rapid eye follow the chain of thought until the silence ends
It is the second-to-last day of the plagues, and, unexpectedly, the sun rises. For five hours and 35 minutes, it is a perfectly normal, if a bit cold, Chicago day
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She's ramped up the glowyness about a dozenfold. It's not hard--with all the fear she's choking down right now, it's almost nice to give it some kind of release.
The problem seems to be that it's doing jackshit right now to light up the area. There's a thin nimbus visible around her, and what she can see makes her skin crawl.
No no no, no no no no. She's not going to panic again. "All right, Maitland," she mutters. "First priority: make sure your people are all right."
Marshall. Sydney. Owen. Jack. The list is depressingly short, but at least it makes things easier.
She dials down her glow, at least a little--enough that she can still see to move, but hopefully won't be too obvious a target. The sound of the sirens still wails in her head, eerie and nauseating, and she's not sure if she would prefer the noise or the silence of the Kashtta right now.
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He was out when the plague hit, which means he has no idea what the status of the tower or his daughter is, but hearing Maitland out has given him a new directive. Sydney can take care of herself and he'd like to think that nothing will take the Tower.
"Which is where you should be," he barks. Yeah, tall order, trying to boss her around when there are creatures everywhere and they don't respond well to guns.
...Thankfully, he doesn't have a gun. He has a pipe. It was really a fluke that he learned that they work well on them, but... Well, he's not questioning it.
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And then she realizes it's Bristow. About two seconds too late, but oh well.
"I hate you," she says.
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"No, you don't," he says, letting her hand go. "I'm just your boss."
He stares at the creatures and taps the pipe on the ground. "I can give you a straight shot into the Tower. They respond to blunt-force trauma." That's what he's calling it. It sounds better than saying, 'They go down when I beat them with a pipe.'
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The things give her the chills. She's seen creepy shit--the future predators still make her skin crawl--but the sound of them shuffling in the dark, the fact that she's without a weapon at the moment--
Well. Sensible thing would be to run. Abby is not sensible and has never claimed to be.
She takes a step away from one of the monsters, closer to Bristow, and puts her foot in a tray full of Jell-O and frog guts.
Sometimes the universe's sense of humor actually works in her favor.
She has a cookie sheet. It is not a lead pipe, but as far as blunt-force-trauma is concerned, it will have to do.
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Bristow rolls his eyes and beats a patient demon that was getting too close to his foot, its spine cracking, satisfactorily.
"I knew you and my daughter would get along," he mutters, readying himself for another strike.
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The one that does notice is lurking in the shadows in the corner of the lobby, and is currently attempting to circle around behind them, head low and tongue dragging on the ground.
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This is sick. It's sick and it makes her angry in a way she can't even describe. It's like someone perverted these animals, twisted and bent and broke them, and it's disgusting. She can't take the thought of hurting them any more than they have been already, but--
This isn't real. It is, but it's not. Whatever's happened here--
Whatever's happened here, as long as these things don't attack them, she won't have to worry about defending herself. She tones the light down again until it's barely a shimmer. Just enough for her to keep track of Bristow, and for him to keep track of her.
"Head for the stairs," she murmurs, pitching her voice low and calm. "Slow. Do not run, do not pose a threat, just... Walk. Slowly. Yeah?"
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"...Don't you dare," he hisses the order. If this turns out like the prehistoric crocodile of death, he will throw down.
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She draws in a long breath. She's just spotted doggie number four.
Fuck. "Right. Not that this changes anything, but we're being hunted. It's just the one, at the mo', so..." God, she hopes these things function as some kind of a pack. "So long as it doesn't call alarm before we get to the stairs. We might yet. Get a bit of distance."
Yeah. 'Get away' so isn't going to happen. At least they might get the high ground.
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...Right. The situation has been assessed and they are royally fucked, as the more vulgar of the world would proclaim. Bristow keeps a steady grip on his pipe and continues to move slowly towards the steps.
One day... One day, he and Abby won't have a day like this. God.
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Now, it might have been somewhat slow circling around behind, but when these things move, they move, and it quickly closes the distance between it and Bristow. And latches onto his thigh just above the knee with its sharp, sharp teeth. Surprisingly the tongue doesn't get in the way.
This, of course, alerts the other two eatin' their dead friend, and they spring into action. Or, well, one sidles toward Abby and one sidles away from Abby and Bristow (and attache), circling toward the stairs in an attempt to get behind them.
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...He's not really sure why he's thinking about that, beyond THINGS BITING HIS LEG HURTS AND NO VODKA IN THE WORLD WILL MAKE THIS GO AWAY.
Subtlety is gone out the window as Bristow braces himself against Abby and uses his other hand to BEAT THE MOTHERFUCKING HELL OUT OF THE BEAST BITING HIM. On one hand, this may make it bite harder and he may wind up losing the leg, which would be rather annoying. On the other, considering what's circling them... It might be lesser of several evils.
...This could have gone better.
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Her heart gives a little twist as she brings the cookie sheet down on the dogbeast's back hard enough bend the metal. She has to do it with her eyes almost closed. They're getting hemmed in.
She's going to get torn apart by long-tongued dogthings.
"Can't say this is entirely unexpected," she mutters, and yells, bringing the tray down again. The shout is as much to try and scare the thing loose as make herself hate herself less for beating something that doesn't know any better.
As much as she hates this right now, part of her hopes she'll live to hate herself more for it later.
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The other one, meanwhile, is still lurking back near the stairs, and there are a few more coming down said stairs, lured by the screaming of their brethren.
Demon dogs or horrible scraping noise, kids. Take your pick.
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He staggers back to his feet, ignoring the pain and staring up at the stairs. That way's blocked and the only way to go is... Back down that hall.
Perfect.
"I never believed I'd say this," he growls, "but move towards the hall."
What's in there can't be worse than what's out here.
Ah hahahahahaha...
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