This opening of this chapter was written in collaboration with Q1, author of the now completed 'Story's End' and Moroi belongs to her in all her insane glory. Go read it as it's a great piece of work.
Chapter 28: Sloth
"Grace" The name died on the man's lips as the door clicked too behind him, sealing the room in that o so familiar, velvety darkness that held all of the hospital rooms he'd checked so far captive. It looked like this was going to be yet another dead-end. His finger quickly scurried towards the torch suspended from his shirt
'What was that?' The eager digit paused, hanging over the switch as Jobe strained his ears in the darkness.
The noise came again, the sound of someone taking a low, raggedy breath of the room's stale air.
Something seemed to freeze in Jobe chest with the coming of the revelation that he was far from alone. He paused, rabidly debating weather or not to turn on the flash light if only to find himself eye to eye with one of Silent Hill's less passive inhabitants.
He took a breath, rested his clammy hand on the smooth handle of the shotgun and flicked the switch…
There was no one before him. In fact, apart from a covered gurney, he appeared to be the only inhabitant of the grimy room.
Jobe turned to leave, all to eager to dismiss the breathing as some figment of his imagination but stopped.
The cover on the empty gurney twitched, it's stained surface creasing ever so slightly but it was enough to make Jobe stop in his tracks. Slowly, he raised the twin barrels of the shotgun till the metallic cylinders were level with the trolley and watched the blanket.
He must have been stood like that for two minuets, listening to the drumming of his heart before there was another ripple of material.
Jobe could taste the salt on his lips as he wet them. Reluctantly, he let a hand fall away from the gun and reached for the blanket.
He tore is off, quickly pointing the gun at the space between the gurney and the floor
Only to find him self-staring down the sleek, black barrel of a handgun.
"Leave me ALONE!"
Jobe finally managed to look past the firearm's head and into the narrow, yellow eyes of the owner. The girl' thin lip twitched as she jerked the gun at him viciously.
"Get away from me or I I'll..."
Jobe stepped back, whatching with fearful fascination as the girl squirmed out from beneath the gurney. The starchy white uniform of a hospital inmate clung to her thin, almost scrawny body.
She jumped to her feet, keeping the gun trained on Jobe as if her life depended on it. If it hadn't been for her apparent agility, Jobe would have found it hard to believe the oriental girl wasn't on the brink of death. Now she stood there before him in the glaring arc of light, the fresh splatters of gore that dotted her uniform crimson stood out painfully, suggesting she too had been more than exposed to the towns dark side. Her slender shoulder heaved as she breather rapidly, her eyes flitting over every inch of Jobe with a speedy lunacy but the gun never left its target.
The man noted how unnaturally big it looked it her hands. She shook the messy locks of un-kept dark hair from her eyes as she regarded him, ignoring the clump of what may have once belonged to one of the hospital's warped staff.
"Who are you?" She looked sideways at him and it was plain as day the girl trusted him about as far as she could throw him.
"I'm just looking"
She shook her head, and groaned sharply, reinforcing the fact that it was she pointing a gun at him.
"Nnnnnn No. Who are you?"
Jobe warily watched the wavering gun as he spoke; her feet had begun tapping an impossibly timed song against the floor like an insane metronome. Jobe found himself wondering just what kind of hospital this was…
"Please, I'm not going to hurt you…just put the gun down."
"That's a funny name," The girl cut in, a twitchy smile forming on her face. "Kinda long though…"
'And I though Virgil was one flight over the cuckoo's nest…'"My name's Jobe…" The man offered dryly, hoping it would be enough to appease this odd young girl. Surly, she slowly lowered the gun. The tapping cut off abruptly and her feet lay still on the greasy floor.
"Oh, that's a bit easier to remember. Ok, Jobe, why are you here?" A slightly cheery tone crept into her voice, some of the tension seemed to leave her stretched body, as if Jobe had been assessed and dismissed as a serious threat.
"My friend an I, we…ran into some trouble." Jobe nodded his head towards the crude bandage wrapped around his leg. Perhaps it would be for the best if he skipped the exact details for now, even he didn't know what they were…
"Where is your friend now?" The girl asked innocently, her honey eyes scanning the room. "They aren't here now, are they?"
"No, she's not. I lost her…" Jobe's voice trailed off. The girl looked up at him with concern.
"Are you ok?"
Moroi barely had time to move out of the way before the dark-skinned man collapsed on top of her like a bag of sand.
At that precise moment the woman, know as Grace, slumped against the wall, taking great ragged breaths.
She would be lying if she claimed to have a clue where she was. After all, running down practically identical hallways as fast as your legs could carry had a tendency to get you lost.
'Yeah? Well you try staying in one spot when there's a homicidal maniac after you…'
Grace stood upright, trying to ignore the stitch in her side.
God, did she need a cigarette. And Jobe…why did he have to insist on holding onto that shotgun? She would have felt a lot safer if that crazy zealot came after her when pointing one of those at his head...
