2022-02-19 - The Humptulips Howler

In February 2022, a recorded emergency call indicates a motorist nearly collided with an unidentifiable mammal at 9:45 PM. The recorded phone conversation reveals that armed state wildlife officers were immediately dispatched to investigate the bear-sized, gray, fast-running animal on Kirkpatrick Road in Humptulips, north of Gray Harbor.

That's how it begins; with Denise Chatham swerving off the road to avoid hitting something that's grey in the dark like a moose but entirely too fast to be a moose, and besides, it wasn't big enough to be a moose. The front end of her SUV is curled around a road tree and she slams the car door open to get out while her mind tries to not conjure up too many movie scenes of exploding cars. Is the engine in the front or the back? Hell if Denise knows. The car is probably not going to explode, but her body is full of adrenaline and she does not stop running until she is several hundred metres down the road, because who knows how far an explosion can throw flaming bits of car.

Fortunately, she thinks, she was alone in the car. She will need to see her doctor in the morning, file a claim, get it all on record. Anyone who has been on social media ever has heard stories of insurance claims being denied because the patient was not fast enough to get it documented that their whiplash, PTSD, whatever is because of the accident.

She realises that at least part of this is a shock reaction. She's standing on a dark country road winding its way along a narrow river, near a small cluster of suburbia -- Humptulips, right. A town so small that its only claim to fame is that weird-ass name, a bit north of Hoquiam, with the Quinault Reservation to the northwest and the Olympia mountain range to the north and east. She calls the police. They promise to send somebody over right away. They tell her to walk a bit up and down the road while she waits, see if there are any injured animals lying around. Sometimes, the lady tells her, you don't actually feel your car hitting a deer.

Denise Chatham waits. And walks. And hopes to not find a dying deer or moose. And then something roars in the woods, and a grey shadow emerges from between the trees.

To most people, Humptulips is put on the map only by its funny name. There's a story there, no doubt -- and possibly a strange passion for tulips (that's actually not the story at all). It's somewhere you drive through on Kirkpatrick Road because why not -- if you're going for an evening drive it's a nice stretch of nature, and the view of the woodlands and the ocean beyond from a bit up Olympia is spectacular. It's somewhere you might drive through for a romantic evening and some making out in the backseat of your car up there. You might be heading back to civilisation from the even smaller town of Neilton -- worthy of mention only because it doesn't even have a grocery store, a luxury which Humptulips at least does possess. Might even come through on one's way to or from a trip to Lake Quinault because the fishing is good up there, and who the hell wants to go fishing in the entire Pacific Ocean that's right on your doorstep when you can drive for long hours to some remote mountain lake and feel like an explorer.

Let's just say that Kirkpatrick Road is not alive with dense traffic at most hours.

And that fact is enough to warrant a second glance, maybe, when one does drive past for whatever reason, at a Japanese SUV wrapped neatly around a road tree, and a couple of wildlife officers with rifles standing around the wreck. More so when one of those wildlife officers steps out on the road to wave over anyone driving past.

Whatever the reason one might be passing through the rural community of Humptulips on a dark and cold February evening, the question is the same, "Sir (or madam), have you seen anything unusual on the road tonight? There is no need for alarm, but we are missing the driver of that crashed vehicle, and we have reason to think she might have tried to walk for help and gotten lost."

"Do you want to go hiking up by Humptulips today, Sam?"

Not a question Ariadne had ever guessed she'd be asking of her dog, but Sam, good-natured Windhound that he is, had panted and wagged his tail. Indeed, let's go hiking. She'd packed up him, a lunch in a box, the appropriate hiking gear for a simple hike -- nothing too intensive -- and they'd gone up north in search of the salmon hatchery along Kirkpatrick Road. No fish in the river, since it's off-season, but the net-covered ponds full of fingerlings appeared to be alive and rippling with the growing fry. Ariadne professes herself pleased. Good. More future food for the orcas.

As such, and after hiking around the area, she's headed back home.

Or was.

Strobing vehicle lights ahead bring the barista in her all-weather coat and knitcap about her ears to slow down appropriately -- oh god, and then deviate when gestured over by someone appearing to be part of Fish and Wildlife. Holding a rifle. Upon rolling down her window and being questioned, Ariadne looks momentarily perplexed. Had she seen anyone? Or anything odd?

