He finally had enough of her racket. Brandishing the pipe in his left hand, Harry strode for the squawking ringleader with purpose. When he was just steps away, he crossed his arm over his chest, his weaponized hand cocking behind his right shoulder like a one-handed batter at the plate. Whooshing, the bludgeon tore backhanded through the air for her - but in the blink of an eye and oxymoronic dexterity, she dropped back with the same ease as a limbo dancer, and kept her head. Harry's eyes bugged.
Fucking incredible; he missed. The failure cost him a brief, vulnerable delay to regather his force, providing her too tiny a window where she could've retaliated; but instead she used it to anticipate the next strike. When his lashings wounded not her, but air, Harry quickly learned that he was being toyed with. Biting his teeth, he chased her backwards shuffles, obsessed over making some sort of contact with any part of her body, but her reflexes were more paradoxical than her existence.
Ire brewed recklessness, which in turn cursed Harry to slip in her oils. Instinct seized his legs and windmilled his arms to counteract a fall, initiating a dance that advantageously bashed one of the two hovering bodyguards in her stomach. The punch hiccuped the girl's sobs and halved her over, as well as served him a good startle - he'd forgotten the twins were there.
Rankled by the slip and unexpected contact, Harry got his ground and by happy chance, and lifted his arm in time to parry the second girl's reach. His defending forearm shoved her back, then he retreated a couple steps. Harry skipped his eyes over the trio, embarrassed to get so sloppy so soon. Self-flagellation would have to be postponed for a later date, in favor of evading the mimic's diving maim.
She missed him, but Harry's retaliating downswing capped her shoulder. Miasmic, boiling hot vapor plumed from the site. Harry threw himself back in the nick of time, saving his eyebrows and his face from melting, but it was too late for his lungs. The gas invaded and pulled a twine drawstring around his throat, preventing any air from getting in or out.
As he asphyxiated and his panicked heart pounded, Harry barreled into the posse to escape, his brawn splitting them like curtains. Tottering into cleaner air liberated the noose, the rush of which made his head not unlike a carousel in the clouds, black fuzz framed his vision and tinned his ears. Although those ailments stacked against him, Harry rebounded on the ball of his foot and began using his pipe like a machete in the jungle brush to hack at the two crying women.
Their conflict was over in seconds. One of the girls collapsed in a heap of snapped bones, blood, and gruesome wailing; and her sister, clobbered so barbarously, was sent twisting a morbidly glamorous corkscrew midair, and crash landed to the floor. Harry stood over her as she mewled her last, morose whimper for her own fate, then died.
The matriarch's immediate mourning roar recoiled the four still alive. Speedily approaching his wit's end with her, Harry turned dead set on decapitating her ugly head right off her neck, or so help him, God. His pounding migraine, unfortunately, crossbred with his aggression, was generating warped perspective. Aware of it but ignoring the problem, his swing intended to make a piñata out of her head - though it seemed she had other ideas.
The pipe was caught before it struck. Harry, blinking in surprise, quickly started to withdraw. She slapped her other hand down 'round the rod and stopped him short, whipping him to her like a fisherman reeling in a once-in-a-lifetime prize. Amazingly, she appeared to have devised a plan to use his stolen footing to fling him to the floor, but her forethought was stronger than her body; Harry's weight outmatched her. Little did she know that she had one small, pricey victory: her gusto managed to toss the files right out of Harry's hand.
He heard the papers slap and spray across the floor somewhere behind him. His spontaneously empty hand, that should not be empty, raised his blood pressure anew. Losing the files had been bound to happen, but that didn't stop him from seeing red. If his right hand hadn't been too cramped to be useful, it could finally help out wielding the pipe to full potential; but that really wasn't the first thing on Harry's mind.
Retaining his end of his weapon, Harry regained his feet, and backing up to put the pipe's length of distance between them, anchored them. Thinking alike, his opponent dug her mucky, puddling soles into the vinyl to hold her ground. Excepting the slippery floor, she determinedly held onto the bulky, rough hook with both hands, and did a damn fine job of it, too. It was applaudable.
