Chapter 11: Two Spears

I walked down another hallway, slightly longer, and more decrepit. There were water stains adorning the wall, and a putrid smell enveloped me as I walked down it. I hesitated, and looked around. Nothing – just a corpse and water stains. I turned back when I heard a hiss. I swung back to see a large smear of blood on the wall. Strings of black goo stretched from it, and a pair of arms came forth. Then a head: the skin was deathly pale, and clad in a sweater that was tarnished and bloodied. The hiss came again, followed by a moan, and then I began to feel a headache. The Ghost moaned loudly and fell from the wall, yet did not land. It hovered up, and looked at me. I silently weighed my chances.

I turned and hauled ass.

The Ghost was instantly after me, floating with no physical boundaries. The headache's pain was searing, and I found my vision blurred. I frantically tried to collect myself. Unfortunately, I looked up to find myself utterly doomed. I was pretty much less than a foot from the wall. As I sailed into the painfully hard surface, I screamed, and fell back with no resistance. My mind was racing. I was shit out of luck now: the damned Ghost was but a metre from me. I reached in the bag for something to throw, something to bide me time, but my hand closed on something else.

Through the agony and torment, my hand found Blake's double-barrel.

Not thinking clearly, I pulled it out and cocked both the hammers. The Ghost smiled wickedly, but suddenly stopped. It looked down the barrel, and moaned. It was a 'Damnit, you win this time' moan. My finger firmly rested on both triggers.

'Say cheese, bitch.' With one, clumsy movement of a mere finger, the barrels erupted with a brilliant flash, firing as one. The buckshot tore into the Ghost's face, and the recoil sent me reeling backwards into the wall. My head hit the surface forcefully, which was hell for my headache. The Ghost roared and fell, not moving. I knew it wasn't dead though. I was betting that it wouldn't be getting up today.

So I stood, and caught my breath. Snapping the barrel down, I inserted two shells and closed it. I then grabbed the pipe and put the shotgun in the bag, at the top so it was easily accessible. Slinging the bag back up, I ran down an adjacent hallway. There I found a lot of sheets, wood, and ladders. The roof was partially destroyed, or partially constructed. I went to the scene, and there was a key on one of the stepladders. A tag was on it: emergency exit.

Did I hope for a way out? No, I didn't. I'd try it, but I was beginning to get used to disappointment. If it led out, well that's fine. If it didn't, I hadn't had my hopes up. In fact, I was hoping it didn't lead out a little. I still had to know what was going on. I had to know who exactly Ralph Derecks was; I had to know what the placards meant; I had to find out how any of this was even possible. Because, truly, it wasn't.

I was brought out of this instrospect by an object in the corner of my eye; there was a hammer laying on a tarp. I didn't think before I picked it up. It was balanced, and I practiced swinging it. The handle was green, and the head was somewhat spiked. But the tail: the tail was viciously long and sharp. I put the pipe away, and thrust the hammer into the bag. Two melee weapons. I was giddy with excitement.

And then another thought formed in my hand: I had undergone a radical transformation. I'd barely ever been in a fight before now, but look at me now: tarnished with blood, sweaty, greasy, savage looking, and armed with a pipe, hammer, pistol, and shotgun. What happened? Under normal circumstances, I'm a somewhat passive guy, and I usually try to look remotely hygenic.

But you forget. These are NOT normal circumstances. You'd be shit crazy not to be the way you are. You'd be dead if you hadn't unlocked those primal instincts that most people tuck away. Bravo – you're a survivor.

Yet: at what cost? Your humanity, your docility, and your fucking sanity, that's what.

Stop thinking, it only brings you down. Just move on; nothing more to do but move on. What was that? Hmm, stomping. Stomping? STOMPING? ARE YOU A MORON! Stop thinking and TURN AROUND!

I turned around and my heart failed me. I screamed and tore my newfound weapon from the bag on instinct, even though I knew that it wouldn't help me. A hammer against the infamous Pyramid? No, scratch that.

Two Pyramids.

I put the hammer back in and brought out the shotgun. The Pyramids were standing at the hallway, and I leapt over the tarped boards into a small strip of normal ground in the centre. The Pyramids were wielding those spears, those long, bitter spikes. One was bad enough; were these things normal monsters? How many?

Oh, please, just two, I can't take on any more, I don't know if I can handle two. The clock tower was different, it was foggy, and outside. This is the end, this is how my life ends, screw Ralph, his little minions are gonna get me first.

