Disclaimer: I don't own Supernatural or Madagascar. This is for entertainment purposes only, not for profit.
Chapter 5 not the time for a salt free diet
His head hurts. Dean decides not to mention it. Not the first time he's ever had a headache, even though the darkness inside the tunnels hurts his eyes, and with every other blink he can feel the echo of Granny's mojo flashing white inside his nerve endings. She's messed him up inside his head, made him see things that aren't real.
That's the only explanation for any of this. Talking penguins who act like hunters. Huh.
Private hangs back. If Dean didn't know any better he'd swear the kid has a crush on him.
"Couldn't jam the lock, and there was nothing to block the door." Dean scowls as he runs. "How sure are you about these tunnels?"
"Pretty sure," Skipper says mildly. He slides on the floor on his stomach, like the others do. They move just as fast as Dean can run, maybe a little faster.
Dean raises an eyebrow. "Only pretty sure?"
"Our intel dates back from the mid-1980's," Kowlaski says proudly.
"Uh, dude, hate to be the one to break it to you, but it's 2009."
"So it is. Best intel money could buy."
"Wait. You dudes have money?"
Skipper scowls. "No. I said it was the best intel money could buy if we had any. Money, that is."
A high-powered flashlight beam from behind puts them all in the spotlight. "STOP RIGHT THERE! PUT YOUR GUNS DOWN AND RAISE YOUR HANDS IN THE AIR!"
Dean and Rico snarl at the same time.
"Hoover Dam!" Skipper barks. "Rico! Counter measures!"
Rico stops, opens his mouth and makes a coughing sound like he's about to hurl his guts out. Instead of guts, out come about a thousand or so steel ball bearings.
Dean's stopped wondering why, or how. No sense in trying to fight that constant buzzing in his head, so he just accepts this.
The results are pretty damn sweet, though. The members of the SWAT team start forward, but they can't see the ball bearings on the floor in the dim overhead light. It's like dominoes. One goes down flailing and then the others go down, one by one. The ones in the rear stop and fall back.
The penguins slide fast on their bellies in the opposite direction. Dean stretches out like a racehorse at the top of the stretch and runs like hell.
"Dude," Dean snarks as he passes Rico. "Nice one."
Rico smirks to himself.
I've had better days, Sam thinks to himself. He bulls his way through the crowd as they others scream and run in the opposite direction. Sarah snarls and punches at them, so they give her and Sam a wide berth. Trouble is, there's no where else to go. Tentacles to the right and left of them, and that back wall is solid, no doorways or exits.
Sam grabs ahold of Table Leg's ankle and pulls hard in the opposite direction as this large grey tentacle snakes around the dude's midsection and lifts him up. Doesn't matter that a few moments ago Table Leg would have bashed Sam's head in with said instrument; he's still human and damn it, Sam's determined not to lose anyone, not on his watch.
The giant penguin fugly leans over the barricade of broken furniture, eyes bright and lively as its head dips from side to side. It seems happy. It's like the damn thing has opened a box of chocolates, and doesn't know which piece to pick first.
Sam digs in his heels, but he's losing the battle to keep Table Leg among the living and uneaten. Even with Sam's height and weight it's a lost cause. Sam feels the jerk all through his body as the fug lifts his dinner up even higher. Sam's heels clear the floor by a good six inches, and he knows it's only gonna get worse.
Sarah moves in below him. She grabs at Sam's waist, hooks her hands and fingers into his belt, and pulls, hard. It doesn't help. Sarah gives a startled yelp as her heels leave the floor. Table Leg squeals like a stuck pig, and several tentacles brush lightly through Sam's shaggy hair. The fug makes an excited sound, like it's finally spotted what it wants to eat first. Out of the corner of his eye Sam sees several tentacles moving down towards him.
Sam also sees this large shaker of salt sitting on the edge of this nearby table that's standing on one edge.
He usually doesn't do things on the fly. That's Dean's thing. Big brother's phenomenal when it comes to improvising. Sam hates that. He likes to have a plan.
Another tentacle brushes up his back almost lovingly. Sam glances over his shoulder at the fugly and those red eyes gleam as it leans forward slightly. Sam's seen barbequed chicken wings at a buffet table get the same kind of hungry look.
No plan? To hell with that. Sam grabs the salt shaker with one hand just as he's jerked upwards again. Now he and Sarah are a good two feet off the ground. Sam doesn't have time to untwist the lid, so he makes his wrist loose as he flings a spray of salt out and upward in a wide arc.
He doesn't expect it to work. It wouldn't have, except maybe the patron saint of hunters might have been listening or watching, or whatever the heck it is that he or she does. The metal cap unscrews itself, and a thick spray of salt comes out. There's a sizzling sensation as the salt bounces onto that rubbery grey skin. It smells like fish and sulfur.
