He found the crazy woman just outside of town.
She was more beautiful than G.J. remembered. White, brilliant, energetic. That's how she burned. Hotter than desert winds, brighter than stars. What was left of her haggard corpse was small, curled into a black heap. G.J. could barely look at the body. All he saw was the fire that leapt from her. It danced, unmoved by the storm and the winds, lively and ethereal. Healthy flames.
He sat down next to her corpse, watching as she continued burning. He would have called the cops, had he not heard the sirens coming. It was horrible, wasn't it? At least, that's what a sane person would have thought. The humble gas station attendant was awestruck. Rainbow streams ran from her corpse. Unlit gasoline. How did that not catch fire? How was she still burning?
The white-hot blaze bowed and swayed. Just a simple dance in the fog. G.J. reached out to it. His eyes stayed focused on the flames as his hand went straight through them. He felt no pain. Odd. That wasn't right. He drew back his hand. Flames brushed his fingers as he put his hands in his lap. It was a gentle touch, soft as doeskin.
The fire spoke to him. "You can see me?"
G.J.'s brain seized up. Something hot burst in the center of his head. He leaned forward, gagging on smoke and bile. He placed his hand over his face, never making contact with his lips. Warm liquid oozed through his fingers. He threw his hand out, then shook vomit from it. Like so much sewage. He reached for his face again.
He didn't have a face.
There were two grates over his mouth—one straight forward, one to the right. He traced his fingers backwards. No nose. Plastic eyes. Smooth, rubbery skin. He rubbed down the side of his neck. There was a seam at his collarbone. He picked at it, then pulled his face back. There, he found himself looking inside of a mask. Something round, metallic, and small dropped from it as he shook his sickness out of it.
"You took off your mask."
Officer Delta had arrived. The gas station attendant stood up, his knees as flimsy and rubbery as his mask. Rainwater cleaned the face of a man who hadn't dared to show his visage in years. Not in public. He now stood in front of his best friend, scared and naked.
"Did I always have it on?" G.J. asked.
Officer Delta nodded. "Many people wear masks. Yours was just literal."
G.J. shook as heat stroked his face. He turned back to the sad, burning corpse of the strange woman. "I found her. I was out here, just out walking, and…Why did she do this to herself?"
"She was sick. Sometimes, sick people sometimes hurt themselves." Officer Delta spoke slowly, dragging his words. "Perhaps she thought she deserved this."
"That's terrible," G.J. murmured.
Both the policeman and the gas station worker stood in silence over the burning corpse. The rain crawled to a slow, ill stop. The fire fell as well. It dissipated into steam, into the fog surrounding their little town. G.J. didn't know what to say. Why wasn't Officer Delta accusing him of her death? Did he really know the short, round man that well? Then again, perhaps it wasn't impossible. Even after knowing him for such a small amount of time, it was clear that Officer Delta had a keen perspective on everyone he knew.
G.J. put his mask back out. "Please don't tell anyone what I look like."
"As long as you don't tell anyone what I look like," Officer Delta chuckled.
"I…you know, I'm going to sound crazy," G.J. confessed. "I swore that just for a second, I heard her speak. Like she was still in that fire. Or was it."
Officer Delta didn't reply at first. He lowered his head, rust-brown helmet slick with moisture. "It's possible. Some people can see souls. Ghosts. Maybe you are one of them."
Reaching down, Officer Delta grabbed the corpse. He didn't bother with gloves or body bags. G.J. watched him in fascination. No one would have been that hands-on with the dead. Well, no one, except for the Medic.
The Medic!
"I'm not from here," G.J. said.
Officer Delta bobbed his head. "I know. One day, you just arrived. There were strange things that dropped you here. Their vans had license plates from—"
"New Mexico!" G.J. clapped his hands together. "That's right! I was a mercenary! A pyro! The Pyro!"
The officer pondered, "Pyrotechnician, or pyromaniac?"
The Pyro shrugged. "Both."
That brought another low snicker from the police officer. "That's what I like about you, Pyro. You are honest. There aren't many people like you."
