Pandemic Roleplay

The man, thin and weedy, but wiry and menacing still, got off the bike and surveyed the town. He spat brown tobacco juice into the mud, turning around and shouting something in a thick, drawling accent. A few moments later, more motorcycles pulled up behind his. The gang leader raised a heavily-tattooed arm and the rest followed him as they strolled down the road like they owned the place.

Moby was shivering, but he couldn't break his gaze away from the man and his gang as they went door to door, knocking at first, but then breaking windows and climbing inside. Moby could remember the process all too well. Visit a small, quiet, unsuspecting little town. One that's not too obvious. One that would surrender easily. They'd pretend to be travelers at first, though Moby knew no sane person believed the lie. Then, when the citizens didn't, or couldn't give them what they wanted, they would break and enter. It had usually been Moby's job to pick the locks, and he'd been good at it. His record was only a couple seconds, but he'd never enjoyed the work, just quietly obeyed. Now, Moby could only watch as his former so-call "family" did the same thing they'd been doing for years. It looked like they'd even recruited a couple more kids since Moby left. His heart ached for them, knowing they were probably being fooled or fooling themselves. But... There was no doubt in his mind that they were still hunting for him.

Moby glanced at her in surprise, but then squeezed her hand thankfully. He watched the group go through every house, slowly getting closer and closer to the one next to their bush. Soon enough, they were there beside the two of them. Moby didn't dare to even breathe as shattered glass rained down over their heads. Shouts and sounds of a struggle could be heard inside. A gunshot rang out and things were silent then. Moby flinched. He could feel the trigger on his finger now, pistol shaking in his hand as he aimed. And fired. The men strolled out casually, one of them holding an expensive-looking wooden box. Suddenly, the gang leader stopped, raising a hand. He spat another stream of tobacco juice and did an about-face, staring straight into the bush.

Things seemed to happen in slow motion as Moby watched the man's hand extend towards his arm. Before he knew it, he was being yanked out into the bright sunlight. The other gang members had formed a circle around him and the leader. They stood there with their arms crossed, leering at the gang's sole traitor.

"You!" the man snarled, spitting his wad of tobacco in Moby's face. Moby didn't even flinch. Showing any weakness was a sure path to death. "Never thought I'd see yer mug again. 'Specially 'round these parts here," the leader drawled.

"Know us? He worked fer us!" the man said with a raspy laugh. "He's a dern traitor, thet's what he is. Ran away." He shook Moby's arm as if to show Viola. "If hit warn't fer us, this kid woulda been dead in a second out on them streets. Now, if I may ask, who might you be, Miss? Surely a pretty thang like you ain't with this coward." At that, he glanced around at his colleagues, showing off a mouthful of brown, half-rotted teeth in a smug grin.

"Not very chatty, eh? Aw, thet's alright, sugar. You don't need to tell us nothin'," he said sweetly. "We'll jest take Moby here off yer hands fer you."

Moby gave her a guilty, apologetic look. This is all my fault. He had to hold back tears as the man dragged him into the middle of the road. He stared after Viola, knowing he shouldn't try to silently plead with her. He'd already caused her enough trouble. She'd probably be better off without him, anyway. He resigned to his fate as his former leader pushed him to his knees, grinning wickedly. "Now," he announced to the group and to Viola, "This boy here caused us some trouble a couple years back. Yessir, he did indeed. A filthy traitor is what he is. And y'all know the punishment fer a traitor, now don't y'all?" Around him, the other members whooped like they were going to see an exciting circus act. The man pulled out a classy revolver. The one with tortoiseshell on the hilt. The one he used for special occasions.

Moby felt cool metal as the muzzle was pressed to the back of his head. "Two years ago, this boy abandoned his duty. He abandoned his family," the man drawled, putting extra emphasis on the word "family". "This is a crime punish'ble by death and if you ask me, he don't deserve to live." This little speech was meet with more whoops and a few shouts of agreement. "Now, Miss, you watch carefully here," he continued, turning to Viola. "Let this serve as a warnin' fer you."

Moby looked up at her in a sort of farewell. He wished he could tell her goodbye in any other way besides this. He wished he could hug her and tell her that he was sorry. He wished he could tell her how much she meant to him. But now, he'd just have to settle for a glance.

The man dodged, though the glass still caught him and left a large gash down the length of his cheek. It would leave a nasty scar. Moby took everyone's confusion and surprise to his advantage and leapt to his feet, grabbing ahold of Viola's arm. Here he was again, running away. It was really the only thing he knew how to do. Moby took off into the woods with Viola in tow. They'd just reached the treeline when the revving of an engine could be heard in the distance.

A gunshot sounded and a bullet whizzed by them, its path ending in a sassafras tree. Moby kept running, tears blurring his vision before he blinked them away. He wasn't sure how far they had to run, trip, and get smacked in the face with beanches until they were safe, but after a while, he couldn't hear anyone following them. Moby grew lazy with his steps as he slowed and stumbled on a tree root, crashing to the ground. It was then that he let himself cry.