Twilight stared at Skeeter.

Skeeter smiled, sleeping peacefully.

She sat in the aftermath of a tangible retelling of the story Allen had told her mere nights ago. Whereas before it had held a certain surreal quality to it, this time felt almost too real. She’d initially found herself hoping against hope that this was just a bad dream, and that she’d soon be woken by the three friends as they argued about some trivial matter. Hope being the sad thing it was however, Skeeter continued to smile at the window above and Allen remained outside with all but three of their attackers.

The optimistic part of her wanted to believe that he’d done it out of defense. They’d been helpless, unable to do anything except wait to be slaughtered on the side of the road. He’d been the only one still functioning after the crash, the only one left to make a stand. She might not have minded as much if that were the case.

But the realistic part of her knew that it wasn’t. Not if the scene outside was anything to go by.

Soldiers lay strewn about like ragdolls, their wounds ranging from simple knife wounds to total dismemberment. The aircraft responsible for the latter, as well as two of its land-based relatives, continued to burn fiercely just outside. It was the work of someone who had shed all sense of self-control, contenting themselves with ripping and tearing through any they perceived as an enemy.

That couldn’t be him. That wasn’t the Allen she knew.

Or was it?

There seemed to be two sides to him. The side she’d become friends with was like an extremely sarcastic version of her father, always calm and collected. The other side, however, was an animal that smiled during the act of brutally murdering over two dozen people. She had tried to give him the benefit of the doubt by assuming that he’d seen the error of his ways and that he was an inherently good person, but now she was almost certain that she’d been too generous.

Her thoughts were interrupted by the sound of a car outside, and she felt herself immediately tense in fear. They were immobile and incredibly weak, and her magic still had yet to return. If Frost attacked them now, they’d be finished.

As she listened, however, she felt her shoulders sag in relief at the distinct lack of gunfire. Whoever was here was obviously an ally, though none too pleased if their shouting was anything to go by. She stood up and approached the back door, stepping on top of the gun cage and straining her ears as she tried to make out what was being said. The stranger’s voice carried over to her as she neared the exit.

“-don’t drop by, you don’t call; I don’t hear anything about you until I see your car getting passed around like a cheap hooker in residential! Then you call me to come help you, and you can’t even explain to me what in the fuck’s going on!? Seriously!?”

Allen’s reply was too quiet for her to hear, but she caught enough of the tone to know that he was still quite agitated.

“When we-no! Absolutely not! You’re explaining this shit right now, or I’ll cart the lot of you back to Vegas and lock you up myself!

Twilight heard nothing for several seconds, then Allen began speaking again, his voice having devolved into an irritated hiss.

“…FREAKING COOPERATE!!”

She jumped slightly at his sudden change in volume, stumbling over the edge of the cage and landing on the floor with a loud grunt.

The voices outside fell silent, then Allen said something to the stranger in a more acceptable volume, said stranger asking a question in return. A moment passed before he received a rather subdued response.

Twilight got back to her feet and waited, but heard nothing else except for the shifting of sand as the two men made their way towards the Outlaster. A moment later, an older man in uniform with gray streaks marring his otherwise black hair knelt by the back door, looking around until he found her. “Twilight, I presume?”

“Who are you?” she asked, a little more forcefully than she’d intended.

“My name’s Sully.” he replied. “According to your friend here, we need to get you to safety as soon as possible. Why we need to do that…and why I shouldn’t just slap you all in cuffs and throw you in a locker…he has yet to explain.”

Twilight felt her stomach clench in fear as the younger man spoke. “Twi, go get in the front. We’ll be there in a bit.”

Sully shook his head. “She needs to help us move the supplies.”

“You and I can handle the supplies. I don’t think she wants to be anywhere near me right now.”

Twilight couldn’t help but raise an eyebrow at that as the older man turned to him angrily. “I’m not really concerned about what she wants right now.”

“And I’m not really concerned about what you’re concerned about.”

“Who the hell do you think you’re talking to like that!?”

