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James opens his eyes…
…then immediately shuts them. Rain is falling in a cold beat against his upturned his face, soaking his exposed skin—a rough wake-up call into consciousness. His back is lying against hard asphalt, the uneven cracks and humps of it digging into his shoulderblades. James also registers pain: his side, his head, coming in unpleasant throbs.
But more urgent than that is the rain running into his nostrils and half-open mouth. He turns his head to the side, squinting, blowing water away from his lips and nose. The movement scrapes his headwound, which draws a groan and a wince from him.
So. Hit on the head. Hit on the side. His recent memories are light and fragile things, like flakes of mica. Then the radio sputters to life from his coat, and he remembers.
This was Carroll Street. He'd left the abandoned hospital, chasing after Laura out into the darkness—only to run smack into another of those killer Nurses. He hadn't seen it, it'd been hidden by night and shadow, and it'd ambushed him and struck him with its pipe. James had just enough awareness to bludgeon its head, splitting it open, when something else had struck his skull; causing a red-white explosion in his vision. Then he'd blacked out. Whatever had hit him appeared to have left him for dead.
James shuts his eyes. The cold is beginning to soak into his bones. He is tired, so very tired. Tired of chasing after Mary and Laura, tired of grief, tired of loneliness, of the black guilt twisting into his bones, of this sodden, foggy, lifeless town. Something inside him just wants to give up. He lies unmoving, drowning in rainwater and self-pity.
The radio hisses again. Or maybe not.
With the asphalt pressing into his cheek, he blinks rainwater from his lashes and focuses. His flashlight is still working at least, and it dimly lights up the curb of the street. There's a ruined ambulance there, its equipment spilling out like guts, one tail-light giving off a sullen glare. He can see a shambling shape near the twisted doors: another Nurse. Closer than he'd like. It stops, head spasming, and he can see the dull gleam of a knife in its grip.
The sight of it gives him a small shock of adrenaline. His senses temporarily go into overdrive: his vision sharpens, his hears the blood pounding in his ears, he's suddenly aware of the grit from the road on the side his mouth, with its sharp taste of bitumen. He twitches. The Nurse hasn't noticed him yet, but the static-y radio might alert it to his presence soon.
Before he can decide what to do, something bites him in the ankle.
His shout is almost swallowed by the rain—it's one of those diabolical bugs. The pain is sharp, burning. James jerks upwards, flailing, then grabs his pipe and smashes the insect in one solid movement, reacting on pure instinct. Dizziness and blood-rush make him stumble once upright. Then he's running, staggering, as fast as he can, away from the ambulance and the Nurse, one hand clutching his pipe and the other his side. Running, running.
Keep going. His thoughts are panicked, manic, running together like slurry. Keep running. You don't want to die here, lying in the road like an animal. Mary, Mary—
He stumbles up Carroll Street, up an alley, to where a large barricade blocks the road. James leans against it, panting and shivering. He takes a nutritional supplement out of his sodden coat and chugs it. The pain is numbed somewhat. A small flare of warmth spreads through him, a slight boost of energy. Better.
Drinking the medicine has given him the will to straggle on. Laura. There is still Laura. He couldn't, in good conscience, let a child wander alone in this town of monsters. He pushes against the door of the barricade and fumbles it open. On the other side the road stretches on into darkness.
The radio crackles to life again—there are more enemies ahead, barring his way. James' sigh is lost in the rain. He grips his pipe, squares his shoulders. His feet crunch against the gritty tarmac as he goes to meet them.
Laura, Mary…I'm coming.
—
FIN