he gnashed his teeth at god;

wyatt atlas ╳ junkie l i a b i l i t y "do not cry wolf; become it."

[howsavage-blog]

the devil’s playground

[howsavage-blog]

( lincoln )

    In a matter of moments, Wyatt is again in trouble but he manages to hold his own enough to fight back. Something that, despite his condition, makes him an asset in this life. Keep fighting, plays on a loop in his brain. It’s far from any life he’d imagined for himself, but fighting is what keeps you alive now. Fighting until you exhale that very last breath. And Linc wasn’t dying today.

    Neither was Wyatt, not if he can help it.

    He doesn’t have the time to check his bleeding wound. Only time enough to crack open the dual chambers of his shotgun to empty and reload the shells with two more dug out of his coat pocket. All thanks to the shots fired by his counterpart. His fingers are numb, cloth gloves cut off at the first bend of his digits for better use of gripping. Fully gloved and he’d have no traction or friction beneath his fingertips. However the thought has crossed his mind before that the alternative would certainly be better than frostbite. Given the current situation, he’s glad for the sure grip and the cold is far from his mind - the fight instinct within him having taken over entirely.

    With one more down, there’s only one left coming at him. And one in the throes of a scuffle with his blond-haired companion across the way. He hears the man’s voice again, this time verbalizing concern but it’s cut short. Cocked and ready once more with a steady aim, Linc’s finger is on the trigger again. He’s only a fraction of a second too slow. The blast resounds but the slug never finds its target as he’s instead tackled to the ground.

    The last survivor had closed in on him. 

    He struggles with a tall and lanky man whose teeth are gnarled and filed to points, clocking the string of trophies dangling around his neck. Cannibals. No way was he dying here to be eaten like an animal. With his shotgun pinned between himself and the body of his attacker, his only defense is to use the weight of the man atop him against him. But the ground beneath him is a wet mess now. He can’t dig the heels of his boots in enough to gain any real footing or advantage. The gun still has a single shot loaded in the chamber. But with their closeness, there’s no way to aim the length of the barrel between them.

    The cannibal is all too pleased with this scenario and makes a move to bite into any exposed flesh he can reach. Lincoln, white-knuckling his gun still, is pressing it upward against his chest, keeping a meager distance between himself and those fanged teeth. But the man’s mangled fingers are clutching Linc’s jacket, pulling at him. A split-second decision has the brunette continually struggling against him while he desperately reaches with a single hand to free a hunting knife from its sheath at his hip. The predator above him decides this isn’t working for him anymore - impatient fucker - and lands a few blows to Linc’s exposed face before he finally drives the knife upward through the underside of his jaw. Effectively ending the struggle, and the life of another monster. Leaving him panting and further bloodied.

    Wyatt. “Wyatt?”

    Elephantine drones echo in his mind. The world swims and sharp lurches of nausea reach the top of his throat. He tastes blood and acid. When he pulls his fingers away from the throbbing spot at the back of his head, they’re covered in slippery vermillion — and he’s shaking, reeling with strains of adrenaline that still surge through his system. 

    The moment feels drawn out, suspended, as his assailant makes a half-circle around him — his eyes are focusing, refocusing, unfocused on the loping figure. She no longer looks amused, engaged in this unfair game of cat and mouse. Wrath is a burgeoning flame in her eyes and Wyatt feels the heat of it warping sharp edges. Her right arm hangs limp at her side and rivers of dehydrated blood drip, leaving aimless, artful patterns on the stark white blanket of snow. She drags a weathered bit of rope like a lifeless serpent and, just the suggestion of its malice causes his back to arch, his throat to burn. Pain was a constant passenger, one he knew better than betrayal, more intimately than loneliness, more deeply than himself. It was woven into the fabric of every facet of his world and he had fallen in love with its savage thrum; it was hooked into the marrow of his bones. Whatever devil snares she had planned, whatever vengeful nightmare circulated in the rotten rivers of her mind: he was fucking ready for it.

    “You fuckers killed them,” she growls, her vicious fingers coiling hempen twine. Her voice is animal, splintered with unchecked grief. Wyatt wavers, trying to pull his weight up from the bitter, frostbitten earth — rocks dig into his knees and palms and his brutalized skull undulates. “You’re next,” he bites back, but his voice doesn’t hold the conviction, and the syllables are muddied with sap-like blood. He’s dangling at a precipice, now, grappling with his consciousness. His attempt to right himself is thwarted by a swift kick to the ribs and he topples backward again. Dead ground embraces him and for the briefest moment, he gives up, and a black wave of ocean overcomes him.

