Disclaimer: The following story is a fanfiction based on the Silent Hill series of games. Silent Hill and all characters associated with it are the intellectual property of Konami. All other characters are the intellectual property of the author. This story contains violence, adult language, and disturbing concepts, and is rated R accordingly.
Chapter 1: Awakening
David awoke with a start, eyes flying wide open to the unyielding darkness and hands clutching, clawing at the cold ground. He felt a single cool bead of sweat make its way down the side of his head as he squeezed his burning eyes shut again.
Dreams of Silent Hill had been coming to him increasingly often. Dreams of the quiet, peaceful town. Images. Still frames of his time spent there, disconnected from one another, with no linked memory to his mind, like a slide-show in some dark, abandoned room. That alone had never bothered him; indeed, it was a pleasant divergence from his usual nightmares. Yet always there had been some sinister feeling emanating in a low throb, like the beating of some demonic heart, always separate from the images, but this time it had come to a painful crescendo in his mind as the dream cumulated, startling him more awake and shaken than any other dream he had prior had. The last part was different, too... he had never before...
His mind stopped, frozen with a general sort of cold panic but as yet unable to identify the source. He clawed his way back through the process of thought to a point where he could identify the source. The dreams? ...No, that wasn't it.
...Ground?
He sat up with a start. He was lying on cold, hard ground. Further investigation led to the idea that the floor was plain concrete. Opening his pained eyes slightly, he saw only darkness. Such was normal for him, as he slept in the basement of his house where no light could reach him. Yet his floor was carpet.
He pulled himself to his knees, fighting off the wicked urge to collapse back into a heap on the floor or vomit the remains of liquor left in his system. Indulgence in drink brought sought-after relief from the troubles of day, and the nightmares of sleep. Considering the current state of affairs, perhaps he had had a bit too much to drink the night before...
He shook his head, his body shivering as the panic of waking up in a foreign location began to seep into his slow, tired mind. He crawled across the ground, feeling out his patch across the smooth, cold concrete floor until he reached a wall with the same hard surface. He backed against this, and began working his way to the side, eventually to reach a second wall.
He sat curled there in the corner of the cold room for a few moments, his mind sorting itself in an attempt to piece together why he was in such a room. His memory mocked him with faltering remembrances of past times he'd wandered home in such a state, but yielded no clue as to his current predicament.
He shook himself and resolved at least to find out where he was, and to escape the darkness. He stood aright then lifted his hands to the ceiling. Again, concrete. Eight feet high. He made his way carefully along the wall, his fingers lightly streaming along it and his feet gingerly feeling the ground before him until he ran into another wall. Eight feet. He turned, and did the same thing again, still not encountering anything unusual besides his circumstances. Another wall. Eight feet. He was beginning to feel claustrophobic in the empty cube of a room, devoid of even a hint of light. He made his way more quickly to the next wall, still encountering no sign of any door. He was starting to grow fearful that he was trapped in a room without exit before he turned the corner and found a door, probably a few feet to the side of where he had first met the wall.
Unarmed and fearing for his person, David made his way lightly before the door. He held his ear against it to see if he could distinguish any sounds, searching for any reason to his presence, or anything that may cause him trouble, should he attempt escape.
Through the door, he heard a voice, so faint the words themselves were inaudible. He pressed his ear closer to the door, listening intently to hear what was being said. Another voice replied, but was struck through with a surge of crackling noise. He realized then that the voices were some sort of TV or radio playing in the next room. He listened intently for half a minute more, noting that the sound started fading to silence, and eventually was replaced by faint noise. He had heard no other sound from the room.
He decided to risk whatever safety being stuck in a strange cold room yielded and slowly moved his hand to the doorknob. With an almost infinitely careful silence, he wrapped his hand gently around the knob, twisting it slightly to the side enough to feel the door unlock. Then, after short pause, and with sudden violent action, he threw the door open, stepping halfway into the doorway and baring his fists to whoever may come to greet him.
