The Ballad of Richard and Will
Posted: Wed Aug 08, 2018 1:23 am
The trip went wrong, so wrong. It made little sense to Will, or perhaps too much sense for him to process. He sat in silence, squeezed into a too-crammed bus seat, watching as Mr. Dolph was executed, listening as Victor Danya gave his speech.
It was almost a relief when the gas began to hiss. Will had been very close to beginning to process what was happening, but the blissful unconsciousness freed him even of dreams.
"Rise and shine, Cinderella."
The sun was bright, so bright Will could see it through his eyelids. The ground beneath him was hard and rough, packed dirt maybe but peppered with gravel and small rocks that made his back twinge as sensation returned. The boot pressing into his ribs was steel-toed.
"C'mon. I'm not gonna kiss you."
The pressure withdrew, but a split second later returned in the form of a gentle kick. Unfortunately, there was still enough force behind the hefty boots to produce a sharp pain along Will's right side, and he moaned and rolled away from the impact, curling in on himself.
"Ouch," he half-whined, as his eyes snapped open. His roll had at least taken the sun directly out of his face, but what he saw brought him little comfort. He lay on a rough dirt trail, with scrubby grasses and weeds growing along and in it. A breeze rustled the vegetation. Down towards his feet was a duffel bag with something written on the side; he blinked, squinted, reached up and adjusted his glasses. The bag read "B22" and there was some sort of long wooden pole tucked under it. He blinked again.
He knew where he was, of course. He knew what had happened, or at least the broad brushstrokes. They had been taken, like that class from California five years ago. He hadn't followed it closely at the time—he'd been in eighth grade, and there'd been this real awareness floating around that it was a big deal, and his parents had said something about always remembering where they'd been when it came out just like on September Eleventh, but that was even further back when Will had just been a baby—and so really all he knew was that that Nick guy had been the only survivor and had had to kill some of his classmates and had gotten pretty messed up. And now he, Will, was here too, and could he do the same? No, it was absurd to even think about.
There was haze about so many of the details of the situation, but he found himself comforted by that moral certainty. He did not have to reach to find it. Murder was wrong, dead wrong. It was wrong in a way that made all his other crusades seem meaningless. He hadn't spent his life refusing to drink at parties only to turn around and bathe in the blood of some girl who sat behind him in math class.
But what if she was trying to bathe in his blood? What then, hm?
Then... then he would figure it out as it came. He'd do his best to try to keep himself safe, and others too, and that didn't mean running around killing the weak-minded.
The brightness above him dimmed. The shadow of a figure fell across him, and the twang of his ribs reminded him that, while certainly there were more pressing concerns in his life right now, the most immediate thing going on was that some guy had been trying to wake him up and had decided the best way was with a kick.
"Hey, man, you okay?" the figure asked. Male voice, kind of deep. Familiar, but of course it was; they'd only taken classmates. Will turned, but the sun behind the guy made him flinch.
"Fine," he said, "I'm fine." He raised a hand to shield his eyes and took in his companion and suddenly was struck by regret. He'd spoken too soon. He might not be fine at all. He was, after all, looking straight into the eyes of Richard Ormsby.
"Good. Need a hand?" Richard extended his hand without waiting for a response, and Will grasped it half out of instinct and half out of politeness. The boy's hand was large and rough and his grip was firm, and when Will was on his feet he had to angle his head up just a bit to meet Richard's gaze. He had never in his life stood so close to the boy before, and up until this very moment he'd been happy to keep it that way.
There was no beating around the bush: Richard Ormsby was a thug and a bully of the first degree. He wasn't necessarily the high-profile concentrated weapons-grade dick of, say, Adonis Alba, but he brought to the table a certain predatory cleverness that saw him slipping the hands of justice time and again. He was the sort who'd smash your locker closed on your hand, then apologize and offer to help you to the nurse, then tell you the next day you'd really better stay away from him because he was awfully clumsy and it'd be a real shame if that sort of accident happened again.
But right now, Richard was just a guy in a terrible situation, same as Will, and whatever Will might've thought of the boy back in Denton he was willing to at least tentatively set to the side in the face of the truly extraordinary circumstances in which they found themselves. He'd heard once, after all, that bullies lashed out because they were really afraid, and while he didn't put too much stock in that—Will knew what being afraid was like, and he knew what being frustrated was like, and yet he managed to not be a total prick to all he encountered—he did think that Richard was probably shaking in his (steel-toed) boots just like everyone else in their class. Will had also heard of lots of bad folks turning over a new leaf in times of real need, and while he wasn't gonna say a meth dealer was a hero just because the guy saved a baby or something, like that erased all other sin, he could admit that things weren't black and white and was totally down with Richard exposing a nicer side.
"Thanks," Will said, taking a step back. It helped make the height difference a little less apparent. It wasn't even that Richard was that big; Will was just sort of short, and it made him a little self conscious from time to time but again there were more pressing issues.
But he couldn't really think of what to say next. It was just too immense.
Richard didn't seem to have the same problem. He offered a pithy summation thusly: "Man, this shit's fucked."
"You can say that again." And it was true; Will for once didn't even secretly judge Richard for his casual foul-mouthedness. They really and truly were in about the most screwed up situation Will could have imagined.
"Guess it could've been worse," Richard said. "They could've just shot us like Dolph." He scratched at his back as he spoke. He was a stocky guy, wearing blue jeans and work boots and a white, untucked button-down shirt that was both out of place with the rest of his outfit and already slightly grimy with dust. Small sweat patches were visible by the armpits. His hair, however, was still perfectly in shape, giving his wide jaw and nose this almost painting-like quality. He held eye contact a lot better than Will did, and his eyes were very blue. It was like he'd spent half an hour staring at himself in the mirror, getting everything perfect, then gotten dressed in whatever was at the bottom of his dirty laundry pile.
