|jonaswilder (jonaswilder) wrote in lechance,|
@ 2009-02-06 03:37:00
|Entry tags:||jonas wilder, plot|
Late night, and most of the town were in their beds. Sheriff Jonas Wilder however, wasn't.
Laid out in front of him, covering the large office desk, were papers galore. Statements, musings, photographs, weather charts, books on volcanoes, animal mutilations, and entomology. His own scribbled notes lay on top of it all, and he'd been staring blindly at them for the last ten minutes. Whimpering in his sleep at Jonas' feet, Digger twitched enough to rouse Jonas from his reverie.
Jonas sighed deeply, and scrubbed his face with his hands. He sloshed another large shot of whisky from the decanter to his glass, and relit his cigar. Digger 'harrumphed' in his sleep, and Jonas chuckled softly. "Quite right too Digger. Terrible habits." Shuffling the papers in front of him, he uncovered a worn photograph, a likeness of the previous occupant of his job. "Ah Bill, if only you could tell me where you are." Raising his glass, he toasted the missing Sheriff. "Well, here's to you Sheriff Bowbuck. If you're out there somewhere, I'd appreciate a clue or two here." He tipped back his drink, gasping as the fluid burnt down his throat to curl warm in his belly.
Moving the photograph aside, his fingers drifted over the softened edges of the telegram he'd found on the desk the day that Bill had disappeared. The random letters and the numbers.. the numbers. God, they had to mean something, he thought to himself. 35.6438.. and 1211897.. as much a mystery now as when he first saw them.
It all seemed an age away now, with all that had come after. The earthquake and the resulting fissure, statements and reports from the children, the hissing and mechanical noises reported in certain places, the train that never returned, the unseasonal warmth they were experiencing. He felt like everything was just so tantalisingly close, that he was missing something incredibly obvious in his naivity. And the creatures.. oh God, the creatures..
Jonas was a strong man, not easily spooked. But the attacks, his poor animals, the damage to the properties, businesses, materials around town.. He was having problems sleeping, had been for some time, truth be told. He felt he couldn't rest.. *shouldn't* rest until something solid could be discovered or resolved.
.... He awoke in the early hours, still seated and slumped over at his desk, having finally exhausted and drunk himself into a restless sleep. Papers were still sticking to his face as he stirred at the cockcrow of early morning. He groaned as he unfurled his body, standing finally to clear things away. Papers back in the cabinets, books piled on his desk, cigar ash brushed away, and the decanter refilled and replaced. All before anyone else should awaken to the new day, and suspect what he'd been up to.