Post by jollyjohanna on Jan 6, 2010 21:06:00 GMT -5
((OOC: Sorry for the novel down there, but I just got so caught up in the story. If you want, you can skip the introductions and jump down to the juicy parts.))
It had started as a completely normal night. Constables Jankovic and Smith had been cruising around their district - not looking for anything special, just doing a bit of the regular patrolling. They had been drinking take-away coffee and Jankovic had been listening to Smith's complains about his father-in-law - just another normal, boring night for Bridgeport's Finest.
Now they stood outside their car, completely baffled.
"How in God's name did this happen?" asked Jankovic, but Smith just shook his head slowly. Smith's eyes were wide open and he looked dazed, as if he didn't know whether he was awake or dreaming.
The police car was filled with mold - a greyish, greenish pelt covered the seats and creeped over the inside of the windows. A foul, sickening smell lingered in the air, reaching all the way to the two police officers even if they stood seven feet away.
During their patrolling Smith had noticed a weird light from an abandoned dig site. They investigated it and discovered a young boy who slept in a sleeping-bag next to a campfire. They both recognized him - a 14 year old boy named Phillip Olsen who had been missing for three days. His father had been at the police station seven times, asking if they had any new clues.
Jankovic had thought that the boy was just a runaway - many teenagers ran away from their homes after a fight with their parents. Mostly, they returned by themselves. But mr Olsen had insisted that he and Phillip hadn't been fighting at all that week - the boy had just disappeared after school. Mr Olsen was really worried - the son had been behaving weirdly lately, he had been unusually gloomy and hadn't talked to his father or sister.
Lately, people had been disappearing in an unusual rate. People who had no connections to each other - men, women, poor, rich, old, even children - disappeared without a trace. In fact, even though Bridgeport was a small town it had a disappearance rate that could match a much bigger town. The local newspaper provided more new questions than answers - and even though there were no proof of it, people suspected that a serial killer (or more than one) was on the loose. If it continued like this, the small Bridgeport police squad would have to get help from the federal cops.
Anyway, this looked like a case that would end happily. It was a bit weird that the kid had been sleeping outside during this cold period, though - normally runaway kids slept at their friends. But the kid heavily resisted; his eyes were filled to the brim with fright and he tried to squirm out of the two officers hold, even when they told him that they just would give him a ride home. The panic-struck boy didn't seem to listen; he tried to punch and kick his way free and even bitted Smith's hand hard. He was no match for two full-grown constables, though; they simply forced him into the car.
The kid didn't calm down during the ride towards the police office (violence towards policemen was a serious thing, even for a minor; thus the change of destination) but kept screaming, begging, almost crying for them to let him go. Jankovic had never seen any teenage boy as agitated as this one.
Then things went from disturbing to out-right weird. Mold started to cover the seats and their clothes; green, grey, white and dirty orange splotches spread and multiplied at an impossibly fast rate. It was like watching one of those Youtube videos were someone takes a photo of a bowl of fruit every day and puts it in a fast-forward time-lapse; the decay creeps over the bananas and oranges and apples in seconds. A sickening smell of mildew and rottening fabric and wadding filled the car and made it almost impossible to breath. Smith gave up a surprised yelp and stopped the car in the middle of the road - all three bolted straight out.
Now they stood looking at the vehicle; Smith with a shocked face and Jankovic covering his nose and mouth with his hand because of the offensive smell. Well, at least they -
"The kid! He's gone!" Smith yelled in a high-pitched voice, pointing after the Olsen boy who just disappeared into a dark alley.
Jankovic didn't hesitate. He ran straight after the kid, knowing that somehow the boy had something to do with the mold. Stuff like that didn't just happen by himself.
Phil was hungry, thirsty, tired, cold and more terrified than he had ever been in his entire life. It felt like he could burst out of sheer fright where he ran as fast as he could through dark, empty back-streets. The two cops were chasing him - they were shouting to him to stop running, but in his current state of mind he barely heard them. He had no intentions to heed their words.
