#coyote bashing | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

roosterbruiser · 1 year ago

Text

𝐂𝐑𝐔𝐄𝐋 𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐄𝐑 — 𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐓𝐖𝐄𝐋𝐕𝐄

—𝐃𝐄𝐒𝐂𝐑𝐈𝐏𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍: 𝐇𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐃𝐒 𝐎𝐅 𝐋𝐎𝐕𝐄 𝐀𝐑𝐄 𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐒𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐘𝐎𝐔. —𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃𝐒: 𝟔.𝟖𝐊 —𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 —𝐏𝐋𝐀𝐘𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 —𝐕𝐈𝐒𝐈𝐎𝐍 𝐁𝐎𝐀𝐑𝐃 —𝐏𝐑𝐄𝐕𝐈𝐎𝐔𝐒 𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑

𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐓𝐖𝐄𝐋𝐕𝐄 𝐆𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐓 𝐎𝐀𝐊𝐒, 𝐌𝐄 𝐂𝐀𝐌𝐏 𝐀𝐑𝐂𝐀𝐃𝐈𝐀 𝐉𝐔𝐋𝐘 𝟐𝟐𝐍𝐃, 𝟏𝟗𝟖𝟕

“Don’t wig out yet, baby. Let’s chat before I book it to the bus barn, huh? I can spare a few minutes for my best girl,” Bradley sighs, crouching down and squatting beside you. He knows you won’t be able to move Jake off of you by yourself now that he’s dead weight--you’re stuck. “Don’t think you’re gonna get anywhere anytime soon.”

Sweet Hell, it feels good to let the mask slip, Bradley thinks. To be honest. To openly enjoy the petrification instead of pretending that he cares about you and your feelings. There’s no hiding this divine pleasure in watching you squirm, in watching your helpless figure and your stricken expression.

You’re staring at him, more stunned and more horrified with every aching second that passes the two of you by, with blood matted on your eyelashes as Jake bleeds out over your body. And as soon as he says it, you realize it. It washes over you like the angry waves of the lake: yes, you’re stuck. Jake is on top of you, consciousness fading, mouth wide open with shock and agony still. His blood is pooling all over you, leaking into your hair and into your mouth.

That’s when the hysteria begins. It is sitting on the edge of your body, watching you as if it is a snake waiting to strike. And then it bubbles over--then you begin to wriggle from beneath Jake, fighting to get out from underneath him. But Jake moans--a distant, crumpled thing that is enough to tell you that he is hurting, you’re hurting him. You cease all movements, swallowing hard--all that bloody saliva slink down your throat and pool in your belly in a puddle of ice water.

Okay. I can’t move. You think hard. But he’s alive. For now, he’s alive.

“Bradley,” you whisper, voice quivering. “Please…please…it’s me. It’s--it’s me--Gale. Nightingale. It’s me, Bradley, it’s me! I’m not gonna--what are you? Don’t do this--!”

“Dolly can’t get her sentences straight,” Bradley says softly, laughing. He nods at you. “Try again.”

Sobbing, you shake your head.

“Why are you…why are you doing this, Bradley? I thought--!”

“--You really don’t understand?” Bradley asks. He smiles softly, petting your hair again. You’re too stunned to bat him away, to thrash your head in the opposite direction. “Good golly miss dolly, I gotta bash your ears now, huh?”

When you don’t answer, Bradley sits down on the ground, the ax just beside him. He keeps his palm on your face, smiling softly as he smooths the blood away from your chin and cheeks and into your hair. And there you are, your heart beating out of your chest and your mind fuzzier than the television at your grandmother’s house, staring up at him with big and sad eyes.

Craning your neck, you turn--the shotgun is up against the wall. You wouldn’t be able to reach it in time even if Jake wasn’t holding you down. And even if you could throw Jake off, the ax is just by Bradley. You couldn’t outrun him--not in your prime state, which you most certainly are not in now.

Prickles tickle the column of your spine when you look back at Bradley.

“I shot you,” you whisper to him. “I--I got you. Right outside the doors. I know I did--I heard you.”

Glancing at his arm, you double-check--yes, the sediment and gravel is still there. That wasn’t where you shot him. It couldn’t be. It would be red and oozing and more severe--especially at such a close range.

As if he knows what you’re thinking, he turns so you can see the top of his hip. He pulls his shirt up and yes--there it is. A red, oozing buckshot wound. Severe from the close-range shot of your shotgun.

“Thought it’d be a nifty idea--the whole tripping over Coyote story,” Bradley says. “‘Cause you did get me--but you’re just not as good of a shot as you think you are, dolly. Had to rough myself up in case I started bleeding through my shirt. Really play the part, right?”

