Dirt Nap: A Marnie Baranuik Between the Files Story

by A. J. Aalto

  I flipped him off instead of smacking his arm, because he was holding my latte hostage. I told myself that was all that was saving him from an ass-whooping of epic proportions, but I could tell by the look he gave me when he handed the cup over with exaggerated caution that he wasn't feeling particularly menaced. I bared my teeth like a feral squirrel. It worked about as well as you'd expect.

  “Nothing in your teeth, Snickerdoodle. Can we go now, or are you going to gnaw on the seatbelt next?”

  Deflated, I consoled myself with pumpkin spice. “Should have swung by Claire’s for a slice of pizza. I’m craving pizza.”

  “You’re not getting pizza.”

  “Where we headed?”

  “Got any problem with helicopters?” Batten asked, though I could tell by the tone of his voice that the answer wasn’t going to matter.

  “Who or what are we going to see?”

  “Charles-Louis Le Pique,” Batten said.

  I choked on my drink. Batten shot me a sour look and a wad of napkins in the same instant. I dabbed at the bright orange foam on my white t-shirt, coughed hard, and thumped my chest. “I’m sorry, what?”

  “Our contact,” Batten said. “That’s his name.”

  “I’m not laughing,” I told him solemnly. “I’m totally pro about this, even on the inside.”

  “You’d better be.” His deep, lake-water blue eyes showed over the Oakleys. “He has no sense of humor at all.”

  “Big deal,” I scoffed. “So I think his name is funny. What’s he gonna do about it?” The last guy with a ridiculous name we'd dealt with had been one Cosmo Winkle, and all he'd done was trash Sheriff Hood's truck, shrug off most of a clip of Batten's ammo, and then get swallowed up by a magic fissure in the parking lot of a shitty motel. Being a berserker zombie with a mouth full of kitty litter had a lot to do with that, though. Chuck le Puck probably wasn't a zombie.

  At the light, Batten turned his head to consider me for a long beat. “Have you ever met anyone who didn’t immediately want to duct tape your mouth shut?”

  “People skills, Hunkypants. You should try 'em. But to answer your question...” I pretended to think about it, smirking, “has anyone first met me while I was unconscious?”

  I was honestly surprised that he didn't do more than scowl and punch the accelerator when the light changed. He probably didn't want me to spill my latte again.

  * * * * *

  The helicopter took us over various blurred shades of green and snow-capped Rocky Mountain peaks and in and out of clouds. I flipped through the slim file folder Batten had slapped onto my lap, ignoring the pilot-to-Batten chatter in my headphones and draining the last of my drink. In the folder were blurry photos of something crouched in a jagged opening in a rock face. The photographer had aimed for close-ups without putting the ground in the picture, or anything I could use to judge scale. No matter how I turned the pictures in my gloved hands, I couldn’t make out what end was up. The thing in question was an irregular, brownish-grey blur with lots of lumpy-bumpy bits. It could have been a garden toad or the Rancor, for all I could tell. Batten tapped my shoulder and motioned with his chin at the file, eyes expectant.

  “It’s a blurry something with lots of lumpy-bumpy bits,” I reported, “in my expert, scientific opinion. Seriously, who took these fucking pictures, Sir Twerks-a-Lot? I need to hit him with a clue-stick. Or a tripod.”

  “Do me a favor,” Batten’s voice pleaded through the headphones.

  “I do favors in exchange for bribes.” I waggled my empty paper cup at him. “I can be bought pretty cheap.”

  Not taking the obvious bait, Batten requested, “Be professional. On your toes. He’s the governor’s favorite cousin and biggest financial supporter. This guy could be a Marnie-sized pain in the ass.”

  If Batten liked ass play, that was news to me, but I would gladly do all manner of things to his delectable derriere. I beamed over my shoulder at him. “Can I call him Chuckles?”

  He exhaled slowly through his nose and pinched his forehead. “No.”

  “Lou-Lou? Le Freak c’est Chic le Pique?”

  He pointed at his frowny face. His brows furrowed so hard that it was all I could do not to laugh. He looked savage, and frankly adorable, and I wished I could tell him.

  “How about Chuck-Lou?” I said instead. “That sounds like a new kind of martial arts practiced exclusively by steelworkers in New Jersey.”

