Project Northwoods

by Jonathan Charles Bruce

  “I have my goals, don’t worry.” She knelt down to her and took out another device, similar to their own hand-held optical scanners, and leveled it at the Enforcer’s eye. After hitting a button and checking the resulting data, Catalina looked disappointed. “Waste of time,” she determined. She gave Krashaunta a faux-sympathetic pat on the cheek. She straightened and strolled over to Geoff as he struggled to rise. In response, Catalina kicked him over onto his back and stomped on his throat. “Hold still,” she commanded playfully. She held the device over him, watching the screen. She smiled widely. “Why, hello, Geoffrey Davenport.”

  She put the device back into a pocket and took her pistol out again. When she trained it on his face, Krashaunta realized with horror that the gun was probably loaded with real bullets. It had to be the case… Catalina’s behavior wouldn’t make sense otherwise. “Fuck you, degenerate,” Geoff managed to spit out, interrupting her thought process.

  “No, you’re the one who’s going to get fucked,” she said, in an almost sing-song manner.

  “Catalina, what are you doing?” someone said. Krashaunta watched as a man in black, wearing body armor similar to the mobster’s, entered into the room, blowing past Catalina and Geoff. “No casualties, remember?” He swung a computer bag from his back off his shoulders and set up a laptop on the desk. “Being declared rogue won’t help anyone.” He didn’t notice Catalina’s twitching sneer as she fought to not pull the trigger. She holstered her pistol and kicked Geoff hard enough across the face to knock him unconscious.

  “Rubber bullets don’t usually kill, Art,” she said, kneeling by the downed guard and rolling him over. “You panic too easily.” As she zip-tied his hands together, Krashaunta watched her smiling as she worked. Either Art didn’t know that she was lying or didn’t care: she was certain that there was no possible way that gun was loaded with non-lethal rounds.

  The laptop winked and a blue iris swirled into position in the center of the screen. He began to remove cables and connect them to the computer. Krashaunta’s heart quickened. “What are you doing?” She struggled to her side, agony flowing its way up her leg. “If you try to mess with the security…”

  Catalina was over her, pressing down on her broken leg with the muzzle of her gun. Krashaunta gritted her teeth and grunted in pain as the world went white. “I’m sorry, did you say something?” the mobster asked.

  “That’s enough, Catalina.” Art grunted. “How’d she get like that?”

  Catalina looked up at him, trying to look blameless. “She ran into a doorknob.”

  “Are we set up?” a woman asked. In the doorway, Talia Illyanovich appeared. If Krashaunta had been capable of rolling her eyes in exasperation at the who’s who of villainy that had just wandered in, she would have. If she had been saddled with anyone other than Geoff… maybe, maybe she could have arrested them. The thought quickly faded as Catalina nudged her in the leg with her boot, aggravating her injury.

  “Almost,” Art said.

  “I am excited. Or at least, I would be if I could be,” the computer said. Wait… what? “I am curious as to the outcome of our experiment. Is that excitement?” No computer talks like that. Not even the Guild’s creepy computer.

  “Yeah, Mollie. Close enough.” He connected the last of the wires, grabbed the laptop, then headed to the back of the room. One-handed, he yanked open the door to where the bulk of the security computer was contained. It was a large enough enclosure to house three people, if those people were comfortable with their faces wedged together next to a hot plastic surface. The hum of the components was startlingly loud, if only because the door had muffled them so well. “Talia, after you.”

  She squeezed into the space before he followed. He knelt on the floor, a USB cord in his hand. “Ready?” she asked.

  Krashaunta focused long enough to shout, “Don’t do this! It’ll… it’ll blow the system…”

  “No it won’t,” Art said.

  “Yes, it will!” She was almost crying now, not because of the pain, but because of the looming specter of death. She really did not want to die in what amounted to a glorified shack. “Dark Saint designed this place…” she started.

  “Dark Saint stole the plans from me.” Art’s voice was surprisingly strong, despite having a note of fear in it. “I’m taking this place back from that miserable bastard.”

