Part_1
Sunday morning arrived without alarm. I'd got more course-work done than expected. I'd caught up on a lot of lost sleep. I'd only one new bruise to my shins. Somehow, neither the appalling dungeon in Mount View Hall's old ice-house, nor those alien, yet beautiful Tinks had invaded my dreams. Even Mike's and Geoff's scary tale of that stone-knives wielding 'Giant Tink' which 'took a lot of damage before it went down' had failed to disturb me...
I usually breakfasted on toast and caffeine, but missing two meals on Saturday found me ravenous. I heaped my plate with grilled protein, ate the lot. My clearance of a modest second helping plus three rounds of toast earned respectful nods from the guys, a raised eye-brow from Ms. Jones.
Croissants, coffee and phone mostly held her attention. She did spare a smile when the cafe's quiet, wall-mounted TV showed some 'Urban Farm' footage from inside 'Higher Mill'. And, yes, that dying desk fan kindly 'Pulled a Ghostie' for the reporter. I felt it deserved better than a 'Recycle' dumpster.
"Ma'm," I asked. "Does that fan belong in WIRS' museum ?"
She gave me a very thoughtful look, then nodded. "Good call, Tim. I'll see what I can do."
"Please, Ma'm," Mike said. "Sometimes a cigar really is just a cigar..."
Ms. Jones' eyes twinkled as she reached for her refilled coffee.
==
"Okay, Guys," Ms. Jones said, when all our plates and mugs were empty. "I've triaged our options for today. Mike, remember those reports about 'Lizard Men' near 'Jodrell Bank' ? Several do not match the local 'Doctor Who' fan-club's Silurian CosPlay events. Also, one of the scatter of 'yellow' detector hits from our national system coincided with a clear 'amber' from the local array we installed in August. Might be coincidence, some quirk of the Radio Telescope systems, but worth a look."
So, overnight bags again packed and loaded into the van, my pockets stuffed with bread rolls, we set off. As usual, Mike drove with silent efficiency. Geoff worked the lap-top. Ms. Jones worked her phone. I suppose I could have fetched out my Chrome Book, but I'd probably get motion sickness.
The rim of the famous Big Dish was just becoming visible in the distance when Ms. Jones' phone chimed twice. She read both e-mails, said, "Sorry, Mike, change of plans. Would you head for Chester ? North side, the 'Countess of Chester' General Hospital. We're to interview two people injured on Alderley Edge."
"Ma'm..." Mike consulted the van's SatNav, took a left.
"Geoff, forwarding to you."
"Ma'm." Geoff saved his searches, began hunting a-new. "The Dish is near The Edge. Incursion ?"
"Doesn't fit." Ms. Jones scrolled the second, longer message up and down. "Licensed volunteer 'Chiroptologists'. Studying a bat roost that became accessible following a small rock-slide."
"Got them, Ma'm," Geoff reported, studying his screen.
"Jessica Anderson, 29, part-time vet-nurse. Youngest of three sisters, other two are married with kids. Did two years of 'Ecology & Ecosystems' at Uni. Took a gap-year to nurse her Mum, never went back. Several 'Damage' and 'Trespass' fines from her Eco-Warrior days. Shares a small house in Runcorn with two girl-friends. They've some seasonal 'Drunk & Disorderly' fines. 'Party Animal' stuff.
"Simon Baker, 26, unemployed. Only child. Lives with his parents in Runcorn. Has 'Sickle Cell Anaemia'. Aced a year of Physics. Second Winter, despite vaccination, caught 'Seasonal Flu'. Turned to pneumonia. That set off a 'Sickle Cell Crisis'. Nearly died. Wanted to repeat the year, but had a bad relapse and the Uni declined. Gets 'Low Rate Disability' PIPs payments.
"Electronics hobbyist. Regular contributor to 'Elektor' and 'Everyday Practical Electronics' magazines, also several technical forums..."
"Ooh !" I put in. "Sorry, Ma'm, I've seen a lot of those articles ! He's good !"
"Thank you, Tim. That's worth knowing." She thought for a moment, asked, "Geoff, are they in a relationship ?"
"Doesn't seem so, Ma'm. Their families were neighbours, they're just good friends." He peered at fresh findings. "Her 'Social Media' is full of Eco-stuff and small-talk. His is 'sparse'. Beyond 'Bat Watching' notes, they don't overlap."
"Demeanour and minor injuries do not match their story." Ms. Jones scrolled her e-mails again. "Something has scared them into 'Three Monkeys' mode."
Mike and Geoff both slowly shook their heads.
"Uh, context, Ma'm ?" I asked.
"You did well on Halloween, Tim," Ms. Jones stated. "Many people just deny the evidence of their eyes. Their world-view will not admit it. Others accept it, but skew, so they're not credible witnesses.
"What if we hadn't arrived ? You've killed the 'Skinny Man'. His bereft mates would neither fight well nor flee. You're left with three heaps of clothes and an impossible tale. What do you do ?"
"Ooh..." I'd have given their odd clothes to Ashlee, spun some variation on a Halloween prank gone wrong. It also answered my question. "Keep my mouth shut, Ma'm."
"That's the intelligent thing to do," she agreed. "Also, a frequent problem for us."
Strictly honest, I added, "Ma'm, Kipling said if the truth is too terrible, tell it as fable. I'd probably write it up as a local Halloween 'Shiver'."
"You 'Kipple' ?"
"A little--"
"What's your favourite ?"
I gulped, admitted, "His 'Deadlier than the Male'..."
As Ms. Jones' eyes twinkled, Geoff and Mike bumped fists. But, stirring my pack-rat memory thus had consequence. I had to say, "That 'terrible truth' was about a sea monster, Ma'm. Didn't he write fairy tales, too ?"
"Yes, though nothing I've seen suggests he encountered any abhumans. A taste for folklore plus a vivid imagination would suffice." She qualified that with, "Against that, his tales often ring uncomfortably true..."
WIRS #04 The Dog-Men of Daresbury
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Nik_SpeakerToCats
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WIRS #04 The Dog-Men of Daresbury
If you cannot see the wood for the trees, deploy LIDAR.
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Nik_SpeakerToCats
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Re: WIRS #04 The Dog-Men of Daresbury
Part_2
After twice circling the hospital's busy site, Mike found some-where to park our bulky van. We followed a surfeit of signage to the 'Accident and Emergency' department, where Ms. Jones located our contact, their very busy 'Boss Nurse'. We were brusquely bid wait in a small, pastel 'interview' room.
Took ten minutes for stocky, cropped-blonde 'Staff' Johnson to emerge victorious from that ruck of post-Saturday night mayhem, about three seconds for her to assess us. She, Geoff and Mike promptly recognised the subtle signs they'd each 'Seen the Elephant', worked 'Danger Close', known 'Blood on the Sand'. Ms. Jones was clearly our 'Rupert'. Me ? Clinging to the lowest pitons on the 'kindergarten wall'...
Our IDs shown, earning a quirked eye-brow from 'Staff' Johnson, she told us what she knew. Very early this morning, licensed 'bat watchers' Jessica Anderson and Simon Baker had staggered down a steep, dark path below Alderley Edge. Upon reaching street-lights, they assessed each other's many minor but bloody injuries from the rock-fall that had pelted them, called for an ambulance.
X-rays showed no fractures. Their excellent safety helmets had protected their heads. Still, several nurses were needed to clean, tape, stitch, glue or otherwise dress their many cuts, bruises and abrasions. Ms. Anderson had no underlying medical conditions. The mishap's stress had brought Mr. Baker to the brink of a Sickle Cell Anaemia crisis. Happily, prompt hydration, mild analgesics and a big, big dose of folic acid per his two (2) medic-alert tags had resolved it.
On review, the pattern of the pair's injuries seemed anomalous. They had many to their front, back and sides, yet scant damage to the tops of their shoulders or helmets. Also, their arms' many cuts and bruises seemed 'Defensive', raising serious doubts about a 'rock-fall'. In fact, their injuries seemed more suited to by-standers fleeing a stone-throwing mob. Still, the pair stuck to their simple tale. As this did not match their considerable distress, it raised further doubts...
A call to the local constabulary found no relevant report of civil disturbance or 'Rave', no indication the pair may have stumbled upon a 'private fight'. However, as there'd been a recent up-tick in 'odd reports' near there, call this number...
"So, why would the HMRC Juggernaut be interested in a couple of injured 'bat watchers' ?"
"Special Investigations' 'Section D' correlates obscure anomalies." Ms. Jones' smile was beatific. "Although our remit is tax fraud, laundered money may stem from an urban cannabis farm, the smuggling of exotic animals or such."
"Exotic animals ?" 'Staff' Johnson mused. "Yes, their owners may not admit to release or escape. Hmm. One moment, please ?"
She was fast on her feet, out the door before we could blink. Her call down that noisy department would have carried across a hectic triage centre in a war-zone. She returned with a gangly male nurse, said, "Alan, tell this team about those cyclists last week, give me a shout when you're done."
"Staff..." he managed, as the door closed behind her. "Uh, how may I help you ?"
Ms. Jones showed her ID, said, "Would you tell us about those cyclists, please ?"
"Medical confidentiality..." Alan bravely muttered.
"Just general terms," Ms. Jones allowed. "This may not be relevant to Ms. Anderson or Mr. Baker."
"Ah..." Alan took a moment to gather his thoughts. "Two incidents, both close to Alderley Edge...
"School-girl cycling home in the dark was chased, then attacked by a stray dog. Teeth marks on her left trainer. Bruised foot. No fractures. No broken skin. Though badly shaken, she said it was no dog-breed she knew.
"Several nights later, two 'Very Strange' dogs approached an elderly man wheeling his bicycle up-hill. They seemed ready to attack, but fled an approaching car's head-lights. The scare set off his angina, which brought him to us. Spent the night on an ECG monitor, resolved without further treatment."
"I'm glad," Ms. Jones allowed, then asked, "How strange ?"
Alan wrinkled his forehead, slowly said, "They moved wrong. He'd travelled a lot, knew dogs, hyenas, wolves, even wolverines, and none came close. Given they were short-haired, almost shorn, and their tails were docked flush, he wondered if they were a new dog-fighting cross-breed. In fact, if they'd had tails, he'd have taken them for baboons..."
If he expected doubt or dismissal, he got nothing more than an arched eye-brow, a slow nod. Ms. Jones stated, "There's a lot of money at the 'dirty' end of the 'Exotic Pets' trade, even more around dog-fighting and 'baiting'..."
Alan shuddered. "Ordinary dog attacks are bad enough; a 'Fighting Breed' escape would bring out the 'Armed Response' teams..."
"Quite. May we take a minute to discuss this, then talk to Ms. Anderson and Mr. Baker ?"
