Haven

by Justin Kemppainen

  Elijah allowed himself a brief moment of nostalgia as he recalled the beginnings of the project. When he began, theory into any practical use of technology such as that was still fairly minimal. Some suggested that it could indeed kill bacteria and other microorganisms, but vague ideas were quite far from utilization. Yet, after years of work, primarily inside this very room, the ideas took shape, and what resulted from the project was elegant and marvelous, providing the city with the fullest measure of the desired isolation. Contact in the field caused a release in the internal pressure of cell membranes, destroying any pathogens as well as just about anything else. In addition, the field could easily scramble any electronics, making bombardment or missile attacks imprecise if not completely useless.

  Elijah cast his memories aside, as his focus was not on the accomplishments of the past but the room’s sole occupant. Surrounding the chair in the center, suspended from the ceiling, was all manner of monitors and electronic devices. Bundles of cable spewed out in every direction, crawling along the floor and ceiling. Beneath and around the chair was machinery of a different sort. Clear tubes ran from large vessels to the chair, filled with various color and consistency liquids. A deep thrumming filled the air, coming from all of the machinery, which exuded enough heat to make the room uncomfortably warm.

  Elijah smirked as all of these measures were wrapped around one weak, frail, and extremely elderly individual seated in his throne. “Hello, Father. Didn’t expect to see me face to face?”

  The man in the chair looked like a corpse. With only his face, neck, and hands exposed, his pale, heavily-wrinkled skin hung loose from his bones. The top of his mottled head contained only a few faint wisps of thin, near-translucent white hair. His hands were gnarled, and his knuckles protruded from the sallow, waxy skin. On his face was a breathing mask that was hooked into a respirator machine. There were a few other bonuses to the mask, as Elijah well knew; cameras, scanners, and microphones to pick up his speech when necessary.

  A dark blue bodysuit that Elijah knew to be for thermal and fluid regulation covered the rest of his body. The countless number of tubes and wires connecting to the devices around the chair ran in and out of the suit and the ancient man’s body, swirling with proper fluids and waste substances. It kept the old man alive for a span of time that no one could guess. If you could call that living, Elijah thought.

  The only thing that did not appear to be far too old to function was the old man’s eyes. From the second Elijah and Victor entered the room; Franklin Lange’s deep blue eyes watched them, revealing a great deal of remaining awareness.

  “Here I was hoping to hear you plead for your life,” Elijah said, raising his weapon, “but I suppose you wouldn’t remember how to breath without that mask, much less speak.”

  One of the gnarled hands twitched. Lange’s withered arm rose, and he gripped the breathing mask. With a concentrated effort, he pulled the mask down, away from his face. He pulled in a few slow breaths on his own, but gave a dry, bone-rattling cough. He wiped his mouth with a trembling arm, and settled a glare on Elijah.

  The voice that came from the decrepit man was grating and raspy, yet it remained clear and comprehensible, containing a strength that belied his extreme age, “So you’ve made it. You’ve arrived to do, what? Exact your vengeance?”

  “Something like that,” Elijah scowled, irritated at the old man’s flippant attitude.

  “Well, here I am,” Lange released a rattling laugh, “what are you waiting for? Lost your nerve now?”

  That’s it, Elijah thought, clenching his teeth. “Very well, then. If you wish to speed along your journey to oblivion, who am I to argue.” He aimed his pistol and stepped forward.

  Victor, remaining silent and following along, suddenly felt nervous. Everything in the room and surrounding the seat appeared to be intended to keep the old man alive and connected to the world. Lange doesn’t spare the slightest expense when it comes to his survival, so why is he so unconcerned about someone trying to kill him? Victor tensed.

  As Elijah brought the weapon to bear, the old man’s hand moved and touched something on the arm of the chair. Victor’s eyes went wide as panels on each side of the wall slid open. He lunged forward, gripping Elijah by the shoulder and hurling him bodily to the floor. Elijah gave a startled cry and skidded back several feet.

  The thrumming intensified and a pulse issued from the panels flanking Victor. The lighting in the room dimmed significantly and the other machinery chugged as something drew a massive amount of power. The air around Victor shimmered and the light warped.