And you don’t respond, fat tears streaming down your face. Bradley tuts, thumbing a few of them away. Without another word, he brings his thumbs to his lips and slowly pushes it down onto his tongue. Terror holds your lungs hostage as he suckles your tears.

As the salt melts on Bradley’s tongue, he grins. He can practically taste your fear--it’s as fulfilling to him as nectar is to you. But he’s always preferred salt over sugar.

“What’s happening?” You ask, choking on your sobs. “What happened to you, Bradley?”

“Dolly, Bradley’s long gone now. Been fading ever since I got that specks-wearing fella. Shit, I’ll tell you, though--that boy is a fighter. Kept making it back in.” Brows furrowed, you say nothing. You don’t know what the fuck is going on. “And here I thought you were supposed to be the smart one,” Bradley taunts, pinching your nose. “Dolly, I’m not him. Well--I mean, I’m him,” Bradley says, gesturing to his body. Then he points to his temple. “But I’m not him.”

Vision blurring with pink-tinted tears, you sob again.

“What are you talking about?” You ask, weeping openly. “You must be out of your fucking mind!”

“I guess you could say Bradley is out of his mind,” he says, grinning. “Best to believe me, dolly.”

But you know. You know that this isn’t Bradley. It’s suddenly as clear as a glass windowpane on a cool, spring morning after the rain has passed. The man crouched beside you is Bradley by appearance, yes, with his broad shoulders and powerful legs and short shorts, but he’s not really here. No. Because he would never hurt you. How could he? He’s the boy who would ask you to dip your finger in his coffee to sweeten it. It would be blasphemous if you even thought for one moment that he would harm you.

The realization washes over your face, contorts your expression.

“There she goes. She gets it now. Good girl,” Bradley coos, his voice low and velvety. “Didn’t you feel it? Didn’t you feel it when he was gone?”

Sobbing, you shake your head.

“Who are you?” You ask, trembling.

Jake is growing heavier on your body--it’s difficult to breathe now.

“You know who I am,” he says, nodding gently. “You read all about me in the papers, didn’t you? The maniac. That’s what they called me--right? The guy who killed all the camp counselors and the camp nurse at Camp Arcadia. Some no good devil-worshiper.”

Mind spinning, lungs aching, you shake your head.

“But you’re dead,” you whisper. “They found your…they found your body there with the others. Thirty years ago.”

He takes a long, hard look at you. It is not one particularly seeped in malice, not one that sends a chill down your tailbone. It’s a long, hard look at your face as if he’s playing the part of upset father and you’re the unruly daughter who came in past her curfew.

“I know you felt me,” he whispers to you. “I came to you in the night.”

Eyebrows furrowed, you’re just about to refute this claim, just about to scream out for help! when the truth tickles your cheeks as it lands just before your eyes.

Oh. The nightmares. Every night that you were not in bed with Bradley, every time you finally fell asleep, he was there waiting. He stalked you. He found you. He terrified you.

“Your fear was so sweet,” Bradley coos. “Tangled up in your sheets, frozen, sweating bullets. You let me get so close to you. I would’ve devoured you if I’d had the time.”

“Fuck you,” you whisper meekly.

A tired sobs rips out of your lungs.

“See, now, Bradley did take care of that part all by himself,” he says, eyebrows raised. “I didn’t have to do much convincing. He was really far gone for you, dolly. Did you know that? I’d bet you’re the reason he kept fighting it--poor fool. Didn’t even know what he was fighting.”

Bile climbs your throat.

“You’re a fucking monster!”

He grins.

“I’m not,” he says. “I’m just a man who made a deal with the Devil.”

You shake your head at him, shivering, trembling.

“There’s no such thing,” you spit. “You’re trying to scare me.”

“All those bad things that happen in the world, happening here, and you don’t believe there’s something behind it?” He asks, brows perched. He runs a hand through his hair and sighs. “Last time I came around, nurse’s were still religious. None of this agnostic nonsense.”

“There’s no Devil,” you whisper--thought you feel like you’re losing your conviction as the energy drains from your body. “You’re a--a conman.”

He sighs.

“How do you think I came back?” He whispers. “At random? God’s will?”

You don’t know. You don’t know. All you know is that the person before you is not Bradley.

“You’re lying,” you whisper.

“Let’s not yank each other’s chain. Total honesty, alright? Scout’s honor,” Bradley says, crossing his heart. “It was destiny. The storm. The tree. Our pal Jake here finding the axes--finding my ax.” Bradley thumps Jake on the back--he doesn’t moan. He doesn’t make any sound at all--and he doesn’t move. “Bradley cutting his hand--giving me his blood. And, God, so much of it.”

