Malcolm jerked away, face twisting downward in what must have been a scowl at Michaels' mockery. As he did so, the creature reeled on his feet and almost fell down, catching himself on the counter.
The researcher's ridicule turned to worry. "Mar- Malcolm, are you all right?"
Breathing heavily and leaning on the counter, Malcolm didn't respond, eyes closed.
"Malcolm," he put a hand on the creature's shoulder. A low growl issued, and Michaels pulled away. His eyes lit upon the bloody pile of clothing as well as the various smears throughout the room.
"How much blood did you lose, Malcolm?" Michaels asked.
The creature looked over, a measure of weariness on the alien face. "Lot."
Sighing, Michaels pointed to the patient bed in the center of the room. "You need to lie down. Even with your resilience, losing too much blood could weaken you substantially or even kill you." He considered his statement. "For a while, anyway. I suppose you can't be killed unless the organisms in your body are all simultaneously destroyed first. Although it might be equally plausible..." he trailed off, noting Malcolm's hard breathing and blank stare.
"Oh, here; let me help." Shouldering some of the creature's weight, surprised at how light he seemed, Michaels assisted in getting Malcolm on the table.
"How did you come by these wounds?" Michaels gestured at the sutured arm and the pile of bloody clothing.
Malcolm's eyes drooped, further exhaustion evident. "Dead woman. Bad. Followed to source. Bad people there."
"You found a dead woman, you say?" The conversation with Sergei and Isaac rang in his thoughts. "Was her condition at all... odd?"
"Bad."
Somehow, inflection spoke more than quantity, and a shiver coursed through the former Citizen. A few dead bodies from different places, displaying a status which could most efficiently be described as "bad."
Michaels suddenly remembered the supposition by Sergei and Isaac of Malcolm's involvement in some way with the recent killings. Here the creature laid, very likely attacked by the real perpetrators. And I honestly can't say if they'd change their minds, he thought, giving a sharp laugh. "Technically, I should probably be turning you in right now."
Other frightening thoughts scurried forth regarding the implications behind the creature's injuries. The researcher had viewed Malcolm in a fight. It would take considerable effort, numbers, and a general lack of self-preservation in his attackers to slow him down, much less cause grievous injury.
Perhaps I should tell Sergei and Isaac. "Yes, I will do that right away." He looked down at his patient, whose eyes had closed. "I'll be right back, Malcolm."
Nerves jittery, forgetting about his usual daily tasks, he stepped out of the lab.
******
In the late morning, not that there was any indication via sunlight, Rick's eyes opened. He blinked in the darkness of his room, trying to remember where he had ended up.
His forehead throbbed, a dull thud which seemed to resonate throughout his body. His stiff muscles protested as he shifted around, testing himself. The prior evening's events flitted through his thoughts, and he released a long sigh.
Bits of his body rang with fatigue, but the real exhaustion remained no more than a memory of a time now rather hazy in his mind. Rolling over, he slowly stood up, feeling his muscles groan and ache with the minimal exertion.
After a moment, realizing he no longer had possessions with him save for the clothes on his back, he opened the door and stepped out of the room.
Dim lighting, the kind he and most everyone was accustomed to, flickered in the hallway and secretary office. A few candles were lit on the desk which held piles of papers, a notion which Rick considered somewhat hazardous.
Seated at the desk, Desmond hunched over some piece of paper and occasionally scribbled something on it. At Rick's approach, he raised his head, blinking. "Ah, you're awake. Sorry we let you sleep so long; you seemed like you needed it."
Rick glanced at a clock on the desk, expecting to see a little more than his normal rest but not by much. His eyes widened to note a twelve-hour plus night of complete unconsciousness without a hint of dreaming or waking. "Yikes," he said, staring in disbelief. He blinked, certain it was a trick of his addled mind, but the time remained the same. "Ah, jeez. I shouldn't have... you should have woken..." Rick trailed off with a sigh.
