The Black Cell

by R. L. M. Sanchez

  The man slowly turned to face McKenna but remained unresponsive. As he revealed himself in the light, one eye was glazed over white and the other fully blackened. The most shocking thing was that the man had no breather, yet wasn’t succumbing to the harmful atmosphere. “Throw it down or I’ll put you down!” McKenna persisted.

  “He’s… he’s one of them!” Johns stuttered out. “The ghouls! They’re fucking real!”

  The gaunt man cracked his head to the left towards Johns.

  “Last chance—”

  Before McKenna could finish his final warning, the man hurled his knife with blink speed at McKenna, where it hurtled straight towards his head. He sidestepped to the left to dodge it, just barely missing. Johns wasn’t as graceful as he dropped to the ground to avoid the knife. McKenna quickly brought his gun up on the man again.

  He rushed McKenna at a sprint, releasing a painful shriek. With no hesitation McKenna fired three rounds at the man, each round booming as the sound bounced off the enclosed walls in the alley. The first two rounds found their mark in the attacker’s heart while the third pierced the attacker’s nose, exiting his neck and severing his spinal cord: the classic Martian triple-tap. The man was dead before his body hit the ground.

  “Johns!” Swan said from behind as he helped him from the ground.

  McKenna walked to the so-called ghoul and kicked it to check for any reaction, but the man was devoid of life.

  “Is he dead, sir?” Johns’ voice was still shaken from the attack.

  “Yeah. Very,” McKenna said, slightly bothered by the man’s smell and appearance. “Just keep the alley covered, yeah?”

  McKenna walked over to the victim and saw it was a young middle-class woman. Her breather was still attached but her throat had been ripped out. Bite marks surrounding the wound, her neck practically severed from the shoulders. With bruising around the wrists and shoulders, it was apparent she’d tried to put up a fight. McKenna checked her for any kind of ID but found none. Instead he retrieved a small pouch attached to his belt and pulled a small device from it: a ForensiTech. The tool was a must for all investigators across the System, as it could provide identification from fingerprints or blood samples, detect toxins in bloodstreams, give geometrical analysis and many other useful CSI functions, all on site and in the size of an ID card.

  In this case, McKenna collected a simple blood sample to get the victim’s identification. He keyed a number into the tool’s keypad, and shortly after, a small needle flipped out. After pricking the victim’s finger, the tool glowed green as it found a match, then connected to his OPIaA to see if he had clearance to view the victim’s information. McKenna’s ID flashed blue on the tool: Stacey Kolienk; Age 29; 18787 South Flash Avenue Apartments.

  He glanced back at the gaunt cannibal. “Swan, have you ever heard of anyone surviving without breathers out here?” McKenna asked.

  “Never! How is that even possible?” Swan responded.

  “Mutants…” McKenna mumbled. “Get a full forensic team down here for cleanup.”

  “Got it, sir.”

  McKenna stood up and put away his tool. He walked back towards the others, but as he glanced down at the man he’d just killed he noticed the mutant’s fingers had grotesque claws growing through the flesh. The nails were two inches from the tip, confirming the source of the attack in the street. The mouth was torn almost from cheek to cheek, revealing bizarre pointed teeth, with many more than an average human.

  “Might need a zoologist as well…” McKenna muttered. He met up with Swan and Johns but before he could speak any words, they all heard another shriek – followed by another, and another, until they heard several more all shrieking in unison, seemingly coming from every direction in the alley. The three readied their weapons immediately, looking in all directions, high and low.

  “What are they?” Johns said.

  “Crap, what do we do? Run, right? Run!” Swan shouted.

  McKenna looked down the alley and saw three twitching figures coming into view, one of them releasing another shriek. “Fall back into the street. Get the other Enforcers to form a kill-zone at the entrance.”

  “I saw you drop that one bastard like clockwork!” Johns shouted. “You can’t take these guys?”

  McKenna looked up and saw six more attackers, clinging to ledges and storm drains and climbing their way towards them. “How about I hold your hand, too? Out of the alley, now!” McKenna shouted.

  Swan and Johns started running back to the exit, all too happy to get out of the alley. The attackers on the ground began sprinting at incredible speed, forcing McKenna to start shooting. The first two rounds hit a mutant sprinting on the far left, but given the distance they didn’t hit where he had intended. Instead, the bullets slammed into his upper right shoulder and pectoral. The wounds didn’t seem to faze him; he only staggered from the sheer stopping power of the bullet but continued to charge. The attackers continued moving irregularly, their muscles almost spasming in odd directions, the cracks and pops of joints adding to the shrieks at high speed.

  McKenna kept firing, constantly back-stepping while continuing to engage. Two more rounds smacked into a creature above, causing it to lose grip on a ledge it was clinging to. It squealed as it plummeted down, hitting a fire escape, its body tumbling in the air before smacking to the ground. However, it quickly picked itself up and continued to charge.

  “What the hell are these things…?” McKenna growled.

  He couldn’t win. McKenna fired another round only to see the slide lock back. Empty. He ceased engagement and ran. He pushed the magazine release on his pistol and slapped a fresh magazine in before flipping the slide release to chamber a new round.

