Peppermint And Gunpowder

Chapter Ten: Faster, Faster, Faster

Uh oh, bad news, tumbleweeds. Heard through the grapevine that there was a fire in an old factory. Rumors have it that it was a target at the Fabulous Four. Mhm, do you hear that? Thump, thump, thump. That's the sound of my heart beating out of my chest, so hard I can taste it. How did this happen? Accident, or arson?

Remember: Keep the Fabulous Four and everyone else in your thoughts and prayers.

Our two minutes of daily static is almost up, so this is goodbye, for now.

This is Dr. Death Defying, signing off.

"They said the fire's almost out, it's under control now." Jet knocks on the window. I sit on the back floorboard, still wiping the blood and soot off Poison's face. He's responsive now, more than before, and can talk with slurred words.

"That's good." The radio static fills the car. Jet opens the door and kneels on the edge of the dark fabric seats. "Do they know how it started?"

"No," He looks down. "But they know where it started."

I drop the cloth, my hand on Poison's shoulder, only his red shirt--Dead Pegasus jacket long since removed--remains. Jet doesn't look at me, nor at Poison, just at the dirt on the tips of his worn boots.

"Where?" My voice is soft and afraid, a child once again. He swallows hard.

"A back room in... in, um... Bandit and Helena's room." His eyes gloss over, he tries not to cry. "The fire was in their area. Bandit got out, but..."

"But Helena didn't, did she?" Poison breathes faster as I speak, heart thundering and hand trembling. I hold it tightly. He gulps, sucking air in gasps.

"My--" He chokes and coughs, gripping my hand and the seat. "--fault."

Jet covers his mouth with his hand, biting his tongue to keep a cry inside.

"No," Jet whimpers, a single tear slipping down his cheek. "It isn't your fault. It's nobody's fault."

I shift on the floorboard, the cloth covered in dried blood and smeared soot falls onto the carpet. Poison grips my hand still, and Jet fumbles with his hands, wiping at his tear streaked face.

"Did they..." I clear my throat. "Did they find Helena?"

"Yes. Well, they... they, uh, think they found her." His face, stained with tears, is hidden my his mess of hair and the beginnings of a beard mix with ash and tears.

"Think?"

"They don't know for sure. They found someone, a woman, but she was... she was burned beyond recognition. Dental records are all lost, not that we'd have access or any records to start with, but still. They found her... They found her charred, hands clasped in a prayer. They only knew it was her because of her rosary." Tears fall openly now, he doesn't even bother to wipe them away any more. His normally pale face is flushed red with fingerprints of ash streaking through smoothe and stubbled skin.

Poison grips my hand, tighter and tighter again. He doesn't release, doesn't loosen, just holds tight.

"My fault," He murmurs. "My fault, my fault, my fault."

Faster, faster, faster. His words, his thoughts, his racing heart. Faster, faster, faster.

"She's dead. My fault." He shakes, his words slur. He speaks as if he'd had too much to drink, one shot of whiskey too much. "My fault."

He shakes vigorously, panic replacing blood in his veins. Faster, faster, faster.

His fingers wrap around my hand, the tips turn red. Faster, faster, faster.

Tears fall down his face, dripping onto his cheeks and faded fabric. Faster, faster, faster.

"Poison?" Jet leans on the back of the seat, arm across the headrests. "Poison, are you alright?"

"My fault, my fault, my fault." He repeats over and over. His eyes glaze over, a sleet of tears gloss his eyes but do not fall. He shakes still, breathing in gulps.

Moments pass, repeated words and unshed tears, before we realize the reason for his words.

"My fault, my fault, my fault."

"Jet," I say. "Jet, do you know what he's talking about?"

"No." He looks down, sorrow and fear in his eyes. Faster, faster, faster.

"Helena. About her... about her, you know. He blames himself. His fault? If he'd found her, she wouldn't be dead. We wouldn't have to identify her by her charred rosary. He thinks it's his fault."

He doesn't look at me, more at the miniature bundle of weeds by his feet and tires.

"Are you... are you sure?" He whispers, as if he didn't believe--or didn't want to believe--that Poison blames himself for Helena's death. "That he...?"

"Yes." I watch Poison's shakes die slightly, nothing more than slight tremble. His eyes close, sweat and tears bead on his forehead. Breath still comes in small gasps, but his hand doesn't hold as tight.

I lean onto his shoulder, feeling the strange red fabric material press to my forehead in contrast to the regular worn leather jacket. Soft, though regularly tough. Smooth, though regularly rough.

Poison's breathing slows to a normal rate, and his hand slips from my grasp. Lips parting slightly, eyes clenched in pain. His chest no longer heaves as he slips into a state of unconsciousness.