  Victor’s entire body convulsed, muscles seizing, before he toppled to the ground. Elijah felt a twinge of shock roll through his body with a cold, icy grip settling in his chest as Victor’s lifeless eyes stared out at him, a dribble of thick blood leaking out of his nose. Elijah’s breathing and heart-rate skyrocketed, and a small jolt fired into his mind, which began to cloud over as the world blurred around the edges.

  Elijah’s eyes flashed to the chair’s arm console where Lange’s claw-like hand still clutched. Lange’s weathered face drew back in an anxious look to see Elijah raise his sidearm and fire. Rounds punched through the fragile machinery in and around the chair. There was a splatter of blood as one bullet glanced off Lange’s wrist. The ancient man let out a cry and jerked his hand back.

  Elijah turned and fired into the each panel on the wall, damaging and disabling the projector devices. He pointed the gun back at Lange, who now, instead of looking confident and relaxed, appeared frightened. He squirmed in the chair and his eyes jerked back and forth as though trying to find a way out; he looked very much like a trapped animal.

  Keeping one eye and the weapon trained on the old man, he knelt next to Victor. He touched the man’s neck, looking for a pulse. The flesh felt thick and tense, as though it or the tissue beneath had solidified to the consistency of a boiled egg. Victor was quite dead. Elijah clenched his teeth, and his body trembled with a coldness seeping through his limbs and his weak heart flailing around.

  “Very clever, Father. Projecting the energy from the sterilization field as a…” He closed his eyes, willing calm over his body, “final defense.” His finger twitched on the trigger. “I admit that we didn’t anticipate anything like it.”

  The heavily-wrinkled face twisted in a scowl, “You can’t kill me, I am the soul of Haven!” he rasped, “The consequences would be dire. You would destroy everything.”

  Elijah spoke slowly, voice dripping with venom. “Do you understand what you’ve done, Father?” He hissed breath through his teeth. “You’ve now taken everything from me. Victor was the very last thing in this world that I cared about. The man who shielded me from your wrath and kept me alive long enough to see my mother avenged is dead.” He gave a grim smile, feeling a slow searing agony flood into his chest. “You and I are all that remains.”

  Lange glared, still helpless in his chair, “That’s not true. The Citizens, your people are still here. They will remain behind, and when I die they will be cast into oblivion with us. Would you sacrifice them and the lives of thousands for your petty vengeance?”

  Elijah stood. He raised the weapon once more, stared into his father’s eyes, and said. “Yes.”

  Chapter 40: All the King’s Horses

  Michaels felt his blood boil against the High Inquisitor, who donned a smug look as though he had already won. “You’re using this.” He shook his head, half in disbelief, “as a power play?”

  Wresh’s smug smile remained plastered on his face, “You make it sound so glib. Lange’s time has ended; this pathetic little coup has its usefulness, to be sure.”

  Michaels shook his head, irritated, “You allowed criminals and vagrants to flood the streets of our city?”

  Wresh gave an innocent look, “I may have suspected something was coming, but the coordination of this attack was far beyond even my wildest expectations,” Wresh grinned wildly, making his weathered face appear ghoulish, “t
he sheer panic will keep my Inquisitors busy for quite some time. All the better, I suppose.”

  “Keep the masses afraid?” Michaels said, scowling.

  Wresh shrugged. “They will see that Citizen One has become detached, unreliable.” Wresh spread out his hands. “They will see that stronger leadership is necessary to our survival. More intense control lest things spiral away again.”

  As though to punctuate this suggestion, the lighting projecting from fixtures on the walls dimmed noticeably, and, although no one looked, the shimmer of the field seen through the skylight briefly fluctuated. Unbeknownst to any in the room, a bodyguard who had betrayed a dictator died without a whisper in that moment.

  “Oh, let me guess,” Michaels smirked, not bothering to acknowledge the power fluctuation, “that would be you.”

  “Who better?” Wresh shrugged again.

  Michaels snapped his fingers, “Ah, of course, and now that the civilian members of the advisory council are all but eliminated, that makes it even easier for you, doesn’t it?”

