Mark of Fate, posts 1-15
| Unspeakable | The rain slashed down across Darwin’s face, spilling down the collar of his coat and soaking his shirt. His socks squished inside his leather boots as he stood shifting his weight, hovering in the alleyway. People walked past, usually with umbrellas, always looking straight ahead. Darwin shot glances up and down the street. The neon light above his head illuminated everything in a soft red. The steam rising from the sewer grates was given an infernal quality by the crimson glow. He waited. Across the street, emerging from a basement level bar, was Amy. She stumbled drunkenly in her high heeled boots, her skirt only allowing so much a span to her steps. Darwin followed her with his gaze and noticed how the rain didn’t seem to even touch her, the cherry of her cigarette still lit. |
| Oz | Darwin continued to watch her for a few minutes longer, almost leading her with his eyes. She was probably going to get herself hurt if someone didn’t step in and help her home. Well, *someone* had to prove that chivalry wasn’t dead, he thought, and laughed a little to himself. Detaching himself from the corner of the building, he began drifting towards her, eventually catching up to her just as she was about to step out in front of a car. Moving quickly, he just managed to grab her by the shoulders and pull her back as the car sped by, blaring its horn. Instead, all she got hit with was the sheet of water thrown up by the passing car–irritating, but nothing a dryer couldn’t save. “Awww @#%$! My damn cigarette!” She was bending over to pick it up, affording Darwin quite a view, when what had just happened finally seemed to sober her up some. “Sweet Jesus….I almost…!…if it wasn’t….” she trailed off, shocked, as she finished turning around. |
| Unspeakable | Before her stood a dark gentleman in a trenchcoat, his shaved head grayish with stubble and glistening from rain. His eyes were empty, glazed almost as he stood still against the backdrop of the streaking downpour. “You should be more careful.”
“I . . .” she squinted her eyes as if she needed glasses, “. . .do I know you?” A gunshot rang out from a street over, and was accompanied by the sound of metal doors slaming, like a trash dumpster. “It’s kinda late. Do you need a ride home?” Amy held her hand to her face, still dizzy from the magnitude of the encounter. “I suppose,” she mumbled into her palm. Darwin hailed a cab and opened the door for her. She got in, and he followed. She looked at him and smiled in the dark, “I owe you my life.” |
| Oz | Darwin laughed a little, “Well, I don’t know about THAT.” * * * * *
Jamie, Peter, Scott, and Carrie hurried up The Alley. On the right side ran the stone wall which enclosed Holy Hope Cemetary, and on the left was the wall of some building that no one could exactly explain the purpose of. It was just, well, there. Always had been, probably always would be–no one could ever say how long it had been abandoned, and there were no signs or anything giving a clue as to what it used to be. Whatever. As long as the dumpster was still there, they were set. The wind and rain were making it a hellishly cold night, and already they were soaked to the skin, but they were all feeling buzzed regardless. The dead-end of The Alley finally came into view from the pour, the wall of the old building extending across until it hit the cemetary’s. For a second, Scott could have sworn there was something else down there, but, after turning to mention it to the others, when he looked back it was gone. |
| Unspeakable | Carrie shook some droplets out her dark curly hair, eyed him with a crooked smile, and cooed “What’s a matter Scotty, scared?”
Scott’s brow furrowed instinctively, “No of course not, I just thought I saw something,” but she just smiled at him. “Whatever guys, chill,” was Peter’s universal solution. His hands came out as if to separate two rowdy drunkards, but instead moved forward to grasp the dumpster, “You wanna gimme a hand?” The old rusty wheels screeched through the night air, ricocheting off of each raindrop. The heavy bin rumbled across the alley, bouncing in and out of blacktop potholes, and with a thud rested against the wall of Holy Hope. Pete turned to Jamie with a smile, “Ladies first.” The gang hefted themselves over the tall brick wall, Scott checking twice to make sure the bottles were secure in his backpack. As he perched atop the wall, he looked back one more time into the alley, knowing that when he jumped down his only exit was a low branching willow tree all the way on the other side of the cemetery. He shook his head and dropped onto the lawn.
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| Oz | Scott landed with a thud, almost slipping in some mud and twisting his ankle. He looked like an ass, and he could only hope that Carrie hadn’t noticed. Bracing himself, he looked up and, sure enough, there she was watching him, that same smile playing across her face–damn! She shook her head a little, but opted to let his near-spill go without comment, instead turning around and running off to catch up with Jamie and Peter. Scott gritted his teeth, resecured the bottles, and followed double-quick. What they were headed for was a mausoleum that was just about dead-center of the cemetary. Evidently some thug or vagrant had busted it open one night a few weeks back, and, last the gang had checked, the lock still hadn’t been fixed–giving them the perfect place to hang out. Especially tonight, where they wanted to get both out of view and out of the rain. They’d shoplifted a couple bottles of “something special” in honor of Jamie’s birthday, and were planning on singing the birthday song at the stroke of midnight, all liquored up. Not a grand party, but they had everything they needed. |
| Unspeakable | * * * * *
Jack seemed your average Joe, but it was impossible to fathom just exactly what (if?) Jack was thinking, ever. Take fifteen minutes ago for example: Jack had decided he’d been out in the rain long enough. He cut down an alley, heading toward the metro station, when a shabbily dressed black man with bad teeth and wild hair spun out from behind a dumpster, intending to pin a shiv in Jack’s throat. The man was quick, but he was caught off guard and faltered when Jack directly faced him, hands in his long-coat pockets, and said “So you’re going to demand my money, right?” “You fuckin crazy?” “I want you to brandish that knife or letter-opener or whatever and say ’gimme all your money or I’ll KILL YOU, MUTHAFUCKA!’ or something like that, maybe with more menace.” “I’ll fuckin gut you pink bitch, I don’t play no games.” “No, No, you’ve got to wave that nice little poker around too, and uh, growl and spittle through your teeth,”
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