nate. (targhee) wrote in thecaldera, @ 2018-03-20 17:27:00 |
|
|||
Entry tags: | ! log, ! plot, adelaide guerra, nate johansen, z: scott donlan |
WHO: Nate Johansen, Addy Guerra, Scott Donlan, feat. Max Michaud-Donlan and... our medicine bandit, The Medicine Wyrm.
WHERE: The Main Street Conoco, in downtown Vigil.
WHEN: Rush hour on Tuesday, 20 March 2018.
WHAT: So, the Medicine Bandit isn't particularly human, but it is getting bolder in where it attempts its attacks. When it senses Dr. Donlan, M.D. collecting some Tylenol et al. in his basket, it plans an attack. Fortunately, Scott has some back up in his favorite barkeep and a random guy who really likes Salmon Fly Honey Rye.
WARNINGS: Adult language, violence in hand-to-hand combat, light gore. (As in, it's actually only a flesh wound vs. the Monty Python interpretation.) Oh, and slime. Lots of slime.
As Chesney blared in the background, Nate’s brow crumpled as he recited the list in his head. Hopzone IPA, Pronghorn bone dry, Yellowstone ale. Hopzone IPA, Pronghorn bone dry, Yellowstone ale. Such was the the important task bestowed to Nathan Christopher from his housemates: the weekly beer run. Certainly, Nate held the task close to his heart -- enough, anyway, that he turned down the radio in lieu of chanting the list underneath his breath as the traffic around Main started getting a little gnarly. Usually, he’d swing around campus for this, but such was the journey from coming into town from helping calve. He frowned as people got a little shirty, even as, he supposed, it wasn’t quite their fault. It was a weird March, wasn’t it, with all the thundersnow and weird gossip floating around? Folks were probably damn near pissed. Swinging into the Conoco was a grateful respite from the 5 o’clock fracas, though, and as Nate glided into his parking spot and killed the ignition, he grasped towards his pocket with a certain amount of blind faith. The list from last night sat there, crumpled and hopeful. Hopzone IPA, Pronghorn bone dry, Yellowstone ale. Hopzone IPA, Pronghorn bone dry, Yellowstone ale. He’s got this. WIth that, Nate swung out of the car and loped into the store, the bell tinkling helpfully as he made a beeline for the liquor section. Briefly, Nate wondered if he should also put thirty down at the front to fill his tank, but then he opened the freezer case and all that fell out as he rifled through the six packs. Mission: engaged. Damn, if Addy didn’t miss the desert these days. That and fresh hatch green chiles. It was cold in New York, in her matchstick box apartment and occasionally sleeping on boats, but it didn’t seem to soak into her bones like the Montana winter did. Her body still wasn’t used to it, spent too long in New Mexico and California for her to not wake up in the morning lamenting the frost on her windows. It didn’t mean she curled up under her blankets and sulked about it though. Tonight she was off work, she had considered lazing about. Instead she had gone running, done laundry, gone out for groceries, napped and then gone to the bookstore, now feeling like she had been more productive than she did on even a work day. Addy was on her way back to her apartment when she decided to stop and get gas along with some coffee, anything to offset the ever present cold. She stepped out of the rusty green thing in a remarkably well maintained sweater, already wishing she had worn more layers. Most people were still fighting traffic or rushing home at least, so it wasn’t too crowded. A quick step around a too eager man eyeballing the beer selection who nearly knocked into her as he darted from one shelf to another had her scowling as she reached the coffee machine. Max was too old for Scott to be carrying in his arms, but damn if he didn’t consider hoisting his son over one shoulder when he returned to their shopping basket with an armful of snacks and off-brand cereals instead of the “one or two” snacks Scott had sent him into the aisles to get. But he wasn’t going to complain. The best part about the move to Vigil had been the time he could now spend with his kids, and the fact that Max was now more or less in his custody had been the highlight of his days off of work. But he didn’t miss this part of parenting: having to look in his child’s big, bright eyes and tell him, “No, absolutely not, Max, put all but two of those down.” Max frowned. “But dad.” “No,” he said, plucking one sugary cereal out of Max’s arms and holding it up. “Your mother would kill me if I let you eat all of this on my watch. Put half of these back.” Max sighed as if Scott was inconveniencing him and then disappeared into the aisles again. Scott waited until he was gone to sigh in the exact same manner and then put a bunch of pill bottles into his basket, Advils and Tylenols, the Beleaguered Father Package. Then he glanced down the snack aisle to make sure that Max was okay before heading for the rest of the package: the beers. The fact that there was already someone there didn’t dissuade him. “Got any recommendations for a good brand?” he asked, nodding toward the selections. “Oh?” Nate looked up then, momentarily jostled out of his mission and into the present. As things clicked into place, his vacant expression slid into a pleasant smile as he processed the