Keep That Wolf From The Door (Part Three) [COMPLETE]
Characters: Odd Thomas, Harry Mason, Birdman, James Sunderland, Maria, Lilia Pascalle, Rebecca Chambers.
Content: Death is knocking down the door.
Location: St. Patrick’s Cathedral.
Time of day: Breaking twilight. Backdated around a day after Part Two takes place.
Warnings: More violence and gore. Not for the faint of heart once again, and still not safe for work. Seriously. We’re not joking around here. And in case you forgot, the events of these logs have definitely been mod-approved.
[ ooc: Due to the complexity of the finale of this event, this log will be split into separate threads. Consider them as scene cuts for organization purposes, and for the sake of keeping things flowing. ]
Momentary suffocation... a loss in oblivion... inability to breathe, to swim, to walk, to think... just mindless drifting... drifting... drift. He drifts as though in water. Eyes closed as the black fingers twining through the strands of his hair, curving, curling, stroking. Sniff, sniff. Pet. Wake up, boy. Wake up. Death is near, death is rising, death is HERE. Time to WAKE UP sleepyhead!
Heart twisting as if it were being ripped from his chest, Odd’s tired eyes snapped open. He gasped, the air sucking in through his lungs fire-hot. It took him a moment to process where he was, what had happened, before realizing that he had in fact fallen asleep for a few short minutes. A few minutes and already that choking air overwhelmed him, tightening muscles in his throat, watering sweat down his face...
Thinking became a task easier said than done. Being in a room with five bodachs crowding around him, slithering over the bed, lingering in uneasy silence as the hours loomed. If not for them this would just be another peaceful hour of the night; not for Odd Thomas, though. He had been kneeling over the floor, busy as a bee in bending wires when he had, moment easier, taken an impromptu catnap.
Not the best decision he’d ever made. By the time he wrenched into awakening, the bodachs in the room doubles. Just about the only thing he could do was focus. Focus on his hands, on the wire, what used to be a strong of coat hangers now metal twisted together beneath his whitening knuckles, clenching tighter and tighter in his uneasy silence.
With a little inspiration from Kaylee, Odd managed to think up a scheme for rigging one of the rooms. A lure for the prisoner to the tiger, so to speak. May have been a poor plan and, hell, it may have been one of the oldest tricks in the book... something was better than nothing, and anything was definitely better than putting a sign over his head that said OBVIOUS VICTIM HERE. PLEASE KILL IMMEDIATELY.
Finished with wiring a sturdy strand together, he stood up. For the most part, he was done with rigging the room, having cleared Lilia and everyone from entering. Not wanting anyone to mess with the setup he had going here, at least. He had sent Lilia to a safer place, also hoping that perhaps Sunderland had the right idea in ensuring the safety of the kids while Odd rigged areas of the cathedral he sensed would be specific targets. He didn’t want to go into the details quite yet... he just figured it’d be something he would have to play with as he went along. Assuming that any of it would work at all.
Rubbing the weary dark circles under his eyes, he stood, knees cracking as he went up. As always, Odd Thomas avoided eye contact with the lingering bodachs. Evaded their path, as if they weren’t really there at all. This was also easier said than done; he had to get used to it over the years. The memory of the boy crushed by the truck never leaving, always reminding him with a threat of that could be you next.
They’re beautiful, aren’t they?
Hands still over his pallid face, Odd stepped out of that room, shutting it quietly behind him. Done. For now. He wandered down the hall, trying not to look up, trying to keep his face buried in his hands, for when he looked up, did so much as glance ahead, he saw them. The hallway, lit to anyone but Odd Thomas. To him, the corridors were black as night, thick with the mists of their witnesses, keen to watch the massacre of an entire household. Maybe more.
Maybe they were just the first lambs for the slaughter. Bodachs certainly don’t appear to watch the murder of a small handful. They seem to take great pleasure in watching the deaths of many, gathering in the final hours before said calamity.
Now that Odd brought it to mind, he wasn’t positive if they were that way for certain. Far as he was concerned, bodachs never did show any sign of pleasure or entertainment. Keen fascination, perhaps, taking interest in lingering in the households and dwelling the streets, slithering through keyholes and cracks in the windowpanes, waiting around doomed places and people. Sometimes it took hours, days, maybe even weeks before the actual event. Odd had braced for this kind of thing before.
He wasn’t ready for this somehow. Not now, not here, not with these people. They had grown on him like family, and Odd would do everything within his power to ensure that his past mistakes wouldn’t repeat themselves again. Those same mistakes which had cost him the lives of innocent people.
At one point, it even killed him as well.
Too worn out to even dwell on the past, he staggered away from the rooms. Intuition had him again, always behind the wheel in the Odd Thomas Camaro, driving him to the nave of the cathedral.
Whatever was going to happen, everything would begin here, as many things do. In the heart, in the center, at the very start of things. People came and went here. People who worshipped, who gave respects, lit their candles and sent off their dead and gave their praises.
So he sat, comfortable on one of the many pews. He looked up, breathless in admiration of this place, as awe always gripped him here. The intricacy of the walls, the perfect lighting when beams shined through those beautifully stained windows. How much time and effort must have gone into this place; how much love and devotion went into these walls. In mere hours, how much of it will remain?
On this ungodly hour of the day, where most people would find themselves asleep, Odd Thomas remained the vigil watchdog of the cathedral. He sat, he waited, with a little tune humming in his head...
