Silent Hill: The Dream Machine
by Elliot Bowers
…
Chapter 4
…
It was the weekend, and there were plenty of people here in the downtown area: here to relax themselves through a good time. People walked along sidewalks in going to restaurants and local shops while cars went along the streets. One such downtown restaurant was set along a street primarily occupied by garment shops, a corner restaurant with a large window to give a view of the outside.
In here, the setup and ambiance was much like most other New England-style eating places: old-fashioned light fixtures above illuminated the wooden furniture, tables and chairs, with wood-paneled walls. Casually dressed people were sitting at tables, talking to each other, considering the cloudy weather, and thinking about what to do with the rest of their time off.
"…All we found to go on were a few broken clay flutes, some dried packets of cinnamon and a mannequin," finished the off-duty policewoman, sitting at the drinking bar of this restaurant. "Of all things… A mannequin! We thought it was the work of a psychopath. But psychopaths usually kill people. It wasn't a murder case, we knew. The people who went missing were just…missing. There were no other clues we could see."
The woman telling the tale to the bartender, she was pretty by some standards: a slim body dressed in the local style of boots, blue jeans, and sleeveless white shirt with black jacket thrown over. Her shoulder-length red hair framed a face of high cheekbones and crystal blue eyes. The jacket she wore was more than just a fashion statement and a means to ward off the chill of the habitual fogs; it also served to veil her holstered, snub-nosed .38 caliber pistol. Off-duty or not, a police officer always carried a pistol in this town.
"Funny you should mention something like clay flutes. Hold on a second," responded the professionally dressed bartender: a huge man perhaps as broad as he was tall, his head shiny and bald. He was now using those massive arms of his to skillfully pour some sunset-colored beer from a tap. It was this drink that he set before another customer: a man in black jeans and tee shirt. That man's girlfriend was hanging on his right arm and giggling about something silly she'd just heard. "That's a song of dark confusion. It also sounds an awful lot like what some detective came here talking about.
"It was a private eye… Middle-aged sort of guy in typical detective clothes, beak nose and an '80s sort of hairstyle. He said he specialized in 'missing persons' cases. It seems like he had a case as whacked-out as yours: clues that would freak out anybody. One was a tan-colored bowl stained with bits of oatmeal. The other clue was a blurry picture of a roadsign… But the letters on the roadsign in the picture, they were all blurry, like they'd been stretched out of shape. Everything else in the picture was in focus except for that . If you ask me, those are some funny thing to leave in somebody's bedroom if you're going to do a kidnapping. At least they left cluesPoor kid… The detective also showed me a picture of the kidnap victim: a little girl with really white hair and the biggest dark eyes you've ever seen."
"You said 'three' clues. Hmm…" asked the woman. She frowned. "A little girl… I really hope they didn't hurt her or anything. There are too many perverts around these days. The official word for people like that is 'molesters,' child predators, but I call them monsters. And the only way to stop a monster is to catch it. " And kill it.
The bartender shrugged his shoulders. "Yeah well, I hope so too. I told the detective what I could tell him as best as I could. Told him that the road sign looked familiar. But the little pale-haired girl in the spring-time dress… Never saw her before." He grimaced. "If I did, I'd never forget it."
"What do you mean by that?" asked the woman, noticing the uncomfortable look on his face. "I've got twin nieces, my brother's daughters. They're both cute as dolls. Kids are cute…so long as they're not yours… And what do you mean, wouldn't forget seeing her? Any birthmarks or deformities?"
"No, not anything like that. Not that I could see in that detective's picture," responded the bartender. Then that male customer in black outfit gestured for a refill. The bartender reached over to oblige. As he refilled the mug, he said, "It was…" He almost overfilled the other customer's mug this time. "It was the way she looked. Her skin looked really pale in the picture. I mean, her skin was so white that it looked almost fake. Her hair was something like that, too: ash-blonde, they call it. But her eyes. Even in the light of the flash, they were pitch-black. Big dark eyes that look like they swallow light… She looked a little like she was from another planet or something."
"Hmm! Ha-ha-ha…!" The policewoman gave a quick laugh, then slapped a hand over her own mouth for a moment. Uncovering her mouth, she apologized. "I'm sorry…. It's funny you should say that. It reminds me of what some in my department have been saying about Animal Control." She took a sip from her drink and stared down at it. Then expression on her face changed. Something suddenly felt very wrong. It was that feeling of something on hearing a civil defense siren or hearing a news bulletin about an impending nuclear attack. Staring down at her glass, she saw reflected golden flickers: coming from behind her, probably beyond this restaurant's windows.
"What the…?" exclaimed that other customer with the girlfriend on an arm. His girlfriend was suddenly less friendly and clinging, letting go and looking around. There was now a loud, harsh hissing of static filled this place: replacing the sound of the local music-radio station that was playing on the restaurant's radio. "Hey bartender, something wrong with your sound system? It's not even night-time yet, and it's already going all staticky."
The policewoman looked at the bartender: who was now incredibly still and paused in mid-action. It looked as if the man had been replaced by a life-sized mannequin. There were no words from him, not even movement. This, while the sound from the sound system remained agitated.
A petite, dark-haired waitress in restaurant uniform came over here, set her tray atop the bar, and ducked behind the counter. She must have been doing something to the bar's radio tuner, because now it was no longer just the sound of tortured, raging static. Now there was singing…
It was very beautiful singing mixed in with that noise. The policewoman strained her ears, even turned around on the stool in trying to catch the dreamy notes. Such a beautiful and dreamy song. It sounded like a sweet, sad lullaby, sung on a cold and dark night… But the reception was just so terrible Where the Hell was all the radio-static coming from?
Turning around had also given her a view of what else was happening. From her raised vantage point, she could look over the tables, seeing over the heads of the now-agitated customers. While they angrily chatted at each other and gave annoyed glances up at the ceiling, she could see a man in a white trench-coat. A scientist's lab-coat? Maybe, but it was difficult to be sure as the day out there seemed to have been dimmed.
