Exodus (The Fall of Haven)

by Justin Kemppainen

  In spite of their haste and what seemed like lack of caution, Rick knew Malcolm's senses existed on a level far above his own. The strange man-creature could keep up a near sprinting pace while avoiding the notice of anyone at all. The rapid jog they moved at was slow compared to what Malcolm could do, but Rick knew its intent in allowing him to keep up.

  After a time, Malcolm darted into a building, and Rick almost missed the flicker of his overcoat disappearing into the shadows. He followed behind, wishing for a flashlight. Through a lavish lobby, a few conference rooms, and rows of desks for office workers they passed, and Rick lost sight of Malcolm more than once as they moved.

  Rick detected a foul odor, something which smelled very ripe and very dead.

  "Do you smell that?" Rick said, holding his nose. Malcolm grunted an affirmation.

  They came to a stairwell, and Rick wilted to see the heavy metallic barrier intended to prevent access from those below intact. His disappointment morphed into shock as he saw, slumped on the staircase leading higher up, a corpse.

  He heard the buzz of flies and felt suddenly thankful he didn't have any lighting with which to see it more clearly. Malcolm crouched over the body, a deep hiss issuing from behind the obscuring scarves. Rick, whose morbid curiosity got the better of him in spite of the smell, leaned over Malcolm.

  The carcass was of a woman. Her clothing was torn and ragged, and her mouth yawned wide open in an endless, silent scream. Puncture and slash wounds dotted her body in several locations, but no blood pooled beneath them. No blood? Was she moved here, or did someone...

  A wild thought struck him, and he took a step back. "Jesus, Malcolm, this wasn't... Y-you didn't..."

  Malcolm shot him an offended glare, the glowing eyes narrowing. Without saying a word, Rick's companion made a clear argument that the poor woman's fate was not of his doing.

  "Er, sorry, I shouldn't have..." Rick trailed off, feeling a tiny mote of relief in spite of himself. He wasn't sure why the idea of Malcolm having killed and sucked out the woman's blood jumped into his head so quickly. Because he's not human, a voice in his head popped up. You've never seen him eat, is it really so farfetched? He shuddered, still not quite certain.

  Malcolm stood, and Rick shook aside the thoughts.

  "Bad," Malcolm said.

  "No argument here," Rick replied, wiping sweat from his forehead.

  Malcolm stepped up to the metal barrier, sliding a hand along it. He moved to the side, pulling out a loose section of wall next to it. Paying no more heed to the dead body, he stepped into the space between walls and moved out of sight.

  Fumbling around, Rick squeezed through the hole and stumbled when he found the opening, the wall broken through beyond the barrier. The creature steadied him with a hand, and a second later the pair jumped into the stairwell below.

  In the pitch darkness, Rick groped along around after Malcolm, descending down the numerous sets of stairs. After a time, they reached ground level, and Rick felt oddly comforted by the pale glow of the street lamps in Old Haven. I guess it's safer down here. For me, at least.

  He turned to Malcolm. "Thanks for your help; I'll be fine from here. Do you think you can find Kaylee, let her know that I'm okay but probably won't get up to see her for a while?"

  Malcolm gave a nod.

  Rick swept a glance around, trying to get his bearings. Deciding upon the direction, he let his thoughts return to the unfortunate woman.

  "Say, you have any ideas about...?" Rick trailed off.

  Empty streets surrounded him, the creature already gone.

  ******

  "So this is what it has come to..." Citizen Jeremiah Davidson, holding a handkerchief to the lower portion of his face, peered down at a dead Citizen. Numerous punctures and stab wounds covered the body, and the man's wide open mouth and terrified eyes suggested his end had not been pleasant.

  The filthy Old Havenite, Rick, sat far from the Citizen leader's thoughts. As helpful as it had been to capture the terrorist, Davidson heard that the idiots of the Old Haven Union had cast him out. Whatever Rick's importance, it seemed his days of influence were gone, and likely most of the useful information went with them.

