Participants:
| Scene Title | Icky Thump Part II |
|---|---|
| Synopsis | Sheriff Holden and his deputies head out of town to deal with some kidnappers. Predictably, everything goes to hell. |
| Date | March 26, 2001 |
Asheville, North Carolina
Yesterday
"You got the location?"
"Yeah. I've tracked th' guy down." Ethan's disposable cell phone is pressed tightly against his ear, the binoculars coming away from his eyes as he surveys the town of Asheville, North Carolina. "Got my team comin' down in two days. We'll get your boy and show these boys to keep their fuckery to incest. Don't sweat none then, sweet'eart." The binoculars are tossed into the back of the old GMC clunker. Rust red and white. Ethan makes his way towards the cab.
"Two days?"
7:30 AM
The shell pops easily into the gloved hand as the barrel is bent down. Catching it fluidly, Ethan examines it before sliding it down into the barrel. "Flint." He growls, handing the shotgun over to the other man. "Listen so 'ere's th'fuckin' deal…" The men are accompanying that old GMC. In the North Carolina countryside, everything seems to be much.. slower than the environment the men are used to. There are no FRONTLINE running around, no powers being suddenly manifested and killing five people, no curfew. A light fog rests on the hillside they occupy.
The truck has been pulled off the winding road to rest on a gravelly patch the men inspecting their weapons in the dim sunlight the weak morning sun provides. Maybe not the best idea. But on this road. A car hasn't been seen and probably won't be seen for another few hours. They're not in New York anymore.
Frost crunches under his heavy boots as Ethan goes to stand fully in front of the men lounging on the side of the truck. "So I 'ave this old contact. Apparently 'is son's been taken…"
Yesterday
"Been taken by a group of extremists." The distinctly English accent on the other side of the phone is saying. "The states isn't quite my beat, just yet. I don't necessarily have much pull. This is why I was elated to come across your name, Holden."
"And I thought you just wanted me company."
A stifled silence that acknowledges the fact that there might be a laugh if he was someone else or perhaps in a better mood. But then the linguistics continue. "If you're still the same man I knew. And you are running with a crowd of like minded individuals, this should be a Sunday drive. Recover my son and teach these degenerates the meaning of my name.."
7:33 AM
"So that's the address." Ethan growls. "A farm. Apparently they 'ave 'club meetings' every mornin' ere. There aint many of 'em. And they aint trained. We bust in the shock and fucking awe, throw our weight around. Pound a couple of faces. But most of all, remember to 'ave fun." One gloved finger raises up as if to punctuate the importance of this last statement. The Ass Kicking Crew is composed of Jensen Raith, Flint Deckard, and Nick Whateverhe'susingrightnow. And of course The Wolf. "Anyways. My contact wanted us to 'it 'im tomorrow. But I've been doin' a little research. We 'it 'im this mornin', from whot I over'eard in my surveillance some of th'boys won't even be their on time. We stuff 'em and then wait all nice and prim for the rest to arrive and get fucked up."
Ethan brushes off the front of his black leather. Frowning up through the fog at the ominous clouds. Lips baring some. "It's going to fuckin' rain."
Yesterday
"It might be raining, Holden."
"Don't matter."
"Just remember. This isn't the God forsaken Balkans. I want a nice civilized brutality job. Not a massacre. So please keep the heavy weaponry to a minimum. And Ethan, do go when I tell you to, alright?"
The smirk can practically be heard over the phone. "You got it Cochran."
9:30 AM
It's really started to rain now. The men have finally made their way to the secluded farm outside of Asheville. The farm compound rests in a valley of small hillsides surrounding it. The men lurking in the GMC at the top of the hill. Rain provides a steady onslaught of the two men in the back of the truck. Ethan and Deckard for some reason volunteered to be out in the wide open. Weapons covered with a tarp and bodies covered with jackets. The eyes are set desperately on the farm that waits for them. Knocking on the center window of the cab, Ethan motions for it to be opened. "Just drive through th' fuckin barn door Nick. And put the lead down, alright? Fuck me it's wet."
A light fog still hovers around the farm, giving it an eerie stillness despite the rain that spatters throughout it, obscured. All that's left to do is… Charge.
