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IB Isthavalon

This gets graphic so don't be offended if you continue reading

The driver looked at the mess and grinned as he picked off a piece of apple from his shirt and ate it. “All your friends are dead,” he mouthed never taking his eyes off of Danté and kept smiling.
The bullet that made a mere pinprick in the windshield had landed inches from Danté’s head in the door but didn’t go through all the way. Danté backed away, his heart pounding.
He tripped again and tears fell. Danté cursed himself for letting his last thoughts of Simon compare him to Judas. The guilt overtook him and he sobbed.
The truck came to a stop and there were voices, as “Paul” (who shouldn’t slam the door so hard) and “John” (who shouldn’t whine so much) coming to the back of the truck.
The door slid up and the glare from the desert sun hit Danté full in the face. The driver stood there and grabbed Danté by the hair and threw him on the ground. Danté fought not to get smothered in the desert sand and started cursing.
“Now now, did you tell your friends what happened to Simon, or were you too distracted from the smell of coffee this morning?” The driver leaned over to expose a plethora of teeth in his grin.
Danté managed to spit into this disgusting man’s face and the driver stood up and wiped it off.
He motioned for the two truck drivers to drag out the others into the heat of the sun.
“Where’s your infamous camp you son-of-a-bitch?” Danté was going to gut this guy as soon as he could find the strength to stand up.
“There never were any camps, just shallow graves.” The driver laughed as he pulled out a gun and held it to Danté’s head.

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Posted by masokist on May 12, 2008 in Blab | 6 comments