anger. But the almost conversational way Briar was engaging him... it didn't make sense, and it made him wary. He didn't know if the silence was more unnerving.
"Making friends, Carson?" Blake asked, returning to the living room. "You know your new buddy here is a psycho?"
"What?"
"Guy killed his wife." He thumbed back the way he'd come. "She's in their bed, wrists slit."
"Heidi killed herself," the old man said quietly.
"You just left her there?" Carson turned away, back to the books, filling his mind with their titles. The third representative they'd hit... a few weeks ago stumbling on suicides like that would have shocked him, terrified him, turned his stomach. Now though, now it just seemed normal. Like killing yourself was a perfectly rational course of action. According to the news, a lot of people appeared to agree. Not that he could take that course himself. His grandmother had instilled in him an irresistible will to survive.
The old man looked down at his hands. "I've been trying to decide whether or not to join her."
"She's been there a few days," Blake said.
"It hasn't been an easy choice."
Blake clucked his tongue sympathetically and put a boot on the old man's coffee table. "You religious? Afraid you'll go to hell?"
He shook his head. "It's more complicated than that."
Blake pulled the revolver out and leveled it at the old man. "Let me simplify it for you."
"Jesus, Blake," Carson turned from the books.
"It's cool," Blake said. "If the old man wants to die, I'll do it. Never killed anyone before."
The old man spoke slowly, but there was no fear in his voice. "No. I don't think I do."
Blake smirked. "You let your wife kill herself, and you don't even want to follow her? You some kinda coward? You know you deserve it."
"We'll all be following her soon enough," he said. "No need to hurry."
Carson felt a sudden panic welling up in his chest. How could he just... say it like that? Like it was nothing?
Blake looked put off, too. He put the revolver away. "Whatever. I'm going to go look for the old man's safe."
"There's no safe," the old man said. "All our savings were in the bank. Doesn't matter now, though."
Carson turned back to the books. Slaughterhouse 5, Brave New World, Stranger in a Strange Land...
"Why are you doing this?" the old man asked. "What do you want?"
"Who's going to stop us?" Blake asked. "We can do anything we want. There aren't any consequences. And you know you deserve it."
"So it's revenge?" Briar asked. "What's the point?"
Carson sat on the sofa across from him, flipping through a copy of Crime and Punishment . "You deserve it. You. You did this. It's your fault. Blake and me, we were in the financial districts when the riots hit. Sorta got swept into it, and for awhile we just went along with it. Broke into a few stores, stole a new television."
"You were still working? Going into work, doing a 9-to-5? You must really love your jobs."
Blake snorted.
"Not really," Carson said, dropping the book on the old man's coffee table. "It was just... you know, the routine. Most of the office stopped coming in. I think it was just the two of us and the janitor left."
"What happened to the janitor?" Blake asked. "I must have missed him."
Carson shook his head. "I saw him that morning in the lobby. Just mopping the floor. I mean, there hasn't been any traffic except us, so he was probably doing the same thing we were, distracting ourselves with work because we didn't know what else to do."
"Like you're still doing," the old man said.
Blake laughed. "This wasn't exactly our routine, old man."
"No, not your old routine. This," the old man said, gesturing around. "Looting. You got swept away with the looters, joined them -- and then what? Started breaking into homes? Why?"
"Because we could," Carson said. "Because there aren't any consequences."
"Just because the world's ending doesn't mean you let opportunities go by," Blake said.
"Opportunities for what?" the old man asked.
"Making friends, Carson?" Blake asked, returning to the living room. "You know your new buddy here is a psycho?"
"What?"
"Guy killed his wife." He thumbed back the way he'd come. "She's in their bed, wrists slit."
"Heidi killed herself," the old man said quietly.
"You just left her there?" Carson turned away, back to the books, filling his mind with their titles. The third representative they'd hit... a few weeks ago stumbling on suicides like that would have shocked him, terrified him, turned his stomach. Now though, now it just seemed normal. Like killing yourself was a perfectly rational course of action. According to the news, a lot of people appeared to agree. Not that he could take that course himself. His grandmother had instilled in him an irresistible will to survive.
The old man looked down at his hands. "I've been trying to decide whether or not to join her."
"She's been there a few days," Blake said.
"It hasn't been an easy choice."
Blake clucked his tongue sympathetically and put a boot on the old man's coffee table. "You religious? Afraid you'll go to hell?"
He shook his head. "It's more complicated than that."
Blake pulled the revolver out and leveled it at the old man. "Let me simplify it for you."
"Jesus, Blake," Carson turned from the books.
"It's cool," Blake said. "If the old man wants to die, I'll do it. Never killed anyone before."
The old man spoke slowly, but there was no fear in his voice. "No. I don't think I do."
Blake smirked. "You let your wife kill herself, and you don't even want to follow her? You some kinda coward? You know you deserve it."
"We'll all be following her soon enough," he said. "No need to hurry."
Carson felt a sudden panic welling up in his chest. How could he just... say it like that? Like it was nothing?
Blake looked put off, too. He put the revolver away. "Whatever. I'm going to go look for the old man's safe."
"There's no safe," the old man said. "All our savings were in the bank. Doesn't matter now, though."
Carson turned back to the books. Slaughterhouse 5, Brave New World, Stranger in a Strange Land...
"Why are you doing this?" the old man asked. "What do you want?"
"Who's going to stop us?" Blake asked. "We can do anything we want. There aren't any consequences. And you know you deserve it."
"So it's revenge?" Briar asked. "What's the point?"
Carson sat on the sofa across from him, flipping through a copy of Crime and Punishment . "You deserve it. You. You did this. It's your fault. Blake and me, we were in the financial districts when the riots hit. Sorta got swept into it, and for awhile we just went along with it. Broke into a few stores, stole a new television."
"You were still working? Going into work, doing a 9-to-5? You must really love your jobs."
Blake snorted.
"Not really," Carson said, dropping the book on the old man's coffee table. "It was just... you know, the routine. Most of the office stopped coming in. I think it was just the two of us and the janitor left."
"What happened to the janitor?" Blake asked. "I must have missed him."
Carson shook his head. "I saw him that morning in the lobby. Just mopping the floor. I mean, there hasn't been any traffic except us, so he was probably doing the same thing we were, distracting ourselves with work because we didn't know what else to do."
"Like you're still doing," the old man said.
Blake laughed. "This wasn't exactly our routine, old man."
"No, not your old routine. This," the old man said, gesturing around. "Looting. You got swept away with the looters, joined them -- and then what? Started breaking into homes? Why?"
"Because we could," Carson said. "Because there aren't any consequences."
"Just because the world's ending doesn't mean you let opportunities go by," Blake said.
"Opportunities for what?" the old man asked.
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