Crashing the truck through the front door is about as 'shock and awe' as anyone can hope to get. It's a bit more 'shock and awe' than Raith would prefer. "I'm not sold on that idea, Ethan," the ex-spy replies back through the window, "In case you don't remember, not all of us are Terminators." What does Ethan care if they crash into something solid? He'll just get back up from it, after all. Maybe there's no point in arguing.
The next sounds coming from Raith's location in the truck are the actions of his pistol and submachine gun cycling. And then, there's no sound while he waits to see what the plan is.
And if the plan remains 'shock and awe,' the only thing left to do is lean forward and brace himself against the dash. That seatbelt's only going to do so much.
The youngest of the lot and the designated driver exchanges a glance with Raith when Ethan tells him to drive through the barn; he doesn't argue with his elder in the back but instead gives a slight nod to Raith. "We'll still have the element of surprise," he says, nodding to Raith's guns — by the time the truck stops, the few seconds it will take the men to get out of the truck won't mean much when they're already prepared to shoot at anything coming out of the barn.
The accelerator is pressed to the floor, however, without much warning — luckily Raith, the boy scout, is prepared — and the truck hurtles toward the barn, and for a moment it looks like Nick just might do what Ethan asked but then he's unlatching his seat belt at the same time as he's stopping, giving the truck a few more feet than necessary in case of the wet rain forcing him into a skid or hydroplane. Even before the truck is at a complete stop, his door is being flung open for his dismount.
Stretched out with his back to the cab in a field jacket and jeans soaked so dark they might as well be black, Flint has inky black goggles on to keep the wet out of his eyes and an oily rag to keep it out've his breakfast. Which is either a beer or something that looks, smells and tastes a whole lot like one.
The rest of the case is jostling clinkety clank near the ankle of his boot, cardboard sodden and rain cold across crimped metal caps and dark glass. It runs off the end of his nose and in starts off the jut of his bristly chin — sticks to his skin and makes his clothes heavy. Today they are here to teach men a lesson. They are not supposed to torture, maim, rape or kill anyone. He remembers when he takes a moment to knit his brows into the air yawning open off the tailgate's end, Ethan's voice muffled somewhere at his side. Drive through the door, he says. An unconscious slouch further down out of the way and a sideways look to judge clearance is all the concern for himself Flint can muster.
For all the rain and the engine's rumble, it's queerly quiet in North Carolina and a glance at his watch has him shaking a pill bottle out into his hand ahead of the charge. His head nearly bounces off the back window when the pedal drops, a nasty look screwed round at the front over his shoulder before he manages to swallow the stuff down and toss his bottle after his feet. "Long way to come to not kill anybody," sounds suspiciously (if not completely seriously) like a complaint, and he's the last one out.
"I told you to drive through it, fuck 'ead." He growls at the rest of his teams lack of desire to do awesome shit. But if he wasn't reckless before, he has now stopped wearing proverbial condoms and passing on his metaphorical flu shots. "They would be pissin' their pants when we jump out all.. angry." Ethan is hopping out of the back of the truck, staring balefully up at the sky. After a stilted moment of angry staring, his gaze returns to the barn on their immediate horizon.
The element of surprise is hard to maintain when your stealth vehicle is a lumbering diesel battle cruiser.
As the car convulses into a stop, the men gather around the back of the truck. When Deckard has time to take his eyes off of his breakfast of champions his little gift will find the welcoming of champions. The barn door is opening slowly, to reveal a small thin man dressed in white robes. A white cross placed on a red patch above his right breast is in plain view as the bespectacled man steps slightly out of the barn. A half smile is tilted up his lips before his mouth parts as if to speak. And then his tiny beady eyes take in the truck and the men. And his smile falters.
Inside the barn there is a party going on. Like really. Two vans rest in the middle of the barn floor, and the rest of the structure is filled with around twenty men. Though they look much more like they are preparing for a concert rather than setting off an ambush. Men are hauling big chests around. In the upper loft a large fifty caliber machine gun is being set up. A few of the men wear white robes, a few do not. But as it becomes more apparent that there is a truck with four men outside, the occupants slowly, one at a time stop what they're doing to stare at the entrance. All looking quite dumbfounded, and quite armed.
The small man's lips close into a rather nervous look as he peers intently at the Raith and crew. It seems these aren't the people he was expecting to welcome.
There's a long, lingering, awkward pause.
