Cause and Effect

Chapter 18

adust [ə-ˈdəst]

(adj). burned; scorched

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Hosea leaned forward, cradling his head in his hands. 

How many more times could his world go to shit in a goddamn month?

He had been watching the camp in Dutch's absence, as pissed as he was that the man was taking a joy ride out in the fuckin' middle of nowhere, he let him go without so much as an argument. Taking the free time he seemed to have far too much of, he took inventory around camp, let Pearson complain to him about how resources were, (had) been running low, and how Susan needed more medicine. Hell, he needed more medicine. He woke up with blood on his pillow again, a surefire sign that the coughing was getting worse. 

The numbers were slim, and the morale slimmer, and then this damn phone call took all of it and smashed it into the fuckin' ground. 

Hosea, Dutch sounded panicked. No. He sounded scared. And Dutch never sounded scared. It's Arthur and John. 

And hell, hadn't it just been Arthur and John? Hadn't it just been them, wasn't it time for them to just move on and maybe set all this aside and find that paradise Dutch had been promising for maybe a little too long now?

What do you mean, he had asked, panic constricting his voice. Squeezing his lungs and forcing his words out in quick breathy bursts. What does that mean, Dutch?

They're gone, I think they were picked up by those fed bastards. Venom, sharp and quick, the bitter anger Hosea was accustomed to laying a thin veneer over that rock-solid fear in Dutch's voice. 

How do you-- he couldn't even get the words out of his mouth, let alone scramble out the mess that was tangling up in his brain. 

I saw a government car, burnin' up on the road. Two bikes, theirs, battered and abandoned. Think Arthur drew them away from those goddamn guns.

The guns. Those guns. Arthur should have just let them find them, should have just slunk off, tail between his legs, while those agents found their godforsaken fuckin' guns. 

Should have been a goddamn coward for once. 

But no, because that's not how Hosea raised him. And that was never who Arthur was. 

And because of who Arthur was, and a whole damn lot of other shit, he was somewhere Hosea couldn't be. 

His phone was still in his hand, pressed up against his forehead. Hosea didn't spiral, that wasn't who he was. He picked a path out of the mess Dutch got them into and he stayed on it. But this was hard. It was so goddamn hard because that was his son. Arthur was his kid. 

"Hey," Susan. Thank god for Susan. "Is everythin' alright?" She was standing next to him, unsure whether to make the full commitment to crouch down next to him, or to move on after getting his response. He pulled back, rubbing his hands over his face, dismayed to find his eyes wet. 

"No, Susan." He said simply, glancing up at her. Her brows peaked and she crouched down next to him, with a quick glance around. 

"What is it?" Her voice deepened, and he knew she was waiting for him to tell her that someone had been killed. 

"Not like that," he said softly, and her shoulders relaxed. "It's jus', I dunno how we're gonna do this."

"Do what?" She stressed the anxiety in her voice at being left out in the dark creeping through. "You have to tell me, Hosea, or I can't help you."