Haven

by Justin Kemppainen

  “You’re one lucky son of a bitch,” Isaac muttered. “The bullet seems to have missed your organs,” he shook his head, “but you’ve lost a lot of blood, so take it easy.”

  “What has happened?” Sergei asked.

  Isaac smiled, “Rick wanted chaos and that’s what he’s got. We’ve got fires scattered around the city and panicking Citizens flooding the streets. Riots have broken out, and I believe there’s more than a few looters.” The smile faded. “Organized Inquisition and what’s left of their reserve military finally responded, so we all cleared out and hid. They’ve got their hands full trying to deal with the panic, so they haven’t been able to try and root us out yet.”

  “Where are my other men?” The injured man asked.

  Isaac shook his head. “Don’t know; you were the only one we found.” Sergei clenched his teeth. “Most of them probably hid like us.” Isaac tried to be reassuring.

  Sergei’s eyes went wide and he bolted upright, gasping at the pain but not stopping. “Piotr, where is Piotr?!” He demanded. “Did you find him also? He was in the alley with me.”

  Isaac shook his head. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but who the hell is this Piotr?”

  Sergei looked confused. “You have met him, have you not? He is my brother. He is young and…” Sergei stopped speaking, watching Isaac’s frowning expression. He settled back down. “foolish…” he muttered, moisture forming in his eyes.

  Isaac didn’t say anything, only looking at the wounded man with mild curiosity.

  For several moments, Sergei remained quiet, in contemplation. Finally, he said. “I forget, sometimes.” He sadly shook his head. “It is better than remembering what really happened.” He looked up at Isaac. “Most times, I know he is not really there. I still see him, but I know that he is not real.” He gave a chuckle, which morphed into a wheezing cough.

  “What happened to him?”

  Sergei swallowed hard, “He was killed. It was my fault.”

  Isaac raised an eyebrow. “That’s it?”

  Sergei turned his gaze back towards Isaac, “Does there need to be more than that?”

  Isaac didn’t answer. The two men held a long, uncomfortable silence. Sergei, surprisingly, broke it, “What are we supposed to do now?”

  Isaac shrugged, “There’s not much that we can do anymore. Our part in this is pretty much finished. Now we just have to hope that Rick didn’t screw up his job, or none of this will have meant a thing.”

  Chapter 39: Vengeance

  Citizen Arthur Dunlevy ran as quickly as his legs would carry his girth. Tears streamed down his cheeks from the pain in his right arm and wrist. His shoulder was dislocated, wrenched out of the socket by the force of the creature’s pull. He cradled his wrist and hand, which when unsupported sagged loosely without structural support of intact bones.

  His intense fear made the haste of his retreat quite impressive; he had already burst into the stairwell when he heard the creature bellowing behind him.

  What the hell was that thing? He wondered frantically as he ran. How did it know my name, and why is it trying to kill me? He shook his head, “Never did anything to deserve this,” he babbled.

  With his uninjured shoulder, he rammed the stairwell door; it flew open and he started down the last stretch towards the lobby area. He didn’t really know where he planned on going. Getting away from the freakish monster is a good start, he thought.

  His breath came out in ragged gasps; far too much activity for a middle-aged man in such poor physical condition, but he kept running. About twenty feet away from the lobby the stairwell door banged open again. A jolt of fright pumped through Dunlevy’s body, and he picked up the pace.

  He burst through the door into the now-empty lobby, looking around for somewhere to go. He heard movement behind him, and had enough time to think, it can’t move that fast-

  Something hit him, and the large man was knocked sprawling. He smashed into the desk, injured-arm first. Splinters of agony shredded through his injuries, and he cut loose a shriek as he fe;; to the ground. His vision swam in a haze of murky darkness, his mind desperately clawing away from unconsciousness. He saw a large shape moving towards him, cutting through his blurred vision was a pair of slanted, glowing eyes. Dunlevy squeezed his eyes shut and whimpered, again wondering what he did to deserve this.

  ******

  Rick and his soldiers hadn’t done much since Victor and Elijah disappeared into the elevator, and they were starting to get edgy. Rick himself thought that the pair’s behavior was very strange, and the idea of continuing to hold an enemy position for no specific reason bothered him more and more.

