Gallows Humour

The Way the World Burns

Smoke in their mouth. They were alive. They were alive?

They coughed, an earthquake shattered them inside out. Too agonizing to scream. Screaming would hurt. Instead, they laid very still, and gulped oleos air like a fish plucked from water.

Brain felt popped. Nothing in their ears, not even that infernal ringing. They were deaf now, they were pretty sure. Not that it mattered, their only friend was mute. Not that that mattered, they were dead. When, not if. Brain damaged, broken boned, bleeding out. Their best chance at medical supplies burning in the decimated building shell behind them. The only way off the island utterly destroyed, its carnage littered the island and ocean, little fires consuming the debris. Not a single survivor.

That half-assed plan had worked. All those factioneers, blown to pieces with the bridge. They'd known that rickety thing would kill someone. A weak laugh slithered past their lips. Now they were trapped, doomed by its absence.

The stilted laughter grew stronger. Inside joke. Inside hysterics. They always had been prone to gallows humour.

A pebble struck their cheek. It kind of surprised them that they had a cheek. Every bit of exposed skin felt singed.

Thok. Another pebble bounced off their forehead. What the fuck. They rolled to one side, body spasming in protest. Forced their eye to focus. Vision wasn't doing so hot. Moving turned the island into smears of light and shadow. They wiped char and gunk from their face.

Reaching back, they touched an aching spot on their head. Their scalp felt spongy. Then again, they were soaked head to toe. They picked out a shard of gravel that had tried to embed itself. It came away off-white, smeared with red. They turned it, squinting at the porous edges and smooth sides.

Was that a piece of their fucking skull?

Some part of them that wasn't completely out of it gagged. They dropped the shard. A spray of pebbles peppered their face.

"Fuck off—"

Their anger falling out as they looked up. Into the gaps flooded terror, pure and gut-wrenching. It hit hard, blacked out their vison as they lurched to their hands and knees.

A demon of red sulfur and volcanic glass arced her knife at their last remaining eye.

A fury of black crashed into her at the last instant.

Black and pink and white and red and torn rags and old scars and piebald hair and the knife and Radio and Otsana.

Not escaped.

Not dead.

The gravel under their shoes skittering in every direction. Radio blocked Otsana's knife arm and twisted it behind her. Quick, sure, except for a drag in its step. The knife stuck hilt-up in the dirt. Otsana's mangled face, warped and half-sunken, heaved with bitter anger. She met True's stare. Held it as she bucked hard, slamming her head square into Radio's face. It staggered. She slipped free, shoulder slopped in a wrong way.

She dropped, spinning, shin crashed into Radio's knee and sent it sprawling.

In a wild hurricane of limbs, she had the knife and launched for True. Radio tore her off-course. It threw up its arms in the nick of time. The blade pierced clean through.

True lurched to their feet. Ignored the wildfire pain consuming every fiber of their body. Bones grinding and popping. World turning out-of-control circles. One more step, they lied to a knee that ballooned and mushed at the same time, like the time-bomb milk cartons. Please, they begged, one more minute, please. They had nothing left to trade.

Ahead of them, Radio heaved Otsana off. Abused metal snapped, blade abandoned in its arm. It rolled to its feet, Otsana mere seconds behind it. She stumbled, empty-handed. Her back to True. Within reach.

Radio caught sight of them, something unreadable flickering across its face. Otsana seized the distraction. She lunged. True lunged with her. They wrapped around her as she beat Radio's arms. The deflected blow bounced her back into True's grasp.

No time to think. They crushed her close to them and plunged their hand into her smashed eye socket. Molten blood erupted around their fingers. Soft tissue squelching under nails. Otsana writhed apoplectically. Drove her elbow into their broken ribs. Bucked her head back again, again, desperate to escape the thing clawing its way inside.

True gave a final shove, felt a pop, and that was it. Mid-breath, mid-thrash, mid-fight she ceased. She crumpled, mangled skull sliding off True's hand. Her remaining volcanic eye now dull. Dead. For good this time.

Vertigo washed over True, threatening to take them down, too. Fighting for breath, they lifted their gaze to Radio.

"No." The pleas caught on the torn edges of their throat. Radio unstuck its skewered arm and freed the blade from its neck. Dark arterial blood flooded from the gash. No, that wasn't fair.

They dragged one foot toward it, but that as all. That was the last of their strength. Milk carton knee buckled. They crumpled in slow motion. Trying to stretch out and out and out, to resist the impossible weight of gravity.

Radio managed to stagger across the lake of gore, four uneasy steps exhausted it. It slumped down next to them and rested its head on True's shoulder. They folded it into them, needed to hold it, and to feel its pulse on their cold skin.

The rain had let up in the wake of the explosion, as if evaporated by the sheet heat of their destruction. Only a light sprinkle remained to soothe the damage. Patches of night skin peeking between the thinning clouds, filled to the brim with brilliant ribboning northern lights and glittering stars. True watched the reflection in Radio's eyes, then tilted their chin to watch the soft green glimmers trailing down to meet them.

"Did I ever tell you I love the stars?" they whispered.

Radio Silent squeezed their hand. Once, twice.

It wasn't such a bad way to die.