"Ma'm." He nodded. "I'll tell 'Staff'."
Ms. Jones waited for the door to close before admitting, "Both cyclists seem credible witnesses, but I don't recognise that description. Guys ?"
Geoff shook his head. "Nothing like our 'Usual Suspects', Ma'm."
"Don't sound like Diggers' dogs, Ma'm," Mike stated. "One exercise I was on did extended surveillance / counter-surveillance of a quiet woodland's weapons cache. Gang turned up, attacked a nearby badger set. Our 'Rupert' was not amused. Second night, he snuck past their SUVs' sentry, left 'Greetings from Hereford' post-cards under the wipers. They took the hint."
Ms. Jones eyes twinkled as she looked across to me. "Tim ?"
"I'm better with cats, Ma'm," I admitted, hesitated, added, "Aren't there a lot of millionaire mansions, estates and gated developments on the arc between here and Stockport ? Football stars, pop stars and business people ? 'Golden Visa' foreign investors ? Could one have down-sized their menagerie ?"
"That fits, too," Ms. Jones agreed. "And it may give us a handle on last night's incident. Would you interview the pair together or separately ?"
"Me, Ma'm ?" I blinked. "Uh, it's a classic 'Prisoners' Dilemma'; neither dare talk if alone. Only way is together, with time-outs for private discussion."
All three looked at me as if I'd grown a second head. I shrugged, explained, "Ma'm, Alder Hey Hospital's associated Sandfield Park School was very big on flexibility and self-paced learning. Practically one-to-one. They'd no hang-ups about students going beyond the curriculum. When I was too ill to do lab-work, they supplied lots of books and 'Great Courses' to keep my wits sharp. 'Game Theory' was a real eye-opener..."
"Eclectic," Ms. Jones allowed, with a polite nod. "We'll try that. Mike, see if you can wave down 'Staff' Johnson."
"Ma'm." It took several minutes to arrange.
After twice circling the hospital's busy site, Mike found some-where to park our bulky van. We followed a surfeit of signage to the 'Accident and Emergency' department, where Ms. Jones located our contact, their very busy 'Boss Nurse'. We were brusquely bid wait in a small, pastel 'interview' room.
Took ten minutes for stocky, cropped-blonde 'Staff' Johnson to emerge victorious from that ruck of post-Saturday night mayhem, about three seconds for her to assess us. She, Geoff and Mike promptly recognised the subtle signs they'd each 'Seen the Elephant', worked 'Danger Close', known 'Blood on the Sand'. Ms. Jones was clearly our 'Rupert'. Me ? Clinging to the lowest pitons on the 'kindergarten wall'...
Our IDs shown, earning a quirked eye-brow from 'Staff' Johnson, she told us what she knew. Very early this morning, licensed 'bat watchers' Jessica Anderson and Simon Baker had staggered down a steep, dark path below Alderley Edge. Upon reaching street-lights, they assessed each other's many minor but bloody injuries from the rock-fall that had pelted them, called for an ambulance.
X-rays showed no fractures. Their excellent safety helmets had protected their heads. Still, several nurses were needed to clean, tape, stitch, glue or otherwise dress their many cuts, bruises and abrasions. Ms. Anderson had no underlying medical conditions. The mishap's stress had brought Mr. Baker to the brink of a Sickle Cell Anaemia crisis. Happily, prompt hydration, mild analgesics and a big, big dose of folic acid per his two (2) medic-alert tags had resolved it.
On review, the pattern of the pair's injuries seemed anomalous. They had many to their front, back and sides, yet scant damage to the tops of their shoulders or helmets. Also, their arms' many cuts and bruises seemed 'Defensive', raising serious doubts about a 'rock-fall'. In fact, their injuries seemed more suited to by-standers fleeing a stone-throwing mob. Still, the pair stuck to their simple tale. As this did not match their considerable distress, it raised further doubts...
A call to the local constabulary found no relevant report of civil disturbance or 'Rave', no indication the pair may have stumbled upon a 'private fight'. However, as there'd been a recent up-tick in 'odd reports' near there, call this number...
"So, why would the HMRC Juggernaut be interested in a couple of injured 'bat watchers' ?"
"Special Investigations' 'Section D' correlates obscure anomalies." Ms. Jones' smile was beatific. "Although our remit is tax fraud, laundered money may stem from an urban cannabis farm, the smuggling of exotic animals or such."
"Exotic animals ?" 'Staff' Johnson mused. "Yes, their owners may not admit to release or escape. Hmm. One moment, please ?"
She was fast on her feet, out the door before we could blink. Her call down that noisy department would have carried across a hectic triage centre in a war-zone. She returned with a gangly male nurse, said, "Alan, tell this team about those cyclists last week, give me a shout when you're done."
"Staff..." he managed, as the door closed behind her. "Uh, how may I help you ?"
Ms. Jones showed her ID, said, "Would you tell us about those cyclists, please ?"
"Medical confidentiality..." Alan bravely muttered.
"Just general terms," Ms. Jones allowed. "This may not be relevant to Ms. Anderson or Mr. Baker."
"Ah..." Alan took a moment to gather his thoughts. "Two incidents, both close to Alderley Edge...
"School-girl cycling home in the dark was chased, then attacked by a stray dog. Teeth marks on her left trainer. Bruised foot. No fractures. No broken skin. Though badly shaken, she said it was no dog-breed she knew.
"Several nights later, two 'Very Strange' dogs approached an elderly man wheeling his bicycle up-hill. They seemed ready to attack, but fled an approaching car's head-lights. The scare set off his angina, which brought him to us. Spent the night on an ECG monitor, resolved without further treatment."
"I'm glad," Ms. Jones allowed, then asked, "How strange ?"
Alan wrinkled his forehead, slowly said, "They moved wrong. He'd travelled a lot, knew dogs, hyenas, wolves, even wolverines, and none came close. Given they were short-haired, almost shorn, and their tails were docked flush, he wondered if they were a new dog-fighting cross-breed. In fact, if they'd had tails, he'd have taken them for baboons..."
If he expected doubt or dismissal, he got nothing more than an arched eye-brow, a slow nod. Ms. Jones stated, "There's a lot of money at the 'dirty' end of the 'Exotic Pets' trade, even more around dog-fighting and 'baiting'..."
Alan shuddered. "Ordinary dog attacks are bad enough; a 'Fighting Breed' escape would bring out the 'Armed Response' teams..."
"Quite. May we take a minute to discuss this, then talk to Ms. Anderson and Mr. Baker ?"
"Ma'm." He nodded. "I'll tell 'Staff'."
Ms. Jones waited for the door to close before admitting, "Both cyclists seem credible witnesses, but I don't recognise that description. Guys ?"
Geoff shook his head. "Nothing like our 'Usual Suspects', Ma'm."
"Don't sound like Diggers' dogs, Ma'm," Mike stated. "One exercise I was on did extended surveillance / counter-surveillance of a quiet woodland's weapons cache. Gang turned up, attacked a nearby badger set. Our 'Rupert' was not amused. Second night, he snuck past their SUVs' sentry, left 'Greetings from Hereford' post-cards under the wipers. They took the hint."
Ms. Jones eyes twinkled as she looked across to me. "Tim ?"
"I'm better with cats, Ma'm," I admitted, hesitated, added, "Aren't there a lot of millionaire mansions, estates and gated developments on the arc between here and Stockport ? Football stars, pop stars and business people ? 'Golden Visa' foreign investors ? Could one have down-sized their menagerie ?"
"That fits, too," Ms. Jones agreed. "And it may give us a handle on last night's incident. Would you interview the pair together or separately ?"
"Me, Ma'm ?" I blinked. "Uh, it's a classic 'Prisoners' Dilemma'; neither dare talk if alone. Only way is together, with time-outs for private discussion."
All three looked at me as if I'd grown a second head. I shrugged, explained, "Ma'm, Alder Hey Hospital's associated Sandfield Park School was very big on flexibility and self-paced learning. Practically one-to-one. They'd no hang-ups about students going beyond the curriculum. When I was too ill to do lab-work, they supplied lots of books and 'Great Courses' to keep my wits sharp. 'Game Theory' was a real eye-opener..."
"Eclectic," Ms. Jones allowed, with a polite nod. "We'll try that. Mike, see if you can wave down 'Staff' Johnson."
"Ma'm." It took several minutes to arrange.
If you cannot see the wood for the trees, deploy LIDAR.
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Nik_SpeakerToCats
- Posts: 2121
- Joined: Sat Dec 10, 2022 10:56 am
Re: WIRS #04 The Dog-Men of Daresbury
Part_3
Gangly nurse Alan duly showed in Ms. Anderson, a too-thin, brown-eyed brunette, and Mr. Baker, a skinny, blue-eyed, receding ginger.
They looked as shaken as I'd been after my 'Skinny Man' attack. They moved uneasily, had many visible dressings on cuts and scrapes, enough 'distress' to their blood-stained clothing to require replacement rather than repair. They looked at us with obvious dread.
"Please, sit," Ms. Jones invited them, showed her ID, then launched into her spiel. "I'm Jenny Jones, HMRC Special Investigations, 'Section D'."
Mention HMRC in the UK, or IRS in the USA, every pulse in the room will spike. Ms. Anderson and Mr. Baker barely flinched. That's how tightly they were wound. That's how tightly I'd been wound, and I'd won my encounter.
"We correlate obscure anomalies. We 'pull loose ends'. We 'turn over rocks'. We've seen a lot of strange stuff. Although our core remit is tax fraud, laundered money may stem from an urban cannabis farm, the smuggling of exotic animals or the illicit, high-stakes gambling associated with dog-fighting."
She gave them a moment to consider those, added, "There may be a pair of such dogs denned on Alderley Edge. They've only been seen at night. Unusual appearance, perhaps a new cross-breed. Short-hair, flush-docked tails, bad attitude. Snapped at a young cyclist, put an elderly man in hospital."
When that drew no response, she said, "The people associated with dog-fighting are notoriously vicious. They never hesitate to threaten any-one who notices their activities. They think that makes them untouchable..."
As a final touch, Ms. Jones eased back her jacket to give the merest glimpse of her laden shoulder holster. "So did Al Capone."
Ms. Anderson and Mr. Baker reacted as you'd expect. Their tense eyes went very, very wide. They looked at Ms. Jones afresh. They looked at Mike, who was wearing his best sniper's 'Thousand Yard' gaze. They looked up at big, big Geoff. They looked at milquetoast me. I shrugged.
Ms. Jones allowed the moment to stretch, offered, "Would you like some time to discuss this in private ?"
The pair exchanged hasty looks, nodded in shaky unison. Mike held the door for Ms. Jones, closed it behind us.