  The pilot glanced over at me long enough to flash an appreciative grin. I grinned back, keeping it right through Batten’s drawn-out groan.

  “I wish I didn’t need you for this,” he said. “Isn’t there a Steve Irwin-type out there who does this better than you?”

  “Of course there is,” I said with an encouraging nod. “You should call him, the sooner the better. His name is Devarsi Patel. He’s not a DaySitter, but he’s a helluva biologist and monster wrangler. I probably have his contact information in my phone if you want. It’ll take him a while to get here from Mumbai if he’s available, and he works privately, so he’ll cost you a few hundred thousand… or, for the pittance I get from you cheapskates at the PCU, you can put up with me.” I did a quick mental calculation based on the time he’d sprung me from the Ten Springs jail. “Which would be, uh, about thirty-five dollars so far, minus whatever you had to pay to bail me out. That can’t be right. Do I really risk my ass for so little?”

  Batten looked at me steadily. “How soon can Patel get here?”

  I pretended I didn’t hear that and flipped through the report on my lap. Le Pique Consolidated was a fairly big outfit, apparently. That sort of thing wasn’t my focus, and neither was its CEO. The quarry itself, an active open-pit mine, was perched between two nearly-naked mountains and dotted with equipment in each picture. These miners could have roused any number of things that react badly to being disturbed; it was impossible to predict what we were walking into. Something grey-brown and lumpy-bumpy. Maybe it was a rock. I sang under my breath, “It wasn’t a rock. It was a rock lobster!”

  There was one statement taken from a dude named Hastings before the PCU was summoned via Batten. It didn’t say whether Hastings was his first name, his last name, or his only name, but I was choosing to believe the latter, and that he was a Downton Abbey-style butler caught up in a new mining career. The statement read, “The rock started moving, and then it growled at us, and then everything flew everywhere. I dunno, men just scattered, and it was hard to tell what was happening.” That sounded like a rockslide, or some force blowing from underneath. The lack of description and blank spots on the pages further frustrated me. I supposed that this guy was probably better with rocks than words, but, damn, dude, what the what. You’re fired, butler.

  * * * * *

  A Jeep with an oversized company logo splattered on the side and red mud decorating the giant wheels met us at the landing zone to take us to the work site. Under the sound of the chopper blades, I could make out grinding, puffing truck noises and growling engines echoing off rock. The Jeep plowed over and through the rough terrain instead of taking the flat, unpaved road, its hard-hatted driver not even flinching at the kidney-jolting bumps. We rounded a rocky corner at the edge of the quarry, and the noise coming from below became a grating torrent. When the Jeep stopped abruptly, I toppled out on Jell-O knees, my anxiety stirring.

  “Hurry up,” someone yelled in our direction. Batten was already storming over, waving me past a crowd of gawkers, and grabbing a hard hat for me, flashing his badge at a deputy. I chased after him, accepting the hat and shoving it on, not knowing what the hell to expect beyond the wooden, yellow-painted saw horses. The hot wind forced grit against our faces as we ran. I was surprised to see Sheriff Hood standing in the distance; this wasn’t his county, but I didn’t have time to ask why he was there.

  We pelted up the gravel path toward him, my Keds scrambling to keep up with Kill-Notch’s big boots. The temperature was unbearable; the rock soaked in the sun and radiated it back. The air was
thin and the trees were sparse. No shade. Massive engines added extra heat, and the stink of exhaust fumes plumed up at us from the pit. When we got to the edge of the quarry, where rumbling machinery had paused in their efforts to excavate, it took us a moment to take it all in.

  I felt both Hood and Batten go still. Though other men hurried about their tasks both up here and below in the quarry, it was Batten’s immobility that I felt most strongly. My mouth worked impotently before spitting, “Holy swaggering shitlobsters.”

  There were four ambulances and a fire truck down in the pit, and stretchers strapped with broken men surrounded by a veritable tornado of first responders in bright vests. It looked like the scene of a major accident on the Interstate, lights flashing, people hurrying to save time and stem blood flow. I counted seven victims. My gaze cut from one injured man to the next, noting broken limbs and lacerations. Nothing that looked life-threatening, if the paramedics could do their job. That was currently impossible. The thing that someone had tried to capture in its lair with their iPhone camera was now playing Whack-a-Mole with the men in vests.

