Silent Hill: The Dream Machine
Chapter 5
By Elliot Bowers
…
Here on the Longhorn Estate, things were going according to plan. Samuel Longhorn was in the mansion: within his grand office, seated at his desk. The satisfaction he felt was shown with the extremely wide smile on his face. He had major reasons for being happy, and one of those reasons was right here atop this desk: it being contained within a bottle.
Because it was something that he had finally obtained after years of exploring religious texts and the forests of this town. It was something that was extremely rare and almost never owned in such large quantities. Prehistoric tribal leaders possessed some of it, ancient monarchs managed to find more of it. And masters of religious cults spent their lives in pursuit of it. And to think, places in Silent Hill were powered on the fluid.
Now, Samuel Longhorn had found a source of what was sought: an entire bottle of the red stuff. He had long suspected that he could obtain it from an engine: one of the pieces of Machinery that had appeared in the woods some years ago. Now it was one of several that had been connected to supplies of electricity and tanks of mammal blood.
Years, he had been at work on those engines for years. He had tried various amounts of electricity, using multiples of the numbers on the engine-cases to adjust voltage and switching the polarity. He relied on the numbers because the odd letters on the cases were not in a language he or any friendly anthropologist could immediately identify: let alone translate. Then there was the issue of blood. Yes, the engines also required blood. Pig's blood seemed to have produced the best results: getting the engines to become at least become a few centigrade warmer. But otherwise, the engines did not work…
Until recently. Something happened somewhere that made the engines start to work. Not only did the engines radically heat up, but they also actually started to work. Rumbling and roaring, the engines were operating. One of them actually began to create the fluid. When that oh-so-precious red substance began to drip out from a spout of the engine, he caught it in a laboratory flask. The blackish-red liquid was warm and he wanted to drink it straight away, but his patience held. And it held for the full hour that it took to drip out of the engine. His muscles aching, nearly falling over with pain-filled knees, there the man crouched as the rusty part of the Machine bestowed upon him what he sought.
Now it was in this wine-bottle atop his desk, the red liquid that resembled blood diluted in liquid fat. Little black bits in the fluid kept trying to climb up the sides. Little dark shapes were swimming in it and constantly moving. And he knew that any radio within thirty meters of the bottle would scream with interference as Samuel Longhorn tipped the bottle and poured some of the red fluid into a tall glass.
Flowing, the liquid contained in the bottle seemed to have become excited. Those little black shapes in there began to swim even more furiously and outright enthusiastic about getting into the glass. Some of them even melded together to form shapes with dozens of little arms and legs, trying to swim faster. The liquid was alive with activity as if it was being boiled.
With the little dark things swimming around in it, feeling the blood-warm temperature of it through the glass, he began to drink it. It slid down his throat with ease, almost not needing the peristalsis of his esophagus to get it down into his stomach. Down it went as he gulped and gulped… Touch down!
The agents of the red fluid took almost no time in getting to work. Because once the red stuff was within Samuel Longhorn, it pervaded the lining of his stomach, invaded his bloodstream, and the man's mind…began to take turns for the bizarre. Time to go, came the thought in his mind: followed by a rushing torrent of amazing images and scenes.
Wow… His mind was somewhere else now! He had a vision of a massive, dark nuclear-powered trains churning through a smog-hazed desert: with ruined industrial cities in the distance across the burning and hazy landscape. Where or when that vision had take him, Samuel did not know. It was a view of somewhere else: somewhere amazing.
Another image came! This one was that of muscular midgets in red coveralls tearing off the helmets of silver-suited figures to get at the heads. The midgets seemed both angry and happy in what they were doing. Something had happened to those people in suits, something bad enough to kill them. It was probably some kind of accident… If they were chemical workers or astronauts, it was hard to tell.
This was followed by another image, that of odd dogs staggering through alleyways. Gaps in their green flesh exposed the meat of cancer-ridden muscle tissue. They were thoroughly contaminated, all of them. Having eaten their fill, they left the pile of carnage to be consumed by other animals: pasty skinned creatures feasting on the remains of arms and legs stiff enough from rigor-mortis to almost be like parts of mannequins.
Samuel was only vaguely aware of something happening to his body. What he could not see were the things happening to his skin: as seen on his exposed face and hands. The little dark shapes in the liquid, now throughout his body, were so pervasive throughout his body that they could be seen even crawling beneath the surface of his skin. Yes, Samuel Longhorn was becoming blessed in a very severe way.
He fell to the floor and became a writhing, groaning figure of a man as a circular part of the carpeted floor turned black, with gray lumps: liquefied. A Denier crawled up out of that mush. A wide grin on its human face, it crawled and squirmed along the carpet in getting over to where Samuel Longhorn lie on the floor. The Denier had much to tell him. And since he had drunk of the red liquid, it would be much easier for them to communicate. Where was the catalyst?
…
As Selena's mind surfaced from the visions of the nightmare, she was first aware of everything being dark. No, it wasn't dark, but it was close enough. And there was the faint feeling of some things… crawling across her legs and abdomen. "Agh-h-h…" she gagged, pulling something out of her mouth and coughing. Quickly sitting up at the front of the dimly lit car, nearly hitting her head on the ceiling, she saw that a hoard of tiny little men that had somehow gotten into this car here: little things that were not supposed to exist. But here they were, all over her! Since she had fallen asleep parked in front of her own house, they had crawled all over her unconscious body and were doing things.
"Not this way…!" came a harsh whisper from her mouth. She had tried to scream the words, but her throat was aching. While she had been unconscious, one of the little bastards must have tried to crawl down her throat! Now they were again climbing over her jeans-covered thighs on their way to her shirt…
A sudden seizure of frenzied panic drove her to slapping and stomping them in the gloom within this car, her knees knocking against the steering wheel more than once as she stomped and hit and squished the life out of them with the soles of the dark work-shoes she still had on her feet. Their little hard bodies were like clay, taking quite a stomping against the floor of this car before they stopped moving. Though she must have squashed at least two-dozen of the accursed little buggers, even more of them seemed to be on the seats and crawling towards her legs: tiny little smiles on their tiny little human-like faces! So she kept grabbing and stomping, slapping and squashing.
This she had to keep up for some time. There were just so many of them. And wherever they touched, it sent little thrills of panic: then localized numbness. In fact, her hands were becoming so numb from touching them that it was getting harder to grip them. And it was this numbness that was beginning to climb up her wrists. Yet there was no stopping. She kept at it until she had the last two in both hands and was slamming them to the car's floor and could stomp the life out of their touch little bodies: crushing them along with all the others!