The doorway led to an empty bar. More precisely, the doorway led to the back counter of the bar. The counter-top was hardwood and worn from many years' use. The source of the noise he had previously heard was easily identifiable, as the small hand-held radio was still crackling with faint noise on the counter-top. Beneath the cash register was some large revolver and next to it a case of ammunition. Beside him were the usual assortment of glasses and bottles that one may find in a bar. There were a fair number of well-used barstools, a number of tables, and a pool table with a low-hung and extra bright light. The many windows of the bar betrayed only a vision of darkness.
The lights were giving him a headache, and he shielded half his vision with his splayed fingers. He turned to review the room he had just left. The entire room was a slate grey room, the same size and shape he had guessed. There was a single vent in the ceiling of the empty storeroom, but no light.
...Light...
Why are the lights on? The strangeness of that began to have an effect on David. There were no people here. He couldn't even identify any streetlights, or, indeed, anything outside of the bar. Again, a feeling of mild claustrophobia began to creep along his skin.
The static on the radio began to climb in volume. David walked the short distance to where it lay, picked it up, and spun it around looking for the off switch. It was a basic, old radio, with only a small speaker and no headphone jack. It was also so beaten up he was surprised it even ran at all. Its rising cacophony became a scream of mixed static and unidentifiable stations. He was about switch the thing off in defense of his hearing when there came from behind him a clash of glass. He spun to face the horror that had broken into the desolate bar.
The words "flying corpse" came quickly to David's mind. The thing looked dead. Not only dead, but rotting. Its face was like that of an aged skull, one covered in messy red flesh. What would be its eye sockets were half-empty holes, filled only with a greater quantity of the rotted-looking flesh. The top row of teeth, pitted and yellowed, disfigured but sharp, were clearly visible for the lack of lips, the bottom row missing entirely, along with the jaw and any tongue; both being replaced by the visible, shriveled entrance of the thing's throat at the back of its mouth. The rest of its body fared only slightly better than its face; the flesh there, though pulled sickeningly over the bony human-like form, showed less signs of rotting. The problem with saying the body faired better is that the arms were stumps of congealed blood. There could be no gender attached to the thing; its crotch was nothing more than thin skin. From its back sprouted the stalks of strange wings formed of stretched skin and visible bone, things that looked frail and weak, but somehow were enough to hold the thing in air. The legs were withered but tough, the feet ending in sharp-looking claws. The thing aimed its head at him and wailed a piercing cry, the hole behind its mouth quivering sickeningly. It beat its wings a moment longer, spreading its foul odor his way, before lunging at him, bringing its feet before it like some strange bird of prey.
Startled, David barely had time to duck the beast before it went crashing into the glasses behind him, spilling out the contents of drink and heavy shards of glass upon him. A quick glance directly in front himself in his new crouched position reminded him of the revolver he had noticed before but forgotten as he had stared, near-dumbfounded at the flying corpse. He made a dash for the gun, still crouched, letting his motion be stopped by the hard wood counter as he reached out to take hold of the gun. Having laid claim to the protection he desired, he turned back to watch as the thing latched onto his shoulder with one taloned foot, piercing the fabric of his coat with ease, and raised the other to claw at his face. He snatched at that leg's ankle with his free hand and struggled to keep it from his head, noticing his strength failing before its quickly. He raised the magnum to point at the beast's stomach and pulled the trigger, hoping with sudden fear the thing was actually loaded.
The magnum snapped back against his hand as the bullet left the muzzle chamber to go tearing through the creature's belly, taking a sizable portion of the thing's entrails with it. The gun itself fought against his grip, weakened by the claws buried in his shoulder, almost escaping his hold. The flying corpse reeled back from the shot, but not before it ripped its talons forcefully from David's arm, screaming out even louder than before, setting into motion a painful ringing in his ears.
