[b]River Tamworth, Whiteshale Village Border[/b]

Rear Admiral Parvo Jegg gripped the tiller arm of the lightly modified CRRC as it bounded across the rough waters of the Tamworth river, a great snaking beast that fed into Lake Bryce, the home of HMNB Ayery. After the incident with Gerty that had resulted in the loss of a few teeth, his last reserves of dignity and his harpoon gun, he'd decided it would be better for the remainder of his sanity to construct his own little base of operations just up river from the sprawling naval base, on a tiny isolated island that sat square in the middle of the river. Once he'd finally finished ferrying all sorts of safeguards and offensive equipment to his personal fort - a wooden shack buried in the thick of an overgrown copse in the centre of the 1 mile square island - he'd eventually ventured outside and beyond the waters of the river, to the various settlements that had popped up along its banks. Some were constructed from the remains of small fishing villages and others were hastily put-together shanty hamlets surrounded by badly plowed, make-shift fields. Some were friendly, but the overwhelming majority not so friendly. Thus, he was currently living in an odd mental state where he was actually glad to be a skeleton that was powered  by god-knows-what, because the bulk of projectiles that were fired at him generally passed right through, merely leaving his clothing a bit worse for wear and scratching the ocassional bone. The Zodiac bounced over a particularly large wave, rattling his teeth and nearly toppling him over onto the deck. He kicked a leg out and flailed his tail upwards instictively for some balance as he squinted through the bright sunlight and into the sky. It was clear and crystal blue, the height of summer with not a cloud to be seen, but the water was rough as if a harsh wind was picking up when there wasn't even the slightest of breezes to disturb the searing air. He frowned. Whatever radiation the meteors and meteorites had brought down with them seemed to be really fucking with the weather system. He hadn't seen rain for a long time and he suddenly had an insane panicking notion in the back of his mind that maybe he was stuck in some kind of time warp where good weather was a constant daily experience, day and night. He much preferred bad weather. Stormy was best. [i]Let the sky be rent apart by the Gods and the earth be shattered by Mother Nature's salty fury![/i] He thought blissfully, his permanent toothy grin widening. He was a sailor by nature, coming from a long line of seamen. His family history, on both sides, were riddled with fishermen, naval officers, commercial captains and coastguards. But he was the only one who got bored with nice weather. He didn't like Nice Weather. Nice Weather was boring and made sailors lazy, he believed. Even as a midshipman, he'd enjoyed rough weather more than fair. People thought he was crazy for it, but his superiors quickly saw an advantage in his apparent suicidal love of sailing in bad weather when they discovered the buddings of a talent for navigating large ships through 40 foot waves. His first job as Captain had been to take the HMS Vanguard, a 30 year old ready-for-the-scrap-heap Wickerman class Dreadnought as close to a Ferroni Floater Rig as possible and lay waste to as many docked Ferroni vessels as he could under the cover of a Force 10 storm. After much swearing from his crew and also some tears from the newer midshipmen, his first full command had been a huge success. He'd rode the giant ironclad beast across 28 foot waves and broadsided the floating ship repair and maintanence rig, letting the 6 ageing 15 inch guns tear apart 7 of the 13 docked Ferroni vessels; 4 Ferroni victims of which had been subs, one going down with all hands plus the repair crew who had gone onboard. As an added bonus, by the time anyone aboard the HMS Vanguard heard any comprehensible Ferroni radio chatter, Jegg had gotten his ship and its crew a mile and a half away into the storm under full power without the enemy having laid a finger on them. After that, he'd always been sent out into the worst storms possible with the Navy's heaviest armed ships to make the Ferron Navy's lives as miserable as possible. His love of terrible weather and his joy of ruining the Ferron Navy's day had launched him to the rank of Rear Admiral and earned him the nickname of Stormbringer. 
The only rough weather he hadn't enjoyed so far had been the meteor shower that had turned everything upside-down and inside-out a few months ago.