    He feels the pinch of the rope around his neck again; the burn of it contrasts the numbing cold of the snow against his cheek, and he welcomes it. The woman looms over him and her foul laugh bubbles against the cuff of his ear. She can’t be human. “Don’t look so tough now, do ya — and neither does your friend.” Lincoln. Wyatt hears the fight unfolding nearby and considers that this might be the end. For once, there’s a gentle wave of relief that rushes over him. If Lincoln’s gone, what’s the point? The thought feels final to him, not even challenged by the phantom thought of another fix. ( A morsel the size of a quarter is kept sewn into the breast pocket of his coat; the last euphoria; the final door. )

    The woman encounters victory, brushes her fingers across its golden cheek, but then the junkie hears his name and turns the world upside-down.His vision has gone black and shadowy from lack of oxygen, but somehow his numb fingers find the length of rope tying them together. With the strength left in him, he gives one sharp tug. The next few moments are a blur punctuated by a guttural shriek and the rhythmic sound of his knuckles pummeling her face into mush. Thack, thwank, thnk, thnak. He goes until her brackish blood speckles his face, until bits of bone bite into his fists, until the bowl of her skull has caved in on itself. When he falls back on his haunches, he wavers, drunkenly, before he hits the ground once more.

    His veins sing for a fix. His mouth murmurs Lincoln’s name.

[howsavage-blog]

the devil’s playground

[howsavage-blog]

( lincoln )

    There’s a part of him that is uncertain of the new traveler by his side. And with good reason. Survival sometimes means going at it alone. People are difficult to gauge, especially when faced with saving themselves. Trust is much harder to come by, as are decent folk. Most of those are dead already… But then again you have to be a certain mixture of strong and fucked up to live through something like this. Strength of character is a funny thing. Not everyone survives in the same ways or for the same reasons.

    He doesn’t even have the time to wonder if this encounter might be the end for one of them. Given how he has charged in, it’s more likely than not. Especially being outnumbered. But the assailants within Linc’s view seem to only be equipped with melee weapons. They were not expecting company. Sadly, it’s not even in Lincoln’s interest to raid this camp. He did not intend for this. However here they are.

    His first shot blows open a hole in some poor soul’s chest. Didn’t even stand a chance given the close proximity. Crimson red litters the snowy ground between them and the body topples backward. “Wyatt?!” Comes a shout from the man, more a question of his current state - whether he was alive and okay… or not. “There’s two more,” is answer enough. He’s already lining up the second shot as the others approach.

    Another echoing shot rings out as he pulls the trigger and before he has time to further assess, he’s turning the shotgun over in his hands to grip the barrels. He takes a swing and the stock connects with the face of another attacker coming at him. Surely breaking their jaw as blood sprays out over Linc and the muddled ground around him. Coloring a violent picture for anyone else to find. The body veers to the side, thudding harshly.

    That’s when he has a moment to turn around and see what else is going on. Wyatt is still alive and on his feet. That was good, he thought. He’s taken out a larger thug. But before he can find both of the remaining survivors, a knife is slashing at his arm. It manages to catch his upper arm but the attack is frantic and uncoordinated, giving him a more superficial wound rather than piercing the underlying muscle as far as he can tell. A strained and angry cry escapes him at the sudden burst of pain, but it’s brief with the adrenaline coursing through his veins.

    Trusting no one is what got him this far. An abusive mother with an addiction that dwarfed his own, foster families that looked on him with pity or vacant indifference ( another check to cash, just outlast him ), greedy dealers who used his sick vulnerability against him — even as he took their knuckled blows, proved their suspicions right, suffered their vulgar weight on top of him, he never looked them in the eye, never allowed himself the luxury of trust. So, of course he survived. Of course he outlived the righteous and the good and the innocent. He’d been running and scraping his way through the muck his whole life. This layer of hell was designed for people like him —the forsaken, the dirty, the sick. 

    He hears Lincoln cry out. A guttural roar that raises the hairs at the back of his neck. Fear tastes like metal and it coats his tongue in a heavy blanket — the thought that he’s lost his last link to humanity paralyzes him for what feels like an age but it’s only a few, stunted seconds. Wyatt twists away from encroaching ghouls and toward the sound of Linc’s voice. He can tell from the finger bones they wear around their necks, from the pale leather of their cured satchels, that they’re cannibals. If he had any real time to digest the thought, the meager contents of his stomach would empty in the limitless white of the snow.