David cried out a curse, grasping hard against his shoulder to staunch the flow of fresh blood that had begun seeping steadily from it, dropping the hand, gun still in tow, to the floor to rest the wounded appendage. As he began to become absorbed in the tending of his wound, another scream broke through his mind, alerting him to the continued presence of the creature which had pulled itself back into the air and was now beating its wings against the air persistently despite its wound as it began a new rush.
David dropped the hand from his torn shoulder to steady his shooting arm as he raised the magnum to fire again into the chest of the freak of nature, splattering the wall behind it with gore and sending the monster reeling to the floor. David braced his elbow against a lower shelf of the counter and pulled himself to his feet, where he took several cautious steps toward the flailing corpse. Determining that it was, for the moment, wounded enough not to attack him, he made one last step toward it before lowering the gun and firing a last bullet into its head, silencing its then-continual wailing.
The radio which had been screeching wildly the entire encounter had died the second the creature had. David knelt to the ground and picked the battered thing up from where it had crashed into the ground. He examined it once again, finding nothing new. He shrugged and stuck the thing in his coat pocket. At worst, it would be a quarter pound of dead weight, and a couple square inches of taken space. If it had some connection with the creature, though, it could be of value. Best to make the cautious choice.
At last he thought he had free opportunity to examine the gun. He held the heavy thing between his hands. The barrel had already cooled slightly. He freed the loading chamber, examining the rounds inside. He covered the good bullets with his thumb, tilted the gun, and freed the three spent rounds' casings. Leaning to the side, he pulled the case of magnum bullets closer to where he was kneeling, opening the box to discover six of the holes inside empty. He pulled three of the remaining 18 bullets from their places and loaded them into the empty spaces, giving the chamber classic spin before locking it back in place. I hope the owner doesn't mind my borrowing this... but I need some sort of protection, in case I see anything else like that. He took the revolver by its ivory-clad butt and examined it again, appreciating its craftsmanship. He tucked the magnum under his belt and halfway in his pocket in a makeshift holster. As he emptied the case of bullets into one of the large pockets his denim jacket had to conserve space, he wondered how long only 21 shots would last, hoping he wouldn't need to use any more.
Rising, David looked about him again to get his grounds. There didn't seem to be much else of use here, except a lot of alcohol. If worse came to worse, he could end his days here without the conscious mind to bear it. He pondered taking a bottle of whisky, but decided against it. He then decided it would be in his best interest to take a few thirst-quenching sips from a nearby can of Fosters. So decided, he stole the container from its perch upon the refrigerated rack and a mug then sat himself down on one of the old barstools, climbing over the counter to avoid passing the corpse of the deceased creature, something about it catching his eye despite his effort to avoid it. He sighed, steeling himself before turning back to give the creature a passing examination to reveal what he had prior noticed: the thing didn't bleed. Despite all the gore and brutalized flesh of the thing and the fight, there was no fresh blood anywhere to be seen. It really was a corpse.
A shiver stabbed through David's spine, spreading like shards of ice throughout his body and he quickly turned his attention back to his empty mug, simply eying it blankly for a short while before reaching over to open the can, pouring himself a half glass, and setting to the task of washing his somewhat parched throat with cleansing alcohol. Despite his intentions to stay focused again on drink, he found the habit too mechanical to fully stay absorbed in, his thoughts freely wandering back to his situation, spurned on by the cold air flowing from the broken window. He lifted his free arm to brace his head against but found the appendage to be crying out in pain, only then remembering the wound he had received in battle, berating himself for forgetting such a thing. He shook his head to himself then rose, making his way past the corpse again to a door off to the side, marked out as the latrines.
When he entered the room, he knew he had made a mistake. The floor was coated with filth. The single urinal was even worse, coated with layers of bodily excrement. The toilet was, thankfully, barred from sight by a mostly-broken stall, covered with scrawled writing. His goal, the sink, didn't fare much better than the urinal. Some disgusting freak had been through here a long time ago and it seemed no one had ever bothered to clean up. The entire room emitted a stench which gagged him. He held his breath as he made his way to the sink, turning the somewhat clean handle for water. All he received in response were grinding noises.
