gothor (![[info]](http://p-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif){kind=small} gothor) wrote,@ 2003-03-24 16:10:00 |
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Project Nightshade: Message #20.
As far as plans go, mine was fucking brilliant: Hide at Samantha’s farm, cowering out of sight for as long as humanly possible.
Things were fine until the phone rang yesterday. Which was weird, because Samantha stopped paying her phone bill a couple of years ago and never bothered to get it turned back on.
I started at the phone for a minute and picked it up. “Hello?” I said.
“You disappoint me, Gothor.”
“Doc?”
“Ah, so you do remember me. I thought you’d forgotten, along with my strict instructions to get to Blackfoot, ASAP.” He pronounced it, Ay-Sap.
”Um, yeah. Doc, about that. We checked out Blackfoot, but there wasn’t anything there. Just some factories and zombies.”
I heard a weary sigh on the other end. “And it didn’t occur to you to see what was in those factories? Are you doing anything at all to prepare to save the world?”
“Well, um, not really. Right now I’m playing Vice City. Trying to get past this one mission, but Leon’s a real moron.”
“Yes,” he said. “That seems to be going around lately. Listen, you’ve got to get out of there. They’ve spared you only because they needed all their energy to raise –“ the phone line burst with static. The only words I could make out were “queen” and “box”. Then the phone went dead. I looked up, out the large windows, and saw a cloud of dust charging down the long dirt road.
“Shit,” I said. “Samantha, get out here! There’s trouble.”
She stepped out of her bedroom, holding a double barrel shotgun. “Way ahead of you,” she said.
We stood on the porch, watching the cloud grow closer. “I feel like this is it,” I said.
”Hush,” she said.
”Samantha, I want you to know –“
She looked at me and voice died in my throat. “Hush. It can be said later.” I met her gaze and before I knew what I was doing, I kissed her, long and fierce with the possibility that it would be our last.
I broke away, fully expecting her to sock me in the face. Instead she grinned. “Mmm, my sweet Gothor. It looks like you’re a bold boy after all. Come on, let’s give these sons of bitches a warm welcome.”
I nodded and looked around for a weapon. I spotted a two by four spiked with rusty nails. It would have to do.
Together, we made our stand.
Two black SUVs skidded to a halt. Out of each stepped two agents dressed in crisp black suits. One identical to the others stepped forward and said, “Greetings, Sir or Sir or Madame. We are the Avon calling. Would you be interested in some collectible bottles and collectible bottles and accessories? Our hand lotion is creamy soft.” They held out their hands, as if they were trying to shove us away from a distance. The skin on their palms bubbled and burst and roots shot out towards us like tentacles.
Samantha fired once, twice. The agents on the left burst into a cloud of dirt and roots. I swung at one tangle of roots and batted it away. The other wrapped around Samantha’s ankles and pulled her towards them, her head banging down the stairs. “Gothor, help! Give ‘em a puck in the gob!”
I grabbed her shotgun and fired randomly at the remaining agents, who exploded, scattering bits and pieces everywhere.
”Nice,” she said with a grin.
”Yeah, well,” I said. “I didn’t know where their gobs were, so I just kept shooting.”
“So what now?”
”Blackfoot,” I said. “The doc wants us to check out those factories.”
That night we checked into a hotel, ignoring the managers’ lunatic pleas that we eat one of the dozens of potatoes arranged on his counter. As we lay cuddled up in bed, Samantha asked what I was going to say on the porch.
I could feel my face redden in the darkness. ”Nothing,” I said.
“Oh,” she said, and laid her head on my chest.
That night, I woke up from a nightmare (Doc holding a humungous pocket watch and screaming, “Oh my ears and whiskers, you’re late you’re late YOU’RE TOO LATE!”) Samantha was gone. I bolted upright, then my common sense woke up and instead of calling out, I went to look for her.
I found her kneeling in the hotel kitchen, holding a candle and facing away from me. She was nude and her long red hair, like flames in the candlelight, flowed down over her back. I watched, transfixed.
“Yes,” she said. “We’re going to search the factory tomorrow. No, he doesn’t suspect a thing. Yes. Yes I will.”
I stumbled backwards, crashing into an end table, but she didn’t seem to notice. I got dressed in a hurry, grabbed my wallet and ran into the night, wandering the streets of Blackfoot, the belly of the beast.