    “Lincoln,” he hears himself say, but it’s not loud enough to be heard. It’s a selfish confirmation, an exhale of relief, when his blue eyes settle on his counterpart. His breathing, upright, living counterpart. There’s blood at his shoulder. From this distance, he can’t tell how deep the wound is, but his attention is diverted anyway when a frayed rope snags his neck from behind. He hits the ground, but the snow manages to mute the pain of his fall. Still, the air in his lungs leaves him briefly, and the gun in his hand skitters a few feet away. Above him leers a tough woman with dreaded black hair and a mutant smile. Her teeth are filed. Her belt is lined with insidious tools. She presses the toe of her boot against the meat of his cheek and drags it.

    “Fuck you,” Wyatt spits, his voice thin and breathy. Though the rope bites into his neck, suspending his breath, he fights against it and grabs his gun. Over time, he’s become a pretty good shot, but he’s not a surgeon. So, when he lifts the barrel to take out one of the two goons closing in on Lincoln, he has to tell himself not to hold his breath, to keep his hands as steady as his breathing, to ignore all distractions, to push down the flaring pain encircling his neck. He exhales and fires and the shot hits the man between the shoulder blades. The sound of his ire echos along the hillside and a flock of black birds takes flight. The next shot goes in the shoulder of the woman dragging him by his throat. She drops the rope, and he scrambles free, but she’s close behind him.

    “Lincoln, you’re hurt — !” 

    Consciousness lulls. The sharp stab of something knocking against the back of his head comes next. He feels earth smack his knees, then his shoulder. The weight of his gun is gone.

[howsavage-blog]

the devil’s playground

[howsavage-blog]

( lincoln )

    If there’s one thing he hates, it’s being left vulnerable to attack. Colorado in the dead of winter meant just that. Snow was treacherous in many different ways these days. It made hunting and gathering scarce. Numbing temperatures with ratty clothing and little supplies meant possibly freezing to death or losing extremities if not careful. Snowfall disturbed by boot-prints run the risk of being followed or more easily stumbled upon by unwelcome and unfriendly company.

    All of these risks and many more run rampant in Lincoln’s mind. It had been a number of years since he had served, but he had two tours to Iraq under his belt. He’s seen combat. And he’d been trained well. Despite his shortcomings and bad decisions, Linc has retained that extensive training and experience. It came back to him just easily as riding a bicycle. He never thought he’d be so grateful for that in the wake of what the world has become.

    A few weeks ago Linc began to tentatively travel with a stranger he found in pretty rough shape. Some weren’t as lucky as he was to have previously learned how to survive. He had learned to hunt and properly camp from his father as a kid. Even before war he’d been comfortable handling various weapons, as well as setting traps and building shelter and fire. Though fire out in the wilderness as they were can draw unwanted attention to themselves. They always have to be smart about where they set camp.

    While his new companion is traveling ahead, Linc is bringing up the rear scanning his surroundings with a keen blue gaze. He’s tired and it shows, but he’s no less attentive or alert. Can’t afford to slip up lest they face potentially dying out there. Then he hears it, a scuffle, commotion, and his name piercing the otherwise still air around them - in distress. He’s quick to react, knowing he hasn’t got much time or the element of surprise on his side either.

    With a quick hand he’s pulling his double-barrel from his back and cocking it before taking aim. Ever-mindful of the pistol he has holstered and ready as well. Being diplomatic is no longer the default for those surviving this nightmarish existence.

    He fires when he finds his first target without issuing a warning, without hesitation. It could mean the difference between life and death for Wyatt or himself.

    The swing to his belly lands and a primal retch rakes his throat. He heaves forward, arms clutching his midsection as waves of sharp nausea wrack through him. It wins for only a moment before the wolf in him rises up, shaking off the dust of a long sleep and lifting his maw to howl. Wyatt rages. The blood in his skull pumps a steady, rhythmic madness — rushing to the ends of his fingers, straightening his spine, pushing away the sting of empty veins, the ache of landed blows. This fight has just begun.

