Silent Hill: The Dream Machine
by Elliot Bowers
Chapter 8
A little red-plastic radio lie atop a nearby wooden stump. It gave a frightful squeal of static when the head of an axe went up…into the air, coming down... Chunk! The sturdy sharp metal blade bit into the naked, decapitated body of the fallen tree that lay on the grass. Stripped of bark and leaves, the upper half sawed off, the once-tall tree trunk was indeed humiliated now as it was being mutilated by the axe: slowly being chop-chop-chopped in half. Chunk! And that was the point! Chunk! Listen to us.
Dressed in his outdoorsman's outfit of jeans and checkered over-shirt, a woolen white shirt beneath, Samuel Longhorn was out here and chopping wood. More specifically, he was chopping this wood: a tree from the woods at the edge of his estate. This particular tree was highly resistant to the influence of the nightly fogs and radiation from the engines. All the other trees of the forests were being changed quite nicely: their trunks leaking with pervasive red. You are trying to ignore what you hear.
This was a fallen tree: though not yet defeated. And it was that lack of defeat that made for so much annoyance and anger… Chunk! He again raised his axe up into the iron-cold air again, the clouded sky above, and again brought down the axe… Chunk-k-k! He still had the blade of the tool down in this tree when he began to hear the faint sound of something on the radio: something else besides the static. You can hear us.
This tree still stubbornly resisted. Of all the trees of all the forests in this town: of all the trees in all the forests of his town: he would not have lone trees standing in the way of progress! So he felled this tree, then had it stripped and the branchy top chopped off. He would do the rest. Chunk… Another burst of static squealed out from the little red-plastic radio: followed by shuddering rasping sounds. You do not listen because you cannot see the truth of the red.
This tree of trees was not the only thing standing in the way of Samuel Longhorn gaining of power. According to what had been communicated to him, something had crossed over into town two days ago: coming across the chasm. He was making amazing progress with the engines and expected nothing but blessed progress to come of it. Therefore, anything that appeared in this town should have been in his favor. The axe has a very sweet taste.
Except this new something in town was acting against him. The Deniers had been grunting and growling with anger as they communicated to his mind that an engine and a capacitor had been broken, shunted and destroyed. A capacitor destroyed, they would not deliver another: not for at least another thousand years! Beyond that, the Deniers were being more vague than usual in their communications with him, hinting that he would not fully understand. You secretly fear the blue while hating the yellow.
Consumption of a red liquid and the transition allowed Samuel to understand the means of communication used by the Deniers. He was then able to form extensive partnerships with them as they had mutual interests. They were aware of his work and had agreed to join with him. However, now they were being somewhat stand-offish and not fully forthcoming in their opinions of him and his plan. It was as if they were leaving it to him to deal with the new thing in town. The circle is invincible.
Small wisps of gold-colored smoke began to rise from the deep cut in the tree, and the little red-plastic radio was squealing like mad as when five janitors walked across the small grassy field back here on the rear grounds of this estate, getting over to this man chopping the wood. All five of these janitors were tall men dressed in the red overalls and work-shirts that constituted the uniform of their profession, all of them armed with pistols in holsters. All had sober looks on their faces and had their heads slightly bowed. Something was clearly wrong and disappointing. You can hear colors once more.
"Mr. Longhorn? We've got bad news," said one of the janitors as Mr. Longhorn whirled down his axe once more… Chunk! With the head of the sharp tool halfway in the trunk of the tree, static whining from the radio, Samuel Longhorn paused his actions with shoulders hunched. Yes, he was listening…to the janitors, though not what was coming from the little red-plastic radio. "That thing you mentioned? We actually saw four of them going along Richter Avenue. They were riding close together, really close together. We think they were on very big motorcycles: huge motorcycles. Really huge. We weren't able to identify the make and model of their vehicles because we've never seen that kind before." There is no looking away from the flavors we wish to fix.
"Why, of course they were that way," began Samuel Longhorn. "Their means of transportation, what you see as motorcycles, are just as unidentifiable as that accursed bus." He yanked on his axe, the head coming free from the wood with a quick squeak of sound as the radio gave a quick hiss of pained static. He then gave a quick stomp to the body of this half-bisected tree before turning to face the janitors. "Unidentifiable, unless you happen to be in possession of a time machine, that is. So tell me of this next atrocity committed by this counter-productive entity, that which you insist exists in the plural rather than the singular." The horsemen smell the sweetness of your axe. What? Of all the miscellaneous noises coming from the little red-plastic radio, he definitely heard that! Put your ears to the tainted breeze.
Just then, the sound of static-noise on the little plastic radio began to change. It faded just enough to let through the sound of a muttering announcer. Just as a janitor opened his mouth to say something, Samuel raised his right hand in a gesture that meant, Shut up for a moment. He leaned sideways: his face straining as he strained to hear. There was certainly something being said through the little plastic radio. Except the announcer kept muttering. The static now seemed all the more irritating. Now the colors are everything.
He stepped over to the little red-plastic radio, where it was placed upon the tree stump: leaning the weapon against the stump itself. This was as so he could pick the little red-plastic radio and try to manipulate the tuning knob in an effort to quiet the voices in the radio station: the occasionally audible voices that said such things. This only made for even more incomprehensible squealing and static. Except now the voices were speaking in languages language Samuel could not understand… Or the static and interference was warping and distorting the broadcast to such an extent that it could not be understood. He stared at the radio as it squealed and screamed. We belong where you do not belong, not anymore.
"Who are you to say that!" He dropped the radio when he finally heard something said to him. It had been said with perfect clarity, totally clean of static and interference. "Did you just hear what was said?" The other janitors stared blankly. "There were voices on the radio just now, voices through the static and talking in chorus…. Hear now! It spoke again!" Ears come in different colors.
