hakoMike
09-07-2011, 10:36 AM
Continued from Part 4. (http://www.wyrd-games.net/forum/showthread.php?t=23222)
Part 5: The Search Ends
Pete sat at the desk and watched the undead squirrel poke curiously, if a bit languidly, about the office. The creature seemed harmless enough, but keeping it hidden was crucial. If his new pursuit of bringing life to the dead was to remain undiscovered he would need to ensure that close calls like the incident with Officer McDorn did not happen again. It was time to learn to control his undead pet.
For the rest of the day, Pete experimented with commanding the squirrel to stay in one place but found the beast implacably drawn to him. Even placing a barrier in between the two of them met with limited success, as the squirrel would either find an alternate route to him or just incessantly scratch at the interposed wall or door when they were separated by more than a few yards. Until he was near the squirrel would not abandon its attempts to close the distance. Pete decided that he would need to sleep on the cot in the crematorium until he figured out how to control the squirrel well enough to avoid it showing up at his cottage at night. He had close enough neighbors that it would almost certainly be discovered there.
Despite the squirrel’s horrific visage, Pete was not particularly revolted by it. It was even cute, in its own way. All the same, he found himself reluctant to touch its rotting pelt. “Some resurrectionist I am if I can’t touch dead things,” he mused to himself. Eventually he mustered the courage to reach down and touch the creature’s back. The fur was coarse and matted and seemed to suck the moisture out of his hand, but it was tolerable. He even attempted picking up the squirrel but abandoned the act when his hand met with exposed ribs instead of skin.
“Okay, carrying you is out of the question. You’re going to have to learn to do as you’re told.”
The squirrel was completely incapable of understanding silent hand motions, but Pete found he could combine hand motion and a verbal command to get some response from it. It wasn’t really controllable, but suggestible to a great extent. Eventually Pete succeeded making the squirrel jump into a box on command, something he thought would come in handy if he needed to hide it quickly at some point. “You know? I think I’m starting to get the hang of you,” Pete told the squirrel. “But you still need a name. What about... tree rat?” The squirrel looked at him, emotionless. “Yeah, no real ring to that. We could shorten it. Maybe T.R.?” Again, the squirrel just stared at him with cataract covered eyes. It scratched its flank again, making that alarming tearing sound. “Naw. Don’t worry. We’ll work on it,” Pete decided. The squirrel seemed unconcerned.
Later that evening Pete took the time to prepare the letter to send back with the paymaster, who was scheduled for delivery the next day. News of Dietrich’s death was now moot, so he took the opportunity to write that he had received the order to act as interim manager, and to specify that he was sending Dietrich’s pay back with the letter. The squirrel dutifully sat by the desk and watched him write. It spit the nut it had stowed in its cheek pouch onto the ground, nibbled at it, then stuffed it back in. Pete wondered how much of its life it remembered. Clearly the instinct to collect nuts was still intact. Did it get hungry? Would it want to hibernate come Winter? Would it continue to decompose, or would it remain in this state? The questions led to more questions, and Pete became more and more determined to find some of the books referenced in the footnotes of the scholarly papers. The only question was how. The only concentration of learned individuals that Pete knew of in Malifaux were Guild. If there were clandestine midnight meetings of some secret resurrectionist society they certainly didn’t post bills advertising the place and time.
Even with his burning determination to expand his knowledge, business still had to be attended to at the cemetery. Pete was able to manage the day to day operation fine on his own, and although the help of another employee would have made the labor more tolerable he hated the idea of someone interfering with his time studying the papers and the metal shapes or learning to train the squirrel. He could now easily shoo the squirrel to a convenient hiding place whenever Lloyd or whoever was delivering the corpse of the moment would approach. Despite all his study, Pete had not mustered the nerve to try another reanimation, mostly because he had no idea what he would do with a reanimated corpse once the deed was done. The idea of having a decomposed human following him around the way the squirrel did wasn’t as revolting as it was inconvenient sounding. How do you hide something as large as a human from the prying eyes of those around you?
Pete also began work on preparing Dietrich’s cabin, no longer Dietrich’s in actuality, for the new supervisor. It took an act of will for Pete to even open the door for the first time without permission, as doing so seemed a violation of the privacy of the man now weeks dead. In character with the state of the cemetery’s office Dietrich’s cabin was disheveled and unkempt. The food on a few dirty dishes had long since dried to unrecognizable crust. Thankfully the weather had been dry enough to prevent molding. Pete despised mold. He allocated a few hours a week to cleaning out Dietrich’s personal belongings and cleaning the common items like dishes to the point where someone else could use them. Most of the other items, clothing too threadbare to be of much good, linens and such, Pete ended up burning or collecting to take to Mrs. Maybury’s Mission for the Less Fortunate.
