Author: LadyNRA
Fandom: Tremors – The Series
TEAM: Twitchell/Burt
RATING: Bordering on PG-13 (some tame sensuality)
ARCHIVE: Lemme know if that's what you want to do
DISCLAIMER: Thanks to Universal Studios and Stampede Entertainment, as well as the SciFi Channel for the creation of various aspects of Tremors. They own the characters, not me. To coin a phrase from a fellow fanfic writer, "I'm just playing with 'em, and I'm not making money off of 'em, so there's no need to sic the litigators on me.
AUTHOR'S NOTE: First, this story started with a challenge. I had jokingly told a fellow fan that I could write a romance scene for just about any character and she basically dared me to do it. Once that was done, I decided to follow up with a full story, ending the story somewhere around 2003. Second, the following story is a no-brainer. Really. For you purists out there who love the tech info about guns and military strategy, this story isn't going to fit the bill. It is, pure and simple, a light-hearted romp through the Tremors universe (with some very serious moments thrown in). So if you are entering "my" version of Perfection this day, you will find things a bit less obsessive (even for me) than normal. I ask only that you read it for fun, not to figure out ways for Burt to handle the situation better. Thanks to Shadoe, my beta – reader. Any mistakes are mine.
NATURE FINDS A WAY
Ravenous hunger…voracious…driving…a pulse-pounding need to feed drove a creature on through the night, despite the equally overwhelming sensation of pain which screamed constantly for relief. Blood continued to ooze from several wounds in its legs, droplets flowing downward with each step it took. It paused, raising one leg toward its mouth, licking off its own bodily fluids, growling demonically as its mind sensed the white heat of pain this action produced. Its primitive instincts battled with one another, rest versus food, until hunger won out, and it once more went in search of prey.
Moonlight, filtering through a few errant clouds, drifted downward, blanketing the earth beneath. The light skipped and danced over trees and paved streets, hopping over shadows, rooftop to rooftop, in the sleepy town of Bixby, Nevada. Normally bustling during the daylight hours, this growing community was spreading out like ivy, healthy and vibrant despite the desert terrain surrounding it. Careful planning by wise zoning committees had seen that the town prospered without outgrowing its own local resources, namely water and power.
On the northeast side of Bixby, lay the Briarwood Subdivision. It was clearly not an affluent community, but neither was it a poor one. Almost identical in the moonlight, each abode was neatly designed, spacious…a not-so-subtle beacon of middle class mediocrity. But, for Bixby, it was one of the more desirable areas to live. Good schools, close to shopping, close to the community hospital and county offices, all led to its desirability. As developer Melvin Plug had told prospective buyers when the community was nothing but a mess of framing on foundations dotting the barren landscape … "Location, location, location."
Not far above the roof tops, flitting through the branches of the few trees large enough to provide shade, a bat hunted its dinner. Spying a particularly fat and juicy moth, the flying creature darted forward. The moth was fluttering down toward the lights below, emanating from a break in the curtain of a sliding glass door. The bat drove forward on membranous wings. Then its sonar detected the window that weak eyes couldn't possibly see; and it veered off, physically offended by the muted incandescent light flashing into its eyes.
Inside the house, a TV played some movie, without an audience. A husband, dressed in maroon silk pajamas, and his wife, similarly dressed in gold to match her eyes, walked down the hall, and slowly, quietly opened the door to a room decorated with a wide variety of sports paraphernalia and posters.
It was a typical room for an eight year old boy, toys and Game Cube discs still where they'd been dropped, clothes strewn everywhere. Softly, the mother sighed. She'd been through the routine more times than she could count. Once their energetic son made his mad dash for the school bus in the morning, she'd be in there picking everything up once again. Together, two heads leaned in to make sure their blond-haired cherub was soundly asleep. After expending all the energy he usually did during the day, it was no surprise to either parent that the boy was practically comatose and didn't stir even when the woman planted a soft kiss on his brow.
The husband's smile flashed at her through the semi darkness. It made his whole countenance light up, and the sight put an instant grin on her face. Together, hand in hand, like young lovers rather than the long-married couple they actually were, they walked into the den, and turned the volume on the TV down a notch.
Not letting go of her hand, the husband sat down first, settling back into the soft cushions with a loud sigh until he was comfortable, then gently pulled his wife forward. Carefully, she sat crossways in his lap, legs extending out on the couch. She settled back against her husband's left arm, which was resting atop the arm of the couch, until she felt that hand settle onto her shoulder.
For a few moments, in quiet voices, they talked about events that couldn't be mentioned in front of their son, as his fingertips lightly stroked her shoulder and the nape of her neck where chestnut curls fanned outward, cascading over his hand. As he kneaded the day's tension from her muscles, she tilted her head back slightly, and leaned into his upper body. Shifting slightly, she slid closer still, laying her head on his upper chest, and sighing at the pleasure of his touch. For a few moments, eyes closed, she listened to the distant, muffled sound of his heartbeat and relaxed at its soothing familiarity.
