(no subject)
The dingy concrete box of a holding area gives off an aura of age that cannot quite be tracked to the seep of damp along the walls and the faint tang of musty urine. The cell decor is sixties cop-show standard, steel bars and high, barred window and uncomfortable bench-cum-cot. But for one drunk down the way, and the wary guard eyeing the door out into the station proper, the area is all but empty. The dim bulbs flicker, but hold steady, as the howl of the storm outside picks up like the voices of the damned before slowly subsiding back to mere gale. Small wonder that the inbound fed is late; one might well need a boat to navigate the roads by now.
"{This is bullshit,}" says Remy for what's approximately the fifth time in the past hour, circling the edge of the cell like a caged panther but keeping his voice low enough to avoid drawing attention. The French suggests it's meant more as a personal expression of frustration in any case. "Dead risin' all over this town, countdown to the big number on, an' we are sittin' in a concrete box with a bunch o' donut munchers," he sums up, settling on one bunk with a heavy thump.
Where Remy ends his caged cat stalk Sal picks it up, abandoning the cell's lone window for long-legged strides that eat up the space in the cell all too quickly. "Think I don't know that?" she answers back, whether out of actual understanding of the French or just long-ingrained habit. Her voice is pitched equally low, but rough-edged nearly to a growl. "Can't believe we--" could end in 'got picked up' as easy as it could 'are still stuck here,' and both have been said before. (They've been at this a while.)
"Can't believe they confiscated my lockpicks," Remy mutters. "An' without even hintin' that they might be open to a bribe. We get out of here as somethin' other than zombie food, we are headin' to New Orleans," he informs her, before a hand reaches into his shirt and closes lightly around a crucifix.
"Immune to your charms, LeBeau?" Sal says, nerves sharpening the edge of her humor, "Never thought I'd live to see the day." Her pockets similarly emptied, her charms just as rebuffed, she stalks to a bunk-creaking stop seated beside him. She follows his gesture, but the sardonic lifted eyebrow it once would have garnered is nowhere in evidence. "Won't get any arguement out of me this time," she allows, before narrowing a grey-eyed gaze on the cell's heavy lock. "Think we'll be in here long enough to try McGuyvering a lockpick out of an underwire?"
"Ain't exactly -subtle-, that," Remy notes, with a lingering glance at Sal's underwire areas that seems to be trying for some well-worn humour and a cuffing rather than real seduction. "Still," he says, leaving the crucifix alone to retrieve the one thing left in his pockets -- a rosary -- and idly rub his fingers over the beads. "When all hell starts breakin' loose out there, it seems we are likely to have Barney Fife out there distracted."
The door out to the station proper needs oiling. It creaks as it opens, letting through a brief babble of noise, and an unfamiliar female voice riding over it: "--going anywhere 'til that storm lets up." The woman who enters on the heels of it is small, a good half a foot shorter than Sal. She does not look like a drowned rat, though droplets of water gleam bright silver on the stiff canvas of her raincoat, on her neatly bound black hair. She stops well out of arm's reach to study both occupants of the cell, coolly wary in a manner that ignores the bars between them. Her gaze catches, brief, on the rosary, and her eyebrows lift slightly.
Sal's bladed smile is dulled slightly, but paired with a snort of breath that sees that lingering glance, but doesn't raise; her, "--think we may be running out of time for subtle, cher," borrows its endearment from her partner, but anything else stops short as that unfamiliar voice rises over the noise. "Well," she drawls once their visitor arrives, posture shifting immediately from frayed-nerves worn to cool, cocky confidence. She stretches her legs out in front of the bunk, rests her weight against her hands braced behind her, and steadies a look through the bars. "Smells like we got ourselves our Fed."
"About -time-," says Remy, rosary returning to his pocket as he pushes to his feet. "Seein' as how y'average Fed actually has to finish high school, maybe we'll actually get someone with a workin' brain." He approaches the bars, letting his expression settle into something businesslike and friendly as he takes in the little woman as if they're meeting across a diner table and not with jailhouse bars between them. "I won't waste time by sayin' this is all a misunderstandin', ma'am," he opens with. "But we -do- got a bit of a situation here."
"I'm Agent Dimalanta," Grace supplies, mild-voiced in a manner that acknowledges neither Sal's cocky baiting nor Remy's charm, though the brief flick of her gaze from one to the other notes both. Her identification is shown, but not offered over - stepping in range of dangerous criminals without good cause or proper shackling is not, apparently, in her game plan. "And that's one way of phrasing it. Where's Brittany Kendall?"
