Static Shock Fan Fiction ❯ Time And Time Again ❯ White Noiz ( Chapter 5 )
[ X - Adult: No readers under 18. Contains Graphic Adult Themes/Extreme violence. ]
By: Manga-Chick 
The key leads to more mystery...
Non Anime: Static Shock Fan Fiction | Genre(s): Hentai / Horror / Angst | Type: Alternate Universe | Uploaded On: 12.03.2006 | Pages: 4 | Words: 8.4K | Visits: 252 | Status: Completed
The key leads to more mystery...
Non Anime: Static Shock Fan Fiction | Genre(s): Hentai / Horror / Angst | Type: Alternate Universe | Uploaded On: 12.03.2006 | Pages: 4 | Words: 8.4K | Visits: 252 | Status: Completed
AU, OOC, violence...supernatural themes, violence...slash, gore
Disclaimer: I DO NOT OWN STATIC AND OTHER ASSOCIATED CHARACTERS!
This is based off Silent Hill, of which I do not own but worship. ^_^ Chapter titles are borrowed from the titles of SH2 and SH3 soundtracks...both of which I RECOMMEND if you’re into that sort of music, and both of which I do not OWN in any way.
Chapter Five:
White Noiz
Hotstreak swallowed hard, bothered by the image presented to him. Harley slowly ducked his head, dark eyes glittering dangerously as he watched them both. There was a certain hunger in his face as he took the rest of the stairs down, loosely holding onto his MP5K. As he touched down onto the main floor of the basement, visible muscles flexed with stress. The heavy tension between them was thick, Harley saying or revealing nothing as he continued to stare with that steely expression.
For a few moments, no one could speak. Harley scanned his basement with a flick of his eyes, jaw tightening as they landed on the teen that immediately stepped behind Hotstreak’s taller frame. Upon feeling movement behind him, the redhead glanced over his shoulder and then snapped his attention forward when Harley moved. The brunette was lifting his submachine gun, slipping in a curved thirty round magazine as he continued to say nothing.
The room rang with silence, broken occasionally with the sound of fingers against metal. Harley frowned, focused beyond Hotstreak’s shoulder. Candles flickered briefly, the MP5K switching in Hotstreak’s direction. The warning went unsaid as the redhead stared at the four inch barrel with a sort of unfeeling sensation, as if he were viewing the entire scene away from himself.
Harley glared at his partner of three years, aware of his surroundings and everything that flickered within the shadows of the basement. He took a few confident steps forward, feeling himself slip into that zone; that zone of awareness, of heightened senses, of concentrated focus. He knew that this task wasn’t going to be an easy one. Not when he was greatly aware of his partner’s discomfort.
His lips seemed to crack as he split them with a tight smile. “Let’s start over, huh?”
His voice broke the uneasy silence. He saw the pair of them startle. While he was carrying a powerful weapon, and was rigidly trained in the arts of survival via military training and his own hard-earned life experience, the man he was facing was much stronger than he. But Harley wasn’t one to quit before he started.
“We can move out of this dump. Leave everything behind. Look for another town to have fun with. I’ll leave all that I brought behind,” Harley negotiated, watching Hotstreak’s face for any change. “We’ll just move on with our lives. I heard Metropolis is a great playground.”
Hotstreak wasn’t sure where this was going; he just knew Harley had lost it. The wild look in his eyes was enough to confirm his suspicions. The air felt cold–the undershirt he was wearing did nothing to prevent his skin from prickling. His emotions were roiled; confused and scared. Unsure of what he was really doing. He licked his lips cautiously, his chin tightening. He was more aware of the presence behind him than ever.
He swallowed, feeling the urge to spit. Harley took another step forward, eyes leaving his once more. “Let’s blow this dump,” he said, leaning a bit to catch a glimpse of the teenager standing behind his lover, using him as a wall between them. “I’ll get rid of the kid. You can personally torch the place. We’ll just forget all about it and move on. C’mon...what d’ya say? Just us. It’ll be like the old times, before things turned all...screwy.”
Hotstreak wondered, with faint inquiry, if he could simply forget what he’d seen down here. What Harley was capable of. This was his partner; he’d loved and lived with Harley through most of the trauma that had occurred after the invasion. They’d shared everything; experienced many things that bonded them together. He couldn’t help but feel for the man despite his disgust and horror. At his suggestion of leaving everything, he started to consider it. Maybe things could be different in another city. Maybe Harley was capable of changing. Maybe he’d had realized what he done and was ready to fix things.
“That’s what they all say before moving on to doing it again,” he heard the teen mutter darkly. “You all say that. You all make those promises. It’s all just for show.”
Harley stiffened, growing taut–like the string on a bow. Hotstreak could see him tensing, all his muscles corded along his neck and shoulders. His eyes became wilder, the whites visible as they widened. That jaw tightened into steel, teeth tightly clenched together. He heard the grinding noises as Harley ground his teeth together, muscles in his face working in tandem.
“Move,” Harley ordered him, in a soft voice that ran prickles down his spine. He’d never heard that voice before. In a sort of dazed stupor, he found himself complying.
The teen moved with him, keeping him in between himself and Harley. The air thickened with incredible tension, the very air growing still and quiet as Harley’s maddened eyes focused beyond Hotstreak, his trigger finger seeming to strum impatiently against the trigger. At the faraway thwump! that sounded upstairs, and another young voice calling out a name, all of them stilled. Then all things seemed to crash in against itself when Harley stumbled over one of the teen’s boots. At that instant, when he went to right himself, Richie screamed for Virgil.
Hotstreak heard himself give a shortened gasp when Harley lifted his weapon and began firing–the gun emitted three-bullet charges that exploded noisily within the basement stillness. The fact that Harley fired upon him made Hotstreak feel ill and stunned–but with his reaction, he emitted a scorching wall of flame between himself and Harley, in a dazed effort to melt away the incoming shots. The shield wasn’t enough, and he knew that–he flew to the floor as the wall became victim to the continuous pelting of a thirty round magazine.
He lost track of the teen behind him, sliding across the floor, banging into Harley’s collection of complete skeletons. He saw Harley rounding up to his feet, face filled with maddened fury, his gun still going off in a continuous release that punctuated through all the tension and stillness of earlier. Hotstreak scrambled to his feet, hearing various cries around him, stumbling over fallen objects on the floor as Harley swept the room with bullets.
And then, over the candle glow, was a continuous bluish-white glow of power–and everything came to a standstill. Harley gaped at the bullets that floated in mid-air, at the expended shells that didn’t touch the floor. The MP5K was ripped from his hands, rendered easily in a twist of steel as another mind manipulated it. His gaze sought the focused teenager standing at the foot of the stairs, his hands emitting that same bluish-white light. His heart slammed hard against his chest, immense dissatisfaction and worry hitting through him.
“Fear me, mortals!” someone cried. Harley pinned the words to the teenager, whose mouth continued to move even after he stopped listening.
He barely shifted his head upon more movement, seeing the other teenager scramble from near the bed, where he’d overturned the mattress to use as cover in Harley’s moment of madness. For a moment, Harley went still–the teen had been in the other direction from his lover. He’d been firing at his lover, trying to kill him rather than the one he’d wanted to. His eyes shot over to Hotstreak, who was staring at him with a mixed expression of stunned horror and betrayal. Instantly, he felt sorry for what happened–he didn’t know that the one he’d been gunning for hadn’t been the one he was shooting at.
Everything felt as if he were viewing and hearing it from underwater. He heard the teens quickly converse with one another, focusing dazedly upon them. Their movements were slow to him; their voices muffled, even as they were standing just a few feet away from him. The one with the powers directed the other away, his voice high and unbalanced with his age as they both spoke with bewilderment and relief. When the blond left the basement in a flurry of embarrassment and terror, the other turned to them, focusing in on him.
His eyes flitted around the room for a moment, Harley sucking in a deep breath as he sought to remedy his capture with a plan of some grand escape. Then the black teen saw Hotstreak, giving him a question that the redhead shook his head at.
“Hah, you guys suck!” the teen then taunted, grinning with confidence as he once more faced Harley. “With all them weapons and bad-assery that you guys try to have with your little fortress of a house, you guys can’t do shit to me! I’m just too much for you to handle...k’chow.”
Harley narrowed his eyes as the teen practically radiated with his cockiness. Everything being held in mid-air was pulled into one giant pile tossed in the far corner. The MP5K was out of commission, and Harley itched to have his hands on another one of his weapons that just happened to be out of his range, near the corner.
“Now...I’m going to put this all away. And it’s goin’ to stay there while me and my friend leave this place cuz...seriously. Your interior decorator seems to be something out of Adams Family, or somethin’. And it’s freaky.”
Harley licked his chapped lips with a feverish action, watching the teenager slowly back out of the room–then watching as Hotstreak moved to do the same thing.
“You’re leaving me?!” he cried in anguish, both of them freezing at his words. Hurriedly, he gestured at himself. “I told you I’d change! You can’t just leave me!”
Hotstreak stared at him for a few moments, then his face twisted with pity and rejection. “You’re fuckin’ crazy, man.”
With that, he pushed the teenager aside and raced out of the basement. Harley was stricken, hearing his lover leave him. He looked at the remaining teenager wildly, seeing his expression of extreme bewilderment. Then, he, too, was backing out of the basement. Harley was left on his own, smelling the discharge of his weapon, the stench of sickness within the enclosed space. And the door to the basement slammed shut, the lock falling into place.
