Casper Decal (fiendlyghost) wrote in horror_story, @ 2013-06-12 07:23:00 |
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Entry tags: | casper, complete, cycle003, incomplete, mike |
WHO: Casper Decal and Mike McBrayer
WHEN: June 1, around 8pm
WHERE: Vehicle storage deck
WHAT: In the black of a quiet garage, a stowaway pokes her head out to ensure that the coast is clear.
WARNING: None ATM
Takeoff had been a bitch. The only thing she'd been able to see from her position was blackness and all she could smell were the unwashed blankets covering her face, but she could feel it and that was the worst possible thing. Casper was not a fan of the water and was often prone to seasickness; on one occasion when her mother had tried to cure her phobia with her own version of immersion therapy, the session had ended with a very long bout of puking on Casper's end. She'd since become much better about swimming and boating but the way the ship moved as it took off, the way it sounded--it was becoming her nightmare and she hadn't even technically set foot on it yet. Being trapped in Mike's stinking old truck with all the windows rolled up and piles of Mike's fake luggage piled on top of her certainly did not help the situation. She was checking her watch every twelve minutes to see how much closer she was to being able to get the fuck out of there and into some relatively fresh air.
Sure, Mike, she thought, angrily, I'll just wait here in your stupid fucking truck for two days and find you once I've burrowed my way out of your mountain of stupid fucking shit. She was hungry, and desperately longing for a cigarette and with only her thoughts for company, her frustration was growing by the second. It had not, in fact, been two days but it helped Casper to convince herself that Mike was to blame for her discomfort. Rather, the two of them had agreed on the way in which Casper would get on the boat and what they were to do afterwards. She'd known all along what the plan would entail but she consented to it anyway, making it no one's fault but her own. She decided to put that realization aside for later though; right now she really just wanted to be angry.
She reached for her watch again, pressing the button on its side that made the face light up. Forty minutes to go. Fuck it, she thought defiantly, I can't stay in here anymore. Her hair was damp and greasy; she wanted a shower and to stretch her legs and she wanted to have some assurance that they weren't sinking to the bottom of the ocean at that very moment. With what little strength Casper held in her tiny body, she shifted under the weight of the bags. Some of them were empty, to give her as much coverage as possible against prying eyes, but others had clothes or harder objects in them. It was a chore to get all of that crap off of her without making too much noise (she didn't know who else might be in the parking deck yet) but she managed to pull herself out of the heap and into the front seat, keeping her head low.
There were two exits from the parking deck and Casper was to take the one that was used least frequently. Supposedly, this would be the exit closest to the truck, but from where she sat she couldn't see any doors or exit signs. It was dark in the lot and the other cars were further obscuring her view. She would have to get out of the truck and look around. Reaching into the back of the cabin to shuffle through the luggage, she located her own small black backpack containing a few essentials. She could send Mike back for the rest later. From the bag, she retrieved a small digital camera before slowly opening the door and slipping out of the vehicle
Immediately the air felt fresher, but it still had that damp edge to it that burned her nose. She supposed she was just going to have to get used to that. Although there were no voices or footsteps to alert her to the presence of other people in the area, Casper kept quiet as she made her way through the rows of cars. The last thing she wanted was to be caught by two idiots trying to recreate a Titanic scene.
The more she walked, the more confident she became that the first phase of their plan had worked. She even stopped to take a few dimly-lit photos of some of the nicer cars on the deck; they could be useful later. Finally she found the door she was looking for and she took a final glance back at the parking deck before taking the exit.
At least that's what she would have done if the door had been unlocked. Casper quirked a pierced eyebrow, unwilling to believe just yet that her situation could have possibly worsened. She inhaled deeply before trying the door again; the knob yielded to her hand turning it for a brief moment before encountering an immovable force. She tried twisting the handle and pushing, pulling, she even resorted to a foot on the neighbouring wall to give herself some extra weight. Nothing worked; the door was locked. A second search of the parking deck found the other exit in a similar state of "not fucking budging". She was trapped. Again. And she was not happy about it.
It was difficult to resist the urge to let out a cry of frustration, to beat the walls with her bare fists in what could only be called a tantrum. That was what she wanted to do, but instead she rifled for her cell phone in the depths of her bag and scowled at the lack of signal. Of fucking course there was no signal, she was in a giant box of metal and concrete. God fucking dammit shit motherfucker. Casper would now have to either wait for Mike or his redneck to come looking for her or magically pull a signal out of her ass in order to get a message to one of them. With a pessimistic heart, she began wandering the lot with her arm stretched up toward the ceiling, all fears of discovery forgotten. All she cared about was getting to the upper levels and getting some nicotine into her lungs.