Project Antichrist

by Pavel Kravchenko

  Yet he hesitated. Let him just make a move, half a move, he thought, keeping the same pace. The slightest motion and I’m gone. Sorry, Luke, Iris, I rather liked you guys, but…

  But the Seeker, inexplicably, stayed put. A moment later the Messenger and his escort were out of reach. So certain he had been of the Seeker’s impending attempt to intercept him, to revenge his fallen partner, that when it didn’t happen, he almost missed a step. Not now, he told himself. Can’t think about it now. When four of the Guard pursued you, a missed step was as bad as an unforeseen Seeker cutting off your escape. He forced the Seeker out of his mind and continued on, curving his rout gently to the right, away from the city.

  They sent four — half of the Guard — after him because he killed a Sobak. Had they known who he truly was, they would send all of them. There would be ships circling above for support. Sometimes it’s good to be dead, he reflected. Of course, in mere minutes he, the Messenger, would be resurrected.

  Those minutes passed with the Guard methodically gaining ground. He fought for scraps of time, increasing his pace ever so slightly. Someone else might have gotten suspicious. The Guard simply adjusted, compensated and continued to gain.

  They almost had him now. He felt them shifting, coming around for the final maneuver. The chase had moved to the roofs of the Southwestern suburbs that flew by under his feet. Chicago receded behind him and to the left. The city that had been a good tomb to him; the city he was not likely to see ever again. But he had never been one afraid of change. That’s how he had died. That’s why he’d stayed dead for so long.

  Thinking like a human again. Long? A couple of years’ time, barely that. Long time on Earth, though. Compared to that time, the minutes he had managed to collect from the Guardians were like a human’s lifespan compared to a Sobak’s. Seventeen earth minutes here, fourteen back. Meager thirty one total. Nothing for a Sobak. However, the time he’d won wasn’t for a Sobak. A human might be able to do something with it. Would have to be able to. It was all he could give. The chase was over. Half a minute more and he would be inside the Guard’s Square. It was time.

  He dropped the disguise.

  He heard their recognition, their outrage, the realization of their mistake. Instantly the formation was forgotten. The Guardians came on in a rush, as desperate as it was futile. In a bit of un-Sobak-like, human immaturity, he turned to face them, hearing again their sudden hope.

  Then he leapt backwards. Forty miles backwards. He saw their flailing, receding forms as they jumped after him and soon landed. No one could move like the Messenger. The winged shoes, he thought to himself amusedly as he landed, turned and leapt again, heading straight south. Whatever came next, his task was done here. He had given Whales half an hour. It better be enough.

  As for him, now they knew. Next time they wouldn’t be unprepared. But it felt good to be alive again. No wonder humans made so much fuss about resurrection, he thought. Resurrection was… fun.

  * * *

  In the narrow hallway by the cell’s door six guards — the prisoner security had been tripled, rather than doubled here — kept the small talk to a minimum. They paced silently, leaned on walls, checked their weapons and stretched, directing occasional glances towards the curve, beyond which the hallway eventually joined the main. Other than that they gave no indication of anything out of the ordinary happening.

  Stone, the ex-mil Unitman, didn’t blame them. Sure, Code Black was serious enough business, especially with that car bomb going off up by the gates and somehow knocking off power, but there were forty-six guards presently on the floor, and underground levels had been built to limit hiding places. A patrol was bound to spot the intruders sooner or later. Chances were they would never make it to the dorms. If that bomb was supposed to be a distraction, Stone thought grimly, the amateur fools were about to find out just how poorly it worked.

  Still, he made himself look vigilant, barking orders and gesturing every now and then, in case someone was watching.

  Out of the same consideration he accessed the display panel to check on the prisoner. The old man with the bloody nose was standing in the middle of the cell, eyes closed, face and palms turned up towards the ceiling. The sensors picked up a faint, chanting-like sound emanating from him.

  “Hey, shut up in there,” Stone barked into the microphone. The old man didn’t move a muscle. As Stone was about to open the door and do some disciplinary work, a voice started talking in his helmet. According to the visor, the transmission was coming in on Leader channel.