Pat pat pat patGrace's head shot up as the sound of foot steps came echoing down the hall.
Pat pat pat patThey were to fast to be Jobe with his newly acquired limp…that only left one person.
"Shit" She hissed quietly. Slowly, her hand groped the nearest door handle. It clicked open effortlessly. With a grin of success, Grace looked at the door and the smile instantly fell from her face.
Across the wooded panel, one word had been scrawled across it.
SLOTHHer eyes barely had time to register the word before the door flew open and the darkness was let lose on the unsuspecting woman.
She didn't even have time to scream...
With a groan, Jobe slowly came too. His head felt as though someone had run a steamroller over it…
He opened his eyes, only to find a pair of piercing amber orbs staring back at him intensely, surrounded by a face masked with dried red streaks.
"Are you ok?" The girl stared at him with a degree of concern as she perched lightly on Jobe's chest. The man blinked, trying to re-arrange the jumbled mass of thoughts slopping around the inside of his head.
"No."
Then it hit home with god-awful clarity.
He'd seen the whole morbid scene, Grace had opened the door and…
Sloth; the word echoed in his mind bitterly. Wherever Grace was, she was in dire need of help and soon.
The skinny inmate leapt from the man's chest as he quickly got to his feet.
"What's wrong?" She cocked her head, watching as he made his way briskly to the door.
"I was just feeling light-headed, that's all." Jobe yanked the door open, ignoring the mind-splintering yelp as it dragged over the floor.
"You're worse than that old Mr. Kaprow in M3…He's always asleep."
Jobe stopped, hanging onto the door.
"Room M3?" He echoed.
Moroi's eye's shot wide open.
"Oh, but I wouldn't go there. Mr. Kaprow hates being disturbed"
For all the genuine fear in the small girl's voice, her advice fell on deaf ears. Even before she'd finished the sentence, the man had gone, slipping effortlessly into the shadows of the hallway.
Alone, in the dark, Moroi sighed.
"Come on!" The man's voice echoed up the empty hallway, rebounding off the dark walls. Jobe stumbled along, trying to put a mental block against the red-hot messages flitting between his throbbing leg and brain. Yet no matter what technique he employed, it still seeped through and totally absorbed everything like a heavy red mist.
However, there was one thing that managed to shine through the fog of pain:
'Grace'The image of her final moment before whatever it was that lurked in M3 snuffed her out like a candle replayed and Jobe found he unconsciously walking that little faster. He'd crawl to that room on his stomach if he had to…
Out of the corner of his eye, Jobe registered the number printed on one of the rusting doors in fading print, almost chipped out of existence.
M11
Jobe began to lurch painfully down the hallway, leaning on the shotgun as if it were some obscure walking stick
…M7…
He felt the crust of sweat on his forehead loosen as his skin began to ooze.
…M5…
Jobe reassured him it was only the gross physical exhurtion that was making his flesh drip and his heart jump to a tap-dance beat as if pure adrenalin had been pumped into it.
…M4…
It was a bear faced lie.
Jobe stopped outside the door that supposedly held a 'Mr. Kaprow' within. He was sure something far worse lay inside; the man would quite happily bet his life on it. Morbidly, Jobe reached into the pocket of his shirt, searching for something he could load the shotgun with and plug into the beast that had snatched up his newfound friend.
He withdrew his empty hand having found nothing save dust and grit, his jaw set awkwardly hard. It had never before occurred to him just how fast he'd been chomping through his precious reserves of rare and now extinct ammo.
"Well shit, I'm going to have to do this the old fashioned way…" Jobe laid the un-fertile shotgun down, propping it against the wall before pulling the axe from his belt.
Venting all the frustration, fear and pain that he'd suffered and endured, Jobe let lose a scream and threw himself through the door.
Effortlessly, the darkness swallowed him.
"Bastard!"
The girl we have come to know as Virgil stumbled back, hitting into the hospital gurney that polluted the hallway with its off-metal sheen. The girl grabbed her arm, ignoring the shooting pain that ravenously gnawed on it.
The scalpel that had inflicted the wound glistened wickedly in its owner's malformed hand, its tip stained with crimson. Wait, in its hand? It was the hand, or at least could be as the flaky skin around it had melded itself to the medical instrument like molten metal.
Virgil waited for the 'doctor' to lung at her again, ducking to the side as its arm, clad in the sleeve of its filffy lab-coat, flew past, the knife stabbing nothing but empty air. Virgil pulled the kantana up and it effortlessly plunged into the out stretched arm.
There was a dry thud as the dismembered limb hit the tiled floor, causing a small, cracked smile to cross her face as she heard the repressed scream that rattled the good doctor's throat. She took one last look at the doctor's mouthless face before bringing her beloved sword up, deep down enjoying the way the metal blade reflected in the sub-human's wide, black eyes before thrusting the kantana forward. There was a soft crunch, smothered by the layers of tainted skin as the sword rammed its way through the doctor's thin flesh, shattering bone and piercing soft brain tissue before re-miring victoriously from the back of its head in a spurt of vibrant gore. With a twitch of both arms, the sword was wrenched upwards by its owner and cleanly cut its way out of the bony hollow.
