WEIRDMAGEDDON: DAY 4
When Pacifica first awoke, she had no idea where she was. Panic at the unknown clawed at her, and it took a few moments for the reality of the past few days to return to her. The world had ended, she was starving, and right now she was laying in the bushes in front of some nobody's house. The fallen needles from the hedge had made a soft enough bed, and the air through the evergreen branches had less of the sulfur sting to it that everywhere else seemed to have. It was almost... pleasant. Whatever had startled her awake seemed to have passed. She shut her eyes, trying to block out the world outside of her hidden little nest. For now, this was a semi-safe place.
You should stay here until it blows over. The thought came unbidden, following the sweet scent of evergreen. Why not just hide? Why not wait? You don't even have to move. Just stay here. Be still. Stay here.
She couldn't even smell the sulfur anymore, just the fragrant branches. It was soothing, almost. She opened her eyes, but the lids were so heavy... it was easier just to shut them again. Just stay. Just hide. Just sleep. You're safe here. Just sleep. It seemed like a good idea. The past few days had been so hard, but right now they felt very far away. Almost like they had just been a bad dream she would wake up from soon. Why participate in the nightmare when she could just wait for it to end? Besides, her ribs still ached. Her foot- ...Her foot didn't hurt.
In fact, she couldn't feel her feet at all.
That realization shocked Pacifica from her sleepy twilight into wide-eyed terror. She squirmed, realizing that the hedge had wrapped itself around her ankles, soft needles gripping her firmly. She looked down, and saw one evergreen tendril slowly curling it's way around her leg, tightening it's hold. She kicked, but her movements were clumsy and awkward; her coordination a victim of the haze that seemed to have fallen over her.
Her panicked flailing seemed to only tighten it's grip, but after kicking again and again in pure, animal terror, she tore herself free. Staggering and stumbling, Pacifica escaped from the sweet-smelling hedge and back into the sulfer-tainted air of Weirdmageddon. Panting to catcher her breath, she looked back at the slender, evergreen limbs. They were constricting tightly around the shoes and socks she had left behind.
She got to her feet, took three wobbly steps, then ate dirt. Grateful that nobody had seen her trip over literally nothing, Pacifica picked herself up and continued, but her numbed legs made travel a difficult prospect. Still, putting one foot in front of the other was as good a thing to focus on as any. With time, the numbness faded, and when the pain returned her coordination returned with it.
The water from the diner had made a world of difference, but four days of no food was starting to wear on her. ...Sprott Farm could be a possibility, but then again everyone else might have thought of that, too. She could try breaking into houses, but that ran the risk of encountering more angry homeowners, and the LAST thing she wanted was to get between another adult and their hoard. She had no plan, so she just... walked.
She drifted back towards down town. It was quiet now. No screaming citizens, no eyebats, just empty streets. There was distant bass from the Fearamid, but it was something more felt than heard—a pulsing hum in the air. Pacifica thought she might truly be the last one left when she heard the creaking of an old wooden door. Further down the street, maybe three doors away, someone was coming out of the old church. She quickly ducked into an alleyway to hide from sight, hugging her knees to appear smaller.
Footsteps approached. Heavy ones, with a hint of a limp to them. Whoever it was had seen her and was closing in. The other end of the alleyway was sealed off by a chain link fence, there would be no escape there. Likewise, darting from the alley across the street was a bad plan—too much ground to cover, and no guarantee of safety on the other side. No running away this time, and the footsteps were almost upon her.
On the ground nearby, next to one of the trash cans, was a length of metal pipe—about a foot long and an inch in diameter. Silently, she picked it up. It felt heavy and awkward in her hand, but she was pretty sure she could swing it. It was better than nothing.
The footsteps reached her, only to continue without pausing. It was Mr. Pines, and he hadn't seen her; he was too busy stuffing something into his pocket. Without looking, he tossed something over his shoulder into her alleyway and kept on his way.
The discarded item landed at her feet. It was her dad's money clip. Fine ivory, engraved with the initials "P.N." She wished she still had a pocket to store it in, but her jacket had been lost when she escaped Mr. Valentino.
She left it lying where it had landed, and continued on her way.
