Project Northwoods

by Jonathan Charles Bruce

  Although she didn’t recognize the place, she was confident she was no longer in the Fortress. It was a cold comfort at best, especially since she felt there should have been more wounded. Quietly, she pivoted on the cot, swinging her feet over the edge and stepping onto the floor. Her thin socks provided no protection from the freezing stone floor, but she couldn’t just stay put. With the same effort that it took to dive into frigid water, she put her whole weight on her feet and carefully, shakily made her way to the covered body.

  Having reached the prone form, Ariana’s resolve waned. Her hands began to shake as they moved up and over the sheet. Horrible images flashed into her head as she prepared to yank the shroud away.

  Her father, pale and gaunt in a death mask, kindly face contorted to reflect his final moments of agony.

  Tim, no longer smiling but eyes vacant and dead, staring up at her, judging her for not being there when he needed her.

  Jack Cleese, family friend and now another for the Browns to mourn.

  Arthur… dorky, good-for-nothing, cowardly Arthur who never deserved how cruel she had been to him.

  She almost considered snickering at her sudden sympathy. But no matter how dark her humor, there was nothing she could find even remotely comedic about what she had to do. She had to know, even though every bone in her body screamed for her to just walk away. Her fingers curled around the sheet, tightly, to the point where it burned her palm just holding it. And, with a final yank, it was off.

  A mobster stared up, her blank brown eyes framed by curly blond hair. The cot was sticky with her blood, as the damp red bandages had failed to stem the flow from various wounds. A ragged chunk of her neck had proven too tough to be stopped by gauze, and numerous bullet holes in her chest had been cauterized while others remained untouched. Her lower body had been badly burned beyond hope, the suit actually looking like it had bonded to her flesh.

  Ariana felt the nothing in her stomach work its way up. She gagged, collapsing to the floor. The second the sickness passed, she felt a similar wave of guilt tear into her. She had wished it was anyone other than those she knew who had died, and that wish had been granted long before she made it. The woman on the table, looking barely out of her teens, had not deserved that fate. She had an urge to laugh, to offer up Arthur on the table with a jest even after she wanted him spared…

  This… is not a pleasant sensation… guilt, pain, and worrying all rolled into one…

  She forced herself up again, using the edge of a bed as leverage. Once standing, she turned to leave as quickly as she could, but stopped on the way out. Attacked again by guilt, she squeezed her eyes shut, forcing out a tear, and turned to the dead mobster, kneeling to the floor to pick up the death shroud. She sniffed back more tears and brought the sheet to a rest on the body, pulling it off the girl’s face when it came down. Ariana reached up and shut the mobster’s eyes.

  “I’m so sorry this happened to you.” Her words were so quiet that she was barely sure she said them. Not that it mattered. Dead people tended not to be the best listeners.

  The hallway was just as cold as the makeshift emergency room. The lights on the wall were dim but offered enough luminescence to make walking along the debris-strewn path less of a peril than it could have been. In the time it took for her eyes to readjust to the light, she realized how well-built the location was. The debris in her way was not from crumbling architecture but human refuse dragged inside: wires, duffel bags, tools, empty food containers. Her hand touched the wall and felt the faintest tremble of pulsing waves, the same kind of rumble a passing train would give. It faded from the already minute tremor when she reached an intersection with a sign dangling from the ceiling. The path to her right led to the ‘Grand Hall/Central Platform’ while the ‘Kitchen’ lay in front of her.

  She was in an old, underground hotel, built during the brief period when the subway system in New York City was considered the newest hot spot of entertainment and high living. Arthur had blabbed about it endlessly for a period of about six weeks, determined to get a portion of it uncondemned and turned into a home base for his villainous plans. She vaguely remembered talk of making her his second-in-command for some reason, but the thought of that made her head pound worse than before.

  Ariana figured that if anyone else was here, they’d be in the main hall, or whatever it was called. She made her way down the corridor, passing a few maintenance tunnels and small stairwells labeled for the staff which had long since ceased to tend to the needs of a clientele that had retreated back to the surface.

