Wait. Corey paused at the top of the staircase. There may be something he could use here. It would be ridiculous to pass it up and go marching wildly through this mad-house with some blinding indignation, unprepared, when he could go marching wildly through this mad-house while prepared instead. He needed to be quick, though. Mia's clock was ticking. Images kept flashing through his mind of her lifelessly body hung on a meat-hook, or laying face-down on the dusty driveway with blood oozing from her mouth, dead eyes still half-open.
At the workbench again, Corey scrounged quickly, then noticed that on the wire mesh behind the bench there was a pair of bolt cutters, of all things. Quickly, he checked his inventory. Something would probably need to be dropped, but what? He had almost enough space, but not quite. Ruefully, he took a moment to glower at a worthless hunk of metal that was taking up space. He'd unwittingly picked it up at some point, though he didn't know why; it just seemed extremely important at the time. He realized only later that he was incapable of putting it down. He could pick it up, turn it in his hands, and look at it. He did so just then, in fact. It was silver-gray, a little bigger than a television remote, and misshapen, as if a car or tank had exploded and this piece of shrapnel had been salvaged. When he tried to put it down, however, he found that he could not. One moment he'd have every intention of putting it down, and the next his mind would be blank, and he would come to his senses still holding it. The only place he could set it down was in his inventory. He tried again to put it down, and again it was like a compulsion spell overcame him, and he simply could not imagine releasing it. His hand extended, the muscles in his fingers began to engage, and then they didn't, and he looked like a friggin' idiot, arm extended as if offering the hunk of metal to the floor as a tribute.
Fine, he thought as he shoved it back into the inventory. He had some batteries that he didn't need. Tossing them behind – they smacked against the wall and clattered to the floor – he reached for the bolt-cutters. A few moments later, he realized he was extending his hand toward the bolt-cutters, and doing nothing else. He heard the batteries rolling on the uneven floor. "What is this!" He shouted, making another effort to reach for the bolt-cutters. This time he was able to get his fingers close to the black rubberized grip, but he could feel something in his mind refusing to let him reach farther, refusing to let him commit to the action. It was almost like indecisive-
ness, but instead of coming from his own will, it was as though there were some force outside of his control, subduing his intent. In sheer fascination, he tried to overcome that force. He gritted his teeth, poured exertion into his muscles. His finger got a quarter inch closer. The neon orange shafts beckoned him. He focused on them, and it seemed to help, to give a focus with which to overcome the compulsion. It was a lot of effort, though, and with a gasp of air he curled forward, slapping his hands on the workbench, heaving. He realized that he hadn't been breathing. Slapping his hands again on the counter-top he swore. Just a little bit longer and he might have had it.
Something was happening in this place. Something strange, and whatever it was, it had snaked its way into his very mind. Finally disregarding the bolt-cutters, Corey plucked the batteries from the floor, stuffed them into his inventory and returned to the stairs. He had to repeat the process from before of putting his flamethrower on the ground, shoving it through the opening, and then crawling in. On the other side, he equipped his flamethrower and looked about to ensure nothing was going to jump out at him. The way was clear. Now, there must have been some way to get around to the area in which that hooded douche took Mia. Corey stifled the fury creeping within, incited by the image of the event replaying in his mind, and forced himself to remain focused. The area was to his left now, so he moved that way. There was another door that opened into a small room. Rather than go completely in, Corey stood in the doorway, leaving his escape path open contingently. On the floor in the middle of the room was a tattered red rug that must have been regal at one point, but now needed to be burned. Atop it was a wooden pedestal with some sort of built-in projector that was shining a square light on the wall, with a picture of a crow that might have been a still frame from the projector or an actual physical painting.
Corey looked at it, then glanced around, squeezing the grip of his pistol. There was a bulging spot on the wall where the wallpaper had come unglued in the middle rather than the sides or edges. Dirt and unidentified substances stained the walls and ceiling; cobwebs were gathered in every corner. It was, then, the same as most every other room. Feeling somewhat confident that he wouldn't be attacked by anything within the room, he shut the door. It had a lock, so he went ahead and turned the little nub on the tip of the knob. The most obvious thing to check first was the projector. Putting his hand in front of the beam of light revealed that the crow was indeed printed on the wall. This must mean something, he was certain, although he couldn't have explained why he was certain if asked. He popped open his inventory and began assessing each item in reference to the projector until that stupid hunk of metal caught his eye, held his attention. There were doubts, though. How could that possibly help? He pulled it out of the bag, held it in his hand, looked between it and the projector. As he shifted his weight and moved about, his hand passed over the beam of light and a distinct, clear shadow flitted across the wall. He held the metal piece in front of the projector's light. It was a twisted, misshapen thing, and the shadow it cast was amorphous when it was turned and rolled.
As the shadow shifted shape, Corey realized what this must be. A puzzle. He was supposed to match the shadow to the shape of the in-flight crow. He grabbed hold of the metal piece with both hands with interest now, certain he was on the right track. The shadow changed and transmogrified, until he caught sight of a familiar shape. That was it. Now, with only a bit of adjustment here and there – click! Something mechanical shifted, there was the sound of grinding gears, a pause, then a doorframe-sized, rectangular shaped section of the wall, on which the crow was painted, jerked open like a rotating door that'd been caught on something and then sprung free. It spun just enough for a crack to appear, and no more. Corey dropped the hunk of metal. As it clunked to the ground, he quickly withdrew his foot. The object settled heavily on the floor. Corey realized with delight that he'd released it! So the compulsion was somehow tied to using it in some correct place. This situation felt strangely familiar, but his mission called and he didn't bother to dwell on it for more than a moment.