Within the new stillness and silence of the basement, Harley stared at the darkness the candles couldn’t touch, a numbed buzzing running through his shocked thoughts.
* - * - * - * - *
Virgil watched the redhead shove open a door that he hadn’t even seen from the outside within the kitchen, taking off into the night. He had walked into a scene that he didn’t get the gist of, but the incredible tension had left him feeling rather scared. He looked up to seeing Richie hurry over to him, pulling on pants that didn’t belong to him. For a moment, Virgil couldn’t even think; wondering with wild bewilderment as to why his friend had been running around only in a t-shirt that barely covered his body.
“You can...run?” he asked dumbly, feeling sick at what he was implying.
“Duh, yeah.” As he buttoned and zipped, Richie caught the implication. His stomach turned violently, mouth filling with a metallic taste. He adjusted Hotstreak’s shirt with some discomfort. “No. No, nothing happened. He just knew that I wouldn’t run away if I wasn’t butt-ass naked.”
Relief flooded through Virgil at that moment, giving a sort of pained chuckle. But he stared at the injuries to his friend’s face, unable to see him clearly through all the dried blood. He winced at the wound above his eyebrow. “Damn straight. You’d blind everything on the street. And who knew you had chicken legs?”
“Shut up, Virgil. Let’s get out of here. I need to find Backpack before anything else–!”
“Where’s your gratitude?! You don’t even thank me for coming down here, for tracking you down and throwing myself into the fire for you, and you ask me immediately for your damn robot?! I saved your ass! Your blinding white ass that no one should have to see–! I practically saved the world from seeing that!”
“Shut up, dipshit! Quit looking at my ass! Goddamn juvie homo,” Richie snarled, shoving him with an angry flush on his face.
Virgil laughed, socking him companionably on the shoulder. “I stashed him away. C’mon, let’s get him, and then we need to talk.”
They left the house through the same door Hotstreak had used earlier. Virgil began talking immediately, going over what had just happened to him on his journey earlier. He charged his disk, explaining that he was having some troubles with his powers due to the chemical injection of earlier, but wanted to risk it so that they could get to the task of the key faster. By the time they’d gotten Backpack and had secured themselves within the same veterinary clinic as earlier, both of them knew what had happened to the other within the last few hours.
Fully repaired an hour later, Backpack immediately clung to its maker like a possessive child. The communication between it and Richie was operable only through his mind–as the goggle was lost due to Harley’s destroying it. Backpack was immediately scanning and documenting both their injuries, and as data came viable to Richie, he was having trouble process it due to the amount and speed. It was frustrating to him to only deal with a certain amount of processing, when the goggle had come into handy with its separation of various windows and different data interpretations.
He relayed this verbal frustration to Virgil, who was trying to inspect the area of where the plastic syringe had penetrated his hamstring. As he was speaking, Richie was sorting through all his packed supplies–coming up with an extra set of glasses that he gleefully pulled on. The box with which he’d taken them from was filled with four other pairs. He took a couple, opening a small hatch on Backpack to dump them inside.
“Well, forget about making another one soon,” Virgil murmured as he pulled up his pants and buckled his belt. “Let’s work on this key. I’m curious about this damn key.”
Richie quickly took out the key he’d been given, having taken it when he’d had the time. He laid it next to Virgil’s, then adjusted himself with discomfort. “It looks like a cashbox key. Or a padlock–I need my clothes. Going commando isn’t doing it for me.”
“Ew. Don’t tell me that. There’s some shops nearby. Let’s hurry it up.”
By the time the two made it to the Motel Six, the sun’s faint light was streaming through the thick clouds above. Virgil guessed that it was mid-afternoon, and while both of them were exhausted with all their activity, their combined curiosity into the keys had them still up and moving. The Motel Six wound down half a block, a low-fare complex that had a majority of its windows broken out and doors wide open. Various cars littered the small parking lot, and the surrounding area looked run-down despite the abandonment.
Both of them found Room 34, and Virgil took a deep breath as he tried the doorknob. It was locked, Richie muttering, “Duh” as Virgil made sure of the sound as he rattled the knob. He took out the key, unlocking it as both prepared to enter. The door screeched loudly as it opened inward, revealing a single bed dwelling. Everything about the room was immaculate. No dust...no fray... It was startling to see something so clean and fit when everything they’d come to had been dirtied with abandoned age.
There was a sense of cleanliness to the air, as if a cleaning person had come through earlier to ready it for the next customer. Backpack emitted a series of clicks and beeps that had Richie murmuring a negative, the single eye casting a faint greenish light on the room. Virgil scanned the contents, running a fingertip over the table. Noting the lack of dust. Richie fiddled with the tv, every channel revealing static. The fact that it worked made both teens look at each other. Virgil saw nothing out of the ordinary–saw nothing fantastic. It just looked...normal.
Inspection of the bathroom yielded him the same results. There was nothing that would fit Richie’s key, either.
Both teens sat at the edge of the bed, staring around themselves as both minds worked to come up with a solution to this situation. Backpack left Richie’s back, crawling underneath the bed and working itself around the room, probing for things the other two had missed. The silence of the area filtered in through the open door, chilly wind filling the room with cold. Fog began pulling away from the streets, making visibility a much grander possibility with every passing minute. Nothing moved. Nothing sounded.
Virgil sighed heavily, shaking his head. “I don’t get it,” he said, his voice breaking the immense stillness. “What’s with this room that’s so freaking special? Despite the fact that’s it hella clean, there’s nothing in this room that’s all cool and grand. Nothing.”
“Maybe it was just so that we could get some sleep,” Richie said on a yawn, pulling himself onto the bed. “Backpack sees nothing that we didn’t. He detects nothing out of the ordinary. Not even electro-magnetic activity, aside from you.”
Virgil scrunched up his face. “Huh?”
“Ghosts, I mean. You know, because they have a high level of electromagnetic processing. And I’d love to see why that television set is still working, besides the fact that it isn’t plugged in...”
Virgil spied the cord, raising his eyebrows as he then looked at the screen. It had been muted, but the fact that it was still running made the back of his neck prickle. He left the bed to close the door, locking it as Backpack scurried over to its owner. Richie hugged it impulsively, making duck sounds to the robot that seemed to squeal in response. Virgil rolled his eyes and snorted, crawling onto the bed.
“You’re so retarded,” Virgil laughed, curling his arms up underneath his head.
“Ignore the idiot, Backpack. He’s just jealous. He’ll never have what we have...” Richie muttered, snuggling with the robot as if it were some teddy bear.
Virgil took one of the pillows from the head of the bed, whacking Richie with it before propping it underneath his head. Instantly, his body felt exhausted. His eyelids drooped shut as he heard Richie settle comfortably next to him. The room was still, Backpack’s generator humming quietly between them. Virgil wondered why he was given the key to an empty, immaculate room. It just didn’t make any sense. Why would Maria purposely seek him and Richie out to come here?
And what did she mean by ‘he’d done this before?’ He tried to consider a point in his earlier years that determined the same activity, but he saw nothing. Everything was either Before Mother’s death, or After. BM had been a considerable childhood–filled with the usual chaos a child causes, and AMD had been filled with rage, frustration and intense disregard to a normal life. There was nothing in between.
“Rich,” he murmured. “What if it’s an invitation to a better afterlife?”
“...You mean, a way out of your Purgatory? And I don’t like to think that I’m dead. I know for damn sure that I didn’t die.”
“...Yeah. Well...I mean, what if we’d done our time, and we get to go somewhere else? And you’ve got a case of denial going there, bud.”
“I...I don’t know. But I’m starting to wonder if your Purgatory theory is correct. There are some fucked up people that are still out there...And I didn’t die.”
“...Wonder where that guy went? If he truly left? You did too, die. That’s why you’re here with me.”
“Dunno. But what would explain the military guys? And I did not.”
“...Dunno. Militant angels? This world is crazy mad. You did, too. You just don’t remember dying. Like...like Nicole Kidman in that one movie.” Virgil could feel himself losing to much needed sleep. He opened his eyes just a bit to see that Richie was falling asleep as well, hugging tightly onto his fixed invention. Backpack was on watch mode, single eye glittering in the darkness as it continued to scan for dangers. Satisfied that things were going to be okay, Virgil drifted off to much needed sleep.
* - * - * - * - *
He’d decided on what he was going to do. The answer was simple–maddening, but simple. Harley Williams was to be avoided at all costs. Even if the man had proven to be unstable and insane...he was still a man that Hotstreak had feelings for. And if he wanted to avoid being sucked into that insanity, he just had to avoid the man.
It made perfect sense for him. Resolved, he grumbled to himself as he walked through the empty streets, aimless in direction. Staring out in the darkness of the fog, he began thinking again. Dakota was a pretty good-sized city. If he was careful, he could avoid Harley with ease. The man may have been proficient with tracking skills, but he’d been in so much pain when he realized that Hotstreak was leaving him...maybe he wouldn’t try to track him down.
It was several minutes later when he heard the cries for help. He stilled. Without thinking, he began running in the direction of those sounds, unable to quiet the aggravated rushing sound in his head. The fog and darkness made it hard for him to determine direction, but he ran through the emptied streets at a hard sprint, just needing to be there.
