Status: yes, it's slow-paced. sorry//new layout??//not on hiatus, I'm just depressed and busy

Brothers/Sisters

13/A very large library, with at least one bear.

Again, I’m move to put out the fire. Again, I stop.

Instead, I shuffle over to Jason on my knees, smearing my jeans with grass and dirt.

“Jason,” I say. It comes out as a loud whisper; there’s just something about the darkness around us, the way it presses in while it’s just the two of us, that makes me feel like like it’d be sacrilegious to speak any louder. Like a library. A very large library, with at least one bear.

He inhales sharply, caught in a dream, but he doesn’t move. I scoot back a little, wondering if I should wake him up. I rationalize. He should be fine; squirming a little, I notice that he’s got the Glock in its holster again, magazine and all. It’s bear repellent, all right.

Carina. The two went to highschool together. Maybe he knows something that I don’t, something that’ll console her.

I’m bent over Jason, wondering how hard to poke or slap him to wake him up, when something shuffles in the trees behind us, behind the tents. I jump at first, but reassure myself that it’s probably Carina or Ask or someone else who stomped off to the forest to cry. Harsh. Sometimes, I wish you could take thoughts back. Carina’s got good reason. Besides, I don’t even know if Ask cries. That’s actually kind of sad.

I see a shadow move in the trees, silhouetted by the faint flicker of someone else’s campground, and relax a bit. Definitely human, though I can’t tell who. Whoever it is, they’re not very tall—five-foot-five, max—so it could be Ask or Carina. Or just a random person from a campsite on the other side of the thicket of trees, come to pee or smoke or something.

Snap. A bigger branch, echoing like a gunshot. More: snap, snap, sn—

Something slams into my forehead from under me. I recoil, seeing stars, constellations that don’t exist.

“Ow!”

“Sorry, man,” Jason says, rubbing his own head. “Geez, you’ve got a thick skull.”

“Thanks.”

“No, I—”

I’m cut off; we’re close enough to the trees to hear several more snaps, followed by the dull thud of someone—or something—hitting the ground. There’s a brief flash of that same red light from earlier—one of those flashlights or headlamps that’s supposed to preserve your night vision—but it goes out instantly. Someone shouts, but I don’t recognize the voice.

Jason jumps to his feet and pulls out the Glock.

“Hey!” I say, still quiet. I scramble to stand, wobbling and tingly; my leg fell asleep from sitting too long. “What are you doing?”

“Where are the others?” Jason hisses, looking around. “Ash? Car?”

“Ask,” I say.

“What?” He’s a couple feet away from me, back turned toward the trees. I realize what he’s doing.

“Hey, don—”

CRACK.

The sound is almost like a pop, if you’re not listening hard enough (we weren’t), followed by an echo. Yeah, that’s a gun. Even Jason flinches.

But the damn golden retriever keeps going, ducking down and into the tall grass to avoid catching the attention of the shooter. Against my better judgement, I’m right behind him.

“What the hell are you doing?” I whisper, right next to him. This time, whisper isn’t the right word. It’s more strangled than that. High-pitched, even for me. Jason swings the Glock back and forth, his left arm perfectly straight, his right hand acting as cushion under the gun. He doesn’t reply immediately, so I tug at his sleeve. “Dude, you can’t just pull some white boy in a horror movie shit here. That’s how you get shot.”

He shakes me off. “Unless I shoot him first.”

“You don’t even—”

Jason turns to me, his face impassive. “Then go. Hide. But what if that’s Carina?”

But when he turns back to the trees, he’s shaking. Sure, his arm’s still straight, and his posture is perfect despite his hunched-over position, but I can see the gun twitch as if it’s got a mind of its own. I realize that he doesn’t actually want me to hide. Even though it’s dark, I can see the growing sweat stain that rings his shirt collar. So I follow, because I never claimed to be smart.

