Author's Note: This one is SO different than my other post this weekend, it's almost like a personality switch :)
Just some FYI stuff: Though I did do some research for this chapter, I specifically chose not to really pick an exact 'type' of mine that we're dealing with here. You know, copper, limestone, salt, whatever. Because reading up, I was reminded that they all have very unique elements to them. And if I'd decided to pick one, then I'd had to have made sure it fit, first for the region of the country that they're in, and second, then I'd have to make sure that all of the physical descriptions in the articles I read, accurately matched up to the images of what I would be describing in the upcoming scenes. But really, given that Hotch and Emily have no idea what was being mined in this area, they would be just as ignorant as the rest of us about what they were seeing!
So, suffice it to say, the mine is old, it is abandoned, and it is creepy as hell. But actually if you'd like to see some pics on mines I was using for inspiration, they're on my Tumblr. I included the pictures with the posting announcement.
And with that . . . on with the show!
Now we open as we left, with Emily…the Self Rescuing, Prince Rescuing, Gun Shot and Bloodied, Princess :)
WARNING: Ugliness and bad language ahead. It's a bad day in the Enchanted Forest.
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Prompt Set #18 - January 2012
Author: Stewart O'Nan
Title Challenge: Emily Alone
The Devil You Don't Know
Emily's heart was pounding in her chest . . . the rhythm had synched up with the blood pounding in her ears.
There was a cold rain drizzling down her right arm, which was freezing her skin. That was while the rest of her body was relatively dry pinned flat against the side of the moldy wooden beams lining the entrance to the mine. Her Sig was in one hand . . . the still darkened flashlight was in the other.
The pistol was a comfort. A reminder of a world far away.
One where she still held some control over her life.
But the flashlight . . . Emily's jaw clenched as she looked down at it . . . that was causing her a real problem right now. There was no comfort there.
Because the flashlight had to be turned on.
There was no way around it. No way to move forward without it. But unfortunately she had a very clear . . . very horrifying . . . image in her mind of what would happen the second after the switch was flicked. A shotgun shell would come roaring up out of the dark.
That shell would take her head off.
And the image was SO clear in her mind . . . so perfectly, profilery logical . . . that it had planted her boots in the mud. She'd been standing there at least thirty, maybe even sixty seconds.
Of course she knew that she had to take that next step forward. She had to go find Hotch. And as she felt her eyes starting to burn with panic and self-loathing, she knew that she had to go find him RIGHT now! Now, before any more time was lost.
Because too much time had been lost already.
But still . . . even knowing these facts, knowing that every second that she was wasting, could be a second that Hotch was being tortured . . . she couldn't move. And it wasn't fear for her own safety that was freezing her to the ground . . . she'd moved beyond considerations of self the second that she'd chosen to run after Hotch rather than run down the mountain . . . it was that she was terrified of that image in her mind.
Because if she did get her head blown clean off walking over this threshold . . . then Hotch wouldn't just be tortured. Hotch would be dead.
Everyone, would be dead.
Which was why . . . though she felt like she was in full fight or flight mode, the chemicals were SURGING through her body . . . she was standing there motionless. Useless.
Pathetic.
Yes . . . she thought bitterly . . . pathetic. That about sums it up.
But as she suddenly flashed on Hotch screaming down in the dark, Emily knew that it was past time to shake this shit off. Because if she didn't . . . she bit her lip . . . then she was betraying his trust in her as his partner. She'd be letting him down.
Letting him die.
And that just could NOT happen. Not if she was alive to stop it.
And really . . . she started mentally regrouping . . . it just wasn't like her to get bogged down in whatifs like this. Usually . . . if someone else's life was in danger . . . she just charged forward like a God damn bull in a china shop.
Consequences be damned.
And that . . . she took a shallow breath . . . was what she needed to do now.
Damn the consequences.