All I want for you to do is take my body home.
Content: Death is knocking down the door.
Location: St. Patrick’s Cathedral.
Time of day: Breaking twilight. Backdated around a day after Part Two takes place.
Warnings: More violence and gore. Not for the faint of heart once again, and still not safe for work. Seriously. We’re not joking around here. And in case you forgot, the events of these logs have definitely been mod-approved.
[ ooc: Due to the complexity of the finale of this event, this log will be split into separate threads. Consider them as scene cuts for organization purposes, and for the sake of keeping things flowing. ]
Momentary suffocation... a loss in oblivion... inability to breathe, to swim, to walk, to think... just mindless drifting... drifting... drift. He drifts as though in water. Eyes closed as the black fingers twining through the strands of his hair, curving, curling, stroking. Sniff, sniff. Pet. Wake up, boy. Wake up. Death is near, death is rising, death is HERE. Time to WAKE UP sleepyhead!
Heart twisting as if it were being ripped from his chest, Odd’s tired eyes snapped open. He gasped, the air sucking in through his lungs fire-hot. It took him a moment to process where he was, what had happened, before realizing that he had in fact fallen asleep for a few short minutes. A few minutes and already that choking air overwhelmed him, tightening muscles in his throat, watering sweat down his face...
Thinking became a task easier said than done. Being in a room with five bodachs crowding around him, slithering over the bed, lingering in uneasy silence as the hours loomed. If not for them this would just be another peaceful hour of the night; not for Odd Thomas, though. He had been kneeling over the floor, busy as a bee in bending wires when he had, moment easier, taken an impromptu catnap.
Not the best decision he’d ever made. By the time he wrenched into awakening, the bodachs in the room doubles. Just about the only thing he could do was focus. Focus on his hands, on the wire, what used to be a strong of coat hangers now metal twisted together beneath his whitening knuckles, clenching tighter and tighter in his uneasy silence.
With a little inspiration from Kaylee, Odd managed to think up a scheme for rigging one of the rooms. A lure for the prisoner to the tiger, so to speak. May have been a poor plan and, hell, it may have been one of the oldest tricks in the book... something was better than nothing, and anything was definitely better than putting a sign over his head that said OBVIOUS VICTIM HERE. PLEASE KILL IMMEDIATELY.
Finished with wiring a sturdy strand together, he stood up. For the most part, he was done with rigging the room, having cleared Lilia and everyone from entering. Not wanting anyone to mess with the setup he had going here, at least. He had sent Lilia to a safer place, also hoping that perhaps Sunderland had the right idea in ensuring the safety of the kids while Odd rigged areas of the cathedral he sensed would be specific targets. He didn’t want to go into the details quite yet... he just figured it’d be something he would have to play with as he went along. Assuming that any of it would work at all.
Rubbing the weary dark circles under his eyes, he stood, knees cracking as he went up. As always, Odd Thomas avoided eye contact with the lingering bodachs. Evaded their path, as if they weren’t really there at all. This was also easier said than done; he had to get used to it over the years. The memory of the boy crushed by the truck never leaving, always reminding him with a threat of that could be you next.
They’re beautiful, aren’t they?
Hands still over his pallid face, Odd stepped out of that room, shutting it quietly behind him. Done. For now. He wandered down the hall, trying not to look up, trying to keep his face buried in his hands, for when he looked up, did so much as glance ahead, he saw them. The hallway, lit to anyone but Odd Thomas. To him, the corridors were black as night, thick with the mists of their witnesses, keen to watch the massacre of an entire household. Maybe more.
Maybe they were just the first lambs for the slaughter. Bodachs certainly don’t appear to watch the murder of a small handful. They seem to take great pleasure in watching the deaths of many, gathering in the final hours before said calamity.
Now that Odd brought it to mind, he wasn’t positive if they were that way for certain. Far as he was concerned, bodachs never did show any sign of pleasure or entertainment. Keen fascination, perhaps, taking interest in lingering in the households and dwelling the streets, slithering through keyholes and cracks in the windowpanes, waiting around doomed places and people. Sometimes it took hours, days, maybe even weeks before the actual event. Odd had braced for this kind of thing before.
He wasn’t ready for this somehow. Not now, not here, not with these people. They had grown on him like family, and Odd would do everything within his power to ensure that his past mistakes wouldn’t repeat themselves again. Those same mistakes which had cost him the lives of innocent people.
At one point, it even killed him as well.
Too worn out to even dwell on the past, he staggered away from the rooms. Intuition had him again, always behind the wheel in the Odd Thomas Camaro, driving him to the nave of the cathedral.
Whatever was going to happen, everything would begin here, as many things do. In the heart, in the center, at the very start of things. People came and went here. People who worshipped, who gave respects, lit their candles and sent off their dead and gave their praises.
So he sat, comfortable on one of the many pews. He looked up, breathless in admiration of this place, as awe always gripped him here. The intricacy of the walls, the perfect lighting when beams shined through those beautifully stained windows. How much time and effort must have gone into this place; how much love and devotion went into these walls. In mere hours, how much of it will remain?
On this ungodly hour of the day, where most people would find themselves asleep, Odd Thomas remained the vigil watchdog of the cathedral. He sat, he waited, with a little tune humming in his head...
All I want for you to do is take my body home.