Project Northwoods

by Jonathan Charles Bruce

  She offered a smile, trying to keep him unaware of the various secrets rolling around in her head. “Is everything alright?”

  “You should answer that,” he said. She turned away and walked toward the nearest stairwell. “I sensed distress in the…”

  “You sensed nothing. Sorry, bud.” Julia turned while she walked, trying to keep the conversation chummy. In retrospect, it was a bad idea; she had never behaved that way around him. She turned back around. “Just not thrilled with killing people.”

  He chuckled at the comment. “After what happened to your father…”

  She stopped, biting her lip in annoyance. “Is there a point to this?” She didn’t turn to face him, scared that doing so would open her up.

  His voice became less friendly. “I do not wish that your loyalty to Arbiter be further called into question.” The sentence was a warning, dripping with sinister intent. Julia’s hand twitched above the butt of her gun. He must have sensed the intent or merely seen the motion, but in an instant his hand was resting on her shoulder. It was cold and skeletal, and she immediately felt groggy. “What are you hiding?” The world was now warm and swimming around her, a familiar sensation that… she couldn’t quite place… but it was… inviting… “Child… you’re safe with me… tell me what troubles you.”

  Julia snapped into action and spun, knocking away Archetype’s hand. She felt queasy, but she was at least fully aware of herself. “You want to help someone, talk to Claymore.” No sooner than they were out of her mouth, Julia regretted the words. It had been automatic, a purely defensive response.

  Archetype’s face hardened to something approaching concern and something else… fear? Whatever it was, it was less welcomed by Julia than his earlier facade of clinical condescension. “What?”

  “Don’t worry about me,” she said, throwing her hands up in a gesture of casual indifference. “At least I know what I see is real.” She turned, back toward the stairwell. Archetype didn’t sound like he was following, which was fine. Only part of her felt guilty for selling out Claymore. The other part knew it was the only way to buy her time.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  THE HERMIT

  Less Than Nine Hours Until Midnight

  IF ARTHUR HAD ANY RESENTMENT OVER taking care of just one other person during his time with Stair, it immediately evaporated when trekking as a group of eleven. Although Zombress moved swiftly from rooftop to rooftop above them, the ten individuals on the street moved agonizingly slow through the villain zone. Their target was a luxury apartment building three blocks from a blockade that Jack Cleese had apparently owned the place for years. Without so much as an explanation, he offered that if Aeschylus was to be found, it would be there. Even after the world ended, Cleese’s flair for the dramatic was as constant as breathing air.

  Complicating matters, the SERAPHIM weren’t moving along established streets in their sweeps, like the Enforcers had. Instead, they travelled in unpredictable patterns, sending individuals down alleyways to cut off possible escape routes. It was apparently acceptable to potentially sacrifice one member to apprehend or kill any villain discovered. Since Arthur’s party had quintupled in size since the night before, slipping through cracks had been made almost impossible.

  That wasn’t even considering the fact that search drones would sweep the skies in slow, lazy arcs, belting off their message. In less than nine hours, all the villains left in the city had to surrender themselves. The threat of a final, apocalyptic action didn’t even need to be mentioned; the ‘or else’ was implied. The first time any of them heard it, worried glances fell upon one another before moving toward Colonel Morant, who glared at the metal monstrosities as they passed through the streets. Their progress was so slow that the method of evading the Drones became second nature: whenever they heard the speakers, the group scrambled into the nearest building they could get into until the thing cleared the street. They would then resume the trip, the intensity of their journey heightened yet again.

  The colonel and Agent Mast brought up the front, making their way through the streets as Weston Marsh and Steven made sure no one was following them. Ariana and Morgan were equally sullen as they marched wordlessly down the streets. Allison apparently had concealed a music player in her suit, and was bobbing along with the music which she pumped loudly into her ear canal. Arthur had been trying to think of some possible way to stop the death ray, but nothing occurred to him. Mollie might be able to think of something, but he honestly doubted there would even be a way to get her into the Guild computer after what happened.