I’d deal with my broken heart later. For now, there was still a world to save.
Expose the truth. Even if the truth is silly. Sign the Potato Petition!
As far as plans go, mine was fucking brilliant: Hide at Samantha’s farm, cowering out of sight for as long as humanly possible.
Things were fine until the phone rang yesterday. Which was weird, because Samantha stopped paying her phone bill a couple of years ago and never bothered to get it turned back on.
I started at the phone for a minute and picked it up. “Hello?” I said.
“You disappoint me, Gothor.”
“Doc?”
“Ah, so you do remember me. I thought you’d forgotten, along with my strict instructions to get to Blackfoot, ASAP.” He pronounced it, Ay-Sap.
”Um, yeah. Doc, about that. We checked out Blackfoot, but there wasn’t anything there. Just some factories and zombies.”
I heard a weary sigh on the other end. “And it didn’t occur to you to see what was in those factories? Are you doing anything at all to prepare to save the world?”
“Well, um, not really. Right now I’m playing Vice City. Trying to get past this one mission, but Leon’s a real moron.”
“Yes,” he said. “That seems to be going around lately. Listen, you’ve got to get out of there. They’ve spared you only because they needed all their energy to raise –“ the phone line burst with static. The only words I could make out were “queen” and “box”. Then the phone went dead. I looked up, out the large windows, and saw a cloud of dust charging down the long dirt road.
“Shit,” I said. “Samantha, get out here! There’s trouble.”
She stepped out of her bedroom, holding a double barrel shotgun. “Way ahead of you,” she said.
We stood on the porch, watching the cloud grow closer. “I feel like this is it,” I said.
”Hush,” she said.
”Samantha, I want you to know –“
She looked at me and voice died in my throat. “Hush. It can be said later.” I met her gaze and before I knew what I was doing, I kissed her, long and fierce with the possibility that it would be our last.
I broke away, fully expecting her to sock me in the face. Instead she grinned. “Mmm, my sweet Gothor. It looks like you’re a bold boy after all. Come on, let’s give these sons of bitches a warm welcome.”
I nodded and looked around for a weapon. I spotted a two by four spiked with rusty nails. It would have to do.
Together, we made our stand.
Two black SUVs skidded to a halt. Out of each stepped two agents dressed in crisp black suits. One identical to the others stepped forward and said, “Greetings, Sir or Sir or Madame. We are the Avon calling. Would you be interested in some collectible bottles and collectible bottles and accessories? Our hand lotion is creamy soft.” They held out their hands, as if they were trying to shove us away from a distance. The skin on their palms bubbled and burst and roots shot out towards us like tentacles.
Samantha fired once, twice. The agents on the left burst into a cloud of dirt and roots. I swung at one tangle of roots and batted it away. The other wrapped around Samantha’s ankles and pulled her towards them, her head banging down the stairs. “Gothor, help! Give ‘em a puck in the gob!”
I grabbed her shotgun and fired randomly at the remaining agents, who exploded, scattering bits and pieces everywhere.
”Nice,” she said with a grin.
”Yeah, well,” I said. “I didn’t know where their gobs were, so I just kept shooting.”
“So what now?”
”Blackfoot,” I said. “The doc wants us to check out those factories.”
That night we checked into a hotel, ignoring the managers’ lunatic pleas that we eat one of the dozens of potatoes arranged on his counter. As we lay cuddled up in bed, Samantha asked what I was going to say on the porch.
I could feel my face redden in the darkness. ”Nothing,” I said.
“Oh,” she said, and laid her head on my chest.
That night, I woke up from a nightmare (Doc holding a humungous pocket watch and screaming, “Oh my ears and whiskers, you’re late you’re late YOU’RE TOO LATE!”) Samantha was gone. I bolted upright, then my common sense woke up and instead of calling out, I went to look for her.
I found her kneeling in the hotel kitchen, holding a candle and facing away from me. She was nude and her long red hair, like flames in the candlelight, flowed down over her back. I watched, transfixed.
“Yes,” she said. “We’re going to search the factory tomorrow. No, he doesn’t suspect a thing. Yes. Yes I will.”
I stumbled backwards, crashing into an end table, but she didn’t seem to notice. I got dressed in a hurry, grabbed my wallet and ran into the night, wandering the streets of Blackfoot, the belly of the beast.
I’d deal with my broken heart later. For now, there was still a world to save.
