letters from silent hill

Tuhere could see the Corpses through the scope of his rifle. They had many names, and he figured he had heard them all over the period of the war. They all had names, in the Twilight Asylum, as this godless stretch of Earth was called. Screamers. Pointless wanderers. The Idle Ivans.

But in the end, they were all Corpses. And at least these ones weren’t Flesheaters or Cannibals.

Tuhere could smell the ever present scent of rubber and garlic. It hid the smell of death that would otherwise permeate his senses. It still took grip over every other part of him, despite the tight hug of his gas mask. Seeing those things at the long end of his scope, being so close to them, despite the distance, still put the fear of death in him.

There were three. No four. Tuhere had forgotten to count the one that he initially had mistaken for a dead body. Faceless things, thankfully, but they were close enough to a parody of human form that they still unnerved. Long, tired looking, their skin gray like a body left too long in the water.

Tuhere was aware of his breath, slow and steady, where he knew they had none. His heartbeat bumped the scope as he watched. The Corpses were standing. Lifeless, soulless things. Sometimes moving, like waiting for some order. They didn’t have lipless mouths, though. Even if they could run, they couldn’t rip and tear. One wandered off from the others, long arms swinging with it’s pace as if unowned by him.

Best not waste the bullets. It was easy enough to go around them.

Tuhere pulled his rifle up, and slung it back over his shoulder. He hated Old World weapons, but they had their purpose. He glanced up at the sky, trying to guess at the time of day. The wasteland here was too well named. At best, the endless gray lands lay in a perpetual twilight, finally casting itself into a pitch black night that no gaze could penetrate. Everything around Tuhere looked alike. It was too easy to get lost.

Endless, dead, blasted wasteland. It was hard to think that it had ever been civilization once, despite the slight and telltale signs of masonry. Tuhere gave a last glance down towards the Corpses, before starting off again. If not for the movement, he might not have spotted them, and would have walked straight in among them. They seemed so tiny now. So harmless.

Tuhere shouldered his pack and started down the short hillock. He took the dull presence of the sun as a sight, heading slightly to it’s left this time. The ashfall had coated his mismatched boots in sludge, and turned his otherwise black sports pants and hooded sweatshirt a shade closer to the surrounds. Good disguise, then.

By the second hill Tuhere’s breath was starting to labor again inside the gas mask, and again the heavy chainmail shirt sandwiched between his hoodies began to make it’s weight felt. Despite his stocky build, his strong back was stooped slightly. Not that he needed to, even with the extra weight of his weapons and armor. It had been a long day so far. So far he had managed to steer clear of danger.

Tuhere had to keep reminding himself why he was doing this, and no matter how bad things looked, he was heading away from the true danger, rather than straight into it. Hell before him, and hell behind him. Hell either side.

His hearing was a little dulled by the coif over his head, and the hoods, but there was little to hear. The silence was starting to get to him, he realized. And only three days out. Tuhere kept heading towards the tall hill, dark, naked trees down one of it’s sides, while the other afforded some half of foliage. He almost slipped in the sludge, but put his foot down more heavily. He forced himself to stay focussed on the hill.

If he could make that hill by nightfall, if this really passed for day, Tuhere decided, he would be making good progress.

Somewhere behind him, where he had spotted the Corpses, he heard a scream go up. Tuhere didn’t start, just began to renew his pace to a light jog, hating the way his breath burned in his lungs. He couldn’t smell the death, or the rank scent of his own sweat, but he knew they were both there.

* * *

Tuhere woke up gasping for breath, scrambling desperately with himself. He felt himself falling, in a terrifying few seconds, before his hands grabbed something solid and real. Before his eyes, the world swum with bloated bodies, all messed and tangled. Bodies, rather than Corpses.

Remembering where he was, Tuhere still couldn’t breath until he tore off his gas mask. The cold shock of the air against his skin, and the stench overwhelmed him a moment. He tried to get his breathing steady again, still holding onto the power pole for dear life as he calmed himself.

I’m not dead. They haven’t got me.

Damn that he had fallen asleep so deeply. He shook the images from his mind, realizing that even his brief, fitful rest had dragged him sidewards slightly. There weren’t bodies there on the landscape. Just the blasted remains of what was once a township, leveled like a child’s sandcastle, leaving just gray dust, and detritus. The shadow of the hill he was making for fell over what was left. It was almost hard to tell land from sky, both the same dull, dead shade.

There were no bodies, but there were Corpses.

Tuhere finally got himself back to his senses, watching as the things wandered between the buildings, as if going about some macabre morning routine. The rope that he had used to bind himself to the side of the power pole was biting sharp into his side, even through his clothes and armor. From up here, he could see what he was waking into. He was also relatively safe from what he had slept through.

Tuhere rubbed at his blockish, square jaw, feeling the slight, ragged curls of a beard that lined it. He pulled a black bandanna knotted around his neck up over his mouth, even though there was no soot falling.

The depression of what he had woken up to was starting to sink in.

Grabbing up his rifle from where he had hung it before nightfall, Tuhere scanned the township with careful precision. What houses were still intact had white yellow splashed across their door, in a crude stroke. Either that, or doorhandles were tied with a yellow cloth that hung in the still air. Plague had come and man had gone. All that were left were the strange, puppet things that walked the street, hunting the survivors.

Tuhere counted five up the street nearest. Six. Seven. Body. Eight. He shifted his rifle over, checking methodically across the landscape. Eighteen. Nineteen.

Don’t look at them too long. Don’t look at them full on. Don’t linger.

The township nearest the bare side of the hill bore the same disastrous effect. Most of the town there was leveled. The ground was rough and bared naked. He lost count of the Corpses there. Through his scope they swayed and moved silently, without soundtrack of nature. The effect was ghostly and unnerving.

Fuck.

Flesheaters.

Tuhere spotted them a few blocks up, seeing their lipless mouths, skin drawn back tight from dull white teeth. They looked almost human, but too perfect. More an approximation of what human teeth should look like. One of them lacked an arm, but there was no wound, Tuhere noticed. It was born like that. Or made. Or just was. The thing was looking about, even with no eyes.