question. (Well, mostly; with the jostling of the young lady behind him, he scooted forward a bit, apologetic.) “Sure do! There’s a few really, I reckon, but if you want a solid all-rounder, Bozone outta Bozeman is real good regardless of what you like. Yellowstone in town is great for cream ales and lagers, though. And you can’t go wrong with Madison River, either. Their Salmon Fly Honey Rye…” Nate didn’t even feel the need to finish that sentence, whistling low his appreciation instead. He was about to ask the guy what he preferred to give him better recommendations when he heard something strange coming from the beer case. It wasn’t a hiss, really, or anything you’d expect from the refrigeration system. It was… gurgling, like someone’s pipes were having an awful big problem draining properly. Later, Nate would think back on how the soft rattling of the drain in the beer section meant something. But in that moment, he just backed away from the case, looking at both the man and the lady down the aisle. “You guys hear that…?” As if to punctuate: another gurgle then, louder. Distantly, she recognized the sound of Scott’s voice behind her. Even if she wasn’t used to hearing it outside of Kiljoy. That didn’t mean she was intending to interact with him other than a nod of acknowledgement though, especially when he started talking beer with the energetic boy half in the freezer. Addy could list off facts about beer all day, sure, but her opinion was that they were all swamp water. So she tended to tune out when beer geeks got going. But the hairs on the back of her neck stood up at the noise, causing her to pause as she put a lid on her large coffee cup. The boys were already backing up, and she joined them with her eyes and ears focused on the freezer. Scott got that nod of acknowledgement along with, “Maybe we shouldn’t be standing right here.” Even as she didn’t exactly run away, but at least she waited to take a sip of her coffee just in case. If pipes filled with freezer coolant were about to explode, this probably wasn’t the best place to be. Scott’s brow furrowed as he stared at the freezer, his rational mind trying to consider what could be making that sound. And then his irrational mind — the part of his mind that had had to square with the fact that he could cast curses — kicked in to answer the same question and also failed. Instead, both of his minds were focused on getting him to back away as quickly as possible. Whatever it was, it was the owner’s problem, and he didn’t need beer that badly anyway. Of course, no sooner had he thought that than his 12-year-old son appeared at the bottom of the aisle, his face lighting up when he caught sight of Scott inching away with the Beer Expert and Addy From The Kiljoy. “There you are, dad,” Max said as he approached, now carrying a box of Fruit Loops and a bag of Cool Ranch Doritos. “I thought you’d left me here to teach me a lesson about overspending or something.” The closer Max got, the closer to the gurgling, hissing freezer he got, and the more Scott’s body seized with a primal kind of fear, an animal instinct that something was about to go terribly wrong. The lady wasn’t wrong, and were Nate capable of some semblance of psychic contact, he’d sure as hell agree with the fellow’s internal monologue too. But just as Nate’s arm dropped from the door to shut it, the shelves gave out a brief, shuttering rattle before an explosion came shooting right out from the drain below. Well, Nate realized as he dropped his charges in lieu for covering his face from the projectile fracas, explosion perhaps wasn’t the right word. Projectile, however, was much better as a long, slimy tube shot out of the case and directly towards Nate’s torso. As the viscous mat of mucous hit his chest, Nate hollered as he attempted to gain purchase on the floor, woefully wet and slick from the exploded beers that now were flooding the floor. The damn thing was slicker than a calf out of a cooter, and Nate wasn’t sure if he should try to wrestle the damn thing or toss it back from whence it came. One thing that he managed to have the sense to shout, as the store began to go nuts: “You all best run, shoot!” And with that, the tube began to wobble back and forth against Nate, a metronome gaining its bearings as it acclimated to open air. Distantly, she wished she had worn something else. Something other than blue jeans, boots and a sweater. Granted, the boots were going to come in handy, but some leather would have been nice. The sweater and the angle were in her favor though, she raised her arms to block her face and managed to get no cuts that she noticed right away. Old reflexes had her stepping in front of Scott and his son without hesitation throwng her coffee far enough down the aisle so it wouldn’t make the situation worse, a hand going to her back to pull her knife from it’s sheath in a smooth motion. Another regret in the back of her mind that she wasn’t properly armed. “Scott, get him out of here.” The barked out command sounded sharp, but still calm. Addy’s actions were controlled by muscle memory; protecting non-combatants(especially children), arming herself, taking in potential weaknesses. Which was lucky because her mind was not entirely ready to process what she was