The life finally faded from her eyes. Her body went completely limp in his arms. He gently laid her down and backed away. Bracing himself against a tree, the man could finally catch his breath. The adrenaline rush had started to die down and the pain it once warded off was coming back in full force. He could feel the sensation of warm blood pouring down his calf. The left leg of his khaki uniform slacks was now soaked with a deep maroon patch staining the fabric. Gingerly, he touched the back of his head and flinched from the sensitivity of the area. Examining his hand, he found the wet, red residue of the wound on his fingers. Still fresh from the impact.
The man stared, transfixed by the warm trails of crimson that traveled in unpredictable patterns down the cold steel. He gently ran his thumb across the edge, staining his hand with his victim's residue. Their plasma was still fresh on the blade. The brief twinge of pain made him reflexively withdraw. He examined his left hand and watched the beads of blood fill the small cut down the middle of his thumb. Maybe he was acting on an intrusive thought or an animalistic instinct, but without thinking, he licked the blood off his finger. He relished in the coppery taste of their sanguine fluid that brought to mind the sweetness of corn syrup.
Dewey looked to the ground and felt sick at the sight of the corpses in front of him. Beaten and bloody at his feet laid the lifeless forms of the two former Top Story employees. Kenny Jones and Gale Weathers. Kenny: a simple man trying to make a living behind a camera, held under the thumb of his reporting companion. Gale. How could he describe her? Confident, ruthless, passionate, narcissistic, brilliant, manipulative, ambitious… There weren't enough words to describe her. She'd managed to capture his heart so easily and now she was dead. Dead by his hand. Never to tell another story or change another life, for better or worse, ever again.
Dewey felt his eyes begin to well up. Emotions were beginning to get the better of him. This job had no place for empathy or regret. It would only get in the way. He blinked away his tears before they could fall and put his mind back on the task at hand: handling the bodies. That was the only way he'd get through this. These weren't people anymore. Just another obstacle. With a steadying breath, Riley wrapped his fingers around the knife's blade, wiped the blood off in one clean swipe, and got to work.
Knowing he couldn't move them far, he spotted what he planned to be their temporary resting place: Neil Prescott's car. Dwight held the tripod under his arm, grabbed the larger body's legs, and struggled to drag it towards the vehicle. With each one-legged hop, he pulled the body closer until he could open the door and haphazardly threw it in the backseat along with its equipment, being sure to pull the cuffs of his sleeves over his hands to prevent any fingerprints on the car. Unbeknownst to Dwight, one of the body's legs was sticking out the side, causing it to be slammed in the car door upon closing. After readjusting the stray limb and closing the door, he opened the trunk and went to retrieve the other body. Carefully, he picked it up bridal style and hobbled back to the car.
Its pale skin and bony structure made it look more decayed than it already was. Its fine brown hair laid disheveled on its shoulders. The highlighted strands shined bright in the moonlight whilst the bangs stuck to its bleeding forehead. Lipstick remained mostly untouched besides the subtle smudge that had transferred onto his lips earlier. Blood had been steadily pouring out from its head and flowing down its face. Mahogany fluid, thick to the point it was almost pitch black, traveled down the perfect curves and angles of its face. Around its pointy nose, over its defined cheekbones, and down the slopes of its jaw.
He gently laid it down in the trunk in the fetal position. It almost looked peaceful if not for the bleeding wounds and open eyes. The eyes stared into space with a glassy glaze. They were now a dull slate devoid of the lively spark that once inhabited them. It wasn't too long ago his stomach filled with butterflies whenever its eyes locked with his own. One thing he could never forget was its beautiful eyes.
Her beautiful eyes.
Suddenly, a high-pitched melody of beeps played from his pocket. The phone ringing pulled him out of his thoughts and back into the world. After slamming the trunk shut with his sleeve-protected hands, Riley turned away from the body and answered the call.
"Hello?"
"Dude, where the fuck have you been?" the voice asked. Stu Macher.
"I've been a little busy," Dwight responded, ashamed to tell his accomplice about his scuffle.
"Doesn't take that long to kill someone, man. What's the holdup? You didn't puss out, didya?" Stu teased.
"No! I-" Dewey took a calming breath, "I already took care of it."
"About time. Hurry up and get over here. I'm gettin antsy."
"Well, it might take a while. I'm a little banged up." He refrained from thinking too much about his injury lest the pain start to get to him.
"What, did your little girlfriend put up a fight?" Stu laughed.
"She's not- there were two of them!" Dewey said indignantly.
"Huh?"
"Right, um, you don't have to worry about the cameraman anymore. Look, I'll be there as soon as I can, just stall for time. Where's Sid?"
"She's with Billy," Stu replied salaciously, "Too bad he gets the most fun job of the night."
The older man cringed. "Ugh, don't remind me. Did you get Tatum a ride?"
"...What?" The teen paused before he spoke like he was caught off guard by the question.
"Remember? I told you to make sure she got a ride home with a sober driver."
There was no response.
"Damn it, Stu! You had one job!" Dwight sighed exasperatedly. "When did she leave? I didn't get a call from home."
Once again, he was met with nothing but telephone static and a small click. The line went dead.
"Stu? Stu!" Riley shouted, but his accomplice had already hung up. A pit formed in his stomach. The fact that the teen's jokey attitude disappeared the second Tatum was mentioned didn't sit right with him.
Surely he didn't.
Stu may be a deeply disturbed kid, but he wouldn't do that. Dewey made a deal with them. Both himself and Stu agreed that Tatum would stay out of this. The only one who could convince the boy otherwise was… Billy.
A sickening dread filled him as his brain connected the dots to create a horrifying picture. Dewey immediately picked up his pace, running as fast as his bleeding leg would allow.