Something Wicked Anthology of Speculative Fiction, Volume Two

by Unknown

  Johnston guessed it had been two days since he’d talked with Reynolds. After that conversation, he’d fallen into a drugged stupor, fighting the urge to sleep. In the middle of it, he thought he’d heard them wheel Reynolds away again. He hadn’t heard a sound from Reynolds’ side of the room since. There was no EKG beep other than his own. But he didn’t dare ask after him.

  Samuel brought in his next meal and left without making eye contact. After eating, Johnston began his in-bed exercise routine, manipulating his legs then focusing on upper body strength. Gripping the bed rails, he repeatedly lifted himself up off the bed, then set himself back down.

  In the middle of his exercises, the door opened. He settled himself back in bed. Samuel stepped through the curtain and took the meal cart away, not looking in Johnston’s direction.

  As he pushed the cart out, Johnston saw a man in black step through the open door. The man greeted Samuel as they passed each other, then walked over to Johnston’s bed. Another man, dressed in a gray shirt and tan pants, stepped into the room to stand beside the door. A holster hung at his belt. Johnston also noted the knife in his right boot. The door whined shut as Samuel left.

  The man in black pulled the curtains around Johnston’s bed all the way back, opening up his view to the rest of the room. The walls were the same as the ceiling, cut from rusted rock. Reynolds’ side of the room was abandoned, as was Po’s.

  “Good evening, Commander,” the man said, walking to stand at the foot of Johnston’s bed. “I am Father Palmer. I trust you are doing well?” He had a light, nasal voice, similar to Doctor Reid’s. Unlike everyone else here, including the bodyguard, Palmer was well-fed. A trimmed beard rounded his cheeks, and a bulging belly strained at his belt.

  When Johnston did not answer his question, Father Palmer began pacing. “I see Doctor Reid was correct: you are the silent type. Shall I dispense with the pleasantries, then?” He looked over at Johnston, then continued. “As I’m sure you expect, there is an easy way and a hard way to resolve our situation. If you cooperate, we can better prepare for the Commonwealth. We may even have some hope of survival. If you do not help us, however…” Father Palmer stopped pacing and turned to look at Johnston.

  “The fate of your crew hangs upon your word, Commander Johnston. Choose wisely, and you may yet survive the coming storm.” He gazed into the distance, and his voice filled with the conviction of a preacher. “The Lord shall not suffer cowardice. The Lord shall not suffer mercy. The Lord shall not suffer silence. For the screams of the damned are but the faintest echo of His praise. His spirit is a scythe among the wheat. We are his work. We are his harvest. We shall join him in the fulfillment of the ages.”

  Father Palmer looked Johnston in the eye. “Will you?” Palmer’s nostrils flared with fervor. His wide eyes darted.

  Johnston stuck to his training. He remained silent, jaw clenched, staring back at the man.

  Palmer turned away, heading for the door. He looked back at Johnston one more time, waited a few seconds, and then wrenched the door open. With a wail and a thud, it opened and closed. The bodyguard followed, leaving Johnston alone.

  Hours later, Johnston heard the hiss of speakers turning on. Then the torture began. He was sure it was Reynolds.

  There was no pretense at interrogation. Johnston lay there, thinking: It’s only a matter of time now. Only a matter of time.

  As Reynolds’ voice rose in agony, Johnston found himself trying to think of what could cause that kind of pain and still leave the ensign conscious. There was no point in torturing him till he passed out – or there would be nothing for Johnston to listen to.

  The screaming dropped down to shuddering sobs, which in turn grew quiet. And then Reynolds shrieked, voice ragged, soul clawing its way out of his mouth. They played him like that over and over, raising the tension, allowing for an interlude, then applying some new technique.

  Time, already lost in the place, ceased to exist. Johnston sat in his bed, fists clenched, his breathing sharp and shallow. He stared at the walls – the same red as the ceiling, the same blood that had flecked the doctor’s coat. And he listened. He listened until he couldn’t hear any more.

  The door opened. Samuel pushed the meal cart over to his bed. Johnston forced himself to sit up. He handed the toast and hash browns to Samuel, and then began to eat, tasting nothing.

