While [hopefully some other concerned person] helps Harvey, Ingar tries
to get back into his anthropomorphia gig - deflating, growing more conventially
erect, having diverse tentacles slink and slither back inside. When he
is what can with great semantic panaché be termed 'decent', he pads
over to Harvey and, touching him gently on some neutral body surface, says:
"My dear friend. I feel your pain."
* * *
Sam furtively uses his meter long 2X4 piece of wood to cover the urine stain running down the front of his pants and proceeds up the stairs to check on Marda and the children. He then proceeds to pound on the doors and says quite matter-of-factly: "The devil worshippers are gone now. You can come out. Just look out for the primordal slime covering everything. It'll melt your shoes."
Before anyone else can get to it, Tata gathers up his bomb, and waits for Marda, hoping to make a quick exit if possible.
Marda gingerly peeks out of the room at what was once merely another decrepit hallway in a decrepit school, but now puts the word "decrepit" to shame. "Are you sure all the bad people gone?" she asks quietly. When she gets an answer that meets her requirements, she follows Tata down the hall, Teddy in hand, and out the building, pausing for a moment to ask: "But what about Victoria and Miz Smith and all the other kids and teachers? Are they gonna be OK?"
Sam picks up the carboard box carring his 'device' and takes it and leads Marda down stairs away from the carnage. He will return to the top of the stairs in order to help clean up the mess and talk to the teachers if they feel like talking to the crazy looking fashion expert.
"So, you like me tie?" He says totally out of place, not able to think of anything else to say.
* * *
In time, Ingar sidles over to the hole, and, letting a small proscobis creep out of his trouser leg, siphons up as much as he can of his all-purpose body fluid, hopefully also gaining some healthy dietary fibre off of the crumbling flooring. Coming to think of it, he sidles over to Breakbones afterwards, to see if his life can still be saved. Yum - hemophagy - who needs an IV drip?
Goodness recovers his gun, shoving it angrily back into the holster. "Goddamn it," he mutters, "One o' these days soomthin's gonna happen tha' wek ken solve wi' some broot foorce." He crosses quickly to Ingar, pausing only long enough to deliver a kick to the side of Breakbones. "An' when tha' day occoors," he continues quietly, "I sweer t' Christ I'm gonna buy everybody puddin'. An' na the cheap-ass Jell-O puddin', neither. Swiss fekkin' Miss puddin'. Engar!" shouts the Scotsman. "Air ye reasonably unhairt?"
"I cannot say that I am quite unhurt, my dear friend, as the term 'unhurt' must be taken to connote not having been been beaten, kicked and rather maliciously stabbed by a major Martian occult gangbanger, but on the other hand I take heart in being surrounded by my beloved friends - who sadly have been subject to some misuse themselves - and in your tersely cogent commentary on the utter futility of brute force, so I am confident that I will be able to shamble along just fine. By the way, my dear Goodness, could you try not to accidentally kick the good Breakbones again? Every person is a valuable individual, and I would like to subject this poor wretched man to some innovative therapeutic techniques which occured to me whilst being beaten about the head and shoulders by his boss (gloorp-gloorp-gloorp)." Ingar's speech is cheerful and brittle, much like his smile. His hands, balling slowly into fists the size of anvilettes and opening again like some odd and misshapen sea anemones, subtly indicate that there may be some inner tension. The pool of Breakbones's blood at his feet shrinks quickly as he speaks.
Ms Ashwari comes hurrying out of her office with some sort of small pistol, but stops when she realizes that the Glorious Lords have gone. From upstairs comes the repeated sounds of bumps and bangs from the ventilation ducting.
Ms. Ashwari peers at Ingar with curiosity and a bit of apprehension. "Are you a mutant or something?" she askes, a bit in shock and trying to figure out what to do about the floor of her school.
Ingar replies hoarsely, with the background noise of voracious sucking at his feet: "Actually, madam, I prefer terms such as 'genetically different', if you don't mind. Terribly sorry about the hole in the floor, madam. (slooorp)"
Chris stays his hand at this as he was about to finish Breakbones off... Instead he wipes off his knife. "So did anyone else take out their guy? No?"
