Thursday Midnight

by Zachry Wheeler

  Anna frowned and squeezed his arm.

  A restless silence enveloped the group.

  After a brief musing, Jonas raised his eyes to Doren. “I’ll consider it,” he said, then reached for the mouse.

  “Hey,” Doren said, halting the click for a moment. “It’s great to see you guys.”

  Anna smiled and began to tear. “Miss you, hon.”

  Jonas grinned, then killed the feed.

  CHAPTER 9

  [Invaders Forum / tMV – 384.6K replies, 32.2M followers]

  [Post: Anonymous, 10.04.2580 AD, 444 EA]

  We are watching what you are watching.

  We share your confusion.

  We share your dismay.

  Most importantly, we share your disgust.

  [End Post]

  A series of shrill pings yanked Korovin out of a modest slumber. He stirred inside a pod sleeper beneath the Zenit Tower. Agents worked atypical schedules, which meddled with the rejuvenation process. The pod units allowed them to toil into sunrise, offering a reasonable option away from home. Korovin had not used one for well over a year, so the thin mattress felt especially uncomfortable.

  “Lights,” he said, prompting a row of ceiling panels to cut through the black.

  The sudden luminance drew a squint and grimace. He glanced around the lightproof enclosure, a cramped box no bigger than a jail cell. This was no coincidence, as the units provided an overflow option should housing needs inflate for prisoners in holding. The spartan interior amounted to little more than white bricks and a few shelves.

  “Time,” he said, cueing an overhead com.

  “17:31, 46 minutes post sunset,” it said with a pleasant feminine voice.

  Korovin hoisted his body to a seated position, dropping his socked feet to the cold concrete floor. He wore the same gray slacks and button shirt from the previous day. There was a time when he kept changes of clothing in his office, along with some basic toiletries. But alas, he was forced to tackle the day with bad breath and greasy hair.

  He rubbed the fatigue from his eyes, then plucked his horn-rimmed glasses from a nearby shelf. With a newfound focus, he swiped his phone from the same shelf and tapped the screen, waking it from sleep. A new message appeared.

  [Doren] It’s done.

  His wearied gaze settled on the opposing wall, allowing his mind to prep for an unknown struggle. The quiet offered little comfort. For the first time in recent memory, the day’s end presented itself as a blur of uncertainty. Rising to his feet, he slipped back into a pair of dress shoes and grabbed his suit jacket from a wall hook. After a quick finger comb, he reached over to an access panel and pressed his thumb to a scan plate. The door pinged and slid open, revealing some exterior chatter.

  He stepped into a long hallway littered with pod doors. The harsh light and close proximity created the vibe of an alien dormitory. Several people loitered within the passage, discussing the struggles ahead of them. A curious sight, as sleeper pods saw rare use these days. Aside from janitorial robots, few wandered the floors beneath the parking decks. Korovin shuffled to the next pod and knocked on the door. It slid open shortly after, revealing Jemison as she finished buttoning the top of her blouse. She met eyes with Korovin and sighed.

  “I haven’t slept that badly in years,” she said.

  Korovin grinned. “Me neither.”

  The door closed behind Jemison, shifting the occupancy sign from red to green. They walked towards the elevators off in the distance, squeezing by the occasional straggler.

  “I don’t see how you did this for so long,” Jemison said.

  “Didn’t have much choice.”

  “Did you ever get used to it?”

  “No.” Korovin allowed himself a brief chuckle. “But at least the pods are warm and dry. I need only remind myself what life was like during the Savage Gap. A clean cot and a locked door would have been five-star accommodations.”

  Jemison nodded. “True. I once slept in a sewer for three months.”

  They arrived at a small elevator foyer. Korovin pressed the up arrow and a ding followed soon after. The doors slid open and they stepped inside an empty car. A restive silence gripped the cabin as it climbed through the decks.

  “What about you?” Jemison said.

  “Huh?”

  “What was your worst sleep?”

