Archaic ||Peterick||

Absence

The only sound was Patrick's soft pants and water dripping from a broken pipe somewhere onto the cold, cracked ground. The basement was dark and eerie and Pete hated it. It reminded him of the haunted house only this time Patrick couldn't protect him.

Pete watched in agonising fear as the red and yellow colours flooded Patrick's iris'. Blood dripped down his chin like a loose faucet and all the blood bags were empty.

Pete needed to escape. At this point, he didn't really see the point of living but pure survival instincts had taken over his corpse. He slowly crawled to the small hatch in the basement wall and started to take off the chain. The hatch was wooden and rotting, only big enough for a slightly large person. He bit back a whimper when he noticed the lock tying two chains together. They'd all hear him going up the stairs, it was older than time itself and falling apart.

Pete held his arm in pain and could barely stop a grunt passing his lips. With his free hand, he weakly fiddled with the lock. It has to be old enough to break.

The chain made a soft clinking sound that made Pete cringe. He glanced over at the others and froze. He thought he had been subtle. That maybe they'd forgotten about him. But they were staring. Staring and smiling sadistically.

Pete watched Ashlee's face. It wasn't the smile he remembered. It wasn't warm and loving, it was tight and forced. She was evil and Pete was scared. A soft whimper escaped him.

Patrick's eyes snapped over at the small sound and his gaze locked on Pete. He snarled at him, a fire exploding right beside Pete. Pete jumped back and felt his hands start to shake. This was it. This was how it ended.

Pete looked at the hole in the wooden door that the fire had caused. People could run through fires, he'd seen it in the movies. It always seemed to work for them. What other option was there? Seduce one of them into not killing him? He'd already tried that.

Pete darted outside and into the old dead grass. The fire was spreading further the angrier Patrick got. He hopped the fence and ran past Patrick's old car, it looked like a distant memory. He ran through dewy fields that, in any other circumstance, would've been almost calming.

Gerard cut the ropes binding Patrick to the chair. Patrick sprinted after Pete, yellow eyes and snarled lips. Pete glanced back and let out a sob of pure perturbation. All the times he had made Patrick angry, all the times Patrick had snapped, Pete had never been this scared.

Patrick growled. His mind seemed far away, in a happy place. His body was demonic. Pete stumbled, knees hitting the wet ground, and quickly picked himself back up. He turned away from Patrick and ran. He ran as fast as he possibly could. He sobbed and panted, creating a stitch in his side.

Patrick watched in shock as Pete zapped away. He tried and tried desperately to keep up. Him and Pete were both bitten by Gerard, so why didn't they have the same speed quirk? Patrick frowned and stopped running. It was pointless, Pete was already just a dot to him.

Patrick made his way back to his old house, dragging his boots on the cement. Gerard took one look at him and sighed. "I knew this would happen. Where could he be heading?"

Pete didn't look back, couldn't look back. He could feel the dread rolling in his stomach like an uneasy worm. He didn't know how fast he was really going. He hasn't a clue that he was almost out of Chicago. He still thought Patrick was breathing down his neck.

If he looked back now, he knew he'd scream. He thought they were still close to the suburbs, he couldn't let someone hear him only for them to meet the same fate.

His body heaved. He needed somewhere to hide. His head hated him, made him hear Patrick's footsteps directly behind himself. Sobs ripped out with choked breaths and Pete felt as if he was dying. Like his lung had collapsed.

Patrick was still behind him though, any minute he'd be grabbed and slaughtered. Slow and agonising. Pete needed to hide.

Pete heaved and huffed. He was in the middle of nowhere now. Half way from Chicago to Skokie. He glanced around for anything that could help him. There was a wall in the middle of the field he had jumped into. It was surrounded by stones and moss, once maybe a small cottage.

The wall held one old wooden door and a broken window. The wall had seen many artists in its days, judging by the amount of penis' and curse words sprayed onto it. The door flickered, as though it was a hologram. Pete knew it had to be his imagination, how worked up he was.

He ran at the door, as fast as possible. It could be absolutely nothing and he'd keep running until he couldn't. Patrick would drag him back or maybe kill him right here. The hopeful side of Pete's brain suggested he'd end up in puppy heaven. Whatever happened, it was worth a shot.

Pete ran and ran, eyes locked on his one target. He refused to look back. He was going a mile a minute, the door quickly getting closer.

Pete cursed loudly and his eyes widened. It was a trick. Of course, it had to be a trick door. Pete tried to stop, tried to slow down. He couldn't. His feet skidded. He fell over. The slippy, wet grass and his built up momentum brought him straight through the door.

Pete panted heavily, the door shutting firmly behind him with the click of a lock. He looked around at the school walls and frowned. He quickly wiped away his confusion and laughed manically. He was safe!

Then all hell broke loose.