Because worrying about getting her head blown off was . . . she reminded herself . . . pointless. Pretty much all worrying was pointless when you came right down to it. Things happened or they didn't.
That was life.
And very little of life . . . especially as it related to the happenings around her on this horrendous day . . . did she have much control over. All she could do now was stay low . . . she took another small breath of the dank air . . . stay frosty, and pray for a bit of grace from whoever was running the show upstairs.
And though she was starting to feel renewed confidence in her next steps . . . in actually taking, next steps . . . she still wanted SO badly to rush in without turning the God damn flashlight on.
She just wanted to see if her eyes would adjust.
But in her heart she knew that was the one decision, that would be suicidal.
The shaft in front of her was pitch.
And she wasn't a frigging cat. So there was no way that she'd be able to discern enough light in that level of darkness, to maneuver more than ten feet without killing herself. Because killing herself . . . not just getting herself killed . . . was definitely ranking pretty high on her secondary considerations at the moment.
Mines . . . most especially abandoned ones in the shit condition that this one clearly was . . . didn't need to have sociopaths and homemade torture chambers installed in order to kill you.
They were death traps all on their own.
So she had to go nice and easy . . . her index finger began to slowly slide down the smooth surface of the flashlight . . . and just pray that she didn't accidentally trigger a collapse of any of the shaft walls. Or maybe trip and fall onto something with a raggedy . . . eye gouging . . . point on it.
Because if either of those things happened . . . her jaw clenched . . . that was going to majorly suck.
So with these new, completely unhelpful, eye gouging, crush injury images nor boring into the forefront of her brain . . . they were joining all of the other completely unhelpful images in there, like her head being blown off, or Hotch being inserted into the next human totem pole . . . Emily sent up one final, desperate, plea to the universe.
It was a plea to get Hotch back. And it was a plea to let them get home in one piece.
And then she clicked on the light.
To her shock . . . truly . . . her head remained attached to her shoulders. And it remained there as she took her first tentative . . . and breathless . . . steps into the entrance of hell.
It seemed, as she stumbled along the ankle twisting ground, that the universe had granted at least part of her fist wish. 'Daddy UNSUB' had apparently decided not to hang around the entrance waiting to take her head off.
And though the granting of that tiny wish was good for her, Emily's stomach still churned as she continued slowly edging her way forward into the darkness. Because she knew in her heart that what was good for her, was not good for Hotch.
Not good at all.
That meant that he was . . . and had been . . . the subject of the UNSUB's undivided attention since he'd been dragged off into this netherworld.
And that was going on a solid six or seven minutes now.
And a lot of bad shit can happen in seven minutes. Limbs can be lopped off. Mouths can be stitched up.
Eyes can be . . .
Suddenly Emily stopped short, mentally pressing pause on the litany of horrors that had started playing in the forefront of her brain. Because a new . . . Technicolor . . . horror, had just caught her attention. One that was sending her heart rate jack rabbiting.
It was a smear of fresh blood on a jagged rock just ahead of her.
There was hair stuck in the blood.
Black hair.
Hotch's hair.
And even as she made herself consciously look away from that bloodied rock . . . she couldn't focus on that and not go nuts . . . Emily's eyes started to tear up as she began walking again. Because the profiler part of her brain hadn't received the message to let that image go.
So the profiler part of her brain was reconstructing the scene.
And it was showing her . . . though she so desperately didn't want to see it . . . the moment that Hotch had started to wake up after the first blow. He'd started to wake up, and he realized that he was being dragged along the ground.
Dragged down into the pit.
And then Hotch being Hotch . . . he'd started to struggle. So the UNSUB . . . Emily's jaw began to grind as another blood stain was caught in the light . . . had picked up the handiest weapon . . . the one poised to do the most damage . . . and smashed him over the head again.
This time hard enough to draw blood.
And the only thing that was keeping Emily from a full blown freak out at this development . . . i.e. racing forward down the shaft like a mad woman while screaming Hotch's name . . . was the lack of brain matter present with the blood and matted hair.