“Look!” Allen said impatiently. “I didn’t call you because I need your guidance! I called because we need a ride to Alamo! Regardless of how well I’ve run this show so far, I’m still the one running it! So if you’re going to help us, then get out of her way! If not, then go back the way you came!”

“I thought you said you didn’t want to risk using their vans?” Sully sneered.

“We’ll walk.”

His eyes widened in surprise. Complete vulnerability aside, you didn’t just go wandering through five miles of desert without any supplies and expect to survive. Allen had to know that.

His momentary look of surprise was replaced with a knowing glare. Allen did know that.

“When did you become such a world-class bastard?”

“All answers when we reach Alamo.” he replied with a smirk.

Sully glared at him for a moment longer, then stood up and walked away with a sigh. Allen took a deep breath before turning to Twilight. She looked back at him with a mixture of fear, mistrust, and just a bit of the anger he’d seen a few nights ago.

He shook his head and gestured for her to exit, watching as she carefully squeezed through the misshapen doorway. She straightened up and wordlessly made her way toward the white truck on the road.

“I get the oddest feeling that she doesn’t like you.” Sully remarked casually.

“Just get in the bus.” Allen replied dejectedly.

Sully shrugged and turned to climb into the wreck, the younger man following close behind. He looked around as he entered, taking in the battered interior with guns and glass strewn everywhere. “What should we grab fi-”

Both men froze as they heard shuffling coming from between the seats, a loud groan accompanying it. Sully heard a soft oath from behind him. “What is it?”

Allen hesitated. “I…dammit. I’m not ready for this.”

“Ready for what?” Sully asked, confused.

“Ah, fuckin’...” Arnold groaned. He began weakly scrambling into view, looking left and right before his gaze landed on them. “Al? Wha-Where are we?”

Allen felt his stomach tie itself into a knot and said nothing, instead moving forward to help his friend to his feet as the moments before the crash replayed themselves for him.

“…what happened to the Apache?”

He stayed quiet as he placed the marine’s arm over his shoulder and began leading him towards the front, every footstep feeling like a mile.

“Al, what happened?” he asked again, worry creeping into his voice at his friend’s silence as they approached the broken windshield. “Quit bein’ all cryptic and say…somethin’…”

Allen stumbled as he was almost knocked over, the larger man hardly noticing as he swept over to his twin on the ground. “No, no, no, no, no! SKEETER!”

He watched helplessly from behind as Arnold tried to shake his brother awake, naturally, to no avail. Sully stopped next to him, freezing when he saw the mechanic lying in a pool of his own blood. “Oh hell…”

“Yer not dead. Ya can’t be dead. Ah’m just dreamin’.” the marine rambled, trying to reason his tragic reality away. “Ah’m the one who gets flown overseas. Ah’m the one on the front lines, not you. This ain’t happenin’…This ain’t happenin’…”

Allen walked over and knelt down on Skeeter’s other side, unsure of what to do. He felt inexperienced, incapable, and unable to do anything except watch. What do you say to someone who just lost the last of those they held nearest and dearest?

He knew the feeling, of course. He knew it all too well. An important piece of Arnold’s life had just been ripped away, and his mind was tearing itself apart as it attempted to protect itself. The internal war showed plainly on his face, tears streaming down his cheeks while he smiled like nothing was wrong…like Skeeter was going to wake up with a yawn and make some crude joke about three men standing around him.

Skeeter had known what to say back when it was him, he was sure of it. Unfortunately, he realized as he grit his teeth in frustration, he’d been too self-absorbed in his own shock and misery to hear. What would his friend say in a situation like this?

“Al, he’s gonna be fine, right?”

He felt his mind go numb for a moment, looking up at the one who’d asked the question. “What?”

“Skeets! He’s gonna be fine, right!? He just needs a doctor. Get some stitches, get some blood back in him…he’ll be back up in no time!”

Tell him exactly what’s ‘bout to happen and help ‘im accept it.

“-get him to a hospital in Alamo. We gotta hurry-”

“Arnold, he’s dead.”

