Up and out, Warren scrambled away from the bunker, dropping the hatch door back with a deafening bang and half-heartedly covering it with hay. Getting out through the hole in the wall, he blocked it back up to the best of his abilities and rounded the corner to the sight of Chloe's car, already started up and its' owner, coiled up like a spring in the driver's seat, itching to go.
"Warren, cmon!" Max shouted at him.
Without giving it much though, Warren quickly sprinted over to the back of the truck, vaulted and landed into the bed with a dull thump and a grunt; as soon as he did, Chloe hit the gas.
All of them wanted to leave this place behind as soon as possible. Sadly, it seemed like they were heading to a place not that much better.
It was honestly kind of a miracle that they hadn't been pulled over or outright arrested for outrageous speeding and/or gross violation of traffic laws. Warren didn't really see much of it – he'd tried to blend in with the floor of the truck bed as to not give anyone even more reason to pay them any attention (only once he saw the treeline rapidly flying by did he dare to lift his head up) , but, judging from how loud the engine was revving and how much he'd been ragdolled around the spot and into all the walls, Chloe Price wasn't pulling any punches when it came to her driving.
It must have been a lazy day for Arcadia Bay Police Department; much less so of a day for them.
None of them spoke during the trip, except for Chloe's occasional swearing remarks and pleadings for the car to go faster. The first words were exchanged only once the first signs of that mysterious junkyard, now rapidly approaching, had appeared in their sights. Chloe stopped the car and jumped out and started running deeper into the scrapyard.
"Chloe! Chloe, slow down! Wait for us!" Max stumbled out of the car herself and ran after her as Warren hastily climbed out of the bed of the truck, nearly falling over.
"Crap, I gotta keep up," he groaned, looking around. Already, the girls were gone from his sight and all he could see were mountains of rusted rubble surrounding him. "Max? Chloe? Wait for me!"
"Over here!" Max peeked out from the far end of the junkyard, waving at him to come. "Hurry up!"
When Warren finally reached the girls, Chloe was already digging into the ground with her bare hands.
"Are you going to fucking help me guys?" she shouted at them desperately, still clawing at the dirt. Both of them joined in a heartbeat; digging, grasping, scratching at the dirt. Suddenly, Max recoiled back, staring at something.
"Wait, stop!," she pointed at something in the dirt. "Look!"
A piece of a blue bag; just a tiny fragment of it, really. Yet, it was enough for Warren's limbs to stop responding to his brain as his heart plummeted even deeper into the ground below. He could only stare, silent and breathless, as Chloe and Max, now with much more urgency, dug at the ground; he could only stare as more of this bag was shown to the sky, as the exposed part slowly took on a head-shaped form.
The smell hit him much harder than Nathan had on Monday. That sickening, disgusting smell that was subconsciously ingrained in everyone as a follower – or a precursor to – death.
Almost simultaneously, all of them were forced back from the hole, coughing and gasping for fresh air.
"Rachel…" Chloe wailed, reality coming down on her, "Oh, Rachel, no, no. Please, not her!" She scurried back and dry heaved into the dirt, almost failing to breathe. Max was already getting on her feet, moving to the girl and locking her into a tight embrace as she cried.
Warren wanted to move too. Wanted to do something, anything; but, as if paralyzed from neck down, he could only move his wide, shocked eyes from the grave to the pair of heartbroken girls.
"How can she be dead?" Chloe hiccupped, her entire body shaking. "What kind of world does this?"
The worst kind, Warren wished to say; instead, he let out a choked gasp, feeling pressure building up in the back of his throat. He looked back one last time at Rachel's final resting place and allowed his stomach to fail him.
An eternity must have passed after the discovery. In reality, it was probably only 20 minutes. Warren was sitting motionlessly, some distance away from where he'd left his lunch as a ritual offering to this wicked place, simply staring off into the distance. Thinking. Thinking and realizing, more and more, that today, October 10th, 2013, marked the divide between the old Warren Graham and the new Warren Graham.
The old Warren Graham, science and movie nerd, who'd only really experienced the other side of life through fictional media, and the new one, who now experienced it first hand.
What caused him a lot of grief, surprisingly, was that this Thursday had started so normal. It was still so normal. Birds chirping on the trees and in the scrapyard, sun shining like it was the middle of the summer, gentle breeze on his skin.