Brain matter would have meant that he was already dead or dying.
Right now . . . as far as she knew . . . he was just hurt.
Of course . . . she felt a little flicker of anger beginning to drive her steps . . . it wasn't just that he was hurt. That would be bad enough in and of itself. But the fact of the matter was that he was MORE hurt than the last time that she'd seen him. And even without brain matter present to terrify her, that image of him more hurt suddenly became so much worse in her mind.
Because as the reality of him suffering that second below . . . one that might have rendered him completely incapable of defending himself . . . finally sunk in, that was enough for Emily to shake off her remaining reticence about taking a wrong step, or turning the wrong corner.
It was time to charge the china shop.
Because now she was just pissed. And pissed was good.
Pissed would keep her going where worrying slowed her down.
So with that mindset, she pushed aside all thoughts of her own physical pain and creeping exhaustion, to begin racing double time . . . half hunched over . . . through the dank, narrow shaft.
Cobwebs were getting caught in her hair, and she was stumbling over rocks and rotted beams and chunks of God knows what else lying on the dirt floor, but still she kept going as fast as she could given her injuries.
But of course it only took a minute for the sweat to begin to pour down, while her lungs began to scream in agony.
The air was disgustingly hot and moist, and it was getting harder to breath the deeper she went into the ground. Of course the blood loss from the gunshot and her head wounds, wasn't helping anything either.
She felt dizzy and nauseous.
But she just had to stay conscious . . . alive . . . long enough to get Hotch out. She could collapse . . . or drop dead . . . later.
When she had the time for it.
So to move her attention away from her own deteriorating physical condition . . . she wasn't going to be able to keep up this speed for much longer . . . Emily made herself focus in on the glow of the light bouncing around the shaft.
But given what she could see, it would almost be better . . . for her mental health anyway . . . if she was running in the dark.
Because the mental image she was getting on the size of the spiders needed to create the giant webs that were catching in her hair, was NOT something that she needed to be thinking about. Nor were the patches of furry green and white mold growing on the rotting beams holding up the tunnel.
Just how long had the mold been growing . . . and how long had the beams been rotting?
And was the mold toxic? And were the beams on the verge of collapse?
More questions she didn't want answers to.
And then . . . she bit back a shudder . . . there were the millipedes.
They were enormous with their thousands of little legs . . . and they were EVERYWHERE! More of them than she could count, just fleeing wherever the light hit them.
And the light wasn't just hitting them on the dirt walls. She could hear them crunching beneath her muddy boots as they pounded down over and over onto the earth beneath her feet.
The place . . . even without the psychopath waiting down in the bowels . . . was something out of a nightmare.
Which was why it was all the more horrifying when Emily suddenly felt herself stumble over an uneven patch of ground.
There was only a split second to react . . . and though ordinarily she'd put her hands out to brace herself and break her fall . . . her hands were full.
And she needed both the gun and the light to stay alive.
So she ended up falling flat on her face, skinning both her nose and her knees as she hit the ground with an 'oomph' as the wind was knocked out of her.
As she lay there for a moment sucking in tiny ragged breaths, the insects began to swarm over her hands and head. She nearly screamed as she felt the little whisper of hundreds of tiny feet moving over her skin.
And though she wished desperately that she was well enough to jump back to her feet . . . she wasn't.
That was Emily of yesterday.
For Emily of today, it was a slow . . . agonizing . . . process as she inched her way up and onto her knees. And then as she began frantically shaking the creepy crawlies out of her hair and off of her skin, she felt a fresh trickle of blood begin running down her left arm.
She'd ripped the clot of her gunshot again.
FUCK!
Hot, salty tears . . . ones that she'd been fighting since she hit the ground . . . began to pool in her eyes. They weren't born of pain . . . though there was plenty of that to go around . . . they came of frustration and anger. Why couldn't she catch a fucking BREAK?
