WEIRDMAGEDDON: DAY 2
Finding food turned out to be far more difficult than Pacifica could have ever anticipated. Most of the buildings were either picked clean, tightly barricaded, or infested with god knows what. A shrieking dustbin with fangs had chased her for three blocks before being devoured by a passing mini-van. She'd seen Tad Strange engaged in mortal combat with a garden hose. Even the mailboxes had turned carnivorous.
It was anyone's guess what time it was; the sun hadn't risen yet, and didn't show any intention of rising ever again. Not that it was dark. Between the hellish glow of the hole in the sky, and the eerie pink light coming off of a huge bubble-in-chains to the north, there was plenty to see by.
Pacifica found herself straying further from the town proper; the Eyebats were everywhere, as were the monsters. Plus, maybe if she got to where there weren't so many people, there would be food that hadn't been looted yet. She wandered down the winding road to the lake, and to her great surprise the general area seemed untouched. A rowboat was galloping around the docks on a set of horse-legs, but it seemed more confused than hostile.
She made her way over to the bait shop, but the going was slow. Bent nails, broken glass, and razor-sharp fish hooks littered the ground in a several-yard radius around the building, and they kept getting stuck in her shoes. What was puzzling was that there was so much junk and glass even though the windows themselves were unbroken and the structure itself looked fine.
Pacifica heaved a sigh of relief once she got past all the wreckage, only to immediately slip on the steps and bark her shin. For some stupid reason there was flour scattered all over them. Weird. Weird and stupid. She picked herself up, dusted the flour off of her hands, and headed inside, leaving footprints behind her.
-Only to immediately stumble again. Fortunately this time she caught her balance instead of faceplanting. It took her eyes several long moments to adjust to the dark before she could see what had tripped her up this time. A thin filament of fishing line was stretched across the doorway, almost invisible in the dim light.
A little perplexed, she turned her attention to the bait shop. It was dark and musty and smelled like fish guts, and all the mounted and shellacked trout on the wall certainly didn't do the ambiance any favors. Whoever decorated this place needed to get a clue—dead animals on the wall were gross, not classy. The floorboards creaked under her feet as she headed towards the back office, and she couldn't help but wonder how old this place was. Not nearly as old as Northwest Manor, of course, but probably more than old enough for the shoddy construction to show and the supports under the floorboards to rot away. She'd have to skip that step on her way back out just in case. God only knew how gross the floor UNDER the bait shop was.
Inside the office was a HUGE pile of food. Way more than she could eat. Most of it was that nasty canned stuff, but it would do in a pinch. Pacifica was so hungry that at this point she might even have considered eating at Applebees. She looked around quickly, and spotted a ratty old backpack sitting on the desk. That would work well enough for packing some of it with her, and she could just come back to restock later if she needed to. There was no way in hell that she was going to STAY in this creepy place (it was still settling; she could hear the floorboards creak in the next room. No way she was putting up with trying to sleep through that AND the apocalypse, thank you very much), but there was no reason she couldn't use it as her own private secret stash of food. With a grin, she started to load the cans of food into the backpack.
The hair on the back of Pacifica's neck stood on end an instant before the crowbar connected with her ribs. The blow dropped her and knocked the air out of her. Tate McGucket swung again, and she only barely managed to roll out of the way—the prongs on the end of the crowbar bit deep into the wooden floor. She scrambled to her feet and bolted, making it through the office door just as he pulled his weapon free.
The crowbar slammed hard into the counter behind her, then again into the wall above her head. Pacifica tripped again on the fishing line across the door, only this time it broke. As she fell down the front stairs of the bait shack, there was a deafening blast behind her and the smell of burning gunpowder. She didn't stop, didn't look back, just ran as hard and as fast as she could, powered by pure adrenaline.
She was almost back to main street when she realized she wasn't being chased. She sobbed for air, but each inhale brought fresh agony to where she had been hit by the crowbar—every breath felt like electrical shocks and bells ringing. The world swum, darkened at the edges, then faded out entirely.
The sound of approaching footsteps roused her, but she had no way of knowing how much time had passed. She couldn't remember where she was or how she had gotten there. Pain still shot through her at every breath, even though she was breathing so shallowly that her chest barely moved. Her foot throbbed as well, though that seemed distant and far away. She hadn't yet moved or opened her eyes when they got to her.
"Wh-who is that?" A woman's voice. One she didn't recognize.
"Pacifica Northwest, Deidre," came the reply. That one was Bud Gleeful; Pacifica recognized it from the Tent of Telepathy's stupid commercials.
"Ask her if.. if she's seen him. Maybe... m-maybe she... does she know where he is?" A small, half-hysterical giggle, "A-ask her!"
"I think she's.. sleeping, dear," Bud replied in a gentle tone, "We should keep moving. You go on up ahead and I'll be right there, sweet pea."
There was a rustling, and Pacifica felt something lightweight being laid on top of her. A tarp, maybe? Whatever it was, Bud pulled it up and over her head, completely covering her. He and "Deidre", whoever that was, left.
Under the tarp, Pacifica went back to sleep.
