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Silent Hill 2 Fanfic

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Mutou Yami
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« on: October 16, 2010, 03:31:48 pm »

Chapter Thirty-Five
Righteous Fury

There were many colorful, frightful possibilities running rampant across the fields of my imagination as I prepared to step from this horrid, gore-streaked world and into the next unknown. The human mind can be funny when it’s taxed and overworked. It can conjure the most outlandish, fantastic imagery, and no matter how unlikely or impossible these images are, there’s always a part of us that grabs some of these chaotic strands of thought, and in defiance of all we know, convince ourselves that these fancies may be true. In some extreme cases, we convince ourselves that these fancies are true.

At that moment, I was under such an impression. I was thinking about Pyramid Head and his funhouse of inhuman suffering. When I was there, it was horrible enough, and I can’t overstate that. Walking through this concrete tunnel, especially the section covered in frozen blood, it wasn’t difficult at all to believe that my experience in that little slice of hell was just the prelude to whatever I was going to see behind this door. I didn’t have a solid notion of exactly what I was going to find, I just knew that it would be dramatically unpleasant, and that the only reason I was doing something as stupid as actually going in that door was because there was absolutely no other option.

That was the only reason. God help me.

A blast of even colder air greeted me as my destiny revealed itself. The chill was really unnecessary, though. What I saw behind that door could have made me shiver if the thermostat had been set to a hundred.

The room was rather large and spacious. There was light inside, which was an unusual sight lately. Dim fluorescents cast a sickly green pall over the scene. Huge flexible pipes hung from the wall, drooping towards the floor like defeated snakes. Super-cooled air wafted from their open ends. The mist swirled around, hovering just above the cold, concrete floor.

A cold, concrete floor which was littered with corpses.

They lay sprawled about, lifeless and boneless, some even draped over others. Their deaths were all uniformly violent. Great, sticky starbursts of blood painted whatever surfaces were nearby, and were quickly congealing and solidifying from the low temperatures. They hadn’t been simply killed, they had been savaged, they had been brutalized.

And, in the midst of the carnage stood none other than Edward Philip Dombrowski. If I had even the smallest doubts about him before, even they were completely and rapidly exorcised now. Physically, he looked like ****. He was very pale and his clothes were stained with his own sweat and the blood of others. Sweaty tendrils of blond hair poked out from under his hat like grass growing in the cracks of a sidewalk. His eyes were ringed and puffy. Yet, despite all that, he stood tall and proud, like a conquering warlord, surveying and admiring his homicidal masterpiece. No sir, there was no questions left about Eddie and his involvement with the dead bodies that always just happened to be nearby whenever I encountered him. No questions at all. If the obviousness of the scene itself didn’t make that clear enough, the look in his eyes sealed the deal. They were huge and wide. Even from across the room I could see his pupils narrowed to pencil points. There was a fire in his eyes, a dangerous, demented fire, the same sort of look a firebrand preacher assumes when he’s in the pulpit, brandishing his bible and spewing forth harsh tales of hellfire and brimstone and sin and the fate of the non-repentant. When he holds his audience in thrall, when the very breaths they take time themselves with the rhythm and undulation of his voice. That was the look I saw in Eddie’s eyes. The look of damnation and judgment. Of holy judgement. The look of a man who realizes he now holds the power to decide who lives and who dies, realizes it and embraces it. The oversized revolver, the instrument by which he exercised that seductive control, was clutched tightly in his fist. If he knew I was there, he didn’t let on.

“Eddie?” I said softly.

He did look at me now, and the look on his face made me regret I ever opened my stupid mouth. The burning eyes now flashed fire into mine, and the grin on his face was like a shark’s, predatory and malicious. It was daring me to say something more. It was also daring me to keep my mouth shut. Both choices seemed wrong. I decided that talking would keep him occupied, if nothing else.

“What are you doing, Eddie? What happened here?” I asked.