He looked towards the fast approaching bank and the gnarled fingers of jetties that reached out into the river to greet any boat smaller than a cross-river ferry, pulling himself away from his reveries and back into the present. He gently pulled the tiller and slewed the ocean grey Zodiac broadside towards a crooked jetty that had been cobbled together out of wood and a lorry trailer. Two guards stood waiting for him, rifles held in the crook of their arms. They were young, wore standard army gear, neither of them were skeletons and both wore a sour expression on their scarred, peeling faces.  Stood between the two Undeads was a withered, pale blue Undead bearded dragon in a pair of old black jeans and a fading red flannel shirt. Even with only half his face covered in scales, the rest having fallen away from the bone some time ago, the old man looked less than pleased to be stood between the two soldiers. As Jegg cut the engine and drifted his confiscated CRRC to the jetty he saw why: The two soldiers were Red Brigade. He instantly recognised the patches they wore on their shoulders and swore quietly, tying off the Zodiac to a pole and climbing onto the rotten wood, hauling his machine gun with him, not quite putting his finger on the trigger as he eyed them warily. On the up side, he mentally noted, the Reds were so low in the ranks that even a Royal Navy Ensign could have given them orders. But then again, that didn't change the fact that the Red Brigade had become a bunch of even bigger bastards since the Strike had wiped out all semblances of law and command chains. They just saw the post-Strike world as the perfect excuse to allow their egos to swagger onwards, largely un-checked by any of their top brass. He straightened his newly cut ocean camo BDUs, tightening the straps on his armoured vest as he stepped forward, saluting primly to the two Reds before holding his hand out to the ancient looking lizard stuck between them, ignoring the lack of return salute.
''Mayor Langham, you have a problem I hear?'' He asked, continuing to pointedly ignore the soldiers.
The mayor shifted uncomfortably, his paling green eyes darting from side to side, silently indicating the two Reds. It didn't take a genius to figure out what the main problem was; Brigadier Marks had expanded his territory once again, with new recruits being sent out further into the field to claim more post-Strike settlements, thus expanding his budding empire as well as his army.
''Is there somewhere we can speak in private?'' Jegg asked.
''We can speak at Rosie's. The back room's empty.'' The old man said softly, turning stiffly and hobbling away towards the village square, his gnarled cane tapping a hard staccato against the cobbles.
The two Reds stifled a bored sigh and turned to follow, the tallest of the two grunting in annoyance when Jegg's bony hand pressed him firmly in the chest, forcing the soldier to take an involuntary step back.

''When someone says that they want to talk to someone else in private, they mean that they don't want any uninvited ears or eyes to be apart of the conversation. Now I suggest, gentlemen, that you go and find something constructive to do. Like guarding that chicken coop or something...''
''We have orders to accompany Mayor Langham, no matter what business he is under taking.'' The soldier said bluntly, as if reciting from a script that had been pinned to the inside of his eyeballs.
''You can [i]accompany[/i] Mayor Langham from the otherside of the street.'' Jegg replied icily.
''Orders are orders, whether you like them or not, Mister.''
''Your orders mean bugger all to me, especially when someone wishes to speak with me in private. Now get going. You can keep spying on him when we're done with our conversation.''
The soldier looked him square in the eye and growled at him.
''That's not gonna happen, Salty. We got orders and we're gonna follow them orders, and there's nothing a little sea-squirt like you can do about it, a'right? We're Red Brigade and you have no authority over us. Only Grand Emperor Brigadier Marks can tell us what to do.'' He sniffed.
Jegg sighed in mild annoyance before rounding on the skinny Red, bringing as much of his naval career as possible to bear on him. His younger partner, a good half foot shorter and 5 years junior to his friend cringed immediately and shrunk back from the ensuing reaction. Jegg brought himself up to full height, dwarfing the Red with his 7' 6'' by a full foot and thundered a tirade of insults and threats at the young man, finding the task easier to perform with no lungs being required to suck in air. When he finally found himself floundering for anymore creative threats, he sighed, stepped into the Red's personal space and growled in his face.
''If I catch you within twenty feet of that inn, I will personally wring your skinny little neck, skin you and use your discoloured hide as a tidal warning flag, is that understood, Private Mancham?''
Mancham stood dumbfounded. He'd never had such a colourful or loud dressing down before. To be honest, he thought that kind of military grade scorn was the kind of thing only used in movies and TV. He shuddered, took a step back and saluted sharply, cracking his wrist as he did so. Jegg turned his burning blue witchlight glare on his younger partner, who also snapped to attention, slapping himself  hard in the forehead with a salute born of pure terror.
''YES SIR, REAR ADMIRAL, SIR!'' They screamed in unison, backs rigid, eyes wide and unblinking.
''Now get the hell out of my sight.'' Jegg growled at them and watched with dark glee as they pivoted quickly on the spot and hurridly marched off.
Once they were out of sight, Jegg allowed himself a little giggle of amusement, straightened his clothes and suddenly found himself to be the centre of the village's attention. He pointedly ignored the villagers, pushed aside the growing embarrassment he was suddenly feeling and returned his attention to Mayor Langham.
''So, Mr. Mayor, shall we?'' He said politely, indicating with a low sweep of his hand towards the centre of the village where Rosie's Inn was located.