  He pondered the question while staring at the tarnished doors. “In 221 EA, my unit got pinched during an invasion and we were forced to wait out the day. We found a grotto and descended as far as we could. There was only one way in or out, so all they needed to do was find us and collapse the entrance. I slept in mud and bat shit, knowing that the cave would likely be my tomb.”

  “Wow,” Jemison said with a subdued tone.

  “As of today, that was my second worst sleep.”

  The elevator pinged with arrival and the doors slid open. Korovin stepped into the main lobby and greeted a group of waiting detectives. Jemison lingered behind for a moment, opting to clear her headspace before following his lead.

  The lobby was spotless from top to bottom. No hints of ash, no shards of glass on the floor, even the furniture had been righted, cleaned, and arranged in its standard layout. The crisp air smelled of honeydew and lavender. A team of contractors tended to the glass barrier and reception desk. NExUS, it seemed, wanted to erase the aftermath as quickly as possible.

  Jemison trailed Korovin into his corner office and locked the door behind them. Both agents opted to remain standing as they assessed the situation. Korovin wandered over to the windows and surveyed the city while Jemison pocketed her hands and leaned against the wall.

  “Less traffic this evening,” he said.

  “The public is frightened, Victor. The indies have begun to spin the narrative. If we don’t clamp this down, we will hemorrhage our credibility.”

  Korovin grunted. “NExUS dictates its own cred.”

  “Does it? Because it sure seems like the public has turned to the underground. The dark web forums are getting more traffic than all the licensed feeds combined.”

  Korovin lifted his gaze to the building across the street. He stared into the opposing floors, only to refocus onto his own reflection. For a brief moment, he could sense the world constricting around him. “Any thoughts on a statement?”

  “Well, there are just so many ways to say ‘nothing new to report.’ Personally, I favor ‘no further comments at this time.’ Has a certain panache.”

  Korovin turned to face her, wearing a stern expression. “The press won’t accept that.”

  She shrugged. “Then give me something to say.”

  He sighed and lowered his gaze. “Let me talk to Cheryl, see what she’s comfortable with. Maybe we can repackage some details. When’s the next briefing?”

  “18:00.”

  “That gives us some leeway. In the meantime, bring the human back to interrogation. Room six, agents only.”

  “Yes sir.” She nodded and turned to leave.

  “Mae,” Korovin said, drawing her gaze. “Pace yourself and mind your diligence. It’s going to be a long evening.”

  Jemison frowned in solidarity and departed.

  * * *

  Korovin had parked himself at the table when Jemison and Razin returned the Axeman to the interrogation room. An orange jumpsuit with titanium restraints had replaced his dirty rags. Chains rattled on the concrete as he entered. Human captives were typically unbound in order to soften perceptions and begin chats on an even keel. But this was different. What the man lacked in strength, he made up for with a sharpened mind.

  Razin guarded the rear door as Jemison guided the man into the opposite seat. She started to bind his chains to the table loops, but Korovin stopped her.

  “That won’t be necessary,” the agent said.

  Jemison nodded in reply, then turned away and left the room with Razin.

  Korovin studied the captive as a stillness returned to the space. The man studied the agent in return,
raking his gaze over an opponent while keeping his neck taut. His hair and beard remained unkempt, but were less off-putting than the previous encounter. The lull of holding must have sparked some mild grooming. The man finished his assessment and locked his eyes forward. Korovin met his gaze while rapping his fingers on the table.

  “Sleep well?” the agent said.

  “Better than you did.”

  The assertion halted a reply, forcing the agent to adjust his mental course. “Been a while since I slept on site.”

  “Been a while since you slept with fear.”

  The rapping stopped. Korovin sighed, opting to convey irritation in order to mask the inner tension. A firm change of subject seemed the only logical route. “What happens at Thursday midnight?”

  “Where is Jonas?”

  “That’s not what I asked.”

  “This is not how the game is played, agent.”

  Korovin adjusted his posture to a more receptive stance, gifting the man some perceived sway. The agent broke eye contact to simulate deliberation, then returned it soon after. “How did you break into the building?”