“What the hell does it look like I’m doing?” he said. He pointed the revolver at the nearest corpse, and his head turned in that direction, but his terrible eyes were still locked with mine. “You see that guy there? He was always bustin’ my balls. He’s the kinda guy that likes snapping bra-straps just ‘cause it’s funny, you know? He thought he was funny. ‘Hey Porky!’ he’d say, ‘You ain’t nothin’ but a fat, disgusting piece of ****!’ I didn’t never think that was funny, though.” He turned to another body. “Hey guys, here comes Shamu the fuckin’ whale! Throw his fat ass a fish and he’ll flop” Then to another. “Check out the **** on Dombrowski! His fuckin’ jugs are bigger than my mom’s!” Another. “What’s up with that face, dipshit? I bet your mama don’t even love you, cause you remind her of the dog she ****!”

I couldn’t say anything. And even if I wanted to, I couldn’t. He wasn’t finished. Now he turned back to me.

“Well, ya know what? Maybe they were all right about me. Maybe I ain’t nothin’ but a tub-ass digusting fat ****.” He slapped his belly, making a dull smack. It rippled through his shirt. He seemed to find that mildly amusing. “But now I come to realize something. Ya see, it don’t really matter if you’re fat or ugly or smelly or pretty. It don’t matter if you’re smart or on the football team or a big-shot manager. You know why?” He turned away from me and waved his gun in a wide arc at all the bodies on the ground, like a conductor wielding a baton at a very disinterested orchestra. “It don’t mean **** once yer dead!

Now, I’ve seen as much television and as many movies as any average American male. I’ve seen my share of hostage situations and of other general situations which involve defusing a potentially-unstable human being that holds a deadly weapon. And what I didn’t see, common sense should fill in the gaps, right? Of course. But as I said awhile back, there are times when people like me have brain farts at the absolute worst possible moments. There are times when I should just keep my damn trap shut and say nothing, but I fail to see the signs and I open my mouth anyway. Usually in situations like this, I make an ass of myself, and I turn away with burning cheeks and a bruised ego.

Usually. But then again, I’ve never been faced with an insane killer, either. And that’s what made this particular instance so special, and so stupid.

“Eddie?” I asked, as innocuously as I could, “Have you lost your mind?” As soon as the last word left my mouth, I realized what a tremendous, and potentially fatal, mistake I had just made, but it was too late now. I should have know better. Should have. But the mistake was made.

And he knew it.

“I thought so!” he said, deceptively calm at first. “You too. You’re just like they are, James! Oh, I know you’ve been tryin’ to sound nice and cool and all, but I know what you’re all about. I know you been laughin’ at me behind my back. You’ve been laughin’ at me all along, haven’t you?”

“Eddie…”

HAVEN’T YOU?” he roared.

“I didn’t mean a goddamn thing!” I yelled, and it was a conscious effort to keep the fear from cracking my voice. “You know that!”

He laughed. “Don’t bother, James. I saw it in yer eyes, even the first time we met. I know you been laughin’ at me. I know it. Stop with yer lies, ‘cause it’s too late to sweet-talk yer way out of it.”

My eyes darted to his chubby fist, which was raising up to eye level. The fist that held his Colt revolver. The Colt revolver which was now aimed right at my face.

The moment froze in time, and it had nothing to do with the oppressive cold. Fear was a part of it, I suppose, but only peripherally. I think the real cause was the darkly humorous realization that I had survived a fall from a roof, a shift into some strange parallel dimension and encounters with inhuman monsters of all shapes and sizes, and my reward was death at the hands of a very human monster.

And yet, perhaps it was all those encounters with the impossible that saved my life now, because I didn’t freeze at the sight of the barrel. I moved. And I moved just in time, too, because before I could even register the movement I made, I heard the concussive blast of Eddie’s hand cannon, and the atonal ping of the bullet as it ricocheted off the wall right where my old noggin had been.

He was being very meticulous about his movements. In no hurry was Eddie, no way. I darted around, trying to be as mobile a target as possible

get the gun!

as I fished out my own weapon. Always in the greatest times of need was finding it most difficult.

Eddie fired again, and this time I yelped. This room was large, but not large enough to dodge bullets forever. I had precious little room to maneuver, and I had to start returning fire, or else the outcome would be inevitably unfavorable for me.

