This was more of an experiment than anything, but I enjoyed writing it. Ah, nothing like a crazy drabble, eh? It's kind of a few months old, but I only finished it up recently.
(these characters belong to Bethesda, I think. Herp, well they're not mine, that's for sure)
"I want this to end." The words barely leave Jack's lips but they resonate strong in his mind, pounding against his skull like a migraine. Brian turns around, a curious look on his bruised and battered face.
"Did you say something?" he asks.
"No," Jack mutters after a moment.
Brian shrugs and continues to trudge forward, pulling his feet through the sludge. Jack nails his eyes to the back of his legs and follows. Acting according to the townsfolk's fears, they figured that hiding in the sewers would keep them safe; so far, it had, but there is something... something in the back of Jack's head telling him they have to get out. He can hear the scraping on the walls, the hisses that float down the tunnel. He somehow doubts that he and Brian are the only things down here. No, he knows it. Solitude would never make him feel so uneasy, like he was being hunted. Up there, it was clear what was looking for him. But down here, he is afraid of the shadows themselves. There is something... and he has to get out.
The tunnel never seems to end. Even when the forks in the road turn up, Jack feels as though he's going in circles. Brian leads the way and he follows, glad to be the one taking orders for a change, but Brian doesn't know where he's going. He's relying on chance, unlike Jack, who has a terrible fear to lead him. Jack hesitates, second guessing himself, but interrupts nonetheless as Brian begins to take a wrong turn.
"We should go that way," Jack says, pointing to the tunnel straight ahead. Brian halts as if surprised to hear Jack's voice.
"What makes you say that?" he asks, casting a curious glance inside the tunnel.
"I just…" He just what, has a gut feeling? Brian is clearly not a "gut feeling" type of guy; it took his own capture and imprisonment to convince him that this town is twisted. No; as Jack learned, a man with his best interests in mind is a learned liar.
"There's wind coming from that tunnel," Jack lies. "It means the exit's that way."
Brian moves closer to the tunnel, standing very still.
"I don't feel any wind," he observes.
"I do," Jack presses. With every passing moment, that thing gets closer to them; he can feel it. "Do you want to get out of here alive or not?" The poorly masked panic in his voice echoes through the tunnel, sending a shudder down his spine. If that wasn't an invitation to be found, he doesn't know what is.
Brian pauses for a moment, considering. Jack hopes he remembers who it was that saved him, the ungrateful bastard.
"Alright," he says finally. Relief washes over Jack as Brian heads down the tunnel. Thank God for gullibility.
They continue on, shoes and socks uncomfortably soaked. The hissing has grown louder, morphed into whispers without words. Either Brian is not perturbed by the foreshadowing of a monster, or he hasn't yet noticed that they are being followed. Jack refrains from pressing until he swears that the voice is right behind him and he spins around, expecting to see teeth or fins or tentacles but finding only the stretch of sewer that they just passed over.
"Brian," he gasps, heart hammering painfully. "It was right there. It was right… Didn't you hear it?"
Brian's looking at him like he's out of his mind. The whispering is still there, but not as prominent. Still following, but from a distance.
"Hear what?" Brian asks uncertainly.
"The voice!" Jack cries, wringing his hands. "It was there. It's coming for me—I can feel it—"
"Hell, Jack, hold yourself together," Brian interrupts. A certain franticness appeared in his eyes. Franticness—unease—Christ, that's fear in his eyes. And not fear of what's following them—Brian clearly doesn't believe in it—it's fear of Jack.
"No, no, it was there," Jack insists, overpowered by an urge to redeem himself. He isn't crazy. "I-I heard it!" Brian is still staring at him, unnerved and cautious. His voice is light when he speaks, as though he is afraid of sending Jack over the edge or triggering some sort of violent tendency.
"There's nothing there," he murmurs. "Those people don't come down here, remember?" Jack knows that—and that is precisely the problem.
"It's not them," he whispers, casting an anxious glance over his shoulder. "It's something else…."
But Brian has had enough. He throws Jack one last skeptic look before beginning on his way again. "Then we better get going," he mutters.
Jack has half a mind to snap at him, but they can't waste more time. Right or wrong, crazy or sane, he just wants to get out.
The clatters and murmurs chase them down the tunnel, never quite catching up but always within earshot. Jack trembles—why can't Brian hear them? They're real—as real as the horror inside of him—so why? What differs between them?
They don't want him like they want me, Jack's mind murmurs. They've had their fun with him. But me—I've caused them too much trouble. They want me to pay—
He is so engulfed in his thoughts that he hardly notices when they arrive at another fork. Brian stops and turns to face Jack.
"Which way is the wind blowing now, Pocahontas?" he asks—smiling, good-natured, but cautious. Jack opens his mouth but his breath catches in his throat. The girl—it's her—runs past them, behind Brian's back. Her blood-soaked dress trails after her—she laughs—and she disappears into the next tunnel.
