As John pounded up the forest path, he was all too aware of the thing
he had named Clockwork gaining behind him. It seemed like every tic of the
mechanical monstrosity had become in synch with his steps, mimicking
him—and catching up. He sprinted past the "Silent Hill Ranch", past the
hills, past a construction site, and through a tunnel. He threw open a
chain-link gate, slammed it behind him, and continued running until he ran
headlong into a newspaper dispenser, flipping him over onto his bloodied
back and cracked rib. A fire lit itself behind his eyes and napalm flooded
his lungs, and the world went black.
When he came to, John was still lying awkwardly next to the auto vendor, and the pain had dissipated, but not much. He slowly got to his feet. Clockwork was nowhere to be seen, and neither was The Glutton. Safe, for the moment. He staggered a few steps, then steadied himself and began to follow the road. The fog was worse than ever, and a chilling wind began to blow through. His hoodie, normally thick and comfortable, was torn in many places and soaked with blood. Not knowing what to do next, he slowly made his way to the first building he saw: some kind of gardening or flower shop. He peered inside, hoping to whatever gods were listening that there was another person there, or at least was empty. His wish was heard.
John tried the door. No luck, but there was a large window in the door. Wrapping what little was left of his sleeve around his fist and forearm, he punched in the window and unlocked the door. Once inside, he began poking around. Nothing much in the way of clothing... or food. "Useless," he thought, but then he remembered: there are things outside that wanted to kill him. He quickly made his way to the back of the store, where the hardware was kept. John cackled with glee as he quickly located the most badass weapon available: a massive chainsaw. He assumed a heroic pose, and gave the cord a mighty tug.
Nothing.
Common sense put a quick lid on his little testosterone kick: it was brand new, ergo no gas. He sheepishly replaced it and continued along down the row. He remembered something from a little humor book about surviving a zombie attack or the end of the world or something like that. The first "rule": remember, you don't have to reload a blade. John quickly scanned the shelves... and there it was. A razor-sharp machete, two-foot blade... aww yeah.
Despite the pain from his rib and his numerous cuts and scratches, he strode confidently out of the store. He reflected, with some amusement, on the fact that he had just looted a store. John had shoplifted only one thing in his entire life: a candy bar from a corner convenience store. He had been so guilt-ridden that he returned it six minutes and forty-three seconds later, sobbing. The kindly old man behind the counter praised him for his honesty and sent him home, and that was that. Nothing he had seen so far gave the impression of being a kindly old man, or any man for that matter. Just him and the beasts.
As he bounced the machete in his hand and took a few practice slices, he decided he wouldn't have it any other way.
************************************************************************
John limped painfully forward as the monster behind him spasmed its last few pints of blood onto the pavement. His skin was red and peeling, and one of his eyes was swollen shut. His ankle was twisted, and he had a large knot on his head. John, like all young men, made mistakes, but only one had he paid the price for: overconfidence.
Newly endowed with his machete, he had stridden out of the gardening store with a cocky, I-can-handle-anything attitude. He soon encountered a monster, the same kind that had sprayed him with some kind of acid near that rest stop bathroom a few hours ago, and decided to even the score. John ran up to the thing, and as soon as it leaned back to spray, he quickly sidestepped and buried his machete into where its neck should be. Now, normally, a machete to the neck would've severed arteries, airways, and filled the unlucky recipient with a death panic.
John had forgotten that this was not a man.
The machete was slightly deflected by the monster's latex-like skin, and so he ended up nearly slicing a fillet out of its neck and shoulder. He wasn't counting on some samurai-esque decapitation technique, but he was counting on getting the machete out of the flesh quickly. Unfortunately, it stuck, and while John desperately tried to yank his weapon free, the enraged demon turned to him, leaned back, and sprayed him point blank...
Blinded and burning, he instinctively kicked, and due to some ridiculous luck, he managed to fell the monster his first blow. The straightened human knee requires less than eighty pounds per square inch to snap backwards—about the weight of a 10-year-old leaning on it. The monster was not human, but it had its legs straightened, and unlike The Glutton, this one did not defy physics or anatomy. Its knee turned with a sickening series of pops and cracks, and it promptly collapsed with a hideous scream of pain. John promptly stomped the thing until it stopped moving, and then stomped some more, until its head was roughly the thickness and texture of a hamburger patty.