He decided to wait for a few moments, merely to see if anything ever came out, and took the time provided by the wait to study his visage in the cracked mirror. His light brown eyes were more vacant than usual, their tiredness made more apparent by the dark bags under them. His short brown hair was in a disarray brought on by sleepless nights or nightmares. His freckled face had its usual gaunt appearance, but looked more ghoulish when coupled with his uncommonly weary features. He brushed a hand through his hair before breaking away his vision of himself. He turned the sink's knob back off, but the strange noises merely lessened. He left the room, catching a breath of the cleaner air and stealing a cloth napkin before reviewing the stock of the bar.
Nice selection, he thought as he searched vaguely along the wall of liquor, finding at last what he was searching for, hidden well beyond casual visibility. Everclear. 190 proof? That should do. He made his way back to the barstool again to set the new bottle slightly off to the side before returning to his mug to drain the last of the contents. Finally setting that aside as well, he single-handedly unbuttoned the jacket before removing it, pulling it off tenderly over the torn shoulder, following that with his dark green shirt. He prodded lightly around the exterior of the wound before applying pressure around it, pulling it open to allow himself to see how deep it went. Not as bad as I had expected. It did bleed a lot, though, he added in thought as he viewed the blood caked around the laceration and thought back to the grand stains on both his shirt and jacket. He unscrewed the cap before bracing his arm against the counter, bringing the bottle above his wound and slowly turning it over. He found his eyes attempting to force their way shut in response to the searing pain flooding the region of his shoulder as he watched the alcohol wash away the crusting blood and flow over the wound, his hand gripping tightly.
After enough alcohol had poured over the tear to clean it out visibly, he took the napkin he had earlier procured and drenched it as well in Everclear. He folded the thing diagonally and wrapped it around itself, wringing it free of most of the liquid before placing the thickest portion gingerly over the cut, bringing the ends around under his arm and looping them loosely about each other before pulling the press tight and tying it off. He moved his arm slightly to test the tie before grapping his shirt to pull it over himself again, ignoring the bloody rip. Over that went his black windbreaker jacket. Now that he had tended to his wounds and cleaned them, he was free to think again.
That thing was dead before I shot it. He turned on the stool to face the monstrous corpse. The one empty socket left on its head stared at him menacingly, but it did not move. Though the thing had lain there for many minutes now, it had still yet to bleed. The only change seemed to be a greater odor emitted from the body. What had allowed that thing to move? he wondered. It should not have had the ability, in any case. Beyond that, even, the general form didn't fit. It should not have existed, dead or no. He began to muse deeper on the enigma, adding to it his presence here, the absence of anyone else, and the all-consuming darkness waiting just outside. He was interrupted from his thoughts by another freezing wind blowing in from outside, bringing with it air free of the foul smell of dead things.
Turning to stare at the broken window through which the cold breeze had again disturbed his thoughts, David noticed something new. There was a light in the distance, a clear white light that stood as a beacon in the dark town. The actual distance of the light was not apparent; such things are difficult to tell in the best of times and the heavy darkness enveloping the bar made it worse. That, at least, provided a choice. He would make for the source of light, where he hoped there would be people who might know more about the town or the creature that had attacked him. He lifted himself to his feet, making his way by the wall to grab another can of beer to tuck into the spare deep pocket of his jacket. He paused a moment before the exit of the safety of the bar, preferring to take the open window to the door, drawing the revolver from its makeshift holster before he stepped over the boundary of the windows, the glass underneath his heavy boots crackling with his slow passage.
The second he left the premise of the bar proper, the dim shadows cast by the light from the bar that had surged bravely forward into the darkness flickered weakly then died. He turned quickly back to the bar but his eyes were blind in the constrictive darkness. He listened intently, but there was silence. A few moments later, a heavy rain began to splatter from the heavens upon the world, quickly drenching him. He sighed at his continuing poor luck before turning back to his course: that light in the distance which still shone, however weakly, flickering slightly as it was reflected by the rain. He began his journey through the darkness warily, his hand wrapped protectively around the magnum.