"Gosh, no," she replies after looking back to the officer. "I'm just headed back to Grey Harbor. My dog and I were out hiking." Sam, seated in the passenger seat in his doggy-coat and seatbelt-harness merely give the officer that Aloof Sighthound Stare.

Some say there really isn't anything special in Humptulips, but Fae knew better. She'd actually been a few times with Chris, sadly he had to work today so the journey had to be made alone. The first time they'd driven to the tiny town they'd come to pick up Chief, their dalmation puppy, but the pair had stumbled upon a discovery akin to finding the holy grail...an elderly mexican woman named Miss Domínguez who sold tamales out of her van near the gas station.

Sure, Fae could have made her own tamales, but these were made with some swirling of spicy santería that the ginger girl hadn't been able to reverse engineer yet. She'd been coming up once a week since uncovering the secret wonder of Humptulips and it was that day of the week where she needed to get her fix, a dozen chicken, a dozen beef, all in hopes that her stomach would be able to crack the code when she got home.

She wasn't expecting the road-block on her way in though and as her clunker of a truck sputtered up one of the officers began waving her over. The window slowly cranked down, she really needed to fix that handle, it got stuck all the time. "Hi!" she practically yelled, the truck's tape deck was blaring Britney Spears loud enough that she couldn't hear a word the man said until she belatedly turned the Toxic tunes down. "Sorry officer, what's going on?" she chattered out, shifting a apologetic smile over her face and hoping he wasn't planning on siting her for that little crack that had formed in her windshield a week back from all the cold.

It had been a long drive back from the Res, the Quinault elders having only had an afternoon availability to meet which meant when the meeting went long, one was looking at a very long drive back way later than they wanted. So, it ended up, a bit more back in the line, a familiar looking pickup truck with a very familiar looking logo on the side comes to a stop before the checkpoint. Benjamin Martin rolls the window down on the Martin Construction branded vehicle, craning his neck to look and just in time to meet an odd question.

"Just a whole lot of dark winding road, officer." Benjamin answers, shifting in his seat, already tired from sitting, his wrist flexing as it streched over the top of the steering wheel. He takes the information presented and offers a helpless shrug, but... he hazards a question of his own.

"We gonna be stuck here awhile? It's been a long drive, I'd really like to stretch my legs, sir." Because what else was he going to do while he waited for traffic to clear from a road that was far from designed to handle it.

Chance works in curious ways; three cars turn up and get pulled over on Kirkpatrick Road at much the same time; three drivers, some marginally familiar with each other and some not; some here for work, others for leisure; all of them getting the same answer from the Fish & Wildlife officer: "We think the driver of the car walked off in a state of confusion or shock after the accident. If you see anything or anyone on the road on your way back, please dial 911 and let them know. The driver is a Caucasian woman in her mid-thirties according to her driver's license which is still in the wreck -- name's Denise Chatham. If you find her, please dial 911 as well, and try to keep her from wandering further off. Have a pleasant evening, sir (or madam)."

That's when you pull back out on the road and resume driving, and go home with your pile of delicious Mexican food, or your new contract, or your long haired dog who probably needs a bath. And you go back through Hoquiam and across the bridge, and life is as normal as it ever is in Gray Harbor. Of course it doesn't work out that well. No one who's been around here for few weeks ever would think it would.

What clues everyone in is the howl. It's a loud, shrieking sound -- mournful and reverberating as it echoes from one forested slope to another. It's got a high pitch which then drops to a rumble, and then ascends one more until it sounds like a scream slowly dying out.

"What the hell was that?" One officer reaches for his rifle, checking the safety.

"Coyote?" suggests another.

"Coyote with a pair of lungs like that belongs in a zoo," murmurs the third and looks back to -- nothing. He thought there was a fourth officer standing behind him.

Well, there was. A moment ago.