  She didn’t say anything to that. He must be crazy. Or brave. Or incredibly stupid. How could a villain have designed this prison? Why would a hero have built it? It didn’t make any sense to her. Then again, she was having trouble focusing as Catalina made every effort to brush up against her wounded leg.

  “In three…” Talia began. “Two…” The pause was a bit longer than normal. “One.”

  Nothing happened. Nothing continued to happen for several moments. Krashaunta was bracing for the sudden jolt of pain which would end her existence, but nothing came. It seemed to stretch into infinity. Days could have passed for all she knew. Even the hum of the computer seemed to fade away into nothing. Catalina moved away from her and toward the computer room.

  “Nothing seems to be happening,” she whispered to Art.

  He nodded, sweat beading on his head. “Give it time.”

  Catalina straightened, then went to check on Geoff. She dragged the body next to Krashaunta, then grabbed her and twisted her around until her back was to the wall. She didn’t squeal in pain for fear of distracting the woman who was juggling the equivalent of a lightning bolt one-handed. The mobster grabbed Krashaunta’s face and yanked her head up. Catalina leaned in close to her ear, close enough to hear the wet snap of her lips as they parted. “Your partner is going to be dead by morning.” She leaned back and smiled, aimed her gun at Geoff, brought the weapon vertically to her lips, and gave a gentle shush.

  “First system is down,” Talia said, strained. Her voice pulled Catalina’s attention away from torturing her captives as Art fiddled with the cables. Krashaunta could hardly believe how unreservedly psychotic the mobster was, but she was grateful that the others could distract her before her homicidal tendencies got the better of her.

  More time passed. Catalina leaned on the counter Krashaunta had her feet on earlier, back when the world seemed normal. The mobster stared at her, cold and hungry. It seemed to be only a matter of time before whatever they were doing was no longer going to stop her from pulling the trigger… or worse.

  “Second… and third systems… down…” grunted Talia after what seemed like an eternity of staring into the eyes of a killer.

  “Don’t get fancy, Talia,” Art said in a soothing, albeit warning, tone.

  More time passed. Krashaunta wished she could see the clock, or at least work up the courage to check her watch, but something about Catalina made her doubt she’d be supportive of such curiosity.

  “Fourth system down,” Talia grunted. The way it was said was so quick, so utterly forced that it sounded like it was squeezed out. The room seemed to increase exponentially in temperature. Krashaunta was beginning to feel sick, a sensation infinitely more welcome than the pain which would ebb away only to return more violently than before. “Central system!” Talia shouted. “Central system!”

  “Get out, get out!” Art commanded. Krashaunta couldn’t see what was going on, but she could hear Talia gasping for breath. She started to cough. “Gotta quit smoking, girl.”

  “Tell… tell me about it…” she heaved.

  “We good, Art?” Catalina asked.

  He nodded and brought his hand up to his earpiece. “Mollie, raise the gate.”

  The urge to pass out was working its way through the Enforcer’s head. The heat, her leg, the hum of the computer… everything was convincing her to let the world go and spin out of control. It would be safer, even if it meant leaving herself unconscious in front of a mobster with a severe case of bloodlust.

  She saw Catalina’s hand shoot up to her ear. The mobster nodded. “You heard her, Arthur.” She looked at Art, then b
ack at Krashaunta. Pushing herself off the counter, the mobster was quickly hovering over her. For a moment, she looked like she was reaching for her gun, but she pulled out a zip-tie instead. She pulled the Enforcer forward and pinned her hands together before shoving her back. Catalina got to her feet and walked to the exit, making sure to slam her boot into the unconscious Geoff before leaving.

  It was like Krashaunta’s body had been waiting for this moment. The lights faded comfortably. The shadows that were no doubt Talia and Art headed for the door. And, in the distance, growing smaller, the shapes of others marched past the door as the rumble of vehicles fell away, toward the one thing that she was supposed to protect. But it didn’t matter. All that mattered was the sweet release of oblivion.

  The others would stop them.

