A/N: My contribution to the DinCobb Fall Fest Mini Bang!

Bird is the AMAZING artist that I was paired up with and you should all check out their tumblr ASAP: Thank you so much Bird!!! You're input was invaluable and your art gives me the will to live <3 I stare at it constantly, 24/7, it's become a part of me <3 You captured the vibes of the scene so well, you indulged my silly story changes, gave me the most amazing art to stare at, and I couldn't be happier to have been paired up with you!

Cobb's knee aches.

The right one, specifically. An uncomfortable, dull pressure beneath his kneecap that keeps forcing him sideways on his barstool to bend and stretch it out. The ache had been building all day, thickening like the clouds overhead as he trudged, squatted and knelt through the forest with his camera. By the time he'd printed the pictures and dragged himself to Taanti's bar, the clouds had cracked open and his knee was promising a very painful night.

The rain comes down like it has a vendetta against Taanti's furnace and the cozy way it wraps around Cobb, pummeling the panes like it's looking for a way in. The booths, tables, and barstools stretched out on either side of Cobb (sans one) are empty, and all but him, Taanti, and his deputy, Scott, are gone for the night. The smart thing to do, probably.

But the smell of nachos, citrus-cleaner, and body-odor is more welcoming than the hell on earth happening outside, and he has no inclination of barging out there and giving the rain what it wants. Let it try and find its way in. Taanti patches the roof himself, so it'll have its work cut out for it.

Still, if it keeps up like this until Saturday, as the weatherman predicts, it'll ruin all plans of trick-or-treating for the kids.

Cobb isn't one for dressing up in cooky costumes and going door-to-door for treats, not even as a child. His mother wasn't around to help with the tradition, and his father was too busy drinking himself into a stupor to do much besides yell at him to stop making so much noise. The costumes he'd cobbled together out of his father's old clothes weren't much in terms of quality—nor were his efforts appreciated by said father—and as soon as he hit 9 years old he dropped the holiday altogether.

The kids here in Free Town love it, though. Witnessing their delight for dressing up and harassing their neighbor's for candy fills a hole inside Cobb's heart he didn't realize had been empty since denouncing his father's scratchy safety-vests and cement-covered boots. He'd crumple the clouds in his fist and toss them away if he could. Anything to avoid confining the kids to a Halloween spent indoors.

For now, the best he can do is keep an eye on the weather channel and if things don't look up, they'll have to do their trick-or-treating early.

"So, how's it going?" The bartender, Taanti, asks, gesturing with one hand at the papers spread around Cobb, hanging a damp cloth over his shoulder as he tucks recently dried glasses under the counter. "Been staring at the same spot for a while now."

His dark skin glows warmly under the balmy lights as he picks up a stack of coasters and puts them under the counter as well. One of his two braids hangs over his shoulder while the other falls down his back, swaying slightly as he moves. There's streaks of gray in it. When did that happen? It'd been completely black when Cobb first met him, which was...what? 10? 12 years ago?

Huh.

Even a decade later, Taanti's got him beat in physical girth. That, at least, hasn't changed. Ever since his teens, Cobb's been nothing but long, stocky limbs. A skinny beanstalk that'd do well to eat more, according to the lovely old ladies who ran a deli near the shoebox apartment he'd grown up in. Despite being taller, he doesn't think he'll ever match Taanti's broad shoulders and paunchy stomach.

Heh, it's said that opposites attract, and Cobb supposes that works for friends too. He's the exact opposite in almost every way, white-skinned, lanky, and blonde. The only thing they share in terms of physical features is brown-eyes (and gray streaks now, apparently.) Cobb can't really judge. Pushing mid-50's, his hair is more silver than blonde now. A result of age? Or unwarranted stress? Who's to say?

Groaning softly, he pushes his empty cup across the shiny wooden countertop in a silent plea for more as he twists on his chair and stretches his leg out again. Instead of refilling it with a nice, much-needed whiskey, Taanti replaces it with a tall glass of water and a pointed look.

"Stop givin' me good habits," Cobb grumbles, taking it anyway.

"Don't trust you to drive tipsy on a clear night," Taanti says, still watching him with a pointed expression, so Cobb takes an appeasing sip and raises his eyebrows to say see, I'm drinking it.

"I can drive you home," Scott pipes up eagerly in the seat next to him, leaning against the counter so Cobb gets a glimpse of his stubbled jaw and swept brown hair.

