For all that he'd packed an entire arsenal in the trunk of his car, he only planned on bringing a minute fraction of it with him into the hospital. (Mainly, he packed heavy in case he either met with a large group in need to ordnance, or had something following after him on the way out.) Ultimately, what he took with him was his usual pair of pistols, one of the Tommy guns, and several magazines for each in suit coat and trenchcoat, along with a knife and a flashlight. A good load of firepower without weighing him down
( ... )
When he sits up, Locke also feels a conspicuous lack of weight where there were weapons before. No knife, no handgun... and yet neither his hands nor his feet are bound, he feels no wound pain, and rubbing a hand over the back of his head just yields mildew and sticky gunk from the floor. "How....?" An incredibly incompetent mugging? But that still doesn't answer how an unknown assailant not only snuck up on a seasoned tracker, but also cleanly rendered him unconscious, to say nothing of how his well-trained, maybe even better-trained, companion fared no better. John Smith appears similarly taken aback, though at least he also looks similarly unhurt upon cursory inspection.
Dammit, this can't be how it was supposed to go. His stomach sinks at the thought. Locke quickly pulls himself up to one knee, surveying their dim surroundings with wide eyes struggling to adjust to the light. He can't even pinpoint where that hideous stink might be coming from; the whole room reeks right up to high heaven. "What's your status?" he
Awake now, Smith rolls to his feet, not quite in one motion but pretty close. (He hadn't lost much in the years between the Great War and Jericho, and even less since then, thanks to his slowed aging.) He looks about quickly, to see if maybe his gear had just fallen out and landed nearby, but is disappointed.
"Unarmed, but unhurt. You?"
His eyesight adapts pretty well as he looks about. Being already fully on his feet, he sees the dangling corpse. No matter his acclimation to death, the stench of it gives even his stomach the tiniest of flips.
He pats his waist and the small of his back just to be sure. Yep, no weapons. Empty holster and empty sheath. "Same. Did you see anyth...?" But then Locke looks up. Mother of God... Luckily, given the lady's unfortunate circumstances, he doesn't air that curse aloud. He's instantly on his feet, but that's the end of springing into action. It's quite plain quite quickly that there's going to be no helping this poor soul; the woman suspended from the ceiling is already a corpse
( ... )
Smith follows Mr. Locke through the door, but on reaching the other side, it's apparent that the other man is nowhere to be seen, and the room is by no means large enough to have afforded him the chance to hide. Because... Locke is so very much the sort of person to play hide and seek in an evil hospital. Yes, John, that's it exactly.
"--breath. Great."
Just to punctuate things, the door finishes closing behind him, with a definite click that indicates... yes, in fact, the door is locked. He considers trying to see if he can either use the bone saw to unlock the door like a credit card, but the flickering of light behind him gives him pause, and he turns around to take stock of... wherever he was
( ... )
And that was when they found the fields. They'd all been plowed flat, with nothing growing on them. According to the records, the location was chosen entirely for the size of its buildings and the ready availability of people in the town
( ... )
Suddenly and soundlessly, all the screens flicker to life, and the room is lit with the low jumping light of a wall full of static. It's with a mixture of dread and fascination that Locke slowly approaches the console, the fall of his footsteps echoing in spite of the small space. He should ignore this until he's got the door open, work on re-establishing contact with John Smith, but... Antinora seems to have something it wants to say, and Locke wants to listen
( ... )
When it resolves to yield a coherent picture, Locke's hands curl and his whole face goes slack. It looks like security camera footage all right, shot from the corner of a bleak white room's ceiling.
"I'm sorry, but he could be anywhere in the world right now." It's Mason... How could she be on this thing? And worse yet, Kincaid walks onscreen, young and energetic, and opens the blinds on the windows. "All right detectives, that's enough. Mr. Locke has work to do today." The police file out with their regrets, though the bruised and bandaged patient has said nothing, too despondent to even turn his head to look at them. "John, John, John. We have got ourselves quite a day ahead of us my friend. It's a fine time to get you up out of that bed
( ... )
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Dammit, this can't be how it was supposed to go. His stomach sinks at the thought. Locke quickly pulls himself up to one knee, surveying their dim surroundings with wide eyes struggling to adjust to the light. He can't even pinpoint where that hideous stink might be coming from; the whole room reeks right up to high heaven. "What's your status?" he
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"Unarmed, but unhurt. You?"
His eyesight adapts pretty well as he looks about. Being already fully on his feet, he sees the dangling corpse. No matter his acclimation to death, the stench of it gives even his stomach the tiniest of flips.
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Smith follows Mr. Locke through the door, but on reaching the other side, it's apparent that the other man is nowhere to be seen, and the room is by no means large enough to have afforded him the chance to hide. Because... Locke is so very much the sort of person to play hide and seek in an evil hospital. Yes, John, that's it exactly.
"--breath. Great."
Just to punctuate things, the door finishes closing behind him, with a definite click that indicates... yes, in fact, the door is locked. He considers trying to see if he can either use the bone saw to unlock the door like a credit card, but the flickering of light behind him gives him pause, and he turns around to take stock of... wherever he was ( ... )
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"I'm sorry, but he could be anywhere in the world right now." It's Mason... How could she be on this thing? And worse yet, Kincaid walks onscreen, young and energetic, and opens the blinds on the windows. "All right detectives, that's enough. Mr. Locke has work to do today." The police file out with their regrets, though the bruised and bandaged patient has said nothing, too despondent to even turn his head to look at them. "John, John, John. We have got ourselves quite a day ahead of us my friend. It's a fine time to get you up out of that bed ( ... )
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