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fredbassettTitle : Within These Walls, Chapter 15 of 30
Author : fredbassett
Fandom : Primeval
Rating : 18
Characters : Ryan, Stephen, Abby, Finn
Disclaimer : Not mine (except the OCs), no money made, don’t sue.
Word Count : 59,000 words in 30 chapters of approx. 1,500 – 2,500 words each
Spoilers : None
Summary : Ending up in Dartmoor prison for refusing to recant their belief in evolution is only the start of the problems facing Nick, Stephen and Connor. And Sir James Lester soon ends up with other problems on his hands than just an over-crowded prison population.
A/N : For acknowledgements etc, please see Part 1.
The drive from the prison to the quarry took no more than ten minutes, even at a slower speed than Ryan’s efforts behind the wheel of the Range Rover the previous day. Stephen Hart was in the back seat, guarded by Finn. Jenny Lewis had arranged for Ryan to meet Abby Maitland at the quarry. Despite the efforts of the local police to keep the press and other sightseers away from the scene, Ryan wasn’t surprised to see signs of considerable activity outside the quarry gates, but at least no one had gone beyond the blue and white crime scene tape up onto the moor itself.
Drinks bottles, crisp packets and other detritus were strewn around outside the gates making the place look like a very messy picnic site. A bright yellow Mini pulled up next to Ryan’s vehicle. Abby Maitland clearly believed in being prompt. Ryan locked the gates behind them and Finn jumped out, his rifle slung over his shoulder. Stephen Hart followed him, his wrists and ankles shackled by two lengths of chain. Finn pulled an even longer chain out of his pocket and looked enquiringly at Ryan.
Ryan ignored the unspoken question for a moment and turned his attention to Cutter’s former assistant. Before they’d left the prison, Ryan had insisted on Hart being equipped with suitable clothing for the trip onto the moor. He was now wearing a pair of borrowed black trousers, leather boots and walking socks as well as a fleece sweater over a long sleeved teeshirt. A thick windproof jacket would keep out the biting wind and the bright yellow reflective strips sewn onto the material would be visible at quite a distance. Ryan very much doubted the man presented an escape risk. From what he had read in Hart’s file the night before, he was too loyal to Cutter to do a runner.
“Are you prepared to give me your word that you won’t try to escape?” he asked.
Hart met his eyes unflinchingly. “Yes.”
Ryan pulled his keys out of a pocket and unlocked the shackles on Hart’s wrists and ankles then tossed them on the back seat of the Range Rover. “Just so you know, I have full authority to shoot to kill if you’re lying to me.”
“I’m not.”
Ryan nodded and turned his attention to Abby Maitland who had watched their exchange without saying a word. “Miss Maitland, this is Stephen Hart. He used to work with Cutter. He’s going to help us track the creature.”
“Call me Abby,” she said, holding out her hand to Hart. “We met briefly a few years ago at a conference but I don’t suppose you remember.”
He shook her hand, a smile on his handsome face. “Portsmouth. The year before this madness started. Cutter was talking about the evolution of whales.”
She nodded, looking pleased. “I followed your trial in the news.” She glanced at Ryan without much liking, clearly seeing him as an extension of the regime that had put the professor and his assistants behind bars.
“I don’t make the laws,” he said. Before either of them could reply, he waved his hand at a patch of mud ringed by blue and white scene of crime tape. “Shall we get on with what we came for?”
Hart made his way over to the muddy area, keeping his intense blue eyes trained on the ground. He went down on one knee and examined the tracks closely. After a few minutes, he looked up. “Definitely hooves. Cutter’s right. There’s nothing alive today that would leave a print like this.”
“Don’t think whatever made that print was dead,” Finn commented cheerfully.
Hart stood up. “Everyone stay behind me, preferably a couple of metres. I don’t want any tracks being obliterated by accident if it turns back on itself.” Without waiting for an answer he moved off, graceful despite the heavy clothing. The man appeared to have recovered well from the assault and was clearly confident of his abilities.
Ryan hung back, letting both Finn and Abby Maitland go in front of him. There was no point in bringing in someone for their expertise and then getting in their way.