It wasn't even close to sunset yet, still the afternoon. The policewoman glanced at her watch just to be sure. Yes, it was still hours yet before sunset. The local weather always tended towards cloudiness, seldom with sunny weather. But there was a difference between an overcast day and the end of the day. Something was happening out there…
The scientist out there mouthed some words, and his head burst into flames. The more loudly he tried to speak, the more fiercely the flames raged. A man was on fire out there, and here she was. She was sitting down and doing nothing.
"God…!" she exclaimed, quickly getting off of the barstool. She then made long, quick strides towards the door and began taking off her jacket. This revealed her tight-fitting white top: as well as the holster that held her snub-nosed pistol. So what if it would make the customers nervous? They ought to be aware of what was happening outside instead of just complaining about the restaurant radio's poor reception.
…
She swung open the bar door and dashed out. Out here, the wind howled along this sidewalk as cars slowly drove by. The man in the white trench coat was still standing next to that window and looking in this direction, his face twisted in misery as flames continued to burn. As for the trench coat itself, there were smeared patches of oily black on the sleeves and on his red pants as if he had crawled through somewhere dirty…or out of it. She raised her jacket and began to approach the man on fire. She planned on using the jacket to smother the flames.
"Stay calm!" she shouted. ""Cover your face with your hands! I'm going to… What!" A sudden blast of heat and pain made her stagger back, made her fall onto her back: leaving her stunned. For the space of a moment, everything seemed covered over with a haze of pain and misery. She thought that she had been shot, or that the man had been armed with a bomb: having blown himself up. This left the woman to wonder if, when she sat up again, she would find any parts of her body missing.
When she recovered her breath , she snapped to her feet in two quick movement. The second movement included her drawing her pistol and looking around: looking ahead. "Freeze! Police!"
The man in the long white coat was already walking away: begin to lope towards the street in a pitifully slow way. His head was still on fire, and his hands already seemed burned away. Still, it seemed as if he didn't mind. What the Hell was with this guy?
"I told you to freeze!" she shouted. Apparently, the word freeze was a bad choice of words. "Stop where you are!" Her arms tensed once when she readjusted her aim. Tense arms were poor for firing a weapon, but it would be difficult to miss at this range. She couldn't have crazed, burning men walking around and using unknown explosives to harm townspeople! "On the count of six, you will stop moving or I will fire!" Fire… Freeze… Oh yeah, she was using all the best words today!
Halfway onto the street, the burning man's head suddenly rapid-blurred back and fourth: his head moving so fast that the woman could hear his burning cheeks and lips flapping. Whap-whap-whap-whap-whap… Just looking at his head do that made the woman feel sick.
"You can't see the color," whispered a wind-chilled voice in her right ear. She shuddered and ducked away! This, while the man in the white coat steadily made his way towards the street. When she was sure that there was no one there, she again returned her attention to the burning man in the white coat. His head stopped blurring long enough for him to look in her direction.
She gasped and blinked as something other than the chill air made her shudder. The man had such a look on his face. It was a look that managed to communicate an expression of misery that it made her lower her weapon. His eyes held such a depth of loss and suffering, darkness and pain, that not even the caring of a million people over a thousand years could cure it. Through that look in his darkened eyes, the policewoman saw a soul that seemed submerged in the dark and twisted depths of his own personal Hell.
There was the sound of wind howling through a deep, dark place that filled her ears, filling her mind. It was the sound of deep darkness. A sound like this could be heard in the darkest caves and the oldest crypts. Yet this sound was authentic. This sound was real. The perceived howling of souls in empty and dead places was mixed in. And when the burning man in white trench coat opened his mouth, it was much like a cave: dark and open.
The catalyst changed before. She'll change again, came his words, though his mouth did not move. The flames atop his head brightened. The wind howled and seemed to add to the fire. It was beginning to burn bright enough to hurt the eyes.
We saw the War. We-e-e-e saw them darken the land. If her body dies, then they can lay claim. They…can…lay claim to the catalyst! Do not let them co-o-o-oncentrate her-r-r! Ough-h-h-h…!
"What do you mean by that?" asked the policewoman…just before she was struck quiet with a headache! She clutched her head and bent over in reaction to the pain. This pain was so bold and evil that she could not move or act when necessary. Or maybe there would have been nothing she could have done. It was unfortunate that she could not act, because soon came the sound of a beastly roar coming from one end of the street. A blast of air, and the roaring sound turned out to be the bass-deep grumbling of a heavy truck-engine: a massive, night-colored garbage truck that came out of nowhere.
It filled the street and the air its huge noisy mass, shaking everything with noise and vibration. The large vehicle had a front large as a monarch's crypt, a driver's cab as big as a house, and a massive black-and-white rear payload section big enough to hold a starship. Flames shot up from the exhaust pipes mounted on its roof, obscuring the top of the vehicle with smoke, while multi-armed creatures and men in red coveralls and multi-armed creatures clung onto the huge sides. How such a huge monstrosity of a vehicle could move so fast seemed impossible. But there it was, moving with sinister speed and reckless abandon… Fwoo-o-sh.
It was that monstrosity of a vehicle that sped right over the man in the white trench coat: a tsunami of metal and engine-roar that not even the end of the world could stop its momentum. The man was of average height, but he seemed little more than a child's toy in comparison to the dark nightmare-truck that just ran over him.
Run over? No, it seemed as if the massive vehicle ate him: white trench coat, burning head and all. He was gone. There was not a trace of the man after the rumbling passage of the huge truck. When the massive metal vehicle came to the end of this street, there was another blast of wind…and it vanished again, going back to wherever it was that it came from. Thank you very much.
The policewoman slowly holstered her pistol and took a few steps closer to the street. What the Hell just happened here? She kept asking herself that question repeatedly as she stared at the street, staring and wondering. There should have at least been loose change, scraps of torn cloth, something left on the street after the accident. Instead there was just that dual thick streak of reddish mud that went along the street.
Hell yes, that truck had certainly been here, something not imagined. There were two streaks along the street, long reddish streaks of drying mud. There were traces of smoke from the thing's fiery exhaust still hanging in the air and fading fast. She could smell the burning and still had the memory of the way the thing shook the sidewalk in passing. And that man was there. Right there…! Before that scientist walked into the path of that huge truck, he was standing at the restaurant's picture-windows: on the outside, looking in.
