DeShaun (ex_hammerdow169) wrote in thefield, @ 2009-03-19 23:06:00 |
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Entry tags: | clay, payne, z - 1st tribe - day 11 |
Just Bring Me Back to Life
Who: Payne and Clay
Where: Somewhere in or around camp.
When: Day 11
What: Payne hatches a cunning plan.
Warnings: Cursing; discussion of theft, weapons, death, hunting baby animals, primitive religious burial rituals; dysfunctional displays of affection/violence; implied drug use; mention of dismembered body parts; thumb biting; implied smut (fade to black).
Rating: R for any/all of the above.
Clay was in a foul mood. There were too many people in the camp, he'd decided, people moving around and messing with plants and parts of dead animals and shit, mostly to no purpose that he could figure out. And talking. He tuned it out, mostly, but still it annoyed him. Cavemen should be content to grunt occasionally and leave it at that. There was too much chatter going on.
The truth was, he felt useless. His grand schemes of killing one of the Laughers hadn't amounted to anything. Now that the Army guy was here with his big-ass gun, it seemed stupid to keep up his practice with throwing rocks. Not to mention that Payne had managed to kill some fucking huge elephant-pig-thing all by herself. Clay had to face it, as a hunter, he wasn't worth shit.
So he was sitting, back against one of the trees, doing his best to ignore everthing around him. Sulking, though he wouldn't admit it. He was doing such a good job at it, sunk deep into his black mood, that he didn't notice Payne's approach until her boots came into view just a foot or so away.
"Hey," Clay greeted her unenthusiastically.
Payne looked down at Clay and wondered what to say. He seemed to have worked himself up into a mighty sulk, and she was no good at dealing with those. Anger she could handle, lust and desperation and even sadness, but self-pity tended to make her cross and impatient. Still, she crossed her arms, squinting up at the overcast sky. "I figure it'll be damp t'night." she offered, and then nudged him a bit with the toe of her boot. "What'd you wanna do?"
It was tempting to ask her just what the fuck she thought he could do about the damp. Did she want him to fart sunshine out his ass, or what? Instead he took almost a minute to ponder what might actually be done, eyes narrowing with the effort.
"What, you mean trying to weave a roof or something like that?" Clay asked dubiously. He had vague memories of an art project in first or second grade that had involved weaving; construction paper strips and paste and frustration.
A shrug. "I didn't really think about it. I more meant what you want to do today." She saw how he'd managed to take it that way, though, and actually he'd had a pretty good idea. Not that it would do any good if the damp came not from the sky but from basically everywhere. "I thought about fishin', but if there ain't gonna be no fire it ain't really worth it." She paused a moment, then let her lanky body fold down until she was sprawled next to Clay. "Ain't gonna try eatin' no unfish raw. You remember..."
Payne's reminiscing drew a smile, quickly concealed. "Yeah. Shit made you sick." He'd had his own moments of gastric distress, trying to adjust to the alien foodstuffs people had managed to forage. "So now you know better. That fucker you stabbed, that was good, huh?" Might as well offer her encouragement, Clay thought. Wasn't as if he was going to be getting any spectacular kills. Payne's presence was a welcome distraction, but he wasn't willing to give up the self-pity just yet.
"Really fuckin' good!" she scooted closer, pushing his arms aside so she could lay her head down in his lap. "I was thinkin' I'd go lookin' for more. Maybe catch those babies, they'd be real easy to take down, dontcha think?" She looked up, one hand rising to pluck at strands of Clay's hair. "We should figure out some way to preserve things, though. Y'know? Make shit last more'n a few days."
"Dig a pit, put 'em in it," Clay said, fingers of one hand sliding into the hair at her temple, the gesture almost automatic. It had become natural to touch Payne whenever she moved in close to him, natural to let her touch him. Clay didn't recall any negotiations about it. Payne had apparently made up her mind for both of them that this was how it would be. The thought was mildly disconcerting.
"The live babies," he clarified. It would be dumb as shit to kill them and put them in a pit, after all. He looked off into the distance, mulling it over. "Laughers can't climb trees. Probably can't get down into a pit, huh?" Clay glanced down at Payne. "So the little oinkers would be safe." The Laughers couldn't climb out of a pit, either, he mused. Now there was an idea.
"They could get in jus' fine, Clay." Payne's voice was scathing, but she let her arms wind around him to soften it a bit. "It's gettin' out they couldn't do. Which...." her mind was going the same direction his had, but she took an abrupt turn back. "No, I meant more maybe...a smokehouse. Or somethin'. Wouldn't be too hard t'make, would it?" She fell silent then, musing. The laughers were dangerous, but that wasn't why she minded them. They offended her. Humans should be at the top of the food chain, right? "I wanna kill one."
