|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
 Posted: Wed Sep 26, 2007 8:03 am
  Welcome to Solomon Village
Reads the sign post on the side of the rural road. Autumn is in the air,
and the lane that leads towards the village is lined with skinny poplars
clinging desperately to their last remaining leaves.
There is a cold chill in the air; you pull the collar of your coat up and
hunch your shoulders as you begin the long trek down the muddy lane.
You find yourself wishing that your car had not broken down this far out
into the country. You find yourself wishing that there was a payphone to
call your loved ones. You find youself wishing you'd stayed home.
No matter, this Solomon Village is the only settlement for miles in any direction.
Perhaps there you'll find help. It's already afternoon; the last thing you want is to
be stranded out here in the dark all alone.
|
 |
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Posted: Thu Sep 27, 2007 10:25 pm
 As you enter the outskirts of the town, the first structure you see is a public fountain. The water here has long since lain stagnant. Weeds and insects cloud the surface of the water. The cobbles are grown over with moss. Hardly the welcome you were hoping for.
Out of nowhere, a child staggers to lean against the Fountain...
His clothes are patched and ragged, his face gaunt and eyes far older in his face than they should have been. You call out to him. He turns to look at you with a weary expression.
Above you the sun struggles to break through the heavy clouds. A bitter wind picks up and blows down the lane, chasing dried leaves towards you. The child speaks slowly, his voice soft and eyes focused on something in the distance, "The last of the last in this dark place..." his washed-out dull-coloured eyes roll up to look at you searchingly, "The last has very little chance to survive. Can you imagine, stranger, how sad it would be to be the last? All alone, and everyone else is gone, and even if you cry out until your lungs bleed, there's no voice to answer you. It frightens me to be the last."
A wide, manic smile spreads over the child's face, "But now I'm no longer the last...now you are, stranger." Turning the child starts to limp off the way he came, his shoes leaving dark smudges on the ground as he goes. You look behind yourself, but see that your shoes have not left any such marks. You hunch your shoulders and turn your back on the fountain.
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Posted: Fri Sep 28, 2007 7:27 am
 As you walk toward the town and away from the deserted fountain the soft voice of the child can be heard on the air; he is singing.
"One little Indian boy left all alone; He went out and hanged himself and then there were none..."
Concerned by the child's morbid personality, you contemplate returning down the lane to your stranded vehicle. But you know full well there is no better opportunity than this for help. If there was, you muse grimly, you would have already taken it.
Instead you pass by the Fountain and move down the hill towards the centre of the village. You need to talk to an adult.
There is not much on the edges of Solomon Village. You pass a few delapidated houses. A few have boarded up windows, one or two have the front doors ajar, creaking in the wind. There is a musty smell in the air akin to mould, but fainter. You've never been to such a rural community. It is not hard to see how far behind they are. You begin to wonder if they will even have electricity for phonelines.
The lane into town splits into two, and you can clearly see where both lead. The shorter of the two curves up the hill to your left where sits an old brick schoolhouse. The other path continues down the hill where you can make out the shapes of the buildings through the rising mist of the valley.
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Posted: Fri Sep 28, 2007 7:29 am
Stuffing your hands deep into your pockets you turn up the side path to knock on the schoolhouse's door. Behind the stained wood you hear the sound of chalk scratch on slate, and then a chair screech and the faint sound of footsteps.
What you recognize as a school teacher opens the door furtively, blocking entrance into the building and opening the door no more than four inches wide.
"Yes?" She asks, licking her lips and eyes darting out over your shoulder in a nervous gesture. You notice she continues to dart her glances about as you state your business. When you mention the child by the fountain she stares at you long and hard.
"Well, you'd better come in." She murmurs, pushing the door open wider and retreating into the shadows of the schoolhouse. Within there is but a single glass lantern lit upon on a scored wooden desk. It is towards this desk the teacher makes her way, drawing the scarf about her neck tighter and coughing raspily into her hankerchief.
You follow her in, taking care to look around. There are no students within the schoolhouse, merely row after row of empty desks, each with a blank slate upon them. The Teacher gestures to a pitcher and mug on her desk. "A glass of water, perhaps?" As she pours the water out for you, you ask her why there are no students in her classroom. The Teacher flashes you another nervous glance and then smiles weakly at the empty desks in the room as she passes you the clay mug. "I'm afraid they were not fit for school." She sighs. You ask her why, but she does not answer.
