Look, calm down,” Virgil advised, hands raised. “We’ll find them, all right? I’ll git a couple of guys, an’ we’ll go look for them. Just...in the meanwhile, calm down. Stop hittin’ him. He’s just a kid.”
“I’m not a kid!” Richie spoke up, catching his breath as well.
“Yer justa worthless whore!” Junior screamed at him, making him frown.
“Now, hey–! Just...stop the name-callin’, man,” Virgil asked, giving him a sour look. “Look, it was just a little mistake–!”
“Yer gonna fuck us over, you little–!”
“I’m so sorry! I’m sorry! I didn’t–!”
“–piece of shit–!”
“I said, KNOCK IT OFF!” Virgil bellowed, voice ringing over the silent town. It seemed to echo throughout the entire valley, quieting the raging man and making the kid cringe. Taking a deep breath, Virgil regained his patience, and looked at Junior directly. “I’ll take a few of my guys. We’ll go an’ look for ‘em. All right? An’ just leave the kid alone.”
“I’m not a kid–!”
“You’ll look fer them?” Junior asked incredulously, then shot him a suspicious look. “How do I know that? You’ll bring ‘em back? What if yer lyin’? I don’t believe you, nigger.”
Virgil gave him an aghast expression, then scowled at him. “Lissen here, you–! How dare you–? I offered ta do somethin’ nice for you, an’ you just–!”
“I jus’ don’t believe you! I don’t know you!”
Richie sighed tiredly, rubbing at his face. When it was obvious Junior was persistent in his suspicions, he turned and headed back toward the house. His leg ached something fierce, feeling heavy and stiff–he was dragging it behind him, straining with every effort.
Junior frowned after him, ignoring Virgil’s angry tirade about having his good efforts thrown back into his face. He realized how badly he was mistreating the kid, especially in the state he was in, now. But he couldn’t seem to control himself–the situation was out of his control (was it ever in his control?), and he was quite stressed. Ill with it, in fact.
“Fine, fine!” He interrupted Virgil with a wave of his hand, walking toward the house. “Jus’–just do what ya want to, nigger. I’ll repay you.”
Virgil shot him a scowl, shaking his head slightly. This man had all the nerve–! But he felt so bad for the kid, and he sighed heavily, shaking out his continued anger over Junior’s actions and words.
He turned to gather up a couple of his friends, looking up to judge the weather.
Richie sulked as he watched Virgil and the others mount their horses an hour later. Junior was describing the horses’ physical appearances, and stressing that he wanted them all back. Every so often, he’d shoot Richie a furious glare for all the trouble he’d caused.
Feeling a little frustrated and more than sullen for the whole ordeal–he knew he’d locked the damn gate, using the very same knots he’d seen Junior use–he rubbed lightly at his leg, careful of the wound. He could feel the stitches beneath the material of his pants, remembering the feel of maggots in there. Despite the redhead’s warning, he’d removed the larvae out of disgust. His entire leg was intensely sore and stiff–it hurt to move it, feeling as if his thigh had locked, stinging bolts of pain pulsing from the area with continuous effort.
Walking about had agitated it greatly, and activity had tired him out. It felt as if what little energy he’d had had left him yesterday, meeting with Junior.
Virgil loudly assured him they’d find the horses, and Richie didn’t bother with looking up. He was intensely wary of these men; especially Virgil for his friendship with the large redhead. Experience with Junior and the others had told him men loved to do things in groups–he was afraid they’d use him with Hotstreak’s encouragement.
Really, he felt that his only safety here was with Junior–at least he was familiar with the man. Junior wouldn’t touch him that way unless prompted with plenty of alcohol and his friends’ encouragement.
So as far as he was concerned, Virgil and the others were just as dangerous as Casey and the others had been.
He looked up to see Junior stalking over, muttering low, slapping his leg with his hat. Richie bit his lower lip, watching him cautiously as the man neared. He cringed, expecting to be hit, but Junior passed by without word or physical expression.
Richie straightened, looking after him in surprise and worry. Fear hit him, then, thinking instantly of Junior getting back at him by letting those men have him as payment for finding the horses. If Junior wasn’t inflicting the abuse, he would get someone else to do it. He’d rather Junior did it than allowing others to do it. He swallowed hard, looking around himself anxiously. He pushed himself to his feet, hurrying after the older man.
His leg dragged, refusing to move as smoothly as it had before the shooting. He heard the slam of a door upstairs, and paused in the living room.
Fear and anxiety pulsed at him, making every bit of him tremble. His leg throbbed painfully–he winced. Pressing forward, he climbed the stairs awkwardly. He found the room Junior was staying in, and knocked at the door timidly.
“Junior? Sir?” he called out, fiddling with his shirt sleeve. “Sir?”
He heard the approach of boots on wood, and moved back as the door flew open. Junior reached out to grab a hold of his shirt, shaking him.
“You stay out of my sight! You stay the fuck away from me! I’ma fuckin’ kill you if’n you don’t! You’d better hope they find the fuckin’ horses, cuz I ain’t wantin’ to be relyin’ on them! You unnerstand?!” Junior snarled, his bitter breath hitting Richie’s face, making him cringe. The younger Alva then shoved him roughly to the floor, making him cry out with pain. “Get the fuck out! I don’t wanna see you, or hear you, or smell you! I catch any of that, I’ll rip you apart! I’ll make you wish you were dead, Goddamn cocksuck!”