"Yeah," Will said. "At least they didn't just shoot us. I guess."
He broke eye contact with Richard again and took in the lay of the land, partially to distract himself from the idea that really they all could've just been shot.
He and Richard were standing in the middle of this dirt path that snaked along a very steep slope that lay behind Richard and stretched far down; Will couldn't see exactly how far because of the angles and because the slope was studded with rock outcroppings, scraggly patches of undergrowth, and bushes. The part of the path that traveled upslope led to, in the distance, what looked like the sort of bridge Indiana Jones would barely make it across before it plummeted into the endless abyss. Will resolved not to go that way unless the alternative was truly dire. Downslope the path made a turn about three hundred feet away and vanished from sight. The side of the path that wasn't plunge was level enough, though did not look attractive as far as terrain to traverse went; even the path itself, come to think of it, gave the impression of having sat unused for a very long time. Will felt a flash of envy for Richard's heavy boots. His own sneakers weren't bad, but he could feel the uneven ground clearly through them, and he knew their soles were worn enough that he'd have to be a little careful to keep his balance.
Richard was shifting his weight a little, glancing around, but there was nobody else within sight. Will couldn't tell if the guy was on edge or just had excess energy—no, who was he kidding? Of course Richard was on edge. Anybody sane would be.
"You been up long?" Will asked him, figuring he might at least coax some information out of Richard since it seemed that, improbable as he'd've imagined it at any point prior, they were at the moment basically on the same side.
"Maybe fifteen minutes, half an hour," Richard said. "That gas shit laid me out. My head still feels a little fucked."
Will made a noise of sympathy, rubbing at his own temple. It was politeness more than anything else; he felt stiff and maybe a little bruised, but by and large fine. The breeze raised the hair on his arms and neck and kept his head clear. This could've been some resort island, a place his parents might've yearned to get away for a weekend retreat.
"I came from down that way," Richard said, gesturing vaguely along the path and around the corner. "Poked through my bag, saw I didn't get jack shit, and decided to get moving."
When he mentioned the bag, Will took note of it. It was sitting on the ground maybe a dozen feet behind Richard, a duffel bag just like the one next to Will, and surely these were the bags packed with their promised provisions.
That meant they might be armed. Richard had implied he wasn't, but as much as Will was pleasantly surprised by the boy's demeanor so far, he did not trust him completely. Not yet.
"You were lying there," Richard continued, "and I thought to myself, 'Hey, maybe ol' Will would rather I wake him up instead of leaving him there to get chewed up by the wildlife. And now here we are."
"Yeah," Will said. "I guess we are."
He paused for a moment. The breeze picked up a little.
"They didn't give you anything in your bag?" he said.
"Nah," Richard said. He turned, made his way back to the bag, hefted it, and then brought it over towards Will. Richard's movements were casual. He seemed totally unconcerned that Will might try something, and that actually went a good way towards putting Will at ease. They were in a really bad situation, in real danger, but if Richard Ormsby could be relaxed about everything then there was no way they were all going to fall right away.
Yeah, there would be violence. There would be death. Will wasn't an idiot. He knew that other class had been full of pretty normal people too, and they'd all panicked and killed and died. But things might be just a little different now. This wasn't a total aberration. He imagined almost everyone had asked themselves what they'd do. If those seemingly most likely to resort to violence were abstaining, then maybe they could at least stall more, run down the clock for the government to get things together and find them, save whoever they could.
"I mean, it's something, sure," Richard said, returning. He dropped the bag between himself and Will, and it landed more heavily than Will had expected, making a light clattering sound against the gravel. "See for yourself."
Will frowned, but Richard waved his hand, gesturing to look, so Will leaned over and unzipped the duffel bag. What he saw was not exactly what he'd call "nothing."
"Are these grenades?"
They sure looked like grenades. Four black cylinders, each with that ever-iconic handle and pin combo. It took a lot of self control to not jerk back and scramble away, but Richard seemed utterly nonchalant.
"Flash-bangs," he said. "That's what the manual says. The SWAT team uses these things to chase people out of buildings and stuff. I think all they do is make you blind and deaf for a while. And, you know, I'm pretty good at throwing stuff but where am I gonna use something like this and not catch myself in it? Pretty shit, you ask me."
"Ah," Will said. "I... see."
So maybe Richard was actually thinking a little bit more tactically than Will had originally given him credit for. That was a bit disappointing, but that was all. Not disturbing. Not surprising. Richard was scared.
"But at least that's good for protecting yourself, right?" Will said. "And maybe you could trick people into thinking they're the dangerous ones?"
Richard furrowed his brow for a moment, then smiled.
"Hey, that's pretty good, Will," he said. "That's pretty smart. I know they're trash, and you know they're trash, but if Asshole Alba or Lord Lombardi or whoever sees them, maybe they decide it's not worth starting anything."
Richard zipped the bag back up and pushed it to the side.
"Thanks, man," he continued. "Never would've thought of that."
"Oh, uh, no problem," Will said. Something about Richard's approval made him suddenly a lot more edgy, like there was something super obvious he was missing, but he couldn't put his finger on what. "Happy to help."
"And how 'bout you?" Richard asked.
"Oh," Will said. He looked back towards his bag. It had existed, at best, on the periphery of his consciousness, truth be told. "I don't actually know. I just woke up."
"Well, let's see it, then," Richard said. taking a step towards the bag. Then he stopped. "I mean, you know, if it's okay and all. If you'd rather wait, 's fine too."