A hand gently cupped her cheek, drawing her head back, while his thumb stroked her supple, satiny skin. Slowly, she opened her eyes, and gazed into those of her husband…a beautiful shade of green, she thought to herself for at least the thousandth time. His gaze locked on her for but a moment, before his head dipped, and his lips touched hers in a kiss that was brief and perhaps a bit playful. That one caress was followed in quick succession by several others just like it, from one corner of her mouth to the other, then the tip of her nose, and both closed eyelids, until he had her giggling.
"Ah, so it's going to be like that, is it?" She asked with a grin that was quickly smothered by another quick kiss.
"Mmm," came the noncommittal response, as his mouth left a fiery trail across her cheek, over her jaw, and down to the hollow of her neck just below one delicate earlobe.
Slowly, her hand tenderly brushed his cheek, then she moved his head back so that their lips could meet again. This time, the embrace turned more ardent, deepening, long and sweet, driving her pulse into a slow gallop.
As they kissed, one long-fingered, almost delicate hand, reached out to stroke the line of his jaw. Her index finger traced it's way from his chin, down his neck, through the hairs that curled out above the material, and onto the first button of his shirt, which she opened quickly. And then on down to the next button which yielded just as easily. With nothing barring her hand anymore, she slid her fingers along the plane of his chest, enjoying the sensation of silky hair and warm skin beneath her fingertips. Playfully, she traced little circles on his skin with her well-manicured nails, until she felt his breath quicken.
His free hand, which had previously been stroking her side, slid beneath the top she wore, over her ribs, and higher still, touching her in that experienced way that made her forget everything but the motion of his skilled fingers and the pressure of his mouth on hers. Reflexively, she arched her body into that hand, moaning softly in anticipation.
In the next moment, a cannon blast of sound ripped through her, and the world exploded in stars before her closed eyelids, as activity not of their own making surged in through their kitchen door.
A male voice, harsh, yet oddly melodic at the same time, boomed, "Twitchell, we need to talk…now!"
Another voice, somewhat western in its easy drawling style, cut in, "Uh, Burt, I told you, you really gotta learn to knock first, cuz…!"
The man and woman sitting on the couch, locked in what would soon have been a very passionate embrace, literally jumped off the couch. Or to be more accurate, the man, jumped, and the woman just plain flew off, landing in a heap at his feet.
Torn between the desire to strangle the two men who had just barged in on them and the instinctive need to help his wife, W. D. Twitchell got momentarily tangled up in her legs, and in a vain effort to keep from hurting her, nevertheless ended up in the very position they probably would have ended up in had they not been so rudely interrupted.
"Walter, this wasn't exactly what I had in mind a few moments ago," his wife said softly, staring into his green eyes with an intensity that said he was in serious trouble if he didn't deal with the intruders immediately.
"That does it!" Twitchell growled as he struggled to rise in as dignified a manner as possible under the circumstances, but the woman, lying beneath him, had already noted the growing fury in his eyes. Not wanting to see her husband's name in the local paper associated with the words 'assault and battery', she grabbed him by the lapels of his pajama top, and said in a curious tone of voice, "That them?"
"Oh yah," he said, voice oozing sarcasm and gaining in volume and pitch with each word, "That's them all right And I'm gonna freakin' kill 'em both as soon as you let me up!"
By this point, he had managed to get up on all fours, but "Mrs. Twitchell", after seeing still greater anger in his expression, had no intention of releasing him just yet. From that undignified position, both husband and wife looked at their guests.
The tall, thin man, armed to the teeth, and dressed in desert camos, didn't bat an eyelash at what he'd just done, as if he was totally oblivious to their discomfort. The other fellow, dark haired, handsome, well-built, thrust his hands out in an expansive shrug.
"Let me guess," she said as she finally released her husband who was slowly getting to his feet. Still laying on the floor in casual repose, she crossed her legs, and placed both hands behind her head. "The guy with the gun and no sense of propriety is Burt Gummer? Right?"
"Yes, and I'm gonna take that gun and ram a 'sense of propriety' right up his…"
"Be nice, Walt," his wife cut him off, and continued in perfectly calm and rational voice, "And let's see, the Marlboro man here has got to be Tyler."
"Ma'am," Reed acknowledged with a smile, touching the brim of his cowboy hat briefly by way of a greeting. "I'm real sorry about this. Burt is…well, Burt, ya know?"
Gummer glared at Tyler's lack of support in this situation but thought better of arguing. He had come all this way to talk to Twitchell, and that was precisely what he was going to do.
Twitchell stood, looked at his wife laying there in such a relaxed manner, and said, "Hold that thought, I don't intend on being gone long." Then he turned to Burt and Tyler, who hadn't budged from the spots they'd stopped in. "You two, outside!"
