Snafu's sitting propped in the crook of a dead tree, carving seconds from the day one rolled cigarette at a time, when the stretch of sand between him and the bright water is suddenly a lot less empty than last he checked. He tips his head back so the sun slants out of his eyes and the silhouette gains some features--familiar, but not enough to get him up yet, name on his lips. He perches a cigarette on them instead, replaces it with a new one tucked behind his ear and lights it, watching the guy's head turn all around as he calls out.
It's the name more than the familiar face that peaks his interest: either Shari's a name the kid learned in Melbourne, or he isn't as new as he looks, considering the ugly civvies he's got on. The name finally comes back to him and Snafu reaches up, uses a petrified root to pull himself upright and walk into view. "Phillips," he drawls, dragging the name out into a question--not like he can be assed to remember every poor fuck from all the way back on Gloucester.
I hadn't noticed the guy until he spoke and when he did, it was some kind of low drawl from a part of the country I'd clearly never been to. I'd had the usual trips to Disneyland and to Europe, as a kid, but I'd never really spent a lot of time traveling the USA. What was the point, when California had everything and then some?
Still, it was a good voice, the kind of voice that might tell a story some day, and it took me a minute to actually focus on his face. I didn't recognize him but that was expected; I didn't exactly spend a lot of time wandering freaky deserted islands.
"Last I checked, it was Nichols," I said, keeping my voice neutral. No point in antagonizing him if this 'Phillips' was his buddy. I didn't fuck with people like that.
He just shrugs, "Phillips, Nichols," like it's all the same to him. It kind of is--if he doesn't remember the name, he couldn't have been that attached to the guy. Rolling the cigarette to the corner of his mouth, he looses a stream of smoke and licks the other corner, looking Nichols over, still bugged by his face and trying halfheartedly to place him.
"When'd you get here," he asks, glowering down at those shorts. Long enough to visit the box, surely.
Snafu struggles with the voice for a moment: it doesn't sound like he thinks it should, and even if California is a place it'd make sense to be, for one of them, those clothes definitely don't exist yet. But he can't let it bother him too long, sinking back into apathy with a shrug. "That's the story, far as I know. 'Cept for the part about California."
Phillips or Nichols; familiar or not, there's only one place to take him. "Happens to plenty of people; I'll show you where you can bunk down." Hopefully his easy tone, and the way he flicks the ash from his cigarette before heading on, doesn't leave much room to flip the fuck out about it.
I'm not the kind of guy to panic, not really. I've had stress before, everyone has, and I don't handle that so well but I've never been the kind of guy to freak out just because I don't know what's going on.
That's just gotten to be more true since I died and I was happy enough to follow this guy to wherever it was I could stay in this place. I felt alive, as opposed to dead, but there was only one way to find out.
"You just did," Snafu points out, shooting an unimpressed glance back over his shoulder. At least the guy seems content to follow, of not to keep his mouth shut. Leading him back to the path, he leaves the question unanswered until it comes into view, until the moment tenses with waiting.
Snorting, he plucks the cigarette from his lips and looks back again, "Don't be a little fuckin' girl about it, just ask."
I wasn't exactly expecting that reaction but the guy had a point; 'Can I ask you something?' was probably the stupidest question on the planet, all told.
"I deserved that. Anyway, I wasn't exactly alive before I showed up here. Do you know anything about that? Whether we're alive or dead here?"
If the first question was meant to be a warning, an opportunity for Snafu to say no, the guy could've mentioned that his question was fucked up and kind of pointless. "I lived through way too much shit to go an' die here; sounds like your own problem."
He's still got an extra cigarette behind his ear; he slides it out and offers it over. Some people don't like that here, but if Nichols here was already dead, what health has he got to worry about? "You aren't dead in California anymore, that's all I can tell you."
"I'll have a medal ready for you when you do," Snafu promises with a deft roll of his eyes, putting the cigarette back for later. Later being as soon as he finishes the current one. The rain had made keeping track of time harder than it already was, but however long he's been here, the most he's figured out is how to keep himself supplied with shitty homegrown tobacco.
