The moon had begun to rise from behind the cover of the mountains, its dim glow lighting up the camp. Pete was strewn across the sand inches from the fire, with Kobra in the same position on the log behind him. His hand had fallen from its resting position across his chest and was hanging off close to his friend; Could they be called friends?

Pete stared at the sky, once again admiring the stars, his head overflowing with thoughts; of this new world he was trapped in for who knows how long, his old life, the blonde boy who showed him more care than anyone had in years—

Kobra groaned and shifted, his arm disappearing under his head. Facing down, his face was squished by his arm. Pete let out a soft giggle at the sight and turned his attention back to the foreign world with a tired grin.

Then he heard a noise.

The noise came again. It was like stomping, and it was growing louder by the moment. Pete shifted and looked around as best he could without moving too much. This place was unknown to him; he didn't know its dangers and norms. His heartbeat quickened.

He whispered, "Kob—" Before he could finish the name, he heard something whistle through the air and felt a cold, sharp piece of metal hover barely a millimeter from the sensitive skin on his neck. He held his breath.

"Damn it, Pete," Kobra mumbled, his voice tired, and drew his hand back, stuffing the pocket knife into his pocket. "What is i—" Pete shushed him and pointed to his ears, mouthing "listen". Kobra's eyebrows laced together in confusion but he remained silent and obeyed. As the stomps came again, his eyes went wide. "Take this and don't move," he whispered, holding the pocket knife out to Pete, who hesitantly took it and gripped it tightly in his hand.

Like a snake, Kobra slid off the log and knelt beside Pete, whose cold and shaking fingers wrapped around the knife were the only things keeping it from clacking against his watch clasp or the buttons on Kobra's jacket, which was still draped over his torso after the younger had surrendered it to him for the cold night he was not used to, insisting that he, however, was used to it and could handle the frigid temperatures.

He leaned forward, chest nearly against sand, and pulled out another knife as he unbuckled the clasp on the holster securing his gun. The stomping grew louder still, forming into heavy footsteps. Pete shut his eyes.

Blast. Boom.

Pete held back a yell, his heart jumping in his chest. "Pete, get up," Kobra said, his voice rushed and urgent as he pulled at Pete's arm, disregarding the pain that radiated from the joint. Pete gripped the fabric above him and rose to his knees. On the other side of the log laid a figure, dark liquid oozing out of his head and chest. Pete's eyes widened and he snapped his head away from the sight, the second dead person he'd ever seen much more revolting than the first. "Run." Kobra grabbed his jacket out of Pete's still shaking fingers and pushed him away. "Get the guys. Tell them the Dracs are here." Pete ran as fast as he could, his knee slowing him down too much. He heard more blasts from behind him, the sounds pushing him forward, away, to where help was. A light turned on from inside the diner. Someone emerged from behind the glass doors.

"What was that?" Poison demanded, jogging past Pete.

"Dracs. Kobra," Pete sputtered out through a groan. Poison broke into a sprint, his gun now suddenly in hand and Ghoul running a few paces behind him.

Blasts and yells came from behind him. The fourth man of their group had somehow joined them at some point. Pete's head spun. His limbs felt weak. Something cold ran down the length of his arm. Before he could even tell what was happening, he was sitting on the dirty tile inside the dimly lit diner, lightheaded and in pain. The edges of his vision darkened and blurred. He looked around and tried to force himself to his feet, hands against the wall in an effort to stabilize himself. But his palms slipped and he fell back down onto the ground with a thump. The last thing he heard was muffled fighting and the last thing he saw was the blood stained wall and floor surrounding his limp body.

~~~

"Hand me that towel. Thanks," someone said.

"God, just let him die," said a second person.

The first man spoke again. "Ray!"

"What? It'd be so much easier that way," argued the second.

"Ray, shut it. Let Mikey work in peace," someone else said.

"Fine, fine," said the second, followed by departing footsteps and a door snap closed.

"Thanks, gee," the first voice said.

"I'd better not regret this," the third warned and left.

"You won't."

"For what it's worth, I'm on your side, little dude," a fourth man said, following the other two out.

~~~

The light flickered above, a hand holding a damp towel passed in front of it and rested on Pete's head. He groaned, the sharp ringing in his ear subsiding.

"Hey. I was starting to get worried." Pete tried to push out a response, the result just a croak. "Don't talk if it hurts too much. You took quite a hit."

"I did?" Pete tried to lift his body to sit upright, but was pushed back down by Kobra's strong yet gentle arm when he let out a pained groan. Kobra nodded and dabbed the towel across his hairline. "When?"

A muscle twitched in his face. "Last night. We got attacked. When we came back into the diner..." his voice lowered, "you were unconscious, bleeding out."

"Damn," Pete mumbled. Somehow, the news didn't register all that much and he brushed it off. "Who's Mikey?"

Kobra froze. "What?"

"Who's Mikey?"

"Why? Where did you hear that name?"

"I don't know. When I was out. And Gee and Ray."