The inn was a big timber affair with a huge open fire place at the far end of the bar room. A well looked after plush red carpet had been sprawled across the ancient brick floor and a wide array of home brewed alcoholic beverages lined the  perfectly maintained dark stained shelves behind the long brass-studded oak bar. At the far end of the bar, in the corner of the room next to the fire place was a set of wide wooden stairs that led to the 6 bedrooms upstairs.
''Um, Thank you Rear Admiral, for doing away with those irritating little fools,'' Langham said as he led Jegg up the first short flight of steps and onto the small landing, before descending downwards again on the otherside and into a small, windowless room, ''They were really getting on my nerves, and I don't seem to have much nerve endings left these days.''
''You got more nerve endings than me...'' Jegg murmered as he ducked under the low, crooked doorway and into the fusty, hot darkness beyond.
Langham lit a little oil lamp and set it down on a small table in the middle of the room and looked Jegg up and down, mentally measuring the Rear Admiral in some way.
''You've adjusted your uniform?'' Langham said, raising a thorny eyebrow.
Jegg nodded, ''Aye, I can't stand an ill-fitting uniform. I needed to make some adjustments so that my clothes would fit comfortably on my new, er, frame.''
Langham's wrinkled, fraying old face split into a broad grin and he lurched forward, throwing his arms around Jegg, drawing the surprised Skeleton into a warm hug before holding him out at arms' length.
''By the Gods, boy, you've grown and done an old man proud!'' Langham said, smiling warmly.
''I'm forty-eight years old. I'm not a boy any more, Christoff.''
''T'me you are. I remember when you were still running around in shorts, catching frogs in jam jars down the park to frighten all the girls with. Eeeeee... Heck, son, you've done us all proud. 'Specially your dad. He was really proud of you, making it so far in the Navy.''
''So you keep telling me.'' Jegg replied flatly.
''He was only hard on you because he loved you and wanted you to do better than him.''
''The old fart disowned me when I needed him the most...'' Jegg muttered sourly and sat down on one of the rickety chairs, leaning his gun against the wall.
He went silent, staring at the scuffed and scarred surface of the table, apparently mulling something over in his mind.
''It was a bit of a shock to all of us, to be honest. No one expected you'd be, er, y'know.... [i]Fond of the other persuasion.[/i]'' Langham stammered out. Jegg gave the impression of having raised an eyebrow in amusement. ''Don't s'pose you drink anything these days, eh?'' Langham enquired after a long pause, picking up a glass and a dusty bottle of dark liquid from a shelf before settling himself down into the fraying padding of the chair opposite.
''It's hard to contain any liquids without a stomach.'' Jegg replied easily, stretching his legs out to either side of the table, his knees cracking loudly, ''So, what's this problem you have? Besides the Reds, that is.''
''What makes you think that the Reds ain't my only problem?'' Langham asked gruffly, silently glad that the primary subject had been relocated. He poured some of the honey brown alcohol into his glass.
''Because you never call me down here for a social visit. You call me, it's for business. That's how it's always been, even before the Strike.''
Langham sighed and knocked back his drink, wincing as it burned its way down into the pit of his stomach. He nodded.
''Whiteshale Coal's gone active.'' He said.
''Pardon?'

