Fear Itself

Without warning, the soldiers opened fire, drenching the room in a spray of bullets. The dancers quite literally dropped me in their frenzy to get out of dodge. I couldn’t blame them. If the drop hadn’t knocked the wind out of me, I would’ve bolted too. Instead, I laid sputtering, attempting to roll over and crawl to safety.

Screams pierced from every angle: from the dancers, from the guests, from the staff. Blood spilled across the ballroom floor, and I stared, frozen in terror, until I was dragged to my feet and pulled behind one of the large prop columns by the front of the stage.

“Princess, do what you’re told for once, and stay down,” Avery grumbled, loading his pistol and glancing around before ducking out into the open to fire a few shots. Larson had taken cover behind a column on the opposite side of the stage. The sound of gunfire didn’t cease. When one soldier stopped to reload, another had already started to fire again. It was a constant stream of death, and there was no way in hell I was looking. I wouldn’t dare poke my head out from behind the column. Avery was right. If I stayed, I would be safe. He always made sure of that.

My body had fallen into full tremors at just the things I was hearing. One of the shoulders shouted that they’d spotted Casper Collins, followed by the sound of something falling over and several pieces of glass shattering against the tiled floor. More gun fire. More glass breaking. More screams. More death. I moaned and whimpered, rocking slightly as I clenched my eyes shut and covered my ears with clenched fists, but even that couldn’t stop the noises. When would they stop?

Every inch of my body began to hurt, and I had to gasp for every breath I drew. Even through the barrier my hands had created, my ears caught the sound of thick melting clanging, and my eyes shot open as a militiaman dropped beside me. Chandler stood just over my shoulder with a folding chair in his hands, looking a mixture of exasperated and excited all at once. “You do this all the time?” he asked breathlessly. “What a rush!”

Chandler dropped the chair to hike himself over the lip of the stage. “C’mon, now,” he murmured, helping to steady me as I scrambled to my feet. “They’re leaving without us, gotta run.” Avery stepped away from the column, keeping watch. Larson had disappeared, and Alex stood in his place. He whistled to me and waved us over.

“Gotta move, T!” he called, then exited through the wings and into a nearby door only illuminated by the red glow of an exit sign hanging above.

Chandler, Avery, and I all dashed for the door, when it occurred to me that Chandler was not a part of this plan. “What are you doing?” I asked as we pressed through the door and began hurriedly down the stairs. “Chandler, you aren’t supposed to be here.”

“Don’t worry,” he assured me, tugging me along a faded white hallway, where the rest of our group was waiting around a small explosive device similar to what we’d used to blow up League towers but much larger, about the size of a bass drum.

Dean shoved his way out of the group and stumbled over with a dazed look on his face. His mouth fell open at the sight of Chandler. “Mate, what are you doing, you aren’t—“

“I was saving your wife,” Chandler scoffed. “You can thank me later.” He glanced around. “It looks like everything’s under control here, so what’s phase two?”

“Get outta dodge,” Casper laughed as he skirted out from around the massive homemade bomb. “And fast.”

“Fair enou—“ Chandler’s voice was interrupted by the sound of weight crashing into the chain-locked double doors far down the hallway.

“Come quietly!” threatened the booming voice of what sounded like a militiaman. There was no way to know for sure, but the rigid enunciation and barking tone sounded militaristic enough.

Dean swore under his breath, and his head snapped to Alex, who was still fiddling with the wiring. “Eyebrows, you almost done yet?”

“The wire’s loose,” Alex explained quickly, shouting over the sound of the militia barking from behind the door and trying to break it down. “I need a few minutes.”

“We don’t have a few minutes give you,” Dean snapped. “Now, Alex. Now.”

Alex scoffed, still trying to reconnect the wire to the receiver. “Well, if you’d like to come fix this, by all means. Until then, you can try to buy us some time, or this bomb’s never goin’ off.” His fingers were fumbling. Despite his attitude, he was just as nervous as the rest of us were.

Dean huffed as he walked past Alex, closing the set of double doors at the beginning of the hall, leaving the open stretch closed off on both sides. “Alex, you gotta hurry,” he persisted.

“I’m trying,” Alex said through gritted teeth.

Everyone was watching Alex, but Chandler’s eyes laid dead ahead, staring down the hall at the chained doors, opening wider and wider with every shove from the line of the militia outside. The chains stretched around the door handles. Time was running short, and Alex was faltering under the pressure.