seeing. Protection. Combat. These things made sense, a squirming...worm. Thing. Didn’t. Addy kicked at the thing, faring a little better on the slick floor with her boots than the boy had. She kept her knife in her right hand as she reached down with her left to grab him by his arm to try and haul him to his feet, “C’mon kid, make yourself useful.” “Ho boy, ma’am, I sure would love to,” Nate said as he lurched upwards, the slippery noodle (for lack of a better term) hitting his face as it let out a noise that was difficult to parse. It didn’t really scream so much as gulp, but it was writ plain that this was not exactly this hunk of gunk’s natural habitat. As Nate’s grasp tightened (in hopes, perhaps, that she could keep the damn thing still enough for this lady to stab, perhaps?), the worm continued to extrude out of the drain as he backed up and away from the other three in the aisle. “You best scatter if you’re behind me!” he shouted as he kept on trying to walk backwards, to pull it away from the woman, the man, and the child, but it was starting to feel not unlike a huge gummy rope -- disadvantageous for more than one reason. Namely: the full body ripple that the worm suddenly gave Nate, flipping him to the ground as easily as he were a mouse to this slime bag’s python. Nate continued squeezing, thankful for how rough his Carhartt was so that it could grant him grip, but the worm wasn’t going to be weighted down by his hockey brute frame. It began to ripple across the linoleum, its “head” -- if you could consider an eyeless maw a head, one supposed -- aiming away from the woman and attempting to go between the gap where she’d spread her arm. “Ma’am, I hate to boss you around given that you seem awful knowledgeable,” Nate grunted out, trying to go back as the worm wiggled forward, “but would you awfully mind trying to stab this son’a bitch? I’m sure we’d all real appreciate it.” The kid was heavier than he looked, although the fact that he was being manhandled by a worm? Maybe it was an alien. Or a mutant. Mutant worm? Addy was trying not to think about that right now. At least he was fighting back though, she kept an eye over her shoulder at Scott and who she presumed was his son to make sure they weren’t in range. Although the range of this thing was completely unknown, who the fuck knew at this point. When he was flipped she lost her grip for a beat, jerking her arm roughly in the wrong direction, nearly slipping on the slick floor in the process. She planted her feet over the spilled beer to stay stable, grabbing him again and trying to wrest him free of the worm and muttering curses under her breath in Spanish except for, “You talk too damn much kid.” Then it tried to dart around her her and under her arm, and any thoughts about whether the thing was poisonous fled her. Addy dropped the man’s arm abruptly, grabbing at the worm instead and twisting it sharply, face twisted in a vicious snarl. She held what seemed like the face away from her as much as she could and sliding her knife against it in an effort to severe the mouth part away from the rest. Scott had no idea how everything had gone sideways so quickly. One minute he was filling his car with gas and buying quick snacks for his son, and the next he had a hold of Max and was dragging him up the aisle away from what looked like the world’s biggest leech. His bartender had a knife and the freezer aisle beer expert, as Scott had taken to calling the man in his head, was wrestling with the thing like it was a wayward piglet. It was a situation that called for bad words, but he wouldn’t be saying any in front of his son. “Well,” he said once he and Max were out of range, the boy clinging to his side like he hadn’t done since he was a child, covered in water and goop from the freeze exploding to expel the — the worm-thing? “You guys seem to have this handled, so we’re going to…” And with that he began to hustle Max toward the door. As much as he would have liked to have stayed and helped — and, OK, he would have not have liked to stay and help — he had to get Max to safety first and safety was no longer in this store. Maybe if he locked the boy in the car, the thing wouldn’t follow and he could come back. Maybe. “Get! Go on and get, don’t you mind!” Nate hollered as he tried to hold the lower half of the worm as still as it could get so that the lady could get a slice at the worm. It wasn’t having it, though -- mucous, probably, or just sheer determination. It lunged towards the door despite both the lady and Nate’s hard work, and Nate tried to lunge at it again in turn. Worse than a fuckin’ ewe at shear time, goddamnit, he allowed himself privately, but not before he attempted to slam his arm down to pin it again. This time, he was face to face with its strange, flabby, undulating body; it was not a great eye-to-eye, truth be told, but he had to get it to at least be immobile if he was going to let this lady to go to town on it with a Bowie knife. Being that close, though, and Nate noticed something strange from underneath the flesh, smoky in its translucence. As it writhed, its internal systems attempting to lurch forward with pulses of its tissues, he could see a scattering of pills just underneath the surface. He frowned, looking just a bit up; there, the cap