CHAPTER 5, THE ENCOUNTER
After what seemed to him like another lifetime spent running from the blood- soaked atrocities he'd left behind him, the numbness in his body seemed to die down. He could feel the bone of his snapped shoulder rubbing harshly against the flesh it jaggedly pointed out off, grating chunks of skin to tatters as he moved. His stomach was on fire, and he could feel the bile from his lungs creeping slowly up his airways. He stopped instantly, and leaned against a signpost. Unknowingly, he leaned with the arm of his snapped shoulder, and as soon as he moved it up, he quickly retracted it as he felt the stabbing, burning pain shoot through his entire body. He leaned with his other hand, and hastily lurched forwards. The bile from his throat crept up into his mouth and he spat it out on the floor. It was quickly followed with a stream of unintentional vomit as he saw the pool of blood that had collected collection of blood and vomit on the floor at his feet.
He wondered if he'd ever felt as bad as he did now. Looking at the situation he was in, he doubted it. Here he was, in the middle of Nowhere. His car had broken down. His shoulder was most indefinitely broken, and he was probably going to bleed to death out of the deep gash. If he concentrated on it, he could see the muscles inside his upper chest contracting and retracting as he breathed, but then the inevitable spray of blood followed from the torn veins, and he had to turn away in disgust. A string of bile clung defiantly onto his lower lip, refusing to take the fall into the pool below.
No, he answered, in his head. Even there, he was trying to be as silent as he could, avoiding the detection of the unseen terror he felt he was surrounded by, even though he was still being overwhelmed by the solidarity of this dead town. Never before had this feeling of inevitability consumed his soul with such force. He tried to think of a time when his life occurrences might have even come close to this, in a vain hope that inside, this might pale the feeling somehow. Yet, right now, his mind was completely blanked. No memories. No thoughts. Just black. As black as the night he was surrounded by. As black as the metal of. of a gun.
What? What made this simile enter his head right now? Maybe if he had a gun, he'd feel protected. Then again, the creatures in this hell probably weren't even really alive, so the chances of killing them with a gun were minimal. Yet still, his mind was filled with the images of guns. Not just guns, but more a Gun itself. A berretta 0.9 CB hand gun. The specs raced through his head as he thought of it. 12 round clip. Pull back load.Fires 9mm parrabellum rounds. Just the type the cops used. But why at a time like this was his mind filled with images of the firearm? In this situation, a god damned M16 was a more preferable option, not this pea shooter everyone's dad kept in the special drawer in the office. Yet the memories were so vivid.
On that thought, he wondered how long he'd stood here. In this state, he was nothing more than fodder for the hellish spawns residing in the town. He turned his head away from the reddish-brown stain at his feet and opened his eyes, when he was sure it was out of his line of sight. He looked, and shielded his eyes from a blinding white light in his face. The sight shocked him, and seemed angelic to the man, yet strangely demonic at the same time. As his eyes slowly adjusted to this phenomenal occurrence of the last eternity of his lifetime, he saw his destination sprawled out in front of him.
The deserted town stood defiant, a monument in this deserted sprawl of nothingness. A tribute to the lives that once lived here. Yet now, it stood dormant. A withered husk compared to what should be there. I mean, all of the regular town things where there, shops, houses, streetlights shining like warning beacons in the darkness that exists in this seething void of nothing. At this time of night, the lack of people shouldn't be as disturbing. It was black as ever, probably way past midnight, and in any normal backstreet town would be deserted. Yet there was something about the lack of people in this town. This town wasn't deserted, it was dead. He stood on the outskirts, looking in at the town. It's eerie deadness scared him, yet the civil clothing covering the beast he knew the town to be seemed surreally inviting to him. He took a step forwards and felt a soft dig in his leg as his jeans contracted around it. He stopped and looked down at the object. His car keys.