  “This is Sono,” the voice said urgently. “One or more intruders have likely entered through the train station. Two of my men are missing. That means their suits could have been used to disguise. Account for all your men. If you see guards who are out of place or act suspicious — shoot first, ask questions later. This is straight from White Command. I am staying at the station to prevent any escape attempt. Sono, out.”

  There was silence. Sure, stay at the subway station, Stone thought bitterly. Let someone else do the job. Just like Sono.

  Suddenly, another voice spoke. “This is Talbot. A pair dressed in guard suits just stopped by the infirmary. Said Sono sent them, but Sono says he didn’t send nobody. They’re coming to the dorms. Prepare the meet and greet.”

  Talbot signed off, but another voice replaced him immediately. “Stone, this is White Command. Your orders are to shoot to kill. If they are wearing guard suits, submachine gun fire will only temporarily incapacitate them. But your orders are: shoot to kill. Is that understood?”

  Stone nodded, forgetting that the voice was coming on radio.

  “Is that understood?” WC repeated impatiently. “Respond.”

  “Yes, sir,” Stone finally said, not bothering to switch the frequency. WC could hear him on any channel.

  “Good.” WC said no more.

  After a momentary reflection, Stone was barking orders once again. They were not just for show this time, and the men sensed it immediately and started moving.

  “All right, listen up. We have at least two incoming. You three — prone on the floor here.” He showed with his hand. “One, two, three.” The three dropped flat. Stone opened two nearest compartments on either side of the hallway and had two men get into doorways for cover. When all were in position, he nodded satisfactorily and took a knee behind them, in the middle. From the holster on his hip he pulled out an old-fashioned Desert Eagle and removed the safety. The suit would not stop a bullet from that.

  In the cell, the old man chanted on.

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  We were about fifty yards into the side passage when a voice in my helmet called for Pare and his status. It repeated the question four times and fell silent. Afraid that someone could now be listening in on Pare’s borrowed suit, I motioned for Paul to be silent, and we walked on carefully and hopefully quietly, hugging the corridor’s left wall.

  Suddenly Paul, who had somehow ended up in the lead, halted and raised his right hand in a fist. One had only to have a brief acquaintance with police dramas to know what that meant. Sending a glance over my shoulder I pressed my back against the white wall.

  In a moment Paul was leaning on the wall beside me. He raised his hand again and this time he curled only two fingers, leaving three straight. I nodded and glanced back the way we’d come from one more time. That way the hallway remained empty. But the chanting continued. It was getting stronger. There could not be a mistake.

  I turned to Paul again, contemplating removing the helmet and asking him to remove his, so that we could see each other’s faces. Before I could, Paul’s hand rose up once more. Placing his thumb under the fingers, he opened and closed the palm three times, paused, turned the palm sideways, curling his fingers in and leaving the index pointing straight forward and the thumb up. That wasn’t in any of the episodes I’d seen, but I understood. Talk or shoot. It was up to me.

  Only for a short time.

  Hurried footsteps resounded in
the hallway behind us. It seemed the squad of guards we’d passed was returning for a couple of questions.

  “Go!” I shouted, forgetting the silence. “Go!”

  And off went Paul. He charged around the bend, and I followed closely, screaming “Ahhh!” at the top of my lungs, drowning out the chanting that continued to grow in my head. In what I thought would be my last moments, I couldn’t come up with anything better. So much for actors being creative.

  As we came around the curve, I saw that the hallway from there ran straight for about fifty feet, ending in a single silvery door. Three guards in white heard me. The hallway began to crackle with gunfire.

  Paul stumbled and went down. Thinking he’d been hit I screamed louder and started shooting, still running towards the guards. One of them was thrown back against the door. Before I had the chance to cheer, something like an invisible freight train smashed into my left shoulder, tossing me back in a triple toe-loop.

  Oh, that hurts, I thought to myself as I spun, watching a familiar-looking submachine gun float by me. Then, right before I lost consciousness, I saw Paul, sliding along the floor on his belly and shooting. “No more ice-cream, mister,” said my mother’s voice. “Or you will be sick.” The lights went out.

