"Excuse me! Sir! Would you be willing to fill out a survey? It's for a good cause!"

The man pauses. When he realizes you're talking to him, he looks amused and shakes his head.

"Is that a yes, sir? Just come on over!"

"No, I'm..." He gives up and detours to you.

"Verbal summons via solicitation," says Jane. "Two."

Three women climb out of a car on the opposite side, talking and laughing.

"Hey! You ladies!" you call across the street. "There's a hot new club in town and I want to get you three on the guest list!" Their heads turn.

"Verbal promise of exclusive reward. Three."

The man reaches you, smiling gently. "Sorry, I'm not interested in a survey."

"Oh, okay." Over his shoulder, a mother holding a hand of a young boy heads for the grocer.

(03-31-2015, 02:13 PM)Schazer Wrote: »If there's a tall building on the opposite sidewalk, take a half pace back and start yelling+pointing up, where the man would have to cross the road to look without cricking his neck. Maybe fake someone about to jump from the top? A baby dangling from a window?

You take a step back and point upwards across the road, screaming about someone about to jump. The woman glances at you, then away.

"Did you say club invitations?" one of the female trio asks you, oblivious to your screaming. She has a stud in her nose and outrageous mascara.

"Somebody help him!" you scream, pointing, one eye on the mother.

She turns into the grocer. You can read tension in her neck: she's heard you, but chosen to ignore you.

You look at Jane. "That's only one strike, right, because they were together."

"Correct. One strike."

"So those club invitations," says the mascara woman.

"Uh, sold out." They leave, looking disappointed. Coming down the far sidewalk is a gaggle of college-age boys in baggy pants and muscle shirts.

You give a "come-hither" wave to the boys across the street. One of them sees you, elbows his friends, and they start crossing.

"Nonverbal sexual invitation. Four."

"That wasn't-" you start, but more people are already coming.

(03-31-2015, 02:43 PM)Whimbrel Wrote: »Idea part 2: Next time Jane gives us a point or a strike, let's see if we can get her to cross over to the other side of the road, maybe by saying our next tactic will work better with someone standing on the opposite street corner. That's a lie, though, we just want her to cross over so that when she comes back to us we get a point for having gotten her to do that.

"I've got a cool one coming up, but I'll need you to go stand on the other side."

Jane's lip twitches. "Very well." She crosses the street.

"Shit, never mind, that's not going to work," you call over to her, and she makes her way back, a bemused look on her face.

"Verbal... deception, I suppose," she says. "Five."

~

"Diversion by implied threat," Jane says. "Twenty-one."

You've worked up a sweat. It's hard work, this persuasion stuff. "What's a pass, again?"

Jane's sunglasses regard you. "Five."

"Five," you echo. You feel good. A teenage girl in big headphones rounds the corner, heading down the sidewalk. You have no idea what you're going to say to the little whore, but it's something. You open your mouth.

~

You leave the freeway and pass through a series of snow-sunk towns. You fall asleep without meaning to and wake from guns and blood and dead girls. There's drool on your chin. In the high beams, the road glitters and vanishes into night thick as a blanket. "Where are we?"

"Safe." Tom peers at the road. "Almost." You're slowing. The pickup truck's lights swing across a driveway. You see a wire fence and wooden posts and a sign that says: MCCORMACK & SONS STOCK SALES. You come to a stop and the pickup gargles. "Hmm," Tom says.

"What?"

"Do you trust me?"

"Do I trust you?"

"I phrased that badly," Tom says. "I mean, if I tell you your life depends on doing exactly as I say, without hesitation, can I rely on you to do it?"

"Sure," you say, then, because that doesn't sound very plausible, and you really have no idea, add, "Maybe."

"That's not really good enough. Maybe leaves you maybe alive."

"I thought we were meeting your friends."

"We are."

"So what kind of problem are you expecting that requires me to promise something like that?"

Tom gazes at the sign. "Don't worry about it. There's no problem." He harasses the gearshift. The truck rolls into the driveway. It's thick with mud, dark tire tracks clearly visible. Tom pushes you forward two hundred yards, then pauses at a fork. To the left, the road disappears into darkness. To the right is a bare light on a pole. Within its sphere of illumination lies nothing but mud. Tom steers toward it. The tires slip briefly, find traction.

"What is this place?"

Metal railings appear beside you for a while, then vanish again. You enter an open expanse of mud. The ground seems oddly chewed up. You reach the pole and come to a halt. The engine idles. Tom presses a button; the doors go ka-chunk. He takes the shotgun from the footwell and lays it across his lap.

