Chapter 2: The Armory of Despair

The puppet-man's head tilted at an impossible angle as Alex swung the fire axe. The blade whistled through empty air—the thing had moved with inhuman speed, gliding backward on its strings like a marionette pulled by an expert puppeteer. Its borrowed smile never wavered.

"You're very strong," it said in his mother's voice, blood trickling from its nose. "She always said you were her strong boy."

Alex's stomach lurched, but he didn't lower the axe. Behind the puppet-man, more figures were emerging from the station—the nurse, the teenager, the old man with the walker. All moving with that same fluid, unnatural grace.

A crash echoed from deeper in the building. Matt's voice carried through the broken windows: "Alex! There's another way in! They're coming through the cells!"

The decision was made for him. Alex turned and ran.

The back corridors of the police station were a maze of bureaucratic dysfunction—evidence rooms, processing areas, holding cells that reeked of disinfectant and despair. Matt stood at the end of the hallway, his face pale in the emergency lighting, pointing at a heavy steel door marked 'ARMORY.'

"It's locked," Matt said, his voice tight with panic. "But if there are guns in there—"

"Move." Alex pushed past him and examined the door. Industrial grade, electronic lock, built to withstand everything short of explosives. But the crash had damaged more than just his car—the building's power was flickering, and the lock's LED was flashing red and green intermittently.

The sound of measured footsteps grew closer.

"Hello, Alex," called the puppet-man from the main corridor. The voice was his father's now—the same tone Dad had used when Alex was eight and hiding after breaking Mom's favorite vase. "I'm not angry. Just come out and we'll talk about this."

Alex raised the fire axe again, but this time he aimed for the lock mechanism itself. The first strike sent sparks flying. The second cracked the housing. On the third, something inside the electronic system gave way with a satisfying pop, and the door swung open.

The police station's armory was disappointingly small—more of a reinforced closet than a proper weapons cache. A few riot helmets, some pepper spray, tactical vests that looked like they hadn't been updated since the 1990s. But there, locked in a wire cage, was exactly what they needed.

"Shotguns," Matt breathed, pressing against Alex's shoulder. "And that looks like—is that an assault rifle?"

Alex was already examining the secondary lock on the weapons cage. Simpler this time—just a heavy padlock that looked like it had seen better decades. Two swings of the fire axe and it fell away with a clatter that seemed impossibly loud in the confined space.

"Take everything," Alex said, grabbing a pump-action shotgun from the rack. His hands moved automatically, checking the chamber, finding it empty. "Ammunition, extra clips, anything that—"

"Alex." Matt's voice was barely a whisper. "Look."

A shelf at the back of the armory held boxes of ammunition, but not many. Alex counted quickly: maybe thirty rounds for the shotgun, a few magazines for what looked like a service pistol, and a handful of shells for the rifle that might or might not be the right caliber.

"That's it?" Matt asked. "That's all they have?"

"Small town station," Alex muttered, stuffing shells into his pockets. "They probably kept most of the serious firepower somewhere else." He handed Matt the service pistol—a Glock 17 that felt reassuringly solid. "You know how to use this?"

"Point and shoot, right?" Matt's laugh was hollow. "How hard can it be?"

A new sound echoed through the station—the scrape of metal on concrete, like fingernails dragging across a chalkboard. It was coming from multiple directions now, surrounding them.

"We need to move," Alex said, slinging the rifle across his back and keeping the shotgun in his hands. "Your sister's place—north of the city. How do we get there?"

"Route 47 to the highway, then—" Matt stopped mid-sentence. Through the small window in the armory, they could see into the main corridor. The puppet-man stood there, but he wasn't alone anymore. Three, four, five more figures had joined him, all standing in perfect formation like soldiers awaiting orders.

And they were all looking directly at the armory.

"They know where we are," Matt whispered.

"Of course they do." Alex checked the shotgun's action one more time, the familiar mechanical sound somehow comforting. "Question is, do they know what we're planning?"

The puppet-man tilted his head again, and when he spoke, it was in Alex's own voice: "You're going to try to reach your car. You think if you can get to the parking lot, you can hotwire something and drive north to safety."

Alex's blood turned to ice. How could it know? Unless...

"But the keys are in the desk drawers," the thing continued conversationally. "Sergeant Morrison always left his patrol car keys in his desk. Third drawer down, under the arrest reports."

"Jesus," Matt breathed. "It's reading our minds."

"No." Alex's architectural training kicked in, the part of his brain that solved problems by breaking them down into components. "It's reading our faces. Our body language. We're being predictable." He turned to Matt, keeping his voice low. "When I say go, we move fast and we don't go where they expect."

