Chapter Two

Before I continue along the road on foot, I go back a few yards along the asphalt to check for any signs of blood or carnage. I know I didn't hit her, but nevertheless, I might have grazed her. But except for the skid marks made by the tires on my Tumbler, there is no sign of anyone or anything. Checking every inch of the edge of the trees yields no clue. Not a dry leaf is crushed to pieces, not a twig is broken to signify that someone stepped here recently.

The bark on the trees appears intact. No hair is trapped in the rough fibers or fabric caught on branches.

I return to the spot I calculate the woman was standing, but then I check the skid marks. If I estimated correctly, I should have hit her. I slammed the breaks but the car did not stop. I step to the beginning of the skid marks. She should have stood just a few yards in front of it. The estimated spot she stood overlaps with the twisting tire marks. Considering the velocity at which I was travelling, I should have hit her. There was no doubt in my mind about that. But there was no impact except for when I hit the cliff wall.

I return to the Tumbler and check for signs of collision. There's nothing on the front of the vehicle. But I can't check the left side, the side with which I would have hit the woman. The left is flush against the cliff. Irritated that I can't be thorough, I turn away and continue along the curving road.

Finally I allow myself to ask the emotional questions. Who is that woman? Is it coincidence that she looked like Rachel? Is it Rachel? Or am I just hallucinating? Is there something in the air? Some earthly gases rising up into the night from a deep crack in the crust? The Ancient Greek oracle at Delphi rested at one of these crevasses, unwittingly breathing in gas that contributed to alleged visions. I am reluctant to leave the spot that I have just seen Rachel. I shake my head at myself. Already I have assumed that the woman is Rachel. I have no proof. In fact, just up until two days ago, I only had proof of the opposite. But now, I also have proof that she is alive. I pat the compartment on my belt and start walking.

I stick to the wall of the cliff. There is hardly a breeze as I march along, my boots crunching on the muddy gravel at the base. Glancing up, I see that the cliff appears easy to scale, but might contain many loose pockets of dirt and rocks.

When I first received the letter, I debated coming here as Bruce. She addressed the letter to Bruce, not Batman. But now I know that I made the right choice. If I had arrived here as Bruce, I would have crashed just the same, but I might have been injured. The resiliency of the Tumbler and the intelligence of its design kept me from even getting so much as whiplash.

My cape hangs down heavily, almost like it is weighted with rocks sewn along the hem. There are many advantages to having the cape, especially since it allows me to fly. The fabric is custom made, designed to become rigid like a glider when a mild electrical current is passed through it. Besides that, it can be used as a formidable weapon, to blind or suffocate my attackers. It's also very slippery, so if someone tries to grab me from behind, I can easily slip out of their grip. Because of its minimally reflective quality, it can camouflage me more effectively than my armor, which is more reflective than the cape.

My thoughts wander back to the letter from Rachel. It would have been suicide coming here as Bruce. None of this could be possible. Rachel is dead. Bruce, she's dead, I think. Barely six months had passed since she was kidnapped by Maroni's men and killed.

After walking for about half a mile, the air begins to grow moist. The mist renders my night vision useless, so I turn it off, opting to go walking in the dark. A flashlight will do well enough, even though the beam illuminates the mist as well as the ground.

The air is very still now, not one breeze comes my way. I notice that there are no sounds of insects, but a heavy silence. Now and then there is the rustling of branches, even though there is no wind. Sometimes a twig cracks across the road in the woods, as though someone is walking along with me. Whipping the beam across into the trees reveals nothing. There is no movement whatsoever.

I stop walking and look into the woods, waiting for more sounds. Another twig cracks. Branches creak together. Then silence.

I resume walking, and within a few steps, arrive at a bridge. Scanning the flashlight around, I notice a booth. It is empty, and sports a small sign that says, "Welcome to Silent Hill."

I sweep the flashlight around the area, and find no sign of anyone. There is a small parking lot, enough for about five or six cars. A single car is parked there, the license plate says New York. I turn to go to the car when I hear a growl. I freeze. The beam of light shines through the swirling mist, choked by the moisture in the air.

The growl is followed by snarling breathing. It sounds several feet away, behind me. I looked over my shoulder. Nothing. I swing the light around. Nothing is in sight. But I can still hear the animalistic grunts and growls. My eyes come to rest on the booth. The sound is coming from there.

I approach the booth, the mist blocking my sight of the other end of the short bridge. It is wide enough only for one car to drive upon it. There is still water below, the smell of fish and moss enters my nose.

As I approach the booth, I start to hear a high-pitched, electrical whining, like radio feedback. The growls become louder.

The booth's window is almost above eye level, so I have to raise myself up a little on my toes before I shine the light inside. Much of the light reflects back at me, but some manages to illuminate what is within. The radio feedback heightens to shrill, intermittent with heavy static. But that is not what catches my attention. The entire lower half of the booth is soaked with blood and bits of flesh, with a corpse being devoured by only what can be described as hyenas. Huge muscular beasts with bloody, lesioned, furless flesh. They dug through the intestines and gnawed at the contents within the ribcage.

The brightness of the blood is so jarring that my heart begins to pound within me. But the flashlight catches their attention. With growls of irritation they turn to the light, squinting their bloody eyes at the brightness. I take a step back, and watch as they slowly trot out of the booth and begin to circle around me. The radio feedback sounds continuously inside the booth.

Any moment now, I know one of them will pounce. Discolored saliva drips from their teeth, their snouts soaked with blood from their recent feed. I reach to my belt and equip a batarang.

They start to jog around me, about to come in for an attack. Then with a deep-throated bark, one of them pounces at me. I fling the batarang at it, and the black metal slices its throat. It bowls into me with a yelp while the other one chooses that moment to leap at me. The flashlight flies out of my hand and skids to the ground, the beam of light waving wildly and then grinding to a halt, shining its beam at the bridge.

I utter a cry as I feel their teeth clamp down against my armor. They are not able to bite through, but they make some prominent teeth marks. I begin to grapple with the two beasts. They repeatedly go for my throat and tear at my cowl.

The two of them together are able to hold me down, rendering me unable to fight against them. They are as large as Great Danes, and possibly even more powerful with deadly jaws. I hear one of the plates in my armor crack from a bite.

Then abruptly I hear a gunshot. It startles the dogs as well as myself, and one of the dogs slumps down, dead from a well-placed headshot. I turn to the bridge, the direction from which I think the gunshot came. Sure enough, there is another spark of light from behind the mist as the gunman fires again, and the second beast slumps down on top of me. With a couple of twitches, it succumbs to death. I push the animal away from me and jump to my feet, breathing hard.

The gunman approaches me slowly, his feet stepping into the beam of the fallen flashlight. I pick up the light and shine it on a young man of about seventeen. He studies me curiously, his handgun aimed directly at me in perfect form. After several moments he lowers the gun. "Dude, what the fuck are you wearing?"