"Of course, sir, if I see her, I'll dial 911 ASAP," the barista assures the Fish and Wildlife officer with the rifle. Samwise continues to give the officer a dubious Sighthound look. His brown nose twitches back and forth as air from the surrounding area wafts into the car. There's a moment where, as the officer departs to leave Ariadne to pull out onto the road again -- or not, there's now a huge back-up of cars, awkward, wonderful, thank god she'd found that outhouse before she's set tires to road -- the brindled dog lifts his head and looks towards the passenger side of the car. Ariadne glances that way as well, frowning. "What's up, S -- "

Then the howl. It sends every hair on her body to rising. Wide-eyed, Ariadne grips onto the steering wheel while Samwise hunkers down into the passenger seat with a whine. His triangle-folded ears pin back as he makes himself the tiniest curling of dog possibly before reaching his front paws across the console in the beginnings of an attempt to crawl into her lap.

"Hold on, buddy, whoa now," she says, far more calmly than she feels. Reaching out, she strokes the dog's head to soothe the both of them while she looks to the four officers for confirmation as to how to react. Their body language will tell her. Wait. Three officers. There were four officers, the barista thinks to herself with another uncomfortable clench of her closed jaw. "Okay, sooooooo...we're staying in the car becaaaause in Jurassic Park, that was the thing to doooooo annnnnnd fuck thiiiiiiiiiiiis." Quite the discomfited singsong to the Sighthound who is of the same opinion: no more loud roaring sounds, please.

Benjamin does have time to notice a certain clunker of a truck, head cocking just a bit in recognition before he’s getting his answer. Right, get on home, nothing to see-...

The howl starts him in a way that’s less shock or fear but more, ’The fuck is it this time?’... Ok, there’s some fear, fear keeps you alive, but after years of shitty Gray Harbor environment trying to torture or murder you, there’s a certain cold trauma that just has to be dealt with. Benji leans over once the officer was further away, opening his glovebox, sliding a pistol from it. He wasn’t the best with guns, but it was easy to point and squeeze. Checking it seemed functional, he sticks the muzzle in the cup holder and leans out the window.

“FAE!” The boss man calls forward, then seems to reconsider the words two times before calling, “You got the uh... You... You holdin’?” Ok, not the most heroic ready check, but you want to know if the redhead had her shotgun again, just to be safe.

He then clicks on his construction hazards and hits the dimmer switch and high beams. As much loud light as possible to illuminate their surroundings. Note to self:, he was thinking, Issue Fae a work truck.

That animalistic wailing was enough to put the little ginger girl on high alert, her neck hastily craning out of the vehicle to take a better look as she peeked this way and that, regretfully she didn't manage to spot anything in the process. There was one thing for certain, that sound...it wasn't a coyote, not unless the coyotes of Humptulips were drastically larger than the ones back home in Missouri.

By the time Benjamin had called out she was already wrapping her fingers around Dad's trusty mossberg, the truck guns of all truck guns and a permanent fixture behind her pickup's seat. "Of course boss!" she yelled back, recognizing that voice and showcasing the piece out the window with the type of pride only a midwesterner can have over a hand me down firearm.

It was around this time that the realization of the missing F&W ranger set in, did that thing out there eat him? Did she blink and miss it? Her mind raced with the possibilities as that sense of fight or flight set in. It was also about this time that the dull sounds of the truck's cassette player switch to the next track of Britney's 2003 album In The Zone, a song which was aptly titled Outrageous. Fae would have totally been vibing with the banger of a jam in circumstances that were less outrageous than the current ones, but the unseen beastial killer on the prowl made her feel more like peeing her pants than singing along.

Despite the name that deceives at least out-of-towners, Jimmy Red Deer is not Quinault. He's got a Cree ancestor somewhere, and the name was dug back up by a hippie grandfather in 1968. A bit of legal paperwork, and Vaughan became Red Deer, with all the confusion that entails when Jimmy Red Deer is a six foot corn cob of a man with blue eyes and skin the colour of snow. Jimmy's got a coat that says Fish & Wildlife Services and he's got a Remington 870 12-gauge shotgun; he's put down moose and bears with lead and tranquilizer both -- he prefers the latter, but sometimes, there is no recourse. He has two big dogs at home, and he likes to go boating out of Hoquiam on the weekends.