Sal's snort acknowledges Remy's point without making it a focal point of conversation again, and keeps her interested, assessing gaze on their pocket-sized Fed. She doesn't stiffen at the girl's name, but some of the bold as brass cockiness fades, sharpens as she eases forward to set her elbows on her knees, drape her hands down between her legs. "She asks good questions," she asides to Remy while still watching Grace. She follows it with, "And that's the one we were trying to answer." Right until they got picked up, that is.
"We got a tip that Brittany was missin', and that the cause of it was somethin' you will probably write off as X-Files shit, but that we deal with all the time," Remy follows Sal's lead, after a nod that seconds approval for Grace's question. "Y'all up at Quantico noticed any odd stories comin' out of this little town?"
Grace does not answer, and the brief, uneasy flicker of her expression is muted enough that it would take the instincts of a con - or a hunter - to read it. "You have a reputation for being involved with strange stories," she says instead. "Both of you. Grave desecration in Chicago, four dead in San Jose. And now Julie Demeter." The rattled-off cases are spoken with an ease that suggests recent review. "She died on the way to the hospital. It might go better for you if you help us find her friend alive."
Sal catches the muted flicker of Grace's expression, but her satisfaction (right on target, Remy) is short-lived; instead her expression shifts to a carefully studied neutrality bordered with cockiness that buries the unease their recalled history calls up. "Extenuating circumstances," starts to go drawled, but the news about Julie breaks her cool mask. "{Mother of God's left /tit/,}" isn't the -most- colorful phrase she's picked up from her partner over the years, but it's spat with feeling. "{This is bullshit}," she snaps at him, voice tight.
A hand lifts, not so much placation as requesting a pause as Sal snarls, and Remy's other hand pinches at the bridge of his nose. His shoulders fall a little at the news, eyes ghosting shut as the frustration of failure is allowed to write itself across his face and his body language. "-Damn- it," he says. "I thought we'd gotten there in time... Look," he says, eyes on Grace again. "Let us out. We want to end this before it gets even more out of hand, ouais? Shit's due to go down at midnight, but it's gonna start gettin' nasty real soon. Power behind this is gonna be raisin' itself an army."
Grace's expression crimps, in that pained way one does when faced with the clearly delusional - but she takes in that frustrated slump with an observer's eye, to weigh against what she knows. (Or thinks she knows.) "Tell me where the girl is," she counters. And then, after a moment, "Or where you expect she'll be."
The wind rises to another cacaphonous wail. In the far cell, the sleeping drunk snuffles wetly.
"This is what we've been trying to -stop-," Sal says, with a look to Remy that says maybe her earlier assessment of their Fed's intelligence was over-rated -- but that's just the frustration talking. Where Remy slumps, she pulls herself up onto her feet again and prowls the length of the back of the cell, then up the opposite side until she can come lend her conversational weight to Remy's, at the bars. "Look," she says, voice tight, "we tell you where she is-- where we think, where God, we /hope/ she'll be, all you manage to do is get yourself, maybe your friends killed."
"Look, maybe she's been doin' her research, Harper," Remy offers, Good Hunter to Sal's Cranky Hunter as he looks back to Grace with a measuring look. "You had much of a chance to read up on demonic summonin' rituals?"
The guard by the door catches Grace's gaze to roll his eyes in open mockery; it is, perhaps, an effort of will for her to keep from doing likewise. She manages to keep her expression relatively impassive, however, and replies, "So your claim is that these girls were meant as the targets of ritual murder?"
Sal lifts her hands to Remy, tips her head slightly to allow for this; she ignores the eye-rolling, but Grace's answer has her dropping her hands and pacing back again. Her, "She can be taught!" buries a thin thread of hope underneath a generous slice of snark, and she turns back to Grace to say, simply, "/Yes/." It's close enough for government work.
"If the local boys'd hand over our bag o' tricks..." But Remy trails off with a sharp shake of his head that jerks a little in startlement at a sudden uptick in wind noise from outside. "Ritual murders, with the aim o' settin' loose a demon who's got some serious powers over the dead. Y'all would've heard the reports of people seen messin' around outside of their perfectly good graves? That's him."
"Fucking crazies," the guard on the door mutters, real malice mingling with disgust. The look Grace shoots him quells the snarling for the moment - but she has, apparently, opted to agree with that assessment. "I'll come see if you feel like being cooperative later," she replies, and turns toward the door. There is a moment's pause as she glances at her watch and adds, "Three hours 'til midnight."
