It was early morning when the yelling started. Pete was sitting on his bed adjusting the straps on his knee brace, Jet filling up the tanks for their vehicles, and Kobra in the other room preparing some breakfast for the three.

Jet was the first to see it. He was kneeling down next to his motorcycle, inserting the pump into the tank as the dust picked up, when a rumbling sound in the distance came, approaching fast. Peering out over the seat, he saw a figure: a man on a bike, something draped over the seat behind him and bouncing as they drove over the bumpy sand.

~~~

Kobra watched as the egg slid across the black pan, the opaque whites fluffing up and crackling at the edges. As he scraped the spatula across the bottom of the pan, he heard the sizzle and crackle of it against the oil.

The music faded to nothing and then came a crackling voice through the busted speakers of the radio on the counter: "Bad news from The Zones, tumbleweeds. Looks like Party Poison and Fun Ghoul..." the voice cut out, replaced with bursts of static, "injured... nothing else is known... the traffic." Kobra froze, his fingers unwrapped from around the plastic handle. It dropped to the ground with a thud and clattered on the tile. He was out the door before Jet's rushed out yells finished.

~~~

"Kid! It's Gee!" wailed Jet, his voice muffled through the walls, just as Pete secured the last buckle around his knee. The worry and erratic nature of the words, audible even from outside, instantly grabbed Pete's attention; Jet was always calm and monotone — emotionless. Knitting his eyebrows together, he hauled himself up and off the creaking mattress with patience and calamity, although with piqued interest. When he heard slamming and yelling, however, he rushed out.

Nearly knocking the little bell off the frame, Kobra had thrown the front door open and rushed in, hands shaking as Ghoul followed him in, looking possibly even more shaken and terrified. Tears had slashed through dirt on his face and paved two lines coming down from his eyes and trailing along his cheeks. His own clothing was stained red, though he showed no signs of injuries. Behind them, Jet closed — and locked — the door. But that's not what mattered.

Hanging limp in Ghoul's arms: Party Poison.

Tousled red hair clung to his too-pale skin. Even his lips were white as paper and parted. Were breaths passing through? As Pete's gaze drifted down his body, he fought to hold back a gasp and faint. Poison's jacket had been discarded, revealing a previously white shirt stained completely with crimson — blood. The loose fabric stuck to his body in places where it pooled the most.

"Oh god," he murmured, hand cupped over mouth. Nobody heard or noticed him standing at the doorway, with his knuckles gone white from gripping the doorframe.

In front of him, Kobra cleared an area on the nearest table, knocking everything off in one fell swoop. As a cup toppled to the floor, Ghoul set the bleeding — dying — man on the table. Before he stepping back he wiped his thumb over Poison's forehead and bit his lip. Kobra watched in horror as the red and white boy laid there on the table.

'He's my brother.'

Pete took half a step forward before Kobra ran out of the room, returning seconds later with an even larger first aid kit than what was used on him only three weeks prior. He fiddled with the plastic clasp before yanking it open and pulling out a pair of scissors. They sliced through fabric, the tearing barely audible, to reveal even more blood and gore on his exposed torso. Dark flecks of blood had dried on his pale skin. A large and deep gash ran across his shoulder from his left bicep to the flesh to the right of his neck, still wet and shiny blood surrounding and oozing out of the injury. Only a few inches below was a gunshot wound with flesh protruding from the impact zone in every direction. It smelled vaguely of burning skin and Pete had to work to refrain from gagging — equally from the smell and the sight.

In his blood filled haze, Pete didn't notice Kobra — standing still and silent, the only movement coming from his hands, which shook so badly that the shears clicked against the zipper on his jacket, which matched in style if not color to his brother's. But Ghoul certainly noticed his hesitation.

"Mikey! Do something!" Ghoul yelled, disregarding the secrecy of names they valued so much, his own hands trembling as he reached out and shook Kobra by the shoulders. "Help him, please!" His voice broke, as Kobra's heart seemed to.

"I— I don't—" he stammered.

"Damn it." Jet pushed past them and pulled the torn shirt off Poison's limp body. Ghoul's arms fell to his sides before he lifted them up again and cradled himself with them in a sad hug. "Compose yourself! You're the only one who can do this stuff, Mikey." He bundled up the soaked and discarded fabric as he spoke and pressed it to Poison's — Gerard, Pete recalled — abdomen, where blood was still leaking out, although slower now. The last spots of white faded to red as the shirt soaked it up.

Kobra's gaze travelled across the whole room, before finally landing on Pete behind the door, who's legs felt ever so weak, as if he were about to collapse. Not taking his eyes off Pete, Kobra hardened his jaw and pressed his lips together. "Keep applying pressure." He spun around and lifted Poison's head as Jet folded fallen pieces of fabric back on top of the bloodied bundle so that they may help to stop the bleeding. A few drops of dark red fell on the white of Kobra's shoe. Behind them, Ghoul watched with wide eyes. "We need gauze, or something." As quickly as possible, Ghoul snatched off his shirt and handed it to them. "It's dirty, we can't. Using his own shirt is risky enough. Hand me some of those towels in the drawer to your left." Once he had the towels pressed against the worst of his many wounds (Pete also noticed a gash along his thigh), Kobra pointed to a back room and Jet sprung to action, picking up the unconscious man with a stifled grunt and going through the door.

It slammed shut with three behind it and two left on the other side.

The egg burned.

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1,105 words
December 30, 2019
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