Kobra pulled his arm back, stood, and paced across the room, which Pete just noticed was a storage room turned into sleeping quarters of some sort. Beside the old mattress he was laid upon was a small table with a bucket much like the one used on him previously, only now filled with bloody water with equally bloody towels handing off the edge. There was also a used first-aid kit, and a small tin canister holding flesh and a few bloody bullets. The sight nearly made Pete gag. On the opposite corner was a chair pushed up against the wall, which Kobra fell into.

"Damn it, Pete," he said, rubbing his face. Dark circles had made a home beneath his eyes, which Pete noticed he didn't know the colour of, and his cheekbones jutted out against slightly hollow cheeks. He looked tired, honestly.

"What is it?" Pete tried to get up again, but a sharp pain shot up his arm. "Ah!" Kobra shot his head up, worry laced in his face.

"Pete?"

"Don't worry about me. Who are they?"

Kobra rolled his eyes, as if 'not worrying' was nothing but a stupid idea. "Well, you know them." He leaned back in the seat. "Mikey is... well, he's me."

"W-what?"

"Well, actually, it's Michael. I hate that stupid nickname. Anyways, Gee is Gerard; Party Poison. Ray's Jet Star, and Frank is Fun Ghoul. You have to understand why we didn't tell—" Pete held up his hand to silence Kobra — Mikey.

Once he silenced, he let his hand drop. "I get it, don't worry."

"Yeah?" He looked down, hiding his face.

"Yeah. I don't think Ray likes me very much."

Kobra almost laughed. "And, uh, could you maybe not tell them you know?" His eyes wandered to the door, where, although shut, light seeped in and soft chatter could be heard

"'Course. Not that it matters. I won't really ever see you again." He tried to sound lighthearted but it came out much more disheartened.

"Well, actually." Kobra's fingers laced together awkwardly, like if they fit together unnaturally. He stared at the ground. "You're gonna be staying with us for a little longer."

Pete could feel his eyebrows shoot up. "What?"

"You, uh, you need to get better. And I certainly wasn't just going to leave you on the side of the road to fend for yourself." Kobra scratched the back of his neck.

"Oh." Pete flushed. "Thanks."

"Yeah, 'course."

The door swung open before Pete could say anything more, and in walked Poison. Barely visible past the door, in a booth in the other room were the remaining two men. "Ready?"

Pushing himself up with his hands on his knees, Kobra breathed out, "yeah."

"Wait, what's happening?" Despite Kobra's instructions, Pete sat up against the broken headboard, splinters embedding themselves into his shirt. The frankly stupid action caused a wave of pain to radiate throughout his body. A groan through clenched teeth left his chapped lips and a muscle twitched in Kobra's jaw, his body turning and shifting as if to run to his side; but he did not.

"Actually," Kobra said slowly, his eyes darting between Pete and Poison. "I think I'd better stay behind."

"What? Why?"

Seemingly nervous, Kobra glanced to the bed in which Pete laid. With hesitant, squinted eyes aimed first, following Kobra's eyes, at Pete and then to Kobra, Poison gave in: "got it. We'll see you when we get back. Oh, and Jet will stay too."

And with a curt nod from Kobra, Poison was off. As the door swung closed behind him, the last little sliver of cloudless blue sky and pale sands disappearing behind it, Kobra watched. With his back turned to Pete, his face wasn't visible, until he turned. Eyes to the ground, bottom lip between teeth, he pointed his thumb towards where the redhead had disappeared.

"Can I--"

"Of course, go."

Before he could even close his mouth all the way, Kobra had already yanked the door open and walked out. As the door slid closed slowly, Pete caught a glimpse of the men packing up their things, Kobra at Poison's side, before looking past them to the sky.

The grass was dewy, little droplets of water from the previous night's rain sticking to the green shards and bundles of moss. Clouds lined the horizon and spilled out onto the rest of the bright blue canvas of the sky, a perfect backdrop to the peaceful park. Nearby, parents pushed swings that held their ecstatic children, kids chased each other on, under, and around the playset. One, in particular, sat on the metal platform, her stockinged feet swingling idly off the edge. A pair of perfectly clean white sandals, each with a pink bow atop the toe, sat next to her. In her tiny hands: a book, open halfway, the pages fluttering about in the wind despite her thumb gripping onto the side. Behind her thick glasses were two, blue as the sky behind her, eyes, focused on the tiny words on the off-white pages.

"Dale!"

The frame shook, the cameraman startled at the voice.

"Dale! There you are! Get down from there! And give me that book, you know that's not for ladies." A man appeared at the edge of the frame, his arms up in exasperation. The little girl -- Dale -- shot her head up and slammed the book shut, the soft smile that was once plastered on her face gone, replaced with a stifled frown and flushed cheeks.

"Of course, father. Sorry. I just thought--"

"Well, don't." He yanked the book from her lap. "And put on your shoes," he hissed, looking around to make sure nobody was looking.

"Hon, don't be so hard on her," a feminine voice came from behind the camera, louder than the rest due to the closeness to the microphone.

At her voice, the man whipped his head around and glared into the camera before it went black, off.

