The Grand Attraction

by Enoch Enns

  And was she just a trap?

  Either way, he couldn't focus on her. He had to concentrate on his surroundings and the keeping of his body under check. He was ready to react at slightest sign of danger. For one, the melody still played in the background. Or was it a melody? As he wound his way back to the staircases, the sound steadily grew. It was a repetition of words, simple but dark, and was sung oddly. Almost as though by a child. He couldn't bear the thought of a child living in such darkness, eyes open, alone and on the run. He wondered if his daughter knew. If she had been exposed to this new reality at all or not. He prayed she hadn't. Not yet, not now. Her suffering from the reverse effect of Friedelock's dirty work was enough for him. He could feel a rise of tension as he began to doubt if the man even carried the cure or was to be trusted.

  But now wasn't the time to doubt. Regardless if he wanted it or not, Friedelock's serum was the only thing left that could save his daughter. It had to be, for he'd been given a small dose already. But even that had worn off. Now all he had was what the dealer had given him. And he definitely didn't trust the use of the Hensers. They were black magic in his eyes. Sorcery. And yet they weren't. He still couldn't grasp them or the man who'd given them to him. “A gift,” he'd said. One that had simply burned through life as though it were not. One that had killed. Carls despised them for he knew nothing about their source or reason. They'd only brought pain thus far, so who was to say they'd bring anything else?

  Definitely pain though. But if it was giving her a chance, he was willing.

  He could hear the singing around the bend. Someone or something was there, and he eased near to the corner's edge, peering with all intent to avoid confrontation. What his eyes beheld caused him to stumble. It was a child, a boy, crouched by shattered crates and black walls and toying with something that was obstructed from his view. He fought every urge to call out to the boy, not knowing if it were true or simply an illusion. But what was a child doing here? And why right where Carls needed to be. The staircase was just past the boy and the crates. Carls had to decide whether to break for it or find another way.

  A sound crackled behind him and the boy jumped to his feet staring in Carls' direction. The singing stopped and the boy just starred for a moment, tears in his eyes. Carls, exposed and speechless, stood starring right back. The boy then tore off down the stairs in a fury, too quick for Locke to pursue him. What had caused him to trip?

  He came to observe what the boy had been meddling with. Behind the crate lay the imprints of a dead man. Next to one hand a battered revolver resided cold and chambers empty. His other hand cradled tightly to a Hand-Pal. His hands were raw and burnt-- as were the walls about him. Remnants of ash lie to his side (Carls guessed it to be where the ashes of the Henser fell). From the looks of it, the man had attempted blasting his enemy with flames. Carls knew too well the results of such action.

  Prying a little, he was able to free the Hand-Pal from the man's grip. He held it loosely so as to not damage it anymore. He was just glad enough that it still worked (though barely). It played next to his, hands pressed closely so as to get the clearest sound. “Well, we tracked down the man as instructed, but when we got there, he was already dead. It was enough trouble finding him and now this? Friedelock isn't going to be happy. But just to assure no mess-up, we put two bullets to his chest. He shouldn't be waking from that...” the tape began buzzing and skipped ahead.

  “...I still don't know where the research was hidden or if even in this retched building. All I know is that this place it possessed. Ever since we got here, my men and I have been getting weird vibes... I think it’s/ …I doubt we'll be getting out of here alive. I should've known better. It's not like Friedelock to tell the whole story. And now we're paying for it. We've already lost two/ …wait, it's here again/ We need help!/ ...must reach/ ….”

  The tape blared in static and skipped ahead again, the soft singing of a child filling its chaos. What? And then it stopped. The kid? The Shem? What had they been talking of? Why had they stayed in the building?

  His memory flashed back into the vision. A dark place-- water trickling down the walls of moss and overgrowth. A man sat in the corner, a cigar to his mouth and a pad of sorts in his hand. Before anything could be made of detail, the man in coat stood and began walking away. Locke followed. Down the tunnel they went-- the faint outlining of the inhabitants that had once opposed the man. He caught a glimpse of writing on the walls, familiar yet vague; retaining not pattern whatsoever. The Big Man, TAP, Holstein is in the Dark... Some even extending into small, pleading phrases such as “The rain is falling, it's the Dark calling” and “The light has long since dawned.”