Getting the fingers of both hands in the crack, he tugged. The door yielded, but only with reluctance, and he had to maintain stringent effort as it ponderously turned, the grinding of what sounded like metallic gears coinciding ceaselessly with every inch farther the door was turned. When it was large enough that he could easily fit, Corey released the door, shook his hands against the stinging, then looked through the opening. This didn't lead to a secret room, Corey realized to his dismay, but it just led to a sort of narrow corridor in the wall, barely enough to ease through if he went in sideways. The other side was invisible through the darkness, but the light from the room he was presently in cast enough illumination that he could see a few feet in, and what he saw he did not like. Instead of a dusty, dry space like he'd expect to be between the walls, this particular corridor was of course wet. The boards running the length were not just wet, but the way the minimal light gleamed made them look downright slimy. There was indeterminate wiring weaving between and around the boards, and a generally grimy look to everything as if someone were splashing muddy water on it at intervals. Corey could feel his expression involuntarily twisting in disgust and reluctance, the simultaneous emotions creating an amalgam of pursed, pouting lips; brows pressed together and lifted; and squinted eyes. One might describe it as "distressed."
There was nowhere else to go, though. He'd been just about everywhere, to his knowledge, and after solving a puzzle to get here it was doubtless that something important was beyond the dank interior of these accursed walls. Corey steeled his resolve, unslung his flamethrower, held it out in front of him with one hand, sidled up to the entrance and eased in. Immediately he felt the disconcerting sensation of his shirt, both front and back, chest and shoulder blades, not only touching the corridor walls, but sliding forward with ease. Sliding against the boards, lubricated with an unknown, slimy substance that was cool and soaking through his shirt. He shuddered in revulsion, trying to keep the exposed flesh of his arms from touching anything.
Step by step, he strafed forward with agonizing slowness. Something dripped from above, onto the top of his head, slopped down his hair and brushed cold against his cheek as it fell. Corey released a weepy groan, and then the quiet clicking of an hundred little exo-skeletal legs made him freeze. Bugs, like centipedes, and other things he couldn't identify, with mandibles, were skittering about, appearing on the wood, their little moist bodies reflecting a gleam from the little amount of light. "Oh, Lord!" With a permanent grimace he scooted forward as fast as possible. The hairs on his arm alerted of a crawling intruder and he shook his arm violently, now frantically pushing forward. He burst out of the other side of the corridor shaking and throwing his arms and head wildly, ululating with disgust and horror.
Then he heard a moan and whirled around. There was a huge Man-eating insect nest in middle of the room. It started on the ceiling, with a circumference larger than one of those small exercise trampolines, and thinned as it went down like syrup poured from a bottle. It had overtaken at least three-quarters of some old desk, although there was enough space under the desk that one could crawl under, not that he'd want to with that horror on it. The nest gathered up, consumed most of the desk and spilled onto the floor in a bulbous mass. There were holes all throughout for the little devil-bugs to crawl in and out, to rest and to lay their hell-spawn; the nest itself was similar to a dirt diver's nest, seeming to be made of mud, but also with a mix of what looked like spider webs and also a loving dash of hatred and awfulness.
On the other side of that nest he could see one of the molded, the humanoid creature made of human corpses that had been consumed by some type of fungus that grew in this house. They were dangerous if they got close, because they had tremendous strength, but they were slow and susceptible, as Corey'd figured out, to fire. He didn't want to waste his fuel on this thing, though. Molded seemed to be limitless in supply, and if he tried to take on each one he'd not only use up all of his fuel, but he'd be here until the end of mankind. Besides, he was tired of dealing with them. Gingerly he eased forward. He didn't see any of the Man-eating insects. Normally they'd be crawling all over and – an insect, a full-grown adult, so big you could count the lenses on its eyes, came rushing forward right into his face. Corey almost slapped it with his hand, but quickly withdrew, knowing that they had proboscis strong enough to pierce flesh, leaving nasty puncture wounds. Wheeling backward, he scrambled for his knife on his thigh. The insect followed, sometimes darting in for an attack, but Corey managed to keep just out of its range. Knife pulled, he stopped backpedaling and stood his ground. A few swift slashes and the insect was sliced in half, spurting greenish fluid. It fell in twain to the floor. The molded moaned as it rounded the nest-covered desk.
Corey quickly rushed to the other side of the desk and the molded turned to follow that way. Corey turned back. The molded stopped and watched. "No!" Corey yelled it as if it were a stray dog wandering into his yard. "Go away." He went around the way he'd come and the molded matched him, and then he quickly ran around to the other side. The stalactite-like insect nest hid him from view for a moment and he quickly fell to his hands and knees, scurrying beneath the desk. The molded came around, only his legs visible, and stopped, clearly confused about where its prey went. Corey noticed that he was right next to a hole in the wasp nest. Multiple holes, actually, and to his horror there were baby Man-eating insects crawling all about it. Eyes wide, he stared at them, wings fluttering, feet softly pattering on the soft material of the nest. The molded was just standing there, damn it! Just leave me alone, Corey demanded within the confines of his mind. The molded finally began to hobble away, moaning. The second it was out of sight, Corey began to very, very carefully ease his way out from beneath the desk. He made it. Good. A stinging pain shot up his arm and he let out an alarmed shout, slapping his arm. Lifting his palm he saw a splattered bug. A buzzing thrum arose. Corey did not wait, he rain, with winged hell rising behind him.