Fight the Darkness

by W. J. May

  In spite of himself, the doctor’s eyes glowed with fanatical excitement. “Two more studies just came through last week. The combination works. Now I just have to find a way to—”

  He stopped himself quickly, but the damage was already done. Simon’s eyes snapped up to his, locking there with frightening attention.

  “Just have to...what, Doctor?”

  McAllister flushed, and the gun began trembling once more. “Listen, kid. Just put down the file and walk away. There’s no reason that you need to get hurt here.”

  Simon grinned. “Put down the file and walk away. Is there anything else you’d like?”

  A trace of panic flickered in the doctor’s eyes, but under the assumption that his men were still coming he felt as though he had the higher ground. “Tell me who sent you.”

  “Oh!” Simon chuckled. “Now you want that as well!”

  If his smiling had unnerved the doctor, the laughter sent him right over the edge.

  “Shut up!” McAllister screamed. “Shut up and stop laughing!” To prove his point he fired the gun once, aiming it towards the cupboards against the wall.

  But his loss of control had provided Simon with exactly the opportunity he needed. Even as the bullet buried itself in the thick wood, he flew forward and knocked the gun from the doctor’s hand. It clattered to the floor between them, but Simon made no move to pick it up. Neither did McAllister.

  The game was over; they both knew it.

  McAllister had lost.

  “Please,” he begged, trembling and sinking to his knees. “I have a family.”

  The words went in one ear and out the other as Simon flipped through the last couple pages of the file. When he was finished, he looked back up at the man with a smile. “Tell me, Doctor...what is the next step here? What is it that you have left to do?”

  He might as well have been holding the gun in his own hand as he asked the question. The blinding speed with which he moved, and the lines of ink peeking through the torn sleeve of his shirt, told McAllister everything he needed to know.

  “There...there is a practical application.” His voice was shaking so badly it was difficult to understand. But he tried nonetheless. “Not a certainty, of course. But a possibility for one.”

  Simon’s eyes glittered with excitement. “A possibility for what?”

  The doctor paled, staring at the steady drip of Simon’s blood in dull horror. What? Did the kid not feel what was happening? “For some kind of device to be made. A device that can harness the combination and target it towards a specific message.”

  Simon’s eyes tightened as he considered the words. “And the medium?”

  McAllister shrugged helplessly. “The medium could be something as simple as a human voice. In fact, given the automatic sensatory reactions it triggers it would most likely be the best option to carry the application.”

  “And the application itself?” Simon pressed. “The device?”

  “I haven’t made it yet.”

  Something between a curse and a growl ripped from Simon’s throat, and McAllister cowered against the countertop in fear.

  “I haven’t—I swear to you!” He held up his hands in surrender, as if at any moment Simon was likely to pounce. “I’m still only in the theoretical stages. I was just beginning to get to that point in the last few weeks, and now...”

  He trailed off nervously as he realized what he had been about to say.

  And now you came in here and ripped it all to shreds.

  The grin was back. While the doctor might have hated it, Simon found that it made the perfect shield. Numbing his pain and masking all his emotions with one simple, casual smirk.

  “Your men aren’t coming.”

  His voice was soft, and not entirely unpleasant. Merely informing McAllister where he stood.

  A terrified flush of color rose up in the doctor’s neck as he glanced reflexively towards the door. “That’s...that’s not possible. There were over forty of them—”

  “Well, I can’t take all the credit,” Simon said modestly. “I had a friend with me.”

  At once, the rush of crimson that had colored the doctor’s cheeks faded to a ghostly shade of white. “Are you going to kill me now?”

  “Hmm?” Simon cocked his head; he’d been distracted by other things. “I’m sorry—what?”

  The doctor gulped. “I said...are you going to kill me?”

  Simon’s eyes flashed as if it was a challenge. “Like you were going to kill me?”

  If it was possible, the doctor turned even paler. But Simon was simply playing with him at this point. The beginnings of a dark plan had started swirling in his mind the longer the two of them had been talking. A plan that was solidifying by the second. A plan that needed this man alive.

  He felt a hard edge of plastic still digging into his chest, and his lips curved up with a cruel smile. “Oh no, Doctor. You’re not going anywhere...”

  Chapter 14

  OF ALL THE NEAR-IMPOSSIBLE things Simon had to do that day, the worst by far was the run back to the studio. The one he did in secret, sticking to the shadows and keeping his head low to the ground. There had been another hidden exit in the back of the laboratory, one that hadn’t been on the original blueprints. Otherwise, the little exodus might not have even been possible.

  Simon’s breathing grew ragged in his chest as he approached the weather-beaten building he and Tristan were temporarily calling home, feeling as though he was carrying the weight of ten men instead of just one. A homeless man barked something at him in German, but by the time he looked over the guy was tracing figure eights in the air. Not exactly a credible witness.

  Then, just as he’d gotten to the parking lot, he had to go back. If it was possible, the run back was even harder. He wasn’t sure how much blood he’d lost, he’d been so swept away by the waves of adrenaline coursing through his veins, but it was becoming clear to him now that it was a dangerous amount. His arms and legs felt sluggish and slow. It was getting difficult for him to hold up his own head. By the time that he finally made it back into the hall, he was about ready to pass out. But all his efforts paid off, and just in the nick of time.

