Dirt Nap: A Marnie Baranuik Between the Files Story

by A. J. Aalto

  “Shivering shitbiscuits,” I whispered, creeping up on the boggle. I craned way, way up and summoned my woefully underpowered positivity. “No, this is good, it’s awesome. Who will deal with the big ol’ dirt monster? Me. I will. Totally. For realsies.”

  This is the part where the Great White Shark of paranormal investigations comes to the rescue, I told myself. I hope it doesn't poop on me right now. I bet it really does shit bricks, and if it doesn't, I'm about to. Everything else inside me screamed at me to chase the Jeep instead. I started blowing air into the condom, feeling like a birthday party clown, and the mental image that created tugged my lip up in the corner: Pervo the Clown making balloon animals out of condoms, the lubrication making me smack my tongue. Probably, I should carry the ones without spermicide from now on, I thought as it stung my chapped lips. I blew and blew until the latex strained at its limit. I got a nice, long sausage shape (that I refused to get excited about), tied it off, and held it high above my head. Making a fist with my right hand, one key sticking out between my knuckles as if I was walking through a dark parking lot alone, I drew in one last deep breath and plunged out from behind the boggle’s back and into the fray. I careened like a drunk gymnast between the stonecoat and the medics, deer-leaping willy-nilly and waving my balloon, whooping at the top of my lungs.

  Out of the corner of one eye, I saw Batten stop in his tracks to watch me and caught the flicker of horror cross his face, followed by the moment where he obviously thought fuck it and chose to trust me, the alarm falling away. He turned to bundle another paramedic and their charge to safety. The few miners who had still been confronting the boggle took Batten’s cue and gave up, bustling to help the paramedics instead. One of the ambulances began to slowly creep away, lights and siren off, barely crunching gravel, as if the driver knew instinctively he needed to be less noticeable than I was trying to make myself.

  Waving my condom balloon, I raced back and forth in front of the boggle, bopping my party favor from side to side like an overly-excited girl on a sugar rush after a weird social gathering, the kinky kind I never get invited to. I wasn’t catching the stonecoat’s attention enough, and it wasn’t going to notice me at this height; the balloon only came up to its rocky kneecaps and it hadn’t even seen me yet. I used the key and jabbed at the balloon.

  It didn’t pop. I tried again, and again, and again, because apparently condoms only break when you don’t want them to. One last stab and the condom exploded with an impressive bang! A weak spray of lube sprung into the air like a fireworks display or an old fountain splattering to life. I caught a misty splooge of lube square in the face and blinked rapidly, mouth forming a surprised O. I would have looked around to see if anyone had witnessed it, but the long-armed monster in front of me abruptly stopped moving.

  The stonecoat quit its machine-like growling to squat in front of me, bringing its enormous face close enough to mine to blow the lube-glued bangs off my forehead. I froze in place, cramming my right eye shut so the spermicide in my eyebrow wouldn’t drip into it. The giant boggle sniffed me curiously and my ponytail nearly got sucked up its left nostril. After several huffs out, its big square head cocked to one side, as if it couldn’t quite work out what I was.

  “Settle down, fart-breath,” I told it. “I’m on your side.” I was pretty sure I was its only advocate, here. The weight of that began to override some of my fear. The boggle didn’t know it, didn’t have the capacity to understand it, but it was face-to-face with the one person who wanted to watch it walk away from this uninjured.

  The stonecoat stared me down with great, glaring yellow eyes, and lumbered forward one shuffling step that rattled the earth.

  “Easy there, big fella. We’re both uneasy about this, let’s not get kooky with each other,” I crooned, showing him my best injured bird impression, still winking as spermicide dribbled onto my eyelid. I began limping away from him, displaying the bloody back of my knee and calf. “You are one big-ass boggle, aren’t you? Dark Lady, defend me.”

  With a feline huff that reminded me of a male lion about to roar, it dropped its head and snuffled the ground to catch my scent.

  I pursed my lips and blew sweet Juicy Fruit breath over my shoulder at it, hoping to keep its interest. “How the fuck is Hood going to play real estate agent to your stony, shambling ass?” I asked him conversationally, like we were both waiting for a train and I was offering him a little tête-à-tête to pass the time. I limped a few more steps in the opposite direction of the paramedics, while Batten helped load the last of the wounded into the ambulances and they started inching toward the ramp, and I made a series of unfortunate realizations.