  Everyone perked up as a loud, high-pitched scream and a heavy thud echoed through the hallway, coming from the main lobby area down the long hallway they had labored so hard to get through.

  He looked at Jonathon. “What the hell was that?” His cohort shrugged. To his sentries watching that direction, he shouted, “What do you see?”

  One squinted through a rifle scope, and after a moment, he reported, “Nothing. Far doors are still slightly ajar, but I can’t see much else. I don’t think it’s enemy troops, sir.”

  Rick furrowed his brow, “What about the scream?”

  “Beats me, sir, but it definitely came from in there.” The soldier shrugged.

  Screw this, Rick thought. “All right, you three; let’s check it out. Move!” Jonathon, Rick, and two others moved ahead, the remaining uninjured and the wounded staying to watch the elevator. They advanced low with their weapons shouldered.

  Rick threw open the door and swung around into the room, “Good God…” he breathed, lowering his weapon. The weird thing that Kaylee spent so much time with, Malcolm, was standing next to the reception desk holding the fat guy informant up by his collar. Malcolm had lost his hat, somehow, and the long white hair lay tangled around his shoulders. The left side of his bluish-gray face was coated with sticky, red blood, but Rick couldn’t see a head wound to go with it.

  Malcolm’s eyes were filled with anger and hate as they bored into Dunlevy, who looked more than a little worse for the wear. His soldiers faltered, but he and Jonathon flanked the desk, the other two circling around behind near the front.

  From where he was, Rick could see that the stout man was bruised and battered. His suit was rumpled, dirty, and torn in several places. He bled from small scratches on his face and hands, and tears streamed down his cheeks. His right arm hung limply in an awkward position and was bent unnaturally at the wrist. Rick winced to realize that it was dislocated, broken, and God knows what else. Seeing Rick arrive, Dunlevy turned his head and weakly whimpered, “Help me… please…”

  Malcolm was growling some kind of indistinct phrase. He was speaking but it was too harsh to figure out exactly what he was saying. Rick thought he caught the words, “killed him,” but he wasn’t sure.

  “Malcolm!” Rick shouted, shouldering his rifle. “Put the guy down!”

  Malcolm’s angry glare swiveled towards Rick, and he shuddered under its threatening intensity. Shit, he thought, tightening his grip on the weapon. “Just take it easy,” he said, in his best reassuring tone, “let him go, and we’ll talk about this.” He gave a couple of hand signals and his men moved slowly around the desk, flanking the bizarre creature.

  “No!” Malcolm hissed. He threw Dunlevy down onto the marble desk top, who flopped limply and let out a cry of pain, but offered no resistance to his assailant. He lay helpless and coughing weakly.

  All right, that’s it, Rick thought. “Back away, Malcolm, or I’m going to fill you full of holes. I don’t know why you’ve gone so batshit crazy, but I’m not going to let you kill him.”

  Malcolm didn’t appear to listen; he stepped closer to Dunlevy, and placed one hand around the man’s wide throat. “Dammit, Malcolm!” Rick yelled. “Back off! I’m not kidding here!”

  The door behind Malcolm burst open, and Kaylee stumbled out, “Malcolm!” she yelled. “What are you d
oing?! Stop!”

  Rick did a double take. “Kaylee? What the hell are you doing here?”

  Malcolm spared a half-glance, but gave no response or acknowledgement of Kaylee’s presence or Rick’s shout. His grip tightened on Dunlevy’s throat, and the round man gurgled and flailed as his lungs struggled to pull in air and his consciousness began to fade. His hand closed on the scarf covering Malcolm’s face. He pulled, freeing one of the ends and loosening the garment.

  Rick’s attention returned, disregarding Kaylee’s presence for the moment, “All right, that’s it!” Rick shouted. “You were warned! Fi-”

  Rick was interrupted when the door flew open once more, and Citizen Gregory Michaels spilled into the room, out of breath. He gave a bewildered glance around the room, looking at the few soldiers aiming at the figure.

  Who the hell is this now? Rick wondered, tightening his grip on his weapon. All of his men still gripped their weapons, aiming at Malcolm who continued to squeeze the life out of the poor, weakly-struggling man.