She opened the car-door and began to kick them out of here. Their little bodies tumbling out like so much limp-bodied rubbish. Some of them flopped sickeningly, their backs and limbs broken. But Selena felt no sympathy for the little men-things. They had tried to do…things to her she chose not to think about.
Then they were gone. It was now very still in this car. Save the sound of the night wind how-w-wling darkly outside the car and the very low hiss of static from the car's radio, everything seemed still. Feeling was beginning to return to the places on her legs and hands where she had come into contact with them, and she was beginning to feel better.
But she knew there were more, she could feel it. Selena tried turning on the car's interior dome-light, which would be an improvement on the poor dim lighting coming from the nearby streetlamp. Cars were designed differently in this world, so it took her a little while to find the switch… No, of course it did not come on. Even when she turned the ignition switch, car keys embedded, they would not come on. The car would not even come on.
Quickly reaching for the glove compartment right of the dashboard, she fumbled for something in there. There had to be at least one electric torch stashed within this car. Did they even have flashlights in this world? She had seen Smith use one against that so-called mysterious stranger: although it was modified… Yes there were! There were several such long devices in the glove compartment, and she grabbed the biggest one.
Flick! A mistake! The resulting flash of light dazzled her and gave her a headache, so she quickly turned it off. Another "flashlight" only seemed to make some kind of buzzing sound without producing light: making a noise that made her grit her teeth in in severe irritation. The third flashlight really was a flashlight. She used it to look in the gloom at her feet and around the seats. Yes, yes, yes… The little men really were all gone: as far as she could see. Though she could still feel lingering bits of ache and numbness in parts of her body, the nasty little perpetrators themselves were gone.
That was done. Now Selena reached up to pulled down the retractable panel used to block out sun-glare: which had a small mirror attached to it. By the light of the flashlight, she looked at her left hand, switched the flashlight to the other hand to look at her right. Her wrists were encircled with harsh abrasions. She looked in the mirror, pulled aside some lengths of her hair and tilted her head to a side: looking at her neck in the small mirror. Then she carefully touched the discolored skin: which was tender and pained. There was a nasty, reddish-black bruise that went all the way around her neck: as if they had tried to fit a torc around her neck again. Those tiny men…
Thud-thud… There was a slow, rhythmic thumping sound at the left-side window. She turned her head to look and panic filled her as she saw what it was. The electromechanical gas-mask that was bolted to its face made for a grotesque, robotic-eyed stare as its hairy arms and hands continued to tap at the window. When it realized that it had her attention, it pulled back its arms and was preparing to break in with a smash. Selena focused on the animal, centering her thoughts…
…
In another place, certain parts of the Machine began to hum. These parts of the Machine had long since been dormant: resting in darkness and having grown cool. Now they thrummed with renewed life. As bandage-wrapped paws worked valves and levers, Deniers crawled along thick black electrical cables and rusty pipes along the ceiling. The demands of the Machine were increasing, and they obliged.
…
You shall not, she commanded. There was a sudden deep snarl of sound, and the animal at the window was struck sideways by something unseen. This was followed by mewling and whimpering from the animal as its body died out of view, beneath the window of the car. She waited for a long second, waiting to see if it would get up again.
It had worked. She had attacked with a command from her mind: by just thinking about it. And she would be ready again to attack, perhaps harder the next time. She flicked off the flashlight before daring to crack open the car door. The dome-light from the open car-door spilled out into the fog of the night: a view of the house's front porch across the short lawn. She saw the animal nearby. It lie still with a broken back and would not be a problem any damned more.
…
She climbed out of the car and closed the door behind herself. Something laughed nearby. Run… A dash across the patch of grass and up the stairs of the front porch. A quick look to the right and left indicated that she best hurry, so she did… Her quick footsteps pattered across then up the wooden steps and to the front door itself. She grabbed the front doorknob, her breath quick and nervous: her breaths whistling through her still-injured throat as the pain began to spread to her head. Whatever those tiny men were trying to do to her in the car, she was beginning to feel the ill effects.
The front door…was locked. Oh, damn! She had left the keys…back in the car!"Ergh-ha!" triumphantly squealed a voice from the foot of the front porch-stairs: crouching in the foggy gloom and shadows. It was as if the animal sensed Selena's mistake and knew that it had an upper hand in the situation.
The thing was the size of a goat, but Selena knew better. That was no farmer's livestock. She gave a quick and vicious thought in the animal's direction. This was immediately matched by a vicious swiping blow by an invisible hand, and the animal was struck down. Yes, her abilities were strong this night. She gave another commanding thought at the animal quickly hobbling across the night-darkened lawn: crippling the thing with one blow.
She quickly went down the stairs and again dashed across the strip of grass separating the porch from the night-darkened sidewalk and street, her car being parked right there in the indirect light of the streetlamp. "Lookinella-tadoo!" declared another one of those voices over there. Selena had to force herself to ignore the myriad sounds of hoof-steps, footsteps, shuffling and sliding that seemed to be coming from left, right, and behind as she struggled with the car handle: which she now realized was now incredibly rusty.
But how…? It was but a moment ago she had left the car. Now its opening mechanism was rusted shut! Why was it that just now nightly fog just now ruined the car's door: on a night like this? And it certainly wasn't locked; she could feel the door just slightly giving as she tugged with her fingers and used her legs to add to her pulling.
Something groped her left thigh, and she let out a shriek: just as the car-door handle popped off in her hands and made her stagger backwards. She tumbled and fell onto her butt, and the large hairy animal leapt atop her. The weight of the thing held her down. It grunted with satisfaction as it reached for her shirt. When she summoned the thought again, the animal was blasted away.
Shaken, she quickly got to her feet and began to run: her head swirling with dizzying pain. She ran even though she felt ready to collapse with sickness from whatever was happening to her body, whatever was done to her. They had tried to contaminate her.
"Oblamah! Garb-snarfle elkirc! Satya-a-agraha el lookinella!" came the gibberish declarations from one of the animals as she continued her dash through fog and gloom. This was soon followed animal sounds coming from behind. They were coming to get her. Selena knew who they were. She also knew that being taken by them was the last thing she would ever want. Because to die here and to be claimed by them would be something dark and terrible. Selena was running for more than just her life.
