The Gothic Journals

[High Priest Mikhal]

(Excerpt from the journals of Alexander Dreamfire, La Sal, UT, May 29, 2000)
Adam's death has driven home the reality of what we're doing. Yet no one quit then. Two weeks ago Kyra and I managed to capture a Hunter from a research facility in Wyoming, along with nearly a dozen zombies. Showing the others exactly what they would be facing seemed to do what the death of a comrade couldn't. Ten have up and left, dropping us down to seventy-two members overall. Twenty-six still want to help but don't want to be involved in any combat. That's just fine, especially since these are folks better suited for administrative duties. In that sense we're doing well in spite of our last mission.

Knowing Rebecca as I do, I kept one zombie for her to study--for all of us to study. Thorough magical and psionic scans have only confirmed what I already knew about the creatures. Much like other hungry dead they turn what they eat into negative energy, effectively "reversing the polarity" of their food. It's interesting that positive energy as life force is food, but PE in other forms burns them. I liken it to how copper dragons like to eat venomous vermin and are unaffected by the toxins they eat, but are still vulnerable to them otherwise.

Another interesting observation is just how much a single zombie can eat. The one we observed was particularly strong and required as much as fifty pounds of raw beef a day to stay "healthy." During a test to see what more food would do we detected the creature growing even stronger. But when we switched to a lower grade of meat we saw the creature grow weaker despite having the same amount of food. Eventually it stabilized, but I have a theory. The stronger its food source was in life, the more nourishing it is in death. Further the creatures must eat a certain "level" of food daily or they weaken themselves. This would explain why some of the zombies at both mansions were just lying around: they were too weak to move themselves. It also explains the relative softness of their skulls and spines; the Virus was consuming its host in a last-ditch attempt to survive.

These outbreaks at other locales worry me. If the T- or G-Viruses got loose it would spell the end of the world. The balance of life would be destroyed and the Earth itself would die. The Viruses can infect anything, plant or animal, living or dead. Even Umbrella isn't that stupid, yet they seem unhappy with their current progress and are pushing on despite all manner of accidents and costly ****-ups. To date each outbreak was just a localized event and contained before it could spread. But luck is a fickle thing.

Then there's that dream; it's returned in force. I've gone so far as to have Kyra hack some of the spy-sats to look at the site in real-time. The area is in the suburbs, no more than twenty feet from a rail line. There's nothing there! Why are my dreams so insistent I go there!? Who or what is showing me these things?

Sadly, answers are the one resource at a premium.
(End transcript)

[High Priest Mikhal]

(Excerpt from the journals of Alexander Dreamfire, Macon, GA, July 8, 2000)
The answers to my recurring dreams--to an oneiromantic form of very involuntary precognition--have all been revealed. I wish I felt a little bit of closure about this, but no. Instead I feel empty and more than a little frustrated.

Things began well enough. Chris and I were the only ones who went to see if my dreams were real or a symptom of growing mental trouble. The site was just like in my dreams: older suburbs near a train track, an old tree next to the closest house, and no one around. At least not at first. As we checked the tracks a young girl with orange-red hair and freckles in a yellow sundress came out of the house. The old stereotypes of Southern hospitality are actually true to some extent. We'd been cutting the time so close that neither of us had time for lunch or even a stop for drinks. The offer of lunch and homemade lemonade sounded great, and we had ten minutes left before the "deadline."

Cold chicken sandwiches never tasted so good. As we talked she said those six words I remember hearing, "Is this y'all's first time in Georgia?" That struck Chris as more than a little bit weird and coincidental. Then we heard a train whistle outside. A nondescript diesel locomotive was headed down the tracks at a sluggish five miles per hour. Our hostess, Gina, said that it was unusual for the train to be moving during the day. It usually came at night. For me the timing wasn't so weird as the closed-circuit TV cameras mounted on the corners of each boxcar, or the name Rhapsody Pharmeceuticals emblazoned on the side--a shell used by Umbrella. That was what I'd been led here for! We'd discovered Umbrella in the act. But the act of what? Transporting legitimate medicine?

Seeing that we hastily excused ourselves and ran outside, trying to see if we could jump on the train without alerting the security system. Gina was on our heels and I told her not to follow us. If this was what we thought it was, she could be killed--or worse. Not a second later Chris noticed that a car had a loose door held shut by a length of chain--though not fully shut. There was enough space for either of us to squeeze in. It was also in the blind spot of the surveillance.

Save for a little light coming from the opening we'd used the car was dark inside. I could see hanging sconces and light switches, but I didn't dare touch them. They could be rigged to sound an alarm if activated for all I knew. I can see just fine in total darkness and Chris (I still don't know how) slipped his favored nine-mil past airport security--with a light on the underside of the barrel. Stacked neatly against the walls and held in place with nylon straps were boxes of pharmaceuticals, mostly antiviral agents. That in and of itself struck me as a possible clue; why would they need so much of just one item?

It was at this point that the train passed into an underground tunnel and all outside light was extinguished. We--well, I--moved to the next car and picked the lock on the junction door. My breath turned to mist as soon as I stepped inside. Rows of enclosed glass capsules--cryogenic chambers--lined the walls. Each had a layer of frost over the glass and monitor that showed the vital signs of whatever was inside. Whatever was inside was in deep hibernation, though for the life of me I couldn't tell what until I had brushed that frost away.

I should have expected it, seen it coming. But somehow I was still not ready when inside I saw the smooth, bald head and grossly enlarged heart of the thing side. I cursed and fell flat on my ass. Chris came in as soon as he heard me, his light trained on the capsule I had just cleared a view into. His reaction was similar, but without the loss of coordination. It looked like every capsule had a Tyrant inside, and this was just one car. I felt my stomach sink as I realized what we'd gotten into.

A noise behind us drew our attention and the aim of Chris's gun. Shielding her eyes from the light was Gina; she'd followed us. I can't say I was too surprised. But having a non-combatant to worry about would make our job that much harder. Chris began to chide her for what she did, but I told him to knock it off. It was too late to do anything about it. Like it or not she was with us for this mission.

Attempts at contacting the rest of the RBCU failed thanks to the fact we were going deeper and deeper under the ground. My next move was one I'd have preferred to avoid, but circumstances demanded it. I spliced into the computer controlling the capsules with my pocket computer and found my way into the core system. Umbrella always made sure there was a way to "tie up loose ends," be it by self-destruction of a lab or a code to kill whatever BOW they were transporting by injecting special toxins. Within minutes of hacking into the system the monitors on each capsule began showing straight, flat lines.

Of course the reason I wanted to avoid this move was because I knew it would trigger an alarm. The moment of relief was followed by the glare of klaxons and the blairing of an emergency horn. We had no choice but to move to the back car and try to run. I just hoped the train hadn't sped up in the last few minutes.

In the second-to-last car we found more capsules, though these were still alive so to speak. While Chris took Gina to the back I hacked my way into the system again, this time finding myself up against a total lockdown. It wasn't complete just then and, somehow, I managed to activate the code mere moments before the system shut me out completely. Whatever was in that car of capsules shared the fate of the Tyrants.

Unfortunately in the last car I found more. Worse, security guards were on the way and I doubted they were taking prisoners. I used psionic lock on the door I'd come through to delay them as Chris struggled to get the other door open. The lock was jammed and the door stuck. Even when I used psionic knock the door wouldn't open. Without thinking I unleashed mind arrows on the lock, denting the steel construction of the wall and door and tearing a hole open where the lock had been. Luck was on our side, since the train was still going sluggishly. We were able to just jump off and run back towards the entrance.

Halfway home I heard the echo of the door I'd locked being bashed open. So I just grabbed Chris and Gina and hid in a space between the girders of the tunnel wall. There was a screech of metal on metal as the train came to a stop, soon followed by the sounds of booted footsteps. Soldiers in body armor and gas masks began sweeping the tunnel. One came very close to us and I had to cloud his mind so he didn't see us. Over a CB he reported us gone. Another voice reported a negative on the cameras; the things hadn't picked up any of us, even Gina. Aside from a few garbled words they also hadn't picked up any useful audio. As he left I heard him grumble, "Mr. W's going to be pissed about this."

After several more minutes we left, almost blinded by the daylight after a scant twenty minutes in a tunnel. All three of us must have been holding our breath since we all sighed in relief once we were out. We'd avoided a conflict and even managed to destroy more of Umbrella's stockpile of BOWs. But what hadn't I gotten? What was still left to plague the world when something goes wrong again? That I can't say.

As for Gina, she doesn't know what the hell went on. All she knows is she had best not tell anyone about it. For now Chris and I are going to see if we can't pick up something over the corporate grapevine. So far nothing has come up, and I really don't expect it to. Unless we come across another major find we'll return to La Sal and the RBCU tomorrow. Despite our success, I still feel lousy.
(End transcript)

[High Priest Mikhal]

(Excerpt from the journals of Alexander Dreamfire, Sandy, UT, Oct. 20, 2000)
The RBCU is growing too large to be contained in this base, both physically and metaphorically. Other anti-Umbrella groups have joined in the fight and our efforts are growing more and more coordinated, but that also means more people joining us and needing training. There's barely enough room for the people we already have. So it's been decided that we will begin construction on a new base--one truly underground and tens of times larger than this. Friends back in the Office have swung us some military aid in this manner, coming out of some senators' travel budgets just as an additional "f*** you!" to the people who didn't stop the Virus when they had a chance.