He was gone now, no more threats of men with burning heads or ice-cold words being whispered into her right ear. So she holstered her pistol and walked over to her jacket: on the sidewalk where she had dropped it. There was some reddish grit on it from the sidewalk, which she dusted off. Jacket on again, she considered what to do about what just happened. Someone had just been killed, yet all the evidence there had been was just a dual streak of reddish mud.
This wouldn't be the first time something of this sort happened in Pleasant River. Emergency switchboard calls came in about falling bits of airplane debris or trench coat-wearing men with dangerous dogs. But going to the alleged crime scenes turned up nothing but footprints or bits of junk. Nothing else, not even the most minute bloodstains, was ever found.
And nothing else would probably be found here, either. She could write up a report. She knew what would happen: her desk sergeant would politely tell her he'd file it with a police captain, the police captain would then file it somewhere else, and the issue would just be classified as another one of those incidents. Those kind of things happened all the time in this town; it could not be helped.
…
When she went back into the restaurant, people had resumed talking and eating at their tables. The sound system was again playing the blather of the local FM radio station, mixing easy-listening music and on-the-air commentary. There was no static in the sound. And over at the drinking bar, the huge bartender was cleaning mugs and chatting with the customers. Nothing much was happening here other than business. The stool she had left earlier was now occupied.
She walked over and took up another place at the bar and reached into her jacket's inner pocket to take out a twenty-note. Carrying money this way was safer than carrying around a purse, though it seemed a little masculine. "Hmmph, and a big tip! Thanks," said the bartender as he took it up.
He went to put it in the cash register. When he came back, he asked, "I was watching through the window when it happened. Truth is… If I was you, I'd probably hold off on telling anybody until I thought about it some. Or I'd just forget about telling anybody about it at all."
She thought about the words she had heard on the wind, that burning scientist's words. Now she was trying to put some kind of meaning to them, trying to figure that statement out. He mentioned something called a catalyst. And he mentioned people "laying claim" to a woman, as if she was a piece of property to be owned, like part of a machine… Do not let them concentrate her, said the scientistWhat did he mean by that? And who was this all about?
2.
…
It was the weekend, yet there were some things that had to be done at the school to insure that it would remain animal-free. This included doing some cleaning, inspecting the devices, and insuring that they worked. After overseeing such things, Selena returned to the house. She showered again and changed into a fresh outfit more befitting where she wanted to go… This outfit was a great deal like the one she had upon arriving in this town: close-fitting jeans, deerskin boots, and a cream-colored blouse to help offset her complexion (which was still a sickly pale), and a leather jacket that was as dark as her hair. A new small purse slung over her left shoulder, and she was ready.
The young woman wanted to go out today: to mix with local people, to socialize. All the time she had been in this town, there had been nothing but her doing what was necessary. Everything she had done so far had been in service to filling in roles left empty by Arnie's departure. Now it was her time. And she knew just how she was to spend it. Being with people was important to her, being out in light and life. If this town was a version of the one she had left, then there should be a place of the very sort she would enjoy.
Half an hour later, she had driven up to a café in the downtown area of Pleasant River. This place so happened to be on the very same street as the restaurant frequented by a certain red-haired policewoman. In fact, several dining places managed to stay in business on the same street. Things like this were possible in tourist towns. That, and other things were made possible here: such as how this café managed to retain a look it had kept since the 1950s.
…
The diner was arranged for comfort. There were booths with tables along the right side of this place, set next to the window, for customers who came in to eat meals: a small bookshelf of spare books at the end. The left side had a small stage for musical performances and a jukebox: next to which were two doors for bathroom. At the end of this longish space was the counter itself where food was prepared. A man in white shirt and pants was at work behind that counter over there, a circular cap atop his head while several waitresses in white-and-beige uniforms catered to the customers: of which there were perhaps a dozen.
The customers themselves were an especially lively bunch, sitting at the tables next to the window and at the long dining counter. Most all of them had black clothes: from black jeans and tee shirts with leather jackets for most everyone to knee-length black skirts and dark silk blouses for some of the young women: a clash of styles. There was coffee and tea being drank while open books were being discussed and cited. Some even sang parts of songs or read poetry aloud. So much was happening here and going on, so much food and drink, so much discussion and gesticulation, that she soon became overwhelmed. It truly was impressive.
"You're here, Selena," said a woman's voice behind her. This made Selena do a quick-spin around, turning fast enough to make her hair and purse whip: her right hand having gone to the base of her throat. A person was truly surprised when one could feel one's heart leap up in one's chest!
The source of the voice turned out to be a tall waitress with pinned-up blonde hair. She was dressed in a long black skirt and white blouse, the waitress uniform of this café. "We knew that you made it, but we couldn't have been sure if you still stayed you… You catch? It's easy to see what's in front of a person. But seeing behind some things is always something that takes a little work."
Flustered, Selena asked, "But how is it that you knew of my name prior to my presence here? I am bereft of nametag or any other label. Further true is how I have never been introduced to you…nor you introduced to I. My name is uncommon enough that even a haphazard guess would not have succeeded in an immediate correct response. Again, how did you come to know of my name?"
The tall waitress smiled, her face looking somewhat elfin. "Like I said," she added, "it's easy to see what's in front of you. If you don't understand, then maybe you should walk out that door, think about the things you see and hear, then come back when you remember. And don't forget to remember yourself, too. Because you can't have forgotten already. I f you have, maybe some tea will tug up some submerging memories."
Selena shook her head. "There are, at times, places and people best forgotten. If not forgotten, then they have already been consumed by the flow of time." Her eyes narrowed. "Or they have been consumed by something else."
"Ah, but it's also good to remember why you want to forget," countered the tall waitress. "If you don't, then you'd forget why you've forgotten, and then you'll remember! To remember why, I'd recommend the cinnamon-flavored tea. Just head right on over to the counter and have yourself a few cups. He knows just how to make it. Cinnamon flavored, not actual cinnamon. Everyone in this café has had enough of cinnamon."
