Three:

Arthur rode hard and fast, squeezing the brakes just as he came into the alley behind Neely's Bar. He hopped off of the bike and pulled his keys free, running to the employee entrance. He had to get inside and find Gare. It was his shift, so he'd be there with the town drunks, Amos and Derrik.

He shoved the door open and stepped inside, slamming the metal door and searching blindly for the light switch. His hand found the switch and flicked it. Of course, as he had expected, nothing happened. He knew the way through the back room and into the bar, so he was fine either way.

A few stumbling steps through the back room and he found the door leading to the bar. He pushed through, raising his voice as he entered.

"Gare, what the hell is going o..n..." Arthur said, his voice dying away as he took in what waited for him: The bar had been ruined. Stools lay in heaps, broken and piled in the corners. Part of the front window had shattered, and the rest had been covered entirely in old newspapers.

The bar itself seemed to have been split down the middle. It had collapsed partially, almost a full six inches lower than he remembered. The shelves behind the bar were bare, devoid of bottles. They had also been damaged.

What disturbed him the most, however, wasn't the bar, or the stools, or the newspaper. It was what had been painted across the newspapers in brilliant crimson.

"There was a hole here. Now it's gone."

Arthur stared at the red lettering. He had a terrible feeling in his gut that whatever it was, it wasn't paint. He approached the strange message and reached out, touching it lightly. It came away on his fingers, sticky and warm. It stank of copper.

Withdrawing as if burned, he realized that it was fresh. Very fresh. He backed away and then decided that he had to leave. Not just the bar, but the town. Whatever was happening, he had to get out, find help in one of the neighboring towns.

The stack of stools presented Arthur with a weapon. An intact stool leg, made of heavy oak, with a series of nails protruding along it's length. It wasn't a shotgun, but it would do in a pinch.

The towns he could choose from were Paleville, about thirty miles to the west, or Pleasant River, twenty five miles through the mountains to the east. Either ride was going to be harsh in this weather, but Pleasant River had the largest police force, and an even larger hospital than Silent Hill.

Whatever had happened, people were hurt. The bullet holes in the bus had been evidence of either police response or an armed attack. He hurried through the building and yanked open the door to the alley. He didn't bother to close it, as he didn't intend to return.

He climbed back onto his bike and wheeled himself out into the street. He had exited back onto Neely. If he rode south-east, he would end up at the intersection of Sanders and Lindsey. To the east of the intersection was the dirt biking path, Wiltse Road. Then it was a straight shot north and back to Nathan, which would lead straight to Pleasant River.

Arthur liked to think he was no slouch when it came to biking, but as he turned onto Sanders, he couldn't help but give in to his panic. He had left for his ride that morning, anticipating little more than exercise. Now he was sure that if he didn't get out of town, he would be in serious danger.

Yeah...It should be real fun getting up that bike trail and then through the mountains. At least I should get out of this blasted fog when I get higher.

The fog had, if anything, grown thicker. It had seemed as if the sun would breach when he had left the house. Now, riding down Sanders toward the intersection, it seemed to press in closer, like a white blanket of winter. He found his eyes watering against the chill fingers of miasma whipping past his face.

A blur of motion at his side caught his attention. Something was keeping pace with him, running through the trees bordering the road. It was a dog, lurching abnormally as if injured. His eyes strained against the white wall of fog, but only long enough for him to see what it was following him.

Eyeless and sickly yellow in coloration, the slobbering, panting creature seemed to be covered in blood. It's skin hung from it's body in tatters, almost like bandages wrapped around an ancient mummy. It was shaped like a dog, but looked more like some sort of hideous surgical mistake.

The grotesque head turned toward Arthur, and split open from the throat to the crown of the skull, a wet ripping sound echoing through the fog. A long, tube-like tongue lolled out, lashing wildly, throwing streams of blood into the air. The monster, as it was clearly no natural creature, gave a high, wailing cry that sounded like an entire pack of wolves howling at once.

Arthur had kept the stool leg clutched in one hand, using his palm and his index finger to control the hand brake and steer with that hand. The Dog Thing lurched onto the road, plowing through the brush and screaming again.

"You want to play, you ugly fuck! LET'S PLAY!" Arthur screamed, swerving toward the creature and swinging the makeshift club with a vicious stroke. The wood cracked against it's meaty head, and a sickening crunch greeted him in response.

Although the beast was still alive, it shrieked once more, this time in abject pain. It reeled forward, it's forelegs crumpling beneath it as it's head hit the concrete. Arthur could hear it's bones shatter upon impact, the momentum carrying the beast over it's own forelegs and onto it's back.

Arthur continued to ride, watching the creature attempt to stagger to it's feet over his shoulder. It didn't continue the pursuit, opting to shamble back into the trees. Ahead, the bike path came into view.

Any concept of this being terrorists, criminals or anything natural left his mind as he rode on. The Dog Thing had given him enough evidence for that fact. Aliens, a portal to hell, genetic experiments. All of the B-Movie plotlines he'd ever heard of came back to haunt him in one stream of recollection.

Whatever they were, they were hideous, definetly vicious, and pretty damn durable. But they definetly weren't responsible for the destruction in Neely's, or wiping out a bus. And it could never have written a message in human blood.

But whatever they were, they were mortal. They could bleed, and they could feel pain.

If the bastards can bleed, they can die... Let 'em come.