Bradley’s a bleeder. Oh, God. You remember it so vividly--the blood as it dripped down his arm, his sheepish smile, his quiet apologies.

“You…” You cough--blood spurts out of your mouth and sprays Bradley’s knee. You know, with your entire chest and everything inside of it, that it is not your blood. “Why Bradley?”

He stares down at you--all the flecks of gold in his sweet, big eyes are gone. And behind those eyes, just behind the crystal film, is nothing. Void of life. Void of kindness. Void of warmth. They’re just two black holes in his face, rimmed with pretty lashes.

“You know, I always like it when people were sad. Scared. The best was when people were sad and scared, you know? I didn’t know why I liked it--I just knew that I got a good and funny feeling whenever I could hear my baby sister crying in her crib. I used to pinch her in the night--just to make her wail. And then I’d listen and listen until her voice got hoarse. When she thought I was gone, or when she was all cried out--I’d jump out at her. Get right up in her face and scream.” He sighs. You’re shivering as he speaks, throat dry. He’s smiling fondly in remembrance, left eye twitching softly. “People like Bradley are always a little sad and a little scared.”

“People like him?” You whisper.

He nods.

“Orphans. Lovesick orphans,” he whispers. “He kept me full.”

Closing your eyes, you struggle to move. But you can’t--you’re perfectly, completely pinned down to the floor.

“What about me?” You whisper brokenly. Defeat begins its descent in your body--numbing your fingers and toes, lulling your head to the side, pressing against your eyelids. “Why didn’t you choose me?”

Now he furrows his brows.

“Well, you were hardly ever scared,” he says. “At least when you were awake you weren’t. I couldn’t get you to draw any blood when you were asleep. Hell, I couldn’t ever get you to hold the ax either.”

Sighing, almost completely still, you just stare at him. He stares at you, too.

“I’m scared all the time,” you whisper helplessly.

He shakes his head.

“You’re not,” he answers. “Or else I’d be inside of you.”

Recoiling, you shake your head.

“You’re sick,” you whisper.

“I mean, there were even some hard times, right? Had to slice that Mable girl when I was heading for Jake. Tear her bible up good so she would stop sniffing around. What good is a church girl without her scripture?”

Chills cover your arms and legs--finally overpowering the warm blood on your body as it dries on your skin.

“But why Jake?” You whisper brokenly. “Why him?”

“Because he’s the best shot. Because he was in the way of you,” Bradley answers, brows furrowed. “And you’re something special. Well--you were before you went all the way with Bradley. That’s why this is so perfect--the guy you didn’t pick is holding you down.”

You cough--your lungs are deflating.

“Why was I special?” It’s all you can manage to choke out.

“Virgin blood is strong--pure. Untainted. That’s what…that’s what happened last time, you see. Nurse Abbott was waiting until marriage. I picked ‘em off one-by-one until she was alone…” Bradley says, staring at your face, watching his own reflection in your tearful eyes. He sighs. “And then--!”

“--She killed you. She was the one who did it, wasn’t she?” You whisper, sneering. Your lip trembles. “She killed you.”

Bradley’s lip twitches--his smile doesn’t falter.

“No bullshitting, right? Yes. She…she did,” he answers. “I killed her, too, though. That’s an important part to the story, dolly. And I’ve really been feeling like the universe wanted me to come back and finish what I started. So…that’s what I’m gonna do.”

He picks up the ax, holds it so it reflects off the sunlight. And then he grins at you.

“No,” you whimper weakly. You’re trembling all over, lungs empty, ribs crushed, head aching, throat choked. But something sinks in your gut when he stands, holding the ax against himself. “Please…please--!”

“I love it when you beg for it,” he whispers to you. You stop speaking, just staring up at him, dazed with grief as the reality of right now blankets you. You’re going to die. He seems to see it in your face, smell it in the air. He smiles again. “I’m gonna go back to the bus now. Phoenix will let me in--I’ll get her first. She’ll go fast, I bet. Give in quick. Might have to work hard to get Coyote, though. He seemed pretty determined to keep those kids safe, didn’t he? I wonder if he’ll fight as hard as Fanboy did.”

“He’ll kill you,” you whisper, sobbing. “He’ll kill you!”

“He wouldn’t kill Bradley,” he says, cocking his head to the side. “Neither would you.”

Saying nothing, you just stare up at him.

“And when I’ve finished the kiddos off, I’ll come back for you,” he says, pointing the ax at you. It nearly touches your nose. “Saving the best for last.”

