Four: The Walk.
Myron climbed out of his SUV and gave a sigh, squinting into the fog. It was extremely bright, to his surprise. Undoubtedly the moonlight playing off the vapor. He adjusted his new coat and moved around to the rear of his vehicle, opening the door and digging out his backpack. It was rather heavy, due to the various supplies he had packed, but was otherwise reasonable.
He had the .45 tucked neatly beneath his right arm over the coat, more as a visual warning than anything else, and he had the light clipped into his breast pocket. He tugged the pack on and adjusted it's straps before closing and locking his vehicle. It was time to start jogging.
He dug through his coat pockets for a few short moments before finding a neatly folded, plastic-wrapped package. Several maps, brochures and information sheets he had obtained from the Brahams Historical Society and Archive. He had come well prepared, to be sure.
He seemed to currently be on Nathan Avenue, which lead directly in front of Toluca Lake, a natural basin formed between the cliff faces. It was an exceptionally large lake, and even had a Tourist Attraction on the farthest side. However, the Amusement Park had long ago been abandoned, just as the town had.
If he continued to follow Nathan Avenue, Myron had confirmed that he would soon reach a Bowling Alley. He figured that if he could get inside, it would be a perfect base of operations to begin exploring the town. He would make his first observational notes when he reached his destination.
He began his steady march through the fog, staring into the unending white distance. He couldn't help but feel that perhaps the fog had been the reason for so many unexplained occurences. Surely some individuals could go stir crazy trapped in the white depths.
From somewhere ahead, he heard something like footsteps. Rapid, erratic, echoing oddly through the dense vaporous cloud. Myron stopped and squinted, trying to see who it was. Perhaps one of the incredibly sporadic police border patrols for the town. He hoped not, as that could only end in being escorted from town. And with an unlicensed firearm, no less.
Instead of a Police Officer, a ragged-looking man came running by. His hair was lanky and dirty, and his skin was smudged with what appeared to be soot. He was wild-eyed and breathing painfully, ragged gasps punctuated by blubbering cries.
Myron almost reached out, to stop the man, but instead took a step back. The man kept running, a scream piercing the fog as he disappeared from view, his footsteps still echoing as he made a break for the bridge.
"What the...I guess they weren't kidding about the drug addicts. Wonder what kind of hallucination he was experiencing that would bring about such a violent reaction?" Myron didn't realize it, but he was talking to himself. He had never done this before.
Myron turned his attention back to the road and continued on. Somewhere along the way, he passed an overturned motorcycle. It was rusty and dented, but appeared to be a relatively new make. It had probably only been there a year, if that long. On the side, he could make out a Brahams Police Department logo.
He would use that motorcycle as a landmark, should he get lost on the way back. Ahead, through the fog, Myron could make out a railing bordering the road. And beyond the railing, on the right side, several long, low rooftops. To his left, he could see a steep enbankment leading away from the asphalt and down to a rocky shoreline.
The Fog seemed to cling to everything, draping the lake's surface like a veil. An upcoming bluff overlooking the water also held a structure. It's sign identified it as the Silent Hill Historical Society. According to Myron's map, this was shortly before the Bowling Alley. He was making good time, at least in his mind.
He stopped momentarily to check his watch, examining it in the dim white of Silent Hill's atmosphere, only to find that it had stopped entirely. It's hands had frozen somewhere around midnight, when he had reached the Brahams/Silent Hill cutoff.
"Dammit! This is a brand new watch!" He fumed, tapping the crystal face and then groaning. A new $700 swiss watch had stopped dead. It may have been all the moisture in the air, ruining the inner workings.
"Well, it could be worse. My Flashlight still works." Myron resigned himself to needing a new watch, and continued on toward his destination:Pete's Bowl-O-Rama.