  The silence ended as voices wafted through the hall, growing louder and more defined as she proceeded. Before the sounds gained a recognizable meaning, they developed caustic tinges to the sharper notes, melding together in a chorus of anger. By the time she reached the double-doors to the main hall, the agitated sound was a dull roar which threatened to overtake her senses. She pressed her hand on the latch as she attempted to peer through the filthy window set three-quarters of the way up the door.

  Unable to get a sense of where she’d be, she inhaled and pushed the door open. The wall of sound was intense, but she stepped into the waiting chamber. She was on a balcony in the middle of a continuous flight of stairs which went up one level to her left and down one to her right. A stage was to her right, but devoid of occupants. Instead, in front of the stage, a mass of people, all shouting, were swarming the area where tables and chairs should have been. Several arguments involved aggressive pushing in an effort to punctuate their statements.

  “Nowhere in the United States will be safe! We have to get to Europe!” It was a very vocally strong female. Catalina.

  “They’ll be shutting down ports. There’s no point,” a calm but assertive voice said, the sound of which made Ariana softly cry out in relief. She looked through the crowd, trying to find her father or Catalina. Sure enough, they were close enough to shout clearly at one another. Ariana made her way down the steps, entering the fray.

  “We can’t leave, no one will believe us!”

  “Why did you do this to us? They were letting us live!”

  “You call that living?”

  “I haven’t seen Joel! Where is my son?”

  The voices were merging together, becoming more and more ferocious as she forced her way through the throng of people. So many arguments… about whether to escape or fight, to turn themselves back in, to go into hiding, whether anyone had seen their son or daughter or father or mother… so many lost. And then she heard another voice, twisting her head at the sound.

  “Allison, you can’t be serious. We don’t have enough food…” It was Arthur, and despite herself, her heart leapt. Two for three.

  “We can make raids on the surface at night.” Allison had chosen the same tone one would use toward an exceptionally stupid cat dangling from a tree and unable to fight back. She took her finger and pushed squarely against his forehead. Arthur tried to snatch it and missed.

  Ariana was still drifting toward the stage, pushing her way through villains. She was aiming toward people’s backs, hoping not to interrupt someone’s inevitable punch with her own face. She made it without incident, hoisted herself up, and turned, scanning the tops of people’s heads. Her lips curled upwards, expectant, and she couldn’t help but bounce in place. “Come on, Tim… don’t let me down.” She momentarily reasoned that it would have made more sense to stay on the landing when looking at the crowd, but she had to stick with her decision. Besides, this way Tim could see her here, come running across the stage, and grab hold of her and never let her go.

  She didn’t know how long she was standing there, staring at the crowd while waiting for the curly, dusty blond hair to show itself. A few false positives were put down, but she didn’t give up hope.

  “Ari?” Her father approached her from her right. She looked at him and smiled, running forward to hug him.

  “Daddy…”

  “You should be in bed,” he said simply. “You need your stren
gth.”

  She released him, smiling widely. “I needed to know you were alright.” Her eyes flashed across the crowd again. “Where’s Tim? Is he still helping people?”

  “I don’t know, Ariana.” His tone was impatient, but she couldn’t bring herself to care. Tim was probably making sure the kids were taken care of. He was so good with kids. “But you need to…”

  “Ari?” The voice, on her left, came from Arthur. Not who she was expecting, but still… it thrilled her just to be able to hear his voice again. She turned to him, not caring that tears were welling up in her eyes. Her smile trembled.

  “Arthur…” She didn’t know what to do. A hug? Just plant a kiss on the stupid jackass? So many ideas flashed in her head, ranging from good to outright silly, but they were there, making her throw her hands up in confusion. She laughed. “I never thought I’d be so glad to see you.” And in that moment, for one brief second, she knew that she truly meant those words.

  But the shock at her own feelings faltered and then vanished when she noticed he wasn’t looking at her. He was retreating, inch by inch, away from her, his gaze long since stitched to the floor. His mouth was clamped shut as his throat worked dryly over and over. Her smile faded.

