When the bus slows to its final resting place at a curb in downtown Carrick, its mechanical parts profess a screech to the air in warming, and they say, "Keep careful watch over your children, lest the water decides to take them." Lacey hadn't slept through the night, and she is distinctly aware of the sudden whoosh of the front doors. This is it. On sore legs, she rises and strides down the aisle. With a brisk nod, she thanks the driver. He tips his hat. She disembarks.

Her foot lands directly in a puddle, but she only glances down with mild distaste as it floods through the fabric of her shoe. Her mind is elsewhere, and a light drizzle drums her nose. She inhales, deep. It's a fresh spring morning, before the sun has begun to rise. It's Carrick. A version of Carrick she thought she'd long forgotten, but somewhere in the deep recesses of her memory, this earthen smell settles and she is refreshed. With a few more deep breaths, she reassures herself: they finish this today. She just has to find Gideon first.

The doors whoosh to a close behind her and the bus chugs as well as it can, probably to some other stop downtown. She glances back only briefly, but a dozen eyeless faces stare back at her. The little ones wave. She waves back. Then she blinks, and the bus is gone, and she must return to the world of the living. Her fingers run through the lock on her phone and then the phone symbol beside Gideon's name and then she's walking down the desolate road, nestled between old brick shops and new glass restaurants, decades juxtaposed but empty all the same. The end of the line rings. She fiddles with the ends of her hair, waiting.

It goes to voicemail.

"Shit," she mutters, slamming her finger down on the 'end call' button. She tries again with the same result, but this time she leaves a message at the tone. "Gideon, it's me. I'm back in Carrick. I told you to wait, so you better've listened, or the moment I find you, I'm punching you square in the fucking throat. Call me back, idiot."

Of course, she can't just wait for him to get around to it. She doesn't trust him to do that, not the way he is right now, not while he's got Erie and only Erie at the end of his tunnel vision. She turns down a road on the way back home. The bike she borrowed should still be in the yard, and she'll need it if she wants to get anywhere in time. If she even has any left. Gideon's court ordered hours should be up by now. She tries to do the math in her head.

She called him around ten last night. He must've gotten out by two in the morning, and if his mother had been waiting around for him, she's got a feeling deep in her gut that she wouldn't have just let him run off immediately. He would've waited for her to fall asleep, though, that much is a given. If she's lucky, he started for the semi-circle of sheds around four, maybe earlier, maybe later, and - she checks the time - it's five now. Boy has no car anymore, not after Clint drove him off the road. It'll take him a while to get anywhere, by any means.

Unless her optimistic timeline is completely wrong. This is why she falls back on pessimism. She can't prepare for the best, only the worst. But can her thrumming chest take the worst right now? Eh. Damn everything to Hell.

The sun is still nowhere to be seen by the time she finds the street of her childhood antics and, shortly thereafter, a house that used to be a home. Its sky blue panelling is colorless in the darkness, but she knows it's there, dull as ever, but there. Something so small and so simple eases the shallow breaths in her throat, and she walks to the side of the house where, sure enough, the bike lay in the grass, speckled with morning dew.

She doesn't go for it immediately, though, not yet. The drive is empty - her father's truck is gone. He must be at work. Maybe... Teeth dig into the inside of her cheek. This is a golden opportunity to sneak up to her room to collect all the protective shit she's got hidden at the bottom of the suitcase under her bed. If the past few days have taught her anything, it's that she'll never know when she might need to exercise her severely undeveloped skills.

It doesn't take long to come to a decision. She bounds up the steps, feels for the spare around the doorframe, and sticks it in the lock. Before one can say, "You're running out of time," she's shutting the front door behind her and rubbing the drizzle from her forehead.

For once, the curtains overlapping the wide window in the living room to the left are pulled tight, and hardly any light sneaks in to light her home, save the golden-brown glow on the floorboards from the porch-light out back flooding in through the bare alcove at the back of the kitchen. From that window, crickets chirp. She sways at the foot of the stairs for a moment, pacing a bit, blinking rapidly to adjust to the darkness.

