The Dead World Ch. 17

Beyond the pier was the small town of Jekyll Island, well overrun with reanimates. He had navigated the burnt out structures and long raided, dilapidated motels with ease. The dead hardly noticed him moving silently in the darkness, the scent of the sea and rain masking the smell of a living being passing by them. There would be no one to interrupt, or notice he was gone, and he felt the weight upon his chest had increased tenfold in a way he had never known before. Hopelessness was not something Dog had ever felt; not the way he felt it now. He never had a reason to fear before, or hurt. He had nothing to long for and nothing to lose. It had all changed in an instant, and now? The future seemed exhausting.

He held the revolver firmly for what felt like an eternity, slowly angling the muzzle of the gun to his temple, his thumb drawing back the hammer. The thoughts of his failure raced through fragmented images of Charlie, her eyes darkened by fear and pain. To the faces of the men he had murdered. To the tattered remains of the family he once had.

He squeezed the trigger.

...Click.

A pulse of longing followed the empty sound of the revolver failing to fire, and again his eyes closed, welcoming the darkness. He was drained. His body felt weighted, and sluggish, and try as he might, he couldn't seem to fight his way back from that sinking, breathless feeling. It was maddening--suffocating. He eased his fingers against the cylinder again. He felt it spin, and drew back the hammer, inhaling a deep, shuddered breath as he brought the steel up and pressed it to his temple.

...Click.

Dog hadn't noticed the noise of the pier behind him crowded with reanimates growing lighter. He hadn't noticed them shuffling backwards into the array of derelict amusement rides and empty, boarded up restaurants. He spun the cylinder again. His focus was elsewhere, lost to him in the mounting despair. Dog was burdened by the pang of longing for a moment of peace that would only visit him once, before the world spiraled back into the vicious cut-throat Hell he knew it was. He didn't hesitate this time to bring the revolver to his temple again, opening his eyes, looking out over the rushing waves and the darkened sky...

But he did notice the sound of the hammer drawn back. The chilling, definite sound of it caused his heart to stop in his chest. He knew his finger was still resting upon it, and the revolver in his hands was loaded with a bullet, but not prepared to fire. It wasn't his weapon shifting at the ready.

Dog lowered his arm, bringing the barrel from his head, and felt his muscles tighten. He waited for a voice he expected; Slash, more than likely, or Oz perhaps. The sound never came. There was only the shifting of the hammer of a stranger's firearm behind him, just barely heard over the rushing of the waves, and shortly after the charring scent of smoke from the deterrent that had driven the reanimates back. He turned his head just inches to look over his shoulder and set sights on the unfamiliar figure.

This person was small in stature, thin, and dressed as darkly as he was. He couldn't make out much more than that through the density of the fog. Nothing else but the vibrant, stark white face of some unfamiliar creature, and the darkness of the stranger's eyes watching him from beneath it. Both of this small person's hands cradled a pistol and held him at point. It felt like they remained in the standoff for hours.

The teen made no movement to shift from where he perched on the banister, nor did he ready the revolver. He seemed almost eager for this unfamiliar person to pull the trigger and be done with it, his eyes sweeping over the sharp white fox mask covering the face of this unfamiliar and seemingly hostile individual. It surprised him fully when the stranger slowly shifted the weapon, beckoning him down from where he sat with the pistol. Dog felt his jaw tighten, and made no motion to move.

"Come." The voice that met him was quiet, and accented thickly in a way he had not heard before. Decidedly male.

Dog's hazel eyes narrowed at the order. He moved cautiously, one long leg after the other as he twisted his body and slid down from the banister with his hands still raised and the revolver hanging from his thumb in clear surrender. The stranger didn't need to make demands. He already knew what to expect and bent down slowly, placing the revolver on the wet wooden planks before straightening his posture. There was no question; this had to be one of the scouts Oz and Slash had seen in the area a few days earlier.

"Name?" Ghost questioned softly, his tone unreadable.

Dog shook his head slowly. If ever there was a time to have a tongue, being faced down by some hostile scout would have been it. His eyes moved back behind the dark figure to the distance of the rusted chain barrier, searching for an accomplice or party, and at that, the stranger advanced.

