Silent Hill: Innocent
The Red Carpet"So, what is it, pal? Business or pleasure?"
The passenger looked up into the divider with tired eyes. "What?" he asked with a grumble, not making any effort to hide the fact that he was growing weary of the small talk the driver had been forcing out of him the last few hours. With the constant interruptions, he'd given up on listening to his radio, and tucked the small red device into the large pocket of his cargo pants with a sigh just moments ago. From then up to this point, he was finding the rivulets of rain on the window against the darkness outside to be more tolerable than talking. To his right, he saw nothing but the quickly passing guardrail and the night beyond it. To his left, the jagged and twisting wall of the cliff side.
"Business or pleasure?" the driver repeated in his New "Yorka" accent. He shrugged his sloping shoulders. "I mean, a couple of years ago I'd've known it was pleasure," he continued. Pausing, he stared into the rain and shook his head slowly. "But I tell ya, ain't no one been to that 'little resort town' in the past twenty years to relax, y'know? Especially alone at this time of night."
The passenger sighed in his normally low tone, slumping in his seat and staring at the driver's balding head. "And yet you make your living driving people there?" he said half mockingly.
The driver looked into the rear view mirror at his passenger, pleased he had gotten more than three words out of him, but not smiling at the small quip. "You'd think I'd have more than a few slow nights, wouldn't ya?" He shook his head. "Nope. I get a lot of people who've got to go to that little town. Too many just like you."
Straightening up in his seat, the passenger grew interested. "People like me, you say?" He paused, allowing the heavy gust of rain outside to say its piece before continuing. "How many?" he inquired, his drained brown eyes squinting almost unnoticeably.
"More than I should," the driver sighed. "More than you'd think." He looked into the mirror again, but held the passenger's gaze for more than a few seconds. "People with somethin' to hide."
The pattering of rain on the car filled the next few moments of silence between the two. The passenger stared down at his open hands, the liquid shadows passing over his tanned skin. "So you think I've something to hide," he insinuated.
The driver let out a booming laugh, his shoulders bobbing up and down, as if to mimic the Hula dancer on his dashboard. "Don't we all have a little somethin' to hide?" He spun around quickly, letting the steering wheel go and nearly pressing his face to the divider. His breath fogged the already stained window through a tooth-filled grin. "I'm wonderin' though, how long would your sentence have been had you stayed in New York…"
The passenger's eyes went wide. "Wait, how do you-"
The driver began laughing madly, his face now pressed to the divider, his large green eyes open large and almost frighteningly bright. The disregarded steering wheel jerked clockwise and counter clockwise wildly in front of him, and the car veered right and left across the mud and gravel. "Lock him up and throw away the key!" His laughter turned violent now, louder than the downpour outside, louder than the old engine. It seemed to force the car into further instability and send tremors through the passenger's body.
His fingers digging into the seat cushions, the passenger yelled, "Stop the car, now!"
"No problem, boss," the driver responded mildly. He was focused on the road again, his hands at ten and two and his body turned away from the divider as though the whole exchange hadn't happened. They sat in silence for a few moments. "We're here."
The car rolled to a steady stop, sliding a bit in the mud-covered road. The rain filled the silence again, lighter than a few moments past. The one windshield wiper that worked swished every few seconds, breaking up the monotony.
Swiping away a few strands of his long brown hair from his face, the passenger looked out the window into the darkness, seeing nothing but the void beyond the cliff face. He turned back quickly to the driver. "Here? What do you mean we're here? We're still on the road into town."
"Sorry pal," the driver shrugged, looking into the rear view mirror again. "This is as far as I go."
The passenger stared into the mirror and into the driver's relaxed eyes. Still alarmed and confused by the driver's manic actions just moments ago, he began fumbling through the pockets of his tattered gray trench coat, finding a wad of cash. Holding it up to interrupt their line of sight and tapping the divider with it, he mumbled a quick "Thanks."
The driver's eyes remained relaxed, fixed on the passenger's. "Money?" he asked. "No, that's not how you payin' for your trip. That's not how any of you pay for your trip."
The back doors suddenly burst open, and a gust of heavy wind and rainwater flooded the passenger's world. He was being pulled now, towards both doors. He couldn't hear his own screams over the din of rain and wind, but he heard the driver's words:
"Welcome to Silent Hill."
The passenger awoke with the taste of rainwater and gravel strong in his mouth as the thunder struck far above him, followed by the deafening crack that seemed to shake the cliff side and rattle the slick mud road that stretched ahead of him. He groaned heavily, feeling far too weak to rise from his sprawled position in the middle of the road. Trying to get rid of the foul taste, he spit onto the ground a few times and groaned again, dissatisfied with his situation.
"Damn it," he grumbled, blinking as his eyes quickly adjusted to the low light. The sky flashed again, and in those few seconds, he was able to barely make out the faded metal sign a few meters ahead that told him he was only two miles out of town. "Couldn't drive the next two miles?" he asked the long-departed driver.
Preparing to prop himself up on one knee, he felt something tug at his left rear pocket, and reached in to find a matchbook. "When the hell…" he whispered. Too dark to see a few feet in front of him, he couldn't read the writing on either side of it. With the rain coming down faster, he quickly tore out a match, and lit it while cupping one hand over the book. The silhouette of a reclining nude was inscribed on the front, and on the back, written in cursive, were the words "Heaven's Night".
