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When Meacher opened his eyes the train was empty, though he had thought it was the jolt of the brakesthat had woken him. He stood up, the low-level anxiety of disorientation already beginning to grind inhis belly. The carriage was old and grimy, and smelled musty, as if each threadbare seat had absorbedtoo much sweat over too many years. The upholstery and stained carpet was predominantly grey withoverlapping flecks in two shades of bilious green that jittered like TV interference on the periphery of his vision.Outside the window the stone walls of the station building looked smoke-blackened, except for paleoblongs where the station’s nameplates had been removed, probably by vandals. As far as Meacher could see, it-was not only the train-that was deserted but the platform too — and so profoundly, itseemed to-him, that he suppressed the urge to call out, oddly featful of bow intrusive, or worseinsignificant, his voice might sound in the enveloping silence.Stepping into the aisle, be automatically reached towards the luggage rack above his head, but found itempty. Had he had a bag, or even a jacket, at the outset of his journey? It would have been unusual for -him to have traveled with neither, but his brain felt so dulled by fatigue that he honestly couldn’tremember. He sat down again, intimidated by solitude and by his own aberrant memory. He had anotion that the merest glimpse of a guard or another passenger, or perhaps even the incomprehensible blare of a station announcer’s voice, would he all that-he would need to restore his sense of himself andhis surroundings.However when he realized, ten minutes later, that he was actually holding his breath in -anticipation of a hint of life besides his own, he decided he could be passive no longer. He stood- up with adecisiveness that was for no one’s benefit but his and lurched along the length of the carriage, his arms pumping like a cross-country skier’s as he yanked at seats to maintain his momentum.Once on the platform be paused only briefly, so that he would not - have to consciously acknowledgethe absence of life. The EXIT sign caused his spirits to flare with a disproportionate fierceness if only because, albeit impersonal, it was a form of communication, and hinted at more to come. He stumpedthrough the arch beneath the sign and found himself in a ticket office containing back-to-back rows of red metal seats a-nd an unmanned ticket window. From above this too a name-plate had been removed,and with such care that Meacher wondered whether the place was understaffed because it was on theverge of closure.The station was certainly small enough for this theory to be feasible, or at least appeared tooinconsequential to have been granted a car park,- because a further exit door led down a flight of stonesteps and thence to what appeared to be a town centre side-street. Even out here there was no indicationof life, though Meacher felt optimistic that he would encounter some sooner rather than later.There were signs of human occupation — the stink of stale urine as he had descended the steps,discarded confectionery wrappers and food cartons emblazoned with comfortingly iconic logos:McDonalds, Kit Kat, KFC. On the tar side of a pedestrian crossing a chalked sign in a pub window promised BIG SCREEN SKY SPORTS! Meacher might have ventured inside to freshen his dry mouthwith something sweet and fizzy if the pub’s wooden doors, so hefty they put him in mind of adungeon, had not been firmly shut.

The pub’s neighbours were equally inaccessible. Indeed, a grubby jeweller’s and a shop whichcontained second-hand musical instruments had reinforced their unwillingness to attract trade via theemployment of metal shutters. Meacher wondered what time it was. If the shops were closed and the pub not yet open he guessed it must be somewhere between six and seven p.m. Looking up affordedhim no clue, because the greyness between the rooftops more closely resembled -a thick net stretched between the buildings than a portion of sky.He started to walk, though had no real idea in which direction the town centre lay. The silence was sounnerving that even the tiny crackle of grit beneath his soles made him wince. The narrow streets withtheir shuttered store-fronts all looked the same, and after a while he began to wonder whether he waswalking in -circles. His mind still felt oddly inactive, as though unable to form thoughts of anysubstance. Every so often he didn’t, so much stop to listen as stumble to a halt, as if he wa-s a machinethat periodically needed to conserve its energy to recharge. Unless his senses were as faulty as hismemory, it seemed he was utterly alone. There was neither the distant, rumble- of traffic, nor even thefaintest trill of birdsong.Perhaps it was Sunday and everything was shut. The thought was less a comfort, and more an attemptto prevent his sense of disquiet escalating into fear. In truth he knew that no town centre was ever thisdevoid of life. Something had happened here, probably while he had been asleep on the train. The townhad been abandoned or evacuated for some reason, and somehow he had been overlooked.Blundering to yet another halt he nervously sniffed the air. The only reason be could think of for such awide-scale evacuation was the presence of some kind of severe physical threat. Was -the place about to be bombed by terrorists or could the attack already be underway? Perhaps he was wandering around, blithely inhaling toxic fumes; perhaps germ warfare had come to middle England and he was gulpingdown anthrax spores or worse. Or perhaps, he thought, as he examined his skin and tried to convincehimself that the nausea and breathlessness he was feeling were psychosomatic, the attack had alreadyhappened. Perhaps a nuclear bomb had been dropped close by and the town’s population had beenevacuated to protect them from the approaching cloud of radioactive dust.There were flaws in his thinking, he knew that. But one thing was certain: he had to get to a phone, hadto find out what was going on. He started to run, telling himself it was only stress that was making hislungs hurt and his legs feel leaden. But if so, what was it that was affecting his memory? He couldn’teven remember getting on the train, never mind where be had been going, or for what reason.As if his desperation for answers had made it happen, he suddenly emerged. from the stultifying mazeof drab streets full of shuttered buildings and found himself in a pedestrianised precinct leading to whatappeared to be a central square. There were comfortingly familiar chain-stores here — Woolworth,Gap, HMV — though they seemed to be more impoverished versions of the ones he was used to seeing back home.Home. Where was that? The renewed surge of panic that accompanied his dawning realization that heknew almost nothing about himself was so overwhelming that he stumbled and almost fell as thestrength drained out of him. He staggered up to a Miss Seifridge’s and put an outspread palm on thedisplay window to steady himself. His head was pounding,. his body slick with sweat, and he wasfinding it difficult to breathe.His mind, however, was in overdrive. He thought of the air teeming with germs and chemicals, thoughtof toxins rushing through his body, disrupting and destroying it. He expected to start coughing up blood

