What's that coming over the hill? Is it a monster? Is it a monster?
At midnight, every flea and louse in Chicago drops dead, as if killed by the chime of the clock. For about an hour, everything is perfectly fine in Chicago, the most normal it's been in the past four days
( Read more... )
Comments 202
The streets are still filthy with frog guts and even walking through the park, it's like wading through a swamp- a horrible swamp made of amphibian viscera- but Hawkes maintains that he's probably waded through worse and he will have his goddamn air.
Except now he's surrounded by four furry creatures that vaguely resemble bear cubs if bear cubs were the size of Shetland ponies and had rows of razor-sharp spines on their back and shark-like teeth. He is fighting valiantly however- there were six of them.
Unfortunately, the mama spikebear is somewhere nearby. AND SHE IS DISPLEASED.
Reply
Murphy jams the glock back into its holster, the glow of magical symbols carved into it fading out again. She would just shoot the rest of them, but she only has so many bullets left, and she hasn't been able to talk to Dresden about making more.
Bastard keeps disappearing.
Out comes the sword. The glow isn't as bright during the day, but it's somehow still just as intense. "This is why you tell people before leaving the compound, Cooper."
Reply
"Noted," he snaps, snapping another cartridge into his gun while the cubs are distracted. He will pretend not to take this bullshit, while... Totally taking this bullshit. "What the hell's goin' on here anyway?"
He pops another bear in the head. The larger of the remaining cubs starts bolting, rolls into an improbable ball and starts rolling towards Murphy, ready to bowl her over and gouge her with the spikes. Hawkes maneuvers, grabbing Murphy's arm and spinning her out of the way whether she needs it or not.
The cub tumbles out of its roll and growls angrily. The second of the remaining cubs takes this moment while everyone's forgotten about him to start running for Hawkes' leg. OM NOM FLESH.
Reply
Twist. Flick.
No more lower jaw.
She can't help it. It's not the violence--she could do without it, used to it as she might be. It's the adrenaline, jabbing through her and making her feel like she hasn't been fighting for years, making her leg less a stiff dead weight than a pivot, a part of her fighting strategy.
She grins. "Chicago's making me feel a little more at home."
Reply
Henry, for his part, has gone eerily quiet. Edward has a feeling he knows why- they're probably going to die and he's never going to see Angie and the kids again. ...Edward actually almost feels bad for him.
Almost.
Still, not having Henry up in his head is a good thing. He can actually enjoy his booze in relative peace.
The relative has a lot to do with something that's about two blocks away from his current position and is about to make his day suck so much.
Reply
She's not the type to dwell. She's the type to drink. So despite the relative emptiness of the bar, thanks to the descent of the grues upon Chicago, she's out getting smashed. It's not like she plans on walking home tonight, shit. And the bartender knows her well enough that there's no way he'd turn her out onto Chicago's streets right now.
...And hey. She knows that guy.
"Hey, gym teacher!" She swigs from her glass--she doesn't even know what's in it at this point, and she doesn't care--and slams it down on the counter. The bar has some stock left. This is all that matters. She's not drunk, but she's going to get there fast if she has anything to say about it.
Reply
Edward maneuvers around the empty chairs towards the bar and takes a seat beside Portia, hailing the bartender with a finger. "I'll have whatever she's inhaling."
He glances casually around the bar. "I figured there'd be a lot more people here. Isn't that what you do when it's the end of the world as we know it... Drink?" The bartender doesn't have time to set the glass down in front of him before he grabs it and starts drinking. "Not that I've experienced many apocalypses, mind you. It's just a general assumption I've always had."
Reply
She has lived through an apocalypse or two, Chicago-style, and the vacancy in the bar is disturbing. It's like the city knows something she doesn't. Usually it's the other way around. Most of the people she almost considers apocalypse-drinking-buddies at this point aren't anywhere to be seen.
"Damn unsettling."
Reply
Currently he's standing in the hallway between surgeries, looking ill and overstressed, and about to scrub up again, because his work will likely never be done today, and the harder he works, the more people he might actually save, but this is proving to be a bit too much even for his optimistic nature.
It's enough to make a man consider a strategic career move.
Reply
She should be, but she's not. There's a cat sitting beside her, gently cleaning her wounds. Wounds which are rapidly disappearing. She stops crying, seeming surprised, and reaches up to pet the cat's head. He bows, allows the attention for a moment, and then jumps lightly to the next stretcher. There he pauses, rubbing his face. This is extremely tiring.