In addition we've come into money problems. Our operations are taking more and more money with each passing month. The food budget alone has ballooned into stratospheric levels. So we need to figure out a way to make money off of what we do. That's when Claire suggested we turn into an independent company offering hazardous clean-up services and biohazard containment advise. I admit it's a damn good idea; it plays to our strengths and it's not unprecedented so no one will think one small startup business is behind a plot to destroy Umbrella. Sometimes I wonder if Rebecca is the only savant in the group.

That was two months ago and now we've received our business licenses so we can officially open our doors. Already we've received orders from a number of hotels, motels, and other businesses where "bad things" happen. The nature of our jobs is grim: scenes of murder, suicides, and drug labs make up the bulk of it. After the cops or Feds are done we get the call to come in and make it look like nothing happened. After a mere six jobs I've seen things that still haunt me. I always thought that the corpse under the hotel/motel bed or mattress was just an urban myth; it turns out it's happened several times this year alone, in Utah alone. Not for nefarious purposes, but often because the maids--a few illegal immigrants--are too afraid to tell the authorities or their boss and they just hide the bodies. Sometimes their employers are the ones who make that decision to save face until the bodies decay. It's disgusting!

On the plus side the move back to the Salt Lake Valley means a return to civilization at large. In particular the BKC Club; Peg was ecstatic to see us again and for the first time in months I actually unwound. I still can't drink without killing myself--literally--but Kyra covered the minimum for us both.

Another unintended effect is that I've come back into contact with Baker from the Office. Since our parting she's been doing some digging for me on Umbrella and anything even remotely related to the T-Virus. This has upset more than a few folks upstairs and she's had to go about it in a very limited manner, but she did come up with a name: Kijuju. I'd never heard of it, but found out it's a town in South Africa. What this has to do with Umbrella or the T-Virus I don't know. To say this is helpful would be a gross overstatement. I've known for twenty years that there are things in Africa that should not be disturbed. Ebola, AIDS, killer bees, these are just some of the ones acknowledged by science. I can scarcely begin to imagine the supernatural horrors unleashed by everyone that disregarded the old ways. Not just the white colonists of the past, I include everybody in this.

For now I have to drop the subject. One of our jobs turned out to be for a shell used by Umbrella. Given that they decided not to take care of this in-house means it either isn't something terribly sensitive, or...I'd rather not think about it. This is also a chance for us to gather clues and see what the employees have to say and we can get an idea of what they're doing, what they're using, and where else to look. It's frustrating to go at such a slow pace, but it's better than nothing.

(Excerpt from the journals of Alexander Dreamfire, Sandy, UT, Nov. 17, 2000)
Business, sadly, has been booming since we opened our doors. There is a reason no mention is made of chemical spills, toxic waste dumps, or even grisly crime scenes in the news: there are so damn many. Not a day goes by that we're not called out to check a tanker that got into an accident on Utah's highways. Then there's a growing number of meth labs that need to be cleaned up once the cops shut them down; statistics say that in five or so years Utah will become the leading meth producing and consuming state at this rate. I wouldn't doubt it. A new generation of kids, raised with easy and ready access to new ideas and philosophies has created a sort of rebellion against the established ideas. With rebellion comes experimentation and exploration. Eventually these things reach the quiet suburbs--the quiet, repressed, bored, frustrated suburbs.

As for the job with the Umbrella shell, we turned up a few things. There's a new leader in the company that's whipping what's left of them into shape like a drill instructor. Padded executive accounts have been shredded and old names replaced with new, young blood taking their places. Further internal security has been redone from the ground up; our own people were forced to adhere to strict rules regarding cell phones, recording devices of any kind, and even had to give them a chance to go over all paperwork regarding the details of their labs. The lab itself was a bust with nothing terribly incriminating, just common chemicals that need a regular scrub down just to meet OSHA standards. But the new security itself was a major tip. Why would a company, who is by all accounts so deep in the red they sweat blood, go to such costly lengths?

All I can think of is that someone--or something--is trying to revive the old research. This idea has been backed by a series of industrial espionage attacks against other companies who were trying to conduct T-Virus research themselves. With the government cracking down on them, and financial pressures from outside sources mounting, it was easy for someone to break in and steal everything they had. It's only because of a strange drop in quarterly profits that anybody noticed. The companies themselves never made insurance claims or even reported the incidents until investors threatened to go elsewhere with their money.

This all came just on the heels of the second anniversary of the Raccoon City Incident. More people than ever showed up this year and many pledged to donate time and money to aid other groups that are opposing bio-weapons research. All these groups really do is wag the dog; they get people to look elsewhere while the real problem is ignored. This actually works in our favor since the minor players are the ones getting the spotlight--both the companies and the organizations. Thus Umbrella is able to hide in the shadows, as are we.

They say the groups most opposed to something are the ones who also know the most about it.

They were right.
(End transcript)

[High Priest Mikhal]

(Excerpt from the journals of Alexander Dreamfire, Sandy, UT, Nov. 28, 2000)
Time heals all wounds--unless you pick at them. The government is already starting to talk about reclamation of land in what was Raccoon City before they nuked it off the face of the planet. To that end they began a bid to see who could do an initial survey and cleanup cheapest. Sadly we won. That meant I and the others--Chris, Claire, Jill, and Rebecca--had to go back to the ruins of what was once our home. The sight was too much for any of us; we all broke down and cried, screamed, and cursed Umbrella and its pawns. Things just got worse when we began to check the rad counts and the soil. Though the initial blast was contained mostly to the city's core, the fallout has irradiated several hundred miles outside to a truly ungodly degree. The soil can barely sustain the most primitive of life, and even then it's horribly mutated. No plants or animals even get close to the lifeless crater of dust, tree husks, and bones. Human bones, animal bones, the T-Virus' end result continues to kill to this day. But even the radiation didn't kill everything; each of us saw something moving amid the ruins from a distance. Whatever is out there the government paid us handsomely to "forget what we saw."

Senator and President-elect Graham is the one who commissioned this and he was not happy to receive our report. Fifty feet of soil would have to be removed and stored in lead barrels to make the area habitable, and then it would still need decades of remediation. I can't even imagine what the radiation has done to the underground water tables. The total cost just to clean up the worst radiation would cost tens of billions of dollars, with any and all remediation several hundred million more each year after. For this to even begin, though, the ruins would have to be cleared away and any mutated animals destroyed. Or worse, T-Virus creatures exposed to the radiation. Their efforts to contain one threat may have created an all new one, worse than the original.

Then there were the sightings we didn't report. People in heavy radiation suits and wielding assault weapons were exploring the area and didn't take to our presence well. They fired on us and I fired several mind arrows back at them. Two were fatally hit and the rest fled into a waiting helicopter armed with Vulcan cannons. As they flew away I spotted part of a red and white emblem crudely painted over. Military hardware, trained soldiers, an interest in the area, it's not hard to do the math on that.

For now the project has been postponed until after Graham is sworn in as the President. The government is the one that's going to have to do this one. We're not big enough to handle the actual cleanup. Plus some of us are still too sensitive about the subject to deal with it. If the dirt they shovel up doesn't bleed I'll be shocked. Considering all the blood that was spilled on it.

Kyra has been worried about me ever since I got back from the survey. In her words, I've become more cynical and emotionally distant from others, moreso than ever now. When I go back and look at my attitude since then I also notice the change. Today I went to the University Hospital and had a full psychological evaluation. Their diagnosis is a mixture of very mild Posttraumatic Stress Disorder with heavier leanings towards Secondary Traumatic Stress Disorder, or "compassion fatigue." In short my ability to feel compassion is eroding due to overexposure to trauma, my own and that of others. Their recommendations were an extended vacation from my job and some sort of therapy. This would be so easy to fix using psychic chiurgery, but that's treating the symptoms and not the problem.

I've announced my taking of an indefinite leave of absence from the newly formed company and the RBCU. What I'll do with my time I still haven't decided.
(End transcript)

[High Priest Mikhal]

(Excerpt from the journals of Alexander Dreamfire, New York City, NY, Sept. 9, 2001)
I think I've figured out my problems--or at least one of them. I put the needs of others ahead of my own so often I don't take time for myself until I'm nearly worn out. My life management skills need work. Ironic that in seven centuries I still haven't figured out how best to balance all of the things in my life. Humans are lucky to live a tenth of that time and many find that equilibrium early in life.

Other than my own issues there are some things I'd like to write down as long as I have this thing open. Claire has officially left the RBCU and joined an NGO called TerraSave, a group formed by the US government! At first I thought its status as "non-governmental" was an oxymoron, but I have been proven quite wrong. And I'm glad. Claire herself has become one of the FDA's top advisors and inspectors, while others have gained other key positions in several other government organizations. It looks like the puppet has become the puppeteer. President Graham can't be too happy about that. TS has been working overtime to drive home the true dangers of the T-Virus and the sheer evil of those involved with it, which includes him investing in Umbrella. Were that made common knowledge he'd be impeached immediately and very likely thrown out of office.

Chris and Jill have likewise left and joined a group known as the Bioterrorism Security Assessment Alliance. Already they've begun to send agents into areas of Africa, the Indian Subcontinent, and even the Middle East due to reports of T-Virus-like activities. Sadly, only a few have been false alarms. Umbrella truly has gone belly up and its stockpiles of T- and G-Virus are hitting the black market not unlike atomic weapons did after the fall of Soviet Russia. But unlike nukes, people don't understand what these weapons are truly capable of. I'd sooner die in a nuclear apocalypse then live in a world overrun by the Virus.

