Chapter 28 – Consequences
Alex continued to stumble deeper into the fog. His heart was pounding just like a drum as Joshua's figure disappeared into the fog. The shrouded alley closed in around him and each breath he took tasted like metal and rotting meat.
"Joshua!" he called again. The echoes that returned to him felt warped, almost alien, as though the town was mocking his struggle to find his brother.
As he turned back to try and retrace his steps, the air only grew heavier. The fog shifted again, unnaturally, wrapping around his ankles and wrists, tugging at him like tentacles. His vision blurred, and the only sound was his breathing.
Alex turned a corner, expecting a return to the alleyway, but the world had changed. The concrete walls are now oozed with rust and grime. The iron bars jutted out like the ribs of a beast. The floor was damp, covered in a crimson liquid that Alex prayed wasn't blood.
The unmistakable metallic clang of an Iron Gate slamming shut somewhere, jolted him. He froze, gripping tightly the knife concealed beneath his coat. A wail echoed from the far end of the hall, distant yet somehow intimate, as if mourning the years of agony embedded within these walls.
"This place again?" Alex murmured.
He edged forward, his footsteps making wet, squelching sounds on the floor. The stench of decay grew stronger, his every step uncovering shadows that seemed to slither away just at the edge of his vision.
A faded plaque loomed out of the darkness, rusted beyond legibility save for a single word: Toluca Prison. The name triggered something in Alex's memory, a history lesson from his dad. Toluca Prison—the "Other Andersonville," a dark chapter where prisoners of war and other prisoners, were left to rot, wasting away in their own filth during the Civil War. Many had suffered and died here.
A hollow clang rang out behind Alex, like a key being dragged along the bars of a cell door. He spun around, knife in hand, but found only darkness.
The quiet was broken by whispers, crawling along the walls like insects. Some muttered phrases in old accents, remnants of tortured soldiers and prisoners. Others shrieked pleas
"Forgive me…"
"Don't leave me here…"
"We paid the price… why must we still linger here?"
Alex's chest tightened as he finally reached the end of the hallway. A heavy wooden door stood before him, its surface was marked by claw marks and bloodied handprints. He pushed the heavy doors open, and the room beyond felt impossibly vast, like a warped courthouse or an execution chamber. Chains hung from the ceiling, some swaying of their own accord.
In the center of the room was a single chair bolted to the ground, a throne for whatever had once ruled this God-forsaken place. Shackles dangled from its arms and legs, worn thin by struggle.
As Alex stepped closer uneasily, his throat dry, he noticed something carved into the chair's backrest. Words etched by hand:
"Here we answer for our sins, together in blood."
The whispers swelled into screams, and Alex felt a burning heat behind him. Turning, he saw the rusted bars glowing red-hot as though molten, shadows pressing against them from the other side. Figures emerged, dragging their twisted forms forward. One resembled a soldier, jaw unhinged and hanging by sinew. Another was strapped in chains, constricting his body.
Alex staggered backward, gripping his knife tighter. His instinct screamed at him to fight but against this? Has this nightmare given form? Compared to those cultists from before, what chance did he have?
Suddenly, the sound cut out. Alex turned, heart racing, as the figure of a child emerged in the center of the chamber. Joshua stood there, unnervingly still, his head cocked slightly. He clutched a tattered toy rabbit, stained red at the edges.
"Josh…?" Alex whispered.
The boy didn't respond. Instead, his lips twisted into something faintly resembling a smile before he dropped the stuffed rabbit. The toy hit the floor with a wet splat, and Joshua disappeared back into the fog.
The shadows pressed again closer, and the ground began to tremble. Chains rattled, and somewhere in the depths of the Otherworld, a low, growl sounded, like a predator woken from its lair.
Alex tightened his grip around the handle of his blade as he scrambled back towards the door.
He had to get out. Now.
His breathing became uneven as the shadows twisted into grotesque forms. At first, they resembled people, vague, broken shapes in torn uniforms. Then they twisted, mutating into nightmares.
The first figure came into the dim light, a grotesque amalgamation of flesh and iron resembling a nurse, but it was dressed in tattered military fatigues. Its face was obscured by a gas mask fused into its flesh. Syringes and scalpels jutted from its hands like claws, clicking menacingly as it approached.
Behind it shuffled others, hunched figures clad in filthy prisoner uniforms, their skeletal bodies wrapped in barbed wire. Their mouths gaped unnaturally, emitting moans as they dragged rusted blades across the floor.
Alex cursed under his breath. He didn't have time to think about why or how these monstrosities existed if they were reflections of himself or this hellish town. He just knew he had to survive.
"Josh is out there," he told himself, forcing his hands to stop shaking.
The military nurse lunged, slashing out with razor-sharp scalpels. Alex sidestepped at the last second, driving his knife into its side. The creature emitted a horrid, gurgling sound but didn't stop, swiping again wildly.
His heart hammering, Alex backstepped. The combat knife wasn't enough. His hand instinctively went to the stolen shotgun slung over his shoulder.
With practiced efficiency born from his days in the army, Alex loaded a shell and pumped the shotgun, the metallic click sending a thrill of confidence through him. The nurse lunged again, and Alex fired point-blank.
The blast echoed through the chamber, scattering bits of flesh and metal. The nurse crumpled to the ground, twitching before finally going still.