  No sooner had he gotten there than Tristan came rushing around the corner.

  “There you are!” he exclaimed. “I’ve been looking everywhere for you!”

  Tristan, too, looked a little worse for wear. One of his hands was blackened to a point where Simon didn’t know whether it was burned or had been somehow dipped in dark paint. There was a rip down the entire back of his shirt—the thing was being held on only by the thin band that circled his neck. And there was a large, silver scorch mark zig-zagging down the side of his face.

  Simon gestured to the mark with raised eyebrows, and he shook his head.

  “There were a few more guards on the other side of the facility. Don’t ask.” His eyes raked over Simon, as though he might have been hiding the doctor behind his back. “But seriously, where the hell were you? Where’s McAllister?”

  Simon held something up in the air between them.

  “Dead.”

  Tristan squinted in alarm, trying to decipher what he was looking at, and Simon explained.

  “It’s his badge and ID card. I snagged them as I was trying to get a grip on him, but before I could do anything he shot himself in the head.” His voice cracked believably. “I guess he didn’t want to be taken alive.”

  Tristan’s lips parted in shock and he blinked several times, trying to process it.

  “I thought I heard a gunshot,” he murmured. His face tightened into a troubled frown, and he stared at the floor for a moment before he lifted those clear blue eyes onto Simon. “I’m sorry,” he said softly.

  “Sorry?” Simon repeated in surprise. He had been expecting to have to sell his story a little, to come up with an excuse for the absence of a body. He wasn’t expecting sorry. “What the hell are you sorry for?”

  Tristan’s eyes softened sympathetically
. “I’m sorry you had to see it. It must have been horrible—you were standing right there...” He trailed off with a shake of his head, then flashed Simon a weak smile as he gestured back up the tunnel. “How about we get the hell out of here?”

  “Yeah.” Simon felt another stab of guilt as he followed his friend out towards the cold night sky. “Let’s get the hell out.”

  THE RUN BACK TO THE studio was easier with two people. Simon about had a heart attack when they passed the parking lot, but Tristan kept his eyes obliviously on the elevator and it wasn’t long until they were inside.

  That was where the real battle began.

  “Shit, Simon! Just do it already!”

  Tristan braced himself against a corner of the bed, eyes squeezed shut in pain as Simon tried again and again to pop his shoulder back into place. Another failed attempt was followed by a cry.

  “I’m sorry!” Simon exclaimed, leaning down to examine the angle. “I’ve never done this before; I don’t know exactly how to—”

  “Oh, just give up already. Let’s call for Dr. Stein.”

  Tristan made to stand up, but Simon pushed him back down with unnecessary force.

  “NO!”

  Tristan glanced up in alarm, and he struggled to temper his voice.

  “I mean... No.” He tilted his friend back into the corner with gentle hands, ignoring his own racing heart- beat. “It’s our first mission. They already saw us almost set our new kitchen on fire. I can do this. There’s no need to bring him out here.”

  Tristan flinched sullenly, but accepted the wisdom in this statement and turned back to the corner, looking grim. “Fine. Maybe you can do you this. All evidence to the contrary...” Another failed attempt and he gritted his teeth. “But I have no idea what to do for your head.”

  “I told you,” Simon tried to joke as he pushed against Tristan’s shoulder, “there’s no changing my personality. Or my face. They’re both here to stay.”

  “That’s not what I—”

  At last, the joint popped back into place.

  Tristan collapsed against the wall with a sign of relief, before stretching it gingerly in front of him. “That’s not what I meant,” he finished. “I mean about the burn, Simon. The girl was throwing freaking lava! It’s not your run of the mill abrasion.” He shook his head as he got to his feet, thinking back on the gruesome events of the day. “I don’t even know what happened to her...”

  That same guilt roiled up in Simon’s stomach again, and he was quick to change the subject. “So you really weren’t able to find any fragments of a device? Not even one?”

  Tristan shook his head. “Nope. There was nothing there. There were plans for a prototype, but that was it.”

  “A prototype? Really?”

  That was a little more than the good doctor had implied.

  Tristan paced back to the bed, and extracted a flash drive from a hole in the mattress. “The plans, at least, I got. And you came up with that file. But the device, the man...” He shook his head nervously as he put the flash drive back. “I don’t know, Simon.”

  Simon’s eyes fixed greedily on the mattress. “Don’t know what?”

  Tristan whirled around in frustration. “Don’t know if there’s any way the people back home are going to call this mission a success. Think about it. Our two main objectives: failed.” He fell back on the mattress with a painful wince, cradling his burned hand. “All we managed to do was leave a massive body count in our wake, and set the lab on fire.”

  It was true, Simon had deliberately left the fires made by the lava alone, hoping they would eventually spread enough to cover his tracks. By the time he and Tristan got back to the studio, they looked out the window to see a massive column of smoke floating over the broken train tracks. Seems his plan was a success.

  “At least we’re consistent,” he said mildly. Tristan looked over questioningly, and he forced a smile. “About the fire. Maybe they’ll only give us arson jobs from now on.”

