Bryan felt well in control of the situation as he approached the pair, his sights trained on Seth's attacker. Walter Smith. The
Walter Smith. Looked kinda familiar.
Seth made a comment about Bryan's progress in the game so far, and he grunted in response, pleasantly surprised that the Fists' leader had a gun as he drew the Walther pistol. Not that he needed any backup in the current situation, but it was good to see that Seth would be a valuable asset to the team. If there was a team.
"This motherfucker raped Mariavel, Bryan, hence that little scrap you saw." Mattlock said it like he needed to explain his actions. There was no time for questions; the sooner they wasted this prick, the better. Bryan was about to respond, but he found himself interrupted by those fucking announcements.
...oh shit, was it morning already?
Mattlock didn't make a move, so Bryan kept his sights on Smith and listened silently to the announcement for a little. He was beginning to get really fed up with Danya. It seemed like the guy went on and on just to hear his own voice. Faggot. The previous days deaths were covered (the mallrat included; Jordan Mc-something), and just when it seemed like he'd shut the hell up...
((Continued from Pale Shelter))
Andrew's heart nearly stopped. 'We're too late...
' The announcement made it quite clear that he and Zed had failed miserably. The latter was already heading through the door the moment Finlayson's name was announced, but Andrew held back in mortified shock as he realized that his best friend and chief benefactor was now dead.
"The forest, the hospital, and the hotel." Dangerzones. Fuck. Those things were a pain in the ass. Bryan was about to suggest killing the motherfucker and hauling ass, but he was interrupted again, this time by the unexpected arrival of a fourth party.
The next bit happened really fast, as intense situations tend to do. The sick fuck sprang up and grabbed the newcomer, lobbing him at Bryan while he darted past him and Mattlock. The former fired a shot out of reflex, seeing as Walter was pulling something, but it didn't meet its intended target. The roar of the SPAS-12 covered any cry of pain the visitor might have been making, and Bryan could only wonder what the fuck was going on as the nearly slain boy, a fresh shotgun wound adorned on his chest, teetered backwards into the doorway from whence he came.
Zed was hit. Andrew moved as quickly as he could to catch his friend before he fell full-tilt down the staircase, barely able to overcome his frozen state. He was successful, but from the look of things it wasn't going to make a difference.
It would be a little more than taxing to describe the mental anguish and confusion thrashing around in Andrew's brain as he held one dying friend after just being told another had been killed; only about a second-and-a-half had passed between the two events. Swainson shook his head no, but the grim spectre of death nodded yes as Zed's blood made its way down his sides and warmed Andrew's fingers.
Seth dissappeared after Walter, making sure to outline their rendezvous point before he bolted. Bryan was still confused as to who the fuck he'd just shot. That fucker came out of fuckin' nowhere
. Talk about being in the wrong place, at the wrong fuckin' time. Speaking of which, he figured he would do well to take his leave as Smith and Mattlock had done. Sticking his foot in the stairwell door as the pneumatic cushion eased it shut, Bryan threw it open with his free hand and plowed down the stairs as fast as he could. No way was he going to let his neck explode. So passionate about which, that he all but missed the small form of Andrew Swainson and the near corpse of Zed Foreman as he descended the staircase.
((Bryan continued in Walking to School
Andrew's nightmare climaxed as the shotgun-wielding skinhead barrelled past, failing to see the two in his mindless fury. He wanted to scream bloody murder, but he couldn't muster up the air in his lungs to do so he was so terrified. The shotgun man had followed him! Right to the hotel! Killed Nich, killed Zed, killed his only two friends on the fucking island, that sonofabitch!
Why? What the fuck was he after him for? Was he taking some sort of sick pleasure in this chase? Sweet fucking Jesus!
Andrew's head spun. None of his cognative gears were working at the moment. He needed to get out so he could think. Get out of danger. Get away from the skinhead. He lay Zed's head down on the cold floor unwillingly, disgusted at what he was being forced to do.
"Zed, I'm sorry," he snivelled, tears finally surfacing through the timult of shock encompassing his entire being. Fumbling, he grasped his fallen comrades daypack, along with his own (Nich's, to be fair), and snatched up the Spanish tickler from where it'd fallen. He knelt over Foreman for a second and squinted his eyes shut as he hurriedly embraced him to say goodbye. He wanted to try to get Zed out of there, he really did, but his fear of being detonated combined with his confidence his friend was already dead pulled
him to his feet and launched him down the stairs as fast as he could go. He had no idea which direction to go save for away from the building.
He'd never been so afraid or alone in his life.
((Continued in: Sole Survivor.))