"Reckon they'll talk ?" she whispered.
"Fifty-fifty, Ma'm," Mike replied. "Some-thing or some-one put the frighteners on them. I reckon you've trumped that, but could go either way..."
Gangly nurse Alan duly showed in Ms. Anderson, a too-thin, brown-eyed brunette, and Mr. Baker, a skinny, blue-eyed, receding ginger.
They looked as shaken as I'd been after my 'Skinny Man' attack. They moved uneasily, had many visible dressings on cuts and scrapes, enough 'distress' to their blood-stained clothing to require replacement rather than repair. They looked at us with obvious dread.
"Please, sit," Ms. Jones invited them, showed her ID, then launched into her spiel. "I'm Jenny Jones, HMRC Special Investigations, 'Section D'."
Mention HMRC in the UK, or IRS in the USA, every pulse in the room will spike. Ms. Anderson and Mr. Baker barely flinched. That's how tightly they were wound. That's how tightly I'd been wound, and I'd won my encounter.
"We correlate obscure anomalies. We 'pull loose ends'. We 'turn over rocks'. We've seen a lot of strange stuff. Although our core remit is tax fraud, laundered money may stem from an urban cannabis farm, the smuggling of exotic animals or the illicit, high-stakes gambling associated with dog-fighting."
She gave them a moment to consider those, added, "There may be a pair of such dogs denned on Alderley Edge. They've only been seen at night. Unusual appearance, perhaps a new cross-breed. Short-hair, flush-docked tails, bad attitude. Snapped at a young cyclist, put an elderly man in hospital."
When that drew no response, she said, "The people associated with dog-fighting are notoriously vicious. They never hesitate to threaten any-one who notices their activities. They think that makes them untouchable..."
As a final touch, Ms. Jones eased back her jacket to give the merest glimpse of her laden shoulder holster. "So did Al Capone."
Ms. Anderson and Mr. Baker reacted as you'd expect. Their tense eyes went very, very wide. They looked at Ms. Jones afresh. They looked at Mike, who was wearing his best sniper's 'Thousand Yard' gaze. They looked up at big, big Geoff. They looked at milquetoast me. I shrugged.
Ms. Jones allowed the moment to stretch, offered, "Would you like some time to discuss this in private ?"
The pair exchanged hasty looks, nodded in shaky unison. Mike held the door for Ms. Jones, closed it behind us.
"Reckon they'll talk ?" she whispered.
"Fifty-fifty, Ma'm," Mike replied. "Some-thing or some-one put the frighteners on them. I reckon you've trumped that, but could go either way..."
If you cannot see the wood for the trees, deploy LIDAR.
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Nik_SpeakerToCats
- Posts: 2121
- Joined: Sat Dec 10, 2022 10:56 am
Re: WIRS #04 The Dog-Men of Daresbury
Part_4
Two minutes passed. Three. Four. Finally, the door opened a few inches. Ms. Anderson nervously whispered, "Come in."
Mr. Baker was sat in an odd pose, seemed to be doing breathing exercises. His eyes opened, he whispered, "I think I've caught it. Yeah, yeah, I'll be fine now. Jess, tell them."
"First things first," Ms. Anderson warned, looked to us. "May I see your IDs again ?"
After studying all four, she shook her head, admitted, "Seem legit. Okay. Here's how it goes...
"Dogs don't throw stones."
Ms. Jones blinked, ventured, "A pair of Barbary Macaques ? 'Gibraltar Apes' ?"
"More, a troop," Mr. Baker whispered. "And bigger. Very fast. Really, really lean. Looked and moved like a 'Gaggle of Gollums'..."
"More ?"
"At least a dozen. Mix of sizes. Some females with young."
"Historic escape or 'dumping', then." Ms. Jones nodded.
"You believe us ?" Mr. Baker whispered.
"Yes." Ms. Jones did not hesitate. "We've seen stranger. Much stranger."
"So it's the RSPCA and 'Environment Agency' trappers for them..." Ms. Anderson shook her head. "Chester Zoo if they're lucky..."
"I'd like to hear the whole story first," Ms. Jones stated. "This might clear up some odd reports from further afield..."
The two exchanged glances, nods. Very quietly, Mr. Baker began, "Back in the Summer, remember there was a small quake on the East Coast ? Local 'bat watcher' noticed some raw patches on the Edge. Roosts needed a re-survey. Took a while, but I found and mapped a dozen small landslips.
"One widened a tiny cleft, partly exposed an old mine adit. I'm no spelunker. I had the local caving club clear and stabilise the entrance, check it out. They were really pleased. It accessed historical workings they'd known about, but could not find. Its mouth had collapsed in the late nineteenth century.
"The adit held a small bat roost, so the full exploration had to wait until next Summer. Meanwhile, Jess and I took my stereo heterodyne 'bat detector' up there, began a survey..."
"After the colony left at dark, we'd creep in, take temperature and humidity readings, survey and sample air-quality, guano, bugs and creepy-crawlies," Ms. Anderson stated. "We began noticing faint tracks on the floor, like paw marks. Could have been dogs or foxes. We were going to borrow a trail camera..."
"You know that weird feeling when you're being watched ?" Mr. Baker whispered. Geoff and Mike nodded minutely. 'The Minx' made a sport of covert 'Tim Watching', so I nodded, too. "It was really, really spooky. Felt like infrasonics. Classic Helmholtz Resonance, like blowing across the neck of a bottle, but from a long, long organ pipe. Does happen in caves. I was trying to figure some way to measure it when Jess swung her torch and got eye-shine. Lots of eye-shine..."
"I thought they were mangy fox cubs or feral dogs. Then they stood and began throwing stones..." She lifted her arms across her face. "It was, like, 'This can't be happening !' We couldn't run in case they chased us. So we backed away skew while they pelted us..."
"When we got outside, then we ran..." Mr. Baker admitted. "Too far, too fast..."
"But, while we were backing up," Ms. Anderson mentioned, "I got some photos..."
Two minutes passed. Three. Four. Finally, the door opened a few inches. Ms. Anderson nervously whispered, "Come in."
Mr. Baker was sat in an odd pose, seemed to be doing breathing exercises. His eyes opened, he whispered, "I think I've caught it. Yeah, yeah, I'll be fine now. Jess, tell them."
"First things first," Ms. Anderson warned, looked to us. "May I see your IDs again ?"
After studying all four, she shook her head, admitted, "Seem legit. Okay. Here's how it goes...
"Dogs don't throw stones."
Ms. Jones blinked, ventured, "A pair of Barbary Macaques ? 'Gibraltar Apes' ?"
"More, a troop," Mr. Baker whispered. "And bigger. Very fast. Really, really lean. Looked and moved like a 'Gaggle of Gollums'..."
"More ?"
"At least a dozen. Mix of sizes. Some females with young."
"Historic escape or 'dumping', then." Ms. Jones nodded.
"You believe us ?" Mr. Baker whispered.
"Yes." Ms. Jones did not hesitate. "We've seen stranger. Much stranger."
"So it's the RSPCA and 'Environment Agency' trappers for them..." Ms. Anderson shook her head. "Chester Zoo if they're lucky..."
"I'd like to hear the whole story first," Ms. Jones stated. "This might clear up some odd reports from further afield..."
The two exchanged glances, nods. Very quietly, Mr. Baker began, "Back in the Summer, remember there was a small quake on the East Coast ? Local 'bat watcher' noticed some raw patches on the Edge. Roosts needed a re-survey. Took a while, but I found and mapped a dozen small landslips.
"One widened a tiny cleft, partly exposed an old mine adit. I'm no spelunker. I had the local caving club clear and stabilise the entrance, check it out. They were really pleased. It accessed historical workings they'd known about, but could not find. Its mouth had collapsed in the late nineteenth century.
"The adit held a small bat roost, so the full exploration had to wait until next Summer. Meanwhile, Jess and I took my stereo heterodyne 'bat detector' up there, began a survey..."
"After the colony left at dark, we'd creep in, take temperature and humidity readings, survey and sample air-quality, guano, bugs and creepy-crawlies," Ms. Anderson stated. "We began noticing faint tracks on the floor, like paw marks. Could have been dogs or foxes. We were going to borrow a trail camera..."
"You know that weird feeling when you're being watched ?" Mr. Baker whispered. Geoff and Mike nodded minutely. 'The Minx' made a sport of covert 'Tim Watching', so I nodded, too. "It was really, really spooky. Felt like infrasonics. Classic Helmholtz Resonance, like blowing across the neck of a bottle, but from a long, long organ pipe. Does happen in caves. I was trying to figure some way to measure it when Jess swung her torch and got eye-shine. Lots of eye-shine..."
"I thought they were mangy fox cubs or feral dogs. Then they stood and began throwing stones..." She lifted her arms across her face. "It was, like, 'This can't be happening !' We couldn't run in case they chased us. So we backed away skew while they pelted us..."
"When we got outside, then we ran..." Mr. Baker admitted. "Too far, too fast..."
"But, while we were backing up," Ms. Anderson mentioned, "I got some photos..."
If you cannot see the wood for the trees, deploy LIDAR.
-
Nik_SpeakerToCats
- Posts: 2121
- Joined: Sat Dec 10, 2022 10:56 am
Re: WIRS #04 The Dog-Men of Daresbury
Part_5
Ms. Jones caught her breath. Very quietly, very, very gently, she asked, "May we see them ?"
Ms. Anderson and Mr. Baker exchanged glances, nods. She hauled out her scuffed phone, pulled up an image, showed it around. Though I got but a glimpse, a 'Gaggle of Gollums' was a fair description. Happens they matched something very, very nasty in the unsettling 'Solutrean Fables'. If so, they were worse than the 'Giant Carnivorous Protist-Descents' we knew as 'Walgate Wyrms'...
Her eyes tightening, Ms. Jones took a long, long look. Her body language warned she'd recognised their find at a glance. Still, she wanted to be sure, to be sure. Her expression slowly hardened.
"Best case, you'd have cover-articles in 'Nature' and 'National Geographic', a TV series and a research grant," Ms. Jones allowed. She drew a shaky breath, stated, "But these--
"I'm sorry, you cannot go public. We must confiscate your photos, swear you to silence--"
"And if I refuse ?" Ms. Anderson asked, rather too sharply.
We just looked at her. Even Mr. Baker wore a 'You Cannot Be Serious' expression. The silence stretched. Before Ms. Jones could order Geoff to action, I offered, "Seven years bad luck ?"
Given I'd maintained a discreet silence until then, it snapped Ms. Anderson's gaze around.
"Plucky Eco-Heroine Stands Against Government Cover-Up, Wins Through ?" I shook my head. "Only in the movies."