  How long does it take to round up beef carcasses by chopper? And when Hood finds a cozy hole to drop ‘em in, how’s he gonna let me know? My cell phone is over there in my fucking pants. Maybe I don’t even get reception down in this pit. My brain hates me. If that thing splatters me all over the place, I am going to haunt the fuck out of myself for being an idiot.

  The boggle nodded, like it was agreeing with my remarkable lack of foresight, although it was more likely swallowing the saliva that the scent of my blood had stimulated. It took a lumbering swing at me, which I dove to avoid. My hard hat spun off my head and bounced away with a clang, gravel chunks bit my shoulders through my t-shirt, and small rocks poked me in the spine and butt. I hopped to my feet, anxious to end that unusual brand of agony.

  I wiped hair out of my face then pointed up at the boggle’s wide face. “Don’t do that. Rolling in this shit hurts. I’m not covered in stone armor like you are.”

  The scientist in me noticed that wasn't entirely true as the boggle took another pounding swipe at me, scooping this time with one massive paw. I ducked, since I’m already pretty close to the ground, and caught a glimpse of dark pink, leathery skin covering its cupping palm. Putting some distance between us helped, as it didn’t stray from the warren. The boggle roared, showing its teeth, and then trailed off into a series of guttural grunts. I set my shoulders and faced it with my bare hands out, palms down, trying a different approach.

  Focusing on the air under my palms, I called upon the warm draft of psi that awoke eagerly to do my bidding. The Blue Sense swelled like air bubbles rising from sand under water. For a moment, it stuttered when I reached out to direct it at the boggle; I had no idea if the creature was humanoid enough for me to sense its emotions with clairempathy, but it was worth a try. The jumble of primal fear and antagonism from the miners and paramedics had cleared, having followed them up out of the pit along with their relief, which trickled in from above and behind me. Batten was a null for my psychic gifts, and Le Pique's fury was a wandering thread against the background sensations. That left me and the stonecoat, and how I felt didn’t matter a lick right now.

  Instinctive hostility, protectiveness. It was only a whiff, and I couldn’t have sworn in a court of law that it was coming from the boggle and not Batten, but it was only for my knowledge, so it didn’t matter.

  The hostility was obvious, and unhelpful. More importantly: Protective of what? The den? Did boggles make permanent shelters? I shouldn't have spent so much time mooning over the hockey team that semester.

  Batten strode carefully from behind a pile of broken scree on the far side of the boggle, waving a chunk of something that looked like an old exhaust pipe. The boggle didn’t notice him. He called over to me in a hushed shout that was utterly unlike his take-charge command voice, “It’s not following you. It’s claiming that one spot, standing ground.”

  “It may have offspring in the biggest den, there.”

  Batten nodded. “Is it a he or a she?”

  “Does it matter?” I squinted at him. “Want me to do a junk check? I think these things are hermaphrodites, but I failed boggles, remember?” I gave the lumbering stonecoat a friendly wave, showing it the bloodstain in the armpit of my white shirt, taking a last hopeful limp away. "Hey there, tall, dark, and hermaphroditic. I’m wounded, follow me."r />
  “It’s not interested.”

  Must be a male, then. “Story of my life.”

  “You looked for its penis just now,” Batten accused.

  “His what?” I asked with an innocent flutter of lashes.

  “Guilty.”

  “Super fucking guilty,” I agreed, “but for science! I didn’t see one, but I bet that clump of rocks there is covering testicles.”

  “You wanna check the den for babies, or should I?”

  “He’s not interested in my limping act, so he’s probably a Hedley. I’ll go. Don’t let him pummel you. Keep his attention.”

  “Uh, how?” Batten asked.

  “I dunno. Sing. Dance. Do that song from The Muppet Show. 'Hey, Yakima! Doot doo, do doo do! Hey, Yakima! Doot doo do doo!' Soft-shoe for the rock monster.” I smirked. “No? Fine. Wave your pipe around. That always keeps my attention.”

  Batten scowled and jerked his chin at the holes in the granite face while he began to wave his metal club.

  I made catcalls and whistled like a drunken bride-to-be at a Chippendale. “Woo, yeah baby, swing that thang.”