"Oh," Will said again. He wasn't really fine with Richard poking through his stuff—well, the stuff that had been arbitrarily assigned to him, at least—at all, come to think of it. But he couldn't really place the reason for that lack of fineness. Richard had seemed nothing but well-intentioned thus far, and more than that he'd trusted Will enough to let him dig around and tell him the grenades weren't dangerous. So if Will was feeling some ambivalence here, it was in all likelihood due to the situation. Here he was worrying about others falling prey to psychological trickery, and he was the one right about to distrust a guy who could've smashed his face in with a rock and had instead poked him awake. And Richard was being perfectly respectful.
So Will pushed that slick and slimy feeling to the side and forced himself to intone, "No, that's fine. Bring it over."
Richard picked up the bag, but then he and Will both saw at the same time what was under it, what Will had at first thought was some kind of stick.
It was a rifle.
It looked old, wooden, but still frightfully real. It was the sort of thing he'd seen in textbooks, the sort of thing a soldier might be cradling as he stormed the beaches at Normandy. Richard pursed his lips like he was going to whistle, failed to do so in two attempts, then said, "Wow. You lucked out."
"I don't know about that," Will said. Richard knelt and scooped up the rifle and Will felt a twinge of anxiety, but then Richard walked over and held the gun out to Will, who took it. It was solid, smooth, cool. Heavy.
"See, this is the real deal," Richard said. Will nodded and swallowed. Then, hesitantly, he lifted the gun up, taking hold of it like he might were he to shoot, sighting down the barrel. His finger moved towards the trigger.
"Whoa there." Richard reached up, gently took hold of the gun, and guided its barrel down. "No telling if that's loaded."
"Yeah, oh, yeah," Will said. "Yeah, right, shoot. I'm sorry."
He let his stance relax, pulling his finger away from the trigger.
"It's okay," Richard said. "Just be careful. This isn't a toy."
"Right," Will said. "Sorry."
"Don't worry about it," Richard said. "Let's just take it easy and see what you've got here."
They sat down and opened the duffel bag, and soon they found a box of shells, two magazines, a manual that labeled the weapon as a "Winchester Model 1897," as well as a map and an assortment of food and medical supplies. Will squinted at the map as Richard paged through the manual. It looked like the island was of decent size, and the labels gave Will some pause.
"Tar pits," he mumbled to himself.
It looked like there wasn't much in the way of civilization here. If he had to guess, he'd say there'd been some sort of mining operation in this place, but he couldn't begin to guess at its product. He looked around at the grasses and gravel and the far side of the steep valley, which was equally overgrown and scraggly, as if he might see gold glinting or some other obvious sign. There was nothing.
"Yep. It's loaded," Richard said, looking up. "That right there's the magazine. This thing's a shotgun."
"A shotgun?" Will said. He looked at the gun in his lap. You didn't aim a shotgun like a rifle, did you? He was pretty sure shotguns were powerful.
He didn't actually know the first thing about shotguns.
"Yeah," Richard said. "Some old-school thing. Should work fine. We can do some target practice later if you want."
"I think I'm good," Will said. The shotgun felt heavy in his lap. It made everything feel more real. What would have happened if he'd pulled the trigger? He hadn't been aiming it at anyone, but how easily things could've gone wrong. He'd heard of bullets flying long distances and killing bystanders. Or what if it'd made some tremendous noise and caused a rockslide? And even putting that aside, once he pulled that trigger, he'd know he could do it. If he fired the gun, it meant he could kill. Not emotionally or mentally or whatever—he couldn't imagine murdering someone—but physically.
"Think about it," Richard said. "A shotgun's not gonna do you any good if you won't touch the thing."
"I guess." Will looked at the map again.
They sat there for some time like that, Richard flipping through the manual, Will examining everything else. Will became aware of the ambient sounds of the slope, a faint buzzing of insects, periodic calls of seagulls, a far-off lap of waves. The air was heavy and humid and salty, though not as much as it was at the beach back in Denton.
Denton was a terrible city, but oh how he missed it. They'd been gone less than a day.
Richard folded up the manual and tucked it back into the bag.
"Well," he said, "what now, Will?"
"What now?" Will looked at him. Richard's eyes were closed, but they snapped open a second later and Will again broke eye contact. "What do you mean what now?"
"I mean, what're you gonna do?" Richard said. "You planning to gun your way out of here?"
"No," Will said. "Jesus, no. No. I don't think hurting anyone's the right choice. Not at all."
Richard nodded. "Glad you see it that way."
They said nothing for a second. The insect noise got louder, or maybe the relative silence it occupied grew more obvious.
"But," Richard continued, "that's just a thing you're not gonna do. So what about what you are gonna do?"
Will had to think for a while on that.
"I don't know," he said. "I figure it's probably, you know, I think probably the safest thing is to just find somewhere to hide and wait. I mean, we may all be out of luck. Maybe we'll just d—we're just doomed. But I think if we try to keep it under control then maybe someone'll come and save us."
It sounded pretty weak, laid out like that. Will felt absolutely no confidence in their prospects of rescue, but what else could he do?
"And what about you?" he said. And then he surprised himself by looking Richard square in the face and adding, "You can come with if you want."
Now it was Richard who turned away, looking out across the ravine.
"I wish I could, man," he said. "I sure do wish I could."
"That sounds like you can't."
He chuckled. "Smart guy. Yeah, I have a few people I need to look for first. People who might, you know, do something..." He wiped at his nose, snorted slightly. "...rash."
Will swallowed.
"Oh," he said. "Yeah. That makes sense. Good... um, good luck, Richard."
"Yeah," Richard said. "Thanks. I'll do my best. I should probably get moving, really."
He stood, hoisted his own bag, took two steps. Then he stopped, and turned back to Will. His lips were pursed, and he seemed to be struggling with something.