With the slamming of the door, Junior once again retreated to his room. Moments later, there came the crashing sound of glass bottles and angry curses. Richie rose painfully from the floor, holding tightly onto his leg. He was a mixture of feelings, unsure of what to feel good about. He heard Junior continuously cursing him, obviously drinking. Richie decided to make do with Junior’s threats, and awkwardly left the house.
Once outside, his anxiety increased. Adam was out and about, and once he caught sight of Richie, he waved.
“You hungry?” he asked, holding up a leather pack. “I’m goin’ to cook somethin’–!”
Richie shook his head and carefully descended the porch, watching Adam warily. The black man gave him a puzzled look, watching him as he hobbled around the house, disappearing out of view.
Feeling utterly ill with his gathered anxieties, Richie limped about cluelessly, unsure of where to go or what to do. He found himself searching for his glasses, retracing his steps from the house and through the small area of houses. He found his prints immediately.
Miraculously, he found his glasses–intact and unscathed, near the house where he assumed he’d been shot. He examined them with a low sound of disbelief, and cleaned them.
Sliding them on, he looked around himself. Feeling the need to lay low, he came up to a small shack, carefully working the door open. He walked in, looking at the single bed and cozy settings. He slipped the lock in place and looked over the bed. Feeling overwhelmed by all that had happened to him, he slipped on top, exhaling heavily as exhaustion set in.
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Junior sat out on the back porch, scanning the horizon for Virgil and the others. He was a little buzzed–most of the alcohol was gone. He tapped the glass bottle against the heel of his boot, the sound obscenely loud within the silence of the abandoned town. Thunder rumbled with troubled expression over head, lightning dancing out in the horizon. The air was chillier than usual–he didn’t want to think about it snowing anytime soon. They were so ill-prepared for that event.
He realized how inadequate he was–he’d lived in a settlement his entire life. He hadn’t had to do much–there were people to do things for him. Casey and the others, for example–they’d been the ones to do most of his dirty work. They were the experienced ones. He’d barely ventured from the settlement. He hadn’t had the need to hunt, to trap–he was okay at it once in a while, but never on a continued basis.
He was good with a gun, but that was from hours of practice. He was good at roping livestock for fun–he was okay with travel within small distances (he hated to admit he grew sick in extended travel). He grew tired of dealing with punishments because while he felt it gave him some power, it grew tiring after awhile. The kid wore him out in that aspect–it was as if the kid had no ears, or was some kind of masochist.
But the thing was, Junior was a man of enough wealth to have things done for him. To be suddenly independent made him desperate and panicked–helplessness spurring on his attitude to have control. He stared out anxiously over the empty correl, wondering if his father was going to come back.
He’d made the resolution to get back at his father for abandoning him, but he still contemplated whether or not Alva made the hasty decision because they were pressured by the invasion. He was still hoping that his father would come back.
He was still hoping that the others were going to come back and search for him. They would have to–Alva would want him near, wouldn’t he? After all, Junior did most of his dirty work for him. And above it all, he was Alva’s son–that meant something.
Alva wouldn’t just–abandon him.
...Would he?
He had to know that Junior was still alive. He had to!
Junior didn’t want to fret over the idea that Alva was going to forget about him. He just figured they were held up somewhere–trying to make it back for him.
But somehow, that confidence faltered. Alva needed him, but he never showed his son just how much or how often. And for that, Junior felt discouraged.
He sighed low, worrying his bottom lip. While he was uncertain of how independent he could be, he didn’t want to rely on people lower than him. Minorities and weakened idiots were that majority. Alva was a wealthy man, and Junior had grown up knowing that he was a bit of personality that enabled him to be ‘higher’ than others. So Junior regarded many people without money, of color, of status in levels–if they didn’t have money, they were below him. They had color or immigration status, they were below him. If they worked this or farmed that, they were below him.
He was surrounded by these people at the current moment. Three blacks, one Hispanic, one white man–the kid was a whore. All of them were below Edwin Alva, Jr.
But he had to overcome that to make things work. He had to–as much as he regretted it–work with them. He had to get somewhere, and that meant he’d need help. But how much of it...? And for how long?
He would still use the kid–the kid was smart. Junior had no doubt about that, but that didn’t make the kid anywhere near respectable. Junior would use him, and all would be well in that aspect. But how to get to that point?
He rubbed at his chin thoughtfully, frowning at the sound of rain. It was coming along their way, wisps of clouds hiding the warm sunlight–the fog was still drifting over the mountains, bringing snow with them for sure.
He rose from the porch, dusting off his pants. Just as he was going to head back into the house, he saw riders in the horizon. Squinting to see better, he was very relieved to see that it was Virgil and the others–with their horses. It was foreign for him to feel this utterly ecstatic–but he had to frown once again. He didn’t think that Virgil and the others would do such a thing out of the kindness of their hearts–there must be something that they’d want.
Frowning, he chewed on the inside of his cheek with his back molars, then decided on the next best bargaining tool.
“Boy!” he bellowed, anxiously pacing the porch. It would be just this once–barter, bargain, re-payment. “Boy!”
As he was hollering, it hit him then–what was the kid’s name? He was bewildered at this–he tried thinking of the day they’d first received him, and couldn’t remember what Alva had called him. He tried to remember the other whores addressing him, but everyone just called him ‘kid’, ‘boy’, or ‘honky’. Blinking cluelessly, Junior was stumped.
Later that night, he was grumbling low to himself as Virgil pressed him for details.
“He couldn’t have gone far!” he exclaimed.
“It’s too dark to try an’ look fo’ his prints,” James murmured with a frown. “Couldn’t’ve gone that far wit’ that leg o’ his...”