As she ran, thoughts of her hometown came to mind. She thought about the people who were blessed: those with distorted bodies and faces. The religion she followed, the religion of her hometown: had been used to summon what would have been called disease and infection by outsiders. Except this was more a contamination than anything. That was the way she saw it: a contamination. She no longer considered it blessing. It was from animals and mysterious strangers, also from the engines that appeared in forests. She had hoped to escape what happened in that town of Silent Hill, in another world. The contamination followed her here, wanting her. This was her literally on the run, running for her life as she knew it. If they were to get her…
"Uh?" she gasped, surprised. There was a crunkle of sound as a section of the sidewalk crumbled beneath her feet and wrenched her left ankle. This tripped up her running motion, making her tumble and collapse, making her scrape her knees and the palms of hands. The pain in her neck and head was worsening now, and her abdomen felt as if it was being eaten from within. Everything just hurt so much. She just couldn't stand up anymore, even as the animals stepped out of the surrounding fog and darkness.
Ah, but she did not need to stand to render attacks. Just a thought at one of the animals, and it was struck up and away. She looked at another animal, something with a furry skull growing out of its chest. That was also struck back and away: bones and body breaking. They continued to close in and Selena continued to think blasting thoughts at them.
Crunch! One of them had its head squashed flat by an invisible blow. She quickly looked at another pair of animals, gave another thought, and both were knocked up and away. But the dozens of animals kept coming closer. They crawled, hobbled, ambled their ways over the bodies of their fallen brethren. They would have her…
There were just so many of them, too many of them. Whatever abilities she had held within her, whatever amazing amplifications had been given, such was not enough to stop all of the animals. She was just so sick, so tired… There were sixteen animals. Then there were thirty-two. And then thirty more still came from everywhere else, from out of the ground and behind houses and out of the shadows… Some of them were armed with rusty pipes and large chunks of concrete. Those without arms had their hard cloven hooves, or they had long sharp horns where necks ought to be. The animals closed in. One of them swung a rusty metal pipe: hitting her especially hard.
The dark-haired young woman fell onto her back, limbs sprawled, her eyes glazing over as a haze of pain swam over her vision. It was almost a relief when the another hard blow finally landed. She just let her eyes close, the sound of her own body being beaten fading into the distance as darkness closed over. Dying was not so terrible after all…
…
The animals sat on their haunches or laid down flat, doing what they could with whatever physical shape they had. The largest of the animals were sitting in a circle around Selena's body, which lie dead and still on this sidewalk: legs and arms sprawled out, eyes staring and mouth open. They waited until one of their kind came crawling out from the surrounding fog-enshrouded gloom. It was that kind of animal again, the kind with a man's head and a torso with six arms: a Denier.
The six-armed creature moved with the slow and measured graceful pace of a holy man about to accomplish part of an important ritual: proud and solemn. Which, in a way, was somewhat true. Two of the Denier's hands grabbed Selena's ankles and lifted to spread her legs. Staring for a moment, sniffing the air, the denier let go. It turned around and used its two rear arms to again grab the ankles: a convenient hand-hold as so it could drag the body away.
The other animals whooped and snarled, hopped and danced about as the denier began to drag the body towards the back yard of a house. They now had the final ingredient required for conquest. The catalyst sought to dilute itself, but now it was theirs!
…
2.
…
To the fading sound of blood being gush-pumped through rusty pipes, the red-haired policewoman sat up on the hard floor. She now had on her casual outfit of jeans, deerskin boots, white shirt, and black leather jacket worn over: the jacket unzipped and open. She also had an especially evil headache. The left side of her forehead was darkened by a reddish-black bruise, and it pained her when she touched it. She thought she heard someone scre-e-eaming at her. Like the sound of the pumping, that screaming also faded. She inhaled, exhaled and forced herself to open her eyes despite the aching headache…
It was hard for her to see at first: everything eventually brightening and coming into focus. One of the florescent tube-lights overhead was flickering…and it…stopped flickering. Her headache faded as well. Though still present, it was bearable. The wall at her back was dominated by large rectangular windows for those dark-shrouded figures who were sitting at the tables: the waitress bustling about as the bald-headed man behind the counter at the far end poured someone a beer.
The policewoman sighed and used the wall to keep her balance as she shakily stood, her jeans-covered legs feeling unsteady. It had all the elements of familiarity, but she knew for certain that this was not someplace in downtown Pleasant River. She'd been to all the downtown places at least once. None of them had this setup. And the red-colored light coming through the window seemed wrong: a blurry view through reddish-grimed windows. Though some of the customers were familiar, she never quite recalled seeing them all in the same place. Is this a restaurant, a café…or somewhere else?
"That has the color of the right answer," came the tall waitress' voice. The policewoman turned quickly around…and quickly regretted it. A fresh stab of pain penetrated her head, making her sway and stagger. The tall waitress in long black skirt and thin white blouse, she was standing between the policewoman and the window. She was holding a tray atop her right hand: a tray with a cracked ceramic bowl atop it. In fact, the bowl was in such bad shape that it probably wouldn't be used again. "The view outside has the right color, too. Just don't look outside for too long, or you might start liking what you see. That would be bad."
She looked past the tall waitress and at the red-grimed window. It was so atrociously dirty: grungy with rust, dried blood, and greasy mush that it actually took her a while to realize that the grime and such was actually outside the window. The glass on this side of the window was still shiny enough to reflect the florescent lighting. To the far left, beyond the dining booths, was the door out. Nobody here even looked at it. And the policewoman had the feeling that going outside would probably not be a good idea: if it was possible. Whatever had happened out there probably also rusted the door shut.
In here, the other customers were watching a television suspended above the short-order counter: or the drinking bar, whichever it was in this place. The television old-fashioned, with two analog knobs to change channels and a third knob to click on and adjust the volume. The picture quality was horrible to the point of distortion: a blurry image with smeared colors.
A closer look could perhaps give a better idea of what was on that television. This in mind, the policewoman walked farther into here and kept her eyes on the television up there. It must be a damned good show to take their attention like that, she thought. None of the others here seemed to mind the horrible reception.
Now she could see what was on. It seemed to be showing the image of a tough-faced man in burgundy-colored tee shirt and slacks, thick-soled black shoes on his feet…and a red cape at his back. He was in a dark place, a spotlight shining down on him from above. The cape was flapping and waving as he danced: waving his arms around, tapping his feet and occasionally tilting back his head to grin upwards. He wagged his finger up at the light, hopped up and down, then resumed his frantic dance of maddening joy.