  Still, anything Rick would provide could be useful, and Davidson would never be foolish enough to waste an asset. He had learned long ago that, while dispensing more than minimal trust was dangerous, not utilizing potential resources could be much worse.

  "Are we sure it was them?" an individual spoke up.

  The Citizen leader rubbed his gaunt cheeks, speaking in his accustomed deliberate manner. "There is no strong evidence for or against it, but," he ticked off on his fingers, "we know certain individuals in their camp have a penchant for barbarism."

  "We also have no other suspects," he finished, wishing he had more than just the two reasons to suspect the Old Haven Union of this brutal killing. "In either case, it is provocation enough to justify a counter-attack."

  In truth, Davidson didn't know or truly care who caused the death of the poor Citizen, but he knew it would be a potentially useful element. The fire of the remaining Citizens had been dimming of late. The misery of darkness and the constant fighting had all but crushed morale. Considering Davidson sent not seasoned veterans but bankers, lawyers, and office workers into brutal combat, it caused no great surprise. Part of him regretted his initial strategy, but he knew it would be foolish to change now.

  Cold, calculating, untrusting, and ambitious described Citizen Jeremiah Davidson. People were tools to him: to be used and discarded when necessary. Even those higher up in the chain, such as High Inquisitor Gottfried, were the same. Perhaps they had more uses and received further regard, but it changed little in Davidson's mind. Use them, he thought on many occasions, but do not trust them.

  Few remaining alive knew why Citizen Davidson had become this way. Indeed, fewer yet knew of his former occupation as a structural engineer, a task which in a city like Haven required incredibly careful intellect and unparalleled, meticulous attention to detail. Regardless of his past and like many others before and after him, Citizen Davidson had become interested in how Franklin Lange ran his city. In the time prior to the uprising, he studied the workings of politics and society.

  Through interest and scrutiny came dissatisfaction. As Davidson could see the design weaknesses of almost any building, so too could he see the teetering structure of Lange's hierarchy. Built upon a sense of superiority and selfish desires, Davidson had noted a thousand ways to improve upon the system of the archaic and detached Citizen One.

  Primary among the failings were the people in Haven, simply too selfish and complacent. In any crisis, Davidson knew not one of them would look beyond their own needs. One tiny situation to panic and upset everything: perhaps an accident or an assault from the outside world.

  Not that Davidson held any awareness of the conditions beyond the walls of Haven, but he'd thought it conceivable if unlikely that, after one hundred years, other groups had banded together enough to form a threat. Especially considering the hostile actions and theft of the Acquisition Squads, another element Davidson thought foolish, it seemed very possible someone would eventually strike back.

  In any case, Davidson became certain that the tiniest incident would fracture the stability and peace of Haven. Not irreparably, of course, but creating more turmoil than would be necessary.

  He whispered his concerns to trusted individuals behind closed doors. He highlighted proposed changes in policy to strengthen the Citizenship and prepare it, most importantly, for crisis. Other concerns he cultivated lay within overpopulation and either limiting growth or preparing for an eventual expansion beyond Haven's walls.

  However, people, even friends and loved ones, were not governed by rationality, logic, or any concrete laws of conduct. The structural engineer learned this the moment his first real meeting ended in disaster, barely beyond the words, "We are here to improve our way of life and prepare for the future."

  A dozen I
nquisitors in black had burst into the room and arrested every person present, and Davidson learned back then that people were not so simple to calculate or understand. No concrete equations of support versus strain or weight distribution governed their minds. He did not know if his betrayer had been a coward, motivated by civic duty, or had expected reward for turning them in.

  Inquisitors barely needed much beyond a hint of dissent, and they heard enough of it through the listening devices planted on the traitor.

  Davidson and others were carted off to the detention facility, his lesson regarding trust learned too late to make a difference. Fully expecting to die or be conditioned into slavery, Davidson was surprised, some time later, at the darkness of the sky and his sudden release.

