Glass snaps under my boots as I step off the ladder. I can hear the wind whispering through the weathered boards of the walls.
The villagers made a mess - kitchen table overturned, glass cupboard punched out, pot of putrid stew spilled all over the floor. As if it makes a difference.
I peak out the window- still clear - and hop over the sil. No shouts; the rain has stopped. The sky is brighter - must be near morning. I take a few tentative steps into the street, shotgun leading the way. Constant vigilance.
CAW!
I spin around and fire. The crow sitting on the fencepost explodes in a wet pop. A slash of blood hits my cheek.
Could have been the same bird that gave me away. Bastard. I wish I could kill it again.
I stand perfectly still and listen to the wind. It carries muffled voices raised in chanting from the church on the hill. From the sound of it, I have roughly until Rapture to poke around. The building sits on the horizon in a halo of ghost-light from the slow rising sun.
Good. Now I can figure out what the fUck I'm doing here.
There aren't more than a dozen shacks and houses, lined up around the town. The first few offer nothing more than rotten food and bodies... bodies piled in corners like dust. Maybe the people who used to live here. More likely the ones who didn't convert. My back prickles every time I don't have a wall behind it.
Beside the house I holed up in is a long, fat cabin. Probably the postoffice, bank, grocery and bar. Fucking hicks, man.
I'm half right - there's a big bag of undelivered mail spilling its guts in front of the counter. Behind it rows of open slots. There's a black safe, door blown off. Burned bits of strange currency dot the room like confetti.
I start to push the muzzle of my shotgun into the letters, thinking of Agent Chambers and the bear-trap. She was supposed to come with me - a favour. And on the outskirts of this hick trap snap! She steps in a covered hole and nearly loses her foot. These folk like their surprises.
The sudden squawk of sonic feedback startles me and I fire into the bag of letters.
When the smoke, dust, and smouldering bits of paper clear a bit, I squat down on my haunches and unclip my radio.
"Bailey here. Over."
The static flares again and a woman's voice squeaks through.
"– thought you were dead!" Her voice is gravelly and strained. She sounds like she's been doped.
"I'm fine, Jen. A little trouble with the locals. How's your leg?"
She is quiet for a moment. "I think it's a desk job when I get back to the States," she mumbles. "Fortunately I can't feel anything. They're about to put me under."
Damn. "It's my fault," I say, running my fingers through my hair. I stand and wander behind the counter. "I'm sorry."
Jen laughs like she'd like to believe it. "Yeah, well fuck you and we're even." She coughs, and suddenly I hear scraping, like she stuffing the radio under her pillow. I hear a muffled voice.
After a few minutes, Jen says, "I don't have long. I wanted to tell you something. That man at the Consulate. Curon. He set us up. This thing goes way up."
I shake my head even though she can't see it. "I don't give a shit. I'm here to get Leon. That's it. These people can solve their own fucking problems without my boyfriend."
I can't help get angry. It's this kind of altruistic bullshit that got Leon in this mess, whatever it is. "I have to go. I have to." No, you don't. You can walk the fuck away.
Jen's fading. I hope she has enough sense left to stash the radio before she does under.
"– more than that," she breathes. "It's just... a test..."
I hear the scrape again, and the radio goes dead.
A clean-looking piece of paper is sitting on the desk behind the counter. Blue ink. Looks fresh. I clip my radio back on my belt and pick it up. It's in English, but written in a hand that didn't understand the language.
The American is strong. They move him to west side of lake. Come by road behind church. I'll meet. Do not feel safe in light.
I carefully fold the note. A friend? Or a trap?
Only one way to find out.
In minutes I'm crouched behind a massive tombstone in the cemetery in front of the church. The hypnotic moaning has reached a fever pitch. It's not even words - it's pure, vile mindlessness that sends a shiver up my spine. Light in the stained glass windows shows me shadows of raised hands. Up close the building looks old and haunted, with peeling white paint and a slight lean to the left - but the sound of a two dozen hideous voices singing blood and razors make it seem like the gateway to hell.