The waitress walked up behind the policewoman and whispered in her right ear. "It's an especially important show. We hate who's playing the star-role, but we watch it as necessary," she said, the low voice blowing into the policewoman's ear. "By the way, this is your bowl. If you want to abandon it, I won't blame you. But abandoning it means that they can lay claim to all of it."
A vaguely confused expression on her face, the policewoman turned to see what the tall waitress was talking about. Indeed, the bowl-in-question was atop a tray. It was cracked in places, split and certainly not worth using anymore. In the background was the sound of the man on television tap-dancing like mad and chuckling aloud. "Excuse me? Sorry, but why would I want to keep something like a broken bowl? It's not like it's some kind of family heirloom I inherited from generations back." She eyed the cracked, ruined thing atop the tray of the waitress. "I'm glad to see that you care about what you think is important to other people. But to me, it's just broken junk." The policewoman shrugged her shoulders. "Sorry… But thanks anyway."
The tall waitress tilted her head to a side and gave a sympathetic smile. "You do not understand. Or maybe you don't want to understand. You people have your pains. And your own fallings. Hmm… Tragic, really." She smiled. "Well, then! I really shouldn't have interfered this way. My boss advised against me getting this anyway. Before I send it back, would you like to make contact with it once more?"
By now, the policewoman was thinking that this waitress was certifiably insane. She at least rated neurosis… It had to be one of those classifications. Who the Hell would care so obsessively about a piece of broken ceramic crockery? An oatmeal bowl! For goodness' sake, it was just a damned broken oatmeal bowl! What, was she supposed to have a priest say last rites over it and bury it in the ground? She imagined what the headstone would say: Here Lies Moira Brennan's Broken Bowl. It brought much joy to the world in holding breakfast foods. May it rest in pieces.
Just a God-damned bowl, thought the red-haired policewoman. She gave a quick sideward toss of her head to get some lengths of hair out of her eyes, then stood straight-backed and with heels together: the way she had been taught to stand at police academy when doing something respectful. Hands reaching, her fingertips came closer to the broken bowl patiently held by the tall waitress. If the tall waitress insisted on this, then she may as well make a show of it. When her fingertips actually touched, she felt herself…going down…away and through… She was going into the sound of those pipes…
…
R-r-r-umble… Squee-squee-squee-squee… It was the squeaking of this stretcher's wheels going through this hall: the metal axles squeaking. This wheeled stretcher was being pushed along an ill-kept, rough-topped industrial-style floor as the deep thrumming of the Machinery hummed throughout. She was on her back, looking up at the ceiling of this hallway: windows on the right and light fixtures together producing dim light to see by. The ceiling of reddish metal mesh: the kind of reinforced steel top-fencing put in prisons and hospital psychiatric wards to keep patients from climbing up. Except that metal mesh was nasty with crusty rust. Some pieces of it had long since snapped, making for gaping openings. Beyond the rusty ceiling mesh-work were thick wires and exposed pipes: the exposed workings of this place.
The pipes, they were crusted over with more rust. And those thick electrical wires were smeared with grease: as if the people or animals trained to maintain them were nasty themselves. In fact, one such animal was doing something up there, using its middle pair of arms to work a thick-headed tool across a jointed intersection of pipes. It then grabbed a wire and began to shake it, making one of the light fixtures flicker.
That light fixture flickered, but there was still light enough to see by: coming from the windows. But the windows high up on the right side of this hall were no better. Not that cleaning the windows would have been too much of an improvement, since the quality of light from the outside was too much better: the light of a dying sun. She guessed the windows were probably not washed in over thirty thousand years.
Had she been able to guess aloud, and if she could understand the language spoken by the muscular, broad-chested midget pushing this cart and the other ones accompanying it, they probably would have agreed. About the light… It was the light shining through those windows that allowed her to see this: the weak, reddish-orange sunlight shining through the window. Even if she could have somehow gotten up, climbed atop something and had a look out of those windows, she suspected that the view: or the quality of sunlight: would not have been much better. There was something very sad about this place. She could feel it, the emotional weight of misery and rot in the air. She did not want to be here.
And if she listened carefully enough, the sound of the Machine also seemed to be mixed with the distant sound of moans. There were other sounds as well: sounds of mad gibberish and twisted minds, promises of obscenity and deadly pain. Only this kind of place could do such a thing to minds because here, death was no escape from the madness. She let herself go away, not wanting to be here at all. The sound of gushing pipes filled her mind, and she let it.
…
Staggering back…also meant breaking contact with the surface of the broken bowl atop the waitress' tray. She was on the floor, having fallen onto her butt and elbows. "I am not gloating in saying this, but I truly did try to warn you. I really did! Oh, why is it that you people never listen?" mourned the waitress. "Now I shall truly dispose of your broken bowl, if it causes you so much misery. I am not one to take pleasure in the pain of you people. That would be the responsibility of others.
"In the meanwhile, you are free to have a seat with the other guests here until you can decide what you want to do with yourself: go back as someone else or continue your way. After all, this is just a rest-stop, not the final destination…. Hmmph…" That said, the waitress turned and carried away the broken bowl: taking it to the doorway to the right of the drinking counter: to the kitchen.
It couldn't have, she thought. I had two clips full of rounds. Pure brass bullets, all of them! But how did I…? Her thoughts whirled with bewilderment and sadness as the truth came flooding back to her. The tall waitress was right; Moira must have wanted not to know what had happened. Now that she did, however, it changed everything. Now, the truth was as real as that man with the red cape on television, tap-dancing and having himself a Hell of a time…so to speak.
She slowly got to her feet and had a look out the café windows: the view outside as sad as she thought it would be. The view outside was blurred to a reddish-brown color, the other side of the glass smeared with that reddish grime and rust. Dark shapes blurred past on the sidewalk and the street, too fast for her to see. Out there was a view of the downtown Pleasant River: a look across the street at dark-windowed store-front shops and some industrial-looking machine-buildings. Cars were parked at the sides…. Odd-looking cars, they were. Like the view, there was something wrong with them. Something had happened to Pleasant River since that night when…something happened to her. Now she would not want to go back. Even if she could go back, she would not want to do so. The town was different now.
…
3.
…
Deep within the fog-enshrouded forest, the animals whooped and squealed in delight as they pranced and danced around the engine. It shook and thrummed with deep sound as it pumped an oily fluid into the ground: a gray fluid streaked with black. A Denier was up in a nearby tree and watching the dancing. So long as they danced in resonance to the sound from the engine, coming from the Machine, all went well. The dark power of the Machine had covered this town for quite some time. It was one day of many, this many days since the new beginning here.