Once again my other voice told me to shut up. I conceded. He then told me to run. I froze in my tracks, but he told me again, more forcefully. The Pyramids were on the tarps, about three metres from me. I groaned a defeated cry, and bolted. The Pyramids cried out, a harsh whisper of nothing. They raised their spear arms, and I was getting closer. I was no track star, but something told me to jump. So, as I was nearing the gap between them (which was only about four feet) I forcefully applied energy to my legs, and sprang from the ground. I then heard the whoosh of the spears as the beasts launched them at me. I was smack in the middle.

But I kept rising.

I felt their spears nick my shirt, and I knew that it was the end. I was gonna get caught on them, and they'd yank me down. But the shirt didn't get caught. I landed forcefully on the ground, and felt myself begin to stumble. I felt a shower of heat on my back, and it burned painfully. Metal grinded on metal. Their spears collided, and erupted in sparks! I was utterly breathless, but I wasn't in the clear. As I fell forward, I reached out and pushed myself up. My legs kept running, and for the first time I noticed a door, metal, right in front of me.

Oh God, I can't stop!

I was hurled straight into the door, which gave in. It sprang open, and, as if some grace was watching out for me, it hit the wall, bounced back, and snapped shut. Locked.

I was on my back, utterly miserable, sweating, panting, bruised and broken down. But there was a relief that I found to my left. I'd be damned if it wasn't a magazine for my pistol. I grabbed the gun and jammed the clip in haphazardly. I then flicked the safety on and used my pocket as its holster.

I still had to catch my breath, which wasn't easy. I heard pounding on the door, as if the Pyramids felt that they could pull the same stunt. Just in case, though, I had my shotgun at my side. I grabbed it and aimed it at the door. Cocking both hammers, and waited. I then noticed that there was a hole beside me. A hole that lead to my house. But I had to wait and see if those Pyramids were gonna get in. I didn't want to come back to their spears in my heart.

There came their inhuman moan through the door, and they lumbered away. I fell back and panted, recovering my lost breath. I stood, and gathered my things. Never more delighted to, I climbed through the hole,

– –

I went to my living room and found another one of those notes on my TV. I plucked it off and sat down to read it. It was stapled to another, and there was a relatively heavy envelope on the back. I opened the envelope first: a handgun magazine. I was beginning to like this Thomas. Stuffing it in my pocket, I read the note.

What is going on, I can't begin to fathom. There's that hole, leading out to those weird worlds, crawling with monsters. When I went through it initially, I was wielding a broom. After an encounter with those lizards, I began to lose hope. One bit the head of my broom off! Weaponless, I crushed its skull with my foot and ran.

Then I found a pistol in the hand of a dead man, though he was faceless and featureless. It was creepy, but I didn't question it. I found a magazine, then another, in some safe that had been busted against a wall. It was violently defaced.

Walking down some long pathway, I found a weird, floating man with a sombrero on. I would have laughed any other time, but he was so . . . pitiful. His eyes were vacant, his face twisted in pain, and his body charred. I couldn't guess what happened to him, but don't fancy it pleasant.

The page ended there, so I flipped to the next.

I met a guy named Clark, a raving lunatic. He didn't stop talking, so I just left him alone. But, about ten minutes later, I found him impaled on a spear. Then some weird, Pyramid Head thing came and ripped it out. I couldn't bring myself to shoot the thing, but it had not a second thought of skewering me. He almost had me when I got the nerve to shoot: I wasted an entire magazine on his torso, and he wailed as if betrayed. When it left, everything went black.

Then I heard a radio broadcast when I woke up in my bed. It said: 'Thirty-six year old Clark Milligan was discovered in the Reynolds-Ambol company office building, with a gaping hole pierced right through his heart. Police found the numbers 12121 carved in his thigh, and are currently connecting it to Ralph Derecks, who was caught mimicking the Walter Sullivan murders three years ago.'

Now, I think it's time I tell you what I know about Ralph Derecks and Walter Sullivan. They–

I sighed. The paper ended there. Now the suspence was so high, I felt I had to know. But it'd have to wait. There was a guy named Ben that needed saved.

I forgot Ben, I thought, . . . I forgot Ben! He left ME, but still, why did I forget? I am bloody awful at playing hero; that's three – make it four, now – people who've died because I was too incompetent to save them.

No, that's not true. The other voice was back. I couldn't do a thing. Shaun was a loner, and didn't want to be helped; Monica, well, she was psycho, and Arrogant – I feel she deserved what she got. Blake though: Blake was the only time I screwed up. And now Ben. But that's over now. No more horsing around. I swear, I SWEAR, that if I can just have one more chance, I'll make it right. If there's another, they're not gonna die.

Five is a magic number. Maybe you're next?

If so, then I swear that I'm going down in a blaze of glory.

I went back to the hole, and climbed through. Ralph was gonna earn the next victim. He had four so far, but I was pretty sure that I was gonna score a point next time. If, that is, there was a fifth victim.