It only took one moment to change the world, turning my hometown into a magnet for murder and mayhem.
I will not have a part in it any longer.
Victor and I lock eyes over the edge of my improvised cover, and he casts a wide, bare-chested smile in the headlights’ glare.
“Peter!”
Shit.
Fists clenched at my side, I shift from behind the concrete cube and begin walking in their direction. Behind, Victor, Frank and Walter snicker at futile attempts to keep calm.
“Join us, won’t you?” Victor chuckles as I draw closer. “I trust you enjoyed the show?”
“What? You mean the indiscriminate suffering you just inflicted on unarmed civilians? That show?”
Much as I want to serve the greater purpose of stopping Victor and his crew from getting their hands on Fairchild Base’s firepower, the knowledge I will never be able to close my eyes again without seeing this incarnation of evil boils my blood.
“Can’t get hung up on the little guy anymore, Peter. We have bigger fish to fry!”
Victor, on the other hand, is immune to it all.
“The little guy?” I ask. “So what? This isn’t even America anymore? We’re just a nation of anarchists, and the fittest one survives, is that right?”
“Simmer down, boy,” calls a voice I recognize as Frank’s.
“No, no,” Victor tells the gruff shadow, “I’d be unnerved too. Not like we warned him this was happening.”
“Way I see it,” Frank quips, “that was the right call, boss. Might’ve tried to stop it, save the sorry fucks.”
I scoff.
“You’re really all okay with this? Acting like highway bandits against people who are scared and looking for someone to lead them? You really see no problem just robbing and killing?”
Sydney speaks; the voice is unmistakable, but the words don’t seem like hers. All I can see is her shadow, barrel of a rifle hanging from its grip.
“Looks like someone missed the point of evolution.”
I don’t believe it. The safest place in all of Washington State worships no principles. It's a dog eat dog world, every man for himself. My daughter’s safety is relative, and a real threat to her is only a matter of time.
I must get Fiona out of Haven.
Passing off his weapon to Frank, Victor tells me to walk with him. Barely given time to agree, his arm slinks around my shoulder, guiding us back toward the Strip.
“I hope that one day, history will see me kindly, Peter.”
“Really?”
“Do you ever think about fate, Pete? I mean, look around you. The peasants have inherited the greatest nation on Earth! Maybe the Earth itself! Do you think I could possibly see this any other way?”
“See what, what way? I have no clue what you’re talking about, Victor.”
He stops walking, withdrawing his arm around my shoulder. The cigarette changes hands, lifting to his lips, and he exhales his poisonous ideals in a cloud of smoke that envelops me.
“That I was put on this goddamn Earth as a catalyst, Pete. To finish what the plague started and ensure the scourge of humanity is wiped out.”
“Let me guess, You and your cronies live when this is all said and done.”
“Someone has to be here to keep a watch for survivors. We provide euthanization, burial and appropriation, ensuring their worldly possessions are well taken care of. Consumed responsibly.
“Momma Nature’s been warning us for a long time. There was simply a tipping point, where humanity became too much of a burden for the planet to bear.”
“And you think... destiny just selected you for this task?”
“Why the fuck not? We’re alive. They’re dead! Peter,” he says, “you have the world at your fingertips! Your one moment is here! The question is, what the fuck are we going to do with it? Are you going to let its carcass be tarnished with the rights of these parasites? Or help cleanse the world of them?”
This is where all roads lead to. Victor Quinn was never our savior; he is the nail in the proverbial coffin, ensuring humanity will never prosper again.
I have to stop the attack on Fairchild.
The responsible thing would be to grab Fiona and hit the road in search of better outcomes. But that would leave a monster alive—reward him with impunity to continue hurting people.
There is no telling how strong he might become.
“You’re right, Victor,” I say. “I wasn’t thinking clearly. Forgive me.”
Victor smiles, raising a hand to my bearded cheek; almost caressing it with his thumb, studying the eyes forced to meet his.
“The ones who don’t question will never understand, Peter. It is good to have questions. You know why? It helps ensure every base is covered. Got it?”
We bid each other goodnight. Victor returns to his group of misfit overseers; they help him run the welcoming community in northwestern Washington that murders its guests. In return, he offers them somewhere to belong. Swaggering back toward them, his cigarette is burned down to ash, the final streams of its darkness pouring around the back of his head. He must feel relieved I'm not a threat.
But turning away from him, I am on fire.
They are onto me now, and I only have one chance to grab Fiona and escape Haven.
Where will you go?
No idea.
What if it’s even worse out there than in here?
At an intersection that puts me three blocks from Mara’s, I am no longer sure that is possible. Anywhere must be better for a little girl than here, and my late wife’s words echo in my head from days before.
Maybe... it’s time we got out of Haven.
Closing my eyes, all I see is Meghan, pale-faced in our bed. The only sound in the world is the jammed emergency lines as I tried to get her help.
Where would you want to go?
This is all my fault.