Hart did his job silently, moving easily and surprisingly quickly across the rock-strewn quarry floor. He paused a couple of times on the slope that led up towards the moor but each time moved off as confidently as before. The fence that had once encircled the quarry was now broken down and overgrown with grass and a tangle of stunted bushes. Hart went down on one knee and plucked a clump of dark hair off a strand of rusty barbed wire. Without speaking, he handed it to Abby, his eyebrows raised in enquiry.
She produced a small zip-lock plastic bag from her pocket, examined the hair and then sealed the bag. “It looks a match for what we found yesterday,” she confirmed. “I’m still waiting for the analysis, but it’s not from a sheep, I can tell you that much.”
“Another great theory bites the dust.” Finn grinned. He pointed up the slope in the direction of the trail they’d been following. “I went about another 100 metres then it got to the stage where we could hardly see our hands in front of our faces.” He thrust his hands deep in his pockets and looked around at the bleak moorland stretching up the slope in front of them. “It’ll be coming down again within the hour.”
Rob Finn had been brought up on Dartmoor and Ryan didn’t doubt for an instant that he was right, although from what Ryan had seen the area only appeared to have two types of weather conditions: crap and crappier. The bitter wind cut straight to the bone and the grey sky was the same colour as the stones beneath his feet. He’d probably worked in more depressing places, but off hand it was hard to think of any.
Hart pulled up the collar of his borrowed jacket and moved off again. Ryan was buggered if he could see what sort of trail the man was following, but Hart seemed to know his business. He led them in more or less a straight line up onto the bleak moorland above the quarry, travelling roughly north-west. Considering they were on a slope, the ground was still surprisingly boggy in places and Ryan knew it wouldn’t be long before they all had wet feet. The bloody place bore an unpleasant resemblance to the Brecon Beacons, somewhere Ryan had spent more days – and nights – than he cared to remember. From the look on Finn’s face, he was thinking the same thing.
They continued upwards, crossing frequent patches of rocky ground. A low thorny bush yielded a couple of hairs, leaving Ryan wondering how the hell Hart had managed to spot them. They were bagged up and pocketed by Abby. At one point, Hart stopped and cast around in a wide circle before picking up the trail again and moving off. On a couple of occasions he consulted both Finn and Abby, leaving Ryan standing around feeling like a spare prick at a wedding.
The combat shotgun was a comforting weight in Ryan’s hands. He normally disliked handling weapons wearing gloves, but he was prepared to make an exception for the current conditions on the moor. The supple black leather gloves were better than having his fingers go numb from the cold. He glanced around and realised that as predicted, the mist was starting to draw in again, casting a grey pall over the desolate landscape.
Stephen Hart stuck his hands deeper into his pockets and moved on. Try as he might, Ryan failed to spot anything more than the occasional print, but even then, some of the ones he could make out could just as easily have been left by a sheep or a pony. After nearly an hour, in which Ryan reckoned they’d travelled something like a kilometre and a half, Hart suddenly dropped to one knee and muttered, “Oh you beauty…”
Finn looked over his shoulder and a wide grin spread over his face. At their side, Abby seemed equally pleased. Ryan stepped up beside them and looked to see what was causing the rapt impressions. A large pile of dung nestled on the short grass. Abby pulled a wooden spatula from her pocket and a large plastic bag and handed them to Hart who poked at the mess on the ground, bending down to sniff it.
“Well, that didn’t come out of a herbivore,” he remarked.
Ryan wrinkled his nose in disgust and got a grin in return.
Hart quickly bagged up some of the dung and it disappeared into one of Abby’s capacious pockets as well.
“I’ll check it out back at the zoo,” she commented. “But it looks pretty much like the stuff the lions produce. We’ve got a little old lady in the village who buys it by the bucket load. She swears it keeps the neighbour’s cats away from her flowerbeds.” In response to Ryan’s look of amazement, she added, “Zoo poo. Trust me, Captain Ryan, people pay good money for it.”
“I’ll take your word for it,” Ryan said, well aware of the fact that he’d just done his tough guy image no good at all. Even Finn was grinning widely.
Abby stared up at him, mischief dancing in her eyes. “You can learn a lot from dung, Captain.”
