Who: Marty and O'Brien What: Marty breaking into Sing Sing. Where: Front gate area. When: FORWARD DATED TO 26 June 2019; Nighttime. Rating: Uhhhhh yeah it's gonna be a little bit violent? Status: Started in GDocs, continuing in threads; In-Progress
Quarantine had sucked. Sucked fucking hardcore. Marty was glad to be out. He'd miss the nurses though. Especially the hot brunette he'd been hitting on just before he broke out.
Damn she was hot.
He'd made his way to the outside walls of Sing Sing. Ironic -- he thought as he looked for a possible place to scale one of them -- trying to break into a prison instead of out of one. He snickered to himself as he reached up to pull the tootsie pop from his mouth.
It was still a fairly maintained facility, to say the least, considering that the world had gone to hell in a fucking handbasket. That could only mean one thing. There must be people here. He only hoped that this wasn't the same as the last safe house he'd been at.
He'd heard rumor that there was a resistance forming. Chances were that this could be it. He might have known better had he been listening to the whispers instead of staring at the brunette's rack. Why did boobs have to be so damned distracting? Her's had been faker than those plastic trees people bought at Christmas time. But they were still boobs, and boobs were meant to be ogled. And grabbed. But he hadn't gotten that far. He'd lament about that later.
Jericho trotted past him, sniffing at the base of the wall, probably looking to take a piss. Mark his territory. It was a dog thing. Marty followed around the corner of the wall, where Jericho had not only took one, but was now sniffing rather intently at the front gate.
It was the fact that the gate moved that caught Marty's attention. Gates to high security prisons usually didn't budge. It merited a closer look. He finished off the chocolate filled sucker and tossed the stick to the ground and limped his way in to get a better look. It did indeed have a bit of a give. And he heard metal. What was that? Not a bar. It wasn't barricaded shut. Hm. He wiggled it again. Metal clanging. Sounded like a fence gate closing? No, that made no sense. Chains? Really? Chains were only going to keep zombies out for so long.
It was in that moment that Marty decided he'd be doing Sing Sing a favor by breaking in. At least it'd be a human and not a zombie. He whistled for Jericho, and made his way back to the abandoned building he'd been wholed up in the last couple weeks. It wasn't far from Sing Sing, maybe a twenty minute walk? Didn't really matter, not like Marty was the type to time himself doing anything. Except maybe having sex. That timing mattered.
He made his way back to the front gate, and worked the opening with the crowbar he'd dug from O'Brien's bag. He couldn't remember if it had been there for a while, but it didn't matter if it had or not, just that it was there.
It took him a bit to get it open enough for him to squeeze in, but he eventually managed it. It was a really uncomfortable squeeze, especially with a gun holstered on his hip.
He'd succeeded in breaking into Sing Sing. An accomplishment he'd be proud of for a while. He was just getting ready to turn to pry the opening back open for Jericho when he realized that there was actually someone on the other side waiting for him.
Had he really been that obvious? Damn. He needed to work on his subtlety. Fortunately for Marty, O'Brien hadn't been 'on duty' when he was first snooping around. But clearly someone hadn't been doing their job. That, or this was the first time Marty had started tampering with the gate, and he was a pretty confident bastard to just walk up to the front gates of a large facility of people he didn't even know.
And fortunately for Marty, O'Brien had no idea it was Marty-- yet. Or he would have shot him on sight. Well. Something like that. He wasn't all that great with a rifle. Shooting the intruder from the guard tower wouldn't have been easy.
He had been up in the usual guard tower, drawing a picture, listening to Patsy Cline, and replying to the occasional text from Taisce, when he'd gotten up to step back over to the window to give another look over the perimeter. That's when he saw the figure messing with something over near the front gate.
"The fuck...?" Brows furrowed and adjusted the focus on the binoculars, but it still didn't do it justice. It was too dark to tell who it was... and if someone had gone out into Ossining, he would have known to let them back in. Setting the binoculars down, he grabbed up his walkie talkie to bring it up to his mouth as he pushed the button to communicate with Mike. That's who he had scheduled in the tower on the opposite side. "Mike, I've got some jerkoff trying to break into the front gate. I'm on my way to check it out, now. I'll let you know what's up." He had to let someone know. Just in case.