He didn't have time to celebrate. The barbed-wire soldier lunged, its blade thrusting towards Alex's chest. He raised the shotgun just in time to block the strike, sparks flying as the rusted metal screeched against the barrel. Alex kicked the creature back and swung wildly at a pipe protruding from the wall. The clang reverberated painfully, but it loosened the metal pipe enough for him to rip it free.
He swung it in a wide arc, smashing the soldier's face with enough force to send it sprawling. Two more figures closed in, another a nurse and a second prisoner wielding a noose fashioned from chain links.
Alex fired again, the recoil slamming into his shoulder. The nurse fell, but the prisoner dodged, its movements unnaturally quick. The chain looped around his shotgun, yanking it free from his grip and sending it skidding across the floor.
Swearing, Alex swung the pipe again, catching the prisoner's arm. The creature didn't react, lunging with the chain. It wrapped around Alex's wrist, its barbs digging into his skin. He cried out, feeling warm blood trickle down his forearm.
"Focus, dammit," Alex growled. Channeling his rage, he yanked hard, pulling the creature off balance and ramming the pipe through its chest. It let out an otherworldly wail before disintegrating into ash.
Breathing heavily, Alex glanced at his torn wrist and winced. He didn't have time to patch it back up, the growls behind him warned of more enemies approaching.
"Stay down!" he ordered, grabbing the shotgun off the floor and loading another shell into the chamber.
More figures began to emerge, shadows slithering out of the walls themselves, blending the line between Alex's days in the army and the horrors of Toluca Prison. One looked like a distorted, bleeding version of his drill sergeant, its voice screaming as its jaw unhinged.
Alex swallowed hard. He didn't know how much longer he could keep fighting. But he knew this much: whatever twisted lesson this town was trying to teach him, it wasn't going to break him.
"Bring it on!" he shouted, raising the shotgun and charging forward.
In the back of his mind, the image of Joshua lingered, standing silently, watching. "You're still alive, Josh. I'll get you out. No matter what."
Alex stumbled into a darker section of the prison, his arms ached and he was exhausted from the fight. Blood dripped from the wound on his arm, the sting barely registering past the adrenaline running through his veins.
Then he saw it, a faint glow of color piercing ahead.
"Josh?" he whispered, hope flickering in his chest.
He staggered forward, rounding a corner to find Joshua sitting cross-legged on the floor behind thick iron prison bars. The boy was oblivious to Alex's approach, his small hands carefully dragging a crayon across a torn piece of paper. On the page, Robbie the Rabbit stared back with lifeless eyes, the reds and pinks of Joshua's crayon work seeping unnaturally into the corners of the paper.
"Joshua!" Alex called, relief washing over him.
Joshua barely glanced up, his expression calm, serene in a way that clashed with the horrors around them. "Hi, Alex," he said softly, before returning his attention to his drawing.
Alex dropped to his knees before the bars. His hands wrapped around the cold, rusted metal, pulling with all his strength, but the bars wouldn't budge.
"Josh, I'll get you out of there!" he grunted, his arms straining as he wedged a loose metal pipe between the bars and tried to pry them open. The pipe groaned under the pressure but held firm, as immovable as the prison itself.
Joshua shook his head gently, setting the crayon down. "You can't help me, Alex."
"What?" Alex froze, desperation rising in his chest. "Of course I can! Just hang on. I'll find a way!"
"You can't help me now," Joshua replied, his voice eerily calm. "You have to go back."
Alex stopped pulling and stared at his brother in disbelief. "Go back?" he repeated. "I can't go back, Josh! I came here to find you!"
Joshua stood, the sketchpad forgotten as his gaze met Alex's. His wide, unblinking eyes held a strange mix of sadness and something deeper, almost knowing.
"You have to go back," Joshua said again, his voice quiet but firm.
"Go back where?" Alex demanded. He shook the bars in frustration, but the sound they made was hollow, dead.
Joshua stepped closer to the bars, his small face only inches from Alex's now. "You don't understand yet," he whispered. "But you will. You can't save me…."
A flash of guilt and anger surged in Alex's chest. "Josh, I've done everything for you. Everything! Don't you see what I've gone through to find you?"
Joshua tilted his head, his gaze unflinching. "You think this is about me?"
Alex blinked, his heart sinking. His brother's calm, cryptic words twisted in his chest like a knife.
"What are you talking about?" he asked, his voice cracking.
Before Joshua could answer, the fog around them thickened, billowing through the bars like a living thing. Alex's vision swam, the world shifting and warping. Joshua began to fade, his figure dissolving into the haze.
"Josh! No, don't go!" Alex shouted, reaching through the bars, but his hands met nothing but cold, empty air.
Joshua's voice drifted to him, echoing faintly, "Go back, Alex… before it's too late."
The fog consumed everything, leaving Alex once again alone in the darkness of the Otherworld. The bars before him were now bent and mangled, the sketchpad and crayons lying abandoned on the ground, smeared with rust and blood.
Alex sank to his knees, gripping the cold ground. "Josh… what are you trying to tell me?"
Alex sprinted down the seemingly endless halls of Toluca Prison, his breathing labored and his hands clammy around the shotgun. The rusted walls seemed to pulse, alive with a grotesque rhythm. Shadows shifted unnaturally in the flickering, sickly light. The floor beneath him groaned, the sound like the tortured moans of the souls trapped within the otherworldly prison.
