City of Blood [boyxboy]

Chapter Seventeen

Happy summer everyone!

Did you know that there is nobody on this entire planet that could possibly look like an aged, bearded Chris Evans? Because I didn't. So I figured this guy was the closest I could get to what I was aiming for. If you just really really use your imagination, he does kinda fit the description.

I know that I'm late again, but I really wanted to make this chapter best I could. Of course, in time I will come around to edit this whole story, but for now I'm trying to go as fast as I can and still make it sound good for you guys. Hope you don't mind. I can certainly try to work faster if you guys would like it more.

Ps. Would you guys also prefer if I made longer + less chapters? I do plan to go back and edit soon, and I didn't know if making so many short chapters would continue to appeal to you all. I'm making this for you, after all.

Anyways ... Here's Seventeen! Enjoy!

Cosmos ~

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The world is spinning. My vision is fuzzed and stinging and blurred. I can't breathe. Pulsing blood pounds in my ears and that's all I hear. I can't feel and only one thought dares run through my mind.

Dead.

Then all at once my gut is twisting up on itself and I can barely sprint to the bathrooms on numb legs before my gut heaves up everything I ate this morning. The doors slamming open again and Andrew launching himself at the next stall are muffled under the throbbing static sound. My head's halfway in the bowl and my arms are almost too weak to hold myself there; my legs already gave out. There's a strangled whimper on the air, and I realise it's me. I choke on sobs and more stomach acids.

Deadeadeadeadeadeadeadeadeadeadeadeadeadeadead

As much as I try, I can't force the image from my head. That couldn't have all been his blood. Too much. Skin paler than snow — completely drained. Too much. Hanging by his own intestines. Organs probably piled up in the pit of his abdomen with but a shirt to stop them from falling. Deep gashes in all the right spots. Lifeless eyes boring into my own. Too much.

DON'T BE LATE AGAIN.

I vomit again. The stench of blood, rotting corpse, and soiled pants is hard to forget when it's stuck to the back of your throat like a caramel.

After a minute or so do we begin to ease away from regurgitation and screaming sobs, more leaning on heavy, choked-up, shuddering breaths and mumbles of sonofabitchwhythis. I'd ask if Andrew is okay, but God knows that even Lucifer would be disgusted. So instead I reach for my phone to call the only person I can think of at this moment.

The line is picked up immediately. "Garth! How are you, my son?"

"He's dead, Father," I rasp into the phone. "Father, the Shots ... the Shots ... they killed him ..." The lump in my throat forms into another wave of tears.

"Who? The Shots killed who, Garth? Where are you?" His voice is so suddenly serious it makes my heart race.

"School. My ... my bio teacher."

He sucks in a sharp breath away from the phone and cusses. "Alright. Are there any other kids in the school? Teachers?"

"No kids. Just teachers. My friend and I." I swallow harshly. "School starts soon."

"Okay. I'll get my secretary to take care of the teachers and I'll send a SWAT team to barricade the doors. What I'm going to ask you to do next will be very difficult, Garth. Can you handle it?"