One of the janitors turned his head to the side and cupped his right earlobe with his hand and leaning towards the radio to listen. All that he heard was more of the same: haphazard static and chaotic noise. Perhaps there was some muttering in the little red-plastic radio. He lowed his hand and shrugged. "You are more receptive than we are, Mr. Longhorn. If you heard anything, it's because you can and we can't." Your ear is not more strong and is more wrong, for so long.
Voices, he was hearing voices. No, put that way, it seemed as if he was losing his mind, which was ridiculous. He knew that he was hearing something on the radio. At regular intervals, he could clearly hear a group of voices talking right to him. Such sentences were gibberish sentences that seemed to make no immediate sense. Yet the clarity with which they were said blocked out any probability that they were mere flukes. Something wants me to hear this, he thought to himself. Something knows what I am doing/ We dance to the sound of glowing gold as the air is filled with her pretty song.
"Gibberish! You shut up!" he yelled at the little red-plastic radio, picking it up and throwing it to the ground. And since the ground was grassy and well-cultivated, it only gently thumped upon impact and even bounced a little: not at all the expected result of what Samuel expected! "I know what you're trying to do!" he yelled at the radio. "Now you shall listen to the sound of my axe! " He raised his axe, turned it around as so the dull end faced forward, and brought it down to silence the little red-plastic radio.
…
Selena was sitting on a tall stool and looking out of the window of her new bedroom: or her prison, depending on how one saw things. From up here in the third story of the mansion, she could see out and above Mr. Longhorn and the group of janitors. She saw him butchering that poor tree and could almost hear the dying screams in her mind, screams of agony and pain as his axe chopped and chopped until the janitors came and Mr. Longhorn did something to a little red object on the tree stump. They all seemed small from up here: small figures on the small green field bordered by the nearby forest, with sunlight shining diagonally downward. Her eyes felt slightly irritated by the light at first, but she was getting used to it. Her eyes were still more sensitive to light since she came from the hospital. Getting used to things was what she hoped to do: as she was getting used to her new child-like incarnation.
Her gaze slowly turned from the ornate picture-window to this grandly furnished prison-bedroom of hers: red silk carpet spread out on the floor and furniture along the walls. This tall red-painted stool she was sitting on, it was next to a wide desk built to a child's stature: set lower to the ground. Before it was a little chair: painted a dull burgundy color. Against the adjacent wall were two tall bookshelves: each shelf full of neatly arranged religious and philosophical books. A full-length mirror was available for her to look at herself: as small a person as she was now. There was a massive bed far across from it. It truly was queen-sized, with thick crimson-colored quilts that had to be red silk: lumpy shapes beneath the quilt. A circular air-vent was set in the floor next to the bed… Beyond that, there was a door leading to a private bathroom just for the occupant of this bedroom. That bathroom was large and luxurious: easily half the size of this room. There was even an especially large bath in there as well.
She used the large luxurious bath no longer than necessary. It was so large, almost like a small swimming pool, and she was just a child. The water also seemed too hot no matter how much she tried to adjust it. So it had been just a hurried bath. She loved showers. Yet there were none to be had. Done bathing as soon as she could, she had quickly dried herself and dressed in the new clothes available.
The bed still vaguely worried her. She knew this room well and was justified in her worry about the bed. Earlier today, in curiosity, she had pulled back the red crimson blanket to reveal what made those lumps in the quilt. There were chains underneath there: five lengths of chain, each ending in a velvet-lined brass-colored cuff. Two chains were for ankles, two were for wrists, and the last one at the head of the bed…
The last velvet-lined cuff was waiting for her neck… Staring at this setup began to give her a headache, and it was making her feel upset. So she pulled the blanket back into its previous position to completely cover over the setup. Not wanting to be close to such an evil-looking setup, she stood back and used her mind-touch to move the blanket back to its original placement, making the crimson silk quilt lie flat and showing the lumps. Then she went to sit by the window and look outside. Looking outside was a lot more calming than staring at this well-furnished place of entrapment.
Besides the door to the adjacent bathroom, there was just one door out of this bedroom. The door itself had platinum and gold designs on it, with a golden doorknob. A golddoorknob, it was a gold doorknob of all things! One thing that Selena had discovered about her new self was that any metal of gold or brass, it made her feel weak, sick and tired: very weak and tired, sometimes making her hear groaning voices in her head. When she tried to reach up and touch that doorknob, to walk out of here, as soon as her fingertips had touched the doorknob…she had blacked out for a second: staggering backwards as distorted groans and stretched scre-e-e-eams filled her mind. As for the window, it was also sealed: as if it was to prevent her from floating away.
So now she stayed away from the door entirely. But it was not as if she had to leave. There was already the bathroom, which she already used to bathe herself. For clothes, there was an armoire full of clothes tailored to her. The shelves of books were here to keep her entertained. They knew that she did not really have to eat anymore, at least not the food of this world, so there was no cupboard for such victuals. Everything she would ever need was right here. They also knew that she could not jump out of the window and kill herself. Because death would only bring her back to here. Even then, she did not want to die again.
There was no escape from here. That was it. They were going to do what they wanted to her and there was nothing she could do about it, even if she could do things with her mind. Perhaps she could use her mind to destroy the maids if they tried to put her in that accursed bed with the five chains. Trying to kill Miss Gauche was impossible because of the jewelry she wore beneath her clothing. There was no harming Miss Gauche, then.
That was it. There was no escaping this place. Mr. Longhorn and Miss Gauche had plans for her, such plans involving her being contaminated and altered until there was nothing of her original self left. They had already changed her body. And eventually, they were going to change her mind. She could already feel the emotional alterations happening to her because she was being changed: her mind becoming darker and more dour. The girl began to cry, wishing that someone…or something would save her.
…
2.