"Hm," he said, somewhat curious. Allowing the rain to snuff out the match, he tucked the matchbook back into his pocket and checked the other pockets of his mud-stained black pants and wet gray trench coat. "Any more surprises?" he asked no one in particular, finding something smooth, laminated, and folded in his left cargo pocket. A flash of thunder revealed it to be a map of Silent Hill.
He suddenly caught the shine of a small light reflected in the laminate, and looked up quickly to find it floating towards him in the night. "Flashlight?" he mumbled silently. It was just bright enough and close enough to see the figure holding it up and staggering along the road towards the passenger, who rose quickly to his feet. Tucking the map into his pocket, he walked towards the flashlight, trying to keep his composure along the slick mud surface. The rain began to fall harder, and the figure's frame was well visible as the downpour peppered his shoulders and head.
The stranger, who was a little shorter than the passenger, seemed be struggling to keep his poise, staggering over to the cliff wall and using its rocky surface for support. "Hey, you all right?" the passenger asked, leaning cautiously towards the stranger, one arm half-outstretched and ready to help.
Although they stood nearly four meters away from each other, the stranger's revolver was visible to the passenger, who stopped, and slowly backed away. "Whoa," he said, nearly slipping on the mud. He reached behind him instinctively, trying to catch some non-existent handhold.
"They're everywhere," the stranger mumbled, staggering forward. One of his feet slipped on the mud, and clinging to the rock wall, he barely kept his balance. Looking down at the dirt, he appeared to be in a moment self-reflection. The rain fell harder during this silence, and the passenger took a cautious step forward. Suddenly and with a loud grunt, the stranger pushed himself away from the wall with a burst of unexpected strength, and stumbling towards the guardrail and the darkness beyond, quickly raised the gun to his temple while smiling at the passenger. "Good luck."
"No!"
The roar of the gunshot eclipsed the thunder and the passenger's shout as the stranger took his own life, his quickly dying body falling over the guardrail, down the cliff, and out of the passenger's sight.
The tumbling corpse's smacking on the cliff side and the heavy downpour were the only sounds to be heard until the sirens started, sirens that began as a soft moaning somewhere distant in the passenger's head. He saw no ambulances, no squad cars, no source of the sound. It grew louder as he clasped his hands around his head, begging the noise to disappear. It only grew, however, higher-pitched still. He sunk to his knees, parting the mud beneath him as he howled at the darkness to release him from the of the siren's blare.
This particular late afternoon was darker than most, the tennis courts tough to see. Fog still lingering from earlier clouded the passenger's vision, forcing him to squint his way through the haze. The courts were clearer now, and he could barely make out her figure sitting there, waiting, four blocks away in those tennis courts.
The road into Silent Hill was gone, replaced by this memory, a memory he would rather not recall of a few blocks he'd rather not walk down again, with a figure sitting in a tennis court he'd rather forget. As he fell into this unwelcome memory, he could reflect on only one concept, one troubling thought…
Late again…Nathan Avenue
Confused and struggling to compose himself, the passenger finally rose to his feet, only to fall again. However, instead of the soft mud and gravel of the mountainside road, his knees found the adamant urban pavement that was Nathan Avenue. He cursed aloud, toppling over onto his right side, arms outstretched and clenched around his throbbing legs.
"Damn it!" he yelled at the dimming sky, hearing his echo all too quickly. Through his pain, he took note of the fact that the rain had finally stopped, and he now felt completely alone. He rose slowly, his aching legs still bothering him, but a tolerable pain, nonetheless. He was more concerned with his whereabouts. Groaning against a sharp stab of pain in his right knee, he stood straight up.
He immediately knew something was wrong. The grayed out streets were empty for a late afternoon. "Quiet town?" he thought aloud, tucking his hand into his pockets and sighing. "Too quiet…" he realized as he began walking down the sidewalk.
It was as eerie a locale as he could possibly imagine, no sounds to be heard but soft moan of the wind and the harsh crackle of skittering leaves it swept along with it. He could barely see more than two or three long blocks ahead, fog shrouding most of his surroundings in its milky white grasp amid the setting sun's hazy glow. He passed by an idle car once in a while, but saw no signs of actual life. The streets were immaculately clean, and the echo of his footsteps lingered too long for his comfort.
As he continued on, what seemed to be the entrance to a park slowly appeared through the fog ahead on his right. He looked to the left, where he was passing by a small apartment complex that stood behind a chain link fence. He realized now that he had no idea where he was in the town of Silent Hill.
"Let's see," he sighed, fishing out the map and straining to read it in the low light of a dying sun. Frustrated, he grunted and looked around hastily for the nearest light, spotting a streetlamp a half block down on Nathan Avenue where another street intersected it and ended from the left. He sighed again, scanning the area quickly, and started towards the light, his speed hampered by the condition of his legs.