Her glare was impressive, but 'The Minx', thwarted, could do much, much better.
"Perhaps your blood tests show 'False-Positive' for Ecstasy metabolites ?" I suggested. "So, last night was a psychotic episode from popping a bad 'E' ?"
A flinch told me she knew of such. Ms. Jones noticed, too, and gave me a tiny nod. I pressed on, quietly but inexorably twisting the screw.
"Perhaps your tax affairs are randomly chosen for a full audit ? You're switched to 'Emergency Coding', leaving you short. Seems you weren't over-paid by much, but they still want it back. With interest.
"Perhaps your 'Criminal Records Check' fails on random review ? Perforce, your Vet Practice shows you the door. Such 'Termination for Cause' means several state benefits are withheld. It also makes you almost unemployable.
"Perhaps your 'bat-wrangler' license is revoked or fails to renew ?
"Perhaps your personal details leak to the 'Dark Web' ? Your social accounts are hacked, then blocked. Your address becomes 'unsafe'. Your credit rating bombs. Your bank stops your cards.
"Perhaps you discover you're a 'Person of Interest' ? CCTV 'Facial Recognition' flags you for 'Stop and Search' thrice a week. Your friends' of friends' cars are routinely ANPR'd, stopped and searched...
"If you go public, your deluded rantings are attributed to paranoid schizophrenia induced by that original 'Bad Trip'...
"So, please, play nice..."
Ms. Jones caught her breath. Very quietly, very, very gently, she asked, "May we see them ?"
Ms. Anderson and Mr. Baker exchanged glances, nods. She hauled out her scuffed phone, pulled up an image, showed it around. Though I got but a glimpse, a 'Gaggle of Gollums' was a fair description. Happens they matched something very, very nasty in the unsettling 'Solutrean Fables'. If so, they were worse than the 'Giant Carnivorous Protist-Descents' we knew as 'Walgate Wyrms'...
Her eyes tightening, Ms. Jones took a long, long look. Her body language warned she'd recognised their find at a glance. Still, she wanted to be sure, to be sure. Her expression slowly hardened.
"Best case, you'd have cover-articles in 'Nature' and 'National Geographic', a TV series and a research grant," Ms. Jones allowed. She drew a shaky breath, stated, "But these--
"I'm sorry, you cannot go public. We must confiscate your photos, swear you to silence--"
"And if I refuse ?" Ms. Anderson asked, rather too sharply.
We just looked at her. Even Mr. Baker wore a 'You Cannot Be Serious' expression. The silence stretched. Before Ms. Jones could order Geoff to action, I offered, "Seven years bad luck ?"
Given I'd maintained a discreet silence until then, it snapped Ms. Anderson's gaze around.
"Plucky Eco-Heroine Stands Against Government Cover-Up, Wins Through ?" I shook my head. "Only in the movies."
Her glare was impressive, but 'The Minx', thwarted, could do much, much better.
"Perhaps your blood tests show 'False-Positive' for Ecstasy metabolites ?" I suggested. "So, last night was a psychotic episode from popping a bad 'E' ?"
A flinch told me she knew of such. Ms. Jones noticed, too, and gave me a tiny nod. I pressed on, quietly but inexorably twisting the screw.
"Perhaps your tax affairs are randomly chosen for a full audit ? You're switched to 'Emergency Coding', leaving you short. Seems you weren't over-paid by much, but they still want it back. With interest.
"Perhaps your 'Criminal Records Check' fails on random review ? Perforce, your Vet Practice shows you the door. Such 'Termination for Cause' means several state benefits are withheld. It also makes you almost unemployable.
"Perhaps your 'bat-wrangler' license is revoked or fails to renew ?
"Perhaps your personal details leak to the 'Dark Web' ? Your social accounts are hacked, then blocked. Your address becomes 'unsafe'. Your credit rating bombs. Your bank stops your cards.
"Perhaps you discover you're a 'Person of Interest' ? CCTV 'Facial Recognition' flags you for 'Stop and Search' thrice a week. Your friends' of friends' cars are routinely ANPR'd, stopped and searched...
"If you go public, your deluded rantings are attributed to paranoid schizophrenia induced by that original 'Bad Trip'...
"So, please, play nice..."
If you cannot see the wood for the trees, deploy LIDAR.
-
Nik_SpeakerToCats
- Posts: 2121
- Joined: Sat Dec 10, 2022 10:56 am
Re: WIRS #04 The Dog-Men of Daresbury
Part_6
"Thank you, Tim," Ms. Jones whispered into the ensuing silence. "Your call, Ms. Anderson ?"
Her tight mouth worked, but uttered not a sound. Finally, she sighed, hauled a weather-resistant 'field report' notebook from her battered jacket's map pocket, un-clipped its pen, grumbled, "Where do I sign ?"
Ms. Jones had a 'Poacher's Pocket' in her jacket, from which she produced several sets of forms. Mr. Baker read his set with care, shrugged, signed the main part and the retro-worded appendix.
Ms. Anderson read hers with even greater care. Slowly, reluctantly, she shook her head, signed sundry freedoms away. Handing back her form, she shakily admitted, "I've never heard of that last section. Scary as hell, but such beautiful language. Ha ! Shakespeare could have written it !"
"He did." Ms. Jones managed a tiny smile at their and my astonishment. "Seems 'Bill the Bard' worked for Walsingham and Dee before he was famous. Like Ian Fleming, he spun field reports into fiction. 'A Mid-Summer Night's Dream' matches a weird case in our files. The Tempest's Prospero was surely based on John Dee..."
"Erk !" Mr. Baker's wits rebooted first. "What did we find ?"
"Not escaped apes," Ms. Jones stated. "Ghouls. Hominoid hyenas. Or Hyaenid hominins. You were lucky to get away. If you'd panicked, they'd have had you for breakfast."
Ms. Anderson was lost for words. Mr. Baker whispered, "Ghouls ? 'Dungeons and Dragons' stuff ?"
"Yes."
"But... But... How ?"
"It's.... Complicated," Ms. Jones admitted. "They're abhuman hominins, regressed relics of a Bronze Age volcanic disaster--"
"Thera ?" Mr. Baker puzzled. "But--"
"Older. Their Eifel region blew," Ms. Jones stated. "Blighted the continent. Chilled their globe. Still violently active. Some survivors fled, spawning legends far and wide. Some clung to the storm-washed, Western coast. Inland, others became isolated, in-bred, mutated, degenerate--"
"THEIR Eifel region--" Mr. Baker's wits had caught up. He gulped, asked, "So there's a way between ?"
"Yes--"
"F**k !" He put several big pieces together. "The Walgate Wyrm ? Their 'Ritual Floor' ? The 'Carrington Event' ?"
"Yes." Ms. Jones nodded very slowly. "Portals are to pentagrams as the 'Baghdad Battery' to the 'Philosophers Stone'. Sometimes, cultists get lucky. Sometimes, they draw gate-crashers...
"Do NOT build your own Portal. They bite. Their micro-, macro- and mega-fauna bite. Their geology may bite. And, we now have a detection system. Tracking sporadic incursions keeps us busy."
As Mr. Baker worked through the many technical implications, Ms. Anderson blinked. Her eyes focused, narrowed. She turned, whispered, "Simon, these-- These 'Ghouls' really, really came from, uh, some-where else ?"
"Yes."
"But Ghouls, Simon..." Ms. Anderson shook her head. "Ghouls..."
"Stuff of legend, Jess," he agreed. "Who'd have thought..."
"Thank you, Tim," Ms. Jones whispered into the ensuing silence. "Your call, Ms. Anderson ?"
Her tight mouth worked, but uttered not a sound. Finally, she sighed, hauled a weather-resistant 'field report' notebook from her battered jacket's map pocket, un-clipped its pen, grumbled, "Where do I sign ?"
Ms. Jones had a 'Poacher's Pocket' in her jacket, from which she produced several sets of forms. Mr. Baker read his set with care, shrugged, signed the main part and the retro-worded appendix.
Ms. Anderson read hers with even greater care. Slowly, reluctantly, she shook her head, signed sundry freedoms away. Handing back her form, she shakily admitted, "I've never heard of that last section. Scary as hell, but such beautiful language. Ha ! Shakespeare could have written it !"
"He did." Ms. Jones managed a tiny smile at their and my astonishment. "Seems 'Bill the Bard' worked for Walsingham and Dee before he was famous. Like Ian Fleming, he spun field reports into fiction. 'A Mid-Summer Night's Dream' matches a weird case in our files. The Tempest's Prospero was surely based on John Dee..."
"Erk !" Mr. Baker's wits rebooted first. "What did we find ?"
"Not escaped apes," Ms. Jones stated. "Ghouls. Hominoid hyenas. Or Hyaenid hominins. You were lucky to get away. If you'd panicked, they'd have had you for breakfast."
Ms. Anderson was lost for words. Mr. Baker whispered, "Ghouls ? 'Dungeons and Dragons' stuff ?"
"Yes."
"But... But... How ?"
"It's.... Complicated," Ms. Jones admitted. "They're abhuman hominins, regressed relics of a Bronze Age volcanic disaster--"
"Thera ?" Mr. Baker puzzled. "But--"
"Older. Their Eifel region blew," Ms. Jones stated. "Blighted the continent. Chilled their globe. Still violently active. Some survivors fled, spawning legends far and wide. Some clung to the storm-washed, Western coast. Inland, others became isolated, in-bred, mutated, degenerate--"
"THEIR Eifel region--" Mr. Baker's wits had caught up. He gulped, asked, "So there's a way between ?"
"Yes--"
"F**k !" He put several big pieces together. "The Walgate Wyrm ? Their 'Ritual Floor' ? The 'Carrington Event' ?"
"Yes." Ms. Jones nodded very slowly. "Portals are to pentagrams as the 'Baghdad Battery' to the 'Philosophers Stone'. Sometimes, cultists get lucky. Sometimes, they draw gate-crashers...
"Do NOT build your own Portal. They bite. Their micro-, macro- and mega-fauna bite. Their geology may bite. And, we now have a detection system. Tracking sporadic incursions keeps us busy."
As Mr. Baker worked through the many technical implications, Ms. Anderson blinked. Her eyes focused, narrowed. She turned, whispered, "Simon, these-- These 'Ghouls' really, really came from, uh, some-where else ?"
"Yes."
"But Ghouls, Simon..." Ms. Anderson shook her head. "Ghouls..."
"Stuff of legend, Jess," he agreed. "Who'd have thought..."
If you cannot see the wood for the trees, deploy LIDAR.
