Chapter Ten: Al Fresco (1985)
Milford stopped breathing, feeling fingers of solid ice slide tenderly down the back of his neck, slipping down all the way to the end of his spine like the keys of a xylophone.
"Oh, Milford?" The voice cooed again. "Did we get cut off? Just like Jenny's fingers?"
"Don't you dare touch her!" Milford snarled, finding his voice in a rush of adrenaline and fury.
The killer laughed - that horrid, child-like enthusiasm that had haunted Milford for the past two days, inhabiting his every waking thought. "Good, good. I wouldn't want the fun to end just yet."
"Where are you?" Milford growled, feeling his grip tighten on the receiver with every passing moment.
"Oh, we're at home, Milfy! YOUR home, to be precise. And we have a special guest star! Say hello, Rosie!"
Milford's breath caught in his throat, nearly choking him, as a small girl whispered a soft "Hello" down the line.
"There's a good girl," the killer cheered. "I assume you got my message, hmmm? My task is nearly at its end, but Rosie might be my favourite yet! You just have to come down and meet her, Milford!"
Milford crushed the receiver in his hand, hearing the plastic strain and crack.
"Oh, I'll be there," he hissed. "With a shotgun and a meat tenderizer."
The killer let out a throttling chuckle. "Oh, yes. I'd expect nothing less. But be warned, if you do decide to bring law enforcement with you, I'll make sure I take both Rosie and Jenny down with me." Another gut-wrenching snigger.
"I'm not calling anyone," Milford spat. "This is between you and me, you sick little fuck."
"Quite right. No more masks. It's time to have a face-off! Ha-ha! See what I did there, Milford? I said fa-"
Milford slammed down the receiver, unable to bear another second more of the sickening smugness; the overbearing tide of insanity. Yet, as the ringing of the killer's voice in his ears started to dull out, he found his anger too subsiding, replaced by something close to tiredness - resignation, almost.
Suddenly, it didn't seem to matter any more. Things were going to resolve themselves regardless of what he did. He was no longer the hero.
When he looked back at Andrew, the janitor was staring at him fearfully.
"Was that him? The Purple Guy?"
Milford nodded without making eye contact. "Yes, it was. I think his little game is up. And not by any choice of ours."
"What now?" Andrew's voice sounded tiny, further away than ever before, as if he were phasing out of Milford's world and into another, where blood, guts and pizza did not belong together.
"I'm going to confront him," Milford said quietly. "And if I can - if I get the opportunity - I'm going to slay him."
"You can't go, Mifford!" Andrew wailed. "He'll kill you!"
"I have to, Andy, he's got Jenny..." Milford replied, more weary now than anything else. "He's already won, by his standards, if he chooses to. The only hope I have left is that his standards aren't quite so low."
Milford started to walk, and Andrew, in a panicky and shaken voice, got up to try and stop him.
"Don't you even want me to come?"
Milford stopped, sighed, and looked back. "Stay here, Andy. When it's over, I'll let you know."
And with that, he was gone. He walked straight out of the storeroom, through the darkened restaurant, and out into the night, at which point the darkness closed its jaws around him and swallowed him whole.
Shakily, Andrew sat down upon a wooden box. After a few seconds, he started to cry.
Milford did not take the bus back home. Mainly because he was in no fit state to patiently wait for half an hour and however long the inevitable delay would last, but also because walking kept the blood pumping to his head; kept him alert, kept him thinking.
But, soon enough - sooner than he had truly wanted, he stood at the end of his path, the stone pave he had walked up so many times without giving it a thought now like a fiery walkway into hell's gaping mouth. The very shrubs he had tended and weeded come weekends were transformed into the faces of jeering devils and monsters with forked tongues and fiery tridents, all waiting for their chance to do their damage.
The door was ajar - open ever-so-slightly, but just enough to create a sense of nerve-grinding foreboding as he closed in on it. As he pushed, the door creaked as it always did when he opened it, but this time it was a much louder, grotesque sound. The door swung open, and the carpeted hallway was spread out in front of him like a browned tongue, welcoming him into the tastebuds of Satan himself.
