Nothing But Bones

26: The Rat, The Waiter, And The Wardrobe

Kepler scrambles around where the portal had just been, scratching at the room's wooden floor like he'll find Tiff in the boards. When he doesn't, he pivots to look at Elton, squeaking over and over again in dismay.

Elton isn't sure what to do about that. He's sure he looks just as out of sorts. He winces from the throbbing in his side and generally everywhere else. "Okay, Kepler. Tiff isn't here. Dingus isn't here. It's just us and I'm so fucked up right now. I need to just sit and think."

Elton looks around the room he's in, noticing for the first time since portaling in that the zombie from earlier is gone. There isn't a scrap of him left on the floorboards. For what it's worth, there isn't any sign of Frederick, either. Not that it would have that much of a difference. He still can't communicate with the damn skeleton.

He walks over to the only window in the room. He looks out over the backyard for a second. The rain is still pouring down the pane and the branches scratching the glass. Lightning still crashes against the dark sky, over the shadows of trees. It doesn't help that feeling deep down in his bones. If rain is soothing and you're already tired, it's only natural that you'll slide down the wall under the window and rest your head against the wood.

He just needs to rest, he knows. Then he'll be okay. He closes his eyes.

A sting across his cheek jolts him back to reality. He's nose to nose with Kepler now, and the rat's hand is still raised like he's about to go in for round two.

"What the fuck?" he whispers.

Kepler pats his cheek instead.

"Shit. I fell asleep."

The rat makes a gesture in agreement. Groaning and honestly not thankful at all, Elton pats him on the head. "Thanks, bud."

His phone vibrates, jolting him out of the mood again. He fumbles, trying to get it out of his pocket. He can hardly believe his phone survived all of that.

There's a text from Tiff, and a picture of her and Dingus across the street from some Verizon. He sighs in relief and lets go of the anxiety about their safety he wasn't entirely aware he was experiencing. They're okay, he thinks. At least, Tiff's text seems to agree.

"We're in Lake Wonder. Will be back soon. Thoughts on chemicals in your body?"

He quickly takes an admittedly poorly-lit picture of himself and the rat laying across his lap, though it's slightly blurry because Kepler keeps trying to take the picture himself.

Elton slaps his hand away gently. "No, dude. Come on."

The rat flops down and folds his arms in protest.

Not sure what to make of that, he sends back, "In room where we met Fred. You doing okay? I'm so fucking tired, Tiff."

"Fine. Be back in a minute. Maybe. Stay awake please, or Kepler will hit you."

"He already hit me."

She doesn't respond for a long moment. Then, a shaky picture of a first aid kit held up like a prize against a cluttered room backdrop and, "He does that. You should see him during finals. Absolute nightmare."

Etlon puts his phone away and looks at Kepler. "This must be just another day for you. Also, what's your deal?"

Kepler stares at Elton, beady rat eyes unblinking.

"I mean... I saw you back there in the other place. The... pocket dimension." He keeps prodding. "Six legs, eh? Are you like Dingus or..."

The rat shrugs and pats Elton on the shoulder. Without much room for more discussion, he scampers away to sniff about the room.

Sighing, Elton picks his phone back up, just in case. His thoughts drift back to Ben. The conversation they had at noon-thirty feels like a lifetime ago, even though it was just this afternoon. Where the hell did things go wrong? Was it on the drive back from Kelowna? Or was it in the kitchen, listening to Tiff threaten all sorts of crazy shit and knowing he couldn't remain between yellow cabinets and a dirty stove, doing nothing?

Deep in the thoughts he's indulging, Elton barely registers the sound of footfalls coming up the stairs. Like the hand across his face, though, it jolts him out of it as soon as he realizes what's happening. His eyes dart back and forth around the room, knowing— Fuck. Shit. He needs to hide, and under the rusted, rickety bed isn't a great option. He needs to hide himself. He needs to hide Kepler. Tiff will kill him if anything happens to her boy; he's sure of it. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

Moving quicker than he probably should, given the state he's in, Elton scoops up Kepler and hustles to a wardrobe on the far side of the room. It's going to be cramped, but the wardrobe looks big enough for both of them. He opens the doors and stuffs himself in, holding Kepler tight to his chest.

Kepler puts a finger against Elton's lips, as if he isn't already being quiet.

Footsteps pace the room outside the doors. Quiet as a prayer and just as frustrated, Boris Covington mumbles, "I know I left that skeleton in here. Blasted thing must have scampered off or have been freed by those damn kids."

There's a moment of quiet. Elton doesn't dare breathe. He barely dares to watch from the holes in the door's pattern.

Boris sighs and runs a hand down his face. "It couldn't have gone far. Just need to find the bastard and destroy it."

He storms back to the door, feet shuffling more than stomping; he slams the door behind him.

Elton waits a moment before he breathes again; he lets it all out in one sigh that turns into the two of them tumbling from the wardrobe. He lets Kepler go, but gives him the wide-eyed realization all the same: "He's gonna kill Fred!"

Kepler barely has time to give him a look that says the conclusion was kind of obvious before the air opens, ringed by green static and heralded by unease. There's the void; there's the girl and the dog.

Dingus looks fine, aside from the smear of (probably human) blood on his golden coat. He's more than fine, actually; he's overjoyed, and bounds forward at Elton to lick his face and make sure he knows that.

Tiff, on the other hand, looks worse than when she left. She's wearing her leather jacket like a cape; she's standing like she's going to fall, especially without the benefit of the bone she was perhaps jokingly supporting herself with earlier. (Where did the bone go, he wonders?) The left sleeve of her shirt is gone, moved further down her arm and tied just above wounds that won't stop weeping, sideways stigmata on an already-scarred forearm. Her right hand is full of random shit, like two different shirts and a neon-acrylic-coated palette knife; her left hand, aside from the two batteries dangling from that weird charm bracelet, drips blood onto the hardwood floor and the side of her gray jeans. Something haunts the dark half-rings under her bloodshot eyes.

"Hey gang," she says, voice softer than it probably should be. "Let's skedaddle."