The man at the desk chuckled. "Sorry, Rick, but you truly did need the rest. I'd half-suggest you sleep longer, but I doubt I can convince you to do such a thing."
"Not a chance, too much to do." Rick gave his head a forlorn shake. "We got bodies turning up all over the place. I need to get moving if I'm going to figure any of this out."
"We've learned something new since last night. Quinton went scouting to try and track the killer." Desmond swallowed hard. "I'm sure you'll be wanting to speak with him right away. He's getting breakfast over at the cafeteria, so why don't you do the same?"
At the mere mention of food, Rick's stomach released a pang of hunger, a deep and angry sensation which demanded immediate attention. He put a hand over his midsection, as if to calm it, and said, "Yeah, I think that's a good idea."
After a quick thanks and farewell to Desmond, Rick moved out of the office and into the hallways of the school.
A few children ambled about, giving him startled or tense looks as he passed through their midst. Not surprising: in spite of a rejuvenating and life-saving sleep, Rick understood he probably looked terrible.
He made quick stop in the bathroom to satisfy another biological need before wandering through the halls, a rising sense of urgency in his hunger.
Minutes later, he stepped into the wide open cafeteria space, much of it dark and gloomy save for a few small lights throughout. Some children were around, eating, sitting, or studying textbooks. At the far corner, away from any children and indeed receiving a similar variety of nervous glances, sat an old man.
Old was the only way to describe Quinton. Gnarled hands, stiff gray hair, and heavily wrinkled skin: Rick never quite had the tenacity to ask Quinton his exact age. My guess is seventies at least, he thought.
Still, Rick knew from reputation alone that Quinton, who had a military background he never spoke of, could handle himself. Indeed, the notion of Quinton scouting something important hadn't registered at all farfetched in Rick's mind.
He stopped over at the kitchen area, flashing a grateful smile at the person keeping an eye on food distribution. A clean spoon and a can of thick stew in tow, he went over and seated himself across from Quinton.
A few days unshaven, the stocky man featured gray hair more like bristles upon his head and face as he dug into a can of cold beans. A fresh, half-eaten tomato dribbled seeds and juice onto the table.
Quinton didn't look up, focusing considerable attention upon the food in front of him. Rick shrugged, digging into his own meal. He took small bites, filling his yawning stomach at a gradual pace. Bit by bit, the gnawing hunger dropped away.
The spoon scraped against the bottom of Rick's can, and he passed a forlorn gaze into it.
"They'll probably let you have more," a grizzled voice sounded from the old man.
Rick gave a start as he realized Quinton had finished his own meal and was watching him. "Yeah, I suppose."
Piercing eyes narrowed, sliding across the obvious bruise on Rick's forehead and the reddened marks where his wrists had been bound. "Were you captured?"
"Briefly, yeah." Rick rubbed his eyes.
"The exit point has been compromised, then." Shades of a question were present in a mostly flat tone.
"Yeah," Rick nodded, "but I've found another one, and I've also been thinking we need to start finding or making a few others if we plan on keeping ourselves in this business."
Quinton grunted what Rick assumed to be an affirmation, and a short silence ensued.
Awkward, Rick sat and fidgeted in his seat. Quinton rubbed his chin, wiped hands on his dark green outfit, and stared off into no
thing without an expression.
"So, uh..." Rick spoke, "what was it...?" He rubbed his eyes. "Desmond said you found something while scouting."
"Yep." The piercing eyes flitted over to Rick.
Rick wasn't certain if he was going to elaborate. "What-"
"There were a bunch of people congregating at that club. Heavenly Bodies." Quinton folded his arms. "Early morning: I saw your buddy run into the area. He came out bloodied."
"My buddy?"
"The weird one with the glowing eyes."
Rick's mouth fell open. "You saw Malcolm? What was he doing up there?"
Quinton favored him with a blank stare.
"Erm... okay, what else did you see?"
"Not much. Lots of people chased him away. They had knives, hammers, bricks, but no guns. They acted pretty crazy, frenzied from what I could see." He sniffed. "Pretty bad people. I think they're behind the bodies we found, probably the one you came across too. Maybe others we don't know about yet."
