Seperation // Gally x Reader

Chapter Twenty-One - Marcus

Warm, burning tears stream down my face, stinging each solitary pore. A half scream, half wail bursts from my gut, snot leaking from my nose. I'm left adrift in a sea of sorrow, reminiscing about our shared thoughts, experiences, and dreams. I feel abandoned, alone.

Like I'm the only one who truly cared about him.

The others faces are solemn and respective, but not a single one of those conceited assholes looks like they've been crying. I can't say the same for myself.

I look towards Thomas, who's staring into the distance beside Newt. I see a glimmering trail gliding down his cheek. He must've gotten the news before me, but I can still see it hit him almost as hard.

The guilt is overwhelming. Had I been more attentive? Had I pushed harder to make sure he was safe? The questions swirled around in my head, a constant reminder of my own powerlessness.

I just want to hold him one more time, to tell him how much I love him. But that's impossible. I know it is.

My sobs transform into subtle sniffles as I slowly come to terms with the fact. As much as I love Chuck, and will forever miss him, this is not the time to be grieving. A man is currently being beaten in front of my eyes, and I still don't know why.

Thomas and I make eye contact, and I tilt my head, gesturing for him to sit beside me. He nods and stands up, leaning his back against the wall and sliding down. He wraps one arm around my shoulders and grasps my hand with the other. I twist my face into the crook of his neck and release my final sobs before composing myself.

"I suggest that you talk, you son of a bitch!" Jorge yells, sending another hard blow across the man's face. I look away, my eyes laying on the flickering fireplace across the room. I'm not sure where we are, but it seems homely. Olive green paper lines the walls around us, golden drapes and canopies cascading effortlessly from certain parts of the roof. There's a chair, a small liquor table, a couch, and a bed- but for some reason we're all sitting on the floor up against a wall.

The man grunts in response. Thomas lets go of my hand and stands up. I let him go. "I'm sorry, you're going to have to leave my house. Or at least don't get blood on my carpet. Stains are hard to get out," the man says light-heartedly. "Listen. I don't enjoy hurting you," Jorge replies. "Where is the Right Arm, Marcus?"

"Wait, that's Marcus?" I ask, scrambling to my feet. "The kid catches on quick," he says with a laugh. "Are you the brains of the operation? By the way, you look like shit." I roll my eyes at him as Jorge grabs him by a tuft of his receding hairline, tilting his chin upward.

"I know you know where they're hiding. So you tell me, and I'll make you a deal."

Marcus laughs once again. He must be really high. "You can come with us," Jorge says, attempting to use his freedom as an incentive. "I burned that bridge a long time ago," Marcus says. "Besides, I made my own deal. You're the one who taught me, 'never miss an opportunity'."

"What's he talking about?" Newt asks. "I'm talking about supply and demand," Marcus says, louder this time. "WICKED wants all the immunes they can get. I help provide that for them. So I lure the kids in, they get drunk, have a good time, and then later, WICKED comes in. They separate the wheat from the chaff."

I take a step towards him, my hand curled into a fist. I pop one right on his already enlarged cheekbone. "You sick bastard! We're just kids, did you ever think of that?" Thomas grabs my arms and pulls me back, Marcus chuckling psychopathically.

"I changed my mind, hermano. I do enjoy hurting you," Jorge says, kicking the chair back so that Marcus lies on the floor. He pulls out a gun and holds it to Marcus', now terrified, face. "Talk! Talk!" He demands, his other hand finding its way around his neck. "Okay, okay! Jesus," Marcus gasps. "But I'm not making any promises. These guys like to move around."

Jorge and Minho pull him back upright. I personally believe he should stay on the floor.

Who's laughing now, dickhead, I think as his breathing becomes heavier.

"They have an outpost in the mountains, but it's a long way away. You've got half of WICKED on your ass, you're never gonna make it."

"Not on foot," Jorge says, a smirk blossoming across his lips. He leans forward, resting his arms on the Marcus' shoulders. "Where's Bertha?" He asks, eyebrows briefly raising with his smile.

Marcus quivers, his eyebrows furrowing. "Not Bertha," he pleads. Jorge simply nods, his hand reaching towards the pocket that holds his gun. "Fine, OK. She's out back. Just please, please, take care of her."

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We flood out the door, Thomas and I staying right on Jorge's heels. As we walk, I wonder what, or who, Bertha may be. Is she a person? A place? It could be a fucking insurance plan for all I know.

Jorge turns a corner quicker than the rest of us, and when we make it around the loop, he's standing beside the most beautiful thing I'd ever seen. She's a rusty blue Chevrolet 1985 Suburban, with a magnificent pair of bull horns attached to the front bumper.

"Shotgun!" Newt shouts, slipping into the front seat. The others file into the car, and unfortunately Thomas and I are last. Lorenzo, Brenda, and Frypan are piled into the boot. Thomas and Minho sit by the windows in the middle row, and I'm squished between them. They reek of dirt and alcohol, and neither of them have the decency to keep their legs closed.

As we drive through the open road, the terrain returns to deserts and mountains. Old cell phone towers are scattered on certain paths of our deserted road, partially collapsed and coated in rust.

I can feel Minho's eyes piercing the side of my face, but I don't dare look. Instead, I focus on the radio. It's playing old songs, from around the twenty-first century. Ride by Lana Del Ray comes on, and it's the perfect thing to distract me from all that's happening. From the corner of my eye, I see Minho open his mouth to say something. Before he can speak, I lean forward and crank up the volume.

I press another button, that sends Bertha's roof to open. I unbuckle my flimsy seatbelt and stand up, poking my torso through the metal and into the open air. I can still hear the music as the wind whips around me, and it's quite peaceful. That is, until Jorge stops the car at a pile up and I have to slink back into my seat.