Chapter Three
The rain frolicked upon the windshield of the SUV, frisking and dashing about, attempting to avoid the dangerous energy the determined wipers could apply to send it flying elsewhere, away from its most beloved playground. Rose's eyes were set stiffly on the winding strip of black continuously appearing at length before her, the faded yellow strips placed slightly off-center, the white sidelines minute and slight, nearly undetectable. Her hands gripped tightly the ten and two-o'clock positions on the wheel, not exactly the most proper position, nor the safest, but nonetheless a working one. The faint hum of the rubber tires doing their best to grip the slick pavement dropped the woman into a sort of trance, one in which she was aware of what was immediately going on around her, but not so much what was beyond those goings-on. Her attention shifted however, when she passed an all-too-familiar road sign: Brahams—1 mile.
The realization that she had actually found her way back to the one place she had made a personal vow never to return to snapped the woman out of her glaze, and she slammed on the brakes for no reason in particular. Or perhaps there had been a reason. Had a being just crossed her path, or was it only her mind playing another cruel trick on her? Perhaps it was her nearness to Silent Hill breaking through the thin layer of her sanity. Or maybe it had already broken through. It wouldn't have been a surprise—anyone's presence here was enough to drive them to question reality. She lay her forehead against the wheel, hands refusing to relinquish their hold upon that same leather circle, and allowed several additional groups of salty tears to find home at the base of her chin, only to tremble to the point of letting loose and splashing down upon her faded blue jeans. Once composing herself, she raised her head and peered into the rearview mirror, noting the deep semicircles beneath her red and swollen lower lids, and how they had darkened considerably since her last critical look into a mirror.
Her hair was clean, though dull in color from days of remaining inside her suburban home, surrounded by damp atmosphere, and possessed by worry. Her skin seemed to have suffered the same fate; although 'twas relatively young and smooth, its hue was that of pale, sickly old woman, who perhaps lay dying in an uncomfortable hospital bed, in a dreary hospital room void of flowers and lacking visitors. She ran a finger over a gradually fading scar which traveled in a downward direction beside her left eye, wincing at the light flash of pain that accompanied the gesture. She didn't recall just what had left said mark upon her once lovely complexion, and to be truthful, she would have rather kept it that way. After all, most of the memories of the hellish Silent Hill that would be forever etched within the confines of her mind were less than pleasant.
A sudden burst of movement caught out of the corner of her eye resulted in the woman's sudden upward snapping of the head, and the rapid motion of whipping it around to cast her gaze in the direction of that movement, only to see empty fog and ash. Her ribcage expanded and contracted in quick, nervous breaths as she moved her hand to lock the doors of the truck—a probably futile attempt at securing her safety—but an attempt nevertheless. The light thud of the locks shifting into place caused the woman to flinch and jerk the hand toward her ear in a sort of unwelcome reflex, but she managed to stop the movement before it had been fully carried out. Her first thoughts deemed the sudden activity seen outside the vehicle to be a member of the satanistic town, a foe, a danger and something to be feared. However, another area of her mind suggested—or hoped, one of the two—that it was actually another human being, and someone who quite possibly could help her. But was it merely wishful thinking?
All at once, the passenger side window of the SUV exploded into thousands of tiny, piercing shards of supposed safety glass, causing Rose to throw her arms out before her, shielding her already suffering face from further damage, and falling into the door, and unlocking the doors by pure coincidence. Panicked and mindless at the present moment, though knowledgeable of the unlocked doors, quivering hands fumbled for the latch, and by instinct alone scrambled out of the vehicle. Her body hit the hard ground with a dull thud, knocking the wind out of her momentarily, but not so long as to prevent her from attempting escape. In truth, it probably hadn't been the most intelligent idea to leave the truck—the steel would have provided far more protection than open, mobile air. 'Twas then she came to realize that a thin trail of blood was coiling its way down from her wrist, wrapping around her forearm and finally coming to rest and drip from the point of her elbow. She was injured already—that couldn't possibly be a good sign.
Grasping her wrist with her uninjured hand in an effort to slow the bleeding, the woman rolled onto her stomach and then struggled to her feet, slouching as she fled the short distance to crouch behind the tire of the truck, holding her wrist up to her chest and struggling to catch her breath. Her every sense was on high alert, combing the area by all possible means and prepared to react to even the slightest hint of approaching…creatures. The sound of nearly silent footsteps reached her ears, following a pattern of steps similar to those of the drag-footed demons that walked the nearby town. But what were the chances that the creatures had left their domain to roam elsewhere? Would they? Or perhaps more importantly—could they? Rose listened anxiously as the footsteps neared, and she edged sideways as quietly as humanly possible, around the rear bumper of the truck. All too late she realized that she had been spotted, and another shot was fired her way, only to be followed by a short and constricted gasp of disbelief. An instant later, knee-high boots and leather pants filled Rose's ground-fastened gaze.
"What the hell kind of sick death wish do you have Rose? This place is swarming with varmint, and you're out here joyriding?"
The young woman's eyes ricocheted off the ash-cloaked earth to connect with those of the dumbfounded cop, blue to blue, and each equally painted in outright astonishment. Swallowing some small amount of shock, Rose managed to let out a tiny squeak—a poor excuse for a reply—but it would have to do.
"I'd hardly call it a joyride, Cybil."