“DON’T SAY THAT!!” Arnold yelled angrily, his eyes welling up despite his rage.

“HE’S DEAD!!” Allen shouted back, briefly startling the marine. “I WATCHED THE POOR BASTARD BLEED OUT THROUGH MY FINGERS!! HE’S FUCKING DEAD!!”

Something told him this wasn’t exactly how his friend would handle the situation, that his approach might have been gentler; but he couldn’t think of a better method for getting through his brother’s denial.

“HE AIN’T DEAD!!”

“YES HE IS!!”

“HE CAN’T BE!!”

“WHY NOT!?”

“‘CAUSE AH WAS SUPPOSED TO GO FIRST, DAMMIT!!” he screamed, now openly crying as he hugged his brother’s corpse tightly.

Allen hesitated, then got up and went to Arnold’s right, embracing him as best as he could as he continued to bawl over the corpse in his arms.

“It was supposed to be me!” he went on, beginning to shake visibly. “Ah was…He was supposed to be safe at home, protectin’ the family business! He fixed cars, for God’s sake! This never should’ve happened to him!”

“I’m sorry.” Allen replied.

Arnold continued to cry into his brother’s shoulder, soaking the already blood-stained vest with his tears. Sully continued watching, feeling as though he should do something but feeling more out of place by the second. Allen continued to squeeze him by the shoulder.

“He was the best o’ the three of us.” the marine continued. “He didn’t deserve this.”

“I know. I’m sorry.”

“Ah know.” Arnold choked out.

They sat there for a few minutes, one continuing to sob quietly while the other awkwardly tried to convey every ounce of support and sympathy for his loss through a half-assed hug. Sully coughed lightly and excused himself, muttering something about going outside to keep watch.

Eventually, Arnold calmed down to the point where Allen felt like he should get the ball rolling. “Arnold, we need to get out of here. We’re not prepared to deal with whatever reinforcements Frost sends at us.”

He sniffed quietly, nodding.

“Do you need help?”

He shook his head as he sat up, placing his arms under Skeeter’s legs and shoulders before shakily rising to his feet. Allen followed as he carefully limped through the windshield, then went around the bus and proceeded up the slope to the white truck parked on the side of the road, ignoring the many corpses and body parts. He slid into the back, scooting all the way to the other side so that that his brother was stretched across the back seat, his head held protectively in his arms.

Allen shut the door behind them and turned back to the Outlaster, shaking his head angrily. Fucking Frost…

((((((*******))))))

Sully rubbed the strain out of his arms as he turned away from his truck bed, having just delivered the last of the medical supplies from the SUVs. Soon after returning from escorting Arnold to the truck, he’d been asked to He turned as Allen arrived with another box of rations from the bus. “Anything left in there?”

“A few things, actually. There’s some military hardware in one of the cages I’d like to have, since Frost and his guys obviously aren't going to play fair.”

Sully nodded, then turned to look at him dead-on. “You know, I could tell it was bad when I got here…but I didn’t expect this.”

“Expect what?”

“Allen, Skeeter is dead! You kids are refugees! You can never go back to Vegas now, do you realize that?”

“Screw Vegas. I’ve always hated that damned city.”

Sully opened his mouth to ask what he meant, then closed it and considered him for a moment. “Alamo?”

“Alamo.”

He watched the younger man as he neatly stacked the boxes of canned goods in the back of his truck. This couldn’t possibly be Allen. The Allen he knew was reclusive, though still able to associate normally with people he knew and trusted. This side of him was reserved for strangers and people he knew he should be wary of. To be on the receiving end of his apathy was an entirely new experience for the veteran.

This didn’t just feel different. It felt wrong.

We really need to get to Alamo.

“Oi!”

He jumped slightly and looked at Allen, who was glaring at him impatiently. “Wh-what?”

“Could you give me a hand, please?”

“Sure, let’s go.”

“Muchos gracias senor.”

