A brown-haired girl trotted along merrily, collecting dandelions from her front lawn while her parents lazed on the porch. "Hey, Lizzie!" taunted a boy. He rounded the corner and stood next to her. His fattened face was red with a sprinkling of menacing freckles about the corners of his lips and his nostrils. Sweat dripped from his head, and the stench rolled off of him in waves. Yep, this was definitely cousin Brian.
"Whatcha want, Brian?" she asked, in a singsong voice. "Wanna pick f'owers with me?"
He sneered at her, looking almost like a pig. She giggled. "Only babies pick flowers!"
She stared down at her feet. "Oh."
Almost secretively, he leaned in, his eyes furtively darting to and fro. She took a deep breath and held it as he moved closer. "Want to play a big kid game, Lizzie?" She dropped her flowers and skipped around him.
"Sure!"
"Okay. You have to come with me, okay?" He grasped her hand sharply and tugged on her wrist. She tripped forward. He laughed. "Mom!" A bellow, almost like a grunt. "Me and Lizzie are going to go play with Steve, okay?" His mother nodded in the affirmative.
They all ran into the house and up to the second floor. "Let's go up to the attic, Lizzie."
Her eyes widened like saucers and stared up at the monstrous staircase in fear. "No."
"Come on, Lizzie. Big kids play up in the attic." He grabbed her hand again and led her up the stairs. When he opened the attic door, dust and darkness greeted them. She coughed.
"Hey, man, this is gross. What do you have up here, your grandma?" They both laughed. She looked confused.
"I don't get it."
Brian sighed. "It's a big kid joke, Lizzie."
"Oh."
He smiled, almost like an alligator in its charisma. "Come on, Lizzie. Over here. There's something I want to show you." And there, in the corner, amidst all the dust and the dark was a tiny door, just about her height. "You want to hear a story, Lizzie?"
She bounced up and down and giggled. "A story, a story! Yay!"
"Okay. My mom says that there used to be a family that lived here, the Roberts. One night, on Halloween, at midnight, they were cooking dinner when they heard a loud noise from the living room. There was a loud screech. Mrs. Roberts went to go see, but there was this great fluttering noise, and then all they heard was her scream. Then the bats came flying into the kitchen and they killed the rest of the family. Well, the bats turned out to be vampire bats. It was this other family that had wanted the house. So they say that the Roberts ghosts' haunt this house, you know. But when the vampires had gone to kill the Roberts, they lost track of time, and the sun came up. And they screamed and screamed when the light hit them, burning to ashes. They say they were standing right here. That's what all this dust is." She gasped and her eyes opened wide in fascination. He looked at his friend and grinned. "And we're going to play a game."
"Uh-huh?" He grabbed her hand again and they all went into the little room. The two bigger boys were stooping, but she fit in the tiny room perfectly. The room was so small. It was barely big enough to fit her.
"One--"
"What you countin' for, Brian?"
"Two--"
"Brian?" A deep sense of foreboding filled her heart.
"Three!" The two boys burst out of the room and slammed the door shut. She wailed.
"Brian! Brian! Brian, don't leave me here with the ghosts and the 'pires! Brian!" She was absolutely terrified. And he went downstairs and played Monopoly.
"Brian!" bellowed his father. "Brian, your aunt wants to know where Elizabeth is." His eyes widened.
"We locked her in the room!"
"What?!"
They sprinted up the stairs to the attic, and pulled the door open to find her. A shivering mess in a red dress. Lying on her side in the little room, crying and shaking, terrified. As soon as the door opened, she sprinted out and clasped onto her mother. "Don't leave me with the ghosts and the 'pires, Mommy! Don't leave me!"
Elizabeth awoke with a start--thwack!--and immediately bumped her head. She groaned, attempting to open her eyes with great difficulty. Her vision was blurred and her throat was dry, and it was hot. Her head lolled against the hard floor. She tried to stretch. And that's when she felt it. A cold dread washed over her.
Oh, no. Please, please, God, no.
The only sound he hears in the woods is the crackle of static, and he rolls his eyes in annoyance. His only shot at this, all of his training, does not compensate for the intense eagerness of a one Rodney McKay.
There's something mournful in the static, he thinks.
"What is it, Rodney?" he barks out, gruffly.
"Something's happened." Rodney's voice is strangely emotionless. "We need to go back." There are times when Rodney scares him, and then there are times when Rodney scares him, and this is one of the latter. So he takes his team and they head back to the gate, dial home, and step into the rippling warmth.
He arrives back home to know that something's gone wrong. Zelenka is the first to speak.
"Dr. Weir's gone," he says, the accent curling around his words.
He wrinkles his brows in confusion. "Gone? What do you mean, gone? Like stepped out on the balcony for a mug of coffee, gone?" Zelenka shakes his head.
"Dr. Zelenka!" An indistinguishable brown head pops up in the masses, and Zelenka turns around. "We've got something!"
"Patch it through." And the room is filled with the sound of anxiety and bated breath and typing. The characters scroll on the screen, and his eyes flit from Zelenka to the screen to the floor to Rodney.
"Translate it." This is not a time to mince words.
Her breathing is shallow and frenzied, and she's trying to calm down. She's trying. Her eyes are closed and her thoughts are jumbled, but she can't get the idea out. The Lord's prayer tumbles from her brain, though she hasn't recited it in years. But her bare feet press up against the bottom and her hips are pressed uncomfortably against the sides, and she feels like she's going to die.
Oh, god. Don't think about dying. Too late. Maybe in more ways than one.
Fifteen minutes later and there's another crackle of static. Zelenka's calling him down to the room again. They've translated the text.
"We have--" Zelenka begins to read it, but is interrupted by another crackle. He types away, the keys clacking away offensively. "...it's a video feed." He clacks away again and the video file plays.
The lights blaze on and she's hotter than before. She turns restlessly.
He looks at her form, never stationary. Her breathing is frenzied and shallow, and she finally stops, closing her eyes in an effort to calm herself down.
"I think I know what the message is," he says.
Zelenka still feels the need to read it. "We have your leader."
"That was obvious."
"We shall contact you soon with instructions."
John Sheppard furrows his brows again. "Instructions? What is this, a ransom thing?" Zelenka shakes his head. "Play it again."
"Colonel Sheppard--"
"Play it again." There's a blustering force behind his words so he follows the man's instructions.
This time, the camera has a different angle, and he can see her face. Her eyes are so full of fear. Her eyes flutter closed for a second, and he can almost feel his own throat closing in fear. A guttural sound emerges from her throat, and he sees the tiniest glimmer, the tiniest sparkle.
Like a rare jewel, a tear tracks its way down her cheek. And the camera catches it all.
It's like a movie. So much like a movie.
He feels the weight of Rodney's hand on his shoulder.
"We're going to get her back," he says, forcefully. Almost too forcefully. Maybe he just wants to believe that.
He closes his own eyes briefly and simply feels his temples pulsing, his lungs expanding and retracting, and the blood rushing through his veins.
His eyes open to face the quickly emptying room. "This is going to be the biggest Hail Mary of all." And there's a weight of promise in his whisper that's rapidly floating across the room.
So he takes a seat. And hits the button again.