[Where did the gun come from? And what was this sudden surety, this stride of a military man? Richie balks.]
No, By, don't—
[But he fails to hold him back.
Two small bodies whip past the door. There's a dilapidated house behind them, overgrown sunflowers and untamed lawn, rotting wood and musty windows. There's a bike leaning against a tree, too large for anyone but a grown man but the boys make a break for it without pause. The taller of the two, redheaded and more handsome even in his fear and even at the age of eleven, tosses a pistol into the basket in the front before clambering onto the seat. The second boy is buck-toothed and pale, skin and bones, his glasses mended with tape at the middle and the lenses so thick that his blue eyes are magnified twofold underneath. In his fright they are veritable planets in the expanse of his small face. He's climbing onto the flat package carrier of the bike's rear and chancing a look behind them.
Peeling around the corner of the house is an absolute absurdity. Bipedal, humanoid in a high school jacket that's splattered with blood and wet slobber. At its right temple the skull shines through the matted hair and blood: a killing shot on anything else but it wears the bullet's work like it might a hat, or a bee sting. Unbothered and livid mad, feet pounding in its mad sprint. There's white lines of powder and strings of mucus running from its nose. In place of a zipper, there's fluffy orange buttons—
(pom poms on a clown)
—and as it dashes closer, the gold-stitched lettering on the jacket's breast becomes clear. "Richie Tozier", threaded in cursive.
It lunges.
"Go, Bill!" shrieks the bespectacled boy, wrapping his arms around his friends middle as he races to pedal. The doubled weight makes the going clumsy. Slow. Too slow.
Behind Byerly, Richie begins to titter. His hand covers his mouth, but the frail grin behind it peeks out from behind those spindly fingers. He looks like he might shatter, eyes locked to the gong show before them, laughing high, laughing pitchy.
The scene looks like madness from this end. Like something out of a dream.]
no subject
No, By, don't—
[But he fails to hold him back.
Two small bodies whip past the door. There's a dilapidated house behind them, overgrown sunflowers and untamed lawn, rotting wood and musty windows. There's a bike leaning against a tree, too large for anyone but a grown man but the boys make a break for it without pause. The taller of the two, redheaded and more handsome even in his fear and even at the age of eleven, tosses a pistol into the basket in the front before clambering onto the seat. The second boy is buck-toothed and pale, skin and bones, his glasses mended with tape at the middle and the lenses so thick that his blue eyes are magnified twofold underneath. In his fright they are veritable planets in the expanse of his small face. He's climbing onto the flat package carrier of the bike's rear and chancing a look behind them.
Peeling around the corner of the house is an absolute absurdity. Bipedal, humanoid in a high school jacket that's splattered with blood and wet slobber. At its right temple the skull shines through the matted hair and blood: a killing shot on anything else but it wears the bullet's work like it might a hat, or a bee sting. Unbothered and livid mad, feet pounding in its mad sprint. There's white lines of powder and strings of mucus running from its nose. In place of a zipper, there's fluffy orange buttons—
(pom poms on a clown)
—and as it dashes closer, the gold-stitched lettering on the jacket's breast becomes clear. "Richie Tozier", threaded in cursive.
It lunges.
"Go, Bill!" shrieks the bespectacled boy, wrapping his arms around his friends middle as he races to pedal. The doubled weight makes the going clumsy. Slow. Too slow.
Behind Byerly, Richie begins to titter. His hand covers his mouth, but the frail grin behind it peeks out from behind those spindly fingers. He looks like he might shatter, eyes locked to the gong show before them, laughing high, laughing pitchy.
The scene looks like madness from this end. Like something out of a dream.]