“You don’t even know his name?” Virgil then repeated, utterly appalled at this lack of inattention.
Junior looked clueless once more, giving Virgil a blank look.
“You don’t know his name?!”
“No!” Junior snapped, once again since he’d revealed that sheepish realization. “I don’t! I forgot!”
“You forgot his name?! You’re travelin’ wit’ th’ kid!” Virgil cried. “How could you forget?!”
“He’s a whore! They all the same!” Junior shouted over the men’s shouts for ‘kid’ and ‘boy’.
Virgil glared at him. “Human beings are human beings. An’ all human beings have names.”
Junior scoffed, looking away from him. He moved away, grumbling.
Virgil shook his head with exasperation. He gave Adam an aghast expression. “Can you believe that man?” he asked incredulously. “He thinks he can treat people so...so callously!”
Adam shrugged. “Ain’t he always been that way?”
“Don’t know him personally, but...people shouldn’t be treatin’ each other that way. ‘Specially a kid!”
“Junior prolly terrorized him ‘nough, he prolly out hidin’.”
Virgil grumbled for a few more minutes, then sighed. The rain was coming down harder, and the streets were turning into mud. “This valley flood a lot?”
“Structures don’t look made for it.”
Junior came back, a bewildered look on his face. “Anyone know what that sound is?”
Virgil blinked, then frowned. Adam turned, waving at the men to be quiet. As they fell silent, the rain fell in noisy torrents, thunder rumbling noisily in the distance.
Then they caught it–the high pitched shrieks of something inhuman.
Instantly, the men began to react, hastily grabbing weapons, looking for places to hide. Junior paled, looking down the street, taking off with hasty shouts for Richie. Virgil looked after him, intending to call him back, but Adam grabbed him by his shirt, pulling him after him.
“Let’s find some cover, man! Git outta sight, fer a bit!” he shouted.
“But they–!”
“Let ‘em alone! Kin fend for themselves!”
“I can’t do that!” Virgil wailed. “They just–he’s so stupid–! He ain’t–!”
“Virgil, I ain’t lettin’ you go–!”
“I can’t just let ‘em get eaten–!”
“Virgil–!”
“Hawkins, Evans, shut the fuck up.”
Both of them went silent, looking over at Hotstreak, who was peering anxiously down the street. He was armed to the teeth with all the weaponry he had–seeing his white knuckles as he gripped a double-barreled shotgun made Virgil a little more tense than usual. He cast his friend a worried look, swallowing hard as he tried to imagine what sort of creature made this sort of sound.
“What’s that?” he whispered, drawing out his Smith and Wesson. “Somethin’ even more horribler than–than those things?”
Hotstreak ignored him for a moment, then gave a sort of disbelieving chuckle. He looked at Virgil.
“Yeah, actually. It’s Caine.”
Disclaimer: I DO NOT OWN STATIC AND OTHER ASSOCIATED CHARACTERS!
Based somewhat on that thrilling vid-game, Darkwatch. Heh. My inspiration for something gory and dark.
I’m Alive: Erm...(looks around anxiously) WELL! I hope this chapter answers some of your questions...>.< If they ain’t, I’m sure they’ll be answered soon...hopefully...just...keep reminding me. XD Yeah, as for Hs’s role...well...I’m trying something different. I hope that some things here will explain what I mean.
Tri: Thankies so much for making me discuss EVERYTHING, man. XD Seriously–it helps me contemplate what I have in store for the charas.
Chapter Twelve:
Comin’ Around The Mountain...
Hotstreak frowned down at the books in hand–feeling undecided. He’d had these things, poring over them thoughtfully almost every day since he’d found them. His thoughts had examined all that he’d known of the kid since then; his behavior, his physical traits, everything that had been given to him in short amounts since their first meeting.
Every day he’d wondered if the boy were alive, if he were part of the undead.
And now that Hotstreak had the answer, he was at a loss as to what to do with him. After all, they’d parted with the redhead ranting at him, physically threatening him. Hating that he’d been duped, tricked, forced–it wasn’t as if he knew the kid. He knew about as much of him as the kid knew about him. And that was less than nothing.
He and Charger were milling around above the first road into Runner’s Valley–he was watching over the exodus of zombies that were still coming in from the south, moving over the mountains into the area over. None of them were straying much in their direction–it seemed as if they were all following a single command, and that was to walk until they got to their destination.
Charger was pulling at various edible greens around him, and Hotstreak’s thoughts weren’t on the zombies; but on the boy that he assumed was still sleeping back at the doctor’s house. He put the two books back with the others in his saddlebag, frowning.
At first, he’d felt guilty for using him; it had been unexpected, even to himself. He had thought he was in better control of himself–lust wasn’t supposed to be satisfied that way. He’d honestly felt like a monster, afterwards–too embarrassed and yet relieved that he hadn’t lasted long–after all, only monsters had sex with teenagers against their will, and while they were injured. He was fully aware of that.
At the same time, he was relieved that he was able to find out what it was like to actually have sex with the kid. It was almost as if he were being offered his very last meal, and he had to hurry to enjoy it. It made sense that way, for he wasn’t sure how long he’d have the opportunity.
All in all, Hotstreak felt very despicable of himself. The kid was going to look at him and put him in the same spot he’d put the others, in. Look at him with whatever wariness it was the kid had of those around him. That wasn’t the impression Hotstreak had wanted to give.
He wasn’t sure what he wanted to give to the kid. For someone that had been on his mind for days after meeting him, the kid didn’t need that sort of grief.