"You okay?" Will asked.
"Will," Richard said, "I've got a thought. And you can say no. It's totally fine if you say no."
Will didn't say anything. Richard shifted, glanced around, looked at his feet, but then he raised his gaze to Will once more.
"Will," he said, "how 'bout a trade?"
"A trade?"
"Yeah," Richard said. "It's fine if you say no. But I was thinking, if you're just gonna hide out, maybe you'd be better off with something more defensive, like those grenades I got. And if I'm gonna be looking for dangerous people, you know... might be good to be able to watch my back, just in case."
Will almost said no right on the spot. It wasn't rational—there was not one rational thing about it—but the gun was heavy and real in his lap and it was powerful, powerful in that way where it meant anything was possible, and Richard had been a total asshole back at P. J. Hobbs, and did Will really trust him with a shotgun? And yet, that was the situation speaking again. That was the paranoia, the mistrust they were sowing on purpose. That was how they would die.
Will pulled his own bag closer, unzipped it again, and pulled out the box of cartridges. He turned it over in his hand once, then held it out to Richard.
"Alright," he said.
Richard blinked.
"Really?" he said. "I mean, uh, you sure, man?"
"I'm sure I'm sure."
Richard plucked the box of shells from Will's grasp, transferred it to his own bag, and soon had taken possession of the magazines as well. Will paused only a moment before handing over the shotgun.
As it left his lap, it felt like a weight beyond the physical one had been lifted. The gun was gone. It was Richard's problem now. Will would never have to worry about firing it, about even the vaguest possibility of killing anyone. The grenade Richard handed to him was heavy in its own right, but only in a material sense.
"I only need a couple," Will said, holding up his hand as Richard tried to pass him a third grenade. "You keep the rest. Trick someone if you have to. Keep your options open, you know."
"You sure?" Richard said again. Will nodded, and Richard nodded back. "Thanks."
Then he turned and set off down the path. He'd made it maybe fifteen feet when he paused. He stood for a long time, back to Will, looking out at nothing.
"You're too good," he finally said.
"What?" Will's butt was getting sore, and he'd sort of started to glaze over Richard's inexplicable pause, but now his focus honed in again.
"You're way too good," Richard said again. "Man, you know, I always thought you were a smug dick back at school. A whole lot holier than everyone else." He laughed.
The hair was rising on Will's arms and neck again.
"I mean," he said, through suddenly-dry lips, "I've got to admit, I didn't think too highly of you either. I guess first impressions can be deceiving."
"Maybe," Richard said. Then he spun, shotgun held leveled. Will's eyes widened as he looked down the barrel.
"I should shoot you," Richard said.
"What?"
"Not to be an asshole or anything. The opposite, really." Richard managed to shrug his shoulders in a way that let the gun bob only the slightest bit. "You're too good. You're gonna get eaten alive."
Will chuckled a little, though there was nothing even vaguely funny about this turn in his fortunes.
"What are you talking about?" he said, when he'd finally composed himself a little.
"You just gave me a gun," Richard said. "You gave me a gun and you let me keep those grenades and you just rolled with it. And now look where you are."
"Not exactly where I'd like to be, no," Will said. They both laughed.
"I'm not gonna die here," Richard said, snapping out of it first. "I'm not gonna just gun down everyone I see, but I'm gonna do what I have to. I can do what I have to now, thanks to you. If I see someone I can pop to better my chances, you better believe I'm gonna."
"Oh," Will said.
"Maybe you're right. Maybe someone'll come and save us. I hope they do. I hope you're somewhere safe and sound, because, man, if there's anyone who deserves to get out of this alive, it's a boy scout like you."
Richard paused.
"But who deserves to get out and who does... I don't think those things'll have much to do with each other," he continued.
"We should calm down," Will said. "Put the gun down. We can talk about this, and go find a spot together."
"Hell no I'm not putting the gun down," Richard said. "You run and hide, Will. You stay safe. If it's not me, I hope it's you. Doubt it will be, but I can hope. Me, I've got some work to do. Thanks for making it possible. Stay safe."
Then he turned and started walking again, one slow step after another.
It took about three seconds for it all to come crashing down on Will. He'd lied. Richard had lied through his teeth, played Will like a fiddle. Now he had a gun and grenades and was off to start murdering. And it was, just like he'd said, all thanks to Will.
Stupid Will. Naive Will. Enabler Will.
Will who'd probably just murdered someone. Yeah, by proxy. But he'd armed Richard and set him off, and now whatever Richard did was on his shoulders, just as clear as if he pulled the trigger himself, because he was too stupid to trust his feelings, too keen to prove himself above it all, but none of them were above it. He saw that now. They were all going down here, all to be killed and damned. It was his luck to fall first.
Thanks for making it possible. Yes, Richard had good reason to thank him. The boy was almost to the turn in the path, shotgun held up over his shoulder like he was some old British infantryman. In a few moments, he'd be gone. Somebody else's problem.
Will only realized what he was doing as he steadily rose to his feet and started to move. This was rash. It was dangerous. But it was right.
He had to get the gun back. He had to shove the genie back into its bottle, kicking and screaming. He had to disarm Richard, because anything else would leave him no better than the boy.
Will's too-thin sneakers slapped against the gravel, faster and faster, and about a second before impact Richard apparently heard and realized what was happening, because he glanced over his shoulder and then spun, but it was too late. Will let out a cry and threw one arm around Richard and grabbed at the shotgun with the other.
Richard held tight to the weapon at first, but it didn't matter. Will had been so intently focused on his goal that he'd paid little to no attention to the practicalities of the situation, and the momentum of his charge and his lunge for the rifle was plenty to send Richard staggering backwards, Will following right along, right over the edge of the precipice.