Limping only two steps, he felt something weighing down his coat pocket, and reached in to find the familiar flashlight the man with the gun had been holding. The passenger thought back to that moment, when he watched in shock as the trigger was pulled, the body falling down the cliff side and quickly out of sight; then the sirens. "Ugh," he groaned, remembering that horrible piercing blare in his head. Glancing down, he pushed the switch on the device, squinting as the light stabbed through the quickly settling dim. He glanced up at the sky, now wondering how long ago it was that he'd gotten into town. Dismissing the thought for a more urgent matter, he tucked the flashlight into his breast pocket, allowing its glow to shine down on the map.
"Hm," he thought, cocking an eyebrow. "No police stations in this part of town," he said aloud, thinking about the gunman. "He won't be going anywhere anytime soon, anyway. Best not to worry about him, I guess." He unfolded the map completely now to its full two by two feet frame, finding his position on Nathan Avenue, at the first of two entrances to Rosewater Park. He wasn't more than a block away from Munson Street. He looked ahead, acknowledging it as the intersection with the streetlamp. Realizing Jack's Inn was just ahead on Munson and Nathan, he figured it'd be best to get a room there for the night. "But first," he whispered. He found the familiar words "Heaven's Night" marked on a purple square further down Nathan Avenue in the middle of Carroll Street. He reached for his pocket, wanting to be sure the name on the matchbook he'd acquired was the same.
"Holy shit!"
His curse echoed loudly as he jumped back from what appeared to be a large glistening yellow roach the size of his foot, the insect revealed at his feet as one side of the map sunk down. It scurried towards him quickly, emitting a strange scratching noise that carried well in the silence, a noise that the passenger was sure should not have been made by any insect's movement. Deciding quickly to put an end to it, he stomped on the odd creature with a boot large and heavy enough to kill several small insects.
The roach lived, however, struggling in vain on its back, as the passenger listened to its strange crackling noises while it died. Looking down at it, though, he realized it wasn't just the bug creating the sounds, but something closer. He felt a small buzz in his cargo pocket, and reaching in, found that his radio was emitting an unusual amount of white noise.
"The hell?" he said aloud, as confused by the device as he was by the strange thing that wriggled on the ground.
The radio's noise grew soft as the roach finally died, and fell completely silent when the insect stopped wriggling and remained lifeless. He realized he'd been clenching the map the whole time, and tucked it into his pocket, the soft rustling of his garments soon replaced by the sound of scratching, more roaches off to the right. Pivoting quickly in the sound's direction, he found a small pack of around seven of them a few short feet away emerging from the park entrance. The radio began blaring again with its static as they approached quickly. Stumbling backwards, he caught his balance and turned into frantic run along Nathan Avenue past Jack Inn's and Munson Street, in the direction of Carroll Street. His legs didn't bother him as much anymore, and he easily outran the unusually large bugs. The disturbing scratching noise they made slowly died out, replaced by the tapping of his footfalls. He passed by large fenced off areas on both sides of the avenue before he came to a slow stop. The radio began to die out and eventually stood silent as he found himself alone in the middle of the road.
Panting, he looked up to find himself at the Texxon Gas station on Nathan and Carroll Street. Not too far from Heaven's Night, he realized, glancing at the street signs. The station, like the road he'd ran down, was devoid of life. No tire marks, no shining streaks of oil or cars standing idle with their hoods up. He glanced around, spotting the slightly ajar door into the station's convenience store. Tired, he shuffled slowly with his arms limp and dangling at his sides, his steps echoing louder under the hood of the station.
"Hello?" he called, slowly pushing the heavy metallic door open with caution. As he expected, no one greeted from within, and the small store wasn't lit, save for the faint glow that entered through a window facing Nathan Avenue at the far right of his field of vision. He lazily reached into his pocket for the switch on his flashlight, and turned it on, assuming he'd probably need it constantly once the sun fell below the horizon and night set on the unusually quiet town.
A small part of the store was illuminated in front of him now, a shelf of its various wares and foods shining in the circle of his light. He stepped in quietly, turning every now and then to see to his sides. From what he could see, the store seemed to be pretty well kept. As he looked down, the linoleum floor seemed recently mopped, a spotty circle of light reflected on its dimpled surface. The entire store had a strange sterile feeling about it.
The heavy door slowly creaked behind him, and he turned quickly to the sound, relief passing through him as he found a faint sliver of light and saw that the door was still partly open.
As he turned back, his radio hissed from the confines of his pants, and a large shadow darted across the one window of the store to the right. "God!" he gasped, hoping the shadow had been a passing car. The radio quieted quickly after the shadow had passed, and the passenger's heart skipped a beat. Must've been a damn quiet car, he thought. He allowed a few quiet seconds to pass as he regained his composure, breathing heavily but calmly. Looking around again, he continued to creep along, finding himself weary, every crawling shadow his flashlight created was another reason for his heart to jump.
"Damn it," he sighed, deciding to leave the store before anything else could frighten him.
He quickly made his way for the door, tripping over something on the floor that sounded like a glass bottle. As he stumbled forward, trying desperately to find some support, he fell against the door, slamming it shut. He reached up for the handle, using it to lift himself off the ground, and realized it wasn't turning. He jiggled the metal grip, and it rattled in place in reply. He'd locked himself in.
