"DUDE THIS isn't Call of Duty."
I give the guy next to me the dirtiest look I could manage.
"I know that", I say, wiping imaginery dirt from my light gun. We are resting our backs against wooden crates in a poorly lit room that kind of reminds me of Lone Wolf in Free Fire, just without the bad lighting.
"Why are you even wearing a biker's helmet in a laser tag game?", the other guy to my left pipes up.
His complexion is so dark I only see the white of his eyes--oh and his pupils. Makes it look like they're floating.
"Because, I don't wanna get shot in the head.", I respond, slowly patting my helmet. The guy to my right who told me this wasn't Call of Duty looks at me as if I'm crazy. I roll my eyes in response.
I can tell from the stubble that he is older than both of us (me and floating eyes).
"That doesn't even make sense creep. NO ONE IS GONNA SHOOT YOU IN THE HEAD! ITS LASER TAG NOT WORLD WAR II !", he says a tad too loud.
"It's just for the what-ifs okay?", I mutter underneath my breath.
A few moments go by and we don't say anything. I'm about to speak up when I hear a faint thudding in the background.
Someone or something is climbing the stairs that lead to this place. Wide-eyed, we make eye contact with each other. I bring my index finger to my lips, signalling everyone to be quiet. The stubbled dude rolls his eyes at me before checking his gun. He is about to rise when I grab his arm. He gives me a death glare before shaking me off.
Like a fly.
"Don't do it!", I whisper fiercely.
"It could be the enemy", floating eyes concurs, his gaze never leaving the stubbled dude's face.
"Even if it is, hiding won't do us any good."
And just like that, he crouches away. I adjust my position and lie flat on my belly, every joint in body tensed in expectation.
Suddenly, there is a loud pfft sound, and it's not the laser gun.
"What was that?", I mouthed to floating eyes. He shakes his head as if saying he didn't know.
Someone's grunt is followed by a loud thud.
I adjust my position on the floor and peep through the spaces between the wooden crates.
There's a body on the floor.
"You just butt him in the head bro, that's AGAINST the rules!", I hear stubble speak. The guy he is talking to is about three sizes larger than he is, with shoulders that make hulk look like an ant.
I swallow involuntarily.
Hulk (for that is what we will be calling him) has a helmet on, one similar to mine, surprisingly. He even wears our drabby team garb. Right now, he is perfectly still, as stubble hurls denunciations at him. Stubble glances at the body again. "Awww", he groans,"he's on our team! Can't you see that, or are you just plain blind"--I wanted to tell stubble to stop. To tell him that you do not talk menacingly to someone who is thrice your size, especially if you can't see their face. But what could I say? I had warned him not to leave our hiding place, but he refused to heed my warning, so whatever he got, he deserved."You're supposed to be shooting the enemy not your --"
Stubble doesn't get to finish his sentence. In the blink of an eye, he lands to the ground with a thud. His body is still on the ground.
Too still. I squint to get a closer look. Blood has slowly started to pool around his head, and that's when I see it.
YOU ARE READING
Gray's Teenage Killers: Grey is a Beautiful Color
AcciónWhen Damien Maynard impersonates an assassin in order to save his life, he doesn't know just how much it would change it. In the end, he has to forfeit his name, watch his own funeral service, kill dozens of people and work for an anonymous figure...