Clay didn't like her tone with all it's implication that his idea was stupid. Why would the Laughers go into the pit, if they couldn't get out? He didn't believe they were that dumb; ugly fuckers could plan ahead. At least enough that they wouldn't go all suicidal and dive into a pit they couldn't climb out of, just for a meal. Rather than attempting to explain all of this to Payne, he balled his hand into a fist and punched her in the arm.
If he'd mentioned any of that, she might have agreed with his thinking. She'd really just wanted to insult him - it was an inching urge that never really went away. She was about to say something of vague agreement when Clay's punch smacked solidly into a deep bruise on her skinny arm. Pain spread through her mind, and letting out an indignant cry Payne sat up, turning on Clay and beating him with her fist. "Asshole!" she cried, but her anger was short-lived, and soon she was just grabbing his wrists, holding them still. "What?!"
"What, what?" She'd pissed him off and he'd lashed out, that was all. In truth, she'd hurt his feelings, but that wasn't something Clay was about to admit. To Payne or to himself, but the storm was past as quickly as it had begun and he let her hold him still, the tension draining out of his body.
"Need a gun, you wanna kill one," Clay said now, transferring his resentment to that Army guy who'd killed the first Laugher, not through any particular skill, but simply because he'd showed up like fuckin' G.I. Joe. Give Clay a big-ass gun and he could take down a Laugher, too.
Payne let go of Clay's wrists, but she didn't move away far. He was pouting now, resentful and sulking, and she knew that he'd do that all day if she didn't distract him out of it. She scooted close to sit astride his lap, her hands looping around his neck to play with the hair at the back of his neck. "Well, there are guns here...." she said, her words trailing off as the mental gears started to click in double-time.
Clay perked up as Payne got a contemplative look on her face; he was starting to be familiar with that expression. "The soldier guy," he said, "and the cop..." It was a short list, but maybe Payne knew something he didn't. "Anybody else, you think?"
"Yeah. Just those two, I think," she agreed, hands in his hair and her mind running around the equations of chance and skill and consequence. She finally bit her lip, her eyes catching his. "Wouldn't wanna try to piss off army dude, I don't think," she finally said. Would he think she was scared? She wasn't scared - she'd just rather only get her ass beaten down a few times a week. Set some sort of limit on it. So that left the cop...she wondered if his thoughts matched hers.
"I hate that bitch," Clay muttered, an apparent non-sequitur, but he was referring to the cop. It would do Payne no good to steal the Army guy's weapon--fuckin' M-16 or whatever the hell it was. She wouldn't be able to conceal it. He leaned in so their foreheads touched.
"Don't like the army guy much either." It was a low murmur, almost a whisper. Clay knew nothing about the military; the fact that the 'Army guy' was in reality a Marine would have surprised him, a little. In the end the difference wouldn't matter--in Clay's mind, the guy was just a more bad-ass, better armed cop.
Payne nodded, her eyes closing with the inexplicable comfort of his brow resting against hers. It had become a sort of message between them, something without words that seemed to make the rest of the word fall away and just not matter, a way of saying anything that took too many words to say out loud. She gave a little nod and her hands squeezed his shoulders encouragingly. She'd figured out that there was some sort of bad blood between him and the cop, between his muttered comments and the palpable bad will, but she hadn't pressed him about it. "She a bitch to you?" she asked, offering her implicit hatred of anything he hated, especially some stupid lady cop. "But she sleeps pretty heavy..." she offered, gently pressing him toward the words she could feel forming in the air around them.
"Stupid cunt. Called me a psycho," Clay told Payne, his voice flat, without heat. In reality the police detective had said no such thing, but in his memory of the day they'd found a child's body hanging from a tree, those words had somehow been put into Angelica's mouth.
"We had to bury it. The kid," he clarified. "She didn't want me to help." Clay fell silent, weighing the pros and cons of the plan he knew Payne was forming. He'd like life a lot better, he decided, if Copzilla didn't have that gun. Far better for an ally to have possession of it.
"You could get it off her," he said, all confidence in Payne's ability to do just that.
Payne just gave a little nod, her brow against his, letting their heads move together like some strange cartoon. She rubbed Clay's shoulders with deft movements, wanting to feel a little of that tension leave him. "Yeah. Maybe." She considered it. She was familiar enough with an ankle holster that she was pretty sure she at least had a chance. And if she was caught, what of it? She could try to pass it off somehow, or...anyhow, what could they do? There was no law here, a cop meant nothing in this world. She gave a little smile. "You're not a psycho." she said then, nuzzling him. "She's just pro'bly couldn't handle losing her cool. Took it out on you."
He rubbed his face against her neck, noting in passing that his stubble wasn't raspy any more; it was too long. That dead little kid still got to him, sometimes, the way that death had left it all bloated and disgusting, stripped of humanity. He'd been exhausted and dehydrated by the time they'd stumbled across the corpse--hadn't wanted to bury it, at first--had just wanted to get away from it. But that wouldn't have been right. Clay might not have the best moral code, but he'd been willing to help give the child a burial. His emotions from that day were inextricably intertwined with his hatred of the cop, now. At some point, he figured, it would all come to a head and they'd have it out again. Yeah, it would be good to get that damn gun out of the bitch's hands.
