2019-09-09 - Under Siege

There is a gentle calm breeze blowing through the forest trails. Birds are even singing in the warm late summer air. The crisp smell of pine forest has dulled from the hot pitch of summer to a warm embracing flow that swirls around through the air. All of this gentle calm is shattered by the sound of gun shots. Three in a row. The gunshots are sadly not the only loud noise to puncture the peaceful air.

"GOD DAMMIT!"

Yes. It seems like Sutton's idea of going up in the woods and shooting was capitalized on. Easton is in a clearing, practicing decent firearm safety by shooting up into the woods with a clear line of sight at a row of beer bottles. His camouflage rucksack is on the ground, a cooler of beer is next to it on the ground providing both fuel and targets for this little session. And Easton is apparently paying the shirt tax because he's currently stripped to his waist, wearing a pair of tan canvas work pants on his lower half. His upper torso a mix of muscle, hair, scars and a few random tattoos, most noticeable now is a large zombie bear on his right shoulder. In his hand is a small pistol, a glock M19 9mm.

His face is flushed, some fresh bruises still healing above his eye and on his lip. He also has a white bandage wrapped around his right forearm.

August knows better than to sneak up on a shirtless man holding a Glock and beer in a cooler. He makes sure to emerge from the trees and undergrowth in Easton's line of sight, so there's no chance of startling him. He easy to spot, since he has his bright orange hunting vest on; otherwise his clothes are reasonably drab, and he's wearing a pair of heavy duty hiking boots. He has a matte black, single-shot 20 gauge strapped to his back, and over that a canvas rucksack with a few medium-sized somethings in it.

"That'll show 'em," he says once he can be sure Easton's clocked him.

The gun is pointed down, his finger no where near the trigger when Easton sees someone approaching. Even in his fuzzy state he could feel that there was someone there. Ever since even that brief work with Isabella he's become more aware of what his other senses are telling him. Information that he had previously had no framework to process other than 'intuition' is now slowly becoming apart of his conscious awareness. What he can't do yet is figure out exactly 'who' a person is without effort and actually reaching out, and even then he's not sure. So it takes until August gets close enough and actually spoken for him to recognize the man.

His scowl drops ever so slightly at the joke. He answers, loudly and with a bit of a slur, "Damn straight. Fuckin' bottles gettin' all high mighty."

He empties the gun in a few smooth motions that are obviously well practiced, ejecting the magazine, clearing the chamber and then setting it down gently on the bag. Easton may not be a hunter but he recognized the vest and the obvious hunting rifle, which prompts him, "Did I screw up your hunting?" Loud angry drunks firing off rounds is probably not great for hunting in the area.

"They should know better," August says with a small smile. He shakes his head in response to the question. "No, I'm done for today. Got three, almost my daily bag limit. Anyways, I was," he nods to the northwest, "few miles that way. Just heading back in now. Some pretty good spots for grouse over there, if you hunt." He takes in the slurring, the injuries, the overall state of him. "You doing okay?" It's the kind of question that invites avoidance, if Easton would rather, though it's sincere enough to suggest August is willing to listen if Easton's wanting to talk. It all comes down to how much beer's been involved.

Nodding emphatically at the fact that the bottles should know better Easton cracks a smile, almost unwillingly. "Good good" Easton is glad that he's not screwing other people's day up.

You doing okay?

Easton looks down at himself. Over at the beer and sack of guns. Then back at August and considers this question for a moment before shaking his head. "Nope." The admission for some reason strikes him as funny, his chest rippling with a small laugh. But that quickly fades and he sighs and goes to grab his shirt and another beer from the cooler, offering one up to August. "How about you? How are you doing?"

August's mouth quirks in a half-downward turn; he's not surprised that's the response. "Sorry to hear it." He accepts the beer with a murmured thanks, though doesn't open it immediately. "Doing alright." Considering he's agreed to help Alexander with this Ghoul business, considering people are holed up in his cabin to hide from said Ghoul, considering he has a much better understanding of just what using power gets them and still intends to use it, considering he now realizes the danger to people around him when he does it very real.

