Oct 10, 2013 - [10:14 pm]
Arcadia Bay, Oregon
"God fucking damn it!"
This is just typical. Everything had been going so well, exactly according to plan, so it fucking figures that when the universe finally did decide to reach out and bitch slap us, it really made it count.
"So I guess it's bad?" Max asks, leaning on the truck's fender.
"No, a flat tire would be bad," I answer, fighting the urge to kick the bumper. "Two shredded tires and only one spare? That's next-level bullshit."
This is totally my fault, too. I was the one who freaked when a damned tree branch on the road took out one of our front tires, and I was the gigantic idiot who slammed on the brakes, even though I know better than to do that. If I hadn't, I never would've lost control of the truck and we wouldn't have lost the other front tire rolling over some poor bastard's mailbox.
And as if that wasn't bad enough, it just had to happen right on the edge of town, just a couple blocks away from the Two Whales. I really hate how exposed we are, just sitting here in the open. For some reason I keep expecting Mom or Max's parents or the cops or fucking someone to just appear out of nowhere. Taking a breath, I glance up and down the road again. Above us, the freaky double moons (that is so fucking weird) are bright enough that even with the streetlights out, I can easily see how empty it still is.
Even so...
"God fucking damn it," I mutter again, eyeing the old Honda in the former-mailbox owner's driveway and trying to remember a YouTube video I once watched about how to hotwire a car.
"It's fine, Chloe," Max says, sounding a little too casual for the situation. Leaning into the cab, she pulls a flashlight out from under the seat. "I'll just take this, rewind to before you ran over the branch, and signal you to stop."
Not so long ago, I'd have been all about that plan...but that was before Max's powers started beating the hell out of her. "Maybe that's not the best idea."
"Do you have a better one?"
"No, but you said rewinding was getting harder, right?"
"So?"
"So, if you're running out of time mojo or something, shouldn't we save whatever's left in case we need it?"
"Pretty sure we need it now. Unless you feel like walking the rest of the way?"
Yeah, not so much.
"Fine. But don't go back any further than you hav-" Before I can finish, Max's whole body flickers, like I'm watching her on some shitty old TV. Then her knees buckle, and she starts to fall over. I grab hold of her, lowering her to the ground as she lets out a low groan. "The fuck was that?!"
"I... I tried, but I..." she trails off, sweat beading on her forehead. "I only made it a few seconds. I couldn't hold on." She climbs back to her feet, a little unsteadily. "I can...just give me a second and I'll try again."
"Like hell you will." I refuse to flinch under the glare she shoots me.
"I have to." She's got her hand out before I can stop her, eyes squeezed shut, straining hard against something I can't see. I keep waiting for something to happen, even though I know I'd never see it if it did. Finally, after nearly a minute, she drops her arm again. "Damn it! It's not working!"
"So, what? Your powers are just gone?""
"No, they're still there, but..." She scowls, searching for the right words. "It's like they're jammed. I can feel them, but I can't make them work."
Well, son of a bitch. No more time power leaves us with some seriously limited options, and none of them are especially appealing.
There's absolutely no way I'll be able to find a second spare tire for this thing tonight. Not here in town, anyway. Maybe if we were at American Rust, but that's as far away from here as the bunker is, and in the wrong direction. Even if there was a perfectly usable tire just waiting for us, right out in the open, it'd be well past midnight by the time we got back here with it. Throw at least another half hour on top of that to actually change both tires.
And all of that is assuming the cops don't show up while we're gone and tow it away.
"Uh, Chloe?"
"What?" It comes out sharper than I meant it to. "Sorry. What's up?"
"The truck is...well, it's kinda leaking."
"Leaking what?" Please don't be the gas tank. Please don't be the gas tank. Please don't be the gas tank.
"I'm not sure what it is. It's kinda red?"
Oh, you've got to be shitting me.
