8.05
From the witch’s hut to meeting Hansel and Gretel.
Before all this had started, she had grilled goblins for tidbits. The tricks and techniques almost always had to be bartered for, but information was easier to come by. Goblins got bored, and when they were done cursing and making threats, they could be prodded to talk.
The goblins traveled in very specific territories. They liked areas where they could enjoy human comforts while not quite being in the presence of humans.
More frequently, they picked places that had been abandoned or for sale for some time, and Jacob’s Bell had a lot of those buildings. By the time a realtor or bank employee stopped by to check on the building, walls were spray painted or had holes, feces were smeared in places, and garbage littered every surface.
It was with this knowledge that she limped along busier streets, keeping to areas where the heavier plumbing made crossing harder for goblins, under an archway. Avoiding goblins in general, because a minute after she had one on her tail, she’d have a half-dozen.
It was light out, there were people around, and it was morning. All things that discouraged goblins. So long as she traveled these roads, she was okay. She’d done it practically every day, just to be safe.
The risk came when she headed into one of the less stellar areas of Jacob’s Bell. Only a twenty minute walk from Sandra’s, she approached a deceptively nice looking area. The houses were more in the prefab style, all identical, built maybe five years ago, but had languished and started falling apart, largely ignored, before Johannes’ area and the station had started bringing attention to Jacob’s Bell.
The people who moved in were able to keep the houses in a below average state, but tended to find that when they put in the time and money to fix something, another thing broke.
Goblins.
If you were struggling, they ensured you kept struggling. If you were well-off, they weren’t much of a concern to start with.
In better-policed areas, practitioners and the Lords that managed them were strict about keeping Others from interfering too much with humanity. If one person every generation was grabbed by the likes of Mara, a few people had their lives ruined by Others like Buttsack and the Faceless Woman, well, the general sentiment seemed to be that it was a drop in the bucket.
Drop a frog in a bucket of boiling water, and the frog would hop out. Put it in cold water and slowly bring it up to a boil, and you had a roasted frog. Except not really, but the idea held true.
Humankind was slowly roasting in boiling buckets, and the Lords and practitioners were more focused on dealing with those who were being less than gradual, less than subtle.
Even if the buildings here looked more modern, with less peeling paint or weather-worn wood than, say, Sandra’s place, she knew that the slow boil was well underway here. Different rates of boil for different people.
The trick here was to study her surroundings. She didn’t know the exact address, but she could put two and two together.
She kept one eye on her back, another on the state of the buildings, making mental notes of the little details. A garage door for a house with no furniture inside was stuck, partially open, snow creeping into the garage space. Another house had broken windows.
Like dogs marking their territory with urine. Come to think of it, goblins probably did that too. The same method, different ends.
There was a point where stuff was less lousy. The damage normal, not goblin-made.
She did two laps through the neighborhood before she had a sense of it. The epicenter of ‘not quite so messed up’.
Of the four houses, one wasn’t occupied, but it wasn’t trashed either.
Another had kids digging a tunnel through one snowbank. They were so still and quiet when she approached that she wondered for a moment if they were goblins in snowsuits.
Paranoia.
Rather than continue searching, she approached them. Better to forge new connections, no matter how small.
“Hey,” she said.
They kept playing.
“Hey, little dorks.”
One boy poked his head out of the hole-in-progress. Clumps of snow clung to the fabric of his hat. “Dorks? We aren’t in the two-thousands anymore.”
“You need to shore up your tunnel. If that snow falls on you while you’re crawling through, you’ll suffocate.”
“It’s just snow,” he said.
“Avalanches can wipe out buildings, you don’t think this much snow could wipe you out?”
He shrugged, then ducked down to continue playing, scraping with some sort of tool.
“Hey,” she said. “Midget. Pay attention to me.”
He poked his head out again.
“Don’t ignore me,” she said. “Get on my bad side and I might break your tunnel.”
He didn’t flinch. He thought she was joking.
She raised one foot, placing it on the side of the snowbank, driving the point home. His eyes widened, and a little girl standing on the driveway piped up with a mewling “No!”
“First off, shore up that tunnel of yours. Then tell your parents they’re idiots for not watching you better. Third, you can tell me if you know where Andy and Eva live.”
The boy didn’t respond. He only stared.