He didn't stop. Couldn't stop. Every sound, every faint cry or creak, made his heart slam against his chest. The figures, nurses, prisoners, those twisted reflections of his memories, they could be just around the corner. The only thing keeping him moving was his desperation to escape this nightmare.
Finally, a faint shimmer of light broke through the rust and darkness ahead. An exit? Or another trick of this cursed place?
He ran toward it, the light growing brighter. He didn't see the hand until it was too late.
A powerful yank stopped him dead in his tracks, spinning him around and slamming him against the cold wall. His first instinct was to make a swing with his fist at the figure, but then he saw his father's face.
"Damn it, Alex!" Adam growled, his face a mask of barely restrained fury. His hands gripped Alex's shoulder and arm so tightly it hurt. "What the hell were you thinking?!"
"I, what?" Alex stammered, disoriented.
"You ran off!" Adam barked, his voice low but sharp. "I told you how dangerous this mission is! We're infiltrating a damn cult, Alex! Not taking a Sunday stroll!"
"I didn't just run off! I saw him, Dad!" Alex countered, pushing Adam's hands off him. "Joshua! He was there, behind these prison bars! I - he was in some… otherworld or something. He talked to me! He told me I had to go back!"
Adam's expression shifted, his scowl deepening. He stood silent for a moment, his jaw tightening as if weighing how much to say.
"Silent Hill…" Adam began, his voice quieter now, "It's not just a place. It's something else. It can… twist reality. Show you things." He paused, searching Alex's face. "That 'otherworld'? It's real. At least, as real as this hellhole we're in."
Alex stared at his father, the weight of those words settling over him.
"You knew?" he asked.
"I knew enough," Adam replied. "And I know this: running off like that? It's going to get you killed. Or worse."
"But Dad-"
"No!" Adam snapped, cutting him off. "Listen to me, Alex. I know you want to save your brother. So do I. But running into the dark, chasing shadows, whatever that town or this prison is showing you, it's going to get you killed. And then what? Huh? What happens to Joshua then?"
Alex clenched his fists. "You think I don't know that? I'm not doing this for fun, Dad! I saw him. He's alive!"
Adam's features softened just a fraction but kept his tone firm. "And we'll find him, Alex. But we need to stick together. Do you understand? If you can't, then we're both dead and so are Lillian, Elle, James, and Josh."
Alex swallowed hard, as the anger drained from him, replaced by a sense of guilt. "I understand," he muttered, his gaze falling to the ground.
"Good," Adam said, stepping back and adjusting his rifle. "Then stay close. We have a lot more ground to cover, and it's only going to get worse from here."
As Alex fell into step behind his father, he glanced over his shoulder at the rusted corridor behind them. The faint echoes of Joshua's voice still lingered in his mind, haunting him.
"Go back, Alex…"
Alex shook the thought from his head. He didn't know what Joshua had meant, but he knew he couldn't let him down.
The room was almost too pristine for its setting in the Prison, a rather small, darkened chamber in one of the upper floors of the cult's hideout. Margaret Holloway sat at a polished wooden table, her hands neatly folded in front of her. A faint, calculated smile rested on her face as if she were simply entertaining a guest at her home. Across from her sat Lillian Shepherd, stiff-backed, her hands clutching her lap to keep them still. The tension between them was palpable.
Margaret broke the silence first, her voice calm and pleasant. "It's been a long time, hasn't it, Lillian? We used to talk like this all the time back in the day. Remember those charity meetings we used to organize? The bake sales, the luncheons…" She trailed off with a small, nostalgic laugh. "Simpler times."
Lillian didn't answer, her gaze fixed firmly on the table. Her lips were pressed into a thin line, her expression cold as steel.
Margaret sighed, as if disappointed. "Oh, come now, Lillian. There's no need to be so hostile. We're all in this together, aren't we?"
"Are we?" Lillian's words were sharp, cutting through Margaret's facade. She looked up then, her eyes piercing, her voice steady. "Forgive me if I don't share your… enthusiasm for what you're doing. I never asked to be part of this nightmare, Margaret."
Margaret tilted her head slightly, her smile faltering but not fading. "You act as though you've been forced, Lillian. Let's not rewrite history, shall we? We all have our roles to play. Yours just happens to be, well, a little closer to the heart of things."
"Spare me," Lillian snapped back, leaning forward, as she gripped the edge of the table. "You used deceit and threats to get me here, Margaret. I've done my part because I had no choice, not because I agree with you or your delusional vanity 'Project.'"
"Delusional?" Margaret raised her eyebrows, feigning surprise. "Such a strong word. But then again, I suppose you've always had that fiery streak." She paused, her eyes narrowing ever so slightly. "Isn't that what drove Adam away in the first place?"
Lillian flinched, the jab hitting its mark, but she recovered quickly. "Leave my husband out of this," she said, her voice like ice. "He's nothing like you. He never was."
Margaret leaned back in her chair, her smile widening just enough to be unsettling. "Oh, Lillian. You think you know Adam so well, don't you? Yet here we are, trying to undo the mess he helped create. If anything, it's all his fault for this."
"You don't know what you're talking about," Lillian said, her voice trembling with barely concealed anger.