He followed the canal, terror singing through every vein as he listened to those cries. He ran over a vehicle bridge, skirting past abandoned cars. He came up to a three story building, a large sign out front posting it as Dakota’s South Section police station. The front doors were wide open, blackness yawning at him ominously at the top of the staircase.
He had to pause after he stepped into the darkness of the front hall. The cries had stopped. As silence reigned he felt a nervous foreboding build inside of him. Walking inside with a small fire lit upon his knuckles, he ventured into the darkness, unsure of what he was going to encounter. He kept in mind the various monsters and things he’d seen since this craziness started.
The police station was in shambles, everything abandoned in haste while the station emptied itself of its employees in order to assist with the mayhem that had occurred. Papers lay scattered on the floor, dust collected in various areas. As he was entering the general lobby, he caught sight of a massive bulletin board nearby. Below it were various supplies–gathered hastily, as if they were going to be taken with whatever group had gathered it.
Milkcrates of non-perishables, emergency kits, batteries, blankets, scrubs, water bottles, and gas containers. As he looked around himself, he saw a lot of gas containers–as if someone had hoarded them, then realized what a fruitless effort it was. The red containers spread throughout the hall, behind the main desk and beyond. The lobby stunk of gasoline, but it was a mute odor due to another unpleasant one that made him tense. Everything was covered in dust–abandoned and forgotten for some time.
He looked at the bulletin board once more, curious at the amount of paper activity. It was posted with a clutter of papers–there were Polaroids of people pinned next to hastily scribbled notes, written pleas for loved ones. Hotstreak paused to take this in, idly scanning the desperate notes of love and desperation, eyes wandering over worn and worried faces of the Polaroids. As he was doing so, he spied a piece of paper that read, “Lab No.44. Proceed to Meadowside Mall.”
Bewilderment struck him. 44 had been his code back at the laboratories where he’d been kept most of his life. Unsure if this related to him, he reached for the piece of paper, taking it from the wall. His head raced with thoughts as he reread the message over and over again, struggling to decipher the mystery that surrounded it. Licking his lips, he stuffed the paper into his back pocket.
He heard the cries start up again. He listened to the man beg for someone to help him. His voice was strained, as if he’d been calling out for hours. Curiosity surged through him at that point, wanting to see what it was that had the man risking his very life to call for help.
He began moving through the darkness, heading for the door that led out from the general lobby. It had been locked once, requiring a passcode and a key, but the door was hanging loosely from its hinges. He gently pushed that aside, continuing on through the dark, noting that the hallway was splashed with various bullet holes and gore. It was as if a massive gunfight had occurred, and no one had survived. The stench of death was odious–there were signs that corpses had lingered before reanimating themselves and taking off for missions unknown.
He thought back, wondering if zombies were smart enough to carry weapons with them, and couldn’t find any instance in which they were. Ghouls were the only ‘thinking’ zombies, and he had to wince at the firepower they were probably armed with. Either they or other potential survivors. He found a stairway, and continued following the voice, heading upward. The hall was heavily damaged.
But he swallowed, hearing the man’s cries for help stop suddenly. Fearing that something was about to befell him, Hotstreak turned to head back downstairs when he heard his name called frantically. As if someone had recognized him. He looked up in surprise, unable to imagine anybody that could know he was there, trying to think of whom that voice belonged to. He hurried back up the stairs, finding that he was in a general office area. Bypassing all the desks, chairs and scattered mess of various blood and gore, he continued heading toward the man’s shouts, hearing them energized with hope as he ventured closer and closer in that direction.
Steeling himself for any worst-case scenario, Hotstreak held his breath as he pushed open a heavy door that required a passcode to enter. The lock had been taped so that it couldn’t engage, and he picked at that nervously as he found that the hallway he was to enter was dark and dripping with some sort of mucus.
“Ew,” he muttered, wrinkling his nose as he toed the slop. It was definitely fresh–foul smelling, and the hall had sustained heavy damage as well. “This is disgusting! Why the hell should I get myself dirty in this shit?”
“Help me!” the man cried. “Please–! I’m just down the hall! First door on your left!”
“What is this shit?!”
“I–I don’t know. Please help me! Please–! I’m begging you, please–!”
Hotstreak eyed the mucus with distaste, grimacing as he bent close to a particular blob, sniffing it suspiciously. The odor was sickening, and he retched as he pulled away. He did not want to come out from this particular hallway, smelling like that. Disdainfully, he brushed off his arms and hands, as if the smell had started to permeate his skin already. Looking in the hallway, holding his lit fist high, he glared into the darkness, looking for anything suspicious.
He then sighed heavily, curiosity overwhelming. He looked down at his tight and fashionable Gucci jeans, the brand new pair of Gucci sneakers, the undershirt. Gritting his teeth, he ventured into the hallway, taking great care not to step in muck that might mar his black and gold sneakers.
He found the doorway, but was surprised to find it locked. Growling, he kicked the metal with irritation. “Open the door!”
“I–I can’t! I can’t do it! You need to!”
“You’re the one on the other side! I don’t wanna attract any fuckin’ monsters if I use my powers! Why can’t you do it?!”
“I–I can’t! Open it! It’s not locked!”
“It’s LOCKED!” To prove his point, Hotstreak jingled the doorknob a couple of times, then kicked it again. “This place fucking REEKS! I don’t wanna be smelling like this when I leave this place, asshole! You’d better be a damn quadrapeligic if you can’t open the fuckin’ door!”
“Er...quadriplegic?”
“T hat’s what I said!”
“I–it’s okay. No one will see you use your powers. Just–just knock it down. There’s no one around!”
“Says you,” Hotstreak muttered, looking around him with hesitation. He started to melt the doorknob when he saw that slime had coated the doorway–the floor. He stared down at it with hesitation, frowning as he bent, sniffing deeply. The smell was more horrendous, coming from the small crack underneath. He winced, wondering what in God’s name–well, in Madelyn’s name it was that was making all this muck and stink.
He frowned at the doorway, reaching back to adjust his pack. It clinked with various treasures and supplies, reminding him that he should have kept an eye out for more. He reached out, melting the doorknob, then pulled back to kick at the door near knob level. The door slammed inward, revealing massive blackness–the smell was much more stronger, making him wince and pull away, jamming his forearm against his nose. The door caught immediately against something he couldn’t see.
“Jesus Christ–!” he complained. “What the fuck is that smell!?”
“Hurry–! Hurry, I need your help! Come in...come in here, please! I can’t–I’m stuck!”
Hotstreak just could not imagine what the man was doing, getting stuck in a dark room filled with slime and smell. He frowned, hairs on the back of his neck rising as he stared accusingly into the open doorway. He raised his fist, charging it brighter, the hallway flaring with life. He couldn’t see anything, and he frowned as he realized the man had gone silent. Instinct told him to flee, but he was just so damn curious–!
He moved, slowly drawing his arm forward to step into the room. All he saw was a massive wall of slimy brown, as if there was a foam wall set right in the middle of the room. He started to move in further when he realized that this ‘foam wall’ had bulging and throbbing veins–that it was shifting with a sick slurping sound, air rushing into a wide orifice. As if something massive was gathering a deep breath.
He looked up when he felt the drip of cold muck on his arm, staring right into the giant maw of a creature that looked ready to swallow him whole. He shouted aloud, throwing himself back as long, gangly arms shot outward, wrapping around his waist.
“Shit–! SHIT–!” he shouted in appalled terror, jerking back as the creature emitted a ghastly howl that made the ceiling panels shake, for glass to vibrate. It felt as if every bone in his body had vibrated with the noise, pressure set on his sternum. His head was ringing as he struggled, those loopy arms pulling him back into the room, the massive wall shifting to admit a small head with shrunken features. But that maw–it stretched nearly four feet height-wise, dropping quickly as the throat exposed itself. The darkness in that cavern was foreboding–drool dripping onto the floor as small eyes blinked transparent shields.
He flared with all the heat and flame he could muster, the creature shrieking with agony as he was released, scorch marks tearing through the floor, wall and ceiling. Smoke singed the air, flame catching onto the wood. The creature jerked away from him, emitting a tormented howl as it began flailing. Hotstreak turned and began running through the darkness, lighting himself up once he heard the walls vibrate with massive banging noises. Looking over his shoulder, he saw that one arm was groping the hall, that massive body struggling mightily to escape the confines of the small room. That thing was coming after him.
He ran through the doorway leading into the office space, then stopped short at the sight of the shadows moving angrily around him. He turned and began running back into the hall, seeing that the creature was forcing itself from the room, facing him. It howled again. He took the opposite way, dashing down the hall, cursing all the while as he slipped and slid the entire time. He banged into a closed door at the end, groping for the doorknob, then slipping through the doorway once it opened. It was a small corner office, filled with demons–all of whom turned their heads at the same time to look at him in surprised bewilderment.
They were standing in all various areas, still and motionless–as if they were robots ready to be activated. Once they caught sight of him, Hotstreak staring at them dumbly, they all opened their mouths and shrieked aloud in discovery. He slammed his palms over his ears, ran back out, and slammed the door. The bigger creature was struggling to fit its other shoulder through the doorway, so he took the nearest doorway as the demons clawed and broke through the shut door to chase after him.