…
Sunset was going to be coming soon, and so all the townspeople were rapidly going home to go indoors. Cars were parked in front of houses and doors were locked. Last-minute errands were cut short and ended. It was not long before the last of the doors were clicked shut and locked up. The fogs of night would not come in for at least an hour yet. Yet no one wanted to be outdoors. Since the transition, the nightly fogs were getting worse: even a few seconds of exposure to the stuff would make a person contaminated and prone to a prolonged and premature death: before the day of the Descent. And with the day of Descent so close at hand, people were doing what they could to stay alive and not die prematurely: not before paradise arrived! It was just the fog they had to look out for, the fog that came in every night and stayed longer into the day. With the fog came new hordes of animal and…other things now. Everyone in this town knew what animals were, but some of the new things in town couldn't just be called that. They were something else more odd than the animals.
For that reason, the downtown area was abandoned at sunset, with cars parked hastily at the sides of the streets and the store-front businesses empty: the streets and buildings alike painted in blood-red tones of sunset as bitingly cold winds howled across. What should have been a place of bustling late-afternoon business and leisure in restaurants and shops was now a place of abandonment and desolation. The transition had certainly made things different.
It began as a bass rumbling-roar at first. This rumbling became an…airborne sound like…an earthquake…even though the ground itself did not tremble. The rumbling sound echoed throughout the downtown street, making the glass of storefront windows quiver and the metal of parked cars vibrate. It became louder still to the point where the plate glass of the windows were visibly vibrating and the metal of the cars were quivering enough to seem to shake the vehicles apart. The sunset-glared air itself began to blur with the noise…!
When it stopped, all the excessive noise and vibration, there was a sudden blast of unusually warm air as the four massive motorcycles faded into view: parked in front of that down café-diner with the sealed door. The vehicles were all neatly parked and shadowy, the engine-frames and black rubber wheels seeming to swallow light while articulated chrome parts gleamed. And the four dark bikers themselves were striding on over to the front door itself: their weapons fastened to their backs with buckles: the odd rifle on one rider's back, the great knife on another's, the nunchaku on the back of the third, and the scythe on the back of the fourth. The dark biker with the scythe reached for the front door: slowly pulled it open, and walked on in with the others following.
…
Clank! The door shut, and a fresh seal rusted into place. The dark bikers walked across the floor and moved over to the center table. There, these four wild-haired figures in jeans, boots and dark leather jackets unsung their great weapons from their backs and let them lean against the edge of the table or rest on the floor at their feet as they sat down. All the other tables were empty: no one else seeming to be here to enjoy the food or perhaps the singer to appear on the little stage. There were some mannequins seated in the dining booths by the sunset-gleamed window. Yet they did not matter…for now.
The dark biker of the scythe put both hands atop the table. "Give to us the taste of the town!" he growled aloud, looking over at the man behind that quick-service counter over there. "We have come for a purpose. That purpose will be fulfilled! Serve us as so we may serve you."
That broad-shouldered bald man in black pants and white shirt: the head waiter: stepped out from behind the quick-order counter. He was balancing trays in both hands, each tray with two burningly hot cups of cinnamon-flavored coffee. Burningly hot, that was literally true; there was actually a layer of fire burning at the top of each cup of liquid.
The very second the trays went down on the table, the four dark bikers simultaneously reached for the presented cups: their right hands outstretching. They all drank at the same time as well. Down went the cinnamon-flavored coffee, being gulped. Though the fire in the cups flicked at their hairy faces and played at their noses, their faces seemed unaffected. Their facial hair did not even catch fire: as if the whiskers were strands of asbestos or wiry steel-wool instead of hair. And it was not soon before the cups of fiery liquid were gone.
They set down the now-emptied cups, faint wisps of reddish smoke still puffing up from them. "I know this flavor very, very well…" growled the dark biker of the odd rifle. He put his right hand on the hand-guard just below the barrel of his weapon, regarding the weapon. "I have seen its color very often. It is the way things begin to go."
"And it continues from there," snarled the dark biker of the great knife. Though his voice resembled an angry growl, he actually seemed to smile. "They will feel our trouble. Fight us? We fight them."
"Right on," growled the dark biker of the nunchaku. "And everything is the right weight, too." At the moment, his chain-segmented weapon was resting atop his right boot, underneath this table. "The load is not too light, and there is now barley and oatmeal enoughThere will be a lot more barley from broken clay…" He licked his lips as if he could taste something delicious.
"Don't crave that! Not this time!" yelled the dark biker of the scythe. The other bikers sat up straight in response, obedient to the one of the scythe. They were sitting just as rigidly as the mannequins seated by the windows. "It is ours when it is ours. The circle is not yet closed. A gap still remains in the circle. Follow the dance, follow the truth!"The other four bikers went quiet, and the bald serving man took a step back.
The cups emptied of their liquids, the dark bikers put them onto the two trays: which were picked up by the bald-headed waiter. "We will have knowledge of their nature," said the dark biker with the scythe. "You should fill the air with smile when you serve us, for you know what we do." Then he smiled at the bald-headed waiter. He had made an order, and the order had to be filled if the dark bikers were to be good customers.
Then the waiter walked away: going behind the counter with the two trays of emptied cups. He crouched down behind there and began doing something that made for all kinds of clattering and clanking sounds: the sounds of a small appliance. "Ergh-ach!" yelled something behind there. When the head waiter stood up again, his trays were covered with little doll-sized muscular men in coveralls, miniaturized versions of the midgets that appeared every so often: the blood workers.
These particular blood-workers were especially fresh. The head waiter carried this next serving over to the tables where the dark bikers waited. There the trays were set down and frenzied hands snatched up the hapless little humanoids in coveralls. Whereas the dark bikers were so rigid and formal in drinking the cinnamon-flavored coffee, they were now acting with intense savagery in chomping and ripping up the little men. Big feisty hands gripped the little bodies and brought them to mouths. Mouths chomped and made for plenty of mess dropping onto the plates. Some of the little men on the trays tried to weakly crawl away as their comrades were consumed. Yet their movement only drew attention to themselves as big biker hands wrapped around them and brought them to mouths dripping red. That, and the eyes of the dark bikers began to take on a dark red glow.