  “Better,” the man said with a thin smile.

  His hands raised into the air, clattering chains against the table. After a calculated hesitation, Korovin glanced at the one-way mirror and nodded. The cuffs unlocked with a remote signal, allowing the man to shed them. He gathered the chains and tossed them aside while under the watchful eye of the agent.

  “As you know,” the man said while rubbing his wrists, “there is a network of service tunnels that connect parking decks throughout the city. They are available to the public, but no one uses them apart from maintenance crews. Most prefer the transit corridors.”

  “But it’s still a closed network.”

  “No, it isn’t. Four lines double as flood drainage, which means they connect to the sewer system. Not the easiest to navigate, but it’s not like you knew I was coming. All it took was a mental map and a screwdriver.”

  “And the alarms?”

  “Standard WAP swap with location masks. It’s funny in a way. Network security is always concerned with access, but they rarely think to consider settings.”

  “Did you learn that as a transient?”

  The man narrowed his eyes and cocked his chin. “You were doing so well, agent.”

  “I’ll rephrase. What compelled you to learn that?”

  “What compels anyone to do anything?”

  The agent grimaced.

  “A bit pompous, I concede. But no less principled.” The man leaned forward and folded his arms on the table. “Your world locks me out of a meaningful existence. As such, I am forced to craft my own keys.”

  “I respectfully disagree. Our world can offer—”

  “You can stop right there,” the man said with a salient distaste. “I have no desire to join the unending farce. I’ll die when the planet is done with me.”

  A wedge settled between them and lingered like a pane of glass. Korovin studied the man as he swallowed his irk and reverted to measured composure. A card was exposed, and the agent marked the reveal. He allowed the wedge to crumble under its own weight, using silence as a hammer. When the final shard dissolved, the agent crossed his arms and leaned back in the chair. His demeanor softened to that of a stoic presence.

  “Why axes?” he said.

  The man glanced away, as if to dismiss the question. His gaze wandered the chamber for a moment before returning to the agent. “Why cleavers?”

  “Come again?”

  “Why do butchers use cleavers? A serrated knife will cut through joints and tendons, so why use cleavers?”

  The agent opened his mouth, but did not respond right away. He mused on the question, as if to ponder a riddle. An air of confusion ended with a half-hearted shrug.

  “Weight,” the man said. “Cleavers are designed to be a weighted extension of the butcher’s arm, to offer a decisive means by which to separate flesh from bone. The tool itself performs the task. The butcher only guides the blade.”

  The agent remained silent.

  The man pierced his opponent with a visual dagger. “I was trained to kill you. I hated your kind from the moment I could speak. My tribe lived in secrecy up in the mountains, as most did. We learned how to survive in both worlds, be it dirt or concrete. During my teenage years, splitting logs and hacking phones were two sides of the same coin.

  “Part of that training involved a lesson in futility. Elders concocted a simulation where they hung a pouch of water behind a barrier of cured hides. They suspended the device at chest level, meant to replicate the density of eternal flesh. They gave us knives, stakes, any weapon we wanted, then positioned us within an arm’s reach. The goal was simple. Pierce the pouch. None of us could, of course. They wanted us to internalize our weakness, to acknowledge that direct confrontation was a losing endeavor.”

  The man lowered his gaze to the table and cringed with obvious disgust. “I couldn’t accept that. Human beings have conquered far greater. We hunted mammoths on the plains of Africa. I refused to concede a lesser stance to a beast that harbored no distinct advantage apart from thicker skin.

  “I returned that evening with a logging axe and pierced that pouch with a single swing. I can still hear the trickle of water onto the floor. It was the most empowering moment of my life. I knew, from that day forward, that weakness was an illusion.”

  Korovin glared at the Axeman, searching for a manner by which to respond, but his discomfort was deafening. His stomach twisted in knots, forcing him to suppress a squirm. A sudden knock at the door drew a slight flinch, which the man caught and smirked in response. Jemison motioned to Korovin through a window slit. Her face carried the horror of a mounting panic.