"Oh, don't I?" Margaret's tone turned colder, more commanding. "I know everything, Lillian. More than you think. You'd do well to remember that."
For a moment, silence hung in the air. Then Margaret's smile returned, as calculated as ever.
"But," she said, her voice softening once more, "There's no need for the two of us to quarrel, Lillian. I only wanted to talk. To catch up. After all, we were such good friends once. I've missed those days."
"Friends?" Lillian let out a bitter laugh. "You don't have friends, Margaret. You only have pawns. Tools to manipulate for your gain."
Margaret's smile didn't falter, but the dangerous look in her eyes became more pronounced. "And yet here you are, sitting across from me. Perhaps you're more like me than you'd care to admit."
Lillian stood abruptly, her chair scraping loudly against the floor. She glared down at Margaret, her fists clenched. "Enjoy this little game while you can, Margaret. Because when it falls apart, and it will fall apart, you'll find yourself very alone."
"Oh, Lillian," she murmured to herself as she poured two steaming cups of coffee from a silver pot. The rich aroma of hazelnut filled the air, curling softly around Lillian Shepherd like an unwelcome embrace. Margaret slid the cup across the table with deliberate precision, smiling pleasantly.
"Hazelnut," Margaret said, her voice almost sing-song. "I remembered it was your favorite. It's not poisoned if that's what you think. I thought we could enjoy a little civility, just like old times."
Lillian stared at the cup but didn't touch it. Instead, she kept her hands clasped tightly in her lap. "You remembered?" she said flatly. "How nice."
Margaret folded her hands together, resting them delicately on the table. "I'm serious, Lillian. It doesn't have to be all anger and hostility between us. We've shared so much, more than most friendships endure. I even had some pastries prepared if you'd like." She gestured to a plate of perfectly arranged delicacies sitting nearby, untouched and pristine.
But Lillian didn't even glance at them. She leaned forward, her eyes dark with both pain and fury. "Margaret," she said, "you took Joshua from me. My baby boy."
Margaret opened her mouth as if to protest, but Lillian's hand slammed against the table, silencing her. "You put the lives of my husband, my eldest son, and my brother-in-law in danger too! Do you understand that? How could I accept anything from you, coffee, pastries, or the polite facade you're so good at wearing after what you've done?"
Margaret leaned back in her chair, her smile faltering for a fraction of a second before returning, colder now. She picked up her cup, taking a delicate sip as if unbothered by Lillian's words. "I can see you're upset," she said smoothly, setting the cup back down with a soft clink. "But emotions, Lillian, raw as they are, don't change the fact that what I'm doing is for the greater good. A little discomfort now ensures something much greater."
Lillian let out a bitter laugh. "Discomfort? That's what you call taking a child from his mother and manipulating your way into everyone's lives?"
Margaret's face darkened slightly, her eyes narrowing. "Joshua's sacrifice, our sacrifices, are necessary. You know that better than anyone. Or have you forgotten the pact?"
"The pact was supposed to protect us all," Lillian spat, her voice rising. "Not give you free rein to destroy everything. And certainly not to feed your sick ambitions."
Margaret sighed, her false patience fraying at the edges. "You act as though this is all my doing, as though we don't all bear some responsibility. But blame me if it helps you sleep better at night, Lillian."
"I don't sleep at night," Lillian snapped, her voice trembling now, not with fear, but with anger. "Not when my family is being torn apart because of you."
Margaret stayed silent for a moment, her expression unreadable. Then, as if deciding to drop the mask entirely, she leaned forward, her voice low and sharp. "You can hold onto your anger, Lillian. That's your choice. But it won't change anything. My Project is already in motion, and you? You've done more to help than you're willing to admit."
Lillian's jaw tightened, her breath coming heavier as she forced herself to stay composed.
"You've gone too far, Margaret," she said. "And when this all collapses, don't expect me to shed a tear."
Margaret's smile lingered as she watched Lillian leave, though her fingers drummed lightly against the table, betraying a hint of irritation.
"Too far?" she muttered to herself, swirling the last of her coffee in the cup. "Not far enough, my dear."
She sipped slowly, savoring the hazelnut.
Margaret sighed dramatically, setting her coffee cup down with a faint clink. "Ah, yes, your son, Joshua," she said, her tone with false sympathy. "How old was he again? Eight? Or was it nine?" She smiled thinly, leaning back in her chair. "Family is, after all, the most important thing, isn't it?"
Lillian didn't even flinch. She kept her eyes fixed on the far wall as if Margaret's presence wasn't worth acknowledging.
"You don't get to speak about family," Lillian said flatly, voice devoid of warmth. "Not after what you've done."
Margaret's smile faltered briefly before returning, sharper now. "I don't know what you're insinuating," she said, playing at innocence.
Lillian's gaze snapped to her. "Don't play coy with me, Margaret! I know exactly how you treat your family. You put motherhood to shame with what you did to Nora. And what you put Elle through…" Lillian's voice caught slightly, her composure slipping for just a moment before she regained control. "You don't get to lecture anyone about family."
Margaret's pleasant facade cracked again, her lips pressing into a thin line. "You think you're above it all, don't you, Lillian? So righteous, so pure." Her voice grew colder as her mask of civility slipped further. "But don't pretend you're any better than the rest of us. Your hands aren't clean either."