Several hours later, Pacifica had walked in a large circle through the city and still found nothing to eat. Strangely enough, she didn't even feel hungry anymore. She was thirsty again, but it wasn't an emergency yet. The throbbing of her ribs and foot were still there, but... unimportant, somehow. Even the bite of the concrete on her unprotected soles didn't bother her anymore. She sat down in the same alleyway, her eyes resting once again on the ivory money-clip.
There was no food. She had even broken into some buildings again, only to find the food gone. Or worse, alive. ...There might be something left to scavenge back at Northwest Manor, but she didn't know the way home. She had never needed to. Her driver had always attended to that for her. Everything had always been done for her.
The more she thought about it, the angrier she was. This was their fault, all of them. Why had they done that? Why had nobody taught her anything useful? Everyone knew this town was screwed up, even before the world ended. Hooded figures in the dog park, gnomes in the woods, the off-limits part of the graveyard, HUGE hoofprints at the edge of the park, the runes that seemed to be scratched into the foundations of every big public building... everyone knew this town was crazy, but nobody had cared to teach her anything. If they had given a damn, she wouldn't be doing so badly.
Pacifica was so busy stewing that she didn't hear the soft paws on the asphalt until it was too late to run. Maybe it had originally been a dog. Maybe it had originally been a lawn chair. Maybe it had never been either. Regardless of how it had come to be, the creature had blocked off her only escape. She screamed and ran, but was stopped almost immediately by the chain link at the other end of the alleyway.
A glance over her shoulder revealed that the amalgam was tensing it's legs to spring. Pacifica shut her eyes tightly, bracing herself, waiting for an attack that never landed. There was the sound of wood striking wood, gutteral snarling, and Mr. Pines cursing like a fiend. When she opened her eyes again, he was standing over the splintered remains of the creature, huffing and puffing to regain his breath, a broken bat in one hand and brass knuckles on the other.
"Ugh, everything hurts. ...You okay, kiddo?" he said.
"I'm fine," she replied, keeping her voice as steady as she could, "And I'm NOT out here alone, so you'd better keep your distance!" The lie was automatic, one of the few things her parents HAD bothered to teach her as a safeguard against kidnapping.
"Oh?" Mr. Pines replied
"Yes," she replied in her most superior tone, "My parents are scouting ahead, and they'll be right back. Any minute now, in fact, and they wouldn't be happy to see your sort talking to me."
Mr. Pines had the gall, the nerve, to give her a look of pity. He dug around in the pocket of his jacket for a moment, retrieved a small, foil-wrapped package of some sort, then kneeled down to offer it to her. "Here. Poptarts. You look hungry."
She didn't know what poptarts were, but the idea that they might be food made her mouth water. "I'm not allowed to take handouts."
The old man considered this for a moment, then stood back up, and dusted himself off. "Well, in that case, I'm just going to leave this here with you so you can ask your parents if you're allowed to have it when they get back, okay?"
"O-okay," Pacifica replied, hating the waver in her voice.
"Have you seen any of my family," he asked, a small hopeful look in his eyes.
"No, I haven't," she replied, only realizing after she had said it that it was a lie. Still, that one glimpse of Dipper didn't mean much. He could be anywhere by now.
Mr. Pines walked to the end of the alley, then turned and looked back at her. "I was on my way home, but I just realized I forgot something back the other way. I'll be back in, say, ten minutes. If your 'parents' aren't back by then, you're welcome to come with me back to the Mystery Shack. We have food, shelter, weapons, and we're on well water so the faucets still work. I'll be back in a bit." Without waiting for her reply, he turned and walked off.
The instant he was out of sight, Pacifica dove for the little foil packet, quickly tearing it open. Nothing in the world had ever tasted half as good as "Poptarts" did. They were soft and sweet and before she knew it she was licking the last of the crumbs from her fingertips. The little pastries had taken the edge off, but she was still hungry.
Now was her chance to slip away. She could easily run away and hide before he got back, but... what if it wasn't a trap? He could have easily attacked her just then, but he chose not to. He didn't have to fight the monster, but he still did. He didn't have to share any food, but he still had. Maybe Mr. Pines wasn't lying. Maybe the Mystery Shack was safe.
Pacifica stared at the crumpled wrapper in her hand for a long time, then sat down and waited for Stan to return.