At first, Lennox thought maybe he was just really, really stoned, staring at the flaming bar that was suddenly just there. Rubbing the back of his hand over his eyes, he took a few steps forward, then jumped back again as something on top of the bar exploded.
"What the fuck?" he called, ducking out of the way and hiding behind a tree. "Are you shooting at me?" He couldn't see anyone, but that didn't mean a hell of a lot.
Shaun's fingers slid apart ever so slightly and he cocked his head to the side, listening.
A voice. A voice that wasn't moaning. A voice that sounded like a person, not...one of them.
"No, sorry!" Shaun called over the sound of the exploding shells, suddenly realising that his bum was turning into a sodding chunk of ice. "It should all be over in a mo'."
Which meant Lennox just had to wait, because there was something about a burning bar right out by the Hamlet and right in the middle of the damn path that was intriguing. Probably not to the guy behind the bar, of course, but Lennox thought it was and he wasn't about to turn and run the other way.
"Is it over?" he asked, peeking his head out a moment later. Nothing else seemed to be going off, so he took a step back onto the path, then pushed up onto his toes in an attempt to see over the bar. "Are you okay?"
Rolling over onto his knees, Shaun dropped the Winchester in the snow and exhaled sharply. His breath puffed white and he tried to figure out what had just happened as he staggered to his feet.
"It's over," he said, eyeing the rapidly disintegrating box that had once held rifle shells.
The flames grew higher and that couldn't be good. Not at all.
"A little help, yeah?" Shaun crouched down, taking up two large handfuls of snow and dumping them on a fiery corner of the bar.
There's a dude hunched over a charred slab of wood, mysteriously plunked down right off the path in the snow, but more importantly, there's booze... Rows and rows of booze and for a moment I take it all in, wide-eyed and gaping like it's the like it's the most amazing thing I ever seen. The smell of burnt wood and gunpowder takes a quick backseat and I wander closer, huddled deep in my coat with two dogs and a piglet at my heels.
"You okay, man?" I ask, arching a brow, shattered shotgun shells disappearing into the snow under my boots.
Shaun was currently drowning his sorrows in a tall one. At least he had part of The Winchester here with him, charred and effed up that it was. He missed Ed and Liz and Di (But David, not so much. Twat.). Di, who he'd been unable to save. Just like his Mum and David.
How Liz and Ed were holding up, Shaun hadn't any idea.
He didn't know much of anything, other than this pint was cold and he could really go for a fucking pig snack.
He heard footsteps crunching into the snow and looked up, elbows on the grimy bar.
"Pretty fucking far from okay, actually," he said, reaching up to tighten the tie around his head. There was definitely going to be a lump, that was for fucking sure.
"So, you're new, huh?" I ask, moving to stand next to the guy, older but not all that much older than me, my hip leaning against the fire scarred counter. Blood, a whole lot of blood, and it doesn't look like it's all his, but still, he doesn't look all that dangerous.
"That's me. The new bloke." Wearing a self-deprecating smile, Shaun gestured vaguely to himself. He looked over at the bloke and was about to say something when he noticed the...well, the entourage.
Since when was there a god damn burnt-up bar 'cross from his hut?
Kirk, who'd been on his way to the Compound mindin' his own bidness, stared at it and the man standin' there. He looked pretty fucked up, covered in blood and shit. There was red all over him. He looked more cut up than Kirk had on arrivin' here on this fucked-up island.
But, more importantly, he had a bar. And, presumably, booze.
Shaun looked up from his drink, foam coating his upper lip. He shook his head mutely, raising a tired hand to wipe the mess away. "Not exactly," he said. At least, he was no John. But John wasn't here and, even if he had been, he'd turned into one of them anyway. So in a way, maybe Shaun was the man about pub now.
"I'm a teetotaller," said Kirk with a straight face, one that cracked into a grin 'fore too long. "Motherfucker please. Gimme a beer. Not Foster's," he added with a grimace.
He didn't much care where this dude had come from, where he'd got his bar, none o' that. Kirk hadn't had a good beer in what seemed like centuries, and for a man like him, that was true sufferin'. Worse than trekkin' through a jungle on the run from crazed drug dealer motherfuckers. Worse than marchin' right into their camp with guns blazin'.
"As if The Winchester would serve Foster's," Shaun said automatically, nonplussed by the attitude. "Wait a bit."
Not bothering to walk around the bar, as the took too long, Shaun took the shortcut: he leapt over the bar and landed, surprising, upright in the snow. Taking a glass off the shelf, he headed to the closest tap and got busy.
"One pint, for the gent," he announced, sliding it across the charred bar with a flourish.
"I'm guessing that it's probably a little insensitive to ask if this is the new island hot spot." Chuck said, coming across the guy and what looked like the charred remains of a bar.
He didn't know how or why the bar was all burnt up, but from the way the guy next to it looked, something had gone wrong.
Setting his pint down with a slight thud, Shaun gave the bloke a wan smile. "Just a wee bit insensitive, yeah," he said. Grimacing a little, he reached up to unfasten the tie from around his head. Hours had passed now since Di had pegged him; surely the bleeding had stanched by now. "If you'd asked 'what's cookin'?', I'd have to raise that assessment to 'really fucking insensitive."
"Well, the bar was what was--" Chuck stopped himself, because it was pretty insensitive. He surveyed the scene, which looked...somehow familiar, though he couldn't figure out why.
"What didn't happen, more like." Screwing his eyes shut, Shaun jumped up and down for a bit, as though releasing the demons of last couple of hours or so. Or, releasing the...zed word thingys, as it were.