That's partially why Claire has urged me to present my findings and all of our research to the United Nation's World Health Organization. The actual presentation isn't until tomorrow and that gives me and Kyra both time to do the tourist thing. We've already seen the Statue of Liberty. Seeing it reminded me of Ghostbusters II, when the guys animated the statue to harness the positive energies of the city and break through the slime around the museum. Seeing that statue reminded me that, even in the darkest times, there's always light that will never stop shining.

(Excerpt from the journals of Alexander Dreamfire, New York City, NY, Sept. 10, 2001)
The presentation went about as well as I expected. Pathologists from the four corners of the globe had gathered and for three hours I showed them things that made each one step out for a moment just to shake off the sheer nausea and dread they felt. They understand all too well what I was saying. But the attending diplomats and officials didn't seem to buy my scenarios of terrorists using the T- or G-Viruses. They said it was "unbelievable" and "would never happen." The First World nations are simply too complacent and something will have to shake them up before they take this seriously.

Kyra and I toured the World Trade Center today, but the experience was marred by my earlier encounter with those fatheaded politicos. Plus I saw some strange things while I was there. Just before we entered the underground parking I would swear I saw 747 airliners slam into the sides of both buildings. And inside I saw, felt, and heard flames and heard the screams of people dying. But it was all ghostly, phantom-like. I think they were visions of the future.

After getting off the phone with the Office, who is now pressuring the NSA and CIA about known terrorist movements, I took one last look at the towers from my hotel window and felt a chill run up my spine. Am I too late?

(Excerpt from the journals of Alexander Dreamfire, New York City, NY, Sept. 18, 2001)
It's been a week since those horrid visions I saw came true. Kyra and I, and Chris, Jill, Barry, Clair, everyone from the RBCU, have been helping in the search for survivors. Near the end we found only remains. I'm still in shock over the whole thing. How many dead? How many wounded? Is this what people think will scare off the Americans? In truth it may be the biggest blunder these people have ever made, perhaps second only to the Six Day War. They've awakened a sleeping giant and everyone will pay the price for it.

Hate against those of the Islamic faith has become endemic, even though many are just as horrified and the fact is these attacks violate the very basic tenets of Islam. This struggle on behalf of the faith--jihad--is not a holy war at all. The leaders have lied to these people and promised them rewards in the afterlife. By now they're undergoing torture in the Nine Hells, soul shells being stripped of energy until they're nothing but a shambling pile of flesh with no memory of their lives. Jihad by the sword is the lowest form, and this is even lower.

Some folks seem to understand who's really at fault. That might explain why I wasn't the one who was arrested when I punched out some folks giving a falafel vendor grief. Instead the cops arrested the folks harrassing the vendor on charges of battery. Given the circumstances I'd expect them to be acquitted if the jury is biased, but if there's any justice in this world they'll receive prison terms. Al-Qaeda and Osama Bin Laden and their brainwashed cronies are the real bad guys here, not folks who follow the Qu'ran.

Now that I have time to think about it, this attack was likely not instigated by the Red Death. It feels too...human. This evil is entirely human-based. While I have no doubts the Red Death will use it, this force likely had no involvement whatsoever. Plus as a strategic move it was more like sacrificing a few pawns and leaving the king wide open. Every qabal in the country is going to work towards uncovering what really happened. The Red Death's plans will be exposed en masse and every person who has the courage and the skills will be fighting them for years to come.

Officials have called off most of the searches now. Most of the rubble has been sifted through. If there were survivors left, it's unlikely they're still alive. Plus those who helped, real heroes like police and firemen, have not been immune to the dangers. How many sacrificed themselves so that others could be saved? I take some comfort in knowing each is now among the exalted of Celestia.

Today is the first time Kyra and I have been back to our hotel room since the attacks. The bill is going to be high, but it's a small price to pay when compared to doing nothing at all. Plus I've received several phone calls from the Office, especially the Utah and DC branches. They want us both to rejoin them. In exchange they've pressured the right people into doing what should have been done a long time ago: the stockpiles of T- and G-Virus held by the government have been destroyed. At least the ones we know about. I don't doubt there are still stockpiles, hidden even from the President. That's exactly why Kyra and I won't rejoin as a full agents.

As contracted agents at five times our previous pay...well, that's a whole new story. I personally rewrote the contract myself in a fashion that even Asmodeus would applaud. There must be a little devil in me.
(End transcript)

[High Priest Mikhal]

(Excerpt from the journals of Alexander Dreamfire, Montpelier, VT, Oct. 4, 2001)
There are times I longed to be an agent in the Office again, working to a greater end against evil. But there are also times that I thought about the things we had to do and it makes want to throw up. This is definitely a case of the latter sorts. Barely enough time has passed for the true horror of what happed at the WTC to sink in for me and Kyra both. Both of us are gripped by an impotent rage. We know who was responsible, the general area of where they are, but we can't do anything about it. President Graham has been making overt moves into Afghanistan even as rumors of CIA operatives and Mossad working together have surfaced at the Office, a shadow war.

But it's not so much that as the new hoops airport security makes us jump through even with federal authorization. Do people really believe these new measures will deter terrorists? What can a person do with the filing edge of a pair of nail clippers!? And where does it say in the Constitution that airport security goons are allowed seize and search? That's a violation of the Fourth Amendment! Are people that cowed that they'll sacrifice their civil liberties for the illusion of security? To say nothing of what the government is saying will work against bio-attacks; plastic bags and duct tape won't stop biological weapons. It's "duck and cover" all over again. If it calms the sheeple, then it's acceptable? Bull****.

Even the Office is on high alert, investigating every damn claim with even the slightest chance of being true and wasting untold billions of taxpayer dollars. This is the second time Kyra and I have been sent out to the town of Silent Hill. This time there's a fresh case, a Mr. James Sunderland that was last seen heading into the town and then never came back out. I don't think this is related to anything, but I'm not being paid to think.

From what I can tell Mr. Sunderland has prior ties to the town, as does a man I've spoken with before, Harry Mason, and a trucker I can't find called Travis Grady. In each case these people had ties to the town and in each case something bizarre has happened. Mr. Mason's story I know all too well from prior interviews. That one I remember well because he paid me to create a crystallized marble of Aglaophotis. He refused to say what it was for, but I do have my suspicions.

James' ties to the town are less dramatic. He and his deceased wife, Mary, took their honeymoon in Silent Hill. A few years later she became ill and died just three years ago. There have been some questions regarding her death and James himself was made a suspect of a police investigation. But in the end he was cleared of any wrongdoing and her death was finally put down as cardiac arrest from her illness. That should have been the end of it. Yet James never let go and friends say he claimed to have received a letter from his wife just prior to his disappearance. His car was found at a rest stop just outside of town, but not him.

In researching personal journals kept by the man I learned he smothered his wife to death in a mercy killing, unable to watch her suffer. Instead of taking comfort in knowing she was no longer in pain, it instead grew into a guilt and self-loathing. No one would say he was truly suicidal. But it's not hard to overlook the symptoms.

This is where Kyra and I get called in. With another incident happening so soon they want us to observe the town on all possible levels. This place is one of the few towns I'm terrified of going to. The Near Ethereal is a stark and empty place inhabited by things borne of a nightmare. People encased in what looks like brown-and-black stained flesh shamble about. Dogs that look flayed roam the empty, foggy streets. Then there's a man--or what looks like one--with a blood-red pyramid for a head carrying a gigantic blade. At the Historical Society I learned the local religion has a figure that greatly resembles this...thing. They call "him" Pyramid Head, or the Bogeyman. He's the personification of guilt and self-loathing, going after all those who have unrepented sins. "Those whose hearts are free of guilt are not his prey. And those who accept his messages find salvation." Or so says the curator of the Historical Society.

That's not even the most bizarre aspect of this town, its culture and religious beliefs, or even its history. Whoever was here before even the first white settlers vanished mysteriously. Since then the area has grown darker with each century. A prison outside the town was used for Civil War POWs, many of whom suffered unspeakable tortures before dying by hanging and remains in use to this day. More inmates have died in ways science can't explain there than anywhere else in the country.

Toluca Lake is another hotspot. Ships have often sunk for no reason and in many cases there were no survivors--no bodies, even. Divers haven't turned up anything despite numerous searches. The whole place gave us both a ghoulish feeling and we stayed away from there.

The hospitals, including a sanitarium, the elementary school, the theater, even the amusement park ooze feelings of pain, misery, and hate. But it's in the surrounding forests, near a long-burned down ruin that the taint of evil is strongest. The place used to be Wish House, an orphanage run by the Order. In truth it was a place where kids were brainwashed into the cult-like Order. Those who couldn't--or wouldn't--accept the teachings just disappeared. A few folks whispered of a tower known as the Water Prison that was said to be where these malcontents were taken. Harsher methods were used to convert these kids, but it didn't always work. Those who tried to resist were used as blood sacrifices by the Inner Circle, a group of priests and priestesses that truly runs the Order and seems to have found true magic. It was this group that harried Mr. Mason fifteen years ago, who magically impregnated Dahlia Gillespie's own daughter Chery with a fetal godling and burned her alive, feeding the aberration a steady diet of hate, fear, anger, and loneliness--according to Mr. Mason and documents he collected during his search for his daughter.

Then there's this "Otherworld" that keeps cropping up. Mason described it as a place of tarnished, rusty metal where corpses were strung up using barbed wire and where the darkness was so thick you couldn't see more than a few feet in front of you even with a flashlight. It was a haunted, distorted reflection of the town filled with even more ghastly creatures and nightmarish changes to reality at a moment's notice.