''I said, the Whiteshale coal fired power plant up the road has gone active again. But not in the energy producing way. There's something living in cooling tower two and the Reds have been sacrificing people to it on a weekly basis. Dunno what it is in there. All I know is that Lieuntenant Commander Haymens has been hauling people up to that concrete monstrosity and feeding them to whatever the hell is in there.''
Jegg stared at the mayor in horror then leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table top.
''How many people have been killed by the Reds and why?'' He asked.
Langham smiled and poured himself another drink.
''Knew I'd be better off asking you to have a look. No faffing about, just straight to the point.'' He raised his glass in a one-sided toast, ''Three settlements have been poached of maidens fair. Or they were to start with. When they started running out of maidens, anyone with flesh on their bones soon turned into fair game. Two fishing villages; one to the south of here, the other to the north, and one farming hamlet four miles from Whiteshale Coal's eastern perimeter have all been reduced to a few old hands, all of which happen to be Skeletons like yourself. Now the Reds have turned their attentions to our little village and our gaggle of healthy young. Or as healthy as a non-zombie walking corpse can be, at any rate.'' He muttered into his glass.
Jegg sighed heavily and rested his chin on his hand, staring into space.
''Have you any idea why the Reds are doing this?'' He asked Langham.
The old mayor shrugged, poured another drink and emptied the glass of its contents once again. Not for the first time in his life, Jegg caught himself wondering why the old man didn't just drink his booze straight out of the bottle as the longest amount of time any alcoholic liquid stayed in his glass rarely surpassed the five second mark.
''Religious reasons?'' Langham hazarded, ''Could be, could be... But Brigadier Bastard never struck me as the religious type. He's a nut job, sure, but not mad enough to go mental-religious on us and start making sacrifices to some Meteor Mutant hiding in a chimney like a giant hermit crab. Could be, though, that he might be ferreting out any potential trouble makers and doing away with them without using up any of his ammunition stocks...? People he sees as a legit threat. Or he could just be feeding it to try and make it friendly towards his Reds so they can use it as some kind of weapon.... Nah. Muties ain't that bright. Grotesques are though. He'd want one of those on his side to do some severe damage...'' He knocked back another drink as Jegg stared at him, processing the brief one-sided discussion.
''Or...'' Jegg said after a moment, an idea of his own forming, ''The Reds could be keeping it happy by feeding it so that it doesn't move on to pastures new? Such as the Greyfriars plant which just happens to be right next door to a major Red settlement...? Everyone knows that if you feed an animal in the same spot on a regular basis, it'll keep going back there for more until the day it dies.''
Langham paused, glass halfway to his chapped lips as his thought about it.
''Shit, boy,'' He muttered unhappily and swallowed the alcohol, ''you might be on to something there. But the only thing I know about what's in cooling tower two, is that it's big, hungry, the Reds are terrified of it and it screams like a little girl.''
''What?''
''Oh yeah, you can hear it at any point during the day and night. Blood curdling, it is. I think it's the shape of the cooling tower distorting the noise it makes. Or at least I hope it is...'' Another drink was poured and then swallowed in a single gulp, ''We calls it the Screaming Moist.''
Jegg snorted and started laughing.
''What? That's what we call it! It's living in an old cooling tower that's still damp and it screams like a little girl! It ain't no laughing matter, people are being murdered via that beast!'' Langham growled in irritation.
''I'm sorry-''
''No you ain't.''
''You're right, I'm not.'' He giggled and tried to calm himself down, to little avail.
''Stop giggling like an idiot or I'll start calling you by your first name. In public, too.'' Langham threatened.