"Considering," he adds, after some thought.

His eyes flit to Easton's bandage, down to his beer, which he cracks open. "Is it normal stuff, or," he arches an eyebrow, meaning All The Rest. Glimmer, Gray Harbor, and its eccentricities.

Easton seems ready to shrug off the concern as he picks up his shirt and puts that back on, as always just a plain tee-shirt in this case faded black. He eyes the man at the Considering and tries to helpfully provide, "Considering how many things in this town are out to kill, torture or maim us without an effective way of fighting the fuck back?" He's maybe projecting just a touch. A little.

He takes a good long drink of the beer, apparently still not yet drunk 'enough' whatever that means at this point.

"The or." Easton replies to the source of his troubles. "Ironically the regular stuff is fine." Well, except for the news from Magnolia about his unexpected business partner in the bar, and Bennie's being still indebted to possibly the mob. But somehow those feel like very surmountable issues, even if they have no clear solution. He does ammend, "Well, okay enough. But this spooky shit is getting to me. Which I realize is what they want, that somehow that gets them hard or something, but still ..." He trails off into another sip.

August gestures at Easton with his beer, smile as sanguine as it gets. "Exactly," he says, and drinks to that. "It might be less about fighting back than surviving. There's no two ways about it, we're being farmed. When you're in that position, survival's winning." Another sip of beer.

He sighs about 'or', though nods to hear that the more mundane concerns aren't also piling on in an unmanageable fashion. "Small victories," he says. He grimaces, about the spooky stuff. "Yeah I didn't honestly expect to be facing this kind of thing ever again. At least, not at this level. Thought I left that all behind, but..." He smiles, wry, bobs his eyebrows. "What the fuck do I know."

Easton shakes his head, unable or unwilling to come to terms with not being able to go on the offensive. He's a marine, they attack, they forward. He grumbles, "I hate it. I want to hit them back so God damned hard." He doesn't raise his already loud voice. Because the thought of someone using his past against him, of actively dredging up pain from the people he's grown to care about means they should feel some pain. He just has no idea how to make that happen.

Small victories

Easton raises his beer to drink to that. But he stops when August starts talking about facing this all again. He's obviously intrigued and fixes August with a curious look, "Again? Where did you ... where did you leave this behind?" He knows there are other places, like this. But besides his brief conversation with Maddie he hasn't talked to anyone else who's been to one.

"And don't sell yourself short. Apparently you have the perfect hair, that's gotta count for something." Easton grins as he repeats Bennie's line, obviously she texted him or told him all about the exchange with great disappointment.

"Oh don't think I don't want to. Those bastards don't just come for us, it's anyone around us when they're ready for a harvest." August fingers his beer, thinks vaguely of that night. Sure, they'd made it out okay, but what if they hadn't? Alexander had made it clear, plenty of people didn't. "If we figure out a way to, I'll be takiung a number and getting in line to give them a solid kick in the teeth." A gesture of his beer, in a toast to hitting back, and a drink.

He takes a deep breath, lets it out. And laughs, at the perfect hair comment. "I'm apparently not allowed to dye it," he reveals. As if he would; coloring hair requires 900 times more effort than August will ever put into it.

He's some time in answering, expression distant. "Bosnia," he says, finally. "Sarajevo. During the siege. I didn't know what it was, at the time, but now that I'm here," he looks around them, eyes squinting against the sun, "it's got that same feel. Like something's cracked open; a window, a door, and things seep through. They," he glances at Easton to suggest he doesn't mean just any They, "can reach through. I know it can get bad here but Sarajevo was as bad as anything I've ever dealt with, so."

"I don't like people getting in my business on a good day. I like it even less when dark creepy things try and use it to fuck with me." The irony of being able to talk to August about this, even obliquely but struggle to actually tell Bennie any of it isn't lost on him. Yes, they are getting better at having actual discussions but he's still out here in the woods drinking instead of at home.