"Where's she keep it?" he asked now, unaware that Copzilla had an ankle holster. He was sure she'd had it tucked in the waistband of her pants, the day they'd gone exploring. Maybe there were times when the weapon was left unattended. She couldn't very well bathe with it on! Clay didn't offer any suggestions. Payne's rejection of his pit idea was still fresh in his mind. The hurt was mostly faded but he was still cautious.
"Ankle holster." His chin was less scratchy against her skin - Payne approved. She'd had a few uncles with beards, the feeling was comfortable and familiar. "She takes it off when she goes t'bathe." Payne let the minutes pass, her hands in Clay's hair and his breath on her skin and the sounds of the forest and of life all around them Her mind went over their conversation, and she looked out into the forest, imagining predator and prey, and straight sticks with sharp, fire-hardened points. "Thing is, the laughers, they burrow. So they might be able to get outta a pit, see." She didn't bother catching him up into her mental processes - he'd keep up or he wouldn't. "Maybe if we built a lil' rat-cage for 'em, though. Hardened vines. they're not too big t'haul up at night." A pause. "The pig-young."
"Mm, yeah... Baskets of bacon," Clay murmured between her breasts. He hadn't followed whatever trail of logic had led her to the idea of making cages out of vines, but took the explanation of the Laughers burrowing as an apology for pissing him off. All was at peace again in the caveman world. "You need me to play lookout, make a distraction, whatever," he offered now, emboldened, "when you go for the gun." So Payne had it all figured out--didn't need his help, probably. That was all right. Clay was just giving moral support.
"Yeah. Lookout. That's right." Her legs shifted, wrapping tighter around Clay's waist as she leaned toward him, plucking a soft, spongy bit of fungus that grew just behind his ear on the large tree he leaned against. She examined it thoughtfully, her free hand running through his hair as she added up the pros and cons of all the other materials she'd randomly put into her mouth. She put the stuff into her mouth and chewed for a moment before swallowing. "If I die, don't let anybody eat that shit," came the laugh, ignoring the fact that he likely had no idea what she meant, Plans whirled in her mind, the days ahead stretching out, inumerable. "An' when I go t'get those babies. T'morrow, I was thinkin'. You wanna do that with me? Found the...place they live. Got a plan, wanna try it t'morrow."
Clay smiled to himself, pleased at having a role in the plot to steal Copzilla's gun. As Payne leaned back he squirmed around, trying to take a look at whatever she had just picked. He shot her a dubious look. Christ--now she was eating lichen. Fuckin' tree fungus, whatever.
"You better not die." He simply nodded when she mentioned hunting down the pig-thing babies, up for any plan she might want to propose.
"I won't fuckin' die." She leaned back then, letting her arms looped around his neck keep her from falling backward off his lap as she chewed the stuff. "Sides, if I do? You jus' bury my tongue inside a laugher skull. Maybe sing your song over it." She laughed at that, her low, easy joy wafting up into the trees above them. "Then I'll come back t'life."
Payne's laughter brought out an answering grin, though he couldn't resist shooting a furtive look around. His singing ability wasn't something Clay was interested in sharing with the rest of the damn camp.
"Shut up," he said softly, without anger, easily accepting that this strange ritual she spoke of would indeed bring her back to life. "But why your tongue? Why not your teeth?" Clay's tone was only half-teasing. Primitive people had had their own weird-ass religion, before the good Christians had killed them off. Were still killing them off, he supposed; his Gran had always been saving up change and crumpled dollar bills for the missionary effort. In his mind, Clay pictured handprints carved into a stone wall. Carved, or maybe painted in blood.
Considering this with all due solemnity, Payne finally gave a slow, certain nod. "Right. Tongue, for talkin', teeth for eatin'. Eyes, a course. Ears. Hands." A pause. "No. Thumbs." She held up one, giving him a thumbs-up with a brilliant grin. "'Cause that's what makes us people." She felt a faint wamth suffuse her at the thought. "Then all you gotta do it make a new body outta mud."
"Gonna take a lotta mud," Clay told her, catching hold of her thumb and bringing it up to his mouth. "You die on me, eating stupid crap? Gonna bring you back fat." He could picture himself, rolling up big balls of mud--like a snowman, or rather a snow-woman. A mud-woman, with big round bulbous breasts and belly. The notion made him let out a snort of laughter. He bit down on Payne's thumb, not quite hard enough to really hurt.
"You do, and the first think my fat-ass body'll do is smother you t'death on my fat-ass tits." she said it without thinking, until the pain in her thumb sent a tingle down her spine and, see, a kiss would have been one thing, but that heat of tongue and scrape of teeth was another. She looked down at him with her muddy green eyes suddenly gone dark and soft, and her next word was a tiny, hardly-breathed whisper. "Harder."