Harry watched her turbulent fits erratically wag their outstretched arms, fascinated by her mettle and, if he weren't mistaken to say, smarts. She'd done well trying to execute what he considered to be a rather complicated move. Going off that premise, since she had enough mind to understand it, he wondered why she couldn't figure out that she could simply crawl up the steel hand over hand for him.
The clock was ticking. His curiosity in her vanished, suddenly reminded how sick and tired of her he was. He could entertain those thoughts later; he needed assistance to get her down, and make sure she stayed down. Harry tried to shout over the fracas for his companion.
"JAMES!" The conduit didn't hear him. Harry looked entreatingly over his shoulder. "JAMES!"he thundered.
But the resident was too distrait with his own worries. Gnashing his teeth, Harry beat down the compulsion to blame James for what he couldn't control, and kept the ball rolling on his lonesome. With the cramps in his palm mostly subsided, he clapped his right hand to the pipe, took a deep breath, and vehemently yanked her hard. Bewildered, her chirring spluttered when she bumbled towards him, and Harry swiftly started backpedaling. Tensing his whole body, he proceeded to do what she could not - and spun her like a shot put.
The momentum wildly fishtailed her frame. She floundered, but the sheer dedication to holding on nominated her for a gold medal as she played hopscotch over her dead girls. Harry abruptly halted and snapped her to him like an elastic band. She lost one hold on the pipe, hopelessly bicycling her legs for stability she wouldn't get, then fell. Harry, quick to offset the leftover speed, clipped a few additional steps back as well, and when secure, he found himself appalled.
This fiend still held on like a goddamn dog in a live-or-die game of tug-o-war. Oh, he was infuriated; he couldn't believe that failed. He needed James's attention right now, or he was going to lose his last marble. "James, would you PLEASE—"
The first powbroke the sizzling white noise; powtraumatized her inhuman writhing; and powceased her altogether. Harry growled some snarky gratitude under his breath, bucking his arm to dislodge the cudgel from her vice-like claw, but it wouldn't give. When whacking it on the floor trounced, he began trying to curb stomp her fingers off it. And when that didn't work, he stooped to do it the old fashioned way: by actually prying it out of her cold, dead hand. Oh, the irony.
"God fucking dammit you fucking bitch—"
"Oh, shi— fuck— HARRY!"
An astonishingly heavy weight tackled him before he heard his name. Harry hit the ground rolling, taken on a bumpy ride that was short and not so sweet. The motion was abruptly hamstrung by the mass quite literally coming out on top and straddling the middle aged man. Squirming and gasping, Harry chased a breath that couldn't be caught, and reached to grapple with his assailant.
Two vicious hands ensnared his jacket, peeled him up, then instantly slammed him down again. Harry's head cracked on the tile and shocked him woozy and immobile. Raspy, haggard inhales yearned to fill his lungs as he squinted, incensed, up into the deformed face and single wide-eye, its hateful scrutiny belonging to the smaller of the two runners.
They shared the flashlight's harsh beam to stare while mirroring judgements and suspicions at one another. Darting his eyes to and fro, Harry got the feeling that this thing (this boy?) wanted him to look at him (no no, it) , to pay attention; and he found that rather impertinent. Regardless, he pulled his brows together, watching the stapled lids twitch against the light. In the bloodshot orb, a dark brown, not black, iris compressed the pupil to a pinprick. Attracted by crowded, guttural noises, Harry flicked his eyes down to tightly roped, moldering shoelaces binding the lips, withholding muffled, nauseating sounds like attempts to speak around a bloated tongue.
Harry's frown deepened. Bringing his gaze up, he calmly logged its face and most important features. A lot of things weren't right about this thing - dare he at all call it a boy? no, he mustn't; it's a monster - but there were a lot of things that weren't right in Silent Hill.
And yet, Harry was truly unsettled by what he was staring at, why it felt familiar, and why was it trying to talk to him?
Harry was stupid to fall for the trap and get so distracted. Suddenly, the hellion reared its arm back and like the snap of a slingshot, mashed the heel of its palm into the dead center of its captive's face . Crack. Harry screamed. Blood spilled like juice from a rotten fruit under its palm; then, rooting the other hand on his chest for leverage, leaned its weight in a little more.