He opened and slammed that door shut, locking it behind him as he gasped for breath, wishing he were in better shape. Once he realized that this room was full of shelves and shelves of boxes with thousands of files and information, he frowned. Racing across the room, he found a doorway that opened onto a stairway leading down a floor. He turned, and began pulling all the boxes that he could from the nearby shelves, hurriedly scattering valuable information and evidence from those that opened. He lit both hands, and began burning all that he touched, papers immediately catching fire, smoke curling into the air and flames spreading. He began tossing everything away from him, starting all that he could on fire as demons screeched angrily upon finding that this door was harder to open.
That thing bellowed in tormented agony, Hotstreak briefly wondering what it was it was bitching about so much. He’d never seen such a thing before; he started to call it a ‘Wailer’ for all its griping.
Standing, he watched shelf after shelf catch to flame, boxes burning brightly as flames spread. Smoke quickly built, making it hard to see, so he turned and headed down the stairway, racing out onto the first floor. He stopped short once he realized he was facing more of those demons, zombies filtering in through the front doors with their lifeless stares and careless grunts. He sighed impatiently, flaring to life. Shooting out twin pillars of fire, he poured on the heat and strength, wincing at their pained screams. Zombies were so easy to dispatch of, as they spread flame wherever they were, running in their panicked fashions. Demons screamed and scurried about, attacking anything they came to in their agony.
Hotstreak turned and ran down the hall, bypassing the stairway, slamming through another door that had once required a pass code. Running through there, he realized that straight ahead of him was the station garage–to his right was another hallway that led to an adjoining building. He frowned, looking back at the garage. Jogging in that direction, he burst through the heavy doors, and glanced around. He was starting to think that perhaps he was stupid to think that the police station would have a propane tank when he spied the oblong tank nearby, settled behind a chain link fence. Instantly, various action movies and poorly detailed TV series shot to mind as an evil grin pulled into place.
He raced for it, noting that the vehicle entrance/exit was further away from him than he thought. Anxiously, he wondered if he could withstand the blast, and then decided to go through with it anyway. That was when he noticed the stairway that he’d seen earlier, its exit door hanging loosely from its hinges. It was significantly closer to the general lobby than the hallway he’d taken, so he nodded with approval.
He jogged over, startled at the sight of more zombies coming into the garage through the entrance/exit, uttering their guttural complaints, and heard screaming demons coming through the doorway he’d just taken. Sighing heavily, his hands flared with bright flame, temporarily lighting up the dark garage. He stared at the abandoned cars, wondering just how much gas they had in their tanks. Hurling fireballs at all the vehicles he could, he judged just how much heat was needed to weaken the supports that kept the building above the garage suspended. He wondered how long it would take for it to collapse.
Once the vehicles caught fire, they burned nonchalantly. Annoyed, he tossed more fireballs in their direction, and had the satisfaction of catching one just right near the gas tank area. The resulting explosion was slightly weak, but at least it attracted the attention of more zombies and demons, the shadows moving restlessly into the area. The heat began to melt the more flammable objects in the garage, building and building within the confined area. He stared up at the ceiling, hesitating in throwing more fireballs, catching his breath and wondering just how he was going to accomplish this.
He then turned, hurling fireballs at the propane tank, wondering if this idea would even work. It seemed so...cliche...
Once metal began to protest, visibly sagging on the side closest to him, he grinned. There were demons straggling nearby, their small bodies a lit with flame. Reaching for the ones closest to him, he picked them up with strenuous grunts, and tossed them into the tank. The resulting explosion as weight irritated the sagging metal had him stumbling into the stairway. Running frantically up the stairway, feeling the heat from the fire that had spread up in the floors above, he intensified his sprint.
Panting and gasping for air, he raced through the general lobby, hurling fireballs wherever he could. Something exploded (most likely the gas containers he’d seen piled around), the resulting heat wave startling him. He tripped over his own feet, flying through the door, rolling down the staircase with painful momentum. As he settled on the sidewalk, the entire station began to crumble with a sort of spectacular rumble of sound and displacement. Glass shattered as walls collapsed, flame licking the air from below, dust spilling out into the air and pushing at the fog that made the world into a dark place.
He cackled in glee over his destruction, amazed that he still had the touch. And Harley called him ‘slow’, ‘dumb’...hah! Where was he to see his genius, now? He then remembered seeing that stricken expression of his as he left the basement. Stilling in a moment of gloom, he sat where he was, watching the entire building crumble in on itself, sinking into the below ground level garage. Flames licked the air as dust and smoke intermingled with the thick coating of fog.
He sighed heavily, wondering if he could truly leave his partner behind.
* - * - * - * - *
Somewhere, in between dreams and sleep, Virgil heard something that shook him awake. His eyelids were sluggish to open, focusing on the darkness and realizing that it wasn’t. It was cast with faint light, and he immediately pictured the television set that Richie had left on. The mysterious television set that continued to run on power despite the cord laying beside it, and despite the fact that electricity hadn’t worked for anybody unless someone processed it upon their own work.
He could hear Richie sleeping peacefully, but Backpack’s eye was red–and it was positioned out of its owner’s arms, all seven of its rebar arms displayed, the others either ready to strike out or covering Richie’s frame with a protective shield. Virgil was startled to see the invention on such high alert, and was bewildered as it why it was letting Richie sleep instead of alerting him. The way it was positioned made him realize that it was looking beyond him–and instant awareness had Virgil’s skin prickling with a sort of shocked tingle that ran up and down his entire body.
With a breath being sucked in sharply, Virgil rose and whirled at the same time, realizing that there was someone standing before the television set. His eyes widened in scared action, terror hitting him as the eerie form stayed hidden with the room’s darkness, but was illuminated from behind by the muted static of the television set. It wasn’t doing anything–but the fact that it was there had Virgil’s heart slamming hard against his chest with fright.
He couldn’t see any facial features–nor any distinguishing shapes to the person that made it stand out. He sat up stiffly, hands trembling as he prepared to fight, Backpack shifting protectively so that it was shielding its owner from anything that the person would have tossed at them–it bothered Virgil that it still didn’t wake Richie up, and that the blond was sleeping as if nothing was happening.
“Virgil...put down your hands, honey.”
Virgil stilled. His heart felt as if it had performed a clean stop. His breath stopped in his throat. He didn’t dare blink as that familiar voice wafted over his conscious, over his entire being. The person still didn’t move–still wasn’t distinguishable. But Virgil knew who it was by the sound of her voice. He would always know that sound. It was hushed, as if she were speaking low as to not disturb anybody else.
“Do you know why you’re here?”
Virgil wished that he could smell her. Reach out and touch her. The instant yearning was strong as he rose from the bed, his legs unsteady. He still couldn’t see her clearly, but he could picture her in his mind’s eye. “M–mom?”
“Yes...Virgil, I don’t have enough time to linger. I’ve only a few moments more,” Jean said, in that same hushed voice. Virgil was trembling as he kept his eyes on her, wishing that she would step closer so that he could see her more clearly. The room was freezing–he registered that all of a sudden, seeing his breath as he started to breathe quickly. “Maria led you here for a reason, Virgil. So that I may speak with you. My death was meant to be, Virgil, and I’m sorry that I had to leave all of you so soon and so quick. I wish we could have spent more time together. I would love nothing more than to hold you in my arms right now. But the fact of the matter is...I don’t exist here in this world. I cannot. My time here right now is...chance. I need you to do something for me, Virgil.”
“Y-you can’t stay? You–why, mom, you can’t just–!”
“Virgil, listen to me. There is a reason for all this madness. I’ve heard you arguing with Richie many times over this. You are right, Virgil. This is Madelyn’s Purgatory. A world where others like her and people like you were entrapped in. It happened so suddenly, and with so much confusion, that the other world has now started to realize what had happened to it.”
Virgil stilled, mind processing the words, but not fully comprehending it. On some level, he wanted to kick his friend off the bed and gloat about his theory, but he couldn’t move. He was afraid that if he moved or spoke anymore, his mother would leave him. And he needed more time with her. He ached to reach out to touch her, to smell the scent of her familiar smells and feel her reassuring, loving hands on him. He felt his chest clench with the utmost need, struggling to maintain his posture as Jean shifted slightly. It seemed as if the television set had brightened–the static was now heard, making his mother’s voice a little muffled beyond its noise.
“She is here. She banned all the evils in the living world into this one, along with a number of souls that were meant to destroy her. But the trick is, Virgil, that you’ve got to find her. She can be anywhere, anything. She can be evil, she can be good. You must realize that your role in this matter is a great one. You must open your eyes and follow your instinct. You must find the others in order to get close to her. They are all over this world, Virgil, and they can be just as evil as the others. But you’ve got to see them. Some of them are those you know–some of those will prove impossible to abide to their Purpose. But they need you to awaken them. Is that clear, Virgil? Do you understand what I’m saying?”
Virgil shook his head, her words bouncing around his conscious in a jumble. “No...no I don’t–!”
“When you wake up, Virgil, you’ll remember. I’ll make sure of that,” Jean said softly, a smile in her voice. Static grew louder, the room buzzing with the formerly alien noise. “I love you, honey. And I miss you so very much...I cannot approach you again. You must follow your instinct, Virgil. You’re important. You’re a smart boy, you can see these things. I trust in you. You’ve done it before, baby, you can do it again. You hear?”
Virgil felt his throat tightening, reaching out for her. But it was as if her form were fading away, sinking into the snow on the television screen. Before she could completely fade away, his hands managed to snag one of hers–feeling warm, soft skin, firm fingers briefly catching onto his before he felt nothing.