  “Go,” Batten commanded, and smacked the ground with his pipe to make a noisy point. The stonecoat didn’t like his cheeky display one bit; he sniffed the air in front of Batten and let out an enraged bellow that caused Batten’s eyes and mouth to cram shut against the heat and stink. “Hurry, pervert.”

  “You’re gonna miss me when I’m dead,” I promised. “Don’t put ‘young lady’ on my headstone, eh?”

  “No one would believe the ‘lady’ part,” Batten said, backing away from the boggle and waggling his club in the air.

  I crept around the stonecoat’s broad left side to pass behind him. I couldn’t resist a glance up at his posterior, and got exactly what I deserved: a patch of grey-brown hair pluming from his rocky ass crack, crusted with boggle doody. I thought, Curiosity blinded the scientist. And, Minus one point and my appetite: Marnie. And then, Is this my life? Seriously?

  The den was little more than a big stinky hole in the rock filled with dry manure, large animal bones, feathers, and a mound of red dirt cupping a pile of pebbles the size of a housecat, which blinked at me sleepily when I approached.

  “Ooooo,” I cooed at it, “a pebblecoat.”

  The baby boggle peeped at me and promptly projectile-vomited some white, viscous goo in my direction. I jumped back just in time to avoid the spit-up, and checked myself for stains before approaching again. “Who’s a cute widdle baby boggle? Yes you are, you are so, so cute. Your mommy-daddy is trying to kill me. Yes he is. You come with me. No biting,” I warned it, putting both bare hands near it experimentally. It didn’t seem the least bit anxious or unhappy or bite-y, so I slid my hands into the dirt heap to find its underneath, and scooped it up. The immature, shell-like clusters of the pebblecoat’s coat clicked as the stony integument shifted atop flesh. “Noooooo biting. Here we go, nice and easy. Let’s go move mommy-daddy to a new home, okay?”

  Thudding outside made my Keds start to vibrate; stones and grit sifted down from overhead, and I hurried out of the den, wary of falling rocks. The stonecoat was, of course, not backing down from Batten’s aggressive swings of the exhaust pipe. Instead, he was stomping his feet like a sumo wrestler driving evil spirits from the ring. Baring his impressive teeth, the boggle lowered his skull as if to charge.

  If I hadn’t gasped, the pebblecoat might not have startled in my hands and begun to wail. But that’s exactly what happened, and the stonecoat whipped around, setting his yellow-eyed focus back on me.

  I admit it; I panicked. At the time, my actions made perfect sense.

  “Batten!” I shouted. “Go long!”

  He didn’t question it, just turned and made space. He may have played center in hockey back in Michigan, but now he did a fairly good impression of a wide receiver. I heaved the pebblecoat like a football, and Batten leaped into the air, arms up, to perform a perfect snatch-and-tuck. For a squirmy bundle of rock and sinew, the pebblecoat was surprisingly aerodynamic, and eminently chuckable.

  The boggle did not change course to follow its airborne offspring; either it hadn’t seen the throw, or was bent on destroying the small, frazzled human woman in sneakers and underpants who had dared touch the infant in the first place.

  “Wah-ah! Go get your baby! I’m not your baby!” I screamed, turning to run like hell. “Why is he not getting the baby?”

  I zigzagged, barely dodging a fist that hit the excavator; the impact rocked the thing off its base with a metal shriek.

  “It’s your natural musk,” Batten called. “You’re catnip to monsters.”

  “Boggle-nip! Fucking fantastic!” I yelled, bobbing and weaving, circling around to come back at Kill-Notch.

  “Keep moving,” Batten said, clutching the pebblecoat to his belly. The baby monster began another long, shrill howl.

  “Nothing could stop me!” I assured him, running flat-out like my life depended on it. Probably, it did.

  The stonecoat finally noticed Kill-Notch cradling his baby and let out an infuriated bellow. The boggle altered course to intercept, his skid tossing a great wave of spitting gravel. I ducked, covering my head with my arms, and got pelted by rock shards.

  “Marnie, catch!” Batten shouted, and I turned just in time to see him nod before launching the pebblecoat back at me.