Right now Jimmy Red Deer is about to piss his pants. He raises the shotgun to his chin and looks around frantically, trying to pierce the darkness with eyes that were not made to see well in the dark. He heard that howl and Mike Rowlins was standing right next to him and now he's not --

And then the lights of Mr Martin's truck come on, throwing cones of ghostly searchlight into the darkness.

Something moves there.

Something is large -- Jimmy Red Deer thinks of a gorilla, maybe, or a scrawny, weirdly elongated bear. No, it bolts out of the light on its knuckles, it's definitely some kind of ape. And it got Mike Rowlins.

No oversized monkey is getting Jimmy Red Deer. There aren't any kind of monkey or ape native to the Olympic Mountains; some fat cat tourist yachter must have had one on his boat, heading down to that fancy new Casino in the Bay -- and it got away. Whatever the hell it is, it got Mike Rowlins, and it ain't gettin' Jimmy Red Deer next. He cocks the rifle, and he shoots.

The characteristic sound of a large shotgun rings out. Heads turn; the other two Wildlife officers spin around, each with a rifle of their own. And something out there howls again, only now it's on the other side of the small congregation of officers and drivers. A shadow, large enough to be a truly monstrous gorilla rushes across the road, just far enough from the circle of light that no one can get a good, proper look at it. It looks silvery in the white truck light, but then, anything that isn't solid black would. Suddenly, it's not so hard to guess how Denise Chatham's SUV ended up wrapped around a roadside tree.

"That's no fucking coyote," exclaims the officer who seems the calmest -- he's a short, black man, known to his friends as Marty (and to his air hockey opponents as That Cheating Asshole, Marty). Then he turns and glances at Benjamin and Fae first, and almost as an afterthought, at Ariadne in her car. "For God's sake, stay in your cars, people."

The other officer holds up his radio. "Rowlins, respond. Mike, damnit, say something!"

Mike Rowlins is not responding.

The third Wildlife Services officer is named Paddy O'Leary and he -- was over there, heading towards Benjamin's truck, possibly going for the safety of the light. Was is the keyword here, because he's not there now.

Now there's someone with construction hazards on in oscillating golden flashes of light along with high beams -- and beyond that, someone with a clunker truck. Ariadne looks in all of her mirrors, mouth parted in confusion. There's something about guns? She'd left her window cracked at the driver's side and hears the shout from the other bystander about the weaponry.

Looking away from the direction of the high beams is helpful, but not when it's in a direction allowing only peripheral vision of something Big and Grey which was decidedly shot at. Ariadne clutches her steering wheel with white-knuckles, staring at the thing menacing the wildlife officers just enough of immediate shine of the truck's high beams. "I was joking about Jurassic Park," she squeaks. Samwise has found a new home on the floor of the passenger side now in a little shivering ball inside his safety-green winter coat.

The head count dwindles. Ariande notices it when the ambient light gleams off of one less shotgun in the hands of the F&W Servicemen.

"Oh god," she breathes before clapping a hand to her mouth. On a scale of Tolerable to Really Not Cool? This is definitely jumped the amp to Real Nightmare. It occurs to her that calling 9-1-1 for reasons other than spotting that missing lady might apply here. Gloved hands get to fumbling at her cell phone zipped away into her coat pocket; those gloves are not useful in counteracting zippers.

Fae's eyes fluttered over the scene, peeking back and forth and hoping to catch a glimpse of the swift creature that was picking off the poor F&W rangers like they were human appetizers on a charcuterie board. "You boys might wanna get up off the ground, that critter'll have a harder time gettin' to you then!" the country girl suggested, calling over to one of the nearby rangers and motioning up towards her truck bed with a sidenod. It wasn't much protection but at least whatever it was that was coming at them would have to rip through the sides of her pickup before it ripped through their legs. As fast as it was they might not even get the chance though.

Dad's mossberg soon found its place on the the edge of her window, pointed out in hopes the monster might cross it's line of fire . This wasn't exactly the easiest way to shoot a 12 gauge but she'd made some pretty impressive shots in the past and getting out of the truck sounded like a terrible idea right now. Over the holidays she'd even managed to best her Dad and Uncle Harold in some skeet shooting, which had her feeling more confident than ever. No amount of confidence could stop those tiny trembles in her hand from the wild animal out there though, she just hoped the calming powers of Britney could help her nail the shot next time the creature showed itself.