  The monotony of the EKG-punctuated silence beeped in his ears. He finished the eggs, drank the water and the reconstituted milk. He set the tray back on the cart.

  They came just after Samuel arrived to retrieve the cart. The boy was handing Johnston the tablet when the door cried out, opening to allow Father Palmer into the room. Doctor Reid followed, just as Samuel stuffed the tablet back into his shirt. Reid’s gaze went to Samuel, and the boy’s furtive movement. Behind him, the guard stepped through and took up his position by the door, staring out into an unseeable distance.

  Father Palmer’s attention focused on Johnston. He walked to the foot of the bed, waiting for Samuel to leave with the cart. As the boy reached the door, Reid stepped in front of it. “Wait a moment, Samuel.” At this, the guard’s stoic posture broke. His eyes jumped to look at Samuel, his body seemed for a moment to lean toward the boy. Then he snapped back to casual attention. Johnston saw Samuel’s posture yearning towards the guard, though he kept his head down as he pushed the cart up against the wall.

  Johnston looked back at Father Palmer. The man was watching Samuel. Palmer turned back to Johnston, then glanced back at Samuel before meeting Johnston’s gaze. He smiled, and Johnston felt an implied threat in the gesture. Worry chilled his gut.

  “Any words of wisdom, Commander Johnston? Do you feel the need to give confession?”

  “Would you believe me?” Johnston said, playing for time, testing the waters.

  “Oh no, there is no need for us to believe you. All we need is your command code, to unlock the mission details on your ship.”

  And, thought Johnston, to send false messages to the fleet when they arrive. “No,” he said, even as he began to suspect the price of his refusal.

  “You would willingly doom our people to death?” Palmer looked pointedly at Samuel. “Do the lives of those who saved you, who have fed and nurtured you, who have brought you back from the brink of death, mean so little to you? Is your crew of so little worth that you would throw them away like broken toys?”

  Johnston stared at Father Palmer. The fingernails of his left hand dug into his palm. Did they already know about his exchanges with Samuel? Could he keep the boy safe?

  Doctor Reid spoke to Palmer, saying, “Let not the wolf lay down among the sheep. Better to offer a lamb unto the Lord than to let it wander.”

  Father Palmer met Johnston’s stare. Johnston gazed back, impassive, slowing his breath to an even pace. Palmer scowled. “You know not what you do,” he said. “Yet, even the sinner may be redeemed, if he calls out to his Lord before the end. May you find forgiveness while He offers it to you.”

  Father Palmer strode to the door, pulled it open and left, followed by the guard. Johnston exhaled. Too late, he saw Reid’s hand gripping Samuel’s arm, pulling the boy along with him. The meal cart was left where it stood by the wall.

  “No!” shouted Johnston and regretted the outburst as soon as his lips closed. Not Sam! Not him - it should be me! Johnston pulled the electrodes off of his chest and yanked at the IV tube repeatedly until it ripped out of the machine above him. Fluid sprayed on him from the tube as he pushed himself off the bed.

  As he hit the floor, he wondered why he had felt no hint of the drug in his system, trying to knock him out. Unless they no longer cared if he tried to break free? He began dragging his body towards the door. Raising himself on his arms, he used his upper body to pull his legs along. Push, drag, drop. Push, drag, drop.

  The speakers hissed on as he reached the door. He pulled himself up into a sitting position, to one side of the door, and reached up to the latch. The latch yielded, and he p
ulled, struggling for purchase. But the door remained shut. He jerked on it, throwing his weight into the motion. On the other side of the door, he heard a faint clink. They had barred the door.

  Johnston closed his eyes, leaning his head back against the wall. For several minutes, all he heard over the speakers was the metallic plink of instruments being moved or set down. Then, there was the crack of a lash: once, twice, three times, and more. Then there was no sound but the speakers’ hiss.

  Johnston waited, dread thudding in his chest.

  “Samuel!” cried a woman’s voice over the speakers. And then Johnston knew how they would break the boy – and break him in the process.

  He pounded on the door as hard he could. “No! No! No! No!” he bellowed, hitting the door with each shout. “Take me!” he cried, hitting the door. “Take me! Take me! Gods damn you, take me!”

