Gallows Humour | Watty's 2023

The Throes of Death

Breathe. Ringing filled the inside of their head.

They gasped, sputtering against their waterlogged mask. Tore it off so all that choked them was the taste of their own blood and the rain hitting their teeth. The landings swam above them, bright splotches blotting chunks of the picture out the way the ringing blotted out crashes of thunder. Otsana stood aloof on the catwalk, peering down at them.

Warmth spread from their side, combatting the icy, numbing rain. It was almost pleasant. Almost. They let their eye close, head throbbing. Almost.

Shit, their stitches.

Their eye flew open, hand flying to the warm, wet injury. They sat up with a groan, only to collapse back down to their elbows, gasping and shivering. Stars burst in their head, over their vision. Hot pokers ripped at their chest and empty eye.

Shit, fuck, ow. They ground their teeth against stinging tears, if only because they needed clearer vision to see Otsana. Except she'd vanished from the catwalk. Probably coming to finish the job. They rocked to their side, clutching the torn patch of new scar. Was that three broken ribs, or four? They swore they could feel the snapped ends scraping against each other when they moved. Blood drooled from somewhere behind their teeth. That wasn't great.

Mere inches away, legs sprawled over theirs, was Jonesy. Eyes open, bloodshot. Railing jutting from his spine, a pillar aimed at the blackened sky with shards of fractured bone buckled outwards from its base.

They staggered to their feet, swayed in doubles. It was a straight shot to the open door, the lighter patch of grey in the distance enough to act as their guide. Between flashes of lightning, a silhouette appeared in the door. Small, drenched, clutching the bulk of one last bomb. Radio started towards them, a bright streak of electricity lit the wide whites of its eyes. True waved it away.

"They know!" They shouted, blood splattering the backs of their teeth. "Lay the bomb! They know!"

Radio hesitated, gaze darting between True and the Jonesy-pillar.

"I'm right behind you!"

That was enough. With a curt nod, it backed away, turned, fled. True turned, too, and grabbed the slick pipe. They shook the body loose, bone scraping on the rusted metal. It let go with a squelch and flopped to the floor like a wet sandbag, landing in a puddle of its own fluids. Steam curled from the gaping wound, blood sloughing from the blunted point of the railing. It was unwieldy, it slipped in their grasp, but it was all they had. Their shovel hung from its clip four storeys up and Otsana was already on her way.

They peered up, skimming the flights of stairs and finding no glimpses of activity. Their heart thundered in their ears, accompanying the shrill bouncing off the walls of their ear canals. They scanned the shadows for movement. The sensation of being watched set their hair on end. And yet, no sign of the woman stalking them.

Warily, they backed away from the stairs and the corpse. Pressed a hand to the split as they went. There was a lot of blood, it had soaked through to their coat. Oh well. They stumbled, fishery turning on its side for a moment. Propping the rail against the wall for a minute, they fumbled with their sash and managed to get it up around the burst injury and cinched it tight. A sharp bite of pain bleached their vision white, then passed. Good enough. They'd get stitched back together when they made it back to the Market. They were almost done. Almost. The bomb laying on the catwalk would have to suffice because they were not making it back up those stairs.

The downpour let up briefly as they limped further from the destroyed roof. The wind swirled around them, stealing their last remnants of body heat. A gust knocked them against the wall, rattling their broken bones.

"Ouch," they muttered under their breath. Still kind of hard to breathe. Kind of hurt a lot.

A figure appeared in the door. In an instant they had their makeshift weapon up, ready.

"True!" It was Cal rushing towards them. Eliza trailed after him, arms empty of bombs and knives.

"You're not supposed to be here," they wheezed. There were scorch marks up his bare arms, a split-open bruise bubbled on his crown.

"The Faction knew," Cal repeated what True already knew. "They knew everything. They let us think we had them trapped and turned it against us."

"The Market?"

Expression tight, Cal shook his head. "They dropped bombs down the escape tunnels."

Right into the basement, right into the midst of the civilians, all their children.

"Big Valdivia?" True sifted the mush that was their brain for her real name. Luckily, Cal understood.

"Suni's dead. Kiari's aright, she's with Mu, away from here. Where's Jonesy?"

"Dead. He sold us out." Cold fury burst in True's chest. That was why they hadn't seen the first Faction group leave, that was why they hadn't heard the signal from Big Valdivia. Their fist found the wall. They had known better than to trust Jonesy and they'd done it anyways. "I should have killed him back in Kindersley."

If they had, they'd've had one more eye and a lifetime's worth less grief. Could have, would have, should have.

"You good?" Cal's voice sounded wavy.

"Mmhmm." The fishery had tipped on its side again. The ear ringing suddenly an entire brass section over which they heard faint strains of cursing. Eliza gripped their chin and forced them to look up at her. Two Eliza's stared back down at them, the crazy in her eyes a touch intense. Too much like Allsaint.

"You ruined my stitches," she tutted.

"Not now." Cal smacked her hand away. Bending, he looped True's arm over his shoulders.

"Wait," True wheezed, "I can't leave without Rag—" a cough interrupted them, white-hot agony flash-bombed their body and left the taste of iron painted on the roof of their mouth.

"I'll get your shadow doll, Sunshine," Eliza cooed, slipping out into the rain. Cal made as if to follow her, lifting True from the wall.

"Ribs," True gasped as blinding waves wracked them, "ribs."

Cal's hold loosened. "Jonesy did a number on you."

"Not Jonesy." The moment those words made it past their lips they knew. Trusting Jonesy hadn't been the only mistake they made that night.

Cal stumbled, footing lost on the rain-slick floor. Cleared his throat. Lost his hold.

True hadn't heard the knife plunge in. But they heard the tearing flesh when Cal collapsed, eyes still open, a midnight shade of red sloughing from his open neck.