Four rangers. Two missing.

One of the remaining officers is Jimmy Red Deer, looking around with frantic eyes for something, anything that moves -- something to fire that twelve gauge at. He at least has the presence of mind to do as Fae shouts -- get up on that pick-up, put some metal between himself and whatever the howling thing out there is. There is some kind of coyote howling people snatcher out there, and he'll be damned if he's not going to at least put a slug in it before it snatches him too. In this, he and Fae seem to be very much on the same page. Little does he know he's teaming up with the woman who once tried to snipe a sixteen ton dragon; he's in good company.

That leaves That Cheating Asshole, Marty He's the one who was just telling people to keep an eye out for Denise Chatham, the owner of the pile of SUV scrap over there. He takes his colleague's cue -- maybe it's a training thing for men in uniform: When someone shouts in a determined enough voice, you don't ask how high to jump.

Marty has the presence of mind to reach for his radio rather than his sidearm. "Paddy, respond! Mike!"

Paddy O'Leary and Mike Rowlins are not taking calls at the present.

Marty frowns. A thought seems to occur to him, and he changes the dials on his radio. This leads him to a conclusion that Ariadne, in her car, is also reaching at much the same time: Something very strange is going on here. Radio and mobile phone respectively are working just fine. The lights are on, the battery is full -- but there's no reach. There is no response on the radio from the controller, and the phone seems to simply not make the requested call.

911 is apparently not taking calls at the present, either.

And then, suddenly, there it is -- straying into the sharp, white light of the construction truck, swaying like a drunk sailor on the third day of shore leave. The thing looks like a very tall, thin bear -- matted, greyish fur with clumps of dirt hanging from its large, long-fingered, long-clawed paws. Its hind legs are too long and its front legs too arm-like, and it moves as if nature somehow assembled it with spare parts from too many boxes. It's not a bear. It's not a gorilla. It's not a man. Maybe it's a bear gorilla man.

It looks around with yellow eyes and the hot, open maw of a bear. And it howls.

Jimmy Red Deer shoots. The shot crackles through the night air. Red blooms on the beast's leg.

He glances back over his shoulder. "Shoot the fucker, Marty!"

Marty isn't there.

The three people in their respective cars, though -- they all saw the black officer look up from his radio and fumble for his firearm at his hip. And then, like something plucked the man right out of existence, he was gone. No screaming, no flailing, no being dragged off -- just gone, as if he was never there.

No matter how well versed you are in the art of being a shotgun samurai one can never really prepared for the amount of kick a 12 gauge has in awkwardly close quarters. The meep of the diminutive ginger girl trying to play hero couldn't be heard over the reverberation of her boom-stick and the shattering of her pickup's window within the truck's door. That window never did roll down all the way, she should have known better than to use it as a shooting rest, no use crying over shattered glass though.

"Ugh, that's going to bruise." the murmur of a whine came alongside a wince from the stock barreling into her shoulder and nearly knocking her flat on her back. "Maybe loading up slugs in the truck gun was a bad idea?" the statement certainly seemed true in the moment as she was rubbing her collarbone and hoping it wasn't broken. Despite the damage done to both her scapula and her vehicle another slug clicked into the barrel as she gathered her composure and gazed out, hoping to at least of nicked the thing to slow the beastie down a bit. Whatever that creature was out there it was quick enough that it might give a certain blue hedgehog some competition for fastest thing alive and it was hungry for human flavored chili dogs.

911 should be taking calls and they're not! Ariadne can't help but breathe faster now as the phone rings...and rings...and cuts out. She stares at the lit-up screen in abject betrayal. No signal! Woe! Seriously, much woe.

A quick look up at the others -- shit, wasn't there another officer?

Now there's not. It's frightening, to say the least, and she stares breathlessly in shock at what walks into the beams of the construction truck. That's not Bigfoot -- or if it is, it's way uglier and very, very not looking to just rattle a tree or throw a rock.

A shotgun goes off.

"Go away!" she finds herself chattering out. "Go away, go away, goaway goaway goawaygoawaygoaway!!!"

A rock lifts from the ferns by the side of her car, weeble-wobbles about, and then drops with a sharp crack. If it was meant to fly, it would have had wings.