Many things can happen after long, lingering, awkward pauses. Raith's eyes dance from the men who open the door, to the vans, up to the machine gun in the loft, to the chests being hauled around, momentarily over everyone before his gaze, concealed partially behind sunglasses, falls back to the two men who opened the door. They're all just as surprised as anyone. And it occurs to Raith that if no one else is going to break the silence, he'll have to do it for them.
"We have come here to chew bubblegum, and kick ass," he says, "And we're all out of bubblegum."
Long pauses make Nick nervous. Especially when there are people inside with weapons at their disposal — especially Big Bertha over there getting set up. He's not as quippy as Raith but he is fast, and he moves forward, his gun coming out while he suddenly grabs the man in the robe, the barrel of the gun moving to nervous man's temple — and suddenly he has a hostage.
"Get the fuck away from that thing," he growls, nodding up toward the loft. "Put down your weapons or he's a goner."
It's very likely he's a goner anyway, especially if his "friends" don't care.
Shotgun swung down after him once he's planted solid out of his dragging dismount, Flint stretches and snuffs against the latent promises of a rhinovirus to be and — looks at the barn. Finally.
Unfortunately, the minute it takes him to count and take a breath to report that they're outnumbered five to one and should probably come back ~some other time~ is the same minute it takes Raith to announce that asses will be kicked and Nick to take a hostage. Bony fingers settled slllowly around the stock of his shotgun, Flint haunts the background of their little assembly like a bleary, begoggled scarecrow.
After a bleak pause, he starts to bring the shotgun to his shoulder and — hesitates. "«Excuse me sir,»" he mutters (bafflingly, but politely) in awkwardly formal French, "«we are lost. Might you direct us to the nearest restroom facility?»" S'il vous plaît?
A low whistle emits from Ethan's lips at the sight of all the men present. The men in white robes. Ku Klux Klan. He's never met any of them before. This is a new experience! Flatly Ethan's features survey the contents of the barn. And then Raith is doing what he would normally be doing. A slow level look is taken from the barn and delivered to Raith. Brows arched in an articulate 'What The Fuck' look. Before his attention is slowly dragged back Raith-wards. He clears his throat gently, motioning with his chin to the excess amount of armed men. And now Nick is taking a hostage. Even when Ethan's arms were halfway up to surrender stance. His arms flap back down as Nick takes the hostage. Eyes flitting to Deckard. "«More on the way.»" He reminds politely in, French. And then, "«I told you to go before we left.»" His eyes raise tentatively to the men in the loft, his calloused hand going to rest on the sawed off shotgun holstered at his hip.
The men in the barn however have not gotten the fuck away from that thing. And no one has put down their weapons. Weapons are all up and out, and pointed at Nick's group. If any of them spoke French, apparently hostages are louder than bathroom directions. Because there is a slough of white human supremacists with their weapons trained on the four Team Remnant members.
There is a very pregnant silence, as the men train their weapons on Nick specifically in the quiet. Nine months pregnant, with the water about to break. The man with the gun to his head looks a little less nervous now that Nick has aggressed. His eyes flit with irritation as Nick grabs him. Hands coming up, palms facing outward. He stares angrily at Nick for a long moment. And no one moves. "What you going to do now?" The man growls in a deceptively deep southern accent. "You shoot me, you're dead. Why don't you put the weapons down?" This is very awkward.
Under these circumstances, normal people would be open the the idea of negotiation. The key term there is 'normal.' Nick is probably normal. Even Deckard might be normal. Ethan might occasional be normal. Raith, however, is batshit: Where normal people would be calculating the odds of talking their way out, the ex-spy is probably calculating the odds of taking everyone down before they can return fire. The odds are not good. This calls for strategy. "Before this degenerates any further," he begins, shifting his attention slightly towards Ethan, "Are you sure we're at the right place? This doesn't look right." Whatever this strategy of Raith's is, it's probably terrible.
There's a sleepy looking blink from Nick when suddenly all the weapons point at him. He registers the French conversation between the men behind him closer to the truck and snorts slightly. Nice cover guys — mighta worked before Nick grabbed the man and held a gun to his head. Too little too late now. C'est la vie.
"I kill you, they kill me — you'd still be dead, and that'd be two less assholes in the world. I don't fuckin' care," Nick growls at the man, not letting go of his weapon, but he does his part to add to the cover story: "Là où est la toilette, abruti?" Not that he expects the man to pick up anything but toilette. Still, he's a team player.