The dull cast of the sun was up above the horizon. They were attracted to light, and to sound. Tuhere had always made sure he was the source of neither when he was out here.

The hill shifted into Tuhere’s view as he pulled the rifle about again. He’d tried to map the quickest path through hell to it. Now he saw the figures among the trees there. So idle. No better place to be. At least until something disturbed them. Tuhere fell the heavy weight of dispair.

Keep to the plan. He gave you the route. Shouldn’t be more than a few days out.

What fucking choice do I have anyway?

Tuhere regretted pulling the gas mask back on. He had got his few minutes of cool air. Best not to risk more just for the luxury of it. He noticed how much he stunk, but it was preferable to the smell like rotting fish. The sharp, raw smell of himself was comfort. He was still alive. But it too disappeared as his mask hugged his face, swamped his thick nostrils with the scent of rubber and garlic.

Gathering his things, Tuhere untied himself and made back down towards street level as quietly as he could. His heavy boots crunched in the loose gravel of the road. Either way seemed the same as the last. Deathly silent and alone. Shouldering first his pack and then his rifle, he started off between the husks of two low buildings. Slowly though, least he disturbed what might lurk there.

The township didn’t feel so empty now, as he skirted between buildings. It was bad enough to travel these paths, moreso that he had to wait the idle passage of those who lived here now. Several times he lurked within the shells of old homes, waiting as the Corpses wandered. He waited, still as a shadow as one wandered, only to turn and head back the way it had come. Dragging it’s bent foot with a slow, determined motion.

Tuhere had seen them close, even more intimate in the horrifying moments that the Flesheaters had thrown themselves undying at him. The struggles between life and death were harsh and real, bringing back cold memories. He tried not to stare to directly at one as it passed by, close enough to reach out and touch. The vision of it came hazed through the scratched plastic of his mask.

It’s moist skin, like a long spent condom, cast in pale gray. Dark, thick corpuscles rose on it’s tight body, where ribs stood out like knives. This one had only half an arm between the two, almost just a torso on legs, both bent in awkward as it stepped unsteadily along the road, one foot after the other. Nothing rhythmic or steady about it’s movement. It appeared like a mad amputee, with just stumps. Tuhere was thankful he couldn’t see it’s face, even if it had none. It would be worse to see it had a mouth.

The daft ruin of humanity finally vanished around the corner of a building. Tuhere waiting long moments to be sure it was gone before moving on. He had chosen a way a little more dense. Although Corpses could be hiding in the burnt out remains, there could be things worth taking as well.

Tuhere pushed on through the buildings until he was closer to the large shadow of the hill. One home had taken his interest in that he could see it over the rest of the wrecks. It’s first story was cracked open like an egg, baring it to the dim sky. Part of a shower hung out over a missing floor. It’s curtain hung limp, like a flag.

There were Corpses nearby. Tuhere could hear the movement, having pulled off his hood and coif to catch the sound better. He chanced lingering across the street, just to watch the dark, empty windows for sign of movement. When he was sure there was none, he made the dash across the street to the front door. He felt the weight of his chainmail shirt bouncing against him, silenced by the layers of his hoodies. Ignoring the yellow paint on the door, he pushed it open, closing himself inside.

Sometimes being closed in was more dangerous than being in the open.

It was darker here, but thankfully not by much. Tuhere caught his breath, deciding, maybe foolishly to pull off his gas mask. He told himself it was safer in here. No soot fall, even though the house was caked with the dust of disuse. He filled his lungs with the silent air, savoring it. The smell was small price to pay for fresh air. He knotted the rubber mask onto his belt, and took stock of his surrounds.

The way the dust on the floor was disturbed struck a chord with him. He felt the nervous jitter at seeing it. Like someone had walked this way, dragging a cleft foot. Methodical marks against the bare wood.

Fucks sake, put your mask back on.

Tuhere ignored his instinct when he saw the open fridge through one door. Best make this as quick as possible. Always the same, in and out. Never pause too long anywhere on ground level, unless your locked in. And even then … Tuhere make for the kitchen, and discovered a scene left in panic. The fridge had long since had power, of course. What remained was beyond rot. Blackened and dead.

Rifling through the drawers and cupboards, Tuhere came across a few cans. Other packets had gone to waste, but the cans should still be good. He unshouldered his pack, feeling the weight of his rifle and sword as they shifted. Two other blades were strapped to his side, so common in their sensation that he barely remembered them at times.

Tuhere froze, trying to discern if the noise he had heard was from inside or out. The cool breath locked in his lungs, and he could feel his heart thumping in his chest.

Quick. Don’t linger.

Tuhere jammed the cans away in an already filled pack. No. There was movement. He glanced up at a ceiling, the paint of it pealing away in flakes. The new owner was still home. He heard something dragging against the floor, just quietly. Barely noticeable.

Better to be outside than trapped in.

Tuhere stood up and shouldered his pack, turning to glance back towards the front door. His heart stopped. It was open, filled by the gaunt, broken figure of a Corpse. It stood there, with full faculties and limbs. Empty, black sockets stared back, and in the dim light of the house, Tuhere noticed shriveled genitalia, and the shrunken remains of an umbilical cord.

They both stood, like an owner who had come home to find a burglar in his room. He stared at the things mouth.

Tuhere darted at the door, but the thing was quicker, hurling itself across the lounge. As he banged the door closed, the weight of the thing crashed against the other side, making Tuhere stumble back. He renewed his poise, slamming back against the door, as the thing huffed, clawed, scratched at the door.

There was no serviceable lock, no handle. Tuhere caught sight of the broken, shattered wood there.

Staring desperately about as he held back against the door, Tuhere tried to count his options. Moving before he had time to thing, he ran at the kitchen window, vaulting up onto the bench. The door slammed hard open, and Tuhere heard the desperate scrambling against the floor.

Tuhere’s stocky frame jarred as he hit the frame, not judging the maneuver right in his panic to escape. He felt everything catch, rifle and pack as he hurled his weight forward, properly through the empty window. The Corpse was on him from behind, and he expected to feel pain, shoving a heavy booted foot back in blind terror. Suddenly his weight fell forward, wood broke and he was falling onto hard packed earth.