Still clinging to the shotgun, the boys plunged over the lip of the path and tumbled down the ravine.
It was almost a relief when the gas began to hiss. Will had been very close to beginning to process what was happening, but the blissful unconsciousness freed him even of dreams.
"Rise and shine, Cinderella."
The sun was bright, so bright Will could see it through his eyelids. The ground beneath him was hard and rough, packed dirt maybe but peppered with gravel and small rocks that made his back twinge as sensation returned. The boot pressing into his ribs was steel-toed.
"C'mon. I'm not gonna kiss you."
The pressure withdrew, but a split second later returned in the form of a gentle kick. Unfortunately, there was still enough force behind the hefty boots to produce a sharp pain along Will's right side, and he moaned and rolled away from the impact, curling in on himself.
"Ouch," he half-whined, as his eyes snapped open. His roll had at least taken the sun directly out of his face, but what he saw brought him little comfort. He lay on a rough dirt trail, with scrubby grasses and weeds growing along and in it. A breeze rustled the vegetation. Down towards his feet was a duffel bag with something written on the side; he blinked, squinted, reached up and adjusted his glasses. The bag read "B22" and there was some sort of long wooden pole tucked under it. He blinked again.
He knew where he was, of course. He knew what had happened, or at least the broad brushstrokes. They had been taken, like that class from California five years ago. He hadn't followed it closely at the time—he'd been in eighth grade, and there'd been this real awareness floating around that it was a big deal, and his parents had said something about always remembering where they'd been when it came out just like on September Eleventh, but that was even further back when Will had just been a baby—and so really all he knew was that that Nick guy had been the only survivor and had had to kill some of his classmates and had gotten pretty messed up. And now he, Will, was here too, and could he do the same? No, it was absurd to even think about.
There was haze about so many of the details of the situation, but he found himself comforted by that moral certainty. He did not have to reach to find it. Murder was wrong, dead wrong. It was wrong in a way that made all his other crusades seem meaningless. He hadn't spent his life refusing to drink at parties only to turn around and bathe in the blood of some girl who sat behind him in math class.
But what if she was trying to bathe in his blood? What then, hm?
Then... then he would figure it out as it came. He'd do his best to try to keep himself safe, and others too, and that didn't mean running around killing the weak-minded.
The brightness above him dimmed. The shadow of a figure fell across him, and the twang of his ribs reminded him that, while certainly there were more pressing concerns in his life right now, the most immediate thing going on was that some guy had been trying to wake him up and had decided the best way was with a kick.
"Hey, man, you okay?" the figure asked. Male voice, kind of deep. Familiar, but of course it was; they'd only taken classmates. Will turned, but the sun behind the guy made him flinch.
"Fine," he said, "I'm fine." He raised a hand to shield his eyes and took in his companion and suddenly was struck by regret. He'd spoken too soon. He might not be fine at all. He was, after all, looking straight into the eyes of Richard Ormsby.
"Good. Need a hand?" Richard extended his hand without waiting for a response, and Will grasped it half out of instinct and half out of politeness. The boy's hand was large and rough and his grip was firm, and when Will was on his feet he had to angle his head up just a bit to meet Richard's gaze. He had never in his life stood so close to the boy before, and up until this very moment he'd been happy to keep it that way.
There was no beating around the bush: Richard Ormsby was a thug and a bully of the first degree. He wasn't necessarily the high-profile concentrated weapons-grade dick of, say, Adonis Alba, but he brought to the table a certain predatory cleverness that saw him slipping the hands of justice time and again. He was the sort who'd smash your locker closed on your hand, then apologize and offer to help you to the nurse, then tell you the next day you'd really better stay away from him because he was awfully clumsy and it'd be a real shame if that sort of accident happened again.
But right now, Richard was just a guy in a terrible situation, same as Will, and whatever Will might've thought of the boy back in Denton he was willing to at least tentatively set to the side in the face of the truly extraordinary circumstances in which they found themselves. He'd heard once, after all, that bullies lashed out because they were really afraid, and while he didn't put too much stock in that—Will knew what being afraid was like, and he knew what being frustrated was like, and yet he managed to not be a total prick to all he encountered—he did think that Richard was probably shaking in his (steel-toed) boots just like everyone else in their class. Will had also heard of lots of bad folks turning over a new leaf in times of real need, and while he wasn't gonna say a meth dealer was a hero just because the guy saved a baby or something, like that erased all other sin, he could admit that things weren't black and white and was totally down with Richard exposing a nicer side.
"Thanks," Will said, taking a step back. It helped make the height difference a little less apparent. It wasn't even that Richard was that big; Will was just sort of short, and it made him a little self conscious from time to time but again there were more pressing issues.
But he couldn't really think of what to say next. It was just too immense.
Richard didn't seem to have the same problem. He offered a pithy summation thusly: "Man, this shit's fucked."
"You can say that again." And it was true; Will for once didn't even secretly judge Richard for his casual foul-mouthedness. They really and truly were in about the most screwed up situation Will could have imagined.
"Guess it could've been worse," Richard said. "They could've just shot us like Dolph." He scratched at his back as he spoke. He was a stocky guy, wearing blue jeans and work boots and a white, untucked button-down shirt that was both out of place with the rest of his outfit and already slightly grimy with dust. Small sweat patches were visible by the armpits. His hair, however, was still perfectly in shape, giving his wide jaw and nose this almost painting-like quality. He held eye contact a lot better than Will did, and his eyes were very blue. It was like he'd spent half an hour staring at himself in the mirror, getting everything perfect, then gotten dressed in whatever was at the bottom of his dirty laundry pile.