  Wresh gave a nod, “Very perceptive.” He cocked his head. “Although you say, ‘all but eliminated’ as though you assume that the last remaining member will survive this transition.”

  A cold chill swept through Michaels once again as the impending threat of death loomed over him. Bastard, he thought. He’s not even pretending like I could be useful to him, like Arthur did. He gazed down again at the poor dead man’s body. You may have done wrong, Arthur, but at least your heart was in the right place.

  “So that’s how it’s going to be, is it?” Michaels sneered defiantly. “Anything will be done to ensure your success? Remove anything or anyone that might stand in your way?”

  Wresh smiled once again. “Can you think of a better way?” He raised his weapon.

  The power fluctuated again, only this time the lights failed entirely. The room was plunged into complete darkness. There was a moment of complete stunned silence, causing more than a couple of people in the room to irrationally wonder if they’d blacked out. A murmur passed through the room, and they realized that the power went out, yet the complete, pitch darkness was more than a little unnerving.

  An electrical buzz resounded and the wall fixtures cast a dimmed, weaker light into the room. Everyone looked around with light apprehension at the odd occurrence.

  One Inquisitor broke all protocol by staring up, through the skylight, and uttering, “Oh my God.”

  The gaze in the room, even those hiding behind the various objects, craned upward. Through the skylight they could see the dim orange glow of streetlamps flickering back to life. Beyond that, however there was nothing. No pinpricks of starlight. No moon to add brilliance to the inky blackness of the sky. It remained completely pitch-dark. Everyone stared silently, dread beginning to pool in their hearts.

  Kaylee, uninjured and playing possum, almost felt as though she’d been punched. “No… not again.” She whispered.

  Malcolm bellowed and sprang from his prone position, shattering the silence. His scarf remained on the ground, revealing his disturbing alien visage. Before anyone could react, he threw his shoulder into the distracted High Inquisitor. Wresh was violently launched into a couple of his men, knocking several people sprawling to the ground.

  The other men turned their horrified eyes away from the blank sky, clutching for their weapons. Malcolm leapt the distance and slammed his fist into the chest of one. There was a revolting sound as the man’s sternum cracked under the force of the blow and caved in his chest. Blood spewed from the man’s mouth as he was propelled backwards into other Inquisitors, tumbling several more to the ground.

  By this time the men still standing recovered enough to turn and fire at him. Bullets pounded into Malcolm with the sound of shredding tissue, and the impact force brought him to his knees. He reached behind himself and grabbed the ankle of a fallen man. He yanked the man close enough to grip him by the fabric of his jacket, and, in spite of the person’s terrified cries, pulled the man’s body into the line of fire.

  The Inquisitor jerked and convulsed as dozens of rounds ripped into his back. The weapons fire lulled for a moment, and Malcolm seized the opportunity to hurl dead body at his assailants. The corpse sailed through the air and collided with three others, bringing them all to the ground along with so many of their other comrades. One man tried to rise and bring his weapon to bear, but Malcolm viciously backhanded him. The man’s head snapped to the side; an audible crack resounded and a soft throaty gurgling issued from the Inquisitor as his life vanished.

  More Inquisitors attempted to rise and bring weapons to bear, but several of the men, upon seeing Malcolm’s face, completely broke and fled, screaming. Malcolm’s hair was wild and matted with dark red blood. There were several wounds and gashes on his face and head; one hole was punched into his skull, and pearly white bone could be seen along with fleshy brain matter and blood oozing out. He dripped blood from dozens of other wounds on his body, but nothing appeared to phase him or even halt his progress. His eyes blazed a fierce white as he continued raining hammer blows on individuals, knocking them out, shattering bones, or killing them outright.

  Rick took the distracted opportunity to assist Malcolm; he inched up over the desk and fired several rounds from his assault rifle, evening the odds. Jonathon leaned out as well, firing his submachine gun perched on the arm of his injured hand.

  Malcolm’s path of destruction led him to the back corner of the room. Pinning a man against the wall, he pulled back his fist and struck him in the face, shattering the front of his skull and pushing the shards of bone into the delicate brain tissue. The man collapsed without another sound, and Malcolm slowly turned around.