  The man stopped, lifting from his coat a massive shotgun. “Where is he?” the deep voice resonated into the chamber before him.

  “Long since gone,” a figure shrouded in hood and mist answered. “Less you wish the same fate, you'll leave this place.”

  The man raised his gun, scoffing, “It's a little too late for that.”

  “Then I guess you'll have to prove yourself worthy of my knowledge--”

  The vision blasted off and Carls plumped to the floor in heavy breathing. He thought he'd recognized the man but nothing came. No confirmation, no assurance. And to whom had he been speaking? Where? Why? It had to be something important. Friedelock wanted what Norwick had stolen from him. And whatever it had been, Norwick no longer had it. Had what? What is Friedelock wanting so bad that Norwick hid so well? I have to find it! But how? How can I find what so many others seemed to have failed at? Even Antoinette...

  He pulled himself up against the wall, senses returning. Think, Carls. Norwick was here under a deal with the philosopher. But why? They had switched places for what reason? What in return would Dyrdrik do such a favor for? They had obviously been meeting each other often, and most likely for updates on Friedelock's search. “Instruct my shareholder on what to do,” Norwick had told his friend. Who was this shareholder and what was the instruction? And what was the meaning of this new hindsight? A man asking for another and shots sounding? “Long since gone...” But who?

  Carls was finding more questions than answers now and it worried him. He made his way down the stairs and to the exit doors. Either way, he needed to find the place he last saw. It would hold the next clue. “Holstein is in the Dark,” he quoted from one of the markings on the tunnel's wall. He knew there to be a Holstein Sector on the map, though a ways off. He would have to go there next. Hopefully more answers would arise when he got there. And more leads.

  The Holstein Sector

  The open streets and reinforced structures spoke of safety and comfort but the abandonment and upheaval cried desolation. It seemed looted of all it had once been. Stripped of security; stripped of hope. Along the sides of the many structures were words of chaos etched in chalk and paint. Remnants of struggle still seen where a man once opposed an official; or where another who prophesied of death and destruction lay bound. He saw the warnings, the pleas. “Hide while you can.” “Don't sleep, it is their poison!” The people seemed stricken by panic and desperation as order tried to be maintained. Buildings lay blown out and homes turned to ruble from resistance. Scattered about were bunkers of any sort for protection from crossfire. He could only wonder as to the cause of such uprising-- such fear and illusion. The residents seemed desperate and confused, all emphasizing upon the necessity of avoiding sleep, thus becoming depraved of it. But what for?

  “Turn from the Resolute!” still more read. All the place seemed to utter it. How would sleep be their poison? Thus far it was the opposite that had proved so. They had gone mad over the conviction of remaining awake. Small machines and outlets were smashed in, broken, and stolen of their goods. Carls found them all to be products of e-Company. More specifically: their caffeine and adrenaline shots.

  Had they drugged themselves to ruin?

  He came near a crumbled wall-- a waving of a hand catching his sight. It was the boy again. “Hey!�
� Carls called out. Too late. They boy disappeared down a large hole in the floor ahead. Carls didn't like the thought of following after what just as well have been an illusion, but he had nothing better to go by. Perhaps this child was an illusion, and perhaps not. Either way, he wasn't getting anywhere just standing. Thus, he made his way towards the hole.

  His feet splashed as his shoes found grip. Thankfully the coat he wore was water resistant (being the chills that the cold flow sent shivering through him). He heard the boy off in the distance and quickening darkness. “Don't sleep, can't eat” he read on the opposing wall. A man lie beneath the white chalk no longer breathing. He'd given way to the sleep and hunger he had fought so hard to resist. A tramp. All of them seemed to be. Homeless in their own homes, how was this possible? Were they that afraid? He continued forward, eyes straining to bend the light before him. He clang to the side in hope that more would pass through and light his way-- and to avoid sloshing in the depths of the overflow. The boy's footsteps had vanished within the shadows and Carls pressed after in blindness.