"Name." This time, it was a demand. Ghost moved to kick the revolver out of reach with his boot, the pistol trained squarely on the teenager's chest. Dog shook his head once more, and opted this time to open his mouth wide to reveal the cause of his silence, now that the distance had closed between them. It seemed to draw a pause as the stranger realized he had no tongue to speak with. But only for a moment.

Ghost was swift to check along the teenager's pockets and chest with a touch that rivaled Dog's own talent at pickpocketing. He barely noticed him there. The smaller man circled around to tug the backpack free of Dog's shoulders impatiently, ensuring he was not withholding any further hidden dangers before rapidly stepping across to retrieve the revolver. Ghost didn't turn his back to the unfamiliar loner once and moved with an eerie sort of grace, despite the fact that Dog's lax pose and that he had not tried to fire on him said he was not liable to be an immediate threat. The scout knelt swiftly to retrieve the weapon, checked the cylinder, and was surprised to find it containing only one bullet. It was a baffling situation if he had ever come by one.

He had expected to find someone in the area. He expected to find a fully armed party setting up camp and making themselves comfortable here from the scene of the safe zone. What he had not expected to find was a young, lone, speechless survivor clearly gambling with his life at the end of the pier.

The scout put distance between himself and the teenager; not at all a threat, Ghost finally decided. Quite possibly suicidal, it seemed. Dog lowered his hands from aside his head, watching in anxious disdain as the scout opened the pack and shifted through its sparse contents swiftly before zipping it back and tossing it across the distance to land at his feet. Stillness settled between them once again, and Dog slowly moved to lift the pack, slinging it over his shoulder. He was bold to take several steps forward, leaving it at that, only to be halted once again by the hasty rise of Ghost's arms, his pistol gripped firmly in his hands.

"Group."

Dog shook his head, irritated and impatient. Even if he could speak--even with the way things had gone in the last few weeks--he wouldn't have told this little fucker anything he knew. He was tempted to carry on. It wouldn't have mattered much to him to be shot, not in his current state of mind, but Ghost moved quickly around to block his path and hold him at point in an obvious threat. There wouldn't be any walking away from this. Not without things getting very tense, very quickly.

Dog heaved a heavy sigh, and rolled his eyes, pointing to the gun before spreading his arms wide with his palms open in an invitation. 'Just get it the fuck over with, then.'

The fox mask lifted over Ghost's head, revealing the face of a young man who Dog assumed couldn't be much older than himself. It was hard to tell from the softness of his features. Ghost's dark almond eyes hardened as he shook his head slowly.

He had very clear orders. He was not to engage anyone he found, and report back promptly. Ghost didn't know anything about this boy aside from the fact that he was found alone and in a dire state of mind. That might have been the only reason he hadn't thought to pull the trigger. It seemed the teenager was all but baiting him. Dog's light eyes narrowed, shooting a glare at the smaller man blocking his path, and took several definite and fearless steps forward until the barrel of the pistol was resting just before his heart. He arched his brows expectantly, and Ghost slowly angled the barrel toward the ground.

"Why?"

It had to have been the world's least animated conversation, though it had taken Dog no time at all to realize that this one was much like Ruthless; perhaps even worse off. His English clearly wasn't very good. Paired with the fact that Dog himself couldn't speak at all, communicating was proving almost impossible. Dog rolled his eyes once again; as if craving death in the world was the least surprising thing to encounter these days. The scout before him slowly dipped a hand into the pocket of the black jeans he wore, producing a curious item that illuminated when directed toward his face. Some part of him felt a spark of curiosity, watching as Ghost's fingers rapidly brushed over the screen. A moment later, a low, metallic voice spoke from the cellphone, in his stead.

"Why do you seek death?"

There was intrigue in the teenager's eyes, which lit up in wonder at the voice from the cell phone, nevermind the fact that to even charge such a device was nearly impossible these days. He stared, almost bewitched, at the cell phone as it spoke, a smile tempting the corners of his lips. Ghost watched him for a moment before cautiously passing the device to him, nodding his head to assure him of its practicality. Dog's eyes shifted over the screen, observing the translator and confirming what he had already assumed. It was set to translate strange characters into English. He switched the designation, and typed his slow reply, pressing the button for the metallic voice to read back his words in Ghost's native Mandarin tongue.