Hotstreak shut his eyes, giving a low groan as he wondered what in the world he was thinking that day. He entirely regretted–maybe. A little.
A whole lot of regret, some satisfaction, some interest–none of it good.
A small voice argued with him, persistently keeping him occupied.
But he’s a whore, that voice insisted. They have to put out. They have to satisfy the customer!
But he wasn’t bought, he heard himself argue. He’s fuckin’ sick, for Chrissake!
But he’s a whore...and whores don’t have that normal right.
Of course, arguing with himself over the topic wasn’t helping much. He opened his eyes, looking up at the sky. A storm was coming in–the rumble of thunder was persistent. It had already drizzled a few times, but he could see that another front was moving in. Possibly snow. He wasn’t sure of the temperature, as the pelts kept him pretty comfortable, but if it snowed...the kid probably wouldn’t have a chance.
He was already sick–cold air would make it worse.
Then Hotstreak had to pull himself back–why was he thinking so much about him? It was insane how much room the stranger had in his thoughts.
He forced himself to think of Kangorr and the others. He was guilty in that his childhood friend was going to question his worth in their operations. After all, Francis Stone had up and left him a while back, because he himself couldn’t handle the situation.
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There was just too many–! Blayne had himself positioned on the rooftop across the road, picking off the zombies and Hounds that surrounded the building, screaming up a storm. Francis was frustrated as he hurriedly reloaded three weapons he had–a shotgun, a rifle, an impressive Smith and Wesson–hearing Hounds howl angrily at him in his position atop a shanty.
Looking up, he saw that spectres were gearing themselves up for releasing powers of their own, their faces disappearing as maws continued to widen, and Francis snapped the chamber shut. Grabbing the other two guns, he hastily left his position, jumping down onto the open cart of a wagon, the Hounds following with anxious snarls.
Spectres were everywhere–the most frustrating of creatures, for how could one shoot a spirit? Francis was panting as he hit the dirt running, hearing the Hounds chase after him, Blayne’s frustrated shouts racing after him. The Hounds weren’t that fast–their awkward front legs slowed them considerably. It was when they finally realized that running on their hind legs gave Francis something to worry about–but Hounds weren’t that smart. They usually discovered that on accident.
A spectres’ scream made his skin crawl–they were like banshees, their shrieks physically manifesting themselves into a hard, painful wave of force that were strong enough to tear down houses.
But, just like a physical force, they were easily avoided.
Weaving in his running, Francis made it to the barn, and he fumbled with the matches he had in his pockets. Loaded with dry hay, with the doors and windows boarded shut, the barn was going to be the place they’d planned on killing most of the creatures with. He climbed hastily onto the ladder that led up to the loft, hearing the Hounds veer after him, knocking over bales of hay, cluttering the small shelter with their lumbering presence. Francis kicked the ladder down so that they couldn’t follow him up.
He found the loose board of the wall that he and Blayne had found, and turned, looking over to see the Hounds leaping at the loft, teeth snapping frantically. Francis looked over at the glittering pools of oil that Blayne had drizzled over the hay. This place was going to go up in flames–the heat dissipated the spectres; sometimes, the spectres themselves blew like a vat of gas. Blayne always wondered about that. Since Hounds were practically impervious to everything else, it seemed almost impossible to kill them–but he and Blayne had learned that immense heat and dangerous gases caused by flame often did the trick. They died slowly, in agonizing pain, but the point was–they would die.
Francis lit a match, and crouched, lighting the torch that he’d set nearby. He looked up to see several spectres floating anxiously around the ceiling, looking for a way out. His eyes caught the barn doors that were being shut and locked, Blayne able to come through with that step.
Grinning, Francis lit the torch, grimacing at the heat that assailed him as both oil and cloth went up instantly. He looked down at the Hounds, and noticed a couple interested in a small trapdoor nearby. He furrowed his brow for a moment, wondering what had the creatures interested, but tossed the torch down onto the closest pile of hay, watching it catch instantly. The other Hounds immediately protested this with startled cries, lumbering away from the burning flames, Francis glancing up at the spectres that floated around with similar cries.
It bothered him how much these creatures understood their demises.
He kicked out the loose board, tossed out his guns, then followed their descent. The barn was flaring up with flames as oil caught hold of the heat, and the resounding shrieks of agony from inside were satisfactory. He grabbed his guns and headed around front, where Blayne was watching with a smirk of approval.
They grinned at each other with conspiratorial smiles, then watched the barn fill with flames. The agonizing shrieks were well worth the trouble the pair had been in, earlier. A loud, ear-ringing pop made Blayne chuckle.
“Wonder how it is they do that?” he wondered aloud, both of them moving back as overwhelming heat began licking at their exposed skin. “Made of gas?”
“Supernatural gas?” Francis questioned, then snickered. “Ghosts with gas.”
Blayne chuckled, and they moved back. Through the spaces between the boards, both of them could see Hounds running in panicked circles, searching for a way out–another pop exploded, followed by another.
Then, Francis stilled. Between the shrieks of the Hounds, the dying screams of the spectres, came something else. Blayne stilled as well.
Human screams sliced through the burning agony of the demons. Men, women–the higher pitched shrieks of children.
Both of them were paralyzed with disbelief and horror, staring at the burning barn, skin crawling upon hearing those agonizing screams.
Through the spaces of those boards, they were visible–human bodies running in the same panicked agony as the demons, set aflame and burning alive by both fire and heat. The two boys could hear their desperation and torment as they tried the doors, the windows–to no avail. No one in their panicked torture thought of kicking at the boards to escape.
