Force Quit Box

[Pippi]

((Morgan Jones continued from Huge boats. With guns. Gun boats.))

He heard the sound of the rescue helicopters from his seat at the bar, muffled by the thick glass surrounding him. He heard the blades whirring, the vehicle preparing to touch down in this section of the town, the soldiers inside getting ready to hop off and search the vicinity for anyone from National Summit, to pick them up and bring them to safety, away from this living nightmare they’d been forced into.

Morgan didn’t move. He didn’t even turn around at the sound. He just kept on staring down the bottle sitting on the bar in front of him.

He’d caught a glimpse of the rescue team already, as he’d been scurrying to and fro on his way from the boat shed, trying desperately to stay out of sight of anyone and everything. They’d been heavily armed, clad in helmets and bulletproof vests, talking in British accents, telling each other to ‘spread out’ and ‘find any of these poor bastards and get them to safety as quick as possible’. They were looking for him, trying to bring him, if not home, to shelter, where he didn’t have to worry about what was around every corner, or what threats each new day would bring.

And he’d bolted away from them then, not wanting them to catch even a glimpse of him.

The whirring was getting louder now, the windows of the bar beginning to shake, the walls no longer able to block out the near deafening sound. Soon, the chopper would land, and another set of soldiers would bundle out. They’d be heading in here before too long, pulling anyone they found into the copter to safety.

Morgan had to hide before then. He didn’t want them to find him.

He didn’t deserve to be rescued.

He blinked, stifling a yawn as he rolled his shoulders. He felt oddly calm about that decision, about not getting onto the helicopter. A couple of hours ago, he’d been living on terror and adrenaline, running as far as his legs could carry him. Now he felt almost at ease inside. He’d made his decision. He wasn’t gonna change it.

Maybe it was the fact he was finally doing something correctly that was helping him to be calm. Or maybe it was that he’d finally, truly accepted how worthless he was.

Who, exactly, would be happy to see Morgan surviving, out of everyone in his class? He could count the number on one hand. And about half of those people had already been killed. He was a leech, attaching himself to people who didn’t care about him, and hurting people who might once have liked him, but now had nothing but hatred and betrayal in their eyes whenever he passed by them.

Would Collin care? Not likely. Not anymore. His parents? They were probably the only ones. They deserved better than him. And after what he’d done out here, he didn’t think he could ever bear to look them in the eyes ever again. He’d abandoned two people; not by choice, but it had happened nonetheless. They might not have been dead yet, but they’d placed their trust in him, and he’d betrayed them both.

And Casey. He’d killed Casey, killed an innocent, scared, curious girl. He’d killed someone, and there was nothing he could do to justify that.

With a goddamn pair of motherfucking Hulk hands as well. As if she’d needed salt rubbed into her wounds.

He’d made his decision before he’d chosen to stagger into the bar. He’d figured that he could, at the very least, have one last drink on his way out of everything. But of course, the fridges and cabinets were totally empty of any drinks, alcoholic or otherwise. The taps had run dry. The only thing he’d found was the bottle sitting in front of him, underneath one of the bar stools. Must have rolled there at some point and the team preparing this town to be a murder arena hadn’t noticed it.

It was a bottle of Corona. Morgan hated Corona.

Still. Beggars couldn’t be choosers. Especially not when there was an imminently approaching deadline, now that the rotors outside had stopped. He opened the bottle, flipping the cap off using the edge of the bar itself, tipped his head back, and chugged the lukewarm beer down.

“Guh, fuck…”

Morgan wiped his mouth, pulling a face as he let the empty bottle drop and smash to the ground beside him. Yep. Still tasted piss-awful. Somehow even worse than he remembered it being, too.

“Some last meal, huh…”

He slipped off the barstool, moving groggily behind the bar to the door that led upstairs, to the living space of the people who’d previously run the business. He peered in through each open doorway, looking for anywhere that might make an effective hiding place. He doubted the soldiers outside would have much time to thoroughly sweep every inch of every building in this area. He just needed somewhere out of the way, somewhere they likely wouldn’t bother checking.

The first three rooms were dead-ends. The fourth, the main bathroom, held what he was looking for. A long, low space underneath the sink, cupboard doors hiding anything behind it from view. There was just enough room for him to wiggle in there and lie on his side, facing away from the doors. There was a layer of dust on the floor, and he had to brush a cobweb out of his hair, but a quick swipe of a towel gave him an effective pillow, and something to levitate his face away from the dust.

Morgan closed the door, yawning as he did so, darkness enveloping him. He’d been running all night, and all day, and into the night again. He was utterly shattered. He couldn’t move any more. He would fall asleep, and the rescuers would take what they could and leave, and… well, he supposed he’d find out what was on the other side when the time came.

Morgan closed his eyes, and in an instant, drifted off to sleep.

((Morgan Jones continued in Clean Up))