That thin thread snaps and breaks, and Sal's expression twists briefly -- maybe it's disgust, more likely it's frustration. "Remember," she says, "that you had a chance to /stop/ this--" before giving the conversation back over to the fast-talking hard-hitter, Remy. (Not that his luck's exactly /holding out/.) "Three hours," she says, she snap-bites, "we could be using."
"How would it play out, if you let us out to take you to the spot we figure they're usin'?" Remy wonders, after a worried flick of a glance in Sal's direction. "I ain't exactly got a street address to give y'all."
"That's not on the table." There is a hint of something razor sharp beneath Grace's calm answer. "Not with your history." And not, perhaps, with so scant a party as the local LEOs offer.
"Dangerous criminals, remember?" Sal says to Remy, and the bitterness in her voice reads, to someone familiar at least, more frustrated defeat than actual anger. Her jaw sets briefly, and her pacing prowl back toward the cell's window again has /nothing/ at /all/ to do with another spate of storm-worsening. "What about one of us," she says to the window, then turns to look over her shoulder at Grace. "Instead of both."
"Harper, you can't--" Remy's look is alarmed and worried at this notion, for all that he cuts himself off short. "If we can't go together, we're better off just waitin' for all hell to turn up -here-," he concludes, with a bit of fatalism in his voice. The rosary makes an appearance in his hand again.
"No," Grace says, unapologetic. The hard click of the door behind her underscores the finality of the answer. Any buzz in the station beyond is covered by the continuing rage of the wind.
"It was a long shot," Sal says once the door is firmly and apologeticly closed in Grace's wake, pushing away from the window and scrubbing her hands over her face and through the mussed fall of her hair -- there was a ponytail, once, but the elastic's long since gone. "She wasn't going to take it -- she knew it, and I knew it. And /yes/," she forestalls, "before you say it again, it would have been damn near suicide, but there was a /chance/ I could have bought you the time we need."
The snuffling in the far cell shifts, slowly, towards a queer, gurgling rattle. The guard, attention fixed on the pair of hunters, seems not to notice.
"Hunters got an early expiration date, no need to make yours come up sooner, old lady," Remy informs Sal, far enough away that he can't be immediately hit as he paces the stall and scrubs at his hair with one hand. Eyes dart, taking in options, and he bounces the rosary in his hand. "Bars'd be useful on ghosts. You see anything we could stake zombies with?"
Not immediately, no, but between their combined pacing -- Sal cuffs him on their next cross-path pass, affection bleeding in through the dry, "Better mine than yours, boy," that she probably only half means. She watches the bounce of his rosary for a moment, then shakes her head, sharp. "Not a damn thing in /here/, but maybe," she says as she jerks her head to the door, the /out/, "unless you think you and me could take apart the bunks -- but that'd only buy us a little time, maybe, piss 'em off more likely."
"{Shitting whores,}" Remy mutters, as profane as only New World French can get. It pairs oddly with his next move, which is for the cell's toilet with his rosary in hand. "Our shiny-eyed boy might have friends with him," is his logic, before the rosary is dropped into the water and he begins murmuring to the toilet in Latin that has the quality of rote memorization to it rather than actual understanding.
From the far cell: a barking cough. Something spatters wet on the concrete - blood, too bright, and thickening around chunks of unidentifiable tissue.
"Son of a bitch," isn't quite as colorfully profane, but it is entirely heartfelt. While Remy prays over the porcelain god, Sal moves to the front of the cell, and the next time she curses it's under-breath and too low to make out, but followed by, "That is disgusting." It's as good as confirmation.
Remy is still murmuring Latin prayers with diction borrowed, along with blacks and a collar, from some long-forgotten priest. Still, he manages an eloquently inquiring lift of his eyebrows between an "Ad abigendos daemones morbosque," and a "pellendos divinae gratiae sumat effectum." Problem?
Blacks and a collar that he is not wearing -now-, just to be clear.
That would be weird.
Glad we've got that cleared up.
You know what else is weird? Guys suddenly choking up a part of their throat. It sends the guard hurrying over to the far cell - unlike the vanished fed, none too careful about how close to Remy and Sal's he passes.
"Sounds like we got something unfortunate going on in the next crash-pad over," Sal says, with a look over her shoulder. It looks like she isn't paying attention, as the guard hurries past-- except that she is, and there's a flash of a pale, slightly scarred hand darting out from between the bars to grab for him. It isn't the greatest angle, but she's got desperation on her side as she tries to swing him into a slam against the bars. (Life lesson: don't be an ass to Sal, and she might just grab your keys; be an ass, and you get smacked around.)