Francis couldn’t breathe as he heard those screams, of men reaching octaves he’d never heard, before. Of women losing their breath with continuous shrieks–the telltale octaves of children in excruciating pain.
He turned away, feeling absolutely horrible as Blayne continued staring at the fire in stunned horror.
That next morning, Francis looked up from his breakfast as Blayne walked over, shaking his head in morose regret. He was carrying the skins of the Hounds, ready to make clothing with them–once the Hounds died, their skin was easier to peel from their bodies. Heat made the pelts supple and easier to handle before cooling into the imperishable hides that became useful.
“We didn’t know, man,” he said softly, crouching beside him. “We didn’t know...”
Francis felt horrible, thinking of those screams. Wondering how they’d missed them. He thought of the trapdoor the Hounds were starting to investigate before he’d lit the fire.
The scrambled eggs he was eating turned to dust in his mouth, and he spat, setting his plate aside. They couldn’t have known–but why hadn’t those people revealed themselves earlier? While the boys were planning their trap? He thought of the hour they’d spent walking around, patching up the windows and the doors, of Blayne struggling with the oil barrel.
Why?
He thought of the children that were in there, and felt instantly nauseated.
“We couldn’t have known, man,” Blayne repeated, mainly to himself.
Francis looked at him, swallowing hard. In his mind’s eye, he could still see those frantic movements of people afire running in the barn.
Looking for a way out.
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He’d left Kangorr after that. Fully immersed himself into other activities; finally planned out his first train robbery with a passenger train heading out of the Panhandle–felt royally screwed when a passenger challenged him, and he’d ended up shooting the guy.
It felt that his past with the creatures caught up with him, then. Spending all that time alone with his own thoughts, fending for himself–making all the wrong decisions–he took to drinking and raised Hell wherever he went, determined to avoid that zombie business. Just seeing all that he had, reliving them in dreams, made him realize just what they had done.
People were dying day by day, horribly gruesome deaths–almost every one left an impact on him. He’d wake up, shaking and sweaty, seeing faces twisted in agony–hear their screams, smell death and blood; every time, he’d push it away. He’d push himself to do more things every day, to travel. To get as far away from the place as possible.
He left Orleans and head up North, randomly hitting whatever place was closest for a quick robbery and scam. He’d had bounty hunters on him for awhile, but he’d lost them somewhere in Kansas–he’d heard of the invasion there, so he’d left the territory quickly, winding up in Texas for some time before heading once more northwest.
The West beckoned him. He’d found the Hawkins, and things had seemed fine. He hadn’t seen or heard of any zombies, any weird doings–and laid low to avoid anyone looking to make a quick buck. He thought Blayne had come through with ‘saving the world’. Unfortunately, he hadn’t.
Thinking about what he’d lost made Hotstreak extremely depressed.
As he watched the zombies cross the main road, their guttural cries slicing through the thunder, he wondered when it would all end.
He thought of the boy–wretched amber eyes–and gave a low sigh. Maybe...maybe this one could get his mind off things.
The boy wasn’t going to turn–that he was confident in. Whomever had possessed the individual that had bitten him wasn’t infectious–the spectre was probably independent. Caine and this ‘him’ were far away–he doubted they’d bother with some teenage whore from the East.
With all the sudden deaths, there were sudden spirits–hauntings, poltergeists. They lingered in their towns, terrorizing their own homes. These were spectres–they emitted banshee-like wailings that manifested into physical force. They were able to possess and ‘haunt’. Blood, Inc. had discovered that heat and sagebrush worked quite fine in fending them off.
As complicated as things seemed in the destruction of the invaders, it was actually simple. One just needed to have the means.
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Virgil heard the door open, and he tensed. Upon hearing the heavy weight of a man walking in, he immediately pictured his friend wearing rain-drenched clothing and cursing tiredly about something he couldn’t quite accomplish. Grinning, he sat up on the bed and faced the doorway, ready to argue his forgiveness for being a hysterical ass.
Hotstreak walked in, and performed a double take, obviously very surprised.
“Hey, man,” Virgil greeted quietly, giving him a sheepish look. “Finally tracked you down. Took awhile...”
Hotstreak studied him for a few moments, then set down his rain-drenched pack. Due to the pelts he was wearing, he was dry and quite comfortable. His eyes roved quickly around the room, and his guarded expression to Virgil was something of a surprise to the younger man.
“You found me,” he said simply, his face not exactly happy with the information.
Virgil studied him, noting the new signs of strain on his friend’s face–the obvious facial hair and misery. “You don’t look so good.”
Hotstreak shrugged. “Been tough.”
“Yeah...I...I wanted to say how sorry I am, man. Fer...not bein’...quite right in the head.” Virgil leaned back on the bed, watching his friend shrug out of his coat, removing his hat. “I was in shock. I said things I shouldn’t’ve. I regret it. It weren’t your fault. Not at all.”
Hotstreak shrugged again, removing his belt. Taking the chair in the back corner, he heaved a tired exhale, and took up his rifle. “Where’s the kid?”
“...Junior took him back.”
Virgil caught the flash of irritation that crossed his friend’s face, and he sat up. “You know–”
“How’d ya’ll find me? Not much people around these parts, lately.”
“There were some. Said you were with...a buncha people in black. Kinda...took awhile. But there ain’t that many settlements up here since the gold rush last year.”
