❦growing❦ COMPLETED

close call

"shit."

dylan let the huskily spread word slip out his mouth as he reloaded the barrel, hearing the snorts and clicks of the skin eaters down the tomb. he was almost out of ammo and nowhere near the exit of these ghastly tombs. the panic hadn't even fully set in yet before he was bashing in a walking corpses head with HK 416; who's disgusting face was inches away from chomping down on Dylan's shoulder. help should be coming any second now, he told himself calmly. or what he liked to think was calm. help IS coming.

someone had to have heard the gunshots. someone and anyone would do at this point.

if the truth in people always came out, Dylan would be running like a madman down the tombs, letting out loud, craven sobs that would notify everything and anything that he was scared. yes, because Dylan was terrified. not for himself. not afraid of being torn to bits by the skin eaters, but... scared of never seeing Thomas's face again, never again hearing his best friends words of exception and stern affection.

that... is what scared him. that... is what gave him nightmares.

so what Dylan was putting himself up to right now, which was relentlessly bashing the skin eaters heads, or flat out shooting the roof... what he was doing was all for Thomas. just to be able to see his wonderful smile, and be in his arms another night. and... the thought of Thomas not needing Dylan was on his mind every day, but it didn't matter, because Dylan needed Thomas. all of him.

the sounds of a man's voice are what broke him away from his tear struck eyes, shooting around Dylan.  and its what prompted Thomas to go forward, seeing the light of the exit. his legs moved faster than he's ever felt, and his whole body put energy into running this last few feet, throwing himself onward onto the latter. he'd been only a bit more relieved, knowing those atrocities couldn't climb, before hearing a huge, choked, ragged bellow, and did Dylan know what that was? yes, it was a runner. and was Dylan's relief washed away? yes, runners could climb, jump, run, hide, be manipulative, punch, grab... they where basically like humans, except crazy cannibals. the man's voice had stopped, but he paid no mind as he climbed faster, hearing the padded thuds of the runners' feet, his hands sweating. his gun was slowing him down tremendously, so he threw it at one of the stragglers in frustration, a hand reaching the soft, soggy ground. he didn't care he basically had an unstoppable force running after him, and staggered out of the tomb, onto the wet grass. ahead of him was nothing but tree's, and expenses of greenery, until the beige colour of cement across the field broke the scene.

 good.. good. the north sanctuary was okay.

it was okay and silent as ever. so he quickly stumbled in the slippery grass as the rain fell, going to close the tombs metal door, pushing as hard as he could. all it took was a slip, and his hand was being gripped tightly by the runners' stiff extremities.

that's when started was wildly punting at the tomb door for it to close, hearing the iron creak.

"Dylan, move! move!"

a voice screeched, gunshots following afterwards. the shots hit the dead hands and had only grazed Dylan's knuckles. the intense sounds of gunshots, snorts, snarls, wails, and wheezes where enough to split Dylan's head in half...

his sluggish eyes were forced open at the arduous pain in his hand... And the loud below from the beholder of these cold, dead hands. Then he realized, the door of the tomb was closed on his hand, shut tight, and the crack it had let out was enough to make him cry out in agony. he felt the grievous pressure filling his lungs, and his breathing was laboured. the loud noises put a sharp pain in his head, the only thing keeping him from sinking away was the voice instructing him to breathe. The voice sounded like it was coping, and the more he listened the more he heard.  He heard two different voices, one of which was calming to his heart. The conscious calming voice was screaming his name, and demanding him not to look at his crushed hand. Dylan was still not able to breathe correctly, his heart hammering. His heart rate picked up before he could even feel the worse pain of skin being torn. Not by a runner, not by a skin eater, but by a bullet. He was so sure all the cannibals in the area had probably heard this fray, and where on their way over, though he couldn't care as a scream ripped from his throat. Tears of pain sliding down into his mouth, being blinded by white, hot anguish. The voice was back again, and this time, it was louder. Over his whales and cries of "it hurts" the voice sounded as if it was under such pressure, it was choked and strangled. He heard the metal creaking, the bellowing getting louder, and his arm was harshly pulled away from the door, by the same voice who'd been in his ear this whole time.

"C' mon Dylan, c' mon."
Someone whispered through it all, pulling his body up. He could only see the blur of fields and faces, not able to make out one single thing.

He was in a state of nirvana, one
Of misery and damage.

His eyes eventually closed, Dylan felt the sting slowly weakening along with his common sense. all he could make of this moment was soft hands gripping his face, as the mechanic bumping of a truck was docking Dylan's body up and down.

"dyl, keep your fuckin eyes open... you hear me?"

"please keep them open..."

"don't leave me behind you bastard!