Static eventually faded away, white noise leaving him in complete and utter silence. The television set continued to display its snow, lighting the room with its seemingly limitless activity. Virgil stared into the television set with a melancholic expression, feeling his legs give out from underneath him. Somewhere in his mind, Jean’s words rang with hollowed feeling in his thoughts. But he was only focused on needing his mother once again; needing to hear her, to touch and see her.
He touched the television set with grief-stricken action, feeling himself falling apart at the loss of her once more.
Disclaimer: I DO NOT OWN STATIC AND OTHER ASSOCIATED CHARACTERS!
This is based off Silent Hill, of which I do not own but worship. ^_^ Chapter titles are borrowed from the titles of SH2 and SH3 soundtracks...both of which I RECOMMEND if you’re into that sort of music, and both of which I do not OWN in any way.
Chapter Five:
White Noiz
Hotstreak swallowed hard, bothered by the image presented to him. Harley slowly ducked his head, dark eyes glittering dangerously as he watched them both. There was a certain hunger in his face as he took the rest of the stairs down, loosely holding onto his MP5K. As he touched down onto the main floor of the basement, visible muscles flexed with stress. The heavy tension between them was thick, Harley saying or revealing nothing as he continued to stare with that steely expression.
For a few moments, no one could speak. Harley scanned his basement with a flick of his eyes, jaw tightening as they landed on the teen that immediately stepped behind Hotstreak’s taller frame. Upon feeling movement behind him, the redhead glanced over his shoulder and then snapped his attention forward when Harley moved. The brunette was lifting his submachine gun, slipping in a curved thirty round magazine as he continued to say nothing.
The room rang with silence, broken occasionally with the sound of fingers against metal. Harley frowned, focused beyond Hotstreak’s shoulder. Candles flickered briefly, the MP5K switching in Hotstreak’s direction. The warning went unsaid as the redhead stared at the four inch barrel with a sort of unfeeling sensation, as if he were viewing the entire scene away from himself.
Harley glared at his partner of three years, aware of his surroundings and everything that flickered within the shadows of the basement. He took a few confident steps forward, feeling himself slip into that zone; that zone of awareness, of heightened senses, of concentrated focus. He knew that this task wasn’t going to be an easy one. Not when he was greatly aware of his partner’s discomfort.
His lips seemed to crack as he split them with a tight smile. “Let’s start over, huh?”
His voice broke the uneasy silence. He saw the pair of them startle. While he was carrying a powerful weapon, and was rigidly trained in the arts of survival via military training and his own hard-earned life experience, the man he was facing was much stronger than he. But Harley wasn’t one to quit before he started.
“We can move out of this dump. Leave everything behind. Look for another town to have fun with. I’ll leave all that I brought behind,” Harley negotiated, watching Hotstreak’s face for any change. “We’ll just move on with our lives. I heard Metropolis is a great playground.”
Hotstreak wasn’t sure where this was going; he just knew Harley had lost it. The wild look in his eyes was enough to confirm his suspicions. The air felt cold–the undershirt he was wearing did nothing to prevent his skin from prickling. His emotions were roiled; confused and scared. Unsure of what he was really doing. He licked his lips cautiously, his chin tightening. He was more aware of the presence behind him than ever.
He swallowed, feeling the urge to spit. Harley took another step forward, eyes leaving his once more. “Let’s blow this dump,” he said, leaning a bit to catch a glimpse of the teenager standing behind his lover, using him as a wall between them. “I’ll get rid of the kid. You can personally torch the place. We’ll just forget all about it and move on. C’mon...what d’ya say? Just us. It’ll be like the old times, before things turned all...screwy.”
Hotstreak wondered, with faint inquiry, if he could simply forget what he’d seen down here. What Harley was capable of. This was his partner; he’d loved and lived with Harley through most of the trauma that had occurred after the invasion. They’d shared everything; experienced many things that bonded them together. He couldn’t help but feel for the man despite his disgust and horror. At his suggestion of leaving everything, he started to consider it. Maybe things could be different in another city. Maybe Harley was capable of changing. Maybe he’d had realized what he done and was ready to fix things.
“That’s what they all say before moving on to doing it again,” he heard the teen mutter darkly. “You all say that. You all make those promises. It’s all just for show.”
Harley stiffened, growing taut–like the string on a bow. Hotstreak could see him tensing, all his muscles corded along his neck and shoulders. His eyes became wilder, the whites visible as they widened. That jaw tightened into steel, teeth tightly clenched together. He heard the grinding noises as Harley ground his teeth together, muscles in his face working in tandem.
“Move,” Harley ordered him, in a soft voice that ran prickles down his spine. He’d never heard that voice before. In a sort of dazed stupor, he found himself complying.
The teen moved with him, keeping him in between himself and Harley. The air thickened with incredible tension, the very air growing still and quiet as Harley’s maddened eyes focused beyond Hotstreak, his trigger finger seeming to strum impatiently against the trigger. At the faraway thwump! that sounded upstairs, and another young voice calling out a name, all of them stilled. Then all things seemed to crash in against itself when Harley stumbled over one of the teen’s boots. At that instant, when he went to right himself, Richie screamed for Virgil.
Hotstreak heard himself give a shortened gasp when Harley lifted his weapon and began firing–the gun emitted three-bullet charges that exploded noisily within the basement stillness. The fact that Harley fired upon him made Hotstreak feel ill and stunned–but with his reaction, he emitted a scorching wall of flame between himself and Harley, in a dazed effort to melt away the incoming shots. The shield wasn’t enough, and he knew that–he flew to the floor as the wall became victim to the continuous pelting of a thirty round magazine.
He lost track of the teen behind him, sliding across the floor, banging into Harley’s collection of complete skeletons. He saw Harley rounding up to his feet, face filled with maddened fury, his gun still going off in a continuous release that punctuated through all the tension and stillness of earlier. Hotstreak scrambled to his feet, hearing various cries around him, stumbling over fallen objects on the floor as Harley swept the room with bullets.
And then, over the candle glow, was a continuous bluish-white glow of power–and everything came to a standstill. Harley gaped at the bullets that floated in mid-air, at the expended shells that didn’t touch the floor. The MP5K was ripped from his hands, rendered easily in a twist of steel as another mind manipulated it. His gaze sought the focused teenager standing at the foot of the stairs, his hands emitting that same bluish-white light. His heart slammed hard against his chest, immense dissatisfaction and worry hitting through him.
“Fear me, mortals!” someone cried. Harley pinned the words to the teenager, whose mouth continued to move even after he stopped listening.
He barely shifted his head upon more movement, seeing the other teenager scramble from near the bed, where he’d overturned the mattress to use as cover in Harley’s moment of madness. For a moment, Harley went still–the teen had been in the other direction from his lover. He’d been firing at his lover, trying to kill him rather than the one he’d wanted to. His eyes shot over to Hotstreak, who was staring at him with a mixed expression of stunned horror and betrayal. Instantly, he felt sorry for what happened–he didn’t know that the one he’d been gunning for hadn’t been the one he was shooting at.
Everything felt as if he were viewing and hearing it from underwater. He heard the teens quickly converse with one another, focusing dazedly upon them. Their movements were slow to him; their voices muffled, even as they were standing just a few feet away from him. The one with the powers directed the other away, his voice high and unbalanced with his age as they both spoke with bewilderment and relief. When the blond left the basement in a flurry of embarrassment and terror, the other turned to them, focusing in on him.
His eyes flitted around the room for a moment, Harley sucking in a deep breath as he sought to remedy his capture with a plan of some grand escape. Then the black teen saw Hotstreak, giving him a question that the redhead shook his head at.
“Hah, you guys suck!” the teen then taunted, grinning with confidence as he once more faced Harley. “With all them weapons and bad-assery that you guys try to have with your little fortress of a house, you guys can’t do shit to me! I’m just too much for you to handle...k’chow.”
Harley narrowed his eyes as the teen practically radiated with his cockiness. Everything being held in mid-air was pulled into one giant pile tossed in the far corner. The MP5K was out of commission, and Harley itched to have his hands on another one of his weapons that just happened to be out of his range, near the corner.
“Now...I’m going to put this all away. And it’s goin’ to stay there while me and my friend leave this place cuz...seriously. Your interior decorator seems to be something out of Adams Family, or somethin’. And it’s freaky.”
Harley licked his chapped lips with a feverish action, watching the teenager slowly back out of the room–then watching as Hotstreak moved to do the same thing.
“You’re leaving me?!” he cried in anguish, both of them freezing at his words. Hurriedly, he gestured at himself. “I told you I’d change! You can’t just leave me!”
Hotstreak stared at him for a few moments, then his face twisted with pity and rejection. “You’re fuckin’ crazy, man.”
With that, he pushed the teenager aside and raced out of the basement. Harley was stricken, hearing his lover leave him. He looked at the remaining teenager wildly, seeing his expression of extreme bewilderment. Then, he, too, was backing out of the basement. Harley was left on his own, smelling the discharge of his weapon, the stench of sickness within the enclosed space. And the door to the basement slammed shut, the lock falling into place.
Within the new stillness and silence of the basement, Harley stared at the darkness the candles couldn’t touch, a numbed buzzing running through his shocked thoughts.