I don’t know. New York?
Maybe if we left earlier, she would have lived.
That’s a long ways.
“Peter?”
Lost in panic, I do not hear my name called across the Strip. In the hurry toward my exit plan out of Haven, mixed in with memories on constant replay, I continue walking.
“Peter!”
Realizing the voice is real, and not my late wife’s, I slow, racking my brain to identify it. Turning back, I do not recognize the face, either. She is shorter than I am, with shoulder length blond hair. Dressed in cargo pants and a white tank top, I wonder if Victor sent her to kill me. But her face comes into full focus, and this girl does not seem the murderous type. A locket in the shape of a star hangs at her neckline, shimmering between hues of gold.
“Who are you?” I ask, as she observes every panicked emotion through my facial expressions; every split-second decision between saving Haven and protecting my only child.
Are we really so attached to this place, we’re willing to die here, Peter?
“My name is Harper,” the stranger says. “I need your help.”
Harper
I am the inhumane.
Few people are as cynical, hopeless and generally skeptical of human nature as I am. That said, my arrival in Haven seemed premature; the plan to go along with it, insane.
What reason do I, Harper Leigh Whitaker, possibly have to imagine any mortal will help me murder another?
I had no portal to make use of this time. Forced to travel in a Cadillac from where Gabriel left me, I was thankful to find it with a half tank. After pulling a disintegrating body off the seats, I headed to the first gas station in sight. The sign was collapsed but the reservoirs beneath ground level had gas in them, and the pumps were all too willing to dispense without payment.
Two days and a cross-country journey later, I am about to plead my case to a man I have never met. The name Peter York was lost on me; watching him sit with a young girl earlier today, he seemed kind, out of place in this town of tire fires and bare-chested rogues. And what began as suspic
ion became certainty during the rally I watched from afar, followed by spying on the man’s decisive conversation with Victor Quinn. Sydney was nearby; the woman who saved my life in the Shroud seemed the more difficult mark to sway, so I focused on York first.
Two of my named targets are in the same place. Whether Victor numbers among the Atlas’s assassination marks or not, the world would be better off without men like him occupying it. Nathan will be a cruel necessity; then will come the matter of telling Tim to step aside and let me take care of his girlfriend.
Six for seven, leaving only one mysterious, final name.
Carelessly kill one, the rest will scatter. It would be a lot more work, so this must go smoothly. The thought of returning to a restored Paris brings a slight smile to my face; a tiny dream to hold me over, and the first time in a while death doesn’t seem the only alternative.
I have my moments.
The man now aware of my existence eyes me with distrust. The future of his hometown is circumspect, but I can convince him to help me.
“Do we know each other?” he asks. The world around us is dead, and together, we must witness its conclusion.
“My name is Harper,” I reply slowly. “Is there somewhere we can go to talk?”
Peter shakes his head.
“I’m sorry. My daughter is waiting for me. I have to check on her.”
Less than a week ago, I turned my back on a celestial being with a bad haircut and glowing skin in the Arcway. He could have let me walk away, discarded whatever illusion of faith he had in me.
And yet, he called me back.
“Your daughter isn’t real, Peter!”
Okay, I think, at least the Nephalim wasn’t an asshole about it.
His head hangs like mine did. I feel the clench of his jaw where mine was, watch fists bunch at his sides. And when he turns back, I recognize the anger.
My anger.
Blunt honesty is hard to shake off.
“What the fuck did you say?” he asks, closing distance between us. Unaware his fist would go right through nothing; he doesn’t throw the punch that would rock his world.
“Five minutes, Peter. That’s all I’m asking.”
I need more than five minutes. I need sacrifice—but that is not knowledge that will instill the spirit of cooperation.
“Five minutes?”
“Doesn’t have to be now. Go, tend to your daughter. Meet me by the old video store in, say, an hour?”
Peter hesitates but agrees after a moment. We part ways, and I hope he will not get cold feet in service to Victor Quinn. He does not strike me as a murderer; more like someone out of his element, ultimately at Quinn’s mercy.
An hour later—as I sit twiddling my thumbs, wondering if he is going to show—Peter meets me three blocks north of the Strip. The shuttered video store is one of the few brick-and-mortar shops in Haven not attached to another, positioned well away from the main stretch of road through Haven’s carcass. Its windows have long been boarded up. Decrepit silver carts belonging to the grocery store across the street are abandoned in the video store’s lot, several toppled by the curb.
Certain he would come from the east; I remain invisible until he arrives from the west.
“Peter?” I say. The locket reveals me, and he asks where I came from. The question has no easy answer. Taking shelter in a back alley by the loading bay of another business, he asks what this is all about.
Here goes nothing.
“This is going to sound crazy,” I say, “so I’ll keep it simple as I can, okay?”
Like they are the last words I will ever say, each one hurts, if only because of how unfair this is.