    The man who’d punched his gut is a head taller than him, his frame hulking and his face chiseled with strife and meanness with which Wyatt is all too familiar. Square, stubby fingers lined with filth grab him by his yellow hair, yanking him upright, but he doesn’t have the upper hand for long. The scrawny junkie has a trick up his sleeve — no, in the waistband of his jeans. The pistol he wasn’t quick enough to grab before. It’s not the smartest move (Lincoln will likely scold him later), but Wyatt’s never been the greatest strategist. He survives by flailing, by clawing in the moment until he gets through to the other side. 

    The consequences are never pretty.

    The bullet he releases slices through the oaf’s right eye. Meat and bone splatter, a spray of blood checkers his face, and the pressure of the close-range shot causes his features to morph into something ungodly. Rather than teetering background, the great form lurches forward. A heavy, dead thing tumbling toward him. His ears ring after the pistol’s firing, his arm is sore from the kick-back — his mind is blurred by adrenaline, but it’s just enough to get him out from under his victim’s weight in a quick scramble. The skirmish ends and he sees Lincoln traversing the pass. A strange relief floods him, but he isn’t sure if it’s selfish. Is he actually glad to see the man alive? Or is he glad of the weapons and expertise he carries?

    When was the last time he was happy to see anyone that wasn’t a dealer?

    “There’s two more,” he heaves, turning around and surveying the makeshift campground. He feels safe with Lincoln at his back, a very unsettling notion. Part of him nags that he’ll regret that later, that a ghost like him isn’t meant to have friends. The snap of a dry tree limb signals the arrival of the remaining survivors, but Wyatt sees he’s miscounted. There are three more. His limbs feel heavy, but he stands his ground.

[limonluupastaa-deactivated20200]

[screeencap]

[howsavage-blog]

the devil’s playground

who: @lincolnclarke location: some bendy mountain trail, colorado time: early afternoon

    Snow compacts and crunches beneath his boot. With slow, frostbitten fingers, he tucks his red scarf tighter around his nose and mouth. The world has long since shriveled up, a dead womb, and nothing living dares take purchase on the layers of verglas that covers the earth. It is a solemn sight, the undisturbed hillsides of Colorado. They stretch on forever, a grim reminder of the soulless creatures that have sucked it dry. Wyatt imagines that if God had ever been here, it had been only for a brief moment, and when he’d seen his work twisted and bent and corrupted, he’d turned his back on it forever. 

    As Wyatt makes the bend in search of a clearing, evergreens snatch at his threadbare clothing. His muscles sing from the effort and his skin burns numb from the cold. It’s the last thing he expects to stumble upon: a pack of survivors, grizzled and run down from the friction of an abysmal life. They are toothless and milk-eyed, their fingers curled like the talons of demons, their mouths yawning open in violent acknowledgement of his clumsy arrival. There is no time. In a flinch, they are on him, leaving behind the vagrant fire over which they roasted bits of flesh. Wyatt can only imagine where it was acquired — from the stringy limbs of some loser like him wandering the fringes of the wilds alone.

    But he’s not alone. Hasn’t been for weeks. It’s not something he’s used to, having someone to move through the world beside, so most of the time (times when it matters most), he forgets that he’s there. He doesn’t have time to look over his shoulder for him, now, but something in him knows he hasn’t strayed far. It’s a feeling deep in his belly. Busted fingers grapple for the scarred grip of his pistol — he isn’t quick enough (big surprise there) and instead takes the business end of a club to the jaw. His neck twists away from the landed blow and blood runs in a crooked rill down his chin. Something cracks, but there’s no time to take inventory. If there’s anything in him that isn’t fractured or broken, he’ll be surprised. 

    He staggers back, but the sole of his boot catches the earth — enough purchase to launch him back at the vicious grunt. Wyatt doesn’t fire his gun, but swings it upward and cracks his jaw. “Eye for an eye, you fucker,” he spits. A pink mist blows out from his victim’s mouth as he topples backward.

    In the brief moment of reprieve, in the midsts of growing chaos, he finds himself looking for Lincoln. He elicits the first syllable of his name, a splintered “Linc! —” before he’s dodging another violent attack. A coagulase-coated wrench coming right for his gut.

[riribootay-deactivated20190727]

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THE BLACK ANGELS | Bloodhounds On My Trail

[lifeinpoetry]

It’s a kind of war where I plant bombs inside of myself.

Anne Sexton, “The Addict,” from Live or Die (via lifeinpoetry)