* - * - * - * - *
Virgil watched the redhead shove open a door that he hadn’t even seen from the outside within the kitchen, taking off into the night. He had walked into a scene that he didn’t get the gist of, but the incredible tension had left him feeling rather scared. He looked up to seeing Richie hurry over to him, pulling on pants that didn’t belong to him. For a moment, Virgil couldn’t even think; wondering with wild bewilderment as to why his friend had been running around only in a t-shirt that barely covered his body.
“You can...run?” he asked dumbly, feeling sick at what he was implying.
“Duh, yeah.” As he buttoned and zipped, Richie caught the implication. His stomach turned violently, mouth filling with a metallic taste. He adjusted Hotstreak’s shirt with some discomfort. “No. No, nothing happened. He just knew that I wouldn’t run away if I wasn’t butt-ass naked.”
Relief flooded through Virgil at that moment, giving a sort of pained chuckle. But he stared at the injuries to his friend’s face, unable to see him clearly through all the dried blood. He winced at the wound above his eyebrow. “Damn straight. You’d blind everything on the street. And who knew you had chicken legs?”
“Shut up, Virgil. Let’s get out of here. I need to find Backpack before anything else–!”
“Where’s your gratitude?! You don’t even thank me for coming down here, for tracking you down and throwing myself into the fire for you, and you ask me immediately for your damn robot?! I saved your ass! Your blinding white ass that no one should have to see–! I practically saved the world from seeing that!”
“Shut up, dipshit! Quit looking at my ass! Goddamn juvie homo,” Richie snarled, shoving him with an angry flush on his face.
Virgil laughed, socking him companionably on the shoulder. “I stashed him away. C’mon, let’s get him, and then we need to talk.”
They left the house through the same door Hotstreak had used earlier. Virgil began talking immediately, going over what had just happened to him on his journey earlier. He charged his disk, explaining that he was having some troubles with his powers due to the chemical injection of earlier, but wanted to risk it so that they could get to the task of the key faster. By the time they’d gotten Backpack and had secured themselves within the same veterinary clinic as earlier, both of them knew what had happened to the other within the last few hours.
Fully repaired an hour later, Backpack immediately clung to its maker like a possessive child. The communication between it and Richie was operable only through his mind–as the goggle was lost due to Harley’s destroying it. Backpack was immediately scanning and documenting both their injuries, and as data came viable to Richie, he was having trouble process it due to the amount and speed. It was frustrating to him to only deal with a certain amount of processing, when the goggle had come into handy with its separation of various windows and different data interpretations.
He relayed this verbal frustration to Virgil, who was trying to inspect the area of where the plastic syringe had penetrated his hamstring. As he was speaking, Richie was sorting through all his packed supplies–coming up with an extra set of glasses that he gleefully pulled on. The box with which he’d taken them from was filled with four other pairs. He took a couple, opening a small hatch on Backpack to dump them inside.
“Well, forget about making another one soon,” Virgil murmured as he pulled up his pants and buckled his belt. “Let’s work on this key. I’m curious about this damn key.”
Richie quickly took out the key he’d been given, having taken it when he’d had the time. He laid it next to Virgil’s, then adjusted himself with discomfort. “It looks like a cashbox key. Or a padlock–I need my clothes. Going commando isn’t doing it for me.”
“Ew. Don’t tell me that. There’s some shops nearby. Let’s hurry it up.”
By the time the two made it to the Motel Six, the sun’s faint light was streaming through the thick clouds above. Virgil guessed that it was mid-afternoon, and while both of them were exhausted with all their activity, their combined curiosity into the keys had them still up and moving. The Motel Six wound down half a block, a low-fare complex that had a majority of its windows broken out and doors wide open. Various cars littered the small parking lot, and the surrounding area looked run-down despite the abandonment.
Both of them found Room 34, and Virgil took a deep breath as he tried the doorknob. It was locked, Richie muttering, “Duh” as Virgil made sure of the sound as he rattled the knob. He took out the key, unlocking it as both prepared to enter. The door screeched loudly as it opened inward, revealing a single bed dwelling. Everything about the room was immaculate. No dust...no fray... It was startling to see something so clean and fit when everything they’d come to had been dirtied with abandoned age.
There was a sense of cleanliness to the air, as if a cleaning person had come through earlier to ready it for the next customer. Backpack emitted a series of clicks and beeps that had Richie murmuring a negative, the single eye casting a faint greenish light on the room. Virgil scanned the contents, running a fingertip over the table. Noting the lack of dust. Richie fiddled with the tv, every channel revealing static. The fact that it worked made both teens look at each other. Virgil saw nothing out of the ordinary–saw nothing fantastic. It just looked...normal.
Inspection of the bathroom yielded him the same results. There was nothing that would fit Richie’s key, either.
Both teens sat at the edge of the bed, staring around themselves as both minds worked to come up with a solution to this situation. Backpack left Richie’s back, crawling underneath the bed and working itself around the room, probing for things the other two had missed. The silence of the area filtered in through the open door, chilly wind filling the room with cold. Fog began pulling away from the streets, making visibility a much grander possibility with every passing minute. Nothing moved. Nothing sounded.
Virgil sighed heavily, shaking his head. “I don’t get it,” he said, his voice breaking the immense stillness. “What’s with this room that’s so freaking special? Despite the fact that’s it hella clean, there’s nothing in this room that’s all cool and grand. Nothing.”
“Maybe it was just so that we could get some sleep,” Richie said on a yawn, pulling himself onto the bed. “Backpack sees nothing that we didn’t. He detects nothing out of the ordinary. Not even electro-magnetic activity, aside from you.”
Virgil scrunched up his face. “Huh?”
“Ghosts, I mean. You know, because they have a high level of electromagnetic processing. And I’d love to see why that television set is still working, besides the fact that it isn’t plugged in...”
Virgil spied the cord, raising his eyebrows as he then looked at the screen. It had been muted, but the fact that it was still running made the back of his neck prickle. He left the bed to close the door, locking it as Backpack scurried over to its owner. Richie hugged it impulsively, making duck sounds to the robot that seemed to squeal in response. Virgil rolled his eyes and snorted, crawling onto the bed.
“You’re so retarded,” Virgil laughed, curling his arms up underneath his head.
“Ignore the idiot, Backpack. He’s just jealous. He’ll never have what we have...” Richie muttered, snuggling with the robot as if it were some teddy bear.
Virgil took one of the pillows from the head of the bed, whacking Richie with it before propping it underneath his head. Instantly, his body felt exhausted. His eyelids drooped shut as he heard Richie settle comfortably next to him. The room was still, Backpack’s generator humming quietly between them. Virgil wondered why he was given the key to an empty, immaculate room. It just didn’t make any sense. Why would Maria purposely seek him and Richie out to come here?
And what did she mean by ‘he’d done this before?’ He tried to consider a point in his earlier years that determined the same activity, but he saw nothing. Everything was either Before Mother’s death, or After. BM had been a considerable childhood–filled with the usual chaos a child causes, and AMD had been filled with rage, frustration and intense disregard to a normal life. There was nothing in between.
“Rich,” he murmured. “What if it’s an invitation to a better afterlife?”
“...You mean, a way out of your Purgatory? And I don’t like to think that I’m dead. I know for damn sure that I didn’t die.”
“...Yeah. Well...I mean, what if we’d done our time, and we get to go somewhere else? And you’ve got a case of denial going there, bud.”
“I...I don’t know. But I’m starting to wonder if your Purgatory theory is correct. There are some fucked up people that are still out there...And I didn’t die.”
“...Wonder where that guy went? If he truly left? You did too, die. That’s why you’re here with me.”
“Dunno. But what would explain the military guys? And I did not.”
“...Dunno. Militant angels? This world is crazy mad. You did, too. You just don’t remember dying. Like...like Nicole Kidman in that one movie.” Virgil could feel himself losing to much needed sleep. He opened his eyes just a bit to see that Richie was falling asleep as well, hugging tightly onto his fixed invention. Backpack was on watch mode, single eye glittering in the darkness as it continued to scan for dangers. Satisfied that things were going to be okay, Virgil drifted off to much needed sleep.
* - * - * - * - *
He’d decided on what he was going to do. The answer was simple–maddening, but simple. Harley Williams was to be avoided at all costs. Even if the man had proven to be unstable and insane...he was still a man that Hotstreak had feelings for. And if he wanted to avoid being sucked into that insanity, he just had to avoid the man.
It made perfect sense for him. Resolved, he grumbled to himself as he walked through the empty streets, aimless in direction. Staring out in the darkness of the fog, he began thinking again. Dakota was a pretty good-sized city. If he was careful, he could avoid Harley with ease. The man may have been proficient with tracking skills, but he’d been in so much pain when he realized that Hotstreak was leaving him...maybe he wouldn’t try to track him down.
It was several minutes later when he heard the cries for help. He stilled. Without thinking, he began running in the direction of those sounds, unable to quiet the aggravated rushing sound in his head. The fog and darkness made it hard for him to determine direction, but he ran through the emptied streets at a hard sprint, just needing to be there.
He followed the canal, terror singing through every vein as he listened to those cries. He ran over a vehicle bridge, skirting past abandoned cars. He came up to a three story building, a large sign out front posting it as Dakota’s South Section police station. The front doors were wide open, blackness yawning at him ominously at the top of the staircase.
He had to pause after he stepped into the darkness of the front hall. The cries had stopped. As silence reigned he felt a nervous foreboding build inside of him. Walking inside with a small fire lit upon his knuckles, he ventured into the darkness, unsure of what he was going to encounter. He kept in mind the various monsters and things he’d seen since this craziness started.