"Where—"

"The roof." Alex pointed up at a maintenance hatch in the armory ceiling. "Every building has roof access for HVAC maintenance. We go up, not out."

The puppet-man's smile widened, and Alex realized with growing horror that it had heard every word.

"The roof access is blocked," it said pleasantly. "Has been for three months. Budget cuts. But you're welcome to try."

More shapes were moving in the corridor now—not just the original puppets, but new ones. Fresh ones. A woman in pajamas with house slippers, her hair still in curlers. A man in a security guard uniform, his name tag reading 'STEVE.' They all had strings. They all had that same terrible smile.

"How many people were in this city?" Matt asked, his voice cracking.

"Forty thousand," Alex replied automatically. "Give or take."

Matt's face went white. "And they're all...?"

Before Alex could answer, the lights went out.

Emergency power kicked in a moment later, bathing everything in hellish red, but the message was clear: whatever controlled the strings was done playing games. In the crimson darkness, Alex could hear them moving—dozens of feet, all marching in perfect synchronization.

"Now," he hissed.

They burst from the armory like combat veterans, weapons raised, moving with desperate efficiency. The corridor was full of puppets, but Alex had been right about one thing—they hadn't expected the direct assault. The shotgun roared in the confined space, and the puppet-man jerked backward, strings pulling him away from the blast at the last second.

Matt fired the pistol twice, wild shots that went wide but bought them precious seconds. They ran toward the main entrance, leaping over desks and scattered paperwork, the emergency lighting turning everything into a nightmare of shadows and red-tinted threats.

Behind them, the puppets gave chase, but something was wrong with their coordination. They moved too precisely, all turning corners at exactly the same angle, all stepping over obstacles with identical movements. It was like watching a synchronized swimming routine performed by corpses.

Alex's car was visible through the front windows, crumpled against the light pole but maybe, maybe still functional. The keys were in his pocket. If they could just reach it—

The front doors slammed shut.

Not pulled shut, not pushed closed by the wind. They slammed with the finality of a coffin lid, and Alex could see that something had bent the metal handles, twisting them into shapes that would make opening impossible.

"Back door," Matt gasped, but Alex was already shaking his head.

Through the station's windows, he could see why escape had never really been an option. The streets were full of them—hundreds of puppet-people standing in perfect rows, all facing the police station. Waiting.

And above them all, the sky was wrong.

What Alex had taken for clouds earlier was something else entirely. A massive web of strings stretched across the heavens, so dense in places that they blotted out the moon. But it wasn't random—there was a pattern to it, a vast and incomprehensible design that hurt to look at directly.

As he watched, a new horror unfolded. A thick, unnatural fog began rolling down the streets, moving against the wind, flowing around buildings like water. It was perfectly white, perfectly opaque, and where it touched the streetlights, they went dark.

"What is that?" Matt whispered.

Alex didn't answer, because he was beginning to understand. The fog wasn't just hiding the puppets—it was hiding everything. In a few minutes, maybe less, the entire city would be invisible. Navigation would be impossible. They would be running blind through a maze populated by things that could see perfectly in the dark.

The puppet-man appeared at the broken window, his suit now torn and bloody from the shotgun blast, but his smile unchanged.

"The fog makes it more interesting," he said in Alex's voice. "More... sporting. You have perhaps five minutes before it reaches this building. I suggest you use them wisely."

Through the thickening white wall, Alex could see shapes moving—dozens of them, maybe hundreds, all marching toward the station with mechanical precision.

"The car," he said, making a decision that felt like jumping off a cliff. "We make a run for the car. Once we're inside, we drive blind if we have to."

"Are you insane?" Matt's voice cracked. "We can't see anything in that fog!"

"Better than staying here." Alex checked his ammunition one more time—twenty-three shells left, maybe twenty rounds for the pistol. Not nearly enough for hundreds of puppets, but enough to clear a path.

The fog reached the front steps of the station.

"Ready?" Alex asked, and didn't wait for an answer. He put his shoulder against the twisted door handles, braced his feet, and pushed with everything he had.

Metal screamed against metal, but the door moved. Just enough.

"Go!" he shouted, and they plunged into the white nothing, running toward a car they couldn't see, chased by enemies they couldn't count, in a city that had become something from the darkest corners of nightmare.

Behind them, the puppet-man's laughter echoed through the fog, multiplied by dozens of stolen voices, all laughing in perfect, inhuman harmony.

The fog swallowed everything.