Fight or flight takes over your body, and suddenly your limbs feel like they don't belong to you anymore. Both of your hands instinctively shoot up to cover your own mouth as you stumble backwards, your sight locked on the horrifying image of Waylon's bloodshot eyes staring in your direction, the insides of his throat exposed and torn down his torso.
Bile rises in your throat as you beg your body to let you tear your eyes away, the revolting image becoming more ingrained in your memory with every second you spend locked on his lifeless eyes. As soon as you can bring yourself to look away, the adrenaline kicks in to your legs, and you clumsily trip backwards until you can find your footing. Fear sears through your veins as you begin to question if whatever did this to Waylon is still in the docks, or if it could be behind you.
You whip your torso around, unsure of where to run first, looking for any sign of movement around you. The tackle shop. An animal can't get into the tackle shop.
Before you have the chance to overthink it, your feet take off up the hill back towards the tackle shop, digging into the wet gravel with every step. You whip your arms along your sides, feeling a sting in your lungs as you sprint as fast as your legs can carry you, the feelings of fear and survival instinct fighting for control within you.
You whip open the wooden tackle shop door and slam it behind you. You frantically search for a lock from the inside, identifying a deadbolt and locking it shut before running to the other door to lock its deadbolt as well. You swallow your own saliva, fighting the urge to throw up as the image of Waylon's open throat begins to creep into your memory again. A phone. Need to find a phone.
A landline sits behind the counter, near the register. Without taking the time to find the entryway to the backside of the counter, you hitch a leg over its edge to jump on top of it and fling yourself over to the other side, knocking over a display of folding knives in the process.
Your fingers feel numb as you pick up the phone and dial 9-1-1.
A dispatcher answers. "9-1-1, what is the location of your emergency?"
You speak quickly and don't feel in control of your words- they flow out of you with panic. "I'm at the Queets River tackle shop- please, please you have to help, quickly!"
"Okay, what's going on there?" He asks.
Tears begin to build up and overflow down your cheeks, your knees starting to weaken. "He's-" Your chest begins shaking uncontrollably as a sob takes over and you fall to your knees, stretching the landline's coiled wire.
"M'am, I'm sending out help now. What's going on?"
You try to talk, but the only noises that escape your lips are your sobs.
The dispatcher tries to get your attention a few more times. You let your body collapse onto the floor, holding on to the phone as you try to get a grip of your shock. You push yourself to an upright position, your arms shaking as you bring the phone back to your ear.
"My friend, he's..."
"Is someone hurt?"
Your mind locks on the image of Waylon again. "Please..."
"How many people are hurt?"
"I-" You swallow your saliva again, trying to take a deep breath but feeling it cut short by the weight on your chest. "Just one, just... just him."
"What happened to your friend?" The dispatcher presses, trying to get more information.
"It's his-" You feel bile rising again as you try to recall the horrifying scene. "His throat, he... I can't, I can't!"
YOU ARE READING
Chief
Fanfiction(A Charlie Swan x Reader Fanfiction) You are Miss Carver from California whose father recently passed away only a few years after you had lost your mother. Among many of the things your father left behind, he left behind his beloved Cafe in Forks, W...