"Yeah," Will said. "At least they didn't just shoot us. I guess."
He broke eye contact with Richard again and took in the lay of the land, partially to distract himself from the idea that really they all could've just been shot.
He and Richard were standing in the middle of this dirt path that snaked along a very steep slope that lay behind Richard and stretched far down; Will couldn't see exactly how far because of the angles and because the slope was studded with rock outcroppings, scraggly patches of undergrowth, and bushes. The part of the path that traveled upslope led to, in the distance, what looked like the sort of bridge Indiana Jones would barely make it across before it plummeted into the endless abyss. Will resolved not to go that way unless the alternative was truly dire. Downslope the path made a turn about three hundred feet away and vanished from sight. The side of the path that wasn't plunge was level enough, though did not look attractive as far as terrain to traverse went; even the path itself, come to think of it, gave the impression of having sat unused for a very long time. Will felt a flash of envy for Richard's heavy boots. His own sneakers weren't bad, but he could feel the uneven ground clearly through them, and he knew their soles were worn enough that he'd have to be a little careful to keep his balance.
Richard was shifting his weight a little, glancing around, but there was nobody else within sight. Will couldn't tell if the guy was on edge or just had excess energy—no, who was he kidding? Of course Richard was on edge. Anybody sane would be.
"You been up long?" Will asked him, figuring he might at least coax some information out of Richard since it seemed that, improbable as he'd've imagined it at any point prior, they were at the moment basically on the same side.
"Maybe fifteen minutes, half an hour," Richard said. "That gas shit laid me out. My head still feels a little fucked."
Will made a noise of sympathy, rubbing at his own temple. It was politeness more than anything else; he felt stiff and maybe a little bruised, but by and large fine. The breeze raised the hair on his arms and neck and kept his head clear. This could've been some resort island, a place his parents might've yearned to get away for a weekend retreat.
"I came from down that way," Richard said, gesturing vaguely along the path and around the corner. "Poked through my bag, saw I didn't get jack shit, and decided to get moving."
When he mentioned the bag, Will took note of it. It was sitting on the ground maybe a dozen feet behind Richard, a duffel bag just like the one next to Will, and surely these were the bags packed with their promised provisions.
That meant they might be armed. Richard had implied he wasn't, but as much as Will was pleasantly surprised by the boy's demeanor so far, he did not trust him completely. Not yet.
"You were lying there," Richard continued, "and I thought to myself, 'Hey, maybe ol' Will would rather I wake him up instead of leaving him there to get chewed up by the wildlife. And now here we are."
"Yeah," Will said. "I guess we are."
He paused for a moment. The breeze picked up a little.
"They didn't give you anything in your bag?" he said.
"Nah," Richard said. He turned, made his way back to the bag, hefted it, and then brought it over towards Will. Richard's movements were casual. He seemed totally unconcerned that Will might try something, and that actually went a good way towards putting Will at ease. They were in a really bad situation, in real danger, but if Richard Ormsby could be relaxed about everything then there was no way they were all going to fall right away.
Yeah, there would be violence. There would be death. Will wasn't an idiot. He knew that other class had been full of pretty normal people too, and they'd all panicked and killed and died. But things might be just a little different now. This wasn't a total aberration. He imagined almost everyone had asked themselves what they'd do. If those seemingly most likely to resort to violence were abstaining, then maybe they could at least stall more, run down the clock for the government to get things together and find them, save whoever they could.
"I mean, it's something, sure," Richard said, returning. He dropped the bag between himself and Will, and it landed more heavily than Will had expected, making a light clattering sound against the gravel. "See for yourself."
Will frowned, but Richard waved his hand, gesturing to look, so Will leaned over and unzipped the duffel bag. What he saw was not exactly what he'd call "nothing."
"Are these grenades?"
They sure looked like grenades. Four black cylinders, each with that ever-iconic handle and pin combo. It took a lot of self control to not jerk back and scramble away, but Richard seemed utterly nonchalant.
"Flash-bangs," he said. "That's what the manual says. The SWAT team uses these things to chase people out of buildings and stuff. I think all they do is make you blind and deaf for a while. And, you know, I'm pretty good at throwing stuff but where am I gonna use something like this and not catch myself in it? Pretty shit, you ask me."
"Ah," Will said. "I... see."
So maybe Richard was actually thinking a little bit more tactically than Will had originally given him credit for. That was a bit disappointing, but that was all. Not disturbing. Not surprising. Richard was scared.
"But at least that's good for protecting yourself, right?" Will said. "And maybe you could trick people into thinking they're the dangerous ones?"
Richard furrowed his brow for a moment, then smiled.
"Hey, that's pretty good, Will," he said. "That's pretty smart. I know they're trash, and you know they're trash, but if Asshole Alba or Lord Lombardi or whoever sees them, maybe they decide it's not worth starting anything."
Richard zipped the bag back up and pushed it to the side.
"Thanks, man," he continued. "Never would've thought of that."
"Oh, uh, no problem," Will said. Something about Richard's approval made him suddenly a lot more edgy, like there was something super obvious he was missing, but he couldn't put his finger on what. "Happy to help."
"And how 'bout you?" Richard asked.
"Oh," Will said. He looked back towards his bag. It had existed, at best, on the periphery of his consciousness, truth be told. "I don't actually know. I just woke up."
"Well, let's see it, then," Richard said. taking a step towards the bag. Then he stopped. "I mean, you know, if it's okay and all. If you'd rather wait, 's fine too."
