Post by Benny Fleetfoot on Mar 13, 2018 12:59:05 GMT -5
Everything was fucked. You can see a shit storm coming on the horizon, but it doesn't mean you can stop it. This had been a shit storm so heavy you would have needed Noah's Ark to survive it. Somehow, Buster stood at the end of it all. Drowning in a sea of familiar faces coldly rotting on the floor. He didn't need to see the bodies to know that they were gone. He didn't want to. When you been at this as long as he had you just come to know these things. You feel that sinking feeling churning and bubbling in your gut. It was enough to make you god damn sick!
Buster sat there, crunched up; huddled against the wall. His knees were bent and his arms dangled off the ends of them. One shaky hand held a burning cigarette. The other clutched Megan's Bible in his hand. The pages were yellow and worn and stained with blood. The passages within them didn't mean shit to Buster. Not really. He only held it as a dwindling symbol of the girl that was ripped away from him. His eyes were cold and vacant as he sat on the floor. Buster brought the cigarette to his lips and took a deep drag. His muscles and nerve endings sparking and dancing on a live wire. He was shaking. It was cold in the empty warehouse. Somewhere off in the darkness was a busted window. A chilling wind pushed through the broken glass and invited itself into his dominion. Even the elements were against him.
Shouldn't surprise him. He was used to playing with a loaded deck where all the cards fell just right for everyone but himself. Littered around the dark and empty warehouse was all the usual corpses. The same blood and gore that surrounded every waking moment of your life. Buster shifted his foot to kick away a dead hand with dead fingers. He was tired and angry. He was angry at the world. As much as he wanted to cast that bible away and just hurl it into the darkness he couldn't. He had already failed her he couldn''t abandon her as well. He anxiously shoved the little black book into the pocket of his leather jacket. The somber howl of the wind through the busted window caused a pipe to loosely bang against the concrete wall. A hollow "ting" rang out every few seconds and filled his world with empty threats. Buster didn't even bother to look up. He didn't care.
He had killed the dead that were in the warehouse and now he was done. He was just so tired. He brought that shaky hand back to his lips for another drag and just stared at the end of the cigarette. The orange ember pierced through the darkness. He could only see a few feet in front of his face. Silver moonlight also pushed through the open window. It shined a small spotlight on his seat on the floor and nothing more. At the edges of this foreboading spotlight was the face of a walker. It's arm sprawled out above it's head. A small smear of blood was left where Buster had kicked it's hand and it slid across the dusty cement. The creatures eyes stared at him. Yes, they were only creatures to him. Even a face he recognized layered in decay and rot was nothing more than something to be put down. Even an old friend. Even someone he loved. Buster's outlook was pesimistic at best. He was a realist and an asshole. He could see that hungry look in it's eye even now, as it laid dead by his feet. Piece of shit. He thought quietly.
He had nothing now. No family. No girl. No reason to get off this dusty fucking floor, so he sat there. He enjoyed the quiet and the soft crackle of his burning cigarette. When the cigarette was finished.... He planned on sticking his gun in his mouth and blowing away what remained of his sanity. His shirt clung to his small frame. Sticky and wet with the gore of these creatures who had their own stories. They had their own problems and worries once upon a time. Now, they were mild inconviences. The blood from the walker continued to run across the slightly slanted floor. It touched the edge of his shoe. Buster didn't even notice. Buster wasn't sure how long he sat on that cold floor. For the longest time the silver smoke drifted up into his half squinted eyes and he stared at the corpse in front of him; sharing his spotlight. When he did look away he realized his cigarette had burned out, still hanging from his lips. "Fuck's sake!" He groaned. Frantically he dug into the pocket of his jacket for a lighter.
His hand emerged with the flame and he brought it to his last bit of satisfaction in this world. A few flicks produced nothing but sparks. He sat there in the dusty tomb flicking with no luck. Not even that. He couldn't even be offered a final mercy. His hands fell limp to his lap as the cigarette remained on his lips. Then suddenly there was a soft glow. A flick, a light and there was a flame in front of his eyes. His eyes lazily moved over to see Megan crouching beside him. She was draped in an all white dress that he had never seen before. She looked worried. Her powdery blue eyes staring at him. Her eyes seemed to dance all over his tired face, taking him all in at once. She lit his cigarette again and he inhaled to get it going. "Oh Benny." She said softly. Megan reached a hand up to his face and cupped his cheek and Buster nestled into it and closed his eyes. Her hand was warm against his flesh. It felt so nice to revel in something so soft and familiar. His greasy hair hung down over his eyes. His leather jacket slunk from his thin shoulders.