Leo attempts to shake himself of the state of shock he has been stunned into, only partially succeeding. He has seen a lot of strange things before, but never anything both so strange and bloody.
"This is awful..." he murmurs to no one in particular. He runs a hand across his face and rubs his eyes, as if to rub out the image. He slowly walks towards Ms. Ashwari, avoiding the edges of the dissolving floor puddle.
"Ms. Ashwari, I'm really, really sorry. You'll never believe this but we're not the bad guys," he says, the anguish showing in his tone. "If we'd had any idea that this might happen, we'd never have come in and taken a fight in a school. We'll have the damage to the building fixed..."
His gaze strays to the body of Jonny. Good lord, he's never seen anything so gratuitous and useless. He chews his lip for a second, considers asking Harvey to take a look (he's a doctor, after all) but Jonny is obviously beyond help. He takes a few steps towards the body anyway, feeling an obscure obligation to take a good look at the result of their ignorance and rashness.
"Where... where do we need to call to have the body taken care of?" he asks, his voice barely audible.
"The Garbage Men will take care of it," says Ms. Ashwari, staring numbly at Jonny's corpse. She is silent for a moment, then blurts out "This is terrible!" She shakes her head and sits down on the floor (away from any messes). After a moment, she notices Ingar and Goodness conversing near Breakbones.
"If you are going to kill him, please take him somewhere else first," she says wearily. "In fact, if you could take him outside so he stops bleeding all over the place, that would be... I can't believe that I am saying this! This is terrible! Terrible! At least the children made it out OK. Poor Jonny! He worked so hard! He was a volunteer you know. Most of our staff are. Ms. Smith gets a small stipend to live on, but other than that everything goes to the school! Norman handled the finances, and now Norman is gone and nobody knows where he went and we have this hole in the floor and blood all over and the Glorious Lords are going to withdraw their protection and..." she appears to realize that she is babbling and stops talking, instead placing the gun down at her side and looking around with a stunned expression.
Meanwhile Leo, Sam, and Marda see to making Harvey and Woofard a bit more comfortable and patching them up. Ingar continues his efforts to clean up the mess Breakbones is making by leaking on the floor, and Chris and Goodness take a look around. Goodness idly picks up the phone on Norman's desk and starts fiddling with it.
"Gah," says Woofard, finally getting his eyes to focus once more. "Woah, did someone get the phone number of the truck that hit me?" And then he shutd up. Quickly.
Leo looks up sharply and turns towards the talking dog. Woofard! In all the turmoil he hadn't realized how badly Woofard was injured. He glances around. Jonny's dead, Breakbones is no pal, Sam disappeared. Woofard is by far the most serious case, it looks like.
He walks over to Harvey and spins the good doctor in the correct direction. "You'd better look at Woofard right now," he says. It sounds like a demand, not a request.
Harvey shakes himself, looks around bewilderedly and says "Who? oh, you mean the talking dog..." He hunkers over Woofard to assess the damage "I'm not a vet you know, I'll do what I can but..." Harvey loses whatever he was going to say next in a stifled sob and begins the investigation.
Harvey manages to do pretty well on Woofard, despite the distraction and his own somewhat dazed condition. He finds what might be some cracked ribs and secures them with some ripped up blankets (red - Woofard now appears to be wearing a red tank top from a distance). He also sees to his own bruises and dings, with similar results.
Quietly, so the riff-raff can't hear, Woofard says: "Thanks, Dr Dolittle, I'd say ya got at least 50 percent of the pieces back in the right place." He winces as he climbs to his feet. He looks at the red vest/rib taping, "Cool. Say, Doc, did it seem like those devil-boys were a bit tougher than the average bear? Do you think maybe there is something to that Satanic crap? Like maybe they can do actual... I dunno, magicky stuff?"
"Woofard," Harvey replies in a tired voice, "they're tough because they practice hard and they're full of hate. I doubt very much that magic comes into it."
"Practice?" asks the Akita skeptically, "Doc, you could do jumping jacks and practice tae-bo for a hundred and two years, and you'd never be as fast or as strong as those creeps."
"Even if they do get supernatural support, I don't think the price would be worth it..." Harvey's voice trails off, he sits down and begins to stare blankly into space.