Milford walked slowly, each footfall like a flying leap as he closed the distance between the door and the dining hall at the end, where he could already hear the faint sounds of a chair creaking across the floor, accompanied by a quiet rustling that could only be a hostage struggling against roped binds.
A moment - or, perhaps a century - passed, and then Milford entered the dining room. The lair of the beast.
Golden Freddy was standing very still at the end of the room, bloodstained knife against a small girl's - Rosie's - throat. Although he still paraded the mascot of Freddy Fazbear's Pizzeria atop his head, Milford could tell that, underneath the golden fur and round, empty eyes, the killer was smiling.
"You're late for tea," he laughed, before slashing Rosie's throat hard and swift, like the striking of a cobra.
Milford bit down hard on his tongue, tasting silver, and mercury - and failure. In the corner of the room, Jenny, tied roughly down to one of his dining chairs, let out a muffled scream of despair from behind her gag.
Rosie's limp body fell to the floor, and Golden Freddy pushed it aside with one foot, dropping his knife to the ground to the clattering of metal, and the sickly splatter of blood. Milford instinctively advanced on the killer, but as quickly as they had disarmed themselves, they had re-armed, pulling a silenced Glock from behind their back and pointing it at straight at Milford's head.
"I'm curious," the killer announced loudly, pausing for expected effect as though it were a declaration of great importance. "How did you escape my Spring-trap?"
Milford let out a bedraggled breath. "I'm still working that out," he muttered, looking around the nightmare that he was currently drifting through with pained eyes. "Maybe I haven't. Maybe I'm still there."
Golden Freddy chuckled. "Oh, well. It hardly matters. I suppose you want to know how I reprogrammed Freddy? How I created the pinpoint cameras? How I-"
"No," Milford stated firmly. "I'm don't. I'm interested in one thing only. Seeing you die."
"Well, we both know that isn't going to happen," Golden Freddy retorted, jiggling the Glock as though Milford needed a reminder of its presence. "But, I do owe you one concession. No more masks. No more hiding."
Still pointing the Glock straight at Milford's frontal lobe, Golden Freddy - or the creature that inhabited his shell - tore off his head with one swift action, tossing it onto the ground.
Milford heard Jenny's soft gasp, but he barely even moved as the costume was violently shrugged off and discarded, piece-by-piece, and deposited in the corner of the room, next to Rosie's bloodied corpse.
"Not surprised?" Joe asked, feigning a disappointed snivel as the last of his facade was set aside. "Not even a little? Just for me?"
Milford had lost the feeling in most of his body, but he gave a little movement in his shoulders, intending to suggest a shrugging motion.
"It doesn't matter to me who it is under the suit," Milford said, calm as a blanket of snow, and just as icy. "It never did. Because it was never what was inside that mattered. It was Golden Freddy. You were never more than him. Never will be. It's the suit that I want to destroy - the thing inside is only a secondary casualty."
Joe sneered at his former friend's apparent disinterest in him. "You know what, Milford? You sound more loony than I am. Maybe YOU killed those children."
Andrew sat in silence in the Pizzeria.
He had been sat in silence for a long time. An hour. Perhaps two.
Milford had not called for him.
Slowly, he started to rock and forth on top of the crate, watched by the inactive animatronic legion stood about the room. If Andrew had been more perceptive, he may have not noticed the green mucus stains around some of the costumes - their eye sockets and mouths leaking from inside-out. Closer inspection would have also revealed a ghastly smell; rancid meat, mixed with the putrid odour of congealed blood.
But Andrew was not curious. He was distraught, and there were few things that would have distracted him from his self-absorption.
However, one of these things was sat beside him. And it started to show him things.
SAVE THEM.
Andrew clenched his eyes shut as the images started to come, barrelling into him at brute force, with no mercy.
Blood. Guts. Screams.
"No," Andrew wailed, now covering his ears to no avail.