Before he leaves, he walks into the kitchen. Something changes--the music stops. He’s started the tape over. Running Up That Hill begins again.

When he reappears, he grins at you.

“See you in a jiff,” he promises.

With that, he’s off. Stepping over Jake’s body and yours, he galivants across the blood-soaked wooden floor and heads for the doors. And then he’s gone--a gust of hot, summer air caressing your face.

Now all you can hear is the sound of your own sobs--they echo in the mess hall, vibrate across the picnic tables, and land uneasily on Jake’s back.

Alone. You’re alone now. All your friends are dead--or they’re going to be dead soon.

Everything in your body--every ache, every muscle, every bone, every nerve--is telling you to close your eyes. Give in. Let go. Wait for it to come. Breathe until you cannot anymore. Think about what flowers you will want at your funeral and hope your father remembers that you hate carnations.

“Is he gone?”

Jolting, you look at Jake--your vision is tinted pink from the blood in your eyes, from the tears. And the heaviness of his body suddenly becomes a bit lighter--lighter like he is lifting himself just barely.

“Jake?” You whisper.

There’s not response for a minute. And for a fleeting few moments, as you gaze down at his eyes that are still closed and his lips that are still shut, you think you’re losing your mind. Making this up. Imagining him here so you won’t have to die all by yourself.

But then his lashes flutter--a tiny groan falls out of his mouth.

“He’s…he’s gone, right?”

And then, without warning, Jake suddenly rolls off your body. It is a quick movement--like he’s using the last of his strength, like he’s doing this final thing for you.

The pain that shoots through his body when he lands on his back is excruciating. It is so excruciating, so blinding, that he almost can’t stop himself from screaming. But he does--he does for you. He breathes through his nose roughly, sobbing softly.

“Jake…” you whisper, suddenly able to move. You scramble to sit up, covered in gore still, leaning over him. “Jake, I--Jake, I thought you were dead.”

And before you can even get over the sudden shock of Jake being alive, of Jake moving off your body, your hands are moving before you give them explicit permission to. You’re pulling on his shoulders, trying to get him to move onto his belly again so you can staunch his wound, but he cries out.

“Stop, Gale!” He begs, tears streaming down his face.

“I’m trying to help--!”

Suddenly, his eyes are open and pouring into yours. And God, there are those green eyes. Greener than grass. Greener than keylimes. Greener than moss. Greener than the earth. He’s looking right at you, the one who’s trying to save him, and you suddenly understand that he doesn’t want to be saved by you.

“Let me help…help you for once,” Jake whispers. “You go.”

Two stray tears stream down his face.

He’s thinking about everything that Bradley said, how he taunted you, how still he had to be so Bradley didn’t really finish him off. He’s thinking about that bus full of kids, thinking about Payback, Fanboy, Bob, Paul. He’s thinking about it all and how you’re going to have to do this by yourself. And he’s going to stay here. He has to stay here--he can’t run, he can’t hide, he can’t walk. He can’t even feel his toes. He has to stay here.

“Jake,” you mutter, beginning to weep. “I can’t--I can’t leave you here.”

It’s an impossible decision--one that is tearing your heart to bits as you hover over him.

He’s trembling--it feels like you’re rubbing noses with death again as saliva gathers underneath your tongue.

“Please,” he whispers. “Please…go. There’s no time, baby, there’s no…”

“Jake,” you weep. “I didn’t listen to you! It’s him--it’s…it’s…”

You won’t know who to say it is. It’s Bradley, but it’s not. But you can’t get yourself to say that it is Damien Gwyar--the original maniac, the one who slayed everyone all those years ago.

“I love you, baby,” Jake mutters. A few tears stream down his face. “I’d die if I…if I didn’t tell you that before I…before I…”

Die, Jake thinks. Before I die.

“I love you,” you sob. And you mean it--you really, truly do. Even if it is muddled, if it’s complicated, if it’s wrong, if it’s right, if you’re exhausted, if it’s true--you mean it. “I love you, Jake. You idiot.”

And you can’t say anything else, just collapsing against his chest to sob again. And against his blood-soaked shirt, on this blood-soaked floor, you let all the tears and snot run and run until you feel like you’re entirely empty.

With the final bit of his strength, he reaches up--ignoring the searing burning--and holds both of your cheeks. And your cheeks, so wet and sticky and familiar, nearly make his throat close. He wishes he had held you more. He hopes he gets to hold you again.

“Knew it,” he whispers, a sad smile tugging on his lips.

“I’m sorry,” you weep. “Jake, I’m so sorry--I didn’t know what-what to do. I didn’t know what to do and-and--!”

“--It’s okay,” he whispers. His bottom lip wobbles. “Get your gun, Nightingale.”

