Disclaimer: Konami owns all Intellectual Property rights to Silent Hill the game and other wares. The story herein is a work of fiction based from the video game, but all works that follow are my own and for the sole purpose of entertainment at this time. This work is not intended to be sold, otherwise copied, or for purchase in any way. This story is inspired only by the video game, but all characters and alternative landscapes herein are my own invention, and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Time's Speed
Limit
Chapter One
Road trip. I'd been on the road for a solid 72 hours—living on alternating sips of Mountain Dew, Red Bull, and coffee, sleeping only when necessary (oh, about every 14 hours or so). Even with sleep, that long, buzzing tiredness started to set in, and I knew that, sooner or later, I'd have to find a rest stop again and actually rest—or I could nod off at the wheel like a total jackass—then I'd rest for good. No point in wasting a perfectly good month-long vacation winding up in a crematorium. 2800 miles made for a long trip, and I was of the school that sleep was a necessity for sanity.
Now that I look back on it, maybe I should have tried to stay awake.
I should explain how I got here, even though I'm not entirely all that sure…
I had (yes, had) a really high-pressure Wall Street job. I was one of the most successful young women on Wall Street, and certainly the most successful woman at Wynston & Armley. At the tender age of 27, I was promoted upon receiving my MBA, and made a great token woman on the board of eight directors (two other women had made it, but they were 25 years my senior and I was in charge of them). I played the game, and I played it well. I did anything I could to get that position—and yes, I think I fucked every chairman there to get that goddamn promotion, and would have fucked the chairwomen, too, if I'd had to (they sure looked like they needed a good lay). Four years, and four men to a promotion as Chairwoman Queen Bitch from Hell, otherwise known as Delia Wallace. But I could've gotten that promotion without screwing anybody (in a manner of speaking)—in just four short years, I made millions for the company, been published and printed and profiled in countless Finance Magazines, and was known around the Board at the "Miracle Million Maker." Hey, these Wall Street types aren't clever, but they can buy and sell clever if they…if we…want to.
But by the ripe old age of 28, I was burned out. Being the Chairwoman on a board of Chairpeople isn't easy for a seasoned pro, let alone a kid like me who's never really seen the world outside of the great big money filter known as New York City. But hell, some kids have all the luck. I was good at buying the right bonds, skirting the law (in other words, doing the job my way and then turning around and making it all look legal), back-stabbing, getting meddlers and other peons fired, but most of all, I've always seemed to have this weird ability to push others into getting what I want.
I wanted to be rich by my own hand, retire at 30, invest, and spend the rest of my life being and independently wealthy bitch, whoring all over the globe.
And I did it. Sure, I had more than my share of luck to begin with—rich family, only child, good schools—but a lot of the strings after that, well, I pulled those on my own.
But I was tired of it. Done playing, ready to go home to my dead parents, move back into our large but humble family estate, and be done with it. Better than suicide—now there's a way to retire (yeah, right).
It seemed no one wanted to let me go for a while, and I didn't think I'd be able to leave just like that. But I did. I left for a month's vacation, and I didn't intend to go back.
The next thing they'd see was my letter of resignation.
Yep. 28-year-old poor little rich girl with something to prove to her dead mummy and daddy—finally gave up, took her ball, and went home.
I should've just remained part of the idle rich. But I had to prove I was good enough to earn our family money and name. I had to, and there was no other choice for me. Stupid me. Oh well, at least I learned before it was too late.
At the office party to celebrate my first vacation with the company (these alcoholics will party for any reason whatsoever), I made a big joke over leaving. "Where shall I go, and whatever shall I do?"
That's when Howard Croft, Executive VP of Finance, answering only to the god known as our President and CEO (and I answered only to both of them), and the sloppiest, kinkiest lay I've ever had (trapeze and rubber pants, need I say more?), handed me a map, and a dart.
"What's this?" I said, automatically taking the items from him.
"Well, why don't you do that precious little kitsch thing, roving across the country and 'see America first'?" He took the map back from me and placed it on the wall with a few pieces of tape. "Shoot your dart, and where it lands, you'll go. And, of course," he slipped into a very bad imitation of John Wayne (which was his best impression, the poor sap); "Y'all have to do it the real 'Pioneer' way…y'all got to get in yer car and drive there. No flyin', see, that's cheatin', pard."
The group uttered hollow laughter—when Howard Croft made a joke, rare as the occasion was—no one dared not to laugh, no matter how asinine.
He smiled a little at me, an odd smile I'd never seen on him before, making him look vaguely like a crazed murderer with a teenager to torture freshly trapped in his basement. I returned his smile with a polite but cautious one of my own.
"Okay, Howard, you win. I'll do it. Stand back."
I fired the dart.
Howard got to the map first (of course).
"You're going to have to pack for quite a trip, Delia."
I sighed inwardly. "Why? Where am I going?" I started to lean toward the map. Howard's hand was in the way and I couldn't see where the dart…where I had chosen for my little getaway.
He smiled that same odd smile again, and for no apparent reason, my heart suddenly dropped into my stomach. I didn't like that smile.
"Oh, it's a quaint little resort on Toluca Lake. In Silent Hill."