Deadly Awakening

by G. K. Lund

  I furrowed the brows at this. “Don’t people always look at people?”

  Peter’s mouth hung open a second before he closed it. “Just… never mind.” He glanced back at the building behind us, now a large concrete construction. There was still an apartment there, though the street had been elevated a couple of feet. There were steps leading down there now, and from what I could see, better lighting inside. I sighed. Such grief and pain. You’d think it would ripple through time. But it was all forgotten now.

  “Why did you stop here?” Peter asked. “Do you remember something?”

  I pressed the lips together and slowly shook the head. “Just a car accident.”

  “Oh… shit. I’m sorry.”

  Doesn’t matter now. It’s forgotten anyway.”

  “Hey, don’t say that. It might not be a good memory exactly, but that does not mean it doesn’t matter.”

  His bearded face radiated sincerity as he looked at me. He believed what he was saying. I didn’t doubt that, so I nodded. “Maybe you’re right.”

  “Of course I am. Now come on, let’s go and see if the archivists can help. And don’t leave me talking to myself like an idiot again.”

  Chapter 18

  “Oh, for sure,” the young woman called Annie told Peter as she smiled up at him.

  “Really?” Peter looked like he didn’t quite believe her. We, or maybe mostly him, I had to concede that, had been looking and looking for Father Moreau, and now it seemed we should have come here all along.

  “Mm-hmm,” Annie confirmed, eyes on her computer screen now. “I just need to finish this first. You can wait if you have the time—”

  “Yes,” I confirmed before Peter could excuse us. This was too important to me. I didn’t want to go back to the apartment and wait for an e-mail. In any case, she was less likely to forget us if we stuck around.

  “Okay then,” Annie smiled, her eyes as well. I guess she was genuinely polite. I glanced around the spacious building we were in. Large parts of the façade were glass, as was the interior. The Ashdale Archives and Library was in fact quite impressive. The two institutions were separated by a glass wall that seemed to go straight through the domed building. It was a mix of old and new. Paintings in the ceilings, the glass letting the sun in to light up the place. Still, I could see an immense number of bookshelves in the other half of the building somewhat shaded from direct sunlight. The sight was still impressive though. There were also a lot of people in there, reading, searching, working, or playing games and listening to music. A new thing, I knew, but they seemed immersed.

  The other half of the building constituted the city archives, but the area was less crowded. There was an impressive and large reception area where we had found Annie, as well as workstations readily available. Offices took up a lot of space above us, like small cubicles in different shades of white where they popped out of the wall. It gave the impression of a one-sided 3D chessboard mounted up there. The whole thing was new but had been built on the site of the old library. It was also, despite every other sizeable cultural institution situated in Curtain Fields, placed in Harrow on the south side of the river. No one knew why, according to Peter. Seemed to me like the city was built by people with specific plans and dreams that had subsequently forgotten what they were doing and why. As I wandered around aimlessly I felt the body shake a little. I stopped and looked at the left hand. Yes, definitely shaking. What were all these signs? I glanced at the reflection the body gave off in the large glass wall and thought the human vessel had gotten a little thinner than when I first woke up by the river. It didn’t matter though. Hopefully, the archivist could help us so I could leave. What did all these little tremors and weird sensations matter if I were not occupying the thing?

  As I glanced into the library again I noticed a man and a woman arguing at the front desk near the entrance to that half of the building. I couldn’t hear anything through the glass wall of course, but the way they kept flailing their arms to emphasize their words was quite the indicator. For some reason, the sun had vanished and given way to rain outside. That had happened quick, I thought as I noticed people around the two backing away. Whatever the man was saying, he was saying it loud. The woman he was arguing with was about to do the same, but he made a movement that made her freeze. She stared at him with true fear now, not the annoyance she had begun with. As he was standing with his back to me, I couldn’t see what he did to cause this reaction, but it didn’t take long before it was revealed to me. Someone must have called the police the moment the man had started to cause a scene, because the sirens startled him and made him turn toward the entrance, revealing a knife in his hand. The blue lights flashing and reflecting against the glass sent him into a tirade of words shouted at the poor librarian who continued to stand still at the sight of the knife. She, naturally, became the recipient of his anger at the presence of the police. They soon ascended the stairs outside the library, a sight that made the man grab the librarian to use her as a shield. At the sight of the knife so near her, they wisely withdrew back down the steps. But the knife-man followed them, forcing the now crying librarian in front of him. She looked to be about thirty years his senior – early fifties was my guess – but she was smaller than the young man who was having such a bad reaction to whatever they had been arguing about in the first place.

  I walked along the glass wall as he moved toward the exit. Why was he going outside? What was wrong with him? Was it drugs? Was it something inside his head? Whatever it was it was not a reasonable reaction. I watched as he ordered the shaking woman to open the door in front of them. Watched as they walked outside where he remained on top of the stairs, shouting more words that I could not hear. They were not meant for me anyway. He shouted toward the officers who had taken up their positions behind their cars. As they realized he didn’t have a gun, a couple of them came a few steps forward to try and reason with him. Raised hands, palms out. Trying to calm him down. It only seemed to agitate him. His whole body-language screamed his annoyance at them. He was standing on his toes, an unyielding arm around the librarian. His eyes were wild and his lips pursed into a sneer as he waved the knife, though never far from the woman.

