[ He's set his walkie down—staring at it as if he can will something from it. Itching for a cigarette. At the first squawk of sound he grabs it, holds it up to his ear. There's no accent to the words, no tone, no cadence. It's guttural noise that tries the walkie's limits, and Rust listens to it more as he would to music, to animal calls, than speech.
Then it's over. He says fuck aloud to himself, sends the message immediately, as if it'll make any difference. ] Call as soon as you see this.
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Then it's over. He says fuck aloud to himself, sends the message immediately, as if it'll make any difference. ] Call as soon as you see this.