Daylight came, but it was not a sunrise. It was actually a lightening and thinning of the fog. But the fog was not completely burned away by the sun. The fog was now too strong for that. The contamination was far too strong and deeply embedded within the soil and air. Now that they had a hold in this world, it was just a beginning. Better yet was how they would soon have the catalyst.
…
This highway passed its way through what was practically still forest-land. To the left and right were areas of tall evergreen trees, dense enough to block off view of everything else to the sides. Those tall trees stretched up to the clouded-over sky above: the clouds colored iron-gray this cold day. Wind blew through these trees. And the sound of the wind matched the sound of the few cars that breezed along this highway at high speeds. There was very little traffic along this route. Therefore, the people in the cars saw fit to drive at speeds that would be considered otherwise insane.
Perhaps insanity was also why Detective Bruce Richter: private investigator: was driving a gold-colored limousine into the town of Pleasant River: a radio talk-show host trying to talk through the ever-increasing static. There was a white-lettered metal sign with an arrow pointing to the to the right, indicating that the town he was headed for was 5 Miles, Next Right. Minutes more, and he slowed this car down enough to make the gently sloping turn onto the road cutting through even more evergreen forest-land.
Off of the highway, there was a radical reduction in the amount of traffic: and a slightly different change in the look of the air. He seemed to be the only one using this road. Which was fortunate because he nearly had an accident when something thumped beneath the wheels: shaking this car, shaking his control. "What the Hell…?" he exclaimed as the tires of this gold-colored Cadillac squealed and squeaked. This big old car had power-assisted steering, but he still had to lean forward and keep a two-handed strong grip on the steering wheel itself.
This car was soon again going along smoothly: though now the steering seemed unbalanced towards the left. He could feel the pull in the steering wheel. The impact also jangled the car's sound-system, because now the radio was now playing that flat-tuned, world-famous radio-song known as static. He asked himself, What did I just run over to deserve this car getting ruined? The corpse of a saint?
The hissing and jagged noise of that particularly obnoxious song only grated his nerves as he fought to keep calm and skillfully tweaked his steering enough to keep from veering off the road. A final jerk of the steering wheel to the right, and he was driving straight. He slowed this car down and pulled over to the right shoulder of this forest road: a very narrow lane reserved for emergency stops.
Stopped, he put the car's transmission in park and got out: leaving the engine running. He walked clockwise around the car, looking over the tires. It was a cursory inspection to make sure that there was nothing too wrong…. There were some patches of purple fur on the front-left tire, the fur also smeared with dark red.
He went back into his car, closed the door and put the car's transmission in drive againHe chose not to perform any closer an inspection of this car than that: If there were any problems, there would be nothing he could do about it until he arrived in town. It ought not be far from here. And while he was at it, he could check why the few stations he could pick up on the car radio now were playing oldies music. There were no problems otherwise: beyond the steering now being annoyingly out of alignment.
The road ahead was long and clear. This lack of traffic, along with the oldies music playing on the radio eased his mood. Now driving at a more sedate pace, Detective Richter mulled over details in his mind as he passed by a roadsign: Welcome to…Pleasant River! Population: 24,426.
Details, details… The case was simple and simply necessary to solve. First and foremost was the child that had gone missing. Ever since he had obtained the photograph of the lost little girl, a waif of a child, the image never left his mind. It was as if, whenever the detective even thought of slowing down on this case, the thought of her came to mind. Like the daughter he never had…
Young children usually smile in holiday photographs, but this one wasn't. On her delicate and pretty face, she had an unusually somber look. Such an adorable child: a pretty face with big green eyes to make any parent's heart melt: her face framed with silky ash-blonde hair. The knee-length summer dress she had on in the photo matched the color of her eyes: a knee-length dress belted at the waist that left her pale arms bare. There were no bruises or other signs of abuse, thank goodness. Other than the unusually sad look on her face, there was nothing wrong with her… Except the fact that she was now lost: the eyes of a lost little girl…
Now the sad little girl was missing. And he had to find her. The fact that a great deal of money was involved had nothing to do with this: more money that he had ever seen in a single check. And that was just the up-front fee he was offered. Even if he had been offered just a ninth of the fee, he would have taken up the case.
Because he felt sorry for the kid. If the one having gone missing was, say…hipping clerk in his thirties, Detective Richter would not have cared as much. The cases he picked up usually turned out to be eloping couples or otherwise unidentified car-crash victims: married or dead. But this case, the lost child, he cared for her as if she was his daughter. Divorced early about twenty years ago, Richter's ex-wife never had children. Now a young couple was sitting somewhere, miserable and worried about their lost little girl.
I'll find you, he thought to himself as he drove beyond the line of trees into a more wide-open space: bringing him in sight of the first few houses of this town. Maybe she was hidden away in the basement of one of those houses, those houses nestled close to nearby woods. Maybe she was tied to a wooden chair. For the abductors' sake, he hoped they had kept her alive. Because if they had even thought about hurting the little girl, he just might draw his pistol and kill the criminals himself when he found them. I'll find you, little girl, thought the detective. Even if it's the last damned thing I do.
…
The detective drove this car into a residential area that was more developed, more densely populated, than the scattered houses at the edge of the town itself: fog beginning to enshroud everything. These were the sorts of old-fashioned row-houses set close together and back-to-back: with small backyards divided by fences. In front, strips of grass to separate the front porches from the sidewalks. He'd seen the style before: quaint and old-fashioned, typical of this part of the country. Quaint, it was also somewhat monotonous. Since many of the streets looked alike, he had to pull over occasionally to check the town map he'd obtained from a library up-state.
Hmmph… If this was Feinberg Street, then Descartes Avenue should be at the end: which would lead right to the downtown area. There he'd find the police station, some hotels, restaurants and shops. Since Silent Hill was wiped out six years back, still abandoned due to the after-effects of the major town-wide fires, this town picked up the tourists trade. It wasn't tourist season. So the townspeople were probably less busy and more likely to talk to out-of-towners. Downtown was the logical place to start.
And logically, following this tourist-friendly map ought to lead right to the downtown area. Here he was, nine miles in from the town's border. But this wasn't Feinberg Street. This was Sechs Street. He made all the right turns and was in the wrong place. He'd just come from Descartes Avenue, which he'd navigated in getting into this neighborhood. Either the odometer, speedometer and dashboard magnetic compass were wrong, or this map was wrong.