That description prompted Kyra to open a window into the Plane of Shadow. There we could see rusty mesh floors and obscene displays of a nameless corpse dressed in yellowed rags. As we walked about town there was always something to each building, each park and street corner. This "Otherworld" is the town's distorted reflection on the Plane of Shadow. That in itself was enough to wrap up our investigation and leave before it was too late.

As we were driving I realized that the strange, malevolent feeling I'd felt in town was different from the one I'd felt in the Catskill mounts nearly two years ago. Something--maybe several things--reside in Silent Hill. This isn't the Red Death I felt, but something just as primeval and dark. Is the Order aware of it? Is that what they truly worship?

Those are answers I may never find. After submitting my report I flat out refused to ever return there except under the most dire circumstances. I'm afraid of that place and its secrets. There are things there far darker than even I can comprehend. What truly terrifies me is that this evil is not fueled by fiendish energies or dark, terrible gods.

The evils of Silent Hill are borne of humans.
(End transcript)

[High Priest Mikhal]

(Excerpt from the journals of Alexander Dreamfire, Silent Hill, NH, Oct. ??, 2001)
As I write this I don't even know if I'll escape this hellish place. Yet I have to put things down in writing before I lose them to the madness around me. My initial conclusions regarding this place, what I thought was fact, all of it has to be reevaluated. While on the way to the airport we hit a thick fog bank and suddenly found ourselves pulling into Silent Hill again. The town has trapped us inside of itself and we can't escape. Roads disappear into bottomless pits, monstrous creatures roam the area, and worst of all, magic and psionics alike can't pierce this enclosed reality. Until it lets us go, we're stuck.

Whatever force is at work seems to be guiding us to places where we find blasphemous texts and dark worship. It wants us to see what we're facing regarding the Order. Whether this is because this force--called Xulchilbara--hopes to spread corruption or so that we can destroy the mortals that use its power, I can't tell. Perhaps it's both or neither. This is a being as different from the gods as the gods are from mortals.

The Order itself is not a cohesive whole regarding many key doctrines, but does seem to cooperate most of the time and the sects might merely be different functions within a greater whole. Three sects have risen in the group: the Sect of the Holy Woman, the Sect of the Holy Mother, and the Sect of Valtiel.

The first sect is perhaps the most powerful. They believe that a woman who is burned alive will give birth to their God. Feeding on the hate, pain, misery, fear, and despair as she lay comatose the God would grow in her womb and take them to Paradise. This is the sect that Harry Mason ran into. Alessa Gillespie was burned alive, but she has been reborn twice and their goals have never come to fruition. I fear for Harry and his daughter. If the God does incarnate with Alessa's soul, then she is still carrying that unnatural thing in her body. In hindsight, that may be why Mason wanted crystallized Aglaophotis. It would purge her of the God when it was about to be born, aborting it altogether. Unless it found another host quickly it would wither and die.

The Sect of the Holy Mother is not to be confused with the first. Rather than using a mortal to birth God, they sought to raise a conjurer to bring God down from Paradise to the Earth. These were the people who ran the infamous Wish House orphanage and who trained Walter Sullivan in the dark arts. They are the best known of the sects, and are responsible for a lot of the hate and fear surrounding the Order today. Their methods were exposed a decade ago and they have been in decline ever since.

The Sect of Valtiel is the most bizarre and least powerful. Its priests dress in pointed red hoods and act as executioners. They revere a being called Valtiel, "Attendant of God." This Valtiel seems to be a very real creature, a faceless thing with malformed hands that never becomes directly involved. Instead it sits in the background and watches. Sometimes it's even represented turning a valve, symbolic of the cycle of rebirth.

Many of the monsters we've seen are plucked from the mythology of the Order and from the minds of those the town ensnares. Strangely none of them have attacked us. I've counted no less than two dozen distinctly different creatures, and there are no doubt more. A running theme is that of dog-like creatures. From what I know the original Alessa was scared of dogs and the thing inside her would have used them as a template for new horrors.

Another common monster is the nurse. Once more this seems tied in with Alessa Gillespie's experiences in the hospital. These faceless things are not caregivers at all. They exist only to inflict pain and injury and seem to be in constant agony themselves. They appear all over, but seem to be among the weakest creatures.

The last monster will detail is also the most interesting. Its head is that of a blood-red pyramid and it carries a massive knife--six feet in length and a foot in diameter. According to legends, the Bogeyman as it's called is the manifestation of unconfessed guilt. Alessa felt no guilt and thus these things weren't around for Harry Mason. But others, in and out of the Order, have met the Bogeyman. Whether the guilt felt is deserved or not doesn't seem to matter. The Bogeyman is an executioner of the guilty and it does its job well. Oddly it can also act as a guide to redemption. This could mean more than scaring folks back onto the straight and narrow.

Then there's the Otherworld. This "pocket reality" seems to be a demiplane that exists on the Material Plane that draws its essence from the Near Ethereal and the Plane of Shadow. It would have to be a part of the Material Plane to do so, because the former two are not coexistent. So far its range seems to be limited to Silent Hill. But I could be wrong.

Entering the Otherworld is often as easy as entering a room. Oftentimes a person won't realize it until the incongruities become too marked to ignore. Monsters exist in both versions, but those that inhabit the Ethereal Otherworld seem to be weaker than those in the Shadow. The Ethereal is an imperfect copy of a place, often rundown and utterly empty of people save those who are brought along or deliberately enter it. Things look like they've been abandoned; shops are torn up, walls are crumbling, pools lie dry and stained with mildew, and nothing looks like it's been used in years. It's a lonely, empty place.

The Shadow is a world of decay, illogic, and terror. Often there is a theme to this madness--echoes of Alessa's lingering hate of hospitals manifest in upturned wheelchairs, blood-stained gurneys, and the nurses I mentioned earlier. Metal is rusted, tarnished, and pitted. Just looking at it makes you feel like getting a tetanus shot. Walls are usually yellowed or black with mildew and mold. Sometimes the dead are strung up by barbed wire in a macabre fashion like upside-down statues covered in sheets. Other times a dessicated, malformed body is left out for all to see not unlike the bodies of executed criminals on medieval city walls.

While the Ethereal seems stable, if highly morphable, the Shadow seems to lack a stable anchor. A particular creature seems to act as the source of the Shadow copy. If destroyed, the Shadow fades and returns to the Ethereal. This event was displayed quite well when a creature seeming to come out of a canvas was skewered by the Bogeyman. A strange sound like an air raid siren rang out and everything around us became blurry. As we regained our footing we found ourselves back in the Ethereal, often in a place analagous to the one we were just in. Sometimes a noise fills our heads and we can only grasp at them in pain until the shock knocks us out. When we awaken the world is back to normal.

There's little more I can write of with any real certainty. In the end Kyra and I explored every inch of Old and New Silent Hill, thousands of square miles. It feels like we've been at this for days. My understanding of the true nature of the Order and of this town has been radically altered. I will have to take the time to research things properly when--if we get out. But for now we're both too exhausted to go on. The fogs led us to our rental car, but neither of us is fit to drive. Locking ourselves in offers the best shelter. Even as I write this I struggle to stay awake while Kyra has fallen fast asleep in the seat next to me.

Whatever force has trapped us here--call it God, call it Xulchilbara, call it anything you want--will have to let us go before we can escape. For now I surrender to the sweet abyss of sleep.
(End transcript)

[High Priest Mikhal]

(Excerpt from the journals of Alexander Dreamfire, Shepherd's Glen, NH, Oct. 12, 2001)
Kyra and I came to just outside Silent Hill, in front of a massive wall used as a roadblock. Were it not for a number of strange books, papers, and my own notes jotted down in my PDA I would think the whole thing was a nightmare. But things hadn't ended yet. At least not the bizarre workings of the Order or some of its members.

Through the windshield I saw an ornate, broad-bladed dagger piercing the hood and into the engine itself down to the hilt. Had I not had my bracers it would have been impossible to pull the thing out. To make matters worse a message had been scratched into the hood.

"You have seen the truth and are aware of the evil that exists here. Help us by telling the world of what you know. Do not let the ancient things here devour what little light still exists in this world."

Kyra was able to remove the message with a simple mending spell, even the whole sealed itself back up. But the engine block was split clean in half and couldn't be fixed even with magic and psionics. We'd have to call a tow truck, but first came checking in with the Office. That's when I first saw the date--Oct. 12. We'd been trapped in Silent Hill's alternate realities for a week! Neither I nor Kyra can verify if this is just a twisting of reality like the Otherworld or we really were going about for a week. In our fear and fascination at the things we found, neither of us paid attention to the time. In fact every clock we saw was stopped in mid-motion at half past two, roughly the same time we finally arrived in Silent Hill itself. It's entirely possible that the realities outside Material Silent Hill are timeless, places where hunger, thirst, sleep, and aging don't exist. It's possible to become fatigued but neither of us felt the need to stop and eat or sleep at any point during our horrid ordeal.

When I checked in with Baker at the Office she was frantic. We really had been gone for a week and she was going out of her mind with worry. All I could do was send her my previous journal entry as an initial report while we go through everything and compile a more detailed, in-depth file. But for the time being we were not willing to stick around and wait for the town to have more fun with us. A towing company in the neighboring town of Shepherd's Glen. The one who picked us up was a real curmudgeon by the name of Curtis Ackers. He didn't like that he couldn't even touch the car--the rental company was quite adamant about that--and proved to be miserable company the whole way into town.

