Jones fingers the strip of adhesive plaster on his head, the wound beneath serving as a painful reminder he'd crashed his Chevy on the outskirts of town. He was lucky enough to find this medical centre, where he was able to adequately patch himself up.
The clinic consists of a main lobby and three examining rooms. After investigating, Jones determines that there is not a soul in sight, neither here, or anywhere else for that matter; a ghost town.
The notes he had read in the file began to puzzle him further. With all the roads out, Peters had claimed he was trapped in the area. But Jones had no problem locating this place, and he hadn't seen any collapsed roads.
He finds a map and places in it his pocket, along with the other useful notes he'd stripped from Officer Peters' file.
Outside, the air is muggy and the persistent mist continues to linger. What next, run around town shouting out Dr. Cole's name? Jones wasn't even one-hundred percent sure the psychiatrist had come here and he'd never be able to spot him in this terrible visibility.
Jones examines the immediate area and notices an old fashioned speaker system pinned to the outer wall of the clinic. It reminded him of his childhood, of summer camp, the speakers blurting out the tooting of a bugle at six in the morning.
"Wait a minute…" he says, perking up.
He notices a chord that runs from the speakers, connecting to a power outlet on the wall. From this, a wire extends, shooting away into the mist.
"It's a warning system,"
If he could find the control room, he might be able to use the speakers to hail Dr. Cole.
"Another wanderer," a voice whispers.
Jones' head darts sharply to the right and he spots someone sitting on a roadside bench.
"Identify yourself!" he demands.
She studies him with murky brown eyes. Across her dried, cracked lips, a wry smile appears. What could once have been the face of an attractive young lady was now haggard and worn, not through age but through malnourishment. With almost ghostly movements, she rises from the bench and stands up straight.
Even beneath the grey robes, Jones can tell she is far too thin to be healthy, with barely a scrap of fat on her. Narrow cheek bones perk up as she begins to laugh. Her hair, mousey brown, though greying in some places, is wrapped tightly within a purple headscarf. Lockets and crests hang from her neck via chains, carved with symbols Jones can't identify.
"Submit yourselves therefore to God. Resist the devil, and he will flee from you,"
"Answer my question!" Jones demands forcefully, "Who are you?"
"How
rude of me," she replies, "It's been so long, I had forgotten
the necessity of introductions. You may call me Myshella,"
Satisfied,
Jones nods, moving his hand away from his holster.
"Finn Jones, I'm a…"
She cuts him off quickly, "I know who you are,"
Unsettled, Jones demands an explanation.
"Well
it's simple. He told me,"
"I'm looking for a
missing person," Jones explains, "Male, late 50's, grey hair
and beard,"
"Another lamb separated from the flock?"
"Who are you?" Jones repeats, this time with more urgency.
"I already told you, Myshella is my name,"
"What are you doing here, how do you know me?"
"So impatient! With an attitude like that, life must have been tough on you. Exactly the type he craves most,"
"Okay, whatever," Jones says, "I'm taking you to Brahms. You shouldn't be hanging around in this town by yourself,"
"You can't leave," she sighs, "Not until he's dealt with you,"
"Don't make me use the cuffs,"
A crashing sound is heard down a nearby alleyway. Jones turns his head to meet the noise but sees nothing but white haze. Returning his attention to…
"Hey!"
The mysterious lady called Myshella has disappeared.
"What the hell was that all about?" he mutters to himself.
Again, a crash springs from the alleyway, a dust bin being knocked over perhaps.
"Is somebody there?" he calls.
His lack of control over the situation bothers him. The Doctor was missing in the town and now this woman too? And what a strange one she was. How did she know his name? Who was this 'he' she kept referring too? The questions were beginning to stack up. What would Carter say if he were here?
'The difference between a good cop and a rookie is attitude, having the desire to find the answers.'
Myshella had disappeared, and sifting through this fog would lead him on a wild goose chase.