They walked back to the bus, Allen climbing through and instructing Sully to stay outside while he opened the supply cage on the wall/roof. As soon as the latch came undone, close to a dozen silver cases came tumbling down, making the older man jump back in fear.

“Relax.” Allen said. “Most of it’s just more ammunition. Except for that small one right there…that’s C4.”

“C-what!?”

“Courtesy of Arnold.”

“Is he an idiot!?”

“Yes. Now grab as many of the cases as you can carry and go. I want to leave.”

Sully opened his mouth to respond, then sighed and started picking up the cases. Allen’s a psycho murderer, Arnold somehow sneaks explosives past the TSA…honestly, what’s next?

His answer came in the form of a frustrated sigh from further inside, prompting him to look up at a thin man holding a sniper rifle. It looked beat up, the scope having been torn off and a rather large chunk missing out of the stock. He was currently staring down the barrel, lightly running his fingers over a spot near its base. “…outstanding…” he grumbled quietly.

“Um…Where did you get that?” Sully asked.

Allen looked over at him for a moment, then picked up a nearby guitar case and shoved the damaged instrument of death inside. “Alamo.”

Sully opened his mouth to argue, then sighed and turned his attention back to his stack of silver cases. He was beginning to piece parts of the puzzle together, and he didn’t like the picture they were making one bit. Memories of hundreds of investigations floated to the front of his consciousness, each involving a single bullet wound in the head, but devoid of any clue as to who had fired it. He hoped against hope that these memories had nothing to do with his friend’s son.

Allen approached what was left of the pile just as he picked up his stack, clenching his teeth with the effort of carrying the heavy cases of ammunition back to his truck. He was beginning to feel less like a patrol officer and more like a soldier preparing for war, a feeling which only intensified as he took in the stacks of rations, guns, and medical supplies occupying the bed of his truck.

The enigma of the hour arrived next to him, setting his burden down inside the bed with a grunt and looking over at him with just a touch of annoyance. “What’s the holdup, Sully?”

Sully glanced at him thoughtfully before turning back to the truck and began stacking the cases. “I swear, if you don’t-”

“Sully?”

“What?”

“When have I ever broken a promise?”

Sully grimaced as he thought about the question, then shook his head as the final box was put away.

“Exactly, now get in. I’ve got to go grab something real quick.”

The old man raised a brow in question, but did as requested. Allen then jogged back to the SUV that had rolled off into the desert, passing the sergeant without sparing him a glance. He reached it and opened the driver’s side door, spotting his prize almost immediately.

He climbed in and grabbed the assault rifle out of the passenger side, giving it a calculating look. The barrel was shorter than that of his rifle, but that was to be expected. It also had a foregrip, a red dot sight, a magazine that he estimated could hold about twenty rounds, and a recoil-control stock. All in all, it looked to be a sturdy, reliable piece of hardware. Although it was probably more tailored to Arnold’s style of combat, it would serve his needs until he could find replacement parts for his rifle.

He hurried back to the truck and climbed into the back, pulling the tailgate closed behind him and reaching past the stack of supplies behind him to knock on the window. Sully waved in understanding, and their new getaway vehicle slowly accelerated, leaving the fires and blood-soaked sand behind.

Allen watched as the warzone slowly shrank in size behind them. Under different circumstances, he may have allowed his mind to wander at this point, to rewind and analyze his recent actions. Under those same circumstances, Skeeter might have survived and Twilight might not have been deathly afraid of him. He might not have had to explain to Sully how he had disgraced his family name by becoming Vegas’ number-one hitman.

But these were not ideal circumstances. Skeeter was dead, Twilight sat in utter fear of his presence, Sully was practically flooring it to their destination so that he could hear every detail of his career, and he was barely maintaining control of the situation.

This was the hand they’d been dealt, and now they had to play with it, win or lose.

Author's Note

Remember when I posted a chapter every two weeks? Yeah, me neither. Oh well, at least it didn't take six months this time.

If you're enjoying this story, be sure to give it a thumbs-up and leave me a comment with your thoughts. If you aren't enjoying this story, do those things anyway.

Peace.