  “What?” she asked. He turned away from her further. Her heart felt like it simply stopped. She swallowed painfully as she folded her arms across her chest in an effort to keep from shivering. “Arthur Ashlie Lovelass…” He looked up at her, no doubt shocked to see that her expression was icy but indifferent. She took a step toward him, followed by another. He stayed motionless as another long stride cut the distance between them.

  The world had gone silent, but she didn’t care if that was because of the fear inside of her or because she was now a spectacle. She felt her father’s hand on her elbow. “Ari, please.” She yanked herself free as she took a final step.

  The sting of tears threatening to stream down her cheek was immense. But she couldn’t cry, not right now. Not when Arthur might see that weakness. She looked up at him, forcing him to look her in the eyes. She spoke quietly, almost in a whisper: “Where’s Tim?”

  The words ached between them. He swallowed, then opened his mouth. His lips trembled. “He…” He looked away for a second, then back at her.

  “Bullshit,” she said, shaking her head and backing away from him.

  “He was trying to…”

  “You’re lying!” The accusation was loud, fierce, and poisonous, tearing into her own heart just as she saw it rending his.

  “Ariana…” Her father again tried to stop her.

  “Don’t fucking touch me!” she turned and yelled. Tears ran down her face, hot and biting, but she couldn’t stop them. Her father seemed to become smaller, as though any resolve he may have had was wiped away by the roar. Ariana turned to Arthur. “You,” she snarled. “You let this happen!”

  “He died saving us!” Arthur shouted, trying to deflect blame. “He died saving you.”

  She closed the distance between them and swung at his face, the flat of her hand connecting with his jaw. The blow felt good, freeing, even if it did sting her palm. Arthur stumbled back from the force of it, emotionlessly. She looked at him, wanting him to swing at her, to hit her, to make her feel something other than how she felt. His eyes flitted toward her, almost welcoming her to take another swing by virtue of his helplessness.

  Fighting the urge to strike him again, she shook her head, trying to staunch the flow of tears. She stared straight into his eyes, locking them in place. “You killed him, Art.” Nodding, she took a step backward. “You.”

  Ariana turned away from him and shoved her way past her father. She couldn’t stay down there with all those eyes watching her as she lost her composure even more. By the time she cleared the stage, she was running. When she hit the exit to the Grand Hall, she was crying in great, heaving sobs.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  SHATTERED

  ARBITER SWEPT INTO HIS HEROES’ GUILD OFFICE, the early morning sun casting a faint glow into the spartan space. His heart was thundering, his every move carrying a shaking note of disbelief. Had he not witnessed the chaos first-hand, felt the blows, and watched as heroes died around him, it would have been almost impossible to believe. He had started to think that the system was working, that he had truly become outdated, unnecessary… but the ferocity of the villainous insurgency shocked him, even if he had mentally prepared for it.

  Just under one thousand Enforcers and Heroes had been wounded, and almost two hundred murdered. The Italian Mob and villains willing to take up arms had proven themselves capable guerrilla fighters, not that the cowardly tactics shocked anyone. The villains suffered worse losses according to the initial estimates sent his way: well over one thousand wounded combatants and a third as many killed; of those dead, most were rebelling inmates. Three quarters of the Italian Mob forces had been killed, while a mere handful were wounded and captured. The numbers were not even a cold comfort to Arbiter.

  He crossed to the window, surveying the buildings in the morning light. Claymore was mutilated, having lost a hand and foot. He had been saved in time, the wounds cauterized, but it would be several days for him to be fitted for suitable prosthetics. With Maelstrom dead, the ability to create bio-feedback appendages akin to Constantine’s relied on the dead doctor’s notes and surgeons willing to take the same risks.

  Constantine himself… Zealot… had proven his namesake apt. His allegiance to the heroic cause, even at the cost of the lives of the blight known as villains, had not faltered. So devoted to heroism… no, to me… that he struck down the meddlesome pest in the courtyard when he himself was unable… unwilling… to do so.