The water is warm and stale, but your throat is parched, and so you swallow it all. You notice the blackboard behind the teacher's desk, neat white chalk scrawled over it in rows.
Red eyes above red noses
tired voices mark tired souls
As each heartbeat spread
the crimson through their veins
They smiled and wondered
why the seats around them
grew cold and lonely
At last they learned
but the answer sealed their lips.
You point to the blackboard as you set the mug down on the desk.
"Oh, that?" The teacher replies slowly, staring at the text on the board, her lips pursed, eyes scanning the words there. She is silent and still for a long time. As you begin to lose patience, you address her by her title to regain her attention. She turns back to face you, tearing her eyes away from the board. "Oh, that..." She brushes her long hair over one shoulder and offers a wan smile dead of all emotion. "A bit of commemorative poetry."
You ask who the poem is for, and what it commemorates, but again she is silent, her gaze far off. Her worn hands pull relentlessly at the tattered edge of her scarf and she heaves a sigh. An unhelpful woman on the whole, seemingly too lost in her own gloom to help you out of yours. You thank her again for the water, but she does not answer.
You hunch your shoulders against the chill that permeates the room and notice a sigil of some sort carved into the corner of the desk. It is poorly cut into the wood, as if gouged by a penknife or letter opener. It has a vaugely familiar look to it, but you are unfamiliar with its meaning. Trying one last time to strike up conversation with the absent professor, you indicate the mark and inquire as to what it means. A pained and slightly defensive expression fills her face and she pulls the scarf tightly around her neck. "Children are so innocent; they meant nothing by it!" She stares at you, eyes wide and lips pulled into a tight line. You nod and swallow thickly. Well, that didn't go as expected. You back up stiffly and walk away; the teacher merely stares after you, saying nothing more.
As you reach the door you hear her cough violently into her hankerchief behind you. As you close the door behind you, you hear the chalk begin to scratch away on the board. You leave the teacher to her darkness and head back down the path towards the village centre.
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Posted: Fri Sep 28, 2007 7:35 am
 The path down to the village proper is a relatively short walk. Along the way you see the trampled and rotting remains of decorative gardens lining the walk. You think more about what the child and the teacher told you and feel a chill go up your spine. Something doesn't feel quite right about all this. The streets are too quiet, even for a rural town. There were no townspeople on the road or at the fountain, not a single child in the schoolroom. You recall the filth splattered on the child's shoes and the rasping cough of the school teacher. You begin to wonder if you are quite safe here.
As you reach the bottom of the hill, the mist grows thicker, and your toes grow numb with the cold. Ahead of you the main street stretches forward. Empty shops line the way, most boarded up, a few with broken windows stained with something red-brown. There is no one in the street.
Your feeling of unease mounts and you swallow thickly. You call out, hoping someone hiding inside might hear you and come out. As you advance, you think you catch sight of faces quickly darting away from windows, and doors closing with a thick click. The hair on the back of your neck begins to rise and you feel the goosebumps rise all along your arms.
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Posted: Fri Sep 28, 2007 1:02 pm
 A strong-seeming man comes out from around the side of his building, wiping blood covered hands on a rag. At first alarmed you take a step back before you notice the sign above the building he emerged from. A Butcher's Shop. He gives you a wary glance before waving. You wave back and approach. As he gets a better look at you he grins and claps a hand on your shoulder.
"I wasn't expecting any more customers," The man laments before offering you a relieved smile. He unlocks the front door and ushers you inside. His shop is as cold as a refridgeration, but much cleaner than anything else you've seen in Solomon Village so far.
As you sweep the place with your glance, the butcher makes his way behind the counter and dons an apron mildly stained with old blood in that tell-tale red-brown colour. You notice on the wall an old black rotary phone mounted above the counter. Eagerly you move towards it, but before you can lift the receiver, the butcher's strong hand comes down on yours, preventing you from lifting the mouthpiece. You meet his glance to see a stoney-hard expression on his face.
"I wouldn't be doing that if I were you." He growls lowly. You feel a slight note of panic rise in your throat. The man continues to stare at you without blinking. "The phonelines around here are all dead." He explains, but still he does not release his iron grip on the receiver. You still feel tempted to lift the thing to your ear, if only to hear the dead silence that would prove the phonelines were indeed down. But the Butcher takes your hand from the phone and leads you away. "Perhaps there's something else I can help you with?" The Butcher asks.