The head waiter took a step back and watched as the little doll-sized men were being viciously consumed. He had a look of sympathy on his face as those blood-workers writhed in pain as they were mutilated: before being swallowed by the dark bikers' mouths. In serving the Others, the blood workers were only doing what they were created to do. Now they suffered for it. And more still would suffer.
Over at the small stage of this café, the velvet curtains parted: revealing the green-eyed young girl that Selena had met before: a girl that Selena now resembled as a twin. This time she was dressed in an emerald-colored silk gown that went to her knees and left her arms bare: belted around her slim waist with a sash of gold-embroidered cloth. Her long pale-blonde hair fluttered behind her as she hopped down from the stage and quickly strode over to the table, her bare feet making almost no sound as she moved.
She slowed in coming closer, clasping her hands and walking with head bowed. She stopped nine steps from the table: where she spoke with sadness in her voice. "I succor thy audience," she asked. Even with her head bowed and her hair curtaining her face, she noticed that one of the dark bikers abruptly stopped his rampaging gobbling of the little men. It was the dark biker of the scythe, now sitting stock-still…and listening to the strange girl. "'Tis the matter of kinfolk. Verily, she is dear to me. I beg ye not to abduct or bring harm to her. Let me bear her away."
"That one is mottled with the crimson" growled the dark biker, bits of ichor from the madly consumed meal dripping from his lips. "If she is contaminated, she will be in our way. We destroy anything in our way, that stands against us, that stands in the path of the inevitable. We are inevitable. No one shall take part in our purpose before the circle is complete."
Oh, she certainly did not want to hear that: such bad news! At least the dark biker of the scythe was talking to her. If she could talk to him, then there was still hope. She spoke again. "If thy purpose be true, thy purpose to preserve that which must be, then surely thy will must include the welfare of those who can be redeemed. Contamination can be purged."
"Her contamination is becoming too strong," insisted the dark biker of the scythe. "We have tasted the truth of the town. It must be undone. Nothing in the world will stop us"
Then she knew the solution. It was simple: Selena would not be destroyed if she stayed out of the path of the dark bikers. There was no guarantee that Selena hadn't been converted to the ways of those who came from that Other world: the world of the one called "God." But if Selena was far too contaminated, then she was no longer truly a Sister. She would have to be counted among those lost to the darkness and madness that was spreading one world at a time, such darkness and madness invited in by pride and greed in the case of Samuel Longhorn.
…
3.
…
The sky above was blanked out with black, and the night-darkened air was dusted with some fog. Twin florescent-blue headlights cut through the airborne thickness as this patrol car ambled along one of the downtown avenues: passing by streetlamp-illuminated streets with storefront businesses. Both of the janitors in this car were looking around as this car motored slowly along. There was also the slow and occasional click-click-click sound of the dashboard-mounted Geiger counter: the counter's dial illuminated with a little incandescent bulb-inside its case. Click-click… This lack of nightly fog in this part of town was disturbing. It was more troubling as it was a show of exactly what happened when one of those important engine-machines was wrecked.
Click-click… Bz-z-zt! The car radio buzzed to life, sounding louder than the Geiger counter that steadily clicked with sounds of mid-level radiation. "Car Forty-Two, this is the Weather Tower. Report car forty-two. Car Forty-Two, report." Radio communication was even easier in this part of town: another sign of this part of town reverting. If that engine-thing from the Deniers was still intact, radio communication would have been a bit more difficult. "We need a local count of the blessings, over…"
After glancing at the self-illuminated Geiger counter, the janitor in the shotgun-seat picked up the radio-handset. He said into it, "Weather Tower, this is Car Forty-Two. The blessing count is still below thirty percent of the threshold. Humidity is also low. Animal activity is the same, over." Indeed, everything was going just as wrong as it had been before.
"Car Forty-Two, this is the Weather Tower," responded the voice from the radio speaker. The voice sounded a bit more fuzzed now. "Continue your patrol. An APB for the four strangers remains in effect. Listen for the sound of small earthquakes or for miscellaneous radio interference, over." The janitor in the driver's seat smirked, wondering what the Hell was meant by miscellaneous radio interference.
"Weather Tower, we copy that. We will be on the lookout for the four troublemakers." Click-click-click… So went the Geiger counter, still ticking at a steady pace. "The blessings count is still holding steady. We will continue our patrol. Are there any other alerts, over?" He went quiet, waiting for a reply.
Bzzt! "Car Forty-Two, also be potentially aware of self-illuminated unidentified aircraft. The dark strangers are believed to work in conjunction with unlicensed air transportation. This has not been confirmed. Again, be on the lookout for additional suspicious activity, over," Bzzt!
"Weather Tower, this is Car Forty-Two," responded the janitor in the shotgun seat. "We copy that. Over and out." That said, he leaned forward to set the radio handset back on its small hook next to the console. "You've heard it. Now we've got more stuff to look out and listen for. Go looking for trouble, and it's bound to find us." He looked out the side-window on his side of the car.
Swish! "What the…?" exclaimed the janitor in the driver's seat, gripping the steering wheel. "Did you feel that? It's like a gust of wind just slammed right into us! Nearly made me lose control of the car." Bzzt! A blade by the bed, a phone in my hand… "What was that! Something just happen to the radio?"
"What do you mean?" asked the janitor in the shotgun seat. "That burst of static? That was probably…" What should I do-o-o… Baby? Yes, he heard it: the sound of a woman singing on the same frequency this patrol car's radio was using. He leaned forward, closer to the dashboard: his left ear close to the speaker. He could just barely hear the singing, along with background instrumentals. It was such a catchy, beautiful song: making him press his ear against the dashboard speaker. "I can…hear her!"