He nodded to Mike's response, and pushed his way out the door of the guard tower, and started across the lawn, toward the front gate. Reaching back to clip the radio to his back pocket, he moved to pull one of his Glocks from his shoulder holster, and made sure the safety was off before he cocked it.
Yeah. He saw the bastard wriggling through the chained gate, and that wasn't okay with him. He hurried ahead so that he could be there before this guy could even straighten up. And was that a dog? Yapping on the other side? Hm.
"Don't fucking move. You do, and I'll blow your brains back to the other side of the fence you just crossed without permission, and I'll go back to my post and finish listening to Patsy Cline while your dog cleans up the mess." Don’t fucking move. Why did that voice sound vaguely familiar? Marty hadn’t had the chance to stand up straight before he heard O’Brien cock the gun. He didn’t have to turn around to know that it was probably aimed at his head.
Well at least this place was prepared for an intruder, maybe he should have thought this through a little bit more before coming in the front gate? Eh, fuck it, he wouldn’t have been able to scale the walls. The barbed wire at the tops would have definitely prevented that. And Jericho wouldn’t have been with him.
“Really, man? You’d do that to the poor dog? It didn’t jimmy it’s way in here,” Marty exclaimed, actually surprised at how serious O’Brien had sounded.
He wondered if he’d even get a chance to go for his sidearm. Probably not, he was at the disadvantage. He would have to grab his gun, take off the safety, turn around, and aim. Something told him he probably wouldn’t get the damned gun out of its holster.
Marty could hear Jericho’s barking, louder now that there were voices on the other side of the gate. Poor pup didn’t know what was going on. It was probably a good thing he wasn’t on the inside of the compound. Jericho would have gone for O’Brien. Marty was sure of it, the last time something had threatened him, Jericho had been all over that like shit on velcro. Then again, last time something had been undead.
He contemplated turning around, but knew that if he had been the one to catch an intruder the first thing he’d do is shoot if said intruder made sudden movements. But Marty wasn’t about to put his hands up and surrender, he was too fucking prideful for that. He just needed to think for a moment, that was all. "I'll shoot your fucking dog. And you, if it doesn't shut up," The last thing they needed was for the dog to attract some walkers or runners. Or worse, exploders.
"Drop the crowbar and put your hands where I can see them, asshole. And keep them there," He stepped closer, once the man had at least dropped the crowbar, and O'Brien reached out to frisk the guy a bit-- "You got a fucking weapon? A gun? Knife?" Moving his hand to the guy's right hip-- there it was. At least his gun, anyway. Or the one at the easiest reach. Undoing the holster, O'Brien pulled the gun from it to give a brief glance down to it before he reached back to tuck it into his back pocket, for now.
A .40 Caliber Beretta. Nice. The last person he saw carrying one of those was the fucking Rookie. O'Brien paused and nudged the back of the guy’s shoulder with the barrel of his Glock, "put your hands higher in the air-- and turn around. Slowly."
Surely it wasn’t. It couldn’t be... could it? It had better not be. "Jericho, knock it off!" Marty yelled at the dog, praying that it would catch the hint and stop barking. He didn't want any zombies either, believe it or not. Those fuckers were a pain to deal with, especially in groups. Luck apparently paid off because Jericho did stop --after barking a couple more times-- opting instead to whine through the crack in the gate.
With a sigh, Marty reluctantly tossed the crowbar away, and raising his hands so they were level with his shoulders. He really wasn't looking to get shot tonight. He kept his mouth shut when O'Brien asked if he had a weapon. Of course I'm armed you asshole, it's the fucking apocalypse!
He didn't appreciate being frisked either. Marty would have preferred being frisked by a female cop. At least, he'd have enjoyed it more. And now the asshole with the handgun was jabbing him in the back with his gun, nice.