The police station was in shambles, everything abandoned in haste while the station emptied itself of its employees in order to assist with the mayhem that had occurred. Papers lay scattered on the floor, dust collected in various areas. As he was entering the general lobby, he caught sight of a massive bulletin board nearby. Below it were various supplies–gathered hastily, as if they were going to be taken with whatever group had gathered it.
Milkcrates of non-perishables, emergency kits, batteries, blankets, scrubs, water bottles, and gas containers. As he looked around himself, he saw a lot of gas containers–as if someone had hoarded them, then realized what a fruitless effort it was. The red containers spread throughout the hall, behind the main desk and beyond. The lobby stunk of gasoline, but it was a mute odor due to another unpleasant one that made him tense. Everything was covered in dust–abandoned and forgotten for some time.
He looked at the bulletin board once more, curious at the amount of paper activity. It was posted with a clutter of papers–there were Polaroids of people pinned next to hastily scribbled notes, written pleas for loved ones. Hotstreak paused to take this in, idly scanning the desperate notes of love and desperation, eyes wandering over worn and worried faces of the Polaroids. As he was doing so, he spied a piece of paper that read, “Lab No.44. Proceed to Meadowside Mall.”
Bewilderment struck him. 44 had been his code back at the laboratories where he’d been kept most of his life. Unsure if this related to him, he reached for the piece of paper, taking it from the wall. His head raced with thoughts as he reread the message over and over again, struggling to decipher the mystery that surrounded it. Licking his lips, he stuffed the paper into his back pocket.
He heard the cries start up again. He listened to the man beg for someone to help him. His voice was strained, as if he’d been calling out for hours. Curiosity surged through him at that point, wanting to see what it was that had the man risking his very life to call for help.
He began moving through the darkness, heading for the door that led out from the general lobby. It had been locked once, requiring a passcode and a key, but the door was hanging loosely from its hinges. He gently pushed that aside, continuing on through the dark, noting that the hallway was splashed with various bullet holes and gore. It was as if a massive gunfight had occurred, and no one had survived. The stench of death was odious–there were signs that corpses had lingered before reanimating themselves and taking off for missions unknown.
He thought back, wondering if zombies were smart enough to carry weapons with them, and couldn’t find any instance in which they were. Ghouls were the only ‘thinking’ zombies, and he had to wince at the firepower they were probably armed with. Either they or other potential survivors. He found a stairway, and continued following the voice, heading upward. The hall was heavily damaged.
But he swallowed, hearing the man’s cries for help stop suddenly. Fearing that something was about to befell him, Hotstreak turned to head back downstairs when he heard his name called frantically. As if someone had recognized him. He looked up in surprise, unable to imagine anybody that could know he was there, trying to think of whom that voice belonged to. He hurried back up the stairs, finding that he was in a general office area. Bypassing all the desks, chairs and scattered mess of various blood and gore, he continued heading toward the man’s shouts, hearing them energized with hope as he ventured closer and closer in that direction.
Steeling himself for any worst-case scenario, Hotstreak held his breath as he pushed open a heavy door that required a passcode to enter. The lock had been taped so that it couldn’t engage, and he picked at that nervously as he found that the hallway he was to enter was dark and dripping with some sort of mucus.
“Ew,” he muttered, wrinkling his nose as he toed the slop. It was definitely fresh–foul smelling, and the hall had sustained heavy damage as well. “This is disgusting! Why the hell should I get myself dirty in this shit?”
“Help me!” the man cried. “Please–! I’m just down the hall! First door on your left!”
“What is this shit?!”
“I–I don’t know. Please help me! Please–! I’m begging you, please–!”
Hotstreak eyed the mucus with distaste, grimacing as he bent close to a particular blob, sniffing it suspiciously. The odor was sickening, and he retched as he pulled away. He did not want to come out from this particular hallway, smelling like that. Disdainfully, he brushed off his arms and hands, as if the smell had started to permeate his skin already. Looking in the hallway, holding his lit fist high, he glared into the darkness, looking for anything suspicious.
He then sighed heavily, curiosity overwhelming. He looked down at his tight and fashionable Gucci jeans, the brand new pair of Gucci sneakers, the undershirt. Gritting his teeth, he ventured into the hallway, taking great care not to step in muck that might mar his black and gold sneakers.
He found the doorway, but was surprised to find it locked. Growling, he kicked the metal with irritation. “Open the door!”
“I–I can’t! I can’t do it! You need to!”
“You’re the one on the other side! I don’t wanna attract any fuckin’ monsters if I use my powers! Why can’t you do it?!”
“I–I can’t! Open it! It’s not locked!”
“It’s LOCKED!” To prove his point, Hotstreak jingled the doorknob a couple of times, then kicked it again. “This place fucking REEKS! I don’t wanna be smelling like this when I leave this place, asshole! You’d better be a damn quadrapeligic if you can’t open the fuckin’ door!”
“Er...quadriplegic?”
“T hat’s what I said!”
“I–it’s okay. No one will see you use your powers. Just–just knock it down. There’s no one around!”
“Says you,” Hotstreak muttered, looking around him with hesitation. He started to melt the doorknob when he saw that slime had coated the doorway–the floor. He stared down at it with hesitation, frowning as he bent, sniffing deeply. The smell was more horrendous, coming from the small crack underneath. He winced, wondering what in God’s name–well, in Madelyn’s name it was that was making all this muck and stink.
He frowned at the doorway, reaching back to adjust his pack. It clinked with various treasures and supplies, reminding him that he should have kept an eye out for more. He reached out, melting the doorknob, then pulled back to kick at the door near knob level. The door slammed inward, revealing massive blackness–the smell was much more stronger, making him wince and pull away, jamming his forearm against his nose. The door caught immediately against something he couldn’t see.
“Jesus Christ–!” he complained. “What the fuck is that smell!?”
“Hurry–! Hurry, I need your help! Come in...come in here, please! I can’t–I’m stuck!”
Hotstreak just could not imagine what the man was doing, getting stuck in a dark room filled with slime and smell. He frowned, hairs on the back of his neck rising as he stared accusingly into the open doorway. He raised his fist, charging it brighter, the hallway flaring with life. He couldn’t see anything, and he frowned as he realized the man had gone silent. Instinct told him to flee, but he was just so damn curious–!
He moved, slowly drawing his arm forward to step into the room. All he saw was a massive wall of slimy brown, as if there was a foam wall set right in the middle of the room. He started to move in further when he realized that this ‘foam wall’ had bulging and throbbing veins–that it was shifting with a sick slurping sound, air rushing into a wide orifice. As if something massive was gathering a deep breath.
He looked up when he felt the drip of cold muck on his arm, staring right into the giant maw of a creature that looked ready to swallow him whole. He shouted aloud, throwing himself back as long, gangly arms shot outward, wrapping around his waist.
“Shit–! SHIT–!” he shouted in appalled terror, jerking back as the creature emitted a ghastly howl that made the ceiling panels shake, for glass to vibrate. It felt as if every bone in his body had vibrated with the noise, pressure set on his sternum. His head was ringing as he struggled, those loopy arms pulling him back into the room, the massive wall shifting to admit a small head with shrunken features. But that maw–it stretched nearly four feet height-wise, dropping quickly as the throat exposed itself. The darkness in that cavern was foreboding–drool dripping onto the floor as small eyes blinked transparent shields.
He flared with all the heat and flame he could muster, the creature shrieking with agony as he was released, scorch marks tearing through the floor, wall and ceiling. Smoke singed the air, flame catching onto the wood. The creature jerked away from him, emitting a tormented howl as it began flailing. Hotstreak turned and began running through the darkness, lighting himself up once he heard the walls vibrate with massive banging noises. Looking over his shoulder, he saw that one arm was groping the hall, that massive body struggling mightily to escape the confines of the small room. That thing was coming after him.
He ran through the doorway leading into the office space, then stopped short at the sight of the shadows moving angrily around him. He turned and began running back into the hall, seeing that the creature was forcing itself from the room, facing him. It howled again. He took the opposite way, dashing down the hall, cursing all the while as he slipped and slid the entire time. He banged into a closed door at the end, groping for the doorknob, then slipping through the doorway once it opened. It was a small corner office, filled with demons–all of whom turned their heads at the same time to look at him in surprised bewilderment.
They were standing in all various areas, still and motionless–as if they were robots ready to be activated. Once they caught sight of him, Hotstreak staring at them dumbly, they all opened their mouths and shrieked aloud in discovery. He slammed his palms over his ears, ran back out, and slammed the door. The bigger creature was struggling to fit its other shoulder through the doorway, so he took the nearest doorway as the demons clawed and broke through the shut door to chase after him.
He opened and slammed that door shut, locking it behind him as he gasped for breath, wishing he were in better shape. Once he realized that this room was full of shelves and shelves of boxes with thousands of files and information, he frowned. Racing across the room, he found a doorway that opened onto a stairway leading down a floor. He turned, and began pulling all the boxes that he could from the nearby shelves, hurriedly scattering valuable information and evidence from those that opened. He lit both hands, and began burning all that he touched, papers immediately catching fire, smoke curling into the air and flames spreading. He began tossing everything away from him, starting all that he could on fire as demons screeched angrily upon finding that this door was harder to open.