Three to one, it had to be the map that was wrong. Never mind the map, then. He folded it up and put it back in the glove compartment. The map was labeled "Pleasant River," but it may as well have been the Town of "Pleasant River" on another planet… Yeah, and maybe this town was secretly run by big-headed, gray-skinned space aliens in little gray silvery jumpsuits: those little guys everybody saw in movies and on television shows about cow mutilations and crop circles. Their big gray dome-heads were probably all full of ideas on how to deceive private investigators named Richter who were looking for lost little girls in New England tourist-towns!
Or maybe not. Then he began driving again. There seemed to be more than a few mid-sized trucks heading in one particular direction along Descartes Street. And where there were trucks, there was commerce. Making a right turn, he followed a trio of those trucks. He was satisfied to see that the trucks were indeed heading for that part of town that had buildings and shops rather than houses, the more industrial part of Pleasant River.
The first tourist-friendly street he saw, the first street with restaurants and such, he decided to stop to investigate. Better yet was how there was a more-than-generous parking lot midway through: between two buildings and next to a diner. Maybe he'd have some luck after all. So he parked this car of his, turned off the engine, and got out: stepping into the surprisingly chill air. Maybe his trench coat, slacks and buttoned shirt weren't enough. The iron-cold chill seemed to bite through all layers of clothing and into his chest and chilling his head.
…
The air was just about as cold as his luck. He walked around from the side and around to the front of the café. He grabbed the cold stainless-steel handle and opened the door…or tried to open it. It wouldn't open. The place wasn't closed: He could see customers in there through the glass. They were sitting at tables and talking as they sipped coffee ant talked. Some waitresses were even walking around in serving them. The place was open; it was just that he couldn't get in.
He tried rapping on the slightly dusty glass and sticking his face closer. That didn't work. Shading his eyes with both hands, he looked around in there. The waitress continued walking around, and the customers were drinking drinks and watching a television. No one seemed to pay attention, so he stopped. And there was an odd reddish dust on the glass that he didn't want on his hands.
He gave up and brushed the edges of his hands. Fine… If they wanted to lock out customers, that was their business. Maybe there was some kind of private event going on in there: probably a religious event or something. Who knows? He walked away and decided to try the restaurant next door. And as it turned out, the restaurant was open.
…
The warm interior of the restaurant turned out to be much more sparse and industrial than he thought. An old Western song lazily drifted through the heated air, a guitar gently strumming as a cowboy sang a sad song as Detective Richter looked around. He saw that the circular tables in here were not actually of polished wood. They were actually formica-topped, their artificial plastic brown surfaces dully reflecting light from the windows. Dull was the word as the tabletops seemed to be slightly dusty: like the checkered red-and-white floor at his feet. The "customers" didn't seem to mind: sitting at the tables the way they were.
No, wait… As for the customers, something wasn't quite right. He casually walked over to one of the restaurant tables, ready to give a greeting if the couple there turned their heads to look. They didn't turn their heads. Hell, they weren't even moving. "Good afternoon," he began, speaking to the young man in red-leather jacket and blue jeans. "I'm here in town to…" The young man continued to stare at his scantily clad girlfriend across the table. "Hello?"
There was no answer: other than the continued playing of that old cowboy song on the café's sound system. The detective leaned over slightly, still making eye contact. When there was no response, he tried waving his right hand in front of the young man's face. "Something wrong here?" he asked aloud. There most certainly was something wrong: The "young man" turned out to be a mannequin.
It was the necks that gave them away. Standing this close to the mannequin of the young man let the detective see that there was a seam between the neck and chin. The "girlfriend" was the very same way: the same plastic seam between head, neck and body. Her plastic blue eyes stared dully ahead. And since plastic tends not to rot for thousands of years, those eyes would probably continue staring at least that long until "she" was tossed into a landfill. Even then, "she" would continue staring.
For goodness' sakes! Mannequins, all of the "customers" were actually mannequins: some of the most lifelike mannequins Detective Richter had ever seen before. As that old sad cowboy song continued to play on the restaurant's sound system, he slowly and carefully looked around. All of the "customers" were posed with backs straight and hands atop the table or with hands in their laps. They all seemed posed as if waiting for something. But what? And more interestingly, why?
What the Hell kind of restaurant is this? As if on cue from that thought, there was then sounds of grunting and footsteps as at least a dozen coveralls-clad, barefooted midgets came out from behind the counter for drinks: all of them dressed in red coveralls, all of them bald-headed and very, very muscular. Some of them came from beneath the tables, climbing up out of the floor. Click-click! That was the sound of the door opening as three more of them came in from the outside. Grunting, chanting or whatever, they all closed in on the vaguely confused detective. Not exactly space aliens or gray-skinned creatures, but the appearance of them was odd enough.
"Hey, back off!" he shouted as they spread their arms and came even closer: their amazingly thick arms and hands looking especially menacing, arms powerful-looking enough to mangle trees. He drew his pistol out from beneath his trenchcoat and prepared to fire a warning shot. When they gripped his thighs and waist tighter, he aimed downward and fired a pistol shot at one of them.
The struck midget let go and staggered back, falling onto its back. "Migosh…!" it exclaimed as an oily stain spread from its left shoulder and over its chest. "Mi-gosh, mi-gosh… O-h-h-blamah!" As it writhed on the dusty floor, six more midgets closed up the position he once occupied. They continued to close in.
Perhaps the main problem with most revolver-type handguns is that they only hold six rounds. True is how they require less maintenance than magazine-fed handguns. Also true is how high-powered revolvers are more readily available for purchase. Despite the facts that Detective Richter's revolver was both relatively high-powered: for a pistol: and was reliable, it was not enough to keep back the mob of red-clad midgets grabbing at his thighs and pulling him down.
When he struck the floor, they grabbed his legs and arms while one of them gripped his head with extremely rough hands. "You little freaks! What the Hell are you doing? Setting up a phony restaurant, attacking strangers, don't you know how illegal this is? You all must be as dumb as those mannequins… Hey! Saw what happened to your friend? I've got enough bullets for everybody! You hear me? I'll… Ulp…"
The rough hands began to squeeze the sides of his jaw and the thumbs dug into his cheeks as the hands painfully forced his mouth open. "Ulp-ulp, groova-zoom!" cheered another one of the midgets as it pulled a red flask out from a pocket of its coveralls. It popped open the top and began to shove the open mouth of the flask towards Detective Richter's forced-open mouth. "Groova-zoom, oblamah!" Drops of the dark-pinkish liquid went into Richter's mouth and he sputtered before beginning to drink it. Oh yes, the cinnamon drink was probably the tastiest thing in the world to human beings.