I got a handle on the pistol and immediately brought it up and fired a shot. It missed, and I knew it probably would even before I pulled the trigger, but it made Eddie pause. Confusion twisted his face, the same kind of confusion a little kid shows when something completely outside of their experience occurs. I half-expected him to shout “That’s not fair!” indignantly.

He didn’t say anything. Instead, he reached for the handle of the door behind him, pulled it open, and slipped his large bulk through. I fired another shot at him, but it hit the door and bounced away. He pulled the door shut behind him.

I didn’t immediately follow. I wanted to catch my breath and gather my wits. I didn’t see reasoning with him as a likely thing. He was hell-bent on killing me for my minor insult, and by the looks of things, killing was something he no longer possessed any taboos about. The corpses flung around the room were grim evidence of that.

There was something funny about them, though, and it was the formless quality they all seemed to have. At first, I thought that was a result of his brutal vengeance, that he somehow made his thoughts reality and struck back at these people that had tormented him with insults all of his life. I couldn’t immediately discount the possibility, because crazier things had happened lately. But once I got a good look at them, I saw that their faces weren’t destroyed by Eddie’s violence.

They never had faces to begin with.

In fact, these heads were completely featureless, the skulls perfectly smooth on all sides. There was skin and blood, but the skin was completely white. It looked like a prototype person, like one of God’s early test-models. Did he actually see faces on these people? Did his wracked little mind give him what they themselves did not?

Did he look at me the same way?

That was very disturbing. But not half as disturbing as the clothing they all wore. All five of them had the same exact outfit on. Like their faces, the clothing lacked any real detail, but what was there was more than enough, and it disturbed me far more than the blank faces. Each of the bodies was clad in dark-denim jeans, black shoes, and an army-style fatigue jacket. The jacket lacked the various accoutrements that mine had, but the cut and design left no doubts.

They’re all dressed like ME

I had to finish this. I didn’t want to kill Eddie, but he had to be stopped, because it now seemed quite obvious to me that he wanted me dead, and that the idea didn’t just pop up in his head thirty seconds ago. If the bodies were any indication, and he really had some ability to conjure these images, I was on his mind quite a bit longer, and I had to get him, or else he would get me.

I took a minute to reload my clip (and realize how little I had left), then, holding the Glock at the ready, I pulled the door open slowly.

This new room was far larger and even colder. I didn’t see Eddie right away, but I did see several enormous bulb-shaped objects hanging from the ceiling, arranged in rows. There were a lot of them, all over the room, and they provided ample room for obstruction.

Lovely. Plenty of room to play hide-and-seek.

I darted through the door and took cover behind one of the objects. It was heavy and smelled musky, and seeing it up close, I almost choked on my breath.

They were gigantic slabs of meat.

What kind of food animal is this LARGE?

I didn’t hear anything but the rumbling, muted roar of the refrigeration system. I didn’t want to call his name out and give myself away, but I would feel a lot better knowing where he was, without finding out by seeing a muzzle flash.

SLAM!

My heart jolted right up my throat and bounced around my skull. I spun around, the gun thrust flush in front of me, ready to blaze away. Nothing. It was just the door closing behind me.

Get it together, Sunderland. Pick a less dangerous time to jump at bullshit noises and shadows. There’s a lunatic in this room, remember?

Of course. It was just a matter of-

“Do you know what it does to you, James?”

Eddie’s voice. I didn’t think it was close, but no telling how reliable the acoustics were in here. I didn’t respond. I was sure he had more to say, and he didn’t need my prompting.

Sure enough. “People been shittin’ on me all my life, man. I catch all kinds of hell just because they think I’m fat or I’m ugly. You know what that does, when you’ve been spit on and pissed on your whole fuckin’ life just because you ain’t attractive enough for ‘em?” He giggled, a sound both childish and plainly maniacal. “That’s why, when I shot that dog, I ran away. Ran right the hell away, like a scared little girl, afraid they’d catch me.”