  Above him, not quite drowned out by the clamor of his voice and fists, he heard the boy and his mother pleading, crying, begging, cursing.

  “No! No! No! No! No! No! No!” Over and over, he pounded on the door. “Cowards! Take me! Take me you gods-fucked assholes! Take me!”

  No one came. Samuel and his mother wailed.

  “Seven nine alpha ten two theta seven!” screamed Johnston. “Seven nine alpha ten two theta seven! Seven nine alpha ten two theta seven! Seven nine alpha ten two theta seven!”

  The agony transmitted over the speakers subsided, replaced by gasping sobs. “Cut them loose,” Doctor Reid’s voice said. A rustle of movement followed.

  Then the earth moved around Johnston.

  The meal cart shifted a few inches away as a tremor reverberated through the floor and walls. Indistinct, panicked voices called out over the speakers. Father Palmer’s voice sounded in response, but he was too far away from the microphones for Johnston to understand what was said.

  Another tremor shook the floor, and the cart rolled back towards Johnston. The distant voices faded. The ground trembled. Johnston buried his face in his hands and wept.

  Pain burned in his hips and legs. It felt like hours had passed, punctuated by the quake of bombardment and distant gunfire from over the speakers. Sensation had crept up in his awareness as he sat against the wall, waiting. He’d barely noticed at first, but now the stabbing ache was unmistakable. Breathing deliberately, he massaged his thighs, working his way down his legs as far as he could reach before starting over at the top and working down again.

  As sensation returned to his legs, he felt an ache near the base of his spine. He guessed they’d used a neural block to paralyze him, and Reynolds – maybe Po and the others as well, if they were even alive. It made sense of some of the drugged sleep – they would have needed time to administer the block.

  He flexed his legs, trying to work them back into a useful state, then grabbed hold of the door latch and braced himself. With a deep breath, he heaved himself up, trying to push with his legs at the same time. Agony bloomed as his legs gave way, and he fell back to the floor.

  A few minutes later, he tried again. This time he stood, leaning on the door. With care, he took a shaky step, then another, and another, working his way along the wall. When he reached a lamp, he turned around and walked carefully back the way he had come, then turned and kept going, backward and forward. It was painful, and his legs remained weak, but he kept at it until he could walk without leaning on something.

  Eventually, he sat back down on the floor, his muscles twitching. He closed his eyes, and he began to doze.

  The screech of the door jolted him awake. He watched the door, readying himself to act, hoping he’d be able to.

  The barrel of a rifle poked through the door, followed by the soldier carrying it. He wore Commonwealth fatigues, and Johnston noticed the rank markings for a lieutenant on his sleeve. The soldier trained his gun on Johnston at first, then lowered it and pulled off his helmet.

  “Commander Johnston?” he asked. He seemed to recognize the Commander, but Johnston didn’t remember seeing him before.

  “Yes.” Johnston stood shakily.

  “Are you—”

  “Give me your pistol.” Measuring every step, he slowly walked towards the other man.

  The soldier stepped back. “Shouldn’t you—”

  “Damnit all! I have a right to know what’s happened to my men! Give me your pistol and help me find them.” And I have to find Sam, he thought.

  “It’s not safe—”

  “So give me your pistol,” Johnston repeated. He stepped closer, holding out his hand.

  The soldier spoke into his radio. “Jolly Roger, this is Peter. I have one of the Lost Boys. Over.”

  Johnston waited, feeling his breath quicken. At his side, his left hand closed and opened.

  In reply to the acknowledgement from command, the soldier said, “Request permission to give the Boy arms and bring him—”

  “Oh fuck this!” Johnston said. Moving as quickly as he dared, he went around the lieutenant, heading for the door. The man grabbed Johnston by the arm. Instinctively, Johnston dropped to the floor, using his weight to pull the soldier over. The fall became a struggle as the soldier tried to gain purchase. Pent-up frustration erupted into rage as Johnston rolled on top of him, punching the soldier again and again until he realized what he was doing. When he did, he pushed himself away, but the soldier lay still.

