Endfall

by Colin Ososki

  Abraham nodded and looked to the sky. “They will depart on the march towards Havensheil soon.”

  Oslo strolled up to the dead, bloody body of the assassin. With his large paw, he lifted the side and flipped the body over, stomach-up on the ground. He pulled down the assassin’s cloak, revealing a small set of words imprinted on his neck. Oslo read the words out loud. “TWENTY TWO.”

  “I wonder what kind of a man he was before they gave him a number.” Artimus said, breathing heavily in the cold.

  THE BURNING

  Lyrah reached the Parker house quickly. The sound of his voice sent chills through her. She climbed through the front window of the house, which was broken open already. The smell of blood filled the inside of the house, and the place was disheveled. But Lyrah was only there for one particular interest, Milo’s room.

  She ran up the old wooden stairs and climbed through the awkwardly built second floor to Milo’s room. When she had reached it, she was stopped by what came to her ears. The sounds outside were frightening; the sounds of people calling in the distance, of screams from inside houses, of a thick wind; but it wasn’t wind. Lyrah stood shaking in the half-torn hallway before Milo’s door, and slowly turned to look out the window. Her stomach squawked.

  Outside, houses exploded into a fiery blaze, illuminating the neighborhood. They were just down the street from where she was. She looked away and advanced on the door to Milo’s room. She turned the bronze knob, entering with a slow, cautious move. The room was not as she had remembered it; it was torn apart. The lights were broken and various papers and books were scattered about the room on the old wooden floor. She knelt down and picked up a piece of notebook paper that was on the floor near her. The paper was old and somewhat wrinkled, and it was covered in writing from top to bottom.

  It was a story. Lyrah decided not to read and get what she needed before the house became victim to the burning. But as she began to look away, something on the paper caught her attention. It was her name. Has he written about me? She quickly put the paper into her bag and walked over to the desk in the corner, where she hoped to find the snow globe that she gave Milo.

  Lyrah searched the top of the desk, but to her astonishment, the snow globe was not there. She looked intensely around the room, finding nothing but papers and books. Maybe I could ask him. She did not know whether or not to try to communicate with him, for he seemed to not like it much when she was able to get into his mind. Then she heard again the sounds of Salem and she quickly decided that it didn't matter.

  Milo! Milo, if you can understand this, please, you need to help me. She was screaming in her head, as she looked out the frosted window. Outside, Salem was on fire. She could hear the screams of helpless people, the shouts of the Parliament, and the shouts of Mr. Charlie. Her gut was enclosed in a texture of grit and disgust.

  Lyrah! It was Milo, sounding worried but also delighted to hear from her. Where are you? What’s happening? I can see the lights from Salem. Is that fire?

  Where is the snow globe I gave you? Salem is in trouble, I’m trying to get out, but I need the snow globe! Her screams echoed in Milo’s mind.

  What kind of trouble? Milo was struck with a hair-raising wave. Lyrah, are you in danger?

  Don’t worry about me, she began, where is the snow globe?

  Where are you, exactly?

  Right by your desk. You have too many books here.

  Reading is fun.

  Where the hell is the snow globe?

  You’re by the desk? Take about three steps back. Lyrah rolled her eyes and followed his directions.

  Milo-

  Hey, he said. Lyrah stood still. Look up.

  Above, the snow globe was fixed to the ceiling. “He found it,” she whispered, a bit surprised. Lyrah leapt up on Milo’s bed and reached up to grab it, but found she was too short. She jumped and grabbed it. The floor creaked and she froze; it was far too quiet.

  What is happening? Milo asked. Is my father okay?

  Okay, if you can hear me, just know that I am okay and that I will see you- a crack of fire and wind came from behind her, whipping debris everywhere and pushing her aside. The Parliament had reached the Parker house. Screams from the streets soared through the night like sharp arrows. Lyrah stood, covered in black smoke and dirt, and she saw that the fire was advancing into the room. The desk caught fire soon after. The door to the hallway was no option; it was already on fire along with everything else. Her second thought was the window.

  A sudden, sharp noise startled Lyrah. At first she didn’t know what it was, but then came the familiar sounds of someone’s footsteps, coming from the roof. Then came the clash of metal against cold steel, and following was an eruption of glass. When she looked, the window was completely shattered.