"Shit!" he yelled, smacking a nearby stack of newspapers in frustration. They fell to the floor, softly rustling as the pages scattered at his feet. He sighed, looking around the store for some alternate exit. His eyes scanned slowly, but passed quickly over the window. He still didn't know what the shadow was, and didn't want to find out. Looking towards the back of the store, past the refrigerators and beverages, his eyes brightened with relief as he found a deep alcove at the far corner that probably led to a back door. Looking around cautiously again, he tried the doorknob once last time, rattling it in disappointment before stepping over the scattered newspapers and heading for the back of the store.
The radio hissed again.
Gasping, he stopped in place, and looked instinctively towards the window, behind which the shadow dashed again. Sweat formed on his brow, and he wiped it away quickly, breathing heavily. Another hiss from the radio, and again the shadow scurried across. He realized he had no idea whether the shadow was outside, or inside.
As he dashed for the back of the store his heart pounded in his ears and his boots clacked loudly. Each step he heard another short burst from the radio, but didn't need to turn to know the shadow was still darting across the dimly lit window. Reaching the back wall of the store, he leaned against the beverage fridge, feeling weak, disoriented, but above all, terrified. The radio continued with its periodic spurts of static, and the shadow responded in kind. He looked away from the window, to the passage at the other end of the room to his far left where he hoped he'd find an open back door.
He moved slowly against the refrigerators now, not wanting to panic, his back to the cold doors, his palms guided by their icy touch. His flashlight barely lit each aisle he passed, but wasn't strong enough to reach the window, where the shadow played its game. As he stuck to the doors, his hands finally found the alcove, feeling around the edge of the wall to his left, and he turned in haste into a solid barrier.
"No," he whispered in desperation. "No, I felt it!" he yelled. He hit the wall with his palms, kicked it, rammed against it until his shoulder was sore, all in vain. The wall that wasn't there didn't budge. The passage no longer existed. He took out his flashlight, passing it over the space where he'd sworn he felt an opening. "No," he moaned, finding nothing with the flashlight. He let the device slip into his pocket in defeat, as he slumped against the wall, and allowed himself to drop to the ground. He stood in the silence, the radio's static his only company, leading his eyes to his only option:
The window.
He shook his head slowly, unable to fathom the thought of going near that shadow. As he considered the few options available to him, he noticed the store had grown completely dark, that night had finally set in, and the window no longer allowed in any light to silhouette the shadow. He was sure it was there, though, as his radio continued in short spurts. He also noticed one other reason why the store seemed to be growing that much darker. His flashlight was growing dim.
He jumped up to his feet suddenly and reached into his pocket, pulling it out quickly and watched as the bulb died out. "No," was all he could mutter, as it finally dimmed, leaving him alone in the dark with the radio, and the shadow.
As if mocking him, the radio continued to spit its static every few seconds. He began walking straight ahead, knowing there was no way out but through that lone window, with the shadow he could not nor wanted to identify. The radio grew steadily louder as he edged along the aisle with trembling hands, grasping the chest-high shelf closest to him for support. He knocked over an item here and there intentionally to calm his nerves and break the monotony of the hissing radio. The static no longer appeared in bursts, but had grown into one long menacing hiss as he neared the end of the store.
He could swear he heard the shadow now as it darted back and forth, still unsure as to whether or not it laid within the store. He stopped, overcome suddenly with fear, his heart about to tear through his chest, his forehead damp with a cold, nervous sweat. Suddenly, just within his field of vision, he could see that one of the beverage refrigerators in the back of the store had suddenly lit up. The light within it was much stronger than it should have been, and there were no drinks to be seen inside.
Turning to the window, he let out a choked scream, seeing some inhumanly tall figure staring at him from the outside with deep inset eyes devoid of color and shining a pure white. The shadow, he thought, as the radio yelled with static. The passenger stumbled away from the window, thoughtless with fear. The eyes, even without the pupils or the irises, somehow stared at him, following his every clumsy move as he knocked over a shelf trying to reach the back of the store. The light blinked away in the fridge, leaving everything in darkness, and the figure was no longer visible. He stumbled along the aisle, tripping over the items he'd knocked down earlier, as well as more that he'd struck now in his frenzy. The noise, along with the radio's loud chatter created a frenzy in which the only beacon of sanity was the flickering glow of the fridge.
The refrigerator light flashed again, this time for a brief second, but long enough for the passenger to see the tall figure now on the other side of the window, inside the store, his frame made larger within the tight confines.
"No!" he yelled, staggering away from it, only a few meters now from the back wall. The blinking light winked away again only for a moment, and came back to reveal the tall figure now standing in the middle of the passenger's aisle.
The light became a strobe, blinking on and off twice a second. As it did, the figure approached the passenger with unearthly speed, not moving, but somehow descending on the passenger's stumbling form. "Please," he pleaded, falling onto his back and desperately crawling backwards to the wall, closer to the light. He hit the wall, the figure only a few feet away now, the fridge two meters off to the passenger's right along the wall.
The sirens started now as the figure grew closer, and stood at the passenger's feet. Something told him he couldn't make it to the fridge on time, and that even if he did, it guaranteed him no safety. He refused to quit, though, and leapt to his feet in spite of the terrifying thing that loomed over him, in spite of the sirens in his head that seemed to weigh him down. Diving to the fridge door, he realized there was writing on it. Against the blinking white aura, he could barely make out the thick black words:
"…YoU…inNoCEn…"
"What?" he yelled. The sirens grew louder still, and he clasped his hands over his ears.