You tell him wearily of how your vehicle broke down north of town, and that you haven't got the tools to fix it, nor any way to communicate your whereabouts. The Butcher grins and shrugs. "Write your family a farewell letter." The Butcher smiles, a glint in his eye. "And you'll be home before the mail will deliver it from this place. But if that's the case, you must be hungry. How about some fresh jerky? I smoked it only two days ago. Finest jerky in these parts!"
You are about to decline when you recall the butcher's comment about a lack of customers, and you really can't deny how hungry you are. You ask him what kind of jerky it is and the butcher gets that same strange glint in his eye.
"My neighbour," the Butcher replies slowly, and as your expression turns to one of horror he guffaws and slaps you on the shoulder. "raised good cattle." He adds, and winks. "You'll find he was a savoury gent." And again the Butcher guffaws and bends to begin pulling wide strips of jerky from the display case.
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Posted: Fri Sep 28, 2007 1:04 pm
 You stop on the steps of the public library to rest your feet and chew on a little of the jerky the butcher sold you. Sure enough, it's a rich, succulent jerky, and does wonders for sating your hunger. You can't help but feel that it doesn't taste much like beef, more like pork...
As you sit on the steps you see a small cluster of townsfolk emerge shambling from a building across the street. There are only three of them, but they drag a fourth between them. The fourth has obvious wounds to the lower legs, and trails dark muck through the dirt. It appears to be a man, though it writhes so much and howls in such a gutteral, primal manner it's hard to tell.
You feel like you ought to call out, to ask what happened, to offer help... But you know there is nothing you can do. The cluster drags the howling man down the street and you do nothing but watch them go. You tuck away the last piece of your jerky for later and swallow sour spit. You've lost your appetite.
The questions without answers continue to spin in your head. The suspicion that something is wrong in this place solidifies further and you raise a hand to shield your face, watching the gaggle of village folk turn up a driveway further down the lane to what looks to be a stately manor house.
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Posted: Fri Sep 28, 2007 1:10 pm
 "Pssssst." You jump a mile as a hissed voice sounds behind you. Turning you see a gentleman poking his head out through the window beside the library's main doors. "Pssst, you're not like them are you? You're not from around here." You shake your head and murmur how your vehicle broke down but the gentleman nods vigourously and hisses lowly. "Come on inside, I'll explain everything..." And then his face disappears back into the library and there is a moment of silence as the wind whips leaves up the stairs.
Then the heavy door opens and the gentleman stands there, his clothes worn and ink-stained, smaller in stature than you had thought. "Hurry, come in, come in before they see you." Blinking and confused you obey, stepping over the threashold into the library.
All of the braziers are lit with roaring fires, though the acrid smoke rising from them stinks something terrible. The flickering, garish glow they produce illuminates the dark aisles of the library with unsteady light, and you manage to glimpse row after row of dusty books as you follow the librarian into the heart of the building.
During the length of that walk neither of you speak. Instead the heavy echoeing of your shoes on the stone floor resonates in the high vaulted ceiling where cobwebs and further dust cling. At last you reach a work table strewn with maps and charts and books of all shapes and sizes. "Here, have a look." The librarian says, stabbing his fingers at the papers stretched out under the light of two braziers.
You ask what it all is, eager and feeling as if you are on the edge of an epiphany. The librarian glares at you as if you were an imbicile and snatches up one of the maps. "All planned, all planned! Look! Don't you see!? The sickness spread from here..." He stabs at an area on the map that looks the same as all the rest to your untrained eye. A sickness? But the librarian flings the map down impatiently and spreads his hands. "You think our town was always like this? I'm telling you, they did this to us! They made a few of us sick, but then it spread. All their fault, all their- at first- first- we were outraged, we lobbied for answers! And the Mayor... the Mayor..." The librarian licked his dry lips and leaned forward conspiratorily. "The Mayor said she'd handle it. Handle it like she knew what was going on. Took in a private council, asked that Doctor along. But he's dead now, lot of good he did. The crazed ones killed him when he tried to help them. Crazed, crazed, you just see it, and do nothing - nothing stops their hunger, you see. Nothing they eat, nothing they find, nothing they kill, they just keep feeding, eating, devouring, consuming... gluttonous..." The librarian pantomimed a vague gesture with his hands and stared off wild-eyed.
