Marcid

Fifty-Three - Dalton

Carrying Hansen was much more strenuous than he anticipated. He didn't look like he had much muscle, or even fat, on him. Dalton couldn't tell whether all of the weight he had been carrying was either from the younger man's tactical gear, or it was actually the body itself. It was as if the man had big rocks in his pockets and shackles on his ankles with boulders chained to the ends. He was pushing his limits by carrying such a "heavy" body. He didn't find the necessity to read up on Hansen's file beforehand, not that he could find one anyhow: most of the soldiers who work for the company were completely off the radar for the sake of their own safety.
He lifted Hansen's limp body up in the air, holding him in a bridal carry to have less trouble in taking him back to the lab. His steps became heavier with the seconds passing, his arms slightly shaking with the burdensome weight he carried in his arms, a quick breath added to his cycle of breathing. "You're heavy, kid," Dalton said in a fleeting huff, his arms barely lowering in a silent plea to put the younger man down. "How can you be as thin as a goddamn twig and be as heavy?" Dalton started to talk to himself more to occupy his mind: it ratherish worked. "There's no damn way that you weigh this much–it sure as hell has gotta be 'mpossble–all of that gear you have on must've been weighing you down for ages." Dalton muttered "Poor kid," shortly after his very quick ramble. A crackle emitted from the handie-talkie that was carefully set on Hansen's stomach. Garbled, unintelligible words came from the speaker. The grainy voice effect that the handie-talkie didn't help much either.
"Hans–" Crackle. "Lawrence? Pick up the damn walkie!" A voice demanded. Dalton softly groaned, mostly because of how much he dreaded talking to him. Maverick. He was too "spoiled" for his age, Dalton always thought. "Lawrence, pick it up, now." Maverick's voice started to annoy Dalton more and more, a headache coming his way. He huffed as he reached for the handie-talkie with one hand, pressing a button to send a message through.
"Yes, Maverick, I'm here."
"About time. What is taking you so long? Is he that heavy?"
"Yes."
The sudden silence told Dalton that he finally shut Maverick up, for at least a few seconds. The white noise in the atmosphere made the handie-talkie crackle with suspense.
"Fine, then." Maverick said. "But I have a timer on you. If you don't get here in the next hour: I'm pulling the trigger on you. It's not like you have many years left." Maverick's words made Dalton scoff with offense.
"I don't get cut any slack for being old?"
"No. You have one hour, Lawrence."
Those were Maverick's final words before the static came to occupy the silence. Dalton stopped walking, his posture slouching with ernevation. He looked at Hansen's face, his relaxed expression making Dalton sneer with envy: strangely, he wanted to be the one unconscious. Glancing around, he took in his surroundings; dozens of trees lining the road, the crashed car only a subtle distance away. Dalton soon realized that he hadn't actually made much progress in making his way back to the lab. Cursing under his breath, Dalton bent over to put down the unconscious man, the walkie that lay on his stomach rolling over to the ground with a semi-loud thud. He kneeled to pick up the handie-talkie, the crackles continuing to emit from the speaker; a hesitant finger twisted the power switch to off before Dalton set the handie-talkie down onto the ground once more.
He grabbed out his gun, precisely aiming at the handie-talkie.
He pulled the trigger.