The cabin held a mystery as well, a relic of Dietrich’s life. A gold locket hung open in a place of honor by a candle over a small table in the bedroom. In the locket were pictures, photographs of a man and woman. The man could have been Dietrich years ago. The woman’s identity was anybody’s guess. In a small drawer in the table was a collection of letters. Pete left the locket and letters in place, unwilling to upset the elements of Dietrich’s shrine. Oddly, it was the only really personal items that he seemed to have owned. Nothing else in the cabin was personalized or unique in any notable way. Whatever the story behind them, it must have been something of great meaning to the old man. Dietrich had repeatedly stated that he had no family. Perhaps this was a lost love, his one ill-fated attempt to find happiness. The very idea seemed absurd to Pete after having spent a year with Dietrich, and although he found himself curiously drawn to the letters he let them be. For now.
The squirrel hopped up and eyed Pete as he loaded clothes and bedding on the corpse cart. “These are definitely headed to the burn pile. You make sure you stay clear once the fire is going. Something tells me you’d light up like tinder and we don’t want that, do we?” The sun was getting lower, and the wooded areas between the Dietrich’s cabin and the office were getting quite dark. Pete cursed his lack of forethought for not bringing a lantern. By the time he got back he’d be navigating by feel. A sudden pang of hunger reminded Pete that he hadn’t eaten in quite a while either. He had exhausted Dietrich’s cache of food at the office, so he’d need to make a trip home to eat. Locking the squirrel in the crematorium would keep it contained long enough for Pete to gather up some food and get back. Come to think of it, Pete thought, he could use some fresh clothes while he was there. He had barely been back to his own cottage since raising the squirrel and was probably smelling like he had died as well.
The wind picked up at Pete pulled the cart along the dirt path. It was becoming harder and harder to see, but Pete knew the way well enough. With so light a load he could travel at a fair clip, the cart squeaking and bouncing along behind. The squirrel kept pace for a while, then hopped on the cart itself. “Lazy thing,” Pete chided. “I’m the one doing all the work again. Maybe I should name you Dietrich,” Pete said, and chuckled at his own suggestion.
With heretofore unseen speed, the squirrel jumped off the cart ran back down the path into the darkness. Pete stopped the cart and looked back after it. “What’s gotten into you?”
A silhouette burst from the darkness, arm raised to strike. Before Pete could react, the blow fell and the world spun before the evening’s darkness gave way to unconsciousness.
. . .
The light of a lantern hurt Pete’s eyes before he could even open them. His head felt like it had been split open, and he slowly started to recall the events leading up to his current state. He stifled the growing panic long enough to stay still as he took in the scene. The offending lantern was on the ground about a foot from his face, but his attacker was nowhere to be seen. Pete tried to turn but his hands were bound behind his back. His left arm, on which he was lying, was also completely asleep.
A man’s voice came from behind him. “Ah, you’re awake.” The voice was quiet, almost raspy.
“Who are you?” Pete asked. “What are you going to do to me?” Pete was certain that the Death Marshals must have found him. He tried to sound brave, but his throat constricted to the point where his voice was nearly non-existent. “Are you going to hang me?”
“Hang you?” The man’s voice came from directly behind Pete’s head, but he dared not turn around. “No, I have work for you still. If you do what I ask then I’ll let you live. Now sit up.”
Pete’s head was still spinning from the blow. He managed to roll around until he got his legs under him, no mean feat with hands bound and one arm numb, and sat facing the lantern. From the side of his vision the business end of a long pistol came into view. Pete watched the ornately carved barrel advance with grim fascination.
“Do you have any doubt that I can shoot you anytime I want?” The man asked, face still unseen.
“No. I don’t. No.” Pete answered haltingly.
“And if you run away, do you have any doubt that I could find you in exactly the same way I did tonight?”
“No.”
“Then we are in agreement that if I loose your bonds you will remember those things. If you turn on me, I will shoot you. If you run, I will find you.”
Pete nodded. He had no doubt the man meant what he said and could deliver on those assurances. “What do you want?” he managed to ask quietly.
“You have something of mine. I have come for it, and you will give it to me.”
Pete’s stomach sank. So his little project had not gone unnoticed, and now the owner of the metal shapes has come to collect them. The idea of giving them up, of giving up resurrectionism, made his skin tingle with panic. He couldn’t do it. “I don’t know what you mean? I don’t know what you are talking about.”