The panic seized him when he understood the hopelessness in the situation; the cops would catch up with him sooner or later, and it wouldn't take long before they realized that the mold was his fault. If they hadn't figured it out already.
And then they would understand what had happened three days earlier - and he would go to prison for life. Or worse.
WhatamIgonnadoWhatamIgonnadoWhatamIgonnado?!
Suddenly he halted. He had come to the end of an alley, and before him lay the vast, dark ocean under a clouded night sky. In front of him he could see the wooden pier he'd destroyed during his confrontation with Hailey, five days ago - the rotten wooden planks looked like the ribs from an ancient sea-serpent where they protruded from the water. Since he'd been running around without knowing where he was or where he was going he'd ended up at The Docks. Big mistake.
He quickly turned left and entered a new alley - and immediately realized his second mistake (or third, or fourth; he was starting to lose count. It felt like he only had been doing mistakes lately.) - in front towered a brick wall. Like the dumbest chased guy in the most mediocre, cliché-filled Hollywood action movie he'd entered a dead end.
"Turn around."
Phil slowly turned around, feeling the terror digging its claws deeper into his heart. His face was as pale as cheese under the freckles. The police in front of him - the one with black hair and Eastern-Europe accent - had un-holstered his gun. When Phil saw the weapon it felt like he was going to faint. He suddenly realized that everything he'd ever thought he knew about guns came from rap lyrics - and it was all wrong. Guns didn't make you feel mighty, powerful and cool - just the sight of that gun, even though it wasn't pointed at him, made him feel like he was gonna puke.
The cop must have noticed the young boy's fright, because he slowly, deliberately holstered his gun.
"Don't be afraid," he said in a low, calm voice, trying to calm down the horror-struck boy. "I didn't mean to frighten you. I'm not going to hurt you. Something happened in the car, back there, and I'll be damned if I knew exactly what. But don't worry, well figure it out. Just... just don't make it happen again."
During his speech the other cop entered the alley - the one with wavy brown hair.
"I can't... I can't control it," Phil whispered hoarsely. But the cop didn't seem to hear him.
"No worries. We're here to help you. We'll help you home. Your father and little sister have been really worried about you, they'll be glad to know that you're safe."
"That's right," the brown-haired cop filled in. His voice was a little more shaken than the other guy's, and Phil could see some of his own fear mirrored in the eyes of the police. "We'll... we'll take you home."
"No!" shouted Phil and backed so that his back was up against the wall. He shook his head violently. "You... you don't understand! I can NEVER go back! Leave me alone!!"
The smell of mold started to fill the air.
The police men looked around, startled by the smell.
"Phillip?" said Jankovic, a bit sharply. "Is this... are you doing this now?"
He'd believed... he wasn't sure what he'd believed, that the kid had had some kind of biochemical bomb that caused mold to grow really fast, but now he realized that the first hunch he'd had back in the car was right. He'd almost immediately shook it of, thinking that it was impossible. But it was possible, all right. The kid was causing mold to grow by himself. As the two police men stared in disbelief, green mold started to grow on the wall behind the boy.
"Oh, no," Phil groaned.
"Oh my GOD!" shouted Smith, and the boy twitched, alarmed by the police's sudden yell. The air became harder to breath, and it scratched in their throats and brought tears to their eyes.
"Phillip, stop!"
"Go AWAY!!" yelled the kid. A wave of mold covered the street; it grew even faster than in the car. Smith tried to scream but broke out in coughing seizure. He tried to run out from the alley, out in the fresh air, but slipped on the green, thick mold. Jankovic coughed and tried to help his friend to his feet.
"You have to... stop it!!" the police officer wheezed. The poisonous air stung his eyes and even made his skin feel like it was burning.
"I can't! I can't control it!" Phil yelled, his eyes flooded with terror-induced tears. "Go away before... go away before you die too!!"
Cli-click. Jankovic looked down, and saw that Smith was shakily aiming his gun at Phil.
"David, don't..." he started, but Smith didn't listen. The panic shone in his eyes.
Phil looked up.
BAM! BAM! BAM!
