Five: First Impressions.
Myron had reached Pete's Bowl-O-Rama five minutes earlier than he had anticipated. However, he had still neglected to go inside. For the time being, he had decided to seat himself on the steps out front, soaking in the atmosphere of Silent Hill.
In his right hand, he had a Tape Recorder he had brought, so that he might take audio-notes on his thoughts. It had been running for several seconds, recording nothing but dead silence. Myron finally began to speak.
"This is Dr. Myron Willowes, in Silent Hill. These notes will likely be released with the Audio Book of my upcoming project, so it is important that I keep track. I am currently sitting in front of an abandoned Bowling Alley." Myron began, going through the basic formalities for those who would handle the audio book transcription. This would work as a foreword to the first chapter.
"My first impression of Silent Hill is...Well, desolation. This city..Erm..Excuse me, this town, as it's far too small to be considered much more, is dead. It's like a nightscape on the moon, the rustic structures echoing the silence of a dead land. It's unsettling. My mind keeps playing tricks on me, here.
I keep imagining that I see things, or hear things in the fog. I suspect I may be hearing the average scavengers of a decrepit location, such as rodents. Or perhaps the rumored drug addicts and homeless that hide here.
Psychologically speaking, Silent Hill is a dead zone. I imagine some people go over the edge simply due to the lack of stimulus. The constant fog may also influence one's psychological status, as I imagine it has the same effect as a white out during the winter. I, myself, already feel rather uncomfortable here. A sense of constant unease haunts me here, and I can't figure out why."
Myron's monologue tapered off as he stared into the whiteness. The Lake and a narrow stretch of park sat only a few yards away, across the street from the bowling alley, and yet somehow it remained unseen. He had thought the fog would thin out at least partially, but it instead seemed to press ever closer.
"I think that's enough recording for now. Tape label should read Research Log 001. Dr.Myron Willowes, end recording." And Myron did just that, turning the recorder off and putting it away. It was time to get inside and make himself at home.
He stood up and stretched, rubbing his eyes for a moment. The haze had begun to hurt his eyes. He turned to face the mesh-covered doors to the abandoned Pete's Bowl-O-Rama. He leaned close to examine the lock on the sliding gate, and then removed his backpack.
He unzipped the bag and dug through it's contents, seeking out a useful multi-tool. The device resembled a pair of pliers, or perhaps a misshapen wrench with various unfolding attachments. He sorted through the various tools and selected a thick, angled pry bar. The tool itself was nearly a foot long, so with a good amount of force he could easily dislodge the rusted lock.
He situated himself to the right of the door and slipped the bar between the lock's base and the curved bar. He placed both hands on the tool and pushed forward sharply, a loud grunt cut off by a shriek of metal on metal.
The lock popped free and fell to the ground with a clank, and Myron chuckled with satisfaction. Sometimes, it paid to spend the extra seventy or eighty dollars at the Sharper Image for something. He put his tool away and proceeded to push the fence aside. To his relief, the doors themselves were unlocked.
He gathered his Backpack up and pushed open the doors, stepping into the dusty, dimly lit interior of the bowling alley. He reached up and clicked the flashlight on, grimacing at what he found.
The interior had fallen into shambles. Empty pizza boxes littered the floor, and the seats were thoroughly ruined. They seemed to have been shredded. Myron wondered momentarily if they had just left the place as it had been when the few survivors had abandoned Silent Hill, or if someone had been squatting here previously. And if so, where were they getting Pizza?
Myron shrugged this off and swept a table clean of debris. He found the one seat that seemed to be intact, and opted to make that his bed for the next few days. He set his bag down and unzipped every compartment, fishing out the assorted food stuffs, bottles of water and supplies he would need, arraying them on the table.
He dug out a final item he had invested in, just in case: An iron Pull-type lock, which basically resembled a heavy chain shrouded in a rubber sleeve with a key lock. He returned to the opened fence at the door and tugged it shut, slipping the pull-lock into place and giving it a tug. Once it was secured, Myron placed his hands on his hips and examined his surroundings.
"Well...Be it ever so humble, there's no place like home..."