"What are we doing?"

"Quiet." There's no noise but the engine. Tom peers into the dark.

You see motion in the darkness. A man runs toward you, waving his arms. His jacket blows. He has long, straggly hair. He reaches the truck and slaps the hood, grinning. Your window whirs down.

"Hey! Goddamn!" says the long-haired man. "Is this him? This really him?"

"Where are the others?" Tom says.

"Inside." The man's eyes crawl over you. "Holy shit, I cannot believe you found him."

"I can't see an inside."

"There's a house." The man gestures into the dark, his eyes not leaving you. "Get out of the truck. I'll take you in."

"Where can I put the truck?"

"Don't worry about the truck. Leave it. We're gone in ten minutes." The man tries your door handle. "Let's move."

"Why'd you come running out like that?"

"I'm excited, Eliot! I'm psyched!" He tries the door again. "This is what we've been working for! This gives us a fucking chance!" He grins.

Tom's head turns, examining the darkness. You don't know what he's looking for.

"We have the plane. Fueled up, sitting on a strip out back. We've got drugs, we've got a big fucking probe, twenty minutes we're in the air and pulling this guy's head open." The man looks at you. "Nothing personal. But we need what's in there more than you do." He tries to rap your head with his knuckles. "Man! I could kiss you!"

Tom says, "You realize how much emotion you're displaying right now."

The long-haired man looks at him. Then he lunges at you, grabbing your head, his fingers raking your skin. He forces his shoulders inside the car. His shoes scrabble at the door. Tom hits the gas; the truck lurches forward. The long-haired man yelps and slips and for a second you think you're going to be dragged right out of the car. Then the fingers lose their grip on your head and neck and the man disappears.

"Fuck!" you say. "What's happening?"

"Bad things," says Tom.

"That's your friend?"

"No. Not at the moment." Metal gleams ahead. It's railing, the same kind that had guided you down the driveway. For a moment you think Tom is going to try to smash through it. Then you swing in a semicircle. The railing curves endlessly. "Oh, I see," says Tom. "We're in a pen."

"A pen?"

"Cattle yard." He backs the truck around. Now you're facing the light pole. The long-haired man shambles out of the light toward you. Tom shifts gears. The pickup's wheels spin in mud.

"Oh," you say. "Oh, wait, no." The long-haired man grows in the windshield. At the last moment, Tom jags left and the long-haired man thumps against the side of the truck. In the red glow of taillights, you seem him pick himself up out of the mud and begin to shamble after you. "You hit your friend," you say.

Tom brakes. You catch yourself. You look at Tom. "What are you doing?" Tom doesn't answer. "Your friend is coming."

"Stop calling him my friend."

"Well, that fucking guy is coming. He's twenty feet away."

Tom's eyes flick to the mirror.

"Seriously. Time to go."

The long-haired man slaps the rear window. He runs to your door and tries to tug it open with one hand. The other hangs at a broken angle. The man gives a frustrated cry. His fingers scrabble against the glass. His eyes keep moving to you, tight and hungry.

"The driveway is a funnel," says Tom.

"So let's-" The man throws his head against the glass with a crack. "Let's try something, you know?" Tom doesn't respond. The man head-butts the window again. "Please. Tom. Don't make me sit here and watch this guy kill himself against the window."

Light flares ahead. You shield your eyes. Something coughs and snarls.

"Aha," says Tom.

"What is that?"

"Truck." Tom shifts into reverse and throws an elbow over the seat. "Big truck." Ahead, the lights shiver. The snarl rises to a throaty roar. The man with the straggly hair falls to the mud and rises again. You swing in a half circle and Tom throws you into drive. As you bounce away from the driveway, you see darkness coalesce into a shape. It's an animal transport, as large as a house, a grille like a grin. Smoke belches from twin exhausts above its cabin. As it moves into the pen, light falls across bright red cursive script on its front: Faithful Madeleine.

"We have to get out of here." Your headlights bounce off metal railing. "Can we break through that?"

"No." Tom hauls the wheel.

"How do you know? Maybe we can break-"

"If we could break through, they would have chosen somewhere else." The transport fills the windshield. Tom accelerates toward it.

"What are you... what are you... Jesus!" You throw out your hands. Tom yanks the wheel. The pickup jumps. The transport clips you and everything leans and spins. Then the tires bite. You accelerate toward the driveway and freedom beyond for ten glorious seconds and then Tom brakes again.