As the light flashed and his eyes watered from the blinding glow, he watched the message suddenly change in a blink:
"TuRn."
He spun around, finding that the figure now stared him in the face, the white eyes glaring at him from beneath the dark façade. The passenger again couldn't hear his own screams, the sirens drowning everything out as the shadow engulfed him.
His memories flooded back again.
The passenger was a few blocks away from the tennis court, and he could see her now, even through the fog as she sat in the middle of the courts.
Late again.
The thought struck him like a brick, and he flinched, hurt by it. He continued walking, though faster now, the idea of lateness quickening his pace.
Always late. Late, late, late.
"Gah!" he grunted aloud, trying to force the thought away. He looked up to see if anyone had heard him, to find he was completely alone. Although he knew there was a world beyond the tennis courts, beyond the few blocks leading there, he saw none of it.
Late.
It isn't my fault, though…
As though some strong and invisible force were grasping his skull, his head turned suddenly, towards the courts and the figure seated patiently in one them.
Late for her.
"That girl."
He uttered this unconsciously as the rain had started again. As he awoke, he spit up a few gulps of water and gravel. "Damn it," he sighed, not sure if he wanted to bother getting up from the ground. A clap of thunder rang out, and a street sign nearby told him he was now on Carroll Street, about a block south of the gas station. Heaven's Night, he realized, would be found almost another block down.
Sighing heavily, he propped himself up on his elbows behind him, bending his legs up so he could rest his arms comfortably on his knees. He looked around, growing frustrated with the weather as the rain began to pour harder. Reaching into his breast pocket, he found the flashlight, which to his surprise, now worked. He watched as the rain fell harder in its ray of light. Over the pounding of it on the ground, however, he heard his radio begin to go off, the white noise growing louder each second. He was on the verge of rising when he felt it on the back of his neck even through the rain.
He knew the hot breath against his neck wasn't a human's, and the passenger wasn't sure he wanted to know what it belonged to. His radio was blaring now, the rain drowned out by its constant hail of static. The breath grew hotter, and he could smell its stench, an awful smell both revolting and familiar. His heart beat loudly in his ears, almost overwhelming the radio and the rain. Then he saw it.
It was a stroke of luck that lightning flashed overhead, illuminating the three-foot long steel pipe in the puddle a few inches in front of his bent legs. He didn't hesitate for a moment, quickly diving for the makeshift weapon, grabbing it out of the puddle with a large splash, and swinging it as hard as he possibly could while turning in place, slicing the rain, air, and striking nothing.
Crouched low to the ground, steel pipe still tightly gripped so his knuckles turned white, he noticed the radio was silent now, and the only sounds and smells were that of the rain. He now frantically searched for his flashlight, finding it on the ground by his foot and switched it on quickly. Waving it wildly, he affirmed the fact that whatever had been breathing behind him was no longer anywhere in sight. He checked the radio again, holding it to his ear to be sure he heard nothing. In those few terrifying moments the rain began to die out again.
He panted still, and let himself drop to the ground, exhausted. "Damn," he sighed, staring up at the sky. Letting the pipe slip away from his outstretched arm at his side, it touched the ground with a soft ping, rolling a few inches before it came to a steady stop atop a white sheet of paper.
"Hm?" he wondered, reaching for the damp graying paper. He held it up, pointing the flashlight at it, and read the black bold lettering: "ROOM 11"
"Okay," he thought, assuming it was in reference to a room at Jack's Inn, where he planned to stay the night. He suddenly turned with the flashlight, hoping to catch a fleeting glimpse of whoever had left the note, only to find empty shadows. He looked around now, though, rising to his feet and wiping off his pants, which were damp with rain and dirt. Finding nothing but a fenced off junkyard to his left, he looked ahead to his right to find a small alleyway between two short buildings. Remembering the map, he realized it must have led to Heaven's Night.
Heaven's Night
The alleyway held within it a grated steel staircase that led to the second floor of the brick-faced building, and a single closed door at the landing. The words "Heaven's Night" were written in cursive blue and pink fluorescent lights directly above it.
The passenger stood at the foot of the staircase, his right hand on the banister, the steel pipe he found now gripped tightly in his left fist. He heard music emanating from the door, and was relieved, knowing there was a good chance someone normal might be there to greet him. After all, he thought, someone had left that matchbook for him. As he ascended, his boots clinking on the steps, the music changed slowly from a soft tune to hard rock. The steps seemed to vibrate with each resonating hit of a drum, each chord on the electric guitar. Every note was louder than the last, until it seemed that he was being forced away from the place, the steps now trembling with excitement.
When he reached the top, pipe poised to strike in case there should be any surprises, his hand on the doorknob, the music suddenly stopped, then returned to its soft beginnings. His eyes glanced around, the silence now unnatural to his ears, and with a hint of hesitation, he slowly pushed the door open.
Amidst the soft music, the door creaked, and the tune grew a little louder as he poked his head in slowly, then his feet, and finally nudged the door closed behind him with his pipe when he stood fully in the lifeless room.