"Don't keep him long, boys, you hear? It's no fun carrying without him."
Tyler flashed a wide grin. "I understand completely. We'll have him back inside before the sofa even gets cold."
Twitchell, considerably shorter and more portly than either visitor, blasted between them with surprising agility, and both men followed him out the door into the moonlight. Once on the grass, and a good distance from the kitchen door, he rounded on them, venting all the frustration he was feeling in a rush of colorful invective and creative insults which covered all territory from their questionable parentage to their insane desire to continue dwelling in a living 'hell on earth'.
The two men from Perfection bore the verbal assault with stoicism, waiting on the DOI agent to finish his barrage of commentary. Eventually, Twitchell wound down. He ran a hand quickly over his nearly hairless scalp and drew a long deep breath.
In a more collected tone of voice, he asked, "And how the hell did you get my address? I don't remember ever having given it to you. You are supposed to contact me through the proper channels, not…not…" and he waggled one index finger at the kitchen door.
"Look, we said we're sorry, Twitch. But Burt's right. This really is important. And he has the connections, you know that. Locating you was easy. Anonymity is not something easy to find in a small town like Bixby."
"All right, all right, all right!" he blurted out, holding both hands up in supplication. "I get the point." Once again, he heaved a forbearing sigh.
At that moment, a gust of wind blew through the homes, rustling the branches on the trees separating the 'ranchettes'. Without knowing why, Twitchell shivered, reminded of the old clichéd saying about 'ill winds blowing no good' or something like that. Then, he realized his pajama shirt was still half open, and rebuttoned it before continuing.
"All right. Now, what was this 'important' news that couldn't wait 'til morning."
Lightly stroking his dark mustache before speaking, as if, for once, he was planning on choosing his words carefully, Burt Gummer said, "Something has happened." He paused, his mind warring between blurting out the facts, which he typically preferred, versus presenting the information in a manner Twitchell could tolerate without going ballistic. Against his better instincts and love for quick thinking and even quicker action, he looked to Tyler, ever the diplomat, for assistance.
Tyler was quite content to play the role of 'ambassador' even if the news was hardly pleasant. "You remember you once made a comment out of that movie, uh, what was it? "Jurassic Park". You were quoting that line about the dinosaurs reproducing…"
"Yeah, yeah, 'nature finds a way'. And I also said I was sure one day it would happen for real. I recall even Gummer agreed with me. So what about i- Suddenly, he shut up, a look of pure, unadulterated horror on his face. His mouth opened and closed a few times, as he struggled to give voice to the very thing he feared most, the thing that gave him almost perpetual nightmares. "Something got out?" he finally croaked in a voice at least an octave above his normal range.
Both visitors slowly, despondently, nodded in unison.
Twitchell suddenly slapped one palm against his thigh, then silently, slowly, turned around once, arms wide, glaring up at the heavens. When he stopped, he put both hands to his head, rubbing the bald pate as if he could massage away the news.
"When? How?"
Speaking barely above a whisper, Burt stated, "About 1900 hours, a honeymooning couple came into Perfection, took a quick look around, had dinner at Jodi's, and took off for Bixby again. About 90 minutes later, police found the car about 6 miles from here, on the south side of the pass into Bixby. The car looked like it had hit something big. The windows in the car were broken out. Two bodies inside, both stabbed in the chest or abdomen."
"Could have been a case of 'road rage' after an accident." Twitchell asked hopefully; however, a fine sheen of sweat was already covering his skin in an almost luminescent glow thanks to the radiance of the full moon. Deep down, he knew the answer already. Gummer saw that knowledge reflected in the set of his features.
"Negative." Gummer stated flatly, with finality. He fixed the DOI agent with a piercing stare.
"The bodies were bloated," Tyler added, trying to hide the disgust in his voice. "Horribly swollen up like they'd been poisoned or something. I was on an…errand…near here and was on my way back when I saw it. Also-"
Twitchell let his chin drop to his chest, and he stared numbly at his bare feet, no longer enjoying the coolness of the well-manicured lawn sprouting up between his toes. "Also?" he ground out between clenched teeth.
Burt finished answering the question. "The thing was wounded. There was a small amount of green blood on the street where the impact occurred. Its blood trail lead back to the valley, so at least it isn't roaming around Bixby. Tyler called me immediately, and I came out. Since nobody knew what to do with the blood, I suggested to Boggs that they light it up, incinerate it—"
Somewhat offended at this news, Twitchell put his hands on his hips and drew himself up to his full height, which still had him staring up into Burt's face. "And why wasn't I called? He knows I'm the one who's supposedly in charge of anything and everything that pertains to that friggin' valley."
Softly, Burt replied, "He said your phone was busy for a very long time."
