Message #5073

[Mutou Yami]

Chapter Ten
Sirens

I found myself back in the hallway, once again with no clear goal in mind other than to start checking doors again. I had to get my bearings back, and then I started towards the other end of the hall, having already checked everything on this side.

I didn’t make it a dozen paces before the radio in my pocket suddenly came to life, and the noise alone made me jump, to say nothing of why it was making noise. I held the plank out, ready to attack whatever was there.

The trouble was, I didn’t see anything. The flashlight showed an empty hall in front of me. I could see the wall at the end of the corridor, and there was nothing of any size between it and myself.

Then I saw, at my feet. The mannequin! I backed up slowly, my eyes locked tight on the wretched thing, waiting for it to spring to life and attack.

It didn’t stir. Didn’t even so much as twitch, and from my experience so far, they rather enjoyed that particular activity. I quickly stole a glance behind me, but there was nothing there either. This worried me a bit, because I had been growing to rely upon the radio as sort of an early-warning system and…

I heard something above the radio, a rough, wet crunching sound. I turned the radio’s volume knob down a notch, and I was able to hear it clearly. It sounded like something was chewing on dog food, almost.

Then the mannequin did twitch, but it wasn’t the same kind of twitch. The movement was weak and limp, and a second later, I saw that it was being moved. I ran my light along the shape of its vulpine body. It got as far as the hole that I had kicked into its side moments earlier.

The wound I had caused it hadn’t been larger in diameter than perhaps a tennis ball. Now, I saw a hole that was easily twice as large, and it was torn open. The mannequin’s strange flesh was flayed and chewed along the edges, and the meat underneath seemed to have had the same thing happen to it. The wound was nearly hollowed out.

Suddenly, the twitching intensified, all of the movement emanating from the mannequin’s savaged torso. I watched as it settled down and came to a stop, backing away from it as I did.

It was a good thing I did too, because not even a second later, a sudden, pealing crack issued from within the corpse of the mannequin, and then something burst out of its torso, suddenly and violently. A spray of meat and gore flew in every direction, a little of it hard enough to hit my cheek. I paid it no mind, though, because my attention was firmly rooted on what had emerged from the mannequin’s body.

Slick as it was with blood, the creature I saw on the ground was quite recognizable, at least, in a primary sense. It was an insect, and by far the largest I have ever seen in my life. It looked very much like a cockroach, and it was enormous, almost the size of a small puppy.

The cockroach stood where it landed, not making a move save for its dripping antennae darting about. It was a revolting sight to see, but fascinating in its own way. Perhaps this was because I didn’t view the thing as much of a threat.

It moved, and it instantly destroyed my misconceptions about its ability to threaten me.

I’ve seen my fair share of cockroaches in my day. My old man was the superintendent of an apartment complex in Ashfield. I lived there with him until a year after Mom died, and I worked for him there a little longer besides. I had most definitely seen my share of cockroaches. Typically, they don’t bother me much.

But then again, I’ve never seen a cockroach large enough to eat a cat. And I’ve never seen a cockroach leap into the air, either. Not until today. Lot of things I hadn’t seen until today.

The roach launched itself directly at my leg, and I didn’t even have half a chance to react. It landed on my left leg, just below the knee. I felt it attach itself to my leg with long legs that were surprisingly powerful and barbed hook-like tips. And not even a half-second later, I saw its alien head burrow into the fabric of my jeans. Then I felt pain. It was biting me!

I shook my left leg madly, trying to dislodge it from my pants, the image of the hollowed-out mannequin still very prominent in my mind and causing me no small measure of panic. I was yelling, almost screaming, as I tried to remove the attacker before he did some real damage. It was attached quite firmly though, and shaking my leg didn’t even make it pause.

In desperation, I reached down and grabbed the thing with my right hand, trying my best to keep a grip despite the magnificently uncomfortable feeling I got from touching it. With a savage bit of effort, I yanked the roach away from my leg. I felt a sharp tang of pain when I did, and I also felt the denim tear slightly, but I was successful.