Walking around the truck, I grab the flashlight out of Max's hand and drop to the ground. Aiming the light up into the undercarriage, it takes me about two seconds to spot my worst nightmare. The splintered remains of that mailbox post really went the extra mile in taking its revenge, because it looks like right after it chewed up the front tire, it decided to punch my transmission case right off its fucking mounts. The whole thing is bent at an angle, the ground is soaked with transmission fluid, and there's no way in hell this truck is going anywhere without at least a week in the shop and about four grand in parts and labor.
Fuck.
Fucking fuck.
God damned fucking motherfucking fuck!
"Alright," I grind out, climbing back to my feet. "Grab your stuff. We're leaving."
"What?"
"If we move fast, we can still make it to the bunker on foot with plenty of time to spare."
"But if we do that..."
She doesn't have to tell me. Bay Avenue is pretty much going to be ground zero when the storm hits. If my truck is here when it does (and short of a miracle, it definitely will be) then I'll never see it again.
"I know, but what other choice have we got?"
"I don't want you to lose it," she murmurs. I can see it in her eyes; she knows exactly how much this stupid truck means to me. When it came into my life, it was the first real taste of freedom I had since I lost Dad. And even if it was a rolling shitbox ready to fall apart at any minute, it was still my rolling shitbox.
"Neither do I," I say, ignoring the heartache filling my chest. "But it's completely fucked. An actual mechanic with a full shop couldn't fix it in time, and the clock is ticking. We need to go."
I'm right (as much as I wish I wasn't) and she knows it. "If you're sure..."
"I'm sure. Just lemme grab some things." Pulling a ratty old backpack out from under the seat, I take down the handful of knick-knacks I have hanging from the rearview mirror and grab a couple mementos out of the glove compartment; a nineteenth birthday card from Rachel and a kitschy three-dollar snow globe Frank found in Portland and gave to me last Christmas, back when we were still friends.
Finally, I grab my trusty Elvis bobblehead off the dashboard and drop it in my bag with everything else. "Okay, let's roll."
"I'm sorry, Chloe."
"Not your fault, Maximus. Besides, you said it survived the storm before, right?" I ask, and she nods. "Well, maybe it'll survive this time, too. I can fix it up all over again."
"Maybe," she says, but it's pretty clear she doesn't believe it.
"Let's just go." Throwing my backpack over one shoulder, I turn and walk away. Max falls into step beside me a second later, and neither one of us looks back.
Oct 10, 2013 - [10:43 pm]
Arcadia Bay, Oregon
It's not as easy to sneak through town as I thought it'd be. Even with the power out, the full moons (seriously, so fucking creepy to look at) are giving off plenty of light for someone to spot us by. There are the headlights of passing cars, too, but there aren't many of those. I'm trying not to be worried about that. It's not as though I expected a steady stream of people honking at each other as they scrambled to get out of town, but it'd be nice to see a little hustle, at least.
Of course, Max picks up on my concern. And, in that really unnerving way of hers, guesses exactly what I'm thinking. "It hasn't even been an hour yet, and the sky is still clear. People will start moving when the weather starts to turn bad."
I glance over at the beach. The moonlight (moonlights?) reflecting off the water makes it easy to see where the ocean meets the sand. The waves are slow and gentle, and there's only a light breeze coming off the water. It's no wonder the storm took everyone off guard the first time. If Max hadn't told me about it, I'd never have suspected a thing.
"I guess." Peeking around the corner, I make sure that there isn't anyone looking our way before waving Max forward. We don't want to attract anyone's attention on our way through or have to explain to some good Samaritan why we don't want a lift to safety. We've avoided using our flashlights and kept to the shadows as much as possible, but it's slowed us way down. Following Bay Avenue through town on foot should only have taken about twenty-five minutes, but that much time has come and gone, and we were only just passing the Two Whales.