  I caught the baby and spun it into my gut, ducked, and scurried like a mouse, dashing towards the quarry road and my pile of assorted goodies. Batten swung his pipe and hit the stonecoat’s kneecap, setting off a shower of sparks. The boggle lost interest in him quickly this time, though, tracking the meeping offspring to me. I faltered, trying to pause and shuffle through my things for my phone, teetered, and almost fell with the pebblecoat crammed against my breast in a one-armed hold. The phone’s plastic casing was slippery in my sweaty hand; I crammed it into my bra, the only safe place I could think of, and scampered up the quarry road. The stonecoat bellowed angrily and pitched forward in my direction.

  I searched the sky for the damn helicopter as I pelted up the road; I could hear it, now, but couldn't see it. Craning around to scan the sky made running without careening off the ramp and into the pit a hazardous activity. Kidnapping a baby monster is not usually on my To Do list, but it’s an excellent addition to any cardiovascular exercise plan if the parent is house-sized and chasing you. The ramp rumbled underfoot like it might disintegrate under the stonecoat’s thudding pursuit. Mighty Rhea, Titan Earth Goddess, lend me Your strength should I fall. Surprisingly, I wasn’t remotely winded. Adrenalin surged through my veins and pushed me harder. By the time I noticed that it was a rough climb, I was more than halfway up. I made a mental note to thank Sheriff Hood for putting me through his sadistic exercise regimen every day. After scowling at him for waking me up at the ass-crack of early. Assuming I survived that long.

  The helicopter buzzed overhead into view and banked north, and it felt like a sign from the merciful Mother above. The pebblecoat was rooting against my t-shirt for a nipple, and I tried to tuck it away from my bra-shielded boob as I ran, panting and cursing the heat, glad the lumbering thing behind me was slower, heavier, and less agile. I spared a glance up as the chopper passed, and saw Hood hanging an arm out, making exaggerated gestures in the general direction the chopper was heading. It was a flash of a signal, here and gone in a blink, but I chased it over the uneven ground, trusting he knew where we should go.

  In my right bra cup, my phone began to vibrate: two quick buzzes, my text setting. It was not unpleasant, but I didn’t have a free hand, nor time to slow down and read a message. I assumed it was Hood, trying to give me more precise directions, and kept running in the direction I saw the chopper dip. Maybe he'd text Batten next, who could holler things at me.

  My path led me to a pitiful-but-wide clump of browning lodgepole pine and quaking aspen, hanging on for dear life in the hot sun and poor soil. I slowed, considering which way to fork. I scrambled to my left
to find a way around, met with a sudden drop, and jumped without looking. The first drop wasn’t too bad, though it was narrow enough that I was afraid to stop there for long. A fuckfuckfuck escaped me. I scrambled in place, a kind of dancing pause just long enough to get my footing, before pitching forward again. The second descent made my molars clack together and my arms loosened on the pebblecoat. I squeezed with both hands to get a safe hold on it again and pressed backward, flattening myself against the rock face, panting, my heart hammering. The helicopter circled, and I could see Hood’s arm but couldn’t see what he was indicating; the terrain was taking some alarming jogs downward, and the next spot for me to jump to was a good ten feet down. Monster Wrangler parkour, anyone? my internal critic piped up. I bet Devarsi Patel wouldn’t be hesitating. I bet he’d do some fancy flip and land on his feet. Why aren’t you doing a fancy flip, Great White Shark? Batten should hire him.

  I hesitated, my instinct to preserve my own ass trapping me between the drop-off ahead and the stonecoat behind. The boggle had slowed to sniff at the edge of the first ledge, which was too narrow to support the sheer width of his feet, never mind his weight, but he could probably go right past it, directly to the one I was on, if he descended backwards, lowering himself down the embankment on his stomach. I wasn’t sure if that mode of descent would occur to him, but if it did, our combined weight would almost certainly crumble the rocks, which shifted under my Keds uncertainly as it was.

  The helicopter slowed its approach and circled around again, and my phone resumed buzzing inside my bra. I glanced over my shoulder to check the boggle’s intent before attempting to reach it.

  Daddy stonecoat was hunkered down in a low squat, dangling a massive, orangutan-like arm over the edge at me. I crouched, cuddling the pebblecoat tighter. The damn baby had stopped rooting and was looking sleepy. Apparently, my running was as effective as a rock-a-bye. I took a second to fish out my phone, stretched my arm out to do the signal bar dance, and checked my texts.