#onebyonekill

angelxmarwolaeth:

She didn’t have to be asked twice, in fact, she wasn’t specifically asked in the first place. It’d been a consensus among those still remaining in the hotel lobby, even if an unspoken one: they really needed help. Too many were dead now and as time crept on, it was all too clear that no one was safe. So, when the idea of bring- ing in the police was voiced,  there was no hesitation before she volunteered to take on that responsibility.

         ❝ I’ll go. ❞

Two words, a slight nod in Noah’s direction–I’ll be fine, you stay here and help them– and she was stepping out of the hotel with her gun tightly pressed into her palm.

The walk to the police station wasn’t long; at the quick pace she took on, it was even shorter. While the department hadn’t been able to do much in the way of protecting them, perhaps having a constant presence would deter the murderer enough for them to make a mistake.  But,  as she stepped through the threshold and into the station, her confidence wavered.

It was all too quiet and a vibe similar to the ones drifting around the hotel lobby that morning washed over her.

        ❝ Officer Maddox? ❞

She didn’t like the way her voice echoed with no response. He’d been the officer who detained Deyla at the beginning of the week, the one chosen specifically to keep an eye on things at the hotel and upon finding out that Regina and her husband were definitely more than they seemed, she now knew why. Her reflection of the past few days was cut short as she turned the corner leading to his desk. Fingers curling even tighter around her weapon’s grip, a soft gasp broke through pursed lips.

         ❝ No– no, no damn it. ❞

The policeman sat, poised at his desk as if carrying on his daily duties,  perfectly still.  Two dark spots decorated his chest,  the unmistakeable crimson color spreading across blue in a rather ugly design. Even with his eyes closed, she could almost see the fear etched into his final expression and though a small part of her asked to make sure he wasn’t still alive, the lack of breath lifting his chest confirmed what she already knew. There was no time to dwell on the body in the office,  the killer could still be nearby and she needed to tell the others.

      ❝ DAMN IT. ❞

Turning on a heel, she broke out in a sprint in the direction of the hotel.  While concerned lined her expression,  it was paired only with determination. They were alone now, all they had were each other.

     ❝ He’s dead– Officer Maddox, he was shot in his office. Twice in the chest. ❞

The words fell from her lips as a continuous stream, no breath to take as her hands found her knees in an attempt to cover from the run. Her eyes moved from guest to guest, her head shaking.

The murders had terrified the locals and the guests, and Stanley Maddox was dealing with crowd control. The little island didn’t need more than a sheriff and a deputy - and his damn deputy was on vacation in Vegas for two weeks. Which meant that he alone was the law enforcement presence on the island, and with communication to the main- land completely cut off, things were more than a little out of hand.

He hadn’t slept in nearly 48 hours; with a killer on the loose, he couldn’t afford to. But as he sat at his desk flipping through the files of the old Wakefield murders (maybe it was a copycat; maybe he could find something to help there), he felt his head nodding. After eight or nine sudden starts to keep himself awake, he lost his battle with sleep, and his chin dropped down to his chest.

He awoke some indeterminable time later when the bell on the front door of the sheriff’s station jingled, announcing a newcomer. He sat up, hand on his holstered weapon, but didn’t unhook it.

       “Can I help you?”

The words were polite, and when he noticed how frightened the newcomer looked, he relaxed. “Hey, listen, it’s okay.” His hand fell away from his gun; he stood to look at the other. “I’m working on figuring this out right now. What’s going on?” A dark feeling settled in his gut, and he frowned.

        “Was there another one-?”

Gun. The thought registered too late in his mind as he reached for his own, only to hear the first of two shots. Two bullets, straight into his chest, as his body staggered backwards and into his chair. The pain was more than he could imagine ever ending, but he still fumbled for his gun, free hand clutched against the bullet wounds, staining with blood – the killer was gone.

There’s no chance for survival.

The killings as of late have seemed brutal, harsh, and hard to commit - as if a struggle were involved. Stranglings and stabbings and drownings- these things are personal kills. Up close, and messy.

And this one is no different.

It’s quiet. The day is long, and everyone has retired to their own rooms in an effort to get precious sleep - barricading and locking their doors in the hopes that maybe, the killer won’t choose them next.

He finds himself unable to sleep, too wired by the events of the previous day to allow himself to rest. Eyes closed might mean death. He can’t let that happen. So instead he sits on his bed and stares out the window, at the night sky and at the stars and the moon, shimmering brightly, like a promise that everything will be okay.

This wedding was a mess before people started dying, and now, it’s a nightmare. He just wants off this island - he wants to get everyone away safely and go home. Was it too much to ask for? He had to keep himself safe; he had to keep the rest of the people there safe. But what if one of them was the killer? They had to be smart and wary.

And yet, when he died, he didn’t even have time to think that he had made a fatal error.

He’d turned his back to the locked door.

It was as quick as hands on either side of his head, a quick twist, a brutal snap --

And Alexandre Enjolras’ world went dark.

Modnote;

Taylor rose with the sun and made his way down to the docks early in the day. He'd been asked to lend a hand for the day, before the wedding procession took up more of his time. Oh the woes of holy matrimony. He caught sight of Finnick as he approached the docks, the beach otherwise deserted at this hour. "Mornin'," he greeted once the other man was within earshot. "Need a hand?"

                                                                       finnick odair.

                                    Finnick looked up as Taylor's voice reached his ears, un-                                                                       tangling one hand from the mess of rope he was working                                     with to raise it in greeting. "Yeah, that'd be great," he an-                                     swered, going back to coiling the mess of cord neatly. "You                                     wanna find the other end of this?"

taylor williams.

Taylor nodded in acknowledgement of the wave and the question, approaching Finnick and his piles of rope. "No problem," he chuckled, his own hands soon tangled up in rope. "Though, there's a pretty good chance this is going to result in nothing but a knot."

                                                                        finnick odair.

                                       A shrug, his attention on the ropes. "Well, that's what it is                                       anyway, so I don't see how you can make it wor-" He fell                                       silent, his head snapping up, expression intent. "Did you                                       hear that?"

perditioner:

    it’s dark when dean steps outside. the sun has set and the island is quiet     and calm, the sounds of partying from wedding guests dimming as they     retire to bed. dean’s just left his own little party — her idea, as she didn’t      want them seen leaving the hotel room together. she has a reputation to      uphold. 

    he doesn’t, but he goes along with it.

    tipsy and riding a high from his successful night, dean leaves the hotel,      embracing the coolness of the evening air and happy to avoid sleep for      the moment. he heads down to the shoreline; the waves are as gentle as     the air; it’s impressively still for a sea breeze. 

    his mind wanders over the events of the wedding; there has been tragedy,     sure, but he thinks to himself that he’s glad he came. he has no interest in     watching the bride and groom get married, not really — but he’s enjoying     the first change of scenery he’s had in a long time. it gives him hope. and     as he trails over the beach, thumbs caught in jean pockets, feet dragging     in the sand, dean decides ( something he’d never admit to anyone ) that     he’d like to stay in this moment … forever.

    almost as soon as the thought crosses his mind, a sharp blow to the head      brings him to his knees, and he can’t even cry out before the world around     him blurs into darkness.