  When my eyes opened Paul’s red, wet face hovered above me. His lips and eyes were moving frantically, but I couldn’t hear a thing. It was about to tell him as much, when a stab of pain woke me up better than any latte. I almost bit my tongue off.

  I groaned and struggled to get up. “How long was I out?”

  “Two, maybe three seconds!” he shouted in my ear. “Now fucking move!”

  Through the door he pulled me into… an elevator. I twisted around, not comprehending. Outside there was the hallway and the bodies. A bunch of armed people in white ran out of the curve.

  “Close, you piece of shit! Close!” Paul was shouting and shooting as bullets whizzed by, and finally, the door obeyed. Several dull thuds sent the elevator on its way up.

  “Get up! Can’t rest here!” Paul shouted at me and pulled me to my feet. “We’re still alive, brother! Haha! Man, this is just like BF5, man!”

  My head throbbed, but he didn’t seem capable of lowering the volume. Leaning against the wall, which was soft and orange, I shook my head. As I did, another burst of pain tore through me, almost causing me to collapse. Yes, I’m alive, I mused, but I wish a small part of me, namely from the left shoulder down the arm, was dead. Or, if that’s what dead feels like, I want no part of it at all.

  “Whoa, whoa! Hold it, man! The ride will be short! I need you awake!”

  I realized, absently, that he’d slapped my face. He was right, I knew, I needed to get it together, but everything else was wrong. Why were we going up? The prisoners had to be on the underground level. Yet, even as I thought that, I heard the chanting in my head, stronger than ever. We had to be on the right track. Had to be, unless there was no chanting and I was crazy. What a time to find that out, I reflected.

  I brought my good hand up to my face and found no glass. Just sweat. Somewhere along the way I’d lost my helmet. Pare’s helmet, really. But who gave a damn? It felt good to touch my face.

  The elevator stopped. Paul pushed me against one wall and leaned flat against the other, gun ready. The door opened. On the other side of it was a room, an office, large and empty. Inside the room only the ceiling was white. Under it, the walls were painted sea-foam, with malachite desk, spinach carpeting and viridian arm-chairs. Hideous colors all, as far as I was concerned, but after the maddening white of the underground, the room looked like it was from another, better world. It looked like we made it out alive. Beyond the window that filled the opposite wall, smoke was rising. There’s a fire out there in the Emerald City, I thought. Or emerald people are having a barbecue.

  “What button did you press?” I asked.

  “Wait here,” Paul whispered and stepped out cautiously. Having made sure the empty room was empty he returned with an arm-chair, jammed the elevator’s doorway and motioned me out. On the left there was a door. Paul checked it. Locked from the inside. The wall on the right had a dozen monitors, all tuned in to the news. I recalled the Pope’s morning announcement, which seemed like it had happened last year, expecting to see broadcasts from Vatican. Instead, I saw myself. And I seemed to be in a lot of trouble again, only this time it was worse.

  This time, I was dead.

  They were showing an extended collage of images, which included frightening, sudden close-ups of initially distant, grim, some bordering on catatonic shots of my face recycled from the fugitive days broadcasts, a shot of me grinning maniacally while brandishing the “Silver Killer” from the day before, and assorted other pictures or short feeds of me being an asshole to someone on the show. Then they decided to let us see the “disturbing footage from this morning’s bombing” one more time. I figured it would be the Ace. And boy, was it ever.

  There I was, sure as Friday, seated beside Dr. Coughlin in the BMW, having a pretty heated argument with some guard in regular, non-white uniform. The guy reminded me of Ted from Waukegan. The angle switched, so that you couldn’t see the inside of the car any longer, and Ted’s look-alike pulled out a gun and screamed something. Next was the explosion and the camera feed was finally cut off. From the commentary that followed I learned that two other doctors were missing and feared dead. “Dr. Benjamin Young, a retired ex-employee of Freedom Corp., and Dr. Colin Wright, Whales’s supervising psychiatrist.”