Jegg immediately straightened up in his chair, shutting down his giggling, forcing his mind onto something else. The ocassional giggle still bubbled in his throat though, and threatened to break his reasonably calm demeanor.
''So, when do these sacrifices usually get made, then?'' He managed to ask without chuckling.
Langham gave him a sideways glance as he picked up his bottle of booze once more, ''Twelve noon, on the dot.''
Jegg looked at his watch, then consulted the clock on the wall. Langham had always kept every single one of his time pieces in perfect time, each one ticking off the seconds in unison. Langham had always had the most accurate time keeping abilities of anyone he knew outside of the armed forces. Of course, it had been something that had been drilled into Langham at an early age as his old captain in the merchant navy had apparently been borderline psychotic when it came to having accurate time pieces.
''We got an hour before the next feeding time.'' Langham said absently, frowning when only a few drops landed in his glass.
Jegg stared at the forlorn dribble of alcohol in the bottom of Langham's glass tumbler. Then he stood up, grabbed his gun and slung it over his shoulder.
''Where you going?''
''To watch. I wanna see what's going on for myself.''
''But-''
''Mayor Langham, it's the only way I can figure out how to deal with this problem. If it can be dealt with at all.'' Jegg said bluntly, cutting Langham's protest off.
''And if the Reds catch you?''
''If I get spotted, I'll run towards the old warehouses.''
Langham blanched, ''Even worse things hiding in there. You'll be torn to pieces!'' He muttered unhappily.
''Then I'll just have to be extra careful.''
''Pffft. [i]Careful[/i], says the man who took a fully crewed 'nought into enemy territory during one of the worst storms in fifty years...'' Langham muttered sarcastically, ''Your luck'll run out some time, boy, so don't push it.''
''I'll try not to.'' Jegg said blithely as he walked out of the room.
Langham sighed, stood up and hobbled after him.

[b]Whiteshale Coal Fired Power Plant (Decommissioned), Whiteshale[/b]

Coal Run road was the main road onto the old power station's property. Over the years hundreds of thousands of vehicles hauling coal from the mines further inland had rumbled up and down its two lane length, gouging un-fixable ruts into the road. The road skirted Whiteshale village, and from there it was a four and a half mile trek to the plant with the river Tamworth flowing alongside it half a mile away to his left. Langham had seen fit to provide an ATV he'd managed to scavenge from one of the old farmsteads further down the road and Jegg was making good time. By the time he'd reached the sagging chain link perimetre fence that encircled the plant, it was twenty minutes until noon. He turned the engine off and pushed the quad bike into a cluster of bushes, out of sight, scattering some weeds and old hedge branches across it. He checked his machine gun and sidearm before proceeding carefully through the rusting main gates and towards the three huge hyperboloid cooling towers that loomed large over everything else at the fore of the plant. Even from the village, the three concrete monsters dominated most of the skyline, but up close, they were all that could be seen with a few squat control buildings no bigger than garden sheds huddling around their wide bases like tugs to a super-freighter. He located cooling tower two to the rear of the imposing trio and hunkered down in one of the rotting control rooms, waiting patiently in silence for the Reds to turn up. From his meager vantage point, he could just about make out the rusting metal access door and the steps leading up to it in the side of the tower, all concrete covered in moss and lichen. He couldn't see much beyond that, not even if the door were to be opened wide on its hinges. Not that it mattered much, he mostly wanted to see what the Reds were up to first and how many of them there were. He checked his watch. It was 12 noon now and, as Langham had stated, four skeletal Reds rumbled up to the tower in a six-wheeled APC that had been painted in a series of red and black paint splatters. They climbed out of the vehicle, the two who had been sat in the rear hauling a pair of plump Undead boys out that Jegg guessed to be in their early teens. He squeezed the barrel of his gun hard, grinding his teeth as he watched the boys be dragged kicking and screaming up the steps and into the tower. Instinct told Jegg to rush out and save the two boys from being fed to the Mutant in the tower, but the more calculating part of his brain overrode that instinct, informing him that he was outnumbered and outgunned. His rescue attempt would only result in him being killed, too, and then he would be no use to anyone. So he squatted quietly in the dirt and broken glass, peering over the rotting control panels in front of him, grinding his teeth as he watched the door slam shut behind the Reds and their captives. A minute passed in silence and then he heard it; an ear piercing shriek, the long, high pitched wail echoing loudy inside the cooling tower. Langham was right. The thing's cry did sound oddly like a child gargling water. He shuddered at the sound. He could also just about make out the two teens' screams of terror as they were confronted by the Mutant without any means of defending themselves. The four armed Skeletons burst from the metal door and hurled themselves down the steps, roaring off in their APC. Eventually, the screaming stopped. The silence flooded back, almost deafening Jegg. There was no screaming at all, no gurgling, nothing. Not even birdsong. He remained crouched in the control room, stock still and as silent as his surroundings, watching warily for any signs of movement, apalled by the Reds' actions.