Maybe Remy's been on the road with Sal too long, but the grabbing and the slamming from behind him don't give a hitch to his recitation to the toilet. It's not until he's delivered a final "Per Dominum, -amen-," and retrieves the rosary from its hopefully-holy toilet water bath with a look up to see how Sal's getting on.
The guard grunts as he hits the bars, winded by the impact, and flails at Sal's hand, surprise momentarily depriving him of any self-defense skills learned in less actually risky situations.
In the far cell, drunkie continues to choke up what appear to possibly be bits of vital organs.
Sal is /maybe/ a little rougher than she absolutely has to be, as flailing doesn't really -- do guardy any good, really. While he's still winded she takes advantage, hooks her arm around his neck and uses it to pin him against the bars. Then she starts counting, under her breath, and spares a glance toward Remy. Yes?
"Don't do nothin' -permanent-, Harper," Remy suggests, as he takes advantage of the guard's being pinned to help himself to keys and whatever else is easily accessible. Guns are nice, as are handcuffs, and if they're within reach he makes off with them. "We're gonna need extra hands."
Gun and handcuffs are reachable, especially if Remy's not too shy about getting friendly with his partner. The guard recovers his senses a few seconds too late - he tries, concerted, to pry the arm from his throat. This is, alas, harder to do when one is in a well-secured chokehold, and so it is not long before he goes limp.
"He'll be fine," Sal assures, and if she minds Remy having to get friendly to do his part, she certainly gives no sign of it. She is, at least, considerate enough to /ease/ their unconscious guard down to the ground, rather than dropping him like a sack of potatoes.
Gun, cuffs, keys... it's like a pinata with less violence. Hands full, Remy hands off the keys to Sal, and suggests that "We might want t'lock him in here while he's out. F'his own safety," as he takes a cautious look to try and see if he can see what drunkie's up to. "Y'still with us down there, homme?"
Drunkie is currently not moving. Given the blood and /stuff/, this is probably a bad sign.
"Couldn't have said it better myself," Sal says as she concentrates on fitting the key to the lock from the awkward, inside-the-cell angle; she manages it, though, and the doors open with a groan of protest. They aren't the only thing, either, as she grabs the unconscious guard under the armpits and shuffle-walks backward to drag him into their cell. "Sounded like there was a lot of -something- hitting pavement from down there," she says of their possibly-deceased cell-neighbor.
"Aw, shit," says Remy, as he gets his first glimpse of bits of coughed up lung and their former owner. "Harper... we are gonna have to convince some badges not to go rushin' in to save the day over here."
"Don't get too close," Sal snaps from the back of their cell -- unnecessary, but she wants to be /sure/. "Think fast, LeBeau," she adds as she steps over the prone guard and moves to join him. "Your brand of convincing, or mine?"
The wind howls and crashes against the walls. The lights flicker again, once, twice, and then out.
"They got more guns than us, an' they already think we're crazies who run around torchin' corpses to get off," Remy summarizes, with a wry look. "Let's try mine first." This confidence is undercut by the lights going out, and the sharp curse that follows from him.
"Right," Sal says, and if she manages to sound a little bit relieved-- well, he's got a point, after all. "Your way it i--" cuts off as the lights cut out, and she reaches out with the east of long habit to set her hand against him, brief, to check that his position hasn't changed and let him know where she is. "We are fucked," she says, but there's little heat to it. "Go to them, or wait for them to come to us?" In the dark, he probably can't see the jerk of her chin toward the outer doors.
"Round up the civvies," Remy suggests, and by this shorthand includes the law enforcement too as he bumps her hand with his arm. Hi. Squinting in the emergency lights, the police handgun stowed in an all too recently emptied shoulder holster, he advances on the door leading into the main station compound with a "Harper. If y'would," and a nod to the doorlock. "Pull a flashlight off sleepin' beauty if y'can."
The jagged slash of lightning beyond the window briefly illuminates the cells. Something sparks, then explodes with a dull and none too far off "crack".
As though summoned by the question of what to do about them, someone on the other side opens the door, letting in a babble of voices as yet more annoyed than panicked.