"Well, I don't know many people who would have understood me so well. Especially with this mask on," the Pyro confessed. He tipped his head, "How can you hear me so clearly? My teammates always struggle to understand what I'm saying."
"Let's say I've had similar problems." The officer shrugged his shoulders. "It only takes a little effort to understand people."
The Pyro put a hand on his head. That certainly was the case. He thought quietly as Officer Delta dragged the burnt corpse away by its ankle. Did he want to go back? Was there anything left to go back to? He remembered an awful pain, something worse than burning. Shame. A greedy old man hovering over his naked face. He felt anger flare in his arms. No. No matter what, he had to stop that man. For his lost teammates. For himself.
Officer Delta's head raised. It seemed massive, his nose long and sharp. "G.J?"
"Sorry, Adam. I'm not feeling well," the Pyro replied. He lowered his shoulders, and then his head. "I don't think I can stay here."
The policeman paused in his stride. He released the ankle of the corpse, then staggered back to meet the Pyro. He stood a few feet back, studying the Pyro's change of behavior. The firebug wondered what the officer was thinking. Was he sad? Angry? Did he know of the plans in his friend's heart? He was a cop, and cops didn't like violence. Well, good ones like him, anyway.
"Are you sure?" the policeman said.
The Pyro nodded. "I think so. I feel so lonely without my friends."
Officer Delta could sympathize. "I know how it is to feel that lonesome. No friends. No wife. If you think they are worth being with, then you should find them."
He extended a hand. The Pyro took it. They shook, pale skin and black gloves slick with rainwater. "You are always free to come back."
It didn't take him long to pack. There was little he wanted. He purchased a few supplies, grabbed some containers for matches. He couldn't find a proper flamethrower. Still, there were axes in town, and a local gun shop did have a flare gun. So, he had a few weapons to take on his journey. No car, though. He found himself chuckling at that. For all of his work filling up cars and washing them, he never had one for himself.
A longer trip, perhaps. But, there were always buses, trains, and cabs.
When he left town, Officer Delta walked him out. They went up quiet hills, past lakes, hospitals, and graveyards. There were rail-thin people wandering in the mist, mourning over moss-covered, crumbling headstones. All so pale and hunched over.
"I didn't know that we had such a large cemetery," the Pyro wondered.
Officer Delta nodded. "Does it scare you?"
"Not really," the Pyro replied. "Nothing really scares me here."
"Well, you're a good man. When folks don't have anything to hide or lose, they're rarely frightened," the officer rambled. "Although, I'm assuming that in your line of work—"
The Pyro shrugged. "I've hurt a lot of people. But, they get back up."
The officer sighed. He seemed dissatisfied with that knowledge. "Just don't harm those that don't deserve it."
"You've got it," the Pyro promised. "Besides, I mostly fight robots now."
Officer Delta put a hand on his hip. "Well, then. Now, I've heard everything."
The officer raised a hand. He pointed out towards a road that spiraled past the cemetery. It seemed to all but disappear in the fog. "Follow that path. Avoid the town directly south of here. It's a bit of a mess. Brahms is a fine place, should you want to rest. The cops get a little testy there, though, so make sure to be on your best behavior. You should make it there before sundown."
"I can't thank you enough," the Pyro said. He gave one last wave to his friend. "I'll miss you, Adam."
"I'll miss you too, G.J," the officer replied.
The two men parted ways. In a strange way, the Pyro felt a pang of guilt. He kept looking back, watching for a tall, white figure in the fog. His friend was moving in his separate way, too. Slow, ambling, dragging. He studied the figure disappearing over the edge of the cemetery's hill. For a moment, he felt guilty and uneasy. Was this the correct decision? Maybe he was better suited for this town of strange people.
He shrugged, then continued on his way. There was only one way to find out if what he was doing was right.
The moon hung full, gargantuan, unrealistically huge. It floated and shimmered in a black sky, hanging just above a row of dilapidated letters. It was clear what they were supposed to spell—Hollywood—but two of the Os were torn to shreds. That didn't seem to bother the occupants of a nearby car overlooking the hills. It was rich, red, too expensive for its owners. They didn't worry about its cost. The only thing on the duo's mind was the state of each other's necks and how red they could become.