Because it was a Friday the rental company couldn't get anyone out there earlier than Monday. That was fine by me; I bought the damn insurance so I was washing my hands of the whole affair. We'd get a taxi to take us to the airport. Or so that was the idea until we reached Shepherd's Glen. I think the sheriff, Adam Shepherd, was waiting for us because he had us detained and questioned. Fortunately I'd put everything even remotely related to Silent Hill in my magic backpack a pat down revealed nothing out of sorts. This seemed a prudent move at the time and my instincts were right on. When we told him we were government-sanctioned agents investigating Silent Hill he became very, very quiet.

Kyra was the one who asked him why he seemed so worried, as "we found nothing out of the ordinary. We'd wasted our time going there." The lie seemed to bring relief to his face and he said we were free to go. But as we were leaving he added a cryptic warning not to go back there. This normally wouldn't be anything to note; the town has a horrible reputation for its bizarre religion and zealous citizens all across the county, even though it was also a resort town. But in his eyes I saw something--recognition. He knew all about the Order and what sort of eldritch being or beings they worship. When he explained that the town's founders had originally been from Silent Hill I began to see why he would be concerned. They could have brought the things they worshipped with them all those centuries ago, albeit unwittingly.

Once at a local motel we split up. Kyra headed for the library while I went to the town hall. There I met Judge Holloway, a kindly older woman who was willing to talk. With a little persuasion she let slip enough clues about what was going on between the two towns. When she accidentally spoke of numerous child disappearances since the town's founding she refused to speak to me any more, citing official duties to attend to. That's when I rejoined Kyra at the library. Her own efforts had turned up accounts of a serial killer that was executed on no less than eighteen counts of child murder. But that wasn't even the first time someone had been blamed for the deaths of the town's children. Every fifty years saw four children disappear or be killed in some way. Intriguingly, each child was a blood descendent of one of the four founding families: the Bartletts, Fitches, Holloways, and Shepherds.

At that point we had a fairly good idea of what was going, but not why. To sacrifice a child, especially one of your own with your own hands, is a powerful rite in human sacrifice. While willing human sacrifice isn't necessarily a dark practice, infanticide and unwilling sacrifices are among the most vile acts a person can commit. For the parent to murder their own child calls upon the most primal, unmitigated forces of evil. While I'm fairly sure this force isn't the Red Death--although it could be a servant or foe to that entity--it's still something truly primeval. The only thing I can even compare it to would be the Elder Evils worshipped by the vile aboleths. Not a god, but a primal force of existence. It drives those who dare worship it to perform all manner of blasphemous deeds in exchange for power. Whether this power comes from the Elder Evil itself or from a worshipper's fanatic devotion is moot; they're quite capable of using magic regardless of its source.

If they had attracted the attention of such fell beings then they would be cursed if they failed to appease their masters. Yet I got the feeling that the people of Shepherd's Glen hated the Order and all it stood for. So that would mean these sacrifices were not made out of faith, but rather fear of retribution from the "God" of Silent Hill and possibly the Order itself. This is a matter I wish to drop, but my gut tells me that things have only just begun.

(Excerpt from the journals of Alexander Dreamfire, South Ashfield, NH, Oct. 13, 2001)
Sometimes I hate being right. In the time we were missing the Office found another case for us to look into. Two weeks ago four bodies were found murdered in various ways with the same numbers scratched into their bodies as the old Walter Sullivan case. But it looks like Walter failed because there are two survivors, Eileen Gavin and Henry Townshend. As we were in the area the Office wanted us to investigate, but we had been trapped in Silent Hill. Despite a sizable bonus to our already outlandish contracted pay, we've decided to do this mostly out of a need to satisfy our curiosity and fill in more of this puzzle.

Eileen was still in the hospital and was actually doing quite well. Henry was visiting her when we stopped by. At first neither one wanted to talk to us about what happened. But when I mentioned the Sacraments they had a change of heart. No one else would believe their story and they had to share it if only to relieve themselves emotionally. What follows is a very summarized timeline, but Henry himself has also provided numerous written notes of red paper and both spoke at length about what happened and what they saw.

Twelve days ago Henry Townshend found he couldn't leave his apartment anymore. Chains and locks were barring his door from the inside. Further he found himself unable to open his windows or get a TV signal, and most bizarre of all was a total loss of appetite as well as a lack of facial hair growth. The timeless realm of Silent Hill was leaking into his room. Yet he had no connections to the town beyond being one of countless tourists who visited the resorts there. But it turns out both his apartment and the prior tenant both had strong ties to Silent Hill and Sullivan.

Joseph Schreiber was the previous tenant and the author of the article that exposed the true nature of the Wish House orphange. Five years ago he, too, became trapped in the apartment and was eventually killed by the specter of Walter Sullivan, another sacrifice of the Sacraments. His apartment, 308, was the same place where Walter was born and later abandoned by his real parents shortly after birth; in time Walter came to believe the room itself was his mother and he had to resurrect her. When Schreiber was trapped he apparently began to research Walter quite extensively using his collection of old records and papers acquired over the decades. He was able to make connections to Walter, the room, the murders, and Silent Hill--all written on pieces of red paper.

Not long after Schreiber disappeared, Henry moved in and for five years experienced nothing out of the ordinary. Then he, too, became trapped in the apartment. His only escape was a mysterious hole that had opened in the bathroom wall. When he through he was transferred to the Otherworld versions of South Ashfield and Silent Hill. Every time Walter's ghost claimed another victim for the Sacraments, Henry was thrust back into our reality and the hole grew in size. After each trip his apartment began to change; the washer spat blood and gore, the bathtub filled with blood, and strange "tumors" began to appear on the walls and ceiling that caused Henry intense headaches. In the alternate realities he'd also found holy candles--items that consecrate the area and exorcise evil spirits--and used them to drive out these beings. In cleansing his apartment like that the souls of those murdered by Walter were given the chance to move on once he was truly dead.

The building's superintendent, Frank Sunderland--father to the same James that brought us to Silent Hill to begin with--found the infant Walter and had him taken to Wish House without knowing the truth. Morbidly he kept the umbilical cord for thirty years, compelled by something to preserve it. This was a literal and symbolic attachment to Walter's spirit and proved his undoing when Henry thrust it inside the demon being born of the Sacraments. Thus when Henry destroyed the demon, Walter's soul died as well due to this link. With the source of all the evil gone the curse of the Sacraments was lifted and reality returned to normal.

A rather grotesque detail that Henry hadn't told the police was how he had entered Walter's reality. Room 307 was mysteriously sealed soon after Robert Schreiber moved into the building and it was there that the true remains of Walter Sullivan were found, little more than scraps of dry flesh and rotten cloth hanging off the upper half of his skeleton. After all he'd gone through I could understand why. In any case the cops were not interested in what he had to say so much as the fact he'd found Eileen after she "disappeared" from her hospital room. Henry had to break open a hole in the wall leading to 307 just to get in, and he couldn't describe a lot of what he saw.

That was actually to our advantage. The scene was largely undisturbed and the local Office was able to isolate the area for forensic and magical testing. The body hanging from chains suspended from the ceiling was, in fact, Walter Sullivan. Years earlier his grave was found dug up and similar numbers to the ones on his victims were scratched into the lid of his coffin. My only theory is that, shortly after his death, Walter's ghost took possession of someone and dug up his own grave, whereupon he took his own body to Room 307 and made himself the eleventh Sacrament. Since Schreiber was living in 308 at the time, Walter took the neighboring apartment and sealed the place from the inside. Being unused the super just left it be and forgot about it.

One last thing. When Frank Sunderland learned Kyra and I were there to investigate his own son's disappearance, he asked us about what we'd found. In truth we didn't know. But when he mentioned how his daughter-in-law was dying of illness years earlier and later died of asphyxiation, I have the grim feeling I know what happened. Silent Hill, attracted to the guilt James felt over ending his wife's life to stop her suffering, called out to him and he responded. I don't know what happened, but given that the case was several weeks old by the time we got it, I had to tell him that it didn't look like James would ever be found. The man couldn't do anything but fall to his knees and sob. To outlive one's own child...

For now at least, the town of Silent Hill has no more to say. Whatever force is at work seems to have returned to torpor and things are quiet. But already the price is becoming clear. Besides both me and Kyra being physically, mentally, and emotionally exhausted we still have to relive the events that took place when we file our report. Already Kyra is showing the signs of permanent mental scarring in the form of nightmares, and as I enter a dream state at night my world is bleached of color and feeling. I feel nothing and even when I try to liven things up by controlling them the results feel dead and lifeless.

Hopefully time will heal these wounds as well. Both of us have been through enough trauma for a dozen lifetimes and yet we always manage to pull through. We may falter, but together we will never fall.
(End transcript)

[High Priest Mikhal]

(Excerpt from the journals of Alexander Dreamfire, Sandy, UT, Nov. 18, 2001)
Though the report was compiled and collated weeks ago, I still remember the horrors it illustrated with a maddening clarity. Kyra's nightmares worsened in the days and weeks following our escape, getting to a point where I had to use my sleep ability on her for her to gain any sort of rest. Several times on us both she's cast heal, and every time it's done nothing to help. I think I know why. These scars go deeper than the body, deeper than the mind, to our very souls. Yet as time goes on we've begun to cope with the memories and harden ourselves to the harsh realities we witnessed. Both of us remain dedicated to the idea of good, but a part of us--our empathy and reverence--has died. Not completely, but our outlook regarding most others has turned cold and unfeeling. I spent decades trying to break out of that very state of mind before I came here. But to survive I'm forced to adopt this shell once more. My sanity--our sanity depends on our inuring ourselves to the things we see.

