Chapter Four

The absolute shock had yet to wear off of both women, as Rose remained in her position crouched behind the bumper, Cybil standing close by, for the most part keeping her eyes fixated on the form of the other woman, while occasionally darting them about so as to keep on a constant state of alert; it would seem that Silent Hill had gradually been making its way to the residences of the two friends, but had, naturally, reached Brahams first. There was no doubt in Rose's mind that the 'varmint' Cybil had spoken of were the demons the two had met during past travels; those disgusting, horrifying, half-roasted bodies, meandering about on twisted limbs and displaying other sickening deformities; those creatures she wished never to encounter again. Alas, here she was in Brahams, only a short distance from the devil's hideaway, sitting and cradling a limb already half mangled by way of mistaken identity on the part of her dead best friend, who wasn't so dead after all and was instead standing with a rifle poised to shoot anything that moved and might spit acid at her. 'Twas surreal--in the most preposterous, twisted sense of the word.

Cybil's cast her gaze down upon Rose, her every nerve of every cell flat out refusing to obey her brain's signals which told of the fact that she was no longer alone in the misty hell; that Rose had somehow managed to survive the wrath of the lunatics gallivanting around that town; that she had returned safe and sound—and daughterless. Upon realizing such a distinctly important piece of information to be true, the young cop's mind leapt to far off conclusions. Sharon hadn't made it. Somehow her mother had failed to retrieve her; somehow she had met a fate of similar type to the one Cybil herself had very nearly been faced with; somehow she had perished in that sweltering pit-like inferno, and Rose had returned in an attempt to cope. Her eyes swept across the pale face of the woman close by, taking in every speck of dust, every faintly visible line of aging, every thin scar which marred its genuine loveliness, in addition to the one of a more recent history, the wheels of her intelligent mind turning and grinding as they analyzed the emotion each blemish did its best to withhold. 'Twas then at which she laid eye to the injury so nearly concealed beneath the cloak of Rose's opposite palm, an injury detectable only by the barely viewable flecks of crimson scattered upon her blouse.

"My god—Rose—let me see that."

Fiercely hands of chilling temperature tore the unscathed palm from its place covering the wound, giving Rose little time to react and once having felt the sharp pain which accompanied the sudden motion, flinched violently and let out a short yelp. The cop pulled her wrist out to an extended position where she could examine the injury, the leather of her pants creaking in protest to her crouched position beside her friend, and every so often her eyes flickered elsewhere, likely still on the lookout for foes. It took a longer time than Rose would have liked for the other woman to determine the cause of the injury to be a bullet from the rifle which now lay against the battered rear bumper of the SUV. Quite obviously she had connected the dots though, for an instant later she uttered a particularly vulgar word and grabbed Rose by the upper arm, pulling her swiftly to her feet.

"C'mon. Inside."

Once again, there was little time for Rose to react, let alone protest, though she did manage to lay hold on the rifle as Cybil practically dragged her toward an abandoned building she hadn't even realized had been present until that particular moment. The butt of the rifle trailed a wavy depression in the ashen soil, for Rose was unable to lift it any higher due to its ridiculous length, in addition to the fact that she was nearly tripping as it were—she didn't need the extra worry of keeping it off the ground. At long last Cybil released her to push open an outrageously weighty wooden door, heavily laden with tainted brass décor; Rose seized the opportunity to shift the position of the rifle to one of more comfort; Cybil moved aside and shoved her through the entranceway with a tad bit more force than had probably been necessary. In her previous time in Silent Hill, however, Rose had grown used to the cop's ungentle nature—in physicality at least; emotionally the mother was quite aware of her friend's softness and sensitivity.

Yes, the interior mind of the young officer was nothing of the steely outward appearance she had chosen to take on, even now that she was back with Rose in a similar situation as to the one they had fought their way through just a short time ago. In fact the woman was a rather over-emotional creature, one only who tended to deny that inherent piece of her being. Rose knew her for who she was, for the most part, but even in her presence Cybil was rendered incapable or unable to adhere to that fact, and allow herself to act as the human she knew she truly was.