The images and sounds were in his mind.
SAVE THEM.
"I don't know how!" Andrew whispered, fresh tears coursing down his cheeks.
YES, YOU DO.
And Andrew stopped crying. Because he did.
GIVE LIFE.
Andrew looked around at the animatronics. Freddy. Bonnie. Chica. Foxy.
And suddenly, he knew exactly what to do.
Milford stared blankly at Joe as he zipped up Rosie's body inside the Golden Freddy costume, her startled expression and bloodied face disappearing inside the body of the thing that had taken her life.
"All of the children are still in the Pizzeria," Joe mumbled as he worked. "I stuffed them inside the spare animatronic costumes. One for each character. My way of sticking the place the finger... It's not like I was ever going to evade capture, so why not have a little fun with it?"
Upon hearing no response from Milford, Joe continued to monologue, concealing his irritation at being ignored.
"You know, I wanted you to see me as I am, Milford," he said, smiling through gritted teeth. "Every day, I wanted you to see through my disguise... See me for what I really am, just like my wife did... The self-deprecating jokes, the appearance of internal struggle... That was my costume."
"Is this about your son?" Milford asked. It was the only part of Joe's ramblings he had any interest in hearing about.
Joe's eyes lit up, pleased that Milford was finally paying him some attention. "He was always his daddy's boy. Not any more, though. That bitch has taken him from me for good... But now I have the last laugh!"
"He must be so proud of you," Milford growled. "His daddy, an empty, vacuous killing machine."
"At least I don't hide myself away," Joe snapped, becoming angrier now. "Not like that bitch, draping herself in fur coats and crocodile-skin handbags to plug the holes in her persona. Not like you, letting your designs, your work, be subjugated by a thankless corporation, imprisoning you with menial work and menial wages."
Milford let the words bounce off of him, remaining silent and maintaining a deep stare. Joe seemed to squirm slightly under the gaze, for he suddenly put both hands on his Glock.
"I think that's enough talking now, though," he said. "I had been planning to kill you first, old pal, but then you punched me..."
Indicating his swollen lip, Joe continued. "It actually really fucking hurt, ya know that? So now, I'm not going to grant you any mercy. She goes first."
And just like that, Joe swivelled, and aimed at Jenny, tied down on the chair. And suddenly, Milford's will to live came back with a vengeance.
"Get away from her, you bastard!" he roared, taking a big step towards Joe. However, Joe turned and aimed at Milford once again, prompting him to stop in place.
"One more step and I'll put one through your leg," Joe hissed. "And then, I'll stick my thumb in the hole, like THIS!"
He mimed a horrible twisting motion with his finger. Milford did not move, but the adrenaline continued to flow from every pore in his body.
"Any last words, Jenny?" Joe asked, looking at his captive but gun still trained on Milford.
Jenny did not attempt to speak from inside her gag, her eyes fixed on Joe with an intense radiation of hatred.
"Very well. That's all folks!" Joe chortled, spinning around with finger poised on the trigger.
Time seemed to slow. Not entirely pause, but came to a crawl. And in that veritable frame of action, several things happened, in neat, chronological order, separated by mere seconds.
First, Milford threw the cast-iron candlestick which he had covertly tucked at one side as he got up to attack Joe. Then, the stick whizzed through the air, striking the killer straight across the side of his head. Following this, Joe's whole body shifted to lean on one side.
Finally, Joe squeezed the trigger, and the bullet left the Glock's chamber.
Then, time resumed.
Milford was beside Joe before the costumed killer could so much as scream out, unable to recover from the battering blow to his head before another, this time delivered via the medium of a bunched fist smashed into his nose. Then another, and another, until Joe, an unrecognisable streak of red, dropped onto his side, whining quietly in pain.
Milford hovered his foot over Joe's neck, invigorated by the power that holding a man's life in his hands granted him; imagining how Joe had felt when he had done the same to him, back in the pitch black of the saferoom.
"Eyes wide open, Milford!" Joe cried, trying hard to avoid a fearful appearance, but with a faltering conviction.