"Hmm… Yes, I shall take up that recommendation, " said Selena, feeling the edges of a headache tugging her head. She walked over to the counter and felt just a bit disoriented. Seated at the tall stool, she pulled up her legs as so the heels of her boots hooked into the circular rung of the stool's support-shaft. This, while the din of excited conversation continued.
The café cook walked over to Selena's spot at the counter. "Hello there…" he said, looking into her eyes. "Oh, I see what your problem is. You're just a little dizzy from your transition through that other place, that's all. I know just the thing." He turned his back and went to the beverage-preparation machinery. The machinery consisted of two cylindrical machines set in the left-side wall, silvery pipes connected to the ceiling. A few adjustments of some small valves, and the cook had made the beverage-making machine on the left produce a tea that smelled especially sweet: even among the other smells of food here. He came back with a tall cup of red-colored tea that smelled too good. "Here you go…! Cinnamon-flavored. Most all the benefits, none of the trouble."
"Never mind that!" snapped Selena, suddenly irritated and impatient. She quickly grabbed up the tall ceramic cup of cinnamon -flavored tea and tilted back her head, arching her neck as she greedily gulped down the tea. The young woman would probably have fallen out of the stool had she not set her boot-heels in the rungs at the bottom of the stool. There was plenty of it, good… It was so very delicious, so goo-o-ood… She was sucking the tea, consuming it, her throat pulling the liquid into her body. Even when the cup was almost empty, she shook out the last few drops into her open mouth. It tasted as sweet as children's souls, just as she knew it would.
Then came the rush. The warmth of the cinnamon-flavored tea spread from her abdomen and throughout the rest of her body. It then spread up her neck and into her head. The world was suddenly afloat in bliss and delight. Selena felt…wonderful.
This was followed by a massive backlash of sadness and guilt, feelings of remorse for miserable things she did not quite remember doing. Selena could feel her cheeks become red with blushing. Memories were coming into focus, coming back. Oh yes, the cinnamon-flavored tea allowed her to remember: even remember things about herself she did not want to recall.
That cook in white gave a knowing nod as he gently took back the ceramic teacup. "Ah, now you're getting your mind right again," he commented. "Now you're in much-better shape to talk about the affairs of this world. Everybody already knows an awful lot about what's going on: the animals, the lights in the sky, the nightly fogs of the mind… But we speak about it in our own style… Right?"
"That's very right," responded Selena. There was a napkin holder close by. She took up one of the soft tissues and began to dab at her lips. "And anyway, nothing would make the right kind of sense if we did. Understanding the colors is more important than just seeing them. It lets us know what's there."
To this comment, the cook snapped the fingers of both hands and pointed to the tables. "That's as good as gold! I think you're ready to head over to the tables and share some words with the others. They're travelers too. It's good for travelers to swap some thoughts together. It sure beats talking to themselves."
"Talking to oneself may be passably tolerable," began Selena, "so long as there is not a response from the same source." The cook took up the tall cup and refilled it with something much more soothing: and certainly less strong: than cinnamon-flavored sweet-tea. This was coffee. With this in her hands, she unhooked her boot-heels from the lower rungs of the stool and walked over to one of the circular tables populated by people dressed as she was.
One such table had four seats, three of the seats already occupied. Two men and a woman were over there… One of the men reached over the table to grab the top of a chair to turn it around: making it face Selena. It was a gesture that meant, Come on over! We've got a Hell's worth of things to talk about.
Selena decided to accept that symbolic invitation . She came to the table and set the ceramic cup of coffee before positioning the chair for sitting. She did, lowering herself onto the chair and eyeing the dark-clad others. Indeed, not only did all three of these people have the same style of clothing as herself: jeans, tight shirts and black leather jackets: they all had eyes the same color of hers. Even the woman with ash-blonde hair had dark eyes.
"We've been through a lot, even if we don't remember it," commented one of the men, his hands on his cup of coffee. He looked at Selena. "Girl, you're looking into my eyes and thinking, 'God, what does that man know?' Well, I can't tell you all that I know." He leaned forward. "Do you know what you know, Selena? Is that your only name?"
"If the label is appropriate, it is certainly worth maintaining," answered Selena. She took a gulp of coffee. "Things would become especially inconvenient if people began calling each other by the wrong names. We would all be people in the wrong places."
"Or the places could be right," added the pale-haired woman at this table. "We're not always the right people at the right time. Then we'd have to ask ourselves who the right people are. That's a world of conversation by itself. Maybe we can just decide to be happy being where things are better."
…
3.
…
The police chief was a wide-bodied sort of man, dressed in pressed slacks and buttoned-down shirt. He sat at the back of the forensics lab of this police station. This basement-level laboratory wasn't especially large: perhaps the size of a kitchen. Yet what it lacked in size it made up for in equipment in addition to the two ceramic brass-lined tables for the autopsies themselves. Machines along one end of the room had two light-based microscopes, an electron microscope, spectral-chemical analyzers, machinery for fingerprint analysis, and even some sophisticated pieces of equipment from the Animal Control department. Half of the machinery here was stuff the police chief couldn't identify
Mid-sized towns like Pleasant River normally didn't have facilities for autopsies. Autopsies were done in cases of suspected foul play: as in murder cases. And, usually, murder cases in mid-sized towns were investigated by the state police. That was the way things normally went. But anyone who came to this town with normal in mind would best get back into his or her car, make a U-turn, and commence driving back the way he or she came.
Yeah, just maybe he should have done the same eighteen years ago. It was his cousin , a senator, that connected him with this lofty job within the Pleasant River Police Department. His senator-cousin had heard of an opening for an administrative position within a nice-sized New England town and made a few calls. Before long, the job was his. Then he found out what was going on in this town.
By then, it was too late to back out. The last two police chiefs of Pleasant River disappeared under circumstances so bizarre that the FBI would commence criminal background checks on anyone who even bothered to ask. Meanwhile, that senator-cousin said that the things happening in Pleasant River were too important to walk: or drive: away from.. Just stay friends with Samuel Longhorn.