A chill swept through Rick. "Any idea of concrete numbers?"
"I only saw a few dozen, but... a hundred or two'd be my guess, maybe more."
That doesn't sound so bad... Rick thought, a slight frown on his face.
"Depends upon how they fight," Quinton replied as if reading Rick's mind. "My guess is they won't be doing anything direct-like, but we at the school aren't gonna be able to do much either way. The boys upstairs with their firepower'll have to take care of it. Assuming..."
Grimacing, Rick finished the thought. "Assuming they bother to stop killing each other first. Shit." I'm probably going to have to get captured just to relay a stinking message. Another notion occurred, and he asked, "Did you see what else happened with Malcolm? You said bloodied; did he seem okay?"
Quinton gave a shrug. "He moved quick and got away easy. His clothing was shredded, and they had blood on their knives."
Rick shuddered. They must have really piled onto him. I'd bet anything he left more than a few broken bodies behind him, but if they weren't scared...
The older man seemed to read his mind again. "Dozens on one guy in open terrain. Doesn't matter how strong he is. Your buddy's lucky to be alive."
With a laugh, Rick shook his head. "I don't think luck has much to do with it. They'd need to do more than scratch Malcolm to slow him down."
"As you say."
"Well," Rick sighed, "I suppose we gotta run to the surface to warn a few people about these guys. They've been picking off folks down below and at least one so far up above; I'm sure Sergei and Isaac would be happy to deal with them, assuming any OHU people have been attacked."
"I'll go," Quinton said.
Rick chewed his lip. "No offense, but I can get up there much fas-"
"Son, you finish that statement, and you'll be coughing up your own teeth." Quinton glared at him. "I may not look like much, but I'll move quick enough. Either way," the corner of his mouth curled, "the folks upstairs'll believe what I say and won't take me prisoner."
Blinking, Rick couldn't get past thought of the old guy trouncing him in a fight. I guess he could try, but... He shook it off, wilting. Even so, he's right about Sergei and Isaac. They wouldn't even believe me. "Yeah," he said, "you're right."
"Yeah, I know." The curled half-smile remained.
Rick gave a light scowl. Seems the old bastard has a sense of humor. "Well, old-timer, are you going to sit here all day? You say those ancient bones have a little spring to 'em, so I'm expecting you to be there in time for your afternoon nap."
Quinton's smile spread out to a wicked grin, taking the younger man's jab without flinching. "Don't worry. I'll get there. Tell me where the new exit point is."
After Rick provided detailed directions, Quinton stood up, straightened his clothing, and ambled off.
Remaining behind, Rick considered his options over another can of stew, begged from the kitchen attendant. A measure of revitalization came into Rick's body. For the first time in weeks, he felt the ever-present weariness fade into the background, at least enough for him to keep taking care of things.
Except now I need to figure out something to do, he thought, rising. Returning to the surface held heavy risk. He desperately wanted to meet up with Gottfried, to let him know what happened, but his ally would be difficult to contact.
Whatever, gotta do something.
******
Herman Gottfried's head pounded and throbbed with more than just the painful lump he'd taken from the Malcolm creature the evening before. As per usual, he couldn't comprehend the flailing stupidity which formed the general mindset of his fellow man.
The High Inquisitor title meant almost nothing; Gottfried had minimal true authority because Davidson didn't dispense trust in any real fashion. Tasks were delegated, but Gottfried was never given more information than necessary.
After a stern lecture from Citizen Davidson the evening before regarding his allowance of a prisoner to escape, Gottfried retired to his quarters to try and mitigate the headache he'd received from being knocked unconscious. He cursed the necessity of the situation in the first place, having thought of and planned Rick's escape without the need for the creature to become involved.
Perhaps I should have considered the possibility of someone else intervening, Gottfried thought, reanalyzing the situation for the twentieth or more time. Deeply engrained within his nature to calculate, he did understand that not every situation could be scrutinized from all angles. Especially if I have limited time, he thought, again analyzing the circumstances.