Great, no answers here, just insanity. But come to think of it, things weren't quite right. Could this babbling fool be onto something? Tentatively you ask about the sickness. If it spread it might be contagious, and if it was you might be in danger. Best to know the signs and protect yourself than to write this fool off as a nutcase without giving in to caution.
"Oh, the sickness! Terrible! Terrible thing!" The librarian wrung his hands and shook his head, his voice shaking ever so slightly. "It seems like nothing more than a common cold at first, red eyes, sniffly noses. You feel tired, and hungry. Nothing you think you can't handle. But then... you start coughing, and the coughing is the beginning of the end of it. Not that death and life really seem all that different anymore... All of this the Doctor found out before they took him. He told it to us. Told us to be careful, but didn't do anything else, nothing else. Lot of good he did..." The librarian sunk into a chair behind the desk and listlessly rearranged the papers there. Slowly he began speaking again in a hushed, fervent tone."From what I've seen... it seems that the fastest way to spread the disease is through eating or drinking something already contaminated. And of course everything those...those...monsters touched became infected. It wasn't long before we all had it. And then the first began to go mad. It was horrible! The Butcher! The Butcher! He says it's beef, but I know - he- and it doesn't even matter, because we all have it, all of us one and all!" The librarian lets out a hacking cough, blood splattering over the map under his hands.
Appalled and terrified you back away. The Librarian looks up at you, eyes bulging and smile stretched unnaturally wide. In the flickering light of the braziers he looks more like a skeleton than a man. "Now you know, stranger! We must preserve the truth! They must listen! Something must be done!" But before he can continue in his rasping voice, he bends double over the table again and begins hacking so hard his whole body shakes. The blood pours from his nose and mouth onto the documents on the table, all over his clothes and his hands as he claws at his face and cackles.
You turn and run, as fast as your legs can carry you for the exit. You burst out of the door and keep running into the street, unsure of where you are going, but desperate for safety.
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Posted: Fri Sep 28, 2007 7:19 pm
 Adrenalin rushing through your veins, you feel your heart hammering in your ears, your skin slick with sweat, your eyesight hazy. You become weary and slow, feet thudding into the dirt with gradually slowing strides. You are tired, and disturbed, and truly alone in this town. There is a ringing in your ears that seems to be more than merely the rush and pulse of your blood pumping.
Behind you, you sense that someone is watching you, but each time you whip about to catch a glance, the villagers hide behind their doors and window shutters, watching but not approaching.
You bend over to rest your palms on your knees, trying to catch your breath again, trying to still your spinning head. Your breath still comes ragged, even as your pulse slows again to normal, and each breath you drag in hurts your throat. The light is fading up above, the sun lost somewhere behind the low-lying clouds as it sinks dismally into the evening. The white clouds of steam that float before your eyes with each exhalation remind you how bitterly cold this autumn evening is. As the sweat on your skin begins to dry, you feel yourself shiver, skin prickling unpleasantly.
And then you hear it, the sound of Church Bells ringing in evening Mass. Looking up you find yourself not far from the local church. You try to concentrate, but your eyes don't seem to want to focus. Heaving another painful breath you make your way up the path to the church's front doors. If only you could rest for a moment, you're certain you'll feel calmer and saner.
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Posted: Fri Sep 28, 2007 7:20 pm
 As the eerie peal of church bells rings out over the desolate streets you ascend the front steps. The heavy doors are closed but unlatched. You push against the wood and slowly they swing inward with great creaking of rusty hinges and old wood.
Within, the old pews are still arranged in neat rows, though many are badly scratched and stained. You cannot deny it anymore, those red-brown stains are dried old blood. You carefully shove your hands into your pockets and make your way cautiously up the aisle to the dais at the far end of the church.
The fading light of evening streams in through the high stained glass window, and below, the priest has lit braziers giving off the same oily light and acrid smoke as in the Library. The priest himself stands behind the podium, reading his holy book, preparing for mass.
You look around and see there is no one else in the church. No villagers enter at the calling of the churchbell. You reach up with a trembling hand to wipe the sweat from your brow and sniff back some mucous. The priest looks up as the sound of your sniffle echoes up the vaulted walls.
"My child," the priest smiles bravely and steps around the podium towards you. "What couldst bring thee to such a valley sinful as ours?" You briefly recount your broken-down vehicle and he wrings his hands heavenward. "Such be the strange and mysterious workings of our Lord. Now thou art here, in the House of God, thinkst deeply on the works of thine life and repent thy evils." The priest reaches out to you and rests a heavy hand on your shoulder. You sniffle again and notice a sigil carved into the priest's forearm. You frown and nod towards it, your head pounding.