  More police cars approached outside, one of them a plain gray one, except for the blue lights. An all too familiar face belonged to the cop that exited that vehicle. I felt unease at the sight of the dark-haired detective as she moved over to the other cops already there. They left the talking to the officer who had already begun communicating with the knife-man. Likely, none of the others would have any luck. The knife-man was beyond reasoning. I understood how this would end. Then I looked at Jones and uncertainty hit. Her? Here? I glanced around and noticed that no one in the archives was reacting. How were they not noticing the spectacle right outside their own door?

  Not now.

  The eyes sought back to Jones again. It was a subtle difference, but her hair was a couple of inches longer than when I last saw her in the coffee shop. This wasn’t now – which meant I was right. This would end for someone, and the eyes sought out the knife-man this time as the pressure raced from the neck to the head. The officer at the bottom of the steps said something that became the final straw for the deranged man. Quick as a snake he moved his hand and stabbed the woman, her scream of terror sounding even from where I stood. The pain and shock made her knees buckle and as she fell, a shot sounded. My eyes had been on the man the whole time. I saw the impact of the bullet in his chest. Saw him staggering backward a few steps as his angry face contorted into shock. He stared at the officer like he couldn’t believe he’d actually pulled his weapon. Like he could not understand why.

  As he fell down, blood pouring down his shirt, the librarian got to her feet as she touched her side, still in shock at being stabbed. The man had hit one of her ribs. It would hurt, but it would not kill her.

  And then the stairs swarmed with cops as they ran up, some tending to the librarian, others to the dead man, checking that
that was indeed the case, others ran into the building. And back at the stairs, behind all this, stood the officer, gun in his lowered hand as he stared ahead with blank eyes, the rain soaking him as he didn’t care. You didn’t need to be an expert on human behavior to see that he had never shot anyone before. Behind him, Detective Jones approached as she holstered her gun under her jacket. I saw her put a hand on the officer’s shoulder as she said something to him. An oddly kind gesture from her, I thought. She came off as distant and guarded, not one to showcase her sympathies, but not in this moment. The officer nodded without looking at her and holstered his own weapon before everything faded in front of me, and the shivers and cravings of the body made themselves known. I wasn’t sure I wanted to see such a side of the woman who wanted me behind bars, and I needed to sit down.

  I walked over to Peter who had retreated to a couch by a table filled with newspapers and sat down there as well. I noticed that helped with the shaking, and there were no more sights of people dying in front of me. Did I need a break? I sure got a long one as we remained there for the better part of an hour. Peter and his newspapers made the time tick by, but I had no interest in that. I only stared around me, taking in people and their doings in a half-blind stare, seeing all and nothing. When Annie finally showed up, I jerked upright and realized I had almost fallen asleep.

  “Hey, guys,” she said, waving a piece of paper at us. “This wasn’t easy.”

  “You found him?” I asked, standing up, looking at the paper like it was a delicious cup of coffee.

  “Well… kind of.” She looked uncertain. The sight made me feel uneasy. It construed the face into a grimace of half squinted eyes and a mouth that lifted into a weak sneer.

  “So, you’re looking for a guy named Clement Moreau, right?”

  “Yes,” Peter answered. “Father Clement Moreau.”

  Annie nodded, red curls dancing around her face. “I didn’t find any man by that name. At least not in our records. I think the priest you talked to was right about that.”

  “But you said you kind of found something,” I protested.

  “Yes. But it’s not a person.”

  “Then what?”

  “Everything that happens in this city is documented, and I’m surprised at the few traces of this, but it’s not like they could hide it completely.”

  “What do you mean?” Peter prompted, aware of my building impatience.

  “It’s not a person,” she repeated. “It’s a foundation, see?” She showed us the piece of paper, a copy of the original, the colors of a stamp in varying shades of gray and black. The eyes went to what she pointed at; The Father C. Moreau Memorial Foundation.

  A foundation? What did that mean?

  “Can you tell us anything about it?” I asked.

  Annie shook her head again. “Not much. I don’t think it’s very active. If it was, then we would have more information about it. The only thing I see on the paper except for the description of the foundation is who funds it.

  “And?”

  She pointed at the bottom of the text on the paper and said it out loud for us as well, “Winter Global Industries. I think you might have better luck finding your answers in Winterland.”

  Chapter 19

  As we got off the tram I immediately laid eyes on the four buildings that constituted what people called the Winter Fortress. Four almost blocky buildings stood close together around a park-like courtyard. The buildings were covered with smaller windows on the walls, and they were not the same height either. Likely the designer did not care much for symmetry. As with Charton, the citizens of Ashdale had also given this area a name – Winterland – after the Fortress and all the businesses that had grown up around it and in connection with it. Neither Charton nor Winterland would show up on any map though.

  “Are you sure about this?” Peter asked. He had been unusually silent on our way up there.

  “Yes. You’re not?”