The dog considers the statement, "Like sign your name in blood kinda thing, eh?" Reluctantly he grumbled, "Yeah, I guess you're right. My soul is about all I got right now... aside from some pretty good make-shift first aid. Thanks."
After a few moments Harvey shakes his head and says loudly, "Anyone else hurt, need attention?" He looks around to see who else might need care.
Meanwhile, Chris riffles throught Breakbones' pockets. "Anyone got a cigarette? Anyone?"
Chris finds a beat up wallet with $172.00 in it, along with some business cards. These include a two week old business card from "Betty's Health Center" certifying Breakbones to be free of any sexually transmitted diseases; a card for "Gerald Duplat Import Services" (located in Great Men barrio); a very fancy and elegant card for Sir Arthur Compton, somewhat worn and appearing to have been in the wallet for awhile; and a flashy card for a place called the "Winds of Change" which appears to be a casino of some type.
"I think we should all go get something to eat," says Harvey. "Someplace nice, with good food, where they're happy to serve talking dogs and hallucinating doctors."
Harvey looks over at Ingar nervously for a moment, then relaxes "Ingar my friend, you wouldn't believe some of the things I thought I saw you do. I think it was the air supply to my neck getting cut off, it seems to have played havoc with my perceptions."
Harvey perks up as an idea strikes him. "A steak dinner! Who's up for a steak dinner? With all the trimmings?"
"Woof," says Woofard in agreement.
Ingar, hoping that everybody will just ignore the fuming and oozing gash in his chest, and the much larger pit in the floor. He sidesteps as to better be able to siphon off the remaining blood around the prone thug, and answers: "Well, I rather suspect the satanists may have been releasing some psychotropic substance into the air as part of their assault routine. I cannot recall doing anything particularily unusual".
Harvey nods at this. "That would explain a lot, my friend. That would explain a lot." Harvey's expression brightens as his amazing powers of rationalisation kick in to preserve his precariously tottering sanity. A small part of his mind asks how a talking dog can fit into the rational universe he believes in but Harvey mentally stamps upon it until it shuts up. There is an easy explanation, it just hasn't occurred to him yet no doubt.
"So, Ingar, steak dinner?"
Herr Forn curls up his blood siphon into a pant leg which only the most discerning could guess had once been quite expensive, and beams at Harvey:
"A most pleasant suggestion, my friend, but I rather fear that we are obliged to put in order the mess we have been party to... and I must somehow take care of my research patient down here". He gestures towards the no-longer-quite-as-Blessed-and-getting-less-Blessed-by-the-minute Breakbones.
Chris nods. "I guess we are in no shape to continue our pursuit of the the bastards who hurt Victoria. Gotta Cigarette?"
Leo glares. "Like hell! You give up if you want to. And don't smoke in a school!"
"Yo Bendy, I meant perhaps we should see about getting our friends some
medical attention before pushing on."
The phone rings twice and a cheery female voice answers: "Great Escape Travel Service, this is Natsenet, how may I help you?"
Leo's eyes narrow for a moment. He waves to any of his companions capable of self-locomotion and not otherwise occupied. "Travel agency," he mouths.
"Yes, I'm calling about a reservation?" he says alooud into the phone. "It should be under Souster, Norman Souster."
"Ah, yes Mr. 'Souster', " replies the voice on the other end, making sure to put the verbal quotes around the name, "Is there some problem with the reservation?"
"Yes," Leo answers, "I'm sorry, this is going to sound stupid but I can't find my planner and my notes. I must have lost them somewhere in my hurry. Could you repeat the details quickly while I write them down?"
"Oh don't worry about it Mr. Souster," replies the voice, leaving out the quotation marks around the name this time, "we deal with that sort of problem all the time I'm sorry though, but that information is confidential. I see, though, that you did not purchase the additional premium insurance plan, so there is only a $500.00 surcharge for lost reservation information. If you could read me back your credit card information for confirmation, I can make the necessary adjustments, and have you on your way!"
Leo is reminded of veteran carnival buskers who could manage to fleece prodigious sums of cash from passing geeks while managing to sound professional, bored, and tantalizing all at once.
The gangly Leo smirks silently. But of course, turning the woman down won't give him the precious info he needs about Souster's destination.