"And apparently you have to watch out for hot bubbly blonds with boundary issues sneak attack rubbing herself on it." And yes, she would likely just use her hands, but it's Bennie so Easton's not limiting her touchy-feely lack of personal space to just her hands.

"You served? Military?" Easton looks confused at the talk of Bosnia and a siege. He hadn't pegged August as ex-military but it's entirely possible. He then catches on to what he's saying and his eyes open a bit wider. "Holy shit. Are you saying you had to deal with this in an active combat zone? I .." It sobers him up, mentally if not physically. The thought of going through this on top of the mental and physical strain of being in combat sends a jolt through him. His voice now, almost in awe asks, "How the fuck did you do that?"

"Yeah, They can fuck right off." If August finds this ironic, there's no indication. He's no stranger to the odd rhythms of life and how they make it easier to talk to some people about some things and not others. He snorts a laugh. "Well, my hair's honor is spoken for, so she'll have to settle for admiring it from afair, waiting for yours to catch up." He gives Easton a bland look; yes, the gray and white will come to Easton as well. So it goes.

August nods at the question. "Army. 92 to 95. So, it was a damned long time ago, and only a few years." Twenty four years long ago, in fact, and still fresh in his mind.

He lets out a long, slow breath at Easton's surprise. "This is gonna sound weird, but I didn't really know anything was wrong." He tilts his head. "Frog, slowly boiling pot of water kind of situation. A siege is...soul crushing, for everyone, so you feel that shit happening to you and you see everyone else is going through horrible shit and you think, well okay. I guess it's just this bad for all of us. It never occurred to me I was getting my own special brand of 'bad'." He shrugs in a 'what can you do' kind of way.

"Since I still have to pop a Valium to get near a fucking hospital, I guess you could say I didn't do it too well." A smirk, and a drink. "It wasn't all bad, though. I could find people--people who were trapped, or stuck under sniper fire. My CO just figured I had better eyesight or," he waves a hand, "better instincts, whatever. Either way. Saved a lot of people using it, even if I was getting beaten over the head by Them on the regular." He licks his lips. "Then I drove through here, felt that same itch. And I'd spent two decades wondering what the fuck had happened to me. This seemed like the only place to get some answers."

"Damn straight." He raises his bottle to things being told to fuck off. "Does hair have honor?" He considers this and decides, "Mine's probably a slut." Dirty hussie hair, yea that sounds about right for Easton. He chuckles at his catching, "Yea well, here's hoping Bennie still wants to rub her hands through it by the time it does." Not that she doesn't already, much to his great appreciation.

Giving the man an upnod of significance Easton replies, "Marines, five years in. A little more recent." His lips curve up a little bit at the implicitly calling August old. Something he would do more explicitly if he hadn't so soundly just put Easton in his place (in his mind) for complaining about the weight of the Dark Men's work.

He considers what August has to say and gives a small half shrug. "I thought I was cracking up at first. I was seein.. shit. And I just thought I'd lost my damn mind. I get it." There is always an explanation handy. Even here, knowing the truth he finds thoughts or reasons coming to him for why something happened or an alternative narrative for a series of events. It's almost as malicious as the torture itself, the doubt. It's one of the reasons he's so loudly talks about things, to reinforce what he knows.

"I prefer percocets." Easton smirks and says, "And it help if people could just stay the fuck out of hospitals, right?" Easton may not be as scarred as August over them, but he has no great love after living in one after his accident for months. He listens intently to how August used his gifts to his advantage, "That's true. Probably quite a few people. That's got to help balance out some of the shit they try and throw at you.." They helped that little girl. Easton focuses on that one thought just for a moment. Sure it wasn't a huge victory and there might well be myriads of more situations like it but still they did something.

He takes a drink of his beer and makes a mental note to try to remember that.

