After Life

Friendly Fire

QUAN

***Three days later***

"... And that's why I've made the decision to defer my studies until next year. Education is no doubt important, but, until I'm ready to dive back into studying journalism again, I'll be pursuing more immediate ways I want to impact the world around me. I was given a second chance at life, and I think I know how I'll probably use it this time. To all 20-thousand plus of you, I hope you'll continue to support me. Talk soon!"

Though it's been a while now since they've found him, it's still a trip to see this nigga talking. He's always talking. That whole "Dead men tell no tales" shit? A straight up lie. I know he's dead – he is supposed to be – because I personally made sure to put two bullets in the back of his head. So why is this video – one I've watched four times in a row now, still real?

My head flicks up as a loud, popping sound comes from the wooden, two-bedroom house that's now a big ball of fire before me. I sniffle and rub my nose in an attempt to hide the fact that I was startled, but Fidgi, my only real friend, notices and I hear a muffled laugh as he attempts to walk over to me. He slings the AK-47 that he sparingly fired tonight across his chest and over his back, and skips over a few stones to get to me. This terrain is stupidly and unnecessarily stony, but it's one of the reasons why I know we can be a bit carefree right now – neither the fire brigade nor the police will get here any time soon. So, though I'd normally tell Fidgi to stay in position, I allow his childish wandering this time.

Sure enough, he comes over laughing and I'm instantly annoyed. He can't tell though because we're all wearing masks. Our hands are wrapped in plastic all the way up to our elbows, and the full black attire makes it easy to hide in the dark, that is, as long as we're not standing in front of a giant fucking fireball. There is nothing to savour here and I've got class in the morning.

"Bruh, I know you weren't frightened by the sound of wood popping just now! Or was it bones? Dem do dat, right?"

The flames crackle as I glare at Fidgi but he's clueless to it, not because he can't see my eyes, but because my eyes are dead. Expressionless he's called them. He continues laughing and I wonder, for a moment, if he'd laugh as joyfully if his face was pressed against the chunk of fiery wood that just broke from the house.

I don't remember when the screams stopped. Not that I usually do, but something inside me tugs rather weakly at my conscience that I should now for some reason. The only attention it gets is a little chuckle that slithers from my lips and Fidgi mistakes it for a response to his attempt at a joke. He is amused with himself and laughs a little louder. I grow more amused with the idea of my best friend's flesh sizzling against the burning wood but he interrupts that thought with a question as he notices the phone in my hand and the video that has been looping on Instagram.

"Oh, that reminds mi. Did I tell you the squaddie," Fidgi gestures to the other member of our four-man team for tonight – an off-duty police officer, "told me it was Mr. Instagram here who was responsible for me being dragged up in that identification parade a few days ago? Yeah man, him same one."

Fidgi called me as soon as they released him from the police station. That was probably three days ago. They had him in an identification parade as a Person of Interest or something like that. I was relieved to learn that Fidgi stayed solid. His mouth, unlike it is right now, was sealed shut. I was happy I didn't have to consider dumping him. That's why he's my best friend.

"Mi know. Him tell mi to," I say to Fidgi. That story is the funniest one I've heard all year. Who brings in a mad man to identify a suspect? Fidgi is really blessed to have had such luck.