The bully was challenged to remain king of the hill astride a man's worming body. While shifting higher up his abdomen, the cretin lifted its chin to elude Harry's feverish, grappling hands. The blood and his frantic sparring didn't mix well, bringing him to gag, every flinch increasing the pain. He thought he might choke on his tongue.
Exploding buckshot shells were loud as cannons - they had been this whole time - but they suddenly sounded different when they were accompanied by wounded squalls. The load on his face drastically mitigated as it instantly whipped its head to watch the commons. Harry felt the mood shift above him; something was wrong, but wrong in a way that didn't involve him. Screwing a leer up at the teenage brute on his chest, the author only half-listened to the commotion, wheezing, and saw his opening. Harry's own blood throbbing in his ears cottoned the howling, irrefutable death throes of a teenage boy, and he ought to be glad for it.
Maybe there hadn't been an intentional trap set this time, but for this sorry aberration, it'd been stupid to get so distracted, indeed. With one eye pinched ajar, Harry pummeled the unprotected ocular above him, and felt it squish on his knuckles. The thing backed off him, yowling in agony. His legs unhindered, Harry immediately kicked the boy (monster!) in the chest, sending him - no, it- away. Crackly breaths sounded like crunching bone as it made multiple attempts to get on its hands and knees. Its wobbling arms caused it to collapse again and again, but before Harry did anything more, the troll found the gumption to get up and run, weaving like a fly, for the lobby.
In the interim, Harry achingly pushed himself to his elbow and gingerly touched his nose. He winced and shuddered, dragging a breath through his mouth. Tasting the coppery blood on his teeth, he spat some red on the floor, groaned resolutely as he stiffly hauled himself to his feet, and waited a moment to get his bearings; he was likely concussed. Finding his sea legs on rickety tides under his feet, Harry weathered the currents, and went to retrieve his pipe.
Harry was pleased to see his weapon surrendered, and claimed it from the dead woman's palm. Realizing that he'd actually freed it before left him miffed; he had really needed it back there. Looking up, Harry squinted into the dim and noticed a body face down several yards from where James struggled to defend himself. Rolling his shoulder, Harry snatched the files from the floor and rushed to the cat fight. It was quite personal now. He had battered bones to pick with the little fucker for breaking his nose, and if any real harm had come to James, hell was waiting for it.
Harry's white-hot vendetta led a counter-assault. Dropping the folders next to James, he came up behind the mutant and brought the pipe down over his head like a rollercoaster's safety bar and entrapped it in a ruthless choke hold. Jamming it into its throat, he began to pry the afflicted off his guardian. James's only defense was the shotgun he'd been using as a poor man's shield between them, and with Harry's aid, tried harder to push it away.
The beast was out for blood, holding on to the military coat as long as it could. Although its resistance was honorable, the men were stalwart, and soon one of its hands lost its clutch on his lapel. However, the steel crushing its neck challenged its attention and determination to choose which was more important, taking James's life to repay for his partner's, or fight to live. Harry's was the greatest danger, so it had no choice, grappling over its shoulder to try to maul his face.
The patriarch tucked his head to the side and wrung harder to rip the second hand from James; and who knew this was the window he needed. Thrusting the shotgun barrel right up under the vermin's ribs like a javelin, he cocked the pump, warned, "Harry, I'm gonna shoot! Move!" then injected buckshot into its pathetic body.
The blast alone flung the boy right off him. Its airtime was brief but the force twisted the small frame, landing it face flat. The altercation left the two survivors panting, and the aberration, watching, accepted defeat with open arms, making a shabby retreat to its recumbent partner nearby. James's frown was open-mouthed to catch his breath as he finally took a gander at Harry.
"Holy fuck. You look like shit!"
"Thanks! Learned it from last year's spring issue of Cosmo," Harry's nasally, plugged voice replied. He sucked on the congestion and licked his bloodied lips, then accidentally rubbed too close to his crooked nose. He gasped and gulped in pain, cursing under his breath, "Ow! Son of a..! little shit!" Glaring at the duo on the floor, he collected the files and sarcastically remarked, "Aren't those two peas in a pod?"