August raises his beer to Easton (not much left now, despite his leisurely drinking pace), says, "Semper Fi," and has a sip. He laughs at the more recent comment. "A little more," he says on a sly smile. "Like," he holds his thumb and forefinger together, "a little."

He sobers some, nods in agreement. "Yeah. And when I got back here and it would still happen sometimes, well, I figured that had to be PTSD, right? I'd had all this counseling and it helped, but shit was still weird, still coming at me sometimes. I assumed I was just broken for life. And," a lift of one shoulder, "that happens to some of us. Some people get back from a combat zone and..." He falls quiet, shakes his head. "They can't readjust. Their brain gets into a gear and the clutch won't engage anymore, so they can't shift. They're stuck like that." He sighs, thinking of all the people he watched come in and out of the VA like that, and the years he spent wondering if he was one of them.

"Yeah I've told a few of them maybe just stop getting yourself put in the hospital, you know, so I don't have an anxiety attack any time I need to visit you." He coughs a laugh. "I can heal them, I even offer to. Fuck it, I'll take what They want to dish out if I can avoid a hospital." Of course, what if what They do is put him in a hospital? But he's going to ignore that for now.

"It does," he admits. "And maybe that's just how we have to play it. If they're gonna come for us, well, they're gonna come for us. We might as well make sure they're coming for us because we helped someone who needed it. Still," he looks down at the ground, "I don't blame anyone who just doesn't use the Gift, to avoid them. What they do to us, it's brutal. No judgment from me, if some people would rather their lives be a little more sane."

"Hoorah" Easton responds to the shortened motto of the Marine Corps. The little bit causes him to chuckle, a low rueful laugh that rumbles his chest.

"Sure" Easton agrees that PTSD is the most likely explanation for what they are going through. It's similar in a lot of ways and it was certainly Easton's first thought as well. He agrees softly, "It's why I didn't go back. I mean the leg was one thing, but I knew I could get back in fighting shape physically. But if my head was done, then that was that." He was maybe a little quick to accept that he was crazy, but it wasn't the worst assumption.

"Seriously. It's really inconsiderate." He lets a smile curve about his lips talking about their injured friends. He finishes off the beer and sets the empty bottle aside. His eyebrows raise at the offer to heal them. "Careful, pretty sure anyone would burn out with the amount of injured we got in this town. But it wouldn't be a bad idea to spread the load out. Bennie's doing more than her fair share of patching up at this point."

"I think that's a start at least. If I'm gonna have shadows chewing on me I want to make sure it's at least worth it."

"Same for me," August agrees, voice low. "I was mending pretty good, I didn't have to take a medical discharge, but..." He pauses, shakes his head. "I knew, whatever had happened to me over there, I couldn't take anymore of it. And I had no reason to believe it wasn't going to happen again, even if they did keep me out of a combat zone, put me on a desk or something. Who was to say I wasn't going to get worse next time around?" Another shake of his head, and he finishes his beer.

"I'm perfectly happy to help out in that respect. She shouldn't have to take it all on herself," he says, tone and expression solemn. "I know plenty of people can go to the hospital, and that's fine, but there's going to be times they can't. Not without a lot of questions from the cops, or getting a damned psych hold." He pulls a face about that. "So. If either of you need help that way, let me know."

He grunts about making it worth it. "Exactly. Not going to make it easy for them. If I don't ride for free, neither do they."

Easton pulls out another beer, and cracks it open. Yes, talking is good, but that doesn't mean he's going to stop drinking just yet. With his arms on his knees he turns his head sideways to regard August. He nods along and says, "Yea." There's both a ton that he could say on the topic, but perhaps more important nothing that he needs to.

"You want another?" He asks as August finishes off his first beer, there's plenty. He was either planning to be here a while, or really get after it drinking wise.

Sticking out his lower lips in consideration of the offer he says, "It might be worth coordinating. Spreading the risk evenly so that no one ends up bearing the load too heavily." Coordinating teams and effort, it just comes naturally now, along with mitigating risk for the people he cares about.