Their worlds were turned upside down, but the real world moved on as usual. It was a sobering thought. Warren hated it.
Chloe had stayed where she was, her tears turning to hiccups and then to quiet sobs over time. Max had been by her side all this time; she'd come over, quietly, to Warren some time in-between then and now, asking if he was okay. Warren sent her straight back to the blue-haired girl.
Max had been crying too; yet, somehow, she was the only one still functioning: moving around, making sure both of them were okay. Selfless Super-Max to the very end. Maybe that's why he liked her so much. That was something he'd have to tell her, eventually.
Warren sucked in a sharp breath at the thought; he really did not want to do it. Just the prospect of telling Max how he felt about her evoked a deep sense of dread in him. It was kind of baffling that this was something the boy was still afraid of, even now that they were dealing with a possible group of kidnappers and an actual murder.
Wishing to do anything but keep wondering about that, Warren quietly pulled his phone out and started sifting through the pictures he'd taken. The photo of that letter in the bunker addressed to Sean Prescott had caught his eye in particular, and he started reading it in earnest.
"Dear Mr. Prescott.
As Nathan's primary psychiatrist(…)you have disregarded my rather dire and immediate suggestions for his – and others' – wellbeing(…)you refuse to acknowledge the role you play in his mental health(…)he is becoming more disconnected from reality(…)You have ignored my requests for a consultation with you and your wife(…)Regardless, I care about Nathan and I believe he needs serious help. If you would like to talk this matter, I am always available.
Best,
Dr. Jacoby"
Frowning, Warren put his phone down on the soil. Almost everyone at Blackwell, at one point or another, been witness to Nathan Prescott's more…explosive, deranged outbursts; the letter had certainly given some context as to why he acted the way he did – more points to Sean Prescott for being the worst father ever. Having serious mental problems and, on top of that, having parents who were, evidently, completely dismissive of said problems…
Warren shuddered at the thought; he couldn't even try to imagine his own parents being anything else but a loving and supportive couple. It was hard not to feel at least a little bit bad for Nathan.
Did it excuse the abductions and being a murderer? Certainly not.
Warren picked the phone back up and kept listing. His heart stopped for a moment when Rachel's face appeared. Closing his eyes and taking a deep breath, to, hopefully, alleviate any lingering sickness, Warren resigned himself and started analyzing her binder. Three of those pictures caught his attentioh
Fourth picture, where Rachel was tied up, but wide awake and furious, glaring straight at the camera. Is this why she was killed? Because she knew?
Seventh picture, which made Warren's entire thought process stop in its' tracks and then work overtime: both Rachel and Nathan were posing for the photo, and both seemed really out of it. Warren had to stop and confirm that it really had been the Prescott heir in the frame. That kind of a photograph should have been impossible for a single person to take, unless it was a really good set-up where Nathan had a delayed photo-shot, or whatever it was called, and managed to position himself on the floor while looking drugged out his mind. It might have been possible, but with the amount of details that hinted to a third party being involved, Warren wasn't sure if that was the case. That meant that this third party probably had Nathan drugged as well. Why? Warren could only shake his head – this was all so confusing.
Finally, the last picture, the most damning of them all – Nathan burying Rachel. Involuntarily, Warren looked back at the hole they'd dug up and rapidly returned to his phone. It looked even more improbable and difficult to take from a single photographer's perspective: Nathan would have to set his camera on something solid, run all the way to the grave and take Rachel's body before the shot got taken. Either that, or, now much more likely, that somebody who was with, and drugged, Nathan, also took a photograph of the boy doing the deed.
While possibly still being drugged out of his mind.
Warren shivered, feeling cold all of sudden. This was all so fucked up. And confusing – all too confusing.
One of the girls, likely Chloe, sniffed very loudly, prompting Warren to turn back to them. The blue-haired punk was still sitting on the ground, looking at the grave, past the grave – it was hard to tell. Max, as she had been all this time, was right by her side, rubbing small circles into her back, staring dejectedly somewhere into the sky, her camera bag lying on the ground.
Wait. What business did he have trying to figure out how would a photographer think and act, when they had an actual photographer on their hands?
"Hey, Max?" Warren asked with a slight rasp in his voice as he quietly joined the girls. The one in question looked up at him, her eyes somewhat red and puffy, yet already filled with focus.
"Warren," she said softly, getting up. "How are you?"