  “Damn,” Paul remarked in a hushed and largely unenthusiastic voice.

  His lack of interest surprised me less than his voice control. When I turned, he pointed at a new door in the corner. Before following, I limped towards the window and looked outside. The BMW was still mostly there, but parts of the wall and the whole guardhouse were missing. Four police cars, two fire trucks and an ambulance were parked in a semi-circle on the outer side of the black smoking crater. Behind them, on the road (neither yellow nor brick) several more of each kind were approaching and leaving. Various emergency response people talked in groups beyond the screen of their vehicles. None of them had entered the compound. I wondered if any of them had the chance to see the news. Then it occurred to me that there were no news vans out there, despite the footage on the national TV, but that thought was pushed back by a more pressing one.

  I wondered what would happen if I shot out the window and called for help. Even if they had seen the news, I was almost certain I could convince them I hadn’t gone up in flames inside that BMW. Maybe I would be rescued. Probably arrested for something minutes later. But guards in white overalls would not shoot at me any more. I would be alive. I would get some pain medicine.

  I turned and walked to where Paul was waiting. Dr. Young’s persistent chanting reminded me why I was there. If all I had wanted was to stay alive, I would not be. Iris, my Iris had to be somewhere close. We needed to hurry.

  Through the door, then. To see the wizard. Prepare your wishes. And your guns.

  The door was unlocked. The Silver Killer entered the stage. Paul turned the knob and we were inside the adjoining room. The chanting stopped.

  “Doc?” I called in a whisper.

  “I said not to bother me,” an irritated, whiny voice complained. I couldn’t see the man, so I immediately assumed he was behind a curtain. But there was no curtain. The man was seated in a deep, high-backed, emerald-colored, velvet armchair with its back to the door. He got up, a glass of something dark in his hand, and turned to face us. His haircut was goofy at best. The top was combed to the left, while the hair on the sides was curled into thick muffs covering his ears. From the spot between his tiny eyes and heavy, drooping cheeks, a rather meaty proboscis pointed at my boots. He measured us both with a stare a studio exec directs at a camera man.

  Then he recognized me and nearly fell over. He didn’t drop his glass, however, clutching it instead to his heart.

  “You,” he breathed. And then another voice, one th
at almost made me fall over, cried, “Luke?”

  “Iris!” I shouted and ran towards the man, gun outstretched in my hand. As he sagged to the left and whimpered, I saw her, all at once, face bruised, the red sweater torn, bound to some grotesque offspring of a marriage between Procrustean bed and a gynecological exam table. Her skirt had been lifted to reveal the black panties she’d worn to our date.

  “Luke,” Paul said quietly behind me.

  Forgetting the pain, I grabbed the gun with both hands and spun around to face the bastard. He was slinking slowly towards the window. Covering the distance with two steps I would later not remember taking, I pushed the muzzle of the gun into his cheek and screamed in his face.

  “I didn’t do anything!” he pleaded. “I swear! Please.”

  “Luke…”

  “It’s true, Luke.” That was Iris now. “I’m sure he was planning it, but between the blast and now he just drank and complained.”

  She sounded frightened, and awkwardly serious. After a pause I was able to bend my elbow and pull the gun back. Then I smashed his face with the handle. He cried out and fell backwards, writhing and covering his mouth. The green carpet got stained with blood, in a small puddle of which pieces of teeth appeared to swim.

  Putting the gun away I hurried to release Iris. Outside, in the larger office someone was banging on the door. Paul went to see and I heard several shots. The bleeding man on the floor moaned. The banging stopped.

  “We have to leave,” Paul shouted.

  I helped Iris off the contraption. “He said it was you in that explosion,” she said, staring at me as I untied her.

  “He wasn’t lying, but that doesn’t necessarily make it true, does it?”

  Suddenly, she grinned the old Iris grin and jumped on me, covering my face with kisses. I did it! I thought. Here I was and here was Iris, both alive. I laughed, then gasped and almost fell with her on top of me, as my wounded shoulder reminded me of itself with momentary darkness. Iris noticed and jumped off.