Howard Bassem (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
iselldrugstothecommunity) wrote2014-01-02 10:56 pm
iselldrugstothecommunity) wrote2014-01-02 10:56 pm
You Hear Yourself Calling Out, You Hear Night Laughing Back
[content warning for dead children]
Continued from here.
They need to get R something to eat. Howard knows that the dog is out of the question, and he's just grateful that the mutt that bit the dust wasn't Steppen. He's sure Wyatt's emotions are more conflicted.
When R made a go for his leg, Howard was ready. He jerked out of the way and put his foot on the small of R's back, mimicking the ease with which Wyatt settled nervous cattle. It's not comfort that he actually felt, but he faked it well enough. He's put his weight down and gotten his belt in R's mouth as a makeshift gag, pulled tight and locked against the back of R's head.
Now he's got a zombie on the ground, unable to communicate even if R was feeling up to something more intelligible than grunts and groans. "Let's get him inside," Howard says, trying to sound steady even as memories belch up out of the bottom of his mind, of curling up with R and Julie during the Disneyland Arena, of kissing, of watching a rerun of him eating R on television and feeling too sick to hold food down for the rest of the day. It's hard to believe that the writhing, snuffling creature under his knee once listened to Dean Martin with him, once chastised him for being a dick to a fangirl.
Howard used to work salvage, back in the FAYZ. It meant breaking into old cars, some that had been parked, some that had crashed, some that had been moving so slowly that when the adults vanished they just rolled to a stop at the end of the street on the friction of grass and dirt. It meant digging past rotten animals, rotten children too young to open doors on the hot day their parents disappeared, and going through glove compartments and the spaces under seats and purses, looking for candybars and breathmints and groceries and flashlights.
It meant digging through horrors he can never forget in order to find little pieces that made it worthwhile.
He doesn't think he can explain to Max and Wyatt how important it is to be sure that there's nothing worth saving in there before they put the rabid animal down. He hopes he doesn't have to.
He can hold R's arms behind his back, but really, a zombie's only as dangerous as their mouth. Rain drips from his face onto R's soaked shirt. Black goo pools next to R's mouth, the hunger manifesting its desire in dark sludge. Howard looks to Max. "Help me get him up?"
Continued from here.
They need to get R something to eat. Howard knows that the dog is out of the question, and he's just grateful that the mutt that bit the dust wasn't Steppen. He's sure Wyatt's emotions are more conflicted.
When R made a go for his leg, Howard was ready. He jerked out of the way and put his foot on the small of R's back, mimicking the ease with which Wyatt settled nervous cattle. It's not comfort that he actually felt, but he faked it well enough. He's put his weight down and gotten his belt in R's mouth as a makeshift gag, pulled tight and locked against the back of R's head.
Now he's got a zombie on the ground, unable to communicate even if R was feeling up to something more intelligible than grunts and groans. "Let's get him inside," Howard says, trying to sound steady even as memories belch up out of the bottom of his mind, of curling up with R and Julie during the Disneyland Arena, of kissing, of watching a rerun of him eating R on television and feeling too sick to hold food down for the rest of the day. It's hard to believe that the writhing, snuffling creature under his knee once listened to Dean Martin with him, once chastised him for being a dick to a fangirl.
Howard used to work salvage, back in the FAYZ. It meant breaking into old cars, some that had been parked, some that had crashed, some that had been moving so slowly that when the adults vanished they just rolled to a stop at the end of the street on the friction of grass and dirt. It meant digging past rotten animals, rotten children too young to open doors on the hot day their parents disappeared, and going through glove compartments and the spaces under seats and purses, looking for candybars and breathmints and groceries and flashlights.
It meant digging through horrors he can never forget in order to find little pieces that made it worthwhile.
He doesn't think he can explain to Max and Wyatt how important it is to be sure that there's nothing worth saving in there before they put the rabid animal down. He hopes he doesn't have to.
He can hold R's arms behind his back, but really, a zombie's only as dangerous as their mouth. Rain drips from his face onto R's soaked shirt. Black goo pools next to R's mouth, the hunger manifesting its desire in dark sludge. Howard looks to Max. "Help me get him up?"