  “Well, you were looking for a person, not a foundation.”

  “I didn’t know that, did I? It must have gotten mixed up in the head.”

  “Huh? Anyway. What’s your deal with a WGI foundation anyway?”

  I couldn’t answer that of course, and he knew it. Still, there was something wrong about this. I knew with certainty that I was looking for a person, not a foundation. I had heard someone addressing Moreau. That had been a memory of him. I was sure of it. This was not the same as the odd visions that had pressed themselves upon me. I had barely thought that though when the white buildings vanished before me. Not like I had blinked them away. It happened fast, but there was a brief moment where I could barely see them as they faded away to see through constructions, that then simply wasn’t there. Winterland had not been the first area in Ashdale to be settled, and I could see why, as the lush fields spread out before me. Grain and vegetables were being grown there, and except for a small shack, there was nothing else. Not until the forests further off, where the land grew uneven as it rose toward the low hills in the distance. I turned back and saw Ashdale, small and crowded around the river. There were for the most part small wooden houses with smoke rising from chimneys. People were no more than tiny dots as they milled around between the buildings.

  “Hold on, Mary. Gracie will be back with the doctor soon.”

  The voice broke through the natural sounds of nature and made me turn back, seeing a man and a woman to my right. They were dressed in gray and brown and blended well with the barley growing behind them and the reddish cabbage in front of them. The woman half sat, her skirts pushed up around her hips as the man knelt between her legs. The sound that escaped her next broke through the quiet sounds of nature. She clenched her teeth as she tried suppressing her own cries of pain. Sweat beaded her face and neck, and her black hair lay plastered to her forehead. As the contractions gave way, her breathing intensified and she leaned back a little.

  “The doctor won’t make it, and you know it,” she managed to say between sharp inhales and exhales. She turned out to be right as the cries of the baby made itself known after her next bout of contractions. The man, who was shaking from fear, lifted the new life to the woman’s breast and looked to be relieved despite their circumstances.

  “She’s beautiful, Tom,” the woman said through tears of joy. Then she stretched her neck and tried to look down herself above the infant. “How’s the bleeding now?” she asked.

  “No worse than before. Just hold on.”

  The woman looked at her baby and smiled. The child didn’t cry, but the small movements left no doubt it was alive. It didn’t take long before the new mother cried out in pain again. The child might be delivered and safe, but the birth was not done. It never would be.

  I shuddered as the now expected feeling in the head forced itself upon me – a prickling pressure, like blood returning to a deprived limb.

  I heard shouting far behind me as I watched the panic and confusion claim the man. He didn’t hear it over the woman’s cries.

  “What’s happening? She is born. Shouldn’t it stop?” The poor man seemed on the verge of panic. Only the lives in front of him kept him where he was despite his fear.

  “It’s the afterbirth,” the woman managed as she lay back and screamed as something tore inside her. It would be her last words, as the hemorrhaging caused too much blood to leave her body. I doubted she would have found any help in one of the small and cramped houses behind me. Here at least, she had the blue sky above her, and her child’s face next to her own.

  After that, the man’s choked sobs were all that could be heard. Any birds and animals were quiet from the woman’s screams. The child needed someone to wrap it to keep it warm, but as the world in front of me blurred again, I knew that it was its mother who was the only human that had died there that day.

  I realized I had stopped in my tracks as the world of Old Ben returned before me, but Peter had only moved a few steps. I hurried up and followed him in silence for a while as I mulled both
the sight of the dying woman and the connection to the foundation over in the privacy of the head. That woman’s death had been painful on many levels, but not meaningless. Was my search for Moreau going to end up pointless? No need to bother Peter with it, and he seemed to know the way anyway. The second tallest building was where we found the main entrance, wide and welcoming. We came into an open lobby that reminded me of the city archives. Instead of the white cubicles, there were massive stairs that led up into the building from the reception area. Behind the stairs were the elevators. Apparently, the old-fashioned way of getting up and down was the dominating feature here.

  “There’s George,” Peter said and headed for the front desk, a large white counter that almost covered half the ground floor. There were several people seated behind it, dealing with people that came and went all the time. I followed him in the direction of a blond woman, about Peter’s age I reckoned. Her hair hung in neat curls down to her shoulders and she had large blue eyes that smiled before her lips had time to follow up as she saw him.

  “George is a woman?” I asked.

  “Georgette, but don’t call her that. She doesn’t like it.”

  I was not going to get on the bad side of anyone that could help me, so I kept silent as we reached her. It had gotten my hopes up when Peter had mentioned he knew someone who worked in the Fortress but seeing her smile with such joy at him had to be a better sign.

  “Hey, Peter,” she greeted him and looked at me with some recognition. “Ben, is it? I think we met at Ron’s party a few months back.”

  “Um… sure,” I responded to this, but still managing to show I didn’t recognize her.

  “He was drunk that night, George. Don’t think he remembers much of it.”

  “He wasn’t the only one,” she laughed and took off her headset.

  “What brings you all the way up here?”

  I listened as Peter laid our search out for her, showing her the paper copy we had been given by the archivist.