"Today seems like a good day to die."

The silence settled. Dog passed the device back into his hands, watching the unreadable expression as Ghost slowly pressed his thumb over the screen. He had lowered the gun entirely again. Dog debated simply ripping it from his hands. At six feet tall, he had nearly a full foot of height over the strangely young looking scout, and he didn't doubt he could easily be stronger than him. But Ghost had proven two things in the mere five minutes he had known him. He was quiet, disturbingly so. He hadn't even heard him lead the crowd of reanimates back and away, or cross the chain guard and walk over the wet wood to stand behind him. He was also fast. The way this one moved, he might have the gun pressed to Dog's temple before he could pry it from the scout's hands.

"You have lived this long, survivor. Any life lost in the end days is a waste."

Dog drew in a deep breath at what seemed to be wisdom beyond this one's years, and a touch out of balance with reality. That kind of thinking got people killed these days. You couldn't trust anyone you came by because it was almost certain that they would mean to kill you and take what you had and not think twice about it. These were lessons he had to learn young, and hell, these days, even the people you thought you could trust could turn into monsters.

The teenager's expression remained thoughtful as Ghost entered in another phrase, turning his dark eyes upon him. He slowly moved the pistol to the holster at his right hip, and set the device to speak in his stead once more.

"Are you alone?"

Dog nodded his head on impulse. It was what any of them would do when faced with a stranger. If they were apart from the group, to give any of their people away was against their code, and vice versa. If anyone happened across his group with the absence of one of their members, that member was not included among their numbers at that time. It had benefited them too many times to count when it came to being faced with the wrong kind of survivors. Ghost stared at him, attempting to decipher Dog's brooding expression. Some part of him felt certain he was being lied to.

"How long have you traveled alone?"

Dog shrugged his shoulders and shook his head dismissively, training his hazel gaze on Ghost with a brow arched. 'Does it matter?'

He was alone now, armed with little more than clothing and writing material. He was no clear threat. Ghost could not relate him to the trespassers, but even still, it gave him cause to be wary. Just the same, the age of this youngster was a thing of value among the city. There were so, so few young people left in the world, and less of them being born. If they had hopes of rebuilding anything from the ashes of the end of the world, they needed numbers, as Viper had said time and time again.

There was uneasiness as Ghost stared at him, and Dog shifted anxiously. The fog lightened as daylight struggled to break between the clouds, sweeping their way out to sea at last. The realization, of course, that the black smoke trailing into the sky was serving more than one purpose had hit him fully. A deterrent for the dead, yes. It was also a signal. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, and nodded toward the end of the pier as if questioning his freedom to leave. Ghost shook his head, denying him that, and his expression was of contemplation. The teenager wouldn't be going anywhere alone.

Dog extended his hand for the device, and Ghost passed it to him, watching him still with sullen observation. He'd have to be questioned. War would have ways of getting the truth out of him, voiceless or not. Afterwards, though, some part of Ghost felt sure this youth would fare better behind the Wall than out here in scavenging for scraps in the decaying wasteland that was now the Georgia coast. The homes and establishments from here to Florida and up to the Carolinas had been picked clean years ago. There was nothing here but death... Something this kid seemed determined to chase at the moment.

"I've been alone for three years." Dog's mind raced back to the last instance he had parted from the group, and held to the sliver of truth in that matter. He had been alone three years ago, for only a handful of months, waiting in the next destination for his group to catch up. They seemed almost convinced he had died or abandoned them for good. But the time alone had done him well, and the group had one less stray when they found him again in a casino in New Orleans. He had enough truth to make the white lie somewhat believable.

Ghost nodded his head to that. He began to type, letting his eyes drop from Dog, but the moment he did so the rapid fire of a semi-automatic rifle peppering the planks of the pier at his and the unfamiliar youth's feet, catching him entirely off guard. It all happened so quickly he didn't have a chance to react before the familiar, youthful voice of the hunter accompanying him shouted over the crashing waves.

