Coon and Friend: The Mysterion Hunt - Part 1 - Final Chapter
In the shadows, I danced with darkness, navigating an obstacle course of searchlights and gunfire. Beside me, Cartman waddled in his Racoon costume—perfect for stealth, yet fittingly absurd for this town.
"Stay close," he whispered, his voice a mix of concern and bravado. "I'll keep you safe."
I nodded, scanning the street for any signs of danger.
We arrived at the clinic's entrance, safety so near yet unreachable. Locked. I looked to Cartman, anticipating a grand declaration, but he only sighed.
"Stand back," he said, revealing his claw-like hand. Swiftly tracing a circle in the glass, he pushed it out, the cut piece landing softly on the carpet inside. Once the lock clicked open, Cartman gestured me inside with a theatrical sweep of his hand. As the door creaked open, he smirked, arm extended. I rolled my eyes, grip tightening on the shovel's handle — humor a distant memory in these circumstances.
"Mademoiselle," he said, voice dripping with feigned chivalry.
"Cut it out, Cartman," I muttered, stepping past him into the shadowy belly of the clinic. It was cooler inside despite the late night and snow outside, the air suffused with a silence that seemed to press against my ears.
Stepping inside, I gripped my shovel tightly as we embraced the silence, away from the chaos outside. We were determined survivors, adapting and ready for any situation – even fish could wield shovels if necessary.
As I prepared to walk through the darkness, The Coon pulled out a flashlight, stylized with a plastic racoon's head holding a lightbulb in its open mouth. He turned it on before handing me one as well.
I used the beam of light to sweep over the reception area; empty- the hallway behind the desk even more so.
"Keep your eyes peeled," he whispered, intentionally deepening his voice, "Who knows what traps those two traitors have set up." as soon as he said that he tripped on a discarded magazine on the floor; though he did attempt to roll forwards if he meant to do that.
"'Traps'." I echoed, sarcasm slipping from my tongue. The Coon shot me a look, but before he could retort, his eyes widened, catching sight of something.
"Holy shit!" He stumbled and turned towards me, raising his clawed hands as if to block my vision. Too little too late — my gaze had already found the crumpled form of a doctor sprawled across the floor behind the reception desk, his neck... wrong. So very wrong, torn open in an act of violence that left nothing to the imagination.
Eric, trying to mask his own fear with exaggerated bravery, struck a dramatic pose. "Behold, the Coon's super-senses have uncovered a grim scene!" he declared, as if he were performing for an audience. "This is exactly why superheroes like me are needed! To... uh... fight crime and... deal with dead bodies and stuff!"
I stared at him, trying to process what was happening. "I think we need to call the cops. What are we going to do?" This was hardly the first time I've seen a dead body, and with the gunfire outside it was only a matter of time I would see another before tonight ends.
Without missing a beat, Eric fumbled with his phone, clearly trying to figure out how to handle the situation. "Well, first, let's not panic! The Coon will take charge of this situation!" He was talking a mile a minute, and it was clear he was rattled, though he was doing his best to cover it up. "I'm going to send a message to the police over Coonstagram. They'll be super impressed with my bravery. I mean, who else would find a dead body and still look this good?"
What the heck is Coonstagram… Is that an Instagram clone? I was only slightly shocked by what I witnessed him do after. "Are you seriously taking pictures right now?" I asked, incredulous.
"Of course!" Eric said, striking poses as he snapped selfies with the body in the background. "It's called documenting evidence. And it's for, uh, posterity! Plus, it'll look great on my superhero resume. Now, let's make this quick and get out of here before—"
"Before what?" I interrupted, my anxiety mounting as I heard a noise from somewhere down the hall.
Eric's bravado faltered as he heard the sound of footsteps. His face went pale, and he tried to maintain his composure. "Before the traitors show up and decide we've seen too much and kill us!" he blurted out, his attempt at confidence cracking. "Just follow my lead!"
As we hurried out of the store, my mind raced. I was both scared and frustrated. Eric continued to pose and take pictures, his earlier bravado giving way to a more genuine sense of panic as he struggled to keep up his act.
Survival demanded I not dwell on his false confidence.
I could almost smell the iron tang of blood mingling with disinfectant—a scent not unfamiliar to me as we slipped into a nearby lab, its walls peppered with bullet holes— Strangely, amidst the ruin, there stood an office untouched by the violence that had ravaged the rest of the room. Pristine.
The Coon stood nearby the door ears towards the door, listening. My fingers tightened around the shovel's handle, the metal cool and reassuring against my palm.