Hey. "Mmhm," Sal confirms, and ski-- no, she doesn't skip, but it's a short hop back to sleeping beauty in the cell. "That's not a -good- sound," isn't especially pitched to carry but Remy might still catch it; her, "Start convincing," hard on its heels in the wake of the door opening. She, meanwhile, gets all /kinds/ of up close and personal looking for that flashlight.
"...Hi," says Remy, as the confused babble breaks upon him. He has the presence of mind to put his hands up. "Y'all have got a serious problem startin' up."
The gun trained on Remy suggest that yes, the LEO in the door agrees; he even has the presence of mind to say, "Freeze." Perhaps he mistakes this for Hollywood. Behind, in the cell at the end of the hall, comes an odd, rattling groan.
Sal's laugh is a low chuckle, slightly dry (slightly out of place). She rises to her feet, extra-smooth, and flicks on the flashlight even as sshe joins Remy, hands up. "We got an un-live one," she says, she-- technically guesses, but really. It's a pretty good guess. "At least," she murmurs to her partner, while trying to at least -look- unthreatening, "that one's still locked up. Small mercies."
"You folks still got that Fed with you?" Remy asks of the doorway-cop, hands held up as unthreateningly as he can manage. "There's a realtime example o' some o' them news reports over in the drunk tank... but don't get too close to him."
"You folks still got that Fed with you?" Remy asks of the doorway-cop, hands held up as unthreateningly as he can manage. "There's a realtime example o' some o' them news reports over in the drunk tank... but don't get too close to him."
The unliving are, apparently, not the officer's chief concern; he gestures, brief, with the barrel of his gun towards the cell they've so recently vacated. "Get back in there. No fast movements."
From behind, that Fed's voice: "...'s going on in there?" In the fire-glow and the gleam of flashlights, the small woman's figure is not precisely easy to pick out making its cautious way towards the cells.
No fast movements, Sal can comply with: in fact, the flashlight beam from her hand is the only thing that moves, swinging down to shine toward the door rather than at the ceiling anymore. Other than that, well. That's some /really slow/ movement. Glacial, even. "Agent Dimalanta," she calls when she recognized Grace's voice, "present for you -- but it's for looking at, not for touching." There is a reason Remy's usually in charge of this part of the plan.
"I would not recommend too many people get back in there," says Remy to the man with the gun but, as Sal's greeting drifts forward to Grace, he steps back into the holding area anyways, just to let her through. "This ain't a Romero flick, but that ain't the DTs goin' on in there."
Grace begins to step forward. At the same moment, the man who had been inhabiting the far cell lurches up, mouth slicked with blood. The young officer, closer and without a human wall in the way, spies it first; he forgets Remy and Sal long enough to rush over.
Sal says, "/No/," and Sal says, "fuck," and Sal says, "I am getting too old for this shit," as the young officer rushes forward. She turns to follow, her flashlight's beam erratic in the emergency lighting, and aims to tackle or trip or generally /stop/ his forward momentum before he can get all the way to the cell at the end. "Talk faster!" floats up behind her, slightly desperate.
Overtop of this, Grace's "Don't--", also unheeded.
The young cop is faster than Sal. The ex-drunk is faster still; he does not settle for grappling and choking. The snap of the cop's neck is loud, timed to an odd break in the storm's roar.
Remy flinches at the sound, reactions still human despite the sights he's seen. "Salpsan," he says to Grace, his tone picking up urgency as bangings and crashings can be heard from outside, despite the roar of the wind and the lash of the rain. "That's who they're trying to raise. Demon. The Apocrypha says he's the only son o' Satan. Some other books say he's got power over the dead, takin' the form o' zombies an' risen ghosts. An' since we have been tryin' to stop him, I figure he's gonna be a little pissed at us. -Salt-," he says to her, more sharply still, even with his hands raised. "We're gonna need some bags of it."
Sal skids more than crashes when she's outpaced, and buries a flinch in her scramble back to her feet as young-cop becomes ex-cop. "Damn," she says, "/damn it/," and pulls back away from the cell. "As much as you've got, anything you can find," she says to Grace, and if she doesn't put her hands up too, well. Hopefully no one's going to shoot her.
Grace looks at Remy for as though he's gone mad for a moment. "Salt," she repeats, a little blankly. "--/Why/?" The dead officer twitches, jerks, begins clawing to his feet. For a moment, she looks hopeful, but then he rises enough to show a head lolling unnaturally to one side. She scrambles back, the rest of the colour draining from her face as she brings her gun 'round to aim at WTF walking dead man. A rising scream is enough proof that someone else has seen it, too.