He decides to check out the alleyway. The crashing sound was probably caused by a stray cat, maybe a hungry fox knocking over a bin, searching for food. However, with little else to go on, his police training tells him he should confirm the source of the disturbance, but why that cold feeling in his gut? His gun hand twitches. He's ready to use it if necessary.
"It's abandoned," he assures himself, "What's here to shoot?"
To Jones' concern, the alleyway reeks of rotting meat. Flies can be heard buzzing, but not seen. As he takes step after step into the narrow suburban corridor, the wind seems to fall still, leaving him with naught but the sound of his footsteps and breathing to accompany him. Suddenly, a new sound comes into fruition, a squeaking of some sort, like a bike chain in need of an oiling. He approaches the source of the sound with caution, apprehension tightening the muscles in his chest.
The garage door is spattered with blood and gore. Beneath it, there lies a wheelchair on its side, the free wheel spinning at pace.
"What the hell?"
Studying closer, Jones notices the seat is soaked with a warm liquid, probably urine. It was almost as if someone had been sitting in this wheelchair, and had come crashing into the garage door. There is a small puppet lying next to the chair. A stuffed duck, maybe?
"Hello?" Finn calls, concerned someone might be hurt.
He almost thinks he hears someone reply, but after calling once more, all stays quiet.
He feels a brief wind caress the back of his overcoat. Over his right shoulder, he sees a small animal, presumably a dog, disappear into the mist.
"Hey," he calls.
After glancing at the bloody garage once more, his brain throwing up all kinds of explanations, he gets to his feet and presses on down the alleyway.
"Here pooch,"
The pattering of paws can be heard maybe thirty yards in front of him, and he's forced to pick up the pace to keep up with the animal. After chasing the sound for the best part of a minute, it finally stops and Finn can see the animal's tail and back, its front half obscured behind a brick wall. It looks like an Alsatian, perhaps a guard dog. Finn considers that it could be dangerous, but as it didn't attack him a moment ago, he deems it safe to approach.
He moves around the brick wall to see the dog is lying down. The Detective squats down and prods its back with his index finger. It's not moving, not even stirring. Something smells really, really bad.
He shuffles forward until he's close enough to see the dog's face in detail. He recoils, jolting back and hitting his elbow off the concrete pavement. A jolt runs through his arm and into his body but he ignores the pain, transfixed on what's in front of him.
Safe to say the canine is dead, half its face seemingly missing. Jones grits his teeth before taking another look. It seems to have been attacked by a blunt weapon, its face crushed inwards more than anything else. Its eye, dead or not, is fixated on him.
"Jesus," he mutters. Who could have done this?
Jones begins to feel a deep sickness. Spit thickens and neck muscles tighten, so he turns away from the unfortunate animal. Forcing himself to his feet, the smell too much to take, he eyes the alleyway's dead-end. With nothing he can do to help the poor animal and no further direction to progress, he decides to return from whence he came. As he passes by the blood smattered garage, the wheelchair no longer squeaking, he hears a tapping sound behind him.
The dog, at the head of a trail of blood, twitches violently on its side, what's left of its tongue flapping out of its mouth and the claws on its paws ratting against the concrete. It moves to look at Jones, registering that he's there. He can see the fear it its eyes – its one good eye - as it yelps uncontrollably, desperate for his help. He's forced to turn away and cover his mouth, holding back the urge to vomit.
After a few moments, he steels himself and turns to see that the dog is on its feet and has limped closer to him, still twitching, the tip of its nose tapping against the ground. He reaches into his coat and fingers the ring hammer on his pistol, knowing what he has to do.
A bullet though the brain puts the suffering canine down for good. Jones feels a great a great swell of compassion for the poor creature as its eye goes dead. It leaves a bitter taste in his mouth as he turns away.
He's only able to take a few steps before yet another sound alerts him. He turns quickly to see a little boy sobbing on his knees, hunched over the dead animal. It must have been his pet, Jones assumes.
"Hey, what's your name?" he asks sympathetically.
No reply.