"«You are an idiot,»" Deckard informs Nick through a clip of his teeth and a rankle at the bridge of his nose. The long black hollow of his shotgun is still drawing slow circles at nothing around waist hight, rainwater running funneled fast off the end; after a slow exhale to smother friction around the region of his temper, he lowers it the rest of the way and reaches to unholster his revolver instead.
A revolver which he points square at the middle of Nick's back.
"«You have as long as it takes them to figure out this ass is still alive to decide if we are going to run or start killing people!"» he announces to the team at large — incoherent, angry shouting at St. Nick in French to the troop of outside (inside?) observers in the barn. With their guns. Their many, many guns. "«Starting now.»"
Then he pulls the trigger. Without so much as a glimmer of apology in the obsidian sheen of his goggles.
Overmatched. Outgunned. And about as surprised as the enemy.
It doesn't take Ethan long to pick an option.
Dark eyes flick over the carnage Deckard delivers to Nick's back. Not much emotion reflects on his face. There's even a subtle dip of his head. Approval in the action. "«Flint. Get the car going.»" Ethan's hands come up as Nick convulses away from the man he was holding hostage.
A barn full of hate criminals give a proverbial blink as they stare openly at the man going down. The man that they were so ready to shoot a few seconds ago. The small bespectacled man in the Klan robes, stares down at Nick dropping to his feet. Before he glances up at Ethan. Wetting his lips as the shock slowly drains from his features.
There's a curt glance to Raith. A look that says 'MOVE'. "Sorry bout 'im." His hands fling up, cockney accent returning readily. "He's retarded. Like fucks goats. Farts in bathtubs. Likes to eat 'is own toe nails." He gives a flourish of one hand. "That kind of thing. Anyway. Before you all start shootin' at us, I would like t'say that I'm a Jew. And I've fucked all your wives multiple times." As Ethan crosses the distance, a sharp kick is delivered to Nick's downed side.
Just for kicks.
For a brief moment, Raith does look down at Nick, if only because there's the issue to address of, 'Did that just happen?' Deciding that it did, and that Ethan and Deckard have a plan that he wasn't clued in on, the ex-spy follows the implicit directions he is given, hoping wildly that whatever Holden is up to, it's better than his plan, and hoping that it's much better than his back-up plan.
The words behind him have Nick looking back in confusion — alive? — to see that gun getting fired. The sudden blast, if not lethal, is like a hard and pointed kick to his spine; Nick can't help but topple, his breath knocked out of him. By the time he sucks in a breath, it's knocked out once more by the kick to his ribs.
Nick's hand is still curled around his weapon, however, and once he can feel his limbs again, he plans to use it — hopefully on the Klansmen and not on Deckard. Or Ethan.
A slow cross step turns over into a swifter, slinkier jog and Flint is back at the truck chop-chop to lever himself into the cab, all sodden angles and elbows. The shotgun's wedged around the back of the seat and tail lights blister red when he wrenches the vehicle into reverse, steering wheel hooked right to bring it around backwards for the others.
Not all that slowly or precisely. It's been a while since he's driven anything more robust than the el camino.
"In constant sorrooow," he doesn't-quite-sing, chin brushed coarse across his shoulder when he squints back to make sure he hasn't mowed over anyone he wasn't supposed to, "all through his daaaays."
Massive amounts of eyes drop down to Nick. Then slink back up to Ethan. Deckard is in the car and starting it up.
Ethan clears his throat slowly, taking a few more steps forward to fully step in front of Nick. Hands up in surrender. "Raith." He clips out quietly. "«Really. Don't throw your grenade or do anything useful. That would really be an atrocity.»" Holden stares forward at the men in the barn. "And Idiot. Get in the truck." And it's about then that the bullets start to come….
Plink. A nine milimeter round bounces off the side of Ethan's head, sending him stumbling to the side with a squinty scowling face. And then another plink straight into the middle of his forehead. Eaarrgh.
"He's fuckin' Evolved!" Someone screams from the barn. "Kill it!"
Another pair of bullets bounce off of Ethan's chest as he stumbles backwards. The fifty cal is not yet ready, but the men around it are quickly scrounging together to prepare it.
"Fucking go." Ethan growls.