Despite everything, I can't help but stop and stare at it. It's only now occurring to me that I'm never going to see it again. Like everything else in town, including my truck, the storm is going to tear this stupid diner to pieces. Suddenly, I have an urge to go break in and take something to remember it by. Maybe one of those dumbass Two Whales bottle openers. Something I can stick in my pocket and keep safe from whatever's coming. I'm pretty sure I would have done it, too, if Max hadn't picked that second to tug on my sleeve.
"Chloe, look."
Shaking my head, I turn to see her pointing across the street at the small, darkened alleyway beside the Two Whales. The moonlight (moonslight, maybe?) is just enough for me to make out that homeless lady who's always hanging out behind the diner. I've talked to her a few times, even let her bum the occasional smoke.
"She doesn't know the storm is coming. She died last time, because I didn't warn her."
"Shit." And I wouldn't put money on her having a phone, so she probably hasn't seen the SMS either. "Alright. Stay here and I'll be right back."
Glancing around, I dash across the street. I doubt anyone is watching, but I still keep my head down until I'm almost behind the diner; what's-her-name looks up as I get close.
"Well, hello there, Chloe," she says, smiling like it's just another evening for her. Aside from the blackout, it probably is. "Haven't seen you in a while. How's life?"
"Pretty fucked up, actually."
"Same as it ever was," she chuckles. "Far as I've seen, that's life's usual setting."
"Yeah, cool." I really don't have time for hobo philosophy right now. "Look, you've got to get out of town. Like, tonight. Now."
"Way ahead of you, kid." She pats the old, worn-out duffle bag next to her. "I've been around long enough to know which way the winds are blowing."
"Yeah, well, these winds are gonna be blowing a lot harder than usual."
"Second verse, same as the first," she says, waving dismissively. "Don't you worry about me. I'm not going to get caught out in the storm."
"You know about the storm?" I glance around, as if I'll see the person who clued her in. "Who told you?"
"No one had to tell me, Chloe. The storm always comes, sooner or later."
I'm not sure what to say to that. "Do you mean, like, literally? Or metaphorically?
"Whichever suits you." She shrugs. "Hey, I don't suppose I could bum a smoke for the road?"
"I...uh...I quit, actually."
She studies me for a second, then nods. "Smart girl. Those things'll kill you, you know."
"So I've been told."
"Well, I'd best be on my way. Good luck tonight." Climbing to her feet, she peers over my shoulder to where Max is standing. "You two are probably gonna need it."
"Uh, okay?"
"Just watch out for each other and you'll be fine." She seems to find my confused expression funny. "See ya 'round, kid."
With that, she tosses her bag over her shoulder, turns around, and just walks away. I watch her go for a few seconds before hurrying to rejoin Max.
"Is she okay?" she asks, as soon as I'm close enough to hear.
"More or less." I shrug, gesturing in the direction the woman had walked. "She's weird as fuck, but at least she's getting out of town."
"I'm glad," she sighs.
"Yeah, you can feel good about it later. We need to get going."
Oct 11, 2013 - [12:06 am]
South of Arcadia Bay, Oregon
"This is it," Max finally says, nodding at the old, cracked road that branches off from the highway. And let me just say, it's about damned time.
Although we were able to move faster once we were out of town, it's still taken us nearly an hour to get here and my feet are killing me. This is probably the furthest I've walked in one stretch since I got my truck (rest in peace, my magnificent rusty chariot) up and running. And lemme tell you, as hella cool-looking as they are, these boots sure as shit weren't made for walking.
"Getting pretty cloudy," I comment, pointing up at the sky. "Can't even see the moonlight anymore. Or would it be moonlights? Moonslight?"
"Let's stick with moonlight," Max laughs, softly. I don't know how she's not dead on her feet. Back that the weather station she looked like she was about to pass out, but since we left the town behind us she's been setting a pace fast enough that I'm actually starting to feel a little bit out of breath.