When he was sure they were gone, he emerged slowly from the control room, looking around, gun raised and braced against his shoulder. He wasn't entirely sure if the four Reds had really left, but he still needed to know the full extent of what he'd been tasked with dealing with. He approached the base of the cooling tower and climbed over the foundation's thick concrete lip and groaned softly when gooey black muck and strings of algae covered his feet up to his ankles, seeping lethargically into his claw boots. He swallowed his disgust and sloshed slowly and as quietly as possible around the bottom of the huge concrete water pipe in the middle, looking around for anything suspicious. Finally, he was convinced that there was nothing in the base but stagnant pools of river water, black mud and green streaks of algae.  He moved back outside, walking around the base of the cooling tower until he came to the concrete stairs. Scraping some of the mud off his feet on the edges of the bottom steps, he ascended and slowly pulled back the rusting metal door, peeking inside. The hinges gave a low groan of protest, but otherwise the door opened with ease. He slid silently onto the walkway that led out into the middle of the huge concrete structure, where the wide, moss covered mouth of the water pipe gaped at the sky. He looked around, creeping a few steps forward. He didn't much care for the old hyperboloid style cooling towers; they'd always given him an uneasy feeling in the pit of his stomach just by looking at them. He had no idea why they gave him the creeps, they just did. And now he was stood inside one, shaded heavily from the bright sunlight and surrounded by concrete, moss and mud. He shuddered hard and fought back the irrational fear the structure imposed upon him. It was still damp inside the tower and there was a child-eating monster inside the water pipe just a couple of yards ahead of him, which didn't help matters. He knew the Mutant was inside the water pipe due to all the creamy coloured slime and bloody entrails that splashed the funneled mouth and the four concrete walkways/supports. There was even slime dripping and stringing from the old water troughs and runnels that circled the inside wall. He sighed and gripped his gun hard enough to make the bones of his hands creak. He crept forward, up to the pipe's upturned mouth and leaned forward very slightly so that he could try and see inside. All he saw was darkness within the first foot, the rest obscured by his angle of view. Going onto tip-toe, he flailed as he tried to better his view. Still, he only saw darkness. Then something within the pipe gurgled, a deep rumbling like a crocodile stuck in a drain. He stepped back from the pipe and watched in dumbfounded terror as a huge, pink tentacle thrust upwards, out of the pipe, followed by several more smaller ones squeezing out around it with a wet popping sound. It dripped the pungeant smelling slime from every tentacle, great blobs of the stuff splashing down heavily to the concrete and mud below its sleek, pink form. Jegg raised his gun, pausing in his aiming when the tip of the main tentacle buldged and split open in a spatter of pale viscous fluids, tilting downwards like a collossal pink head and baring a corkscrew of needle teeth at him. A long purple tongue erupted from the mouth, snaking around, flailing at the air, sending thick ropes of dribble arcing around the cooling tower's insides. Two of the smaller tentacles popped eyes out of their tips, the bowling ball sized black orbs focussing on him. The thing gurgled, screamed and then promptly spewed more of the bitter smelling slime high into the air, the stuff raining down around Jegg as he turned and ran with a short scream of his own. The Mutant screamed after him as he barrelled through the metal door, slamming it back against the concrete wall hard enough to crack one of the hinges. The thing inside the pipe screamed again, the whole cooling tower shuddering, concrete dust and dry pieces of lichen forming a faint mist inside the tower. Regardless of what the thing was doing, Jegg kept running, grabbed his quad bike and made for Whiteshale village as fast as he could without looking back.