  The passageway took a hard turn and he saw a glimmer of faded light in the distance. Also at the turn he could see the lifeless bodies from his vision. It made sense now. Holstein had fallen into darkness and the people feared it. So much so that they had despised anything thereof. The white chalk, the blown out corners, the power lights and lampposts-- all were their attempts at fighting it. “Don't sleep” was their constant reminder. But why had such darkness befallen the place? Why the revolt? Why did they not run?

  The small passage opened up to a larger chamber shrouded in mist. Power lights took up all four corners in attempt to expose it. They flickered and fluttered, resolving no true redemption. However, Carls could see in the center a figure of a man strapped to a pole, head downcast and dripping of sweat.

  “Who are you?” Carls asked hesitantly, “And are you alright?”

  The figure neither replied nor lifted his head, but he was conscious. Carls stepped closer, a hand daring to pry at the ropes that bound the man. He made no motion of recognition but was aware all the same.

  “What happened to--” the lights surged and mist swirled, a hand to his own that had touched the man's body.

  “Do not tempt me!” the man bellowed, head raised and hair cutting sideways and up. With the single grip he had, he flung Carls back against the wall. The man's eyes were now glowing a deep green and his skin began to peel away to a darker scale-- his clothes re-materializing. In an instant, the once weak and bound helpless man was now overflowing in power and awe.

  Locke scrambled to his knees, pulling his gun from its latch and sending a bullet slapping empty into the brick ahead. The man was gone. The lights blacked out and ceiling broke away. He had just lifted his gun to deflect the crashing ruble. What on Earth was that—if even of Earth to begin with?

  He heard laughter. From above, light filtered down through the rocks to where he cradled close to a corner. He emerged unscathed but desperate for any source of security. What nightmare had befallen his ideals of reality as it should be? Why was all this happening to him? Where was the information he sought to save his daughter? Where was she still?

  Pain emanated from his lower abdomen. He couldn't tell if it were the impact or sharing of his daughter's suffering. Regardless, it ached deeply.

  Desperation

  There is a feeling one gets when their desperation has reached such a level so as to destroy their sense of independence. It seems as if their entire world has been forced into a tunnel mindset with only one direction, one goal, for which to exist. For most it becomes a desperate and final act after which they lose all sense of individuality and, for some, purpose for life. For others, this tunnel leads to the extensive use of their being, ending in sacrifice or defeat. Regardless of the end, they all share an obsession to reach its closure. Their willingness to lay everything on the line can often ruin every aspect of their intent or final results. For Carls, everything fringed upon his daughter— his experiences only fueling the desire. When reality began mixing with horror, an unforeseen emotion took root. Not of numbness or doubt, but of singularity. His interpretations and intents all funneled into a single capsule: his daughter. So much that trifled what he knew to be real was discarded as secondary motive. He no longer cared that his knees were shaking or back hunching in tiredness. It no longer mattered if he bled or sweat— it all was the same to him. His suffering, his determination, his longing, his desperation— they all meant but one thing to him: an even more pressing reason to save his daughter. Death was no option to him. And so he drove his legs into submission once more and climbed above the ruble. He abandoned any attempts to dissuade himself of continuing onward. He forced his eyelids to lift against such insurmountable odds so as to guide his each and every step out of defeat. He would not linger on the pain but pursue the goal. He was going to find what he'd come for and he was going to save daughter. I will come back for you, he said to himself. I will get you that cure.

  His heart rose above the ruin— a man stood atop looking down upon him. He wore a hood baring many markings. In the shadow of mystery, his eyes shone a deep green. Was this the same man as below?

  “Please, I only seek—” Carls' words were cut off.

  “I know what it is you seek. I warned you to not intervene, but it seems you lost all discretion long ago. A fool you all are, meddling with what you cannot comprehend, stifling with what surpasses your understanding. Do you even know of why you seek what I have?”