  The creature was roughly the size of a nice house; it was definitely bigger than my cabin. It had enormous, articulated limbs that were much longer than its body, like an octopus or arboreal monkey. It had a mouth full of devastation, capable of grinding up pretty much anything unfortunate enough to wind up there, including one of the earth movers, by the look of things – there was a tractor tire wrapped around what passed for an incisor. Its mouth hung open, emitting a growl like the atonal cousin of the forty-ton excavator behind us, and belching heat and stink to the same degree. The monster was covered in a skin of boulders that ratcheted together noisily as it moved. One solid fist struck the ground, causing a human wave of quicksilver flinching and dodging all around. I don’t remember diving behind Kill-Notch for cover, but found that I had to peek around his considerable biceps to see what the monster was doing next.

  “Oh hey, look at that,” I said with genuine scientific appreciation. “A stonecoat.”

  Hood swiped his Stetson off and ran the back of his hand over his sweaty forehead. He ducked his head closer to me and spoke loudly over the noise. “A what, now?”

  Batten hooked me out from behind his back with one arm and turned me to face the scene. It was like a beautiful slow dance, except he had to wrestle me into it while my Keds scraped dirt. So, maybe more like trying to shove a cat into a bath. In any case, I filed it away in the semi-romantic corner of my spank bank for later use, and let him position me closer to the ledge.

  “Western cousin to the Scottish boggle, Shellycoat,” I explained, my stomach doing loop-de-loops, “and a smaller species of the Northern Canadian beaver-like boggle, Furcoat.”

  “You’re making that up,” Batten accused.

  “I almost never invent monsters,” I told him gravely.

  “What do we do about it?” Hood asked.

  “Uh, leave it alone? Get the fuck out of here? Those are my very serious suggestions.” I smiled hopefully up at them. “Please listen to my very serious suggestions. Please?” Politeness was the people skill I needed the most practice with, and I figured now was a good time.

  Batten glowered. “Nobody is leaving, least of all you.”

  “Boy, you get cranky when your balls are sweaty,” I informed him.

  “Marnie!” He barked it, and I’m sure it was heard over all the machinery and monster growls.

  “What? It’s like Satan’s armpit up here. I doubt they’re all dry and comfy.” I shrugged. “Are they dry and comfy?”

  Hood made work of putting his hat back on so that he could tip his face down and hide his smile.

  I asked him, “Why were the miners attacking the monster?”

  “It attacked first,” Hood said, recovering nicely.

  “Oh no, I find that hard to believe.” I shook my head sadly up at the sun. “stonecoats are nocturnal, and are usually very docile creatures.” Unless… “What’s going on there?” I pointed down into the quarry, where one corner was pitted with dark holes like rabbit warrens, each one bigger than the next. Those were not caused by machinery. I knew a den when I saw one.

  Hood said, “They broke new ground there last night.”

  “Well, there ya go,” I said.

  There, they obviously didn't go, and I didn't feel like explaining myself more than once. “Come on, we better hurry. That thing’s gonna make paste out of those guys. Who can call a full retreat? The foreman?” I scanned the portable buildings among clusters of flustered men trying to look useful and in control but obviously out of their league. “Is that what you call the boss of a gravel pit? Foreman?”

  “You call him Mr. Le Pique,” Batten reminded me. “He owns this land, and he owns the company.”

  “Rather face him than the boggle. Where is he?”

  “He’s the big bald guy yelling into the phone.”

  I shrugged and started striding towards the red-faced guy who seemed seconds away from morphing into Yosemite Sam on a rampage. “I’ve been yelled at by bigger and weirder, present company included. Let’s do this.”

  Hood tried to take point, maybe thinking his title would give us a little traction. He got as far as, “Mr. Le Pique, this is Doctor Baran—” when Le Pique cut him off.

  “Thought I told you, sheriff, I don't need some useless, ivory tower pencil-neck in a suit telling me my business.”

  I looked down at my dusty cargo pants and stained t-shirt in bewilderment. “Are you talking about me? I don’t even own a suit.”