"Oh," Will said again. He wasn't really fine with Richard poking through his stuff—well, the stuff that had been arbitrarily assigned to him, at least—at all, come to think of it. But he couldn't really place the reason for that lack of fineness. Richard had seemed nothing but well-intentioned thus far, and more than that he'd trusted Will enough to let him dig around and tell him the grenades weren't dangerous. So if Will was feeling some ambivalence here, it was in all likelihood due to the situation. Here he was worrying about others falling prey to psychological trickery, and he was the one right about to distrust a guy who could've smashed his face in with a rock and had instead poked him awake. And Richard was being perfectly respectful.
So Will pushed that slick and slimy feeling to the side and forced himself to intone, "No, that's fine. Bring it over."
Richard picked up the bag, but then he and Will both saw at the same time what was under it, what Will had at first thought was some kind of stick.
It was a rifle.
It looked old, wooden, but still frightfully real. It was the sort of thing he'd seen in textbooks, the sort of thing a soldier might be cradling as he stormed the beaches at Normandy. Richard pursed his lips like he was going to whistle, failed to do so in two attempts, then said, "Wow. You lucked out."
"I don't know about that," Will said. Richard knelt and scooped up the rifle and Will felt a twinge of anxiety, but then Richard walked over and held the gun out to Will, who took it. It was solid, smooth, cool. Heavy.
"See, this is the real deal," Richard said. Will nodded and swallowed. Then, hesitantly, he lifted the gun up, taking hold of it like he might were he to shoot, sighting down the barrel. His finger moved towards the trigger.
"Whoa there." Richard reached up, gently took hold of the gun, and guided its barrel down. "No telling if that's loaded."
"Yeah, oh, yeah," Will said. "Yeah, right, shoot. I'm sorry."
He let his stance relax, pulling his finger away from the trigger.
"It's okay," Richard said. "Just be careful. This isn't a toy."
"Right," Will said. "Sorry."
"Don't worry about it," Richard said. "Let's just take it easy and see what you've got here."
They sat down and opened the duffel bag, and soon they found a box of shells, two magazines, a manual that labeled the weapon as a "Winchester Model 1897," as well as a map and an assortment of food and medical supplies. Will squinted at the map as Richard paged through the manual. It looked like the island was of decent size, and the labels gave Will some pause.
"Tar pits," he mumbled to himself.
It looked like there wasn't much in the way of civilization here. If he had to guess, he'd say there'd been some sort of mining operation in this place, but he couldn't begin to guess at its product. He looked around at the grasses and gravel and the far side of the steep valley, which was equally overgrown and scraggly, as if he might see gold glinting or some other obvious sign. There was nothing.
"Yep. It's loaded," Richard said, looking up. "That right there's the magazine. This thing's a shotgun."
"A shotgun?" Will said. He looked at the gun in his lap. You didn't aim a shotgun like a rifle, did you? He was pretty sure shotguns were powerful.
He didn't actually know the first thing about shotguns.
"Yeah," Richard said. "Some old-school thing. Should work fine. We can do some target practice later if you want."
"I think I'm good," Will said. The shotgun felt heavy in his lap. It made everything feel more real. What would have happened if he'd pulled the trigger? He hadn't been aiming it at anyone, but how easily things could've gone wrong. He'd heard of bullets flying long distances and killing bystanders. Or what if it'd made some tremendous noise and caused a rockslide? And even putting that aside, once he pulled that trigger, he'd know he could do it. If he fired the gun, it meant he could kill. Not emotionally or mentally or whatever—he couldn't imagine murdering someone—but physically.
"Think about it," Richard said. "A shotgun's not gonna do you any good if you won't touch the thing."
"I guess." Will looked at the map again.
They sat there for some time like that, Richard flipping through the manual, Will examining everything else. Will became aware of the ambient sounds of the slope, a faint buzzing of insects, periodic calls of seagulls, a far-off lap of waves. The air was heavy and humid and salty, though not as much as it was at the beach back in Denton.
Denton was a terrible city, but oh how he missed it. They'd been gone less than a day.
Richard folded up the manual and tucked it back into the bag.
"Well," he said, "what now, Will?"
"What now?" Will looked at him. Richard's eyes were closed, but they snapped open a second later and Will again broke eye contact. "What do you mean what now?"
"I mean, what're you gonna do?" Richard said. "You planning to gun your way out of here?"
"No," Will said. "Jesus, no. No. I don't think hurting anyone's the right choice. Not at all."
Richard nodded. "Glad you see it that way."
They said nothing for a second. The insect noise got louder, or maybe the relative silence it occupied grew more obvious.
"But," Richard continued, "that's just a thing you're not gonna do. So what about what you are gonna do?"
Will had to think for a while on that.
"I don't know," he said. "I figure it's probably, you know, I think probably the safest thing is to just find somewhere to hide and wait. I mean, we may all be out of luck. Maybe we'll just d—we're just doomed. But I think if we try to keep it under control then maybe someone'll come and save us."
It sounded pretty weak, laid out like that. Will felt absolutely no confidence in their prospects of rescue, but what else could he do?
"And what about you?" he said. And then he surprised himself by looking Richard square in the face and adding, "You can come with if you want."
Now it was Richard who turned away, looking out across the ravine.
"I wish I could, man," he said. "I sure do wish I could."
"That sounds like you can't."
He chuckled. "Smart guy. Yeah, I have a few people I need to look for first. People who might, you know, do something..." He wiped at his nose, snorted slightly. "...rash."
Will swallowed.
"Oh," he said. "Yeah. That makes sense. Good... um, good luck, Richard."
"Yeah," Richard said. "Thanks. I'll do my best. I should probably get moving, really."
He stood, hoisted his own bag, took two steps. Then he stopped, and turned back to Will. His lips were pursed, and he seemed to be struggling with something.
"You okay?" Will asked.
"Will," Richard said, "I've got a thought. And you can say no. It's totally fine if you say no."