It was hard not to drop the bastard, slick as it was, not to mention, the terrifying feel of its free legs contorting and scraping the exposed flesh of my hand. I leaned back a bit, and threw the thing right into the wall. It struck with a dull thump, and left a tacky stain of blood on the wall where it hit. Hitting the floor on its back, it flailed its long, impossible legs wildly. The bloodstain on the wall came from the mannequin’s remnants (and my own?), but not from the roach itself. It seemed uninjured, but it was incapacitated. On its back as it was, it would be unable to right itself. I smirked in spite of myself. Little bastard. Little **** bastard.

It struggled uselessly as I stared at it. It still struggled as I slowly lowered my foot upon it. For the briefest of moments, it caught a hold of the sole of my shoe, but I gave it no time to capitalize. My leg drove my foot into the ground with all the force I could muster.

The roach did not splat, as I expected it to. Rather, it burst open, as if I had done the same thing to a ripe watermelon. It crushed under my weight, and several streams of blood and ichor blossomed around it, making it look for all the world like an obscene flower. A fresh wave of stink followed, strong and putrid.

I yanked up the leg of my jeans. The little bastard got me, all right. There was a ragged wound about the size of a quarter on the inside of my calf. It was bleeding, there was a nice spot of it already on my jeans, and it didn’t hurt so much as it stung. The thing had torn right through my flesh and had started on the muscle underneath, thankfully not getting too far, but it was still amazing, in a sick way. Had I waited just one or two more seconds, it could very well have crippled me.

The bleeding wasn’t terribly bad, and I used the receipt tape from the diner as a makeshift bandage. It wouldn’t do for long, as I couldn’t find anything to make it stick, but it was better than it sticking to my pants.

Having finished, I found myself facing Room 105, and it turned out to be one of those rare few doors that actually functioned. Behind door 105 was yet another empty old hovel that looked like any of the other dozen or so that I’d been in already. The only notable item I saw was a wooden hinge box on legs, propped up against the wall. It was old, but rather beautiful and looking far better-kept than it had any right to, considering where it was. I would have totally ignored it had there been anything else in the room to distract me, but besides the hinge box, the place was completely empty. Why would such a thing sit by itself like this, unless there was something special about it?

The box was locked, I found, and quite securely. Curious, I lifted the thing and gave it a good solid shake. Something inside bounced around inside, something small and solid. I set it back down and examined the front. There was a large brass plate on the face of the box, so bright it might have been polished as recently as yesterday. My flashlight played across the plaque, and I saw that it displayed a rather long and confusing poem about snakes, mistresses, prisoners, and a set of coins, nothing that made the least bit of sense to me.

I saw then that above the plaque were a series of steel-rimmed depressions set into the wood, each about the size of a quarter. Examining it further, I found nothing that I would have called a keyhole. Not that I had a key for it, anyway.

Then I remembered the poem mentioning coins, and it hit me: this was a puzzle box of some kind, and there must be pieces to it, pieces that would fit into the depressions on the face.

I made another thorough search of the apartment, but I found nothing at all that resembled a coin. They could be anywhere, even lost somewhere, and what was in here that was so important anyway?

Then, I got a flash. Sometimes the correct answer is the most obvious. I grabbed the lockbox by its mahogany stilts and swung it into the exposed edge of a wall, the part that has steel supports. It took about a dozen tries, but finally the box cracked, and two blows latter, it was damaged enough to where I was able to pull it open with my hands, cracking the surely expensive wood even wider. I sure hoped the owner didn’t mind too much.

Sure enough, a small piece of cool metal fell out of the broken box and into my hand. It was a key, one that appeared well-used, and attached to it was a tag that read “Stairwell North”.

I couldn’t believe my luck. The stairwell I had been in earlier was on the east side of the building, and it had no exit thanks to the strange positioning of the two buildings, but this north stairwell might very well have a working exit… and even if it wasn’t working, I would make it work. I twirled the key on my finger as I left Room 105 and its sole, shattered possession.

I tested the key on every door on the first floor that didn’t obviously seem to be an apartment, but it fit none of them, so I made for the east stairwell and the second floor. I had the sudden notion that perhaps this odd stairwell was accessible only from the third floor, which made it inaccessible. I had to really swallow back that thought. So far, I had been finding ways to advance, even if some were unorthodox. This would be no different, I told myself. The power of positive thinking, and all that. It didn’t stop nervous sweat from breaking free on my face and arms. I couldn’t wait to be free of these apartments.