With the moonlight (y'know, I actually kinda like moonslight better) gone, the tall trees on either side of the road have reduced our world to whatever is inside our flashlight's small circle of light. And while I'm not afraid of the dark or anything, my imagination has been screwing with me ever since the woods closed in around us. I keep thinking I can hear wolves howling in the distance or something moving in the bushes. I'm sure (I mean, pretty sure) that there's nothing there, but without Max's magical do-over powers I can't help but feel like we're kinda vulnerable.
It's unnerving as hell, and it makes me glad I've still got my trusty... "Fuck!"
Max jumps, looking around wildly. "What is it?!"
"I just realized I left all the bullets in the fucking glove compartment!" I look back at the long stretch of dark pavement. Part of me wants to run back (for the bullets, not because I'm scared) but it'd take for-fucking-ever to get back to the truck, even if we hurry, and we're already way behind schedule.
"We can't go back," Max says, echoing my thought. "And I seriously doubt we'll need them."
I almost give her the old 'better to have them and not need them...' bit, but she's right. The only thing left for us to do is get to the bunker and hide until the storm passes. I doubt we'll be getting into any gunfights between now and then.
"Yeah," I mutter. "Probably not."
"Let's get moving." She gives my sleeve a gentle tug. "We'll be safe and sound before you know it."
Oct 11, 2013 - [12:42 am]
Prescott Barn
Southeast of Arcadia Bay, Oregon
This isn't good.
This is the exact fucking opposite of good.
For the last ten minutes, Max and I have been crouched in the bushes (which we seem to be doing a lot of lately) near the old barn that supposedly hides Mark Jefferson's Magnificent Pervert Hole (whererachelprobablydiedbutdontthinkaboutit), trying to decide what to do next.
We'd spotted the headlights through the trees way before we actually got here, and snuck up to find a police cruiser outside, parked right next to a Bentley that has to belong to El Jeffer-shit himself and a red pickup truck I know I've seen somewhere before. None of these are supposed to be here. No one is supposed to be here. It's supposed to be empty, the perfect place for us to hide from Arcadia Bay's private apocalypse.
"You know," I grumble. "It sure would be nice to have some bullets right about now."
"Really, Chloe?" Max hisses back, a little sharply. "Really?"
"I'm just sayin'." I shrug, leaning to the side as I try to get a look into the barn. We're pretty sure we can hear someone in there, but we can't tell who it is. Obviously, we'd prefer it to be the cops, but on the off chance that it's the freakshow himself I'd rather not take the risk of going in. "What do you think is going on in there?"
"No idea, but we're not going to find out skulking in the bushes." Rising, she keeps low and gestures for me to follow her. "C'mon."
"This is so fucked," I mutter as we move through the shadows toward the parked cars. "Why is everything this week so totally fucked?"
She doesn't say anything, giving me a sympathetic look over her shoulder. That's probably why I spot the lumpy blanket on the ground next to the cruiser before she does and have to grab the back of her jacket to keep her from tripping over it. It's laying on slightly uneven dirt, and I blame the lack of light for the fact that I don't immediately see it for what it is. It takes my eyes a few seconds to make out the shape; a shape anyone who's ever watched TV would probably recognize.
It's a dead body. A dead body under a dark grey blanket that's definitely too small to belong to a grown man.
"Oh no..." I hear myself whisper. I never meant it when I said I hated Victoria. I didn't like her, but I barely like anybody. I sure as fuck didn't want her to die.
I feel glued to the spot. It's Max who has the guts to kneel down and take a look. Hesitantly lifting one corner of the blanket, she gasps.
"I-is it...?"
"It's Nathan Prescott," she murmurs, lifting the blanket a little higher to reveal Nathan's weirdly slack features.
"Oh fuck..." Glancing toward the red truck that must belong to him, I kneel down beside Max. "You think it was the cops?"
She shakes her head. "Jefferson."
"How do you know?"
She points to a little red spot on the side of Nathan's neck, like a zit that hasn't quite surfaced yet. "He likes his needles."