Two more shots ring out in rapid succession. One from Fae's twelve-gauge in the pick-up and once from Jimmy Red Deer's twelve-gauge on the pick-up. (Conclusion: pick-ups are bad for monster health). Red blooms on the creature's pale skin and fur -- on the shoulder, and in the abdomen. Which shot is which? Maybe the autopsy will reveal. The creature howls -- tones of anguish and pain mix with confusion and decibels that should not be achievable outside a high-end sound studio.

It's no wonder no one notices the short and sad flight of that rock. The rock knows. The rock will remember. Some day, that rock will make it back airborne, somehow.

The creature -- there is no suitable other term for it, there is no creature in creation that looks like this -- screeches and collapses, trashing and then, twitching. Whatever it is, wherever it came from, it is not bullet proof. Maybe it's best that way -- whatever it is, or was, at least it's no longer suffering.

Jimmy Red Deer drops his firearm and frantically tries to rouse his fellow officers on his radio. There is no response. Whatever dampening field is in effect, it is still there.

This is where it should be over -- isn't it? The monster is dead or dying. The smart people stayed in their cars where they were safe from whatever took those three wildlife officers away. Surely in a moment the radios and cell phones will flicker back to life --

There's something else out there in the dark. Something or someone. Shadows just outside of the circle of light -- men, to judge from the size of them, rather than monster gorilla bear things, at least. Men, carrying something away between them, like a large sack of flour -- or a body. Disappearing into the darkness.

Jimmy sees it too (though not quite as well, from up there behind the lights). He barks out, "Stay put!" and jumps off the back of the truck. Then he bolts towards the shadows, rapidly retreating, yelling, "Halt! Stop or I shoot!"

Maybe he takes his job very seriously. Maybe he's just stupid. And whatever the hairy corpse lying there, on the edge of the circle of light, is supposed to be -- it's not a bear, and it's not a gorilla, and it's not any damned thing off this Earth known to man.

It went away now. It's gone. Mostly. It's not moving anymore, whatever it is. Ariadne stares at it. It's something that's going to linger in her nightmares for months to come. This one, she can't drink away. Samwise whines from the passenger-side floor as he shakes.

"I kn-know, buddy, I know," his owner whisper-whimpers back, reaching with a badly-racketing hand to see about petting him. They can soothe one another. It's a nice thought. Movement makes the young woman rip her eyes from the Thing lying there to see the last officer bolting off into the darkness of the trees towards...shapes. He's mad.

It's enough to make her try to unclip her seat belt and roll down the window at the same time, but nerves aren't helping with subtle muscle movements in the least. Her door cracks open and her voice spills out before she does. "Wait! No, don't!" Like the officer is going to hear her. Where's the other person with the gun?! She heard two shots! "Sam, you stay!"

Don't tell the Sighthound twice, he's going nowhere.

"Do you have another gun?!" This is shouted in the direction of Fae. Never once has Ariadne shot a gun in her life. Still, she asks, pale and shaking.

Did Fae have another gun? That would have been an outright comical question under less dire circumstances. The country girl was always armed to the teeth, so much so that even among fellow midwesterners she would probably be classified as overzealous in her accusation of arms and ammunition. "Yeah I've got th-" her words halted, Ariadne nearly got the entire list of firearms available from her rolling gun store of a truck but that would have taken more than awhile to spit out and time was probably of the essence in this situation. "Yeah, I'll come to you, just stay put." she'll do what? The Hurley Hooptie Arms Dealing Company apparently does deliveries rain or shine.

"This is really stupid." the ginger muttered those famous last words, digging through her purse and retrieving her chiappa rhino revolver. Her new toy was really her pride and joy, it had taken a whole paycheck to buy the ferrari of revolvers and she'd been just lucky enough to get the rare commodity at a gunshow on her trip back home for the holidays, it was a very merry Christmas present to herself. "I'm coming your way!" she called over, the click of her truck door opening accompanied by the sound of the glass within it jangling around.

