ENTRY 02. [ getaway car ]
Nighttime in Hive City was lullaby-soft, clear, distinguishable -- in a way that Murphy had at first expected to be a comfort and relief. The sky was visible. The moon hung pale and luminous amongst a collection of unfamiliar constellations, glinting like new jewels, and in Sector 001, the din of the city beneath his high window ebbed to a muffled hum. He could finally put his head down, he thought; he could sleep, work on erasing those dark rings gathering beneath his eyes like so many mourners at a gravesite. Or so he thought.
With his head on the pillow, in the comfort of his bed, he'd be awakened by dreams. The night would seep in through his ears and pool in the holes of his consciousness, filling in the little gaps and recesses with the impermeable gray skies over Silent Hill, glumly smothered with fog, heavy with rainclouds, echoing with hisses and sighs. He'd hear the rumble of thunder, the hard spatter of cold rain, a child's laugh, a murmur, a scream -- and wake with a start in Hive City, back lathered with sweat, menaced only by the shadows of his blinds in the security of his apartment.
Tonight was one such night.
What lay outside the walls of Hive City that was so worth the struggle to achieve? No wife, no home, no life as he had once known it. And though the chance at a new start flickered dimly on the horizon of his hopes, after all that had transpired, it seemed a fool's errand to pursue. Why, then, did his fingers itch for freedom?
His wanderings found him in Sector 003. He could almost feel the chains around his ankles.
Though he had lifted a old gray-green jacket, and made use of the neutral clothing provided, Murphy felt as though his old prison uniform would have been a choice selection for the slums of the Hive. He knew these men. Up and down the blocks of Ryall State Prison, they had been his neighbors and company for the past few years, and where they gathered in groups and clusters on the curbs and sidewalks, Murphy kept his head down and avoided them, rounding corners into straggling back alleys, keeping track of his surroundings with steely glances from the corners of his eyes.
"Yeah, motherfucker. Keep walking."
"Hey! Hey, fuckhead, I'm talkin' to you!"
They jeered and rambled. Now and then he heard shouts and windows breaking, and edged along a new path to avoid the sounds of small riots and brawls. He couldn't say what had brought him here, but he had the feeling that if he could just see enough of the city, map out its walls and pathways, that somehow, someway, he would have to find an escape route, some chink in the metropolitan armor.
And that's when he saw it. Past a chain-link fence dividing a narrow alley, parked alongside a brick building, sat an old truck, its windshield wipers collecting dust against the glass. Murphy cast a look around. He knew how men were about their trucks. He paced the small length of fence until he found a bent depression, where the fence puckered near the post, and slipped underneath. "Old '75 GMC," he murmured, eyeing the faded detailing. He bumped against the door, to test the alarm, and was relieved when none sounded. A hot buzz of options shot through his mind. If he could get himself in a car, he could get around town a hell of a lot faster, and cover more ground in shorter time. On the other hand, he'd be guilty of auto-theft almost immediately after arriving.
He searched for an implement. Nearby, a disregarded crowbar sat amongst a few broken crates and a busted TV. A little clunky, not very discrete -- not like a Slim Jim -- but it'd have to do. Running his fingers along the dusty window-lining, Murphy poised the crowbar against the small crack of the door, and prepared to pry it open.