"$500 is a bit much for something I can probably find by unpacking my luggage again," he says mildly, putting a smile in his voice as if he'd just heard Ms. Natsenet say something cleverly funny. "I don't need a whole new reservation, just the basic info. I've paid a good chunk of my savings for the service your agency provides, Ms. Natsenet. I'd like to keep remembering it as your 'excellent service', the kind of service that brings return customers."
There is a sigh from the other end.
"Souster had a british accent, Burger. Luckily for you he was a cheap bastard and didn't pay our premium security surcharge or we wouldn't be having this conversation. He's probably a Burger too. For $500.00 I'll sell you the information. If you would rather look in your luggage for it, feel free."
Leo's smile is now genuine, if ferocious. "I think we understand one another now, Ms. Natsenet. Although I can do a lovely British accent when I try very hard, say over dinner and a bottle of really good wine. I'm going to give you a credit card number, but of course it's a different one since 'my other one' is maxed out with all those travel expenses. Hold a sec..."
He waves energetically at Harvey, who is finished with his bandaging job, and mouths: "Credit card. I'll arrange payment."
Harvey reaches into his wallet for his platinum AmEx and hands it over with a sigh. "After this can we get some dinner?" he says plaintively.
Chris smirks. "Sure we can Doc, we'll head on over to the Breakneck Cafe. I believe their specialty drink is the Limey Twister."
Leo takes the proffered card with a nod of thanks, and proceed to read off the information to Ms. Natsenet in a low voice to avoid, if possible, giving Harvey's credit card number to all and sundry, particularly folks like Breakbones. Even though Ingar is likely to have dinner with Breakbones soon anyway.
"Thank you. Please hold while I verify." [Pause]. "Here we are - South African flight 220 Al Amarja to Capetown, departing in - ah - one hour, gate 27. Stupid bastard. Paid nearly $6,000.00 for the ticket, first class no less, and wouldn't take out the $25.00 security premium. That's Burger for you. Any other method you can come up with for me to get some of your money at the moment?"
Leo blinks, then his smile widens again. "Sure. Find a way to delay him at the gate and we can talk business some more. I'll even throw in that dinner I was talking about, you pick the place. I have to say, you've given me a lesson that's probably worth the bucks -- I promise to use your security program the next time I make a reservation with you."
"Sorry - we're just a travel agency. We just book 'em. He paid for the ticket, he's got the ticket. Hope you're close to the airport."
"Thank you very much, Ms. Natsenet, it's been a pleasure. Have a good day."
"Thanks for calling Great Escape. Try to live through the next few days - we appreciate return business." The voice sounds chipper and slightly amused. *CLICK*
Leo hangs up and looks at his companions, turning serious again.
"That Class A piece of crap just paid six thoudand bucks for a flight to Cape Town, South Africa, leaving in an hour. That seems pretty extreme, I wouldn't have expected a child molester to get so scared so fast. When I called here this morning he had no idea we were interested in anything but warning the school and Victoria's parents. Why did he get so scared so quick? (And why the hell didn't he think of that before raping her...) And how are we going to stop him from catching that flight? We're way at the south of The Edge and the airport is north."
He scratches his head, thinking of various excuses to call the airport and try to have Souster stopped. He pulls the piece of paper he picked up earlier from Souster's desk.
"I have an address and a few phone numbers here, I think the address is his." He shows the paper to everyone; it says:
N.S. 1414 Terrace Apt. 34 Justice 37348 c 685543
S.C. c 758329
"The first set of initials match his, anyway. I think..." Leo hesitates. "I think it might have been written by Serena. Ms. Ashwari, I'm sorry to impose on you some more, but can you tell whose handwriting this is?"
Ms. Ashwari, still staring at the big hole in the floor, takes a moment
to notice that someone is talking to her. She then peers at the writing.
"Well, it isn't mine, and it isn't Norman's, though it is rather neat -
good penmanship - and it isn't Elinore's, her handwriting is dreadful,
almost illegible to tell you the truth, and it isn't Samuel's and it isn't...
it isn't...." she sniffs and tears fill her eyes for a moment. "I'm
sorry! I don't know who's it is!" she cries.
To Be Continued...