  Everything he wished for had already died. His worst fears about the fragile system crashing down had come true, and his Citizen brethren were being hunted and killed in the streets like animals. As always, when his mind detected a problem, potential solutions rushed forward.

  In order to stave off deaths, he allowed himself to become a part of the little war. He rallied the Citizens around the only causes they could embrace: survival and revenge. Desperate for a leader and pleased by his message, it didn't take long for the ragged remains of the Citizenship to flock behind Davidson.

  It pleased him well enough, even if the fighting had proven long and distasteful. Not without advantage, outlasting or defeating the Old Haven Union would create a new breed of tougher, more self-reliant and cooperative Citizens. It might not have been the ideal situation, but a person with a penchant toward solving problems could manage.

  Led by Davidson, the Citizens would reclaim the city, the sky, and if necessary the world. Problems had solutions, and no longer did Davidson have the problem of trusting anyone.

  When the sides truly solidified and death did not run rampant in the streets, months passed with small and large skirmishes followed by periods of tension and silence. Strike and counter-strike; neither side was certain of how to best end the conflict or even gain the upper hand.

  And now this, Davidson thought, frowning behind his handkerchief at the defiled body. Something about it doesn't feel quite right, but at least this man's pain and death will be useful.

  "When the High Inquisitor returns from the prisoner transfer, have him report to me immediately," he told the individual next to him. To one of his aides, he said, "Begin considering who best to send on a quiet counter-attack."

  "What about the poison?" The man referred to the program implemented by the higher-ups in the Citizenship prior to the uprising. A contingency to eliminate the problem of the people in Old Haven, it worked by intending to essentially kill them all. The devices were created but hadn't been used, and all of them lay silent and potentially deadly within the Institute.

  Their presence had been a stall for the Citizen forces, who feared pushing too hard would corner the Old Haven Union. With nothing to lose, the OHU could set off the devices and likely kill a very large amount of people.

  He hadn't seen the development materials crafted by former Citizen Claudia Laverock, but he heard enough from Gottfried to know the agent the devices dispersed could kill thousands or more in agony. The only relief held in that the devices were too heavy to move or strategically position without heavy and obvious machinery. The Citizen leader also held hopes that his foes wouldn't stoop to such horrible means, but he never articulated this thought to anyone else.

  Still, perhaps we can use this man's terrible death to rally an effort to remove this worrisome obstacle, perhaps enough to create a chance at victory. Davidson rubbed his chin. "I believe it may be time to change the dynamic. Gather together any chemists, biologists, or anyone with a background in applied sciences who you can find. I have a thought in mind, but I require more information. Ah, and see if there's anyone remaining from Institute maintenance or staff from the Experimental Design wing."

  "Of course, sir." The individual hesitated. "What is it you're thinking?"

  Davidson waved him off, ignoring the question. "Tend to it immediately."

  The man paused before giving a nod and departing. Davidson heard the crackle of his radio but already lost himself within thoughts of planning and calculation. He continued to stare at the body, retaining doubts of the OHU's involvement but not caring.

  Davidson didn't notice when another individual walked up.

  "Sir?" the woman spoke, drawing an irritated glance. "It's the High Inquisitor, sir. There's been an incident."

  ******

  Sergei and Isaac, leaders of the Old Haven Union and self-titled heralds of the Citizen downfall, exchanged worried glances. Sergei's injury and Isaac saving him, the many months with close fighting, and caring for the loose rabble of the OHU had created a strong camaraderie between the two former enemies.

  "This is the third one, yes?" Sergei rubbed his forehead. "Not a comforting trend."

  Bodies had been turning up for the last week. Both Sergei and Isaac grew more and more concerned, as the abuse of each victim was beyond puzzling. It didn't seem like something the Citizens would do, regardless of how they felt about the Old Havenites.

  The pair stood along with seven or eight trusted individuals carrying weapons in a side street, some distance south of the Institute. Within their territory but close to the dividing line between them and the Citizens, an individual on patrol had discovered this most recent corpse. Weak light fixtures cast shadows in the street and gave blessed small detail to the mangled body.