You hit the dash and fall back in your seat. The pickup comes to a halt at the driveway mouth. There are lumps in the mud. Big lumps. People, you see. Three people, sitting.

"Who are they?" You look at Tom. "Poets?"

"No."

"Why are they just sitting there?" A woman has a short black bob. Behind her is a teenage boy. Then an older man with white hair. They're looking at the pickup, their faces washed out by its lights, not moving.

Lights grow within the cabin. You turn. The transport vehicle has completed a slow turn and is trundling towards you.

"You bitch," Tom says. like he's pointing out the sights. "You murderous, goddamn bitch."

"Tom. The truck." Tom revs the pickup's engine, but does not shift gear. "The truck, Tom."

Tom hauls the wheel. You accelerate alongside the railing, heading back into then pen. You gain speed and pass by the transport's churning wheels. The straggly-haired man appears. Tom jerks the wheel but you're going to fast and he bounces off the hood and over the roof. Railing appears ahead. It looks at if Tom is going to try to crash through it, but you know this can't be the case, because Tom said it was impossible, and then you realize it is, and close your eyes.

The world lifts. You become an object. A thing with no control over its motion. The ground revolves and unexpectedly slaps you and everything goes quiet.

You swallow. You blink. These are things you can do. You try to move your head but the gravity is wrong. It's tugging you sideways. You go to rub your eyes and miss. A lot is wrong with this situation and you're not sure where to start.

"Gug," says Tom. Tom is leaning over the steering wheel. He must be having some problems with gravity, too, because he's above your head. Maybe that's why he's hanging onto the wheel.

Lights move across the dash. Not good lights, you recall.

You turn and look behind the seats. The back window seems to have shattered, jagged pieces of glass sticking out everywhere. You might be able to get out through there, but there will definitely be a cost. You fumble with your seatbelt, get it, and fall against your door. The window is painted white. It takes you a moment before you identify it as snow. Snow on the ground. The pickup is lying on its side. You try the handle, just in case, but the ground doesn't move.

"Gug." Tom's not holding on to the steering wheel, you realize. The wheel has come out of the dash and is holding Tom.

Fortunately, if there are airbags, they didn't deploy, or else you'd be a lot less conscious right now. You get a foot on the dash and strain past Tom for the driver's side door. When you do this your shoulder connects with Tom's face and your knee goes into Tom's ribs and Tom groans. But you get your arms out of the truck and lever your body into the freezing night air. The animal transport is completing a turn, its lights sweeping the ground. Silhouetted before the transport is a shambling figure. The man. His arms hang. One leg drags. He reaches a torn place you had made in the cattle yard's railing and begins to painfully climb through.

(04-01-2015, 02:47 PM)Mirdini Wrote: »Well shit. Playing dead probably isn't going to save you from these maniacs.

See if you can't grab Tom's shotgun.

You're probably going to be needing it more than him.

"Gug." Tom's head bobs towards the footwell. You see the butt of the shotgun. Not gug, you realize. Gun. "Take. It."

You were going to take it anyway, but it's nice Tom is assenting to it.

The straggly-haired man negotiates the wrecked railing and begins to wade through the snow. That's going to become a lot easier soon, you see, because in about ten feet there's a nice, cleared path where the pickup returned to earth and started sliding. The snow there is red, drenched by the pickup's taillights.

"Shit," you say, and pull the shotgun through the door. You raise it to your shoulder and set it there. "Stop, you asshole!"

Hands slap against the tailgate. The man's head appears.

"Shoo im," Tom says.

The man's torso flops onto the side of the pickup's bed. He swings a leg up and you see the jeans are dark with blood, the denim poking out in odd places. The man strains. His leg slips off the pickup and he begins trying to swing it up again.

"Stop fucking climbing!"

"Safe... ty," says Tom. "Button. On. Side."

"I'm Australian, I know how to use a shotgun!" You take a hand off the gun, squeeze it into a fist for circulation. "Stop, you motherfucker!"

The man rises on one leg and balances awkwardly. His face is caked with dirt and blood. He looks intent and focused and not at all concerned about the gun you're pointing at him. He begins to navigate along the side of the pickup's bed.

"Fuck," you say, and pull the trigger. The gun booms. The man falls off the truck. You drop the shotgun without thinking. "Goddammit fuck!"

"Good," says Tom.

The transport's engine bellows. Its exhausts hiss; its wheels begin to turn.

"Now," says Tom. "Help me, please."