Overcast

4.4

At the other end of town, Hunter and Charlotte arrive at the Ryndale Police Station. The building is remote, standing at a crossroads between Ryndale and Redberry. The two make their approach, finding the station in a state of disrepair. Rubble and debris lay strewn around, a badly wrecked squad car smashed against a tree.

"Damn. Not even the station was spared," Hunter says.

"What a mess. Should we take a look inside?" Charlotte asks.

"Might as well. I doubt anyone's in there, but we may find some guns assuming the place hasn't been ransacked already," Hunter says. "Stick close."

The two approach the large building, its brick walls lightly covered in blight. Hunter stops at the front entrance, carefully raising his gun. He puts an ear to the door, hearing no signs of activity inside. Suddenly, he steps back, kicking the door down with one foot. He swiftly darts inside, pointing his gun around at an empty lobby. The interior appears less ruined. In fact, it looks more or less intact.

The duo check the conference room, finding it empty with upturned chairs. They also check the meeting room, finding it similarly desolate. The go on to check the writing room, the offices, lockers and canteen. Nothing. As they approach the armory, Hunter is relieved to find it mostly untouched.

"...Ah. Good. There's still some guns left. We can use these," Hunter says, grabbing a few.

"You mean you can use them. I've never held a gun in my life. I hate guns," Charlotte says.

"Heh. I don't blame you. In truth, so do I."

"...Oh? That's a strange thing coming from a cop, wouldn't you say?"

"Actually, the police know the dangers of gun violence better than anyone. We see it first hand, and deal with it on a daily basis," Hunter explains. "In a perfect world, the gun would've never been invented. But in a situation like this, I'm rather glad that it was. Just look at what happened earlier. How else would I have killed that thing lurking outside your house?"

"...Hmmmmm. I guess that's true," Charlotte replies. "It's fine if cops have it. But hillbillies and gangsters is another thing."

"Yes. I agree with you there," Hunter says. "Now I know you're not a cop, but I'd say these are extreme circumstances. So here. Take this. It's not that hard to use," he says, handing her a revolver.

"...Eh. No thanks," Charlotte replies sternly. "I'd rather die than dirty my hands with that thing."

Hunter gives a smile. "Suit yourself," he replies, pocketing the gun.

The two return to the lobby, taking a second look around. The station is ghostly silent, air so cold they can see their breath. Just then, Charlotte spots something on the counter. She approaches it, realizing it's a hastily written note.

"...Hey. Was this thing here before?" she asks.

"...I don't think so," Hunter replies, reading the handwritten parchment.

To whom it may concern:

I am a member of this department. I found the place empty after waking up in a daze. I was alone in the back office at the time, and must have been knocked unconscious by the quake. I tried to leave, but was confronted by a morbid beast outside. It looked like a misshapen horse, the likes of which I have never seen in my life. I tried killing it with a shotgun, but the creature retreated off into the woods. Hesitant to leave now, as it may still be alive somewhere. I've searched most of the building and found no one, and am now headed down to the basement to look for survivors. Its layout has drastically changed, and I don't know what I may find. If anyone finds this note, there are weapons in the armory should you need them.

Detective Watts

"...Owen!" Hunter says quietly in shock.

"You know this guy?" Charlotte asks.

"Yes. He was my partner. We were assigned the Craig Morrison case."

"...Oh yeah. I remember when that Craig guy went missing. The whole school was gossiping about it. It already seems like a lifetime ago..."

"Indeed. A lot has happened since then," Hunter says.

"...Tchyeah. You're tellin' me...," Charlotte replies, recalling her dreadful blackmailing. And here she is with a cop. Guess it's true: they do always show up late.

"Let's go. Watts was headed down to the basement. He could still be alive!" Hunter says.

The two move through the building, arriving at the entrance of the station's dreary underground. As they open its metal doors, they find themselves staring down at a dark stairwell. Hunter produces a flashlight, shining it down at the concrete steps. The floors look more disheveled, as do the peeling red brick walls.

"...Damn. It really does look different. You'd best stay here, Charlotte," Hunter says.

"Are you kidding? By myself? What if that...horse thing comes back from the woods?" Charlotte asks.

Hunter gives a pause. "...Well. Alright. But stay close, and don't make any loud noises. If anything happens to me, run back here as fast as you can and shut the doors. Got it?"

"Got it," Charlotte replies, eyeing the shadowy stairs below.

Back in Wichita Springs, Dave stands motionless in his small living room. His parents both lie dead on the ground, his mother's brains decorating the flowery walls. The boy gives a blank stare, not unlike those of the hospital workers. As he stands holding a twelve gauge shotgun, a pair of gentle footsteps come from nearby.

"Oh, my...," Willow says, stepping into the house. "...Well done, little David. You're a more efficient killer than I thought."

Willow approaches the dead bodies, smiling as she surveys the gore. She gently shuts her eyes, suddenly raising her arms to the sky. At once, she chants a profane ritual, her skillful tongue reciting something in Latin. Her black hair goes to floating around, slender frame giving off a faint purple glow. Beneath the fallen corpses, a pair of pentagrams slowly appear. Willow reopens her eyes, the corpses at once vanishing from sight.