Hotstreak thought about it for a few moments, then ran a hand over his matted hair. “What’s Junior doin’ up here?”
“I...I don’t know. He...I guess it’s just him an’ that kid.” Virgil watched him for a few, silent moments, judging his mood. It felt different being there–that the person he was talking to wasn’t that person anymore. Looking at him, he could see the physical changes, but there were others that were hidden beneath that roughened surface. It was almost as if he were seeing Hotstreak as that man that had just arrived on Hawkins’ Ranch, drunk and quietly disturbed.
He gave a lopsided frown. “You okay, man? Been hard on ya?”
“...Yeah. But...y’know...guilt an’ all.”
“...It wasn’t your fault–”
“Don’t say that shit, Hawkins. It was. An’ you know it. It’ll always be my fault.”
“No, you didn’t know. You didn’t know at th’ time–!”
“Shut up, Virgil. Don’t wanna talk about it.”
Virgil quieted, a look of concern on his face as his friend lapsed into silence. He heard the steady beat of rain atop of the rooftop, and the gentle rumble of thunder. The chilly air wafted into the house, reminding him of the lack of fire or warmth. He sighed lightly, shrugging his shoulders.
“We can rest, man. Talk in the mornin’. Brought some of the boys wit’ me. Adam...Tom, Randy, Willie, James...” Virgil rose from the bed, shaking out his legs. “Stick around, man. Don’t run off.”
Hotstreak waved him off, sullenly staring at the floor, but Virgil persisted. “Please. Don’t run off.”
Getting no answer or expression, he turned and headed out of the house. Before he left, a severe chill raced through him, making him question whether or not he’d made the right choice in finding his friend.
The next morning, Virgil was awaken to furious shouting. Lifting his head from the saddle bag that acted as his pillow, he saw that the others were waking up to the same noises. Blinking himself to coherency, he realized that Junior was shouting and screaming up a storm. It was obvious the man was pissed.
Hurrying out, wiping away the crust at the corner of his eyes, Virgil saw Junior angrily gesturing at the correl nearby. From the looks of it, it seemed as if the horses he’d had the day before were gone. The younger Alva was screaming about the boy’s ineptitude, and finally tired of screaming himself hoarse. When the man advanced on the kid, fists swinging, Virgil hurried over to interfere.
“Hey, hey, hey!” he shouted, throwing himself between them, yanking Junior away from him. “What’s goin’ on? Calm down, man! Chill!”
“That fuckin’–that little bastard–fucking sonnavabitch good fer nothin’–! Lost our horses!” Junior panted furiously, yanking himself away from Virgil. He gestured at the correl, Virgil looking over and noting the same emptiness as before. “They ran away! Fuckin’ bitch didn’t tie the gate good!”
“Look, calm down,” Virgil advised, hands raised. “We’ll find them, all right? I’ll git a couple of guys, an’ we’ll go look for them. Just...in the meanwhile, calm down. Stop hittin’ him. He’s just a kid.”
“I’m not a kid!” Richie spoke up, catching his breath as well.
“Yer justa worthless whore!” Junior screamed at him, making him frown.
“Now, hey–! Just...stop the name-callin’, man,” Virgil asked, giving him a sour look. “Look, it was just a little mistake–!”
“Yer gonna fuck us over, you little–!”
“I’m so sorry! I’m sorry! I didn’t–!”
“–piece of shit–!”
“I said, KNOCK IT OFF!” Virgil bellowed, voice ringing over the silent town. It seemed to echo throughout the entire valley, quieting the raging man and making the kid cringe. Taking a deep breath, Virgil regained his patience, and looked at Junior directly. “I’ll take a few of my guys. We’ll go an’ look for ‘em. All right? An’ just leave the kid alone.”
“I’m not a kid–!”
“You’ll look fer them?” Junior asked incredulously, then shot him a suspicious look. “How do I know that? You’ll bring ‘em back? What if yer lyin’? I don’t believe you, nigger.”
Virgil gave him an aghast expression, then scowled at him. “Lissen here, you–! How dare you–? I offered ta do somethin’ nice for you, an’ you just–!”
“I jus’ don’t believe you! I don’t know you!”
Richie sighed tiredly, rubbing at his face. When it was obvious Junior was persistent in his suspicions, he turned and headed back toward the house. His leg ached something fierce, feeling heavy and stiff–he was dragging it behind him, straining with every effort.
Junior frowned after him, ignoring Virgil’s angry tirade about having his good efforts thrown back into his face. He realized how badly he was mistreating the kid, especially in the state he was in, now. But he couldn’t seem to control himself–the situation was out of his control (was it ever in his control?), and he was quite stressed. Ill with it, in fact.
“Fine, fine!” He interrupted Virgil with a wave of his hand, walking toward the house. “Jus’–just do what ya want to, nigger. I’ll repay you.”
Virgil shot him a scowl, shaking his head slightly. This man had all the nerve–! But he felt so bad for the kid, and he sighed heavily, shaking out his continued anger over Junior’s actions and words.
He turned to gather up a couple of his friends, looking up to judge the weather.
Richie sulked as he watched Virgil and the others mount their horses an hour later. Junior was describing the horses’ physical appearances, and stressing that he wanted them all back. Every so often, he’d shoot Richie a furious glare for all the trouble he’d caused.
Feeling a little frustrated and more than sullen for the whole ordeal–he knew he’d locked the damn gate, using the very same knots he’d seen Junior use–he rubbed lightly at his leg, careful of the wound. He could feel the stitches beneath the material of his pants, remembering the feel of maggots in there. Despite the redhead’s warning, he’d removed the larvae out of disgust. His entire leg was intensely sore and stiff–it hurt to move it, feeling as if his thigh had locked, stinging bolts of pain pulsing from the area with continuous effort.
