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oom: finish the game
It's dark when they duck out of the bar and back into the New Mexico desert, the lonely stand of adobe ruins. It had been easy enough when they were back at the bar to ignore the reality of life. But now that they were here...
Tommy was dead.
"Tomorrow we'd best get some more ground towards Ol' Mexico," Doc mutters, quietly, before he drops onto a patch of earth near a wall, rifle stretched across his chest, not more than a few inches from his hand.
He doesn't sleep. The other boys do, or at least they fake it well enough.
There's no roof in the cabin and with the lack of a campfire it's pitch black save for the barest hint of the moon. It's cold. Fall, almost winter. Snow'll be coming in the high desert soon. He can see the stars dotting the sky overhead and it makes his heart ache, a little, because there's one thought running through his mind.
The sky changes from ink black to dark blue, then lightens as the sun peeks over the horizon to the east. Doc gets up to watch it, ignoring the way it nearly blinds him.
It's beautiful.
(Poetic.)
The boys are up soon after, but nobody knows what to say or do. They're not hungry. They don't want to ride out, even though they know they should be going already.
It's like they're all walking on eggshells, around each other, but all he wants to do is scream.
Chavez climbs the hill with his knife and is singing, softly, as he stares out over the desert and runs the blade along a fistfull of that long, dark hair, cutting it in jagged chunks, but Doc's not really paying attention.
Distracted, if anything, he's just staring out at the horizon, watching.
Waiting.
Tommy was dead.
"Tomorrow we'd best get some more ground towards Ol' Mexico," Doc mutters, quietly, before he drops onto a patch of earth near a wall, rifle stretched across his chest, not more than a few inches from his hand.
He doesn't sleep. The other boys do, or at least they fake it well enough.
There's no roof in the cabin and with the lack of a campfire it's pitch black save for the barest hint of the moon. It's cold. Fall, almost winter. Snow'll be coming in the high desert soon. He can see the stars dotting the sky overhead and it makes his heart ache, a little, because there's one thought running through his mind.
The sky changes from ink black to dark blue, then lightens as the sun peeks over the horizon to the east. Doc gets up to watch it, ignoring the way it nearly blinds him.
It's beautiful.
(Poetic.)
The boys are up soon after, but nobody knows what to say or do. They're not hungry. They don't want to ride out, even though they know they should be going already.
It's like they're all walking on eggshells, around each other, but all he wants to do is scream.
Chavez climbs the hill with his knife and is singing, softly, as he stares out over the desert and runs the blade along a fistfull of that long, dark hair, cutting it in jagged chunks, but Doc's not really paying attention.
Distracted, if anything, he's just staring out at the horizon, watching.
Waiting.
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It's not the army out there in the rocks this time, but they're still running through a hell storm.
Dave's first, then Henry, and finally Chavez.
Billy goes last, stepping out as Doc's riddled body falls.
God dammit, Doc. God damn you, Pat.
He's firing back and trying to break free but it's too late. Ducking beneath a shot overhead and leaping back into the ruins he falls to the floor, shooting at sounds and voices, hitting nothing but air and stone.
"PAT! YOU SON OF A BITCH! YOU KILLED THE BOY! AND YOU KILLED DOC! YOU KNEW HIM!"
He flounders in the dirt, breathless and raging.
And helpless.
Guns stick over the walls all around him, cocked and sighted by a dozen men but Billy's eyes are solely on Pat.
On his belly Billy breathes in the dust and wonders if any of the boys made it. Doc sure didn't.