Grim memories flickered like old film reels in my mind: classrooms turned to war zones, playgrounds littered with debris, my own hands— yet already stained with choices that bore the weight of survival. Remembering the feel of blood in my hands churned something in me.
A constant pain i've had in my body for the past few days suddenly making a reappearance forced me to bite my lip to keep silent as the moments ticked by.
Then the Coon turned toward me, oblivious to my discomfort as he spoke, "Whoever was walking went further back into the clinic." He looked around continuing, "Looks like a ghost office," Cartman muttered.
"Ghost office... sure." I let out a breath I didn't realize I'd been holding. The heck was a 'ghost office'? This was no time to get distracted. "We should check for anything useful."
"Right, I'll find those two soon enough." he agreed calmly, though I could tell by the way his eyes burned he was already thinking of what exactly he wanted to do with them.
I pivot on the heel of my worn sneaker, surveying the room once again with a cynic's eye. Cartman, his robes trailing like the king he fancied himself, gestures grandly towards the desk strewn with papers.
"You check for clues here, Bloodmüller. I'll check the next room," he says with what I'm sure he believes is a commanding tone.
"Sure, boss," I reply, my voice a low hum in my throat, sparing him the sarcasm simmering beneath. He seems to beam at the address, oblivious, and disappears back into the hallway.
Alone in the silent lab I went to work. Fingers brush against cool metal and glass, remnants of urgency frozen in time. Amongst the gray, a splash of color catches my gaze—a pink booster seat, its innocence jarring against the sterile environment. A bitter chuckle escapes me as my mind came to absurd conclusions for what it was doing here in an abortion clinic, like children sitting on the operating table.
The doctor or nurse should have just kept it in their car.
I sift through the doctors' gloves and robes that hang from the wall, searching for anything that might be out of the ordinary before deciding to read through what was on the desk. The dance of my flashlight beam starts to fade to a mere flicker as I continue to read through different reports of patients. Eyes straining, I strain for any hint of ink on paper, but without the flashlight it was nearly impossible to read these. Then, darkness.
"Damn it," I snarl, my breath a harsh mist in the frigid air. The power's out, and this damned flashlight won't turn back on. I'm consumed by a fury I can't fully understand, and tears of frustration start to sting my eyes as I feel a surge of anger at the world.My legs hurt, my back hurts, I have a piercing pain behind my navel and now I can complete a simple fucking task because the damn lights are out and this flashlight wouldn't fucking work. I smack the torch against my hand a few times harder and harder before shaking the plastic tube then slamming it to the table. "Fuck!" I shout before sweeping my arm quickly across the table. I shove the flashlight away, sending it crashing against the wall where it shatters, and the sound of it hitting the ground echoes through the empty room along with the sound of fluttering pages, and desk acutermons.
Overwhelmed by a sudden wave of self-loathing, I cradle my head on the cold desk. I'm useless. I'm breaking so many rules by being out this late, and outside there is literally the national guard gunning down homeless people that are only running into town because I helped a little girl my age burn down an abandoned shopping mall. Tears pricked at the corners of my eyes as I started to pull at my short hair. I missed my longer hair, dressing up as a boy and doing spy shit is one thing but now I just wanted to be home and eat a pint of cookie dough and watch the most recent Terrance and Philip.
What the heck am I doing with my life. Why am I doing these things. Why does everything I touch turn to shit. Why- Why can't I just get a grip? The world seems impossibly cruel and unforgiving, but that's all Being X's fault. He did this to me. Fuck otherworldly supernatural bullshit, fuck this pain and exhaustion and emotional rollercoasters.
I pull myself together. I wipe the tears from my face, anger at Being X giving me a sense of clarity. he won't defeat me. I have a job to do tonight-But after that. I will hunt down Jesus and the Anti-Christ and get the answers that were promised to me.
But first. I have to find Eric.
I storm out into the hallway, my steps silent, but determined as I search for him. Back and abdominal pain aside, the act of moving did make me feel better. This is what happens when you don't stretch and are pushing twenty hours of wakefulness, a building headache and the desire to kick a self proclaimed God's ass.
A series of thuds drags my attention, leading me down sterile hallways where the sound was coming from. The banging grows more insistent, a drumbeat signaling frustration.
I round the corner to find him, a distinct shape despite the shadows wrestling with the door of a room.
"Eric!" I whisper/shout to him, expecting bravado or a quip in return.
"Shut up babe!" His voice slices through the gloom, a blade forged in annoyance.
I grit my teeth in anger, choosing once again to ignore the overly familiar nickname.
Cartman's silhouette hunches over giving up. "This damn magnetic lock is somehow still active, despite the power outage."