"I'm still not giving up on figuring out a way of bringing the fight to them. I found out I can get into the other side. Which means I might be able to actually mount an attack."

A minute nod of tacit agreement on that front. "Yeah," August murmurs. Then he raises his hand, shakes his head. "Nah, I'm good, thank you though. Gotta drive back, and I'm in one of the trucks right now. Loaned out my car to a friend."

He folds his arms, nods at the thought of working something like that out. "It can also be exhausting. So if we can give people a breather, some time to recooperate, that's good too. And for the ones who can do more, lets them use the Gift for other things." Like...dealing with the Ghoul. And the Murray House. And...

"Itzhak can do that to--go Over There, I mean. The tall lanky guy, dark hair, with the nose? He went over a little while back, had a wild experience. Couple of times, now. And he's all for it--going back, taking the fight to Them. You should talk." He shifts resettling the shotgun to a different spot on his back. "I'm all for helping out in that regard, if it can get us somewhere. I know there's people who want to head in there and try to find that asylum. The place some people've been held." He grimaces, glances away a second. Something he avoided as a kid: getting locked up for being a little strange.

Easton considers something for a moment before asking, "Could I grab a ride back with you? If you're headed towards town?" He had actually planned to just stay her and drink and shoot and really just basically hide out for a bit. But now that feels a bit childish somehow in a way that it didn't before. "If not that's fine, it's not that far."

He looks a little surprised at the talk of it being tiring. It's something he's suspected but Bennie does a good job of never letting on. Because they are both equally dumb about keeping things from one another. He doesn't elaborate on other things but to him he's already putting people into categories of front line attack squads, support squads and medical units. He does break that train of thought enough to offer, "Yea, if you ever need Bennie or I for anything. Somethin' like the Murray House or... whatever. We're in." It's progress at least for him that he doesn't shy away from offering Bennie's help.

"Yea sure." Easton remembers the other man. He's run into him enough times now. "I've only gone over on purpose once. Ironically to talk to someone who knew about that asylum." He leaves out the uncle bit, remembering for a moment the look Isabella fixed on him. Talk of the asylum helps bring him even further back on track to the mission of helping people. Miss. Whitehouse. He'd nearly forgotten in all the talk of the Ghoul and then his own troubles.

"Maybe Itzhak and I need to do a little veil recon."

"I am and yes you can. Plenty of space in the truck." August means one of the tree trucks, which can seat two comfortably, and three people who are very friendly, on the front bench seats. He waves a hand at Easton. "Not that far? It's a hell of a walk to be doing in heat like this."

He nods at the offer. "Will do. I figure," a small sigh, "things like that, are gonna need a lot of work." He winces. "They've been festering, you know? Gonna need to be dug out." And another nod for the rest. "He'll be happy to. I can go with, if you think you need the hell, but I'm not like him or you, though--can't open my own way just anywhere. Has to be," he rubs his fingers together, "thin enough to slip through."

He nods his head down the trail. "Even have air conditioning," he says in an enticement.

Starting to pick up the beer bottles and shells casings Easton does his best to clean up his mess, even though his movements are still sloppy and he's still drinking another beer. He shrugs at the part about not far, "Yea, I've hiked much worse." And he doesn't even have a full pack.

"Yea, I mean. With the rate of people being attacked." Erin, Alexander, Ruiz, Isabella, and probably many more have ended up in the hospital in the not too distant past. He winces a little bit at the 'festering' comment thinking perhaps of his rotting dead uncle. He shivers a little involuntarily.

"Solid. I think we need to figure out a way to get comfortable getting in and out. Find a few more people who can make doors. This is very much their turf and I don't want to think about what a misstep or rookie mistake could cost us." He knows that people can get trapped in the veil, lost for extended periods of time. Maybe permanently.

Once he's gotten most of the debris picked up he's headed after August, gritting his teeth as he hikes on the uneven ground, trying to focus on placing his left foot as carefully as possible.