of a Nyquil bottle floated, suspended mid-tissue. Admittedly, Nate wasn’t the brightest tool in the shed, but when evidence was in his face, evidence was in his face. He looked up at the guy and his kid, horrified, seeing the bottle of pills rattling in his basket. “Dude!” he barked out, terror writ plain in his face as the worm flopped, straining closer and closer towards the door. “Throw the pills as far away as you can before you split! Just toss ‘em!” For a moment Scott just blinked. He was only dimly aware of words at the moment, his entire being focused on the goal of getting Max to the car, getting Max out of here, getting his surely traumatized son to safety. And so Nate’s command took a moment to sink in, a moment for him to turn toward the store, a moment for him to see the worm crawling toward him and Max, a moment to process the sight. And then another moment still to look down and see the iron grip he still had on his basket, full of items he hadn’t paid for and hadn’t even remembered to think about paying for. Like the pills that Nate had told him to toss. Scott threw the basket at the worm, hoping to crush it beneath the wait, but not sticking around to find out if he did. “Dad—!” Max began, his voice high-pitched and terrified. Scott hoisted his 12-year-old son up and over his shoulder and hurried out the door. The basket nearly hit Addy, only the fact that she was partially turned to watch out for Scott and his son, half of her attention focused on wrestling with the slimy thing and half of it listening to the kid shout out instructions. It was as good of a plan as anything, especially when she saw the same things floating within the worm. Fuck, and she thought she saw some strange things on the subway at 2am. Part of her was wishing desperately that someone had slipped something in her drink at the bar last night and this was all an incredibly vivid hallucination. Maybe it was the boy yelling, sounding a little too much like her brother, or impatient frustration at feeling like they were making no progress that gave her the extra push she needed. But whatever it was, she managed to reach down with one hand and grab the thing further down the body, yanking hard and counting on Mr. Talkative to hold tight to the part he had. The worm was pulled taunt, which made it easier for her to bring her knife down again and finally slice it open, causing muck, something that might have been a form of blood and pills to gush out like a busted pipe. Somewhere, in the back of her head, she heard Big Bird singing one of these things is not like the others and it seemed to break through the focused and instinctual mode she had gone into at the sight of danger. The laugh that bubbled forth probably sounded a bit odd considering who she was and well, the circumstances, but it was better than shouting out vulgarities as she watched what was left of the worm wriggle weakly on the floor even as it started to shrivel. Addy wiped the knife on her jeans and sheathed it, reaching down once again to the man on the floor to get him out of the mess, hopefully before he got drenches further in Worm...guts? Ectoplasm? Fuck she needed a drink. Nate accepted the hand silently, squinting down at the flopping tube as it accepted its fate. For a moment, he thought it was shriveling too, attempting to spout out its insides, but then the tell-tale whiff of medicinal cherry wafted into the air. Nate squinted, watching as the animal shrunk and inflated -- was it contracting, instead? No matter; he wasn’t ready to think about what the viscous goo was spurting out, if not its internal organs. “Probably should take the damn thing to Animal Control,” he grumbled, picking the thing up with one hand, more slippery lasso as it contracted again. That lady made sure that whatever it was doing, ‘fighting back’ wouldn’t be one of them. He looked over at her then, smile wide; after all, she’d managed to save the whole famn damily of two, didn’t she? “Thanks! Oh, uh-- wicked Bowie, eh?” Before he could wait for a response, the manager came up in a huff, eyes wide and frightened. Nate grimaced, gesturing to the limp, sloppy glob in his hands. “It’s, uh, handled sir. I’d help with your mess, but uh--” “Get out,” the man deadpanned. Nate didn’t really need to be told twice. As soon as the boy was steady on his feet she took two steps back away from the mess with a scowl, the cloying smell was already starting to make her throat itch and she wanted away from it post haste. The academic in her wanted to say that they should take the thing to the nearest lab or better yet, the University. But the rest of her, namely the part that was trying (and somewhat succeeding) to wipe her hands off on her jeans and hoping that smell wouldn’t be clinging to her boots--was saying fuck that, let’s burn it. His friendly smile caught her off guard to the point where the scowl dropped to something more neutral, giving him a nod of acknowledgement for a job well done. Or as one as could do in this sort of headache of a situation. “Thanks—” Then the manager was there, and she was more than happy to leave and not take responsibility or answer questions about what had happened. Mostly because she didn’t have them and honestly she’d rather not have them at all, thanks. |