She stepped lightly, her shotgun still drawn in her hands as she made her way over with the revolver in her pocket, carefully keeping a watchful eye on the 'dead' monster and the shadowy men that might decide she was now an easier target outside of the protection of her truck tank. It's a simple point and click interface." she yammered off as she approached the drivers side window of Ariadne's car, you can just tell when someone hasn't really handled a firearm, it's like a sixth sense, it wasn't like she had the time to give her training right here and now though so that terrible explanation would have to do. "Watch your thumb, the flash comes out the bottom of the cylinder on those and it'll scorch you a bit if your grip is too high." that would be really great advice if Ariadne know what any of it meant. The snub nose hand cannon was offered up regardless because sometimes a girls gotta pew pew.

Will we ever see Jimmy Red Deer again?

Maybe. Maybe not.

The large, furry thing stops twitching. The forest falls silent. There is the circle of light, and in it, there are three people with various firearms, snub-nosed and otherwise, and the darkness beyond. You'd almost think it's over. Except no one who ever watched a late night horror flick believes in that. The jump scare is coming. Any moment now.

Except it doesn't. Suddenly there is movement over there at the edge of the circle of light again. Not surreptitious or sneaky, nor loud and threatening. Just a couple of men, stepping into the light as if it was a perfectly normal thing to do some random night on some random dark road.

One is wearing denim work overalls and a plaid shirt; he's got his baseball cap pulled down so the shade obscures his face, and he's smoking a cigarette. "I'll take the shoulders, you take the feet." He glances at what almost has to be some kind of delivery receipt. "What's the deal with that stupid name, anyway?"

"Sure." The other is a short man in curduroy pants and a mustard yellow shirt with wide flaps -- it must have been all the rage in 1974. He looks like Danny DeVito, except grumpier. "Fucker's heavier than my wife. Why can't they ever imagine up something fuckin' light weight. The name is for the river, or so some asshole told me. Means hard to paddle in the local gibberish."

And without much ado, they head towards the fallen, furry bear gorilla man as if clean-up duty is a perfectly normal thing on Kirkpatrick Road near Humptulips, any old night.

Somehow, Ariadne has forced herself out from inside her car. Her phone is still in her coat pocket. Outside of the car's interior, the air is scented of vehicles and something else, something more visceral that sticks in the back of her throat. Fae is completely accurate in her sixth sense about the novice (read as: nonexistent) gun skills in the other redhead before her. Ariadne still takes the gun with a mincing, shaking care about the grip of the weapon, being at least cognizant enough to keep the barrel pointed towards the ground. She can emulate what she's seen in films at least enough to keep from shooting herself in the foot.

We hope.

"Okay! Watch my thumb! Got it!" Way too high, way too breathy, but that's okay, she's now weaponized. Bring it on, world. Emboldened by Fae's far more experienced presence in turn, the barista watches as the two men appear out of the flippin' blue into the light-line of the truck's headlights.

"Um, hey." Not loud enough, they keep talking. "Hey." Good job, try again. "Excuse me, HEY!" It's like watching a baby lion gear up to roar and finally get there and it's still not got a ton of 'umph' to it. "Don't touch that thing! What the fuck?!" she shouts at the two men nearing the grey man-bear-pig-creature-what-Darwin-is-rolling-over-in-his-grave.

Fae's eyes peeked through her copper hair, still unsure if she should ask Danny DeVito for an autograph or not...wait, that wasn't Danny DeVito. That's just some Danny DeVito impersonator from who knows where veil village or something, "I'm not sure we should try and stop them." she murmured over to Ariadne in caution, a bit shook by how casually the veil police were going about cleanup duty. That creature just scarfed down half of the wildlife rangers this little town had and these guys were just BSing and picking it up like roadkill, which is arguably scarier than the creature itself.

If these were the 'people' that were tasked with this sort of thing Fae couldn't help but doubt they were even human. The girl's little ADHD brain was already going a mile a minute and trying to figure out why one of them chose to resemble Danny DeVito. Did people in the veil watch Always Sunny? They probably did, I mean, it is universally funny after all.

Instead of impeding the cleanup with hostile confusion and a million questions about what the hell was actually happening, a light switch flicked on in the country girl's mind. "Thanks for cleaning that up ya'll. Can I offer you a tamale in this trying time?" she was all out of eggs, but tamales are better anyways.