"Get -back-" snaps Remy and, courting a gunshot wound of his own, turns and pretty much half-tackles Grace with an arm around her midsection as he bolts back out of the holding cell and pushes her back into the main area. Adding impetus to this, something slams loudly against the outside wall, too repetitive and yet not repetitive enough to be something caught loose in the wind. "Harperrrrr..." is a warning. The door, it needs closing!
Remy does not get shot. The poor undead officer does, however, low on the leg and solid enough to send him skidding, pitched back against the wall. Grace falls, hard, and barely manages to break her fall, between the momentum provided by a much larger weight and the necessity of not, oh, accidentally shooting anyone else. The air is driven hard out of her lungs in a half-voiced curse. Ow.
"/Fuck/," is clear as the former cop does his marionette impression, and Sal is hard on Remy-and-Grace's heels -- if slightly offside as they go down outside the doors. She slams them home, slams and /locks/ and leans up against briefly. "You," she says, snaps to the nearest officer, "get that desk, get it up against this door, do it /now/," like she wasn't totally just the one in the holding cell.
"Sorry," says Remy, as he rolls off Grace and gets to his feet with an offered hand up. "Salt," he says, waving at what appears to be the most easily quailed of the police department personnel. For whatever reason, and conflict is writ large on the young woman's features, she rises and moves towards a supply closet with a vague "I think the extras are in here..." Mollified, he explains that "We trace it along the doors and windows, it'll keep ghosts an' a few other nasties at bay as long as it's unbroken."
What Sal forgets so easily the officers do not: the one being addressed looks mulish and starts to go for his police-issue; Sal makes a sharply disgusted noise and ignores it to grab-and-drag the desk herself. "Ma'am, we've still got people in th--" is cut off with a snap of, "No, you really don't."
It is rather likely that the only reason Grace takes the offered hand is because she is too winded or hurt to actually get to her feet otherwise. She jerks away as soon as she's up, and leans hard against the desk, stowing her gun to probe carefully for anything broken. "Listen," she says, hoarse-voiced and harsh. "For now."
Something slams hard against the double doors leading into the station; the windows on the outer set shatter. The figure is large, bulky. The receptionist starts upright, starts for the door, with a baffled sounding, "It's Bill!"
A longing look is cast toward the now-shut door to the cells, where Remy's toilet of holy water has a zombie in the hallway and a snoozing cop behind bars to guard it. "Don't!" he yells to the receptionist, and darts forward to not so much take as grab a bag of road salt, all yellow and black barred plastic, from the young rookie sent to grab it. He tears the bag and begins to pour, starting by the inner one of the double doors and letting Sal explain this one.
Sal's "Don't!" is paired with Remy's, and the crash at the front doors is echoed by thumping at the locked, desk-barred one at her back. She shoves off of it to stride toward the receptionist, hell, to /bolt/ toward the receptionist, and grab her before she can let ravening death in the doors. "Whoever Bill was, that's not him anymore -- this thing that's we've got going on, it's not pretty. Don't /touch/ them, don't let them touch /you/. End up dead, and worse, won't stay that way."
The receptionist sputters "But - but--", but does not go for the door again.
Grace, however, does - but it is with a length of safety chain to wrap 'round the handles and lock them shut. Apparently, she is not quite certain if salt can actually be trusted to keep out wtf zombies.
Remy looks briefly startled, and then approving at this evidence of FBI brain-presence. "Good," he says, continuing to make the rounds with the rock salt. "You folks," he says with a jerk of his head. "Barricade up the windows with whatever you can nail on 'em too. We got to get this place secure before we figure out how to make our next move... 'cause we still got a couple hours to make it in."
With Grace's authority greasing the wheels -- and more noise from outside that definitely isn't -- most likely isn't -- storm-related, with Remy's explanations and Sal's intimidation tactics, the officers remaining are eventually mobilised. (Really, not all -that- eventually. The thumping's kind of freaky.) Remy gets an assit on salt-distribution, and Sal manages to take out a great deal of frustration tearing things apart so they can be nailed over windows. Eventually, actually eventually, this time, the station is as secure as they can make it, considering the menace within its walls. It is an unlikely group that gathers in the center of the room, hunkers down to plan and strategize and wait: a lone Fed, two wanted criminals(?), and a handful of local LEOs.
Supernatural 'verse: what-if Remy and Sal were picked up by local cops, and it were up to the two of them to talk skeptical Fed Grace Dimalanta into helping them avert disaster by zombie-raising demon.