"Yeah," James grunted, reloading. Harry looked him over.
"You alright?"
"Fine."
Disregarding the lie, he looked back at a battle likely won. The smaller beast lay over its consort, its drawn shoulders hiding a bowed head as its body trembled with plaintive sobs. With the action abated, and for all that had just transpired in fighting the good fight for life, witnessing a monster display full emotional range and cognition to grieve was devastating. The survivors became increasingly uncomfortable watching this last ditch, foolish hope effort to believe its partner might rouse, as many others had before; but they all knew the truth. Experiencing guilty remorse for separating a pair through death wasn't something they were prepared to see or feel in Silent Hill - much less a manifestation of humanity. Harry stickily exhaled through his mouth.
"You think that's all'a'em?"
James again looked him over, then movement in the dark bid their attention. A man - a tall, African American man, gauged to be nearing his fiftieth birthday - meandered into the light. He wore navy coveralls stained on the legs and sleeve cuffs, a white shirt peeking under the open collar; and on his hand, fresh blood glistened and befouled the mop handle he held like a staff.
Here stood the enigmatic janitor at last, and they hadn't the first idea what to make of him - except that there was little doubt left in their minds that this lonely, one man cleaning crew was, indeed, human.
In this context, as it were, it was wise to keep an open mind; he could be a prank. Mason and Sunderland kept their alert, wary distance. The custodian stamped the mop in place, shook his head, and tutted at them like an adult to misbehaved children. "You left me a hell of a mess to clean up, fellas!" He complained, disappointedly looking around the commons. His eyes fell on the pitiful two monsters - boys - at his feet. He slowly shook his head.
".. shoot. That's just sad. He's not gonna wake up, son," the school's steward apologized, leaning down to comfortingly pat the small one's bald head. Sympathy wrote itself on his kindly face when it beseechingly looked up at him. He again just shook his head. Dejected, the survivor laid its miserable skull on the teenager's still chest. The man expelled the heaviest sigh. "I gotta find a different job."
His lips folded inward on his second survey, absently waggling the long stem attached to the limp bundle of rope soaked in black. "I wonder," he pensively murmured to himself. "Maybe they're still hiring over at the.. ? Oh, well."
"Who the fuck are you?" Harry soggily demanded. The janitor lifted his head, training his eyes directly onto Harry's with an odd, blank look on his face. Standing tall again, he placidly folded his hands around the handle and leaned into it. The passive act had an aura so chilling, hostile even, that the two men felt like mice boxed in by spring traps.
A sputtering broadcast boomed from the abyss behind the groundskeeper and the hall at their left where the dead women lay. New troops were arriving at pell-mell, moving faster than the initial trio. And, judging by the volume, boasted considerably more numbers in their packs.
They weren't keen on sticking around to see the parade. James elbowed his charge, jerking his head toward the administrative offices. Harry nodded, initially reluctant to follow without even one shred of an answer from the third man in their midst; but his guardian wasn't having any of it. Roughly taking him by his right arm, James shunted Harry out of his inconvenient wool-gathering and briskly drug him away. The janitor, turning his head, tracked their flight.
"Bye now, boys! Don't you come back now, y'hear?" they heard him call. "We don't wanna see you again! Or there'll be trouble!"
Although the threat intermingled with the racket, they heard him loud and clear. To add to that, just as they breached the door jam, Harry thought he heard jaunty whistling. He looked back one more time. The janitor whistled a sea shanty while faithfully mopping the floor that he, himself, once parodied before; and hearing its tune now drained the author's face pallid.
He and James weren't the Spanish ladies the shanty referred to, but was too eerie to be wished farewell and adieu on such a disturbingly bittersweet note. In the office, they frantically looked about in hopes that they hadn't just unwittingly become sitting ducks; there had to be a way out. James spotted a sign alight in glowing red letters above a door at the far corner, and pointed at it.
"Look! Emergency exit!" Looking over his shoulder, the conduit snarled at his distracted, frazzled ward, and indignantly jiggled their arms to get his focus. "Hey!"