Satisfied at seeing his foe upon the ground, so utterly helpless, Milford placed the tip of his foot on Joe's windpipe, applying a light pressure.
His former friend and colleague stared at the limb in front of him with terrified eyes - those of a fattened pig in a slaughterhouse, moments before their throats are swiftly, yet humanely, cut. He didn't speak a word, completely incapable of making a sound other than a low-pitched gurgle, but Milford could see the pleading in his face.
He had never seen a man so terrified in his life.
"Oh, you wish I'd make it that easy," Milford whispered, as he moved his foot from Joe's neck.
The relief in the child killer's face was only temperary however, soon replaced by wide-eyed shock as the foot came down, instead, upon the side of his head, then concluded with nothing at all, as Joe slipped into a pained sleep.
Milford exhaled deeply, examining the Golden Freddy killer as he lay on the ground in front of him. Vulnerable. For a moment, he wondered if he made a mistake in letting him live, but then he looked over at Jenny, seeing the relief and the affection in her eyes, and he knew he had made the right choice.
After dialling 911, Milford went over to Jenny, slashing her binds with a knife from the kitchen and pulling out her gag. The second she was free, Jenny leapt out of the chair, throwing her arms around Milford in a hug that was practically suffocating.
"Oh god," she sobbed. "Thank god you're alright!"
Milford let out a little chuckle, which took on a whole life of its own to the point where he simply couldn't stop laughing. Each sharp intake and outtake of air was like an adrenaline spike, and soon Milford felt lighter than air.
"I'm okay," Milford whispered, somewhat incredulously. "What about you?"
Through tears and involuntary shaking, Milford felt Jenny nod her head up and down.
"There's something I wanted to ask you," Milford said quietly, prompting Jenny to pull away. "Now's as good a time as any."
The expression on Jenny's face was priceless. A look of bewilderment and quiet excitement that couldn't quite be matched by anything in the world.
"Jenny..." Milford began, pausing as he realised he didn't quite know how to finish his sentence.
"Do you like Indian food?"
Jenny's Scream-like gasp transformed mid-sentence into a grin the diameter of the Mid-Atlantic gap. She playfully slapped Milford's arm as he took out the glistening gold ring that he had been carrying around for the last three days, fitting it on her finger.
"I love you, Milford," Jenny whispered, her voice muffled, but by emotion this time, rather than a black rag.
"I love you too, Jen."
The lightbulb clicked on Milford's head, and he suddenly pulled away.
"Sorry babe, I'll be back. There's still something I need to do."
The first light of dawn was streaming inside the Pizzeria in small, piercing shafts when Milford arrived in the parking lot. Upon his lofty sign, Freddy gazed down at him with his big, dopey eyes and Kermit the Frog-smile.
"Is it just me, or does he look happier than usual?" Milford thought, dismissing the concept with a knowing smirk, and pushing open the unlocked front doors.
Andrew practically frog-jumped up from the table he was sitting at when Milford walked in. His eyes swam with mercurial joy, and Milford felt his soul physically peel at the sight of it.
"Is it over, Mifford?" he asked, already knowing the answer, but wanting to hear it spoken nonetheless.
"The Purple Guy is in custody," Milford smiled. "It's over."
Andrew grinned so hard Milford was sure his face would break. He knew he had to tell Andrew what must happen next, but the thought of doing so left him bloated with a cold dread.
"Andrew," he started, but the ex-janitor cut him off.
"I know," he smiled. "It's time for me to go back now. I ready called the cops. I always known it was gonna happen - I'm just glad it got to happen now, with you here."
Milford felt like a bundle of fluttery butterfly's had been released into his insides. "As an escapee, you'll be treated very harshly. Visitation is... unlikely. I'm... I'm sorry, Andrew."
"Dun't be," Andrew said. "I had a blast seeing you again, Mifford. And this time its different, too."
Milford frowned. "Different? How so?"
"This time I get to say gudbye."