[b]Rosie's Inn, Whiteshale Village[/b]

''By the Gods, boy, what happened!? And what the Hell is that you're covered in?'' Langham exclaimed as Jegg hurtled into the inn.
''Big... Bloody... Tentacles... Gross... Puked on me. Oh Gods, I hope it's sick and not... Urgh...'' He panted in horror and sat down heavily in one of the old leather bound arm chairs by the empty fire place.
Mayor Langham went and fetched a washing-up tub of warm water, a wash cloth and some soap from the kitchen. He put it on the scuffed, beer stained dark wood table in front of Jegg and the Rear Admiral immediately started washing as much of the mud and slime off himself as possible without losing what was left of his dignity in front of the few customers that were there and watching with interest.
''Just asked Maggy to draw a bath and sort out some fresh clothes for you, boy,'' Langham said softly, watching as the tall Skeleton scrubbed at his face furiously, collecting a few chunks of soap in the sharper planes of his skull.
''One big tentacle, lots of teeth, two eye stalks on smaller tentacles, plus four more small tentacles. It's got lots of teeth, a thin but [i]very[/i] long tongue and eats Undeads.'' Jegg paused, soapy water dripping from his chin and the tops of his eye sockets, ''Did I mention it has lots of teeth?''
''A coupla times, yes.'' Langham replied slowly, carefully watching Jegg in case he ended up having some kind of mental break down.
Jegg dried his hands, pulled a small notepad and pencil from a thigh pocket and started doodling. Once he'd done a quick, detailed sketch of the Mutant, he slid it across the table to Langham. Langham took the notepad, looked at it and sighed.
''What d'you recommend?'' Langham finally asked.
''Dunno yet. I'll mull it over in the bath.'' Jegg replied, standing up.
''Up the stairs, first door on your left. Take your time, boy. We'll holler if we need you.''

When Jegg closed the bathroom door behind him, he noticed the pile of neatly folded clothes sat atop the lid of the wicker laundry hamper just inside the door. He unfolded the shirt to inspect it and quickly realised that it was his. He put the black t-shirt down and inspected the rest of the clothes; the torn blue jeans that had seen better days (but they were his favourites, so he wasn't getting rid of them any time soon) and the brown, soft leather claw boots. They were all his, as was the tatty looking black leather jacket hanging from the peg on the back of the bathroom door. He wondered briefly where Maggy had acquired a set of his old clothes before remembering his last week at HMNB Ayery, the week of the Strike; he'd had a duffle of his belongings sent to Rosie's Inn, so that when he retired from the service at the end of the week, he'd only have to travel for a half hour up river to the village as opposed to doing a full day's travel by road to get home. That was the best thing about knowing Langham and his wife, Maggy. Not only were they reliable, you always had somewhere to stay, no matter how bad your situation was. And at the time, Jegg's situation had almost driven him to suicide. He stripped off his dirty clothes, stuffed them into the black bin bag that Maggy had left him and sank greatfully into the mountain of sweet smelling bubbles and the warm water they masked. He lay there for some time, soaking his bones in the large porcelain tub, idly chasing bubbles with the tip of his tail and staring out of the open window. As the bath tub was sat on a rectangular dais that had been built against the wall of the bathroom, he could see a good chunk of the river from where he lay. He stared at it, letting his mind idle through memories, both good and bad, relaxing his body for the first time in well over a year. He'd finally started to doze off when a thought occurred to him and he snorted awake, staring hard at the river. He glared at the Tamworth and its choppy waves, his sharp eyesight spotting the vague outline of something that shouldn't be there, and hadn't there a couple of weeks ago. Pulling himself into a kneeling position, he shuffled to the other end of the tub on his knees, bubbles gathering thickly in his ribs. He leaned over the edge and braced himself against the window sill and looked out at the river, studying it with great care. He could see his island haven and the surrounding waters. He changed the direction of his attention and looked out over the various roofs of the village, towards the old power plant. Water cascaded over the edges of the tub as he scrabbled through the pockets of his bagged BDUs in search for his little telescope. Grabbing it, he renewed his inspection.