A taste, and no one could resist it. Detective Richter's mouth didn't have to be forced open anymore. He wanted to drink that stuff. His mouth open, he gulped and swallowed as much of it as he could. There was nothing but the taste filling his mouth, filling his chest and his head. Even as the rest of his body began to go numb, he continued to drink. His eyes slowly closed as he floated in a red-colored ocean of bliss. It was beautiful…
…
An hour later, a large white garbage truck emerged from a thick haze of smoke along the street outside the restaurant. The front cabin of the vehicle was filled with that very same smoke: obscuring the view beyond the glass. It was a wonder that the driver: whoever or whatever it was: could see. Six ape-like animals were clinging to the sides, the fronts of their heads covered with electromechanical gas masks and their purple-furred bodies slimed with mucous.
They ambled their way to the front of the restaurant, where a black-shaped bodybag was waiting. It was this bodybag that they lifted. Even as the detective-sized shape in the bodybag squirmed and writhed, the animals had no problem in hustling this thing over to the back of the crusty white garbage truck and tossing him in there. There were plenty others in there to keep him company, and he stopped struggling.
That done, the animals hobbled back to their positions on the sides of this truck. They clambered onto the sides and held firm. A baritone roar from the engine, flames shooting from the truck's dual exhausts, and they were on their way again. There would be more who wandered into town in gold-colored cars in seeking out the princess. But try as they might, those who wandered into this town would not have her: not even in a hundred-thousand years.
…
4.
…
Samuel Longhorn, in the office at the West side of his mansion, regarded the lawyers sitting in front of his desk: all of them in wooden chairs. The five lawyers were unintentionally dressed for the occasion, their pale faces a contrast to their dark suits and hair. In fact, all of them were variations of the same theme: all with dark hair, all of similar height, and all with the same professional manner. Of course, one was chubbier than the others. Another one was bald. But all of them may as well have come from the same family: looking so similar. They all sat with their briefcases in their laps: full of important documents, no doubt.
The chubbiest lawyer was seated farthest left. "Now that the greetings are done, we'll get down to today's business…" He opened his briefcase, a double cl-clicking sound. Out came a few sheaves of typewritten paper: legal documents, stapled with a decidedly rusty staple. "You are probably already aware of this, Mr. Longhorn, but you are currently the only living descendant of the Longhorn lineage, the sole next-of-kin. Your father had no other children beside yourself, and your mother has disappeared. Besides a distant cousin, there are no other relatives to speak of."
Tilting his head to the left, Samuel was feeling the impatience of his youth . Yes, yes… He was all too familiar with this situation. The lawyers were her to bequeath all the wealth, bonds, landholdings, and such of the Longhorn Estate. They would make several official-sounding declarations with documents in hand. Then one of them would ceremoniously place three documents atop the table. He would sign them, the lawyers would offer congratulations, and they would go back to whatever world that lawyers came from. People sometimes joked that lawyers were demons from Hell, in that they used convoluted language and prolonged bureaucratic rhetoric that mere mortals could not understand: exactly the kind of tricky language strong enough to trick mortals into selling their souls. Samuel Longhorn smirked; the sentiment was at least partially correct.
"On the idea of you being the sole heir to the Longhorn estate, the windfall to yourself will be substantial," said another lawyer, a skinny on the far right. That one had a deep-red tie to go with his dark suit. Samuel Longhorn knew what the lawyer was going to say, but he let the lawyer say it nevertheless. "This is a full and total transfer of wealth from your father to yourself. As you have reached the legal age of adulthood six years prior to this and as you are sound of mind, there are to be no significant legal impediments to this process."
Yet another lawyer spoke, a balding one left-of-center. "We have even managed to bifurcate and evade any and all tax burdens. A variety of tax shelters have been put in place to prevent any shaving off of your inheritance: and will also prevent any taxing of your wealth for at least six hundred years into the future. Though it is doubtful anyone lives that long, even then there will be room for evasion of surcharges." That lawyer gave a small smile, the kind of smile that meant, Oh, aren't you pleased with how clever we are?
"You are therefore to be bequeathed all wealth in conjunction with your father's will," finalized the chubby lawyer. He set his briefcase on the floor and stood up from the chair, approaching Samuel Longhorn's desk. The documents went atop the desk for Samuel Longhorn to peruse: which he did. There were no problems with what he was going to sign, so he did. He took up a thick metal pen and signed the bottom line of the first document. Another signature went to the bottom of the second document, and a third signature went to the third document. All of his signatures were in a brown-black color.
That was because the ink in his pen was Samuel Longhorn's own blood. The documents signed, the chubby lawyer took them up and quickly returned to his seat: his thick-soled black shoes making clumping sounds. He sat down and put the documents into his briefcase, the briefcase yawning open much like the large mouth of a beast. Clomp! The briefcase almost seemed to make a pleased and satisfied sound as it was clamped shut.
"Congratulations, Mr. Longhorn," said the fifth lawyer, the one with the most plain face. The other lawyers were already up from the seats and headed for the door. "You do know what this means." Yes, I do. "With the inheritance of your father, all of his resources are now available to yourself: and more. This includes: but is not limited to: his holdings in this town…and some of his holdings in Silent Hill. This land has power, Mr. Longhorn. True power. See to it that it is used well." That said, that lawyer quickly stood up and went for the door.
The rest quickly followed in tow. They moved fast, as if they had some other business that had to be dealt with. Much needed to be done in this town. Since this town was fresh from transition, they would see to it that much would be done. Even the chubby one seemed unusually quick on his feet in getting out of here.
Click! The butler followed the last lawyer out and closed the door behind him. Samuel Longhorn was certainly glad that formality was: yet again: completed. He had already undergone this experience before. Yet it was just now replaying again. This time, the "inheritance" referred to by those five creatures, those things disguised as the lawyers, was worth so much more than money… He was already granted immortality. Now he had the power to go with it. And if he manipulated that power correctly, he saw himself as playing the role of a godIndeed, the land has power.
…
Elsewhere in his mansion, five of Samuel's maid-servants: white lab coats worn over their outfits: were in this small square room lit with incandescent white light. Ahead was one airtight metal door of lead, and behind was another. The left side of the room was set with a long table, atop which was a long, red-colored radiation suit, helmet, with gloves and overboots. It was this suit that the labcoat-wearing maids were working on.