"And yet I still have my humanity," Lillian shot back, her voice brimming with a quiet fury. "Which is more than I can say for you."
"Well, if we're so different," she said lightly, though her voice carried an edge, "perhaps you can take comfort in knowing that Joshua served a greater purpose. A mother should want that for her child, shouldn't she?"
"A mother should protect her child," she said, glaring at Margaret. "Something you've never understood."
Margaret Holloway leaned back in her chair, her gaze softening, though the sharpness in her voice lingered like an aftertaste. "But do you remember, Lillian? There was a time when we were the best of friends." She let out a wistful sigh, as she poured another cup of coffee. "It's a shame, really, a Shakespearean tragedy, even, what happened between us."
Lillian folded her arms, cold and unyielding. "What happened is that you chose your path, Margaret. You didn't lose anyone, you burned every bridge in your lust for power. This is what you wanted."
Margaret's eyes flicked away, for once unable to meet Lillian's piercing stare. The faintest shadow of vulnerability crept across her features. "I'm dying, Lillian," she said softly, finally admitting it to someone. Her voice was barely above a whisper. She set her cup down with a trembling hand and clasped her fingers together tightly, as though trying to hold something inside her from spilling out. "Cancer. Pancreatic cancer."
Lillian's expression didn't change, but something in her stiffened.
Margaret continued, her tone shifting to something almost pleading. "Do you understand what that means? The Order, this legacy, continues through me or not at all. Without my leadership, everything will collapse into chaos." Her voice grew stronger, more determined. "I had no choice. This was the only way forward."
"No choice?" Lillian's voice rose sharply, her disgust palpable. "You should've chosen to die, Margaret!"
Margaret flinched but held her ground, her fingers tightening around the edge of her chair.
"Die!" Lillian repeated, trembling with rage. "Die, rather than kill how many? Men, women, children! My child for your vanity project?" Her voice cracked, the anguish cutting through the room like a razor.
Margaret straightened, her mask of composure reassembling, though her fingers still trembled slightly. "You think I wanted this? You think I enjoy the sacrifices we've made?" she snapped, her tone defensive now. "This was never about vanity, Lillian. This was survival, mine and the Order's. And Joshua…"
"Don't you dare say his name," Lillian interrupted. "You don't get to invoke him to justify your monstrous ambitions."
Margaret held Lillian's gaze for a long moment, then stood, smoothing the wrinkles from her skirt. She glanced down at Lillian, her expression guarded yet with something almost regretful. "You'll never understand the burden of leadership," she said softly, turning away. "The impossible choices that come with it."
Lillian rose as well, her fists clenched at her sides. "You're right, Margaret. I'll never understand. Because I'd rather lose everything than become what you are."
"This is your last chance, Lillian," she said with a faint trace of weariness. "Please Join the Order, Lillian, stand by my side again... or meet the same fate as the others who resist." Her eyes gleamed with malice as a cruel smile tugged at her lips. "Or … You know, perhaps we could find you a place with The Enforcer's little group of… playthings."
Lillian stiffened, but her face betrayed no fear. She refused to give Margaret the satisfaction.
"I've already made my choice. And it isn't you."
Margaret took a deliberate sip of her coffee before continuing. "Last I checked, he put your dear brother-in-law, James, through the ringer. Oh, what was it?" She tapped a manicured nail against her chin as if in thought. "Ah, yes, him and little girlfriend of his... Broken glass in his mouth, a concrete drill—"
"Enough!" Lillian's voice cut through Margaret's sickening reminiscence. Her glare could have burned a hole in the wall. "Is that supposed to frighten me?"
Margaret arched an eyebrow, her lips curving upward as if she'd been caught enjoying her game too much. "Isn't it?" she asked, her voice sickeningly sweet. She stepped closer "Tell me, Lillian, is that what you want?"
Lillian stood, full of conviction as she made her final decision. "I'd rather die fighting you, Margaret just like Alex and Adam are doing right now. I won't surrender, not to you, and not to this nightmare you've created."
For a moment, Margaret's expression flickered, just a brief shadow of something almost human: regret, or perhaps sorrow. Then she sighed softly and shook her head, as though deeply disappointed. "Then die, Lillian," she said quietly.
Margaret straightened and gestured to two cultists standing at the door. "Take her," she ordered, her tone detached now, like someone directing an unimportant task. "Put her on one of Curtis's contraptions."
The cultists stepped forward, seizing Lillian by the arms as she struggled against their grip.
"You think this will break me?" Lillian spat, glaring at Margaret as she was dragged toward the door. "You're wrong. I'll die standing, fighting, before I become like you!"
Margaret didn't respond immediately, her gaze following Lillian as the door swung open. Finally, as the cultists disappeared with their captive, she let out a long sigh. "It's not about breaking you," she said to no one in particular. Her voice was low and soft as if confessing something to herself.
She stared down into her hazelnut coffee, stirring sugar and milk with a small spoon. "It's about survival, Lillian. Nothing more."
But even as she said it, something heavy settled in her chest. Despite how far she'd fallen, how hardened she had become, there was a faint flicker of something buried deep, a memory of the friendship they had once shared. For a brief moment, Margaret's hand hesitated over her cup.
Curtis's methods were barbaric of course, but at least they were quick. Quicker than anything the Enforcer of hers would have done. Margaret wouldn't say it aloud to anyone, perhaps not even to herself, but some part of her still cared for Lillian Shepherd, her best friend of years past.
