Post by Grimm on Jan 12, 2021 13:52:42 GMT -5
They’d cut the trolling motor miles ago, and now they pulled in the oars save for the occasional dip for slight course corrections. Silence was of the utmost importance, and became ever more so the closer they got to their destination. The inflatable raft glided down the river until, with the help of the previously mentioned dips of the oars, slipped through eddies until it came to rest on the bank. The figure up front – the shorter, stockier one – stepped out and took up a rope from the bottom of the raft, then tethered it to the branches of a tree that hung over the water. The other two stepped out in turn. They were of a similar build, taller and leaner than the first, and all three were dressed in black with shades of black and gray smudged across their faces. The only other defining characteristic was the long gun slung across the back of one of them, and it was this one who cast glances at the tree as they collected themselves.
Having done so, the trio picked its way through the brush, sidestepping and clambering over the flotsam and jetsam littering the bank from ages of floods. It was no easy task, but they managed it with a shocking lack of stumbling and crashing. These were professionals, and no mistake.
They emerged into a clearing. A floodplain when the river was at its highest, the ground shone with glimmers of rime under the gaze of the hunger moon. Their breath plumed out and drifted off towards that very moon. Seasonably appropriate attire or not, tactical gear and all, it was cold.
“Right. Remember our orders. We’re here to observe. We’re not to engage anyone,” said the shorter of the three. Clearly, this was the Commander of the operation.
The one with the gun pulled it free and cradled it across his chest. “Unless they engage us first.”
The Commander’s eyes narrowed as he looked across the field. “If we do our job correctly, no one will even know we’re here. That’s what all the training was for. Don’t forget it.” He waved his hand, and the third member of the expedition stepped forward. The frozen ground crunched beneath his boots. He turned his head to the right and the left, looked back at the river, up at the moon, then nodded. He pointed towards the southwest and began walking. The others followed.
They walked up what amounted to a gradual incline until arriving at a line of trees. The Navigator stopped and held up a hand. He cast about again, back in the direction they had come and up at that moon. Something cracked, and in a flash the Sharpshooter brought the gun up to his shoulder. The Commander put his hand on the barrel and pushed it down.
“Stand down, it’s just a branch snapping. This cold makes all sorts of noises.”
“Maybe. Maybe not. They say he’s the very embodiment of this land. They say that even in Hangtown he’s the boogeyman. That he’s done unspeakable things inside this place and beyond its limits in the great wide world. That between him and his brother and those two witches…”
“They say, do they? That’s just his sister and…whatever that old woman is to them. You’ve been reading too many stories. He’s just a man. They’re just people.”
“They’re not stories. That’s from the very archives of the Hand itself. He can see our faults and our weaknesses, and we’d best give that devil his due or else…”
“Or else nothing. It’s a bunch of fairy tales, is what it is.”
The Commander turned his attention from the Sharpshooter to the Navigator.
“How close are we?”
The Navigator stuck his finger in his mouth then held it up in the air. He pointed to a spot between two poplar trees.
“Right through here and just a little further.”
“I still don’t understand why we don’t have any maps.”
The Navigator motioned them through. “Because, one, these places aren’t on any maps. And, two, we couldn’t see them without some kind of flashlight and the last thing we want is to draw attention to ourselves.”
They walked through the trees and up another rise. This led them to one final flat expanse before the hills rose out of the dark. With another raising of the hand the Navigator stopped them about 100 yards from those hills.
“It’s supposed to be right here.”
The Commander stood beside him.
“Are your ears ringing, too?”
“Yes.”
“And I’m not the only one seeing this, am I?”
“Affirmative.”
Were it not the deepest part of winter they could have written the lights off as fireflies. But it was the deepest part of winter, and so the lights blinking in and out of the edges of their eyesight were something else.
Simple tricks of the eye? Ghost particles? Malevolent creatures from the fairy realm out to steal their souls?
*shrug*
When the lights were at their brightest, the reconnaissance team detected a waver in the distance as if summer shimmered off an asphalt road, But, again, that was clearly not the case.
The Sharpshooter moved to the other side of the Navigator.
“We’re not even supposed to be able to find this place without their permission, right? Maybe this is the best we can do.”
The Navigator considered unpacking his night vision goggles, but decided those would be of little use here. He tracked the lights with his eyes.
“By all accounts the access has not been shut off. The old agreements should still be in affect.”
The Sharpshooter tightened his grip on the gun. “Uh huh. Maybe that’s because they want us stumbling into their midst.”
Without a word, the three of them maneuvered such that they stood with their backs to one another. They had settled in an open field. There was not so much as a bale of hay or bundle of cornstalks to creep behind. And yet, they each watched shadows flit in and out of their fields of vision.
