The last few days had not been easy for Miles Strickland.
Stacy's abandonment cut deeply, especially given what he had learned. He had spent many of his waking hours trying to force the image of Naomi from his mind. He shouldn't have lifted up the bag. He shouldn't have let his curiosity get the better of him. Ignorance had been bliss, but that had never been his style. Still, in this one case, would remaining in the dark have been so bad?
Naomi had been dead for a long time when he found her. That meant the others, the ones he'd traveled with for so long, had lied to him, if not directly then through omission. They'd treated him like a child, and why? Had they thought he would die of his wounds, and been trying to comfort him on his way out? Had they just thought they'd string him along until it somehow became convenient to mention that, whoops, they'd forgotten a detail or two? He hated that he could even see slight scraps of reason behind their decision, because it had been wrong. They had deprived him of choice, of the chance to properly mourn, of the ability to make his plans based on a full understanding of the situation.
Besides, he wasn't going to die from his injuries. He repeated that to himself, even though the aches and the pain from where Kat Tolstoff had stabbed him and Joe had later punched him were growing hour by hour. They'd treated his injuries as best they could while they lied to him, he'd give his old group that. Since then, they'd gone off and mostly perished one by one. Stacy was still out there somewhere, but Rachael and Corey were gone. He couldn't remember the statuses of the rest. He assumed they were dead.
Miles had remained in the vicinity of the apartments. This was partially because there wasn't really any reason to go elsewhere, and partially because his energy and strength were low enough he wasn't sure he'd be able to get far. It had worn him out just making his way to the other side of the compound from where his cousin lay. He'd wanted to do something for her, to bury her or cover her or scare away anyone or anything that might come disturb her, but he hadn't managed the energy. He'd clenched his eyes against the tears and had set about trying to make sure that he wouldn't join her.
How many days ago was that? One? Three? It was hard to keep track. Miles sat in an old wooden chair beside the door of a building covered entirely in colorful graffiti. There were windows, but none of them faced him. He hated to admit it even to himself, but he'd become used to the stench. He was sitting on the side of the door away from the hinges. He had dragged the chair here, thinking he could perhaps get the drop on anyone who came in and meant trouble. He held the hunga munga in a loose grip, though he could barely feel its handle in his grasp. He wasn't sure he had the energy to stand. He'd been getting up and pacing from time to time, but the last time he'd done that seemed like it must have been over an hour ago.
He felt chilled, like a cold was coming on, like maybe he'd been wrong about it just being allergies setting his nose off, and he was shakier than when he'd gone two days without coffee. He wanted to curl up in bed and sleep this off. He wanted Naomi back. He wanted to see his cat. He wanted, more than anything, to be off this damn island.
For a time, he slipped in and out of consciousness, his eyelids drooping shut only to snap back open as soon as he realized what had happened. His life depended on not being complacent. He'd slept at various points since finding himself on his own, but not in the middle of the day. He had to keep his guard up as best he could. If only someone had come anywhere near him over the past few days, that might have been easier. The danger just didn't feel real, and so he inevitably fell asleep once more.
He finally awoke completely to footsteps and a slamming door in the apartment next to his. It was loud and full sounding, and it cut straight through his awareness and jostled him from his sleep. Miles blinked and nearly dropped the hunga munga. He had to catch it left-handed, and the sudden motion sent spikes of pain through him, like Kat was stabbing him again and again, like Joe was punching him right in the wound once more.
He was not sure at first whether the sound was a vivid dream or reality, but as the haze over his mind dispersed, the noise did not. It sounded like somebody was digging through the place, searching for something. Of course, this late in the game, it was equally likely they were searching for someone, either someone they had lost or a new victim.
He could have stayed where he was, and maybe he would have never been found. It would have been the safe choice. For a moment, however, the thought crossed his mind that it might be Stacy, back to retrieve him.
He wasn't sure how he felt about that. She had betrayed and deceived him, then abandoned him rather than face the consequences of her actions. That wasn't the sort of thing that spoke of reliability, no matter how good terms they had been on before. It had hurt, and while the pragmatic choice would be to return to her, to cling to what safety and comfort she could offer, part of him wanted to chew her out, give her a piece of his mind and explain exactly how what she had done had felt. Part of him wanted to make her understand. He was proud enough, and loyal enough to his family, for that to remain true. He was at least sure he wanted to find her again, though. Maybe she could apologize sufficiently to somehow mend things.
So he slowly forced himself up. He kept the hunga munga in hand as he hobbled to the door, opened it, and made his way outside. The door to the unit next to his was open, and his heart beat heavily as he approached it, eliciting throbs of pain from his gut.
He glanced inside. There was a girl. It wasn't Stacy.
((Andi Victorino continued from The Engine That Could))
Andi Victorino was very recognizable back at Aurora, if only because of her unique situation. She had a kid back in Seattle. Miles had judged her for that, once upon a time. Here, now, she had a gun in her right hand. Her back was turned to him as she rummaged through a drawer. She'd killed someone. Stabbed him in the back while he was distracted. It had stood out, just a little, especially since she'd won a prize for it. That was probably where her pistol had come from.
He could have walked away. She was distracted. She was dangerous. She'd stabbed someone in the back. The hunga munga was heavy in Miles' hand. This wasn't like the mistake with Chuck.
She'd stabbed someone in the back. She was dangerous and she was searching through the apartments. Was it karma or irony or something that he was about to return the favor? She had a kid. He took a deep breath and tried not to think. Two steps, hunga munga high. Andi slammed the drawer shut and turned. As she saw him, her eyes went wide and she raised the gun and Miles experienced a moment of doubt. What was he doing? Throwing the first blow based on a maybe? His head hurt and his gut burned and he should have dropped the hunga munga but instead he took another step forward.
It was hard to say whether he lunged or she pulled the trigger first. For a few moments, there was nothing but violence in the room, gunshots ringing out and Miles desperately punching and slashing, and they fell to the ground and grappled with each other and he swung the hunga munga again and again even as his left arm went dead and he felt the pain and blood bursting from points on his torso, from his old wound and the new ones. Andi hadn't needed good aim, not when he was right there in her face. He'd been hit at least three times, maybe more, and he knew on some level that he was dead, but instinct or habit forced him onwards anyways, and when finally there was quiet and stillness, Andi lay motionless.
G001, Andi Victorino: DECEASED
There was blood everywhere, probably more his than hers, though the hunga munga certainly had drawn its fair share. Miles now finally let his eyes drift down, flicking over his left arm and his chest, and nope, he couldn't deal with that. He brought his eyes up to Andi, and then quickly over to the doorway. It was the only thing he could look at that didn't remind him of the pain, of what had just happened.How had everything gone so wrong so quickly?
He couldn't stand anymore. He could barely breathe. He shoved himself towards a wall, thinking to lean on it, and collapsed halfway.
So this was it. Should've stayed home. Shouldn't have lifted up the bag. Should've just followed Stacy. He laughed but it turned into a choked gurgle. It might have been more poetic if he could make it back to Naomi. He didn't even try.
Miles just lay there on the ground, wishing everything would go away and leave him alone for a while. Eventually, it did.
B078, Miles Strickland: DECEASED