Eyes watched the hungry pair from snarled bushes. Teenagers. Always teenagers. They made such easy targets. More fragile than an adult, but foolish enough to feel immortal. The brush shook as a dark, massive shadow moved towards the car. Brambles snagged its thick fur. It settled down again, sniffing, the powerful scent of cologne and perfume mixing in the air like a cloud of noxious neurotoxin.
The shadow listened to its prey. The smaller of the two—a perky young girl—was giggling and batting her boyfriend back. "You hound! What if someone's watching us?"
"I didn't think you cared all that much," her boyfriend replied, his voice charming. Not the tone of a young teenager. No cracking or awkward pauses. Completely unbelievable. "Besides. Anyone who's up here just wants to look at that stupid sign. Or to neck. Like us."
The girl pouted. "Hey! Keep your hands at ten and two, buster!"
Her boyfriend sighed, then pulled back. "Sorry. I'll take it slower."
The young lady guided him back. "No. Here, silly." She took his hands, then drew them towards her chest. The shadow watching them groaned as she placed her boyfriend's hands on her body once more. Perhaps there was a time when he would have found her boldness charming. Now, he was closer in age to her father than her boyfriend. He found it very uncomfortable.
And that was why he had to kill them—because they were young, dumb, and randy.
The shadow continued to creep upon the car. Neither teens noticed him approach the vehicle. He steeled himself, then paced behind the vehicle. He walked ungainly, feet and hands resting on the ground. On all fours. He reached out a left hand. It could barely be called that anymore, with the way that fur and nails had erupted from it. Dragging it alongside the car's body, it shrieked, paint peeling like skin.
He reached the back of the car. Slowly, carefully, he set his feet on the bumper. Not the feet of a human. Dog's paws. He clambered over the side, staring with a drooling mouth at the teens. If the car had a hood, then he could have stopped here. But, no. He had to continue. His nails stuck to the leather interior as he crawled into the backseat.
"Did you hear something?" the naïve girl asked.
With a mighty roar, the shadow rocketed upwards. He shook the car with the force of his leap. His fur was jet-black, matted, wet with sweat. His claws dug into the upholstery, ripping stuffing and springs loose. Both teens screamed as he bared his teeth. He howled, a hymn for the full moon, before lunging down at the hapless victims beneath his maw and claws.
Another shout went out. "Cut!"
The massive monster flopped into the back seat. The two teens popped up, laughing and shrieking with delight. They swatted at the creature's monstrous paws. He hit back, making more playful growls. Horseplay was the only way to defuse each other after filming intense scenes. It reassured the actors that no one was going to be hurt, no matter how into their scenes they got.
The car bounced again. A man in a red floral shirt and khaki pants hopped into the back seat next to the monster. "Good doggie. I'm loving the creepy walk. Could you do more with your mouth, though?"
The actor inside the monster threw his mask back. The cool air felt good on his sweaty face and moustache. He stuffed his hands into the werewolf's maw. "Ya see this? I have no control over this. Can't make it go up 'n down. You're gonna need a puppet for that."
"You need to get closer to Bridget. Like this!" The director leapt over the side of the backseat. He made half-hearted attempts at growling as he reached for the young actress.
She slapped him back. "It's Margaret, you ass!"
"I'm not comfortable with that, lad," the actor argued. "This mask's so big, I'm afraid I'm gonna headbutt her."
The director shrugged. "Hey, that's okay! Real blood! It'll make the scene genuine!"
That earned the pushy director another slap from young Margaret. "Jackass."
Now, the other young actor was starting to get frustrated. He yawned, then laid his head back. "How much longer are we going to be out here? I'm getting tired."
"It's barely two in the morning, and you want to go to bed?" The director shook his head. He gave the actor a sigh. "Kids these days."
The man in the monster suit exhaled, then cracked his neck. "'m tired too, mate. Been in this bloody costume for fourteen hours. Could use a shower and a snooze."