David awoke with a start, eyes flying wide open to the unyielding darkness and hands clutching, clawing at the cold ground. He felt a single cool bead of sweat make its way down the side of his head as he squeezed his burning eyes shut again.
Dreams of Silent Hill had been coming to him increasingly often. Dreams of the quiet, peaceful town. Images. Still frames of his time spent there, disconnected from one another, with no linked memory to his mind, like a slide-show in some dark, abandoned room. That alone had never bothered him; indeed, it was a pleasant divergence from his usual nightmares. Yet always there had been some sinister feeling emanating in a low throb, like the beating of some demonic heart, always separate from the images, but this time it had come to a painful crescendo in his mind as the dream cumulated, startling him more awake and shaken than any other dream he had prior had. The last part was different, too... he had never before...
His mind stopped, frozen with a general sort of cold panic but as yet unable to identify the source. He clawed his way back through the process of thought to a point where he could identify the source. The dreams? ...No, that wasn't it.
...Ground?
He sat up with a start. He was lying on cold, hard ground. Further investigation led to the idea that the floor was plain concrete. Opening his pained eyes slightly, he saw only darkness. Such was normal for him, as he slept in the basement of his house where no light could reach him. Yet his floor was carpet.
He pulled himself to his knees, fighting off the wicked urge to collapse back into a heap on the floor or vomit the remains of liquor left in his system. Indulgence in drink brought sought-after relief from the troubles of day, and the nightmares of sleep. Considering the current state of affairs, perhaps he had had a bit too much to drink the night before...
He shook his head, his body shivering as the panic of waking up in a foreign location began to seep into his slow, tired mind. He crawled across the ground, feeling out his patch across the smooth, cold concrete floor until he reached a wall with the same hard surface. He backed against this, and began working his way to the side, eventually to reach a second wall.
He sat curled there in the corner of the cold room for a few moments, his mind sorting itself in an attempt to piece together why he was in such a room. His memory mocked him with faltering remembrances of past times he'd wandered home in such a state, but yielded no clue as to his current predicament.
He shook himself and resolved at least to find out where he was, and to escape the darkness. He stood aright then lifted his hands to the ceiling. Again, concrete. Eight feet high. He made his way carefully along the wall, his fingers lightly streaming along it and his feet gingerly feeling the ground before him until he ran into another wall. Eight feet. He turned, and did the same thing again, still not encountering anything unusual besides his circumstances. Another wall. Eight feet. He was beginning to feel claustrophobic in the empty cube of a room, devoid of even a hint of light. He made his way more quickly to the next wall, still encountering no sign of any door. He was starting to grow fearful that he was trapped in a room without exit before he turned the corner and found a door, probably a few feet to the side of where he had first met the wall.
Unarmed and fearing for his person, David made his way lightly before the door. He held his ear against it to see if he could distinguish any sounds, searching for any reason to his presence, or anything that may cause him trouble, should he attempt escape.
Through the door, he heard a voice, so faint the words themselves were inaudible. He pressed his ear closer to the door, listening intently to hear what was being said. Another voice replied, but was struck through with a surge of crackling noise. He realized then that the voices were some sort of TV or radio playing in the next room. He listened intently for half a minute more, noting that the sound started fading to silence, and eventually was replaced by faint noise. He had heard no other sound from the room.
He decided to risk whatever safety being stuck in a strange cold room yielded and slowly moved his hand to the doorknob. With an almost infinitely careful silence, he wrapped his hand gently around the knob, twisting it slightly to the side enough to feel the door unlock. Then, after short pause, and with sudden violent action, he threw the door open, stepping halfway into the doorway and baring his fists to whoever may come to greet him.
