Archer Avery (arcarius) wrote in horror_story, @ 2013-05-23 23:10:00 |
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Entry tags: | annie, archer, complete, cycle002, incomplete, max |
The Drawing of the Three (...or We’re Not Gonna Take It)
WHO: Annie, Archer, Max... Team Survivor
WHEN: 17 January, afternoon
WHERE: the hospital
WHAT: Dead, they’re all turning up dead. The end of days was upon Crows Landing. There are three people in particular in a unique position to band together and share information.
WARNING: mentions / reactions to a previous character death, language, frustration, anger... might be some grabbing of torches and pitchforks.
Pedal to the metal, siren blaring, Sheriff Archer Avery rushed to the hospital in Crows Landing with a persistent voice in his mind overriding everything else: No, no, fuck no, not Hunter, not Hunter... If he’d believed in God, if he’d believed in atonement, he would think that this was payment for Michael Donnelly. He put three bullets into a cop’s head -- never mind that the poor bastard was on his way out anyway -- taking his life. Balancing the scales would dictate that something should be taken from Archer. Except he wasn’t a believer, not in that sort of shit, and too much had been taken from him already, from this whole fucking town.
The logical part of Archer knew he was already too late, that there was no cause for klaxons and hurry, but contrary to the stalwart image he presented to everyone he wasn’t analytical to a fault. No, he had emotions and right now they were jumbled, jostled a little out of the resignation and despair he’d been cultivating in the last couple of weeks. Feelings he’d been pretending not to have had been reignited when he saw how Hunter’d looked when she called him to come to the Garrets: there were people he loved being hurt by whatever the fuck was going on in this town. He’d lost his best friend and ignored another in a pathetic attempt to cover over his grief and to rationalize the apparition of O’Brien that had popped up in his office. When he saw Hunter, bruised and shocked, he’d pulled her in for a hard hug before he’d had to gather his professional mantle back around himself. Before he’d done that, before he set about examining yet another bizarre crime scene, Archer made himself a promise that he’d look out for Hunt better from here on out and not only ‘cause that’s what Bran would’ve wanted, that he’d look out for the whole damned town, that he’d solve the mystery of Crows Landing ripping itself to shreds.
Promises were made to be broken. In the not-even-two-whole-days since he’d seen Hunter, there’d been the fucking fire at Regency Meadows, a pile-up of bodies, euthanizing Donnelly. Safe to say there was a lot on the sheriff’s plate. This morning had been dedicated to sorting out the crimes of the night before, though Archer had to expend most of his energy sorting out the contents of his own head and he hadn’t been all that successful at it before Marcus Caravahlo came in confessing to the murder of Rob York. Caravahlo had given him a wealth of information, things he wouldn’t have believed if he hadn’t had the ghost of his partner hanging about, things that needed to be processed and put together so a plan could be formed. Still, even with all the shit going down, Archer felt he should’ve heard before now about Hunter driving her truck straight into Casper Decal’s front door. That he’d heard it as a remark in passing between a dispatcher and one of his officers was just pure fucking luck.
The dread, the resignation, the lack of surprise that carved itself into the stone most thought Archer was made of... all of that fled as Archer set off from the station in a squeal of tires and that desperate thought, Not Hunter. Fuck no, not Hunt. He was gripped by something worse than panic as he sped to the hospital: hope. Maybe word-of-mouth was wrong and Hunt was okay. Maybe she’d been hurt pretty bad but she’d be okay. Maybe if he drove there fast enough, she’d be okay.
He couldn’t remember the last time he’d slept or eaten something; though his uniform was neat, the usually squared away sheriff had a few days of stubble littering his cheeks and chin. An overtaxed man upright by force of will. Still, Archer maintained his outward stoicism as he strode through the doors to the hospital’s trauma entrance, ignoring the fucking awful parking job he’d done and focusing only on finding someone who could tell him Hunter was okay. Right up to a desk near the waiting room, for once not scanning his immediate surroundings or anyone in them but zeroing in on someone who could give him answers, the sheriff reached for a tone that was supposed to be an authoritative bellow but somehow didn’t make it. It was level enough, though -- Archer was always supposed to be fucking calm -- as he asked, “Where is Hunter Sommer?”
When asking it the first time only earned him a look of surprise from the nurse staffing the desk, Archer repeated it a little quieter, feeling cracks in his armor and willing them not to show, “Where is Hunter Sommer?”
Even before he saw the look of pity cross the nurse’s face, Archer knew. It was entirely possible that she said something to him but the sheriff didn’t hear it.
The Crows Landing body count climbed up another notch. Another loss to be grieved, another incident of lunacy to be furious over. Because as hope was wiped out in one fell swoop, anger was going to war with exhaustion for the predominant feeling in Archer Avery. Until his emotions sorted themselves out, he was stuck with a cold numbness.