The police chief just crossed his big, sleeve-covered arms and watch as that trio from the Animal Control department lectured forensics scientists. It was the thin blonde woman in coveralls and gold-colored sweater who was doing the speaking now, the woman with the looks of a Swedish fashion model and the mechanical behavior worthy of a robot. The chief wondered if the Animal Control department was in the habit of taking slender blonde women and sucking out their emotions…then replacing it with machinery and artificial chemicals.
"…With that as a basis, preliminary observations in comparison to native forms of local wildlife would give false conclusions. It would be misconstrued data," she continued. "I refer to an entirely separate classification of organisms: not plants, not fungi, and not true animals. Referring to these organisms as animals would merely be a matter of convenience. This convenience and generality comes at the cost of accuracy. The biochemistry of these multicellular organism includes much in the way of properties that exceed those of wholly organic and multicellular in terms of quantum potential: such as their relatively high electro-magnetic potential even when compared to that of electric eels."
Huh? Past the first sentence, the police chief was lost. He would have much preferred that the pretty blonde woman speak in sentences with fewer syllables apiece. The words she spoke were far beyond the edges of his comprehension. There was therefore no reason to bother reaching for comprehension. As she continued speaking, he instead decided to take glances up and down her slim physique: clad as it was in coveralls. The skin left exposed by her outfit: face, neck and hands: was unusually pale; blondes normally had a blushing ruddiness to their complexions. He imagined her nude body, long and pale-colored body in bed as his eyelids drifted…ever downward…
"For example, your police personnel have noted a great deal of noise and interference with radio-based communications in the presence of animals: what you call 'static.' Also true is how the police personnel experience the effects of light distortion and chronological abnormalities. This is a direct result of the metabolic processes of the so-called animals interacting with fourth-dimensional sub-strata on a quantum level."
The police chief blinked and shook himself. He'd fallen asleep for perhaps six seconds. Now, the blonde woman was moving closer to the table with the animal on it… A woman who looked that way ought to move with grace. The blonde woman moved somewhat too gracefully: her long slow strides too smooth. That, coupled with her manner of speaking, led the police chief to especially question if she was a real person at all. In this town, who knows?
"This animal, for example, was capable of distorting electromagnetics-based communications within a thirty-six meter radius." She gestured to the brass-lined ceramic table in front of her, atop which was something nasty. This was the kind of animal that resembled headless deer, with horns instead of a head and neck. It was lying on its side, its six legs not moving. And the multiple mouths that lined the sides of its ribcage no longer inhaled or exhaled air. Eighteen bullets had seen to that.
Fourth-dimensional sub-strata? Sounded like something a physics professor jazzed on LSD would say… The police chief felt himself falling asleep. He much preferred to be in his office and talking trash on the phone with members of the town council. He was a politics man, which was why he was promoted to chief in the first place. This sort of lecturing was best left for people who wore lab coats and earned much less money than he did.
But the Animal Control department insisted he be here for the lecture. At least the blonde woman was cute, which added to the interest value of her boring talk. Creepy, but cute. Boring though it was, he would stay awake. Maybe he could impress her with his staying power.
"Note that the animal seems relatively inactive due to the extensive tissue damage rendered to its body," she continued. "With most all terrestrial multicellular organisms, trauma to vital organs: the rapid loss of blood flow: would result in of life-cessation. Such a loss of life is due to the loss of blood circulation, through which vital nutrients and other chemicals are circulated throughout the body. That would be the case if the organism relied on such organs for vital bodily processes. That is not so with these animals. Beyond vestigal growths, the bodies of these so-called animals have no true 'organs.'"
The police chief understood that much. So the animals have got no ordinary guts… Who cares? The two other women in white lab-coats were interested, but he wasn't. It was forensics job to be interested in scientific laboratory stuff, not his. As he sat in this hard chair, he resumed an earlier fantasy: that of imagining the slim blonde woman in white overalls and gold-sweater, imagining what she looked like without those clothes on. He also played with thoughts of the two female forensics scientists being naked underneath their long lab-coats… That would have been a great deal more interesting.
What if the deer-like animal atop the table was to get up and tap-dance. Yeah, or better yet, what if it sprung to its feet (or hooves), and did a rendition of the "Charleston Shuffle?" Those cloven hooves would probably have tapped out a pretty mean beat on that metal table! Then he could take the messed-up looking deer-thing to York City to appear on the Charles Manson late-night show!
"They may not necessarily be subject to 'life cessation,' either," she added. As soon as she said this, the two others from the Animal Control department wheeled over a tall machine with what looked like robot-arms. "If we were to subject the body to a magnetic field of the correct resonance, we would find the results to be especially reflective of this idea. Of note is how the body has experienced excessive trauma. It does not breathe and has ceased movement hours ago."
Hey, he knew what dead was. He wasn't stupid! Why the Hell did the blonde woman have to explain that to him? Wait… She was beginning to do something. Something wasn't right here.
The thin blonde woman in white overalls had indeed moved over to the machine set next to the table. She began pressing several keys on that multi-armed machine next to the table. One of the machine's arms extended, with parts of it unfolding to form a sort of metal lattice-work that closed over the top of the table: closing over the corpse of the deer-thing. A few more button-presses, then there was a deep sort of humming sound coming from the machinery. It was a low bass kind of sound that a person felt at night-clubs and late-night parties, the sort of low-frequency thrumming that shook a person's insides. Except this was no night-club. And there were no visible speakers.
It was a good thing there was a half-cage over the table, because now the headless deer-thing began to buck and shake. Maybe he'd get that tap-dance routine after all. Except now he wasn't so enthusiastic about it: now that the deer-thing was becoming lively. Thump… It was the sound of the animal trying to get up. Thump… It tried again, its progress halted by the cage closed over the top of the table.
Thump! The animal only succeeded in slamming the left side of its body against the arcing bars of the cage: trying to break the cage and stand up as its neck-horns scraped against the autopsy tabletop. The police-chief didn't think that the flimsy latticework-cage would hold.
"What the…!" exclaimed the police chief, getting to his feet and reaching for the holstered pistol at his right hip. Only an effort at calm kept him from drawing his weapon and putting even more holes in that thing. He almost expected the animal to break out and cause trouble.
