Part 2
As the van pulled into the farm driveway, on cue, all of them stretched and sat straight. Leonardo woke as Michelangelo moved, sighing deeply as he pushed himself upright, setting aside the blanket. He knew he'd been asleep for at least a few hours, but he felt as if he'd only blinked. Sleeping in the van usually left him feeling stiff, and tonight he felt as sore as after a full night's run.
Raphael turned off the engine, and the air began to cool.
"Okay, we're here." Raphael glanced over his shoulder. "Everyone awake?"
"Mm...yeah," Leonardo groaned, rolling one shoulder. "You got the keys?"
"Yup." Raphael jangled the handful of keys on a ring before handing them to Donatello. "How you wanna do this?"
"Same as usual," Leonardo said as he woke up fully. "Don gets the heater going. Mikey, start dinner. I'll check the perimeter—"
Raphael chuckled, shaking his head as if his big brother had just told a good joke. "As if. I'll check the fences this time."
About to argue, Leonardo thought better of it and tilted his head. A simple glance would tell anyone that he was in no condition to run the length of the extensive farm property in a deep snowfall. He nodded.
"Then I'll bring in supplies and check the house," Leonardo said, but he caught Raphael's look before his brother could turn around. "Make sure you take a comm and call in every few minutes."
"No problem," Raphael said. "It takes what, about ten minutes at top speed?"
Leonardo nodded once. "About. And don't slow down. The cold'll hit faster'n you think."
"I know, I know, worrywart."
Leaving the engine on for the lights, they all breathed deep to brace themselves against the coming cold. When they came out of the van, Donatello heading to the door to open it up while Raphael disappeared out of the narrow beam of the headlights. Michelangelo and Leonardo both grabbed handfuls of bags from the back and followed Donatello up the steps, slipping a little on patches of ice between the brown grass.
Snowflakes came down hard enough to bite, dripping down their shells. Leonardo looked around the yard as they waited, trying to peer past the gloomy highbeams even just a few feet from the van. He was no stranger to the dark. The sewers had long stretches of tunnels without any lights, punctuated only by the occasional rain gutter letting in moonlight or the golden haze from the streetlamps. But the past few years had seen him up on rooftops, growing accustomed to New York's constant glow.
The farmhouse did not have a constant glow. There were no streetlamps, no passing cars. Only the stars and the moon, hidden behind a layer of black clouds.
The front yard extended into nothingness, a patch of brown grass sticking through snow. He could barely make out the edges of the patio, and the rest of the house faded into gloom and the curtain made by the storm. Coming to the very edge of the fence, the forest wrapped around the property and towered over the roof, completely invisible but hemming them in all the same.
"Today, Donny," Michelangelo whined, stomping around to keep from freezing.
"Sorry," Donatello said, and the keys dropped to the floor. He picked them up with a curse and tried again. "I forgot which one it is and—got it!"
They tumbled inside, dropping their gear down inside by the door. Donatello slid his hand over the wall, finding the switch, and they all winced as the lights came on. He kept going, turning on lights as he went.
Going back for the rest of their things, Leonardo scolded himself for shivering and hunching his shoulders. It made him too easy a target. His hand settled on his belt, clutching twice before he remembered that his shuriken and knives were inside one of the bags. Painfully vulnerable, he leaned forward as he came around the van again, making sure there was no one waiting around the corner, then tossed several of the last bags to Michelangelo. They both ended up carrying four or five bags on both arms so they wouldn't have to make another trip.
Once they were safely inside again, Leonardo locked the door, set the deadbolt and shut the curtains. In the kitchen, Michelangelo rustled pots and plates while food went into the refrigerator and cabinets. Donatello, who'd unlocked the kitchen door for when Raphael returned, plugged in the refrigerator and gave Michelangelo a roll of his eyes as he opened the largest cabinet, examining the water heater.
"I'll be right back," Leonardo said. "Has Raph—"
The shellcell on the counter caught his attention. The screen flickered static, the signal broken up by the snowfall, and Raphael's voice crackled, thin but clear.
"By the east fence post. Nothing weird. Heading for the fence by the lake now."
Michelangelo nodded even though Raphael couldn't see him. "Ten-four good buddy, getting chow going, over."
Leonardo breathed a little sigh of relief. "Watch for the ravine," he called loud enough for his brother to hear him. "It's hard to spot even during the day."
"I hear you, fearless," Raphael called back. "Don't worry, I'm being careful."
Silence after that. Leonardo turned, heading back into the living room. There was a side room across from him, and he looked inside, walking the length of the walls and checking that the windows were locked. There was a desk he didn't look through, an old typewriter and a rug, and a few old photos on the wall, plus one closet which he opened, finding it empty save for an exposed bulb and a bare set of shelves.