-
Nik_SpeakerToCats
- Posts: 2121
- Joined: Sat Dec 10, 2022 10:56 am
Re: WIRS #04 The Dog-Men of Daresbury
Part_7
Ms. Jones weighed the situation, turned to me, said, "Tim, tell them about your Halloween."
"Ma'm." I thought on my words, said, "I'm a 'Mature STEM Student'. Wednesday night, I was heading home after running a DJ's FX desk. Train service stopped short. No taxis, I had to walk...
"I was approached, attacked by a very convincing 'Skinny Man'.
"At first, I thought it was drunken CosPlay, so just dodged or parried his strikes. Then he jumped me.
"I knocked him down. He-- He got up, took a huge swing, badly bruised my arm. Talons tore up my good jacket.
"Next attack, he went for a bear-hug. I shanked him with my tool-belt's small screwdriver. He fell. Leaked a cloud of green gas, like old reports of 'Ectoplasm'. Then his body vanished. His clothes just collapsed...
"Cavalry arrived." I tilted a thumb. "Dealt with his two mates. The prial had left a trail of 'Hypothermia Victims' across the area. Drunks, 'Rough Sleepers' and such. There's always a seasonal up-tick, but it seems such 'Psychic Vampires' also like to play with their food..."
"We think fear adds flavour," Ms. Jones mentioned, perhaps too casually.
"Ewww !" Ms. Anderson squirmed.
"You really beat an urban-legend 'Skinny Man' ?" Mr. Baker asked. "Just last week ?"
"Yes. Would you like to see my bruises ?"
"Please."
I zipped off my fleece, peeled my sweat-shirt and Tee. My upper right arm bore a palm-sized bruise, now several violent shades of purple. I turned. My back had ten smaller bruises, their wide arcs matching those two long hands' scary talons. And, yes, my sternum's brutal scar announced membership of the local 'Zipper Club'.
"Ooh !" I'd managed to astonish Ms. Anderson. Mr. Baker's more clinical study earned me a respectful nod.
"I was so impressed by Tim's 'Presence of Mind'," Ms. Jones said as I dressed, "I recruited him. Arranged an Apprenticeship sponsor. His 'Orientation Weekend' has been unexpectedly productive-- A 'haunted' mill, an ossuary in Oswestry..."
They looked at me. I shrugged, muttered, "Beginner's Luck..."
As Ms. Jones smiled at my reticence, Mr. Baker shook his head, whispered, "Jess, we're so far out of our depth, we're screwed six ways from Tuesday. That 'Deep State' and 'Dark Web' stuff ? Tip of the ice-berg. But, if we play nice, they play nice."
"But we can't talk about it !" She looked about to cry. "And they'll seize my photos !"
I blinked, offered, "Ma'm ? Kipling said if the truth is too terrible, tell it as fable..."
"That he did..." Given our earlier discussion, Ms. Jones asked, "You have an idea ?"
"Hide in plain sight, Ma'm ? There's a very popular 'Media and Graphic Design' web-site called 'Deviant Art'." I took a careful breath. "If these photos were munged a bit with Irfan View, made just too vivid, they'd pass as 'Solutrean Fables Fan Art'."
Mr. Baker's eyes went wide as he realised the possibilities.
"Yet any-one who's seen Ghouls would recognise them, and perhaps ask, however obliquely ?" Ms. Jones mused. Her eyes twinkled. She addressed the two 'Chiroptologists'. "We do have an unofficial network of 'Local Researchers'. They call in odd happenings which don't reach the mainstream news."
"Like 'Baker Street Irregulars', Jess ?" Mr. Baker quickly prompted. "And the way Sherlock Holmes would study cryptic entries in the 'Personal' columns ?"
"Huh..."
"Jess, we're licensed 'Bat Watchers'. We track subtle eco-system changes, flag hints of infection or invasive species. Can't get much more invasive than abhuman Hominoid Hyenas..."
Her Eco-Warrior invoked, Ms. Anderson sat straight, nodded, stated, "Yeah, right. So, we watch for 'Lovecraft' stuff, too..."
Ms. Jones weighed the situation, turned to me, said, "Tim, tell them about your Halloween."
"Ma'm." I thought on my words, said, "I'm a 'Mature STEM Student'. Wednesday night, I was heading home after running a DJ's FX desk. Train service stopped short. No taxis, I had to walk...
"I was approached, attacked by a very convincing 'Skinny Man'.
"At first, I thought it was drunken CosPlay, so just dodged or parried his strikes. Then he jumped me.
"I knocked him down. He-- He got up, took a huge swing, badly bruised my arm. Talons tore up my good jacket.
"Next attack, he went for a bear-hug. I shanked him with my tool-belt's small screwdriver. He fell. Leaked a cloud of green gas, like old reports of 'Ectoplasm'. Then his body vanished. His clothes just collapsed...
"Cavalry arrived." I tilted a thumb. "Dealt with his two mates. The prial had left a trail of 'Hypothermia Victims' across the area. Drunks, 'Rough Sleepers' and such. There's always a seasonal up-tick, but it seems such 'Psychic Vampires' also like to play with their food..."
"We think fear adds flavour," Ms. Jones mentioned, perhaps too casually.
"Ewww !" Ms. Anderson squirmed.
"You really beat an urban-legend 'Skinny Man' ?" Mr. Baker asked. "Just last week ?"
"Yes. Would you like to see my bruises ?"
"Please."
I zipped off my fleece, peeled my sweat-shirt and Tee. My upper right arm bore a palm-sized bruise, now several violent shades of purple. I turned. My back had ten smaller bruises, their wide arcs matching those two long hands' scary talons. And, yes, my sternum's brutal scar announced membership of the local 'Zipper Club'.
"Ooh !" I'd managed to astonish Ms. Anderson. Mr. Baker's more clinical study earned me a respectful nod.
"I was so impressed by Tim's 'Presence of Mind'," Ms. Jones said as I dressed, "I recruited him. Arranged an Apprenticeship sponsor. His 'Orientation Weekend' has been unexpectedly productive-- A 'haunted' mill, an ossuary in Oswestry..."
They looked at me. I shrugged, muttered, "Beginner's Luck..."
As Ms. Jones smiled at my reticence, Mr. Baker shook his head, whispered, "Jess, we're so far out of our depth, we're screwed six ways from Tuesday. That 'Deep State' and 'Dark Web' stuff ? Tip of the ice-berg. But, if we play nice, they play nice."
"But we can't talk about it !" She looked about to cry. "And they'll seize my photos !"
I blinked, offered, "Ma'm ? Kipling said if the truth is too terrible, tell it as fable..."
"That he did..." Given our earlier discussion, Ms. Jones asked, "You have an idea ?"
"Hide in plain sight, Ma'm ? There's a very popular 'Media and Graphic Design' web-site called 'Deviant Art'." I took a careful breath. "If these photos were munged a bit with Irfan View, made just too vivid, they'd pass as 'Solutrean Fables Fan Art'."
Mr. Baker's eyes went wide as he realised the possibilities.
"Yet any-one who's seen Ghouls would recognise them, and perhaps ask, however obliquely ?" Ms. Jones mused. Her eyes twinkled. She addressed the two 'Chiroptologists'. "We do have an unofficial network of 'Local Researchers'. They call in odd happenings which don't reach the mainstream news."
"Like 'Baker Street Irregulars', Jess ?" Mr. Baker quickly prompted. "And the way Sherlock Holmes would study cryptic entries in the 'Personal' columns ?"
"Huh..."
"Jess, we're licensed 'Bat Watchers'. We track subtle eco-system changes, flag hints of infection or invasive species. Can't get much more invasive than abhuman Hominoid Hyenas..."
Her Eco-Warrior invoked, Ms. Anderson sat straight, nodded, stated, "Yeah, right. So, we watch for 'Lovecraft' stuff, too..."
If you cannot see the wood for the trees, deploy LIDAR.
-
Nik_SpeakerToCats
- Posts: 2121
- Joined: Sat Dec 10, 2022 10:56 am
Re: WIRS #04 The Dog-Men of Daresbury
Part_8
Ms. Jones relaxed by slow stages. She dug in her jacket's 'Poacher Pocket', found a clip of business cards, removed some. After handing one each to our bemused recruits, she gave the third to Mike. "For 'Staff' Johnson."
"Ma'm."
Turning, she handed the fourth to me. "Sorry, Tim, what with everything else..."
"No problem, Ma'm." I took a breath, wondered, "But, the Ghouls ? How long have they lived in that mine ? How did they get trapped ? How could they survive ? Those lower levels must be so 'sparse' ! I'm amazed and horrified, both..."
"They-- The group could have been there decades ?" Ms. Anderson was clearly struggling to map the ecology.
"It's possible," Ms. Jones allowed. "Old reports suggest Ghouls may enter torpor to eke out lean times."
"Winter bat-roost survival rates on that part of Alderley Edge have always been low," Ms. Anderson muttered. "No-one could figure why..."
"Jess, 'Correlation does not imply Causation'," Mr. Baker cautioned. "And there's not much meat on a bat."
"I know that, Simon !" She had her sass back. "But-- But I think I know how and when they got there..."
We waited. Eventually, Ms. Jones' eyes twinkled. She asked, "Please ?"
Ms. Anderson beamed, recounted, "Late nineteenth century. John Houghton had made his money in shipping. Now an elderly, rather eccentric Daresbury widower, he dabbled in Alchemy, Astrology, arcane Antiquities and such. His experiments and seances amused his neighbours. Scandalised the unrelated 'Hatton' Houghtons, who were Mum's great-great's cousins...
"November 1882, he acquired a small menagerie of exotic apes, perhaps shipped in from Liverpool docks via the near-by Bridgewater Canal." She took a breath. "They were nothing but trouble. Easter '83, he took a bad fall, died...
"Then there's two versions. Officially, his executors shot the apes and burned their bodies. Family version is they were carted to Alderley Edge, whipped into an old adit, and its entrance collapsed with gunpowder."
"Interesting," Ms. Jones allowed.
"1882, Ma'm?" I puzzled. "November ? Wasn't there a big solar storm ?"
"Yes !" Mr. Baker's eyes gleamed. "Yes, between the 17th and 20th ! Weird aurora ! Telegraph problems ! Not as big as the 'Carrington', but much better documented !"
"We may surmise 'Ritual Activity' per Walgate," Ms. Jones agreed. "Legacy incursions remain a problem..."
Ms. Jones relaxed by slow stages. She dug in her jacket's 'Poacher Pocket', found a clip of business cards, removed some. After handing one each to our bemused recruits, she gave the third to Mike. "For 'Staff' Johnson."
"Ma'm."
Turning, she handed the fourth to me. "Sorry, Tim, what with everything else..."