"Hear what? There aren't supposed to be any radio station broadcasts coming into this town! You know how it is! All I hear is just you and the sound of the radio going nuts as usual. Probably because we're in a thicker patch of the fog," responded the janitor driving this car. "Unless…"
"It's gone now," said the janitor in the shotgun seat, pressing his ear closer still to the radio. "Damn, now there's just this stupid squealing static. Hey, let's turn around. Maybe we can get back to the place where we could get better reception of the song again? She was singing about something important. If I could hear her song a little better…"
"Are you turning blue on me, buddy?" responded the janitor in the driver's seat. "Just calm down. I didn't hear anything on the radio other than that interference. Even then, it just sounded like the usual noise. It only sounds like singing if you think it does. It's all in your head, hear me? A lot of things are, especially nowadays." He paused as he slowed this car down.
A turn of the wheel and a press of the brake pedal, and he was able to park this vehicle on the right side of the road. The florescent-blue headlights continued to cut through the fog and illuminated the various beasts up ahead. "Look at that, some animals! Now they are real, no imagination needed to see those things. Just as real as you and me…"
Click-click-click-click…! The Geiger counter's activity was increasing in conjunction with the presence of the animals up ahead: which was normal. "What d'you think they're doing over there? Maybe they're here to fix that big engine-thing? Smart things, those animals. It's probably because they're so blessed. Just listen to the counter sing!"
Indeed, the Geiger counter was now clicking like mad: its dial waving wildly around and primarily swinging to the right. Radiation levels outside the car were fluctuating wildly: but staying high. If an analog servomechanism had not automatically turned off the car's two-way radio, its transistors would have been overloaded by the radioactivity. It was because of the animals.
The group of animals began to move beyond the range of the car's florescent headlamps: instead illuminated by the streetlight over there. They were doing something over there with each other as they gathered in the middle of the street. Some of them ambled over on six legs, while other dog-sized things slithered along the ground. There were some purple-furred ape-things in the group as well: hobbling along on their rear legs. Their electromechanical face-masks glinting in the streetlamp over there. It was such a beautiful, blessed sight.
Another blast of air buffeted this car, and there was a sound like that of an oncoming earthquake: low and r-r-r-r-rumbling… They zoomed by so fast along the night-darkened street, riding as a close-knit group, that they seemed to be one entity: their exhaust pipes spouting incandescent flames as they passed. They rocketed straight for the group of animals that had congregated at the far end of the street. There was a sound of impact, a deep boom that shook the street, and the animals were tossed up like life-sized ragdolls of meat. Indeed, the dark bikers had arrived on the scene.
When the last of the animals fell to the sidewalks and the street, they were all very still. Some of them had been exploded, parts of them all over the darkened street . Even those not outright destroyed were still dead: lying on their sides or backs, not moving. They were killed without having been touched, dark and red-tinged ichor oozing from various orifices in their bodies. Just one pass, and over a dozen animals were killed. Just like that.
"Sucks to that assmar!" yelled the janitor in the driver's seat. He reached for a thick knob on the dashboard next to the radio. This caused the beige cylindrical resonators atop the patrol car to vibrate with a deep humming sound, and a red light began to glow with a blood-colored glare. He then put the car's transmission in a low gear and stomped the accelerator-pedal. A spinning squeal of tires, and this car was soon getting up to a high speed. A glance in the rear-view mirror would have revealed the sudden appearance of a newly formed herd of animals. Galloping, running, bouncing and bounding, they were all answering the call of resonators. The animals would be more than glad to chase whoever the janitors were after. Hell, they seemed enthusiastic to just be in the process of chasing something tonight!
A sque-e-eal of tires, and this car was off! "There they go!" yelled the janitor in the passenger seat. He slapped the dashboard as this patrol car's engine roared with speed. There was no need to look at the speedometer to know how fast this car was speeding along the downtown avenue; they were going at least ten miles per hour over the speed of damned-fast. "Hot damn, they're riding scared!" He glanced in the rear-view mirror, seeing that motley herd of galloping, running, sliding things following their lead. "Yeah, and look at that! Even the animals are with us on this one! We'll teach those out-of-town bastards to interfere with our progress!"
The janitor in the driver's seat was clutching the steering wheel as he leaned forward: his foot firmly on the gas pedal. This street curved a little, and so there was a sque-e-eal of tires as this vehicle navigated the arc. They would be halfway out of the downtown district in just minutes at this speed: chasing those God-damned daredevils on motorcycles. If they went straight along this particular avenue and continued out of the downtown area, they would be headed for a six-mile stretch of road that cut through the forest at the south-western end of town. The forest had plenty of animals: those wonderful creatures more than willing to put a stop to the shenanigans of these motorcycle maniacs. Yeah, you daredevils, thought the janitor in the driver's seat. Just keep going the way you're going. Just keep going. He grinned a dark grin.
So intent were the janitors in catching up to the four bikers that they failed to notice peculiarities in the way the bikers were riding: odd little things otherwise noticeable to someone more calm and disconnected from the situation. They would have noticed that, whenever they went fast round a curve, the bikers' tires did not squeal even once. Nor did the bikers even lean their bikes into the turns as much as they should have. Then there were the streetlamps, which flickered as they passed. They did not look back once in speeding along ahead of the janitors in their patrol car and the massive horde of animals they had following.