Bile is rising in his throat—his heart—he can't breathe—
Suddenly, it comes to his attention that his clothes are soaked; there are fresh cuts on the palms of his hands and his elbows, stinging under the sewer water. He has stumbled back, his spine pressed against the wall, cowering on the ground in the muck. An aghast whisper escapes his lips.
"She's dead. It's my fault. I killed her—"
Brian has also retreated, against the opposite wall. His anxiety is palpable and written on his face and yet he remains. His eyes are on Jack, nowhere else; he didn't see her. Surely, it can't be pity keeping him here.
"Jack," he calls, his voice quivering. "Jack, keep it together. Whatever you did, you did it to survive. We'll never make it out of here if we don't kill at least a few of these God damn—"
"She was just a girl, Brian!" Jack cries, lifting his grime-covered hands to his face. "Just a kid… I let it out and it killed her. And then Waite, he—"
"Wait, you mean Thomas Waite?" Brian interrupts. Jack nods feebly. "What happened to him?"
"They took him," Jack gasps with a shiver. "He didn't do it… They've killed him by now…"
Brian looks at his feet, his expression downcast.
"I knew him," he says softly. "Probably the only decent guy in this godforsaken place. I thought I was going crazy when I saw them drag him past my cell, but I guess not, huh."
There is an uncomfortable moment of silence. Jack is not sure whether it is for Waite, or if it is because neither of them knows what to say next. Brian ends up breaking it.
"And Ramona?" he asks quietly. "What happened to her?" Jack hesitates. Ramona—yes, that had been her name.
"They had one of them locked up in their attic," he murmurs, bringing his hands down to pull at the skin on his palms. "I… I let it out. I didn't know what was in there…!" He can't bring himself to look up as Brian considers.
"But why did they have one in their house?" he asks softly, a touch of terror in his voice. Jack can't bring himself to say it, but he finds the words leaving his lips anyway, in a quiet, fearful whisper.
"It was her mother."
Brian lets out a terrible gasp; disgusted, terrified, and pitying, all in one.
"Damn it, and they kept her in the house?" he hisses. Jack only nods. Brian sighs as he relaxes against the wall, a tired look appearing on his young face.
"I guess Thomas was too stupid to be one of them, then," he whispers.
Jack rises slowly, on wobbly legs. He is soaked from the waist down and covered in prickling scrapes, but talking about Waite got him thinking: Is he going to let his weaknesses kill him?
He should hope not.
"We should go," he says softly, fearing the sound of his voice echoing through the tunnels. After a moment, Brian nods and pushes himself away from the wall.
"Yeah," he sighs. "Which way did you say we should go?"
Actually, Jack hadn't said, but now is as good a time as any to decide. He pauses, waiting for the silence to allow the whispers.
But there is not a sound. No voices, no scratching, no hissing. All he can hear is his short gasps for air and the quickening thumps of his heart. Something is not right. The air reeks of rotting flesh and dead fish.
"Christ, what is that smell?" Brian mutters. At once, Jack is at his throat, a silencing hand coated in mingled blood and sewer water over his mouth. Brian looks ready to shout but Jack hisses, "Shh!" before he has a chance. The urgency in Jack's voice and the absolute, spiraling horror in his eyes is what keeps him reluctantly quiet.
"It's here." Jack hardly dares to breathe. It already knows where they are; it's closing in on them; every second, it gets closer.
"Then maybe we should leave," Brian hisses against Jack's hand. Sweat begins to drip down onto Jack's fingers, hot and wet like tears. He can feel his own face growing hot in his anxiety.
"But it already knows where we are," he breathes. Gripping Jack's wrist, Brian jerks his hand away from his mouth, his expression stern.
"We have to try."
Brian had a way with picking funny times to finally believe he was in danger; assuming this wasn't just his infamous pity at work again.
"We won't make it."
"We have to try."
Jack isn't convinced, but he doesn't want to die. He doesn't have a family, doesn't have a girlfriend, doesn't even have friends; but he wants to live. To survive just to exist—he supposes he is more selfish than he first thought.
"Fine," he whispers. "On three?" Brian nods curtly.
"One."
"Two."
"Three!"
They take off like rockets, bounding away from the wall—
—and running into separate tunnels.
Jack doesn't notice at first; the voices have returned in an uproar, hissing and spitting shapeless threats. Jack runs for his life, fighting back horrified tears, his burning lungs gasping for air. He feels as though nothing can stop him in his flight; and as though he will never make it. How hope can exist inside of him now—let alone alongside despair—is beyond him.
His legs lurch beneath him, worn out and weak. He can't keep running like this—he just wants it to end—
And then it does. Jack's ragged gasps and frantic splashes are interrupting complete silence.
Jack freezes, not daring to break the stillness. This can't be right—it was just behind him—where are the voices? Slowly, he realizes: he had not heard Brian's footsteps behind him. Carefully, he turns around, as if any movement will bring it roaring back.