Lately I've noticed changes in Kyra as the trauma begins to fade. Her own observations of me says I'm also beginning to return to a semi-normal state. With that I've begun to examine the bizarre dagger that was found thrust into our rental car's hood. It defies scientific analysis and thus I had to delve deeply using psionics to understand its make and origin. The results were both profound and disturbing.

The blade is tapered is nearly a foot long in itself, yet it's not actually attached to the hilt. A spike runs up its center from the hilt and it holds the blade in place by wire that pierce the blade at points like cross-stitches. The edges are tapered to an edge sharper than even a surgical scalpel, while the tip has a tiny groove creating a prong that makes for a more savage cut. The alloy of the blade is Abyssal bloodiron and Baatorian greensteel tempered with Hades ash. Only the yugoloths have access to both metals and ash from the Gray Wastes. This realization led to an epiphany about the Flauros, the writing on it, and what might be contained inside.

The actual fiend Flauros is described as a humanoid leopard, and many of the yugoloths appear to be twisted humanoid animals or other perverse versions of the noble guardinals. I had to dig out some memory crystals I hadn't used in centuries--psychic libraries contained in small crystals. The name Flauros came up, but led me to times far more primeval than I had ever thought. Flauros is a baernoloth--one of the Progenitor Races that has been dying out for millions of millennia. Nobody knows for sure what the baernoloths are--the embodiment of Evil before it mingled with Law and Chaos is the most popular theory--but it's largely accepted that all fiends are descended from them in some way. Save those who are fallen celestials.

What actually is known is that the baernoloths are among the most powerful of fiends known. It's said even the obyrith lord Pale Night herself fears them. I can attest that the succubus goddess, Elisime, has a fear of them. During my enslavement to her I witnessed two visits by the agents of these beings; those were the only times she ever treated any other being with what could be called respect.

Flauros in particular is mentioned as the Keeper of Creation, the only one in this existence who is allowed to know the secrets of how reality began, the secrets of the gods, the nature of fiends and celestials, everything. Even the greatest of the greater gods are not allowed to know such things. In that sense he--it was the most powerful being in this existence. This knowledge even enabled it to destroy anyone and anything with a thought, and even the gods feared this. But because he was a yugoloth he would never speak the truth and gleefully misled any being who dared ask for knowledge or turn on and destroy them.

That is, until someone figured out how to control it: bind him in a magic triangle, such as a modified circle against evil. With that a Pandora's Box was opened and there it's said he was bound within a three-sided brimstone pyramid on Hades, locked in stasis. But the ever treacherous yugoloths figured out a way to access this being's secrets. As eons passed the prison was deliberately broken and chipped, despite the fact it restored itself immediately. The pieces, when properly attuned and bound, could access Flauros' consciousness and all a user had to do was ask about something and they would receive the unbridled truth. But the items also had a price: for each question or foe destroyed, a soul would have to be sacrificed. These strange artifacts can also apparently imprison souls without destroying them. Perhaps by recreating the prison that the fiend Flauros is trapped in. Even my powers couldn't delve beyond this point and I was forced to quit before the experience drove me insane--literally. I needed to know more before I could even theorize what was going on.

My first step was to compare the dagger's runes to a cipher made of Dark Speech, perhaps the precursor to all fiendish languages. Thankfully in any written form the vile language loses its power, and even then the words on this thing weren't particularly dark. Roughly translated, "Valtiel, concierge of God." One of the Order's sect's reveres Valtiel but they seem to be the least powerful. The translation has me wondering if they're just keeping quiet about a lot of what they really are. Then I remembered something else.

I began rifling through my old files and found notes from when I met Harold Mason, the man who saved Alessa from Silent Hill back in 1986. His descriptions of the "Flauros" don't match with the real thing. According to his description the item was more like a ceramic piece than a stone one. Given the Order's power it wouldn't be impossible for them to try and recreate these artifacts. But such copies would be pale shadows of the real thing.

My only theory is that, in centuries past, a yugoloth brought these items to this world and somehow the Order got a hold of them. Perhaps it gave them these items; perhaps Xulchilbara is really a disembodied fiendish power? If this is even partially correct then the loss of the original items would be an even bigger blow than I dared imagine. Clearly the Order has learned to control the Otherworlds, Ethereal and Shadow, or at least they've learned ways of entering these demiplanes. In going with the old planar Rule of Three, there must be one other artifact that allows them to access whatever power they draw upon. Losing the original Flauros over a century ago would explain the sudden drop in Order activity from before the Civil War to the present day.

The loss of a second artifact will likely prompt the Order to start working harder to regain them, or find a new way to control their God. I think that's what these items are. Keys to controlling whatever fell power the Order venerates.
(End transcript)

[High Priest Mikhal]

(Excerpt from the journals of Alexander Dreamfire, Sandy, UT, Nov. 21, 2001)
It's been over ten weeks since the attack on the Twin Towers, and only now is the UN calling me back about possible biohazard countermeasures. Snipers, anthrax, war, none of this made them contact me sooner? Slow and inept bureaucrats are apparently a constant across the multiverse. A politico and an iceberg apparently move at the same speed--and are just as dense.

Reports of the T-Virus hitting black markets have me worried. But who we put in charge of our lives worries me even more. It's times like this I feel like I made a horrible mistake voting from Graham. A new member of the RBCU--a Raccoon survivor named Curtis Miller--has brought some rather disturbing news to light about the President and a company claiming that its researching vaccines against the T- and G-Viruses, WilPharma. To get a vaccine one must have a sample of the specific virus; with the T-Virus it's just too easy and too tempting to play God. So while WilPharma is in fact creating a vaccine, there have also been unverified rumors that their research is no different from Umbrella's.

Claire and her new friends at Terra Save have been hearing the same things. They've been trying to get proof, but unlike them the RBCU is not a public organization. We're quasi-legal at best and to draw attention to ourselves would mean the end. We have to stick to the shadows and hit our foes when they can't see us. Besides which, our stated mission isn't over yet. Umbrella is still alive and performing its research. So far we've managed to nail down two known facilities: one in the Atlantic, the other in the Caucasus region of Russia. It may be a while before we can attack either facility, given how desperate the company has become.

Plus Kyra and I have been tasked with anti-biohazard designs for major airports, train stations, bus stations, sea ports, and other places where an epidemic could be started by one cough. Worse yet is that the politicos in the UN and the US Government want those designs in a week! That means no Thanksgiving, no time off to visit old friends, nothing. We have some in the RBCU computers, but even those still need to be refined and upgraded to account for the new security measures being taken in travel. Had they contacted me even a week earlier I might have been able to get things done before the holiday. Now both of us will be working twenty hours a day just to meet this ludicrous deadline and we'll miss out on any time with friends.

I'll have to have a "quiet word" with the folks who pushed this off for so long.

(Excerpt from the journals of Alexander Dreamfire, Sandy, UT, Dec. 2, 2001)
Via web cam I was able to conference with the politicos in charge of the UN's anti-biohazard council. Not surprisingly it was an all new bunch than the ones I presented to before. With no scientists among them to boot. All politicians without the slightest clue of what they were talking about. So when they began to suggest "improvements" to the designs and cutting out measures "to cut costs" I just lost it. I used the rod of teleportation Kyra had given me to appear before them in person. Then I used psionic lock on the only doors out and proceeded to chew each one out in their native tongue for ten minutes apiece at least. Each one was crying by the time I finished, little more than a subdued pile of quivering flesh in three-piece suits.

Being so hostile toward foreign dignitaries might cause an international incident, but let the government worry about that. I did my job and met a fake deadline set by people who don't know the first thing about epidemiology, virology, or even high school biology. At least they took the plans as I presented them and didn't skimp on the measures. Why is it that people in charge think they know more about something than the people who're certified professionals? A ten dollar UV light installed inside a ventilation system would kill even the T-Virus and about a thousand other pathogens as well, yet they wanted to nix that in favor of carbon filters that would cost more in the long run and be utterly ineffective against even the common cold.

This was one time I wasn't going to roll over and be the good little civilian who did as his leaders said. I put my foot down and didn't care if toes got stepped on. A few irate phone calls from ambassadors came later on that day, but even then I gave them a merciless tongue lashing. The next day I received calls from the scientists I'd originally spoken before at the UN; each one was practically laughing in joy at how I pushed the necessary, effective measures through the red tape.

Kyra and I went out and celebrated all day today. Cuisine, dancing, even the finest champagne for her, and shopping. The jewelry bill alone was over a hundred grand, but I didn't really care. I'd won and I wanted to enjoy the feeling.

Now as I write this the euphoria has worn off and I'm not so giddy. For the time being there's little going on in the supernatural world. This is one Christmas season that should be quiet. But as the saying goes, "it's always calmest before the storm." The New Year may well bring about a lot of change. Already the RBCU and the Office have been receiving odd reports regarding a series of islands off the coast of southern Spain. Not so much what people saw as what has been imported into the area via the black market. Cryogenic storage chambers, electron microscopes, precision surgical lasers, even microbiologists and genetic engineers with shady pasts. These are areas where life has changed little in over five centuries and now they're acquiring state-of-the-art medical equipment and professionals in genetics? Something is going on down there. And for once Umbrella doesn't have any ties to it.
(End transcript)

[High Priest Mikhal]

(Excerpt from the journals of Alexander Dreamfire, Sandy, UT, Jan. 8, 2002)
The Office has implemented a new policy of mandatory psychiatric and psychological evaluations. They're going after the physical and mental causes of the brain's malfunctions all at once. Unfortunately this policy also included contracted agents; Kyra and I had to undergo this as well if we were going to keep our agreement with the OSA. It's time like this you don't need magic or psionics to know something bad is coming.