  She already knew who it was; Rezzifer. She stood, and his familiar voice came quickly, “Hurry!” She leaped up to the window, climbing out in a quick motion. Rezzifer was there, fitted in steel, and already at the edge of the rooftop waiting for her.

  “Are the others alright?” She asked. Rezzifer nodded and leaped down into the street. Lyrah climbed down the side of the house. The sight on the ground was surreal; Salem was burning in every direction.

  Mr. Charlie’s voice broke through the snow and fire, “GIRL!”

  It was a disgusting sound. Lyrah slowed her running to a stop and turned. “We have to go,” said Rezzifer. But Lyrah was already advancing at Mr. Charlie.

  She did not speak, but she raised her hand Mr. Charlie. They all felt it; the dark, twisted contortion of air. In a shaken moment, Mr. Charlie fell to his knees and spattered vomit into the snow. Rezzifer stood staring as Lyrah took another step forward, but then she collapsed. Rezzifer rushed forward.

  Mr. Charlie began to rise again, grimacing and spurting horrid sounds. “Now,” he said, “You’ve made a mistake.”

  Rezzifer snarled and viscously leapt forwards. His nimble body soared across the distance between them, and in the air Rezzifer drew his claws. But the sound of metal came through the blackness of night, and something stopped Rezzifer from his attack, putting him back in the snow on all four paws. A pain was in his side, he noticed, and he looked. A metal arrow had penetrated his armor. Somebody in the dark had shot at him. He looked around the scene for the shooter. Standing to the side of Mr. Charlie was Edgar, the Parliament member, dropping his bow and drawing a silver blade.

  Rezzifer, ignoring the pain, burst into a sudden sprint towards Edgar, who swung his blade down heavily. Rezzifer dodged the slash and circled Edgar, and then turned to leap onto his back. Edgar swung his blade wildly in the air as his back was being pierced by Rezzifer’s reinforced, metal claws. Edgar reversed his grip on the blade and briskly thrust it behind him in hopes of hitting something. Rezzifer leapt off of Edgar’s back as the blade came near, snagging his claws on Edgar’s face on the way to the ground. Edgar let out a painful cry and dropped his blade. He fell, covering his bloody face with his hands. Rezzifer halted to catch his breath, and then stepped in front of Edgar.

  “Creature! I’ve had enough!” Edgar pleaded.

  Rezzifer stared coldly at him. He glanced up at Mr. Charlie, who was simply watching from a distance. He looked back at Edgar and raised a paw in the air.

  “It’s necessary,” he said. Rezzifer swung his paw down at Edgar’s face in a harrowing strike. The weight of the impact shattered his skull and spattered blood across the snow. Lyrah was standing again now. They both looked up at Mr. Charlie, who was now standing next to his chariot with a smirk on his face. He silently opened the door and stepped inside.

  Watching as the chariot drove away, Lyrah said, “We need to get to Artimus.”

  -----

  Abraham spotted Rezzifer and Lyrah approaching. He turned to the others. Artimus rested on a large rock, beside Oslo. They were just South of the Bay, outside Salem. The burning was becoming nothing more than sparks, dying away quicker than they had expected.

  “Doctor Artimus,”
Lyrah said as she came near, out of breath, “I need to speak with you.”

  He stood. “I’m afraid that is what I was most curious about,” said Artimus. “I am sorry, but how do you know me? We haven’t met before.”

  Lyrah was quiet for a moment, while her eyes roamed the scene, as if searching for the right response. “Will you help us?” she asked.

  “Help you with what?”

  “Mr. Charlie is planning something. It’s going to be awful and it’s all starting soon,” she said. “Your knowledge is what we need.”

  “I’m afraid I have a different agenda than you,” he said, walking back to the rock. “I am traveling elsewhere. Sorry.” As he walked past, a bitter look came to Lyrah’s face. “This must be goodbye,” he said. “But before I depart,” he paused, thinking. “I want to thank you for the message you gave me.” He walked with staggering feet. Lyrah looked at Abraham, who shook his head and turned towards the Bay.