  He felt heavy and slow. Ever since he saw his work in action, the devastation, he could envision Catalina in her final moments. The ionized shell, having completed its work, trapped her within a cone of hyper-excited oxygen particles. Then, in what he hoped was a mere moment, a wall of fire from the sky would ripple downward, flash-frying her eyes before cooking her from the inside out. That’s only, of course, if the pressure differential hadn’t yanked her internal organs out of her mouth.

  He had fought by her side, seen her laugh, smile, and she had saved his life numerous times. Now she was dead. Granted, she was going to kill the lot of them. But she hadn’t gotten the chance to. If he hadn’t existed, this mess, this horror, would never have happened. Every drop of blood spilled in his father’s name was spilled thanks to him. There was no amount of penance he could ask for which would clear his name.

  A cool, soft hand worked its way into his, tangling up in his fingers. It was awkward for a moment, as his recent ex-girlfriend hadn’t been much for hand-holding. After the initial fidgeting, he looked at the one who had been so bold. Stair looked up at him, tired, green eyes glimmering. The girl was beautiful, even behind the layer of grey dust which had accumulated on her skin. She was a combination of sister and daughter, even though he knew she didn’t view him so platonically.

  At that moment, he understood at least one thing that he was going to have to do.

  He squeezed her hand.

  The alleyway entrance to the apartment was illuminated only partially by the daylight. Eagerly, the column of people worked their way into the narrow corridor, sliding past Colonel Morant as he held the door open. Once the door closed behind Marsh, the only light came from the flashlights wielded by the more prepared members of the group.

  Eventually, Mast’s flashlight came to rest on Jack’s face. “Lead the way,” she ordered.

  “I like a woman who takes initiative,” he cooed. Gently pushing his way to the front of the line, he immediately turned to a door with an ornate ‘Basement Access’ placard. “But I’m afraid it isn’t too far.” He smiled and shoved the door open. “Après vous, mes amis.” A set of stairs led to an open room with what appeared to be a freight elevator. A door in one corner claimed to lead to the laundry room, another to a ‘Community Room’, whatever that was. Jack was once more working his way from the back of the line to the front. “The item of interest in this room is next to the elevator.”

  “Are we helping you move a couch?” snarked Steven. Allison snickered at the joke even as Morgan cast him a dirty look with the vaguest hint of a smile.

  “Boy, I helped take down Desecrator.” Cleese cast him a sideways glance as he reached a card reader next to the elevator. “If I needed your help moving a couch, I have clearly lost both arms and my mind.” He pointed to Ariana and gestured her toward him. “Ariana, come here my dear.”

  She obliged, slowly. “Mr. Cleese, I don’t know what’s going on.”

  “Do you know what your family did during the tumultuous eighties?” he asked.

  Ariana looked at him blankly. “They were villains.”

  He smiled, put his hand on the card reader, and pried the face plate off. A small device, about the size of the pad of a human thumb, was recessed in the wall. “Put your thumb there. It will sting for a second.”

  Ariana, clearly growing more annoyed with the game, obliged slowly. After a second, a hiss of pressurized
air made her yank her hand back. “Shit!” she shouted before jamming her bleeding thumb in her mouth.

  “What in the name of villainy was that for?” Arthur asked impatiently.

  Cleese looked over at him. “Just wait.”

  And they waited. It seemed like an interminable amount of time before Arthur snorted. “I think the booze has finally gotten to you.”

  Almost in response, a tiny beep issued from the wall-mounted device. Jack affixed the faceplate back into place. Two yellow lights flashed to life on the side of the elevator and began to whirl in place, sending arcs of brilliance across the room. With a rumble and rusted creak, the freight elevator moved upwards and groaned to a stop. Jack moved toward the doors, grabbed the handle, turned it, and pulled it upwards.

