|-JOHN DOE-|
"My flashlight is out of batteries. Do you have any to spare?"
"I think so. Give me a moment to check my bag."
"Thanks. Hey, Jack?"
"Yeah?"
"This cave is creepy."
"Oh thank god. Let's get out of here, if we head back to town we can still hit Happy Hour--"
"I didn't say I wanted to leave! Just that it was creepy. I'm gonna get some great pics here. Meg'll be so jealous."
"Are you just taking pictures of poorly lit rock walls?"
"No, that would be silly. Now go put your hood up and look menacing, that'll give some freaky blood cult vibes."
"I thought you were looking for monsters?"
"I am. But until we find them, a grumpy husband on honeymoon will have to do. Now, snarl for the camera!"
Of all the board games in Barbara's collection, John Doe was most fond of Monopoly.
He was not accustomed to explaining this preference, even to Barbara, and generally she was much too sensible to ask. Fable had understood why this was the case--an upstart it had been, but one never lacking for wit. It was soothing, the creeping infiltration of the board, the soaking up and swallowing of property and wealth, soil and sweat of labor. To struggle was to expend precious energy; to swim was to postpone the inevitable. In increments of cardboard and plastic, John Doe could absorb the upstart like an errant tumor and convert its holdings into a line of red that became a sea breaking upon Boardwalk.
Barbara was usually willing to join him in such a delicious conquest, but there is no longer an upstart to loathe. The pleasure of loathing was something which John Doe had not thought he would lose for a very long time.
That night, they played checkers.
Barbara scooted a piece forward one step. Her nose and eyes were red, and she had not said a word since setting up the checkers board. Two beers had been opened: John Doe's can was gone, and Barbara's sat untouched. It was an ordinary evening.
John Doe's advancing piece had taken two of hers. Barbara didn't seem to notice.
"You've seen it. The thing that killed Fable. It's still here."
John Doe could not be certain that this was true. He had taken Chase and scoured the town for any sort of mind that might be capable of such a feat. After several hours, they had uncovered nothing, and Chase had retired with complaints of a headache. Perhaps the stranger had departed after slaying the upstart.
Barbara gave him a withering look. It was impressive, despite her youth and the fact that her nose was still red. "Don't play coy with me, Dad. I don't even know what it is and I know it's still here. What would bother to sweep in, kill Fable, and leave?"
Her voice hitched ever so briefly on the word kill. She took the open beer and drained it in one long pull. The can was set down hard, and she reached for another. The pack was empty.
"You could have saved a couple for me," she complained. "Can you even get drunk?"
John Doe was very capable of drinking.
"That's not what I meant and you--" she stopped and frowned at him. "--don't actually know it anymore, do you?"
John Doe knew many things about many topics. John Doe had an excellent memory.