"Well…not great, but better. I, ah, actually wanted to ask you something," Warren fumbled with his phone, finding the right photograph and handing it to Max. "Could Nathan Prescott take this shot by himself?"
Max had flinched very briefly upon seeing the picture, but composed herself quickly. "...Maybe, but I'd have to look for the right angle first. Can you…" she gently bobbed her head in Chloe's direction.
"Yeah, of course."
With a nod, Max quietly departed, looking at his phone attentively. Warren deeply inhaled the fresh breeze that'd been blowing just then and returned to Chloe. She flinched as he gingerly sat down beside her, but didn't acknowledge his presence in any way, only sniffing occasionally, her face covered by the blue bangs. They sat like that, for a few moments, in silence that Warren itched to break; he just didn't know how.
"This sucks," the boy bluntly said.
Chloe let out a half-snort, half-sob. "Tell me about it. Second worst day of my fucking life."
"What was the worst?" Warren asked out loud before realizing his mistake. "Crap, sorry, I didn't-"
"When me and Max found out my Dad died in a car crash," Chloe tried her best to speak in an even voice, but it cracked almost right away. "Fuck," she breathed out. "I can't do this."
Warren was just about ready to dig a grave for himself from shame and guilt. "Fuck, I'm sorry. I didn't think."
"No, no," Chloe sighed, finally turning to look at him. She looked really awful. "I might as well talk about it. I just need some fuckin' weed right now. Bad. Else I don't think I can get myself together."
"Do you have any?"
"There was a joint in the glovebox department. Listen," the girl swallowed, "can you-"
Warren didn't let her finish the request, speeding off. A minute later, he was back, handing the joint over to Chloe, who accepted it with a quiet "Thanks." Soon enough, the air was filled with smoke and the unmistakable, acrid-sweet smell of grass, making Warren scrunch up his nose. At least the wind wasn't blowing in his direction.
"When we were thirteen," Chloe continued her story in a much calmer, more mellow voice, taking occasional drags, "my Dad died in a car crash. Some whack-ass truck driver on him out of the blue. Gone, just like that," she puffed out a cloud of smoke and, together with Warren, watched as it dissipated into the air. "Not to mention Super-Max had told me she had to leave for Seattle the next day, what, ten minutes prior? It's as if," she paused, "as if fate fucking decided to take a shovel, shovel all the shit from bad days in my upcoming life and freakin' dump it all into one day, y'know?"
Warren didn't know what to say; he simply scooted closer to the girl, ignoring the stench of marijuana.
Chloe continued, coughing slightly, "Yeah. Worst day of my life, ever. Today's second worst only 'cause I knew Dad far longer than I knew Rachel. But…shit, if Max wasn't here, this might've been a worthy fuckin' contender for the first place."
"I'm sorry," Warren said quietly and respectfully. He couldn't imagine losing one of his parents. Maybe it was worth to give his Dad a call and just talk to him about anything. He certainly hadn't been doing that enough.
A minute passed in a more-or-less companionable silence, interrupted only by more occasional drags and coughs from Chloe. Warren looked over to see Max busy doing…something with his phone, mask of concentration on her face. Looking for an angle, she said? Yeah, probably that. She spared a glance at him and Chloe, smiled faintly, then returned to her business.
After a particularly long drag, when the joint had started to look worn out, Chloe spoke again, "She was my angel, you know?" Warren voiced an affirmative hum, and she took it as a sign to continue. "Best thing to have happened to me in years. My life had been a nonstop downward shit spiral since dear Pop's departure. I was fucking dancing on the rail tracks, drunk out my mind, three weekdays outta seven, hoping that a train would come and run me over," she said with such nonchalance that Warren felt his blood run cold. Almost unconsciously, he put (what he hoped was) a supportive hand on her shoulder, and the girl scooted ever so closer to him. "Then, one night, I see her, Rachel fucking Amber, the walking perfection of Blackwell, thrashing it at a punk concert in some abandoned mill in the ass of the world; saved my sorry butt from a bunch of thugs I'd gotten on the wrong side of, too. Just like that," Chloe made a popping sound, "finally, a bright fucking streak in my life, cause she was the..." she stopped abruptly.
"Chloe?" Warren inquired worriedly in response to her sudden silence. Tears ran down Chloe's cheeks as she took deep breaths.
