Everyone Dies in the End #13

Artemis

1

“You can’t stay here.” The Chunky Guy’s voice wasn’t demanding or even commanding, it was flat, matter of fact.

They were ten minutes past the amazing healing of his arm.  Ten incredulous minutes, filled with questions, peppered with doubt, but gradually colored by acceptance. He knew no more about the how or why than he had ten minutes ago. Why did she heal the arm? Well, that was because she was Susan. That was what she did; she cared for things, healed things, made them better. He knew that before she ever touched him. How did she do it? He didn’t have a clue, and wasn’t really sure that Susan did either. She dodged his questions, answering them with shrugs and broken eye contact. He accepted it, at last. It wasn’t like he had a choice; it was obvious that whatever she had done was her own secret.

            “Why not?” asked Artemis, answering the flat declaration. Chunky Guy remained in the door, leaning against the bent sill, dividing his attention between Susan, Artemis, and the street outside, shotgun at the ready. Artemis stood beside him, eyes searching the street for whatever worried his new found compadre, right hand massaging his arm. It wasn’t that it hurt, it just, well…it just felt strange.  Susan sat by the main store window, which was only a window in name, any hint of glass long since blasted out of it.

Chunky Guy turned his attention to Artemis, his face impassive, the silence a bit too long for Artemis’s comfort. Then again he doubted the purpose of the stare was to comfort him. “You’re a piece of work, gamer boy. You don’t have any clue who that is?” He pointed at Spike’s body lying in a pool of its own blood and bodily wastes.

Artemis shrugged, “Should I?”

Chunky Guy took a quick step toward Artemis and backhanded him. Hard. Stars exploded in front of Artemis, and he guessed the coppery taste in his mouth wasn’t a good sign. He dropped his hand to the still-holstered 9mm, but chunky Guy leveled the shotgun at his face.

“No,” screamed Susan, jumping to her feet, her voice echoing shrilly against the Best Buy walls.

The shotgun didn’t waver. “”Relax, Nurse Nightingale, I’m not a murderer.” The shotgun lowered,  “Yeah, pimple face, you ought to freaking know.”  He pointed at Spikey with his chin. “That’s Kill Dog’s kid brother.”

Artemis formed the question, “who…”

“Don’t!” Chunky Guy held up an interrupting hand. “Don’t ask who the hell Kill Dog is. I don’t want to slap you again, my hand’s already sore.”

Artemis shrugged, and Susan raised an eyebrow.

Chunky Guy shook his head. “He wasn’t kidding.” He pointed the shotgun at the bloody body that was Spikey. “His brother does own Charlotte. At least he owns it now. Kill Dog is a bad, bad hombre. Used to be the muscle for Jimmy the Bookie, a,” Chunky Guy coughed into his hand, “a friend of mine.” He checked the safety on the shotgun. “Sort of.”

“But Kill Dog is the man now. He has the people, the weapons, the food, and…” He tapped the floor with the butt of his shotgun, “when he finds out that you killed his brother, he’s gonna have your head on a blood-stained platter.”

“Hey,” Susan protested, her voice small against the memory of Chunky Guy’s booming baritone. She touched her chest, “We didn’t kill him,” and then she pointed accusingly at Chunky Guy, “you did.”

“I tell you what, Tat. Kill Dog isn’t the real discriminatory type. When he finds out little brother is dead, he’ll just kill everyone that was anywhere near this Best Buy in the last week and let God figure out who was guilty. So yeah, none of us are safe.”

Susan shuffled back to the window before replying. “So what should we do?”

“Yeah, what do we do?” echoed Artemis.

Chunky Guy snorted, the exhalation his approximation of a laugh.” That’s easy. What do we do? We run.”

“Together?” Susan was looking at him now. He looked back and grinned. “Why not? There’s strength in numbers, or so they used to say.” Chunky Guy scanned the store.” You Guys get your stuff, we don’t have any time to waste.”

“Yeah, sure, sure, but one thing,” Artemis replied. “What’s you name?” Chunky Guy stopped in the middle of the door, and turned back, his face impassive. “Todd. My name’s Todd.”

2

 John Dipple, the guy referred to as Spikey, opened an eye. It wasn’t easy. Every breath was a struggle, the shotgun’s pellets had torn into his chest, but he knew it looked worse than it was. Shotgun wounds always looked that way. He knew, he’d inflicted more than his share. The boy, the man, and the girl were gone, but their faces were etched in his memory. They were faces he wouldn’t forget, faces he would remember till the day he put them in the ground. John Dipple closed his eyes. He needed to rest. His big brother, Kill Dog, would send people to look for him, and they would find him, and Kill Dog would make him better, and then he would kill that boy, that man, and that girl.