The sixth maid was somewhat older and severe in attitude: an austere and thin middle-aged woman in a black dress that covered her from neck to ankles. The skirt of the dress itself was loose, but the upper portion was tight: especially around the bodice, collar and arms. She held a black leather riding-crop in her left hand, which she was always ready to use to distill discipline. "We are approaching Master Longhorn's most important moment for this world," she said. "I should not have to emphasize the importance of this particular operation. Master Longhorn's suit must be perfect. He chooses not to be blessed before the proper time: as you all have yet to be blessed. But if he is, the fault will be on our heads."
"Yes, madam," said the five other maid-servants at once, speaking in chorus. They had already inspected this brand-new "hazmat" suit they were preparing, this suit to protect a human body against biological hazards, chemical dangers, and high levels of radiation. Even as Samuel Longhorn himself entered this room, they continued their inspection to be sure that nothing was overlooked.
"Good afternoon, ladies," said a youthful Samuel Longhorn, dressed in business clothes and silk jacket. His shoes, however, were casual: soft-soled loafers. Hard shoes would make it difficult to don the hazmat suit. Looking at the senior maid, he said, "I take it that preparations are complete. The room prepared, light bulb in place, and a fresh head for the light fixture… Those are done?"
"Yes, Master Longhorn," answered the senior maid-servant. "All has been completed as you have requested and in compliance with your notes. In fact, the pig has been butchered not more than six hours ago. Though everything is not as flawless as I would have liked, things are adequate. Perfection in service to you is what I seek."
"Perfection? Oh, things are well and fine enough," responded Samuel. "A little decadence here and there is perfectly fine…so long as the decadence does not hinder my great works. This moment is a culmination, a breaking point to act as prelude to what will follow. My clothing must be perfect, though there are ever-so-slight allowances in terms of material preparations. The suit…"
"Yes, Master Longhorn. It shall be yours at once," replied the senior maid. She turned to the maid-servants in lab-coats. "The time has come. Dress your master!" She watched as the maid-servants carefully lifted the suit off of the table and brought it over.
Still in his business-clothes, Samuel Longhorn was eventually dressed in the hazardous materials suit. The long single-piece of material covered him from head to ankles in the thick red material: the cylindrical helmet fitting over his head: the bulky air filters lumpy on his back. His feet and ankles were then covered over with the overboots, while two layers of gloves went over his hands. The gloves and overboots were taped on and sealed with shimmering red-colored adhesive strips.
It took a bit of wrangling to get hazmat suits of these colors, but he succeeded. The colors of white or yellow were certainly not befitting this moment above moments. White or yellow, he found, were colors detrimental to the operation of the wonderful engines.
He could hardly contain his enthusiasm. Samuel was again reminded of his renewed youthful enthusiasm. Though it had been days since he was returned to youth, since the local transition, he still had yet to relearn the patience of someone older. Or perhaps it was the draw of power that goaded his impatience.
They finished the last applications of tape. The maid-servants looked him over to finalize things. Then the senior maid herself performed a final check. "Master Longhorn, you are ready. All is prepared. All that remains is an opening of the room… I wish you progress." That said, the other five maid-servants opened the door into the red-lit room. Samuel Longhorn moved ponderously in his hazmat suit and went in…
The door closed behind him, a spinning wheel-valve sealing it closed. Now he stood here in this room, illuminated by red light. He had to turn his body completely around to inspect things; this suit had limited peripheral vision, and the helmet did not rotate. The walls were indeed painted black, as requested. At his feet was a floor covered with tin foil: reflecting the red light. And the dim red light came from a light bulb suspended in the mouth of a severed pig's head: the electrical wiring strung through the neck and into the mouth. Every feature, from the black paint to the blood-red light-bulb in the severed pig's mouth, it was all for the optimal operation of what this room contained. For here, as blood dripped from the ceiling, was the engine: part of the Machinery.
The large engine was carefully installed and maintained: run on electricity from the power plant and blood piped from the hospital miles away. It, the engine itself, resembled a cross between a disembodied truck-engine and something one would find in an old Russian nuclear submarine. In fact, the engine was dangerously radioactive at times. When Samuel Longhorn found it in the forest, all trees and shrubs within twenty meters of the thing had been blackened from exposure. Other plant-life had grown into unusual shapes and began to take on odd colors. The altered plant-life had been blessed.
This was truly a device truly capable of bringing blessings to the land. But the engine itself was not enough. It required someone other than himself to control it. That someone did not fully exist…yet. To bring about that person's existence into this world would require a summoning. So summon…he did, carefully turning thick and heavy valves atop the machine. Animal blood gurgled its way up from the pipes in the floor and flowed into the machine as gigawatts of electricity entered through thick ropy wires. It all went into the engine as shadowy shapes climbed out of the floor. The lightbulb in the pig-head's mouth flickered…
…
Flick-flicker… The lights above the hospital bed flickered and dimmed. A long, wet, mucous-lined slit appeared in the bed. In the distance, there was the rumbling sound of an earthquake as this happened. There was a blast of lightning outside the window, along with fiercely howling winds. Something was happening here, something red.
The six-armed Denier clung to the ceiling: its man-like head regarding the bed below. The unblessed beings that gathered here, they were trustworthy enough to see the introduction of the catalyst into this world.. However, they could not be trusted to supervise the process itself. Not even blood-workers could oversee this. Short of summoning a Flesh Lord, only a Denier could do this.
The mucous-lined slit in the hospital bed widened slightly as something red was pushed through: something as wide as an armful and sealed in flesh.. As the trembling increased and the wind howled, the bed continued to facilitate this fleshy birthing process. When the flesh-wrapped thing was completely through, the flickering florescent lights made popping sounds as they burst from the sudden increase in air pressure and electrical power surges…
It was soon over. The wind stopped its howling. All of the trembling had ceased, no longer shaking the room or the things within. Now there was silence and darkness, very peaceful in the wake of the chaos.
In the darkness, the lump squirmed and struggled. Eventually, a white shape popped out from one end of this flesh-sac. It was a head, wet and streaked with bits of red: the head attached to a neck, the rest of the body trapped within the sac. Two sets of pale fingers came up at both sides of the neck and pulled, r-r-ripping open the sac. This allowed the rest of the child's body to be free of the sac…
One of the red-masked doctors turned on one of the low-powered lights to give them illumination. They then wheeled a stretcher over to the bed, carefully lifting the child from the bed of flesh and onto the stretcher itself: covering her with a red blanket. Inside themselves, all of the doctors cheered with joy and pleasure. Now that she had returned from the Void, the way to paradise would soon be opened.