For a split second, he thought about trying to wrestle O'Brien for his gun. But Marty knew he didn't know what sort of skills he was up against. He didn't know if he was up against a cop, or a former gangster, former prison inmate. Hell, he didn't even know how big this dude was. So he raised his hands a bit higher for good measure, and turned on his heel.
And his heart jumped into his throat the moment he realized whose gun was now in his fucking face.
Don't pull the trigger, please God, don't pull the damned trigger.
"O'Brien?” An extremely nervous laugh escaped his lips as his eyes widened. “No shit!”
That was the last person Marty wanted to be up against at this moment. Marty's gaze darted to the gate, and back. He then attempted to take in his surroundings, find somewhere to fucking run. Marty was a fucking coward, and O'Brien definitely scared the shit out of him. Jericho? Who the fuck named their dog Jericho? O'Brien nodded when the intruder tossed the crowbar away-- Yeah, that's right. You'd betterfucking put the crowbar down. Bastard.
As soon as the man turned around, he knew damn well who it was. And hearing the little bastard say his name only made his eyes narrow.
If it wasn't Marty. Marty fucking Higgins. The sonofabitch rookie who shot him and left him to die.
He didn't know what to say. Of course it was him. Maybe he looked a little greyer around the edges, and he'd lost some weight, but it was obviously him. Marty shouldn't have even asked. And this jackass was clearly the fucking rookie that was the very thorn in his side.
O'Brien felt his lip twitch, and he moved a bit to wipe the sweat from his lip with his shoulder, though he didn't lower his gun, yet. His first instinct was to shoot the asshole, but he couldn't-- he didn't. This encounter was kind of making him angry enough that he wasn't thinking as clearly as he should have been-- and if he wasn't careful he might go into a blind rage and beat the shit out of Marty. The man fucking deserved it.
"Get out." After a beat, he reached out with his free hand to quickly press against the shorter man's shoulder, shoving him back against the gate, "Get the fuck out, now, Marty." Dropping his hand away, and lowering his gun, he took a couple of steps back, "take your yappy dog and get the fuck out." It was expected that O'Brien wanted him gone. And that was all the more reason for Marty to want to stay. First off, O'Brien was the only person left on the damned planet that he knew. Familiarity was kind of a nice thing to have. Even if it was from the man that least wanted to see him. Secondly, Marty hadn't given him a hard time in a while. It was overdue. And thirdly, though it'd take him awhile to come clean with it, he wanted to patch things up with O'Brien. Yeah, the old man wasn't going to want to hear that come out of his mouth.
As soon as O'Brien had dropped the gun, Marty took the chance and bolted. He made his way across the lawn toward the Administration building. If he could get inside, he might be able to avoid O'Brien's wrath. But even Marty doubted that. Oh, hell no. When Marty made a run for it, O’Brien spun on his heel and booked it after the little jerk. He reached for Marty, but missed by only a few inches, and nearly fell forward flat on his face-- That would not have been good. Especially since his nose was just now starting to feel okay again. “Sonofabitch!” He growled, chasing after Marty, across the lawn, “get back here!” It was sort of late at night, but he really didn’t give a shit if they woke anyone up at this point. This bastard was not staying here. At least not without a fight. “Don’t think I won’t shoot you, you jackass!” But really. It would have taken a LOT for O’Brien to shoot him... even with as much anger as he held for the guy. O’Brien wouldn’t ever actually kill anyone. Not even the Rookie. That catch there, though, was that he could easily shoot the rookie in the leg or something. Let him suffer?
That seemed like a really fantastic idea right about now.
But really? The Asshole was headed right for the administration building? Well, this would be fun. If he wasn't expecting O'Brien to pursue him, Marty would have been the worst cop ever. That's what they did. If perp ran, so did you. And you did everything in your power to take them down and bring them in. He'd been on the pursuing end numerous times in the past, he knew the deal. He also knew what would happen if O'Brien actually caught him.
