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Moth	By : screamer1234 Category: +S through Z > Silent Hill Views: 6878 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Silent Hill, nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
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A/N: Good news: This chapter is indeed longer than the first one. Bad news: The next inter-chapter delay will be a hell of a lot longer, because I basically had this chapter written before posting the first one. I actually have to *GASP* write! D:
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When James saw him again, he was filleting his way through a pack of patient demons. And, from the manic grin on his face, having a hell of a time.
Appropriate choice of words, James thought.
He dispatched three demons in as many seconds with a disturbingly accurate pistol shot to each twitching head. Their bodies hadn’t fallen flat before he’d whirled and struck down two more. And another. And another.
But the last one slithered and skittered and reared up behind him almost too quickly for James’ eyes to register. It shuddered bodily and its chest gaped in a way he recognized. He’d seen that thick black tar eat through cars, and no matter how fast or freaky with a gun the blue-coated man was, there was no way he could move in time.
“Look out!” he shouted despite himself, but he didn’t need to do that because Walter spun around and punched his bare fist straight through the drooling hole and out the other side with a clear, squelching crack.
A too-human shriek ripped through the air, quickly crescendoed, and guttered into silence. The man withdrew his arm, letting the demon thud wetly to the ground. His hand smoked obviously. He wiped it casually, albeit with a distinct expression of annoyance, on his coat. Clean, it shone red and wet in the manner of a third-degree burn, but even as James watched, stunned, the burn crawled into itself and disappeared.
Then he turned to stare straight at James. He smiled, and for that James was grateful—they were a lot closer now and he didn’t think he could handle that utterly unhinged grin again—but even so, the blue-coated man was walking unhurriedly towards him and James was paralyzed like he’d only been in the face of that awful Red Pyramid.
He stopped about six feet away—a polite distance, James’ mind gibbered, a courteous madman who read etiquette manuals on his lunch break and always knew what fork to use when stabbing debutantes. Just to shut up his brain, which was nearing hysterical meltdown, James blurted, “What—What’re you doing here?”
And the man said, simply, “Looking for my mother.”
A pale, exhausted girl echoed him wanly in James’ mind, but no—the fervid, haunted look in this man’s eyes was superficially similar, but where Angela’s had been lonesome pools where girls pined away for the love of a fairy king, his were like endless, evil labyrinths of ancient forest. A forest where travelers had as much to fear from the trees as from any wild beast or brigand, that burned at their unseen centers with hell- and holy fire—as if those weren’t the same in this town. James knew he shouldn’t, but he did anyway.
“What’s your name?” he asked.
The man grinned and that ocean-deep, Hell-deep madness cracked the surface and shone bright and screaming. He responded in a voice like serpents sliding together through reeds.
“My name is Walter Sullivan.”
James suddenly knew why he seemed familiar. Ten hearts. Ten hearts in ten days. All over the news. All the channels, practically every hour. Walter Sullivan, the serial killer who pulled out hearts, neatly sewed up the holes like a goddamn A-plus Home Ec project, and signed his murders with his own name. In cursive.
James was pulled back and forth between screaming and a high, cracked, hysterical laugh so hard that it was ultimately easier to just lean over and throw up.
When there was nothing left he raised his head shakily. “I thought—” he began.
There was no one.
The fog made a soft shushing noise. It was thicker than ever.
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The nurse slumped and charged him, steel pipe glinting wet red in his flashlight beam.
(dark god so dark like something fucking ate him)
Her arm rose to swing but he drove his own pipe three inches into her head and she crumpled like a card house
(something smelled it smelled so horrible)
and when she it fell, he pulled his weapon out with a loud, sexual sucking noise that set his heart pounding
(could feel the dark snaking its tentacles around him squeezing worming up his nose into his eyes so he’d never see again)
because even that insignificant sound would bring more of her malformed, ever-angry, ever-hungry kin. This was her last little revenge—to bring the rest of Hell down on him, as if it were not already there.
(never get back never be let into the light again)
She struggled to pull herself up on her hands. She (no it’s an it) ignored the heavy pipe lying beside her and began dragging herself towards him, hate coming off her like heat. A heavy, feline growling pulsed the air, growing louder, pushing at him, crushing at him. The caving, black-drooling wound on the side of its head shifted, squeezed, seemed to pout, then opened wide like a mouth—no, not a mouth. Like a—
Like a dark, wet, eager—
And suddenly the distinction between anger and hunger and numbing fear was lost in the gory, slimy dark and James brought his pipe down hard over her tumored face. The squelching, muffled crunch of bone was almost obscenely satisfying. She jerked, slipped, and did not rise, but he hit her again, again, again all over her lovely filthy body, her fragile arms, her birdlike ribs, her curving back, her shapely legs in their sheer white hose jumping like she was startled. Some pus- and bloody-slick feeling was slithering cold into hot between his stomach and spine, but maybe that was just what adrenaline left behind when it raged through a body hard enough to turn it mad, to tear it down. James beat her until she was pulp unrecognizable but for her high heels and soiled white cap.
At last he slowed and finally stopped to pant, bent over, hands clutching his knees. He was shaking so hard he could barely keep his feet. He kept his eyes resolutely shut.
James might otherwise have seen a man in a long blue coat perched casually on a rust-eaten scaffold, watching him as closely as James had watched him. He might otherwise have seen the man turn to the hall stretching black and ravaged behind him, might have seen his lips move in quiet, smooth speech and then curve rapaciously. As it was, he did not, and sirens covered the low laugh that floated out from the infinite dark.
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Moth