"She was the sun for me," she choked out, "the one and only reason it was bright for me. Shit...She- I-" she didn't respond, taking a deep, shuddering drag of the joint, before throwing it in the dirt and violently coughing the smoke out. Inwardly freaking out, Warren just held her shoulder tighter, at all unsure what to do.
"Chloe?!" Max's spooked voice could be heard.
"A-all good!" the girl rasped back, hunched over and taking huge gulps of air, "Choked on a joint, 's all."
"Okay. Are you sure?"
"Totally!"
"Are you? Okay, I mean," Warren asked under his voice once Max had left them on their own again.
"Well," Chloe drawled, wiping her face of the remnants of her tears, "Could really use some water right now, 'cause my throat's fucked, but other than that…" she sighed, the omitted words being clear.
"I'm, uh, really sorry, you know?" Warren spoke up again, traces of guilt in his voice. "I thought I was…better at this whole "comforting" thing, but…crap, I dunno how to help you."
Chloe looked at him earnestly. "Dude, you just makin' an effort to be here, helping us with this – it means hella more than you can imagine. I mean, what you've done for us here, what you've done for Rachel-" she choked up again, but managed to get herself together this time, "You've done more for her just today than ninety-nine fucking percent of this damn Hicksville ever did! Don't worry about it, 'kay?"
Warren stared back into her blues, resisting the urge to scratch his head. He failed.
"Okay. Then I'm glad to be helping you guys."
Chloe gave him a small smile; she then turned back to Rachel's grave, and, instead, an ugly scowl slowly formed on her face as she stared at it.
"Nathan Prescott's going to die for this. Mark. My. Words." she growled.
Nathan's name woke Warren up from his sudden praise-induced stupor. Chloe had to know his suspicions.
"Uhh…you might want to wait on that, Chloe," he spoke out tentatively. Chloe, almost comically slowly, turned to him with an unspoken, but clear message:
"Explain yourself now."
Feeling more intimidated that he had in his entire life, Warren, nonetheless, pushed on, "It's on my phone. A few pictures I took in the bunker. Max has it right now, so…"
Chloe huffed. "Are you seriously trying to defend him now? After everything we've seen?"
"No, no, I just-"
"Guys?" Max's soft voice caused them both to turn in her direction.
"We're cool, Max," Chloe was quick get on her feet, trying to placate her.
"I heard Nathan's name. Were you arguing about him?"
"Uhhhh…"
"We were," Warren finished for her, cursing his sudden confidence. "I still believe someone else is on this whole thing."
"Well," Max started, "You, um, might have a point here. I've found the, sort of, exact angle this photo was taken at, and," she paused, "I don't think Nathan could've taken it alone. Not even with a tripod – and I've considered the possibility."
"Why not?" Warren asked, Chloe eyeing her best friend seriously.
"No tripod model that I know of can reach this high to get the exact angle. I had to…jump for it?" Max showed them the picture – a very, very blurry picture, that, regardless, looked pretty much like the one Nathan had taken. "I didn't spot any tripod marks on the ground."
"You're kidding me," Chloe exhaled in disbelief. "Couldn't he have, like, dragged something to put his stupid fucking camera on?"
"Unless he's a Superman in disguise, I don't think so," Max shrugged. "Look at this place, Chloe. I can't name a single thing three of us could drag around out here, let alone Nathan. Alone, that is."
She looked at Warren meaningfully, then her eyes met Chloe's again.
"I think Warren was right."
"God," Chloe deflated, putting her face in her hands, "I can't believe this."
Max instantly crouched by her friend, trying to console her. Warren touched her shoulder trying to get the girl's attention.
"Max? I need my phone back. There's something I need to show to her."
Without disentangling herself from Chloe, Max reached for one of her pockets and took Warren's phone out; he, in turn, quickly found the right photo and budged Chloe, trying to get her attention. He was on his ass the next second as Chloe almost hit him, only at last second realizing what she was about to do with a distraught look on her face.
"Here," Warren handed his phone to the grieving girl, "just read it, okay?" Chloe took the phone and started reading into the letter addressed to Sean Prescott, her posture growing more rigid by the second; Max, who had found herself hugging her friend, read the letter along as well, her eyes wide. Warren, tentatively, tried hugging Chloe from the other side. He only regretted it for a whole three seconds it felt awkward; then, it felt right.
Eventually, Chloe put the phone on the ground, having read the letter.