The doorway led to an empty bar. More precisely, the doorway led to the back counter of the bar. The counter-top was hardwood and worn from many years' use. The source of the noise he had previously heard was easily identifiable, as the small hand-held radio was still crackling with faint noise on the counter-top. Beneath the cash register was some large revolver and next to it a case of ammunition. Beside him were the usual assortment of glasses and bottles that one may find in a bar. There were a fair number of well-used barstools, a number of tables, and a pool table with a low-hung and extra bright light. The many windows of the bar betrayed only a vision of darkness.
The lights were giving him a headache, and he shielded half his vision with his splayed fingers. He turned to review the room he had just left. The entire room was a slate grey room, the same size and shape he had guessed. There was a single vent in the ceiling of the empty storeroom, but no light.
...Light...
Why are the lights on? The strangeness of that began to have an effect on David. There were no people here. He couldn't even identify any streetlights, or, indeed, anything outside of the bar. Again, a feeling of mild claustrophobia began to creep along his skin.
The static on the radio began to climb in volume. David walked the short distance to where it lay, picked it up, and spun it around looking for the off switch. It was a basic, old radio, with only a small speaker and no headphone jack. It was also so beaten up he was surprised it even ran at all. Its rising cacophony became a scream of mixed static and unidentifiable stations. He was about switch the thing off in defense of his hearing when there came from behind him a clash of glass. He spun to face the horror that had broken into the desolate bar.
The words "flying corpse" came quickly to David's mind. The thing looked dead. Not only dead, but rotting. Its face was like that of an aged skull, one covered in messy red flesh. What would be its eye sockets were half-empty holes, filled only with a greater quantity of the rotted-looking flesh. The top row of teeth, pitted and yellowed, disfigured but sharp, were clearly visible for the lack of lips, the bottom row missing entirely, along with the jaw and any tongue; both being replaced by the visible, shriveled entrance of the thing's throat at the back of its mouth. The rest of its body fared only slightly better than its face; the flesh there, though pulled sickeningly over the bony human-like form, showed less signs of rotting. The problem with saying the body faired better is that the arms were stumps of congealed blood. There could be no gender attached to the thing; its crotch was nothing more than thin skin. From its back sprouted the stalks of strange wings formed of stretched skin and visible bone, things that looked frail and weak, but somehow were enough to hold the thing in air. The legs were withered but tough, the feet ending in sharp-looking claws. The thing aimed its head at him and wailed a piercing cry, the hole behind its mouth quivering sickeningly. It beat its wings a moment longer, spreading its foul odor his way, before lunging at him, bringing its feet before it like some strange bird of prey.
Startled, David barely had time to duck the beast before it went crashing into the glasses behind him, spilling out the contents of drink and heavy shards of glass upon him. A quick glance directly in front himself in his new crouched position reminded him of the revolver he had noticed before but forgotten as he had stared, near-dumbfounded at the flying corpse. He made a dash for the gun, still crouched, letting his motion be stopped by the hard wood counter as he reached out to take hold of the gun. Having laid claim to the protection he desired, he turned back to watch as the thing latched onto his shoulder with one taloned foot, piercing the fabric of his coat with ease, and raised the other to claw at his face. He snatched at that leg's ankle with his free hand and struggled to keep it from his head, noticing his strength failing before its quickly. He raised the magnum to point at the beast's stomach and pulled the trigger, hoping with sudden fear the thing was actually loaded.
The magnum snapped back against his hand as the bullet left the muzzle chamber to go tearing through the creature's belly, taking a sizable portion of the thing's entrails with it. The gun itself fought against his grip, weakened by the claws buried in his shoulder, almost escaping his hold. The flying corpse reeled back from the shot, but not before it ripped its talons forcefully from David's arm, screaming out even louder than before, setting into motion a painful ringing in his ears.
David cried out a curse, grasping hard against his shoulder to staunch the flow of fresh blood that had begun seeping steadily from it, dropping the hand, gun still in tow, to the floor to rest the wounded appendage. As he began to become absorbed in the tending of his wound, another scream broke through his mind, alerting him to the continued presence of the creature which had pulled itself back into the air and was now beating its wings against the air persistently despite its wound as it began a new rush.