The automated cage held. The machine from the Animal Control department was more than enough to keep that deer-thing in place. It only kept trying to slam and slam and slam its body against the jointed bars above it in trying to get up. Heavy, grotesque wheezing sounds began to come from its multiple mouths. The blonde woman adjusted a knob on the machine, slowing the animal. A slow ooze of dark oily liquid formed beneath its body and spread over the caged table. Now his attitude towards the blonde woman in white coveralls changed. For her to experiment with animals and calmly do grotesque things like this made her seem especially inhuman.
"What the Hell have you done, woman!" he exclaimed, angrily pointing at the breathing animal atop the table: the sound of animal breathing and the oddly thrumming machine making him uncomfortable. Of course, dreamy thoughts of unclothed women and tap-dancing deer-like creatures was gone from his mind. Now he was full of other emotions. "That thing was dead when this forensics lab obtained it. It was so dead that we might as well have crossed ourselves and said prayers for it!"
"The purpose of this activity was to provide raw, analog data for your analysis," explained the blonde-haired woman in coveralls. Her blue eyes seemed cold and hard as she calmly continued. "Your minds remain closed to truths that would upset your epistemological equilibrium. There remains a human perception of what constitutes reality within this culture. For example, consider the dichotomies you maintain. The color white and the color black, on and off, life and death, such are examples of digital distinctions drawn." She made a quick gestured towards the table. "However, not all entities neatly fit within such simple perceptions. In fact, such entities as these may be intent on using the narrowness of your perceptions to further their aims of destabilizing."
One of the labcoat-wearing forensics women spoke up. "You mean, they're working together to scare us? Scare the entire town…? They're just animals. It's not like they can understand our conversations or open up newspapers. If I mentioned the threats of nuclear war from…" Ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha…! She was startled by the outburst of laughter from the animal: the sound coming from the six mouths along the sides of its body. Three of those mouths began to ooze a dark liquid..
The animal atop the table made some gurgling sounds. Then it gave another burst of laughter. When it sensed that the forensics scientist-woman was frightened, it guffawed and made a few jerking motions with its horns. Oh, it was intelligent alright.
"To generate fear, that is exactly it," countered the blonde-haired woman in white coveralls. She began to press buttons on the console of the machine next to the table, which was still making that thrumming noise. "These animals are extremely capable of understanding the socio-political contexts they seek to infiltrate. The term infiltration is used with intended connotations: There is in fact a collective party at work seeking to disrupt the social fabric of the worlds they touch."
"Ridiculous!" blurted the police chief. He didn't want to admit that he only understood perhaps half of what the woman had said. He did, however, disagree with the half he did understand. "You make them sound like aliens invaders or something like that. But to do that, they would need brains. These animals don't have brains. They're just a bunch of messed-up things from the forests around here. That's all." He looked at the animal atop the table, which gave a low chuckle from its multiple mouths. "That's…all…" he hoarsely whispered, as if to reassure himself.
"That is an unfortunate statement that perhaps even you yourself do not believe. You are speaking in denial of the reality presented," stated the blonde-haired woman in white coveralls. "Regard the evidence of your eyes and ears. Open your mind to wider truths. Only then will humanity be able to effectively address the threat facing it. To wit, it would be psychologically beneficial to continue this demonstration under that logic. Yet your level of exposure is close to being exceeded. I shall end this demonstration before risks of significant contamination occur." That said, she turned a knob on the machine to the left.
The thrumming sound from the machine ceased, and so did the animal. Its ribcage slowed its movement as it stopped breathing. There seemed to be a final wet and low chuckling from the mouths of the animal before it gave a long sigh. Then it was as "dead" as it was when it first arrived at this police station.
…
4.
…
It was late afternoon, and Selena was done with the day's activities at the school. The building was cleaned. All devices were in place to deter pest problems. Though she wanted to stay for at least an hour more, to be sure that the school would be safe from trespassers of that kind, Smith and Karl insisted that it was time to go. Sunset would be within a few hours. Being away from home after dark was usually not a great idea in this town. Besides, all equipment was in place to keep things safe and fine.
It was good that the maintenance tasks were done soon: Being around the animal-repelling devices and other equipment was worsening her headache. Selena thought it was because of her particular reaction to those devices set throughout the school grounds. But her reactions usually only came about when she was in proximity to the devices. Even in driving away from the school, the pain in her head remained terrible: tolerable, but still hurtful.
This two-lane road going to the residential area was especially busy now as so many other people were getting off work at this time. The pain was putting a dark haze over her eyesight . It was also pulling down her eyelids. And the headache only made driving more dangerous for her. As the headache worsened, it threatened to pain her into unconsciousness: fainting from pain. She struggled to keep herself conscious and alert, gripping the steering wheel: her hands beginning to ache with the effort. Any second, she felt as if she would black out and her car would drift over into the woods at the right or into…cars going the…opposite…way…
There was a stoplight at the intersection, and Selena snapped awake. She shook her head, which was now so full of pain that the edges of her vision was being faded out with darkness. She was also beginning to see dazzling sparkles dance before her eyes. This was referred to in animated cartoons as "seeing stars": when the pain was so terrible that it led to hallucinations of dazzling sparkles.
That stoplight was still red, all other cars still stopped. She reached down towards the dashboard to turn on the car radio. This was the time of day when radio reception would begin to get worse as the nightly fogs of this town prepared to roll in. Still, she needed something to keep her awake.
Click! An atrocious hissing and sound of static and jumbled-over radio commercials began to fill this car. It was atrocious and obnoxious enough to perk her up and help stave off unconsciousness. Her headache still had its claws in her head, but now the danger of blacking out was reduced. She was soon in the residential area, there being more trees and woods around here. Her hatred for the noise kept her going until she came to the street her house was on.
…
Ah, there it was. A few streets more, a few more turns through the streets, and she was parked in front of her house. Why the houses were so close together that there was no room for driveways or garages, she could not understand. There was plenty of land in this town to space out houses, room for car parks and garages. There was certainly land enough to make for forests and woods interspacing neighborhoods. Or maybe the people of this world did not believe in car parks and driveways? It certainly seemed so!