And that, Margaret thought bitterly, was a weakness she couldn't afford anymore. Another casualty. Another piece of her past was sacrificed on the altar of her vision.
"The Order has to survive," Margaret said to herself, her tone resolute yet laced with a flicker of doubt. "Through me, or not at all." Her fingers tapped against the table, an unconscious habit as she wrestled with the thoughts in her mind.
She didn't expect Lillian to understand. No one did. Dahlia Gillespie had been a fool, clinging to primitive rituals, chasing the illusion of power without ever grasping its true potential. Margaret prided herself on seeing the truth beyond Dahlia's antiquated ideals.
Why should they summon an old, vengeful god, a relic bound to myth and misinterpretation, when Margaret could become the god herself? She didn't need blind devotion, she needed control. The only thing she lacked now was time, and with every second slipping away, her cancer gnawed at her body like an unwelcome parasite, mocking her ambitions.
She leaned back in her chair. Lillian's accusations echoed in her mind, mingling with memories of laughter, shared secrets, and the friendship they'd once had. Lillian had been her confidante, her rock in those early days. For a fleeting moment, Margaret allowed herself to wonder what might have been if things had gone differently.
If only Lillian could see the necessity of it all.
Margaret stood abruptly, her chair scraping against the floor. "Why can't anyone understand this?" she whispered fiercely. She began pacing the room, frustration simmering beneath her composed facade. "Do they think I do this for pleasure? For ego?" She clenched her fists. "This is destiny! My destiny! To create something greater than any of them can comprehend."
She paused by the window, looking out into the fog. Her reflection in the glass was distorted, twisted by the faint ripples of condensation.
"I am building the future," she said softly. "Something stronger, everlasting. None of them can see it now, but they will. In time, they will."
The bitterness crept into her thoughts again, and her shoulders slumped just slightly. She couldn't shake the lingering sting of Lillian's words or the resentment that Lillian had turned away from her path.
Another sacrifice. Another bond burned to ashes. How many more would it take?
Margaret closed her eyes, exhaling sharply. "Lillian should've seen it," she murmured. "Of all people…" Her voice trailed off, tinged with an almost mournful disappointment.
But she pushed the thought aside, burying it deep beneath layers of resolve. This wasn't the time to doubt herself, not when the Order teetered on the edge of its rebirth.
With renewed vigor, Margaret turned back to the room, hardening once more. If no one else could understand the path she had chosen, then so be it. She would march forward alone, carrying the Order's future on her shoulders, no matter how many bridges she had to burn along the way.
After all, this was her destiny.
Alex and Adam crouched in the shadows of a rusted railing, as they avoided drawing attention. The cold made it hard to focus. Adam silently handed him a pair of binoculars, gesturing toward the courtyard below.
Alex adjusted the focus and peered through. His stomach churned. There, in the dimly lit yard of the Toluca Prison complex, the Enforcer paced back and forth, like a predator sizing up his prey. A silent rhythm to his steps as he circled three figures bound and gagged with duct tape.
"Uncle James..." Alex muttered, recognizing the first bound figure: James Sunderland, his uncle by marriage and one of the few people who had ever seemed to understand him. James's face was pale, the cut across his cheek streaked with dried blood, but his gaze was sharp, defiant, even as the Enforcer paused behind him to speak inaudibly into his ear.
Alex's vision shifted, his heart skipping a beat when he spotted the second captive: Deputy Wheeler. Alex barely recognized him, his usual sturdy presence battered and slumped in the chair. The swelling around his bruised eyes painted a picture of what he'd endured.
"Damn it," Alex hissed under his breath.
Then his gaze caught the third prisoner, a woman with dark brown hair, pale skin, and an expression caught somewhere between terror and resignation. She didn't look like the others, she was frailer, her body language heavy with a weight deeper than exhaustion. Something in her hunch, in her avoidance of the Enforcer's gaze, screamed pain.
"Who's the girl?" Alex asked, handing the binoculars to Adam.
Adam squinted through them, his jaw tightening. "She's not from Shepherd's Glen. Civilian, probably dragged into this because she was caught in the wrong place at the wrong time." He grimaced. "Damn it. They're using civilians as human shields now."
Alex's fists clenched. "Human shields? She doesn't even belong here! None of them do."
Adam lowered the binoculars and rested his hands on Alex's shoulder, squeezing firmly to pull his son out of the storm of his rising anger. "Focus, Alex. I know you're angry, but we need a plan. Charging in without one won't save anyone. Especially not Wheeler or James."
Alex hesitated, his mind racing as he struggled to push back his rage. Below them, the Enforcer's deliberate pacing continued, his shadow stretching and shrinking under the flickering floodlights. Occasionally, he gestured casually toward one of the prisoners, as though discussing some grisly point with unseen companions.
"What's he even doing?" Alex asked. "He's just pacing. He's not hurting them right now."
Adam's face darkened. "Not yet. But that man..." He shook his head. "That's not the kind of guy who leaves someone alone for long. He's Holloway's way of showing people exactly what she's capable of, breaking people into pieces, literally or figuratively."
"We've gotta stop him." Alex's hands itched toward the combat knife sheathed at his side.
"And we will," Adam said firmly. "But not without thinking this through. Let me assess the situation further."