Bullets bouncing off of Ethan may well be all the distraction that's needed. When Raith whips around to face the crowd in the barn again, it's with the foregrip of his MP5 clutched only, his other arm stretched out behind him before he hurls it forward and up in a sideways underarm lob. A tiny green sphere of metal flies outward from him and up to the top level. Not an easy throw: The grenade probably won't come to rest anywhere near the machine gun. And maybe that's for the better. Lacking skin and internal organ, the machine gun is much less likely to be seriously damaged by the resulting clod of shrapnel. Waste not. "Pop goes the weasel!"
Rather than immediately open fire, Raith elects to turn around again and squat down on the ground, covering the back of his head and neck with his hands. His own body armor will protect him from the worst of any stray fragments. Probably.
The moment bullets start flying Nick scrambles to his feet, adrenaline fueling him as he heads toward the truck, shooting past Ethan (since he doesn't have to worry about hurting him) toward the men shooting at them. The passenger side is eyed but Deckard is driving, and despite the fact that the impromptu strategy might be working, Nick's still a bit sore — thus he throws himself over the truck bed's walls to duck low against the metal there, rather than taking shotgun next to the man who just shot him in the back.
One in, two to go. Rainstreaked windows present no obstacle to a man who can see through walls. For example: he can see that the other two aren't in any hurry to get in despite lead pitting the truck's flanks when he fishtails around into the start of initial retreat. Mud slung after him in a sheet, he reaches to jerk the back window open, shocks jounced bumpb-bump away from hissing bullets and the promise of grenade detonation in 3, 2 —
"Where are the windshield wipers?" toggle toggle — Flint's got his goggles pushed back on his head to better see the distinction between road and grassy hillside. Headlights on. Off. On. The radio is turned on and left that way after an uncertain pause — Sittin' drunk on a wagon to Mexico — and he whips around into a u-turn hard enough to roll Nick sheer from one side of the bed to the other a quarter mile up the road. Back into the breach.
"If they don't get in I'm taking out one of the support beams," he tells the back before he buckles his seatbelt and starts back down the road.
IE they are crashing.
On purpose. Wheeeeee.
Plink. Plink. The sounds of Ethan taking more oncoming bullets. The bullets that hit him in the chest are the most favorable. The kevlar under his jacket absorbing the bullets as well as his superhuman ability. Plink. Despite his resistance, the bullets still hurt. And are very powerful. The ones at closer range have Ethan stumbling back, going to one knee. A scowl illuminates his face with the amount of damage he is soaking up. He is rapidly realizing he's not as immortal as he had once thought. This fucking hurts.
Raith's grenade lobs in a gentle arc into the barn. It lands plenty of feet away from the machine gun. In fact way too far away to do any damage by itself to the weapon. But unfortunately, the Klannies and their Humanis First associates brought explosives along for their ambush. Explosives that fall under the realm of influence of Raith's grenade. The boom from the grenade sounds out before a moment passes and another much louder boom sounds out. The whole top of the barn flames and bursts from the top. Flakes of wood and flame fly up through the sky away from the barn.
It happens only a second after Deckard places his foot on the accelerator.
A lot of things happen once.
First of all Icky Thump keeps playing on the radio~
Secondly, the shockwave from the stupid amount of explosives sends a lot of people flying. Raith was well prepared for a grenade. But he wasn't aaalll the way prepared for a comical amount of C4. Raith is sent forcefully to his stomach from the concussive blast.
Deckard and Nick's vehicle skrees and slams into supports and sheds. The vehicle coming to an abrupt stop. Wood, fire, and debris dropping rapidly from the ceiling. The men are dropped to the ground, the majority of them wounded or dead. Though a small handful at the back of the rapidly dilapetating are alive and on their backs. Automatic weapons held loosely in their hands.
Ethan too is on his back, slowly pushing himself up. Eyes raising up through the rain on the road that had lead them down to this barn. Headlights. On their way. The smoke starts to clear.
It's time to leave.
Raith is also slow to pick himself up, After all, he was not expecting an explosion quite that big. And when he doe turn around to look at the destruction he accidentally caused, all he can think to do is straighten his glasses, gesture dramatically towards the remains of the barn with both hands, and remark excitedly, "Ta da!" What he's going to do after that, he doesn't know yet, but leaving sounds like a better and better idea.
"Wai-" Nick grunts to Deckard's announcement but his words are lost in the rain and the engine's growl so all he can do is hunker down, grabbing onto to side of the truck to brace himself with one hand to ready for the impending impact. The blast has him rolling against the side of the truck, arms covering his head, before the truck crashes the supports. Debris rains down on him — next time he'll take shotgun, even if it puts him next to someone who's shot him — the list of people who haven't gets shorter every day, and beggars can't be choosers.