"I was in Louisiana," he says, no point being more specific than that. Specifics just made people sorry, and sorry people make him fucking crazy. "Alive, far as I know."
"Never been," I said, trying to keep the conversation going as best I could. I was in a new place and I needed to make as many contacts as I could if only to make sure I had some kind of net to fall back on. It had worked for high school, so hopefully the same principle worked here.
"Is this place mostly safe? Or is there a lot of crime or weird shit that I need to worry about?"
"Ain't been here very long," he starts with, and if he wanted to really warn the guy against heeding him, he'd point out how he doesn't spend much time mingling with the people who have been. "Only things worrying me are being fuckin' bored and the weather, but that's been alright for awhile." Whether or not that means safe is up to Nichols' idea of the word. Snafu gets so tense some days waiting for shit to happen, it might be a relief if it did.
I can handle weather, for the most part. California has great weather for the most part but there was the occasional El Nino mudslide or earthquake that threw a wrench into things.
"I think I can handle that. If you can point me in the direction of food and showers, I think I can take it from here."
"Where did you think I was taking you," he asks flatly, no skin off his teeth if the guy wants to wander off on his own. "You just take this path and it puts you right by it, big ugly building you'd have to be blind to miss," he points needlessly ahead, to where the path twists and disappears between the trees.
"I won't pull any Hansels and Gretls then," I said dryly, thinking about how wandering off the path might not go so well. I was alive, for now, and I didn't want to risk that by being stupid. "I didn't get your name?"
It's the name more than the familiar face that peaks his interest: either Shari's a name the kid learned in Melbourne, or he isn't as new as he looks, considering the ugly civvies he's got on. The name finally comes back to him and Snafu reaches up, uses a petrified root to pull himself upright and walk into view. "Phillips," he drawls, dragging the name out into a question--not like he can be assed to remember every poor fuck from all the way back on Gloucester.
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Still, it was a good voice, the kind of voice that might tell a story some day, and it took me a minute to actually focus on his face. I didn't recognize him but that was expected; I didn't exactly spend a lot of time wandering freaky deserted islands.
"Last I checked, it was Nichols," I said, keeping my voice neutral. No point in antagonizing him if this 'Phillips' was his buddy. I didn't fuck with people like that.
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"When'd you get here," he asks, glowering down at those shorts. Long enough to visit the box, surely.
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I paused for a moment, voice choked. I'd almost said that I'd been dead, but that wasn't going to make the kind of first impression I wanted to make.
"I was in California, in a city, and now I'm here on a beach. Did that happen to you?"
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Phillips or Nichols; familiar or not, there's only one place to take him. "Happens to plenty of people; I'll show you where you can bunk down." Hopefully his easy tone, and the way he flicks the ash from his cigarette before heading on, doesn't leave much room to flip the fuck out about it.
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That's just gotten to be more true since I died and I was happy enough to follow this guy to wherever it was I could stay in this place. I felt alive, as opposed to dead, but there was only one way to find out.
"Hey, can I ask you something?"
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Snorting, he plucks the cigarette from his lips and looks back again, "Don't be a little fuckin' girl about it, just ask."
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"I deserved that. Anyway, I wasn't exactly alive before I showed up here. Do you know anything about that? Whether we're alive or dead here?"
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He's still got an extra cigarette behind his ear; he slides it out and offers it over. Some people don't like that here, but if Nichols here was already dead, what health has he got to worry about? "You aren't dead in California anymore, that's all I can tell you."
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"Well, I guess I just have to figure it out as I go. Where did you come here from?"
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"I was in Louisiana," he says, no point being more specific than that. Specifics just made people sorry, and sorry people make him fucking crazy. "Alive, far as I know."
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"Is this place mostly safe? Or is there a lot of crime or weird shit that I need to worry about?"
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"I think I can handle that. If you can point me in the direction of food and showers, I think I can take it from here."
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