While Adam adjusted the binoculars again, Alex let his mind drift, his gaze locked onto his uncle, Deputy Wheeler, and a civilian woman. They weren't just prisoners; they were messages, a threat to Alex, to Adam, and to anyone daring to challenge Margaret Holloway's reign of terror.
And they didn't have much time left.
Alex froze, heart pounding as the Enforcer's gaze shifted upward, scanning the prison grounds with deliberate care. It wasn't just a glance, it was like he could see them, his gaze piercing through the shadows and steel. Alex's stomach dropped when the man paused, tilted his head slightly, and raised a radio to his masked face.
"Your friends have been enjoying our facilities, Shepherds," the Enforcer's distorted voice crackled across their frequency, a jagged sound that sent a chill down Alex's spine. "Why don't you come out and join them? There's always room for two more."
Adam cursed under his breath, grabbing their radio. "Damn it. I thought we were on an encrypted channel!" He quickly twisted the knob, turning the volume down to a whisper as he pressed the device close to his ear.
The Enforcer continued pacing below, his voice steady, almost mockingly calm as it echoed in the heavy silence of the prison yard. "Hiding only prolongs their suffering and will be treated as an act of aggression against the Order."
Alex watched, jaw tight, as the Enforcer veered toward the civilian woman, the one Adam had identified as a random victim of circumstance. She cowered, bound and helpless in the chair, jerking away as he reached out to stroke her dark brown hair. The touch lingered, deliberate and grotesque, as if he reveled in her fear.
Alex's knuckles whitened around his shotgun and knife. His every muscle screamed at him to act, to put an end to this sadistic display.
The woman flinched violently, trying to shrink away, but the restraints held her in place. Her muffled protests beneath the duct tape only deepened her terror, and Alex clenched his teeth, struggling to hold back his anger.
"She's just a human shield, Alex," Adam said under his breath, trying to steady his son. "Don't take the bait. He's doing this for us."
The Enforcer turned away from the woman without a word, his movements composed. He marched over to Deputy Wheeler, crouched slightly, and tapped the bruised side of Wheeler's face in his palm. The deputy flinched slightly but otherwise didn't react, his exhausted gaze barely focused on his captor.
The Enforcer straightened up and turned back toward the courtyard, speaking directly into his radio. "As you can see, Shepherds," he continued, "they are very much alive, for now."
Alex felt his breathing quicken as the Enforcer resumed his pacing, his back straight, every step exuding control and power.
Adam grabbed Alex by the shoulder and gave him a hard shake, grounding him. "We need to stay sharp. This is what he does, gets under your skin, and pushes until you break. We can't afford to rush in."
"Dad, we can't just leave them down there." Alex's voice was a low hiss. "That's Wheeler. That's James! They're family."
Adam nodded, his jaw tight. "I know. But running down there gets us killed, and then there's no one left to save them. We play this smart, no matter how bad it hurts."
Alex's eyes returned to the scene below, his hands trembling with rage and helplessness. They are very much alive. The Enforcer's words rang in his head like a bell of provocation, taunting him.
But Adam was right, charging in blindly wasn't a rescue. It was suicide.
"Then what do we do?" Alex asked his voice tight, his fury boiling beneath the surface.
"We wait," Adam said, voice grim. "Let's see what their next move is, and find the opening we need."
But as they stayed hidden in the shadows, Alex couldn't help but feel the Enforcer's masked gaze lingering on their position, as if he knew exactly where they were.
The Enforcer's voice boomed once more over the radio.
"I know the two of you can hear and see me. I'll give you ten seconds to comply!" His tone was calm but laced with a mocking edge, every word dripped with sadistic satisfaction.
Alex felt his pulse quicken as he pressed his back against the metal railing, trying to steady his breathing. His grip on the binoculars was tight enough to leave imprints.
"Alex…" Adam's voice was low, and firm, pulling Alex's attention back to him. "There's nothing we can do for them. Not now."
Alex stared at his father for a moment, conflict etched into his face. His mind screamed to intervene, but his body knew the truth, rushing in was suicide.
"I know," Alex said finally "But this isn't right."
"Five!"
The Enforcer's voice cut through their tense conversation like a gunshot. Alex instinctively turned back to the scene below. The woman, Angela, was frantically wriggling in her chair, her muffled screams desperate as she strained against the ropes cutting into her arms. James struggled too, twisting his bound wrists with what little strength he had left. Wheeler, despite his bruised and battered body, gritted his teeth and fought like hell against his restraints, the chair legs scraping against the floor.
"One!"
The countdown echoed ominously in the prison yard. Alex's heart dropped as he realized the Enforcer was no longer speaking into the radio. He stood directly in front of James Sunderland now, barely hiding the fear behind his eyes.
The Enforcer picked up the radio one last time, facing in their direction. "Your choice," he said.
He let the radio clatter to the ground and then slowly turned back toward his prisoners. With precise movements, he grabbed James by the hair, yanking his head back.
"No!" Alex whispered harshly, gripping the metal railing as if his hands alone could stop what was about to happen.
"Consequences," the Enforcer declared coldly.
With one smooth motion, he ripped the duct tape from James's mouth, and before James could utter a word, the Enforcer stabbed him in the eye with the karambit knife.
