Moth

A/N: Yeah...short first chapter is short. The rest will be longer, I promise. The crap summary, however, probably won't change.

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James was lost.

James was so totally fucking lost it wasn’t even funny.

The other world of rust and blood and rot was worse, oh, yes, without a thought—James’ mind shied away reflexively, as if even thinking of it would bring the sirens and burning and the dark—but this foggy world, though relatively safe, had its own brand of unpleasantness. The oatmeal-thick stuff licked at his calves and butt like a giant dog deciding whether or not it was worth eating him. He jumped constantly and whirled to face rolling blank grey-white when he knew there was something there. Once a tendril had reached up to stroke the nape of his neck. He’d had his Beretta in hand—loaded, of course—and had nearly blown off his fucking foot. It was cold as hell, and not only was it heavier than fog had any right to be, it…moved…in ways fog shouldn’t. It had a presence. When James was so tense he was panting, when his terror fed on itself until he was sure his heart would explode—then there would be a heavy, bitter salt in his mouth. And he would know without thinking that this is what hatred tastes like, and he would in his mind see white-hot eyes burning in the dark. It was like the goddamn breath of the town, the unholy breath of what lay waiting beneath it for foolish mortals’ tread. At least in the (inthedark) other world he could use his flashlight, no matter if it was risky; here, if the fog was thick, it was like being buried under fathoms of snow. The flashlight was totally useless. And right now it was thicker than he’d ever seen it.

James could have been in the middle of Rosewater Park, or wandering up and down Nathan Avenue, or about to fall off Brookhaven Hospital’s roof, or standing at the fucking front desk of the Lakeview Hotel, and he wouldn’t have known the goddamn difference.

Except he could see a man, at least one short Silent Hill block away, far enough he shouldn’t have been able to see anything at all.

He was blonde and somehow familiar, but it wasn’t Eddie. This man was tall—taller than James if he weren’t slouching—long-haired, and wearing a sort of long blue coat that reached below his knees. The coat was streaked and stained with what might have been dirt but what James was fairly certain was blood. This should have been alarming, but after repeatedly startling the shit out of himself in the few intact shop windows still clean enough to throw a reflection, James knew he looked even worse.

The man didn’t appear to be headed anywhere. Or doing anything, really. He was just standing there, looking around like a valet trying to remember where he parked that damn Mercedes. James’ mouth quirked in an atrophied smile. “Hey, you lost as I am?” he mumbled; after days weeks months whatever in this pit, he no longer had any problem talking to himself. Maybe this one won’t be crazy? Although, this place being what it was, that wasn’t likely. Still, it would be nice not to be alone. He sighed, then took a breath to yell out to him.

But his chest deflated like a leaky balloon when the stranger suddenly faced him. He studied him with an unnerving gaze at once sickly, obsessively avid and blank as fly-blown death. And he grinned.

It was an on-the-verge-of-giggles grin, a positively manic grin, like that of a four-year-old bursting at the seams to let slip a secret. He held up one finger and slowly wagged it. If James had not understood, the matching shake of his bedraggled blonde head would have made it perfectly clear.

Even at this distance, James could see his lips moving. Two words. Three syllables.

Uh-uh, James.

And then his grin split so wide and crazed he seemed to grow demon teeth.

And then the fog rolled in—or he rolled out—and the blue-coated man was gone.

It was several moments before James could even think. When he did, his first thought was not Who the hell was that? or How did he know my name? It was, Which question was he answering?

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