Olympus Drive Book 3: According to Plan

Chapter 58

Omar

"I wish I had a car. Wait I do have a car. Where is it?" Dean is less than helpful.

"The kid lives in this neighborhood, maybe he just went home," how am I supposed to know where he lives? It's from this direction isn't it? I know where his rich boyfriend lives because the boys described that better it was relevant in explaining some dumb kid thing they'd done like climbed over fences to get to one another. The poor one I'm worried about lives in this little neighborhood.

"Probably not, home sucks---parents usually suck they don't want you to do things that you want to do—man---present company excepted and my mom excepted if she'd get off my ass about getting a real job. I'm sure you make a really lovely father."

"Thank you, can you walk?" I tug him on he was getting distracted staring at something.

"Sorry, my legs feel weird—I really must have been high all day—,"

"Dude, I think you went to hell," I warn him.

"No, I've been there-- it's depressing, but not that bad," he says, placidly, picking blood off of his torn shirt. He's getting rapidly more healed, and cleaner somehow. I'm not asking questions. I just want to find that kid. Please be doing dumb shit with your dumb boyfriend and have forgotten to show up to work like the dumb innocent kid you are. Do not be—

Lying in the middle of the street. In a pool of your own blood.

I run to his body. He's face down, his face pressed into his own blood, like he was crawling to try to get away. His hoodie is soaked in blood, and his eyes are ashen and staring.

"Call 999 or whatever it is---call the police," I say, throwing my phone at Dean as I start CPR.

"911-- yes I need an ambulance Fourth and Horsemen, young male GSW to the abdomen," Dean is saying, quickly, into the phone.

His skin is cold. Fuck there's no warmth left in him. The paperclip he wore around his neck is crusted to his skin, he was clutching it one hand as he died. His hair is stiff with his own blood.

"Can't you do something?" I ask Dean, as he drops down next to me to compress the wound.

"No---I---I think he's gone. I'm sorry Omar, his heart hasn't beat for some time," Dean says, tears in his soft blue eyes, as he runs his hands over the boy's chest, "I think he's gone."

"No," I refuse to believe that, I keep compressing his chest, tipping his head back to breath into his mouth. But as I do and I watch his glassy eyes I know the god is right.

"Who would do this?" Dean asks, sadly.

"Somebody who doesn't have long to live," I'll gut them myself. Who would shoot a boy? He's not armed. He didn't want to hurt anyone. I don't even belong to this country. The very ocean already wants me dead. The laws of this land make very little difference to me.