David dropped the hand from his torn shoulder to steady his shooting arm as he raised the magnum to fire again into the chest of the freak of nature, splattering the wall behind it with gore and sending the monster reeling to the floor. David braced his elbow against a lower shelf of the counter and pulled himself to his feet, where he took several cautious steps toward the flailing corpse. Determining that it was, for the moment, wounded enough not to attack him, he made one last step toward it before lowering the gun and firing a last bullet into its head, silencing its then-continual wailing.
The radio which had been screeching wildly the entire encounter had died the second the creature had. David knelt to the ground and picked the battered thing up from where it had crashed into the ground. He examined it once again, finding nothing new. He shrugged and stuck the thing in his coat pocket. At worst, it would be a quarter pound of dead weight, and a couple square inches of taken space. If it had some connection with the creature, though, it could be of value. Best to make the cautious choice.
At last he thought he had free opportunity to examine the gun. He held the heavy thing between his hands. The barrel had already cooled slightly. He freed the loading chamber, examining the rounds inside. He covered the good bullets with his thumb, tilted the gun, and freed the three spent rounds' casings. Leaning to the side, he pulled the case of magnum bullets closer to where he was kneeling, opening the box to discover six of the holes inside empty. He pulled three of the remaining 18 bullets from their places and loaded them into the empty spaces, giving the chamber classic spin before locking it back in place. I hope the owner doesn't mind my borrowing this... but I need some sort of protection, in case I see anything else like that. He took the revolver by its ivory-clad butt and examined it again, appreciating its craftsmanship. He tucked the magnum under his belt and halfway in his pocket in a makeshift holster. As he emptied the case of bullets into one of the large pockets his denim jacket had to conserve space, he wondered how long only 21 shots would last, hoping he wouldn't need to use any more.
Rising, David looked about him again to get his grounds. There didn't seem to be much else of use here, except a lot of alcohol. If worse came to worse, he could end his days here without the conscious mind to bear it. He pondered taking a bottle of whisky, but decided against it. He then decided it would be in his best interest to take a few thirst-quenching sips from a nearby can of Fosters. So decided, he stole the container from its perch upon the refrigerated rack and a mug then sat himself down on one of the old barstools, climbing over the counter to avoid passing the corpse of the deceased creature, something about it catching his eye despite his effort to avoid it. He sighed, steeling himself before turning back to give the creature a passing examination to reveal what he had prior noticed: the thing didn't bleed. Despite all the gore and brutalized flesh of the thing and the fight, there was no fresh blood anywhere to be seen. It really was a corpse.
A shiver stabbed through David's spine, spreading like shards of ice throughout his body and he quickly turned his attention back to his empty mug, simply eying it blankly for a short while before reaching over to open the can, pouring himself a half glass, and setting to the task of washing his somewhat parched throat with cleansing alcohol. Despite his intentions to stay focused again on drink, he found the habit too mechanical to fully stay absorbed in, his thoughts freely wandering back to his situation, spurned on by the cold air flowing from the broken window. He lifted his free arm to brace his head against but found the appendage to be crying out in pain, only then remembering the wound he had received in battle, berating himself for forgetting such a thing. He shook his head to himself then rose, making his way past the corpse again to a door off to the side, marked out as the latrines.
When he entered the room, he knew he had made a mistake. The floor was coated with filth. The single urinal was even worse, coated with layers of bodily excrement. The toilet was, thankfully, barred from sight by a mostly-broken stall, covered with scrawled writing. His goal, the sink, didn't fare much better than the urinal. Some disgusting freak had been through here a long time ago and it seemed no one had ever bothered to clean up. The entire room emitted a stench which gagged him. He held his breath as he made his way to the sink, turning the somewhat clean handle for water. All he received in response were grinding noises.