"So you think the two are in there?" I eye the sign that hangs above the door, 'Records and other Things, nothing to see here.'
Quite.
"Indeed." He grunts, throwing his weight against the obstinate door, once again. "And one way or another we're getting in."
'Unless the door gets the better of you first.' I felt a smug satisfaction as the boy was rubbing his shoulder in pain, watching as Cartman's determination pit itself against unyielding metal.
There's something both pitiable yet endearing about his struggle—a knight jousting with windmills, convinced they're giants.
"Stand back." Cartman steps aside, flexing fingers that have played games and now seek to break rules. "If brute force won't do it, let's try a little Coon ingenuity."
He looked around with his, frustratingly still working, flashlight.
After a moment he settled it on a vent, high up the wall. It was a narrow passage, one someone of his size could never fit through.
"Looks like we need someone to shimmy through that," Cartman's voice slices through the hush, a wry grin audible in his tone.
I spared him a glance, but his eyes were focused on the vent.
"Someone that is small, expendable, and totally not kewl." Cartman nods sagely, the shadows playing across his features in a mock-heroic dance. "Too bad we don't have anyone like that here."
"Guess it's up to me then," I murmur, stepping closer to the wall.
"Oh thank you for volunteering Bloodmüller, I suppose someone kewl and totally not expendable will have to do." he says, his words sugary sweet, "It seems fate has chosen you, once again."
The boy at least had the decency to help me up the wall without protest.
My fingers found the edge of the cover, metal cool beneath my touch. With a slight pull, the screws give way, the drywall not holding the cover nearly as well as it first appeared. I dropped the cover and flinched slightly as it clattered echoing off the walls, too loud in the stillness.
Before I could hoist myself into the opening, Cartman's grip on my leg tightened, "Good luck, Bloodmüller," his voice was oddly serious. "Remember, crawl like the wind, or, you know... at whatever speed gets you there alive."
"Thanks for the vote of confidence," I reply, the corners of my mouth twitching upward despite the gravity of our situation.
For a moment he stared at my face, before he loosened his grip and turned away. I hoist myself into the opening, leaving behind the false comfort of solid ground.
Looking into the darkness I turned to ask for the flashlight, only to feel it already in my pocket, and The Coon no longer in the hallway below.
Huh. He actually can manage to pull off a Hero exit.
The vents are a labyrinth of silver, twisting and turning in ways that defy logic. There were way too many turns for this small building- and there have been no openings to clinic's or rooms at all.
My leg and arms started to feel cramped as I continued to propel myself through the ducts. I should be in bed asleep, yet here I am, crawling through ductwork. Cartman owes me a pint, no two pints of cookie dough, and a king size bar of chocolate for this bullshit. I pushed aside dust bunnies and spiderwebs. For a Clinic these ducks were incredibly filthy.
The only thing keeping me going was the almost robotic voice of that girl- claiming she was from the future. Telling me things she shouldn't possibly know.
I need answers.
A sudden glint in the darkness ahead drew my gaze—two points of crimson, like twin embers in a dying fire.
For a heartbeat, I considered them.
Red eyes? In here?
The reality of it sent a jolt through me, a surge of adrenaline so fierce it knocked the reason clear out of my head. My skull collided with the metal above with a resounding thunk, a sound that seemed too hollow for the pain it produced.
"Dammit," I muttered under my breath, the words a raspy whisper.
The impact must have loosened something because the world gave way beneath me. I plummeted, the air snatched from my lungs, until I crashed onto a cold, unforgiving surface below—a floor smoother than the inside of the vent.
Gathering myself amid the debris of shattered ceiling tiles, I rose to a crouch, my hand instinctively finding the shovel's handle, gripping it like a lifeline. This room, this observation chamber with walls of sterile white, felt… terrifyingly familiar.
Hiss...
The sound slithered from the gaping hole I'd made in the ceiling, a warning hiss that raised the hair on the back of my neck. Something was up there.
"Come out and play," I taunted softly, my voice laced with a bravado I didn't quite feel. This wasn't my first tango.
The floor trembled.
Tiny dust particles danced in the air from my fall. I tightened my grip on the shovel, as… They emerged: gray-skinned creatures of various sizes barely the size of my arm. The things looked similar to newborn infants, however their flesh pallid, eyes devoid of wonder or innocence.
"Okay then," I muttered under my breath—a reflex, really, as I tried to comprehend what I was looking at with reality. My eyes darted between them, counting—three, four, five... more than I cared for. A hesitation crept up my spine, a primal warning to tread carefully.