Like his word is Lord, you do get the gun. Your legs are wobbling and you can hardly walk, can hardly wrap your fingers around it, but you do. And then you return to his crumpled form, sinking to your knees and looking down at him.

“I don’t wanna leave you,” you repeat brokenly. “Jake, I’m so sorry. I’m so…I’m so, so sorry. I should’ve been better. I should’ve--I could’ve--!”

But even when you say it--knowing it’s the truth--you also know that Bradley must be getting close to the bus barn. He might even be opening the doors now. He might even be halfway through Phoenix, her screams loud and the blood--

“Shhh,” he whispers. “No time.”

“I can save you,” you whisper. “God, please let me save you! Let me have this!”

You’re begging.

Jake shakes his head.

“Go,” Jake whispers back. He strokes your hair very softly, tries to remember the way it feels in his hands. And then he pushes you softly.

Hastily, and with great anguish, you kiss his lips. All you can taste is blood, but you keep kissing him. You kiss and cry and he kisses back as his blood pools around him on the floor. He’s dizzy and you’re exhausted to the point of near-delusion.

Then you stand up.

“I’m coming back for you,” you promise him.

You really mean it, too. Whether he is alive or dead, whether you’ll bandage him or cover him with a sheet, you’re coming back for him. You will not leave Jake alone here. Not in your lifetime.

“I’ll be here,” he whispers brokenly. He’s staring up at you, quivering. “You’ve gotta…you’ve gotta fight.”

“People keep telling me that,” you whisper.

His jaw is locked in place when he speaks again. You hope, with everything in your heart, that this is not the last time you’ll ever see him looking at you the way he is now.

“You give ‘im Hell.”

You give ‘im Hell.

You’re still sobbing when you walk outside again. The heat is abrasive, the sun is beating down, you’re sticky with blood, but your legs are working and you’re moving towards the bus barn. Right now, in this precise moment when your heart is pounding out of your chest, it’s all you can focus on. You have to get from here to here.

And there he is--Bradley. He’s standing just outside the bus, the bus barn door wide open and letting the sunlight pour in. But the bus doors are still closed.

You don’t understand why this is happening, but it is. It really, truly is. It’s here, right before your eyes. Gone is the man that you love, the one who came inside of you only a few days ago. And standing in his place is whatever the fuck is beckoning everyone off the bus.

“I had to…I had to hurt him,” Bradley sobs. He’s good at this--there’s real tears streaming down his face, snot dripping out from his nose and onto his mustache. He’s holding his palm against the bus, still gripping the ax. “God, I think I…I think I killed him! But he was coming for Gale…”

“What happened to Gale?” Coyote asks, reaching for the handle to open the bus doors. He’s panting already, panicked. Bradley has a lot of blood on him--splattered all over his face and clothes. And when he ripped the bus barn door open, he was sobbing. “Shit, is she…oh my, God…”

Everyone on the bus is looking at Bradley: a man who has seemingly lost everything in the span of only a little while. The tape to lure Jake into the mess hall has restarted, blood has been spilled, and Bradley is sobbing outside the bus from the loss of you.

“He got her,” Bradley sobs. “He…He got Gale. I wasn’t quick enough. He just--he threw her on the ground, cracked her head open. Oh, God…the crack. It was--it was--!”

Bradley cuts himself off with his own choked sobs.

Phoenix’s fingernails dig into the bus seat. She can hardly hear Bradley, can hardly hear anything, feel anything. But she hears him say it. You’re gone, she thinks. You’re dead now, too.

Just as Coyote is about to open the bus doors, just as he is about to let Bradley on and grieve and sob and ask for the full story and just as Phoenix is about to spring to the mess hall to find you, everyone hears a gun cock in utter and complete unison.

And suddenly, you’re here. You’re standing in the doorway, drenched in blood, hair matted against your head. You’re holding the shotgun, legs wobbling but feet planted firmly, and aiming it directly at Bradley. You’re alive--most gloriously alive.

“Don’t open those doors!” You announce. Your voice echoes. “Get the fuck away from the bus!”

“Gale…” Bradley says, feigning shock. His heart is pounding, but he decides to keep it going. Don’t let the curtains close. He turns towards you, stumbles a few steps--he’s still holding the ax. “Gale, I--I thought you were dead! I thought--I thought Jake killed you!”

“Don’t listen to him,” you scream. “You…you fuck!”

Coyote and Phoenix watch in horror, their eyebrows furrowed.

“What the fuck is going on?” Coyote asks.