  "I do not believe this was the work of our Citizen foes," Sergei said, rubbing the thick stubble on his chin. "They have never displayed any malice like this."

  "Sure, but who else?" Isaac replied.

  A silence held, each man considering. A few names of past enemies came up and were quickly discounted. Even Rick was mentioned, but like everyone else they considered, the idea seemed implausible.

  Sergei's mind flickered to the strange creature he saw on occasion. "What about that... ah... what was his name? Malcolm? The one who travels with Miss Kaylee on occasion."

  "Kaylee..." Isaac frowned. "She's the one who killed Miguel."

  Sergei nodded.

  "Yeah, I've seen the thing with her. It's always wrapped up, though, right? I don't think I've ever heard it talk, either. I guess I didn't think about it much, but what exactly is the... Malcolm thing?"

  Frowning, Sergei replied, "Some have whispered him to be somehow inhuman. I've not seen it, but they say he has strength beyond ten men and frightening speed." He cast a gaze back to the dead body, unable to help himself from thinking that a predator stalked within their midst.

  "You think the Malcolm-thing hunts and kills people?"

  Sergei shook his head. "I cannot be sure." He paused, seeming to listen. "Yes, Piotr is right. We should talk to Miss Kaylee as soon as possible. If the beast is truly dangerous, we cannot allow it to roam free among our people."

  "Sergei, Piotr's still dead," Isaac spoke in a blunt tone.

  The Russian's eyes went wide, first with shock and second` with recognition. "Yes, yes. You are right, of course, thank you my friend." He turned to the empty space. "I am sorry, dearest brother, but you passed away long ago, and I must do my best to stop seeing you."

  Isaac turned to one of the bystanding soldiers. He gestured at the body. "Get someone over here to clean this up, but make sure and tell them to be gentle; the poor guy looks like he's suffered enough." He pointed at two others. "Find Kaylee, wherever she is, and bring her to Sergei's office. We need to speak with her right away."

  The two OHU leaders remained for a time, picking over the body and hoping to discover some answer to the mystery behind it.

  Chapter 3: Tensions Rising

  Issues of his capture, release, and the mangled corpse continued to weigh heavily upon Rick's mind as he traveled through the streets of Old Haven. Such easy passage seemed laughable given circumstances not long ago, and he hardly paid attention to his surroundings.
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  The situation of upper-Haven provided a grim reflection to the twelve years in darkness of its underground counterpart. Fear, death, hiding, and constant vigilance when walking in the streets had been entirely normal for Old Haven, but now Rick could move in relative calm, absorbed in thought instead of paranoid caution.

  Still, Rick's weary body dragged him along familiar paths, avoiding some areas by habits old and new.

  Thousands and more had died in the chaos which followed the uprising. The bodies had to go somewhere, and somewhere they went. Rick avoided the common dumping sites and the potential disease they brought. Plenty of space remained all around in Old Haven, away from the fighting above and its result dumped below.

  Some people simply didn't wish to fight, and surviving, though difficult, remained a possibility.

  Exhaustion pounded his body while he traveled through the streets to his destination. No food since the little bit Kaylee had given him, Rick also couldn't remember having slept in recent days save for his unconsciousness when captured.

  He nearly fell flat on his face upon arrival at the disused school occupied by Desmond and his wife Olivia. Too many miles and very little rest made not collapsing difficult. Indeed he still might have done so had a floodlight and sharp voice not awoken him from his stupor.

  "Don't move!" a young, female voice sounded in front of him. It and the light came from the on top of the alcove above the front entrance.

  Wavering on his feet, Rick held up his hands. He could see nothing except the bright flare of blinding light pointing down at him from the overhang.

  "State your name and business," the girl spoke sharply. In spite of his weariness, Rick's mind churned away. Teenager. No fear in her voice. Artificial confidence from carrying a weapon, unless I miss my guess. He blinked against the harsh light. Since when are these guys using sentries?