The truck is. You know. Totaled. Or near enough Deckard's not keen on trying to back it up out of the mess he's made.
He stumbles out of the driver's side seat instead, goggles dragged down against sparks and burning splinters spilling uneven between fits and starts of rain as he goes. The shotgun is recovered as an afterthought, strap slung over his shoulder as he leans over the bed to check that Nick survived on his way to hustling for one of the Klan vans.
The only one not half buried in debris. He twists a burning corpse away from the door handle and unfolds his knife, steam lifting off his back and through the damp scruff of his hair by the time he's halfway into hotwiring their new ride. Thirty seconds. Sixty. Ninety-five and the fresh engine stammers to life. "All aboard!"
He'll figure out the hot stuff running down the side of his face and neck is blood later.
Ethan brings one hand up to clap weakly at his ear. "Hrrnnghh." He lets out before his hand dips into the mud underneath him, pressing weakly against it. Boot going to find purchase in the muddy path below him. Holden pushes himself slowly to his knees. Then up to his feet. Swinging one soaking, mud caked boot around to face the burning barn in all it's flaming glory.
Hands resting at his sides, Holden lumbers forward back into the barn. One boot clopping after another. Slop. Slop.
Ethan's head tilts back some. Letting out a quiet groan as he enters the flaming building. Eyes sliding over to Deckard going for the van. As he walks by the bed of the truck, Ethan reaches in lazily to grab at the back of Nick's shirt, going to try and tug him out of the truck. Whether that sends Nick flopping on his face or jumping out he doesn't really care. His attention swings over his shoulder for a moment to Raith. Then back to the task at hand. A few men are gathering themselves, automatic weapons coming up.
Ethan's hand flexes and a moment later there is a weapon in it. A gun practically sliding into his hand. His weapon swings up, popping off two shots at men preparing to get up. But there are more survivors, an arc of gunfire carrying itself Raith's way, and another spray unleashed on the van Deckard attempts to hijack. And finally a few potshots at Ethan and Nick.
The arc of gunfire doesn't actually hit Raith, no, but it still pulls his attention back to the danger at hand. In a second, his MP5 is back in his hands and up against his shoulder, even though it has a little mud on it. The muzzle swings around onto someone who is not Ethan, Nick or Deckard, and with two pulls of the trigger, the weapon throws two rounds at their center of mass before the ex-spy drops to one knee, making himself a smaller, hard to hit target, and swivels the muzzle of his weapon around to the next object off his ire. Dickheads abound, and for dickheads, Doctor Raith prescribes double taps.
Hands and face bloodied from debris, Nick has managed to duck too much damage, though he staggers a bit woozily from getting rocked about in the bed of the truck. Still, as he moves toward the van Deckard is commandeering, he lift his weapon to fire at a few of the men who are beginning to show life — he doesn't really watch to see what he hits, though he aims far enough from his allies since his aim's a bit shaken from what's most likely, given his luck, another concussion.
His right hand at least holds steady enough to aim and shoot, if not to his usual accuracy levels; it's his left arm that hangs at an awkward looking angle. A few more pulls of the trigger before he makes it to the van, a few Polish swears dropping from his lips.
A glance into the van's hollow thorax and abdomen confirm that it's devoid of undesired personel and Flint guns the engine once he's all the way in, fiery debris skittering down the windshield to lick at the wipers while he tricks the locks off and shifts into drive. Big black tires roll slow over one of the casualties and he switches the radio on again, channel surfing for the time it takes the others to give up on shooting people and get in.
White Americans, what, nothin' better to do?
Somehow his cigarettes are still dry, he's pleased to find when he remembers he has them to check at all.
Raith's double tap prescription takes care of the problem of one bloodied, robed, fanatic. The man drops soundlessly from the pop that Raith expertly delivers. Nick's shots ring out true, one savagely cutting its way into a man's shoulder. Another diving into the depths of his chin. But there are still a few more men. Though most of them are too wounded and ravaged from the explosion to do anything about the Remnant's escape. There are still a few things throwing themselves at them. One, quite literally.