Oh well. It was but another small peculiarity to deal with: along with her atrocious headaches. And why did she still have the radio on! A click of the radio knob, and the car was blissfully quiet. Then was too quiet. Since there were no cars driving by on this residential street, since this car's engine was off, it was now so quiet…that the quietness…itself became…suffocating. It seemed to…close over her.
Please no… Not now, she thought to herself. Even as her head lolled and she slowly slumped sideways across the front seats of this car, the young woman in the janitorial outfit struggled to keep her mind from sinking…down… She thought about turning on the radio as strength left her body… Somehow the radio came on. She didn't touch the knob. Or she really touched the knob and didn't feel it… She didn't know.
The radio was on. Except, instead of playing static, the radio was somehow playing a dreamy song. It was a song gentle enough to be a lullaby. Of all the horrid luck…!
Darkness closed over. She heard the sound of flames and screeching machinery in the distance: coming this way. It had to be the sound of burning machines falling from the sky. Then came twisted visions of bleeding trees in the forest as rotting, once-dead townspeople staggered through fog and chanting prayers in a lost language from ninety thousand years ago.
It was a prayer in a language to be remembered at the end of the world. Burning machines and poisoned rain fell from the blackened sky above. Streets of metal were dimly lit underfoot as buildings of machinery began to collapse in the distance. Muscular, green-skinned dwarves in red coveralls crawled up from the red-mud ground at the sides of the metal streets, coming to o take the souls of survivors… This, while other such beings were already taking such souls aways, taking them away in long dark-colored body bags full of squirming shapes.
…
In another world, through an industrial-style hallway, there was the sound of Machinery at work. It was a variety of mechanical sounds, resulting in a steady and deep sound heard in any factory. Warm blood churned through pipes and into red-lit rooms.
One such room was at work. Rust-cased engines thrummed to life as muscular creatures manipulated valves. Their bald heads began to blur in vibration as their six-fingered hands gripped the valves, the patchy fur and skin of their arms tensing as they turned. A hand wrapped in mucous-encrusted bandages wrapped around the top of a long red lever.
…
It was sunset, and the police officers of Pleasant River were strategically parked throughout the residential neighborhoods: in alcoves and at sides of streets. So positioned, they were sure to park beneath streetlamps. When the sun went down, the light from streetlamps would be the very few places where one could seek refuge in light outside of the houses. That is, within the houses. People tended to leave porch-lights off and curtains tightly drawn: blocking off any possible sights of what happened outside when the sun went down. Some of the townspeople with better-paying jobs even bought motorized metal shutters that rolled down over their windows.
Moira, the red-haired policewoman, was now in uniform: the close-fitting gray pants and buttoned blue-gray shirt of the Pleasant River Police Department: with black-leather riding boots encasing her feet and calves. Of course she had the brass badge worn on the left breast-pocket of her uniform-shirt: over her heart. She was in the driver's seat while her partner: a somewhat chubby man with a huge cylindrical-shaped tuft of brown hair atop his head: was riding shotgun. Over to the left, above the street and in the distance, the Western horizon was already in the last colors of deepest red before the night itself took over. This car's communications radio was already washed out with static; they had turned it off.
"Oh God," began Bill, the chubby policeman. "Here it comes, Moira. No matter how many times I see it, it always gives me that nasty kind of feeling inside. Just look at it…" His eyes seemed to sink into his chubby face as he squinted in watching the sight unfold in front of this police car.
Not only could Moira see it, she could feel it as well. As the sun continued to set, the low-clinging fog rolled out from the nearby woods that backed the residential neighborhoods…fog rolling in from all the forests and woodlands of Pleasant River. It gathered, coalesced and crept along the ground, billowing and smoky. It even seemed to take on living shapes. And the orange glow of the dying sunlight only made it seem even more sinister: covering over shadows and fogging a view of the street. She could hear faint screams in the distance, with faint moaning even closer by: just outside this car. But she knew better than to open up the car door and look for sources of the sound. She knew what was making those sounds.
It was always best to wait for the sun to go completely down and the fog to lessen in density: that just-under-twenty-minutes space of time in which the fog became less a dark and smoky layer at knee-level and instead became a faint mist over the night. It was the transition time that made for the highest level of danger and trouble. More than once, police officers who had to step out of their vehicles during this time had the outer layers of their boots grayed by whatever chemicals there were in the town's fog when it first came in. And where the boots did not fit, their legs were reddened.
So, stay in the car they did. Ignoring the faint sounds of screams in the fog, the vaguely human moans on the wind, even ignoring the faint scritch-scritch-scritch sounds coming from underneath this policecar, they stayed put. It wouldn't be long before the initial noises were over, after the transition. The night itself would be here soon: after the changeover.
And here it comes. The last of daylight went away from the sky, and the sky overhead became a vastly deep dark color as the streetlamp overhead made for an island of light in which this car stayed. With the house windows closed and curtained and even shuttered, they were but shapes in the gloom and darkness. "Now it's dark…" muttered Bill.
As soon as he said that, the car's radio turned on: all full of static. No, it wasn't all static. There was the sound of something in the radio-noise. Something that was… Then Bill reached for the button when Moira raised a hand: her stop gesture. She tilted her head to the left, left ear towards the radio. There was a thoughtful and strained look on her face as she listened into the sound on the radio.
There really was something in it… It sounded like a woman's singing. It was not loud enough for her to understand the lyrics, or even what language the song was being sung in… It was just loud enough to catch the cool, sweetly beautiful melody, which was just so far away. She had heard singing like that earlier in the week…
Then the woman's singing was completely smashed by a fresh blast of static: a horrendous racket coming from the radio-speakers. There was also another kind of sound, outside the car. It was a thick and meaty sort of sound with an occasional crackling within it. The sound, Moira knew what it was. Every human being, at some level of the mind, knew the sound as well: regardless of what land or time they came from. It was the sound of fire.
