A world all washed out in white, with coal ash drifting down like lazy snowflakes.
On this town's soil, they kept holding these twisted trials, all in the name of keeping their cult's holy grail alive—purity and innocence.
They'd torch anyone they hated, feared, or just plain despised with flames!
But folks whose insides were already rotten? No amount of fire could scrub 'em clean—it'd just char 'em blacker.
In the end, those flames didn't save squat. They sparked a whole mess of pain and grudge-holding that lit up destruction, burning nonstop for thirty years without a break.
That was the cultists' big sin. And after piling up all that evil, they still wouldn't own it—turning 'em into lost sheep, souls stripped bare with no shepherd to guide 'em.
Sheep without a herder, shut out by the Almighty, no ticket to heaven.
Of course, the cultists figured they had it right. It was the sinners' fault, dragging in all that filth and kicking off the apocalypse.
All Barry could do was mutter a pissed-off "Motherfucker!"
No fancy gear, no superhero bod—Barry trudged through Silent Hill, every breath pulling in a mouthful of ash like he was chowing down on campfire scraps.
It sucked, big time!
Keep it up long enough, and lung cancer's knocking at the door.
Hell if he knew how anyone stuck around here for so long without keeling over.
And after all this time, scavenging wild food? That was straight-up bizarre.
Barry turned to Anna walking beside him.
"How come we loot a spot once, and next time it's got fresh grub again?"
"Because of faith."
"You guys have been scraping by here for damn near thirty years—how come nobody looks all that ancient?"
"Because of faith."
Anna said it like it was the most obvious thing in the world.
Barry: "..."
Screw it, he wasn't gonna push. Just chalk it up to Mother Nature cutting 'em a break, like finding an extra slice of apple pie at a church potluck.
Even with her rock-solid belief in the whole faith gig, Anna got it—when your stomach's growling, you gotta eat.
Everyone was out dumpster-diving for scraps, hitting the easy farm spots that'd been picked clean ages ago.
When the pantry ran dry, she'd venture into uncharted territory.
Like busting into the so-called devil's turf.
For your average cult drone, that was ballsy as hell—straight-up against the rules. Only greenlit by High Priestess Christabella herself for those elite squad-building retreats.
Anna? She had guts to spare—maybe too much sometimes.
With an old mom back home counting on her to keep 'em both fed, she figured screw the bylaws. Time to raid the devil's pantry for some chow.
She tossed Barry an invite to team up, hit some off-limits ruins for loot.
Barry was in.
He knew thirty years had ticked by in this hellhole, so Alessa's good half coming home? Had to be right around the corner.
Every damn day counted now.
As a lifelong Silent Hill local, Anna knew the lay of the land like the back of her hand—every creaky board and shortcut.
Under her lead, Barry slipped past prying eyes in no time, sneaking up to their target: Midwich Elementary School, a crumbling relic gathering dust.
In the zone centered on Alessa's core self, there was this no-go zone for regular cult peeps—her turf, roping in the school, the big fancy hotel, and the hospital where her body's stashed.
The hotel used to be the hot spot for chow back in the day, prime for raiding eats. But today? Nah, they were gunning for the school.
This joint was next-level sketchy—a death trap for Christabella's foraging crews. More than a few believers had bought it here.
Word among the scavengers was, every missing soul got dragged through hell: tortured, humiliated, the works!
But hey, fortune favors the bold, right? Like betting big on a Steelers game knowing you might lose your shirt.
High risk meant high reward—better odds at scoring food, maybe even some extra sundries.
Clinging to that mindset, Anna charged into the abandoned school first.
Barry? No sweat. These past few days of looting had let him map his max safe zone.
Stay inside that bubble, and he'd book it back to the church before the dark fully dropped—like racing home before curfew hits.
They cracked the front door, climbed a flight of stairs, and boom—they were in.
The school's been around forever; chunks of that greenish wallpaper had peeled off, exposing bare bricks underneath. But the bones? Still solid.
And in a town soaked in holy roller vibes, the school's dripping with church fingerprints—religion everywhere you look.
Local cult seals plastered in plain sight, Bible verses slapped on stickers popping up random-like, even a hallway decked out with saintly portraits straight out of a Sunday school fever dream.
Pushing deeper, Anna didn't bother playing coy. Any spot that screamed "hidey-hole for snacks or junk," she'd tear it apart.
Barry tagged along, pausing here and there. They scored a flashlight from the office—after all these years, it still had juice.
Then the haul started piling up: mystery-wrapped candy bars, pop-top cans of beans, a classic plaid uniform, dog-eared textbooks, you name it.
After crossing a courtyard, they looped around a few corners, zigzagging like kids playing hide-and-seek, until Barry stepped into a classroom.
The second his boot hit the threshold, a ice-cold shiver raced up his spine—like a rattler slithering right over his skin!
He'd never felt anything like it. But in this town, whatever could hit him with that kinda gut-punch? He knew exactly who was behind it.
Alessa... that you peeking at me?
Barry kept his cool on the outside, strolling ahead all casual, until he parked it by a totally normal desk.
Right then, a sliver of outside light snuck through the window cracks into the room.
Barry slid into the second-to-last seat by the window and plunked down.
Casual as ever, he shrugged off his backpack, fished out a pen and a little notebook.
Using the dim glow, he started jotting stuff down, quiet and focused.
The pen scratching paper made this soft rustle, pulling Anna's eyes up from her drawer-rummaging. She froze, staring.
"Barry... what the hell are you doing?"
The guy at the desk? Dead serious, scribbling away like it was the most crucial mission on earth.
Good question!
He'd been waiting for her to ask. Barry shot back, all easy confidence: "Writing in my journal."
"Journal?"
"Yep. Journal."
Barry nodded, then eased into it slow: "Back home, I always kept a daily log—y'know, jotting down the day's wins and crapshoots. But now? I'm stuck in freakin' Silent Hill."
"No clue if I'll make it out alive, or if tomorrow's gonna roll in before some nightmare jumps me first."
"So ever since I got here, I carve out time every so often to write. If I bite it later, maybe whoever finds this thing gets a heads-up—some tips to not screw up like I might."
"And right now? Journal o'clock."
Anna's eyes went wide with surprise. She locked on him, catching half his face in shadow, the other in that faint light. His words sounded kinda downer, sure, but she could feel it—that spark in him nobody else had.
Not just his movie-star looks, either.
Something deeper. Way under the skin.
Support me by leaving a comment, voting, and visiting myPatr-eon at belamy20