a/n: xoxoxo. hope you're all safe, or at least showered today. or not, who cares at this point. shrug emoji. happy monday!
Chapter 49 - Hard Tumbling Blur
EPOV continues...
"You're sticking with us, right Mute? You're not running."
The Glock is tight in one of the guy's grip, swinging at his side.
"Go on and do your magic. I'll wait here," he gestures toward a house.
What is this? A heist? Are they a team now?
Yesterday, Edward found himself in a house taking food. That time, he had to grab enough for four men. The fridge was left empty, the pantry the same. One of the three helped to get the items out from the back door, cleanly unlocked, no split door frames, or break-ins.
They ate like kings in the van for 'lunch.' Edward did not. He listened to the suckling of fingers and hums of hungry men, the only sounds.
It's nighttime. They've had their glutinous meal for the day and now they work. This is routine. It's been like this for two days. There was no way out of his predicament. No way to run. Edward is the new shiny nickel in this deranged gang of thieves. Now, he sits by his bin where he spots it. Stolen items all around him, no seats in here to take up space, but to give room for things. He sits on the floor of the van and wonders how the hell he got here. Anxiety stricken.
Edward feels this new pressure of figuring out the way around houses without really going through the process. His process: Looking in. Staking out. Checking things twice. He fears they'll run into a security system he can't crack.
What then?
The inept sign language guy stands back, and he's quiet now. No casual chat like he did days ago. This is business now. He's boss. He waits for Edward to tear into these houses for them. He waits with a gun in hand, aimed at his back.
There have been so many houses.
Edward observes the wire box where all this could go right or wrong.
Maybe he should make it go wrong.
What would he do? He'd have to run, leave everything behind. All his things.
He reaches in. Click goes the locks.
They're in. Edward stands back.
All the while, he's looking at his surroundings, challenging the idea that maybe this could be it. Well, he'll try. He can't let this continue; being stuck in a fast-moving van against his will.
Time is molasses. The gunman is antsy, his pacing obvious. He looks down at the gun and seems to triple check the … lock? The magazine? Edward doesn't know. All he does know are guns in books. Their lock on or off. The bullet left in the chamber once it's cocked. He's never felt one in his hands, but the times are countless when he's read about their danger. Good guys, bad guys, geniuses, and assassins. Even scared humans in unfortunate situations where they were pushed into using one. Edward has read every scenario, just, nothing like this one he finds himself in.
That's Edward. The pushover. The fool who let this happen to him.
Has he been away from civilization that long? Does he show signs of weakness? It may all be true, but one thing is clear, Edward was never made for this. This is why he runs. This is why he hides. Meaningless goals, all for money and things; crime that is beyond what he's ever done.
His mind runs. His mind is a twisted maze of frantic plays on how to get out of this. He won't learn it in a book, nor the stars, as he looks up at them at night. The weather won't tell him how far or how fast to run. He's alone. Defenseless.
His hands shake enough to make these break-ins troubling. He wrings his palms together.
His heart hasn't stopped pounding. Ever.
The gunman paces away. Edward tilts his head to look.
This is his chance.
He reaches up and slides the memory card back into place. All the lights in the house go on.
There's banging inside, taking everyone by surprise.
Then there's shouting.
Well, Edward wasn't expecting the lights, nor the alarm, but definitely not the fact that the owners could be home.
In this house, there are people inside.
The high-pitched alarm shrieks at the same time as there is a ruckus of shouts and running and banging.
Edward runs. Then the rest follow rushing out the door. And fuck it all to hell, again they're following Edward.
"Go, go!" the Talker shouts. Gunshots are heard behind, and they're coming from inside the house. A man in boxers appears by the French doors. His shadow against the bright lights of a kitchen. He's shouting. Edward only gets a glimpse as he charges off, feet as feathers, faster than his might could let him.
The guy with the Glock in hand is already behind the wheel.
They jump in. Edward with a lead heart at how this turned out.
Tires eat the road, screeching, and skating. Horns blare around them from incoming traffic. Signs above telling them a freeway ahead is wide open.
Sweating, breaths coming heavy, Edward knows this has gone too far. His eyes follow the trees and scenery as they pass in flashes by the windows, and it's been years since Edward has been in something so fast. He's slow. He's walking. He's all feet moving through trees. No engine to fire things up and make him go, go, go. He's snail-paced. Turtle life.
Blue and red lights in the distance colors the leaves.
"Fuck!" The driver grunts. The others crawl to the back and look out the small windows.
"We're fucked," he shouts. He bangs hard fists onto the steering wheel again and again. He curses a third and fourth time. Everyone looks upfront. "Border patrol, incoming!"
Well, they got to Canada. Just not how they planned it all.
With his heart just about ready to come out of his chest, Edward seizes the moment, the distraction. He pulls on his backpack, his bin, and reaches for the door.
"Don't you fucking think about it, Mute!" the driver yells, quickly glancing back. "I know it was you back there!" he says about sounding the alarm. "If I go, you go down," he spits.
No.
This fury riles up in Edward. He goes for the door again, but he grunts. His leg is pulled until he's sliding on his stomach. The other guy pounds on him from above. They struggle, arm in arm, the strength of two men in their desperate state of defense. With a jab of his knee, the guy goes silent and stiff between his legs. He tumbles away. The Talker jumps in and gets a swing. Edward sends another from below where he lays, making the guy's jaw pivot.
And that crowbar makes a show.
Edward barely looks for that piece of metal. It seems to sprout legs and climb into his fist.
The Talker is now silent, dead weight over him. One swing at his head was enough. The crowbar flies when the van swerves.
Edward looks to the front. He catches the driver trying to reach for that Glock.
He dives in. He slaps it out of his hand. The gun tumbles to the floorboards.
He pulls back his fist, letting it rip teeth and skin. The driver's head snaps to the side twice with the swings. Edward's fist is solid. All the adrenaline and desperate force behind it.
The van skids off the road. Edward is tossed, sending him back against the doors. The dipped shoulder to the freeway tilts the van off its axis. Everyone howls as they all brace themselves until the van slows and drops back on all fours.
And just as this moment aligns with an inkling of luck, Edward squeezes the latch to the door.
Everything is a hard tumbling blur.
…