After blowing air out his lips, making a ridiculous noise he'd learnt from Ed, Shaun said, simply, "Got attacked. Dead weren't dead anymore. Got the girl, got Mum, went to the pub, ended up here."
For the first time since my arrival, I find it sensible to venture out in full regalia, if only for the warmth the extra layers provide. Still, beneath them I am wearing yet more garments that are not my own, close-fitting, knitted tunics that trap heat better than the linen and cotton of my chemise. My slippers, no good at all for the snow, I have replaced with tall, thick, flat boots that let none of it in, though in truth my skirts do a fair job of plowing the drifts out of the way. Suffice it to say, I have gone without the hoops
( ... )
Now, Shaun had seen quite a number of absolutely mental things in the past twenty-four hours. Fucking hell, he'd experienced a number of absolutely mental things in the past twenty-four hours.
Somehow, none of those things compared to what was happening to him at this precise moment.
He'd paid enough attention to history and art in school and uni to know quite well who the lady walking toward him from -- and he wouldn't have believed if had Jim not told him just what sorts of people showed up on this island.
Not sure if he should kneel or bow or wave, Shaun opted for standing at the bar, frozen with a pint halfway to his mouth. Said mouth gaped open and he stared wordlessly.
While he did not seem overly alert when I first caught sight of him, this sudden abatement of activity is still noticeable by half. I feel the corner of my mouth tugging back, minutely, and I cant my head to one side to take in his haggard and vagabond appearance and rather dull expression.
"Perhaps not," I venture. "Come, man, are you injured or dumb?"
Her question prompted Shaun to look down at himself. "What, all this red on me? None of it's mine." Hastily, he looked up, staring at her face and her dress. Then Shaun gave in and fell to one knee, raising his gaze to who he was pretty bloody sure was the Queen.
He smiled and immediately grimaced when he realised his tie was still about his head. Wrenching it off his head, he balled it up and stuffed it in the breast pocket of his shirt. "I did not mean to offend, Your Highness." Wasn't that how he should address a royal?
Buggered if he knew; the closest Shaun got to hanging about royals was reading about them in Ok! Magazine.
Comments 56
"What the fuck?" he called, ducking out of the way and hiding behind a tree. "Are you shooting at me?" He couldn't see anyone, but that didn't mean a hell of a lot.
Reply
A voice. A voice that wasn't moaning. A voice that sounded like a person, not...one of them.
"No, sorry!" Shaun called over the sound of the exploding shells, suddenly realising that his bum was turning into a sodding chunk of ice. "It should all be over in a mo'."
Reply
"Is it over?" he asked, peeking his head out a moment later. Nothing else seemed to be going off, so he took a step back onto the path, then pushed up onto his toes in an attempt to see over the bar. "Are you okay?"
Reply
"It's over," he said, eyeing the rapidly disintegrating box that had once held rifle shells.
The flames grew higher and that couldn't be good. Not at all.
"A little help, yeah?" Shaun crouched down, taking up two large handfuls of snow and dumping them on a fiery corner of the bar.
Reply
"You okay, man?" I ask, arching a brow, shattered shotgun shells disappearing into the snow under my boots.
Reply
How Liz and Ed were holding up, Shaun hadn't any idea.
He didn't know much of anything, other than this pint was cold and he could really go for a fucking pig snack.
He heard footsteps crunching into the snow and looked up, elbows on the grimy bar.
"Pretty fucking far from okay, actually," he said, reaching up to tighten the tie around his head. There was definitely going to be a lump, that was for fucking sure.
Reply
Reply
"Is that a pig?"
Reply
Kirk, who'd been on his way to the Compound mindin' his own bidness, stared at it and the man standin' there. He looked pretty fucked up, covered in blood and shit. There was red all over him. He looked more cut up than Kirk had on arrivin' here on this fucked-up island.
But, more importantly, he had a bar. And, presumably, booze.
"Hey! Whitey!" he called. "You the bartender?"
Reply
"Thirsty?"
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He didn't much care where this dude had come from, where he'd got his bar, none o' that. Kirk hadn't had a good beer in what seemed like centuries, and for a man like him, that was true sufferin'. Worse than trekkin' through a jungle on the run from crazed drug dealer motherfuckers. Worse than marchin' right into their camp with guns blazin'.
Reply
Not bothering to walk around the bar, as the took too long, Shaun took the shortcut: he leapt over the bar and landed, surprising, upright in the snow. Taking a glass off the shelf, he headed to the closest tap and got busy.
"One pint, for the gent," he announced, sliding it across the charred bar with a flourish.
Reply
He didn't know how or why the bar was all burnt up, but from the way the guy next to it looked, something had gone wrong.
Reply
Reply
"So what happened?"
Reply
After blowing air out his lips, making a ridiculous noise he'd learnt from Ed, Shaun said, simply, "Got attacked. Dead weren't dead anymore. Got the girl, got Mum, went to the pub, ended up here."
Reply
Reply
Somehow, none of those things compared to what was happening to him at this precise moment.
He'd paid enough attention to history and art in school and uni to know quite well who the lady walking toward him from -- and he wouldn't have believed if had Jim not told him just what sorts of people showed up on this island.
Not sure if he should kneel or bow or wave, Shaun opted for standing at the bar, frozen with a pint halfway to his mouth. Said mouth gaped open and he stared wordlessly.
Reply
"Perhaps not," I venture. "Come, man, are you injured or dumb?"
Reply
He smiled and immediately grimaced when he realised his tie was still about his head. Wrenching it off his head, he balled it up and stuffed it in the breast pocket of his shirt. "I did not mean to offend, Your Highness." Wasn't that how he should address a royal?
Buggered if he knew; the closest Shaun got to hanging about royals was reading about them in Ok! Magazine.
Reply
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