The reclining nude on the back of the matchbook wasn't a misnomer. A strip joint, he thought. He began examining the club, adjusting to the scarcely lit, purple hazed atmosphere. A T-shaped stage dominated the back of the room opposite the entrance, a pole on the end of the stage that jutted out. Against the back wall at the right side of the stage was a dark green door with the word "KISS" above it in pink fluorescent lighting. One the left side closest to the front door of the nightclub stood two booths back to back, and on the right of the door, a small bar, where the passenger sat at a stool, his left forearm lying on his pipe, which he balanced next to him. A few small round tables seemed to be strewn about the room randomly, one or two chairs at each. Glancing up, he saw a fluorescent lit version of the nude on the matchbook, "Paradise" spelled out above her form in more glowing bulbs.
Hm, he thought, disappointed that he found no one around. You'd think this would be the only place I'd find someone at this time of night. He realized then that he had no idea what time it actually was, and looked around for a clock or working radio anywhere in the room. Unable to find one, he gave up and looked around the room again for anything that could point to who had left him the matchbook and why he was there.
He continued looking around, finding no one and no real signs of life besides the drinks on the bar, when he caught a glimpse of the "KISS" door closing slowly, and leapt off the stool as the door closed quickly and completely.
"Hey!" he shouted, holding out his hand, not realizing he was still gripping the steel pipe. "Yeah, that's not threatening," he scolded himself cynically as he rushed for the door. In his haste, he tried dodging around a table and knocked over a chair, nearly collapsing to the marble floor. "Shit," he exclaimed in aggravation, tripping over himself and crashing into the door with the full force of his stumbling form.
Sprawled on his back on the aging linoleum, the tapping of feet caught his attention. He turned his head to the right to see the form of a young woman in acid-washed capris disappear down the steps at the end of the short hall barely three meters down. "Wait!" he yelled, using the pipe as support to get to his feet. As he rose, he noticed a small slip of paper pinned beneath the metal beam with a message written in cursive in black marker. He spent no time even glancing at it, shoving it into his pocket as he broke into a run down the hall, nearly tripping down the two short flights of stairs. With no banister for support, he clung to the peeling paint-lined walls as he skipped every other step.
Two doors awaited him at the ground level, one of which had just swung shut. He grabbed the doorknob, violently swinging the door open, and stepped out into the cool night air.
Switching the flashlight on in his breast pocket, he lit the small part of the alleyway around him. To the left was a dead end wall, and to the right the alley continued down, a tall fence serving as the right side where the brick wall of the building stopped. He heard the distinct sound of footsteps splashing through the puddles that lay around the alley, and broke into a sprint, able to make out the faint echo of a nearby gate opening further down.
Leaping through the open gate, he began to feel the effects of sprinting on an empty stomach, and felt the night's chill tenfold through his sweat and damp t-shirt, despite the trench coat. Panting, he pulled the map out from his pocket, having now slowed into a jog, reassured by the fact that he could still hear the young woman's footfalls not too far ahead, her light skin of her bare torso and the faded pants barely visible in the distance. The run from the alley had led into a parking lot that would take him to Nathan Avenue and Carroll Street, he realized. According to the map, he would be just outside of Pete's Bowl-O-Rama,
He was suddenly falling, the steel pipe flying from his grip as he hit the pavement on his stomach and chest with a small thud and a loud crack. The loud crack, he discovered when looking down, was the now broken bulb of his flashlight. "Damn it," he grunted, smacking the ground in frustration with a scraped palm.
Slowly rising to his feet, he folded the map quickly and look down to find he'd tripped over a small hourglass-shaped object. He was barely able to make out the inscribed "80.45 kg" on it, straining his eyes to make out the lettering by the moonlight. Looking at it closer, he realized a chain link was affixed to it through a small loop of steel at the midsection of the weight. Tapping the chain, he found it to be taut, leading away from him some distance into the darkness.
A screeching sound and then a thud startled him into jumping away from the weight as it fell over and was being yanked away in small tugs into the dark by an unseen strength. He watched as it was dragged, kicking up small bits of pavement. Unsure of who was pulling it, he didn't follow the chain, but began retreating away from it gradually. He spotted the steel pipe a few feet ahead, still resting on the ground between the weight and whoever was pulling it. Moving quickly, he approached it, and then stopped suddenly when his radio began to blare. As if on cue, another weight soared in from the darkness, landing directly on the pipe with an immense clang, crushing the thick shaft at its midpoint, as the chain connected to the weight clattering to the ground a second later.
The radio quieted, and the falling, then dragging, of the second weight replaced the noise with its screeching. He backed away from this weight now, the "136.93 kg" designation making him wonder what it would have done to his hand had he not stopped. The crushed pavement and the deformed shaft are reliable references, he thought.
The first weight, now gone into the darkness, was soon replaced as the radio warned him again. He dove off to his left, hitting the ground with an already sore shoulder just as a 92.21 kg weight struck the spot where he'd been standing. Against the small circle of the moon, he could see shards of weak pavement fly up into the air, their tiny forms gracefully plummeting down to the earth. Staring at the weight now, he watched as its hourglass form tipped over much like a body being dragged away.
Good God, he thought, frightened at the image of who or what was tossing these heavy objects like toys.
His fear soon emerged out of the darkness.