Why the hell was this happening to them? They were good people, they did good work.
They did God's work.
Truly. Her team was on the side of the angels. So in the name of all that was HOLY, why were they being punished so VISCIOUSLY for it!
Really . . . she choked back a sob . . . how the hell was she going to save Hotch, if couldn't stop herself from bleeding to death just getting from Point A to Point B?
For a split second Emily allowed herself to wallow in that self-pity . . . as though anyone, good or bad deserved to have this nightmare thrust upon them . . . but then she heard a noise echo from far up ahead. Her head snapped back as she began rapidly blinking the tears away.
That had sounded like a scream.
OH SHIT! HOTCH!
She had no way of knowing if it was him . . . she'd never in her life heard, or could have imagined . . . the sound of that man screaming in agony. But she knew that everyone had their breaking point, and he was the freshest body to be brought into the slaughterhouse.
And that image . . . of what could be happening to him in that moment . . . was enough motivation to allow her to climb back to her feet.
Her whole body was throbbing in pain . . . and her shoulder was definitely still bleeding . . . but instead of worrying about it, or trying to assess her own medical needs, she just took a breath and said "fuck it all."
And then she began running flat out again.
She wasn't moving as fast as she had been before . . . she wasn't physically capable of that speed any longer . . . but she still had a decent clip going.
Close to double time.
Of course she was moving on nothing but adrenaline. Her body was otherwise spent. And if the UNSUB was waiting for her up ahead . . . waiting to spring a trap . . . so be it.
She'd almost prefer it.
Because she was making plans for 'Daddy UNSUB.' Big plans. She was going to bash in his face and blow out his knees, just as she had his sons.
And then as he writhed screaming on the ground . . . her teeth ground together as a fresh burst of rage filled then . . . then she'd club him in the skull with the butt of his son's rifle.
And then she was going to leave him down to rot in his God awful pit.
And she was going to do all of those terrible things for two reasons. One, because he had raised those monsters that she'd left drowning in the mud. And two . . . she felt a stab of pain in her chest . . . he was going to suffer for whatever he had done to Hotch.
Because even if that wasn't him screaming, she knew that the fall . . . and the subsequent slowing of her speed . . . had cost her too much time.
Cost Hotch, too much time.
As much as the thought sickened her, she knew in her bones that by the time she found her boss, more would have happened to him than just a second blow to the skull.
A lot more.
Because Daddy UNSUB was looking for vengeance. And based on the genetic pool that Emily had encountered so far that day, she didn't think that anyone in this family would go with the 'best served cold' variety.
He'd be taking his pound of flesh.
Possibly . . . her eyes started to blur with fresh tears . . . quite literally.
But what Daddy UNSUB didn't know . . . Emily felt another burst of rage clear her vision . . . was that today he was going to meet his fucking match. Because if he had done just ONE of the horrible things to Hotch that she was terrified that he had done to him, then she was doing a hell of a lot more than just paralyze the fucker.
No, if he'd touched Hotch, then the next time Daddy met his sons, it was going to be in hell.
And not the one of their own making.
Though Emily was getting completely immersed in thoughts of vengeance . . . it was much better than focusing in on the insects and mold again . . . she wasn't so distracted that she had lost any awareness of her physical surroundings. And feeling a sudden . . . though faint . . . wave of warm air smack her in the face . . . she stopped short, eyes wide as she tried to suck in a ragged breath.
What the hell was that?
Feeling a new emotion start to creep up . . . anticipation, this might be a break . . . Emily tried to get her panting under control as she raised both her pistol and the flashlight straight out in front of her.
She was trying to see where the warm air was coming from.
And just in case it was coming from an ACTUAL demon that had crawled up from the pit . . . at this point she wouldn't be surprised by anything she found down this nightmarish rabbit hole . . . she was also trying to be ready to put three in it's chest.
But even as she took a few cautious steps forward . . . she couldn't see anything.