It feels like hours before we’re in the trees, but it’s probably less than thirty seconds. Compared to Jason, who glides gracefully through the grass, I feel like a bull, slipping and sliding over still-slick mud. Like my awkwardness will ruin it for us. Whatever it is. But when we get to the trees, the scuffle isn’t over. Jason stops. I can feel something crawling up my leg, and—despite my best efforts—I let out a small gasp. Jason’s eyes widen. He draws a finger across his throat. I bite my lip. God, we’re stupid.

It’s dark, but I’m able to make out a clearing about ten feet from us where all the noise is coming from, where the two figures have momentarily converged.

Not for long. There’s a whack, followed by a loud grunt. Someone just got elbowed in the nose. The second person falls forward and dives at the ground, scrambling toward something on the far side of the clearing, something that glints in the moonlight: a handgun.

But the one still standing jumps over the diver and gets to it first.

Jason makes to stand, but I pull him down. I don’t know why, but it doesn’t feel right. Still, the noise we make earns us a glance, at least in our general direction; I can see the whites of his eyes narrow in the dim light, and a small trickle of dark against his pale face. I swear he sees me, that we lock eyes, but he just shifts his attention to something else that moves in the grass to our left.

All in a matter of seconds.

But we’ve given the diver enough time, because the bloody-nosed man kicks at some empty bushes and a clump of grass in front of him, cursing. Whoever broke his nose was able to get away quickly and quietly. The bloody-nosed man stalks into the trees, and we lose sight of him. I breathe.

Neither Jason nor I speak. We don’t move. Not yet, though I can’t tell what we’re waiting for. A soft wind rustles the pines above; a cloud blocks some of the light. I reach down to pull what I suspect to be a tick from my leg, but I freeze when I feel a clammy hand press itself against my mouth.

My first instinct is to bite down, but—

“Garrett.” The voice is soft, almost inaudible. I know Jason hears it too, though, because he’s close enough that I can feel him relax next to me.

“Ask?” he says. “Where’s Car?”

“We need to get out of here.” Ask tugs at my arm, pulling me back to the campsite. “We need to—”

He stiffens. “GO, Gar—”

A high-pitched, scratchy voice: “There you are, you little shit.”

An arm wraps itself around Ask’s throat, hauling him back, into the trees.

Jason and I stand in unison.

Jason levels the Glock at Ask’s captor.

I just kind of stand there.

“D-drop him,” Jason says, stammering, not planned this far ahead.

But our adversary’s got his own gun, and it’s pointed straight at Ask’s head. Squinting and probably wondering how many of us there are, he uses his elbow to turn on his headlamp, casting the four of us in an eerie red glow.

“Drop it.”

Jason’s shaking violently now, but he doesn’t drop it.

The man digs his pistol into Ask’s forehead, so that the skin bunches up. That’ll leave a mark. Or….should. Ask moves his elbow, as if making to hit his captor again, who catches it this time. “Nuh-uh. You move another inch, and I will shoot. I don’t need you al—functional. Just so long as the shot’s clean.” He looks back at us, wiping at his bloody face with his forearm, but not moving the gun. “You don’t drop that gun in three seconds, and I’ll shoot. I’ll k-kill this—this one.” He stumbles over the last sentence, but it’s not like Jason’s stammer. It’s not out of fear. More...spite? Disgust?

Jason relents. The Glock falls to the grass with a dry crunch. The man kicks it away—of course, because we have the best of luck—into the clearing, where it slides anticlimactically to a stop in a patch of mud.

We’re weaponless. Helpless.

“I’m leaving. Now.”

He can only take a half step back. A fist flies, and he’s walloped from behind. The light wobbles forward. In the blink of an eye, he’s on the ground, unconscious, and the pistol is in Ask’s hands. But it wasn’t Ask who dealt the blow.

It’s Carina. Standing over the body, smiling sheepishly.
♠ ♠ ♠
I don't check reader stats, so maybe I'm just bapping away at my keyboard for my own enjoyment. Oh, well. This one's super short, a n o t h e r 1/2 chapter. But oh well.