“Yes, miss. If you and Hart have stopped bonding over a pile of crap, maybe we can see where this trail leads?”
“Up this godforsaken hillside, by the look of it,” said Hart, standing up and brushing the mud off his knees. He set off again, covering the ground easily with his long legs, stopping every now and again to check for more prints.
The mist had settled around them like a wet, grey blanket but Hart was still intent on the stony ground at his feet. He led them in a straight line up the hill, towards one of the rocky tors for which Dartmoor was famous. Ryan had done some running in the area on his days off, but he was unfamiliar with this part of the barren landscape. When the stones finally gave way again to softer ground, Ryan caught a glimpse of the tracks Hart was following. The hoof prints stood out clearly on the damp ground, even after nearly 20 hours. The tracker was moving faster now, despite the mist and for a moment, Ryan more than half-expected to see the huge beast whose trail they were following looming up ahead of them, powerful jaws agape. He gripped his Mossberg 590 a little harder. The moor was eerie enough, without him giving into flights of fancy.
Without warning, Hart came to a halt, staring down at the damp earth. He made a curt gesture with his hand that told them, without the need for words, to stay well back. The tracker took a pace to the right and stared down at the dark earth. Ryan could see the frown deepening on Hart’s face as he started, slowly and methodically, to work his way out in an ever-widening circle, his eyes riveted to the ground. After nearly ten minutes, he worked his way back to his starting point, looking as puzzled as Ryan felt.
“The tracks just stop.” The disconcertingly blue eyes held frustration and something very close to disbelief. In response to Finn’s raised eyebrows, Hart gestured at the ground. “Be my bloody guest. I can’t pick up a sodding thing.”
For the next 15 minutes, Ryan watched as Finn and Abby Maitland both quartered the ground over a 50 metre radius until they finally admitted defeat as well. Ryan didn’t profess to have any skills even remotely approaching their expertise but even he had to admit that if a creature the size of the one they’d been following had set foot – or hoof – on the soft ground, they should have been able to see some signs. Ryan could understand it if they’d lost the beast’s trail on the stony ground further down the slope, but not here, where even their own prints stood out like sore thumbs.
“This doesn’t make sense,” Ryan said when, by mutual assent, they had called a halt to the search and were standing there, staring down at the last visible hoof prints.
Abby pulled her mobile phone out of a pocket and started to take photographs of the end of the trail.
“The governor isn’t going to be a happy bunny,” Finn remarked.
Ryan stared down at the hoof prints. It was all right for Finn, he wasn’t going to be the one who would have to break the news that apart from a few tufts of fur and a bag of shit, they were coming back empty-handed.
At exactly that moment, Ryan’s mobile phone started to ring. A quick glance at the display showed that the news of their lack of success was going to end up being broken rather sooner than he’d anticipated.
Author : fredbassett
Fandom : Primeval
Rating : 18
Characters : Ryan, Stephen, Abby, Finn
Disclaimer : Not mine (except the OCs), no money made, don’t sue.
Word Count : 59,000 words in 30 chapters of approx. 1,500 – 2,500 words each
Spoilers : None
Summary : Ending up in Dartmoor prison for refusing to recant their belief in evolution is only the start of the problems facing Nick, Stephen and Connor. And Sir James Lester soon ends up with other problems on his hands than just an over-crowded prison population.
A/N : For acknowledgements etc, please see Part 1.
The drive from the prison to the quarry took no more than ten minutes, even at a slower speed than Ryan’s efforts behind the wheel of the Range Rover the previous day. Stephen Hart was in the back seat, guarded by Finn. Jenny Lewis had arranged for Ryan to meet Abby Maitland at the quarry. Despite the efforts of the local police to keep the press and other sightseers away from the scene, Ryan wasn’t surprised to see signs of considerable activity outside the quarry gates, but at least no one had gone beyond the blue and white crime scene tape up onto the moor itself.