None of this mattered in particular any longer, as the only negative result had been a lump on Gottfried's head and a few irritated words from Davidson. Much less important than the discovery Gottfried made, long after he was awoken from unconsciousness and indeed after the night had passed.
He clenched a fist, wanting very much to slam it on the desk in frustration while he considered the bits of intelligence provided by one of his Inquisitors. First off, the appearance of a mangled body begged a large number of questions. Most importantly, why was I not informed immediately last night?
"Worse," he spoke through clenched teeth, "why has investigation been circumvented in favor of a pointless assault which is certain to cause considerable harm to both sides?"
Gottfried didn't normally articulate his thoughts out loud because no one quite knew who could be listening at any given moment. In order to believe a civilized world exists, one must take risks and speak certain thoughts out loud. If important facets of life remain locked within our minds, then all of us might as well be dead.
The threat was less so, of course, than it used to be during Lange's period of leadership and the rise of the Inquisition. However, back then, Gottfried had been able to voice concern to the previous High Inquisitor, Julian Wresh, not that it ended up mattering. Had I known the idiot compromised security to assist in his foolish power-play, I'd have shot him myself.
Gottfried frowned, noting the recent shift in his disposition toward the macabre and fatalistic. The unerring foolishness of so many parties had driven an uncomfortable pessimism into his thoughts.
I am not consulted. I am not informed. A mutilated body was found, and no one appears concerned about the victim or the killer. Whoever caused the situation will be unpunished and will potentially strike again if nothing is done.
The discovered body made Gottfried nervous. He didn't believe it was the work of the Old Haven Union, and he suspected Davidson didn't either. The man seemed quite shrewd and calculating in his own right, but Gottfried thought him moronic to ignore something like that. Perhaps it isn't a threat beyond our means, but we should at the very minimum investigate.
More frustrating yet, Gottfried had been cut out from any details of the assault. Concern pitted in his stomach: a mild fear which worried that Davidson had tipped from not trusting to suspecting.
He tried to cast the thoughts aside, digging through files to find something, any records of killings similar to the Cit
izen discovered the evening prior. If no one else will concern themselves with it, then I suppose it falls to me.
Chapter 5: Better Ideas
Isaac's existence both past and present did not lend itself to much in the way of brilliance. His mind held no great amount of information historical, militaristic, creative, ingenious, or anything else of high consequence.
His accomplishments were few, and much of his life had been spent taking the orders of other people. Even now, with formal authority at his fingertips, he had merged his larger force of people with Sergei's and granted equal partnership to the Old Haven Union. Even though the entire organization could've been his alone, he saved Sergei's life and even took a lesser role in the decision-making process.
No one, not even Sergei, knew what Isaac had done before becoming a lieutenant under the Silver Fox, prior to the uprising. Nor did Isaac share anything of his life before the Acts of Separation, when Haven became divided between the shining new city and the quickly decaying ruins beneath. All anyone knew of Isaac was that he seemed a fairly simple man. Not brilliant, not amazing: just simple.
In spite of this impression, Isaac wasn't stupid.
Not a man who could make snap judgments or jump to correct conclusions without a fair level of thought, he also didn't hold to stubborn-streak like Sergei often did.
Seeing the bloodied mess of Michaels' lab, the creature of recent discussion unconscious upon the table, and in light of the argument with the researcher, Isaac decided to alter his opinion. You know, I don't really think it was the big guy who killed those people, he thought.
More of a gut feeling, Isaac didn't know why he felt certain. The creature lay stretched out on the table, more strange and inhuman than Isaac could ever imagine. Its stature and physiology seemed so freakish, but something about it didn't imply a deliberately violent nature. For certain, Isaac had heard of Malcolm's ferocity, but something about the slow rise and fall of the unconscious creature's chest made it seem peaceful and somehow...
Exodus (The Fall of Haven) Page 8