I had my hand on the knob of the door leading to the second-floor hall when I heard a noise on the other side. It was a wet, sloppy click-click-click, loud and regular, but muffled through the door. Something was moving behind it, and I had a rather good idea of what it was. The mannequin clicked its way down the hall, away from me, the sound dimming as it retreated. I opened the door a crack and peeked out just in time to see its shrouded form disappear in the distance. I stepped out into the hall. I had a comfortable distance to get away now, if I had to. I went down the hall in the opposite direction, hoping my friend was alone up here.

Doors lined the hall, some intact, some boarded up, one of them wide open but leading into some sort of structural collapse. The one I found at the very end was unique, covered with peeling sky-blue paint and featuring a small window. It was smeared and filthy, so I couldn’t see through into what lay beyond, but it didn’t matter. I knew I found my stairwell. I pulled out the key I found downstairs, only to find it unnecessary. The damn thing was already unlocked. I went inside.

It was very dark inside, lacking the ambient light the hallways had thanks to the odd functioning ceiling light. That was the first thing I noticed. The second was a sound, a very strange sound. It was a low, guttural groaning, sounding only vaguely human, and it puzzled me for perhaps a second and a half, and then filled me with complete terror once my flashlight pinpointed its source and I recognized it. My radio chose that moment to come to squealing, scrimming life, as if to hail the coming of Death himself. It wouldn’t be inaccurate in the least.

It was him.

He had his pale, blood-crusted arms around a form that I recognized as a straight-jacket. The slick, slender monster writhed and struggled uselessly as Pyramid Head did something to it, something that, as best I could tell, seemed like it was finishing what I had interrupted the last time our paths crossed. Pyramid Head seemed to be shoving the straight-jacket’s head into his own crotch, forcefully, and not with the repetitive motion that might have suggested sexuality. It wasn’t sexual in the least, to me. It was horrifying though, and all the more so because it made no **** sense whatsoever.

I don’t know how long I stood there, transfixed by what I was witnessing, but Pyramid Head was definitely more alert than I was. He abruptly dropped his victim to the floor, where it thrashed about chaotically and mindlessly. Alertness returned to me when I saw Pyramid Head bend over and close his hands around an object on the ground. Lifting it seemed to cause him quite a bit of effort. Once I caught sight of it, I could see why.

It was an enormous sword.

It looked to be a good four feet long from hilt to tip and almost an entire foot wide. It came to a point about a foot from the tip. It was stained with something scummy, blood, dirt, filth, all three and more, most likely. It had to weigh a good fifty or sixty pounds, awkward weight to carry in the form it was in.

He didn’t bother carrying it, he merely dragged it. The blade screeched as it scraped against the concrete floor. Scraped on the floor as it was being dragged, dragged towards me.

That sound, horrible though it felt on the ears, was a godsend, as it shocked me into motion. The plank was in my hand, and I had already managed to drive him away with the Glock once, but the only thing on my mind right now was getting right the hell out of here and as far away as I could, and there was one obvious option: the stairs!

I almost choked as soon as I saw them, on disappointment or on terror, I couldn’t tell. Water flooded the entire stairwell. It was brown going on black, oily, smelled wonderful, too. A smell of ****, bile, grease, and of course, defeat. That was my way out.

I had no time to dwell on it, though. The huge knife and its wielder still scraped inexorably towards me, and I had to get away from it. I could worry about the stairs later. I could climb out the god damn windows if it came to that, but that feeling from before, that buffeting, bludgeoning feeling of fear beat against me, that same gut-wrenching sensation I got when I saw him through the bars next door, and all I could think about was escaping it, getting away from it, and purging the feeling however I could.

My hand flew right to the doorknob. Turned it. It didn’t budge. Not even when I put my weight into it.

Locked.

No way. No **** way!