  “To save my only daughter,” Carls answered.

  “And yet you did not make use of the cure whilst you had it? No, you are not here to save her. You are no different from the rest. No less selfish, no less corrupt.”

  “It is true: man at heart is selfish and corrupt. But do not label me by such low standing! For I come to you honest and in good intent. My act before you is, as I said, that my daughter's life be sparred. Be it my way, I would have none of this! I am not here to prove to you anything but a desire to save a life!”

  “You speak boldly for such a minute knowledge. Too many before you have claimed likewise, but in the end it is all for their own comfort. Should you be willing to give yourself, however….”

  “That is something I have done long before I came to this place. You are right, I know nothing. Not who you are, nor Friedelock nor Antoinette or Dyrdrik or Norwick. But I know I am here now and that my daughter needs remedy and that I am willing to give my life to save her. And if that be to fight you, then it be your choice to accept or refute. Either way, I am not walking away empty-handed.”

  “Ha, well choice of words. However, I cannot simply hand it to you. I am the Nightingale—holder of Norwick's life's work. I was summoned for the sole purpose of keeping what was his from the hands of corrupted men. Prove to me you are as you say, that you are different, and I will grant you his work. But keep in mind, oh oblivious one, that I was to ensure Friedelock never caught hold. Though your motives move me, you seek to give to the man I swore to keep from. We shall fight as men and I with all that is in me. Prepare yourself, for I come with no restraints.”

  The man, calling himself the Nightingale, unfolded a staff from within his cloak. A mysterious power like none other began emanating from one of its ends, forming a spear-like edge. Carls himself felt unsteady, but drew his gun, inserting bullets into its chamber till it could hold no more. And then he looked up at his foe for one last thought—but he wasn't there! Beside him and to the left appeared the Nightingale, swinging his spear down upon Locke. He had no time to react, taking the brunt of it to his shoulder but somehow managing to evade the point. His body bent beneath the pressure and he slid back down the ruble. Once again, the Nightingale was above him for another blow—Carls used his gun to deflect it just in time. How was he supposed to stop this guy? Move, Carls, move! He forced himself to roll from his indented position but before he could reach a good footing he felt a boot dig into his right jaw—he plummeted to the very bo
ttom.

  I need help, he called to himself, hoping for some inner strength to take grip and drive him upward. For now, all he could see was the slow and persistent appearance of the Nightingale before him ready to strike again. I cannot not fight him like this. I need to—Carls' mind went a-blur. Not to being struck, not from exhaustion, but it simply faded to a strange sight. To his right and left posed two new figures only visible to him. He recognized them as both real and not. The figure of a girl was to his left (too far and too faint to make out) and to his right, a familiar and confusing sight. Xavier. Both seemed to be holding out their hands to help him but he could only grab one—

  His wet palms slipped through the hallucination of Xavier's hand but also had fallen a vial in the man's place. What was this? Carls reached for it.

  It was real and within his fist before a kick to his gut sent him spiraling sideways.

  “Fight me!” the Nightingale beckoned him, obviously energized to continue but disappointed in the resistance. “Do not make me finish you so easily!”

  He was on bended knee, hands drooping at his side. His coat hang low to his wrists-- the vial in his hand and bearing weight to his knuckles. As the Nightingale spoke, he had popped the top of the vial and raised it to his lips.

  “So,” the Nightingale noticed, “you too must use such methods... maybe you aren't so different after all....” He raised his staff, another blade appearing on the opposite end (this one bending back down as though a scythe). Carls felt a surge of... something. Whatever it was, the vial clang to the ground and his veins pulsed with new blood. Every fiber of his being rejuvenated and he jolted to his feet-- and at the Nightingale. But simply matching movements wasn't enough. Carls could only deflect the blows and attempts he had at countering were easily met and beat. Their feet slid atop the flooring as though an act to be reckoned with. As the Nightingale stepped right, Carls would follow-up with a reverse. But he was no match in arms. None of his shots hit their target. Too close. Too quick. He needed a distraction.