The man sighed. “No, of course you don’t. I’m going to untie you now. Stay still.” Pete felt his bonds pull and then release. He rubbed at his wrists and flexed his still numb arm to return the feeling. The man stepped around Pete and into the light so that Pete could see him for the first time. He wore a long, heavy coat that emphasized his size, which was impressive. His dark hair was short, and his face showed days without shaving. His face had the hollow look of hunger, and his eyes looked desperate and wild to Pete. He held the pistol pointed at the ground. “No, you wouldn’t even know what a treasure you have,” he said distantly.
Pete felt indignant. For this man to assume that Pete was completely unaware of the value of the metal shapes made him feel belittled and unimportant. To have successfully performed resurrectionist magic and then be cast as an ignorant nobody was a grievous insult. He grit his teeth and kept his face from showing his ire as he stared at the ornate pistol. He had no options. If he wanted to stay alive he would have to play dumb, give the stranger what he wanted and stay alert for any opportunity to turn the tables.
“Get up,” the man motioned with the pistol. “We have work to do. You carry the lantern.”
Pete stood and picked up the lantern. “What do you want me to do? Let’s be done with it so you can be on your way.”
“Head back to your building there. I’m sure you must have records of where everything is. You do keep records right?” He became distant again. “Of course they keep records. They have to keep records.”
“Records?” Pete asked hesitantly.
“Records! Of where the bodies are! This is a cemetery; Surely you have records of where the bodies are buried,” the man blurted. “You must. I’ve tracked her here and you must know where she is. It can’t end here.”
“Yes, I keep records, but … Sorry, what? Tracked who here?”
“Emily! This is where she came and I need to find her.” The man’s voice started to break as he spoke. “Where have you put Emily’s body?” He wiped his eyes with a heavy sleeve.
Pete stared at the man, so recently a voice of calm control and now near a tearful breakdown. He had come for Emily Fairfield’s body, not the metal shapes. Relief flooded Pete’s mind, and he knew his secret would be safe. The man would take the body and leave and Pete’s work could continue. “Yes, I remember her record,” Pete said as calmly as he could muster. “If we go to the office I can find the plot.” Pete feared the big man with the unusual gun, but excitement over not having to surrender the metal shapes made it impossible not to smile madly. Pete held the lantern to hide his glee as they walked silently back to the office.
Part 5: The Search Ends
Pete sat at the desk and watched the undead squirrel poke curiously, if a bit languidly, about the office. The creature seemed harmless enough, but keeping it hidden was crucial. If his new pursuit of bringing life to the dead was to remain undiscovered he would need to ensure that close calls like the incident with Officer McDorn did not happen again. It was time to learn to control his undead pet.
For the rest of the day, Pete experimented with commanding the squirrel to stay in one place but found the beast implacably drawn to him. Even placing a barrier in between the two of them met with limited success, as the squirrel would either find an alternate route to him or just incessantly scratch at the interposed wall or door when they were separated by more than a few yards. Until he was near the squirrel would not abandon its attempts to close the distance. Pete decided that he would need to sleep on the cot in the crematorium until he figured out how to control the squirrel well enough to avoid it showing up at his cottage at night. He had close enough neighbors that it would almost certainly be discovered there.
Despite the squirrel’s horrific visage, Pete was not particularly revolted by it. It was even cute, in its own way. All the same, he found himself reluctant to touch its rotting pelt. “Some resurrectionist I am if I can’t touch dead things,” he mused to himself. Eventually he mustered the courage to reach down and touch the creature’s back. The fur was coarse and matted and seemed to suck the moisture out of his hand, but it was tolerable. He even attempted picking up the squirrel but abandoned the act when his hand met with exposed ribs instead of skin.
“Okay, carrying you is out of the question. You’re going to have to learn to do as you’re told.”
The squirrel was completely incapable of understanding silent hand motions, but Pete found he could combine hand motion and a verbal command to get some response from it. It wasn’t really controllable, but suggestible to a great extent. Eventually Pete succeeded making the squirrel jump into a box on command, something he thought would come in handy if he needed to hide it quickly at some point. “You know? I think I’m starting to get the hang of you,” Pete told the squirrel. “But you still need a name. What about... tree rat?” The squirrel looked at him, emotionless. “Yeah, no real ring to that. We could shorten it. Maybe T.R.?” Again, the squirrel just stared at him with cataract covered eyes. It scratched its flank again, making that alarming tearing sound. “Naw. Don’t worry. We’ll work on it,” Pete decided. The squirrel seemed unconcerned.