Then the dark bikers vanished into the darkness ahead. "What the…" Kablam! The janitor in the driver's seat only got out the first two words before something suddenly happened, preventing him from making the third word to complete the exclamation. That third word to come out of his surprised mouth would have been classified as an obscenity, one that euphemistically referred to an act involved in human reproduction. In more recent history, the verb and the act had lost its exclusively reproductive purposes and had become a form of frenzied recreation: especially popular among unmarried segments of the population. Also, that third word would have been a euphemism for the destruction, confusion and utter defeat of an individual or a group. It is for that reason that such a verb is exclaimed upon realization that one has come to find one's status to have befallen severe negativity: as a result of another individual or group. Yes, the third word that was supposed to have come out of the janitor's mouth was lost and silenced because of what had suddenly happened now.
Specifically, the burning bus was what happened to this patrol car. It had driven out from an intersection and stopped squarely in the middle of this street : slowing to a stop on its drooping, melting tires. Of course, since the janitors' patrol car was going in excess of a ridiculous speed in chasing the dark strangers on motorcycles, they had no room at all to stop or even time to slam on the brakes. So the janitors' patrol car slammed full-speed into the side of the long-gigantic burning vehicle: making for a blast of noise that sounded like the end of the world. Of course the patrol car was destroyed. And, of course, the fiery destruction was so complete that the janitors' bodies would not be found. Yet the burning bus itself did not so much as shake from the impact. It simply seemed to absorb the damned fast patrol car.
As for the animals that were galloping and bounding and sliding and such, they had legs, hooves, bellies and even wings to slow themselves down. Some of them ran head-first into the flames of the burning metal or stumbled into the wreckage of the wrecked patrol car: though the exteriors of their bodies had been burned to ash by the intensity of the radiation coming from the burning bus. There was no getting close to that.
"Ach, ach!" exclaimed some of the animals. "Arwhoo!" The other animals also began making sounds, grunting and squealing, stomping and shouting. They slapped the ground with deformed hands or clomped their hooves as some of their number tried to foolishly approach the burning bus. A few of them went too close: their bodies suddenly burnt to the bone where they stood. There was an invisible threshold at which the intense radiation was just too damned much and would instantly kill. But there was no getting to the burning bus, not at all. All the animals could do was gnash their teeth or hit the ground, making noises. They eventually went away: yet not before a few more of them made dumb rushes towards the burning bus: becoming charred statues of their former selves in the process.
…
The burning bus remained there for some moments more, great flames still waving from its blasted windows as its inside was illuminated with bright fire. Wind blew across and caused the flames to wave to a side. Though the burning bus burned with bright intensity and crackling noise, it produced no smoke. No cloudy columns of gray cloudiness went up to the night sky. There was just the brightness and the intense warmth, light and heat…
There was a squeal of metal-on-metal as the door on the side of the bus slow-w-w-ly opened. Some things in the fire began to move, several figures wading through the thick flames within the bus. Amidst the crackling sound of the flames and the intense brightness, figures in there began to move towards the front and step out of the open side-door: human-shaped figures in large silvery suits out of the bus and standing in the night-darkened street. They walked as if they were unused to the gravity or had not walked in a very long time. One of them had a shiny long sack.
They came around to the side of the bus where the wrecked patrol car was. Pausing, they slowly leaned to the sides: sometimes slowly leaning their reflective helmets close to the wreckage itself. The one with the long sack reached into the burning wreckage, gabbed something, put it in the shiny bag. He repeated the process, having two things in the long shiny sack. He tied it off and began to carry it back around to the other side of the burning bus: small shapes in the sack beginning to squirm and scream with loud squealing sounds. The other two figures followed, walking that ponderous way they did.
…
4
…
Such beautiful word-music, thought Selena as she closed the book of poetry. So many of the books on the bedroom bookshelves were religious texts, and she was lucky to have seen this one: decidedly non-religious poetry. It was a relief to find something that did not speak so extensively of blessing and such. Yes, she was blessed. And all was said to be going according to God's plan. She knew her religion and did not needed to be reminded of it time again and again, then again some more.
After several hours of reading at her little desk, this pale-haired girl in black dress stood up and walked towards the window. A nearby wooden stool floated a bit up off of the carpet: floating behind her. And when she came to the large window itself, she made the stool come to rest on the floor. She was becoming more skilled and at ease with her expanded abilities; now she did not even have to look at nearby objects to have them float or move.
She sat down atop the stool and adjusted her skirt. This high-necked black dress of hers was made of something not quite cotton, even with black cuffs and collar. At least it felt more comfortable than the red gown she was dressed in after coming from the hospital, a flimsy gown that felt more like ceremonial dressing than clothing. It would have been nice to have something to wear on her feet, though. All of her clothes and anything else she had acquired was gone due to her latest transition: no car, no house, and certainly none of her money. As the saying went, You can't take it with you.
As for the hospital slippers Miss Gauche had taken them as well, insisting that they were not needed. But Selena could read another reason for Miss Gauche taking the footwear; she did not want Selena running away any time soon. Selena could do things with her mind: have objects hurled or things destroyed by just thinking about it. Yet protecting her own two little feet from cuts and injuries: likely to occur while running through forests or on country roads: was beyond her abilities. And since the land was extensively contaminated now, any cuts or wounds would certainly be a great deal worse elsewhere.
Out there was freedom, beyond the window: a locked window. But there was no way around this. Selena certainly couldn't float; she wasn't an angel or a ghost. Miss Gauche may address her as if she was an angel, speaking to her as if she was an angel yet treating her like a child-prisoner. Well, she was a child again, physically at least. Yet she retained her mind: an adult's sensibilities and more. What business was this in trapping her within this room: with those damned gold chains over the door as well?