"Sick fucker..." I mutter, staring at the corpse. He's dead. Nathan Prescott is dead. The guy who killed Rachel (dontthinkaboutitdontthinkaboutitdontthinkaboutitdontthinkaboutit) is dead. Murdered by the same twisted fuck who betrayed her in the first place.
I've never seen a body before. Fuck knows I've seen some people come close becoming one, but I've never actually seen one with my own eyes.
There was the casket at Dad's funeral, but I was never able to make that connection. It wasn't my dad; it was just a box. I never saw him after the accident, and from what little Max told me about what finding Rachel's (stopchloepleasestop) body did to me, I'm probably better off.
But for some reason, this doesn't feel like Nathan. Nathan Prescott was twitchy, all energy and motion. This body is like a mannequin you see in a store, dressed up to look like Nathan, but it's not him. Just something he left behind.
And if Nathan isn't here, laying under this blanket, then maybe Rachel (dontthinkaboutit...dontthink...about...it...fuck...im so tired) isn't really buried in the ground somewhere.
Maybe my dad isn't, either.
Man, this is a fucked-up time to have a spiritual epiphany.
"Hide!" Max hisses, breaking into my inconveniently deep thoughts, grabbing me by the wrist and pulls me toward the red pickup. We duck behind it and drop to the ground a half-second before someone emerges from the barn. I take a look under the truck, and I'm actually relieved to see a pair of black boots that could only belong to one of Arcadia Bay's 'finest'. Heading straight to the cruiser, the officer pulls the door open, and we hear the faint hiss of a radio.
"Dispatch, this is One-Three-Charlie, come in," he says. No one responds. "Dispatch, this is patrol cruiser One-Three-Charlie, are you reading me?
Someone on the other end responds this time, but it's more static than words.
"Damn it." We hear a soft thump. I bet he just hit the radio. That was a very 'hitting-something-to-make-it-work' kind of thump. "Dispatch, we're still waiting on backup at the old Prescott barn! We're not screwing around out here!"
The hissing gets louder as he turns the volume up. A second later, we hear, "...ne-Three-Char...is dispat...ower is out all ov...lace. Storm w...has hal...own in a pani...e just can't spar...units right n..."
"Say again, Dispatch? You're coming through broken as hell."
"...o backup com...ay agai...ackup coming..."
"Well, shit," we hear the cop mutter. "Copy, Dispatch. One-Three-Charlie out."
Then he's on his feet again, slamming the cruiser door and heading back inside. I wait a couple of seconds before standing peering over the edge of the truck bed. "Looks like the coast is clear."
When Max doesn't respond, I turn to find her staring into the truck's cab. Wordlessly, she points to something on the floor, and I lean over to take a look. It's a shoe. A very out of place looking shoe, considering it's Nathan's truck. Honestly, the first person I think of when I see it is... "Victoria."
Max nods, silently gesturing for me to follow her. Leading me around the side of the barn, she points to a slightly rusty sheet of metal leaning against the wall and mimes moving it away. I nod, hoping I understood her correctly, and together we very carefully lift the sheet to one side. Just enough for the two of us to sneak in through the hole behind it.
It's pitch-black inside. Because we can't risk using our flashlight, I have to hold my hands out in front of me to keep from walking into something. The only hint of light is the soft glow coming from what looks like a trap door in the ground. As Max and I creep nearer and my eyes adjust, I realize that there's a concrete set of stairs leading down under the barn.
The infamous Dark Room, I'm guessing.
We don't get too close; just enough to make out the voices coming from down below.
"Any luck on the car's radio?"
"I got through to Dispatch. Barely. The signal was rough as hell, but it sounds like they've really got their hands full. The power is still out and most of the town is shitting bricks over that storm warning. Looks like no one's gonna be responding to our backup request."
"What do they expect us to do; just sit here until he decides to come out?"
"They didn't say, but what else can we do? We're not going to get this thing open, man. Unless you've got a blowtorch in the cruiser?"
