Monster Mayhem on Mystery Mountain

Chapter 5

The timbers of the old house creaked and groaned in protest at the pounding they were taking from the storm.  Perhaps that was all it had been.  Old buildings made noises, particularly old wooden buildings that had been built piecemeal over a thousand-odd years by people of varying expertise.  

John peered along the line of his sidearm, wishing he’d thought to bring his P-90.  He’d stowed it under a floorboard beneath his bed, because if you fired one of those things in a house made of wood, you’d better be prepared for it to go straight through the walls and make holes in anyone or anything in its path, which hadn’t seemed like appropriate force for a peaceful trading mission involving mainly banqueting and ceremony.  

But things had changed. They were in a bad position tactically; cut off from the Gate, alone in a labyrinthine building, empty but for themselves, and no way to easily get help from any of the town authorities should help be needed.  If anyone was trying to scare them off, or harm them, now would be the time.

“I can’t hear anything.  Can you hear anything?  Sheppard?”

“Not with you talking, no.”

There was a scratch and a thump from roughly two o’clock.  The passage was a dead end, but for one door.  John turned the handle slowly, his sidearm raised.

He looked at Rodney.

Rodney nodded.

John flung the door open.  A tall shape lurched out of the room, and descended toward them.  Rodney squeaked and leapt back, firing once and then again, and the shots thundered in the small space.

"McKay!  Stop!" John flattened himself against the end wall until Rodney had stopped firing.  "Jeez, Rodney, what the hell?  You coulda shot me!"

"I was being attacked!"

"By skis, Rodney!  You were being attacked by skis."

"Oh."

John nudged the splintered pieces of wood with one boot.  "I guess you killed 'em."

"Ha ha." Rodney sniffed, flicked the safety back on and holstered his weapon.  "It's been a very tense mission.  You can't blame me for having an over-sensitive trigger finger."

"Yeah, right." John picked up the damaged skis and hurled them back in the cupboard.  There were a good few pairs in there; maybe he and his team'd have time to try them out, once they'd solved their little monster problem.

John's radio hissed.  "Teyla to John.  John, are you there?"

"We're here."

"I heard weapons' fire."

"It's fine.  Rodney just killed a ski."

"Oh." There was a static-filled pause.  "Have you found anything important?"

"Not yet.  We might check out the lava tubes.  Probably be out of radio contact."

"Do not get lost."

"We won't.  Sheppard out." He closed the cupboard door firmly.  "Okay, so that was a bust.  But there still should be a way through here somewhere."  

John ran his fingers along the curtained end wall, pushing the heavy fabric back against the panelling beneath.  Then he turned and pressed the thick tapestry on the side wall.  It was scratchy and his fingertips became black with dirt.  Further down the corridor, Rodney patted at the hangings.

“Whoa!”  He disappeared with a tearing sound.

“McKay?”  John ran toward his friend’s position.  A bundle of fabric struggled on the floor, its protests muffled but vehement.  John crouched and flipped the heavy folds off his friend.  “Found the way, then, Rodney?”