A terrified, earsplitting scream went up and as he pulled himself from the ground, Tuhere realized it wasn’t him.

Tuhere ran, like a fox from wolves, sensing the movement around him. The Corpse was wailing behind him, waking the town. Cursing its slowness in letting Tuhere escape. He tried not to panic, bolting around what might once have been a swimming pool. He thought of the hill before him, and all the Corpses he had seen among the trees.

Get out. Get out of the fucking town. Quick! Get away!

Inhuman howls, like cries of pain went up from the buildings, like things forced to move with the agony of glass in their joints. Everything began to look alike, gaunt figures like shadows. Tuhere felt the sweat drip from him, his eyes widening as he saw the shorter Corpses, like children. They were faster on their feet, like age hadn’t yet set in and twisted their form.

Tuhere noticed things were darker, or maybe it was his panic to escape. He slammed through a tight group of Corpses that he had rounded a corner on. They stood idle before him, then fell about as he charged through. His vision was definitely darker. The broken landscape around him shimmered and shook. He thought that he could see bodies again, bloated and still. As he broke the outskirts of the small town, he started to see the telltale brambles, twisted and thick like barbed wire, and just as deadly.

He kept running, not knowing where he was going. By the time he let himself slow, his lungs were aching, and spittle was falling from his lips. He collapsed over, hands on his knees, almost drooling onto the ground as he fought for his breath. The great hill was behind him, and he could still sense movement.

Rough bush, if it could be called that. The town had folded into fields, long since used for crop. He saw Corpses further off, glancing behind to the remnants of the town. Nothing was running after him, but they would still be following.

The darkness lifted from his sight, enough that the brambles seemed more like natural foliage. The fields were innocuous now, not laid out like a stretch of some lost war, covered with broken bodies. In his panic, he’d slipped sidewards. Thankfully, he had the time now to come back out of it, rather than slip deeper. Deeper to never find his way back out.

Tuhere noticed the soot falling again, realizing as if for the first time that his breath was burning in his lungs. He cursed himself for taking his mask off in the first place, breathing the naked air. He reached down to where he had tied it on his belt, to put it back on.

Nothing was there.

“FUCK!”

Tuhere glanced, patted at himself, then his other side, like perhaps he had forgotten where he had put it. His gas mask was gone, and he knew it, as much as he wanted to believe he’d put it somewhere else. Maybe his pack. He let out a bellowing scream of frustration, not caring if the Corpses heard. How could he be so fucking stupid?

The soot touched down around him like delicate snow. Tuhere became conscious of it all too sharply, tying his bandanna tight up around his mouth and nose. Tighter. He stared back towards the town. He had to go back and get it. It was the only solution. It would have fallen off when he escaped through the window. He knew exactly where it would have fallen.

Seeing the distant sway of the mob, bouncing in quick movement, Tuhere knew the idea was anything but sound. It was gone. He’d got stupid and this was the price.

He felt like his eyes were already starting to burn, a dull ache behind them. He looked across the fields and started off again. He hoped he could somehow get back on track. The directions were very specific, and to get them wrong would leave him without his lifeline there and back.

For the first time since he had entered the Asylum, Tuhere wondered if he was going to make it back this time.

* * *

Tuhere had found something that had looked like a lighthouse from a distance. With night approaching all too quickly, it seemed like a good place to hide. Closer up, he wasn’t sure what it was. All that mattered was that it stood. Around it were the fields that he had spent hours crossing at a hard march.

The interior was destroyed, and the way up by a mere skeleton of a stairwell was troublesome, but reassuring in its difficulty. Once up here, he would be safe, as long as he stayed hidden. The top was open to the dank sky. Tuhere collapsed there, finally, not even bothering to take off his pack or weapons.

He kept cursing himself for losing his mask. His eyes still ached, and paranoia assured him it was the plague.

Tuhere ate the contents of the cans he had looted, rather than cut into his packed supplies. Cold beans and then fruit in thick, syrupy juice. He spent the remainder of the time till nightfall checking the surrounds through his scope. At least the number of Corpses here were few. He could see one, bloated and obsess, collapsed down in an old drain ditch. It seemed not to care that it couldn’t get up. It’s lack of a face made it seems pointless, horribly impersonal.

Another caught Tuhere’s eye as he scanned in methodical movements. This one jerked, shifting. Swinging it’s arms up, and then back. Turning. Tuhere thought it almost seemed like some sort of dance. What would a Corpse need with dancing?

Night fell, as still and silent as the day. The darkness fell heavy, crushing Tuhere as he settled down against the broken masonry. He tried not to sleep too deeply, staring and then not staring, into the endless, yawning expanse of pitch black. Somewhere before him, it felt as if something massive sat in the dark. He could feel it’s presence, and the sensation was overwhelming.

Somewhere below, he heard a sound like choaking, as if someone was slowly, continuously squeezing the life from an already dead form. It wasn’t as if he could sleep in the first place. It did little for his nerves.

* * *

Come morning, the horrible reality set in. The fields around Tuhere was spotted with Corpses. Whether by accident or design, the things had found him, milling around aimlessly as if waiting for order on what to do next. Tuhere felt his heart thumping away in his chest, as he checked quickly again, as if looking a second time would confirm he was wrong.

Stay calm. No need to panic.

Tuhere was fretting, a hand up under his first sweatshirt as he rubbed reassuringly at his mailed armor. He kept his hood up, like it would somehow hide him, breathing hard through the bandanna knotted about his face. His eyes still had that dull ache. The plague. Had to be. Maybe it would kill him before the Corpses.

Normally Tuhere might just wait it out. Corpses didn’t often stay in one place too long, he had noticed through experience. He could just hide out here a few days, wait for their numbers to thin.

Tuhere kept thinking back to the instructions he had. The directions. Fuck. The directions! He wasn’t even sure where the hill was. And then there was meant to be the river beyond that next. Cross near the bridge, even though it was broken. Straight on from there for a day or so, and he’d hit it.