The figure hauling the weights was nothing like the passenger had expected. Although it stood a good five or six meters away, he could identify the more unusual features of it. The weightlifter was emaciated, nude, and pale, its only clothing the thick expanse of chains that engulfed four parts of its body. Each part held its own separate weight. Each hand was wrapped in a seemingly endless stretch of linked chains, the right one now pulling back the 92 kg weight. Its other arm was extended, pulling the 136 kg weight towards it with a rapid succession of quick jerks, each one rattling the chain violently. Its pelvic area was covered with a continuous wrap series of chains, extending around its entire hip and ending with the 80 kg weight that had tripped the passenger. Finally, a wreath of chains was bound around its gaping mouth and stringy neck, leading to another weight, a weight that he now tossed with a quick snapping of its head.
The passenger could hear the cracking of the creature's fragile neck as the next weight soared in from overhead. He rolled quickly over to the right as the radio crackled with static, grimacing when the shattered pavement peppered his face like hail. Most of it was wet, and stuck to his face and neck, some of it finding its way into his left eye. "Gah!" he yelled, his eye burning, but knowing he couldn't stop moving, lest something much worse happen to his face.
He leapt to his feet, his depth perception non-existent as he tried dodging the 80 kg weight. Unable to judge distance, he was struck in the same shoulder he'd already battered throughout the night with his clumsiness. His entire body turned thrice before he hit the ground, rolling to a stop a few feet away from the 136 kg weight.
Rising slowly, the passenger waited for the next weight to come, watching the weightlifter's hunched form. When it did, he ducked swiftly out of the way, having given himself enough time so that he wouldn't need to know how far off it was, and only concerned himself with how long ago it had been launched. Before the mass could even finish its descent several feet behind him, he had broken into a run for the weightlifter, along the way yanking up the heaviest weight by its thin middle, and still in an all-out sprint, covered the few meters between him and the creature to bring the weight up with a surge of strength into the weightlifter's skeletal torso.
He expected a visceral howl from the creature, but instead was greeted by the clattering of what must have been thousands of links of chains as the weightlifter sank to the ground, his arms and head weighed heavily down by the metal, and finally collapsed in a heap; as did the passenger, the last of his strength spent on that death-defying run.
The sirens started just as he'd begun to calm down, and he didn't resist their whine.
She sat patiently in the tennis court of this empty world, twirling her racket playfully and seemingly without a care. He watched her with curiosity.
What was she thinking?
He wanted this question answered more than anything as he finally arrived on the block with courts, staring at her through the chain link fence. He walked along this fence that surrounded the courts, his trench coat flapping limply at his side as the wind had died down.
She must be angry.
This last thought disturbed him, as he hated seeing her angry.
Wouldn't you be? He asked himself, if you were kept waiting while everyone else went home? Wouldn't you hate to wait? That look of carelessness on her face; that's boredom.
He pondered this as walked and stared.
I guess.
…
But it's not my fault.
And yet there she is, he reasoned, sitting alone.
Waiting.
He stopped walking and turned to her as she continued to play with the racket. She didn't see him, as she usually didn't. He always had a tough time approaching her through his guilt.
Not my fault.
He awoke atop the roof of a car, his legs dangling over the driver side door, the rain steadily falling on his face and over his sprawled form. His trench coat lay open, drenched against the front and rear windows. A chill ran through his torso, stirring him to life.
Turning slowly and with a drawn out moan, the passenger rolled on his side, slipping off the roof of the car and onto the hood with a soft clunk. "Damn it," he complained, landing on his tender right shoulder. The rain now fell with force enough to become more blinding than any fog, and he slid completely off the slick surface, the hood ornament jabbing into his waist and tearing his shirt on the way down to the blacktop of the ground.
Groaning, he rose to his feet, blinded by the rain and completely unsure of where he was. Looking down at the ground, the markings around the car indicated a parking lot. But where? he asked himself, staggering in a circle to find his bearings. He spotted a small glow through the downpour, barely visible through the white haze, but noticeable enough to stand out. Limping towards it, exhausted, he instinctively reached for the flashlight switch, remembering as the button clicked that it was of no use to him with a broken bulb.
The light came into focus, as did the awning from which it hung by a thin string. The awning extended far left and right, sheltering six evenly spaced doors with a barred window between each one. This must be the inn, he realized. Jack's Inn. The bulb overhead seemed to be the only working one, and it lit the small silver numbers on the door: 11.
Room 11, he remembered, reaching for the knob on the door. Turning it, he knew it wasn't locked, but only opened a quarter of an inch before stopping. He pushed against it, hearing a faint clattering sound from above. He looked up to find someone had fastened the door shut with a combination lock. He glanced down at the other doors, noticing that the ones next to him were locked similarly. "Shit," he cursed, releasing the handle and tucking his hands into his pockets in exhaustion.
"Ouch," he remarked, feeling a small cut on his right thumb. Feels like…a paper-cut? he realized, pulling out the thin slip of paper. All but the uppermost half was drenched, the black marker writing having bled all over the now gray piece of paper he'd picked up not too long ago in the nightclub. "Hm," he said aloud. He knew the slip of paper had something to do with the lock. He knew it was some sort of puzzle. What he didn't know was whether or not he could solve it with what he'd been given. "Damn," he thought, trying to read what could be salvaged,
"Three numb…for safe pass…"
"Three numbers for safe passage," he inferred from the top half of the paper.