More giggling. “Yeah, you heard me. I know you’re in here and I know you’re hearin’ every goddamn word I’m sayin’ to ya. I know yer in here and you’re laughin’ at me even now. So go ahead! Laugh! Laugh, James! Yeah, I killed that damn dog. I killed that dog and I enjoyed every **** second of it. You should have seen it, ha ha! Stupid mutt came right up to me, tongue all hangin’ out like it was a furry little retard. Didn’t even see it comin’! I shot it right in the stomach. Right in the stomach, and you shoulda seen it! Damn dog practically flew through the fuckin’ air! It sat there twitchin’ and whinin’ for awhile, then it just kinda died, all curled up in a ball, but not before it went totally crazy and tried to chew its own guts out!” He then paused for a moment, as if reflecting upon his happy memories. “Then he came along, he saw what I was doin’, and was he ever pissed! But ya know, he was pretty fuckin’ dumb, too. He thought he could yell at me, threaten me, me! I had the fuckin’ gun! He didn’t! That’s when I shot him, too! Right in the leg! Pansy-ass cried even louder than the dog, ha ha! I’d like to see him play football on that knee now, what’s left of it!” He laughed even louder at that. He found this all to be genuinely amusing.

I think I’d really, really like to say that this was an extraordinary shock to me, to hear him make this confession. I wish I could say that, but it wasn’t. I wasn’t even really more than just mildly surprised. On some level I was certain he was capable of it, and worse. There were always bodies in his wake, and he was always lying about them. Of that I was, at the very least, suspicious right from the first, but after listening to that insane litany, I was completely convinced. Not because his story was different now. Not because he stopped denying his actions.

No, the reason I knew he was lying before is because he was a very bad liar, in retrospect. Changing stories, halting, stilted speech… he didn’t know how to lie very convincingly. Now, though, now that he didn’t have to lie, now that he got to not only reveal the truth but revel in it, all that was gone. Now he was clear and descriptive and relishing every word of it. He was enjoying himself!

That, really, was the most frightening part of it all.

“Eddie,” I said, “You think it’s okay to kill people? You think it’s fun?” What’s wrong with you? You need help, man. You need some serious help.” Oh, I knew it was far too late for help. We passed that happy little threshold miles back. Yet, I said so anyway. Maybe on some small level I even believed it. But, the real reason I said it was I knew it would anger him, knew it would keep him going. By now, it was completely clear; one of us would not leave this room alive. He smelled blood and wanted it drawn. I didn’t really want to kill the poor bastard. But, if I let him go, he would hunt me, he would always be at my heels. I didn’t know how far this rabbit hole went, and how far I might get before I was in a place from which I could not run. I would be hunted like a dog, and, if he had his way, shot like one, too, and he’d laugh and laugh as I curled up into a ball and died myself.

No. Not going to happen. I didn’t want to kill him, but I didn’t want to die, either. And, if it was either him or me…

“Hey!” he yelled, loud enough to make me wince, “Who the **** do you think you are? Who the hell are you to get all preachy on me, James? Guess what, mister holier-than-thou? You ain’t no different than me and you sure as hell ain’t no better. You and me, we’re the same!”

“Bullshit!” I said.

“Bullshit nothin’, James! Don’t get holy on me! Don’t you start actin’ like your **** don’t smell, ya son of a ****! You’re here, too! This town called you, too!

The letter. The town? The town called me? No way. Preposterous. Not a chance in hell. But, how did he get here? How did Angela get here? Did the town call her, too? Was it the town itself? It was certainly plausible, but at the same time, completely hare-brained nonsense.

“What’s the matter, James?” he said. Much closer, now. “You figure it out yet? I did. I know what’s up, now. I ain’t the same as other people. People been teachin’ me that lesson all my life. I ain’t like them. And neither are you. You and me, we’re the same.”

I was about to respond, but I didn’t get the chance. Didn’t need it. I didn’t even see it coming. I tried to keep him occupied, but in the end, it was he who succeeded in distracting his opponent. I was all wired with nerves and adrenaline, but even that didn’t prepare me for him being so direct. He leapt out from behind the enormous slab of meat I was leaning against. If he wanted to shoot me dead, he could have, right there. Surprise left me momentarily defenseless.