''Fucking Hell, that thing's huge...'' He muttered, finally lowering the telescope from his eye.
He clambered out of the bath, dried himself off and pulled his clean clothes on, tightening his belt as much as he could, hooking his jeans over his hips. He grabbed his jacket and weapons, and hurried downstairs. Langham was behind the bar, serving a customer and Jegg called him away as soon as the other man had settled into his home brew.
''I can see the Mutant from the bathroom.'' Jegg said softly, but firmly.
''What?''
''The Mutant. I saw the rest of its body from the bathroom. I was laying there, in the tub, watching the river and something occurred to me: The waves on the river have been getting bigger and bigger over the last couple of weeks. Very gradually mind, but it's been happening. I thought it was the screwy weather, but it's not. It's that Mutant. It's a big bastard and I think it's using the water pipe in cooling tower two as a way to access dry land, because it can't survive out in the open in direct sunlight. Like a giant squid. It's big, but too delicate to survive for too long out of the water. That thing is causing the rough water for a three mile stretch of river [i]and[/i] it's got its mouth sticking out of an old water pipe so it can eat people! Or at least, I [i]hope[/i] that's its mouth...''
Langham stared at Jegg critically.
''I thought squid ate fish and the like, not people.''
''Maybe it has allergies....? I dunno! Regardless of why it's eating people and not whales and fish, we can't take this thing down without help.'' Jegg said, ushering Langham upstairs and into the bathroom. He handed Langham his telescope and pointed him in the direction of his revelation. ''See it? That faint pink blob just under the surface?''
''Fuck me sideways...'' Langham breathed softly, ''Looks like you might be right. Any ideas as to how to get rid of it?''
Jegg grimaced, ''I need to go and talk to some friends, because unless you have a fully armed Marauder class sub and a crew to man it tucked away somewhere, then we're pretty much stuffed.''
Langham sighed then nodded.
''I hope these friends of yours are good with this kind of thing.''
''They have more experience with it than I do. They also have more explosives and grudges than I currently do, too...''

[b]Command Bunker Alpha-5, Conningstone Town Border[/b]

Marty ran between the rows of old computer banks, spray can still gripped in one hand, vaulting over the front row of computers to hurtle head-first into the Commander's office. He snatched the radio hand set from its cradle as he glided over the polished surface of the large desk and immediately started fiddling with the knobs until he got a clear signal. Dave ran into the office a few seconds later, one of the modified 120mm tank shells tucked firmly under his arm only to find the Skeleton had beat him to the big, plush leather bound chair. He had his feet propped up on the finely polished hardwood desk, reciever gripped in one hand, grinning at his friend as he slid his  backside onto the desk top.
''Bastard! How d'you manage to move so quick?'' Dave growled, wiping a few beads of sweat from his brow.
''Bone King recieving you loud and clear! Over.'' Marty spoke into the handset, raising his middle finger to dave with a grin.
''Bone King, this is Stormbringer, I have two questions for you: How many explosives can you fit into an old cooling tower? And are you any good at squid hunting?'' Jegg's voice crackled over the line.
Marty and Dave exchanged looks. Dave's expression had already glazed over, mentally running some calculations. Then he grabbed the handset from Marty.
''Depends if you want to go squid hunting [i]in[/i] the cooling tower...'' He said.
''That's pretty much it. There's a giant Meteor Mutant that resembles a giant squid living in cooling tower two at Whiteshale Coal. The thing is, the rest of its still in the river and the Reds are feeding Undeads to the damned thing via the cooling tower.''
''We'll need to ask Trev if he's got any new War Crimes tucked away. How soon you need us and what's in it for us?''
''I need you here by the end of the week and I'll owe you big time.'' Jegg replied.
Dave and Marty had a quick muttered discussion about it.
''Sounds like fun! We'll see you in two days. Three at the most. Bone King out.'' Dave put the handset back in its cradle and slid from the desk where he'd been sat.
''I wonder if Governor Cosht likes fried calamari?'' Marty grinned.