at any moment, expected blisters to erupt on his skin. He waited for the first searing pain in his gut or bead, and hoped that when it came it would be intense enough to render him quickly unconscious. He’drather pass and die unknowing than. writhe in agony as his innards dissolved into soup.He was heartened to discover, however, that several minutes later, rather than deteriorating, hiscondition had actually improved. He felt well enough, at least, to push himself away from the windowand stand unaided. He even managed a wry grin. Panic attack, he thought, not gas attack. Now pullyourself together, Meacher. It was at this point that he noticed that all the mannequins in the clothesshop window had plastic bags over their heads.At first he thought it was some kind of avant-garde display, thought the store was simply using shock tactics to grab attention.If so, he hoped it backfired on them. It was creepy, sick and irresponsible. He almost welcomed hissense of indignation. For the first time since waking up on the train he was responding emotionally tosomething that was not directly related to his own situation, and the respite, though brief, waswelcoming. He looked around almost as if hoping to spot someone in authority he could complain to,as if momentarily forgetting he was alone. His eyes swept across the rows of shops, of which severalmore — River Island, Envy, Benetton — used mannequins to display the clothes they sold, and as henoticed each of them in turn his indignation gave way to a mounting unease.There was not one mannequin he could see that did not have its face hidden in some way. Most had plastic bags over their heads, though in Envy they (whoever they were; the staff presumably) hadsimply draped articles of clothing over the figures. The sight put Meacher in mind of parrots whosecages are covered to simulate night and encourage them to sleep. He couldn’t for the life of himimagine what the motives of the staff might have been in this instance, unless the gesture was somehowsymbolic or perhaps even a form of black joke.Whatever the reason, the sight of all those smothered heads gave him the creeps. He shuddered andturned his gaze purposefully towards the central square. As he did so, noticing that it contained a statueof what appeared to be a figure on horseback, which he thought might be able to give him an indicationof where he was, be heard the first sound behind him that he hadn’t made himself.It was an odd sound, and brief, like someone liquidly clearing their throat or attempting to gargle withtheir own-phlegm. It was also faint and muffled, as if he had heard it inside, a house from several.rooms away. He whirled round, but by the time he had spun ninety degrees all was quiet once- more. Nevertheless, he hurried across to the door of River Island, which he had pinpointed in his mind as thesource of the sound, and yanked the handle. Finding the door locked, he peered through one of’itsreinforced glass panels at the store interior.The place was gloomy and apparently deserted. He was about to turn away when yet another mannequin caught his eye. This one was standing at the back of the shop, and like all the others had a plastic bag draped over its head. In this case, however, not only did the bag appear to be clingingtightly to the mannequin’s face, but there seemed to be an oval-shaped indentation in the plastic that toMeacher resembled a gaping mouth desperate for air.

Category:	Uncategorized.
Rating:	(2 Ratings)
Upload Date:	08/06/2009
Copyright:	Attribution Non-commercial
Tags:	horror Fiction town Nightmare silent hill horror Fiction town Nightmare silent hill (fewer)

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