“What else did those archives says?” said the Commander.
The Sharpshooter strained to peer through the gloom. “Well…there was an incident where the old woman used some kind of potent fungus native only to Hangtown to drive that Wryght fellow out of his skull. It supposedly grows over the entire area. Like, right under our feet. Maybe they’re using it as some kind of barrier or something. Seems like that would be right up that old crone’s alley.”
A few frigid breaths.
“What do you suggest now?”
“He’s gone,” said the Navigator.
“What?” The Sharpshooter stepped out of formation and whirled around. It was just the two of them.
“…how?”
The Navigator shrugged. “I have no idea. There’s apparently more to your archive research than my GIS work and pinpointing locations have to show for themselves.” A sigh. “And I don’t see us going home anymore.”
“You’re awfully calm, all things considered,” said the Sharpshooter as he raised the gun to his shoulder and began sighting random empty spaces around him. “I say we make a run for it. Run for the raft and don’t look back.”
Turning around, he saw that the Navigator was, of course, gone now, too. The Sharpshooter slowly lowered the gun. It would do him no good here.
He closed his eyes and waited. Faces of people he’d probably never see again flashed by like so many phosphenes. The tighter he scrunched, the clearer they became. He jumped only when he felt someone breathing in his ear.
And then…
Phinehas leaned against the remains of an iron furnace. All crumbled stone, like the remnants of a watchtower set incongruously there in the depths of the hills. He looked in, squinting against that weird winter light that skewed so much despite the Longest Night having passed back in December. He looked in at the three figures sitting with their backs against the far wall. Phinehas knew he had a decision to make in regards to what to do with these interlopers. How much leniency would be too much given the circumstances – Phinehas Dillinger / Grimm / The Hangtown Horror / The Lord of Misrule / The Abomination of Desolation / Etc., might be a boogeyman, maybe even a monster, but he was no cold-blooded murderer.
Even as he stood there in the half-light pondering this, that, and the other, Phinehas recognized that at its most fundamental essence, the emphasis should be on keeping his wits about him. Between the specter of those that wished him ill, much like these three and their ilk, and his efforts dismantling the system that brought these trespassers here – his home – with that on top of something of an epic match quickly approaching at the Tenth Anniversary Trauma, well…one misstep and he shall be ruined in more ways than one. Perhaps for all time.
He’d been here before, looking at a captive. Back when his main concern was the balancing act between the Black Hand and the Chronological Order and the Watchmen. That seemed like a lifetime ago. Now, other than, well, this, Phinehas stared down a milestone of an event, and after that…no one knew. There were rumors, certainly, but there were always rumors. He preferred to deal in facts, and the fact was he would be stepping into the ring with Gerard Angelo, Holden Ross, Texas Tim, and Razor Blade. They’d be attempting to eliminate one another for an opportunity to…again, no one knew at this point. It was a motley crew, no doubt, and in one way or another they had each shown what they were, and who they were during their stints in Pure Class Wrestling. Phinehas could go down the list but what would be the point? It wouldn’t serve any purpose other than to convince himself that he would be sufficient to the task, and how many times must he lay out that case before it was accepted by all? And in what world did it really matter what people thought about such things…the proof was in the pudding. Grimm had proved himself more often than not, more than any of them.
The Man Without Peer. The Human Wrecking Ball. Mr. ‘T is for Texas.’ The Big Dog.
What would they expect to happen, really, if they were all honest with themselves for once? Records being what they were, and history being what it was, and all that. Their precious singularities diluted by the inevitable shortcomings and failures.
Phinehas watched the shadow of a feeble sun creep across his guests. He’d have to do something or they’d catch their death of cold. His breath, along with their shallow exhales, drifted up and out like the fumes back when this furnace burned away the dross in full vigor. Burned with mounds of wood and charcoal and smoke. It had been a monument to industry and hubris and fire and iron. Now...nothing more than stones falling in upon themselves.
Sure, there had been surprises and shock in the past. But what more could be expected of them, save for minor variations on their respective themes? On those themes they’d established in some form or other over the past ten years, if not longer. Surprise entrants, maybe, but then again: been there, done that. Such ‘surprises’ had always fallen in line with the rest of the rank and file until they’d left for whatever reasons. Hoping for a new start, they soon fell back into familiar patterns. It was a tale as old as time. And time might very well be up.
But…BUT…they each wanted to win. Otherwise, they wouldn’t all still be here.
So let’s see what happens.
Over the hills, down by the river, a train juddered, steel wheels squealing against the tracks. The sound, carried on the cold. Phinehas could almost feel the ground shudder there in the furnace.