Later that evening Pete took the time to prepare the letter to send back with the paymaster, who was scheduled for delivery the next day. News of Dietrich’s death was now moot, so he took the opportunity to write that he had received the order to act as interim manager, and to specify that he was sending Dietrich’s pay back with the letter. The squirrel dutifully sat by the desk and watched him write. It spit the nut it had stowed in its cheek pouch onto the ground, nibbled at it, then stuffed it back in. Pete wondered how much of its life it remembered. Clearly the instinct to collect nuts was still intact. Did it get hungry? Would it want to hibernate come Winter? Would it continue to decompose, or would it remain in this state? The questions led to more questions, and Pete became more and more determined to find some of the books referenced in the footnotes of the scholarly papers. The only question was how. The only concentration of learned individuals that Pete knew of in Malifaux were Guild. If there were clandestine midnight meetings of some secret resurrectionist society they certainly didn’t post bills advertising the place and time.
Even with his burning determination to expand his knowledge, business still had to be attended to at the cemetery. Pete was able to manage the day to day operation fine on his own, and although the help of another employee would have made the labor more tolerable he hated the idea of someone interfering with his time studying the papers and the metal shapes or learning to train the squirrel. He could now easily shoo the squirrel to a convenient hiding place whenever Lloyd or whoever was delivering the corpse of the moment would approach. Despite all his study, Pete had not mustered the nerve to try another reanimation, mostly because he had no idea what he would do with a reanimated corpse once the deed was done. The idea of having a decomposed human following him around the way the squirrel did wasn’t as revolting as it was inconvenient sounding. How do you hide something as large as a human from the prying eyes of those around you?
Pete also began work on preparing Dietrich’s cabin, no longer Dietrich’s in actuality, for the new supervisor. It took an act of will for Pete to even open the door for the first time without permission, as doing so seemed a violation of the privacy of the man now weeks dead. In character with the state of the cemetery’s office Dietrich’s cabin was disheveled and unkempt. The food on a few dirty dishes had long since dried to unrecognizable crust. Thankfully the weather had been dry enough to prevent molding. Pete despised mold. He allocated a few hours a week to cleaning out Dietrich’s personal belongings and cleaning the common items like dishes to the point where someone else could use them. Most of the other items, clothing too threadbare to be of much good, linens and such, Pete ended up burning or collecting to take to Mrs. Maybury’s Mission for the Less Fortunate.
The cabin held a mystery as well, a relic of Dietrich’s life. A gold locket hung open in a place of honor by a candle over a small table in the bedroom. In the locket were pictures, photographs of a man and woman. The man could have been Dietrich years ago. The woman’s identity was anybody’s guess. In a small drawer in the table was a collection of letters. Pete left the locket and letters in place, unwilling to upset the elements of Dietrich’s shrine. Oddly, it was the only really personal items that he seemed to have owned. Nothing else in the cabin was personalized or unique in any notable way. Whatever the story behind them, it must have been something of great meaning to the old man. Dietrich had repeatedly stated that he had no family. Perhaps this was a lost love, his one ill-fated attempt to find happiness. The very idea seemed absurd to Pete after having spent a year with Dietrich, and although he found himself curiously drawn to the letters he let them be. For now.
The squirrel hopped up and eyed Pete as he loaded clothes and bedding on the corpse cart. “These are definitely headed to the burn pile. You make sure you stay clear once the fire is going. Something tells me you’d light up like tinder and we don’t want that, do we?” The sun was getting lower, and the wooded areas between the Dietrich’s cabin and the office were getting quite dark. Pete cursed his lack of forethought for not bringing a lantern. By the time he got back he’d be navigating by feel. A sudden pang of hunger reminded Pete that he hadn’t eaten in quite a while either. He had exhausted Dietrich’s cache of food at the office, so he’d need to make a trip home to eat. Locking the squirrel in the crematorium would keep it contained long enough for Pete to gather up some food and get back. Come to think of it, Pete thought, he could use some fresh clothes while he was there. He had barely been back to his own cottage since raising the squirrel and was probably smelling like he had died as well.
The wind picked up at Pete pulled the cart along the dirt path. It was becoming harder and harder to see, but Pete knew the way well enough. With so light a load he could travel at a fair clip, the cart squeaking and bouncing along behind. The squirrel kept pace for a while, then hopped on the cart itself. “Lazy thing,” Pete chided. “I’m the one doing all the work again. Maybe I should name you Dietrich,” Pete said, and chuckled at his own suggestion.