"Mama, was that you?" Pete gazed up at his mother, who stood still in front of the static TV, her eyes sad. "Mama?"

"Yeah, sweetheart, it was."

A frown filled Pete's face. "What did grandpa mean when he said it wasn't for ladies? Was he talking about reading? 'Cause there's this girl in my class who's always reading. I don't know why, but my teachers say that's good for her. Reading kinda sucks." He rolled his eyes and his mother laughed.

"That is good for her, but when I was your age, women weren't supposed to be smart like you are. We were raised to be mothers, not experts or geniuses."

"That's dumb." As if protesting, Pete folded his arms in front of his chest and glared at the empty screen. "Just because you're a girl doesn't mean you can't do boy stuff."

"So you and Poison seem close," Pete noted as soon as Kobra was back in the room. Outside, engines revved and, from what he could see out of the small window beside him, two motorcycles drove off, fabric flapping in the wind behind them.

"Yeah." A few things clattered as Kobra organized the table beside the bed, where the evidence of Pete's injury remained.

"Are you, uh, together?"

"What?" Kobra nearly yelled as he dropped the scissors he held in one hand to the ground. "No! Why would you-- what?"

"Geez, chill. I was just asking. 'Cause that's totally fine, you know, if you are--"

"Damn it, Pete, he's my brother," he practically spat, a look of utter disgust and disbelief plastered on his paling face.

"Oh shit," Pete mumbled, "sorry."

Before any more could be said (not that either of them knew what to say or do), through the door burst Jet, the dark curls atop his head bouncing as he looked between the two. Having finally found a comfortable sitting position, Pete felt a sudden urge to look away.

He scoffed at the sight before him. "Is he dying?"

"Jet," Kobra warned.

"What? 'Just asking." Shrugging, he took a bite of a small loaf of bread. "Lunch," he mumbled through chews and turned away. Once out of earshot, Kobra sighed and resumed cleaning up the area.

"You're not going to go eat?" The smell of food didn't waft into the room as he was used to from his childhood and left Pete wondering what exactly had been prepared. 

Kobra seemed to contemplate his choices as he stuffed medical supplies into the first aid bag and tossed the now unusable things into the bucket with a splash. Behind his head, the sun couldn't be seen on the horizon. From the way the shadows of the skinny trees and cacti didn't stretch out over the sand, he could tell the sun had hit is apex, or was at least close. Noon.

"Okay, well, if you're not going to leave, then can I ask you some stuff?"

"Shoot." The bag was velcroed shut and tossed onto the chair in the corner of the room.

"What are Dracs? And why did they attack?"

"Uh, well that's kind of a long story."

Pete looked down at his body and scoffed. His knee, splotched with purple and yellow like the hands of a painter, twisted to the side -- unusable, at least not without a brace of some sort to support him. Even with a healed leg, his side hurt way too much for him to even breathe normally just sitting on the bed. "I don't think I'll be going anywhere for a little bit. So, I've got time."

Kobra held back a laugh and shook his head. "Damn it, Pete. Alright, well--" The bed dipped as he sat down on the edge. "Years and years ago, just before everything went to shit, this new company rose -- Better Living Industries. Nobody really knew much about it, other than they manufactured weaponry. Every year, they'd have a sort of draft for employees. They'd take them out to The Zones and give them seminars, or so we thought. One day, uh," he stumbled over his words, "someone appeared in the square in the city. He looked nearly dead -- pale and bruised, confused, rambling on and on about 'them'. Gerard -- Poison -- found him and took him away from the crowds, who, really, were just mocking him and yelling at him. Making it all worse." He shook his head. "God, Pete, the stories he told. It was horrible.

"Better Living -- they took him to some secret facility in The Zones and kept him captive there. Every night, they'd make him and all the other prisoners there take some sort of pill. He didn't do it. At first, th-they punished him. But he learned to hide it, pretend to take them. Everyone else, though, they started to act... weird. Weak and subjective to anything they'd do to them. His cellmate was taken one day. He came back hours -- no, days -- later. They'd nearly killed him. He said that they made him shoot people. And if he refused, they'd take his gun and put it in the center of the room. And everyone else would fight almost to death to get it and shoot each other. If they got someone, they'd be taken away. Nobody knows what happened after that, but they'd all come back weeks later, acting like someone else entirely. Blank, no thoughts of their own. They were turning them into the guards. Into monsters.

"Before we could learn anything else, the man swallowed something and died. Right there, in front of Gerard. In front of me. It was the first of many deaths I've seen. Eventually, when Better Living had enough people, when they had an army -- they attacked. Took over. The guards, the turned people, were called Draculoids -- Dracs, for short. From the SCARECROW unit. That's when we decided to fight back. We're called The Killjoys, and we're the last of the rebel groups. And they hate us." The words came out rushed, shoved out of his mouth via twisting tongue trying to catch up with his thoughts, his emotions.

"Oh." What else was there to say? What could he say?

"You're not in Kansas anymore, Pete."

"Damn right."

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3,051 words
December 12, 2019
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