chet_thanh_pho (original) (raw)

Under a tree he sat. Tree with the thickest trunk he had ever seen, but then although he had come to know these jungles fairly well- better than the others, anyway- he still had no idea what type of tree, what type of place this was.

He was the young Walter, the other Walter, as Cynthia sometimes referred to him in hushed tones when speaking of him to the other women, as though she knew something of his destiny that he did not. The other Walter- as though she knew some older, some wiser, more knowing and infinitely more evil Walter from someplace else.

The other Walter, to differentiate him from the soldiers- nervous Crpl. O'Reilly, and grim Sgt. Skinner.

Walter had taken to the jungles early in their odd odyssey, as he had never been one much for people and community and company. He knew the others feared these jungles at night. Sai had told him that the only thing that walked these paths at night was fear itself. Walter liked the idea of being fear itself, and so he walked them boldly, assuredly, as tho they were his, solely, and this way his way, always.

After all, with Sae looking out for him he should have nothing to fear, now should he?

The new soldiers who had come in had the others frightened. They swaggered around as though they owned the campsite up there in Chet Thanh Pho, as tho without Cptn.Pierce present theirs was the right to take this site over.

They barked orders at the men and cast dark looks at the women, hating them for the caste of their skin. Asians, mostly, of course, and then Latino Cynthia. Out of place. Misplaced. And only one rape away from being casualties of war. The men knew this.

They wanted the women to know it to and thus, know their places, and be afraid.

Walter thought it all amusing. Weak. Such weak men, trying to put a fear into women. As if women weren't already afraid of so much else....

Walter sat under his tree eating fruit he had obtained at the market. He did not know the names of the fruit. He did not understand much of the language spoken, but he knew enough of it to understand the words the people called him, enough to know he made them afraid.

A ghost. They thought anyone who lived up in that village was cursed, and that he must surely be a ghost, a great, terrible ghost to walk so boldly among them by day, taking what he liked.

He took another bite of the fruit. Tart. He spit out the pips and continued to write. He wrote in Enochian, one of the alphabets The Order had taught him when he was a child, and because no one else here would have even thought to write in Enochian he knew that his writings were much like himself; mysterious. A secret. Ominous looking scrawl in an unknown alphabet.

The soldiers feared the signs they saw in the Viet Namese letterings, for they could not read them and were afraid.

Boy, what a chill they'd get if and when they got a load of the warning signs Walter had placed around all of his favorite haunts.

He went into the camp when he chose as well. The soldiers who were stuck being lookouts did not know what to make of him. The sight of him made them forget they had guns, and he was able to take what he wanted from the camp as well, or to go among the women and leave them little offerings they rarely wanted or appreciated.

The soldiers called him the Creeper, and he enjoyed this nicname as much as he enjoyed his reputation.

If ever he got back to Silent Hill he planned on continuing in such a vein. He was enjoying being the sort of person people feared.