Smack-dab, in the Middle of Nowhere (Waste Stories #1)

45. The Big Finale (Part 2)

"Orsen!" Jeb screamed.

The lad took the bullets dead on and toppled immediately forwards, the chair flying out of his young hands. His blood hit the floorboards moments before his body, but the chair carried forwards at the speed of Orsen's sprinting. It collided into old Bob and knocked him back, his finger twitching on the trigger and shooting himself in the foot.

Jeb ran forwards as Bob yelped with pain and surprise, shouldering past Rob to knock him to the floor as he charged for Orsen. Behind him, a grunty, drunk voice yelled "Get 'em!" and Jeb heard the pounding of many footsteps as the long-suffering traders and wanderers of Can't Be Buried saw an opportunity to deal a little bit of suffering back.

Soon the whole bar was filled with the shouting of a brawl, now far louder than the waning wind outside. Jeb got to Orsen seconds after, sliding to his knees next to the lad and slipping a withered old hand beneath his skull. The boy had landed on his front, but rolled to his back. His blood pooled on the floorboards, mixing with the dust that was still swarming in from the storm.

"Orsen, can you hear me?" Jeb cried, checking the boy's eyes.

"Blah," Orsen replied, frowning. "I think I bin shot, Jeb."

"Yeah lad, you bin shot. Twice, like an idiot."

"Sorry, Jeb," he croaked. "I'm tryin' t' save Smacks. We gots t' save it, Jeb."

"I know, lad, I know. We'll save it, OK? We'll save it. I'm sorry I didn't help sooner - I didn't want anythin' bad t' happen to ya, lad."

Orsen reached up and put his young hand on Jeb's, smiling up at the old man's face. "I know, Jeb, ya always got my best interests at heart, I know ya do..."

Jeb watched as Orsen's eyes swam in and out of focus. His heart thudded loudly in his ears, his fingers trembling on the boy's. Somewhere nearby, Bob was being swarmed with more wanderers, fighting them while his toes flopped freely around his boot, sliced away from the foot. Rob was already somewhere in a pile of bodies, unable to reach his morning star, not smart enough to be able to fight off multiple drunk opponents. The air buzzed with the slams of a good beating.

"Orsen?" Jeb said, seeing the boy become particularly dazed. "Orsen?! Don't you die on me, lad."

The boy's eyes shot open wide. "Oh shit, Jeb, do ya think that's gonna happen?

"Wait, I didn't mean-"

"Oh man, I thought I was gonna be fine!"

"Orsen, wait, you'll be-"

"Oh no, oh no, oh no, I'm gonna die. Oh no, oh crap, oh no."

Jeb squeezed his hand tight, staring into Orsen's eyes. "Shut up for once in yer life, lad. You'll be fine."

Orsen stared back, a watery film across his glittering pupils. "Is it jus' a flesh wound, Jeb?"

"Aye lad," he replied, briefly pulling back some clothing to check the wound. He almost recoiled at the sight, feeling a significant amount of vomit bubbling like a cauldron in his stomach. "Aye ... lad. The flesh is definitely wounded, there."

"Alright, Jeb," he croaked. "Ya gotta go stop the bomb. Save Smack-dab, Jeb. I'll be fine lyin' here. I feel alright, I do."

"Yer've been shot twice, Orsen. Ya don't feel fine."

"Naw, I feel great. Just horrible pain is all. It's nice t' lie down for a bit. One o' the other traders can help me out."

"No they can't, lad, I gotta stay with you until I can patch ya up."