He decided to wait for a few moments, merely to see if anything ever came out, and took the time provided by the wait to study his visage in the cracked mirror. His light brown eyes were more vacant than usual, their tiredness made more apparent by the dark bags under them. His short brown hair was in a disarray brought on by sleepless nights or nightmares. His freckled face had its usual gaunt appearance, but looked more ghoulish when coupled with his uncommonly weary features. He brushed a hand through his hair before breaking away his vision of himself. He turned the sink's knob back off, but the strange noises merely lessened. He left the room, catching a breath of the cleaner air and stealing a cloth napkin before reviewing the stock of the bar.
Nice selection, he thought as he searched vaguely along the wall of liquor, finding at last what he was searching for, hidden well beyond casual visibility. Everclear. 190 proof? That should do. He made his way back to the barstool again to set the new bottle slightly off to the side before returning to his mug to drain the last of the contents. Finally setting that aside as well, he single-handedly unbuttoned the jacket before removing it, pulling it off tenderly over the torn shoulder, following that with his dark green shirt. He prodded lightly around the exterior of the wound before applying pressure around it, pulling it open to allow himself to see how deep it went. Not as bad as I had expected. It did bleed a lot, though, he added in thought as he viewed the blood caked around the laceration and thought back to the grand stains on both his shirt and jacket. He unscrewed the cap before bracing his arm against the counter, bringing the bottle above his wound and slowly turning it over. He found his eyes attempting to force their way shut in response to the searing pain flooding the region of his shoulder as he watched the alcohol wash away the crusting blood and flow over the wound, his hand gripping tightly.
After enough alcohol had poured over the tear to clean it out visibly, he took the napkin he had earlier procured and drenched it as well in Everclear. He folded the thing diagonally and wrapped it around itself, wringing it free of most of the liquid before placing the thickest portion gingerly over the cut, bringing the ends around under his arm and looping them loosely about each other before pulling the press tight and tying it off. He moved his arm slightly to test the tie before grapping his shirt to pull it over himself again, ignoring the bloody rip. Over that went his black windbreaker jacket. Now that he had tended to his wounds and cleaned them, he was free to think again.
That thing was dead before I shot it. He turned on the stool to face the monstrous corpse. The one empty socket left on its head stared at him menacingly, but it did not move. Though the thing had lain there for many minutes now, it had still yet to bleed. The only change seemed to be a greater odor emitted from the body. What had allowed that thing to move? he wondered. It should not have had the ability, in any case. Beyond that, even, the general form didn't fit. It should not have existed, dead or no. He began to muse deeper on the enigma, adding to it his presence here, the absence of anyone else, and the all-consuming darkness waiting just outside. He was interrupted from his thoughts by another freezing wind blowing in from outside, bringing with it air free of the foul smell of dead things.
Turning to stare at the broken window through which the cold breeze had again disturbed his thoughts, David noticed something new. There was a light in the distance, a clear white light that stood as a beacon in the dark town. The actual distance of the light was not apparent; such things are difficult to tell in the best of times and the heavy darkness enveloping the bar made it worse. That, at least, provided a choice. He would make for the source of light, where he hoped there would be people who might know more about the town or the creature that had attacked him. He lifted himself to his feet, making his way by the wall to grab another can of beer to tuck into the spare deep pocket of his jacket. He paused a moment before the exit of the safety of the bar, preferring to take the open window to the door, drawing the revolver from its makeshift holster before he stepped over the boundary of the windows, the glass underneath his heavy boots crackling with his slow passage.
The second he left the premise of the bar proper, the dim shadows cast by the light from the bar that had surged bravely forward into the darkness flickered weakly then died. He turned quickly back to the bar but his eyes were blind in the constrictive darkness. He listened intently, but there was silence. A few moments later, a heavy rain began to splatter from the heavens upon the world, quickly drenching him. He sighed at his continuing poor luck before turning back to his course: that light in the distance which still shone, however weakly, flickering slightly as it was reflected by the rain. He began his journey through the darkness warily, his hand wrapped protectively around the magnum.