"Don't you fucking move!" Killshot rushed into the situation damn near blind, tearing the chain loose and firing at the unfamiliar youngster standing beside the scout.

Dog's immediate instinct was to jerk and take cover, rapidly spinning behind Ghost and grasping his dark jacket to hold him in the line of fire while ripping the revolver from the smaller man's back pocket. Dog pulled back the hammer and angled the gun to Ghost's temple. Ghost's brow knitted harshly in clear disapproval of Killshot's hellish introduction as he shook his head rapidly, dropping the phone and bringing his hands up defensively. "Don't--Hold fire!"

"Let him go, you fucking piece of shit, and get on the ground! Now!" The aggression in the young hunter's voice had not wavered. He ignored Ghost's commands as he advanced, the barrel of the semi-automatic rifle in his arms struggling to keep on the head of his target.

Dog slowly backed away, maneuvering the inexperienced hunter out of his path. He grasped Ghost across the shoulders firmly and ducked around his head as he stepped, and deliberately, glaring at the sudden hostile behavior from the other scout in his company. This one was clearly out of his fucking mind... and 'shoot first, don't ask any questions' seemed to be a growing sentiment among this community.

"Killshot. Stand down." Ghost gave the order firmly... and for a split second, Killshot debated doing just so.

The second the barrel dropped away, Dog shoved Ghost roughly forward, closing the space between the scout and the hunter, and turned on his heel, bolting for the end of the pier. With Ghost in his line of fire, Killshot could do little more than curse aloud and wait for the smaller man to regain his footing, squeezing the trigger a split second too late as the lanky teenager took off up the stairs and through the fallen chain. Dog hurled the flaming strip of clothing and wood over the edge of the pier to extinguish the signal slowly moving skyward. Already the crowd of reanimates that moved back at a distance had doubled.

There were bodies crowding the pier with such bare visibility, and more pouring into the small space between the fair attractions, drawn by the gunfire. Dog dipped through the crowd wildly, adrenaline pumping in his veins as he sprinted through the herd of corpses and narrowly avoided being drawn in or pinned down by the slow moving, ravenous monsters. He didn't dare look back. He already knew the scouts were moments behind him. The rapid firing of the weapon at his back, the sound of the rounds tearing into the wooden planks and reanimated bodies behind him forced Dog to leap over the guardrails of the nearest attraction and rush onto the platform of the carousel. He took cover behind it and searched wildly down the row of structures for the place he had slept the night through--a small restaurant just at the edge of the pier near the boardwalk.

He didn't waste a moment to catch his breath. As an ambling horde of rotting corpses paraded by, drawn to the sound of the firing semi-automatic rifle. He bolted again, keeping low and beelining for the restaurant, bursting through the doors with the hellish sound of the rapid firing rifle going off at his back. Dog hastily grasped the chair he'd used to brace the door the night before, shoving it beneath the doorknob before he latched the deadbolt.

The sound of gunfire continued at a shorter distance as the scouts attempted to control the mounting crowd of the undead. The screeching, groaning, snarling sounds of their voices had risen to a quiet chorus beyond the walls of the restaurant. Dog panted and flipped the revolver open, turning the cylinder to train the only bullet into position so that the next time he squeezed the trigger there would be blood. Who's blood? That much he couldn't be certain.

Dog raced his way to the back of the restaurant, shoving the kitchen doors open and feeling blindly about the darkness for anything of use. He tossed down the backpack with shaken urgency, digging a flashlight from within before pulling it back onto his shoulders, using the beam of light to locate the knife block. He snatched the ten-inch chef's knife from it and flipped the switch on the flashlight, casting himself into darkness. It seemed only seconds later he heard the gunshots reverberate in the quiet, empty space and obliterate the windows of the restaurant. The sound of the wooden planks nailed over it being kicked in followed, and he crouched low, dipping between the line of kitchen appliances and pressing his back to the steel as he listened... and waited.

"I saw him go in--go around the back way, make sure he didn't get out..." Dog heard the hushed sound of the young hunter with the southern drawl just over the drumming of his heartbeat, followed by the sound of crunching glass, and the white noise of the voices of the dead growing as they began to crowd. That didn't surprise him.