Drinks bottles, crisp packets and other detritus were strewn around outside the gates making the place look like a very messy picnic site. A bright yellow Mini pulled up next to Ryan’s vehicle. Abby Maitland clearly believed in being prompt. Ryan locked the gates behind them and Finn jumped out, his rifle slung over his shoulder. Stephen Hart followed him, his wrists and ankles shackled by two lengths of chain. Finn pulled an even longer chain out of his pocket and looked enquiringly at Ryan.
Ryan ignored the unspoken question for a moment and turned his attention to Cutter’s former assistant. Before they’d left the prison, Ryan had insisted on Hart being equipped with suitable clothing for the trip onto the moor. He was now wearing a pair of borrowed black trousers, leather boots and walking socks as well as a fleece sweater over a long sleeved teeshirt. A thick windproof jacket would keep out the biting wind and the bright yellow reflective strips sewn onto the material would be visible at quite a distance. Ryan very much doubted the man presented an escape risk. From what he had read in Hart’s file the night before, he was too loyal to Cutter to do a runner.
“Are you prepared to give me your word that you won’t try to escape?” he asked.
Hart met his eyes unflinchingly. “Yes.”
Ryan pulled his keys out of a pocket and unlocked the shackles on Hart’s wrists and ankles then tossed them on the back seat of the Range Rover. “Just so you know, I have full authority to shoot to kill if you’re lying to me.”
“I’m not.”
Ryan nodded and turned his attention to Abby Maitland who had watched their exchange without saying a word. “Miss Maitland, this is Stephen Hart. He used to work with Cutter. He’s going to help us track the creature.”
“Call me Abby,” she said, holding out her hand to Hart. “We met briefly a few years ago at a conference but I don’t suppose you remember.”
He shook her hand, a smile on his handsome face. “Portsmouth. The year before this madness started. Cutter was talking about the evolution of whales.”
She nodded, looking pleased. “I followed your trial in the news.” She glanced at Ryan without much liking, clearly seeing him as an extension of the regime that had put the professor and his assistants behind bars.
“I don’t make the laws,” he said. Before either of them could reply, he waved his hand at a patch of mud ringed by blue and white scene of crime tape. “Shall we get on with what we came for?”
Hart made his way over to the muddy area, keeping his intense blue eyes trained on the ground. He went down on one knee and examined the tracks closely. After a few minutes, he looked up. “Definitely hooves. Cutter’s right. There’s nothing alive today that would leave a print like this.”
“Don’t think whatever made that print was dead,” Finn commented cheerfully.
Hart stood up. “Everyone stay behind me, preferably a couple of metres. I don’t want any tracks being obliterated by accident if it turns back on itself.” Without waiting for an answer he moved off, graceful despite the heavy clothing. The man appeared to have recovered well from the assault and was clearly confident of his abilities.
Ryan hung back, letting both Finn and Abby Maitland go in front of him. There was no point in bringing in someone for their expertise and then getting in their way.
Hart did his job silently, moving easily and surprisingly quickly across the rock-strewn quarry floor. He paused a couple of times on the slope that led up towards the moor but each time moved off as confidently as before. The fence that had once encircled the quarry was now broken down and overgrown with grass and a tangle of stunted bushes. Hart went down on one knee and plucked a clump of dark hair off a strand of rusty barbed wire. Without speaking, he handed it to Abby, his eyebrows raised in enquiry.
She produced a small zip-lock plastic bag from her pocket, examined the hair and then sealed the bag. “It looks a match for what we found yesterday,” she confirmed. “I’m still waiting for the analysis, but it’s not from a sheep, I can tell you that much.”
“Another great theory bites the dust.” Finn grinned. He pointed up the slope in the direction of the trail they’d been following. “I went about another 100 metres then it got to the stage where we could hardly see our hands in front of our faces.” He thrust his hands deep in his pockets and looked around at the bleak moorland stretching up the slope in front of them. “It’ll be coming down again within the hour.”
Rob Finn had been brought up on Dartmoor and Ryan didn’t doubt for an instant that he was right, although from what Ryan had seen the area only appeared to have two types of weather conditions: crap and crappier. The bitter wind cut straight to the bone and the grey sky was the same colour as the stones beneath his feet. He’d probably worked in more depressing places, but off hand it was hard to think of any.