Phoenix is staring at Bradley as he stumbles towards you. He’s gripping the ax with such conviction, tears still streaming down his face. And from where she’s standing, she can only see a quarter of his face. But she sees it exactly when you do: a wink. Barely there, hardly evident, but real.

And it suddenly clicks--washes over her like a wave of warm, salty water.

“Bradley is the killer,” she whispers. She grips Coyote’s arm, quivering. “Bradley is the…oh my, God.”

“I thought you were gone,” Bradley weeps. And with his back turned to the bus, he grins at you--entirely sure no one will see him. “I’m so--I’m so sorry I left you.”

“Don’t come any closer!” You scream. Your hands are shaking.

“I’m just trying to help you,” he sobs, smile growing wider and wider. “C’mere, doll, I’m so sorry I left you with that--with that monster!”

He grows nearer and nearer with every step.

From your peripherals, you see movement on the bus--Coyote reaching for the handle to open the bus doors.

“Don’t open the fucking doors!” You demand, voice echoing in the barn. “Just--no matter what, don’t do it! Okay?”

Coyote freezes. His stomach is turning itself inside out as all the children group at the back of the bus and watch you point a gun at Mister Rooster.

“I’m not gonna hurt you,” Bradley whispers to you. “I’m saving you for last.”

“I will fucking kill you!” You scream--voice hoarse. Tears are pouring down your cheeks. “I’ll kill you if you step closer to me! I’ve shot you before and I’ll sure as Hell do it again!”

He’s only a few feet in front of you now.

“You can’t,” he whispers to you. He’s standing with his chest--Bradley’s chest--pressed against the barrels of your shotgun. He grins at you. “You won’t.”

Arms nearly going limp, you open your mouth to retaliate--but nothing comes. Nothing at all. You’re choking on air, staring evil right in the face, and you cannot pull the trigger because it is wearing the skin of the man you adore so.

He knows it already.

Coyote and Phoenix watch in horror as your finger slips from the trigger. And the horror extends to the entire bus, making all the kids clutch the seats and each other, when Bradley suddenly swings the ax.

It comes so quickly that you hardly have time to duck--the blade catches the top of your shoulder, slicing your skin open. Hot blood oozes from the wound as you fall to your hands and knees, scrambling for the gun you dropped.

Bradley’s quicker than you--kicking it aside again before he grabs hold of your hair. He wraps it tightly in his fist and pulls up until you’re screaming in pain, almost delirious with it as you swing your arms to hit him.

“She needs help,” Phoenix says, panting. “Oh my--fuck, she needs help!”

“She doesn’t want us to open the doors!” Coyote says, eyes wide as he watches Bradley drag you forward as you swing your arms fruitlessly. “What should we--fuck, what should we do?”

“You really couldn’t have just stayed put, huh?” Bradley sneers, throwing you against the dirt floor. You don’t have much fight left in you--he can tell. He straddles you, pins your arms against the ground. Even your squirming does nothing. “I wanted to save you for the end, dolly.”

And you’re panicking now, screaming and fighting to get out from under him. Your heart is in your throat and your stomach is falling and you keep bucking your hips up to no avail. Again--you’re stuck. Pinned.

But this time--this time something is different. This isn’t Jake and he isn’t hurt. This is Damien and he’s setting the ax down. He’s wrapping his hands around the column of your throat as you thrash viciously, kicking your heels into the dirt. And then, with the hands that caressed you so lovingly only a little while ago, he’s choking you.

“It’ll do,” he grunts, pushing down on the soft middle of your throat. His fingers are hot as the blood caking your skin begins to crumble off beneath his grip. “You got bloody enough.”

You’ve never been choked before--not in any capacity. You work with a few girls with stories about it; strange older cousins they were left alone with, angry older brothers who used to babysit them, violent ex-husbands who didn’t like them to talk back, strangers in the night hiding in bushes, lovers in the bedroom who kissed it better. Before this very moment, you’ve never known what it means to not be able to breathe.

Grabbing fistfulls of dirt as Bradley’s knees dig into your arms, your vision is already beginning to blacken. And every time you buck your hips, Bradley weighs down on you harder.

“I wanna watch all that light blink off,” Bradley mutters, teeth grit. He’s still smiling softly, pushing down harder and harder. “Dirty, dirty girl.”

It is precisely when he says this that you realize that this is it. You are going to die. He is not going to let up and you told everyone to stay on the bus. And his is the last face you’ll ever see. And even though he’s taking your life--you can feel it draining from your stunted lungs and your purple lips--you’re glad that it’s a familiar one. In a strange, strange way, you wish that he would hold your hand through it.

“Do something!” Phoenix sobs.

