We Can Run, Or We Can Die [Frerard]

Fourteen|Dead, Deader and Deadest

There was the humming of an engine and not much else. A few voices, none that he recognised. 'Mm'ing and 'ahh'ing. His name. He heard his name.

And as for what he could see, well, that was a no-brainer. Absolutely fuck-all. There was something over his head, like a black sack or something, he didn't know, he didn't care, he was just concerned with getting out of here alive.

Alive.

Judging by the whole production, with the sack and the murmuring and the hands gripping his biceps, he didn't think that was happening any time soon.

Ray swallowed heavily, his heartbeat spiking with every noise. He was on tenterhooks, listening out for any sort of giveaway that they were stopping. And after what felt like forever, the vehicle began to slow, and they stopped. He was hauled out of the vehicle, and one of the hands that was gripping his bicep was strong and tight and unforgiving, while the other was loose and hesitant. Probably a girl.

He chided himself. Sexist pig.

"Do we really have to do this?" A voice to his right said, the owner of the limp hold, and if Ray wasn't fucking gagged, he'd have cried out.

"Yes." The person to his left replied.

Ray's eyes were wide beneath the sack. He had to get back to Gerard and Bert and Frank, he had to tell them - to tell them - to -

He was thrown onto something hard, a table, and the sack was yanked from his head. He was yelling behind the gag, his wide eyes pointed towards the male, while the female slapped him before advancing with a syringe in her hand. The male held him down as she injected him with some weird bluish fluid, and he was still writhing when he passed out, one thing on his mind:

He had to tell them that Ryan was -

~

Bert hadn't third-wheeled since 2012.

Bert hadn't felt so out of place since 2012.

Bert hadn't wanted to be alone so badly since 2012.

2012 sucked, to say the least.

And as Gerard and Frank gazed lovingly at each other by the small campfire they'd made, he resigned himself to sitting in the front seat of the car, hood pulled up, legs bent awkwardly so he could rest his feet against the dashboard. He'd stolen Frank's knife, and was running the side of the blade over his palm, the metal glinting in the moonlight.

It was quiet tonight. Quieter than he expected, anyway. He was worried that the campfire would attract zombies, but so far, so good. He kept thinking about Ray and where he'd been taken. They'd looked for him for a while but gave up once they realised there was no trace of him anywhere. It was dangerous to go looking for someone these days. He just wished Gerard would realise it.

Dammit! He slashed downwards with the knife, opening up the thigh of his jeans, opening up the skin of his thigh. Blood pooled instantly, startlingly red, and pain spiked through him. He did it a second time, ripping his jeans, ripping his skin, and he bit into his lower lip, screwing his eyes shut. He needed to feel something, to make sure he wasn't going numb all over.

Why couldn't Gerard just fucking learn?

Gerard never fucking learned.

He tossed the knife onto the passenger seat, gritting his teeth together, grinding the heels of his hands into his eyes. He could feel the blood, thick and slick on his thigh, and it stungstungstung with the power of a thousand bees. He'd slashed deeper than he thought, but didn't bother trying to stem the flow; it would do that by itself, soon enough. Or he'd bleed out. He didn't care which.