1Dallas Winston ran. One foot in front of the other; right, left, right, left, right. Each step echoed a heartbeat he feared to be his last. But, he thought bitterly, who would care if they were? His parents sure didn't, and the gang would be okay without him, and Johnny was – no. He wouldn't admit it, not yet. His side burned where one of the clerk's frenzied shots grazed his side. Not enough to be fatal, but it hurt like hell. He skidded to a stop in front of the payphone, digging out some loose change, and practically shoving it into the slot.
"Darry?" Dallas gasped. If there was anyone who would care enough to hide him, it would be the eldest Curtis brother. Unfortunately, it was Steve who picked up the phone. "I need Darrel. Just… get him."
It was a few moments until Darry was on the line. Dallas explained everything; driving to the hospital, visiting Johnny, Johnny's… he said the words, but wouldn't believe them. He explained the robbery, leaving out being shot at. Darry had enough to worry about. "Just meet me at the lot, okay?"
The gang would be there soon. They'd get him out of the rut. Just a few days ago, he'd helped Pony and Johnny – and they always returned favors. More running. He regretted, for a moment, not going out for track and being faster. Sirens behind got louder and louder, getting closer and closer. The police. They knew him by name, but this took the cake for the worst thing he'd ever done. He cursed himself for doing it. Robbing a convenience store? How dumb could he get?
He saw the gang before they saw him. All five of them were there, still cut up from the rumble. The glow of streetlights illuminated the scene dramatically, especially with the fog creeping in. This was a fleeting notion, however, as he realized his mortality with the police cars screeching into a halt, forming a semicircle around him. To his right, death by authority, to his left, putting his friends, no, family into danger for harboring a criminal. He didn't want it on their conscious, and he especially didn't want Pony or Soda put in a boy's home. Dallas Winston knew what to do.
He lifted the pistol from his jeans pocket. He barely remembered where he got it from. Was it Buck's? Or did he steal it from his old man, or a store, or someone else? The origin failed to come to him.
Six shots echoed through the night, cracking in the air like whips, whips of judgment for his crimes. For being a greaser, a hood, for every wrongdoing in his life, they sounded. Each ripped through not just his body, but his soul, tearing with icy fire. One last thought echoed through his mind before slumping to the ground, dead.
Johnny…