After two full days of intensive testing they concluded we both suffer posttraumatic stress disorder. The accumulated stress and trauma we've each suffered, the pain, anger, frustration, humiliation, and sadness reached a boiling point when we...I can't even think about it, but the last thing we were involved in was the last straw. It isn't news that we both have emotional trauma, given our pasts. But now our ability to cope with things--our very brain chemistry--has been permanently altered by psychosomatics. Unless there's a miracle this is something that will never be truly cured. Even if there was such, I have no doubts the results would be worse than this.

As a result we've been put on indefinite leave pending a minimum six months of therapy. Medication is right out given that we're outsiders and not humanoids. To date our bodies have responded to various chemicals in the same way as mortals' bodies. But I have to agree; tampering with the brain through medication can be disastrous. Plus neither of us feels all that good about taking something made by pharmaceutical companies. In light of some recent developments, that is.

TerraSave is doing well on the domestic front, but a lot of nations realized the same group couldn't handle the infected in case of an outbreak. That's where the Bioterrorism Security Asssessment Alliance (BSAA) comes in as Graham's latest proposal to handle "a new age of biological terror." The kicker is this comes from the Global Pharmaceutical Consortium who, up until recently, was defending Umbrella. Now they've turned Judas and have begun supplying records, files, and testimonies that have damned Umbrella and its last surviving founder, Sir Ozwell E. Spencer. Charges of everything from investor fraud to "crimes against humanity" have been leveled all over again against him and others who ran Umbrella.

This new organization is comprised of agents drawn from various nations and the UN, but technically under the control of the GPC, a pan-global para-military network with jurisdiction over any area deemed a "biohazard site." The GPC has also offered to front most of the BSAA's costs. That's probably the worst idea I've heard; if they're the ones paying the bill then they have power to cover things up--just like Umbrella did in Raccoon City. Sickeningly it's also the only logical choice for a group that massive. It will cost trillions of dollars a year to run this thing and only by having hundreds of major corporations foot part of the bill via the GPC is it even possible.

On top of all that there's been some news about Umbrella. Chris Redfield and Jill Valentine were searching for any leads on Albert Wesker--damn him to the Nine Hells!--and found out there are more facilities we haven't exposed. One is in the Atlantic somewhere and the other is deep in the Caucasus Mountains. Currently the Atlantic facility seems most active. But that's not even the worst part.

One of the scapegoats of the original Raccoon City incident, a researcher named Morpheus Duvall, has been spotted around Paris and the Umbrella Labs there. Then there's report of a bizarre TG-Virus, a hybrid of the T- (Tyrant) Virus and G- (Gene) Virus. No one can agree on exactly what the hybrid can accomplish exactly, but it's been accepted that the volatile and continual mutations of the G-Virus would be present. The biochemistry is so complex that anything could be possible. We just don't have enough data on this new threat. Plus I've heard of yet another anti-Umbrella government organization that's already taken this job on. So it looks like for once we can sit it out.

Chris and Jill are too obsessed with finding Wesker to help with the RBCU, and Rebecca Chambers makes a good biochemist but a bad businesswoman. Claire is busy with TerraSave and the FDA, and Leon is in training with the Secret Service. I'll have to find someone to take up the reins of command while Kyra and I work out our problems. We're both on the verge of psychotic breaks and in no condition to handle any of this.

Maybe I'll let Curtis Miller take over. He seems intelligent enough to run things smoothly in our stead.
(End transcript)

[High Priest Mikhal]

(Excerpt from the journals of Alexander Dreamfire, Sandy, UT, April 3, 2002)
At times I screw up. And at other times I SCREW UP. I must not have been mentally stable to put Curtis Miller at the helm. His singleminded desire for revenge against Umbrella and the politicians that allowed the Raccoon City outbreak colors everything he does. In this case he's stated--on international TV no less--that the Archer Biohazard Cleanup will oppose anyone and anything that conducts bio-weapons research. Naturally the Global Pharmaceutical Consortium saw this as an offense and has been trying to retaliate by exposed the Regional Biohazard Countermeasures Unit--a group that's technically illegal and all the more juicy for the media to sink their teeth into.

While the existence of the RBCU has been made public, little else is really known beyond our current numbers. This media exposure will hamper all efforts for years to come no matter what. Plus it's tipped off Spencer that we're after him and the trail has gone ice cold. Yet it gets worse than that. Sites we knew were data dumps for Umbrella have been cleaned out--our chance to expose everything has been lost--because Umbrella knows of us now. The teams sent in to scavenge anything left came away with just a few CPUs and some personal files, the former having their data shredded--destroyed beyond reconstruction--in most cases. What little we did gather isn't really useful beyond a couple of things: the names Henry Travis and the Wesker Project.

Henry Travis was a prodigal son of the Travis family that founded TriCell, a major shareholder in the GPC. What's interesting is that he wrote one of the most extensive works on Africa--seventy-two full volumes of scientific facts, tribal lore, virtually everything. The sad part is that only a few sets were ever sold in his time and fewer full ones remain today. I was able to track down one in the hands of an English bookseller, who agreed to part with them for the "measely" sum of ten million pounds. Whatever is in those books, someone doesn't want it known. Agreeing to COD, I was still waiting for them to arrive when I learned his house/business had caught fire for no reason and he himself was found dead with a bullet to the forehead. Customs currently has the volumes as they battle it out with an unknown group who claims ownership "by right of inheritance" to them. It would be bad, but the Office has seized the books and begun to scan them into digital format. That will take months, perhaps years to complete.

As for the Wesker Project, little was found. I did turn up that a number of men and women, all born in the mid-Sixties and with the surname Wesker, had died of acute, unknown viral infections in the past four years. This smacks too much of Umbrella's MO to be coincidence. But that raises more questions. Why did they do it? What were they hoping to achieve? And why did the families of the victims all have their names legally changed to Wesker just before the children were born? My theory is this was an early form of active eugenics--selective breeding and even genetic engineering--by one of Umbrella's founders. James Marcus was too obsessed with his Progenitor and subsequent T-Virus research to be a major candidate. And Alexander Ashford already tried his hand at such by cloning Alfred and Alexia in the Veronica Project, which led to his death at the hands of Alexia seventeen years ago.

That only leaves Spencer. We know he's a powermonger, but little else. In our debate Rebecca came up with the only idea that fits. Spencer was trying to create "supermen" just like Mengele and the Nazis. After seeing Wesker's profound new abilities on Rockfort Island and the Antarctic, both Chris and I feel strongly that's exactly what was going on. It's been long accepted that Spencer was--is completely insane. It follows the pattern of a God Complex, only Spencer might just have succeeded in his attempts. Albert Wesker is still alive and gods only know how much more powerful he is due to augmentations, and of course corruption by the Red Death.

That still leaves the question of, "how?" I can think of countless ways for one to use magic to tamper with nature. But we recently learned magic in Umbrella wasn't a major factor until the Seventies, well after the subjects of Project Wesker were born. Maybe the answer lies in the volumes that someone was willing to kill for?

On a more personal note, the last three months have been therapeutic in many ways. Kyra and I both have been seeing councilors and another as a couple. As I wrote before, there are scars no amount of magic or pionics can heal. But it does greatly aid mundane medicine. Using both psychotherapy and supernatural powers we've made recoveries that our councilors both say take other patients years to make. The gnawing dread of Silent Hill will always be there, but it no longer has the same power over us. We can forgive, but we can't forget. This rapid recovery couldn't have been more fortuitous.

As for Curtis Miller, he's resigned from the ABC to join TerraSave. I called Claire and warned her about him. She thought I was exaggerating about this man's nature. Hopefully he won't do anything drastic. Revenge is one of those devious emotions; it can blur anyone's view of the line between rationality and insanity. I know it did for me.
(End transcript)

[High Priest Mikhal]

(Excerpt from the journals of Alexander Dreamfire, Sandy, UT, June 6, 2002)
Curtis Miller has all but damned the Regional Biohazard Containment Unit. I did all I could to mitigate the damage, but too much media attention has been created. Half of our operatives have been named and the rest are in protective relocation under my own direction. Of those that have been named it's been a circus as every damn reporter and paparrazi try to get a "big scoop." This has turned up the heat on the legal trial of Umbrella, Inc., though. Where once the officials were dragging their feet on the issue of whether or not to convict, now over a dozen executives and scientists involved with viral research have been sentenced to death. Three were executed last week and the rest are scheduled to die in the next two. This is cold comfort for all of us.

By my estimation the RBCU has only eighteen months left, maybe longer if I can stall the legal proceedings that will ensue. After that who knows? It may be that the Biohazard Security Assessment Alliance will absorb what we've built. It sickens me to think we'll be a part of the same group that is responsible for the very thing we oppose. But that's life on Earth.

Perhaps it's because of the dissolution of their pan-creature alliance, but it seems that I see more and more supernatural creatures walking among the masses. Some appear completely human, others go utterly unnoticed, still others cloud the minds of their victims and use our own bias towards rationality and science against us. Their the wolves dressed as shepherds and we're the sheep they herd.

Why did I even bother to write my thoughts down?

(Excerpt from the journals of Alexander Dreamfire, Sandy, UT, Sept. 11, 2002)
It's hard to believe it's been a year since that cowardly attack. How many innocent lives ended or were shattered that day? Only history will tell. But as I watch Bin Laden visibly age with each new tape he releases, I see the strain he's under slowly tearing him down. I doubt we'll be able to catch him in the end. Large parts of the Middle East hate the West and would be more than willing to aid and abet him just to stick it to us--and America is entirely responsible for letting Al-Qaeda come to power. Had we just been there when the Afghan people needed us the most...