A horrific scream pierced the air, raw and visceral, but was quickly cut off as James convulsed in the chair. Blood poured from the wound, dark and endless.
Alex staggered back, his stomach heaving. He dropped to his knees and turned away from the sight, retching violently onto the floor.
"Damn it!" Alex gasped, vomiting in disgust at the sight. "That sick fuck!"
Adam clenched his jaw, his hand gripping Alex's shoulder to ground him. "I told you, he wants you to react. Keep it together."
Alex wiped his mouth with his sleeve, tears of frustration and fury blurring his vision as he forced himself to his feet. His breathing was ragged, his entire body trembling as the realization hit him.
They couldn't save James—not yet.
The Enforcer wanted Alex and Adam to witness every moment of his violence, and to feel helpless.
And it was working.
He released James with a sickeningly casual flick of his arm. James's head lolled to the side as he groaned in pain, blood streaming down his face from his ruined eye. His moans mingled with the muffled, frantic sounds of Wheeler and Angela, their terror tangible as they strained helplessly against their bindings.
The Enforcer, still grinning, seized James by the collar, yanking him upright and dragging him towards the discarded radio. James stumbled, half-dragged and half-walking, his legs barely able to support him. The Enforcer brought him close to the radio and leaned in mockingly, his voice thick with gloating amusement.
"Look how much pain your family is causing you!" he bellowed into the microphone, his eyes scanning the shadows where Alex and Adam hid. "What do you have to say to them? Go ahead, James. Speak your mind. Make them feel it."
James, despite the agony coursing through his body, clenched his remaining eye shut in defiance. His lips curled into a sneer as he sucked in a shaky breath.
Then, with sudden ferocity, James spat in the Enforcer's face, flecks of blood landing on the mask's grim visage.
"Alex! Adam! Kill this guy!" James roared into the radio.
For a brief moment, silence descended. Even the other prisoners froze, wide-eyed, their breath hitching at James's defiance.
The Enforcer slowly raised a hand, wiping his face with deliberate calm, the movement eerily controlled. Then, without a word, his other fist shot forward, slamming into James's gut.
James gasped as the air was knocked from his lungs, doubling over in pain. He crumpled to the ground, coughing and retching, his body trembling from the sheer force of the blow.
The Enforcer leaned down, grabbing James by the hair and lifting his bloodied face once more toward the radio.
"What an inspiring speech," he sneered. "But I don't think your family got the message. Why don't we try that again?"
Alex and Adam, still hidden, were stricken silent. Alex clenched his fists so tightly his knuckles turned white. He trembled with restrained rage, every fiber of his being urging him to charge down there.
"Dad, we can't just watch this," Alex hissed through clenched teeth.
"And what happens if we rush in and get captured too?" Adam snapped quietly, his voice sharp but controlled. "You want to save him? We need a plan."
Alex stared at him, his mind spinning, heart racing. He knew his father was right, but watching this…watching James suffer for them felt unbearable.
The Enforcer's laughter echoed through the courtyard like a sinister wind, chilling Alex and Adam to their cores. Wiping blood off his gloved hand, the Enforcer straightened and gestured toward his followers.
"Take them away," he barked, his voice brimming with authority and malevolent amusement. "Make sure they're comfortable."
Two hulking cultists stepped forward, each grabbing a prisoner by the arm and dragging them off their chairs. Wheeler and Angela struggled fruitlessly as the masked figures dragged them toward one of the prison's shadowed corridors. James, still weak and clutching his bloody eye socket, tried to resist but stumbled. He was yanked back upright and hauled alongside the others.
The Enforcer watched them leave, arms crossed, his imposing figure still as a statue. As the prisoners disappeared into the dark, he chuckled, turning his head slightly toward the radio he'd left on the ground.
"Time's ticking, Shepherds," he murmured, his voice carrying an unsettling playfulness. "Tick, tock."
He turned and walked away, his crimson helmet disappearing into the shadows.
From their hidden vantage point, Alex and Adam finally dared to exhale. The Enforcer was gone for now, but so were the prisoners, and their chances of immediate rescue were growing slimmer.
"Damn it," Alex muttered under his breath, gripping the binoculars tightly.
Adam scanned the courtyard below, formulating a plan, his military training taking over. His voice was low but sharp. "They're moving them deeper into the complex. If we lose them now, we may not get another shot."
Alex turned to his father, desperation in his voice. "So what do we do? We can't just sit here!"
"I know," Adam replied, already mapping the situation in his mind. "We find where they're holding them, neutralize as many of those bastards as we can, and take out the Enforcer. That'll send a clear message to Holloway."
"Take out the Enforcer?" Alex repeated, his voice hushed but incredulous. "Have you seen that guy? He's, he's insane."
"Insane or not, he's only human. And humans bleed," Adam said coldly.
"But we don't know how much time we have!" Alex insisted.
"Then we don't waste it," Adam said firmly, placing a hand on Alex's shoulder. "Stay focused. I've faced worse than this in the field, and we've come out alive. We'll do the same here. You hear me?"
Alex nodded, though the doubt and anger still simmered beneath his surface.
"All right, let's move," Adam whispered, slinging his weapon over his shoulder.
The two of them began their climb back down, their eyes scanning every shadow and movement. They knew the risks, they'd seen what the cult and their Enforcer were capable of.
But time was running out and there was no room for error.