Coyote hustles to the front of the bus, searching desperately for a clue of what to do. He doesn’t know what he’s doing, doesn’t know what he can do.

“I don’t know what to do!”

Eyes lulling to the side, muscles going numb beneath your hot skin, you see something in the haze--something bizarre. It’s Bob. He’s lying on the dirt floor beside you, watching you. His face is pink and pale and he’s wearing his glasses that are no longer broken. He doesn’t say anything at all. He just lies beside you, looks into your eyes, and moves to lay his hand on your shoulder. His hand is warm.

Entire body growing warm, heart sinking in your gut, you know that this must be dying.

Yes, this is it. My brain is being deprived of oxygen. I’m hallucinating. There are no ghosts here. Bob is gone and it will stay that way.

And then, sudden as a firework popping in the near distance, there’s a loud noise. It’s loud enough to make Bradley jump, falter--his grip slips down your throat. You can breathe, only for a moment, as Coyote lays on the horn of the bus.

All the blood comes rushing back to your limbs, all that warmth and numbness begins to fade. You know you only have one moment--just one moment to get away and you have to use it.

Because you’re covered in slick blood, because Bradley got spooked, because Coyote laid on the horn, you’re able to slip your right hand out from underneath Bradley. And in one swift and precise movement, you jam your thumb into his eye. It isn’t enough to cause permanent damage--but it is enough to make him jerk off and away from you.

“Go! Go, Gale!” Phoenix screams, pounding on the windows. “Run!”

Scrambling, taking deep breaths and coughing, you get to your feet in an instant. And before you can even think about it, you’re grabbing the ax. And then you’re grabbing the shotgun while Bradley writhes, holding both hands over his eye as blood drips down his cheek.

“You stupid bitch!” He wails. “You fucking cunt! My fucking eye!”

You’re running as fast as your legs can carry you--outside, into the heat, away from camp, and through the oak trees. You’re running as far as you can, you decide, even if your lungs are screaming and you’re still sputtering.

But Jesus Christ--you’re alive. The sun is on your face and your hair is billowing in the wind and the frogs are crying on the water and you’re alive. You didn’t die. He didn’t do it. Bob is gone.

Bradley, still holding his injured eye, stumbles to his feet. And in his haze, blood wetting his hand, he looks around for you. You’re gone--so is his ax and so is your gun.

“Fucking bitch! I’m gonna fucking get you!”

He glances at the bus--Coyote is standing in the windshield with his arms crossed over his broad chest. And before Bradley can do anything, Coyote holds up the kitchen knife in his hand--it gleams in the sunlight.

“You’re all gonna fucking die tonight!” Bradley screams.

You’re running for a long time--at least that’s what it feels like. Your arms are heavy and you’re losing blood and you can hardly see because of the bright sun. Everything hurts and you’re fuzzy, but you know you have to keep going. Keep fighting.

Behind you, you don’t hear any signs of being chased. Not yet. No snapping twigs, no rustling leaves, no grunts, no groans. You’re certain it won’t last long.

“Nightingale!” Bradley bellows, entering the woods. “Let’s just cut to the good part, dolly!”

Whimpering, you run harder and faster. Your whole body is on fire, but you hold tight to the ax and the gun. But you’re tipping over an edge, close to collapsing. So you duck behind the thick trunk of a tree, pressing your back against it.

Your heart thumps in your ears as blood rushes across your temples. You’re panting, panicking. What are you going to do? How are you going to get away? But--no. You can’t get away. You can’t run. You have to fight.

Just as your heart begins to calm, just as your breathing starts to slow, you suddenly hear it.

Hounds of Love is playing now--the tape scratched and skipping, distorted on the loudspeaker. It’s echoing all across camp.

The hounds of love are hunting

I've always been a coward

“Gale!” Bradley screams, stumbling in the woods. He knows he’s hot on your trail--he can smell how afraid you are right now. “C’mon, dolly! Come on out and let’s finish this! I know you’re tired. You’re so close to giving up--I can feel it. So, just give up. Put your neck into my palms and rest. Close your eyes and let it happen! Don’t you want to see your boys again? Bradley and Bob? Mickey and Reuben?”

He’s close--his voice is loud and clear.

Your fingers are numb with panic.

“You were supposed to save all of ‘em! They were counting on you…everybody was. Bob most of all--he wasn’t afraid until he woke up and saw the infection was spreading, dolly. But he thought you had him…he thought you were gonna help him.”

It's coming for me through the trees

Oh, help me, someone

Help me, please

Closing your eyes, you try to go deaf to his words.

No. No. No.