"Is this…" he hesitates, "I'm sorry, kid. I'll uh…"
For a moment he considers offering the boy a new dog, before deciding to re-plan his tact.
"Where are your parents? I'll explain to them what happened,"
Still the boy does not reply, simply rocking back and forth, completely distraught.
Jones moves closer to the child's back. Squatting down, he places his hand on the boys shoulder, offering his condolences. His CB Radio begins to whine a high pitched frequency, so he switches it off to avoid frightening the child.
"What are you doing here all alone? Are your folks nearby?"
The boy looks up at the Detective, the young eyes projecting his melancholy. Suddenly, he wipes the tears away and begins to laugh. Pointing his finger at Jones, the child is laughing hysterically.
"Nah nah nah nah naaaah!" he repeats over and over.
"Hey kid, calm down!" Jones exclaims, grabbing both of the boys' shoulders.
He continues to chortle uncontrollably, so Jones shakes the child, trying to break him out of his fit. His head drops, and the laughing soon goes quiet. For a few agonising moments, nothing happens. Eventually, the child looks on behind Jones shoulder, and points again. The Detective turns his head.
On the garage roof stands another child but no… this isn't right. Its head is humungous in comparison to the rest of its body, and its limbs are bent and distorted, the right leg far longer than the opposite. With a sickeningly high pitch, it begins to cry and wail uncontrollably. The sound seems to barrage Jones from all angles. He feels cold touch on his left hand and as he turns his attention back to the boy in his arms, he is greeted by a new face, twisted beyond previous recognition, mutated and wrought with pain. Two elongated, tendril-like arms reach for Jones' throat, so he darts out of the way, rolling onto his feet.
He draws his gun out of instinct, but holds back on the trigger finger. Emotions begin to conflict within him. Is this really a child, should he shoot? Confusion turns to panic as he stares in disbelief at the creature unevenly trudging towards him. As his hands grow numb, the gun he holds becomes a cold lump, completely useless to him. His training hasn't prepared him for this, whatever this is.
What once was a boy, now a frightening mess of charred skin and malformed shapes, steps ever closer, reaching out its arms in need. Its skin smoulders and melts, dripping down and morphing into black gunk on the pavement below. The high pitched wail pierces his ears, gnawing him to the core.
A sharp pain bites through his skull. He spins around, and through sheer reaction speed, catches some form of projectile in his left hand. He opens his palm to see a small rodent, its head missing, torn off. He discards it in disgust, before being struck on the forearm. He looks up to see more of the demonic 'children', armed with various objects which they fling at Jones without hesitation. To the best of his ability, he avoids the storm of stones, twigs and, to his dismay, chunks of meat and flesh.
He darts out of the alleyway, leaving the chaos behind, not stopping until all sounds of pain and torture can be heard no more. It's only then that his brain starts to process, and soon enough, his body follows suit, expelling a rising tide of bile from his guts. Holstering his pistol, he slumps down against a lamppost and covers his face with his hands. What in God's name is happening here?
Respite is short, yet another dull blow connecting with his skull. He puts his arms in front of him to prevent his chin colliding with the pavement. Rolling to his side and propping himself up on his right knee, he focuses on the assailant.
The attacker wears overalls spattered with black liquid, possibly a mechanic's uniform. He's holding a small metal pipe with a rusty chain wrapped around the end. The mask over his face bars all chance of identification.
"Who are-" Finn can't even finish his sentence, the blow to his head taking toll. Sound and vision begin to escape him but determination still remains. He reaches for his pistol, but the brain is fading and the body can't carry out the order, his hand missing the holster and sending him crashing to the pavement.
He shakes his head clear and with one last rush of adrenaline, he rises up and charges towards his opponent, ready to take him down. A simple barge of the shoulder knocks Jones off balance, and he crashes waist first into a metal railing, expelling him over the edge. Hurtling downwards, he hears the air tearing, until finally a cold sensation blankets his body. Liquid blocks up his ears and his final moments of consciousness slip away from him.