Stumbling in Fog
by KC

Disclaimer: I own nothing of this.
Warnings: blood, gore, violence, possible disturbing imagery

Pairings: None
Summary: Leonardo wakes up in the back of a crashed van. As he searches for Michelangelo, he fears that the town is not entirely deserted. Then he hears the siren's wail...
Other info: Although this is set in Silent Hill, it is not a true crossover. No characters from the games will make any appearance. No, not even Pyramid Head.

He woke to the smell of burning fuel and melted plastic. Blinking rapidly, Leonardo sat up and winced as his head throbbed.

He couldn't move his hands. They were caught behind his back. He twisted his wrists and felt something taut and stiff, metal probably. Whatever it was, he couldn't snap it.

He was in a van. The back doors were wide open and a human lay half in, half out, grey skinned in a puddle of coagulating blood.

His belt was gone. He was surprised that he noticed its loss before realizing that his mask had also been stripped from him. No swords, no way to call for help, not even the familiar touch of cloth on his face. He glanced around the broken electronics of the van, but the only thing beside him were metal cuffs snapped in two, the same kind binding his wrists.

The van wasn't burning badly. Fuel had spilled around the tires but the flames on the hood were tiny. The van's front end had wrapped around a streetlamp, and the men in the front seat were dead, smashed into the windshield.

How had he gotten here? Captured? He couldn't remember anything. Wait---he frowned. He did remember. Vague whispers came to him, his brother struggling beside him, sarcastic quips that got him a kick to the face.

Michelangelo--he had to find Michelangelo. There was no trace of him here.

Edging to the door, he eased out past the body. As he put his whole weight on his feet, he felt his right leg tremble and buckle. His knee twisted in agony, and his ankle refused to straighten. Broken or badly sprained, he thought. His headache pounded, making him sick to his stomach, and he paused to catch his breath.

He leaned on the door and looked around. Where had they taken him? This wasn't New York. Fog hid the streets, but what he could see was gray and run down, abandoned to crumble and decay. Was anyone else here?

The tire tracks disappeared back down the street, deep black marks from the van's braking that led somewhere out of sight. If the van's doors had opened as they drove, then perhaps Michelangelo had fallen out. Or maybe he'd gone to look for a way to cut themselves free.

Leonardo decided to brave following the tracks to make sure his brother wasn't lying hurt on the road, and then come back here when he was sure.

The silence unnerved him. He breathed as softly as he could manage, but a cramp along his side flared and wouldn't let him breathe deep. Limping and off balance, he was grateful that he was alone but at the same time the town didn't feel right. He looked around at the dark windows and the empty store fronts.

Shouldn't vandals have come and left graffiti and smashed glass? Or urban explorers with their directional notes or markers? At least plywood should have covered the largest windows. The town felt as if everyone had walked away.

The tracks stopped after several feet. Leonardo looked over his shoulder. The fog had swallowed the van behind him, and he only had the hint of another street intersecting with this one. He was at a crossroads and it unnerved him that he couldn't see the sidewalks and buildings that should've been obvious.

Should he try going left or right? The tire tracks started in the center where the van had slammed on the brakes, but it could have come from any street.

He looked around again helplessly. No trail, no marks--not even blood, and he wasn't sure that was a good thing. Michelangelo could be ten feet away and he wouldn't see him.

As much as he hated to break the stillness, he had to yell. It was the only way he might find him.

"Mikey!" he called out, coughing. "Mikey!"

His yell broke in the middle. He couldn't breathe deep enough to shout far. Internal injuries? He tasted blood on his tongue.

"Mikey!" he yelled again.

His voice didn't travel further than he could see. He squinted, peering into the gray shroud all around him. Now that he was paying attention, he noticed his breath turning white in the air. There were white flecks falling against the fog, snow that melted before it touched the pavement.

How had he not noticed that before? His headache was a concussion, no doubt, and he prayed it wasn't too serious. He had to find his little brother fast.

He decided to go straight for a while and double back if he didn't find anything. If Michelangelo had gone looking for help or shelter, he would come back soon and look for him when he found him missing.

The exertion made his twisted knee and ankle burn, but he'd walked on injuries before. He could go for some distance before the pain and exhaustion wore him down. He stumbled once, and he struggled not to completely topple over. With his hands locked behind his back, he had to fight to keep his balance, especially as he limped.

At the next corner, he staggered to the streetlamp and leaned against it, slipping down to sit on the curb. If it wasn't for the pain, he'd think he was still unconscious. His leg throbbed in time with his headache, and he choked when he tried to drag in a deeper breath.

He tilted his head back against the lamp pole behind him, watching the snow in the gray sky for a moment before closing his eyes. Sitting still for awhile eased the pain and nausea a little.

When he'd caught his breath, he tried calling his brother's name again. His voice faded quickly. If Michelangelo had wandered away in a pain-fueled haze and collapsed, Leonardo would never find him in this fog.

A dozen different scenarios played out in Leonardo's head. Michelangelo could be delirious, he could have been thrown out of the van and killed, or he could be hopelessly lost. He also could have been separated from him earlier, taken in another van, and Leonardo would never see him again.