"No problem, Ma'm." I took a breath, wondered, "But, the Ghouls ? How long have they lived in that mine ? How did they get trapped ? How could they survive ? Those lower levels must be so 'sparse' ! I'm amazed and horrified, both..."
"They-- The group could have been there decades ?" Ms. Anderson was clearly struggling to map the ecology.
"It's possible," Ms. Jones allowed. "Old reports suggest Ghouls may enter torpor to eke out lean times."
"Winter bat-roost survival rates on that part of Alderley Edge have always been low," Ms. Anderson muttered. "No-one could figure why..."
"Jess, 'Correlation does not imply Causation'," Mr. Baker cautioned. "And there's not much meat on a bat."
"I know that, Simon !" She had her sass back. "But-- But I think I know how and when they got there..."
We waited. Eventually, Ms. Jones' eyes twinkled. She asked, "Please ?"
Ms. Anderson beamed, recounted, "Late nineteenth century. John Houghton had made his money in shipping. Now an elderly, rather eccentric Daresbury widower, he dabbled in Alchemy, Astrology, arcane Antiquities and such. His experiments and seances amused his neighbours. Scandalised the unrelated 'Hatton' Houghtons, who were Mum's great-great's cousins...
"November 1882, he acquired a small menagerie of exotic apes, perhaps shipped in from Liverpool docks via the near-by Bridgewater Canal." She took a breath. "They were nothing but trouble. Easter '83, he took a bad fall, died...
"Then there's two versions. Officially, his executors shot the apes and burned their bodies. Family version is they were carted to Alderley Edge, whipped into an old adit, and its entrance collapsed with gunpowder."
"Interesting," Ms. Jones allowed.
"1882, Ma'm?" I puzzled. "November ? Wasn't there a big solar storm ?"
"Yes !" Mr. Baker's eyes gleamed. "Yes, between the 17th and 20th ! Weird aurora ! Telegraph problems ! Not as big as the 'Carrington', but much better documented !"
"We may surmise 'Ritual Activity' per Walgate," Ms. Jones agreed. "Legacy incursions remain a problem..."
If you cannot see the wood for the trees, deploy LIDAR.
-
Nik_SpeakerToCats
- Posts: 2121
- Joined: Sat Dec 10, 2022 10:56 am
Re: WIRS #04 The Dog-Men of Daresbury
Part_9
"What's the plan, Ma'm ?" Geoff asked.
"Chum for Ghouls."
We needed one or both 'Chiroptologists' to guide us to their adit. 'Staff' Johnson, a weary doctor in tow, refused to discharge Mr. Baker. Much too soon, more observation required. Perhaps late afternoon if all his 'bloods' came back okay ? "And no more bats before New Year ! Go home, rest up !"
Mike resolved the logistics by handing him a twenty note, saying, "Bache station is just over the road. Change at Chester for Helsby and Runcorn East. This should buy a snack, too."
So, leaving Mr. Baker clutching his stereo heterodyne 'bat detector', we walked Ms. Anderson to the van. She was not pleased to be sat between me and Ms. Jones, but cheered up when she realised her thin left shoulder would readily collide with my bruised right arm. I flinched each time, but did not complain. After me playing 'Bad Cop' so convincingly, I felt she was allowed some pay-back. No good deed unpunished, and all that...
Mike navigated the hospital site's maze to the main road, passed the side-road to the station, then took the next junction's slip to the adjacent 'Morrisons' supermarket.
"Tim, with me." Geoff strode ahead, leaving me to grab a shopping trolley and scamper after him. He piled the tray with packs of lamb and pork ribs, plus some 'discounted' lamb chops. I grabbed some thin plastic bags off the 'fruit & veg' aisle to use as disposable gloves. Our bait filled two big, big shopping bags. Geoff paid with a 'corporate' credit card, led me back to the van. With both bags safely stowed in the back, I returned the trolley and resumed my 'shoulder dodgems'.
Mike retraced our route to the 'Jodrell Bank' road, crossed it and kept going. Ms. Anderson seemed to be having second thoughts, but reluctantly guided us to Mottram Road below the wooded escarpment, now almost bare of leaves. After looking about, she admitted, "Somewhere along here. Looked so different in the dark..."
"Bound to," Ms. Jones allowed. "Take your time."
"Ah !" she pointed. "There's Simon's Geo-Tag !"
Equipped with torches, we half-hiked, half-scrambled up the slope to the adit's partly cleared entrance, now wryly signed by the local cavers. 'DANGER OF DEATH', tick. 'Unstable Roof', tick. 'Unguarded Shaft', tick. 'Protected Bat Roost', tick. 'Stinky Bat Poo', tick. 'Icky bugs', tick. 'No Ninja Mutant Turtles Within', tick...
Our torch beams, focused, went quite a way along the adit, which was a bit wider and higher than the entrance. Ms. Anderson waved her torch beam across the ceiling, hissed, "Half the bats have gone !"
"Perhaps pelted by Ghouls ?" Ms. Jones suggested.
"Uh..."
"Guys, I am authorising 'Lethal Sanction'," Ms. Jones stated. "Weapons free. Your call."
Geoff and Mike conferred briefly, agreed tactics. Geoff said, "Tim chums the shaft, leaves a trail along the adit to a buffet. Mike sets 'sensor' and 'disco' boxes. We'll fit mufflers, have a 'target rich' environment. Ma'm, you're 'Back Stop' with the Mossberg. Tim and Ms. Anderson are 'Long Stop' with flares at the entrance."
"Let's do this."
Back at the van, Geoff, Mike and Ms. Jones donned their 'Battle Rattle' and night-vision goggles. They looked seriously scary even before the gun cases were opened. The two men stowed a remarkable number of magazines about their persons. Ms. Jones checked the shotgun, chose her ammunition, then took the remaining magazines.
Our second trip up that slope, laden, was much harder than the first. Geoff, Mike and I parked one shopping bag half-way along the adit. They busied themselves emplacing two boxes about a dozen metres back from the gaping shaft. I edged a bit closer, began bouncing yummy treats off its raw sides. With about half dispensed into that dark void, I retreated past those boxes, leaving a trail of tasty morsels all the way to the other bag. I unpacked that, heaped the contents enticingly, then bagged all the wrappers and backed away.
Geoff and Mike positioned themselves at a convenient distance, fitted ear-plugs, attached mufflers to their automatics. Ms. Jones took her place with the Mossberg. Ms. Anderson and I stood at the entrance with our box of pyros, wearing borrowed Nomex gloves.
We didn't have to wait long. Far along the adit, the sensor box began blinking its tiny status LED. A growing chorus of crunching noises warned that more and more Ghouls had taken our bait. Without night-vision, I could not be sure of their numbers. It would be a difficult call. Too soon, some might not enter the trap. Too late, some might leave.
After the initial 'stuff your face' stage, screeching squabbles developed. More blinking from the sensor box's LED suggested late arrivals. More squabbles ensued.
Then, it was time. Mike worked his 'clacker'. The 'disco' box woke. It filled that distant stretch of the adit with a kaleidoscope of swirling colours, a dancing web of laser beams.
Back-lit thus, dazzled and confused, those screeching Ghouls were doomed.
The men poured in muffled fire, two or three rounds at a time. An irregular 'ping, ka-ching' told of magazines expended and replaced. The rate of fire peaked, diminished, was replaced by spaced single shots, then the silence of the grave.
"What's the plan, Ma'm ?" Geoff asked.
"Chum for Ghouls."
We needed one or both 'Chiroptologists' to guide us to their adit. 'Staff' Johnson, a weary doctor in tow, refused to discharge Mr. Baker. Much too soon, more observation required. Perhaps late afternoon if all his 'bloods' came back okay ? "And no more bats before New Year ! Go home, rest up !"
Mike resolved the logistics by handing him a twenty note, saying, "Bache station is just over the road. Change at Chester for Helsby and Runcorn East. This should buy a snack, too."
So, leaving Mr. Baker clutching his stereo heterodyne 'bat detector', we walked Ms. Anderson to the van. She was not pleased to be sat between me and Ms. Jones, but cheered up when she realised her thin left shoulder would readily collide with my bruised right arm. I flinched each time, but did not complain. After me playing 'Bad Cop' so convincingly, I felt she was allowed some pay-back. No good deed unpunished, and all that...
Mike navigated the hospital site's maze to the main road, passed the side-road to the station, then took the next junction's slip to the adjacent 'Morrisons' supermarket.
"Tim, with me." Geoff strode ahead, leaving me to grab a shopping trolley and scamper after him. He piled the tray with packs of lamb and pork ribs, plus some 'discounted' lamb chops. I grabbed some thin plastic bags off the 'fruit & veg' aisle to use as disposable gloves. Our bait filled two big, big shopping bags. Geoff paid with a 'corporate' credit card, led me back to the van. With both bags safely stowed in the back, I returned the trolley and resumed my 'shoulder dodgems'.
Mike retraced our route to the 'Jodrell Bank' road, crossed it and kept going. Ms. Anderson seemed to be having second thoughts, but reluctantly guided us to Mottram Road below the wooded escarpment, now almost bare of leaves. After looking about, she admitted, "Somewhere along here. Looked so different in the dark..."
"Bound to," Ms. Jones allowed. "Take your time."
"Ah !" she pointed. "There's Simon's Geo-Tag !"
Equipped with torches, we half-hiked, half-scrambled up the slope to the adit's partly cleared entrance, now wryly signed by the local cavers. 'DANGER OF DEATH', tick. 'Unstable Roof', tick. 'Unguarded Shaft', tick. 'Protected Bat Roost', tick. 'Stinky Bat Poo', tick. 'Icky bugs', tick. 'No Ninja Mutant Turtles Within', tick...
Our torch beams, focused, went quite a way along the adit, which was a bit wider and higher than the entrance. Ms. Anderson waved her torch beam across the ceiling, hissed, "Half the bats have gone !"
"Perhaps pelted by Ghouls ?" Ms. Jones suggested.
"Uh..."
"Guys, I am authorising 'Lethal Sanction'," Ms. Jones stated. "Weapons free. Your call."
Geoff and Mike conferred briefly, agreed tactics. Geoff said, "Tim chums the shaft, leaves a trail along the adit to a buffet. Mike sets 'sensor' and 'disco' boxes. We'll fit mufflers, have a 'target rich' environment. Ma'm, you're 'Back Stop' with the Mossberg. Tim and Ms. Anderson are 'Long Stop' with flares at the entrance."
"Let's do this."
Back at the van, Geoff, Mike and Ms. Jones donned their 'Battle Rattle' and night-vision goggles. They looked seriously scary even before the gun cases were opened. The two men stowed a remarkable number of magazines about their persons. Ms. Jones checked the shotgun, chose her ammunition, then took the remaining magazines.