He hides his wince behind his glass. "No. No, it's fine," he downs the rest of the water and hands it back to Taanti for a refill. It's not like he'd even been drinking hard—just a glass or two he's been nursing for the better part of three hours. But it's enough, apparently, by Taanti's standards, that he isn't fit to leave until he's completely sober. Cobb can play along if it means he won't be assigned a chaperone.

He hasn't needed one for the last five years, and he doesn't plan on regressing now.

"I really wouldn't mind," Scott insists, scooting closer. "We can keep going over the case at your place." He picks up the picture Cobb had been staring at, printed on their old, out-of-date printer in washed colors that makes it look more dull and fuzzy than it should be. Still, he can make out piles of dirt and open ground fine enough.

Cobb sips his water, buying himself time to figure out a proper excuse to not to do that.

"Find out who's been digging those holes yet?" Taanti asks, offering Cobb the lifeline he's looking for, which he seizes eagerly.

"Not yet," he turns towards Taanti, picking up a different photo of another hole. "It's been a real pain in the ass. Found a few prints in the mud, but they didn't lead anywhere. Lost em' as soon as they hit the road."

Taanti looks up from the pail of ice he's dumping down the sink, perplexed. "Bramble Cross?"

"No, the paved one by Beggar's Trail."

His face scrunches. "The one up near the farm?"

Scott's mouth twists in disgust as he drops his photo onto the counter. "Yeah. I wouldn't be surprised if that brute had something to do with this."

"We don't know that," Cobb admonishes, giving him a hard look. "And brutes a bit harsh, don't you think?"

"Well, he is, isn't he?" Scott huffs, shrugging. "The way he's always going around like he's better than everyone else."

"Yeah, well, I wouldn't suggest sayin' that to his face," Cobb drops the photo in hand and picks up another. "We've still got kids squashin' those pumpkins of his, so we're gonna be seeing a lot of him until we put a stop to it."

"Yeah, I know," Scott's face pinches like he smells something unpleasant. "He came by the office today looking for you."

Cobb turns in his seat, quirking an eyebrow. "What'd he say?"

Scott looks away with a scowl, crossing his arms. "I don't know. He never wants to talk to me. Always insists on talking to you."

Cobb rolls his eyes. That might be on account that he didn't call him a brute behind his back. That man had a way of picking up all the chatter in town despite holding firmly to his title as a recluse. He can't say he's thrilled at being sought out by the disgruntled farmer, though. That man's as delightful as an angry bull and just as built. Cobb never left a conversation with him feeling satisfied and always vaguely threatened.

"It's those special pumpkins of his, right?" Taanti asks, also taking Scott's empty glass and replacing it with one of water.

"Yep," Cobb runs a tired hand through his hair.

Taanti winces. "Good luck."

Cobb grunts.

"I don't know why he's making such a fuss about it," Scott says, leaning his crossed arms onto the counter to get a good look at a picture of a squashed white pumpkin. "He was going to take them down in a few days anyway."

"Doesn't matter. It's still his property." Cobb downs the rest of his water like he's tossing back a shot of whiskey and stretches his leg a few times before getting up. Dropping a few bills onto the counter, he announces, "I'm headin' out for the night."

"I can drive you," Scott offers again, rising off his stool, but Cobb stops him with an open hand.

"No, I'm feelin' fine. Better to head home yourself before this storm gets any worse."

To punctuate his point, a clap of thunder shakes the window panes and the rain comes down harder, washing down the glass in thick sheets that smear the building across the street.

"Yeah, okay," Scott sighs, shoulders sinking in disappointment. Cobb pretends not to notice.

"Roads ought to be flooding soon," Taanti says at Cobb's back. "If they aren't already." He hesitates a moment. "You can always stay the night, Marshal. Got room on the couch for ya."

A good idea, probably. Taanti lives on the second floor of his bar, so the farthest Cobb would have to go is up the stairs near the bathroom. But Taanti's couch is the equivalent of a concrete slab and Cobb yearns for the comfort of his orthopedic back pillow.

God, he really is getting old.

"And add more knots to my creaking back," Cobb turns, smiling ruefully with a shake of his head. "I'd be more comfortable sleeping out in the rain."

Taanti huffs, leaning over the counter to grab Cobb's empty cup and rinse it out. He smiles, but the concerned crinkle around his eyebrows doesn't disappear.

"I'll see you tomorrow then."

Cobb tips his hat. "See ya tomorrow."