  “Try to bring him in alive,” he said to his protégé.

  Zealot had responded with a growl of anticipation. “I make no promises.”

  Constantine had defended his brethren when the order to use lethal force was given, and Claymore’s bravery in avenging an Enforcer’s murder showed his ability to kill when necessary. But Julia… she hadn’t. From all reports, Julia was still attempting to subdue rather than kill. When her compatriots were dying, she held fast to the system, to the notion that maybe there was something to salvage from the vermin.

  He couldn’t bring himself to condemn her.

  Nor could he even question her commitment to him, for she had proven herself time and time again.

  For heroes’ sake… what if she made the right choice? What if the vestigial allegiance she had to whatever university training had instilled in her made her more of a hero? His rhetoric was clear: those like her who cowered before their duty would have been eaten alive in any other age but this one, this bizarre parody of existence. Is she the sole member of my team capable of leading?

  He spun and brought a fist down on the table, ripping a chunk out of it. This was no time for indecision. An escape attempt had been thwarted. His call to arms had been answered by countless heroes, preventing many fleeing villains from breaking out. The deaths of heroes would galvanize them, reinvigorate his support for the cause. He may not have an endgame, but maybe that was it. No endgame. Silence the occasional villain uprising, but no more.

  A knock on the door brought his attention upward. He stood upright and shifted, feeling the bruises on his body continue to heal away. In some ways, they felt good, a reminder that, as gifted as he may be, he was still all too human.

  “Enter,” he commanded.

  The door creaked open, and the lanky silhouette of Archetype stood, backlit, in the doorframe. He bowed low, a curious relic of politeness that extended back to when they first met in the eighties. The slender man straightened and applauded in slow, loud bangs. “Congratulations are in order before business, Arbiter.”

  Arbiter felt the familiar tug on his brain whenever Archetype entered the room. The psychomancer’s gifts were useful, but that didn’t make them any less unsettling. He had always been wary of the interrogator’s talents, the mental tugging of a psychic probe a
constant reminder that his own thoughts weren’t safe. Years of discipline, more than many others could claim, had shut his mind down to such intrusions from all save for a few very powerful Bestowed.

  It was why Arbiter remained reticent around Archetype: even with Arbiter’s willpower, the other cool and detached hero would always reach into and tap parts of his mind. Whereas others felt nothing, he felt a curious and worming tendril in his head.

  “I am afraid you catch me at a disadvantage,” Arbiter grunted. He didn’t like small talk.

  Archetype smiled, his immaculate teeth shining even in the dim room. “I have seen the minds of others, High Consul. Voting members of the Guild.” He took long, swaggering strides into the room, flowing cape dancing after him aided, no doubt, by psychic prodding. His vanity was truly legendary. “There is speculation that you would be best to lead in these dark times.”

  “I already lead,” Arbiter chuffed. “In case you hadn’t noticed the debacle of the Fort.”

  His colleague bent slightly downward, offering his hands upward in a display of apology. “I mean no disrespect. But you are too hard on yourself.” He straightened. “Where you see failure, our fellow heroes see only strength. Foresight.” The tight-lipped smile that crossed his face was invigorating. “Decisive action against a violent foe hidden in plain sight.”

  Arbiter grew impatient with the rhetoric. “And?”

  “And…” Archetype trailed off as he took another long step toward Arbiter. He brought his hand up to gesture toward him. “They wish to make you High Consul… for life.”

  The words hit Arbiter, making his knees buckle. He hadn’t prepared himself for his heroes to rally around him so quickly… and so emphatically. Their support was equally unsettling. They were willing to have one man guide them and their decisions for the foreseeable future. He had saved them, acted preventatively in stopping a war which could have been far worse if the villains had remained outside the Fort walls, and uncovered evidence of a conspiracy which had fronds in the Heroes’ Guild itself… democracy be damned if there is one better suited than I.