Walking about had agitated it greatly, and activity had tired him out. It felt as if what little energy he’d had had left him yesterday, meeting with Junior.
Virgil loudly assured him they’d find the horses, and Richie didn’t bother with looking up. He was intensely wary of these men; especially Virgil for his friendship with the large redhead. Experience with Junior and the others had told him men loved to do things in groups–he was afraid they’d use him with Hotstreak’s encouragement.
Really, he felt that his only safety here was with Junior–at least he was familiar with the man. Junior wouldn’t touch him that way unless prompted with plenty of alcohol and his friends’ encouragement.
So as far as he was concerned, Virgil and the others were just as dangerous as Casey and the others had been.
He looked up to see Junior stalking over, muttering low, slapping his leg with his hat. Richie bit his lower lip, watching him cautiously as the man neared. He cringed, expecting to be hit, but Junior passed by without word or physical expression.
Richie straightened, looking after him in surprise and worry. Fear hit him, then, thinking instantly of Junior getting back at him by letting those men have him as payment for finding the horses. If Junior wasn’t inflicting the abuse, he would get someone else to do it. He’d rather Junior did it than allowing others to do it. He swallowed hard, looking around himself anxiously. He pushed himself to his feet, hurrying after the older man.
His leg dragged, refusing to move as smoothly as it had before the shooting. He heard the slam of a door upstairs, and paused in the living room.
Fear and anxiety pulsed at him, making every bit of him tremble. His leg throbbed painfully–he winced. Pressing forward, he climbed the stairs awkwardly. He found the room Junior was staying in, and knocked at the door timidly.
“Junior? Sir?” he called out, fiddling with his shirt sleeve. “Sir?”
He heard the approach of boots on wood, and moved back as the door flew open. Junior reached out to grab a hold of his shirt, shaking him.
“You stay out of my sight! You stay the fuck away from me! I’ma fuckin’ kill you if’n you don’t! You’d better hope they find the fuckin’ horses, cuz I ain’t wantin’ to be relyin’ on them! You unnerstand?!” Junior snarled, his bitter breath hitting Richie’s face, making him cringe. The younger Alva then shoved him roughly to the floor, making him cry out with pain. “Get the fuck out! I don’t wanna see you, or hear you, or smell you! I catch any of that, I’ll rip you apart! I’ll make you wish you were dead, Goddamn cocksuck!”
With the slamming of the door, Junior once again retreated to his room. Moments later, there came the crashing sound of glass bottles and angry curses. Richie rose painfully from the floor, holding tightly onto his leg. He was a mixture of feelings, unsure of what to feel good about. He heard Junior continuously cursing him, obviously drinking. Richie decided to make do with Junior’s threats, and awkwardly left the house.
Once outside, his anxiety increased. Adam was out and about, and once he caught sight of Richie, he waved.
“You hungry?” he asked, holding up a leather pack. “I’m goin’ to cook somethin’–!”
Richie shook his head and carefully descended the porch, watching Adam warily. The black man gave him a puzzled look, watching him as he hobbled around the house, disappearing out of view.
Feeling utterly ill with his gathered anxieties, Richie limped about cluelessly, unsure of where to go or what to do. He found himself searching for his glasses, retracing his steps from the house and through the small area of houses. He found his prints immediately.
Miraculously, he found his glasses–intact and unscathed, near the house where he assumed he’d been shot. He examined them with a low sound of disbelief, and cleaned them.
Sliding them on, he looked around himself. Feeling the need to lay low, he came up to a small shack, carefully working the door open. He walked in, looking at the single bed and cozy settings. He slipped the lock in place and looked over the bed. Feeling overwhelmed by all that had happened to him, he slipped on top, exhaling heavily as exhaustion set in.
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Junior sat out on the back porch, scanning the horizon for Virgil and the others. He was a little buzzed–most of the alcohol was gone. He tapped the glass bottle against the heel of his boot, the sound obscenely loud within the silence of the abandoned town. Thunder rumbled with troubled expression over head, lightning dancing out in the horizon. The air was chillier than usual–he didn’t want to think about it snowing anytime soon. They were so ill-prepared for that event.
He realized how inadequate he was–he’d lived in a settlement his entire life. He hadn’t had to do much–there were people to do things for him. Casey and the others, for example–they’d been the ones to do most of his dirty work. They were the experienced ones. He’d barely ventured from the settlement. He hadn’t had the need to hunt, to trap–he was okay at it once in a while, but never on a continued basis.
He was good with a gun, but that was from hours of practice. He was good at roping livestock for fun–he was okay with travel within small distances (he hated to admit he grew sick in extended travel). He grew tired of dealing with punishments because while he felt it gave him some power, it grew tiring after awhile. The kid wore him out in that aspect–it was as if the kid had no ears, or was some kind of masochist.
But the thing was, Junior was a man of enough wealth to have things done for him. To be suddenly independent made him desperate and panicked–helplessness spurring on his attitude to have control. He stared out anxiously over the empty correl, wondering if his father was going to come back.
He’d made the resolution to get back at his father for abandoning him, but he still contemplated whether or not Alva made the hasty decision because they were pressured by the invasion. He was still hoping that his father would come back.
He was still hoping that the others were going to come back and search for him. They would have to–Alva would want him near, wouldn’t he? After all, Junior did most of his dirty work for him. And above it all, he was Alva’s son–that meant something.