They don't adjust, though, never completely. There's a chill in the open space down here, too, and she rubs warmth into her cheeks. It feels amiss in a way she can't quite put her finger on. The common creaks and groans of the house settling, for once, are putting her off. She takes a deep breath, and her nostrils fill with air tinged by coffee; the pot on the counter is still half full. She sighs. Dad'll want to finish that pot once he comes back home. It's a little thing she's noticed since coming back.

And if she wants to avoid the chaos that will occur if he finds her here, she has to get what she needs and get out. She starts up the stairs.

Halfway up, it becomes abundantly clear there must be an open window somewhere because a closed door keeps slamming against the frame in its place with every gust. She reaches the top; the clicking slams emanate from down the hall. Her father's room. Must've been too dazed to remember to close the thing before leaving. It tracks. He takes time to process things, so yesterday must've been...a lot for him.

With a sigh dying in her throat, she wobbles over to the door and, before it can slam against the frame again, pushes it open against the wind. The window is, in fact, open. Short, sheer curtains flap against the wet sill. With a shake of her head, she drifts over and tugs the frame down, not all the way, since the room is, for some reason or another, baking, but enough to keep these gusts from blowing everything over.

For a moment, she sways there at the window, staring out. The sky is lightening. This room isn't pitch black anymore, not from this angle facing the sunrise, and much of his bedroom is clear. It's light enough for her to catch sight of the nightstand, snug between the wall and his bed, and the cracked drawer within in. Usually, she wouldn't snoop, but then again usually Jeremy is more anal about making sure things are closed. God forbid a kitchen cabinet isn't sealed tight.

For no reason other than forbidden curiosity, and that rising unease in a deep place within her chest, she steps over to it, hooks her fingers around the edge, tugs it open.

She purses her lips at the contents. Not much of interest. A book, which she moves. A pair of gloves, the sort he'd usually pack away with him to work to avoid cutting his fingers open. Odd he'd leave these behind, but maybe he's just doing a consultation. With a shrug, she lifts the gloves from their place and-

-promptly drops them back atop the handgun that glints underneath. She doesn't dare give it another look and, with shaking hands, slams the drawer shut.

There's no reason he should have a gun. Since when has he had a gun? He's not the sort of person who just has a gun. She squeezes her eyes to a close, and for a moment the red hole in Ro's head comes back to haunt her. A terror seizes her chest but she takes a deep, sucking breath. "No, no. It's fine. Plenty of people own guns, dumbass. And this is dad. He wouldn't use it for anything bad like that. This is, like, heresy. Let it go. He wouldn't do something like that. He wouldn't."

Other memories, ones without blood and suffering, fill her mind: him pushing her on a tire swing, laughing over breakfast at her, pushing her along until she could ride a bike on her own. They soothe and she nearly laughs at herself for her brief, but utter, stupidity. Yeah, she's been too paranoid lately. Thank God this is almost over. She crosses the room and departs. It's time to grab her stuff and git.

Her knuckles settle on the edge of her door and she gives it a light shove. The slab creaks open slowly, and her dull yellow walls come into view, and the quilted bed, and the mirror in the corner. The ceiling, too. And the person sitting criss-cross applesauce on it, ass glued to the plaster and arms crossed, as if they've been waiting for her.

Lacey sucks in a sharp breath but she doesn't move. Her eyes widen and she stares up at the girl or the thing or whatever, unblinking. A pungent whiff of malevolence sours her nostrils and she coughs. "Well. This is...not good for me, I imagine."

Of course it's not. Oh, fuck. Darcy's quiet, tear-sodden warning has never been clearer than it is now: the return of the salt-breathers takes time, and the drop of the barrier hasn't fully set in. And with Lacey gone so shortly after that, well...why salt this house of hers? Therefore:

Fuck.

The demon on the ceiling cocks her head, and the lush strands of platinum blonde wobble from her scalp. It smiles a pink-lipped smile, and memory crashes into Lacey at mustang speeds. Her jaw drops and she can't tell whether she curls her hands into fists to keep them from trembling or to keep them from lashing out.

It's the motherfucking knuckle-sucker.