Our second trip up that slope, laden, was much harder than the first. Geoff, Mike and I parked one shopping bag half-way along the adit. They busied themselves emplacing two boxes about a dozen metres back from the gaping shaft. I edged a bit closer, began bouncing yummy treats off its raw sides. With about half dispensed into that dark void, I retreated past those boxes, leaving a trail of tasty morsels all the way to the other bag. I unpacked that, heaped the contents enticingly, then bagged all the wrappers and backed away.
Geoff and Mike positioned themselves at a convenient distance, fitted ear-plugs, attached mufflers to their automatics. Ms. Jones took her place with the Mossberg. Ms. Anderson and I stood at the entrance with our box of pyros, wearing borrowed Nomex gloves.
We didn't have to wait long. Far along the adit, the sensor box began blinking its tiny status LED. A growing chorus of crunching noises warned that more and more Ghouls had taken our bait. Without night-vision, I could not be sure of their numbers. It would be a difficult call. Too soon, some might not enter the trap. Too late, some might leave.
After the initial 'stuff your face' stage, screeching squabbles developed. More blinking from the sensor box's LED suggested late arrivals. More squabbles ensued.
Then, it was time. Mike worked his 'clacker'. The 'disco' box woke. It filled that distant stretch of the adit with a kaleidoscope of swirling colours, a dancing web of laser beams.
Back-lit thus, dazzled and confused, those screeching Ghouls were doomed.
The men poured in muffled fire, two or three rounds at a time. An irregular 'ping, ka-ching' told of magazines expended and replaced. The rate of fire peaked, diminished, was replaced by spaced single shots, then the silence of the grave.
If you cannot see the wood for the trees, deploy LIDAR.
-
Nik_SpeakerToCats
- Posts: 2121
- Joined: Sat Dec 10, 2022 10:56 am
Re: WIRS #04 The Dog-Men of Daresbury
Part_10
"All done, Ma'm," Geoff reported, Mike pacing behind him.
"Thank you." Ms. Jones made her unfired shot-gun safe, stepped into daylight, said, "I'll call the clean-up crew."
Looking about, Mike wondered, "Where's Ms. Anderson ?"
I gestured towards some scrubby bushes at our left. "Up-chucking."
"Ah. How are you ?"
"So-so," I admitted.
"Up to collecting our brass ?"
"I-- I'll give it a go."
Not far enough along the now-fouled adit, that pallid 'Gaggle of Ghouls' were heaped or tumbled in death, twisted, bleeding and broken. 'Abhuman' really was their correct description. They were 'wrong' so many ways, my wits tried to reject them. Though I'd inherited Mum's modest talent for sketching and water-colour, these were living caricatures. Scarfe or Giger might capture their likeness but, for me, Ghouls literally did not compute...
After a quick glance back towards the adit's entrance, I slid out my modest phone and took a few, careful photographs.
Then it was time for work. Between the strong, strong smell of gunfire, the metallic stink of blood spatter and the stench of voided bowels, I was hard-pressed. I kept having to stand, breathe slowly, regain self-control. One by one, I slowly collected the discarded magazines, some still containing a last round, and all the visible brass. I searched about, found a few cartridge cases which had bounced into odd corners.
I returned my laden baggies, saying, "That's all I could find. Mind, some mags are still live, or however you call it."
"Thanks, Tim." Mike waved down-slope. "Geoff's scouting. Ma'm took Ms. Anderson to the van for a good cry."
"Can't say I blame her," I admitted. "World's been up-ended."
"You did well talking her around."
"She'll not forgive me." I rubbed my sore arm, earning a grin, asked, "What happens now ?"
"Clean-up team is inbound. They'll bag and tag, refrigerate, truck to a secure lab down South. Forensic anthropology, DNA, growth rings, whatever. I'd never seen a live Ghoul. I don't think any-one's seen a dozen since the ruddy Ahnenerbe tried to train some..." Mike hesitated, added, "Ghouls are at the 'unbiddable' end of abhuman types."
"Figures..." I shuddered. I'd seen their fangs, claws and those skull 'processes' which anchored their bone-crushing jaw muscles. "But if hominins come from volcanic 'Atlantis', and my 'Skinny Man' from the weird place, where do 'Tinks' fit ? Or 'Lizard Men' ?"
"Between 'Wyrm Land' and 'Big Mars'." He shook his head. "We reckon their Chicxulub and Deccan Traps hit them less hard. Evolved, built high civilisations, warred back to the stone age at least twice, possibly four or five times. Were advanced enough when some 'Atlanteans' fled there to grab their Alt-Tech. That led to a 'Wizard War', left a crazy, crazy patch-work. MacPherson got trail-cam footage of a Neolithic Reptiloid tribe. Yanks' are post-post-industrial, whatever that means. Russians' seem Byzantine. Australians have 'mer-men' and 'mer-maids' on their reef-ringed 'inland sea'..."
"Wow..." I took a breath. "And Tinks ?"
"Mostly harmless," he quipped. "But our 'Giant Tink'-- DNA splices suggest its ancestors were 'modified' around the time of their 'Wizard War'..."
"Big, Bad 'Battle-Bugs' ?" I shuddered, had a horrible thought. "Was it female ?"
"Yes ! Why ?"
"Parthenogenic ?"
"Huh ?"
"Like Aphids ? Have fertile young without sex ?"
"F**k..." Mike shook his head. "I-- I didn't see that coming ! Our 'Giant Tink' could have cloned herself ?"
"I think you got lucky," I admitted.
"Yeah, we'd have noticed an outbreak of 'Giant Tinks'," Mike allowed. "Unless that's what the IDF bombed a few months later. Doesn't explain how ours got there, but there's always some cultist trying their luck... Geoff ?"
For such a big guy, Geoff moved as quietly as a cat. He glanced at the baggies Mike held, nodded to me, said, "Clean-up team made good time, here in five. We're to help haul body-bags."
An anonymous, long-wheelbase, crew-cab 'panel van' with a big aircon module soon parked behind our van. Its three crew pulled on protective overalls, boots, gloves and masks then followed us and our armloads of bags up the slope. They didn't flinch at the kill-site, but efficiently bagged and tagged the bodies. We moved those lumpy bags down the slope, loaded them into their van's chiller space. With the last bodies gone, they scattered enzyme-treated sand across the blood, then retrieved our 'sensor' and 'disco' boxes from beyond.
Ms. Jones took a final look along the now-sanitised adit, signed for completion, watched them leave. She sighed, said, "Okay, Guys, time to go."
"All done, Ma'm," Geoff reported, Mike pacing behind him.
"Thank you." Ms. Jones made her unfired shot-gun safe, stepped into daylight, said, "I'll call the clean-up crew."
Looking about, Mike wondered, "Where's Ms. Anderson ?"
I gestured towards some scrubby bushes at our left. "Up-chucking."
"Ah. How are you ?"
"So-so," I admitted.
"Up to collecting our brass ?"
"I-- I'll give it a go."
Not far enough along the now-fouled adit, that pallid 'Gaggle of Ghouls' were heaped or tumbled in death, twisted, bleeding and broken. 'Abhuman' really was their correct description. They were 'wrong' so many ways, my wits tried to reject them. Though I'd inherited Mum's modest talent for sketching and water-colour, these were living caricatures. Scarfe or Giger might capture their likeness but, for me, Ghouls literally did not compute...
After a quick glance back towards the adit's entrance, I slid out my modest phone and took a few, careful photographs.
Then it was time for work. Between the strong, strong smell of gunfire, the metallic stink of blood spatter and the stench of voided bowels, I was hard-pressed. I kept having to stand, breathe slowly, regain self-control. One by one, I slowly collected the discarded magazines, some still containing a last round, and all the visible brass. I searched about, found a few cartridge cases which had bounced into odd corners.
I returned my laden baggies, saying, "That's all I could find. Mind, some mags are still live, or however you call it."
"Thanks, Tim." Mike waved down-slope. "Geoff's scouting. Ma'm took Ms. Anderson to the van for a good cry."
"Can't say I blame her," I admitted. "World's been up-ended."
"You did well talking her around."
"She'll not forgive me." I rubbed my sore arm, earning a grin, asked, "What happens now ?"
"Clean-up team is inbound. They'll bag and tag, refrigerate, truck to a secure lab down South. Forensic anthropology, DNA, growth rings, whatever. I'd never seen a live Ghoul. I don't think any-one's seen a dozen since the ruddy Ahnenerbe tried to train some..." Mike hesitated, added, "Ghouls are at the 'unbiddable' end of abhuman types."
"Figures..." I shuddered. I'd seen their fangs, claws and those skull 'processes' which anchored their bone-crushing jaw muscles. "But if hominins come from volcanic 'Atlantis', and my 'Skinny Man' from the weird place, where do 'Tinks' fit ? Or 'Lizard Men' ?"
"Between 'Wyrm Land' and 'Big Mars'." He shook his head. "We reckon their Chicxulub and Deccan Traps hit them less hard. Evolved, built high civilisations, warred back to the stone age at least twice, possibly four or five times. Were advanced enough when some 'Atlanteans' fled there to grab their Alt-Tech. That led to a 'Wizard War', left a crazy, crazy patch-work. MacPherson got trail-cam footage of a Neolithic Reptiloid tribe. Yanks' are post-post-industrial, whatever that means. Russians' seem Byzantine. Australians have 'mer-men' and 'mer-maids' on their reef-ringed 'inland sea'..."
"Wow..." I took a breath. "And Tinks ?"
"Mostly harmless," he quipped. "But our 'Giant Tink'-- DNA splices suggest its ancestors were 'modified' around the time of their 'Wizard War'..."
"Big, Bad 'Battle-Bugs' ?" I shuddered, had a horrible thought. "Was it female ?"
"Yes ! Why ?"
"Parthenogenic ?"
"Huh ?"
"Like Aphids ? Have fertile young without sex ?"
"F**k..." Mike shook his head. "I-- I didn't see that coming ! Our 'Giant Tink' could have cloned herself ?"
"I think you got lucky," I admitted.
"Yeah, we'd have noticed an outbreak of 'Giant Tinks'," Mike allowed. "Unless that's what the IDF bombed a few months later. Doesn't explain how ours got there, but there's always some cultist trying their luck... Geoff ?"
For such a big guy, Geoff moved as quietly as a cat. He glanced at the baggies Mike held, nodded to me, said, "Clean-up team made good time, here in five. We're to help haul body-bags."
An anonymous, long-wheelbase, crew-cab 'panel van' with a big aircon module soon parked behind our van. Its three crew pulled on protective overalls, boots, gloves and masks then followed us and our armloads of bags up the slope. They didn't flinch at the kill-site, but efficiently bagged and tagged the bodies. We moved those lumpy bags down the slope, loaded them into their van's chiller space. With the last bodies gone, they scattered enzyme-treated sand across the blood, then retrieved our 'sensor' and 'disco' boxes from beyond.
