Sarah’s face is that of an angel fallen from grace. Mad, drenched in fury, beautifully spiteful. But as hot as this whole renegade bride-turned-criminal thing is on her, the fact that she left me behind to die when the Lost Boys showed up makes me want to strangle her right here, right now.
I look her in the eyes, holding my pistol a little obvious next to my face to underline who’s in charge here, and say, “Get back in the fucking car.”
“I said, get in the car. Now.” She listens without another word, and we get back. The Knuckle is still sitting by himself in pain, and Nathan’s as nervous as always. “Drive,” I say. The gun still in everyone’s sight. This is my show now.
That’s not what Harris is expecting, of course. The only reason I’m still alive is because I convinced him it’d be in his best interest not to kill me at the motel, right after his men got shot up by the mob, and the mob ran off after Harris hit The Knuckle in the ass. Thinking back to it now, it was quite the surreal spectacle.
I said to him while his gun was already craving my life, “Cops’ll be here any minute”—I even pointed at all the witnesses around us, which were gathering slowly, each pointing camera phones and shit—“We don’t even know if she still has the drugs. Take your bike and get the hell out of dodge. I take the sedan and make her come with me. Rescue her or some such shit.”
The gang leader considered for a too-long moment. Finally, I said, “Get the fuck out of here. Meet me twenty miles east of here. Jimmy’s convince store. You know the place.”
“I know the place.”
“I’ll have Sarah and either your coke, or at least its location.”
God knows why he accepted. Threat of cops showing up after a shootout must have gotten to him. Either way, now I’m on the road with both Sarah and Nathan (color me surprised for finding him with her at the motel), and I have The Knuckle as hostage.
And we’re not going to meet with Harris. Of course we’re not.
Then, everything goes so fucking fast.
First: Nathan asks me were he’s supposed to be going. I tell him west, for at least an hour.
Next thing I know, I’m pressing my gun into The Knuckles forehead much like the bikers did to me. Sarah’s crying behind me to stop. Nathan cowers off to my side. And that fucking mobster is kneeling before me.
It’s something he said. Threatening despite the fact that I’m the one in control.
“You can’t kill me,” he said. “You need me too much. To clear your name.”
“Is that so?” I said, grinding my teeth.
“Without me, you can never push so much cocaine. And even if you do, you won’t get what you want from it.” The Knuckle really didn’t think this little speech of his through. Not. At. All.
“Pull over,” I said. Nathan and Sarah wanted to protest. I interrupted them before they even got a word out of their lying-ass-fucking-mouths: “I said: Pull the fuck over or I shoot you right now. Right here.” The barrel touched his neck, and Nathan complied. Good boy.
I shoved the mobster out of his side of the car, making sure his wound scraped along the side of the door. Of course he groaned and complained.
Now here we are. The Knuckle kneeling before me. My worthless friends stunned in awe and terror.
The end of the road.
“Say that again, buddy.” I pull back the hammer.
“He’s right, Mitch,” says Nathan beside me. “We need him to get this sorted out. We—“
His brains paint the dirty ground grey-in-pink, spread out like modern art in a splash of blood. The gunshot echoes far and wide into the empty distance.
“The fuck we do.” I watch the dead mobster fall over and onto his side. Then I turn and point the gun at Sarah. “Give me drugs. I’m asking nicely, here.”
She looks at me in terror and disgust. And—not like I didn’t somehow saw it coming—she dares say, “No.”
Through my teeth, I say, “You little bitch.”
Change of plans. Leave those pieces of shit behind much the same they left me behind. Quit pro fucking quo. The fearful expression in her face–her eyes staring at the gun–is almost breaking my heart. Shame I need to do this.
“Drop the gun, Mitch.” Nathan holds a revolver with both hands, pointing it at me. “I mean it.” He’s shaking. Were did he get that gun from?
I sort of laugh, sort of snort, and say, “Really, man? After all we’ve been through? The drugs are ours. Not hers. Not the mob’s or the gang’s, or—“ The fucking gang.
I hear his bike before I see it: loud and souped-up. I’m turned away from the road, and before I get to swing around, several gunshots explode even louder than the home-made bike engine.
At first, I only notice the impact. The hurt takes several heartbeats to set in. I fall forward, spinning, forced around by the bullet in my shoulder, but my already itchy trigger finger squeezes in reflex. Before I hit the ground, I see blood flying from Sarah. Did I hit here? Did Harris?
Nathan’s revolver is going off, deafening me as the shots are too close to my face. He must have fallen to the ground, too.
For a moment, I don’t know what’s happening. The sound of the engine fades for several seconds. But then it returns. Getting louder. Coming closer. I force my eyes open. See the bike parking next to the sedan. The Knuckle’s brainless head lays facedown next to me. I lift me arm against the pain with all the willpower left in me. It which burns like battery acid being pushed into my veins. I aim at Harris getting off of the bike, holding a small machine-gun.
Pull the trigger.
Come on, Mitch! Be a man! Pull yourself together and shoot that sone of a bitch.
Again, the trigger. Again, nothing.
Then I notice the absence of my pistol. It’s not in my hand. Must have dropped it when I got hit. My fingers still cramp as though that gun is still steady in my clutch. All vision goes blurry. But I still see Harris smiling through his thick beard, lifting his fat chin up and then pointing his submachine gun at me.
More gunshots. I can feel the bullets digging into my flesh. Carving through my bones. Tearing up my organs.
The anticipation of death overcomes me.
But I get disappointed. No bullet hits me. Instead, through my fading vision, I see Harris fall backwards. Hit in the chest. Blood soaking through his shirt. A look of disbelief on his face. Then he drops. Dead.
I can barely make out the world around me anymore.
Next to me: bare feet with red-painted toenails. The paint’s already scratched off and the nails are anything but polished anymore. I’d recognize that pale, thin skin of hers anywhere.
“Sarah,” I say, trying to look up. I see her torn dress moving in the breeze. Her thin, light hair sticking to her forehead. Her hand around my gun, pointing that goddamn thing at me. Her lips are pursed, her eyes red and watery. She’s shaking, but not in fear. In hatred. Full of spite.
Her face is that of a demon crawling out of hell. Bent on revenge. Out for vengeance.
My beautiful bride. Her finger curls around the trigger.
“I love you,” I say. A desperate act, however true.
I see her lips move, but the words never reach my ear over the crackle of a discharging gun.
Got to love a good cliffhanger, no?
One more scene left. And Sarah’ll have the stage for it. I have no outline for it. No idea at this point. In the game fiasco, each scene has to go either good or bad for the character, which is tracked by gaining either a white or black die. Naturally, the selection of good and bad scenes becomes slim towards the end, since there’s only a limited amount of dice available (2 white and 2 black per character). The last scene, however, can go either good or bad. It’s wild. And though I veered off the game quite a bit, I always knew that the last scene will be wild up until the very last moment.
I’m not sure whether to just pull a card for it or do something different. Some ideas I will discuss in detail in the next behind the scenes post. Stay tuned.
Any thoughts on this scene, post it on the comments. Let me know what you think.