The creatures paused, seeming to sense my reservation, an eerie stillness descending like a blanket over us all. Then, without provocation, they turned on one another. It was sudden, violent, a cacophony of snarls and gnashing teeth that shattered the silence, leaving only chaos in its wake.
Two broke away from the fray, hurtling towards me with a hunger that spoke of unchecked brutality. No time for fear, only action. The shovel arced down with a grace born of necessity, metal meeting flesh with a sickening crunch. One fell, then another.
Dark red blood with tints of green coated the once flawless floor.
I needed an exit. The observation room felt smaller now, the walls pressing in with a weight that threatened to crush my resolve. I moved cautiously, stepping over the still forms of the gray monsters, their existence reduced to mere obstacles in my path.
Looking around the room, making sure to keep the bloodthirsty monsters as far from me as possible I instinctively found a small seam in the flat wall. A door, cleverly concealed, a whisper of hope amidst despair. I pushed, pulled, shouldered it with all the strength of desperation fueling me.
"Open, damn you," I growled, not above bargaining with inanimate objects if it meant escape.
I know I can do this.
A memory of a similar door came to mind- my five year old hands were able to open it then. Why can't I do it now?
As if the world heard my thoughts and understood the door opened and I swiftly left the white room and cannibalistic beasts behind me.
I leaned against the cold, unyielding wall just outside the observation room, catching my breath, the sticky copper tang of blood filling the air. Emergency lights lit up the hallway, allowing me to turn off the flashlight, it was a momentary respite, as even here, in the shadowed corridor, I wasn't alone.
Voices punctured the silence, sharp and jarring.
"Rules? Regulations? Ha! This entire operation is about as rule-abiding as a game of Sarcastaball!" one man in black scoffed, his voice dripping with disdain.
"The Ratings, though... that's where we can't afford to slip. The Moderators watching," replied the other, his tone laced with a thread of anxiety that seemed out of place on such a stoic figure.
I moved to the corner, crouching closer to the edge, i need to know all I can about what's going on here. Were they really discussing television ratings while monsters lurked behind every cracked door? Or were they talking about something… more?
"Containment has failed. We expected anomalies, but this..." A doctor's voice snatched my attention, his coat adorned with crimson splatters like macabre confetti.
"The Neoism levels are still rising," he gasped, words punctuated by heavy, labored breaths. "We didn't foresee this rate of mutation. We need to activate the countermeasures before it's too late."
"Neoism?" I mouthed silently, the term alien yet ominous. It felt like a piece of a puzzle I wasn't sure I wanted to complete.
The agent hissed, his voice barely above a whisper, yet it cut through the silence with the precision of a scalpel. "We need to act fast, before... before the rating escalates beyond our control."
My pulse hammered in my chest, a morbid metronome counting down to an unknown but undoubtedly grim finale.
"Here." The other agent's hand plunged into the depths of his suit jacket, retrieving a key glinting like a promise in the dim light—a promise of what, I wasn't sure. It seemed too small, too ordinary to be a linchpin in whatever apocalyptic scenario they were scrambling to prevent.
"Go!" And like that, they were off, footsteps echoing down the hallway, leaving behind only the hum of overhead lights and the smell of fear.
"Ride on, Space Cowboys." The doctor's voice, rich with an irony that bordered on the theatrical, chased after the departing agents. He stood there, still as a statue, a grin spreading across his face while blood from his coat dripped onto the pristine tile floor, each drop a macabre punctuation mark. Then as if suddenly awake, he marched off after the agents.
"Space Cowboys?" I muttered, half to myself, what kind of B-movie dialogue are they saying now?
Blood—there was no escaping the sight of it, splattered in Rorschach patterns along the walls, like some twisted art show where the medium was mortality itself. Shards of glass crunched underfoot as I tread cautiously, each step a crunching echo in the otherwise tomb-like silence of the hallways. The agents had vanished around a corner with urgency nipping at their heels, and I, in my jacket and Terrance and Philips pajamas that seemed so out of place in this gruesome gallery, decided to follow.
The further I ventured, the more the scene unfurled into an absurd tapestry of conspiracy and calamity. Cork boards peppered the rooms I passed, each one a spider web of string connecting images that should never have been acquaintances in any sane world. UFOs hovered next to sparkling green gems, while robot dinosaurs roared silently from their pinned positions. And there, amid this collage of crackpot connections, were the familiar faces I've seen around South Park- each one looking as confused by their inclusion as I felt observing it all.
Something didn't add up here, not when the variables included extraterrestrial crafts and prehistoric automatons.
With every step, I could feel the weight of my shovel's handle against my palm, the weight keeping me focused on the objective. I pressed on, drawn by the siren call of the unknown.