“You died.” Seeing panic I recognize too well, I try to course correct. “Sorry, let me start again, and I’ll get the insane part out of the way. Once, a long time ago, I was human. A living person, just like you. But... for some reason, the creators of this madhouse decided my mother should be...
“You know what? It doesn’t matter. All that matters, Peter, is the world you live in? It doesn’t exist. Your wife? Your daughter? All created by a friend of mine who tinkered where he shouldn’t have.”
Peter squints.
“What does that even mean?”
“It means,” I say, “I’m still trying to wrap my head around this, same as you. Someone... someone put me in charge of fixing it, and now…”
I have to do unfathomable things to accomplish it, I want to say. I have to play God because this universe is too petty to instill a proper one of its own.
“So,” Peter says, “what would I need to do?”
“Excuse me?”
“To help you accomplish such a thing.”
The imagined weight between my empty rib cage lifts, and I can breathe.
He doesn’t think I’m crazy.
“Wait,” I ask, “you actually believe this insanity?”
“Well I mean, it’s not the craziest thing I’ve seen this week.” he says, “I just have a feeling that’s not something you would lie about. Combined with the pure desperation on your face, and not knowing how to keep my kid safe any longer; not much choice, is there?”
"No,” I chuckle, “You got that part right.”
I don’t have to perform some petty magic trick to convince this man the world hinges on him. He has seen the darkest side of humanity, when everything goes to shit, and altruism is not in abundant supply. Maybe it’s just his character.
Somehow, I almost feel better.
That’s before the full realization hits—that I will be a monster, sending him to his death, orphaning his daughter.
Real or not, that is no burden for a child.
This isn’t fair.
“So,” Peter asks, “how do we take down Victor?”
I am the inhumane.
Peter
It only takes one moment to change the world.
The day I uttered those words to Victor Quinn, I did not plan on his utilizing them to justify murder. I didn’t feed him the idea to watch innocent people gunned down without warning, and I certainly never expected to be any kind of moral authority in a world that had lost its own.
This woman who claims to be some sort of guardian angel is the key. Finally, someone is on my side. Maybe there’s a chance to restore Haven to normalcy, rather than the nightmarish visions Victor has for it.
Returning to the Row, I check in with Mara. Fi was asleep in a bed with Joey; deep in dreams, their heads turned the opposite way. Kneeling beside the little girl I swore to protect since she was eight ounces heavy, I knew what had to be done.
“Take care of her for me,” I told Mara as we stood in the apartment doorway. Her wide eyes searched for some kind of future in mine, but there was little hope for one.
“I will,” she promised. “But... what should I tell her? If... if you don’t come back?”
My wife’s words replayed in my brain. The day before she died, Meghan was full of life; a little preoccupied, working for her father Kirk. But she loved her family and wanted something better for us.
Are we really so attached to this place that we’re willing to die here?
Fiona has already lost so much.
“That every single moment with her changed my life for the better.”
On the winds of those parting words, Mara watched me walk out of the Row. Pushing down the edges of exhaustion and the rivers trying to escape my eyes, I settled for shortness of breath. Knowing I may never see Fiona again forced me to focus on the task ahead, because there is no peace for either of us in a world Victor Quinn still lives in.
Only takes one moment to change the world, right?
I like that. What’s your name, kid?
Peter.
Victor, he said, pointing at himself. From that moment on, my world was changed. It began with Meghan dying out of nowhere, followed by Sydney breaking into our house. After that, the man I met outside her convenience store simply resorted to murdering people to consolidate his pow
er.
And that was all before putting Fairchild in his head to buy us some feigned sense of safety.
Reaching the Strip, I take solace knowing the woman with the locket around her neck is offering a chance to do the right thing, and still walk away. Going up against a guy like Victor will have its consequences.
Sydney is the only person I could potentially bring to my side. Frank and Reggie are firmly in Victor’s court, and I don’t see Andre or Ronald defecting anytime soon. Walter and Frank are lost causes, leaving Sydney as the only potential turncoat.
Where will you be? I asked Harper as she passed me a revolver whose origin was not explained.
The angel was stone-faced; I would not have been able to read her emotions if any were worn on her sleeve. She claimed to be immortal, and I saw no reason for her to lie about that. The star around her neck, constantly changing color, only served to corroborate her story.
Close, she said. For reasons I don’t think I need to explain, I really shouldn’t interfere.
I see, I said, picking up the weapon; looking down its sights, checking the safety was on, and the clip was full. And what if you did?
She chuckled, but the reaction was no brighter than any of her other expressions.
Then you would already be dead.
Securing the gun in my back waistband for lack of a proper holster, I tried not to think of my Fiona, for whom I’m doing this.
This doesn’t end well, does it?
Minimalist verbal responses could not cancel out body language—eyes glued to the ground and crossed arms told me everything I need to know. And still, I choose to have hope, while remaining cautiously realistic about my chances of survival.
Take care of my daughter, I continued when she said nothing. If... what you say is true, just... please make sure she’s safe.
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