Demon or otherwise.
And it ended up taking another seven slow and tentative paces, before she figured out what was happening. Where the air was coming from.
There was a split in the tunnel.
One side of it branched to the left . . . that was the side that seemed to be blowing the warm air . . . and the other side was branching right. The air on the right . . . her brow wrinkled . . . appeared to be somewhat cooler.
Though it was hard to tell that distinction for sure, because . . . at the moment . . . the air from both tunnels was momentarily still.
And though Emily had expected that she was going to need to take a few turns before she found Hotch . . . nothing ever ran in a straight point from A to Z, especially a fricking mine shaft . . . to her growing horror, she realized that she had no idea WHICH way to go!
There weren't any footprints, or drag marks or blood stains which would indicate one turn was any better choice than the other.
Both entrances were covered in the expected rocks and bugs.
So her now wild eyes began snapping desperately back and forth between the two openings.
Well FUCK! Which ONE?
'Just THINK Emily think!' She tried to head off her rising panic, 'there has to be SOMETHING!'
Okay, okay . . . her brain began cataloguing every rock and crevice and spider web in front of her . . . something. Find something.
There's always something.
Just then a gust of warm air blew out of the left shaft. This time Emily was so close to it that her nose wrinkled in disgust.
And then heart started racing again.
That was her something! Because that wasn't just air, now that she was close she could discern a faint smell to it. It was cloying and sickeningly sweet.
Decay.
That way was The Pit . . . she ducked down to flash her light through the opening on the left . . . she was sure of it!
This was the entrance to hell. Because if hell had a smell . . . she took a cautious step into the faintly putrid tunnel . . . it sure as FUCK was going to be rotting flesh!
And though she wanted to keep going at her earlier clip . . . now she was getting close . . . Emily's adrenaline burst had started to fade. But also, she knew that now was the time to show more caution.
More restraint.
Because now is where a trap would be set.
But not only that . . . she began moving slowly forward, her eyes bouncing everywhere the light could go . . . there were possibly other forks off of this shaft. Of course she wasn't an expert on tunnel mining, but she did have enough general knowledge to know that back in the day, they generally tended to criss cross the shafts all over the place.
That's why the damn things had always collapsed in on themselves.
So while Emily continued her cautious steps forward while mentally preparing herself for a trap . . . or another tunnel to suddenly pop up like a new page in a Choose Your Own Adventure written by Satan himself . . . she forgot to prepare herself for other things.
Things like they'd seen out in the world.
And that was a serious fuck up on her part. Because she hadn't gone more than ten feet down . . . there was definitely a sharper decline in the path here than there had been on the main shaft . . . before one of the family's grotesque 'sculptures' suddenly appeared in the beam of the light.
This one was the head of a Rottweiler, sewn onto the body of a man.
She nearly screamed.
FUCK!
For a moment she stood there literally quaking in her boots . . . the light bouncing in nearly spastic swirls over this new abomination . . . as she tried to get her shit back together again.
Though both of the poor creatures were dead, the thing that they'd become was absolutely horrifying! And the stench . . . she raised her pistol hand to her mouth . . . dear God it was horrendous.
It was taking everything in her not to throw up.
Probably the only thing that kept her from actually getting sick, was pure will power. The knowledge that if she lost any more fluids, she was definitely going to pass out.
And this was NOT the place to pass out!
So after giving herself a moment to pull the Agent Prentiss armor back firmly into place . . . that hard ass bitch was the only thing keeping her going at the moment . . . Emily ground her teeth, and started moving slowly forward again.
'It's just like a fun house,' she started telling herself, 'that's all it is Emily. A fun house. Things are going to pop out in front of you. They're going to look like monsters. But the monsters aren't real.
So don't react.'
Right . . . she breathed in the slightly less disgusting air beyond the hybrid statue . . . don't react. Well, react if the monster was MOVING, but otherwise . . . she slowly exhaled . . . just keep it together.