  “Marcus, stop!” Michaels yelled, and Malcolm flinched. Everyone could hear Dunlevy gasping for breath as Malcolm relaxed his grip. The soldiers aiming exchanged confused glances with each other. Malcolm hung his head and closed his eyes, as though ashamed.

  Kaylee spun around, “Who the hell is Marcus?” Good question, Rick thought.

  “I am.” Malcolm hissed. He shook his head. “I… wasss.”

  “What?” Kaylee asked, puzzled. “Is that your real name?”

  Malcolm, or Marcus, whoever he was, spoke again, “I… rrememmber.” He looked around the room, slowly. “Mmy name… isss…”

  “Citizen Marcus Coleman. My predecessor.” Michaels interrupted, tossing the small square nametag forward. Marred and almost illegible, it bore the remnants of the name. He shook his head. “He’s supposed to be dead.”

  “Wait,” Kaylee said. “he’s a Citizen?”

  “Not anymore.” Michaels said. “He was murdered three months ago. By him.” He pointed at Dunlevy, who rolled off the table rubbing his neck.

  Rick frowned gazing at the clearly not-dead, not-quite man, “Murdered? I hate to ask the obvious, but-”

  Michaels shook his head, “Technology beyond our understanding, containing remarkable regenerative properties. Marcus’ body was burned beyond recognition when he was killed. He must have been regenerated based upon set programming. Although,” Michaels smirked, “I am curious to know how effective the brain tissue and memory regeneration fared. Marcus?”

  Malcolm whirled around and his slanted eyes glowered at Michaels, causing a knot of fear to tighten in his stomach. Michaels swallowed hard, wondering why he was so interested in tempting fate this evening.

  “I rremmember…” He turned towards Dunlevy, who gasped and tried to turn and run. Malcolm’s arm shot out and grabbed him by the collar; he dragged the man back towards him. “Youu…killed him. You killed Marcuss…”

  Michaels smirked again, “What do you know, Arthur, it turns out your sins have come to revisit you. And so soon.”

  Dunlevy put his hands together, pleading, “Marcus, please! I-I had no other choice. If Lange or Wresh had discovered what you were working on they would have taken it for themselves and killed you anyway!”

  Malcolm lashed out his arm and struck Dunlevy, clipping him on the side of the head. Dunlevy dropped to the ground with a pathetic cry and threw up his arms to fend off further attacks. “Please, Marcus!” He screamed. “Have mercy!”

  A guttural growl escaped from the strange creature, and he hissed. “Marrcuss iss dead…” He reached down towards Dunlevy.

  The front lobby doors shattered inward, flinging shrapnel in a wide arc into the room. Michaels ran for cover behind a column, bumping into Kaylee and dragging them both to the ground behind it as debris pelted the room. Malcolm was propelled into the desk by the force of the blast. His midsection rammed into the hard marble top, and he crumpled to the ground next to Dunlevy, who screamed as shards of the metal door sliced into his body. People clad in black rushed in after the explosion, firing weapons.

  One of Rick’s men flanking Malcolm to the left nearest to the door fell immediately either from the concussion or shrapnel, propelled to the ground with fatal bleeding wounds. The other was cut down by the subsequent fire, no cover within reach. Rick himself dove behind the desk and covered his head, deafening sounds of gunfire roaring in the room. Jonathon, the only man he had left rolled behind the pillar off to Rick’s left, looking at his boss to signal return fire. Rick held up a halting hand, mouthing ‘wait.’

  There’s no point in trying, we’d just get killed, Rick thought. His mind raced, trying desperately to summon up some idea to get out of the mess. Next to him on the floor was still the body of the receptionist he’d killed earlier. The glassy stare continued to observe the ceiling, and his skin had turned an ashy tone.

  “Cease fire!” he heard a yell, off to his right. “Please, don’t shoot!”

  Rick glanced over. Without poking his head out too far, he saw the Citizen cowering behind the pillar, shouting and waving his arm out. Kaylee was facedown in front of him, unmoving. He felt a shiver and a twinge of dread seeing her, but he didn’t see any blood or injury. God, please be just faking, he hoped.

  Gregory Michaels yelled again, “Please, don’t shoot! I’m a Citizen!”