I wanted to vomit again. I wanted to cry. Lay down on the floor, roll into a ball, and cry. It was a miracle that I didn’t, right then and there. I’d like to say that it was because I didn’t want to die without finding Mary, that sounds nice, but hardly true. I think it was noting that the scraping had ceased, and when I looked at Pyramid Head, he had the great knife behind his back, unmistakably in a position to attempt an overhead chop right in my direction. The reality of it read more like my self-preservation instinct kicking in just in the nick of time.

And how true that was, for I darted towards the opposite corner of the room, getting away just as Pyramid Head heaved his giant blade over his head and crashing down, striking the concrete floor instead of my soft flesh. The room brightened for a split second as sparks cascaded from the impact.

I tossed the plank aside, it would be of no help now. Instead, I drew the Glock and held it, trying to hold as steady an aim as my quaking hands would allow. The effort of the swing left my adversary vulnerable for a second, and knowing I’d never have a better opportunity, I pulled the trigger.

The muzzle flash was blinding, the blast almost deafening, but over them I heard a metallic clank and I saw the Pyramid Head jerk his head to the side, not from pain or injury, but from surprise. He turned towards me, first his head, than his whole body. One foot stepped forward, then the other. Then the scraping of the knife on the ground. Completely undaunted.

I fired the gun again, this time at his chest. It was a perfect shot, there was no way I could have missed. Yet, I saw no wound appear, no blood flow. Pyramid Head slowed for perhaps a second, but it did no more good than that. Still he came at me, step by ponderous step, single of mind and purpose.

The gun barked again, and again, and again still. I fired repeatedly, and I’m sure after the fourth or fifth shot, my sweaty palms and quivering hands prevented me from even having a chance of a good hit. At least two shots clearly went wide of the target. The sixth struck him in the leg, and it might as well have been a mosquito bite, for he stopped moving and drew the knife behind him, readying for another chop, looking for all the world like the headsman from hell.

I was backed into the corner now, there was no way I could dodge it again in time, and my rational mind wasn’t even entertaining the possibility. I fired my gun again. Seven, eight, nine, ten, right at its head. I clearly heard each one clang as before. That finished off my clip, yet that information had not yet reached my brain. Nothing did. It was stuck right where it was, telling my trigger finger to keep pulling and pulling, even though I was getting nothing but dry clicks as a reward for the effort. I was still dry-firing the empty weapon as I slid to the floor, my mouth gibbering and my eyes snapped shut with terror as I waited for the blade to fall. In the darkness I only saw Mary’s face, and I wondered if I would see her in the next life…

I waited for it.

Waited.

I wondered what it would feel like. Would I feel it? Would I feel, briefly, what would feel like to be cloven in half, before my brain shut down for good?

I waited. I waited and I felt nothing. But I did hear.

A siren. A loud, mournful sound, this siren was. Unless I missed my guess, it was a World War II-era air-raid warning. Puzzling, certainly, but not enough to get me to open my eyes. I was still waiting for the end.

The siren moaned on and on, and under it I heard a squeal, the sound of metal dragging on concrete. Splashing, rhythmic and deliberate. The squealing turned into a clang, clang, clang, which muted more and more each time and finally ceased. The splashing noise stopped a few moments later, and everything was still for a second.

I heard a door open.

My eyes snapped open, and when they did, I saw a room that was completely free of Pyramid Head. I also saw the old blue door I had entered. I didn’t know if it was still locked, but it was certainly still closed. I wondered what I had just heard, but then a few seconds later, I looked down the stairs, and what I saw flooded by body with a strange mix of relief and apprehension.

The water was draining, very quickly receding. The level decreased at almost a foot every other second, and within thirty seconds, I heard the wet rush as the last of it emptied out to wherever the rest had gone. My escape route was revealed to me. It felt to me like it must have felt to Moses when God parted the Red Sea for his Israelites. The only problem was, Moses had his Pharaoh behind him. Unless my ears deceived me, mine had already gone down before me.

I descended the stairs, which were slick with water and scum, careful not to take a tumble. At the bottom I found a wide open door, and this door did not lead into another hallway or room. It led out into the outside, the fog still hanging as thick as before.

I didn’t care one bit. A more welcome sight I couldn’t have imagined right then and there. There was no sign of Pyramid Head anywhere, and that only made things better. The noise of the sirens faded and dimmed as I stepped outside, back into the town, and hopefully towards my destination.