Die, Die, My Darling

[peregrineink*]

(Brian Larke continued from Open Grave)

Brian Larke had blood on his vest. He hadn't really noticed it until now, but now he frowned at the tiny circles of rusty red, rubbing at the speckles of blood with absentminded dislike.

Something was gnawing at the back of his mind, stemming from his half listening to the announcement. He had heard Frodo's name, and his, and Vivian's...why didn't it make him feel any better to hear himself announced with such fanfare like that?

My favorite cowboy...Brian Larke. Where was the flush of pride? He gritted his teeth. It just wasn't enough, and now he stood on these thirsty plains after getting kicked out of a church lest he die, wondering just what the hell to do next in this godforsaken place.

He didn't really feel like a cowboy.

He didn't really feel much like anything.

How many people were even in this so-called game? Were there a lot? Did they keep adding people or was there a set time? He had barely been listening to the announcements, only to catch his name, so he hadn't particularly been keeping track of how many people had been killed thus far. Possibly about twenty? Thirty? But did that make any sense since some of the names were also killers?

Brian Larke frowned. Perhaps no one won this sort of game, but then again that didn't make sense either. Why tell us all of those who had killed? Why inform everyone of the killers?

The plains were a perfect place to think about it, quiet in any case. He wondered where everyone else was. His chapel had been a danger spot and so had the town, he assumed. People had to have cleared out of there, but where were they all going? Did he even want to find them? He had come out of this remarkably unscathed.

He looked down at his shotgun, thanks for that. Perhaps now, after all that had happened, he should rest, or eat, or do anything he hadn't done yet. Slinging the bag off of his shoulder, he knelt down and began to rummage.

Of course, he kept an eye out, who knew what murdering bastards were out there.

He took a swig of the water and a lusty bite of beef jerky. His stomach roiled a little bit, and he wondered...when was the last time he actually ate? He looked back down, oh man, there was bread in here. He ripped a loaf in half and took a bite. Slowly, Brian, don't want to make yourself sick.

He stood back up, there was no reason to stay idle when there was no one around, perhaps he could find the source of the voices in the Chapel, for they had to keep moving as well, right? He had to do something, he had to keep moving. That was all that mattered.

Brian placed the bread back in his pack, as well as the water, keeping the jerky in hand he slung the whole thing over his shoulder.

Always be moving.

Eyes to the horizon, he trudged on.

(Brian Larke continued elsewhere...)