And this motherfucking knuckle-sucker pulls back her lips to show an array of sharp teeth, still stained with Lacey's own dried blood from two weeks ago. "What shall you do now, Miss Waits?" Her legs unravel from their crossed position and, slowly but surely, the girl crawls over to the wall, her hair falling forward to shroud her face. Her fingers stick to the wall, bent sharply at the knuckles. The nails scrape the wall as she laboriously works her way along it. "I advise you run, but only because I like a little chase! before I feast on a lost soul. Ah, but there are so many of those within you, yes? Three now. Three little piggies, and all I must do is blow the house down."

The thing leans back on its haunches, prepared to pounce. Lacey sees it in time and grasps the doorknob with a strength only awarded to her by the deep pulse of fear in her veins. "Eat my ass, demon!" she yells, and with that, yanks the door forward to slam it shut.

She's nearly got the thing closed but through the slit in the door she sees the beast dive forward from the wall. It shoves its unnaturally long fingers into the crack before she can get it shut. "Aw, fuck off," Lacey strains, pulling on one end to squeeze it shut while the other on the other side pries it open. The more she sees of those yellow walls the more her heart squeezes violently in her chest. A rush of adrenaline spills into her fingers and she gives the door a harsh tug. There's an audible crack as the thing's fingers start to bend and twist, and there's a deep, rumbling moan of pain interrupted only by the sudden rush of the door swinging open and slamming against the wall.

Lacey, naturally, fucking runs. She swings herself around the banister at the top of the stairs and books it down.

Behind her, the demon slams against the wall. As she runs down, the rapid thump of feet and broken hands strike the wall as it crawls along to catch up to her. A squeal of panic splits out of Lacey's throat, and for good reason. Heavy pressure pushes against Lacey's back as she nears the bottom. They both go tumbling down the stairs the rest of the way, a tangled conglomeration of limbs, dead and alive, and bones on wood.

They writhe on the hardwood, thrashing. Lacey reaches out for something, anything, but her fingers only brush the bristled floor mat at the front door. She grabs it up nevertheless and swings it forward. There's a floppy smack as the rubber side slaps the demon across the face, but it doesn't do much other than make it hiss in her face, spittle sneaking between its teeth.

Now, maybe her next move is decided only by her capacity for this bullshit being reached. Frustration and disgust foam and bubble over the edge, and she reels her arm back as well as she can in the position she's in. With an aggressive holler, she throws her arm forward and decks this demon in the face. Wholeheartedly, with every fiber in her being, decks it.

Without a sound - other than a humph of surprise - the knuckle-sucker (ne'er a more honest alias) flies back, stunned. It won't last. Lacey takes this one second of opportunity and scrambles into the kitchen. "Carol!" she roars. "Carol, where the fuck are you when I need you?" The call won't summon her, she knows that much. Salt-breathers are fully content to breathe salt down when the coast is clear, but to encroach into Malevolent territory, it's too risky. Their deadlihood is at stake. Lacey's on her own.

Bare feet patter on the floor behind her. In a panic, Lacey springs forward and grabs the first thing she sets her sights on: the half-full coffee pot, still bubbling with heat on the plate. Her fingers wrap around the handle and the demon offers up a low laugh, far too close to her ear. It takes one step nearer and Lacey swings the pot with tremendous force. Glass shatters upon impact with its temple. Hot coffee spills out across its artificial flesh and it screeches. Some droplets spatter Lacey's pants and the back of her hand and she cries out at the burning, too, but it doesn't keep her from clutching the handle that remains tighter. What now, Lacey? What the fuck now?

Her breath hitches. Dad's gun. With twisted lips, she chucks the sharp handle at the thing's nose and sprints past the demon, up the stairs again. Halfway up, there's a tug on her ankle and her chin collides with a step. Growling, she shakes her foot free of the shoe and crawls up the stairs on her hands and feet until she reaches the top. She stumbles at the difference in balance without her other shoe but quickly recovers. She slides into Jeremy's room and slams the door shut behind her, locking it and backing up against the window. The breeze drifting in cools the sweat on her back.