Harry bared his teeth in return, jerking his arm to himself, but James didn't let go. "I'm right fucking here!"
"Emergency exit! Let's fucking—" The open cabinets caught his attention mid-stride, prompting him to stop and cast another look back. "You still have the files?"
"Yeah, I got 'em!" Harry's outstretched hand flapped them at James. "Look! I've fucking got 'em!"
Not bothering to look, James pitched his body into the push bar, throwing it wide open, and all but tossed Harry out into the dark. "You better, or else—"
The patriarch, finally on his own, grunted short and hard. He was getting real fed up with being hurled around like a sack of sand, so that had better been the last time it happened. James's manhandling had gotten him somewhat tangled in his sleeves, leaving Harry peevishly rolling his arm to jump his jacket into place. "I havethem," he snapped. "So let's fucking go."
They raced to the street, and, if their night couldn't get any worse, the siren started to bray. Pausing on the broken yellow line dividing the asphalt, they tried to determine which way to go. Their flashlights caught movement from both north and south and next to him, James heard Harry's guttural swearing to hell and back. If it had been any other time or place, James would have found it comical enough to laugh, and he regretted not having the time or energy to even smirk.
Manually sweeping his light, James caught the mouth of an alleyway leading to the next street over. Wasting no time, he grabbed Harry's arm once more and hauled him into the pass. The shortcut blessedly presented no issues and spat them out safely abroad from Midwich while the siren continuously blared. The survivors slowed their rush, scanning the buildings for a place to hide. Sighting rows of stoops not far off, Harry delivered a steel tap to James's calf, heeding him to follow to the townhouses they could depend on.
The fourth townhouse unlocked to sanctuary. James shoved in first, leaving the door open for Harry hot on his heels, and who kicked the door closed like an irate horse. Startled by the wham and quaking wall, James's surliness went to yell at him, but nothing would come of it. Caught off guard, the resident thanked his reflexes for pushing him to the wall and out of the way of being bulldozed down by Harry's wrathful stride. He grimaced, but the jutting pain of the backpack mashed to his spine was worlds better than being flattened under a man solidly built. Reaching for the door, James fumbled to slide the deadlock, and locked them in.
Something solid hit a cushion with a whump. Metal dully clattered on a rug a second thereafter, suggesting the pipe had bounced off on impact, the noise coinciding with the distinct clap of paper sheafs dropped on a hard surface. The duet sounded frustrated. Drawn to the living room, James stood silent and still as an effigy observing a ritual as his charge impatiently shuck the dark brown leather off his back. Habit vertically, but carelessly, folded the garment, then it was thrown onto the sofa.
James sensed what was coming when Harry tightly passed his hands over his head and stalked off out of sight into the adjacent, semi-open kitchen. Anticipation held his breath. Even if his expectations were to be correct, the conduit didn't know how to feel or react when the most patient, controlled man he'd ever meet succumbed to exhaustion and unrest - and screamed.
The sound was gut wrenching, primal, and frightening; and afraid wasn't something he didn't think he'd have to be where Harry was concerned. The rawness felt louder than the static and roused an edge within him he couldn't otherwise name. To hear Harry rip at the seam was so unorthodox of his character that his cry seemed to fill the townhouse from shingles to foundation with stuffiness that reminded him of a hospital's intensive care unit, the awkward heaviness of death being the elephant in the room that everyone tried to ignore.
Interestingly, Harry had seemed to also scare the townhouse itself - so James felt. He tilted up his chin, staring at the corner of the bar counter, listening to the swampy, labored breathing coming from someplace far back in the kitchen. The resident didn't dare lean around to look. His eyes went to the rest of the living room and its standard layout and bland decor. A La-Z-Boy was waiting for him at his right. Peeling off the backpack strap by strap, he placed it beside the chair as he lowered himself into the overstuffed corduroy, and laid the shotgun over his lap.
And then James Sunderland removed himself from the immediate world like he had done for eighteen years while Harry Mason broke, and Silent Hill's inglorious applause deafened his head.