Scott bids Taanti good-night as well and follows at Cobb's heels. Cobb hikes his jacket up higher, bowing his head as he charges into the rain, but it still drenches him in the handful of seconds it takes to get to his truck. A red, beat-up old thing that doesn't have proper A/C and a gas meter that drops at random whether the tank is full or not, but it's carried him through worse storms than this.

As he pulls out and heads down the main road, he watches Scott reach his car further down the street and slip inside. Cobb shakes his head. He's going to need to have a conversation with that boy about workplace relationships sooner or later, and that's the last thing he needs on top of the heap of problems already in his lap. Doubts about hiring a 22-year-old to be his second still linger in his mind. The kid is a fast learner, but he has a worrying tendency to jump the gun. Cobb did too, when he was that age. He's riding on it mellowing out the more they work together. Leading by example and all that.

Sighing, he turns off the paved—but only faintly pot-holed—road and up the marshy, mud-slicked one of Beggar's Trail. The forest doesn't bother waiting for him to crest the hill before it swallows him whole. Plenty of trees still have their leaves and the foliage eases the pummel of rain against his windshield, giving the wipers room to do their job with some sufficiency.

As much as he wants to gun it home and heat himself a nice cup of coffee, sliding off-road and getting stuck in a ditch doesn't sound anymore appealing. He grudgingly keeps the truck at a steady pace. When the left side of the tree's split open a little while later, it's to a wide-open plot of land. It's bowled in by the forests, like a personal fence protecting the farm within from the outside world.

The Vizsla farm actually extends miles beyond the tree-line, land that's only privy to the three remaining members of the family. The countless "No Trespassing" signs dotting the borders did more than enough to get that message across.

The farm itself is as lovely as it is ominous.

When the sun's out, the variegated leaves make the farmhouse pop out of the landscape, turning it into a picture pulled straight out of a painting. The crops are grown to the left, large and peaked, in the process of being harvested. Corn, squash, potatoes, carrots, tomatoes, beans, just about anything that will take to the land. The orchards grow closer to the house—a bounty of apples, oranges, peaches, apricots, and plums—and a small vineyard near that, bursting with large bunches of purple grapes.

The silo stands tall and proud, painted a bright, vibrant red, close to a barn with a more subdued, yet rustic shade. Livestock litter the property, from hens left to peck at the ground, to horses and cows grazing in a small pasture. The farmhouse is a beautiful two story, wooden house with a red-shingled roof and wrap-around porch. A charming triangle dinner-bell hangs from the gable-roof.

But under the current downpour, the colors are dull and the shadows stretch, pulled out of every dark crevice. The plants hang heavy, beaten down by the rain. The barn is closed tight, the animals all put away, and the silo stands like a strange monument meant to scare outsiders away. The farmhouse is dark and lifeless, the windows like the sunken holes of a skull staring back at him.

Cobb's eyes flicker to the fence lining the property near the road and the line of white pumpkins set along it. They'd been shifted to accommodate for the empty spaces left by their smashed neighbors. They're large and round, straight out of Vizsla's special patch. Cobb's never seen a pumpkin with skin as white as these, made even stranger by the odd T-shape the Vizsla's carved into the center.

Cobb asked about it his first year here, but all he'd gotten was a variety of "Oh, that's just what they do. Don't worry about it," and "It's some strange, old tradition. Done it as long as the towns been here, as far as I know."

Once, Cobb even got up the nerve to ask Paz Vizsla himself, but all he'd gotten was a pair of hard blue eyes staring at him for an uncomfortably long time before Vizsla turned around and walked away.

A delightful man.

Cobb groans when he spots another empty space farther down the line. Looks like he'll be getting another visit from Vizsla tomorrow. Not only are the pumpkins getting smashed, they're being stolen now too. He can already feel a headache forming.

A flash of yellow light draws his attention from the road, and, squinting, he leans forward in an attempt to make it out. Far across the fields, a figure treks across the farmland, having come out of the tree's near the pasture. It's dark, and there's too much rain to make out any discernible features other than they're tall and carrying a lantern that swings slightly as they walk. The figure stops, and for a brief moment, Cobb swears they turn, as if sensing his gaze.

A second later, the lantern goes out.

Shrubs scrape against the truck and he yanks on the steering wheel, righting himself. When no longer in danger of running off the road, he snaps to the rearview mirror, trying to find the figure again, but it's too dark. In the moments that he'd looked away, the storm had swallowed them up.

A pit falls in his stomach and he tears his eyes away, shaking his head. It's probably just Vizsla checking on the livestock.

In the woods...

He fixates on the road as the farm falls behind him, much to his relief.