Flakes fell, even now, as he squatted in front of the three guests. He watched their eyes twitch beneath their lids. Looked closer to trace the faint blue contrails of veins, and the slivers of white darting to and fro beneath. Phinehas leaned in close.
“Here’s what you’re going to think you remember, and what you’ll tell anyone who asks…”
Having done so, the trio picked its way through the brush, sidestepping and clambering over the flotsam and jetsam littering the bank from ages of floods. It was no easy task, but they managed it with a shocking lack of stumbling and crashing. These were professionals, and no mistake.
They emerged into a clearing. A floodplain when the river was at its highest, the ground shone with glimmers of rime under the gaze of the hunger moon. Their breath plumed out and drifted off towards that very moon. Seasonably appropriate attire or not, tactical gear and all, it was cold.
“Right. Remember our orders. We’re here to observe. We’re not to engage anyone,” said the shorter of the three. Clearly, this was the Commander of the operation.
The one with the gun pulled it free and cradled it across his chest. “Unless they engage us first.”
The Commander’s eyes narrowed as he looked across the field. “If we do our job correctly, no one will even know we’re here. That’s what all the training was for. Don’t forget it.” He waved his hand, and the third member of the expedition stepped forward. The frozen ground crunched beneath his boots. He turned his head to the right and the left, looked back at the river, up at the moon, then nodded. He pointed towards the southwest and began walking. The others followed.
They walked up what amounted to a gradual incline until arriving at a line of trees. The Navigator stopped and held up a hand. He cast about again, back in the direction they had come and up at that moon. Something cracked, and in a flash the Sharpshooter brought the gun up to his shoulder. The Commander put his hand on the barrel and pushed it down.
“Stand down, it’s just a branch snapping. This cold makes all sorts of noises.”
“Maybe. Maybe not. They say he’s the very embodiment of this land. They say that even in Hangtown he’s the boogeyman. That he’s done unspeakable things inside this place and beyond its limits in the great wide world. That between him and his brother and those two witches…”
“They say, do they? That’s just his sister and…whatever that old woman is to them. You’ve been reading too many stories. He’s just a man. They’re just people.”
“They’re not stories. That’s from the very archives of the Hand itself. He can see our faults and our weaknesses, and we’d best give that devil his due or else…”
“Or else nothing. It’s a bunch of fairy tales, is what it is.”
The Commander turned his attention from the Sharpshooter to the Navigator.
“How close are we?”
The Navigator stuck his finger in his mouth then held it up in the air. He pointed to a spot between two poplar trees.
“Right through here and just a little further.”
“I still don’t understand why we don’t have any maps.”
The Navigator motioned them through. “Because, one, these places aren’t on any maps. And, two, we couldn’t see them without some kind of flashlight and the last thing we want is to draw attention to ourselves.”
They walked through the trees and up another rise. This led them to one final flat expanse before the hills rose out of the dark. With another raising of the hand the Navigator stopped them about 100 yards from those hills.
“It’s supposed to be right here.”
The Commander stood beside him.
“Are your ears ringing, too?”
“Yes.”
“And I’m not the only one seeing this, am I?”
“Affirmative.”
Were it not the deepest part of winter they could have written the lights off as fireflies. But it was the deepest part of winter, and so the lights blinking in and out of the edges of their eyesight were something else.
Simple tricks of the eye? Ghost particles? Malevolent creatures from the fairy realm out to steal their souls?
*shrug*
When the lights were at their brightest, the reconnaissance team detected a waver in the distance as if summer shimmered off an asphalt road, But, again, that was clearly not the case.
The Sharpshooter moved to the other side of the Navigator.
“We’re not even supposed to be able to find this place without their permission, right? Maybe this is the best we can do.”
The Navigator considered unpacking his night vision goggles, but decided those would be of little use here. He tracked the lights with his eyes.
“By all accounts the access has not been shut off. The old agreements should still be in affect.”
The Sharpshooter tightened his grip on the gun. “Uh huh. Maybe that’s because they want us stumbling into their midst.”
Without a word, the three of them maneuvered such that they stood with their backs to one another. They had settled in an open field. There was not so much as a bale of hay or bundle of cornstalks to creep behind. And yet, they each watched shadows flit in and out of their fields of vision.
“What else did those archives says?” said the Commander.
The Sharpshooter strained to peer through the gloom. “Well…there was an incident where the old woman used some kind of potent fungus native only to Hangtown to drive that Wryght fellow out of his skull. It supposedly grows over the entire area. Like, right under our feet. Maybe they’re using it as some kind of barrier or something. Seems like that would be right up that old crone’s alley.”