  “I’m losing money by the minute here, young lady, so stow your paperwork and your attitude.” He focused his ire on Batten next, taking in Batten’s bulky physique with a sweeping inspection. “You the monster expert? How about you take your head out of her ass and get that thing out of my pit?”

  I turned to raise my eyebrows at Batten eloquently, inviting him to try, while le Pique exhaled harshly and glared at us.

  Batten’s brow furrowed and he clenched his jaw; I really enjoyed seeing that expression aimed at someone else for a change. I could see him biting his tongue, and I remembered him once claiming: New and improved vampire hunter, now with people skills. He put his hands on his hips and said his piece by turning around and sizing up the stonecoat, which had backed towards the warren holes and was pacing agitatedly. He was probably trying to figure out how big a gun he'd need, whether or not bullets would go through the rocky hide, and whether or not he could use the gun on Le Pique after slaying the boggle. Batten opened his mouth, maybe to suggest fetching dynamite or a tank, but I cut him off before he could make the mistake of agreeing that the creature needed killing.

  “You’re right, Mr. Le Pique, me and my fancy suit are probably not going to be useful, here. You obviously have everything under control.” I kept a straight face, hooked my thumbs in my belt loops, and rocked back on my heels. “I'm sure you and your boys have already figured out that you’ve disturbed a type of boggle known as a stonecoat. Probably been living on this mountain about fifty, sixty years, judging by its size. Would have popped up on any environmental impact study, specifically a preternatural environmental assessment for protected habitats by the Preternatural Wildlife Protection Agency. But you probably have a PEA pod, so it’s all good. If you’ve got your green forms in a job box I could just take a look-see at, I can mosey my girlish ass right on back to the spa for a mani-pedi.”

  His eyes narrowed; this was obviously not a guy who enjoyed paperwork, sassy chicks, or sassy chicks who had the nerve to demand paperwork. I didn't enjoy his pointless dick-waving, so we were even.

  “Don’t you get smart with me, missy,” he said.

  “Now I know you’re super-serious,” I said, “because you lowered your voice at me.” I lowered mine, too, bringing out my babydoll voice. “Tell me again about hauling rocks, Big Daddy.”

  His lips thinned at the same rate that his eyes bulged. “I started working these mountains before you learned to wal
k in heels.”

  “So, like, last year,” I clarified. Batten elbowed me in the arm.

  Le Pique’s voice shot up through the octaves, and though he addressed Hood, it was my face he yelled into. “These bullshit conservation hoops are a waste of time, sheriff, and the fact that the feds rammed them down our throats doesn't make 'em right. Now, are you going to get this monster out of my mountain, or am I going to have to call my cousin, the Governor, to get the National Guard to do it?”

  I blinked rapidly through the blowback, facing it like a dedicated meteorologist in the face of gale force winds. When he was done, he was pink-faced, bug-eyed, and panting. I was struck for a moment about how utterly human and antithetical to Harry's calm, cool, breathless reserve this guy was.

  I sucked my teeth and indicated the helicopter with my thumb. “I vote National Guard, personally. They can totally take me out of here. I’ve got the last season of Hell’s Kitchen on Blu-Ray waiting for me. Angry hot British chef trumps angry sweaty miner and truck-smashing monster any day.”

  Le Pique was dialing, now, practically stabbing his phone with a thick finger, and I waved my hands to stop him. I managed not to point out that asking the government to take care of his problem when he wouldn't even fill out a lousy form was a fairly douchey kind of hypocrisy, especially if he was expecting to get special treatment in the process.

  “Hold up, hold up. Before you waste your time looking to the Guard, or your boys down in the pit, or these two for help,” I said, indicating Hood and Batten, “I should remind you that killing an endangered preternatural creature is a quick trip to deep shit, last time I checked. You blasted a new section of the mine last night, woke up a monster, and it’s a monster you’re forbidden to kill unless there’s no recourse. That last part would be judged by a jury of your peers. Now, I know you don't want to lose any more time, and I know you don’t want any more of your expensive toys eaten. I didn't know stonecoats actually ate trucks; maybe it's low on iron and feeling peckish. Or, I don't know, maybe it's pissed off that you blew up its home.” The Blue Sense reported Hood's anxiety, which mixed with the general miasma of fear coming from the pit, and, like a vein of rotten ore, Le Pique's stubborn refusal to budge.