Phil sank slowly down to his knees, still leaning against the wall. A dark spot of blood bloomed out on the front of his brown jacket.
It had started as a completely normal night. Constables Jankovic and Smith had been cruising around their district - not looking for anything special, just doing a bit of the regular patrolling. They had been drinking take-away coffee and Jankovic had been listening to Smith's complains about his father-in-law - just another normal, boring night for Bridgeport's Finest.
Now they stood outside their car, completely baffled.
"How in God's name did this happen?" asked Jankovic, but Smith just shook his head slowly. Smith's eyes were wide open and he looked dazed, as if he didn't know whether he was awake or dreaming.
The police car was filled with mold - a greyish, greenish pelt covered the seats and creeped over the inside of the windows. A foul, sickening smell lingered in the air, reaching all the way to the two police officers even if they stood seven feet away.
During their patrolling Smith had noticed a weird light from an abandoned dig site. They investigated it and discovered a young boy who slept in a sleeping-bag next to a campfire. They both recognized him - a 14 year old boy named Phillip Olsen who had been missing for three days. His father had been at the police station seven times, asking if they had any new clues.
Jankovic had thought that the boy was just a runaway - many teenagers ran away from their homes after a fight with their parents. Mostly, they returned by themselves. But mr Olsen had insisted that he and Phillip hadn't been fighting at all that week - the boy had just disappeared after school. Mr Olsen was really worried - the son had been behaving weirdly lately, he had been unusually gloomy and hadn't talked to his father or sister.
Lately, people had been disappearing in an unusual rate. People who had no connections to each other - men, women, poor, rich, old, even children - disappeared without a trace. In fact, even though Bridgeport was a small town it had a disappearance rate that could match a much bigger town. The local newspaper provided more new questions than answers - and even though there were no proof of it, people suspected that a serial killer (or more than one) was on the loose. If it continued like this, the small Bridgeport police squad would have to get help from the federal cops.
Anyway, this looked like a case that would end happily. It was a bit weird that the kid had been sleeping outside during this cold period, though - normally runaway kids slept at their friends. But the kid heavily resisted; his eyes were filled to the brim with fright and he tried to squirm out of the two officers hold, even when they told him that they just would give him a ride home. The panic-struck boy didn't seem to listen; he tried to punch and kick his way free and even bitted Smith's hand hard. He was no match for two full-grown constables, though; they simply forced him into the car.
The kid didn't calm down during the ride towards the police office (violence towards policemen was a serious thing, even for a minor; thus the change of destination) but kept screaming, begging, almost crying for them to let him go. Jankovic had never seen any teenage boy as agitated as this one.
Then things went from disturbing to out-right weird. Mold started to cover the seats and their clothes; green, grey, white and dirty orange splotches spread and multiplied at an impossibly fast rate. It was like watching one of those Youtube videos were someone takes a photo of a bowl of fruit every day and puts it in a fast-forward time-lapse; the decay creeps over the bananas and oranges and apples in seconds. A sickening smell of mildew and rottening fabric and wadding filled the car and made it almost impossible to breath. Smith gave up a surprised yelp and stopped the car in the middle of the road - all three bolted straight out.
Now they stood looking at the vehicle; Smith with a shocked face and Jankovic covering his nose and mouth with his hand because of the offensive smell. Well, at least they -
"The kid! He's gone!" Smith yelled in a high-pitched voice, pointing after the Olsen boy who just disappeared into a dark alley.
Jankovic didn't hesitate. He ran straight after the kid, knowing that somehow the boy had something to do with the mold. Stuff like that didn't just happen by himself.
Phil was hungry, thirsty, tired, cold and more terrified than he had ever been in his entire life. It felt like he could burst out of sheer fright where he ran as fast as he could through dark, empty back-streets. The two cops were chasing him - they were shouting to him to stop running, but in his current state of mind he barely heard them. He had no intentions to heed their words.
The panic seized him when he understood the hopelessness in the situation; the cops would catch up with him sooner or later, and it wouldn't take long before they realized that the mold was his fault. If they hadn't figured it out already.