The director shook his head. "What are you all, union workers? Geez!" He shooed them away. "Fine, then. Let's pack it up. I've got some sinning to do, myself."
The crew disbanded for the night. It was amazing how fast they could pack up and go. The budget for this production was shoestring, and the crew treated it as such. Props and boom mikes were tossed about with hardly a care for their wellbeing. The camera was tucked into a case, then thrown into the back of a pickup. The lead villain removed his own costume. No assistants for him—just a man in a fluffy suit, complete with easily-visible zipper. How they were able to land such a rich car, he didn't know. If he had to guess, it was because the producer owned several lemon dealers.
It was hardly a dignified film, but it was a solid job. For that, the B-rated actor couldn't complain. It was either this schlock or exploitation films. Sure, he could act as intimidating as any hardened thug, but his accent was completely wrong. He could be a stern, strong cop, but too many feared his eyepatch. About the only thing his disability and vernacular were suited for was pirate films. Those circumstances were the worst of all. No Red Legs Greaves was he. If he got a role in a pirate movie, it was always prefixed with either "Voodoo" or "Caribbean." He found that trend irritating.
At least he hadn't been hit up to perform in some drunken director's X-rated version of Macbeth.
The actor's drive home was peaceful. Most of the barflies were beginning to crawl away. Even so, traffic was surprisingly tolerable. His apartment was a little hole in the wall. No heat, no central air, not much going for it. Very loud neighbors. Still, he didn't mind it. The cheap door was a barricade against the rest of the world. Not that he didn't like the environment, but sometimes, it was just good to shut people out.
He didn't plan on being up for much longer. Just a shower, then bed. He rubbed his arms and forehead, all sticky with his sweat. The hot summer night wasn't going to give any reprieve. If he was lucky, perhaps he'd get four or five hours of sleep tonight. He yawned, then stumbled to his bathroom. It was good that he lived in such a cheap apartment. He didn't have time to enjoy it, anyway.
The actor tossed aside his white undershirt. Shorts and underwear hit the ground simultaneously. That was all he could stand to wear under that hideous werewolf costume. He gave himself a crooked look in the mirror, then opened the drug cabinet. Not that he needed anything in it. He just didn't want to look at himself.
Whatever had happened to his eye, he didn't know. He could hardly fathom it. His fear of his visage made him a rarity in Hollywood—an actor repelled by his own face.
At least the rest of him was pretty damn decent.
The actor took a good fifteen minutes in the shower, just letting the water rain down on him. Sometimes, the only way to beat the heat was to crank the shower even hotter. By the time he would step out, his skin would be chilled by the temperature difference, and he could peacefully sleep. He thought he was going to fall asleep on his feet. That would have made for an embarrassing morning. He'd be less human than prune if that happened. Not to mention what so much water would do to his—
There was a knock.
The actor reached for the shower knob. He twisted it closed. He held his breath, listening for the sound. It happened again. Sloshing out of the tub, he reached for a nearby towel. He gave himself a brisk scrubbing, then threw it around his waist. Who could that be, so late at night? He stepped to the entryway, then peered through the peephole.
Two women were staring back.
They didn't seem intimidating to the actor. Both were small, light, dark-haired. Maybe mother and daughter, based on their similar appearances. He unlocked his door, then pulled it back gingerly. The younger woman was able to maintain eye contact with him. The older was not, much more fixated on other parts of his anatomy.
"Mister DeGroot?" the younger lady asked.
"Aye?" the actor replied.
The young woman in purple stood her ground. "We need to talk."
Author's Note
I thought about having the last part ending with Miss Pauling forcing the Demoman out of his apartment by gunpoint, but I thought that was a bit excessive.
I would also guess that someone will want to roundhouse kick me for the Pyro bit. Especially the ones that went, "No way! That's chronologically impossible!" But, I wanted to experiment with the idea. Or, maybe it's presumptive of me to assume that all mute or intelligible video game people would like each other? Who knows? It's possible that they would communicate better with each other, at any rate.
…maybe the name was too obvious.
I'll put jalapeños into the next chapter. Promise. Sometimes, you've gotta take it slow to enjoy what's quick.