Freddie and I were friends from the beginning. Not together-forever-love-you-always friends, but we were close enough. He was forever determined to get me out into the world, to experience its joys and not just see the downside all the time, and I was always trying to get him to think a little slower, to see things more logically. He was the best leader any of us could have hoped for; forever optimistic and a pal to us all; we loved Freddie and looked up to him like a big brother.
But, just like the rest of us, Freddie dealt with his anguish in his own way. Because he was the leader, Freddie got the best room in HQ, a room that included a hidden side room. I only ever went in there once, after the rest of the gang had died, and that was only to see if I could find anything of use.
What I did find when I went in there, was a room completely empty, save five punching bags hanging from the ceiling in the middle of the room. At first I thought nothing of it, but when I got a closer look at the first punching bag, I noticed that Daphne's face was printed onto it; dried blood smeared the picture and the black material was worn down so thin that the inside was threatening to come out. As I moved along the line, I saw that there was a punching bag for Scooby, Shaggy and me, and even one for Freddie himself. Each was smeared with blood and beaten paper-thin. The floor was spotted with red too; scrabbling finger marks and splashes of what I could only assume to be Freddie's blood covered the concrete floor like a sick gothic pattern.
Looking at those faces on the bags, just hanging there like that, something snapped in me again. I screeched like a banshee and flung myself at the laughing faces, clawing at each one like a wild animal until they lay in shreds at my feet. My rasping breath slowly turned into gut-wrenching sobs and for the first time since the death of my gang I crumpled to the floor and let myself moan and howl. My body lifted up with each shuddering cry and after a while I felt something on my shoulder. In my delusional state I thought for a moment that it might have been Shaggy, and I flung my head around to see Scooby standing above me his eyes sympathetic and his whole body quivering with held-in despair.
We were the only two left now. Out of the five of us I don't think I would ever have imagined that Scooby and I would be the last alive. I think Scooby felt the same way, but he had seen what I had done to Daphne; he had seen the way my blood turned cold and my expression merciless as I hacked away at the werewolves afterward, determined to take at least a little bit of Freddie back with me to give him a proper funeral. Unfortunately, I blacked out after slicing through the first beast's neck, so when I woke again, I had no memory of anything. But I knew that I had won, because werewolf bodies –insides and out – were strewn everywhere around me, and Freddie's mutilated corpse lay behind me, missing a few vital parts but still intact for the most part. Doing my best to ignore the disgusting smell of rotting flesh and coppery blood I had hoisted Freddie up onto my shoulders and dumped him as gently as possible into the back of our van before closing the door and sliding down the side, completely silent on the outside, but screaming in my mind as I died slowly and incredibly painfully from the inside out.
When the mayor found out what had happened, he was deeply sorry – probably because he would have to go to the trouble of finding a new team more than anything – and insisted that Scooby and I be put into rehabilitation immediately. Neither of us wanted that however, me especially. I didn't want to have to talk about my 'problems' and be examined and tested on like some stupid lab rat. So I did what every coward does best - I ran away. I ran away with my tail between my legs, Scooby Doo in tow.
I don't think we'll ever stop running. And honestly, I'm not too sure I want to.