And then they would understand what had happened three days earlier - and he would go to prison for life. Or worse.
WhatamIgonnadoWhatamIgonnadoWhatamIgonnado?!
Suddenly he halted. He had come to the end of an alley, and before him lay the vast, dark ocean under a clouded night sky. In front of him he could see the wooden pier he'd destroyed during his confrontation with Hailey, five days ago - the rotten wooden planks looked like the ribs from an ancient sea-serpent where they protruded from the water. Since he'd been running around without knowing where he was or where he was going he'd ended up at The Docks. Big mistake.
He quickly turned left and entered a new alley - and immediately realized his second mistake (or third, or fourth; he was starting to lose count. It felt like he only had been doing mistakes lately.) - in front towered a brick wall. Like the dumbest chased guy in the most mediocre, cliché-filled Hollywood action movie he'd entered a dead end.
"Turn around."
Phil slowly turned around, feeling the terror digging its claws deeper into his heart. His face was as pale as cheese under the freckles. The police in front of him - the one with black hair and Eastern-Europe accent - had un-holstered his gun. When Phil saw the weapon it felt like he was going to faint. He suddenly realized that everything he'd ever thought he knew about guns came from rap lyrics - and it was all wrong. Guns didn't make you feel mighty, powerful and cool - just the sight of that gun, even though it wasn't pointed at him, made him feel like he was gonna puke.
The cop must have noticed the young boy's fright, because he slowly, deliberately holstered his gun.
"Don't be afraid," he said in a low, calm voice, trying to calm down the horror-struck boy. "I didn't mean to frighten you. I'm not going to hurt you. Something happened in the car, back there, and I'll be damned if I knew exactly what. But don't worry, well figure it out. Just... just don't make it happen again."
During his speech the other cop entered the alley - the one with wavy brown hair.
"I can't... I can't control it," Phil whispered hoarsely. But the cop didn't seem to hear him.
"No worries. We're here to help you. We'll help you home. Your father and little sister have been really worried about you, they'll be glad to know that you're safe."
"That's right," the brown-haired cop filled in. His voice was a little more shaken than the other guy's, and Phil could see some of his own fear mirrored in the eyes of the police. "We'll... we'll take you home."
"No!" shouted Phil and backed so that his back was up against the wall. He shook his head violently. "You... you don't understand! I can NEVER go back! Leave me alone!!"
The smell of mold started to fill the air.
The police men looked around, startled by the smell.
"Phillip?" said Jankovic, a bit sharply. "Is this... are you doing this now?"
He'd believed... he wasn't sure what he'd believed, that the kid had had some kind of biochemical bomb that caused mold to grow really fast, but now he realized that the first hunch he'd had back in the car was right. He'd almost immediately shook it of, thinking that it was impossible. But it was possible, all right. The kid was causing mold to grow by himself. As the two police men stared in disbelief, green mold started to grow on the wall behind the boy.
"Oh, no," Phil groaned.
"Oh my GOD!" shouted Smith, and the boy twitched, alarmed by the police's sudden yell. The air became harder to breath, and it scratched in their throats and brought tears to their eyes.
"Phillip, stop!"
"Go AWAY!!" yelled the kid. A wave of mold covered the street; it grew even faster than in the car. Smith tried to scream but broke out in coughing seizure. He tried to run out from the alley, out in the fresh air, but slipped on the green, thick mold. Jankovic coughed and tried to help his friend to his feet.
"You have to... stop it!!" the police officer wheezed. The poisonous air stung his eyes and even made his skin feel like it was burning.
"I can't! I can't control it!" Phil yelled, his eyes flooded with terror-induced tears. "Go away before... go away before you die too!!"
Cli-click. Jankovic looked down, and saw that Smith was shakily aiming his gun at Phil.
"David, don't..." he started, but Smith didn't listen. The panic shone in his eyes.
Phil looked up.
BAM! BAM! BAM!
Phil sank slowly down to his knees, still leaning against the wall. A dark spot of blood bloomed out on the front of his brown jacket.
