It was dark and cold, but we were all hot under our skin. Ponyboy looked about to pass out, but everyone else around me was breathing hard and pounding pavement like the Devil was after us. Nobody yelled or whooped like they had flipping off the porch steps only a few hours ago, while I stood in the doorway and watched them go and promised that I'd stay put and finish my homework and then go home before my mum went crazy worrying about me.
Sodapop was in the lead. I was only behind him by a little bit, and beside me Two-Bit was taking a swig from the bottle, and half of it was spilling down his cheek and onto his shoulder it was so shaken up. He'd been drinking a lot more lately. He called it liquid courage, but I called it a crutch – not to his face though. To his face I told him that I knew and understood and love him always, because he's my big brother and sometimes he needs reassurance and a cigarette and somebody to lean on for a little bit.
Somehow Steve got there before any of us, and we all almost ran into him when he skidded to a stop – but it wasn't funny. Dallas was running at us from the other direction, slowing down, gasping through his mouth. We could all see the heater tucked into his waistband, the one he never loaded but kept anyway in case he needed to scare someone off. It was getting a lot rougher over here, sometimes a blade just wasn't enough if you had six or more Socs on you and nobody around to holler for.
The sirens were gaining ground. We could see their lights flashing, coming up over the hill, screeching to a stop. Dallas stopped too, underneath a streetlight that turned his white hair into a halo. He was beautiful, even with all the scars and the desperate pleading look in his eyes. His face was stoic. He looked tired.
Four uniformed officers drew their guns, and warned him to take his hand away from his jeans. To put his hands up, to get to his knees, to not do anything stupid but he was going to do something stupid anyway. Ponyboy was shaking where he stood, violently and frighteningly. I was shaking too but it was different.
No one saw it coming. One second Dallas had his hand on the butt of the pistol, and the next, Two-Bit had launched himself up onto the sidewalk, over the grass, pushed Dallas to the ground as the police fired. They thought he was going to pull his weapon.
I screamed, "Keith!" because you didn't call someone by their nickname when they were dying. You didn't yell out Two-Bit at your brother who was being jerked viciously around before crumpling in the pool of light that didn't feel like it was fending off the darkness anymore at all. You said Keith, because it was Keith Mathews who was dead, it was Keith Mathews who Dallas was standing over after dropping his gun in shock and confusion. The police had lowered their weapons, were radioing for an ambulance, but it was too late. It was Keith Mathews I would be burying; who had taught me to tie my shoes, to ride a bicycle, to not wear blue eyeshadow and to stay away from the Shepard family no matter how good they were in a rumble because they were bad news anytime else.
I tried to run forward but Steve grabbed my arm, pulled me back, hooked the other around my waist and almost lifted me off the ground to stop me from going. He kept saying there was nothing I could do, that we had to let the ambulance come, that I would get in trouble if I went near him. Ponyboy had pitched forward by now, and Darrel and Sodapop were kneeling down beside him desperately trying to flag someone down to help. But Steve just held me, and after a few minutes I stopped fighting.
Dallas was in handcuffs. I was in pieces.