  “Guard!” the irritating man in the next cell shouted, his strangely familiar voice echoing in the darkness. “Water! Thirsty!” He clanged a cup against his reinforced cell bars. “Sick man!” Ariana had been listening to him shouting for hours, literally hours, on as diverse of topics as politics, movies, if they knew who he was, books he read, and his pet dog Bark Bark, which she suspected may not actually be a thing. The other inmates had long since stopped trying to shout him down, namely because this had been the third straight day his antics had denied them access to the outer yard.

  Since that would be the only time they could kill him and get some peace, Ariana suspected the prisoners had decided on letting him wear himself out.

  She rolled over onto her bed. For a cell, it was pleasant enough. It was about the size of a small dorm room. There was even a half-wall hiding the toilet, which mostly muffled the outside world while keeping away the creeps.

  When they were given the opportunity to stretch their legs, entirely within the prison thanks to the dick in the next cell, she was quickly dismayed to discover only an endless sea of Tier One and Two Bestowed milling about and talking amongst themselves about what was going on and just who was screwing who. It shocked Ariana that so many people had adjusted to life in here. Few were those who were like her, looking for loved ones lost on that chaotic night.

  Most treated their incarceration like it was just a small break from their humdrum lives, visiting the small library or gathering around the handful of televisions. Others almost gleefully went about the errands the Enforcers had meted out to those who asked, making the Fortress take on the appearance of a primitive city. Ari watched them with bemusement, villains working for heroes in order to achieve some sense of normalcy. Then, of course, there were those who met on the upper levels to discuss potential escape attempts or engage in the intensely profitable prison black market.

  It had been on the upper level when, looking for information, an older inmate had offered her some consolation. “Beats actual prison.” He gestured to a scar on his face, the pale skin jagged and harsh from the top of his head down to his throat. “Back in the eighties, I tell you what, the regular criminal element would gang up to eat you alive.” Ariana made sure to give that particular loner a much wider berth after that conversation.

  Several inmates had tried that first tumultuous night to initiate a riot while the cells were being divvied up, some with single occupants and others with up to five people sharing the space. Although outnumbered, the Enforcers proved themselves a useful deterrent against future attempts at insurrection. Trouble makers were dealt with quickly and relatively fairly. In no uncertain terms, proper behavior was necessary, and even though the Enforcer presence dropped drastically from the first night, the villains just knew better than to start something.

  Even with the relative absence of guards, Ariana was not content to wait around. She had asked numerous guards about Tim, about her father, and had been made several empty promises to see both of them. Her imagination ran wild, forcing her to envision countless scenarios where they had attempted to stop the heroes from taking them away. Each would end with both of them dead and forgotten while she continued to waste time in what amounted to the world’s worst day spa.

  The knot in her stomach grew worse. What are they keeping us here for? The seemingly endless rows of cells, the occasional weary guards patrolling… what conspiracy did they uncover that justified such a thorough sweep of villain New York?

  “Ah, good man, good man!” shouted the irritating human vermin from the next cell. “I’d like a Scotch, please, no ice. Make it snappy and there’s a tip in it for you.”

  “Shut up, Marsh,” came the authoritarian voice of a guard. Immediately, Ariana’s stomach clenched even tighter. The Enforcer approaching after lockdown meant only one thing. When the bulky man appeared in front of her cell, Ariana immediately stood up and walked to the bars. She poked her hands through the hole to be zip-tied. He was grizzled, old, and very tired, but moved with the speed and certainty of a young man. He looked at her, cocking an eyebrow as he removed a tie from his utility belt. “Really? You think you’re that much of a threat?”

  She impatiently jiggled her hands in an effort to get him to hurry up. She looked at the top of his head as he pinned her hands together. He wasn’t a particularly nice guard with his ludicrous mix of unabashed dickishness and sexism, which is why it was imperative she was seen being treated no differently. She had seen enough of Tim’s prison shows to know that if the guards liked you, no one else did. Once secured, Ariana stepped backward and showed the Enforcer that her hands were, indeed, restrained. “I’m not going anywhere.”

  He swiped his ID card through an unseen electronic reader next to her cell. It beeped pleasantly just before the latch released and, with a hiss of a pressure lock, the door opened. She stepped out and turned in the direction she was always forced to march.