A few frigid breaths.
“What do you suggest now?”
“He’s gone,” said the Navigator.
“What?” The Sharpshooter stepped out of formation and whirled around. It was just the two of them.
“…how?”
The Navigator shrugged. “I have no idea. There’s apparently more to your archive research than my GIS work and pinpointing locations have to show for themselves.” A sigh. “And I don’t see us going home anymore.”
“You’re awfully calm, all things considered,” said the Sharpshooter as he raised the gun to his shoulder and began sighting random empty spaces around him. “I say we make a run for it. Run for the raft and don’t look back.”
Turning around, he saw that the Navigator was, of course, gone now, too. The Sharpshooter slowly lowered the gun. It would do him no good here.
He closed his eyes and waited. Faces of people he’d probably never see again flashed by like so many phosphenes. The tighter he scrunched, the clearer they became. He jumped only when he felt someone breathing in his ear.
And then…
Phinehas leaned against the remains of an iron furnace. All crumbled stone, like the remnants of a watchtower set incongruously there in the depths of the hills. He looked in, squinting against that weird winter light that skewed so much despite the Longest Night having passed back in December. He looked in at the three figures sitting with their backs against the far wall. Phinehas knew he had a decision to make in regards to what to do with these interlopers. How much leniency would be too much given the circumstances – Phinehas Dillinger / Grimm / The Hangtown Horror / The Lord of Misrule / The Abomination of Desolation / Etc., might be a boogeyman, maybe even a monster, but he was no cold-blooded murderer.
Even as he stood there in the half-light pondering this, that, and the other, Phinehas recognized that at its most fundamental essence, the emphasis should be on keeping his wits about him. Between the specter of those that wished him ill, much like these three and their ilk, and his efforts dismantling the system that brought these trespassers here – his home – with that on top of something of an epic match quickly approaching at the Tenth Anniversary Trauma, well…one misstep and he shall be ruined in more ways than one. Perhaps for all time.
He’d been here before, looking at a captive. Back when his main concern was the balancing act between the Black Hand and the Chronological Order and the Watchmen. That seemed like a lifetime ago. Now, other than, well, this, Phinehas stared down a milestone of an event, and after that…no one knew. There were rumors, certainly, but there were always rumors. He preferred to deal in facts, and the fact was he would be stepping into the ring with Gerard Angelo, Holden Ross, Texas Tim, and Razor Blade. They’d be attempting to eliminate one another for an opportunity to…again, no one knew at this point. It was a motley crew, no doubt, and in one way or another they had each shown what they were, and who they were during their stints in Pure Class Wrestling. Phinehas could go down the list but what would be the point? It wouldn’t serve any purpose other than to convince himself that he would be sufficient to the task, and how many times must he lay out that case before it was accepted by all? And in what world did it really matter what people thought about such things…the proof was in the pudding. Grimm had proved himself more often than not, more than any of them.
The Man Without Peer. The Human Wrecking Ball. Mr. ‘T is for Texas.’ The Big Dog.
What would they expect to happen, really, if they were all honest with themselves for once? Records being what they were, and history being what it was, and all that. Their precious singularities diluted by the inevitable shortcomings and failures.
Phinehas watched the shadow of a feeble sun creep across his guests. He’d have to do something or they’d catch their death of cold. His breath, along with their shallow exhales, drifted up and out like the fumes back when this furnace burned away the dross in full vigor. Burned with mounds of wood and charcoal and smoke. It had been a monument to industry and hubris and fire and iron. Now...nothing more than stones falling in upon themselves.
Sure, there had been surprises and shock in the past. But what more could be expected of them, save for minor variations on their respective themes? On those themes they’d established in some form or other over the past ten years, if not longer. Surprise entrants, maybe, but then again: been there, done that. Such ‘surprises’ had always fallen in line with the rest of the rank and file until they’d left for whatever reasons. Hoping for a new start, they soon fell back into familiar patterns. It was a tale as old as time. And time might very well be up.
But…BUT…they each wanted to win. Otherwise, they wouldn’t all still be here.
So let’s see what happens.
Over the hills, down by the river, a train juddered, steel wheels squealing against the tracks. The sound, carried on the cold. Phinehas could almost feel the ground shudder there in the furnace.
Flakes fell, even now, as he squatted in front of the three guests. He watched their eyes twitch beneath their lids. Looked closer to trace the faint blue contrails of veins, and the slivers of white darting to and fro beneath. Phinehas leaned in close.
“Here’s what you’re going to think you remember, and what you’ll tell anyone who asks…”
