Something has escaped from a Military Base in Colorado. The nearby town of SnowPeak has been isolated. Magda (formerly in the British Army, currently employed in a private security firm) has received worrying emails from a former colleague. After loosing contact she makes her way to the town.
Magda McFarlin (posted 9th January 2013)
Magda sat on the edge of the bed, wondering how it could be colder than in the forest. SnowPeak was as she had expected: a small town, covered in snow with locals making her feel as welcome a syphilis in a brothel. There was just one motel in town. She had checked. Twice. It was dirty and uncared on the outside. To the owner’s credit he had tried his hardest to keep the same theme throughout his establishment. And, as she saw, when he eventually came to the desk, he had extended this to his personal appearance.
“You a reporter?” he said, after she had asked for a single room for a week.
“No,” she said. “Why?”
He gestured to the TV on the desk behind him. It was tuned to a local channel, there was a reporter standing in the snow in front of a roadblock. The sound was turned down, but the headline read “Bigfoot on the loose in SnowPeak?”.
“Na, didn’t think so,” the man said scratching his backside, before reaching round and plucking a key from a hook, behind him. “You ain’t pretty enough to be a reporter.”
After fiddling with the radiator, Magda managed to get it lukewarm. She decided to take a look around the town. Not trusting the owner, she took her backpack with her, leaving nothing in the room.
The town was not exactly busy. It was ski season: she had expected a few tourists, even in a place like this. More worryingly was the lack of military personnel, or police. It seemed either nothing was going on, and one of her closest friends was playing a joke on her, or that Joe Kirk was right: the people in charge seriously underestimated the threat.
She went into a store and bought herself a Coke. The man behind the counter, looked her up and down as he dropped the change into her waiting hand.
“You ain’t from round here, are you darling?” he said. “You a reporter?”
“No,” Magda said. “I’m not pretty enough.” The man nodded, sagely. “I’ve just come in for a bit of skiing and hunting.” She gestured to the rifle, hanging from her backpack. “I’m meeting up with my cousin, Joe Kirk. He works up at the military base. You know him?”
The man narrowed his eyes. “Don’t know no one from up there, and don’t care to, neither. Say, where you from? You talk funny.”
“I’m from Dublin,” the lie came easily. No one knew where Belfast was, any way. And everyone loves the Irish.
“You don’t say,” the man said. “You come all the way over on the Greyhound bus?”
Magda looked at him in the eye. He was serious. “That’s right,” she said.
As she left the store, she saw a man in uniform pinning something on the notice board of, what she assumed was, the town hall. She watched him walk away, and saw him enter a bar across the road.
Checking no one was watching her she walked over and read what was written:
…..Looking for Volunteers; Skilled both in Combat and Tracking, or are willing to Learn.
Oh, dear God. What kind of amateur operation are they running here?
Please note: any text written in red, or in bold has been taken from another players posts. Please read the whole story here: http://www.writingforums.org/showthread.php?t=58906