  He heard a familiar, rough voice call out, “Is that you, Michaels?”

  Michaels nodded frantically, not caring that they couldn’t see it behind the pillar. “Yes, yes it is, please don’t shoot!”

  “Are there any of the insurgents left alive in here?”

  Michaels looked directly down at Rick, who looked wide-eyed back up at him. He looked up at the pillar on the other side, which hid Jonathon. “No! They’re all dead!” Michaels shouted, eliciting a confused look from Rick. Not entirely sure why himself, Michaels made a very slight hand gesture that suggested Rick remain where he was.

  “Step out, slowly!” the voice barked.

  Michaels, with his hands up in the air, stepped around the pillar. In a smoky haze from the breaching explosion, he could make out the forms of at least a dozen black-clad Inquisitors with their leader, Julian Wresh, at the front. Michaels stifled a small laugh at the thought that the High Inquisitor looked terribly short, but the image of Claudia’s blank stare came back, and his amusement faded.

  “Michaels, you’re still alive.” Wresh said, as though it was surprising.

  “Yes, I am,” Michaels responded irritably, “No thanks to your trigger happy lunacy.” He stepped around the counter, seeing Dunlevy lying beneath Malcolm. His eyes stared blankly at the ceiling and his mouth hung open; he was dead, dozens of fragments from the door lacerating his flesh and internal organs. Michael’s shook his head. “You killed Arthur, you maniac.”

  Wresh scowled, “Mind your tone. I’m very well aware of his traitorous actions, and either way his death is no great loss. Although, his murder of Marcus Coleman did come as a surprise.” With the toe of his shoe he nudged the unmoving body of Malcolm. “Not as surprising as his return from the dead, I suppose.” He looked up at Michaels. “Oh well, plenty of time to sort it out in autopsy, don’t you agree?”

  Michaels thoughts turned towards the regenerative properties of the sample and wondered if Malcolm was unconscious or simply faking, but he had no idea how quickly or slowly wounds would heal, or if they would cause any detriment to his prodigious strength and speed. He also wondered how much Wresh had heard prior to the breach regarding the technology.

  Michaels decided to shy away from the subject, “He killed Myers as well; in my office.”

  A look crossed the High Inquisitor’s face, something confusing. Satisfaction? Triumph? Whatever it was, it quickly was hidden behind a face filled with calm. “Then his death was well-justified. His treason against our city has been punished.”

  Michaels couldn’t help but feel a loathing towards the diminutive man, “Yes, I suppose, but that do
esn’t change that your reckless action could have left me fatally wounded as well.”

  “It is regrettable. However,” Wresh narrowed his eyes, “what you must understand is,” he drew his weapon, holding it at his side. “because of Arthur Dunlevy’s actions, all of the civilian council members are under suspicion.”

  Michaels scowled, “Well that doesn’t really matter now, does it? I’m the,” he paused, eyes widening, “only one left…” he finished, whispering.

  Wresh smiled wickedly, and the lines deepened on his face. “Exactly.”

  ******

  The door in the council chamber opened into a spiral staircase, old and partially rusted. The two men climbed up, then passed through an unlocked hatch into a nondescript circular room, directly above the council space. The walls were entirely blank, without any decoration or color. There were no windows, and the floor was a sterile, white tile. In the center was a chair, pivoting points at various places for raising and lowering head and legs. It made the room look almost like a dentists’ office, save for a few differences.

  In the curved ceiling of the room could be seen a large assembly of electronics and machinery in a steel frame sticking out of the ceiling. Elijah knew that this was only the very bottom of the device which filled at least the last twenty feet of the spire. The apparatus, at least the bottom end of it, was an unimpressive series of large squares with deep grooves in between with thick electrical cables running into the center of each section. The wiring snaked down the walls and disappeared into several points along the floor.

  The sterilization field, the pinnacle of the Citizen regime’s technological ingenuity, was projected from this device, coating the entire city in its protective shield. Elijah keenly remembered the years upon years that he labored over the madman’s concept. Lange, then at least partially motile, insisted upon the feasibility not just to keep out microorganisms but for defensive purposes. The tower, and several other points in and around the city, projected a combination electromagnetic field.