As Cybil slid a thick board into place behind the door so that it might be prevented from opening, and braced a large shovel against it as well, Rose collapsed into a dusty chair situated just a bit too far from the nearby desk to provide her with the knowledge that it had not been moved from its place. The short scratches upon the dirtied flooring were cast about in all directions, though they ended beneath the clawed feet of the chair, indicative of some sort of struggle, perhaps. Slightly unnerved, the mother glanced about the room; empty slots lined the walls of two sides of the room; the desk by which she was seated was home to an ancient wheel-dial telephone and several withered and yellowing notepads; the last two walls were plastered with crooked portraits and rust-framed photos of horses carrying leather pouches filled to the brim with envelopes.

"How old is this town anyway?" Rose inquired, her voice calm but distant, as if she were distracted by the obvious history the building held. The pain in her wrist had long since subsided to a dull, throbbing ache, thus she was nearly unaware of the injury as if it had never existed at all—until Cybil turned 'round at her position by the door and let out a quick demand that Rose stay where she was, as she had been fixing to stand.

"This place wasn't part of the town," the cop voiced as she fished out a bandage from the utility belt wrapped 'round her waist. "It was one of the last stops on the Pony Express route. I'm not sure how the telephone got here."

She knelt down and took Rose's wrist once more, causing the mother to inhale sharply, flinch, and look down, instinctively attempting to pull it from the other's grip as she did so. The cop's grasp was firm, though, and Rose was ultimately unsuccessful; she relented to permitting a small amount of water to be poured onto the wound, flushing out infection to the best of its ability, and grimaced as the bedraggled bandage was wrapped repetitively about her wrist. Once finished, Cybil righted herself and walked over to a dirt-frosted window, cleared a viewing space with her sleeve, and gazed worriedly through it. Rose followed her with her eyes, but they were momentarily distracted when the shovel slid to the floorboards with such volume, both were certain the scraping of the metal was in fact the unwelcome sirens of the church at Silent Hill.

The officer reacted quickly enough; an instant in time past and the shovel lay wedged tightly beneath the oddly shaped handle of the door, likely unable to be moved from its place there; Rose watched with uninterested eyes as the object was put in said position, and after a brief moment's thought, chose to turn the subject in a more…necessary…direction. She fidgeted in her spot on the chair, Sharon's face coming to mind as her mind drifted backward in time to Silent Hill, and as she prepared herself to ask the question which would have rightly been on anyone's mind had they just discovered one they thought to be dead was anything but, and braced for the surreal response she would most likely receive.

"Cybil…" the mother began quietly, uncertain how exactly she should word the inquiry, for she wished for an answer that was as short and to-the-point as possible. No memories were desired to be stirred up if it could be avoided. The cop looked around at her, probably already knowledgeable as to just what the question was Rose intended to ask. "Would you mind explaining to me just how the hell you managed to get yourself out of that last…predicament?"

Hiding her face from view and nodding more to herself than to the speaker, Cybil gripped a rope which dangled aimlessly and uselessly from the rotting ceiling above with one hand, and rested the other on the empty holster which had once been home to her pistol. The woman wasn't keen to speak of the matter—this much was obvious by the far-off expression present in her features—and though she made no attempts at dancing around the matter, her reluctance did indeed result in a most unsatisfactory reply. Having composed herself, two steps were taken so as to round on the seated Rose, each placed with the dull thud so characteristic of her heeled leather biker boots, and the cop spoke.

"Let's just say it wasn't particularly easy to get my hands on one of those half-dead monstrosities."

"A substitute?"

"Of sorts."

Silence ensued, the anxiety so thickly laden in the damp and foggy atmosphere that one might have dared venture to slice a section of that emotion free and remove it for other uses; neither woman happened to be ambitious enough—or courageous enough—to properly finish whatever excuse for a conversation they were currently disengaged in; Cybil unprepared to continue, and Rose frustrated and deeply unsatisfied. Alas, little could be done to ease the tenseness present there, for a vicious cycle had enveloped them both; one unwilling to voice further inquiries and the other as equally unwilling to either answer or accept the silence. This unnerving bit of quiet was shattered soon following, however, when Rose moved to a standing position and strode about until she was placed a comfortable distance away from her friend, holding in her hand a familiar possession. A blackened, soot-veiled, bullet-less pistol, which Cybil accepted with a faint smile.

The moment of calm evaporated upon immediate contact of the pistol and the ammunition which the cop had seemingly conjured up from nothingness, as a beastly crash came from the direction of the brazen door, no doubt some sort of entity seeking entry to their previously named safe haven.