"Be still," he tells the teenage boy stretched out there. He's swathed in bandages and there's a chunk of his side missing--the dressings are the only thing keeping his organs in place. "You will be all right."
Reply
He's halfway to snatching the cat off the stretcher when he freezes. That girl was dead. He declared her dead just a few minutes ago. Did that cat...?
Gray Raines believes in miracles. You kinda have to, to be a surgeon. You gotta believe that some idiot with a scalpel and a pile of instruments can take someone apart and put them back together.
"....Holy crabapples, you're a Jesus kitty," he surmises, rather eloquently, when he's close enough to Ragnar to get a good look at what he's doing.
Reply
"I have heard this comparison made before. I do not know who Jesus is. I am Ragnar Gustaffson Coeur de Lion. Good evening, sir."
...Or is it morning? He supposes, rather vacantly, that it doesn't really matter.
Reply
He is trying to keep from looking at his watch, yet the face beckons to him, and he looks down in dismay just as a shadow falls over his arm
Alfred Pennyworth did not make it to the hotel in time.
Slowly, he looks up toward the shadow, his face strangely blank. He can only hope that Rachel did not leave the hotel, after all, and wherever Bruce is...he is safe.
Reply
Her mind was made up quickly. She wanted to abide by Alfred's wishes, but the thought of him alone and hurt was too much for her to bear.
Rough nails have been digging into her skin throughout the day, drawing bloody road maps across her arms and legs. It's when the itching stops completely, when the fleas drop dead as if on cue Rachel stops walking.
Dread lodges up her spine and now she isn't walking briskly, she's running, heart thudding painfully in her chest. She needs to make it in time. And then she does, and his face is one of utter shock and in front of him is a scaly beast with really long claws.
"Alfred."
Rachel sounds like the little girl he'd help after a scraped knee. It's only for that moment, however. Then she's swallowing down the panic as she takes a step back, a hand curling around Alfred's wrist before shoving him away.
Reply
Stumbling slightly, he holds on to Rachel, pulling her with him. Stepping forward, he watches as a very large arm raises into the air. He moves in front of her and meets her eyes, horrible sorrow and regret on his face as they are hit.
He feels himself land, hears something snap...perhaps, several somethings. "Rachel." He reaches out to her, pushing at her even as he forces himself up. "Run." His voice holds so many notes, and all of them sing I'm sorry. He is begging her to run.
Reply
They land in glass fragments and Rachel winces as she tries to push herself up, ignoring the glass cutting into her palms.
The gun she'd been carrying is no longer with her. It's at least two hundred feet away from her and she needs to get to it now.
She is so, so sorry Alfred. But Rachel will not listen to you.
"I am not leaving you. I just--we need to distract it long enough to--"
The ground shakes. It's coming towards them again.
Reply
The itching stopped at midnight. He was outside so the fleas and lice landed on the pavement and tumbled into the water. He was outside even when the frogs were still tumbling down from the sky, spending most of it in a restaurant on the corner that tried to turn those frogs into profit. He tried a frog pizza and hasn't been able to eat anything since without getting sick. There are frog shaped bruises littering his body.
On his way back to the hotel, a monster attacked him (of bloody course), and he almost breathed a sigh of relief when it sunk its teeth into his leg, but then some asshole with a shotgun saved his life. Really now. People are dying all over the city. This is getting ridiculous. He has to limp the rest of the way with white blood pouring down his leg and shot-gun asshole ( ... )
Reply
Ruvin herself is covered in bites, scratches and tooth marks that she probably got while doggified in panic after the fifth search of the Conrad.
What if he doesn't come back?
She's almost ready for the tenth plague to just come. For things to be clear, decided, done.
And then Robin walks in, bleeding everywhere. She makes a strangled noise and throws herself off the chair. "Robin!"
Reply
Robin doesn't know why she would have left the hotel, but he tends to assume the worst especially at times like these. And after all, he left. It's not like he can put it past anyone else to do the same for whatever reason.
He should probably say something at this point.
"...Ruvin." Yeah, that was a fabulous intro. He winces at how it sounds coming out of his mouth all relieved and awkward and- "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have... left."
Reply
Ruvin tries to support him as best she can, being shorter and a little off-balance since one of her legs is asleep. "What happened?"
..She asked that already.
Reply
Leave a comment