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A Helping Hand - A Drabblette for Fog, Bone, and Frenzy
Disclaimer: Stargate SG-1 and its characters are the property of Showtime/Viacom, MGM/UA, Double Secret Productions, and Gekko Productions. I have written this story for entertainment purposes only and no money whatsoever has exchanged hands. No copyright infringement is intended. The original characters, situations, and story are the property of the author(s).
A Helping Hand - A Drabblette for Fog, Bone, and Frenzy
By Soles
E-mail - soles@gamewood.net
Category - drabble
Content level - 18+ for language.
Season - any before the 8th
Spoiler - n/a
Pairing - none
Summary - A dark, foggy road can be scary.
Authors note - Several Jackficer's wanted a more chilling rendition of my HELP drabble. I hope this one fits your requirements. It's WAY over one hundred words - Sorry! It's also unbetaed, so the mistakes are all mine. Feedback is always welcome. Soles
Disclaimer - I still own nothing in the Stargate Universe.
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Moisture rolled and swirled around the big truck like an ethereal blizzard.
His visibility next to nothing, Jack O'Neill slowed to a crawl.
He hated this time of year, and its fog, and leaving work so late.
But even macho Colonels liked going home occasionally.
Traffic was thin, but like him some were still out.
One quickly caught his attention; it soon rode his bumper.
Each maneuver he made the headlights behind him repeated.
Frissons shimmering up his spine, he located his weapon.
With his history, it could be almost anyone.
In dense opacity, down the mountain they rode
Perilously close to several sheer drop-offs,
Never slowing, never speeding up.
The rear vehicle echoed O'Neill's moves, stretching his nerves taut.
Finally the miasma cleared minutely, landmarks were more easily distinguished.
At the intersection the vehicle pulled along beside him, he grabbed his weapon and looked.
But it turned left and traveled on in the opposite direction.
He took a deep breath, turned right and headed home.
He took another deep breath, unable to dispel the bone chilling turmoil he'd just experienced.
It came with the territory; he'd made a lot of enemies serving Uncle Sam,
But it'd never been so bad that bogeymen were everywhere.
Until just now and his heart was still pounding.
His grunt in the silence was supposed to be laughter, at himself.
But it came nowhere near humor.
He continued down familiar streets, frosted yet with a foggy glaze, returning his weapon to its safe storage.
And then glancing up into the rearview mirror, a dim flash caught his attention.
Looking more closely he saw it again, and again.
Another vehicle was behind him, and only the streetlamp's wet reflection warned him of its presence.
Someone was behind him, driving too closely, without headlights.
His scalp crawled with apprehension.
Maybe, confused by the dense fog, they'd eagerly latched on to the beacon of his rear lights.
But why weren't their lights on?
Who drove in conditions like this without lights?
Why were they hugging his bumper, following his every move?
O'Neill once again located his weapon and sped up.
He cruised through customary intersections and made everyday turns by rote,
His shadow firmly attached to his rear end.
Nearing his residential area he fumbled for a moment before latching on to his cell phone.
It 'could' be nothing more than a prankster, but it could also be someone with a grudge.
Yet, since no one had done anything except follow him he couldn't call the police.
Maybe one of his team, but it was late; hopefully someone was home.
He circled his street biding for time to make the call.
The dark apparition was right on his tail.
It hadn't let up and it hadn't backed off.
Damn answering machines, nobody was home.
He didn't have time to wonder where they were, he needed to act.
Suddenly, his big truck was jolted by an impact from behind.
It sent a shock of pain up his spine, but he hung on to the wheel.
Guess they were tired of playing 'follow-the-leader'.
He sped up again; the other vehicle was right behind with another jolt.
Another painful shock zipped up his spine.
Someone was having fun, at his expense.
It's time to end this, O'Neill. Time to stand and fight, or run like a chicken. And Mama O'Neill didn't raise chickens.
He abruptly slammed on the brakes and then almost immediately stomped on the gas, giving the big truck her head.
Away she roared to the tune of grinding gears.
At the top of his street he spun the truck in a 'bootlegger one-eighty' and headed back, straight into the path of the ominous oncoming vehicle.
You want to play chicken, O'Neill fumed, here we go!
Onward he rushed at full throttle, now he could see his tormentor.
The black SUV, a favorite with the N.I.D., was game to go.
"I hate to see the insurance bill for this one," he muttered, and kept going.
The SUV abruptly swerved to avoid O'Neill's truck, which made a U-turn in the road.
O'Neill's maneuver placed him smack dab in his very own drive way.
He stomped the gas again and backed into his drive at high speed.
Pressing the garage remote he hoped he'd manage to back right into the garage.
The rising door grazed the truck's roof, mission completed.
He turned off the engine and grabbed his 9mil, jumped out of the truck, closed the garage door with a bang and ran for his back door.
Mama O'Neill didn't raise any fools either!
The adrenalin rush, which usually calmed O'Neill's nerves of steel, had the opposite effect as he tried opening the door.
The appropriate key escaped his grasp.
"Come on, O'Neill, come on," he chided.
Finally, the right key surfaced and inside the house he bounded.
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He took a deep cleansing breath just inside the glass doors, all too aware of his escape from death.
Who the hell could that have been?
The new N.I.D. seemed to have a tighter rope on its agents; no Maybourne wantabe's were left to rogue.
Moving silently to the front window he watched his front yard for the approaching SUV.
Minutes ticked by and nothing appeared.
No crying there.
Finally, O'Neill looked at his watch, which told him it was now 0030 hrs.
Son of a Bi
The ringing telephone interrupted his tirade.
Grabbing the receiver with great irritation, he shouted.
"O'Neill here."
"Hey, Jaaack," a familiar voice whined.
"Maybourne, what the hell do you want? Do you know what time it is?"
"I just wanted to know how you enjoyed my little escort down the mountain. Not many people would take care of their friends," he laughed a dirty little chuckle, "as well as I do."
"You asshole," he shouted into the phone. "If I have whiplash, I'm sending my hospital bills to you! And I'm definitely sending my insurance agent your way!"
"Jaaack, no need to get in a frenzy, I just wanted to make sure you arrived home safely. This is Halloween; too many unneighborly ghosts and goblins are out there tonight."
"Fuck you, Maybourne! Shouldn't you be hiding out somewhere?"
"Jaaack, don't tell me you didn't enjoy..."
O'Neill slammed the phone down.
It was a joke, a damned joke, and Maybourne thought he was the cleverest among men.
The adrenalin rush finally abated, leaving him weak.
He sat down on the living room steps, leaning against the wall, too weak for now to move.
"Yeah, Happy Halloween, asshole."
The End
10-30-05
If you enjoyed this story, please send feedback to
Soles
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