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In case there is any confusion: the following story is not real, nor do I intend for you to believe it. Seriously, don't. Pure, unadulterated fiction. Written as a late entry for raynedanser's Chris-centric Fic challenge thingy. Apologies for my inability to meet deadlines. Feedback/criticism welcome! The More Things Change
The setting of the sun has turned the snow to shadowed lavender. A breeze rustles softly through the trees, sending white flakes drifting to the ground. Chris pauses before he steps out from the shelter of the trees. His eyes scan the park, checking the dimness under the slide for tell-tale motion, the teeter-totter for hints that it harbors something scarier than the metal animals that make up its seats. That pig is still a creepy motherfucker just like it was when he was a kid, but Chris can't see any signs that it or its friends are anything other than toys. The weight of the sawed-off shotgun resting across his arm is reassuring as he walks toward the swings. Underfoot, the snow crunches with his every step, leaving him even more uneasy. He doesn't like not being able to hear if something is coming up behind him. He doesn't like being so exposed. All of his instincts scream at him to find cover, get his back to something solid. But he needs to be obviously visible for the plan to work, so he ignores common sense and sits down on one of the swings. Freezing wetness bites through his jeans. He puts the sensation out of his mind, focusing on the area around him. There is nothing yet to disturb the peace of the night, but that could change at any second. The swing chains jingle as he shifts position. His knees ache. If he'd known he was going to spend his late thirties chasing around after every damn thing that goes bump in the night, he would have refused to spend so much of his twenties stomping and twisting out dance moves. He shakes his head, throwing off the memories. That was a lifetime ago, in a world that no longer exists. It's a shift in the wind that alerts him. The clean scent of snow is overlayed with something dark, like burnt earth. Chris looks around, his grip shifting on the shotgun. He can't see anything yet. His finger taps against the barrel of the shotgun; otherwise, he's still. This isn't instinct at all. It's a learned response, developed because people could die if he gave away their location with his normal fidgets. *Can't hold still to save his life,* the guys used to complain. But he can if it means saving one of their lives. It comes so silently that he almost misses it. Slinking around the slide, stalking forward on black feet that don't leave an impression in the snow. It comes to the merry-go-round and seems to flow over it. Something that big should make a noise on the metal surface, even set the merry-go-round into a lazy, creaking spin. It doesn't. Even the breeze has gone still as the creature stops a few feet from Chris. Its shoulders are as wide across as a man's; its head is on level with Chris's as he sits in the swing. Down the length of its black muzzle, sharp teeth show under lips drawn back in a snarl. The smell of burnt earth is stronger, mingling with a hint of sulphur. Large red eyes glare with hatred and hunger. Once, Chris would have been scared. Even before that, he would have thought he was on the worst trip ever known to man. But time, always a harsh taskmaster, has taught him well. He brings the shotgun up as he stands. He gets a shot off just as the creature leaps. It howls--shrieks, really--as the rocksalt peppers its face and chest. In spite of the tiny spurts of flame that spring up wherever the rocksalt hit, the creature keeps coming. Chris whirls, knocking the swing out of his way as he sprints back toward the trees. The snow drags at his feet. He can't go fast enough, and now he can hear the creature's ragged breath as it gains on him. He's sliding, his knees protesting every step in that distant sort of way that's only going to matter if his ass doesn't get eaten in the next few minutes. He feels something catch on his coat. He throws himself forward into the snow, trusting. The cold hasn't even registered yet when he hears the familiar voices. "In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti. Amen." It's supposed to be five-part harmony, but Chris's mouth is filled with snow. Four-part harmony seems to be working well enough, especially with the bucketful of holy water that he hears splashing on the creature. Lance is nothing if not thorough. The creature screams. It is a sound both eerily human and yet not, and it cuts through Chris's soul like a blade made of ice. He's still trying to shake it--and the snow--from his ears when he feels hands grabbing at his arms. "I told you this was a dumbass idea," Justin is saying as he pulls Chris to his feet. He bats at the front of Chris's coat, knocking away some of the snow. "You should have let me do it." "Next time, the mad dash of certain death is all yours," Chris assures him, even though there is no way he will let Justin play bait until he finally heals from that poltergeist attack. It has been nearly a month, but Justin still limps when he's tired. "Please tell me we got that thing and didn't just run it off?" "We got it." Lance is standing beside a circle of dirt. The snow has melted where the creature was caught in the banishment, leaving a cloud of steam in the cold air. "Joey, you got the salt?" "Right here." Joey claps Chris on the back as he goes over to Lance. They will salt down the spot where the creature was banished, and then they will find the spot where it manifested and salt that, too, for good measure. As Chris looks around, he can see JC already wandering toward the slide, his head cocked as if listening for something. JC has a talent for finding spots where the otherworld is close to their world. It is a talent that seems to make it easier for the otherworld to find him, too. JC never plays the part of bait. Shaking the rest of the snow from his hair, Chris jogs after JC. "Anything?" he asks as he falls into step beside JC. "Maybe. Over by that bench, I think." JC points to a metal bench several feet from the slide, barely visible in the growing darkness. Though the words were neutral, his tone raises a warning flag in Chris's mind. "C?" JC looks at Chris, his jaw held so tight it's a wonder his teeth don't shatter. He starts to turn back without saying anything. Chris stops him with a hand on his chest. "Come on, C, talk to me." He doesn't expect JC's sudden lunge. Somehow, he braces himself in time, and he wraps his arms around JC as tight as JC's holding him. "It was too close," JC whispers against his hair. The heat of his breath tickles at Chris's ear. "Some day--" "Not today," Chris promises. It's the best he can do. After long enough for Chris to start to feel warm again, JC lets go. "Let's get to work, yeah? Before Justin starts complaining about the snow soaking his new shoes." Chris snorts. Some things will never be the same again, but others never change at all. |
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