Milford felt a rush of affection for the spindly man, and he put his arms around him tightly. Andrew was initially surprised by the motion, but soon relaxed into it, his own arms gently coming up behind Milford.
"You're one of the best men I ever met, Andrew," Milford whispered. "You're going to be fine. I promise."
Andrew tensed in his arms, seemingly stunned by the words. "And you's my best friend, Milford."
Milford drew back, incredulous. "You... You called me Milford, Andy."
Andrew chuckled. "Isn't that your name, Mifford?"
Milford laughed. And laughed. And kept laughing. He felt like a pufferfish expelling the points on its body one-by-one.
"I'll see ya before you know it," he assured Andrew, who nodded.
In the distance, the sound of police sirens was becoming more audible. As the headlights swept around the corner, Milford sat with Andrew at the table, looking about each other one last time at the Pizzeria where they had both once worked. Both where they met, and where they parted.
Such is the humour of coincidence.
Joe sat on the little black stool facing the glass pane, picked up the phone receiver on the desk, and gazed out at his visitor. On the other side of the barrier, his visitor did the same.
"I was wondering when you'd show up," Joe said.
The voice on the other end of the line was silkier than a pillow at the Ritz, but seemed deeper somehow, as though taking on a new darkness. "I've been pre-occupied cleaning up your mess. And what a mess it was."
Joe's stony face clouded. "Hey, I did everything I was told!"
"Up to a point," the visitor retorted. "But you failed at the last hurdle, as we knew you would. The ritual of the fifth child was completed outside of the Pizzeria. And now, the whole thing has come crashing down."
Joe did not reply. He could feel his fist curling and had to force his body to relax.
"We're in the process of finding a replacement candidate, but it may prove difficult. The site is now under strict investigation. There is a lot of talk about shutting it down."
"Not my concern," Joe growled. "Not any more."
The voice in the receiver cackled with laughter. "I'm afraid its not that simple, Joe. Once you fall in, you can never just fall out."
"Well, what am I supposed to do?" Joe replied angrily. "I'm serving five life sentences here! I'm lucky I can even get a visitor, if 'lucky' is the right word to describe seeing you again..."
The voice was not affected by Joe's disdain. "We'll be in touch, periodically. But we are grappling with a more important problem now."
"Oh?"
"We are foiled by another. A powerful being. A nightmare made flesh."
Joe snorted. "Oh, good."
"We'll work it out. But until then, this is goodbye, Joe."
The line went quiet, and the figure on the other side of the glass stood up, tucked in their chair, and walked away.
"What an ass," Joe thought, as his cuffs were put on and he was led back to his cell.
The darkened pizzeria, previously a vapid vacuum of sound, was suddenly alive with noise. The dull, groaning thrash of metal as four animatronic endoskeletons rose from the floor, straightening their backs to a rigid stance.
Next to them, hovering several feet off the ground, was Andrew's puppet. Well, not Andrew's...
Not anymore, if ever at all.
The puppet raised its arms, outstretched wooden fingers seemingly clawing at the air. The animatronics followed the movement of the puppet with their steely gazes.
LIFE.
The puppet unleashed a flurry of images. Children playing, laughing, crying.
Good times, bad times. The time of their lives.
NEW LIFE.
The puppet threw down its hands very suddenly.
ETERNAL LIFE.
And at the signal of their saviour, each of the four animatronics reached down to their feet, and picked up the costume head that lay there. That Andrew had placed so carefully.
Freddy. Bonnie. Chica. And Foxy.
And then, the Freddy animatronic laughed. A deep, resonating yet cheerful laugh.
Life had found a way. Such is the humour of fate.
TO BE CONTINUED...
A/N: Age of the Bear shall return in November. In the meantime, I am releasing a five-part Animal Crossing/Silent Hill x-over starting in October. If you're a fan of either of those properties, I hope you'll check it out! Anyway, stay tuned for more, Fazfans! The next arc has a strong focus on the animatronics, and finally brings the story into game territory. Get hype!
Soufflé.