Flame licking the white robes, a man has propelled himself up from the fire. The Klannie has sprung himself in the distance between them. The man caught on fire throws himself into Raith's side, a meaty fist flinging itself at Raith's jaw as the flaming man attempts to bring Raith to the ground.
The barn continues to crumble around itself, a large flake of ceiling hurtling down directly in front of Nick's path. And then there's those approaching headlights on the way to the barn in the distance.
Ethan springs over the heap, throwing his hands onto the back of the van. Flinging the doors open, he motions for Nick to get in and… Hey where'd Raith go? :(
Why don't you kick yourself out, you're an immigrant too.
The fist catches Raith by surprise, even if something like being on fire may have affected the kLansman's accuracy somewhat. It throws the ex-spy off balance, staggers and spins him away, causing his shot to go wide. But he exaggerates the spin on purpose, and while it might look a little comical and ends with Raith lying on his back, it also opens up some distance. If Flamie wants to take Raith down, he's welcome to try: All Raith does it flick the MP5's selector to the automatic position and let out a sharp burst of gunfire in response. And then, he's clambering back onto his feet and reassessing the situation. And the situational reassessment calls for him to forget about well-aimed shots. Rather, he sweeps the muzzle of his weapon left to right and empties the magazine at anything he doesn't expect to come home with him. The barn will take care of the rest, the Remnant just needs to get away.
The debris makes Nick veer, staggering more as he does so; he manages to keep his balance and clamber into the back of the van, using the open doors as a shield and shooting at anyone still moving until his weapon's empty, and then its an awkward reach to the weapon in his holster given his injured arm, but he shoots a few more times, before shouting "Let's get the fuck out of 'ere, cops are on the way." Helpfully.
Once he's taken the time to light up and chill himself out with a steep drag or two, Flint decides that they should leave. With or without Raith, at this rate. He can either climb in while the van's rolling over debris for the door or stay behind to see what happens when the barn caves in.
Either way, like a redneck aiming for an armadillo, Flint steers sllllowly and deliberately over the muffled shape of someone in a robe trying to disentangle himself from the wreckage. Bbbump while a bullet plink pshews in and right back out of the van's back end. He switches the air conditioning on to full blast. "Someone should probably close the door."
The man falls flamingly… yeah… off of Raith. Gurgling on blood as he slumps against the ground. The van begins to make its way out of the barn. Ethan trailing behind the van as he throws his hand out to grasp Raith under the arm. Legs pumping under them he goes to throw himself and the other man into the back of the van. Thumping into the back, his hand splays out to catch his fall. The man glances over to Nick, brows screwing up some. "This ain't fuckin' New York City, Nicho-las. This is th' fuckin' woods." He glances through the windshield as the van rapidly exits the now all but collapsed barn. More debris dropping rapidly.
"Those ain't cops." He intones quietly. As he lifts himself up some, going to limp his way to the shotgun seat. "Get your guns out boys."
"Them's back-up."
It doesn't take Raith long to realize that rapid egress in the direction of the departing vehicle is required. He doesn't really need the shove into it, but he's not about to complain, because dammit, he gets to leave. At least until the mention of approaching vehicles is brought up. "Maybe we'll get lucky and it's Sheriff Roscoe P. Coltrane coming to save us from them Duke boys." The ex-spy makes peace with the fact that Deckard might be the only other one who knows what he's talking about. There is a clatter of metal as a spent magazine is removed from the MP5 and haphazardly discarded inside the van to make room for a fresh one. They ain't out of Hazzard county yet.
Once Ethan and Raith are in the van, Nick does slam the doors shut, wincing as he uses the injured arm. "'The fuck are you talkin' about," he says to Raith. No, the Ruskin household didn't get a lot of Dukes of Hazzard reruns while Nick was growing up.
Settling into a nook in the back of the van, Nick starts the arduous task of reloading his weapons with one good arm. Other than the one remark to Raith, he's quiet, eyes narrowed and jaw set against the pain.
"We're in one of their vans." Windshield wipers on once fluid's washed over to put out a few lingering licks of flame, Flint snaps his goggles off into his lap and stubs his fresh-lit cigarette out against the steering wheel. Out of the barn. On up the road towards incoming company, window rolled down as he goes. He is not getting paid enough to take a shotgun spread to the face. "Just keep your mouths shut."
A look craned around to the back is clearly meant for Nick while Ethan clambers up to the front, spectral blue eyes switched dim at the last second. "Especially you."
Epilogue pending