“Somebody give me a gun,” Chandler piped up, holding out his hand, waiting for somebody to oblige him, but everyone was frozen. Why did Chandler want a gun? What in the world could he possibly do with a gun right now? We stood in stunned silence as Alex continued trying to fix the explosive, and Chandler’s hand stayed extended, waiting. Tension hung in the air, and the only sound was the rhythmic pounding of bodies bashing against the doors like a beating drum. “Well?” he continued impatiently, stretching his hand out.

Dean’s face was pallid and flushed as his eyes fixed on Chandler’s out-stretched hand like he couldn’t believe what he was seeing. Tendons stood out on his neck, pulsing in time with his heartbeat. His walk was stiff, and his knees locked when he strode over to Chandler and grabbed him tightly by the forearm. His voice was but a whisper when he asked, “What do you think you’re doing, Chandler?” Another bang against the doors made him flinch.

Thoughtfully, Chandler looked up at him. “Buying you time,” he explained softly. He smiled but it was forced, watery.

“No, mate, no,” Dean refused, shaking his head. “You’re not gonna—no, you can’t.”

“C’mon, Dean,” Chandler insisted softly. “Give me your gun. Get everyone out of here.”

Dean shook his head again. “No, you—“

“Dean, I’m staying,” Chandler told him with a light voice. He wasn’t taking no for answer. He wasn’t even letting Dean argue. It was clear that Chandler had made up his mind, and once Chandler made up his mind, there was no going back.

“Why?” Dean asked incredulously.

“Somebody’s got to, mate.”

“Not you,” Dean protested. “Not you.” This wasn’t even Chandler’s fight. What in the world was he thinking?

“Come on,” Chandler laughed half-heartedly. “What am I gonna do in ten years? Probably sew some more dresses. But you…” Chandler turned his head and glanced to me for a moment. “You’ve got a future to save. You’re going to change the world.”

In the silence that followed, Avery’s feet thumped against the cement ground to place a handgun in Chandler’s hand. “Thank you,” Chandler muttered, and Avery just gave him a nod. Dean tried to grab it from him, but Chandler withdrew his hand quicker than Dean could steal the weapon. “Tell Gabe I love him, Dean.”

No. No, those were the wrong words. That’s not what Chandler was supposed to say. Chandler was supposed to say something witty, something cheerful, something… something that wasn’t that. My eyes began to water and sting as I pulled my sunglasses off of my face to watch. A million words raced through my head, but no words were coming out of my mouth. Chandler stepped around Dean and began to stride toward the doors.

Dean reached out and grabbed Chandler’s shoulder. “You can tell him yourself,” he said. Chandler’s head slowly turned over his shoulder to look at Dean with a soft smile. He placed a hand over Dean’s and hummed a chuckle. His head dropped as he nodded.

“Right,” he murmured.

“I’m gonna see you soon, mate,” Dean said. “Everything’s gonna be okay.” I couldn’t tell whether he was saying that to reassure Chandler or to reassure himself.

“Yeah,” Chandler laughed. He gingerly removed the glasses from his face and tucked them on the collar of his shirt. “I’ll be waiting at the bar. Our usual spot.” His smile widened a little. “Don’t rush,” Chandler insisted. “Drink’s on me when you get there.”

Chandler slipped out of Dean’s grasp when Dean strode back to Alex. He rested his hand on the door, ready to push it open, but I surged forward to hug him. “Don’t,” I begged him quietly. “Please, don’t. You don’t have to, Chandler, somebody else can go.” My chest rattled under the weight of my uneven breaths. “This isn’t your cause,” I squeaked. “You don’t… you shouldn’t…” A sob forced it’s way up my throat and cut me off, but Chandler hugged me tight. Warmth radiated from his arms and soaked my skin. He leaned in so close that his lips brushed my ear.

“Don’t you worry about me,” he assured me. “Everything’s going to work out, remember?” He smiled, and I simply nodded. “Good. You make sure you take care of him, okay?” he asked. “You look after him for me. If you ever promise me anything, promise me you’ll make sure he’s okay.”

“I will,” I murmured. I wouldn’t dream of doing anything less.

“I knew I could count on you,” Chandler mused. He pulled my wig off and tossed it on the ground to run a hand over my hair. “And you stay lovely. This world needs hope,” he whispered. “Dean needs hope.”

“Okay.” I nodded against Chandler’s shoulder just before he pulled away from me. With his back to me, he started down the hallway. I wanted to scream for him to come back, but I couldn’t even breathe. My chest was tight, and tears leaked from my eyes. Dean stood to my left, staring blankly out the doors, watching. I wished he wouldn’t watch. I wished Chandler would turn around and come back, tell us this was all some kind of sick joke. But it wasn’t. He continued with his shoulders rolled back, standing tall as he readied his firearm.