Malevolence rams up against the door and all the bones in Lacey's skin suit jump at once. In one swift movement, she slides along the wall and jerks the nightstand drawer open to collect the gun. She's not entirely sure how to handle it, how to hold it in her chubby hands, slick with sweat. People turn the safety off in movies, right? She does that. Levels it at the door. The door rattles on its hinges with another collision of body on wood, and she flinches.

Rose gold momma's rose gold ring

There's a pause as the thing backs up and prepares for another, final ram. Lacey swallows and holds her breath. Her eyes narrow. "I don't need my circles of salt to protect me," she whispers. "You should've learned that last time."

One more time, an ethereal body smashes against the door, and one more time, the door swings open. She puts pressure into her hands. There's kickback, and a pop. Her hands vibrate even after the trigger has long been pulled. The demon jerks before it can reach the bed and falls back. There is no scream, no cry of anguish. Just limbs, wet with demon's blood, smacking down the hall, scrambling away.

Lacey blinks, gasps. In a split-second decision, she tucks the gun into the back of her pants and rushes forward to slam the door shut again. She returns to the window and shoves the frame up. It's risky business, but she'll be damned if she lets herself fall down the stairs again. The tree next to it is sturdy enough to hold her weight, and with some trouble, she climbs down. However, near the very bottom, her shoeless foot pokes against a sharp protrusion of bark and she yelps, loses purchase, and falls flat into the wet grass.

For a moment, she lays there, catching her breath. Lamenting about how badly her ass hurts. No. It's fine. She's fine. But they're running out of time. You have to get up. Get up. Quite possibly against her best interests, she listens to the nagging voice within her head and limbs forward to grab up the bike still situated at the side of the house. She marches up to the front yard with it, cursing her lost shoe with every squelching step in the mud.

A bony fella sits on the curb in front of her house, and upon her heated entrance, it turns around to look at her with an empty stare. Her nostrils flare. "Thanks for the help, asshat," she says, mounting the bike.

It turns back to its knees, where it drums a silent tune. She rolls her eyes and huffs. Her feet push against the pedals, and she wobbles at first, not used to cycling in a wet sock (much less with a gun tucked into the waist of her pants), but soon enough she's taking off down the middle of the road at a speed even she couldn't have guessed she'd be able to meet.

And still, it's not fast enough. Even when her legs burn and her lungs are puffing for air, it's not fast enough.

Eventually, she has to pause, not only for breath, but to catch her bearings. To figure out which way to turn. At a fork where two roads diverge, she puts on the brakes. There's still a chance for her to back out of this, to put the situation into somebody else's hands, and down that road lies the police station. Down the other, she'll be headed towards the address from the map.

For a moment, she leans back on the seat and wipes the sweat from her brow. Although she shouldn't, she stares into the golden morning sun peeking over the horizon and the blue sky rapidly opening up above it. There are still clouds, grey and threatening, but they're less tightly knit, more separate and thin. Less suffocating.

With a wet swallow in her throat, she pulls out her phone to check the time. 5:57 AM. Phone is almost dead. Her window here is rapidly shrinking. If she even tries to share what she knows with the station, she'll be thrown into a long wait, a process of statements and accusations. And with Malevolence not quite at bay, and Gideon's recent history with this world so new to him-

She starts pedalling based on the directions she remembers photographically from that yellow notepad still sitting in the motel where she'd left it. She can't stop, not at all, not for anything. She can feel it deep in her chest, where her heart throbs and bones ache and muscles grow weary. A gut feeling. A feeling of finality, but she can't be certain what kind of finality it means. She's not even certain this feeling is her own. It feels...separate, somehow.

Through the corner of her eye, a truck crawls along the road towards her. She doesn't pay it much mind, too wrapped up in her own thoughts, in following the mental map, and she flies past it. However, the engine behind her rumbles with the power needed to complete a U-turn on such a narrow street, and then red fills her peripheral vision. It rumbles alongside her, slow. Too slow. The window cranks down and she tries to throw more force into her pedaling.

"Lacey, what the hell are you doing here?"