He looked out again. No, still there. Fuck. The mail felt cold against his hand as he rubbed harder. The guy he was meant to rescue could be dead if he waited a few more days. If he’s dead, then bring back the amulet. The instructions were clear, as clear as the directions. And he had fucked up the directions well enough too.

No, Tuhere decided, grimly. It had to be now. He had to move now. What choice did he have?

* * *

Galvanized by the plan, as piecemeal as it was, Tuhere fished about in his pack. He took out a bottle, about a quarter filled with whiskey. Good for wounds. Better for pegging back sharp, cold nights out here. He tried to spot which area seemed the most thin of Corpses. The absurdity of the plan didn’t much stop him as he tore a strip of cloth off some of his older clothing. He stuffed it into the neck of the bottle.

Go hard, go fast. Stay with the swords.

Tuhere took in a few hard breaths, feeling how sore he was from last night. He thought to take a morning piss before he started, but realized he was just trying to delay the inevitable. As he fumbled with a lighter, he wondered about the wisdom of running on a full bladder. Stupid thoughts, he mused, as the flames started to take the old cloth.

A few brief seconds to take his bearings again. Tuhere lobbed the bottle overarm, watching as it took a lazy arch towards the lightest area of Corpses. It hit, shattering and blossoming into flame, showering the pale bodies in an orchestra of fire. He felt a desperate panic as he realized he hadn’t thought much on his descent, tossing himself towards the stairwell at full speed. He hit and stumbled down, drawing his two short swords as he burst from the ruins.

The things were writhing, almost silently other than a few muted gurgles. Spasmodically thrashing about, one toppling forward. Tuhere wasn’t sure if he could see Flesheaters amongst them as he dashed out. He heard the crackle of the the fire, catching on dead flesh, smelling the burn in his nostrils. As one Corpse stumbled towards him in what Tuhere assumed was attack, he lashed out, blade cutting through it like paper.

Something within them collectively figured out what was happening. Either that, or it was just shear, blind annoyance at the movement and flames. A scream went up, close. Too close. Tuhere tried to force the panic down. Were there more of them now he was down here, on the ground? Or had he come down in the wrong place? Another scream, like insane inmates, copying what they heard. Hands lunged at him, as if things finally made sense.

The thing that was not them was trying to escape.

Tuhere slashed, again and again, letting out an unmanly squeak of terror as something grabbed at him. His breath was heaving in his lungs, crushing his chest already. He saw flashes of flame, but for the most part, it had dissipated all too quickly, leaving just alert, moving Corpses. Another hand grabbed as Tuhere swung back. It hit home. A shower of black like oil rained across him. Tuhere pushed on regardless.

More of them. Closing in. More hands. His blades felt light, a lot lighter than him. They were pulling at him, grabbing like desperate, hungry refuges. As he hit another one, this time straight through the face, a great plume of ash flew up, erupting from the wound. Tuhere bellowed in shock, although he knew it well enough, squeezing closed his eyes. Still crying out, feeling his eyeballs aching deeper, he threw his stocky weight into the press, shoving through.

Ash from the Corpse and more from the sky, falling about them. Packed like commuters, now all of them desperate, Corpse and Tuhere both.

Desperate blows started to rain onto Tuhere’s stocky form. The chainmail would have done well to guard against any bites at him, but there were none. Just more frenzied blows. Kicks. Punches. Tuhere bellowed, tearing himself forward, feeling himself lose something suddenly. No time to think what was happening, just get out.

Within the panic and struggle he wondered how this was better than facing the bounty hunters, even without their cash. This lingering, horrible death.

Tuhere fell forward suddenly, and hit the ground hard as he broke through the pack. He forced himself to open his eyes, and the world around him was blurred. He was sure it was his swollen, infected eyes, but couldn’t discount that he was slipping sidewards. A blow came up under him, winding him. A kick with far more strength than it looked a Corpse could have. Another sent his head reeling, and he staggered to his feet.

He had no choice now. He was in too deep and needed his eyes to see a way out of this gray sea of bodies. There were bodies now, but Tuhere didn’t know if it was the other world, or that his cocktail had felled more than he had thought. He broke away from the Corpses, acting almost of one mind together now. The air was thick was ash, as it plumed up from another wide gash in a Corpse before him.

Tuhere was lighter. He could run now. He ran on blind adrenaline, desperate to get out. His hood had fallen back, and he was sucking in cold air. His bandanna had slipped. Another Corpse lunged at him, just when he figured he was free of the fray, catching him straight in the head.

Focus. Run.

Nothing more.

Tuhere limped at a jog, gaining strength with each unimpeded step. Then he was running again, running across the fields. No bodies now, just fields. Cold and harsh reality like the bruises throbbing in his body. He kept running, and he might as well have been doing it with his eyes closed. He was broken and lost, but the screams were far behind him by the time he stopped.

His pack was gone. His rifle too. Spare sword. All he had was his two short blades, still gripped in his hands. It took effort to force himself to let them go. Tuhere collapsed back against the dark wall where he found himself, shaking. It wasn’t fear, he decided. It was plague, and he was done for. Even if he could go on, he had no food, water or way to survive.

Tuhere saw the obvious before him, finally. Dark shadows leading down. Darkness. A good place to hide. An obvious place for Corpses to be too, but Tuhere was beyond caring, hoping this once he gain some small break. At least a quiet and safe place to die. He hurt all over, and when he moved he realised it hurt to do that too. He slipped quietly down the stairs, vanishing into the yawning black.

* * *

Tuhere sat up, almost sharply. The wind smelt so fresh, but then he realized that it was wind he was smelling. He was lost in his wonderment, staring. Not a cellar then at all, because he had somehow ended up outside the town. Back into the fields, but they were nothing like what he had seen last time around. Long, rich heads of wheat swayed in the breeze, and their was a gentle heat on the air.

Tuhere just breathed it in, taking his time. It was longer before he felt the need to stand. He rose in amongst the dense wheat, running his hands over it, as if trying to prove to himself that it was real. It was life giving, it would feed hundreds. He could almost feel that force rising off it, and lifting up into the pure blue sky like pollen.