  “Alright,” said Abraham, “Rezzifer and Lyrah, go find Milo. I didn’t think he would be this extreme this soon. Meet us back at Havensheil.” He began to walk along the edge of the frozen water, towards Havensheil. Oslo followed. Lyrah stood still, watching as Artimus left.

  “Artimus, wait,” she said.

  To her surprise, the doctor turned and replied, “Yes?” He was half lost in the fog and smoke already.

  Lyrah took two small steps towards him. “Won’t you need any help?”

  Artimus said, “Not where I’m going. I’ll be alright.”

  Lyrah said nothing. As Artimus turned away again and began to walk, he called out, “You’ll hear from me soon.” And within a moment or two he had disappeared in the night.

  Lyrah watched for moments after. The harsh winds blew with greater force now. It was becoming a blizzard. Rezzifer came closer and said, “Lyrah, we must hurry.” She put up her hood and began to walk South.

  THE WALL

  “Damn,” Milo said, stopping the chariot. Smoke plumed from the front, and the metal along the sides of the chariot rattled. Milo stepped out, onto the sandy ground. He looked back at Salem in the distance, where just an hour ago he saw lights and smoke. Lyrah would not tell him what happened.

  Now Milo stood resting near a single barren tree, deep in the far reaches of the plains. There was sand alloyed in the snow for as far as he could see. Now, at this time of thought and distant desperation, he missed Lyrah, more than he imagined. He tried pragmatically to not think of her, but without intention, he did. And he did often. He wished she would tell him more. According to the directions she had given him, he was a mile or so away from her friend. But what halted Milo was in front of him rather than his mind; a massive, black wall, latent in fog.

  The wall was like a physical representation of a loud organ sound, twisted and bellowed in his ears. It carried an oppressive feeling, like it was watching him. Odd, that a dormant object could strike fear into him like he had only seen in a nightmare. It was like every drawing moment he remained staring at it sent more and more shivers in his spine. The wall was easily hundreds of feet high, and there was no way to predict how thick it was. It seemed like it went on forever in both directions, East and West.

  Milo saw something else in the distance, closer to him than the wall. It was a light,yellow and very dim, flickering. Was that there the whole time? Milo was hesitant to respond to his observation. But soon it became bothersome. Could be the friend. When he got closer, it did appear to be a house, for the foggy silhouette was shaped like so and there were more orange-yellow lights.

  The fog grew thicker and the wind picked up. This is when Milo noticed that the wall was gone; and now in its place was the rest of the deserted plains he saw before. What? He walked up to the house quite swiftly, pushing aside thoughts about the wall. He was shivering a bit, beginning to feel the breath of the wind. The lights were on inside. Milo slowed down a bit as he reached the front steps of the house. The wind blew the wooden planks into their creaky niches. Everything on the outside of the house seemed to have its own sound, its own character.

  He knocked on the door, feeling somewhat awkward. He waited a moment, and there was no answer. Milo leaned in close to the door and pressed his ear onto the wood, listening inside for anything.

  Milo heard a voice from somewhere inside. “Number seven!” called the voice, muffled. It was a very elder voice, sounding aged but wise. Again the voice came, “Number seven!” and following the voice was laughter, from other voices. There were a bunch of people in the house, Milo suspected. He knocked on the door a third time, this time louder. Suddenly the laughter stopped and silence cut its way into the moment. And then there were footsteps coming towards the door at a rather alarming speed.

  The door opened calmly. Standing in the doorway was an unexpectedly tall, elder man with short, white hair. Milo was hesitant to speak, but the man spoke first, “Are you Milo?” he queried, coming in a loud whisper. His voice sounded full of hope, as if he had been suffering from something awful, and Milo was his savior.

  “Yes,” said Milo, also spoke softly, “Are you the ally of Abraham’s?”

  The man nodded silently. “Come inside, Milo.”

  Once inside, the man walked Milo into a room with many fancy, hand-crafted chairs made of dark wood. The walls were a cream color, and much of the room’s decorations in dark complimenting shades, all lit by a fire in the fireplace. In the center of the room on the floor there lay a large lion skin rug. “Not the,” he said.

  Milo sputtered a question, “Sorry, what?”