He took them from his pocket and looked at them in his hand, the streetlight above his head casting a soft glow on the golden stick in his palm. The lions head on the top of the key seemed to more emanate the light than to reflect it, and he stood for a second with it in his gaze. As he concentrated on it, He felt his grasp tightening on them as he stared. He closed his eyes and clenched a defiant fist as memories of his car flooded his mind. Why did he come here? Why did he get into that car earlier today? This could all have been avoided if he'd just stayed home in. wherever the hell he lived. He didn't care for that right about now. His car was totalled. There was no point holding on to these. Even if he got out alive, the stench of the demonic entity would never truly be removed from the automobile. The stains of its blood never really washed off. His blood too, would never leave the wreck. He opened his eyes and found hit hand white from strain, a small trickle of blood flowing from the centre of his locked fingers and down on to the ground below. As he looked down, his blood seeped into the ground like paper. The floor at his feet seemed to devour his blood as it flowed from his open wounds. He looked for a pool from the still-spurting gash on his shoulder, but to no avail. In fact, there was nothing around him at all. No blood, no Vomit, no water, even. As he stared at the ground, wondering why this was happening, he noticed a thick, swirling fog starting to emanate around his feet. It wasn't normal fog. It's properties more resembled smoke. It curled in wisps around his feet but strangely never went more than knee-high. As soon as a swirl hit that height, it immediately returned to its original level, as though an invisible glass wall blocked its ascension. The fog slowly became more and more ominous around him, and he looked back at the blood dripping from his hand. He opened his white fingers and looked at the deep slashes caused by the points of the key, blood seeping from them with each beat of his heart. He turned his head to the side, as if expecting more than what he got. He turned to face the nothing behind him, and raised his arm. He promptly lowered it, and opened his mouth, then looked around to see if anyone was stood nearby. Then, he started to whisper to himself.
"It's been a while, it really has. But it's starting to make sense now. I'm here for a reason, I really am. As to what that reason is, I'm sure I'll either never know, or I'll die finding out. Either way, you're worth shit to me now"
On that syllable, he flung the keys as far as he could in the distance in front of him, and watched them sail into the darkness. He waited for the almost satisfying clank as the hit the ground, but it never came. He heard nothing at all. As if the keys were swallowed up by the darkness. Either that, or his presumption that this town really was all he had left had more truth in it than he cared to think about.
And so, he set off.
Into the unknown
Into Nowhere.
Into the Encounter.
After what seemed to him like another lifetime spent running from the blood- soaked atrocities he'd left behind him, the numbness in his body seemed to die down. He could feel the bone of his snapped shoulder rubbing harshly against the flesh it jaggedly pointed out off, grating chunks of skin to tatters as he moved. His stomach was on fire, and he could feel the bile from his lungs creeping slowly up his airways. He stopped instantly, and leaned against a signpost. Unknowingly, he leaned with the arm of his snapped shoulder, and as soon as he moved it up, he quickly retracted it as he felt the stabbing, burning pain shoot through his entire body. He leaned with his other hand, and hastily lurched forwards. The bile from his throat crept up into his mouth and he spat it out on the floor. It was quickly followed with a stream of unintentional vomit as he saw the pool of blood that had collected collection of blood and vomit on the floor at his feet.
He wondered if he'd ever felt as bad as he did now. Looking at the situation he was in, he doubted it. Here he was, in the middle of Nowhere. His car had broken down. His shoulder was most indefinitely broken, and he was probably going to bleed to death out of the deep gash. If he concentrated on it, he could see the muscles inside his upper chest contracting and retracting as he breathed, but then the inevitable spray of blood followed from the torn veins, and he had to turn away in disgust. A string of bile clung defiantly onto his lower lip, refusing to take the fall into the pool below.
No, he answered, in his head. Even there, he was trying to be as silent as he could, avoiding the detection of the unseen terror he felt he was surrounded by, even though he was still being overwhelmed by the solidarity of this dead town. Never before had this feeling of inevitability consumed his soul with such force. He tried to think of a time when his life occurrences might have even come close to this, in a vain hope that inside, this might pale the feeling somehow. Yet, right now, his mind was completely blanked. No memories. No thoughts. Just black. As black as the night he was surrounded by. As black as the metal of. of a gun.