And when you fidget, a twig snaps beneath your feet. So you quickly lean down and rip your shoes off--leaving you in your bloody socks. But then you take them off, too--just to feel the soil and the thorns beneath your feet.

Bradley looks around the woods--the sun breaks through the canopy of leaves from up above. No sign of you, but he knows he’s close. He has to be close. You can’t have made it far--not after what he did to you in the bus barn.

From nothing real

I just can't deal with this

I'm still afraid to be there

“We were all counting on you. Your name--it’s actually the last thing that Fanboy said before he bit it. Well, before I took off the top of his head. He must’ve been panicking--scrambling, I guess. Couldn’t think of any other name but yours, dolly.”

Clamping your hand over your mouth, you stifle your sobs.

He’s lying, you tell yourself. He has to be.

Bradley’s getting angry--it’s bubbling up inside of him in that ugly, ugly way. He sighs loudly, finally moving his hand from his eye. Blood drips off his chin and into the mud.

“You’re a sad, sad little girl who can’t save anyone! You’re a sorry fucking excuse for a nurse! And a fucking coward at that! You’re hiding from me, running away from all those people you’re supposed to protect!”

I've always been a coward

And never know what's good for me

“I’m gonna head back to camp now,” Bradley taunts. “I’ll pick ‘em off--make ‘em scream for you. You’ll hear it. Wherever you are…you’ll hear it, dolly. Believe me that.”

You have to move. You know it. Even if it’s a bluff--even if it’s a trap.

So, with what strength and ammo you have left, you cock the gun. Bradley hears it--zeroing in on your location. You’re only a few paces before him, hiding behind a thick-trunked oak tree.

“There you are,” he whispers as he begins to slowly walk towards you. “Good girl.”

Shivering, you round the corner. Bradley is only a few feet in front of you, glowing beneath the afternoon sunlight. His eye is bleeding--his lashes matted with blood.

“You’re not getting those kids,” you whisper to him. You’re pointing the gun at him, the ax on the ground beside you. Your feet are planted firmly. “You’re not getting back to that camp.”

Oh, help me, darling

Help me, please

Heart pounding, pulse thumping, you stare at Bradley.

“You don’t have much say in the matter, do you?” He asks. He comes closer, knowing full and well that you won’t pull the trigger. Again, his chest grazes the barrels. He looks into your eyes--registers all your exhaustion. He doesn’t know how you’re still standing. “Just let go, Nightingale. Just give in.”

He moves slowly--you watch him, eyes glossed over, as he wraps his hand around the barrels. You don’t move to stop him--not even when your heart jumps into your throat.

“No,” you whisper, shaking your head. You swallow hard. “I’m so tired.”

He looks at you long and hard as he pushes the barrels up towards the sky--you don’t stop him again. He steps closer to you.

“I know,” he whispers. “Don’t you miss him? You didn’t even know when he left, dolly.”

Pain ripples across your chest, your heart constricting.

It's in the trees

It's coming

“What happens if I let go?” You whisper.

Bradley blinks at you.

“You’ll sleep,” he tells you.

Sleep. It sounds so good. So enticing. Dangerously handsome.

“Is he…” you whisper, sniffing hard as tears prickle your eyes. “Is he sleeping?”

He knows you mean Bradley--the real, actual Bradley.

“Your side is so cold,” he whispers. “Come to bed.”

Come to bed. You want to. You want to so badly.

But then you think of Bob’s broken glasses. Jake’s bloody handprints on your face. Mable’s weight on your shoulders. Phoenix holding Bob’s body. Coyote telling you the children won’t be touched. Fanboy and Payback dying together.

“I’m tired,” you mutter. A few tears run down your face as your lip wobbles. “I’m too tired to keep going.”

Hold me down

It's coming for me through the trees

He comes closer to you, vibrating with excitement.

Before you can stop it, his hand is on your hip. You know it isn’t Bradley--but it looks like him. It feels like him. You don’t push his hand away.

“Wanna go out with a bang?” He asks, grinning. He presses himself against you, his hips rutting against yours.

Shakily, your finger falls on the trigger.

“Yes,” you mutter to him. His hand falls on your throat again. “I wanna go out with a bang.”

And then the gunshot rings out. It sends birds fleeing, punctures your eardrum, makes Bradley recoil. And before he can retaliate, before he can wrap his hands around your throat--the tree branch, the one the bullet severed, falls onto his head.

He crumples beneath it with a sharp intake of breath, pinning him onto the ground.

“Gale, you--!”

Quickly, you step over him, breathing hard.

“Fuck you,” you spit. “You’re not Bradley.”

And with that, you bring the butt of the shotgun down against his forehead until his eyes are closed and his body is still.