This was entrapment, being caged. It would be so nice to just to drift out the window and float away… It was times like this that she wished she could. She was trapped in this dim mansion bedroom on the second floor: trapped again. Gray-toned light glowed through the window from outside, through a thickly clouded sky. This was the window, because there was just this one window for her to look through. Miss Gauche had put Selena in this bedroom again: this exquisitely furnished prison. Out there and across the grounds was the fog-misted forest-land. Mr. Longhorn possessed a great deal of land, his territory. Yet it was Miss Gauche who oversaw the tending of the grounds and the actions of the servants. Right now, the tall red-haired woman in black dress was overseeing the labor of big men-things in burgundy-colored jumpsuits, with black sacks tied and worn over their heads. Like the maid-things, they were blessed as well.
Wo-o-ogh…! A chorus of vaguely human voices moaned in her head."Ah!" she exclaimed as a…thick…red haze of pain slammed into her head. She fell off of the wooden stool and to the bedroom carpeting: where she curled herself and clutched her head: lengths of her long moon-silk hair sprawled about head and shoulders like the wingspan of a bird. In her own head… In her own head, she could h-h-hear the anger of Deniers growling within her mind. They were communicating to her.
Though miles away, their thoughts were as clear and obvious as nuclear-white heat in a desert. They were in the fogged forest-land close to the border: their human-looking faces looking at a red-hot engine. The Deniers were damned angry, growlingly angry, about what was interfering with their Great Works of Progress in this world. Something from this world resisted the Progress. Such was blasphemy! Satyagraha!
Eklric, oodle-drip! "Be gone from my mind!" she wailed before her mouth tightened in agony: her lips stretched back and eyes clenched shut. "Be gone one and all! Be gone, be gone, be…gone! Ah-h-h…" Having expelled the air from her lungs, her body was then gripped by seizures, a mad spasm-driven tantrum: hitting the floor with fast feet and twitching hands balled into little fists. As the pain continually filled her head, her movements were becoming involuntary. The Deniers' heads were beginning to vibrate. Wo-o-ogh…! The pain was everything.!
…
Selena's mind was so consumed with the red pain in her head that she did not notice the gold chains over the door being retracted through slots in the wall. The door opened, and in walked Miss Gauche: accompanied by five of the maid-things with red veils over their faces. Selena managed to control her bodily spasms just long enough to glance at one of the maid-things reaching for her. There was a growl in the air… Wham! One of the maid-things was hurled against a far wall of the bedroom by something unseen, sinking to the floor. The veil over its face was partially lifted and revealed darkened lumps and bony growths beneath. One of the other maid-things hesitated after having seen this display of blessed power.
"Seize her while she is distracted!" declared Miss Gauche, the sound of clinking beneath clothes as she pointed. Of course, Miss Gauche herself was physically protected she could not be touched by Selena's influences. The maid-things wagged their heads and staggered over to the girl writhing and twisting on the floor. One of them quickly bent over to grab Selena's ankles and began to drag her over towards the bed. It was only able to drag Selena close to the bed but not onto the bed itself. The chains were made of brass…
"Allow me to handle the child now. You know full well that you cannot approach the bed-restraints!" snapped the tall woman. There was the sound of hissing and chattering beneath the maid-thing's red veil as it staggered back. Miss Gauche stepped forward and bodily lifted the girl in seizures
She then lowering the girl onto the bed. "Do hold still, you wayward soul!" she shouted as she put her right hand firmly on the girl's tensed abdomen. She then used her free hand to flick aside lengths of Selena's hair: as so she could put a velvet-lined cuff around the girl's now-exposed neck. This caused the girl's seizure to slow into a mere agonized writhing. It was then much easier to fasten the other velvet-lined cuff: two of them secured Selena's bare ankles, the other two around wrists. With Selena fully restrained, Miss Gauche raised her hands upward and closed her eyes…
A very large blotch appeared in the left-side wall. The blotch in the wall darkened and moistened. Lumps began to stretch and swell, gigantic blisters. Several of the liquid-filled oily blisters swelled and popped, then more of them did so: leaving gaping holes of darkness in the wall that belched puffs of red smoke. Something swayed in that smoke.
It staggered out, a being that resembling a man in a stained lab-coat. Except the face of the doctor-thing looked as if it had been made of melting wax, parts of the forehead drooping down to the eyelids and cheeks, with parts of the cheeks also flopping downward. Worse yet were the two tubular objects in its hands: rust-covered hypodermic syringes with needles thick as pencils and dripping gray fluids from the tips. Wherever drops of liquid splashed to the carpeted floor, it made hissing sounds and ate into the carpet itself. The doctor-thing staggered towards the bed: gripping those long sharp syringes.
Even through her pain, Selena was vaguely aware of the terrible thing staggering towards this bed. She wanted to get away, get away, get a-a-away! Except that there was no escape as the doctor-thing raised one of the gigantic syringes and brought it slamming down towards her abdomen. She couldn't even scream.
It pierced her abdomen and went deep into her body. It felt like liquid fire, fire on top of pain as the rusty needle punctured skin and muscle, going into her body. When that one was emptied, the doctor-thing yanked it out, then thrust the other needle into the same wound. The fiery burning liquid spread even more pain from her abdomen and outward: both spreading along her legs and up her chest and shoulders: coming to her head and send her burningly into unconsciousness. As her eyes closed and everything faded into mottled darkness, she was somewhat aware of the doctor-thing staggered back towards the wall.
"There!" expressed Miss Gauche, "Now we shall see the results of physical discipline!" She stepped back to look at the handiwork. The girl was now fully restrained by the five cuffs attached to brassy chains, and there was a coin-sized ragged hole in the thin black dress: over the abdomen. The patch of exposed skin was mottled with a bruise, surrounding a finger-thick puncture-wound that leaked clear reddish fluid. An especially brutal measure, but it worked: The girl's rowdiness had been silenced.
Some rowdiness was to be expected as the girl grew rapidly in her power. Yet she would have to learn discipline to control that power if it was to be of any use on the Day. Discipline was of very high priority to Miss Gauche: especially that of religious discipline. It was her specialty. And it was for that reason that Mr. Longhorn had requested her services. Discipline was necessary now more than ever as the day was so very close.