Alva wouldn’t just–abandon him.
...Would he?
He had to know that Junior was still alive. He had to!
Junior didn’t want to fret over the idea that Alva was going to forget about him. He just figured they were held up somewhere–trying to make it back for him.
But somehow, that confidence faltered. Alva needed him, but he never showed his son just how much or how often. And for that, Junior felt discouraged.
He sighed low, worrying his bottom lip. While he was uncertain of how independent he could be, he didn’t want to rely on people lower than him. Minorities and weakened idiots were that majority. Alva was a wealthy man, and Junior had grown up knowing that he was a bit of personality that enabled him to be ‘higher’ than others. So Junior regarded many people without money, of color, of status in levels–if they didn’t have money, they were below him. They had color or immigration status, they were below him. If they worked this or farmed that, they were below him.
He was surrounded by these people at the current moment. Three blacks, one Hispanic, one white man–the kid was a whore. All of them were below Edwin Alva, Jr.
But he had to overcome that to make things work. He had to–as much as he regretted it–work with them. He had to get somewhere, and that meant he’d need help. But how much of it...? And for how long?
He would still use the kid–the kid was smart. Junior had no doubt about that, but that didn’t make the kid anywhere near respectable. Junior would use him, and all would be well in that aspect. But how to get to that point?
He rubbed at his chin thoughtfully, frowning at the sound of rain. It was coming along their way, wisps of clouds hiding the warm sunlight–the fog was still drifting over the mountains, bringing snow with them for sure.
He rose from the porch, dusting off his pants. Just as he was going to head back into the house, he saw riders in the horizon. Squinting to see better, he was very relieved to see that it was Virgil and the others–with their horses. It was foreign for him to feel this utterly ecstatic–but he had to frown once again. He didn’t think that Virgil and the others would do such a thing out of the kindness of their hearts–there must be something that they’d want.
Frowning, he chewed on the inside of his cheek with his back molars, then decided on the next best bargaining tool.
“Boy!” he bellowed, anxiously pacing the porch. It would be just this once–barter, bargain, re-payment. “Boy!”
As he was hollering, it hit him then–what was the kid’s name? He was bewildered at this–he tried thinking of the day they’d first received him, and couldn’t remember what Alva had called him. He tried to remember the other whores addressing him, but everyone just called him ‘kid’, ‘boy’, or ‘honky’. Blinking cluelessly, Junior was stumped.
Later that night, he was grumbling low to himself as Virgil pressed him for details.
“He couldn’t have gone far!” he exclaimed.
“It’s too dark to try an’ look fo’ his prints,” James murmured with a frown. “Couldn’t’ve gone that far wit’ that leg o’ his...”
“You don’t even know his name?” Virgil then repeated, utterly appalled at this lack of inattention.
Junior looked clueless once more, giving Virgil a blank look.
“You don’t know his name?!”
“No!” Junior snapped, once again since he’d revealed that sheepish realization. “I don’t! I forgot!”
“You forgot his name?! You’re travelin’ wit’ th’ kid!” Virgil cried. “How could you forget?!”
“He’s a whore! They all the same!” Junior shouted over the men’s shouts for ‘kid’ and ‘boy’.
Virgil glared at him. “Human beings are human beings. An’ all human beings have names.”
Junior scoffed, looking away from him. He moved away, grumbling.
Virgil shook his head with exasperation. He gave Adam an aghast expression. “Can you believe that man?” he asked incredulously. “He thinks he can treat people so...so callously!”
Adam shrugged. “Ain’t he always been that way?”
“Don’t know him personally, but...people shouldn’t be treatin’ each other that way. ‘Specially a kid!”
“Junior prolly terrorized him ‘nough, he prolly out hidin’.”
Virgil grumbled for a few more minutes, then sighed. The rain was coming down harder, and the streets were turning into mud. “This valley flood a lot?”
“Structures don’t look made for it.”
Junior came back, a bewildered look on his face. “Anyone know what that sound is?”
Virgil blinked, then frowned. Adam turned, waving at the men to be quiet. As they fell silent, the rain fell in noisy torrents, thunder rumbling noisily in the distance.
Then they caught it–the high pitched shrieks of something inhuman.
Instantly, the men began to react, hastily grabbing weapons, looking for places to hide. Junior paled, looking down the street, taking off with hasty shouts for Richie. Virgil looked after him, intending to call him back, but Adam grabbed him by his shirt, pulling him after him.
“Let’s find some cover, man! Git outta sight, fer a bit!” he shouted.
“But they–!”
“Let ‘em alone! Kin fend for themselves!”
“I can’t do that!” Virgil wailed. “They just–he’s so stupid–! He ain’t–!”
“Virgil, I ain’t lettin’ you go–!”
“I can’t just let ‘em get eaten–!”
“Virgil–!”
“Hawkins, Evans, shut the fuck up.”
Both of them went silent, looking over at Hotstreak, who was peering anxiously down the street. He was armed to the teeth with all the weaponry he had–seeing his white knuckles as he gripped a double-barreled shotgun made Virgil a little more tense than usual. He cast his friend a worried look, swallowing hard as he tried to imagine what sort of creature made this sort of sound.
“What’s that?” he whispered, drawing out his Smith and Wesson. “Somethin’ even more horribler than–than those things?”
Hotstreak ignored him for a moment, then gave a sort of disbelieving chuckle. He looked at Virgil.
“Yeah, actually. It’s Caine.”