  Ariana took the opportunity to finally sneak a look at the man in the cell next to her. For once, he wasn’t sulking out of sight, but leaning against the bars, his arms woven through the gaps. His dirty, unshaven face looked undeniably handsome in a rakish way despite his swollen nose, and he followed her movements with a pair of shining brown eyes. He smiled when they made eye contact, and with a pang of shock she recognized him immediately, snapping her attention forward in an effort to process the sight of Weston Marsh behind bars.

  They passed by numerous cells, far too many to count. Villains on their beds would adjust to look at her with fatigue. Others glared from the floor of their cells as she passed. A mother in one cell was holding a young child, rocking him back and forth. She was worn down, barely registering that anything was going on outside her new home. Sometimes the cells would have posters on the wall, remnants of a life on the outside whenever a villain had managed to stuff some sentimental art into their duffel bag before being brought here.

  They were finally nearing the guard station, the combination break room and security station that served as the gateway into the rest of the facility. Ariana imagined the freedom which lay beyond the walls, the freedom of knowing that the two men she cared about were safe and just around the corner.

  “Ariana!” a rowdy, British voice beckoned, snapping her from her daydream. She turned to look at Jack Cleese, the older man sitting in an arm chair somehow squeezed into his cell. His confinement was purely that in name only: he had more books, art, and entertainment than anyone else in here. She suspected that he had bribed those who had come to arrest him to let him take as much stuff as possible. He was still dressed impeccably in a grey suit and tie, smiling with a semi-glazed sheen in his eyes, undoubtedly from a bottle of scotch he had sequestered in one of his trunks.

  He pushed himself off the chair and strolled to the bars. She turned to her escort and smiled politely. “May I talk to Spitfire?”

  The Enforcer let out a derisive cough. “Yeah, if we go back forty years.” With a dismissive wave of his hand, he motioned Ariana to Cleese’s cell. “Make it quick.”

  She walked toward Jack, who had taken to hanging out the cell door like Marsh had done earlier. With a smile, he turned his head to the side, presenting his cheek which s
he kissed. “Thanks for helping me.”

  “I can’t say no to a beautiful lady.” He smiled. “Besides, your family has helped me numerous times.” His eyes flicked behind her as the Enforcer impatiently tapped his watchless wrist. “The help is getting restless. There’s no word from anyone regarding young Timothy.”

  “Shit,” she said, fighting the urge to put her fingers to her temple, if only because it would mean slapping herself in the face with both wrists. “Shit.” Ariana turned away, her heart aching.

  “Stiff upper lip, Ariana.” He reached up to put his hand on her cheek.

  The Enforcer stepped forward and unhooked the baton from his belt. He smashed it on the bars. “That’s enough fraternizing after hours, Jack.” He grabbed Ariana’s arm roughly and shoved her away from the cell while glaring at the man behind bars. “Sit your ass back down.” Cleese did as he was told, smirking the whole time in the Enforcer’s direction. The guard grabbed Ariana again and shoved her in front of him. “Let’s go.”

  “Your father is in D-Wing!” Cleese shouted from his cell. Ariana turned to run back, but was stopped. “He’s in a sleep chamber, but he’s alright!”

  “Shut up, Jack!” The Enforcer shoved Ariana forward and toward the guard station. “Don’t you dare encourage him, Brown.” He stepped toward the door and swiped his card. The electronic lock clicked, and he shoved the door open. Impatiently, he shoved Ariana in and secured them inside. “From the sound of it, your old man is fine,” the Enforcer said impatiently. “Now, make with the goods.” He sat on a nearby chair, kicked up his legs onto the folding table which served as a communal lunch station, and grabbed a magazine.

  Ariana was shaking as she reached for the coffee pot. The nightly custom had become second nature, and she let muscle memory push through most of the actions. Her mind was put somewhat at ease with the thought of her father being held in the same facility, even if it was in a sleep chamber. She had heard horror stories about the dreams the cells gave people, enough to make her stop paying attention to the water gushing from the faucet and into the now-full glass carafe.