Endless wheat. Life without plague or death.

Tuhere felt as if he was being watched. That same ponderous, heavy sensation he had felt staring into the darkness. He turned about, and found himself squinting against the sun, bringing a hand up to cover his eyes. His gaze struggled to adjust, but movement and context told him that there was someone there. It hadn’t been the sun at all, that was elsewhere. It was the flaming, sweeping hair of a figure, one which was slowly descending from the sky.

Peri.

His skin was rich brown, like his, but with more power and life to it. Tuhere watched as he drifted to the ground, touching lightly with his feet. Curious that this man should be carrying things with him, Tuhere thought. A skull in one hand, and a snake in the other. The serpent was brilliant green, like every other color here, so brilliant and bright. It had coiled itself about his muscular forearm.

Tuhere looked back to the beings face. He looked the man in the eyes, despite the blazing brilliance of his hair. He had already known it, but seeing those gold eyes confirmed it beyond a doubt.

He was elven.

Tuhere heard the sobbing around him, then his heart sunk as he realized that it was his own. When he managed to pull himself from sleep, he was crying alone in the dark.

* * *

When Tuhere woke, he was hurting worse than he had ever. His body ached from the beating and subsequent escape from the Corpses. Then there was sleeping on a rough, hard floor. Emotionally and mentally, he felt stripped. He was filled with a strange feeling; he didn’t really care whether he lived or died.

Emerging from the basement was like emerging from another world. Outside, it was deathly still. He didn’t even hear the telltale sound of shuffled feet. A heavy mist had descended, and even if he had known where he was, Tuhere realized it was like seeing the world for the first time. Nothing here looked familiar.

All he had was what he had come up with. His two swords were strapped in along his thighs. He’d lost everything else. The lack of weight on his shoulders felt wrong somehow, like he had lost a part of himself. Maybe he had, Tuhere thought. He didn’t feel the same now, not after having been caught by the Corpses. It had been a stupid miscalculation, a pointless risk.

Now everything was different.

Forward seemed about as good as any direction. Tuhere staggered off into the mists thick cloak, noticing that his bandanna had slipped off. He didn’t pull it back up. His eyeballs felt sore, the same dull, thudding ache as the rest of him.

“Bet you can’t even tell me from the rest of your fucking kind,” Tuhere said, as he dragged his foot. The sound of his voice came dull, almost muted into the world. It had been too long since he had heard the sound of someones voice. “Plague … plague … I’m going to fucking die from it …”

Soot fell like soft snow, already carpeting the ground he walked on. Shapes loomed from the white, only to reveal themselves as a brief parts of masonry. The ground was littered with it, making the way uneven. Tuhere knew he had little chance of finding his way back onto the right path. Nothing short of a miracle. Better to move ahead than stay where he was. He realized how thirsty he felt. His throat was dry, and his stomach gnawed at him.

Out in the unending white, a scream went up.

Of course they hadn’t just vanished. It would have been a miracle too if all Corpses had just suddenly vanished from the world. Tuhere entertained the thought for a while, what it would be like to be the last person on Earth. Maybe he was, and the scream was his own. How would he know any different given what had happened last night. Maybe he had slipped sidewards deeper than he had ever been. Maybe he wasn’t even awake.

Grim determination squared Tuhere’s jaw as he picked up his pace. He drew his two short swords, and they made a noise like a razor, coming out of their scabbards. It gave him to impetus to break into a jog, weapons held out from him as his boots crunched on the broken, loose rock. If anything got in his way between here and eternity, Tuhere was ready to slash through it.

Tuhere’s lungs began to burn all too quickly, and he started to see things in the mist. He wondered if perhaps it was just his imagination. The figures were all too brief, too insubstantial. The more he ran, the more he thought he had slipped sidewards. He’d never been in a part of the Asylum that had mist like this, who knew what it looked like deeper in.

Something close to the form of man gasped and lunged out of the whiteness. Then the madness started anew. The Corpse had missed in is desperate grab, but now it was calling out, making strange, gurgled chokes. Alerting others.

The hurt started to fold away as adrenaline kicked in. Tuhere realized how much of the soot he was sucking in as he ran. The ground fell away under him, and he managed to shift sharply, just in time. He jumped, bounding from one rock, then splashing down heavily into freezing water. He could feel the running drain grab at his calves.

Run. Run until you drop dead. Drop dead from exhaustion or from plague.

Tuhere couldn’t find a way up the other side initially. He scrambled along, his boots sodden, as he clawed upwards. Earth broke away in his hands, his hold on his swords impractical as he stubbornly refused to give them up. For a moment, he felt almost as if he was pulling up dead flesh, as his foot came down into something soft and yielding. It sucked his boot in up to the ankle, and he panicked, kicking and flailing. It gave him the desperate panic to make it up the side.

Tuhere cussed under his breath, blinded temporarily. It had taken him unguarded, and he almost fell forward. When he came to his senses and looked up again, he saw the sunlight catch off it. Something high up. He sucked in a light, disbelieving breath.

Peri.

Forward stayed as good a direction as any. He pushed through the fog towards where he had seen the glint of metal. He imagined he could feel the Corpses pressing in on him around in the mist. It kept him at a hard pace. As he passed closer to the shine, he discovered that it was something hanging off a mangled road sign. It twisted slowly in an unfelt breeze, turning about like a man hanged.

Tuhere pushed on, almost stumbling on the broken rock. His legs felt like lead, boots and clothing sodden with the cold water of the drains. He didn’t know what he was running to, but is pace was coming up, increasing. He felt the air of passage against his cheeks. Behind him, he could hear the sound of running, matching his own. He could hear labored breath that wasn’t his, closer still.

When the press finally fell upon him, Tuhere was ready. He spun out in desperation, his blade taking the head clean off one of his pursuers. The break in his pace gave the rest the moment they needed to fall on him, their long, gangly limbs quickly making it hard for Tuhere to get his blades about. He stumbled back, feeling another few Corpses slam into him from behind.

