It’s easier to leave.
It’s always easier to leave.
Go back to Monterey, de-anchor your boat and set sail.
Feel the wind combing through your hair again.
Taste the sea salt on your tongue.
Hold the sextant in your hand and let the world be your oyster.
Don’t die for one woman when millions are still yet to be discovered. You have countries to see. New seas to sail.
I fixate the gun in my hand and fire with a steady hand. A man drops dead in front of me, his chest becoming a wine-red color as the blood gushes out of his heart. It’s the most color I’ve seen on men like him since stepping foot into this place.
I keep a watchful eye on Otis and make sure nobody is sneaking him away. I have a responsibility to protect both of them. I want to stick around and be involved in their lives.
Growing up parentless scares you out of wanting to become one yourself.
But seeing Otis being exposed to all of this violence makes me want to be a father, to be there for the nightmares when they inevitably come, to show him that the world doesn’t have to be the same one I grew up living in.
I stride forward and steal my dead opponent’s gun. Now with a gun in each hand, I feel unstoppable. I shoot down more men and climb over dead ones to reach the lucky few who are still on their feet.
Our backup arrives at the right time, joining the scene, all guns blazing, to kill more of the rodents. More seem to appear out of nowhere, as if they have the magic ability to regenerate and climb back onto their feet.
“Carmen,” Vex mumbles to me when we’re back to being shoulder-to-shoulder. “I’ll ward the O’Neills off with the others. You go and find her.”
The rusting shipping containers must contain something. I map a route and start heading over there. The walk is interrupted several times. I dive to the floor, army-crawl for a meter, and scramble back up to my feet. And repeat the above multiple times.
On my fourth repeat, army-crawling through a tangle of legs, I see Carter’s face.
He’s down.
Bad.
“Shit,” I curse, fighting my way over to him.
His teeth are gritted in agony, eyes opening and closing as the pain crashes over him. I peel back his eyelid and whack his face.
“Now’s not a good time for you to think about dying, mate.”
His pupils roll back into his head.
After a few more slaps to his face, I manage to recenter them.
“Stop fucking around. This doesn’t end until we have Otis and Carmen.”
“You got any fucking acetaminophen? Or morphine?” He gestures weakly over to his thigh, where a bullet has shot straight into his leg.
The wound is weeping with a concerning substance. And way too much blood. There’s a worrying pool of it on the floor.
And that’s when I see a second bullet wound further down on his calf.
“Both…still inside.”
“There’s no time to remove the bullets now.” I survey my own bloody hands. “They’ll get infected.”
“Might be…t-too late for that.” Carter unclenches his jaw, his eyelids shutting again.