"Son of a bitch. Alright, here's what we're going to do. We're gonna brace the door so he can't get it open, then we're going to head back to town, where we're actually needed."
"You just want to leave him down there?! He murdered the Prescott kid."
"If he can't get out, it's just as good as any jail cell we could put him in."
"What if he's got another exit?"
"Then he's probably already used it and we're just standing outside an empty root cellar like a couple of assholes. And at least we can get Prescott out of here. His dad might be a piece of shit, but the poor kid deserves better than to lay outside all night."
"Yeah, but..."
"I don't like it either, man. And under normal circumstances I'd want to sit out here until that bastard either surrendered or starved to death. But these aren't normal circumstances, and we have an entire town to think about."
"Alright, fine. But we're coming right back tomorrow after the weather clears up."
"No shit, we are. Now let's go grab one of those wooden beams from outside."
Max and I duck back into the shadows as the two officers emerge. Neither of us move as they head outside, they return with a long wood beam and awkwardly carry it down the stairs. We only have to listen to them fumbling around with it for a minute or two before they're headed outside again. Not long after, the cruiser's engine starts up and they drive away.
We spend the next more minutes in silence, sitting in pitch dark, before I whisper, "I think they're gone."
"Yeah, let's go." I can't see her nod, but I'm pretty sure I recognize the sound of it. "Gloves on."
One of the things Max had repeatedly emphasized was the need to wear gloves in and around the bunker. Since it and everything inside it were guaranteed to survive the storm, the absolute last thing either of us wanted was the police finding our fingerprints down there.
Holding the flashlight low to the ground, we make our way over to the stairs and down into the concrete hallway below. It's even darker down here, if that's possible. The flashlight makes the short hallway look like something out of a horror movie, and at the far end is a big steel door that pretty much screams 'bunker'. The wood beam is braced across it, effectively blocking it from swinging open.
What's much more interesting this the blinking red light on the keypad next to the door. "It's still got power."
"The bunker has its own generator," Max murmurs, staring at the keypad. "And enough fuel for days."
"Fancy. Doesn't really help us with the code, does it?"
"I already know the door code."
Right. Of course she does. "So, are we going in?"
"I am. You're not."
"What?! Are you out of your fucking mind?!" She's lost it. Max has officially gone nuts.
"It's the right move."
"It's the fucking insane move."
"Chloe, he'll kill her."
"He'll kill you, dumbass." Keep 'em coming, Maximus. I can do this all night.
"No, he won't. He..." She shudders, looking away. "Jefferson wants me in there. That's why he wanted me to enter the competition. If I had, I would've won, and it'd be me in there instead of Victoria."
She can't possibly think that's a convincing argument. "Yeah, because that really makes me want to go along with this."
"If I go in the bunker, he'll listen to me. Maybe I can talk him into letting Victoria go."
"And if he doesn't? If he just decides to shoot you?" Why is she being so stupid about this? "You can't rewind, remember?"
"We can't abandon her."
"I'm not saying we do, but there has to be a better way than this." Doesn't she realize she'd be defenseless in there?
"This is the only way, Chloe. He'll never listen if you go in there. I need you to trust me."
"I do, but-"
She darts forward, pressing her lips to mine before I can finish. It's a short, desperate kiss. Not nearly as epic as the moment deserves, but I think we're both a little afraid it'll be our last. She pulls back, too soon, and looks up at me. "I lo-"
"Don't." I interrupt, because if she says those words, I'm pretty sure I'll say them back. And if I do that, I'll never be able to let her go in there alone. "Just...tell me after, okay? I want to hear you tell me after."
She nods, slowly. "I will."
"Promise me."
"I promise."
"Alright. Go be a hero." I take a hesitant step backward, then another. "But you better come back to me, Max Caulfield."
"I'll always come back, Chloe," she says, softly, as I reach the steps. "Always."