  Dozens of Inquisitors lay unconscious, dying, and dead. High Inquisitor Wresh was finally clamoring to his feet having crawled out from underneath fallen bodies. He looked over at the monstrous creature staring back at him, his eyes jerked over to Rick and Jonathon, who had weapons aimed. His head snapped back and forth, looking for some sign of life or activity out of any of his people.

  His hand gripped his .45 at his side, and he shifted, twitching, seemingly contemplating trying to use it. Thinking better of it, he bolted out of the front opening into the night air. Not expecting this, Rick was taken off guard for just a moment. He shouldered his weapon to try for a non-lethal shot, but Malcolm burst into his line of sight. With his wide frame blocking the shot, hitting Wresh wouldn’t have been possible.

  Wresh barely made it three feet out of the building. Malcolm seized him from behind by the back of his collar, like a dog, and lifted him up, dragging him back into the room. Terror in his eyes, Wresh raised his weapon and pulled the trigger, but Malcolm’s other hand seized his wrist. The weapon fired off-target, and the bullet grazed Malcolm’s cheek, raising a gash with a spatter of blood. Still gripping Wresh’s wrist, Malcolm twisted and wrenched. The bones snapped like kindling, and the gun clattered harmlessly to the ground as Wresh released a high-pitched howl.

  Malcolm released his arm, which dropped limply to Wresh’s side, and gripped the High Inquisitor’s throat and squeezed. Wresh gurgled, his eyes bulged out, and he feebly used his uninjured arm to tug at the hand strangling him. “Marcus,” he spat, choking, “please.”

  Malcolm drew the man closer, so that their faces were inches apart, and he hissed, “Marcuss is dead,” as the High Inquisitors eyelids fluttered closed and consciousness slipped away. Malcolm glared at the man, shaking him a few times. When no further noises escaped, he cast Wresh aside, easily, as though he weighed nothing.

  Wresh flew through the air and collided with the reception desk. His head rebounded off the hard marble edge with a sharp crack that raised a grimace from everyone still alive in the room. If life had remained with him after passing out from strangulation, it snuffed completely at the impact. The High Inquisitor collapsed on top of the dead sociologist, blood dribbling out of the wide gash on his head.

  Rick stood up, lowering his wea
pon to his side, but keeping an eye on Malcolm. Michaels, during the firefight, had dropped to the ground and covered his head. He now was clamoring to his feet and passing a wide-eyed gaze around the room. Jonathon peeked out of the pillar he hid behind, and a silence hung thick in the air.

  Kaylee had the idea first. Dread firmly settled in the pit of her stomach. She took off at a run past all of the bodies, past Malcolm, into the cool night air. A few people followed her example, and slowly, everyone’s gaze returned towards the sky. As though trapped in the nightmare, it remained completely dark and featureless. There were no stars, no moon, nothing at all, as though a shroud had fallen over the city of Haven. The air still carried the smell of smoke, and, in both the distance and fairly close by, they could see groups of people in the streets. Lots of panicking, gawking, and running.

  Once outside they could hear street-side announcement speakers blaring a recorded message. They couldn’t identify the voice that produced it, but what was said made their insides clench.

  “…regret to inform you, Citizens of the grand city of Haven, that, on this day, your beloved founder, Citizen One, has passed from this life. Franklin William Lange was the greatest man our world has ever known, giving many things to the people most worthy of his love. He gave us this majestic city. He gave us our enlightened society. He gave us purpose. He gave us life. It is such, that we mourn his passing as we would mourn our own. Our soul has been extinguished this day, and may the sun never shine again on his paradise without his love and guidance…” There was a pause, and the message started over, “The highest levels of Citizenship, the Inquisition, and the advisory council regret to inform you…”

  Kaylee suddenly cut loose a scream, startling everyone nearby. They looked on, still in shock, as she carried on for a good ten seconds before falling to her knees, tears streaming down her cheeks. Rick rushed to her side.

  “We were close,” she sobbed, “we were so close… why do we have to start over again?”