"Jesus…"
"Chloe?" Max asked gingerly, Warren choosing to stay quiet. Suddenly, Chloe freed herself from their clutches, standing up and starting to pace back and forth.
"Christ, no wonder he's such a fucking nutjob. Dear old asshole daddy's the problem and a fuckin' enabler. No wonder the bastard hadn't been checked out into a mental asylum soon….er" she suddenly stopped, wide-eyed, staring at a random point in the landscape. She didn't respond to neither Max's, nor Warren's worried callouts, until she snapped out of it herself, turning to them.
"I'm a huge idiot, people," was the first thing Chloe said.
"Why?" both Max and Warren asked pretty much simultaneously.
"Look," the punk started explaining, waving her hands around, "I fucking know Nathan longer than either of you, ok? I remember him from back when both of us were sixteen and he," she stressed the word, "was an insecure punk getting bullied."
"Are you cereal?," Max coughed in disbelief, "He was getting bullied?!"
"Believe it or not, yeah," Chloe nodded, "Dude was a weird little chickenshit. There was a girl, I think, that they had gotten along with…but she moved, like, a year later after all that stuff. I think that's where the Prickscott's started going completely off the rails."
"What're you saying?" Max asked from where she was on the ground.
"I realized," Chloe started explaining, "that's there's no way Prescott could've done this back when we were sixteen, back when that girl was still in the Bay; and," she paused for a moment, gathering her thoughts, "I thought of how many fucking binders with those poor girls we've seen in that bunker. Dozens! I, honestly, I don't think Prescuck could've taken them all by himself, and gotten away with it, all in, what, two years? No way, I'm not buying it. Not even with dear dad's help."
"Damn," Warren shook his head. "I kinda wish I wasn't right on this account. Lot of people in Arcadia Bay who could be behind this."
"Not really, if you think about it," Max joined in. "Whoever it is, they'd have to be friends with Prescotts, since they paid for the bunker. And the bunker itself was only finished last year's July, judging by these papers," she showed the document's photo on her phone. "That has to narrow our suspects down somehow."
"Fuck all of that!" Chloe loudly interrupted them. "What we will do, is go to Frank, get my step-fuck's gun back, then corner Nathan and fuckin' make him give us the answers! Whatever the hell I did to him in the hall worked, didn't it?" she continued, looking straight at Max. "He told us about the barn in the first place, right? We just gotta do it again and find out what sick son of a bitch's along with Prescott. Then you rewind and we work up to siccing the cops on them. Easy."
Warren blinked in confusion. "Chloe, what are you talking about? Nothing happened in the hall, Max dragged us off before stuff got bad. Nathan didn't say anything about a barn. I- wait, I thought you found out about that place through his texts!"
Chloe looked like a deer caught in the headlights, unable to form a word. "Dude, I- ah, you got it all wrong-"
"It's okay, Chloe," Max said evenly. "I don't think there's much use keeping it secret from him anymore."
Warren rapidly turned to her. "Max?" He leaned back in realization. "Wait…it's about that Monday thing, isn't it? The one we talked about in the bunker?"
"Yes," she replied simply, sitting down beside him. "I'm not kidding when I say it's a handful to understand and work through, let alone accept as a fact. You really do need time for that, and we were on the clock in the bunker."
Chloe had worked herself out of her stupor. "Yeah, plus since you're pretty much part of the crew full-time now, makes no sense to keep this shit from you anymore. It's kinda wild, not gonna lie, but," she addressed the last part to Max, "you need any help, demonstrations, whatever, anything to make him believe us, you have but to ask."
"I will," Max nodded, meeting Warren's gaze again. "Ready, Warren?"
"Sure I am," the boy said, internally running through a dozen assumptions on what this "secret" could be. "Hit me with it."
"Okay. I…can reverse time."
Okay, that he definitely did not expect.
As a man of science, Warren, initially, was hard pressed to even consider such a possibility, only doing so because it was Max; yet, as she explained and showed, with and without Chloe's help, it started to make sense.
Unbeknownst to them all, a ghostly doe, its' head slightly tilted, watched the trio from the bushes. Eventually, when Rachel Amber's grave had been covered back up and the teenagers started to leave, the doe, in an almost human-like gesture, moved its' head, as if trying to get the non-existent hair out of the way, turned around and walked into the forest, slowly dissipating into the air.