He was soaked with blood and sweat and ichor, and the rage flowing through him did not stop after killing this abomination. Though he had sprained his ankle on the demon's head, the thought of his brother here with these things, of his mother crying, of himself dying, and the pain flowing through his chemically burned skin combined to make him something like God's wrath manifest. He was lucky that he had these fueling him; the death screams of the wretch he had just wasted attracted more, and some different ones. There were at least six of them.
He quickly dispatched two, tripping and cutting them in one swift motion before kicking with all his might. More came, and he faltered for a second. The fear threatened to overwhelm his consciousness, when he suddenly had a fleeting thought of books. Lots and lots of books. John was a voracious reader, and he spent a good deal of his time in his room reading. He no longer thought of the monsters staggering towards him: instead, he was lost in the vast library of his memory. Shakespeare, Thoreau, Patterson. Classics and poetry, novels and comic books, everything he had ever read in one huge monolithic bookcase, towering to the sky. As if on cue, a single, thin volume fell from about midway up; it landed with a finality that disturbed him. It did not bounce or flutter: it opened and stayed. Cautiously, he made his way forward. It looked like an old copy of Hagakure, a samurai treatise written by a man who had never seen a battle. Suddenly, the book seemed to swell, illuminating a single sentence in blood red. It was an old proverb:
Step out from under the eaves and you're a dead man. Leave the gate and the enemy is waiting.
John blinked in confusion, and suddenly the bookcase was gone, and the monsters were back. Then, he understood. He knew why he had been shown the proverb. Many had interpreted it as a literal instruction for daimyos and VIPs to stay within their castle walls, but John suddenly grappled with a new insight: it was not a warning against leaving safety, it was a warning against the "safety" itself. A man who lived in fear could never step more than five feet from the door, could never open the gates and live. Life. It's why he was here, wasn't it? For Josh's life, literally, and for his and his mother's.
He snapped out of his reverie. The old feeling of wrath returned, this time unhindered by fear or doubt. John flew into the group of monsters, wildly flailing the machete, not caring for his body or sanity. He was hit several times by things that looked like deranged mannequins, bloodying his face and head, but it only served to infuriate him further. He ruthlessly hacked into them, past all feelings of pity, or mercy, or happiness or sadness or fear. Just his wrath remained.
He sat down among the corpses. He was coated in a layer of dried blood, giving his skin a dull red sheen. He rocked back and forth, singing silently to himself. After a few minutes, he got up and staggered a few steps. An old air-raid klaxon siren wailed to the north, and his voice rose to meet it in a primeval scream.
A bullet tore through his shoulder, spinning him to the ground, and he had a vision of black figures swarming towards him as he lapsed into unconsciousness.
When he came to, John was still lying awkwardly next to the auto vendor, and the pain had dissipated, but not much. He slowly got to his feet. Clockwork was nowhere to be seen, and neither was The Glutton. Safe, for the moment. He staggered a few steps, then steadied himself and began to follow the road. The fog was worse than ever, and a chilling wind began to blow through. His hoodie, normally thick and comfortable, was torn in many places and soaked with blood. Not knowing what to do next, he slowly made his way to the first building he saw: some kind of gardening or flower shop. He peered inside, hoping to whatever gods were listening that there was another person there, or at least was empty. His wish was heard.
John tried the door. No luck, but there was a large window in the door. Wrapping what little was left of his sleeve around his fist and forearm, he punched in the window and unlocked the door. Once inside, he began poking around. Nothing much in the way of clothing... or food. "Useless," he thought, but then he remembered: there are things outside that wanted to kill him. He quickly made his way to the back of the store, where the hardware was kept. John cackled with glee as he quickly located the most badass weapon available: a massive chainsaw. He assumed a heroic pose, and gave the cord a mighty tug.
Nothing.
Common sense put a quick lid on his little testosterone kick: it was brand new, ergo no gas. He sheepishly replaced it and continued along down the row. He remembered something from a little humor book about surviving a zombie attack or the end of the world or something like that. The first "rule": remember, you don't have to reload a blade. John quickly scanned the shelves... and there it was. A razor-sharp machete, two-foot blade... aww yeah.
Despite the pain from his rib and his numerous cuts and scratches, he strode confidently out of the store. He reflected, with some amusement, on the fact that he had just looted a store. John had shoplifted only one thing in his entire life: a candy bar from a corner convenience store. He had been so guilt-ridden that he returned it six minutes and forty-three seconds later, sobbing. The kindly old man behind the counter praised him for his honesty and sent him home, and that was that. Nothing he had seen so far gave the impression of being a kindly old man, or any man for that matter. Just him and the beasts.