What? What made this simile enter his head right now? Maybe if he had a gun, he'd feel protected. Then again, the creatures in this hell probably weren't even really alive, so the chances of killing them with a gun were minimal. Yet still, his mind was filled with the images of guns. Not just guns, but more a Gun itself. A berretta 0.9 CB hand gun. The specs raced through his head as he thought of it. 12 round clip. Pull back load.Fires 9mm parrabellum rounds. Just the type the cops used. But why at a time like this was his mind filled with images of the firearm? In this situation, a god damned M16 was a more preferable option, not this pea shooter everyone's dad kept in the special drawer in the office. Yet the memories were so vivid.
On that thought, he wondered how long he'd stood here. In this state, he was nothing more than fodder for the hellish spawns residing in the town. He turned his head away from the reddish-brown stain at his feet and opened his eyes, when he was sure it was out of his line of sight. He looked, and shielded his eyes from a blinding white light in his face. The sight shocked him, and seemed angelic to the man, yet strangely demonic at the same time. As his eyes slowly adjusted to this phenomenal occurrence of the last eternity of his lifetime, he saw his destination sprawled out in front of him.
The deserted town stood defiant, a monument in this deserted sprawl of nothingness. A tribute to the lives that once lived here. Yet now, it stood dormant. A withered husk compared to what should be there. I mean, all of the regular town things where there, shops, houses, streetlights shining like warning beacons in the darkness that exists in this seething void of nothing. At this time of night, the lack of people shouldn't be as disturbing. It was black as ever, probably way past midnight, and in any normal backstreet town would be deserted. Yet there was something about the lack of people in this town. This town wasn't deserted, it was dead. He stood on the outskirts, looking in at the town. It's eerie deadness scared him, yet the civil clothing covering the beast he knew the town to be seemed surreally inviting to him. He took a step forwards and felt a soft dig in his leg as his jeans contracted around it. He stopped and looked down at the object. His car keys.
He took them from his pocket and looked at them in his hand, the streetlight above his head casting a soft glow on the golden stick in his palm. The lions head on the top of the key seemed to more emanate the light than to reflect it, and he stood for a second with it in his gaze. As he concentrated on it, He felt his grasp tightening on them as he stared. He closed his eyes and clenched a defiant fist as memories of his car flooded his mind. Why did he come here? Why did he get into that car earlier today? This could all have been avoided if he'd just stayed home in. wherever the hell he lived. He didn't care for that right about now. His car was totalled. There was no point holding on to these. Even if he got out alive, the stench of the demonic entity would never truly be removed from the automobile. The stains of its blood never really washed off. His blood too, would never leave the wreck. He opened his eyes and found hit hand white from strain, a small trickle of blood flowing from the centre of his locked fingers and down on to the ground below. As he looked down, his blood seeped into the ground like paper. The floor at his feet seemed to devour his blood as it flowed from his open wounds. He looked for a pool from the still-spurting gash on his shoulder, but to no avail. In fact, there was nothing around him at all. No blood, no Vomit, no water, even. As he stared at the ground, wondering why this was happening, he noticed a thick, swirling fog starting to emanate around his feet. It wasn't normal fog. It's properties more resembled smoke. It curled in wisps around his feet but strangely never went more than knee-high. As soon as a swirl hit that height, it immediately returned to its original level, as though an invisible glass wall blocked its ascension. The fog slowly became more and more ominous around him, and he looked back at the blood dripping from his hand. He opened his white fingers and looked at the deep slashes caused by the points of the key, blood seeping from them with each beat of his heart. He turned his head to the side, as if expecting more than what he got. He turned to face the nothing behind him, and raised his arm. He promptly lowered it, and opened his mouth, then looked around to see if anyone was stood nearby. Then, he started to whisper to himself.
"It's been a while, it really has. But it's starting to make sense now. I'm here for a reason, I really am. As to what that reason is, I'm sure I'll either never know, or I'll die finding out. Either way, you're worth shit to me now"
On that syllable, he flung the keys as far as he could in the distance in front of him, and watched them sail into the darkness. He waited for the almost satisfying clank as the hit the ground, but it never came. He heard nothing at all. As if the keys were swallowed up by the darkness. Either that, or his presumption that this town really was all he had left had more truth in it than he cared to think about.
And so, he set off.
Into the unknown
Into Nowhere.
Into the Encounter.