Will didn't say anything. Richard shifted, glanced around, looked at his feet, but then he raised his gaze to Will once more.
"Will," he said, "how 'bout a trade?"
"A trade?"
"Yeah," Richard said. "It's fine if you say no. But I was thinking, if you're just gonna hide out, maybe you'd be better off with something more defensive, like those grenades I got. And if I'm gonna be looking for dangerous people, you know... might be good to be able to watch my back, just in case."
Will almost said no right on the spot. It wasn't rational—there was not one rational thing about it—but the gun was heavy and real in his lap and it was powerful, powerful in that way where it meant anything was possible, and Richard had been a total asshole back at P. J. Hobbs, and did Will really trust him with a shotgun? And yet, that was the situation speaking again. That was the paranoia, the mistrust they were sowing on purpose. That was how they would die.
Will pulled his own bag closer, unzipped it again, and pulled out the box of cartridges. He turned it over in his hand once, then held it out to Richard.
"Alright," he said.
Richard blinked.
"Really?" he said. "I mean, uh, you sure, man?"
"I'm sure I'm sure."
Richard plucked the box of shells from Will's grasp, transferred it to his own bag, and soon had taken possession of the magazines as well. Will paused only a moment before handing over the shotgun.
As it left his lap, it felt like a weight beyond the physical one had been lifted. The gun was gone. It was Richard's problem now. Will would never have to worry about firing it, about even the vaguest possibility of killing anyone. The grenade Richard handed to him was heavy in its own right, but only in a material sense.
"I only need a couple," Will said, holding up his hand as Richard tried to pass him a third grenade. "You keep the rest. Trick someone if you have to. Keep your options open, you know."
"You sure?" Richard said again. Will nodded, and Richard nodded back. "Thanks."
Then he turned and set off down the path. He'd made it maybe fifteen feet when he paused. He stood for a long time, back to Will, looking out at nothing.
"You're too good," he finally said.
"What?" Will's butt was getting sore, and he'd sort of started to glaze over Richard's inexplicable pause, but now his focus honed in again.
"You're way too good," Richard said again. "Man, you know, I always thought you were a smug dick back at school. A whole lot holier than everyone else." He laughed.
The hair was rising on Will's arms and neck again.
"I mean," he said, through suddenly-dry lips, "I've got to admit, I didn't think too highly of you either. I guess first impressions can be deceiving."
"Maybe," Richard said. Then he spun, shotgun held leveled. Will's eyes widened as he looked down the barrel.
"I should shoot you," Richard said.
"What?"
"Not to be an asshole or anything. The opposite, really." Richard managed to shrug his shoulders in a way that let the gun bob only the slightest bit. "You're too good. You're gonna get eaten alive."
Will chuckled a little, though there was nothing even vaguely funny about this turn in his fortunes.
"What are you talking about?" he said, when he'd finally composed himself a little.
"You just gave me a gun," Richard said. "You gave me a gun and you let me keep those grenades and you just rolled with it. And now look where you are."
"Not exactly where I'd like to be, no," Will said. They both laughed.
"I'm not gonna die here," Richard said, snapping out of it first. "I'm not gonna just gun down everyone I see, but I'm gonna do what I have to. I can do what I have to now, thanks to you. If I see someone I can pop to better my chances, you better believe I'm gonna."
"Oh," Will said.
"Maybe you're right. Maybe someone'll come and save us. I hope they do. I hope you're somewhere safe and sound, because, man, if there's anyone who deserves to get out of this alive, it's a boy scout like you."
Richard paused.
"But who deserves to get out and who does... I don't think those things'll have much to do with each other," he continued.
"We should calm down," Will said. "Put the gun down. We can talk about this, and go find a spot together."
"Hell no I'm not putting the gun down," Richard said. "You run and hide, Will. You stay safe. If it's not me, I hope it's you. Doubt it will be, but I can hope. Me, I've got some work to do. Thanks for making it possible. Stay safe."
Then he turned and started walking again, one slow step after another.
It took about three seconds for it all to come crashing down on Will. He'd lied. Richard had lied through his teeth, played Will like a fiddle. Now he had a gun and grenades and was off to start murdering. And it was, just like he'd said, all thanks to Will.
Stupid Will. Naive Will. Enabler Will.
Will who'd probably just murdered someone. Yeah, by proxy. But he'd armed Richard and set him off, and now whatever Richard did was on his shoulders, just as clear as if he pulled the trigger himself, because he was too stupid to trust his feelings, too keen to prove himself above it all, but none of them were above it. He saw that now. They were all going down here, all to be killed and damned. It was his luck to fall first.
Thanks for making it possible. Yes, Richard had good reason to thank him. The boy was almost to the turn in the path, shotgun held up over his shoulder like he was some old British infantryman. In a few moments, he'd be gone. Somebody else's problem.
Will only realized what he was doing as he steadily rose to his feet and started to move. This was rash. It was dangerous. But it was right.
He had to get the gun back. He had to shove the genie back into its bottle, kicking and screaming. He had to disarm Richard, because anything else would leave him no better than the boy.
Will's too-thin sneakers slapped against the gravel, faster and faster, and about a second before impact Richard apparently heard and realized what was happening, because he glanced over his shoulder and then spun, but it was too late. Will let out a cry and threw one arm around Richard and grabbed at the shotgun with the other.
Richard held tight to the weapon at first, but it didn't matter. Will had been so intently focused on his goal that he'd paid little to no attention to the practicalities of the situation, and the momentum of his charge and his lunge for the rifle was plenty to send Richard staggering backwards, Will following right along, right over the edge of the precipice.
Still clinging to the shotgun, the boys plunged over the lip of the path and tumbled down the ravine.