With heretofore unseen speed, the squirrel jumped off the cart ran back down the path into the darkness. Pete stopped the cart and looked back after it. “What’s gotten into you?”
A silhouette burst from the darkness, arm raised to strike. Before Pete could react, the blow fell and the world spun before the evening’s darkness gave way to unconsciousness.
. . .
The light of a lantern hurt Pete’s eyes before he could even open them. His head felt like it had been split open, and he slowly started to recall the events leading up to his current state. He stifled the growing panic long enough to stay still as he took in the scene. The offending lantern was on the ground about a foot from his face, but his attacker was nowhere to be seen. Pete tried to turn but his hands were bound behind his back. His left arm, on which he was lying, was also completely asleep.
A man’s voice came from behind him. “Ah, you’re awake.” The voice was quiet, almost raspy.
“Who are you?” Pete asked. “What are you going to do to me?” Pete was certain that the Death Marshals must have found him. He tried to sound brave, but his throat constricted to the point where his voice was nearly non-existent. “Are you going to hang me?”
“Hang you?” The man’s voice came from directly behind Pete’s head, but he dared not turn around. “No, I have work for you still. If you do what I ask then I’ll let you live. Now sit up.”
Pete’s head was still spinning from the blow. He managed to roll around until he got his legs under him, no mean feat with hands bound and one arm numb, and sat facing the lantern. From the side of his vision the business end of a long pistol came into view. Pete watched the ornately carved barrel advance with grim fascination.
“Do you have any doubt that I can shoot you anytime I want?” The man asked, face still unseen.
“No. I don’t. No.” Pete answered haltingly.
“And if you run away, do you have any doubt that I could find you in exactly the same way I did tonight?”
“No.”
“Then we are in agreement that if I loose your bonds you will remember those things. If you turn on me, I will shoot you. If you run, I will find you.”
Pete nodded. He had no doubt the man meant what he said and could deliver on those assurances. “What do you want?” he managed to ask quietly.
“You have something of mine. I have come for it, and you will give it to me.”
Pete’s stomach sank. So his little project had not gone unnoticed, and now the owner of the metal shapes has come to collect them. The idea of giving them up, of giving up resurrectionism, made his skin tingle with panic. He couldn’t do it. “I don’t know what you mean? I don’t know what you are talking about.”
The man sighed. “No, of course you don’t. I’m going to untie you now. Stay still.” Pete felt his bonds pull and then release. He rubbed at his wrists and flexed his still numb arm to return the feeling. The man stepped around Pete and into the light so that Pete could see him for the first time. He wore a long, heavy coat that emphasized his size, which was impressive. His dark hair was short, and his face showed days without shaving. His face had the hollow look of hunger, and his eyes looked desperate and wild to Pete. He held the pistol pointed at the ground. “No, you wouldn’t even know what a treasure you have,” he said distantly.
Pete felt indignant. For this man to assume that Pete was completely unaware of the value of the metal shapes made him feel belittled and unimportant. To have successfully performed resurrectionist magic and then be cast as an ignorant nobody was a grievous insult. He grit his teeth and kept his face from showing his ire as he stared at the ornate pistol. He had no options. If he wanted to stay alive he would have to play dumb, give the stranger what he wanted and stay alert for any opportunity to turn the tables.
“Get up,” the man motioned with the pistol. “We have work to do. You carry the lantern.”
Pete stood and picked up the lantern. “What do you want me to do? Let’s be done with it so you can be on your way.”
“Head back to your building there. I’m sure you must have records of where everything is. You do keep records right?” He became distant again. “Of course they keep records. They have to keep records.”
“Records?” Pete asked hesitantly.
“Records! Of where the bodies are! This is a cemetery; Surely you have records of where the bodies are buried,” the man blurted. “You must. I’ve tracked her here and you must know where she is. It can’t end here.”
“Yes, I keep records, but … Sorry, what? Tracked who here?”
“Emily! This is where she came and I need to find her.” The man’s voice started to break as he spoke. “Where have you put Emily’s body?” He wiped his eyes with a heavy sleeve.
Pete stared at the man, so recently a voice of calm control and now near a tearful breakdown. He had come for Emily Fairfield’s body, not the metal shapes. Relief flooded Pete’s mind, and he knew his secret would be safe. The man would take the body and leave and Pete’s work could continue. “Yes, I remember her record,” Pete said as calmly as he could muster. “If we go to the office I can find the plot.” Pete feared the big man with the unusual gun, but excitement over not having to surrender the metal shapes made it impossible not to smile madly. Pete held the lantern to hide his glee as they walked silently back to the office.