For a moment, the doctor stood. With in a single breath, its legs crumpled beneath it as if the very bones had been ripped out and it collapsed lifelessly on the floor.
Virgil stood, panting but unable to stop the twisted smile from yanking her lips as she admired her handiwork, her eyes gorging themselves on even the smallest detail as the milky orbs following the rich burgundy rivers that flowed between the tiles.
'Art…'
The simple thought was severed by an oddly human roar and suddenly, Virgil remembered why she'd come here.
Jobe stumbled to a halt, blinking violently as he tried to force his eyes to come accustom with the surprisingly deep darkness that filled the room like the still, ink-black water at the bottom of a well. Slowly, like a picture coming into development, the details of the room began to slowly reveal their secrets to him.
The minute ward was bare and Spartan. Jobe bit his lip out of raw frustration, born from the fact that the girl's lead had been as empty as this room, well it had been a bit of a wild assumption, hadn't it? With a disgruntled sigh, he turned to leave.
And that was when he saw the beds.
Each and every one of them had been piled up against the wall, leaning against it in some manic structure that managed to stretch around the perimeter of the room. Blankets, pillows, drips, nothing had been spared in the construction of this random inner wall.
Jobe was beginning to suspect he'd got the right room after all…
"Grace?" He let out a horse bark of a whisper as he limped as quietly as he could, glancing with flitting eyes from bed to bed, his fingers dancing on the axe's hilt as he moved about the structure.
"Murrgh?"
Jobe froze, his feet squeaking against the grimy floor as he strained his ears, debating whether or not he'd actually heard the plaintive mew, and all the while still scanning the pitch-black room. His eyes finally found what they were so desperately seeking.
"Grace!"
There she was, lying on of the beds that lay vertically against the wall, and he felt a chill when he saw how much her position looked like that of Christ during his last moments. For someone with a wounded leg, Jobe sure did manage to cover the distance between the two in a remarkably short time. At first, he couldn't work out how the seemingly lifeless body was managing to stay up against the unclean, stained matters until his eye caught what looked like a leather strap wrapped round each of her wrists. He tried to ignore just how deeply they bit into her flesh as he tried to loosen them.
Grace lifted her head, glaze and dopey eyes meeting Jobe's, the simple action revealing another of the leather bonds strapped tightly over her mouth.
"Oh thank God you're alive!" I"
It was the look of sudden terror that streaked across the woman's face that silenced Jobe, that, and the sensation of something alive and moving against the tender skin of his hand. He looked at the crude maniacal that he'd been working on and felt fear creep into him, stabbing him behind the orbs of his eyes. The leather strap shot forward and before he was even aware that it had moved, the strip of material had encased most of his arm and in that moment, Jobe was suddenly noticed just how warm it felt, as if blood was pumping just bellow its tarnished surface. He went to grab it with his free arm, only to find that it refused to respond. By the time he saw the strap that had wound its way around it, Jobe could already feel another pair binding his legs. Effortlessly, the strands hoisted him up into the air, tossing him up as if were nothing more than a rag doll. His head smacked into the low tiled ceiling and the man howled as his skull made hard contact. He felt the axe slip from his clammy fingers as his head rung like a rusty church bell. His rope-like captors gave a vicious yank and he felt his head great against the ceiling as they dragged him vindictively across it.
Jobe forced his eyes shut, praying that it would stop.
As if by magic, it did.
Jobe opened his eyes. It took only second for him to scream when he saw what lay before him. He was hovering over one of the filthy beds, its occupant staring back at him, a horde of the leather strands spread out over the dull bed sheets and coiled up on the floor like dormant serpents, each one seeming to originate from the shadow that lay beneath him.
Even in the dim light, Jobe could still make out the sharp curve of its ribs beneath a paper-thin layer of skin, matted with clots of dried gore. He could almost see the guts stretching and convulsing underneath the taunt skin of its stomach, wile the lanky legs that stretched from a hideously bony, erect pelvis looked as though they'd snap if their owner tried to stand. The long, meatless arms trailed off the bed, falling into the shadows beneath the bed where the horde of serpentine tendrils lay dormant.
It was the head of the beast that caused the scream to reprise itself over and over again in the man's throat. The oddly overbuilt neck held it up at an awkward angle and Mr. Kaprow, better known as Sloth, watched Jobe with deeply sunken dusty eyes that peered out from a hollow of drawn skin. The skin that clung to its face seemed to have been all but eroded away, leaving nothing but jutting bone. Sloth's lip had disappeared, drawn back to reveal black gums holding numerous, sharp yellowing teeth captive. The bottom jaw was cruelly elongated, spanning out past the point of being useable until it came to a rest between the slump of its ribcage, fangs erupting at all angles from it.
But somehow, the creature managed to find its voice.
"Sleep" it said, and Jobe felt the leathery vines that held him start to stretch apart.