  In spite of himself, Tristan chuckled. It was hard not to. They had simply been through too much in a single day not to give in to hysterics, at least a little. “At least we’ll get to work with Beth.”

  When the two of them had finally calmed down Simon turned to him, solemn. Things he’d thought after their H.O.C meetings, things he’d written in his journal that he dreamed about. It might actually be a reality. “But seriously, Tris, they sent us there to stop a man from creating a brainwashing device. We did that. They might not like exactly how, they might not like that they don’t have pieces of the device for themselves, but we fulfilled our mission objective. The doctor won’t be hurting anyone anymore.”

  Tristan stared at him for a long while, before nodding. Then he flipped onto his back with a small sigh. They might have been on a time-crunch to get there, but there was no rush in getting back. They would sleep in, rest up a little, and catch a flight in the morning. At least, that was Tristan’s plan. Simon, on the other hand, had a slightly different idea.

  “Tris...how would you feel about driving back?”

  Tristan glanced over in surprise. “Driving? Instead of a plane? Why the hell would we do that?”

  “Well, we have the rental car—”

  “Yeah, we have the German rental car. We can’t take it with us back to England.”

  Simon nodded quickly, not wanting to push the matter too hard. Tristan was right, of course. The car couldn’t come with them back to London. He would have to think of another plan...

  “And no,” Tristan continued, “we’re not taking the train either. I could run faster than that thing. Literally. We’ll fly.” He pushed back his hair and glared up at the ceiling. “I just want to get out of this freaking country as soon as possible.”

  Simon nodded again, and clapped him on the arm before turning off the light.

  “We will. First thing in the morning.”

  That was the plan.

  But as it turned out, the night wasn’t finished with them yet...

  Chapter 15

  SIMON THOUGHT HE WAS dreaming. That his mind was replaying echoes of the fight in the tunnel as an attempt to purge itself from the horror. There could be no other reason for the sound of repeated impacts as a body was struck again and again. No other explanation for the squeak of shoes scrambling against the floor and the quiet desperation of muffled screams.

  Then suddenly he heard Tristan cry out.

  “Simon!”

  His eyes snapped open at the same time he was pulled from his bed.

  “What the—”

  At first, he couldn’t understand what was going on. Who the hell were these people? How had they gotten into the studio? His eyes widened in unexpected horror. What had they done to his friend?!

  Not only was Tristan no longer standing of his own accord, but he was no longer attempting to even try. He was being passed between a huge ring of people—each one contributing their own bit of pain to the collection—before he was shoved on to the next. One man was followed along behind him, holding him up and keeping a pillow pressed over his mouth to muffle the cries.

  By the looks of things the pillow had slipped to the floor accidentally, giving Tristan a split second to try to warn Simon. It was back now, pressing against his face so hard it would be a wonder if he could breathe.

  “What the hell are you—”

  A blow to the face knocked Simon senseless, rendering him momentarily mute. He fell to his knees, staring up in a daze as the ring slowly opened then closed again to include him. Tristan was on the floor now, not moving. The pillow beside him stained with blood.

  “Wait...” Simon slurred, trying to regain his senses. “There’s been some kind of—”

  “Some kind of mistake?”

  A face appeared in front of his own, sneering just inches away. The man it belonged to couldn’t have been more than thirty, but his face was already as scarred and grizzled as they come.

  Simon stared for a moment, in disoriented fa
scination, before his head dropped down to his chest. Whoever these people were, they couldn’t have come at a worse time. One of the reasons he and Tristan had elected to stay the night and not leave until morning was that the two of them had battled a ludicrous number of people, and had lost an even more ridiculous amount of blood. It was an effort for Simon just to keep awake, let alone defend himself from these animals.

  “Who are you?” he asked softly, stretching one hand down to the floor to keep himself steady. “What the hell do you want?”

  Before the man could answer Simon threw his body towards the center of the ring, trying desperately to reach Tristan’s unconscious form.

  “What the hell have you done to my friend?!” he cried. “What did you do to him?! TRIS—”

  Another punch to the face and he was right back where he started.

  The man shook his finger chidingly, as if Simon was a misbehaving child. “No, Guilder, you’ve got it wrong. You’re not the one who gets to be angry today. You’re not the one who just saw a moment you’ve been planning for the better part of a year snatched away by two inexperienced teenagers!”

  Another punch, and Simon was on the floor.

  His eyes flitted open and shut, staring at the man’s shoes. “Your moment...” He tried to string a coherent sentence together, but the minute they’d started hitting him it had reopened the cut on the back of his head. His hair, already matted with blood, wetted itself once more as he pressed his forehead into the floor, trying desperately to find the strength to stand up. “I don’t know what—”

  “Don’t know what I’m talking about, right?!” The man kicked him once, before jerking him abruptly to his feet. “Of course you don’t. You and your friend are just a cog in the machine. Perfect little soldiers. You go where you’re told, when you’re told. Never ask a single question. Never once stop to think about why you’re doing what they’re telling you do to.”

  Simon’s knees buckled as he tried to stay standing. “Never once...what?” Then something the man had said clicked into place. “Wait—Guilder? You went to Guilder?”