All about him in the mist, figures were emerging.

This was it.

Frenzied blows rained on him, a few catching his head as he tried to swing his weapons. With such a number of them, and at such close quarters, it was hard to get his arms up. The nightmare images flooded around him. He saw the teeth, unfed and wide open. Bites came down on him, only to catch on the mail shirt beneath his clothes.

Overwhelming. His determination began to wane, sliding back into desperate pity. Tuhere fell, feeling one of his swords drop from his grasp. Where there had been fists there were now feet, beating and stamping like a blinded mob. Venting their anger at the living. Pain flared up over his body, suddenly swamping him with an all encompassing warmth.

Not death. It reminded Tuhere of the fields of wheat. He could almost smell it in the air, as he heard the strange noises choked from the Corpses. They pealed back, like the skins on ears of corn.

“Move you bastard of humanity!”

Tuhere stumbled up against the pain, not sure how or why. He saw something, someone. A shadow within a door. His vision was still blurred with the heat, grays turned golden with a light that speckled the back of his eyes with sparks. He tripped, tumbling through the door, hearing it bang closed about the same time his shoulder slammed into the concrete. He lay there, unmoving for a time.

“We were wondering how long it would take you to get here …”

The voice was quiet, like stone grating on stone. Cold and ever present, like the ground Tuhere was lying on. He found his senses, blinking against the dark now. He looked up at the long, lingering shadow. A thin band of light cut through the black behind it. Tuhere could see bare flesh, pale and gray.

Like a Corpse.

“Not much,” the figure said, moving finally. Proving itself to be more than a dream. “But we guess we take what small mercies we find ourselves with.”

“Peri,” Tuhere managed, dragging himself to a sitting position. The gangly figure bent, his features more plain, along with those long, pointed ears. His lungs were raw, but he managed to get out more words. “In the Asylum. Impossible.”

“And who told you these things?”

“Elves. Your own kind.”

The mottled gray face split in a smile, “Blasphemous liars. Never trust a word that comes out of an elves mouth, mankind. They are more filthy than your own kind.”

The things gold eyes was the only part that Tuhere recognized, and it came back to him with a stark realization. He was dreaming when he had seen the field, but this was the same elf. No longer brown like old oak, cast gray and plagued. It’s body was sinuous and whipcord strong. All it wore was a long skirt, ornate, but just as gray. Tuhere saw the amulet hanging around its neck, the only thing other than its eyes that lent color to the image.

Bring him back, or bring back the amulet.

“You’re the one I have to take back.”

“Don’t waste your breath with words, mankind. Conserve your strength. But yes, we are. You got this far. You will take us back.”

The elf was kneeling at his side, his hands cold against his forehead. Tuhere felt the panic of getting plague from this thing, then remembered that he already had it. That was certain. It twisted his head from this side to that, looking him over with a careful eye, like he might some Old World trinket in the markets. It just grunted.

“Strong enough. You made it this far.”

“How can you be here?” Tuhere managed, stuttering against the pain the sudden change that had taken his fortunes. His tone was almost ungrateful.

“How can you be here. The same way.”

Tuhere watched the elfs expression. He looked sick, sick like he felt. Maybe it was their fate that they both die of the plague, here in this dark hole in the ground. He caught movement, and it scared him on instinct. Shadows and shapes shifted against the band of light. Tuhere realized that he was staring out of a window, watching the Corpses moving outside. The place reminded him of a bomb shelter, the more he could see of it.

“Forget all your questions, mankind,” the elf remarked, aloof. He stood up, and Tuhere felt he was an insect, both in size and presence. The elf stood like a tower above him. “Now is not the time for questions. Not ones that we are willing to answer. Rest. Tomorrow we will move.”

“Not ready. I’m hurt. I have no weapons.” Tuhere was carrying just the clothes on his back. “I’m plagued.”

“You’re not plagued.”

“I breathed in the soot.”

The elf turned, going back to the shadows where Tuhere had first seen him. “And who told you that the soot would give you plague?”

“Your kind,” he replied, confused. The peri’s expression slowly slid into a smile Tuhere did not find comforting. That was answer enough. Could it even be possible?

“You may call us Aquinas.”

Tuhere was still reeling from what the elf had told him about the soot. It seemed impossible that they could be wrong about that, but then it was said that the peri could not live where there was so much death. They drew everything from the earth, and there was nothing here. Tuhere remembered himself, and started to speak his name. Aquinas interrupted him almost the moment the breath left his mouth.

“Tuhere Smith, yes, we know. We know a good deal about you, mankind.” Tuhere didn’t ask. Realities rules ran backwards around the elves. Hearing his name spoken out loud by another was almost as stark as hearing so much speech in so many silent days.

“There is food in the back. Eat. Rest. We leave tomorrow.”

The thought of food was enough to prompt Tuhere from the floor. He managed to get himself to his feet, putting a hand out to brace himself. He felt more concrete, cold like the grave. He forgot Aquinas, when he saw the doors, and the sight of crates beyond. A forgotten cache. Tuhere limped towards the storeroom, wondering if the place had been here before or after the war.

It was almost as if he was alone, as Tuhere ate, and drunk. The shelter was silent, other than the sound of his own movement. The nourishment did his aches the world of good. He tried not to gorge himself on bars and dried goods. It wouldn’t do to make himself sick after so long of eating so poorly. The choice was a generous thrill in itself.

Tuhere kept to himself, resting in the storage room. He fantasized about how long the food could last, as the darkness took the place. The presence of the walls, solid concrete, and heavy iron doors was a welcome comfort. Tuhere figured that if there was any place safe in the world, this had to be it.

Alone with an elf. Locked inside a bomb shelter.

Questions swum on Tuhere’s mind. He could see the elf out in the main room. The dull gold of his eyes gave him away in the darkness, blinking occasionally. He could see the awareness, as Aquinas looked back at him. The silence felt strange, but it was a long while before Tuhere found the nerve to break it again.

“How will we get back?” he asked, sitting just inside the door. “I still don’t see how you can be here. How did you get here? I thought I was coming to save some family or some unit that got trapped.”