The living room had a closet almost as bare. Then he went upstairs, checked the bathroom, pushing the shower curtain back and making sure the window there was locked. He couldn't help looking into the mirror, staring at his reflection for a moment, then glancing over his shoulder. Nothing. Slowly, unwillingly remembering the horror movies Raphael loved, he looked back at the mirror.
He laughed once at himself, but the anxiety didn't go away. Only a day ago, he'd fought a faceless form in the darkness, something fast enough to slide around his attack and strong enough to pull him across the floor. He'd only barely survived, and he didn't know what else in the dark he should be afraid of.
He left the light on as he went to the bedroom. Taking up the rest of the second floor, the room was large enough for the master bed, a rug and dresser. There was no place for anything to hide, so he checked the windows, pushing one firmly into its sill, loose despite being locked. Then he turned and looked up at the ceiling, pressing his hand to his head as he sighed.
The attic.
The stairs were still sealed and latched, and reason dictated that the attic would be untouched since their last visit. No one came here anymore besides them, and the rest of the house was untouched. Nothing could be in the attic. There was no point in looking. He'd just prove his brothers right when they called him a paranoid taskmaster.
With a resigned huff, he reached up, brought out the stairs, and cautiously began to climb.
He realized his mistake as soon as he was halfway inside. Why hadn't he brought one of their flashlights with him? Above his head, there was an empty socket and no lightbulb, and no light save for what came up from the bedroom. He could just make out silhouettes of boxes, both closed and open, the outlines of a stack of books and two large trunks. The scent of dust and old pages lingered despite the cold eating in from outside.
His breath fogged in front of him. He was only a few thin boards away from the howling winter wind, and the air here was almost as uncomfortable as being on the porch. The faster he searched, the faster he could go back downstairs.
There were no windows. The floor creaked as he moved by, creeping across boxes and bags. There was no room to walk. When he reached the opposite side, he could barely see anything, too far from the door for the light to reach. He brushed rough wood, the edges of cardboard so old that its surface crumbled under his fingers. Books fluttered at his touch, and out of curiosity, he gathered a handful from the top.
Too close to the roof, thunder exploded, thrumming in his shell.
Frozen in place, he expected a cold hand to drop on his shoulder and yank him into the darkness. Not moving, not breathing, he held perfectly still, straining to hear anything. So quiet. Snowflakes landed on the roof with soft pats. Something rattled downstairs, followed by his brothers' voices.
Another rumble of thunder, low and constantly rolling.
Sick at himself for panicking, he crept out of the attic and shut the stairs back up, firmly locking them in place. As he came back to the living room, warmth spilled inside from the kitchen, radiating from the oven.
Michelangelo heard him coming, looking over his shoulder as he bent over the stove.
"Dinner in ten," he said. "And Raph'll be back in five."
"Got the heater going!" Donatello called out, followed by a click and dust puffing out of the vents.
The house grew warmer, giving them a sense of sharp relief. With nothing immediately demanding Leonardo's attention, he flopped back on the armchair, stretching out sideways so the chair cradled him.
He could relax here. The living room was as familiar as ever, the spot they usually occupied when they visited, and tonight they would go so far as to sleep on futons piled in front of the fireplace. Their bedrolls lay by the door, and he considered spreading them out when he realized he still had the books in his hand.
Budget: 1893-1894 – Equipment, Seed, Produce.
Farmer's Almanac, Year of Our Lord 1892.
Fauna boreali-americana: containing descriptions of the objects of natural history of New York (1829).
He frowned, skimming them before setting them on the floor. The titles didn't stand out to him. Sometimes he forgot that the reason they called this place the farm was because it had been one, albeit a long time ago. Had no one ever cleared out the attic?
The next book only had a bare cover, frayed at the edges with brittle yellow pages half stuck in at the center. The spine creaked from decades of disuse and on the next page was swirling, embellished lettering, June Mayfield: Diary and Correspondence in the Winter of 1893. Leonardo sighed and tossed that on the stack growing beside him on the floor. He didn't expect a stack of old comics or pulp novels, but there had to be something besides ledgers or manuals.
Long Island to Yorktown: A History of the Revolution in New York. At least that sounded more interesting. Giving his siblings one more glance to make sure they were all right, catching Raphael's voice on the shellcell that he was on his way back, Leonardo finally began to relax.
He opened the book, taking in the first page with a map and dotted lines showing the major troop movements of George Washington's army, reading the notation with it. Through thick forest and savage wilderness, the general kept his soldiers together despite cruel and biting winters, sometimes set upon seemingly by nature herself...
Before he could finish the sentence, he'd passed out.
TBC...