  Behind the freight elevator shaft, another set of doors creaked and split open. Light spilled from within, blinding the assembled before their eyes fully adjusted. Through the doors, a yellow and black striped lift waited, the platform skirted by guardrails. Cleese was the first to move forward and gestured into the secret room. He smiled widely and, like a tour guide, beckoned with his other hand. “Welcome to Way Station 67, affectionately nicknamed ‘The Bunker’.” Silently, the group shuffled past him as he crossed back to the freight elevator’s doors. With a clang, he sealed them inside and jogged back to the lift.

  Cleese maneuvered his way to the control panel on the far corner of the lift. He pressed a quick sequence of numbers, causing a klaxon to sound before the door shut behind them. The elevator squeaked beyond the wall, descending back into place. “Mind the railing, children,” Cleese announced. As if on cue, the lift jerked and retreated from the surface.

  “So, is this like a secret lab or something?” Morgan asked, leaning against the railing.

  “Nothing so grand, I’m afraid,” Cleese answered.

  “Never thought I’d actually see this place,” Zombress mused as she scanned the rather featureless walls.

  Allison finished her own appraisal and walked toward Arthur. “Diagonal.”

  “What?” he asked.

  She motioned with her hand as though the concept eluded him. “Diagonal elevators. They look badass.”

  Arthur squinted. “Do you mean funiculars?”

  The mobster jabbed him in the ribs. “Whatever. You’re putting a few of those in my new headquarters.”

  “Sick,” Steven said approvingly, offering a fist to his boss. She gladly reciprocated the gesture.

  “Wouldn’t diagonal shafts take up a lot of space and be really impractical?” Morgan asked plainly.

  Allison rolled her eyes. “Psh.” She looked at Steven. “Your girlfriend’s not too quick on the uptake, is she?” Steven’s eyes shot immediately to the floor at the comment.

  “I wouldn’t try to reason with ‘em, kid,” Marsh said. Arthur had completely forgotten about him until his scratchy voice barely registered its presence. “They’re in their own little world.”

  “In any case,” Ariana said with a unconcealed note of annoyance, “let’s not make any plans until we get out of this alive.”

  Arthur nodded in agreement, even if he did feel like ripping out her hair. She was right. Frustrating, but right.

  With a low rumble, the platform slowed and stopped. Across from them, opposite where they had boarded the lift, a door labeled ‘67’ waited. With a snap, the guardrails slid gently into the floor, allowing Cleese to cross the threshold and usher them into the next, dark room. “Don’t be shy,” he cooed. Ariana was the first to move, brushing by the others and striding into the waiting chamber.

  A loud click resounded at Ariana’s entrance, followed by another. More clicks, and lights flickered into existence as her companions joined her. It was a very large room, just under the size of the footprint of the apartment complex above them. It was about twenty feet to the light blue ceiling, and instead of high walls to demarcate rooms, a series of eight-foot tall panels had been erected to create a series of chambers and hallways. The perimeter walls had once been painted to look like a cityscape, but the color had faded as large patches flaked away into nothing. The whole floor should have been white, but was only that way along worn footpaths through thick tracts of dust.

  The room they found themselves spreading out in had several high-resolution monitors on the far wall, where they nested above a complicated array of electronics. Six metal tables were set up in rows, like those in a cafeteria, all but one with a pile of gadgets on them. Arthur crossed to the table free of debris and noticed a series of pictures and papers set on them. The images were of powered armor through the years, schematics of designs, including one he recognized as Desecrator’s goliath that attacked New York in 1965. Another was a hastily taken photo of a man he recognized as Zealot, looking smug as he watched over a group of Enforcers.

  He heard Stair approaching. She leaned over the table and picked up one of the schematics. “Powered armor.” She threw the paper down. “Doesn’t seem like it would do much good.”

  “I don’t think he’s here,” Ariana announced, compelling everyone’s attention. She wheeled about on her heel and moved toward the elevator. “We should probably go.”