That thing bellowed in tormented agony, Hotstreak briefly wondering what it was it was bitching about so much. He’d never seen such a thing before; he started to call it a ‘Wailer’ for all its griping.
Standing, he watched shelf after shelf catch to flame, boxes burning brightly as flames spread. Smoke quickly built, making it hard to see, so he turned and headed down the stairway, racing out onto the first floor. He stopped short once he realized he was facing more of those demons, zombies filtering in through the front doors with their lifeless stares and careless grunts. He sighed impatiently, flaring to life. Shooting out twin pillars of fire, he poured on the heat and strength, wincing at their pained screams. Zombies were so easy to dispatch of, as they spread flame wherever they were, running in their panicked fashions. Demons screamed and scurried about, attacking anything they came to in their agony.
Hotstreak turned and ran down the hall, bypassing the stairway, slamming through another door that had once required a pass code. Running through there, he realized that straight ahead of him was the station garage–to his right was another hallway that led to an adjoining building. He frowned, looking back at the garage. Jogging in that direction, he burst through the heavy doors, and glanced around. He was starting to think that perhaps he was stupid to think that the police station would have a propane tank when he spied the oblong tank nearby, settled behind a chain link fence. Instantly, various action movies and poorly detailed TV series shot to mind as an evil grin pulled into place.
He raced for it, noting that the vehicle entrance/exit was further away from him than he thought. Anxiously, he wondered if he could withstand the blast, and then decided to go through with it anyway. That was when he noticed the stairway that he’d seen earlier, its exit door hanging loosely from its hinges. It was significantly closer to the general lobby than the hallway he’d taken, so he nodded with approval.
He jogged over, startled at the sight of more zombies coming into the garage through the entrance/exit, uttering their guttural complaints, and heard screaming demons coming through the doorway he’d just taken. Sighing heavily, his hands flared with bright flame, temporarily lighting up the dark garage. He stared at the abandoned cars, wondering just how much gas they had in their tanks. Hurling fireballs at all the vehicles he could, he judged just how much heat was needed to weaken the supports that kept the building above the garage suspended. He wondered how long it would take for it to collapse.
Once the vehicles caught fire, they burned nonchalantly. Annoyed, he tossed more fireballs in their direction, and had the satisfaction of catching one just right near the gas tank area. The resulting explosion was slightly weak, but at least it attracted the attention of more zombies and demons, the shadows moving restlessly into the area. The heat began to melt the more flammable objects in the garage, building and building within the confined area. He stared up at the ceiling, hesitating in throwing more fireballs, catching his breath and wondering just how he was going to accomplish this.
He then turned, hurling fireballs at the propane tank, wondering if this idea would even work. It seemed so...cliche...
Once metal began to protest, visibly sagging on the side closest to him, he grinned. There were demons straggling nearby, their small bodies a lit with flame. Reaching for the ones closest to him, he picked them up with strenuous grunts, and tossed them into the tank. The resulting explosion as weight irritated the sagging metal had him stumbling into the stairway. Running frantically up the stairway, feeling the heat from the fire that had spread up in the floors above, he intensified his sprint.
Panting and gasping for air, he raced through the general lobby, hurling fireballs wherever he could. Something exploded (most likely the gas containers he’d seen piled around), the resulting heat wave startling him. He tripped over his own feet, flying through the door, rolling down the staircase with painful momentum. As he settled on the sidewalk, the entire station began to crumble with a sort of spectacular rumble of sound and displacement. Glass shattered as walls collapsed, flame licking the air from below, dust spilling out into the air and pushing at the fog that made the world into a dark place.
He cackled in glee over his destruction, amazed that he still had the touch. And Harley called him ‘slow’, ‘dumb’...hah! Where was he to see his genius, now? He then remembered seeing that stricken expression of his as he left the basement. Stilling in a moment of gloom, he sat where he was, watching the entire building crumble in on itself, sinking into the below ground level garage. Flames licked the air as dust and smoke intermingled with the thick coating of fog.
He sighed heavily, wondering if he could truly leave his partner behind.
* - * - * - * - *
Somewhere, in between dreams and sleep, Virgil heard something that shook him awake. His eyelids were sluggish to open, focusing on the darkness and realizing that it wasn’t. It was cast with faint light, and he immediately pictured the television set that Richie had left on. The mysterious television set that continued to run on power despite the cord laying beside it, and despite the fact that electricity hadn’t worked for anybody unless someone processed it upon their own work.
He could hear Richie sleeping peacefully, but Backpack’s eye was red–and it was positioned out of its owner’s arms, all seven of its rebar arms displayed, the others either ready to strike out or covering Richie’s frame with a protective shield. Virgil was startled to see the invention on such high alert, and was bewildered as it why it was letting Richie sleep instead of alerting him. The way it was positioned made him realize that it was looking beyond him–and instant awareness had Virgil’s skin prickling with a sort of shocked tingle that ran up and down his entire body.
With a breath being sucked in sharply, Virgil rose and whirled at the same time, realizing that there was someone standing before the television set. His eyes widened in scared action, terror hitting him as the eerie form stayed hidden with the room’s darkness, but was illuminated from behind by the muted static of the television set. It wasn’t doing anything–but the fact that it was there had Virgil’s heart slamming hard against his chest with fright.
He couldn’t see any facial features–nor any distinguishing shapes to the person that made it stand out. He sat up stiffly, hands trembling as he prepared to fight, Backpack shifting protectively so that it was shielding its owner from anything that the person would have tossed at them–it bothered Virgil that it still didn’t wake Richie up, and that the blond was sleeping as if nothing was happening.
“Virgil...put down your hands, honey.”
Virgil stilled. His heart felt as if it had performed a clean stop. His breath stopped in his throat. He didn’t dare blink as that familiar voice wafted over his conscious, over his entire being. The person still didn’t move–still wasn’t distinguishable. But Virgil knew who it was by the sound of her voice. He would always know that sound. It was hushed, as if she were speaking low as to not disturb anybody else.
“Do you know why you’re here?”
Virgil wished that he could smell her. Reach out and touch her. The instant yearning was strong as he rose from the bed, his legs unsteady. He still couldn’t see her clearly, but he could picture her in his mind’s eye. “M–mom?”
“Yes...Virgil, I don’t have enough time to linger. I’ve only a few moments more,” Jean said, in that same hushed voice. Virgil was trembling as he kept his eyes on her, wishing that she would step closer so that he could see her more clearly. The room was freezing–he registered that all of a sudden, seeing his breath as he started to breathe quickly. “Maria led you here for a reason, Virgil. So that I may speak with you. My death was meant to be, Virgil, and I’m sorry that I had to leave all of you so soon and so quick. I wish we could have spent more time together. I would love nothing more than to hold you in my arms right now. But the fact of the matter is...I don’t exist here in this world. I cannot. My time here right now is...chance. I need you to do something for me, Virgil.”
“Y-you can’t stay? You–why, mom, you can’t just–!”
“Virgil, listen to me. There is a reason for all this madness. I’ve heard you arguing with Richie many times over this. You are right, Virgil. This is Madelyn’s Purgatory. A world where others like her and people like you were entrapped in. It happened so suddenly, and with so much confusion, that the other world has now started to realize what had happened to it.”
Virgil stilled, mind processing the words, but not fully comprehending it. On some level, he wanted to kick his friend off the bed and gloat about his theory, but he couldn’t move. He was afraid that if he moved or spoke anymore, his mother would leave him. And he needed more time with her. He ached to reach out to touch her, to smell the scent of her familiar smells and feel her reassuring, loving hands on him. He felt his chest clench with the utmost need, struggling to maintain his posture as Jean shifted slightly. It seemed as if the television set had brightened–the static was now heard, making his mother’s voice a little muffled beyond its noise.
“She is here. She banned all the evils in the living world into this one, along with a number of souls that were meant to destroy her. But the trick is, Virgil, that you’ve got to find her. She can be anywhere, anything. She can be evil, she can be good. You must realize that your role in this matter is a great one. You must open your eyes and follow your instinct. You must find the others in order to get close to her. They are all over this world, Virgil, and they can be just as evil as the others. But you’ve got to see them. Some of them are those you know–some of those will prove impossible to abide to their Purpose. But they need you to awaken them. Is that clear, Virgil? Do you understand what I’m saying?”
Virgil shook his head, her words bouncing around his conscious in a jumble. “No...no I don’t–!”
“When you wake up, Virgil, you’ll remember. I’ll make sure of that,” Jean said softly, a smile in her voice. Static grew louder, the room buzzing with the formerly alien noise. “I love you, honey. And I miss you so very much...I cannot approach you again. You must follow your instinct, Virgil. You’re important. You’re a smart boy, you can see these things. I trust in you. You’ve done it before, baby, you can do it again. You hear?”
Virgil felt his throat tightening, reaching out for her. But it was as if her form were fading away, sinking into the snow on the television screen. Before she could completely fade away, his hands managed to snag one of hers–feeling warm, soft skin, firm fingers briefly catching onto his before he felt nothing.
Static eventually faded away, white noise leaving him in complete and utter silence. The television set continued to display its snow, lighting the room with its seemingly limitless activity. Virgil stared into the television set with a melancholic expression, feeling his legs give out from underneath him. Somewhere in his mind, Jean’s words rang with hollowed feeling in his thoughts. But he was only focused on needing his mother once again; needing to hear her, to touch and see her.
He touched the television set with grief-stricken action, feeling himself falling apart at the loss of her once more.