Beach Day

16: More Hole!

The woods stretch out around them, the same as ever. They're alive again, but it seems more like an illusion or a scab than an actual cure.

She goes to unclip Kepler from the leash. Matt holds out a hand to stop her. "No need. I brought rope this time."

"So that's what the rope over your shoulder is for," she deadpans, unclipping Kepler anyway.

He waves her off and ties the rope around the branch of that strong, nearby oak. As they did the night before (this is the routine now), he goes down first; she tosses Kepler down to him; she climbs down last.

Tiff pushes herself to her feet after falling to the ground, adjusts the sword around her waist. She should have put it through her belt loop, she knows, and she'll remedy that as soon as possible. She turns on the flashlight, pops it in her mouth, and sets to fixing what she should have done on the walk here.

Matt grimaces, wrinkling his nose. "Come on, Tiff. That thing's covered in grease. Gross."

She shrugs. It never bothered her. It isn't like she's rubbing her tongue against it. Not on purpose, anyway.

She walks forward, leading the way to the small room by muscle memory. She stole some ziplock bags from her uncle's garage and the breakfast area at the motel, so she can grab that hair sample now if she wants— and she does. It's a great idea.

Since Tiff has the flashlight in her mouth, the walk to the small, underground room is largely quiet. Somehow, she thinks Matt prefers it that way. At least she isn't rambling on and on about something slightly irrelevant. Sure, drool is starting to run down her chin and she's getting incredibly frustrated with this belt (and regretting the fact that she's wearing two belts like some mall emo idiot), but it's nice to have company in a dark, dank tunnel where the walls don't move. She isn't claustrophobic, but she can see how someone would be. Down in the hole, it's almost like the walls want to constrict, like peristalsis wants to take her further into a large beast's gastrointestinal system. Is the room a stomach, then? Or is it just a pit stop halfway through?

Giving up on the belt, she rebuckles it the way it had been before by the time they get to the door. It looks stupid, but it's better than nothing. Tiff takes the flashlight out of her mouth, massages her aching jaw, and wrenches open the door without a word.

There's something wrong here. As soon as she notices it, she frowns.

Matt takes notice, probably because she's standing in the doorway. "What's going on, Tiffy?"

"The hair's gone. I pulled it once you were gone and I set it on the table." She gestures to the blank space on its slightly-burned surface. "And it's gone now."

"Weird. And it was here when you left?"

"No, Matt," she deadpans. "It wasn't here when I left it here. The hell are you talking about? Of course it was there when I left."

"Jesus Christ. Calm down. It was just a question. There's no need to be so aggro." He moves past her into the room proper, lighting the table with his flashlight's strong beam. Matt steps closer to the scorch marks. "The table wasn't burned before, was it?"

"Yeah, someone else must have burned it. Whoever stole the hair must have knocked over a candle or something. I think we should forgive them for that, though. I think we should cut them some slack."

Matt doesn't even turn around. "You knocked over the candle, then? That's what I'm hearing?"

"Yeah, fine," she sighs. "I knocked over the candle. But I—" She squints at the table. "I left it on its side."