And so, with the agents' keys jangling like a discordant chime in the distance, heralding a door waiting to be unlocked, I followed.
The clink of metal keys against a stubborn lock punctuated the silence, a sharp counterpoint to the undercurrent of distant chanting about raising a flag or something. The tune was oddly familiar, but it makes sense it was German— even if the a guttural chorus that seemed to rise from the very bowels of the earth, carrying with it an air of ancient rituals and long-forgotten oaths.
"Damnit," one agent cursed under his breath, hands fumbling in unison with his partner's.
"Let me try," the other snapped, impatience lacing his tone like venom. Their silhouettes, backlit by the flickering emergency lights.
"Look, just take a deep breath and calm down. Breathe in, Eins, Zwei-" one of the agents quickly turned to the doctor, "Traitor!" The accusation was a gunshot all its own—An actual gunshot followed a moment later, a brutal exclamation point ending the sentence of suspicion. The doctor crumpled, his white coat blooming with red as he joined the cacophony of secrets spilled across the clinic's floor.
The agents wrestled with their keys, once again with renewed vigor, "Come on, come on," one agent hissed, the words a prayer to whatever gods presided over locked doors and desperate men.
And then, amid the pandemonium, the door swung open.
A siren's wail clawed at my ears, a mechanical banshee that heralded doom. "Maximum Neoism levels reached," droned the robotic voice.
"Shit!" The curse was sharp, a single note breaking the trance. Their earlier bravado had evaporated, leaving behind only the raw edge of fear.
"Move, move!" an agent barked, his command edged with desperation. They stumbled through the threshold, tripping over their own feet and each other, their screams swallowed by the gaping maw of darkness beyond.
The dust had barely settled when a grotesque parody of creation tore through the wall. The sudden assault left me no time for defense, my thoughts smothered by the immediacy of sheer survival. It was an abomination—A giant version of those cannibalistic beasts that attacked me in the vents— its eyes crimson with unholy vigor.
"Shit," I muttered under my breath, the word slipping out in a rare concession to vocal expression. The creature loomed over me, a macabre monument to science gone awry, A pink tendril whipping around red gore from its stomach- almost like a severed umbilical cord- A grotesque lasso. Its size alone was monstrous, dwarfing my petite frame and leaving me engulfed in its malformed shadow.
I scrambled backward, my hands scrabbling for purchase on the slick floor strewn with shards of glass and unspoken regrets. The behemoth lurched toward me, its limbs jerking with spasmodic intent. I didn't even notice shards cutting into my palms, back, or legs as I slipped and scrambled away. This had to be a nightmare. I was in some painted subconscious hellscape.
The creature's gaping maw opened in a silent snarl, revealing rows of jagged teeth. I knew then that this moment would be seared in my mind for as long as I lived. Any semblance of a normal childhood in this life was long gone, stripped away by whatever malevolent forces had conjured this horror.
Desperation clawed at my insides, a feral beast demanding escape from the impending doom. I searched for an exit.
'Survival' wasn't just a concept; it was a visceral need, thrumming through my veins with every thud of my pulse.
Adrenaline surged within me, a defiance born not of hope but of sheer obstinacy. I wouldn't go down without a fight—not to this, not to anything.
So I braced myself, shovel in hand, ready to carve my way through the horror before me. Because if life had taught me anything, it was that even in the grip of the impossible, one could still swing back.
Or at least… that's what I attempted. The large beast moved faster than I thought possible- A single swing of its meaty paw, the red band on it's arm almost falling off, and I was sent crashing into the wall behind me.
It was a laughable end, truly. The kind that would have made for a fine anecdote had there been anyone left to tell it. The irony was not lost on me—a girl who traded in facts and figures, now prey to the fodder of nightmares and B-movies.
I struggled to keep my eyes open- My back had a sharp pain, and when my legs refused to move and I realized I was done for. The large grey head blurred, and the toothpick moustache it had seemed to blur away as the world swirled into a mix of colors. Just faintly I could see the blurry figure raise its clawed hand out towards the sky.
'Guess I should've read more Kafka,' the words whispered through my head as darkness and teeth descended upon me.
Then, nothingness enveloped me, but not before a final, irreverent thought escaped:
'Bet the ratings for this are through the roof.'
The female announcer was the last thing I heard, "Initiating WYTE HALL Protocol."
Hope you enjoy the chapter and the reveal of the zombies.
(There is a gif of Leslie Meyers talking to the reader/Tanya that has some hints to a future story arc)
(Allot of the 2nd half of this chapter is a parody on the original site's rating policy and mentions of Nazi's on the forums.) You can see the memes/Story related images on my discord here :
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