In the silvered light, Burt saw Twitchell grimace. "Lisa…she must've made sure there were no incoming calls for a while," he explained weakly.
"In any case, much as it pains me to admit it, you were quite correct in your earlier assessment of the potential for this event occurring. I knew the odds of course, but hoped, with careful monitoring of activities within the valley, we could…" He paused, eyes momentarily closing. "Well, whatever this thing is…was…it got outside of the valley, presumably by walking out via the roadway."
With a shake of his head, Twitchell muttered, "They aren't paying me nearly enough to do this freakin' job!"
Slowly, he turned at the sound of the screen door opening. A woman's figure darkened the doorway, and a voice drifted gently toward them. "You boys interested in some coffee?"
As Burt and Tyler turned to look at the speaker, Twitchell, behind them, drew a finger across his neck, trying to let his wife know what he thought of the offer. Then he gestured an emphatic "no" with his both hands but cut it short as Tyler caught the motion. His wife, now wearing a light robe, leaned back against the door frame, arms crossed, and patiently waited for an answer.
Burt shocked the other two men by replying, "Black, no sugar."
Tyler looked at Burt in surprise. Then he glanced at Twitchell and shrugged. "She know about what's been going on in the valley?" he wondered aloud.
Looking at his wife as she passed the window nearest the sink, he nodded, and in a voice tempered by sadness, said, "Not to begin with, but I couldn't keep it a secret long. She waited for me one day in my office, and found some reports concerning Mixmaster on my desk. She had no idea what she was looking at at first." He hesitated a second. "If you want the truth, I'm glad I have someone to talk to about it. And, if I ever have to tell her to grab Ryan and keep heading south, she won't need to ask why. I kept hoping it wouldn't be necessary any time soon, but now I'm not so sure."
Burt, uncharacteristically quiet, waited until the man finished. After a year of knowing, and thoroughly disliking Twitchell, he had never gotten so much personal information out of the guy. And he considered all information worthy of hearing, even as he separated the wheat from the chaff.
As if realizing he was saying more than he ever intended, Twitchell simply strutted back to the house, jerked the door open, and waved his uninvited 'guests' inside.
Lisa Twitchell, padding quietly around the kitchen, was setting out plates, forks, and a crumb cake, in case anyone was hungry, and a set of coffee mugs with various themes, onto a oak kitchen table. This included one she set in front of her husband which said STRESS, and had a cartoon of a crazed and yowling cat clinging to a window screen.
A quick smirk pulled at one corner of Twitchell's mouth, but he quickly covered it with a frown as he looked at Burt.
"Walt? You want me to go off to the bedroom, while you and your…guests… talk?"
Instead of replying, Twitchell silently took her hand, much as he had earlier, and walked her back to the den, where he leaned in close, clearly whispering in her ear. After a very brief comment or two, he lightly kissed her, and let her sit down. Burt noticed the distance wasn't so far that she couldn't hear if she wanted to, but not so far that she would feel like she was being pushed aside.
As if aware of his perusal, the woman gave him a quick assessing glance, then reached for the remote to nudge the volume on the TV up a bit.
For the next 30 minutes, Burt and Tyler filled in any additional details skipped over earlier. They discussed the spoor left behind, both tracks and blood, trying to decide what kind of creature they would need to look for. They talked about the ramifications of insects feeding on the blood in the street. They haggled with the DOI agent for equipment and ammo they thought they might need to combat this unknown menace, and grudgingly got assurances that it would be provided by morning. Plans were made for pick up of their supplies from the Department of the Interior warehouse by noon, since it would take at least the remainder of the night and part of the next morning to get the requested items on Burt's wish list brought in from other sources.
"I'll call Boggs and see if I can't talk him into setting up a squad car and two officers at the head of the pass to alert us if something is trying to get through."
"Good idea, Twitch," Reed stated as he finished his cup of coffee.
"Twitch"'s gaze hardened at the use of this name, accustomed to being called that, but disliking their use of it nonetheless.
"Reed, I'll authorize you to take delivery of the supplies."
"Fine with me, 'cept I think Burt would rather examine the—"
"—munitions?" Burt completed the sentence.
"Yup. Examine the munitions himself."
Burt got up and put his cup in the sink. "Twitchell's correct. Not this time. I've got other things to do. You know what I'm expecting. You can handle this. While you're busy getting the supplies, I am going to do a reconnaissance of the south end of the valley at first light. Try to get a jump on this thing if I can."
Similarly, Tyler got up and put his empty mug where it belonged, and stood at Gummer's side.
As if drained of all energy, Twitchell simply sat there, shoulders hunched, elbows on the table. One hand rubbed a spot above his left eye. Reed thought he looked like a man who seriously needed to down a half dozen painkillers. With a guilty shrug and quick nod toward the door, he and Burt walked out, back into the night from which they came.