And it was coming from everywhere at once. Moira looked around and could not see any flames. "What…? Where!" she heard Bill say. He was more agitated than she was and had even unbuckled his seat-belt as so he could better maneuver his chubby body in looking around and back: looking through this car's windows and towards the grated-off backseats where arrested suspects were put. Still, the sound was increasing in volume as the source of it seemed to be coming closer still.
There was a sudden yellow glow and rumbling sound as a very heavy vehicle rode past this police car. Just a glimpse of the speeding thing along the fog-obscured street was all they had as it sped by. It was a vehicle, speeding through a residential zone, and the thing was on fire. "Let's take it, Moira!" yelled Bill.
"Wait! You try to buckle up again!" she shouted. By the dim light coming through the police car windows, she saw Bill began to fumble with his seatbelt and angrily shook his head when he failed. He could not get the damned seatbelt buckle to click in the slot. For whatever reason, seatbelts never worked for Bill after the sun went down.
"Forge it! This seat belt will not work!" he finally shouted. "Want me to report that we let go a psychotic driver of a burning bus because of a bad safety belt! Risk is in the line of duty! We can't let freaks like that just go! So…let's go! Giddyup!" He flicked a switch on the car's dashboard, which turned on this police car's sirens and lights before starting to slap the dashboard.
So Moira did. She started the engine and put this car in gear. They started off in a squeal of tires, speeding along this night-darkened street. The burning bus was at the far end and easy to see as the thing was a vehicle-sized bonfire. It seemed to be watching, waiting for this police car to come closer.
She slowed this car down to pull up behind the flaming vehicle, several cars' distance away. The flames from the vehicle made for a flickering glow that was reflected on the hood and through the windshield. Any closer, and there was a fire hazard. The driver of that bus was probably already dead. Hell, given the intensity of the flames, no one could be alive in there unless they had on some kind of suits…
Just as she put this car in park, the burning bus zoomed off. There was a quick back-blast of flame as the thing zoomed off: the glow of its fire rippling in the fog. What the Devil…? Moira could not believe it. One second, the thing was at a dead stop. Then it blasted off from a dead stop: as if the damned thing had a nuclear-powered motor. "What the Hell are you waiting for?" exclaimed Bill. "Let's get 'em!" Wham…!
…
In a darkened place, Ereed N-joh mentally recited a song of worlds as he worked part of the Machine. His altered three-fingered hoof-hands stuck to the valve as he turned it counter-clockwise. This opened the way for blood to pass through pipes of the Machine. Ereed N-joh was a very skilled Worker, very skilled at using the engines of the Machine: which was why he was being used now. For the first time ten thousand years, his skill was being used. To him, blood alone turns the wheels of time…
…
Slowly coming back to consciousness, Moira heard the echoes of a chant in her mind as she recalled what happened. Something big and loud had piled into their police cruiser from behind. She was knocked unconscious despite her seatbelt as the left side of her head hit the driver-side window. Had she not been wearing the safety harness, she would have been thrown right through the car window itself as the passenger side was obliterated. Bill was…
The thought of her partner goaded her… further into consciousness. First she felt an electric feeling of pins and needles from the neck-downRisking injury to her neck, she slow-w-wly sat up and opened her eyes, using shaky fingers to get loose strands of hair away from her eyes. Someone was pulling at her ankles, her riding boots: fumbling and bumbling with sloppy hands.
That someone turned out to be something. Even in the dim light of the streetlamp, she knew what that thing was: an animal. It was the kind of animal that resembled a mutant ape in cyborg gas-mask. Its mucous-slimed fur reflected the dim light of the streetlamp as its arms and hands worked at her boots, also tugging at her tight-fitting police-issue pants…
Pervert! She drew her handgun and shot the animal: a sudden blast of sound and light. The bullet punched through the thick muscular chest of the animal and made it tumble backwards. It got to its feet and quick-loped into the shadows along the sides of this street. This also sent up a sound of ragged agitation among the other animals.
Head aching and a sharp pain in her neck, Moira managed to stand. She felt weak, but using a pistol did not require that the user be at full strength. "My pistol has brass bullets!" she yelled. The animals in the gloom and behind cars, more of them behind roadside trees, they seemed to chitter and grunt in response. "Brass bullets. You know what that means. And I'm wearing gold jewelry underneath my clothes, too!"
The animals would certainly keep their distance now, she knew. She could even hear some of them galloping and loping away, going off into the darkness at the sides of this road. They could sense that she was telling the truth. With some of them gone, now she could turn to see what had become of the police car.
It was a wreck beneath the light of a streetlamp. The way the light shone down on it, shining down in the darkness, it was as if the thing was on a stage. One side of the vehicle was completely crushed and blasted: destroyed by whatever massive vehicle that had run over them from behind. The other side, the side Moira was in, it was somewhat intact: the door open when the animals had opened up the vehicle to get her. Whoever or whatever was driving that vehicle in chasing the burning bus, they must have been so Hellishly impatient that they were willing to kill police officers.
They were killers, because Bill was dead. There was no way he could have survived that impact. A head full of pain, her body a mixture of numbness and agony, Moira staggered over to the ruined police cruiser: half of the car crushed and obliterated. Bill's body was certainly in there. Just a glimpse of his dead hand in the mangled wreckage was all it took for her to see that.
She could feel tears coming to her eyes as she turned away from the wreckage: tears of frustration unto misery. Bill was dead and there was nothing she could do about it. There was another patrol: another set of police officers: assigned one street over. The walkie-talkie still somehow clipped to her pistol-belt was useless, since it was after dark; she could not call them. Moira would have to get there herself.
As long as she had her pistol ready and stayed in the street, sticking to the places the most well-lit, she would be okay…if she didn't fall unconscious again or if her injured neck didn't become worse. Moira wanted to live long enough to get the monsters that killed her partner. Though there were doubts, she would stay alive.
And so she began her painful steps along the street. She walked through streetlamps as the animals crouched in the darkness. They grunted and chuckled, jeered and taunted. Some even occasionally said words. This only gave her the will to stagger onward in getting to the next police car. At least some others would know that the burning bus, along with another unidentified dark vehicle, was loose in this neighborhood. It only meant that someone else would suffer this night.