Part of him was kind of glad the world had gone to hell, or he'd be facing breaking and entering charges, eluding arrest, and any other fucking charge O'Brien could pin on him. Then again, if the world hadn't gone to hell, he wouldn't have shot his pursuer, and therefore might not have pissed him off so bad.
Marty made it to the stairs, but that was as far as he was going to get for the moment. As soon as the foot of his gimp leg hit the bottom stair, he went down like a sack of bricks. He caught himself before his face connected with the ground and scrambled to get back up to head for the door. Marty was an idiot. He probably always had been-- for as long as O’Brien had known him, he had certainly been one, so in O’Brien’s book? That meant Marty had been an idiot forever. All his life. End of story. If he thought he could make a run for it, and O’Brien wouldn’t pursue him? He was wrong. Dead wrong. The only thing Marty had going for him was that O’Brien wasn’t in nearly as good a shape as he had been when he was actually on the force. And he was older. Though, not by much since Marty had last seen him. It had only been what? eight-ish months? It was November when the bastard had shot him. That took a lot out of anyone. It had put him in critical condition and it had been a severe shock to his body and immune system-- and when things like that happened to a person, they weren’t exactly ever the same. They could get close, but they weren’t the same.
Seeing Marty go down face first was satisfying, yeah. But not nearly as satisfying enough; Taking the opportunity to stuff his Glock back into it’s holster, O’Brien leaned down to reach for Marty’s leg as he scrambled to get back to his feet. Lucky for Marty he hadn’t gotten all the way back to his feet, because O’Brien didn’t give a damn how dangerous it was at the moment. He yanked the Rookie’s leg right back out from under him and dragged his ass back down the front steps to get him close enough to lay a good one on him.
Yeah. O'Brien grabbed the other man by the shoulder and flipped him over so that he could sock him square in the nose. And he hoped to God that he broke it. If falling on the stairs once hurt, being dragged down them was motherfucking painful. But to then be flipped over and socked. Yeah. It fucking hurt. It was only a matter of moments before Marty felt the blood trickle from his nose. He wasn't going to go down without a fight, and he sure as hell wasn't leaving Sing Sing. Not willingly anyway.
Instinctively, he reached up and touched his nose, and pulled his fingers back to examine them. Yeah, he was bleeding really good.
"Do you feel better?!"
He wiped the blood off on his shirt, and proceeded to ball his hand into a fist of it's own, and swing back at O'Brien. He caught him in the jaw. Anything to get the other man off of him so he could make a break for it again was good enough for Marty. "Yeah," O'Brien nodded, "I kind of do." He reached for Marty's collar just about the time Marty's fist collided with his jaw, and that was enough to give Marty, at least, a few seconds to get ahead.
O'Brien was definitely surprised by the punch, and it hurt. It was a good one. That was going to be painful in the morning, but for now? He was too focused on murdering the crap out of the guy that had shot him, and was the reason for his nightmares about fucking zombies eating him alive.
O'Brien didn't get knocked completely off his feet, but because he had been leaning down to deal with Marty, he did go down to his knees, his hand coming up to hold at his jaw a moment until he could regain his composure and figure out where Marty's next move was.
Marty's swing had only left O'Brien angrier and grumpier, and even more determined to beat the shit out of him. Marty had better fucking run! Marty scrambled to his feet again, and made his way up the stairs and through the door to the administration building. He flung the door closed behind him, to try and give himself a couple more seconds to get some distance between himself and O'Brien.
He thought about barricading the door, but decided it'd take way too much time for himself with his gimped leg to accomplish. Not with O'Brien right outside. He wiped his nose with the sleeve of his shirt as he hurriedly limped down the hallway and into a vacant room.
He only had a moment to take in the room, which he concluded to be most likely reception related. There were file cabinets to one wall, a couple of desks, and some binders and books on a couple of shelves. He scooped a couple of books up to use as projectiles as he heard the front door slam open.
Shit.
One thing Marty always admired about O'Brien was his persistence, except right now. Right now it kind of sucked. He was now ready to pelt O’Brien with the books he held in his arms, as soon as the older man was visible in the doorway.