"This be the mark of retribution!" The priest replies proudly, brandishing it at you. "We righteous whom markst ourselves thusly await the Judgment of our Souls. As this plague dost cleanse our village of its impurities, the righteous shalt remain standing, cleansed and pure to be received by God in Heaven!" You frown at that mark and wipe again at the sweat beading on your brow. You make comment about how this 'judgement' seems to be indiscriminately killing off everyone in this village.
The priest curls his lip at you and shakes his head. "Dost thou thinkst it be chance that thou art here now, afflicted as the rest? 'Tis God's divine retribution for thine evils that thou art led here at this time of crisis! Thou shalt reap what thou hast sown; 'tis destiny!" You protest that the Librarian had mentioned a conspiracy, but the priest does not let you finish. "The Librarian is marked with the kiss of evil! The Devil hast taken his mind, and soon his body and soul! Believe not what he dost say, my child! He be maddened! Maddened!" And the priest steps towards you, brandishing the sigil on his arm, eyes wild in the flickering light. "The Mayor hast fouled her office of duty, for she hast sold the soul of this place for the cardinal sins of Greed and Pride. We are fallen for her weaknesses!!"
You are silent for a moment, letting the words of the priest sink in, and realize with dawning horror, that in his own way, the priest is as mad and paranoid as the Librarian was. But one particular phrase the holy man uttered chills you to the bone and sticks in your mind.
Afflicted as the rest...
You ask what he means to imply, hearing your voice quaver despite your attempts to sound fearless. But the holy man merely grins darkly, and reaches out to place his hand on your brow. You feel the strength in his arm and feel a little trill of panic in the pit of your stomach. This priest frightens you deeply. Then he speaks, and his voice echoes loudly through the empty church.
"Thou hast eaten of the flesh of men, drank of the water in which the Demons copulated, breathed of the smoke of the burning evil... Thou art doomed, my child." You feel nauseous and dizzy, not at all helped by your weak knees or the hypnotizing way the braziers flicker off the stained-glass windows. The priest's words echo in your pounding head.
Doomed...
No, you cannot give up so quickly, give in so easily! It is not too late for you, not yet! You must find the Doctor, and see if he can tell you how to slow the sickness. The priest draws a ceremonial dagger from his belt and grabs for your arm. "Here, let us mark the sigil into thy mortal flesh so that thine soul canst be taken up by Him who is cometh!"
But you tear your arm away from him and stumble down the steps, running back up the aisle and away from the mad priest and his abandoned House of God.
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Posted: Fri Sep 28, 2007 7:21 pm
 Escaping from the House of God, you cannot help but feel that God has long since abandoned this place and lefts its remaining inhabitants to the scant mercies of Evil. The image of the sigil and all its dark implications burns in your mind, and you feel a pang of pain around your heart. You stop once at the end of the walk and stare back up at that flaking white building, clutching a hand to the pain behind your sternum and struggle to draw a deep breath.
There is a foul scent lingering in the back of your nostrils, and you feel a flop in your stomach of nausea. You force another deep breath and let out a rattling cough not unlike that of the School Teacher and Librarian. A pang of paranoia spikes your fear up another notch. The symptoms and signs alluded to in this small town begin to form some sort of terrible whole. Despite the madness or lethargy of the remaining inhabitants,t here is something true lingering in the things they have told you. All those small truths seem to be adding up to an impossibly terrible whole.
But how did this happen? And why? There are questions that need answering if you are to survive and get away from this place in one piece.
You turn back to the street and see the stately manor house where the small party had dragged a struggling townsperson from where you watched on the Library steps. You struggle towards that pristine abode, head swimming and short of breath.
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Posted: Fri Sep 28, 2007 7:24 pm
 A handsome manor house sits behind the bent trees of what must once have been a glorious estate. The gentleman shuffling wearily down the front lane looks distinguished despite his threadbare clothes. By the leather case emblazoned with an equal-armed cross that he carries in one hand you surmise he must be a Doctor.
He pauses when he sees you standing beside the gate. Then, slowly, he draws closer. He is thin, but not quite so haggard as the other inhabitants of the town. He rests a hand atop the gate, eyeing you warily.
