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Emptiness.
That’s all there is in this arid, dormant landscape, Pete notes. Nothing in sight, just sand and dust that fly while he runs for his life on pure adrenaline and fear, briefcase in one hand and a machete made from a bass guitar neck in the other.
He stops on top of a hill, hungrily gasping for air, wiping the sweat off his brow. He’s tired, he’s been tired for the past week, he wants to rest, just for one second. And previously, he might've given into these thoughts, but now he knows it’s credulous, foolish, inane. He can only run, like a mouse hiding from the cat, in hopes that there’s a solution to all of this conundrum.
Pete looks up at the pale blue sky, pondering on the events of the week, off all the losses he has suffered. First Joe, his friend that he considered as his little brother, who got on his nerves always yet who he loved so dearly, only to find him laying on a hospital bed, eyes and mouth open in terror, his neck savagely marked with the cord hanging around it, dead, in a hospital of all places. Then Andy, his best friend since he was a kid, a pacifist at heart, who accompanied him into that warehouse without trepidation, only to end up on the floor lifeless, neck bleeding profusely from the crimson scar. And it seemed that whenever his friends died, Patrick was always around the corner.
A growl emerges from behind, and Pete turns quickly, locking eyes with those sickly yellow pupils, as the creature inhabiting his friend’s body sneered at him, their hook glaring in the sunlight, looking like a lion on a hunt. Speak of the devil. Pete breaks into a sprint, eager to escape the demon, the instinct to escape kicking in as he slides down the hill and kisses goodbye to the short-lived rest as he travels rapidly through the red, sandy road.
He can hear the beast running right behind him, a few paces back, the sound of metal cutting through the air, the snarls and gnashing of teeth. And while he runs, Pete cries silently, contrite tears streaming down his dust covered face, knowing that all of this could’ve been avoided, if they had just left the briefcase alone, if he had just decided to not let Patrick take the burden, and walk off with it, if he had just- no, the deed was done, there was nothing that could change what has happened, it was incorrigible, there was no use.
He risked a glance, peeking behind his shoulder to view Patrick, no, not Patrick, the thing inhabiting his friend’s body. The thing glared and yelled, waving their hook wildly, and Pete focused his view back on the road, ignoring the weight that occupied both hands, the ache in his feet and picking up speed.
Pete remembered when he first met Patrick, in his argyle shirt and black shorts and socks, eyes peeking from underneath the trucker hat he wore, and from that moment, he held an immutable fondness for him, he watched the kid perform his heart out, he watched how he lost himself in the music, and he watched how the man had stuck by him throughout his whole life.
And it hurt, to watch Patrick’s affable nature be vilified into this sick, corrupted shell, to see him become a meat puppet for this monster, to witness how Joe and Andy died by Patrick’s hands. But try as he might, he could never loathe Patrick, he knew that it wasn't his friend’s fault, knew that it was the creature by the name Xibalba that had committed those crimes, and he would stand by that truth, he would never recant that belief, and there was no way he would try to use the weapon in his hand to fight his friend.
The hum of engines fill the scorching atmosphere, and Pete feels a glimpse of hope, though he doesn’t slow his pace, not yet. The sound increasingly gets louder, and soon he gets a good look at what exactly it is, and his chapped lips deepen in a frown, as he glared at the two motorcycles on opposite sides of him. Vixens, the people behind this mess, the people responsible for the deaths of his friends and the same group who corrupted his friend. Just his luck. Pete watches as the two women drive off, leaving a trail of dust that stings Pete’s eyes, as the two vehicles fade away into specks.
Pete faltered for a moment, almost collapsing on the dry ground, what use was there to continue on? It was hopeless, he thought, no one would aid him, no one would save him, he was the only one left, why not quit and join his friends on the other side?
Suddenly, a glare hit his eyes, and as he squinted, he spotted the source of the stray beam of light: cars.
Pete tried to look further in the distance, and across the jungle of beat up and abandoned cars, he could spot houses, civilization. He blinked once, then twice, making sure his eyesight wasn’t playing illusions on his mind, but there it stood clearly, salvation.
Hope bloomed in his chest, and Pete felt himself faintly smiling, a burst of confidence surging through his body, as he ran faster toward the desolate rows of cars, heading specifically to the small town.
He could make it, he had a chance, his friends deaths would not be in vain, he could fix this mess, he could fix it all.
He glanced at the briefcase in his left hand, the thing that got the quartet in this situation in the first place. He saw an opportunity, that laid right in front of him, to get rid of the blasted thing once and for all. He could dispose of the item, and afterwards eradicate the Vixens that had hunted and tortured the four men, and soon, hopefully save his friend from this curse. He bit his lips, feeling the tangy taste of blood on his mouth, and took a breath, before sprinting like a gazelle.
He had a plan, he knew what to do, he wouldn’t stop, he wouldn’t quit, not just yet. He could barely hear Patrick’s growls as the adrenaline filled his ears, fury and determination taking over his body as he stared at his destination, the key to all his answers.
And as Pete ran, furious at the universe, briefcase and weapon in his hands, a possessed murderous deity on his tracks, and a desperate plan, he only had one thought on his mind.
Burn it all.