The Enthusiasts

15

"The dog's hurt! I'm going back for him!" Sasha's voice shrieked, echoing down the festively-decorated underground hallway back to Emerson who had already made his way several yards ahead in the tunnel. She darted back down the open alleyway, her own injuries suddenly becoming nearly non-existent in her panic state. Examining the situation, she was bereaved with guilt.

"Oh my God! It's gonna be okay," Sasha attempted to console the whimpering animal who looked to be in the final throes of life. The dog's back right leg was no longer attached. He was bleeding profusely, and as Sasha arrived on the scene she was sure she saw tears flowing from his canine eyes as he lay his head down on the cold pavement next to the mangled vehicle he had crawled out from under. He let out a few, small, high-pitched wailing noises that Sasha could barely pick up.

Feverishly, she cracked open the bullet-riddled rear-side door of the old sedan, and then, using her knife, she unleashed a series of incisions on the upholstery. Some of the foam cushion seating came out as she cut a square in the upper back seat and quickly removed it. Next, she pulled out a few feet of the smooth rolling seatbelt, cutting that off as well. She was breathing heavily in her distress over her now three-legged friend who lay dying on the ground. She wrapped the piece of seating around the dog's injury, causing him to yelp in agony. Sasha wanted to stop, but she pushed on. She stretched out the section of severed seatbelt and wrapped it tightly around the dog's severed limb. The car upholstery was soaked quickly in dog blood. Sasha pulled the belt tighter and knotted it around the torn leather upholstery patch to complete her tourniquet. She looked down at her dying friend and asked the dog if he could walk. The dog did not respond. He just lay still, letting out a few supersonic cries in the night air as he closed his eyes softly. A great sense of loss enveloped Sasha's heart. She couldn't let this happen. I won't let this happen, she decided right then and there.

Emerson had reluctantly made his way back to the duo. He looked down at the two of them while holding the bags Sasha had dropped on her way to play animal doctor after her most appraised role of psychotic killer had adjourned. She looked up at Emerson with (fittingly enough) puppy dog eyes that requested his support. He found it difficult to understand Sasha's determination and ability to care about this animal while nothing seemed to resonate with her over the scene of mutilated human bodies surrounding them. He had just watched her enjoy herself to some great ends while spewing death around them in all directions. Now he watched as she appeared consumed with grief over the potential passing of a dog she'd known for less than an hour. He stood there in a strange, mixed emotional state. In a peculiar sense of irony, Emerson looked at the slain bodies with a similar attitude as Sasha. He was almost indifferent to the sight of these bodies, something like how a long seasoned medical coroner or homicide detective might respond, though in this case the cause of death was no mystery. Emerson saw these people not as "deserving" death, but he quickly became underwhelmed in their presence from his knowledge and recognition of Karmic law, or what Cornelius dictated in Evaluation of Man's Highest State of Being as Universal Compliance. Everyone here, Emerson was certain, had strung their own chords to create this outcome. Seeing the scene as unfair, cruel, or wrong would only lead to a perpetual, circular path (one Emerson had paced around himself many times) that led to the perceiver finding blame, demanding sacrifice, and passing on his or her own judgment. This, Emerson had learned, was a completely pointless endeavor that stunted all human growth. Accept Karmic law, see it as active in your own life, and never be disappointed.

Despite knowing that, he wanted to give up on everything. He felt the world was on his shoulders and had been his entire life. He carried the weight of the globe in his backpack, and even when he took it off the sense of responsibility remained upon him. It crushed him with every step now. He just couldn't take it anymore. His body slumped down onto the shattered hood of the car. Even the quiet squeak from the compressing worn out shocks irritated him as they lowered from his weight. I can't help them, he thought. He couldn't help anyone. He sat alone in a stone-cold determination to never move again. He didn't have to; no one could make him. Someone could kill him, or he could die of thirst, cold, or starvation, but no one could move him from the hood of that car. He sat still in his stubborn state of self-imposed exile while refusing to look at Sasha in the street running red with blood, now holding the dog in her arms and rocking him from side to side like he was her baby who had been gunned down by some thugs while walking to school. Emerson rubbed his hands together furiously in the presence of the cool breeze, not because they felt terribly cold, but just for something to do. He sat for another minute in silence. Then another. He wanted Sasha to ask him to get going so he could tell her that he wasn't ready, and she could go on alone. More hood sitting was needed now as darkness ran over the city. He had forgotten exactly what their purpose of the day was... Oh yeah, he remembered, it was to get back to camp. He sat longer. Sasha made no move to depart. She just held her furry friend close, demanding with any shard of a soul she kept that he be okay.