  As though responding to her comment, a hidden speaker hummed to life. “Hello, Ariana,” came a feminine voice, familiar yet distant. She stopped, turning toward the source. The lights above dimmed and video monitors flickered to life. On the screens, Ariana waved at the camera, flowing white sun dress wafting in an unfelt breeze. Cradled in one of her arms, a baby reached toward her face, and it became readily apparent that this woman was not Ariana at all. She smiled at the child before looking back at the camera. Her eyes were softer than Ariana’s, but there was no other difference that could be detected.

  Ariana found herself drawn to the monitor, followed by the others maintaining a respectful distance. The video changed. Ariana’s mother sat in a teal blouse, smiling politely at the camera as what appeared to be the inspiration for the painted cityscape shone vibrant behind her. The frame was close to her face, articulating the similarities between daughter and mother. The woman had a complete change in demeanor, from joy to formality. She sat in silence for several moments before taking a deep breath.

  “We live in dangerous times, Ariana. If you ever see this, it is because I, your father, or both of us, have been killed.” She swallowed, then looked off to the side. The frame skipped, and it was clear that she had restarted recording. The sky behind her was now overcast, pillars of sunlight peering through the gently raining clouds.

  “From the moment you came into this world, my reason for existence has never been clearer. This world… the world of Purgatory’s Inventor, Arbiter, the Artist, of Iron Curtain and Zealot… of countless heroes and villains… will destroy itself. And you, my precious girl, will be caught in the middle.” She looked at her hands, then up at the camera. The clouds grew darker, beginning to smother the sunlight. “I have taken lives and have seen others die for the sake of this eternal war. Along with your father, my brother and I have tried to rescue as many villains as we can. Give them new identities, homes… and if nothing else, a place to hide until they can flee beyond the reach of their enemies.”

  She paused again, looking for something to say. “None of us are innocent. Not even the so-called neutrals. But we must strive for something greater than ourselves at all times. Whether it’s an ideal or a person, we must fight for something.” Her lips worked to curl into a smile. “I fight for you.” She inhaled to speak again, but faltered. She cleared her throat. “And that, my love, dearest to my heart, is why you have to watch this instead of me getting to watch your graduation.” Her lip trembled at this.

  “Just know that before you, I fought and lived for my family, that loose collection of villainy which holds that a little chaos makes life worth living.” Tears were welling in her eyes, a droplet falling down her cheek. “And after you, I fought and died for you. You are my family, my world, and you made life worth fighting for.” She sh
ut her eyes, and inhaled through her nose as tears streamed down her face now. Rain fell in sheets against the city now, tiny pinpricks of lights attempting to pierce the darkness. She opened her eyes, staring into the camera, and smiled widely. “I, Elisa Lorelei Zaragoza, your mother, love you, Ariana Katherine Brown.” She brought her hand up to her eyes before getting up, showing the empty, painted city behind her. The screen went to static.

  Ariana, as though pulled by the video, was now within arm’s reach of the monitor. Tears had slicked her face as she reached up, putting her hand on the screen. As though the electronics in the place responded to her touch, the screen flickered. She took a step back as a series of whirs and clicks resounded from the console. Finally, a new image resolved on the monitor. Aeschylus flickered in view, eyes sullen. Once satisfied that the device was recording, he nodded.

  “If you’ve found this place, Ari, you’ve probably come looking for me.” He blinked. “No one else can realistically get access. Hence your bleeding thumb.” With a fake smile, he held up his own scarred digit before resuming his serious facade. “I’ve failed you and your mother.”

  “No,” Ariana responded, shaking her head weakly.

  “And now I’m going to try to make things right.” He took a long breath. “I’m working on something which may allow me to bring Arbiter down. Or… it’ll kill me. Either way, the probability of walking away from this fight is zero.” His jaw worked silently, his eyes drifting to the floor. “I want you to run. As far away as you possibly can. In the top drawer of the console in front of you, you’ll find what your uncle specialized in: a set of new identification papers.” Ariana looked down and rested her hand on the drawer handle.