"... Yes?" His voice is hoarse, rough from disuse. You tell him that you've come looking for answers, explanations. He looks at you incredulously, then tilts his head, inspecting you. Making a small, almost sad sound, he unlocks the gate, ushering you in and towards the manor. "Do come in. Perhaps I can.... help. I'm the Doctor of this town, since my mentor passed away."
As you walk side by side down the lane, you can't help but notice that his entire body save his face has has been covered, and that fresh, newly-stained bandages peek out between the edges of his sleeves and the tops of his dark gloves. When he notices the drection of your glance, he quickly hides the bandages, looking about furtively.
Once you are inside the run-down, musty-smelling manor, he leads you to a quiet dining room, sitting you down at the table. He does not offer you food or water, but instead sinks heavily into the chair opposite of you. As you sit in silence, you hear hints of what might be speaking, shuffling, crying. Moaning, perhaps. All the sounds are eerie, half-heard and distant, muffled.
After a time, the Doctor looks up from where he has buried his face in his hands. "How much have you heard? What have you done? ... Have you taken food or drink?"
When you answer these questions, he makes no response, except to sigh deeply, look off into the distance. "It is true there is an illness here. You know of it. You've seen the symptoms. Reddened eyes and nose, hunger and fatigue, coughing of blood... eventually, the eyes lose their focus, swell, the body loses mass. Something changes in them, the brain snaps, the heart seems to stop, and then... the victim begins to eat everything in sight, tearing apart grain store and farmer alike in search of food.
"Everybody knows it now. They just won't say it aloud. As if not speaking will deny the truth." He runs a hand through his hair. Fishing a small flask from his bag, he uncaps it and, lifting it with a shaking hand, takes a long drink from it. When he pulls it away, his lips are stained a strange purple.
"Our food is contaminated. Our water. Everyone's losing their minds. The Butcher merely exacerbated things-" But he pauses, shakes his head. As if he's too afraid to speak. You press further, but he refuses to say anything.
"I keep trying to find a cure," he laments, softly, opening his case and rummaging around in it. "But I have nothing. I can only ease the pain, and what use is that? The more I help the others, the faster I will slip into the strange un-death. So why hasten it when I might still find a way out...?" He pulls out a piece of paper, burned in places as if almost destroyed, covered in spots and violet stains. It has a few anatomical sketches, scribbled notes.
"My mentor's old notebook... or what remains. He tried to find the answer too. He..." The Doctor then looks up, to the left. To the part of the building where the strange sound seems to be coming from. It rises in volume, and he looks back down, eyes suddenly widening.
"Get out," he hissed. "OUT!"
From the intense expression on his face you think better than to linger and get up to back away. Your last glance at the Doctor as you turn away shows him rising tiredly from the table, limping slightly and gripping one arm as he hurries to the stairs, cursing under his breath.
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Posted: Fri Sep 28, 2007 7:29 pm
 As you come away from the Doctor you feel mightily disturbed. His explanation of the symptoms that mark the beginning stages of the mysterious disease match all too closely with the peculiar sense of illness you have been suffering. If you cannot find an answer soon, you may be doomed to become another statistic in this rustic village...
There is but one glimmer of hope left for you: the Mayor. Though her, you might be able to understand, find a cure, and get away alive. The Librarian and the Priest both mentioned the Mayor as playing some key part in this catastrophe. If you can find her, and get some answers, then perhaps you can find a way to save yourself. What a foul and ill-lucked night this has turned out to be.
You drag your aching body to the end of the lane. There, lying in wait in the mist and the dark stretches the City Hall. Within, the mayor must be lurking, hiding in the dark and the shadows. Somewhere in the distance on the wind you can hear the screams and groans of the afflcited in their sufferings. You must hurry, there is little time left!
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Posted: Fri Sep 28, 2007 7:35 pm
 You approach the City Hall and note the brass plaque outside the front door. You pound on the front door and are greeted only with silence. Please! You beg and wail at the windows until finally the Mayor's wearied voice answers you.
"I'm sorry, but I cannot be too cautious these days... I thought you might be one of them." You stifle a cough and reply that you are merely looking for a straight answer. You know what is going on in this town, though not why, and all you want is to find a way to get home in one piece. The Mayor does not answer, and after a moment of dead silence you hear the scrape of furniture being bodily shoved across the floor. Another moment of silence and still, and then the door cautiously opens.
At last, face to face with the local authority...
