leave it to science to solve all your problems
The eerie light shifts over the boxes and shelves, creating strange shapes in the corner of Dipper's eye. It's a light that obscures as much as it illuminates; contours seem to fade and waver, shadows grow deeper and darker.
He blinks away the distraction and concentrates on the plan Great-Uncle Ford is presenting. The Thing isn't going to get rid of itself.
Ford kneels on the dirty concrete floor and uses his finger to draw in the accumulated grime. "Stanley, I'll need you to run interference. See if you can't keep its attention somehow. It may be attracted to vibration, so I'm sure you'll think of something."
"Vibration, eh?" Grunkle Stan muses, eying a tall stack of crates not too far from where they're hiding.
"Just try not to put anything between the aperture and this shelf—we're going to need as clear a path as possible. Mabel, you'll be with me. Your grappling hook is going to be key."
"Grappling hook!" Mabel whispers triumphantly, holding it aloft.
Ford favors her with a quick grin. "Exactly. First, I'll need to get to the fuse box near the crane and see if I can't restore power to that circuit. Dipper, Pacifica: While we're busy with our side of things, I need the two of you to try and undo the cap nuts on the concrete anchor bolts here on the feet of this shelf. They're old and I doubt they've been unfastened in recent memory, so it will likely take the two of you to do it. Some of the anchor bolts may already be broken, judging by the age of this shelving, so that might shorten the task. There should be twelve caps in all, two on the front and back of each side and four on the middle column."
Dipper looks over at the end of the shelf closest to him, where the metal footing of the shelving unit is fastened with a heavy bolt encrusted with decades worth of filth. "Um, won't we need a wrench or something?"
"Yes, that or a large ratchet." Ford scoots over to the edge of the shelf and pulls a tape measure out of his pocket. "I saw a tool cabinet near the entryway to the offices. Looks like you'll need a half-inch diameter. Check the drawers until you find what you need."
"What if there aren't any tools?" Dipper asks.
"Then we go to plan B,'" Ford says, pulling his coat aside to reveal his pistol. "But I'd rather not use my weapon in here if we can avoid it. Besides, I may need it to power the crane."
"You wanna let us in on the rest of the plan, brainiac?" Grunkle Stan says.
"Using the ceiling crane, we'll lower the hook and secure it to the middle of this shelving unit. When the feet are free of the anchors, the crane will drag the shelf forward and push the creature back through the aperture," Great-Uncle Ford explains. "The tear should close once it's no longer obstructed."
It's daring, but efficient; exactly what Dipper expects from his great-uncle. He reaches up and straightens his hat, steeling himself. "Well, we won't know until we try."
Ford chuckles fondly, slapping a firm hand on Dipper's shoulder. "Sometimes it's like I'm looking at my younger self, eh, Stanley?"
"Yeah, yeah. We all know who takes after who around here," Grunkle Stan says, but his tone is good-natured instead of fully dismissive.
Like a light being turned on, Dipper experiences a very sudden insight into Grunkle Stan's attitude towards him during portions of last summer. Dipper must have represented a painful echo and a second chance, all wrapped up in the kinds of conflicting emotions Grunkle Stan doesn't handle well (would anybody?). It had to be hard to take in another set of Pines twins, a reflection of the way Stan and Ford had been once.
Dipper doesn't have much time to think about it. As Grunkle Stan stealthily makes his way around the far end of the shelves (having left Headsy safely tucked away on a second-tier shelf), Mabel and Ford grapple up to the catwalk. Dipper and Pacifica hurry back towards the offices; there's a rusty red tool cabinet near the double doors. They force open each drawer in turn, sending screwdrivers, levels, and files clattering. On the fourth one down they get lucky: a whole selection of wrenches.
Dipper directs his light and puts his finger on the numbers. "Five-eighths… Fourteen— wait, these are metric. Here!"
There's only one wrench, but that's probably okay since he figures it's going to take both of them to loosen the old cap nuts, assuming they even can. If not, the alternative is quite a bit less stealthy than any of them are going to like, especially if the Thing starts slinging more giant red quills around. Dipper's already almost lost a hip; he doesn't want to imagine what it'll feel like to get one of those spikes in a leg or something (and the 'or something' is even less worth thinking about).
They creep their way back to the shelves and kneel on the hard, dirt-crusted concrete. Dipper slots the wrench into place around the first cap and gives it an experimental tug; it doesn't budge. He braces himself on his heels and puts his weight into it, but it isn't until Pacifica leans forward and pushes from the other side that the nut suddenly gives; Dipper's feet skid out from under him as he lands on his backside. After that, it's just a matter of turning it a few more times until it's loose enough to spin by hand. The cap comes off the top of the anchor bolt and into Pacifica's grease-streaked palm.
One down. Eleven to go.
It feels like they work an eternity, there in the dark. The boxes cloak them in shadows but the greenish light shining through the gaps flickers in strange patterns as the Thing writhes in the aperture. Overhead, the crane shudders into motion—a bell rings out every second it moves, chiming in warning. The Thing's thrashing intensifies. A heavy object hits the floor in the distance, likely Stan's handiwork, and the sound is followed by the thud of spikes impacting something wooden.