“So many questions.”

Tuhere felt the elf’s gaze, all too steady. It made him think better of asking them now he had. Best to leave the peri to themselves. Stupid, maybe, he kept pushing. “How did you get here? You should be dead?”

“Shouldn’t you be dead, also?” Aquinas shot back. Fair question. Tuhere mulled on it.

“Yeah, but peri can’t live in the Asylum. Not for long, anyway.” He let the question linger there, before he added. “Right?”

“You forget what we told you before.”

“That elves lie worse than humans do? So elves can live in the Asylum? That doesn’t make sense though. You guys need nature, that’s what you come from.”

There was a quiet, one in which Tuhere was sure he could see Aquinas smiling. He could see it in those gold eyes. The amusement. “No, you are right. We cannot live too long in the Asylum. That’s why we signaled you to come and get us.”

“Why did you come out here in the first place? I mean, it’s bad enough for us, but for elves … why did you come across the border.”

“We didn’t.”

The admission struck Tuhere hard. “There’s no place else for you to have come. There’s nothing on the other side of the Asylum. It just goes on forever.”

“Who told you that?”

“Well, no one. We know that. We’ve had to pull back time and time as the Corpses kept over running us. All that’s out the other side is what we left behind.”

It occurred to Tuhere that Aquinas was drawing all the answers out of him. He sat there in the dark, watching, like he was schooling a child. Tuhere couldn’t help but feel like a particularly dumb child either, but it was as if the teacher was trying to explain why the sky was green.

“There’s no place else for you to have come from.” The answer came to him, and he muttered it quietly. “Sidewards …”

Aquinas’ gold eyes showed the amusement. That answer made less sense than Aquinas being here in the first place. Sidewards, world after world in only lead to further death and decay. Madness. Nightmare. No elf was so powerful that they could survive even a little way in, not with their connection to nature. Not even a Chorus could survive, let alone come from there.

“Why did you come here?”

Tuhere looked back to the eyes, distracted from his thoughts. “To bring you back. That’s what I was hired for.”

“No, why did you come here. Why did you take the job?”

“I needed the money,” Tuhere admitted, his tone hard. It occurred to him that the elf should know this, given their way of knowing things. He played along all the same. Better not to lie about it all. “I’ve got bounty hunters on my trail. I need the money to pay them off. I figured that if I die trying, at least I’m running in a direction they can’t follow.”

“A strong mind. A sharp one too. You are a survivor, Tuhere Smith.”

Tuhere grunted in recognition of the compliment. “I saw you in a dream, didn’t I? You guided me here.”

“We needed to. You were faltering.”

“If you’re that powerful, why can’t you get back without my help?”

The answer came slowly, carried on a sigh, “We are dying. You are right. We cannot linger here long. But our kind is not the kind you think us to be.” Tuhere frowned, searching the darkness for some hint of expression, some sign. “We came sidewards, out of the madness. We are not peri.”

Tuhere felt a chill pass over him. There wasn’t anything else he could be. Not man, elf, or Corpse. Surely not Corpse. He certainly wasn’t an orc. The gold eyes seemed to fade a little in the darkness. His voice came like gravel.

“You are not safe here, Tuhere Smith. You are not safe outside. You are not safe inside either. But you will wait. And you will sleep. We are your only way back.”

The aches in Tuhere’s stocky form made themselves felt again. He suddenly felt as if he wanted to be back outside again, chancing himself with the Corpses. He muttered a begrudging statement, as if he could still control things. He had to be a master of his own future, if nothing else. “I need weapons if I’m going to get us back.”

“We are your weapon. We are all you need.”

Tuhere wondered, finding his back hurting as he sat against the concrete wall. What was he taking back with him, into the midst of mankind. What little man was left on Earth.

“Sleep.”

Tuhere stopped talking, and stopped asking the questions. He didn’t want any more answers. He tried to convince himself that the elf had been here too long, just long enough to ruin his mind, but not long enough to kill him. He thought of the amulet hanging around the elf’s neck, and then tried to instantly banish the thought, in case Aquinas knew it.

Bring him back, or bring back the amulet.

Tuhere wasn’t sure if he could sleep. He was safe enough from the Corpses, but he could probably still slip sidewards in sleep. If Aquinas truly did need him to get back past the border, then surely he wouldn’t let him slip far. There were no Corpses here, maybe he wouldn’t. Tuhere tried to force himself to stay awake, despite the pain in his body, and the exhaustion.

Moment passed like hours, or could yet be hours still. He had no way of telling. His body was too attuned to every slight sound and movement, but it all came from him alone. Again, as if Aquinas wasn’t there with him at all.

“Dead fingers from a mad god … torn open and raped … trying as she might to find her attacker.”

Tuhere thought he saw something shifting near him. The sound of Aquinas’ voice was whisper quiet, and he sensed the presence closer. There was a frigid coldness about Aquinas’ voice, something almost too soft to hear.

“You raped the earth, mankind. Left her bleeding. And you didn’t think she would try to seek her revenge?” Aquinas was close, right next to Tuhere. He was aware of how hard he was breathing, and how his heart was thumping in his chest. “She gropes in the darkness, trying to find your kind. The maker of the war that ripped open her womb.”

“Not my fault,” Tuhere managed, finding himself blocking up. “I didn’t do it.”

“Oh, but you did.”

Tuhere felt the nervous sweat on his forehead. Anything he thought, any way he tried to get out of this, surely Aquinas already knew. He was trapped again, worse than by Corpses. The peri was mad. It had to have consumed him while he lay here waiting in the shelter. He should have been quicker getting here. Tuhere found himself begging silently with himself. He didn’t want to die.

“We’re not going to kill you, Tuhere Smith. We summoned you here to help us. Why would we kill you?”

Tuhere forced himself not to think. He just sat there, staring into the darkness, hugging his knees to his chest. He was aware of how the darkness was shifting and dancing in front of him. He was staring into the abyss, staring sidewards into the dark. Aquinas was sitting right next to him.

“Sleep. You need to be strong tomorrow.”