  Johnston got to his feet, swaying a little. His emotions raced between anger, fear, shame, frustration and despair. He thought of his men, of Samuel screaming, and settled on anger.

  Johnston took the soldier’s pistol and walked out of the room.

  His urgency cooled into grim determination as he came across the bodies. Thin men and women, even teenaged children, lay in the hallways and open rooms. Most had been armed with guns, some just with knives. By the placement of the bullet wounds, he guessed they’d gone down before the Commonwealth strikeforce. Each time, he made note of their faces, but kept moving, searching. None of his crew was among the bodies. He wondered, briefly, if they had ever been here at all, but wouldn’t admit to himself that there was only one face he dreaded finding.

  Twice, he heard gunfire close by and doubled back to avoid the combat. Once, he surprised a Redeemer woman armed with a pistol. She fired at him repeatedly, but with poor aim. Johnston dropped her with a shot in the leg and continued on, single-minded.

  The buttery, iron smell of old blood drew him to the interrogation room. Reynolds’ remains lay on a table in one corner, sightless eyes gazing towards the door. Johnston walked over and closed Reynolds’ eyes, refusing to dwell on the damage done to the ensign’s body. His eyelids and forehead felt cold under Johnston’s fingertips.

  In the next room, he found Samuel and his mother, curled up together by one wall, forgotten in a drying pool of blood. He knelt down and touched the woman on the shoulder, already certain she wouldn’t respond. He touched Samuel and shook him gently. One arm fell limply at the boy’s side. Johnston felt for a pulse in his neck. There was none.

  He stood up. He turned back. Rage rushed into his lungs. He made an effort not to grip the pistol too tight, let his other hand clench, digging his nails into the palm until the pain allowed him to focus.

  At last, he found the command center. A stairwell brought him up into a dark office space. Desks and chairs hulked in the shadows. Faint light reflected off a bank of dead viewscreens along one wall. He stood still, holding his breath, listening. In the distance, faint reports and rumbles hinted at the ongoing pockets of battle. A rustle of movement drew his attention to the light seeping from beneath a closed door at the far end of the room.

  He walked to the door and listened, but heard nothing further. Putting his back to the wall, he undid the latch and pushed the door inward, ducking back behind the wall. He heard the door strike something, then silence.

  Johnston spun into the doorway, pointing the pistol ahead of him, ready to fire. Father Palmer slouched in a chair behind a desk. Behind him stood his bodyguard. Johnsto
n fired the pistol as he saw the man turn towards him. The shot took the guard in the left shoulder and spun him down.

  It was only then that Johnston noticed the dead stare in Palmer’s eyes, the guard’s knife embedded in Palmer’s chest. The blade had been thrust in under the ribs, angled up to pierce the heart.

  Johnston went to the guard, doing his best to turn the man over without causing more harm. There was no reaction, no breath, no pulse.

  In the stillness of that moment, Johnston felt his body begin to crash. His hands trembled, and chills crawled over his arms and legs. Collapsing, he closed his eyes, tried to roll away. Questions crowded into his mind as the urge to act, the need to do something, anything, drained from him.

  What have I done? Why did Command send us here? What kind of man tortures his own? Why did they all go along with it? How do you watch while…? What have I done? Have I killed Sam’s father? Did I kill…

  A hand closed around Johnston’s wrist, gently pulling the pistol away from his temple. Johnston let the gun go, turned to see the Commonwealth soldier he’d pummeled earlier.

  The man was breathing in nervous, shallow jabs, in and out. Johnston raised his hands over his head, then shifted in a single, slow movement until his back was to the other man.

  The soldier hesitated, then cuffed him. “Under the authority…” he began, but trailed off.

  “Is there anyone left?” Johnston found himself asking.

  “I’m sorry, sir, but no. None of your men survived. We found… They’re all dead.”

  Johnston shook his head. He knew that already. He knew what they’d found. “No, the Redeemers.”

  “Who?”

  “Them.” Johnston nodded at the bodies of Palmer and his guard. “Any of them?”

  “No, sir. I bet—”

  Johnston turned his head, interrupting the lieutenant. “What were your orders? Search and rescue? Eliminate all resistance? Or leave no survivors?”