Yet, he didn’t. Instead, he wound up and threw a punch right at my face. I had just enough time to avoid getting my clock cleaned, but his fist still nailed me, right in my sore shoulder. I staggered backwards with a cry and fell to the freezing concrete floor. I had the presence of mind to have my gun aimed even as I fell, but he had already vanished.

Quickly, I scrabbled back to my feet and took cover again. The jungle of meat carcasses provided an eerie, haunting battleground. He and I could be here all day, hiding and firing and hiding again, each of us hoping we weren’t the first to make the mistake. Dad had a tour in Vietnam in 1967, leaving me alone with Mom for two years. He saw combat only once, on the hills near Khe Sanh during the Tet Offensive. I never thought Dad much of a story teller, but the way he described the terror and the carnage he endured on the hills, the abject panic he felt every time so much as a raindrop fell in the wrong place, the pitch-black nights in the mud and the twenty-thousand Charlies out there, each one licking their chops at the chance to take down one more Yankee soldier, it was all completely genuine. I knew this not just because of how vividly and frankly he described the events, but because I could see the terror revisit his face as he recalled those terrible days and nights. I never spent so much as five minutes in boot camp myself, and to me, military action and shootouts were something I saw on TV or in John Wayne movies as a kid. Even as an adult, with a greater and wider capacity to understand such things, nothing in my life prepared me for the real thing. The only good fortune was that I wasn’t on a muddy hill halfway across the world, fighting thousands of trained killers. I was in a meat freezer, halfway to the center of the world, fighting a chubby man-boy whose self-esteem issues completely overwhelmed and destroyed him. What was left was undoubtedly dangerous, but I had to be strong. I was scared… well, terrified, but it wasn’t written in stone, not by half. I had to survive.

I heard him, over the muted roar of the refrigeration units. I could hear the soles of his sneakers slapping against the concrete. I could hear his labored breathing. I stayed still and quiet. I didn’t know how much ammunition he had, but I did know how much, or rather, how little, I had. Eddie was a monster, but he wasn’t a monster like the others. One bullet could drop him, if my aim was true. I had to quell my fear and keep from panicking, that was all. He was afraid, too. I could sense it. He didn’t think I was going to fire back at him. I don’t think any of his other victims were so bold (or so capable). I think it spooked him a great deal that this one had the gall to not be nice and simply die.

KA-BAM! He fired his gun, and its noise filled the confines of this strange room. I saw the spark of the bullet as it struck the wall, more than ten feet away.

KA-BAM! Again he fired, and again he was very wide. I didn’t even see where this one hit, but I did hear it. He was even farther off, this time.

KA-BAM! KA-BAM! This time, I saw one of the hideous slabs of meat nearby explode. A grotesque shower of blood, fat and gristle rained down all around it. However, not so much as a shred of it touched me. He was firing wild. He was in a panic. He was wasting bullets and giving himself away like crazy. I had to capitalize. I had to get close and surprise him. It was the only way I could…

Behind me!

I pivoted around and found myself face to face with Eddie Dombrowski. His chubby, doughy face glowed a sickly green in the ambient light, but the fire in his eyes was undiminished. If anything, it was glowing even brighter now. There was nothing in those eyes but hate. If there was anything human left in him, that fire had completely burned it away. Those eyes blazed with malice and hate, so bright I could have sworn I saw their light reflect off of the Colt’s shiny chrome barrel.

Said barrel, as a matter of fact, was pointed right at my face.

I aimed my pistol but it was too late, just too late. He had me. All his wild firing and clumsy movements, all the confidence I gained from the mistakes he made, all of it evaporated from my body like water hitting a hot plate. My eyes stared for an interminable moment into those eyes, those eyes that burned with righteous fury as he prepared to send yet another one of his tormenters to hell with a first-class ticket.

He pulled the trigger, even before my brain’s synapses could even think to order my finger to do it first. My eyes snapped shut and waited for the roar. Waited for the .45 caliber slug to erupt forth triumphantly from the bore of the revolver, crash through my skull, obliterate my brain, and take me into the next world, whatever and wherever it was.

If you want to see Mary, you should just DIE.

I guess that’s how it is.

CLICK.


