the devil’s playground
howsavage:
( lincoln )
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.
Linc shoves the limp body from atop himself, blood staining his hands and clothing. He pushes himself to his feet, staggering only a bit as he does so. The world lurches slightly when he turns, dizzy from the punches he'd taken. The taste of copper upon his tongue. He grunts, blood running down from his brow partially blurring his vision. The adrenaline's leaving him now and sapping his energy, tiring him out.
Slowing him down.
He feels sluggish but still he perseveres. They can’t stop here. It’s much too vulnerable and exposed to the bitter cold. His companion is in a blind rage beating the last cannibal long beyond bloody and dead. Wyatt collapses shortly thereafter, moments before Lincoln manages to reach him. Though just in time to hear the man murmur his name. He wants to sink into the snow alongside him but he doesn’t. It would be all too easy to take a break or just give up altogether even, but he doesn’t. He can’t. There’s too much anger inside of him, driving him to survive despite the odds.
"Wyatt,” he sputters, teeth slick with blood. He takes a moment to spit thick crimson beside himself before wiping his chin. His face is now singing with pain in various places. He ignores it, focusing instead on his blond consort’s well-being. “Shake it off, come on,” he urges. It seems to fall on deaf ears initially. The man is wavering. This isn’t good. Linc takes hold of the collar of his jacket, drawing him closer. “We can’t stay here. You need to get up,” the brunette orders more forcefully, attempting to drag the man to his feet. Lincoln’s head is swimming but he’s determined. “Get the fuck up!” And with that the man is upright, more or less, Linc bearing the brunt of his weight as he leans against him. He also uses an arm to support him.
It’s as if he’s back on the battlefield in active combat. This is worse though. There is no end. He’s fighting to survive each day, day in and day out. There is no resolution to this conflict. The world is in catastrophe, what’s left of it. Making it to the next day, and then the next, is really all there is left to hope for. “We should pick these fuckers clean,” he suggests, the soldier and hunter within him thinking in terms of survival. Even though he knows they should put as much distance between themselves and that spot as they possibly can, and they’ll likely cover less ground in their respective conditions.
“Can you stand?” Lincoln stops to check and see how Wyatt handles himself without his support. “Just stay right there.” Whether the blond manages to stay vertical or not, the brunette quickly goes to strip ammo and items of use from the bodies strewn about - stuffing things into his bag as he went along - before returning. Ready to leave this bad memory behind them. They both need rest, which means making camp somewhere it will be relatively safe should either of them pass out from overexertion. Things have been bleak for days and not looking any better.