Megan's other hand no longer had a lighter. It ran over the rough leather of his jacket. Fingers gliding over the seams and zippers. It had been her jacket at one point. He had given it to her. This jacket that meant more to Buster than anything else had ever meant to him. Black leather with sliver zippers at the sleeves. Painted across the back was the essence of his soul, the logo for his outlaw club. Across the back was a reaper with loaded flaming dice; laughing. The words 'The Fool's Dice Club' scrawled across with elegant curisve. Just below that was a name. "Buster." The leather was ripped in places. Blood stained the silver polish. It was this jacket that had always made him braver. It was more than a jacket, it was a symbol of his family. The Fools. The rough and rowdy group of assholes who took him in all those years ago. They were dead. Megan was dead. This couldn't be real. The soft hand at his cheek slipped away and Buster opened his eyes. He felt a tug at the collar of his jacket. His eyes opened to see a thin line of blood dripping from the corner of Megan's head. It spilled over her cheek and yet she wore a smile.
"What are you doing baby?" Buster was almost ashamed at her questioning. His hand that had fallen limp in his lap had slipped into his waistband and pulled his snub nosed revolver. It sat in his lap now. His slender fingers curled around the handle. He had been moments away from the deed and now he stared at the source of his pain. Buster's lip quivered. She was so fucking beautiful. Even now. "I'm lost." He said quietly, pathetically. Megan's hand moved gracefully up and moved through his hair. She slicked his hair back, just how he always wore it. She had his bible in her hand. "Faith Benny." She said and handed him back the book that tore at his conscience. Then she was gone. She had never been. She was just his torn psyche kicking him while he was down. It offered him a glimmer of hope when he refused to see it himself. He didn't want to see hope. He just wanted to not be tired anymore.
Buster held the book up and looked at it. The leather was just as worn as his jacket. His fingers moved across the cover in quiet fascination. He took his cigarette and flicked it away and brought the bible to his lips instead and kissed it. His eyes fell closed and he leaned his head down to press against the suple leather. "Okay." He said. Buster pushed himself to his feet. Buster was a liar and a thief, a beautiful disaster. Every woman he ever met he had hurt and Megan was no different. He was poison persuasion. He was a smooth talking hurricane in a leather jacket that came in and ruined. Buster's hand pressed against the wall to steady himself. He stepped over the corpses and walked out of the Lousianna warehouse. It had been a long way since Detroit. Months in fact. He had been lonely and alone these last few months and ready to give up, but Megan wouldn't allow him to. It was Megan that made him want to be a better man in the first place. It was Megan that kept him on his feet now when his hour was darkest.
Buster limped out to his stationwagon. His ankle was killing him. His ribs were screaming. Every muscle in his body was bruised and battered and calling for a time out, but that wasn't in the playbook. Not anymore. Buster slipped inside the driver's seat and adjusted the mirror. When the mirror turned he saw Megan sitting there in the backseat. She still wore that sweet simple smile. He blinked her away by closing his eyes and shaking his head. No more ghosts. It was too painful. He wanted to driver her away, but he knew that if he did so he would miss her too much. She was that sweet southern addiction that dripped in his veins. Now he was a junkie without a vice. He started the car and drove through the Lousianna countryside. The miles ticked away, burning the hours and not really doing much to ease the growing racket in his mind.
He wasn't even sure how he ended up in Louisianna. He had no set destination. He just followed the roads wherever they went. All he knew was he didn't want to be in Detroit with the lingering ghosts of his friends. After hours of hard driving and deafening quiet the car sputtered. It slowed to a crawl before it finally died on the side of the road. "FUCK FUCK FUCK!" Buster shouted and punched the dashboard. Stepping out into the frost he slammed the door. Buster stared at the car a moment and shook his head. Stuffing his hands into the pockets of his leather jacket he looked around. There was a house just up the road. It was something. It was better than standing out in the middle of the road with your thumb up your ass. Buster started walking. The soft crunch of the icy grass beneath his feet did little to drown out the background noise in his head. He marched onward with his hands still in his pockets. Even as he strolled up the front porch steps.
Buster strolled with a cocky swagger. He was still tired, but that didn't mean the way he walked had changed. He always walked with a ego sweltering under all that hair jel. He stopped just shy of the front door and looked at the number on the house. 112. The number sat slightly crocked on the rickety house. Buster reached up a finger and slowly pushed it up, setting it straight. When his finger pulled away it slipped back to it's original position. Buster's face pushed into a half smirk. For whatever reason it amused him briefly. He was used to staying in places like this. It felt like home. Buster reached out and turned the handle. The door swung open with a creak as he loomed in the doorway. "What a shithole." He said to himself out loud. "Home sweet home."