The noise, the snap of the hammer striking an empty barrel pulled me out of my fugue. I didn’t even really process the fact that his gun dry-fired, that his wasteful expenditure of bullets had just doomed him. I didn’t realize it, at least not myself. But he did. He realized it, and that I could see. Thus, it was really more of a reactionary reflex that made me depress my finger on the trigger. Twice.

The Glock jumped in my hands like a shocked puppy. It belched noise and fire, not as loud as Eddie’s, though. This was sharper, more clipped. Weaker, too. But that didn’t really matter. It was more than enough.

Eddie’s terrible eyes, raging with the inferno that was his insanity, suddenly went wide as dinner plates. His mouth, just a moment ago set in a determined grin, fell slack and open. Slowly, as if controlled by strings, his head fell forward as he looked down at the twin blossoms of blood, this time nobody’s but his own, that had just sprouted on his midsection. One of them punched right through his considerable gut. The other, either right in his heart or just an inch or two wide of it.

He staggered backwards, taking two steps but still somehow keeping his footing. His head came up and his eyes met mine again. Gone was the fire, gone was the rage. His eyes were bright, but even now, the luminance was dimming, escaping. Replacing the fire and rage was surprise and deep-seated shock. Maybe even a touch of indignance. How could this possibly happen to me? this look said, How could I possibly be on the receiving end?

And that he was.

The gun fell from Eddie’s limp fingers and clattered to the floor. A moment later, his legs finally gave in to the reality of the situation. His knees buckled and he fell to the floor in a heap, landing on his back. His limbs sprawled out around him, as if he were trying to make a snow-angel. His ever-dimming eyes stared straight ahead, but no longer did they see anything. I stood there and watched as his breathing became shallow, and then stopped, after three or four final, violent gasps. He came to a rest, a rest from which he would never awaken.

I watched all this happen, and until his chest fell for the final time, I didn’t even lower my gun. I had it held out in front of me the entire time. Because it was then that the enormity of what I had done struck home.

I just killed a human being.

Yes, he was crazy. He was bat-**** **** nuts and double that again. Yes, he had killed a dog in cold blood, and probably others. Yes, he was a sadistic, psychotic lunatic, and yes, he died only because he attacked me first. I killed him completely within the boundaries of self-defense.

None of those truths made it any easier to accept, though.

You’re just like me, he had said, this town called you, too! Now I guess I was like him. A killer. It was so different from killing a monster. That, by this point, I didn’t even really think twice about anymore. This, though, this was a whole different ballgame.

This town called you, too.

Mary? Did you really die three years ago?

The question popped up from one of those many recesses of the mind, prodded into the spotlight by what I had done. It was a stupid question, though. Of course she died three years ago. No question. I remembered the funeral. I remember the mourning. I remember the three years of loneliness and the utter futility it all seemed to be, then and now.

What was the funeral like?

My mind wouldn’t let me go so easily this time.

What kind of coffin was she buried in?

I couldn’t remember. It was three years ago. I was so messed up that details like that escaped me completely.

You don’t remember? Don’t you remember?

I really couldn’t. Even when I tried, I couldn’t.

I shook my head. It wasn’t important. It didn’t matter at all. She had died three years ago. Questioning the obviousness was irrelevant. It was time to move on.

There was a set of doors, far larger than the one on the other side. They looked like massive cargo doors. I started towards them, eager to get out of this room with this freakishly large, alien-looking sides of meat, the cold, and the cooling body of Edward Philip Dombrowski, lying akimbo on the floor behind me.

As my hand touched the cold steel handle, I wondered briefly what his grave looked like up there now.
« Last Edit: October 16, 2010, 04:30:18 pm by Mutou Yami » Report Spam   Logged


All Hail The Strogg!
R.I.P. Paul Gray - April 8, 1972 – May 24, 2010.


"Stay...
 I Need You Here, For A New Day To Break...
Stay...
I Want You Near, Like A Shadow In My Wake...
Stay...
Here With Me... Don't You Leave...
Stay...
Stay With Me, Until The Day's Over..."
I love you Mutou Yami... Forever.


Long Live, Mr.Yamaoka Akira, The Silent Hill Legend.
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