The shotgun met her shoulder as she pushed down that thought that the cleanup crew were probably some sort of eldritch horrors in human skin suits and approached her truck, exchanging the firearm for the tupperware full of the best tamales Humptulips had to offer...possibly the best tamales the world had to offer, but that was still to be determined. They say the way to a man's heart is through his stomach, maybe that logic extends to veil men that are suspect humans at best as well?

"Guess the river's too shallow for kayaking proper. Come on, big guy, let's -- " And then there is baby lion Ariadne somehow managing to meow her way into the conversation. The man in the denim overalls shoots her an annoyed glance, much in the fashion of a janitor or groundskeeper who just spotted you dropping your candy bar wrapper on his floor or gravel path. "Lady, just go back in your vehicle and mind your own," he grunts towards her.

'Danny DeVito' perks up, however. "Tamales? What are tamales? C'mon, Joe, we can spare a moment. Always try the local food!"

"You think with your fucking stomachs," returns 'Joe'. "Fine, whatever. Just make it quick."

The shorter one is already reaching for the tupperware box with child-like enthusiasm. "I read the Wikipedia page on this place," he confides to Fae. "Didn't say anything about a fast food place. Really should fix that. Oh, man, this is good. Suddenly this job doesn't suck monkey balls after all."

His partner hauls off the -- thing -- by its ankles, pulling it towards the darkness and the woods. Its head thumps unpleasantly against the ground. It probably no longer feels it. "What's gonna suck is Haggleford finding out you been fraternising with the local wildlife," he calls over his shoulder. "Move it, buddy. We get paid to move bodies, not pancakes or whatever the fuck those things are."

This is all just too weird to process. Not only that, but despite having a gun, Ariadne realizes there's very little she can do. Nothing in her wishes to further interact with two men all but advertising corpse removal by their actions. Fae is far braver than the barista, even if the little borrowed gun has a good kick.

Plus, she shouldn't have looked at how the creature's head lolls loosely as it's dragged out of the light. Too human. Too much.

The gun is dropped, near enough to Fae to be easily retrieved, and Ariadne runs back to her car. Her legs feel like spaghetti, her knees like tofu, and Samwise, at least, is so incredibly happy to see his human again that he all but shrieks greeting. "We're going! We're going!" she breathes in her upper register as she shakily gets the auto up and running. A quick back-up, lurch as she hits the brakes too hard, and then with a skid of gravel, she and her red tail lights disappear off into the night.

Joe throws a long look after the car as it skids off into the night. Then he hitches a shoulder and looks back at his shorter companion, still stuffing tamales into his face. "That one's smarter'n average," he grunts and resumes hauling off the body of the -- thing. Into the dark it goes -- to be dumped in some dark gully for the foxes to dispose of, maybe, or perhaps to some strange laboratory, wherever it came from.

In the circle of light 'Danny' nods and chews and wipes his mouth on his sleeve, leaving a glistening trail of grease on the fabric. "Damn, gal, these things are good. Make a man's night worth it, dontcha. Let me do you one in return: Get back in that car and the next time something's weird in the woods, you keep right on drivin'. 'Cause there's somebody shopping for bodies, and you don't want it to be yours next time."

When morning comes, all that remains on a lonely stretch of Kirkpatrick Road are abandoned patrol cars and the SUV that is still wrapped around a road tree. Emergency responders are called in by the first Humptulips residents to drive past and come upon the tableau; not a single body is found.

Not the man-bear-ape-creature. It might as well never have existed, though there are people in Humptulips who will talk for a while of how the wolves howled that night. Almost as if they knew something; wolves are cunning creatures, after all.

Not Denise Chatham; her body is reported missing. So are Fish & Wildlife Protective Services officers Jimmy Red Deer, Marty Evans, Mike Rowlins, and Paddy O'Leary. Search parties over the next couple of days turn up no evidence but a dropped boot which is identified as belonging to Mike Rowlins. There are canine teeth marks upon it.

The Gazette reports it as a wildlife incident; budding star reporter Alice Hampton writes a red-hot editorial opinion piece about how the population of wolves must be controlled near areas of human habitation, and how the authorities never hesitate to put the lives of honest officers at risk while the people who make the decisions never have to set foot in the woods.