Grasping at Straws

[Iceblock]

((Samuel Wilson continued from Into The Earth))

He had been running, the whole time. Running to find Delilah. Running from Rebecca. Running from the constant failures that this first day had been.

Richard was dead. Trevor was dead. Clair was dead.

When he stopped to rest, he could still hear it echoing in his memory, the voice that came from everything, the Sheriff's voice. He remembered the first few names that had been read out, just barely. He might have missed a few. Clair had been dying, then.

Vienna was dead. He remembered that. She'd been the first name.

His gut drew itself into a tight knot. How many names next time the Sheriff talked to them? How many had already died in all? His foot took another step forward, and he found himself running again.

Simon, Richard, Martha, Stephen, Tito, Patrick, Ken, Warren, Ramona, Trevor, Elliot, Bruce... The same litany of names, echoing through his head like the Sheriff's voice had seemed to just minutes ago. Even though the Sheriff had already left his broadcast long before, Sam ran, moving blind through the darkness save for the light of the moon.

Then, he tripped, and went down.

Lying there, he had to reevaluate.

All those names... No, all those people. His classmates. Just gone, gone forever. He'd seen Richard and Trevor go. The Sheriff hadn't said anything about Clair. Yet. But she was gone too.

He tried to gather himself, didn't quite succeed.

Thinking, he realized that he'd failed again, in a way. Delilah had killed again. Maybe that's what Clair had meant, being a terrible friend. They'd failed to stop her, find her. Patrick. He'd known Patrick from theater. Didn't seem like a threat. She'd probably been afraid again, acted irrationally. It wasn't really his fault, Sam knew, like it hadn't really been Clair's fault at all. But he couldn't help feeling like he could have done something about it, like he'd made some mistake that just kept multiplying. Heading to the mines, maybe. It had lost time. It had lost Clair.

Others had killed too, killed more. Simon Mattheson. Rebecca Clark. Threats. They needed to be neutralized, one way or another.

He remembered Clair, at the cactus patch, asking him if he had a weapon. Painful memory, now. She was right, had been right. He needed a weapon. Preferably, a gun. Something that would grant him the illusion of power, allow him to play chicken with murderers.

It'd make him a threat. Better that than powerless.

Better than nothing.

His eyes stung, and Sam wasn't sure if it was because of the tears that threatened to take over his vision, or if he needed to sleep. Probably the former, but the latter was looking more and more tempting as time passed by. Maybe sleep would fix all things, as if the whole situation was a dream, as if the bruises that still caused a dull sort of pain in the back of his mind, the ones that he'd received from Richard, would go away if he just slept. But no. A few deep breaths, and he got up.

He needed to find a weapon. He needed to find Delilah.

Sam ran on, towards morning.

((Samuel Wilson continued in While Rome Burns))