There I go again. Thinking of things I can't change. Certainly the Office has used every supernatural resource it can to find Bin Laden, but the fact even magic and psionics fail outright can only mean he's protected from such. Perhaps the Red Death is prolonging the fighting in an attempt to get as much out of the hatred, violence, and death as possible?

Best let it go. Matters closer to home require my attention. The RBCU is in the beginnings of a total shutdown now. We'll merge with the BSAA, but no way in the Nine Hells am I going to share everything with them. Command is too deep in the pockets of the pharmaceutical giants for my taste. Thus I have begun to close the La Sal training bunker and destroy all copies of our records, stolen data, and other items. Plus there have been rumbles of something going on with Umbrella's research even now. The Atlantic facility has been sending heavily encrypted messages and only now are we getting some breaks.

Reports of a creature called a "Glimmer" have been made for months now. DNA tests show it's a mutation of the Hunter series but it lacks most of the intentional tampering. Best guess is it's an accident or a result of a Hunter escaping and somehow breeding. The latter case seems unlikely as the base creature was, in every incarnation, sterile. I haven't put much of my time into this since as I said in earlier entries another agency is taking care of this one.

Of more concern is the Caucasus Facility. Eyewitness reports have placed Spencer there too many times to be discounted. Those same reports also say he's been receiving medical treatment. He's lost nearly fifty pounds in the past three months and is always seen in a wheelchair with an oxygen tank connected to a breathing mask. I'd guess heart disease from some of the symptoms described. Even this hasn't stopped him from evading the authorities and even us at every turn. Rumors in the black markets say an individual bearing a strong resemblance to Wesker has also been asking a lot about Spencer. It may not be he's hiding from us so much as from his own creation. Shades of Frankenstein?

Finally the Office mailed me something that might be a lead. Among all of the information Henry Travis collected the legends of the Ndipya stand out against everything we know about the T-Virus. I don't have full details on it but there was an underground flower reported to grant those who could survive its deadly nature with awesome strength and endurance as well as preternatural longevity. The Ndipya once ruled an empire and were said to have built extensive underground ruins where the flowers bloomed. But for reasons lost to time the empire collapsed and the ruins were sealed by the Ndipya themselves. Even telling these legends to outsiders is taboo. In the Sixties the same area of West Africa--Kijuju--was occupied by the then-fledgling Umbrella Corporation on two different occassions, with the second resulting in a mass slaughter and unexplained depopulation of the local peoples.

I doubt a toxin could grant survivors such amazing abilities. But a virus is entirely possible. Plus TriCell has been lobbying hard for the UN to put the BSAA West Africa base in Kijuju, the same area they already have oil and gas drills and refineries. They know something. Unfortunately without any hard evidence I can't do a thing about it. Something tells me that the next seven years are just going to get darker.
(End transcript)

[High Priest Mikhal]

(Excerpt from the journals of Alexander Dreamfire, Sandy, UT, Dec. 2, 2002)
My estimates for the RBCU's resilience were apparently a little generous. I had to order a total clean sweep of our La Sal training facility and I've had my hands full writing credible papers to help our remaining members join other anti-BOW groups like TerraSave and the BSAA. As I watched the last traces of our existence there be hauled away I was approached by one of our members I hadn't met before, Jeremy Buffalo Walker of the local Ute tribe. His face was a bronze sheet of wrinkles and his hair a snow-white mane. Light conversation about what would happen next turned into a very deep discussion about what could be done, what had been done, and what would happen after the RBCU was officially dissolved.

After our talk he gave me a buffalo hide rattle filled with quartz crystal--one of the most sacred of items in Ute spirituality. All he would say about it is, "a day will come when you need the power of the rattle. Use it and I will send my spirit to aid you as well. But be sure you truly need it, for the rattle is not something to be trifled with."

That was two months ago and I still carry that rattle, afraid of what sort of circumstances I would need its power in as much as actually using it. In the lore of the Ute people these rattles can drive away evil spirits, and if I've learned anything it's that legends often turn out to be true.

Of more pressing matters is that Chris and Jill are growing impatient to go and pay Spencer a visit to see if he knows where Wesker is. I finally had to approve a mission to the Caucasus Facility in late-February of next year just to get them off my back. I admit it's not much time to gather up gear or intel, but with the pressure from the Global Pharmaceutical Consortium I don't have much time to spare. They've given me until the end of the first business quarter of '03 to fully dismantle the Regional Biohazard Containment Unit and merge with their Biohazard Security Assessment Alliance. To be backed into a corner like this...

(Excerpt from the journals of Alexander Dreamfire, Sandy, UT, May 1, 2002)
It's done. The RBCU has officially been dissolved and merged with the BSAA. They haven't gained a lot from it, though. The data we possessed was destroyed before their ultimatum. When Curtis Miller blew our cover. Our base remains but has been shut down completely and sealed off. If and when it's reopened it will need its air recirculated. Its location, at least, has been kept secret. That much is all that can be hoped for at this point.

My role in this matter ends here. I simply don't trust a group backed by the ones performing the research they oppose. It's just as well. Reports of that creepy virus Herman in the motor pool was infected with, as well as confirmed cases of Dead Man's Party being served in raves, have been cropping up. The Office is stretched too thin to handle it all and Kyra and I are needed at home to combat this local menace.

Plus there have been reports of tourists disappearing in the southern islands of Spain. Reports of a strange new cult called Los Illuminados--the Enlightened--have been coming in. So far they don't appear to be anything to worry about. So far. Interpol has taken over the disappearances and for now we've got other fish to fry.

Tomorrow we begin investigating the zombie virus. Without the unity of the creatures of darkness this time around, I remain hopeful that we'll get somewhere in our investigations this time. Then we get to tackle the DMP epidemic afterwards. At least we won't be short of work for a while.
(End transcript)

[High Priest Mikhal]

(Excerpt from the journals of Alexander Dreamfire, Sandy, UT, May 7, 2003)
Somehow reports of the zombie virus were leaked to the media and now the CDC and the military have taken over. The Office has been forced out on the periphery of the investigation. It's just as well; it turns out that this outbreak wasn't the same virus Herman had at all. The T-Virus has made an appearance. Yet in going over the initial field reports I find things that don't add up to an "accidental leak," or a leak at all.

If this is the T-Virus, why were the only ones infected humans? It's known the Virus can infect all families of living creatures and I'd expect to see an assortment of secondary mutations along with zombies. Instead we're just seeing humans. This stinks of a controlled infection. Plus there have been a number of items found both on the creatures and at a site named in a note one had in its pocket. This was the headquarters for one of the many anti-Umbrella groups founded by survivors of Raccoon City. To the cops, the army and even the CDC that's enough to damn the group as the ones responsible. But to me the evidence feels all wrong. Why would they leave so many clues that led back to them? And how could they, a small-time grassroots movement, get their hands on the T-Virus? Even with the new proflieration of bio-weapons on the black market that's still beyond most people's reach.

Like I said, it just reeks of a setup. It's a rope-a-dope and a lot of folks in the Office agree with me--including Baker. She's ordered Intelligence to go deep in search of anything even remotely related and they've already had a hit. One of WilPharma's more isolated facilities simply cut off contact at exactly 11:28:41 this morning and has been silent since. They admit to the possession of the T-Virus, though they claim it's to research a vaccine. I'm not one to put much value in what corporations say publicly, even if I have found evidence of them creating an honest to gods vaccine. "Power tends to corrupt, and absolute power corrupts absolutely," and all that. This is an opportunity to play God--the ultimate power trip.

Attempts to contact the heads of WilPharma about the sudden silence have been met with ever-changing sham stories. First it was just "a breakdown in their communications network," then it was a disaster drill, a company holiday, and building fumigation all from different groups claiming to speak on the part of the board of directors--telling us all this at the same time! Clearly there is something wrong they don't want us to know about. Upper management has not failed me; they're as inept as the talking heads we have in DC. They can't even get their cover story straight. What have we done by allowing these people to rise to power?

Attempts to get other government agencies to look into it have been held up by numerous members of congress and even President Graham himself if the rumors are true. This is when being one of those "off the record" type's of organizations really pays off. Baker has ordered a team be sent to the building to investigate for any paranormal activity. No need for any presidential pass or a vote from congress. There's a problem and now our job is to fix it any way possible.

Unfortunately for me this time I have to sit it out. At least until something goes horribly wrong. After surviving two mansions and a city wide plague I like to think I know the signs of looming disaster. An outbreak in the city at the same time a company known to be in possession of the agent that is being contained suffers some sort of major fubar. Someone is playing the same tune Umbrella did in Raccoon City five years ago. Only this time I'm fully expecting it and I have had time to prepare.

Apparently Baker knows it as well and has requisitioned a case of devil's lights--grenades that use phosphorous to recreate UV light, named after Lucifer, the "Light Bearer." My own experiences have shown the undead of the T-Virus are as vulnerable to light-based power the same way most all undead are. But they're not exactly hampered by sunlight, either. Still the things will make for interesting flash grenades, if nothing else. Plus there was evidence that the T-Virus reversed the ability of cells to make vitamin D out of sunlight, leading to the rapid softening of bone tissue seen in nearly every zombie. The metabolism--if that's what it could be called--of the undead is hyper-rapid; exposure for a few seconds would be nearly the same as several hours to a human.

I can't really see the use of something that will turn a zombie's bones into the consistency of chalk when it's easier just to destroy them, though.
(End transcript)