As he bounced the machete in his hand and took a few practice slices, he decided he wouldn't have it any other way.
************************************************************************
John limped painfully forward as the monster behind him spasmed its last few pints of blood onto the pavement. His skin was red and peeling, and one of his eyes was swollen shut. His ankle was twisted, and he had a large knot on his head. John, like all young men, made mistakes, but only one had he paid the price for: overconfidence.
Newly endowed with his machete, he had stridden out of the gardening store with a cocky, I-can-handle-anything attitude. He soon encountered a monster, the same kind that had sprayed him with some kind of acid near that rest stop bathroom a few hours ago, and decided to even the score. John ran up to the thing, and as soon as it leaned back to spray, he quickly sidestepped and buried his machete into where its neck should be. Now, normally, a machete to the neck would've severed arteries, airways, and filled the unlucky recipient with a death panic.
John had forgotten that this was not a man.
The machete was slightly deflected by the monster's latex-like skin, and so he ended up nearly slicing a fillet out of its neck and shoulder. He wasn't counting on some samurai-esque decapitation technique, but he was counting on getting the machete out of the flesh quickly. Unfortunately, it stuck, and while John desperately tried to yank his weapon free, the enraged demon turned to him, leaned back, and sprayed him point blank...
Blinded and burning, he instinctively kicked, and due to some ridiculous luck, he managed to fell the monster his first blow. The straightened human knee requires less than eighty pounds per square inch to snap backwards—about the weight of a 10-year-old leaning on it. The monster was not human, but it had its legs straightened, and unlike The Glutton, this one did not defy physics or anatomy. Its knee turned with a sickening series of pops and cracks, and it promptly collapsed with a hideous scream of pain. John promptly stomped the thing until it stopped moving, and then stomped some more, until its head was roughly the thickness and texture of a hamburger patty.
He was soaked with blood and sweat and ichor, and the rage flowing through him did not stop after killing this abomination. Though he had sprained his ankle on the demon's head, the thought of his brother here with these things, of his mother crying, of himself dying, and the pain flowing through his chemically burned skin combined to make him something like God's wrath manifest. He was lucky that he had these fueling him; the death screams of the wretch he had just wasted attracted more, and some different ones. There were at least six of them.
He quickly dispatched two, tripping and cutting them in one swift motion before kicking with all his might. More came, and he faltered for a second. The fear threatened to overwhelm his consciousness, when he suddenly had a fleeting thought of books. Lots and lots of books. John was a voracious reader, and he spent a good deal of his time in his room reading. He no longer thought of the monsters staggering towards him: instead, he was lost in the vast library of his memory. Shakespeare, Thoreau, Patterson. Classics and poetry, novels and comic books, everything he had ever read in one huge monolithic bookcase, towering to the sky. As if on cue, a single, thin volume fell from about midway up; it landed with a finality that disturbed him. It did not bounce or flutter: it opened and stayed. Cautiously, he made his way forward. It looked like an old copy of Hagakure, a samurai treatise written by a man who had never seen a battle. Suddenly, the book seemed to swell, illuminating a single sentence in blood red. It was an old proverb:
Step out from under the eaves and you're a dead man. Leave the gate and the enemy is waiting.
John blinked in confusion, and suddenly the bookcase was gone, and the monsters were back. Then, he understood. He knew why he had been shown the proverb. Many had interpreted it as a literal instruction for daimyos and VIPs to stay within their castle walls, but John suddenly grappled with a new insight: it was not a warning against leaving safety, it was a warning against the "safety" itself. A man who lived in fear could never step more than five feet from the door, could never open the gates and live. Life. It's why he was here, wasn't it? For Josh's life, literally, and for his and his mother's.
He snapped out of his reverie. The old feeling of wrath returned, this time unhindered by fear or doubt. John flew into the group of monsters, wildly flailing the machete, not caring for his body or sanity. He was hit several times by things that looked like deranged mannequins, bloodying his face and head, but it only served to infuriate him further. He ruthlessly hacked into them, past all feelings of pity, or mercy, or happiness or sadness or fear. Just his wrath remained.
He sat down among the corpses. He was coated in a layer of dried blood, giving his skin a dull red sheen. He rocked back and forth, singing silently to himself. After a few minutes, he got up and staggered a few steps. An old air-raid klaxon siren wailed to the north, and his voice rose to meet it in a primeval scream.
A bullet tore through his shoulder, spinning him to the ground, and he had a vision of black figures swarming towards him as he lapsed into unconsciousness.
