Capítulo 8: The Old Woods
Near the barn was a collapsed silo, and despite its ruined condition, was strangely comforting. It seemed to exist in its own quiet sphere of Darkwood, where evil dared not tread. I heard a tune being played as I drew near, and it took me several moments to realize that it was the old nursery rhyme, Frère Jacques, played rather poorly and out of key. When I entered, the music stopped, and a small, misshapen creature ran up to me with a crooked smile fixed on its face. I was shocked by how deformed it was, and it was not until I saw the broken violin in its scaly hand that I recognized him: the Musician.
His smile vanished almost immediately, however, and he curtly lowered his head in timidity. It was obvious he craved social interaction. His infection was in its final stages, and it had made him a pariah. A part of me at the time pitied him; he was a boy no older than twelve or thirteen, forced to endure a fate unimaginable by men three times his age. Yet, I pushed the weakness from my thoughts, and held out the key for which he had requested.
His eyes lit up, and he showered me in thanks. Then, an awkward silence fell over us. I stared at him in expectation, yet I could tell from the way he avoided my gaze that he had yet another demand. I involuntarily flexed my fingers around the grip of my pistol, and instantly, I felt shame wash over me. Whatever the plague had made him, he was still a boy: he dreamt of better things, thought as a boy his age should.
Most of all, he still hoped as a boy should.
The Musician opened his mouth in preparation, pausing to form the words in a manner he thought I would most likely accept. Finally, he stated that even with the key to the Pretty Lady's room, he could not please her, not with a broken violin. He asked if I would go to the house of his parents hidden in the Old Woods and bring him a proper one. Before I could give him my answer, he produced a hand-drawn picture. He asked me to show it to his mother. He said that she would understand.
Begrudgingly, I took the picture and stuffed it into my pocket. I told him that this was the last favor.
The mouth of the Old Woods spoke volumes to the danger that awaited me. A large, rotted bridge was my only means into the overgrown region, and blocking my way was a dormant Chomper. Fortunately, I had prepared myself; a shotgun makes short work of beasts and demons alike.
As I followed the trail to the supposed Old Woods hideout, I came across a massive church. The steeple had long ago collapsed. As I investigated further, I discovered that the basement had been turned into a trauma center, which inevitably devolved into a nesting ground for the plague.
By the time I had stumbled upon it, it was overrun with mutant dogs and Chompers. Ironic, I recall thinking, that the bastion of salvation for so many of these people should ultimately become a nexus of disease and death that served only to doom them further.
Not far from the church, I found the house of the Musician's parents. An aura of unspeakable evil consumed it completely, and for a moment, I considered turning back. Instead, I forced myself forward. As I approached the front door, I could hear the sound of wet meat hitting the floor.
The air reeked of blood and decay. With shotgun in hand, I reached out and pushed the front door open. A man, malformed beyond recognition, was propped against the wall. His skin was pale and withered, and his eyes were sunk so deeply into his skull that he appeared to have none at all. I would have thought him dead, yet his limbs flailed weakly, and his legs kicked at nothing.
I moved past him without a sound as I focused my efforts on finding the Musician's accursed instrument. A large tree had seemingly sprouted within the house, nearly consuming the entire property. Going through the rooms, I felt as though I were navigating a maze within the tree itself. At last I came to a small bathroom. The stink had grown almost unbearable, and as I opened the bathroom door, I discovered why. A woman who I could only surmise to be the Musician's mother was sitting in a bathtub filled with water. The water was jet black, with scum and living things flitting about on its surface. The woman's head lolled limply against the rim.
Her dead eyes stared up at the ceiling, and a raspy air escaped her lips every few seconds. I studied her for a moment, and then scanned the room. I noticed a painting above a cabinet that hung loosely from the wall. There was an open safe behind it. When I pulled the safe's door ajar, the glint of my flashlight on polished wood caught my eye. I had found the violin.
As I pulled it from the safe, the mother whispered a threat to me. I turned, but found her exactly the same as when I entered. Again, I saw her lips shudder as she threatened my intrusion, but she made no attempt to move her body. I stepped close to her and stood over her face so she could see me. I lifted her son's drawing above her and shined my light onto it. I saw a flicker of movement in her glassy eyes.
"Forgive him," I said to her. As I released the drawing, I watched her gaze follow its descent to the floor. She did not look back at me again.
Without another sound, I turned and left.
When the Musician saw the mint violin in my hand, it seemed like he was about to weep with joy. He mused that his parents must surely have forgiven him and immediately, he began to play a jaunty tune. I said nothing as he danced about and celebrated. He deserved a moment's respite from the horrors of the world.
More importantly, I deserved my appointment with the Doctor, and I wanted no more distractions from our agreement. At last, he stopped and smiled at me. He told me to venture North. There, he said, I would find a ruined trainwreck. That was where I would find the Doctor. As I turned to leave, the boy made a disappointed sound. He said that he hoped to see me again, and that if I found the time, I should visit him at his parent's house. Poor boy....
I found the train wreck with little difficulty. Whatever wound the train had carved into the forest when it derailed had long since healed, leaving only a skeleton of rust nestled at the base of ravenous trees. Tentatively, I walked the narrow path around the intact section of a train car. A makeshift door had been fixed at the end. I reached out and pushed it open. Darkness flooded from the car like a sieve. With each flourish of my flashlight, the shadows fled, yet I felt no comfort. The Doctor was not there.
Then, with a devastating crash, the door through which I had entered slammed closed. My heart sank like dead weight. A fine mist filtered into the train car through the ceiling, and as I beat upon the door, I felt my head cloud with delusion. I had been set up, trapped like a lamb to the slaughter.
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