"…Nagas…P…rl…arbor…D-Da…us…our."
Wishing he'd read it when it was still legible, he allowed himself to fall to the door, the lock clanging, and the top of his head keeping him up against it as he stared down at the garbled message. " 'Nagas'?" he said aloud, trying to figure out what the rest of the word was. He couldn't think of anything in English that even resembled it.
A flash of thunder and a loud crack boomed in the dark night sky over head.
He saw the burst of light, heard the loud boom, and the proverbial lightbulb went off in his head as he recognized the first word. "Nagasaki!" he exclaimed, pushing himself off the door. He assumed the rest of the message was somehow related, and realized instantly what the next term was. "Pearl Harbor," he said aloud, "and D-Day. Then 'something, something'." He couldn't grasp the meaning of "us…our," and rubbed his chin stubble in thought. U.S. tour, U.S. four, he thought. No, makes no sense. He rapped against his temple with his knuckles chanting quickly "Think, think, think."
The radio suddenly began chattering, the static steadily growing louder. 'No, not now," he pleaded, looking into the distance. The rain was far too heavy for him to see anything, and he decided he needed to retreat into the safety of the motel room. Pacing back and forth, struggling to concentrate through the rain and static, he thought, "Only three numbers in the combo. D-Day, it's gotta do with D-Day—". It suddenly struck him, and he almost leapt for joy. "D-Day plus four!" He looked down again at the paper, bringing everything together as the static grew louder and more garbled with each passing second. "Nagasaki, Pearl Harbor, D-Day plus four," he said with excitement. Mentally shuffling quickly through what he knew of these dates, he said hurriedly, "Nagasaki: August ninth, nineteen forty-five. Pearl Harbor: December seventh, nineteen forty-one. D-Day was June sixth, nineteen forty-four, so D plus four must have been June tenth." Realizing the numbers didn't go past thirty-five on the lock's face, he assumed the dates, not the years, were the key.
Reaching quickly for the lock, he spun the small wheel arbitrarily in any direction before first stopping at nine, then seven, and finally at ten. Expecting it to give way, he pulled at it, but it stood firm against his tug. "Damn!" he shouted, looking behind him to make sure whatever was setting off the radio didn't sneak up on him. The static kept him on his toes, forcing his thoughts to be quick, almost reckless. He grew frustrated, the noise driving him insane, the lock staring at him with its round face and seemingly infinite white notches. It seemed to be bobbing in laughter, the lightbulb above causing the shadows on the lock to dance as the bulb spun round and around above. Round, he thought, suddenly realizing the lock had to be turned in a certain sequence clockwise and counterclockwise after each number. "But which way?" he asked.
He could hear it now in the distance, the clang of metal and the crushing pavement, still faint through the rain and static. "No," he asserted, "No, not now."
Gripping the lock, he thought back on the order of the dates as they were written while thunder struck far above. "Nineteen forty-five, nineteen forty-one, nineteen forty-four," he said, concentrating, his eyes closed tightly against the pattering of rain on the awning overhead. "Forty-five, forty-one, forty-four. Counterclockwise, clockwise. Left, right?" he hoped, turning the lock. He mumbled aloud as he did so, "Nine, left, seven, right, ten." He yanked the lock, a grin already forming on his lips, but again it kept fastened to the door. He growled in frustration as the static grew to be as loud, then louder than the rain.
Pavement exploded a few meters behind him, as he looked back but couldn't see it, only heard the crash and clang as the weight was pulled back.
"C'mon," he begged, pulling on the lock and trying again. Nine, left, seven, right, ten. The lock didn't give.
The radio howled.
He stared down at the wrinkled slip of paper,
"Nagas…P…rl…arbor…D-Da…us…our."
His eyes widened.
A clanging noise in the distance.
Plus four,
Two cracks of thunder.
Or minus four?
Another crash and clang behind him, only a few feet off this time as the static grew loud enough that he couldn't hear his own frantic shouts. "Nine, left! Seven, right! T—" He stopped, his hand spinning the lock and releasing it from his grip as a 74.87 kg weight struck his left calf and sent him falling to the ground. "No!" he yelled, rising against the searing pain. He leaned his full weight against the door, the lock rattling; he grasped it as though his life depended on it. He believed it did. It was stopped at another number, he realized, as he entered the combination again.
"Nine,left!" he said loud enough to be heard over the static. The weight was being tugged back as another came sailing in, landing an inch away from his left foot, his right foot pressed against the door. A gust of wind sent the rain flying horizontally into his face, and crashing in waves against the door. The lightbulb swung wildly around above him along its flimsy connection. He lost sight of the lock for a moment, and continued when the wind subdued.
"Seven, right!"
He heard the radio blare, and could make out the distinct sound of the 136 kg weight soaring at him through the air.
"Two!"
The click of the lock releasing was somehow louder than all else, as he saw the weight flying towards him. His back pressed to the door, he reached for the knob, his hand slipping off its slick surface as he heard the lock clatter to the ground. His fumbling fingers finally found the handle and turned it as quickly as they could, and just as the weight appeared through the heavy rain, the lightbulb fell from its string above, and all was dark as one final thought ran through his head…
"It's amazing how quickly one can abandon all morals when they've nothing left to lose."