A short-lived relief.

He's only a mile away when the truck suddenly sputters. Startled, he glances down at the gas meter, but there's still a half tank left. The truck sputters again, then again, and he curses violently when he nearly slams his head into the steering wheel as it comes to an abrupt stop. In a split-second the engine dies and the headlights cut off, leaving him suspended in darkness.

"You've got to be kidding me," he growls, twisting the key in the ignition, but it only sputters once before falling silent. He takes the key out, shoves it back in, twists, but the engine doesn't even make a sound this time. "Goddammit!" He flings the door open.

Popping the hood, he rounds the truck, shoving it upward. Using his phone as a flashlight, he bends over to get a look at the engine, when through the pounding rain, he pauses, picking up a noise. Going stock-still, he strains his ears, trying to make it out again, and alarm shoots up his spine when he recognizes it.

A child crying.

It's soft, almost undetectable under the rain. Redirecting the light of his phone, he cautiously walks to the side of the road, peering into the short ditch. At first he sees nothing but sodden bushes and underbrush, but then the light catches onto something wide, round, and white.

Inside it, something squirms.

Cobb swallows hard, glancing back at his truck, which is as silent, dead, and useful to him as a rusting log. Looking back into the ditch, he hems and haws over stupid decisions and every terrible horror movie he's ever watched, before carefully climbing down the steep, mud-slicked sides. Heart pounding, he approaches the white object—a pumpkin—and peers inside to find...a child.

"Shit," he rushes forward, brushing aside the bush half concealing the pumpkin. The child, a toddler if he had to guess, winces, shrinking away from the light, with a smaller, more repressed sob. Cobb shifts his phone to the side so he's not blinding him.

"Hey, hey," he shushes him gently, tipping the pumpkin forward a little to get a better look. "Easy, little buddy. It's okay."

A pair of large, brown—almost black—eyes peer at him as the kid looks up from his scrunched position, short dark hair plastered against his forehead. He's small, skin so pale it's concerning, and covered in a soaked, old-timey frock with sleeves that fall past his hands and a hem that completely covers his feet.

"I've got ya," Cobb says, reaching in to pick him up, but the child cries out in alarm, gripping the side of the pumpkin like his life depends on it. Cobb snaps his hands back, startled by the intense reaction.

Lightning flashes across the sky, a roll of thunder just seconds behind it. A strong gust of wind blows against him, knocking his hat into the bush nearby and snaring it in the brambles. He's only been out here for a few minutes and he's already drenched. Who knows how long this kid's been here.

"Come on, little guy, we gotta go," Cobb tries to pick him up again, but the child cries out in distress, even louder, little fingers digging into the pumpkin's flesh.

To hell with it, Cobb picks up the pumpkin instead. The kid blinks at him, wide eyed, distress momentarily overcome with surprise as Cobb hauls them up the slick, muddy ditch, careful not to slip and send them both sprawling back down.

Blinking rain out of his eyes, he crests the ditch and nearly falls back down in surprise. The hood is still up, but his truck is rumbling again, lights on as if he'd forgotten to turn them off. Cobb blinks hard, half convinced his eyes are playing tricks on him. Maybe he did drink too much. Maybe he blacked out for a second and mistook it for the truck dying.

Two glasses of whisker over the course of three hours has never left him black-out drunk before, though. And he remembered popping the hood. It's still open. His elbows still ache from keeping himself from slamming into the steering wheel. He glances up and down the road for answers, but all he gets is another roll of thunder.

Whatever, he'll figure it out later. As long as it gets him home, he'll take it.

He sets the kid in the front seat before slamming the hood shut and hopping in as well, throwing it out of park and hitting the gas so quickly the truck lurches. He's overcome with the urge to gun it down the road, and nearly presses harder on the gas pedal before rational thought returns. The storm is getting worse and if he freaks out now, it'll only send him right back into the ditch, which is something he can't afford.

Especially now, he thinks, glancing at the kid, who's staring up at the window, eyebrows scrunched in concern. He isn't crying anymore, at least. That's a good sign.

Thankfully, the cabin isn't much farther. Cobb's half a mile from home before he realizes, with annoyance, that he'd forgotten his hat. Grumbling under his breath, they descend a steep hill and pull up to a quaint, wood-paneled house. Well, he says house, but it's more like an old, lovingly refurbished, slightly larger than normal hunting shack he'd claimed as his own—under the conditions of a rent-to-own agreement between him and the mayor, who previously owned it. The driveway is less of a driveway and more like a small lake that splashes up his pants as he hops out of the truck.