Tuhere had to think of something.

* * *

The stink rose up off the land. It wasn’t something on it, decaying, it was the earth itself. A rotting corpse that had laid too long and bloated. No one had come to bury it. There was no place to put it. Tuhere was choked by the smell of it, before he realized that he was just one of many. Corpses lying upon Corpses. Great fields of them.

The presence was there, somewhere further back in the darkness. Massive and sentinel. It was aware of Tuhere, even though it wasn’t staring straight at him.

Alive then. He had to be alive. Tuhere realized he was breathing, deep and desperate breaths, coming out like sobs. He was breathing as if he had been stuck too long without, finally surfacing to gasp out. He could see them all. Closer, they were twisted limbs, like grayed manikins tossed into a storage room. Arms here, and legs, without owners. A lost assortment. And no faces, except mouths. All dead and unmoving.

Tuhere tried to lift himself up, but he couldn’t. There was something on top of him. He panicked as he realized that he was piled under more Corpses. He could feel the soft flesh. His hands slipped on gross fluids, post mortim. It was the stink that was rising up, rotting everything. But it wasn’t Corpses on him.

It was Aquinas.

Aquinas looked weak. Tuhere could see it in his eyes. The light had been fading since he had first met him, Tuhere realized. Worse still was the fact that he was naked, sitting straddled atop him. The closeness was disturbingly intimate, coupled by the fact Tuhere appeared to have lost most of his own clothes, pants rent down roughly, top sweatshirt gone. Aquinas swayed above him, steel gray like the sky, ribs standing out like knives under skin stretched painfully tight. Corpse-like.

Tuhere struggled again, afraid of being so bared under the naked elf. His hands came up, scrambling, only to be trapped down by Aquinas. Iron tight grip, inhuman. They struggled, slipped a few times before the elf gripped him about the neck, pushing his weight down. The air suddenly left Tuhere again, and he was fighting for breath.

“Don’t fight it, mankind. We just need your body. You will take us back across the border.”

The sight of Aquinas wobbled before him. Tuhere felt the elf’s hand up under his clothes. Then he had to let go of his throat to continue the hideous act. Tuhere gasped out, choking back great gulps of humid air, full of rot. He was about to fight again, shocked into inaction as Aquinas ripped open his chainmail shirt and clothes under as if they were wet paper. He felt the electric touch of the Aquinas hand across his belly. His eyes were drawn to the elf’s own,seeing the shriveled umbilical cold there. Pain as Aquinas started to unknot his own.

Not a nightmare. Not reality. They were sidewards into the Asylum. Tuhere’s right hand groped, clawing at anything, finding only damp flesh. He swung upwards instead, in revulsion and terror, catching Aquinas off guard.

Tuhere’s vision blurred, caught by the impact of the blow. He was as shocked as the elf, scrambling backwards, slipping, then feeling the concrete and dirt scratching at his bare skin.

Tuhere’s heart pounded in his chest, blood oozing from the wound in his stomach. The blow had swung the earth about before him, reeling. The soot was falling from a still dark sky, bruised by dawn, and the Corpse’s about them were on their feet, swaying, wanting to move forward. They were atop the bomb shelter, just out of reach.

“Don’t fight,” Aquinas cried out. He lost some of the strength and authority in his tone as he whined out. “Don’t fight!”

Scrambling hands came back at him. The thing throwing himself towards him was more Corpse than elf. Tuhere fell hard, the weight of the elf still heavy atop him. He tried to fend off the hands, long fingers and nails desperate for purchase, desperate again to push him down. They were lost in fight, gasping, burning on instinct and terror. So close to escaping, and so close to getting what was needed.

“Don’t fight!”

Tuhere swung his hand up again, but this time he had the rubble he had hoped for. The blow made Aquinas’ head snap back, accompanied by a crack. It shocked even him, as the indignant gasp escaped the elf. Too quickly though, the hands were back, those eyes dying and hungry.

‘Fight,’ Tuhere thought. He was holding the rubble so tight it bit into his skin. ‘He can’t kill you. He needs you.’

The blow took Tuhere off guard, rattling his skull. The pain of it lanced through him, stunning him enough that Aquinas was back on him. He felt that pain in his gut again, feeling the elf’s hand slipping against flesh and blood, seeking. He could feel the frosty touch of the air against his skin, the sweat cold on him. Tuhere swung his stocky arm up again, and this time Aquinas toppled off him, blood raining down over him from the resulting wound.

Tuhere scrambled up, all too conscious of his half naked state. His chainmail was in ruins, and what was left of his clothes hung off him in tatters. Aquinas was climbing up, slowly, looking as frail as a man dying from age.

“You were right. We can rest here in the shelter for months,” he gasped. “We can’t kill you, but we can wound you bad enough to heal. We need your body.”

Seeing the elf as he was, it occurred to Tuhere that he had hit an old man, something old enough to be his grandfather. Not lashed out in blind panic, fighting for his life. He saw the desperation to live in Aquinas’ eyes as he stood over him. Resolve tightened the grip on the rubble as Tuhere shifted it about and fell on the elf. He kept hitting again and again until the solidness he was hitting was no longer the things skull.

Tuhere stood, wet and trembling in the cold air. Dripping from the struggle and the deed, he started to see beyond the ruins. The Corpses were reaching upwards, grasping and hungry. Desperate without a moments respite. He moved on instinct, seeing the glint of gold in what passed for the rising sun.

The amulet. It had fallen off in the violence of Aquinas’ passing. Tuhere grabbed it and ran to where he hoped the door to the shelter was, hoping it was still open. He felt past Corpse and opening, his muscled tensed, ready to bash down anything that had made it past the threshold with him.

The door slammed closed behind him.

* * *

The sound of the wind rustling through the wheat was strong in Tuhere’s ears. He lay, staring up at the sky, and endless blue field. Around him, the wheat was like gold in his vision. He lay there, naked, and clutching the amulet in his right hand where he had the rock that he had used to kill Aquinas. It was all a world away, a world and a reality. For the first time since he could remember, he just smiled.