He shook his head too fast, driving a spike of pain through him, but he imagined that the sharp jolt would clear his thoughts. Michelangelo was somewhere close by. He had to believe that, if only because of those broken cuffs in the van. Michelangelo had broken free. That was probably why the van had crashed. Later on his little brother would find him, Leonardo would scold him for not untying him before he went exploring, Michelangelo would crack a joke and they'd find a way home that didn't involve walking.

His ankle hadn't swollen up too badly yet, but he knew it would. He dreaded putting weight on it again. If only he could get his hands free, he could find something to use for a crutch. When he twisted his hands again, though, blood trickled down his fingers. In the stillness, he heard the blood drip onto the pavement.

He frowned. No, that wasn't blood he heard. It was too solid, like clumps of tar striking the ground.

The sound was faint, small but growing. Something was coming closer. He didn't know why he thought it was a something, not a someone, not a human, not Michelangelo. If his brother was hurt, the sound of skin dragging on the ground might have made sense. Michelangelo could've been hurt, slowly crawling after him, but Leonardo knew it wasn't him. He didn't know how he knew. A sixth sense, the instinct that warned him of danger, perhaps. It didn't move like Michelangelo would have.

Whatever it was, it moved slowly. He curled his good leg under himself and pushed himself up, bracing for the pain. The brief rest made the injuries that much harder to bear.

A flood of adrenalin dulled the pain. There wasn't enough light to throw a shadow, and yet one dark blur crept deliberately towards him. Every broken jerk of its body, hidden in the fog, was clear in the black shape coming closer. Its outline looked like his own shadow, three fingers, a distinct head, the edge of a shell, but the arm had to have been twisted the wrong way to bend at that angle. The shell's shadow was wider on one side, fainter on the other, as if the thing had to tilt itself to move. And as slow as it dragged itself along, the silhouette of its hand moved too fast, twitching like a television skipping frames.

It came close enough that he finally saw a hint of its body in the fog. It crawled like a wounded animal, its skin was decaying gray and and rotted black, and he heard teeth clicking together over and over as if it was shivering. Putrid ichor dripped from the wounds slashed in its hand.

He didn't see the rest. He turned and moved as fast as he could, leaning against the storefronts to ease the burden on his leg. Behind him, the thing audibly sped up, but it could only move at a fast crawl. He glanced over his shoulder once to make sure it hadn't suddenly stood and rushed at him, but the chattering teeth soon faded with distance.

Leonardo didn't slow down. He liked this silent town a lot better without monsters roaming the streets. He needed a place to hide and rest, some place he would be safe. Every time he brushed against a door knob or handle, he put his back to it and grabbed it, yanking hard. Finally he found one that wasn't locked and went in, wincing at the jangle of the bell on the door.

Tools and chainsaws lined the shelves, all of it covered with dust. He listened for the tiniest hint of anything moving, then turned the small latch behind him. He knew he was lucky that these little shops were local and not franchises, or else the store would've been too large to trust that he was alone, but he wished the bottom of the door wasn't made of glass. Or the huge window facing the street.

There was a rag on the counter. He limped to it, carefully took it, then went back to the window. Knowing he was playing hopeless odds, he painstakingly wrote MIKEY in the dust and thick grime, scrawling the name in case Michelangelo chanced to walk close enough to the window to see. When he finished, he was dismayed by how illegible it was. The I and the K ran into each other and the E and Y seemed to melt into one.

Sure that Michelangelo would never spot it, Leonardo set about trying to free himself. Pliers, screwdrivers, sandpaper, cleaners--he didn't think he could cut through the cuffs, so he took a package of thin nails and sat down in the corner beneath the window.

He took as deep a breath as he could manage. He'd put it off long enough. Gritting his teeth, he brought his hands down his shell. This was the hardest and most painful part, trying to slip his locked hands around the hard edge. Humans could at least bend and twist, but the shell wouldn't give easily without breaking first. Metal could snap the brittle shell like a thick fingernail, but if he didn't push against it hard enough, his wrists would sprain or break.

Pretty sure that he'd left a streak of blood down his shell, he sighed in relief when his hands finally cleared the edge and came under his legs. He had to gingerly sweep past his knees and ankles, but at last his hands were in front of him. He was surprised at how little blood actually covered his skin. It looked worse than he knew it was.

He didn't waste time resting. He took the package of nails and tore the corner, spilling them in his palm. He took one between his teeth and turned another awkwardly in his hand. He had to twist his hand at an odd angle to get the second nail point into the cuff's keyhole, and then slowly began twisting them.

He couldn't tell how long he sat there. The clock on the wall didn't move. Picking a lock could take time under the best of circumstances, and he knew this was little more than pretending he could do something. He drowsed, drifting in and out and jerking away every time he nodded off. He was scared to fall asleep.

He'd made no progress on the cuffs when he heard the door rattle in its frame. He stopped and looked up. The room swam around him and the air felt pressurized, as if he was under water. The door rattled again, shaking harder as whatever was outside beat on the glass.

Then nothing. Silence. Leonardo held his breath, wondering if it had given up.

The top half of the door smashed inwards.

tbc...