  “You’ll want to get that,” the man said.

  Korovin eyed him through a fog of tension before rising to his feet. The Axeman turned to the one-way mirror and followed the agent’s reflection as he left the room.

  CHAPTER 10

  A frenzy of activity filled the halls outside of interrogation. Roars of dispute echoed from every direction. Agents and detectives hurried in and out of offices, struggling to grasp the situation. An officer rushed by Korovin as he emerged from the room, forcing him into the wall beside Jemison.

  “What the hell is going on?” Korovin said.

  “Check your inbox,” Jemison said with an anxious tone. “We just received a flood of new images from around the world. Dozens of incidents, at least a hundred victims and counting.”

  Korovin fumbled for his phone and opened his account. A barrage of unread messages had invaded his inbox. He tapped the first and swiped through a gallery of gruesome images, all mirroring the warehouse and tunnel slaughters. The last picture showed Jonas written in fresh blood along a retaining wall. The second message showed similar horrors with different backdrops, as did the rest. His lungs emptied as a sense of frailty seized his mind. “Where are they coming from?”

  “Singapore, Berlin, Moscow, you name it. They flooded every internal channel using regional proxies. All cloaked, highly coordinated.”

  “Anything in the public forums?”

  “No, thank goodness, but anyone with an active NExUS handle received them.”

  Korovin bowed his head and propped against the wall, heeding his weakened knees. He groaned while rubbing his temple. “I assume there’s no one in custody.”

  Jemison huffed. “We don’t even have a lead, Victor. No shell sites, no trace-backs, nothing. And get this, they even included location markers and victim IDs.”

  His gaze whipped to hers. “Wha—confirmed?”

  “We’re running them now. But why send them if not to boast?”

  Korovin palmed the wall and regained his posture with a firm push. He glanced back to the interrogation room and through the window slit. The Axeman sat upright with his back to the door, placid and attentive as if awaiting a meal. The situation, it seemed, was well within his control.

&nb
sp; “Contain what you can,” Korovin said.

  “Yes sir,” Jemison said and hurried away.

  Korovin unhooked his scan plate and started to raise it, but hesitated before unlocking the door. He could only stare at the man inside, the drifter with a chokehold on the world. Nevertheless, duty forced his hand.

  The door clunked and creaked open, filling the chamber with the roar of external commotion. The Axeman tilted his head, as if to savor the chaos. The agent slipped inside and closed the door, restoring a restive silence. Korovin stepped around the room with a slow and deliberate pace. The man locked eyes with the agent as he strolled into his peripheral view. Korovin slowed to a stop behind his empty chair and rested his palms on top. He looked down on the man, but faltered from an inferior position.

  “What is this?” the agent said with a reticent tone.

  “More specific, please,” the man said, echoing a shift in power.

  Korovin scowled in reply. “What’s the play here?”

  The Axeman chuckled. “Play? No, Agent Korovin. This is a preview.”

  The agent tightened his grip on the chair. “Listen to me. This situation has created—”

  “No, agent. You listen to me.” The man maintained eye contact as he slowly rose to his feet, pushing the chair out from under him. The scrape of metal on concrete battered the room. He sauntered over to Korovin with arms hanging at his side, flaunting a brash confidence. A final step brought them face-to-face. The man hardened his gaze and lowered to a grumble. “I showed you who I am, and you scoffed. I told you what I wanted, and you scoffed. So if my intentions remain obtuse, let me make them perfectly clear.”

  Korovin relented and eased his posture.

  The man cocked his chin. “I am many. I am no one. Give us Jonas, or the images go public in two hours.”

  * * *

  The blackout room on the fifth floor was a void zone, a signal-free chamber used to plan invasions and stealth ops. It saw a heyday during transient infiltrations, but over the last several years, it lingered as a break room for anyone in need of peace and quiet. Blank walls and spartan furniture offered little visual interest. A sole lighting panel along the ceiling filled the room with sterile light. The only connection to the outside world was a wired conference port resting on a round table in the center.