A beep sounded from nearby, and Alex exclaimed, “Got it!”

Distracted, Dean did a double-take before looking at him. “Armed?”

“Got thirty seconds,” Alex replied.

The sound of the chains breaking echoed through the hall and into the room. “No time,” Cas interjected, saving us all from looking. “Gotta go, guys. Like pronto.”

Just as we turned the horrific sound of gunfire shook the building, and I had to grab Dean by the arm and tug him away before he froze or decided to charge in there. Fighting the sorrow shaking my lungs, I pressed forward, and we all charged out the doors, taking haven just far enough to escape the blast radius. From behind a nearby building, we heard the building collapse, but Chandler never came back.

“He’s coming,” Dean insisted. “Don’t go anywhere, we have to wait for him.”

Minutes passed, and still nothing. I had never seen Dean so shaken, not by anything. I had seen him weak before, but I had never seen him broken. Right now, he was shattered. I could see it in the grave look on his face, the worried twitch in his lips, and the way his fingers trembled. Ignoring any protests from the rest of the group, Dean eventually burst into a full sprint back toward the building, which now laid in ruin.

I followed after him, not paying attention to Alex or Avery in their protests, not paying attention to my churning stomach or my throbbing skull. I followed him down the streets, followed him into the charred put that used to be Buckingham Palace, a glorious piece of architecture that stood proudly just moments ago. Now, it was nothing but smoldering ash and blocks of cement scattered among charred dirt and burned grass.

Dean slid down the side and into the bottom, and I stumbled along after him, even as he charged forward into the mess, beginning to tear apart the rubble, searching every body and every pile of debris. “Dean!” I called out, trying to get him to slow down for five seconds, trying to catch up, but he didn’t listen, respond, or even waver in his pursuit. He continued feet ahead of me, even when I had to stop to catch my breath and stop the scene from spinning in front of me.

When I lifted my head, Dean dropped to his knees before a pile of what used to be the roof. He began to desperately shove the contents of the piles away in whichever direction he could until he pulled up a body: a slender man in a suit. My heart froze in my chest as Dean pulled the porous body closer to him. I could see the other side of the city through the holes in his chest.

My stomach gurgled and a burning sensation rushed through my throat. Doubling over, I retched and spewed stomach acid into the rubble, and once I regained myself, I stumbled toward my husband and the corpse of his best friend.

“I can’t patch you up, mate,” Dean confessed in a shaking voice. His breath hitched as he laid the body against him, propping him against his legs and straightening his tie, trying to fix him. Dean tucked loose bits of Chandler’s shirt back into his waistband and even tucked his hair back into his place. Just steps away, I could see Chandler’s lifeless green eyes staring blank up at the sky: void of that ambitious gleam, void of that cheery sparkly, void of life, soul, and spirit.

Dean’s chest sputtered, and his shoulders shook when I placed my hands on them. “Babe,” I murmured, hoping maybe he’d calm down, hoping in some way I could fix this, but I couldn’t bring Chandler back. I couldn’t go back in time. All I could do was wish that I was dreaming, wish that this was some terrible nightmare, but the smell of ash and death told me otherwise.

His shoulders drooped, and he began to cry immediately when he looked at his phone. “11:50,” he sputtered through his sobs. “It’s May 4th, 11:50 PM.” He sobbed harder now, hunched over the body of his best friend. “Just… ten minutes, and he… he never made it to thirty.”

“I know,” I said softly, kneeling beside him, trying not to seem sad, trying to be strong for Dean like I had promised Chandler, but it was harder than I ever could have imagined. I just tried not to look at Chandler, tried to keep my eyes on Dean as much as I could. “He didn’t want to.”

Dean managed a nod. Nearby, Chandler’s sunglasses laid on the ground with one lens popped out, sitting inches a way. I reached over and gave them to Dean, who sniffled as he fixed the glasses and set them back on Chandler’s face.

Reluctantly, I squeezed Dean’s shoulder. “Come on, babe,” I whispered. “Let’s take him home.” He nodded, and I leaned over to kiss his cheek. “Good.”

He scooped Chandler gently up in his arms, careful not to knock anything out of place. We carried him back to the base like that, and we laid him on the bed in my office. Dean and I sat against the wall, where I held him when he finally broke down and collapsed into tears.