…
The florescent yellow-tinged light of dawn shone through the café windows. Except, the beauty of the morning light was lost and distorted through the thick fogs outside: such fogs that remained from last night. And the windows were thickened with dark reddish grime and grit: windows against which were placed several tables. Even by the dim and sickened sunlight, one could see that the tables were just as filthy: grease and dried blood atop each. The painted wooden mannequins did not seem to mind, however. They continued to sit at the tables, built and dressed to resemble people. There was a sudden gust of wind outside, and one of the mannequins disappeared.
There was a slow and tortured sque-e-eeal-l-l of rusty metal hinges as the green-eyed girl stepped out the back-kitchen of this darkened café: morning-colored light shining through the large picture-windows. She was dressed in a somewhat playful outfit green shorts and a sleeveless shirt: blue shoes on her feet. The shoes made hard gritty sounds as she stepped, strands of her moon-pale hair fluttering. This further revealed the dark and grotesque bruise around her neck, which matched the bruises around her wrists and ankles. She could feel her dear Sister's pain as if it was her own.
Yet the feeling of pain was not as strong as it should have been. The connection between herself and Selena was being weakened due to contamination. And if she was far too contaminated, then the four riders would certainly be justified in destroying Selena… The girl looked over at the café door, making unseen hands open to the fog-ridden street outside…
…
Was it a dream? Consciousness came too slowly and painfully…at first. Her eyes open, Selena saw the ornate wood-paneled ceiling: lit by the low glow of an incandescent lamp. She was now fully aware of the velvet-lined band of metal around her neck: aching with dull warmth and pain. She could also feel the two cuffs around her ankles and those holding her wrists. There was no need to look, able to feel and sense the strength and bonding power of the cuffs. These cuffs… They were doing more than merely holding her body to this bed: They also restrained her abilities: causing her a headache. Yet she could still sense someone else nearby. "Why have you done this?" she asked aloud, trying to turn her head. She tentatively tried using her mind-touch to remove the one around her neck… "Uh!" she gasped. Trying to do that only made the cuff around her neck become hot. It also worsened her slight headache. Like the gold chains that had been at her door, these were resistant to her efforts. "Why am I unable to remove these bonds? Why do such metals affect me so?" she asked aloud. "It is because you continue to contaminate me, is that not correct?"
"Why do you insist upon calling it contamination?" asked Miss Gauche. The woman was seated at the head of the bed: her back to the incandescent lamp illuminating this bedroom room. It was the only light here now since the other lights were out. Even the large picture-window across the way was darkened: sheer darkness beyond the glass. The wind was either stilled or could not be heard, making it quiet enough for Selena to hear the ghostly faint sounds of distantly thrumming machinery. "You are becoming blessed, child. Except the blessing is within, already seeded within your body. Why not allow it to spread?"
"I shall not!" she yelled, and the incandescent light-bulb of the lamp flickered: sounds of electricity buzzing. Small bedroom furniture began to move. Some books on the bookshelf began to pull out. The cuff around her neck began to warm up as if in prelude to more heat: a sort of warning for her not to try what she was going to do. She didn't care, beginning to intensify her thoughts! "I would much prefer to… Uh?" Whatever she was going to say was cut off when the band tightened enough to squeeze her throat closed, and all of the miscellaneous activity around the room stopped. Something unseen above the bed made a snarling sound.
Miss Gauche stood up: her full height seeming even taller as her shadow spread out across the rest of the bedroom floor and against the far wall with the window. "Child, why do you resist the blessing?" Selena could only respond with gagging and wheezing sounds as the heated cuff continued to squeeze her neck, also squeezing her ankles and wrists. "As the blessing grows within your body, your mind will only become stronger." She turned to point to Selena. "Yet it will take discipline to control that which you are gaining. Your powers are needed: your powers controlled under the stern guidance of myself and the watchful eye of Samuel Longhorn. Note how your uncontrolled emotions are only causing you pain and suffering! Disciplinewill guide your path, be it to further blessing…or contamination."
Realization made Selena's green eyes go wide with surprise: making them seem even larger. Miss Gauche is correct, she thought. It was the contamination that was causing her to lose control of herselfShe relaxed, allowing herself to become calm. This caused the miscellaneous activity in the room to stop happening: the swaying furniture, the moving books in the bookshelves, the slight breezes. The brass bonds also relented: becoming cool and not as tight again. Letting her emotions go out-flung and free could only mean that she was becoming contaminated: succumbing to the intents of what was being done to her. "I accept your statement, Miss Gauche," said Selena.
"Excellent!" responded the tall woman. "You will yet prove yourself worthy of being a princess to Mr. Longhorn's kingdom-to-be. He will be pleased to know of this. To show my faith in you, I shall release you from the bonds." She then moved over to the bed and bent over Selena: sounds of golden jewelry still clinking under clothes. The wrist-cuffs were first undone. Moving to the left, the woman unlatched the ones on the ankles. Looking into Selena's eyes, she then undid the cuff around the neck.
Only when Miss Gauche stepped back and away did Selena slowly sit up. She moved over to the edge of the bed and sat with knees together. It took a quick toss of her head and a few strokes of her fingers before the silken lengths of her hair was neat again. Her ankles, wrists and neck still ached: especially her neck: but the pain was fading quickly. Selena resisted the temptation to rub what were undoubtedly bruises and instead put her hands in her lap. She looked up when Miss Gauche began to move towards the door.
"As faithful as I am," began the tall woman as she stood by the door, "I cannot shrug off my responsibility of being your disciplinarian. It is for the good of everyone involved. I trust that you understand." She then stepped out, closing the bedroom door and locking it. At least this time, the golden chains were not set back into place: leaving the locking mechanism of the gold doorknob left to imprison the girl.