And that approach worked for another fifteen yards. That section of the tunnel was fairly clear . . . though again, tilting rapidly downward . . . but then another figure appeared in the beam of the light.
Again she stopped short, though this time . . . when she focused in on the body . . . a sob ripped through her chest.
OH GOD!
It was Hotch.
He was hanging from a section of cross beams, his arms stretched out above him like some hideous mockery of a crucifix.
Feeling the waves of grief and horror washing over her in equal parts, Emily's whole body started to shake again . . . his shirt was splattered in gore. There was blood everywhere she looked.
It was even dripping onto the dirt.
And the skin on his forearms looked shredded . . . probably from being dragged along the ground.
And his head, God . . . Emily's tears began to spill over as she rushed forward . . . it was just lolling on his chest.
Like a broken rag doll.
Please God, please! Please don't let him be dead! Please! Please! Please!
Over and over, Emily pleaded with God as she ran the distance of the light. And when she finally reached this man that she hadn't truly believed could be broken . . . she tucked the flashlight under arm so she could splay her fingers out flat. Then she pressed her palm against the blood soaked shirt sticking to his chest.
She nearly sobbed in relief . . . his heart was still beating.
THANK YOU GOD!
"Hotch," she whispered tearfully while gently patting his chest, "I'm going to get you down now, okay? Can you hear me? Hotch, can you hear me?"
When he didn't respond, Emily moved her hand up to lift his head from his chest. And then his face came into view.
And that's when she began to scream.
A/N 2: Ah! Oh my God! What's happened to Hotch's face? We'll find out soon :) I'm trying to bang out a draft of the next chapter over the coming week.
But it just wasn't realistic for Emily to catch up before something bad had happened to him. Really, if you're a freako mountain dwelling/mine dwelling serial killer who just saw this dude kick your freako mountain dwelling/mine dwelling serial killing kids asses, you're going to start taking your vengeance sooner than later.
I tweeted at some point over the last few weeks (while writing this chapter) that it felt kind of 'good' to be kicking Hotch's ass a bit in a couple of stories. Not because I'm a sadistic bitch :) but just that Em's taken her share of lumps in my stories (as broad ranging arcs, plus I've "given" her cancer more than once now) so it's good to have an opportunity to even things out a bit with Hotch taking the worst of it. For now ;-)
I really do enjoy writing Emily in this bloodied and broken anti-heroine mode. Because it's not whether you trip and fall to your knees and start crying, it's whether you can get back up again that counts. Especially if you're getting back up not to save yourself, but to save someone else. That's a demonstration of true character, that is really interesting to write. You know portraying someone's innate goodness solely by actions and not words.
Given how deep down they're going, I wasn't sure if rats would be 'native,' which is why I didn't include any running around in there when she fell down. Though I saw millipedes (the bane of my personal existence) being quite prevalent given how they turn up in every block of dirt you kick off the ground.
And the inspiration for THAT scene, was from Temple of Doom. When Kate Capshaw is trying to get Indy and Short Round out of the trapdoor room. Yuck.
I'm on the cusp as to whether I should up this to an M rating. Usually I have a pretty good feel for whether it should get kicked up, but I'm kind of on the fence. It's got some bad language, and it's got some icky stuff, but it's not ALL bad language and icky stuff. There are many chapters of none of that. And I don't want to put new people off taking a chance reading it solely for what's happening now. You know some folks just don't read M on principle, which I respect, but don't want to mislabel to be THAT over cautious. I've written straight horror, and in my gut I don't see this AS straight horror, so I'm kind of feeling right now that as long as the chapter has a warning on it, that I could leave it as 'strong' T. But if anyone has an opinion, if they think it's time, just let me know. I can be easily swayed at this point :) Or who knows, maybe when I get the next one pulled together I might be like 'oh yeah, now it's time!' :)
So hope you liked it! And thank you all for past and future feedback :)