  “Not the.”

  Milo wasn’t getting it. “Not what?”

  “You said the ally. I’m an ally. Abraham has many.”

  Milo stood. “Oh,” he said, “right.”

  “Sit in which ever chair you like,” said the man, “I will be back in just a moment.” Milo sat down in a chair close to the fireplace. It wasn't a long wait, for the man came back in just moments. “My name is Riddley,” he said.

  “It's nice to meet you, Riddley,” said Milo. The old man named Riddley sat down in a chair near him.

  “You are welcome to stay here for as long as you like,” Riddley said. He almost seemed like he was on the brink of stuttering with his next statement. “I assume you know, then?”

  Milo believed he knew what Riddley spoke of. “Know what?” He said.

  Riddley had drawn a blank expression for a moment, then said, “About the doctors,” he paused.

  Milo was wrong. The fire cracked loudly. He was noticing every sound in the room, for he had a dreadful premonition of what he would hear from this man’s voice. It was a fire. Riddley said, “Salem is in ashes.”

  “I know.” Dread. “Lyrah told me.” More dread.

  “Who?” Riddley was shot with curiosity at the mention of the name.

  “A friend of mine,” Milo said, drawing his gaze to the fire, “She told me that there was danger in Salem.”

  “Ah,” said Riddley, beginning to fidget in his chair. “So who sent you? It was Abraham who sent me the letter, a notice saying that you would arrive.”

  “Yes, it was Abraham who sent me,” said Milo.

  “Ah,” said Riddley, “Well, sorry for the strangeness of all this. Would you like some tea?”

  “Sure,” Milo said. Dread.

  “I’ve just had a long day.” Riddley began to walk into the other room.

  “Riddley?”

  “Yes, Milo?” He asked, stopping but not turning.

  “Do you live here alone?” Asked Milo. Riddley shot him a sort of confused look.

  “Why, of course,” he said. “There are no other chariots here. Why do you ask?”

  Milo was hesitant to answer. “Never mind.” Riddley began to walk back into the room.

  “Milo,” he said, “There is no reason to keep things hidden in this house, even the silliest of things. Whatever it is, I’m sure you can tell me.”

  “It’s just that I heard voices coming from inside the house, wh
en I was outside.” Riddley still had a blank expression. “There were three voices coming from the inside, but you are the only one here.”

  “Ah,” said Riddley, “Well, that is strange. Did you hear what the voices were saying?”

  “Just one thing,” said Milo. “One of them said, ‘number seven’ and then there was laughter from two people.” Riddley looked very puzzled.

  “Well,” he said, “Sorry, Milo, but I don’t have any explanation. But I will keep my ears open, I guess.”

  -----

  “We know everything we know because we found it all left behind. They kept records, manuals, & journals – everything, in books. There must have been a sort of advancement past that at some point because the numbers of those books thinned out drastically in the later times.” Riddley’s voice was clear.

  “Do you mean the metal men?” Milo asked.

  “Yes, the dreaded machines could have been a large part of that advancement.”

  “Who created them?”

  “Who created them? I wouldn’t know,” Riddley approached his chair. “Whomever it was must have had a strong relation with Sir Magnus Ezler.”

  “Magnus Ezler?” Milo didn’t like tea, but having it his hands made him feel less empty. The dread hadn’t gone away.

  “He had an 85% ownership of the codex label P.W.R.”

  “Sorry Riddley,” said Milo, “I don’t know much about –”

  “It’s a title for a government owned program. There were 35 projects, I believe.”

  “Government owned? Which government?”

  “That’s just it. It was a combined effort of all of them. Even though only a select few from each party were a part of it.”

  “And this person had 85% of it. How do you own a program?” Milo asked. He set down his tea. It was cold. Curious how he knows so much about a secret codex.

  Riddley sat down. “It just wasn’t like other programs.”

  “You said there were 35 projects. What were they?”

  “I have strong reason to believe the metal men were a part of it; as at least one of those projects. I only know a real bit about one. The rest are a complete mystery to me.” Riddley sipped his tea. He swallowed, unveiling a face of disgust. His tea must have been cold too. There was a tide of not silence but of question.