Hart pulled up the collar of his borrowed jacket and moved off again. Ryan was buggered if he could see what sort of trail the man was following, but Hart seemed to know his business. He led them in more or less a straight line up onto the bleak moorland above the quarry, travelling roughly north-west. Considering they were on a slope, the ground was still surprisingly boggy in places and Ryan knew it wouldn’t be long before they all had wet feet. The bloody place bore an unpleasant resemblance to the Brecon Beacons, somewhere Ryan had spent more days – and nights – than he cared to remember. From the look on Finn’s face, he was thinking the same thing.
They continued upwards, crossing frequent patches of rocky ground. A low thorny bush yielded a couple of hairs, leaving Ryan wondering how the hell Hart had managed to spot them. They were bagged up and pocketed by Abby. At one point, Hart stopped and cast around in a wide circle before picking up the trail again and moving off. On a couple of occasions he consulted both Finn and Abby, leaving Ryan standing around feeling like a spare prick at a wedding.
The combat shotgun was a comforting weight in Ryan’s hands. He normally disliked handling weapons wearing gloves, but he was prepared to make an exception for the current conditions on the moor. The supple black leather gloves were better than having his fingers go numb from the cold. He glanced around and realised that as predicted, the mist was starting to draw in again, casting a grey pall over the desolate landscape.
Stephen Hart stuck his hands deeper into his pockets and moved on. Try as he might, Ryan failed to spot anything more than the occasional print, but even then, some of the ones he could make out could just as easily have been left by a sheep or a pony. After nearly an hour, in which Ryan reckoned they’d travelled something like a kilometre and a half, Hart suddenly dropped to one knee and muttered, “Oh you beauty…”
Finn looked over his shoulder and a wide grin spread over his face. At their side, Abby seemed equally pleased. Ryan stepped up beside them and looked to see what was causing the rapt impressions. A large pile of dung nestled on the short grass. Abby pulled a wooden spatula from her pocket and a large plastic bag and handed them to Hart who poked at the mess on the ground, bending down to sniff it.
“Well, that didn’t come out of a herbivore,” he remarked.
Ryan wrinkled his nose in disgust and got a grin in return.
Hart quickly bagged up some of the dung and it disappeared into one of Abby’s capacious pockets as well.
“I’ll check it out back at the zoo,” she commented. “But it looks pretty much like the stuff the lions produce. We’ve got a little old lady in the village who buys it by the bucket load. She swears it keeps the neighbour’s cats away from her flowerbeds.” In response to Ryan’s look of amazement, she added, “Zoo poo. Trust me, Captain Ryan, people pay good money for it.”
“I’ll take your word for it,” Ryan said, well aware of the fact that he’d just done his tough guy image no good at all. Even Finn was grinning widely.
Abby stared up at him, mischief dancing in her eyes. “You can learn a lot from dung, Captain.”
“Yes, miss. If you and Hart have stopped bonding over a pile of crap, maybe we can see where this trail leads?”
“Up this godforsaken hillside, by the look of it,” said Hart, standing up and brushing the mud off his knees. He set off again, covering the ground easily with his long legs, stopping every now and again to check for more prints.
The mist had settled around them like a wet, grey blanket but Hart was still intent on the stony ground at his feet. He led them in a straight line up the hill, towards one of the rocky tors for which Dartmoor was famous. Ryan had done some running in the area on his days off, but he was unfamiliar with this part of the barren landscape. When the stones finally gave way again to softer ground, Ryan caught a glimpse of the tracks Hart was following. The hoof prints stood out clearly on the damp ground, even after nearly 20 hours. The tracker was moving faster now, despite the mist and for a moment, Ryan more than half-expected to see the huge beast whose trail they were following looming up ahead of them, powerful jaws agape. He gripped his Mossberg 590 a little harder. The moor was eerie enough, without him giving into flights of fancy.
Without warning, Hart came to a halt, staring down at the damp earth. He made a curt gesture with his hand that told them, without the need for words, to stay well back. The tracker took a pace to the right and stared down at the dark earth. Ryan could see the frown deepening on Hart’s face as he started, slowly and methodically, to work his way out in an ever-widening circle, his eyes riveted to the ground. After nearly ten minutes, he worked his way back to his starting point, looking as puzzled as Ryan felt.