"Come on, little guy," Cobb gathers the pumpkin in his arms. "Let's get outta this rain."

He fumbles for his keys and kicks the door open as soon as it's unlocked, uncaring for the mud he's tracking inside as he kicks it shut again. Inside is a large room that's both living room and dining room. An old, threadbare couch acts as a wall between the two. A short, wooden coffee-table and an old-fashioned stone-fireplace sits in front of it, and a small, two-person table sits behind it. An actual wall splits the last third of the cabin with two doors on either side, one that leads to a small kitchen and the other to a bathroom. A wide-rung ladder sits in the middle, leading up to the loft where his bed is.

Cobb gently sets the pumpkin on the couch and grabs the thick, green throw-blanket strewn across the armrest. He tries to take off the frock so the kid isn't sitting in a soaked hunk of fabric, but as expected, the kid curls in on himself with a cry of alarm. So instead, Cobb dumps the blanket inside and wraps it around the kid as best he can, despite the kids' squirming. He steps back to examine his handy-work.

The kid looks down at the blanket with wide-eyes, then back at Cobb, and he can't tell if he's offended by it or just skeptical.

"Don't worry, I'm just trying to warm ya up," Cobb reassures him. The kid is practically drowning in the blanket, only his head is visible, popping out of the center of the mass. Cobb smiles sadly, heart aching. He's so tiny. "What were you doing out there, anyway?"

He doesn't expect an answer, but the kid makes a disgruntled noise anyway, eyes jumping to a flash of lightning outside the window. His little eyebrows curl up.

"Nothing's gonna getcha," Cobb promises, putting on what he hopes is a more well-meaning smile. "How about I make us some hot chocolate? That sound good?"

The kid makes another noise, this one half-interested, eyes still glued to the window. Cobb turns on his heels, smile turning to a grimace, and beelines for the kitchen. Now that the excitement is wearing off, his knee throbs, the ache quickly returning to make itself known. He walks to the sink with a stiff limp, careful not to bend it too much. The last time he was so careless, it had buckled right out from under him, and he nearly knocked his head on the edge of the coffee-table.

He's reaching for a pan in the sink when a yellow light catches his eye through the window and his heart jumps in his throat. It settles a second later when he realizes it's just his truck

And then jumps again as he realizes it's his truck. In his haste to get inside, he forgot to turn it off.

Cursing, he hobbles back to the door and onto the pouch, and sure enough, the truck is still idling. After what happened on the road, he doesn't want to run the risk of the battery drying out. Doesn't trust it not to. Wrapping his jacket tighter around himself, he plunges into the torrent. The wind had picked up and it knocks into him so hard it jostles his knee, nearly sending him into the mud.

Hissing through his teeth he wrenches the door open and turns the truck off. Shoving the keys into his pocket, he turns to head back, but pauses, cocking his head as a noise breaks through the rain. A horse, it sounds like. One must've gotten loose from the farm. It'd explain why Vizsla was out wandering the woods this late at night. Judging by how loud and harsh it's neigh is, it doesn't sound too happy to be out in the rain.

"That makes two of us," Cobb grumbles, but freezes in his next step, shoulders tensing. The hairs on the back of his neck stand on end as another clap of thunder builds through the clouds, and through it, a noise. A scream. Throaty, angry, and visceral. Far away but fierce. A chill washes down his spine, goose-flesh prickling his skin.

The thunderclap drowns it out as it rolls across the sky, covering the scream as quickly as he'd heard it, but Cobb doesn't stay to see if he can catch it again. He limps to the house, scrambles up the porch, and slams the door, heart pounding as he twists the deadbolt shut.

He doesn't realize he's breathing hard until he hears it in the wide space between him and the door. After a few more shuddering breaths, he closes his eyes and inhales deeply, holding it for a few seconds, before letting it go, encouraging his heart to calm. When it's back under control and he's breathing normally, he shakes his head, huffing sheepishly.

"Geez," he mutters, scrubbing his hands down his face to wipe away his rattled thoughts. It was probably just a coyote. Some of them still roam around, trying their luck with garbage cans and small game, before inevitably making their way up the mountain for the upcoming winter.

Sighing, Cobb limps back to the kitchen, forcefully ignoring the anxious persistence that he's heard a coyote scream before, and that was not a coyote.

He glances back at the door. Turns away again, scoffing. Shakes his head and walks into the kitchen.

He returns a minute later, sliding the bolt-latch shut as well.