She takes you into a distant room in the yawning and empty place. For the most part, there are no lights in this place, as if she is trying not to draw attention tot he fact that she's still align. As the light from her single lit torch casts long, wobbling, eery shadows off down disused corridors, you think you catch glimpses of crumbled bodies lying still in the otherwise abandoned rooms.
With a sigh, the mayor sits heavily down into the chair behind her ornate desk. With sad eyes, she sweeps over the office, and then up to you. “We're all going to die here anyway,” she informs you, a grave tone to her voice. “Someone... Someone needs to know the truth. My mistakes, my weakness... It needs to come out.” And so begins the story of the Downfall of Solomon Village.
“It started years ago... A new product, you see. So... cliché, now. So generic. I knew it was harmful. I knew it was the wrong decision to say yes, and let them go ahead and use it... And at first, I said no. I said no.” She pauses, and laughs rawly, no mirth in the sound. “I'm trying to justify my actions, even now. I said no, yes... But I didn't continue to say no. The draw of money is powerful indeed... I'll be a corpse before I can spend all that they gave me.” Again, a bitter, bitter laugh issues forth from the clearly disturbed mayor. You wonder, perhaps, if she is insane. But she recovers soon, and continues with the mundanely tragic tale. “And so I let them continue, with the guarantee that I would, of course, receive an antidote, a cure. I was selfish. Am selfish,” she corrects herself quickly. “Am very selfish. Perhaps you don't grasp how hard it is for me to admit to my mistakes.”
She pauses, and shakes her head again, shoving away from her chair, walking over to a rather large window, pulling back the moth-bitten curtain, to look out over the streets of what had once been a quaint, happy village. Now it was crumbling empire, a constant reminder of her failure to do as she had sworn to do upon taking the key to the city. Protect it, and it's citizens. “Even when I started noticing the symptoms in those around me- my staff, my doctor, my own damn family, I couldn't admit to myself that I had done the wrong thing. I was so rich! All this money was going to go back into the economy, revitalize the town. It was a good thing, what I had done! Or so I repeated to myself, over and over again, before I went to bed each night.”
Another sigh, another movement, and she was back in her chair, digging around in one of the drawers in her desk. “Take this. Take this, and save yourself. Save this story. I'm not dying for nothing, damn it.” She grinned crookedly, setting the bottle on the desk. “Take it and go. I can't promise you your safety for much longer. Your time may have already expired. But... do try. Do try.”
You sit aghast in the Mayor's dark internal chambers. To have known this whole time and to have had the antidote hidden in this place.
"It is not enough to save us that remain," She tells you sadly. "We have not the facilities to reproduce or manufacture it. If the villagers knew that I had even this last sample, they would riot and we would all be dead in a much more violent fashion. Please, take it, cure yourself, and tell the truth to the world so that no other village suffers the fate that has taken this place..."
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Posted: Fri Sep 28, 2007 7:38 pm
 You drink the potion quickly, and wince at its acrid taste. It is only after, as you are wiping your mouth that you notice the Mayor is staring at you, as if expecting something to happen. A trick? Had she lied to you, and this potion was not to cure...?
A heavy hand lands on your shoulder, causing you to jump a mile in your skin and let out a shriek. Looking up you see a familiar face. Professor Kortus. That's right...this "town" was just a Haunted Hosue! But it all seemed so real...the nausea, the headache, the rasping cough...
"How's that antidote taste?" Kortus asks you with a broad grin. The Mayor before you grins broadly. "Tryna cooked us up a wicked concoction." Kortus says, smiling warmly. The symptoms of the 'disease' were all real enough, and that antidote really does cure them." Wait,t hat means this entire time you were actually infected? What a horrible trick to pull on the students! what if you hadn't made it this far? what if you'd never gottent he antidote, what them?
But Kortus merely laughs at your questions and shakes his head. "There was no real disease, your symptoms would never have advanced beyond where they were. Those you saw were merely acting, all playing their part in our Little Show of Horrors. Had you not consumed the antidote, you'd likely have felt ill for another day or so, and by then your body would have finished digesting it, and you'd have been fine. Relax. It was all in the Spirit of Hallowe'en."
You are reeling still, shaken and weakened by your experience here. You are tired, and had so much convincing you it was real, that now to have this jolly man tell you to brush it off...? All easier said than done.
"Well, if you really were frightened, if you really did feel our Show was that real," The mayor smiles happily, "Why not toss your vote in with Team Choleric? Sign our guestbook?"
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