The fugly screams out, a loud wailing, warbling sound.
All the tentacles in the air immediately snap back over the barricade. It's raining people all of a sudden. Everyone the thing grabbed comes tumbling down in a rough landing, but as far as Sam can tell it didn't have time to eat anyone, including Table Leg.
Sam scrambles up as soon as he hits the ground. "Get…get the salt…"
Sarah's wide-eyed, but she's still steady. "Sam? What the hell did you do?"
"Salt…gotta get all the salt shakers we can find---" Sam starts pulling away tablecloths, fumbling through the debris on the floor. There were salt shakers on the table, he remembers that. They had to go somewhere, and it's not likely the fugly cleared them off before it raised up that barricade…
Said fugly's yowling, crying, like a fussy two year old kid somebody was dumb enough to sneak into a crowded movie theater. The civilians are worse than useless. They huddle underneath tables and chairs. Sam gets agitated.
Sam gets pissed.
He grabs the nearest one, and it happens to be Table Leg. The dude yelps when Sam puts those big hands on him. Sam's not gentle, not at all. He fills his lungs with air and out comes his command voice, loud and deep. "LISTEN TO ME, YOU STUPID SON OF A BITCH! SALT HURTS IT. WE GATHER UP ENOUGH SALT WE CAN HOLD IT OFF, FIND A WAY OUT OF HERE. I'M NOT DYING, NOT TODAY, SO GET UP OFF YOUR USELESS SORRY ASS AND HELP ME, OR I'LL KICK YOUR ASS MYSELF!"
Dean would have thoroughly enjoyed that.
Table Leg blinks, once or twice. Then he nods and gets on his hands and knees and starts looking through the debris.
After a few seconds, so do the others.
Sarah crawls over with a tablecloth knotted at both ends. She pulls out a half-filled salt shaker, shakes it from side to side and waggles her eyebrows at Sam. "I gotta say, Sam, you really know how to show a girl a good time."
"Sarah, I'm sorry---"
Sarah laughs. "Don't be. This just means you owe me dinner. And breakfast." She blushes a little, and ducks her head.
The tips of Sam's ears get a little red.
Sarah glances upward, over her shoulder. "It's still crying, so that salt really hurt it. Now what?"
"We need a lot more than that," Sam nods at the tablecloth bag. He raises up a little, looks around, then drops back on his heels with this sly smirk on his face.
"Waiter's station. Right over there." Sam nods at the far wall. "Got silverware. Napkins ---"
"And salt shakers," Sarah finishes.
Everyone else is still rummaging around. Several people come up with salt shakers and shyly slip them into Sarah's bag.
Sam crouches there on his heels. Sarah doesn't like that suddenly intense look on his face. She frowns. "What?"
Sam reaches down, snags another table cloth off the floor. He knots the ends closed and Sarah raises her eyebrows. Sam huffs. "I gotta go get what we need."
"I'm going with you."
"No, you're not. You need to stay low, and keep them busy." Sam nods at the tourists. He sees the worried look on her face. Sam grins. "I can make it over there and back, Sarah. I can."
"You get yourself killed I'm never speaking to you again," Sarah blurts out. "Oh God, that was lame."
"Yeah, it was. Don't worry."
Sam half crouches, turns in the direction of the waiters' station, and then stops.
He doesn't remember seeing this little old woman before. Sam feels a cold chill rake its way up his spine. It's her body language for one thing. She's upright, unafraid, standing there with her hands on her hips. She looks like any other tourist out for a day at the zoo, dressed in a green long sleeved sweater and a brown khaki skirt and white tennis shoes. Her long grey hair is pulled back from her forehead in a neat bun.
And her eyes are twice the size of a normal human's.
She blinks. Once. Slowly.
She stares at Sam, at Sarah and the rest, and then back at Sam again. "All right," she growls," and those oversized brown eyes of hers spark red. "Which one of you hoodlums hurt my pookie?"
"I don't freakin' believe this," Dean mutters to himself. He scans the brick wall in front of him. No access door. He glances down at the floor. Even in the dim overhead lights Dean can see that there's no manhole cover.
Nothing. It's a dead end.
Private stands there scratching his head with the tip of his flipper. Kowlaski pulls out his PDA and starts crunching some damn numbers. "Ah, Skipper, I think perhaps we made a mistake not paying real money for this information."
"Huh. You just can't get good intel nowadays with a couple cans of sardines, can you?" Skipper looks nonplussed. "Maybe it's a good thing we didn't have any dead Presidents to spare. Well it doesn't matter. We'll just retrace our steps. Operation George Peppard is still a go."
Dean rolls his eyes.
Rico turns and stares back down the tunnel, the way they came. SWAT team's still off in the distance, but they're getting closer.
Dean growls. "Son of a bitch."
Two more chapters to go. Next chapter posted next week.