“The tracks just stop.” The disconcertingly blue eyes held frustration and something very close to disbelief. In response to Finn’s raised eyebrows, Hart gestured at the ground. “Be my bloody guest. I can’t pick up a sodding thing.”
For the next 15 minutes, Ryan watched as Finn and Abby Maitland both quartered the ground over a 50 metre radius until they finally admitted defeat as well. Ryan didn’t profess to have any skills even remotely approaching their expertise but even he had to admit that if a creature the size of the one they’d been following had set foot – or hoof – on the soft ground, they should have been able to see some signs. Ryan could understand it if they’d lost the beast’s trail on the stony ground further down the slope, but not here, where even their own prints stood out like sore thumbs.
“This doesn’t make sense,” Ryan said when, by mutual assent, they had called a halt to the search and were standing there, staring down at the last visible hoof prints.
Abby pulled her mobile phone out of a pocket and started to take photographs of the end of the trail.
“The governor isn’t going to be a happy bunny,” Finn remarked.
Ryan stared down at the hoof prints. It was all right for Finn, he wasn’t going to be the one who would have to break the news that apart from a few tufts of fur and a bag of shit, they were coming back empty-handed.
At exactly that moment, Ryan’s mobile phone started to ring. A quick glance at the display showed that the news of their lack of success was going to end up being broken rather sooner than he’d anticipated.
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no subject
Date: 2014-05-04 04:38 pm (UTC)Can't blame the creature for preferring to head off into an anomaly rather than hang around on the moor!
no subject
Date: 2014-05-06 09:05 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2014-05-04 04:43 pm (UTC)You had me worried with the mist coming down again, and what a perfect way to show that the thing came through an anomaly.
Bravo for Ryan dressing Stephen appropriately for the weather, and for taking his word he wouldn't run. Good call on knowing Stephen wouldn't abandon Cutter.
Nice that Abby and Stephen already met; good characterization, there. And *g* for Ryan not taking responsibility for the idiotic laws.
LOL for Finn's commentary, the 'zoo poo' and Ryan losing some points on his tough-guy image. At least Stephen didn't taste the bloody stuff!
If you and Hart have stopped bonding over a pile of crap, maybe we can see where this trail leads?
*snorfle*
Poor Ryan, having to break the news to Lester...
no subject
Date: 2014-05-06 09:06 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2014-05-04 04:44 pm (UTC)*purrs*
no subject
Date: 2014-05-06 09:06 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2014-05-04 05:22 pm (UTC)And a closed anomaly. Getting closer to the truth!
no subject
Date: 2014-05-06 09:07 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2014-05-04 09:38 pm (UTC)I keep forgetting that in this 'verse, they don't know about the anomalies and I keep waiting for them to say something about them but obviously, that is not the case. **headdesk**
You can certainly tell that Stephen is in his element, as are Abby and Finn.
"zoo poo" Splorfl!
no subject
Date: 2014-05-06 09:08 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2014-05-05 12:19 am (UTC)Interesting inner thoughts from Ryan. I am glad he decided that Stephen needed real clothes to go tracking in.
The story is starting to pick up a pace a disappeared animal into nothingness always raises a few eyebrows.
Bonding over poop was very funny.
no subject
Date: 2014-05-06 09:08 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2014-05-05 10:13 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2014-05-06 09:09 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2014-05-05 03:26 pm (UTC)And nice to see Ryan with a Mossberg 590 \o/
no subject
Date: 2014-05-06 09:09 am (UTC)Ryan with a combat shot gun would be too sexy for words!
no subject
Date: 2014-05-05 10:22 pm (UTC)Zoo poo! Of course you gotta have dung - at least they didn't have to taste it.
Dear me, Ryan has fallen hard (even if he doesn't realise it). He's obsessed with Stephen's lovely eyes.
no subject
Date: 2014-05-06 09:10 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2014-05-06 07:11 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2014-05-06 07:13 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2014-05-06 07:16 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2014-05-06 07:19 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2022-02-12 04:43 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2022-02-12 04:44 pm (UTC)