The next nut in the wrench's grip refuses to turn, even with Pacifica's help. Dipper scoots around until he can put his feet against the steel of the I-beam column in front of the shelving unit and pushes with his legs as hard as he can, arms straining to hold on to the slippery metal of the wrench, hands aching with the effort. Pacifica is on her knees on the other side of the column and thrusts her palms out, hitting the wrench as she falls forward with a grunt of exertion. The stupid cap finally gives with a little grating shriek, like it's in pain.
They're only a little over the halfway point when Dipper looks up to see the hook of the crane dangling just to the front of the shelves. It's slowly lowering with a steady industrial hum. He and Pacifica are definitely the slowest part of the operation, but there's not any way around that. He hears the familiar ratcheting rope of the grappling hook and Great-Uncle Ford lowers himself down from the catwalk.
"Mabel's learned how to work the crane," Ford says by way of explanation, leaving the grappling hook dangling where it is. "Move to the other end and undo the caps there first. The pallets are mostly empty here and I'm not certain the lattices are still sturdy. We'll find out when we try to move the unit."
"Is Grunkle Stan okay?" Dipper asks as he abandons the cap he's working on and gets to his feet.
"Yes, he's fine. I'm sure he's enjoying making a racket over there. Do your best to finish; I don't know how intelligent this creature is, if at all, but let's not allow it time to figure anything out."
As Ford ascends the dusty, orange-painted metal beams of the shelf, Dipper and Pacifica go over to the other end, heads ducked, doing their best to minimize noise. The anchor caps on this side are just as stubborn as the last ones and once again they're sweating and straining to get the job done.
"If I break a nail, I'm gonna—" Pacifica huffs, her threat remaining unfinished as the wrench slips off the nut and sends her sprawling.
"Pacifica!" Dipper gets up and helps her back to her feet. "Are you okay?"
She clamps a hand over her lightly-bleeding skinned elbow and looks down at the cap nut like its existence is a personal affront to her. "This sucks," she opines. "Ugh. I am so gross right now."
Dipper thinks she still looks better than anyone with that much dirt and grease on them has any right to. "We're almost done," he says, crouching down and slotting the wrench back into place. "Come on, it's just a few more."
They're ready to finish the middle of the shelf by the time Ford hops off the first tier. He surveys their work with a nod of approval. "We're almost ready. I'll assist you in finishing this middle column, then we'll proceed to the next step of the plan."
"Great-Uncle Ford, is the crane going to be able to move all of this?" Dipper asks. Many of the shelves are still filled with crates and pallets, some of which look exceptionally heavy.
"It's rated for ten tons, but the weight isn't evenly distributed. We'll use the crane to tip the shelf and then lift it up and over whatever falls off. I want the two of you back behind the next row before that happens."
They resume working in relative silence until, at last, the final cap nut reluctantly unscrews, and the shelf sits free on its moorings. The crane will have to lift the shelf upwards until the feet clear the bolts, but as Dipper pointed out, there's still quite a few crates and other things stored on the racks. He winces internally when he thinks about the property damage they are about to incur. This is someone's stuff, after all. Still, it's better that the owner loses a few pallets to fall damage than lose all of them to another dimension.
"Alright, get to safety!" Ford instructs them. He grabs hold of the grappling hook and shoots back up to the catwalk.
Dipper grabs Pacifica's hand and leads her back around the next shelf to the protection of its crates—it's easier to guide her with their sole flashlight if he's holding onto her. Plus, he gets to hold her hand, which he doesn't really need a pretense for since she's his girlfriend and all, but whatever. They peer over the top of a pallet of shrink-wrapped pipes and wait. A couple minutes later, Grunkle Stan appears at the other end of the aisle with Headsy tucked beneath one arm and makes his way over to them. He's covered in dust and his hands are almost black with accumulated grime.
He smirks at them. "Never thought I'd see a Northwest get their hands dirty," he comments.
"Have yours ever been clean?" Pacifica shoots back, hands at her hips.
"Heh. You got a mouth on you, kid," Grunkle Stan says, giving her an approving finger gun. He looks to Dipper. "Is Ford getting this show on the road?"
"He should be about to start," Dipper replies.
"Good. I know I'm not the cleanest guy around, but this place is somethin' else. I think my sinuses are packed with cobwebs."
Dipper looks down at his blackened pants and grime-streaked shirt. "Yeah… We're doing more than just getting our hands dirty."
Pacifica is holding herself stiffly, like she doesn't want to touch her own clothes. "Why can't monsters just show up at the mall?" she complains.
Dipper doesn't have an answer for that. He supposes the next anomaly could be at a mall. It could be anywhere, really.
They all jump a little when the crane suddenly lurches into motion, signaling the start of the final stage. Dipper mentally crosses his fingers. If this doesn't work, the alternatives are sure to be even messier.