Ms. Jones took a final look along the now-sanitised adit, signed for completion, watched them leave. She sighed, said, "Okay, Guys, time to go."
If you cannot see the wood for the trees, deploy LIDAR.
-
Nik_SpeakerToCats
- Posts: 2121
- Joined: Sat Dec 10, 2022 10:56 am
Re: WIRS #04 The Dog-Men of Daresbury
Part_11
Mike consulted his sat-nav, took two left turns around the nearby cricket ground, pulled up outside one of the neat houses. I clambered out, held the van door wide for Ms. Anderson. She allowed me a wan nod, opened the tidy garden's gate, limped up the path. Before she reached the front door, it flew open. A tall, blonde woman charged out, gave her a big, probably painful hug.
"Jess ! What happened ? We were so worried ! We got your calls, but..." At that point, she realised our van was not a taxi, and we looked horribly official.
"Mrs. Murphy ?" Ms. Jones had her ID out. "I'm Jenny Jones, HMRC. Ms. Anderson said she and Mr. Baker were staying with you during the roost re-survey. By accident, they found something very nasty. They've been very, very brave. However, while investigations continue, they must not discuss it. Please do not enquire."
"Really ?"
"You may say they were injured by a small rock-fall. Anything more would put them, you and your extended family at risk on multiple levels." Ms. Jones stated. "Mr. Baker has been ordered back to Runcorn to recuperate. Ms. Anderson may travel when she pleases."
"They gave Simon some money for expenses, Aunt May," Ms. Anderson admitted. "And me a ride here..."
"Ooh ! All the way from Chester ! That's nice !"
"I'm told you noticed and reported the small land-slips ?"
"Oh, yes ! We 'Friends of the Edge' keep an eye out for such !"
"You did well. Thank you." Leaving bemused 'Aunt May' to stare after her, Ms. Jones returned to the van. "Okay, Mike, would you find the station ?"
It wasn't far, but gave Ms. Jones time to tell me, "You've done well, too, Tim. We'll be in touch."
"Ma'm..."
Geoff fed his 'corporate' card to the ticket machine, bought me a ride to Liverpool Lime Street via Crewe. Seemed silly to go so far South then back-track diagonally, but the Sunday alternative was to change twice in Manchester, with a tram-ride between.
"Thanks," I said. "Appreciated."
"You've done good."
"Beginner's Luck..."
He allowed me the tiniest grin, a polite nod, then ghosted into the gathering dusk.
Mike consulted his sat-nav, took two left turns around the nearby cricket ground, pulled up outside one of the neat houses. I clambered out, held the van door wide for Ms. Anderson. She allowed me a wan nod, opened the tidy garden's gate, limped up the path. Before she reached the front door, it flew open. A tall, blonde woman charged out, gave her a big, probably painful hug.
"Jess ! What happened ? We were so worried ! We got your calls, but..." At that point, she realised our van was not a taxi, and we looked horribly official.
"Mrs. Murphy ?" Ms. Jones had her ID out. "I'm Jenny Jones, HMRC. Ms. Anderson said she and Mr. Baker were staying with you during the roost re-survey. By accident, they found something very nasty. They've been very, very brave. However, while investigations continue, they must not discuss it. Please do not enquire."
"Really ?"
"You may say they were injured by a small rock-fall. Anything more would put them, you and your extended family at risk on multiple levels." Ms. Jones stated. "Mr. Baker has been ordered back to Runcorn to recuperate. Ms. Anderson may travel when she pleases."
"They gave Simon some money for expenses, Aunt May," Ms. Anderson admitted. "And me a ride here..."
"Ooh ! All the way from Chester ! That's nice !"
"I'm told you noticed and reported the small land-slips ?"
"Oh, yes ! We 'Friends of the Edge' keep an eye out for such !"
"You did well. Thank you." Leaving bemused 'Aunt May' to stare after her, Ms. Jones returned to the van. "Okay, Mike, would you find the station ?"
It wasn't far, but gave Ms. Jones time to tell me, "You've done well, too, Tim. We'll be in touch."
"Ma'm..."
Geoff fed his 'corporate' card to the ticket machine, bought me a ride to Liverpool Lime Street via Crewe. Seemed silly to go so far South then back-track diagonally, but the Sunday alternative was to change twice in Manchester, with a tram-ride between.
"Thanks," I said. "Appreciated."
"You've done good."
"Beginner's Luck..."
He allowed me the tiniest grin, a polite nod, then ghosted into the gathering dusk.
If you cannot see the wood for the trees, deploy LIDAR.
-
Nik_SpeakerToCats
- Posts: 2121
- Joined: Sat Dec 10, 2022 10:56 am
Re: WIRS #04 The Dog-Men of Daresbury
Part_12
My nostrils had just about cleared from the adit's stench of gunfire, blood and death. I nibbled a breakfast roll before the South-bound train arrived, then another on the platform at Crewe. By the time I reached Lime Street, I was tired and hungry. Though I hadn't tried to use my Chrome Book on either leg, I did manage to figure a neat solution for the last chunk of my assignment. Then, onto the Loop Line for one stop, ride the Southport line to The Strand. The train stood at Sandhills for longer than usual but, this time, it was just the accessibility ramp being deployed. I nibbled a third roll at the bus station, Sunday services being few and far between.
"Tim ! You look exhausted ! How was the weekend ?" Ashlee greeted me effusively as I wearily clumped up the stairs to my bed-sit. 'The Minx' came to wind around my ankles, requiring greater care.
"All go," I admitted. "Hunting buried cables, finding a walled-up doorway, 'gaming' reluctant witnesses..."
"Wow ! They feed you well ?"
"Mostly." I reached, gave 'The Minx' an ear-scritch. "Spent the last couple of hours travelling, I'm just about to grab a light meal. Will this Little Monster eat cold Spam ?"
"Of course !" Ashlee laughed. "Did you get time to do your course work ?"
"Just about. I'll need an hour to put the last chunk into words, but the train ride gave me time to think--"
"Where were you ?"
"Today ? Over by 'Jodrell Bank'. Returned via Crewe."
"Wow ! Uh, did they buy your ticket ?"
"Oh, yes," I said. "They're very organised--"
"Ooh ! That's my TV program starting ! Glad the weekend went okay, Tim !"
"Thanks..." But I was speaking to her back as she raced back to study that 'Period' drama's ornate costumes. 'The Minx' hesitated, then followed me into my bed-sit. Perched on the swivel chair, she watched me prepare my cold supper then set out a little for her. With that gone, she sat on the end of my desk. My plate cleared, a large glass of water glugged, I plugged in the Chrome Book and set to work. Tired, my wits still whirling from the busy weekend, I needed nearer two hours than one, but I got the last part done and sent to the College server.
Much as I wanted to research a zillion implications, to explore the near-fractal playa of possibilities, I had to be sharp for College. I caught up on the news headlines, closed the Chrome Book. 'The Minx' let me fuss her for a while, then jumped off my lap and scratched at the door. She didn't go along to Ashlee's bed-sit, but headed downstairs. A few moments later, the back door's cat-flap flip-flopped as our resident ninja went on patrol...
I took an early night. That was fortunate, because I slept very badly. My imagination extrapolated the glimpsed Oswestry ossuary, that 'Giant Tink' and those Ghouls unto noisome nightmare. I kept waking to find my duvet had escaped. I had to wonder when my next outing for WIRS would be, what it would bring...
---end
My nostrils had just about cleared from the adit's stench of gunfire, blood and death. I nibbled a breakfast roll before the South-bound train arrived, then another on the platform at Crewe. By the time I reached Lime Street, I was tired and hungry. Though I hadn't tried to use my Chrome Book on either leg, I did manage to figure a neat solution for the last chunk of my assignment. Then, onto the Loop Line for one stop, ride the Southport line to The Strand. The train stood at Sandhills for longer than usual but, this time, it was just the accessibility ramp being deployed. I nibbled a third roll at the bus station, Sunday services being few and far between.
"Tim ! You look exhausted ! How was the weekend ?" Ashlee greeted me effusively as I wearily clumped up the stairs to my bed-sit. 'The Minx' came to wind around my ankles, requiring greater care.
"All go," I admitted. "Hunting buried cables, finding a walled-up doorway, 'gaming' reluctant witnesses..."
"Wow ! They feed you well ?"
"Mostly." I reached, gave 'The Minx' an ear-scritch. "Spent the last couple of hours travelling, I'm just about to grab a light meal. Will this Little Monster eat cold Spam ?"
"Of course !" Ashlee laughed. "Did you get time to do your course work ?"
"Just about. I'll need an hour to put the last chunk into words, but the train ride gave me time to think--"
"Where were you ?"
"Today ? Over by 'Jodrell Bank'. Returned via Crewe."
"Wow ! Uh, did they buy your ticket ?"
"Oh, yes," I said. "They're very organised--"
"Ooh ! That's my TV program starting ! Glad the weekend went okay, Tim !"
"Thanks..." But I was speaking to her back as she raced back to study that 'Period' drama's ornate costumes. 'The Minx' hesitated, then followed me into my bed-sit. Perched on the swivel chair, she watched me prepare my cold supper then set out a little for her. With that gone, she sat on the end of my desk. My plate cleared, a large glass of water glugged, I plugged in the Chrome Book and set to work. Tired, my wits still whirling from the busy weekend, I needed nearer two hours than one, but I got the last part done and sent to the College server.
Much as I wanted to research a zillion implications, to explore the near-fractal playa of possibilities, I had to be sharp for College. I caught up on the news headlines, closed the Chrome Book. 'The Minx' let me fuss her for a while, then jumped off my lap and scratched at the door. She didn't go along to Ashlee's bed-sit, but headed downstairs. A few moments later, the back door's cat-flap flip-flopped as our resident ninja went on patrol...
I took an early night. That was fortunate, because I slept very badly. My imagination extrapolated the glimpsed Oswestry ossuary, that 'Giant Tink' and those Ghouls unto noisome nightmare. I kept waking to find my duvet had escaped. I had to wonder when my next outing for WIRS would be, what it would bring...
---end
If you cannot see the wood for the trees, deploy LIDAR.
-
MikeKozlowski
- Posts: 2012
- Joined: Thu Nov 17, 2022 9:46 pm
Re: WIRS #04 The Dog-Men of Daresbury
...Superb. Worthy of a series or movie.
Mike
Mike
Re: WIRS #04 The Dog-Men of Daresbury
So nice to re-read WIRS again, keep em coming Nik!