"Brian?" he whispers. The tunnel answers him with a cruel and mocking silence. He suddenly feels very alone.
"Shit," he breathes. He gingerly attempts to move his foot back but the water's got him; cold, wet fingers around his ankles. The pungent air bites at his throat with every pained gasp, every attempt to stifle a sob.
This is it, then. Alone once more. Trapped in a maze with the illusion he can escape but really, there's no hope; there are no exits. Just an endless collection of pathways and dead ends to traverse until you realize that you've been fucking screwed from the beginning and you slowly lose your mind while grasping onto false hope. The walls are not on his side; Innsmouth is no more Jack's friend than the bastards that are after him. Brian had been his hope for escape, but now that he's gone…
All Jack has left is the knowledge that he's going to go crazy, one way or another, or he's going to die trying to get out of here.
Well, he's not afraid to admit, he's already more than a bit crazy. The nice folks at the asylum would be more than happy to attest to that. So in his mind, he only has one option left: Get the hell out, or die trying. Sounds perfectly reasonable to him.
It is without another word that Jack takes off again, his heart hammering painfully in his chest. The silence seems to give up its attempt to terrify him (not that it wouldn't have worked if it had kept trying) because the scrapings of rats and hissing of pipes have returned in an offbeat melody with the frantic splashes of his feet. He's grateful for the white noise now, even if he hadn't been just minutes earlier. At this point, anything is preferable to the petrifying silence.
(He should have kept a closer eye on Brian.)
He runs like it is still chasing him, frantic and panic-stricken. Once it's done with Brian, it'll come back for him. Jack needs to be out of there by then, or else…
He thinks he is going the right way; not that he can be completely sure. But he thinks the tunnel is getting brighter; the dankness is retreating; and the stench in the air is thinning.
(He should have been nicer to the kid, at least.)
As far as he can tell, he is still alone. He's not being followed, but Brian hasn't somehow managed to survive, either. Not as far as he can tell. But then again, what can Jack tell? Hell, he's blindly running through the sewers, running from some bloodthirsty thing that he had only heard. And that thing has Brian.
(This is Ramona Waite all over again; Brian is dead because of Jack's incompetence.)
Suddenly, Jack stops. He's not sure why; the notion of running further somehow seems… ridiculous. No, not ridiculous; typical. Running; is that all Jack can do? He had come here to find a missing man, and he'd found him. Thing was, now that man is gone again, and thanks to Jack himself. Technically—and Jack can't believe the thought even crosses his mind—he didn't see Brian die; hasn't even seen his body. He'd interpreted the sudden silence as a sign that that thing had given up on him for the moment because it'd gotten a hold of something else; in this case, Brian. But isn't that just guesswork?
God, Jack hopes so.
In the slight chance that he guessed wrong, Brian is alive somewhere down here, and probably scared out of his wits. Jack came to Innsmouth with a job to do—
—and he realizes with a jolt of anxiety that he intends to see it through.
Apparently, the faint hope that Brian gave him hasn't died out entirely; not yet.
Jack silently curses up a storm as he spins around and bolts in the opposite direction. If he ends up dying for this kid, he knows already that it won't be worth it. He's a private investigator, not a babysitter.
He splashes back through the muck, a revived determination in his step. He is half begging himself to turn back, half reluctantly urging himself forward. He's sure he's finally gone crazy; whatever flicker of doubt he had, it was gone now.
It takes him several minutes to retrace his steps but despite his efforts, he's not entirely sure he has it right. The growling fear in his chest is too enraged from being ignored to lead him now. Until he reaches the intersection where he lost Brian, he has nothing to rely on but a terror-blurred memory.
And then he knows he's made it. He recognizes the markings on the walls. But there is no sign of Brian. Surely, if he escaped, he would come here…?
No, of course not. He'd try to get out of godforsaken place, just like Jack did. But Jack came back, and that begs the question… Would Brian do the same?
Jack shakes the doubt from his head; he came back to do the rescuing, not be rescued himself. If there's one thing he's learned, it's that there's no one looking out for him but himself. The thought sends a cold chill through his stomach despite himself.
"Brian?" he calls out. Too quiet, too loud; Brian won't be able to hear him, but something else might. Jack curses softly, wringing his marred hands.
"Brian?" A bit louder this time. The echo mocks his frail voice.
This clearly isn't working. He feels more alone than ever, calling for someone who obviously isn't there. He realizes that he'll have to go after Brian on foot and swallows loudly.
Apart from the tunnel they had originally come from and the one that Jack just came through, there is only one other possible route. It looms before Jack, somehow darker and more intimidating than the rest.
He doesn't have to do this—why can't he just save himself and call it a day?
Because the kid is depending on him, that's why.
Jack heaves a sigh and steps forward, into the shadows.