  As he turned to flee, a cold, blunt object hit the back of his skull. Another mutant had dropped down from above him and hit him with a lead pipe. McKenna fell to the ground hard. He crawled in a direction he didn’t know, turned over on his back and saw the blurry image of his attacker staggering towards him.

  McKenna wormed backwards. His head was pounding and he felt warm blood trickling from it. He groaned as he began to blindly fumble for his pistol, realizing it wasn’t in his hand anymore. His attacker stood before him and dropped his pipe, turning to his fellow mutants. The mutant shrieked again, differently. The other mutants had stopped charging and retrieved the downed mutant from before, hauling him off.

  McKenna could feel his consciousness slipping. The mutant before him dropped to his knees and opened his bloody mouth. He then went for McKenna’s neck, just like the woman in the alley. At that moment, McKenna unsheathed his knife and thrust it upwards into the mutant’s jaw, paving straight into its brain. Fresh blood seeped through his mouth as McKenna pushed him over.

  “Kiss me first, asshole,” he groaned as he leaned his head back on the ground. The others shrieked in unison, no doubt upset seeing another of theirs fall. They all charged him again, coming quickly down the alley. McKenna’s head was still throbbing as he began to black out.

  Not a second later a small black object flew past him and into the mob of mutants, producing a loud and blinding flash and causing his ears to ring. A few Enforcers stepped into view and fired automatic weapons. The mutants fled from the overwhelming firepower, most of them climbing up while others sprinted into holes and crevices in the distant alley.

  “Keep up the fire! Push them back!” a voice rang out.

  “You’re all right, mate, just hang in there!” an Enforcer said just beside him. The somewhat familiar British voice was the last thing audible to McKenna before he finally lost consciousness.

  11

  A NORMAL LIFE

  I stand alone. Every day it’s always the same. I stand alone among the helpless, the weak and the Black Cell. I’m ashamed. Ashamed of who I was back then. Every day crossing the sky bridge, I’d look down from thousands of feet above, not knowing or caring what was below. It was just foundation holding the spires, right?

  Maybe we’re just too
afraid of facing that our world isn’t perfect. I’m a statistic, just another story, but I have a story just as anyone else.

  It started with a family. My husband was an honest cop. So many good things are hard to remember, but I cherish the time we first met. It was on Luna, March, 2456. Back then I was working as tour guide for the Federation Education Society, about the only job I could land fresh out of college. I was leading another group of ignorant folks who needed somewhere to go for a vacation, definitely not there to bask in history. The tour went to various installations across the entire moon’s surface as well as inside the colony itself. The tour always wrapped up with an “inspirational and motivating” speech by myself that spoke highly of our endeavors into the unknown, accomplishing a great feat for mankind by colonizing the moon, all selected by some historian back on Earth. Usually when a tour finished, the gift shop was left untouched and the sightseers hurried to the next shuttle off-colony.

  I found my way to a small coffee shop on the surface, the same one I went to after every tour. The coffee was gross, the Aurorans could never quite get the stuff right, but the caffeine needed to go in somehow. The shop was across from the Armstrong-Aldrin Memorial in a small roundabout courtyard, with the Memorial Flag in the center. As I walked past it, that’s where I saw him, taking snapshots with his OPIaA.

  I recognized him from an earlier tour, as he’d stood out wearing that blue floral tropical shirt with grey cargos. He wasn’t bad looking, either. I must say I was curious as to why he stuck around the place. He was reading the plaque underneath the flag, verbiage on man’s first walk on the moon back in the twentieth. He noticed me as I tried to look at what he found so interesting.

  “I wonder if they ever thought it,” he said to me, smiling.

  “I’m sorry?” I replied.

  “The astronauts who landed here, I wonder if they ever wondered about it.” I was even more puzzled, but I immediately thought he must have been some kind of loon. He bent down and grabbed a small rock from the ground. I only watched, wondering what the hell he was doing. He put the rock to his mouth and pretended to take a bite, almost making me cringe, but then he immediately spit the rock out on the ground.

  “Cross that off the list, this place is definitely not made of cheese!” As he said that, I put my clipboard up to my mouth to cover the huge smile that came to my face. “You shouldn’t lead people on like that,” he said. “It’s definitely something that needs to be cleared up the first five minutes of the tour.” Despite hearing almost every cheese joke doing that tour, he made me laugh. “My name’s Matthew.”

  What happened afterwards was history. Matthew wanted everything to be right, as he was gunning for a promotion at his precinct at the time. He assured me that once he got it, he’d be making enough for us to live in Green Sector. That’s where he wanted to raise our future baby. With his current position as a patrol Enforcer and my new job as a librarian, Yellow Sector was all we could manage.

  Then one day, Matthew came home with that same big smile of his and kissed me, telling me he’d gotten it! His promotion to Lieutenant meant we could start a new life with our child in the Green Sector. It was the start of a life that ensured security and comfort.

  A year later, I gave birth to a beautiful baby boy. Considering how me and Matthew had that chance meeting at that memorial on Luna, we named him Neil.

  In that moment, everything was perfect. Even as an infant, Neil never cried or fretted. Strange really, but he was lively and spirited. He grew immediately fond of his father. The day he first saw him he reached out to grab Matthew’s hand. They rarely let go after that. I was foolish in thinking that good things could last. They can’t. Not in this world.

  Then the Solar War. Earth became strained. Orintus’ face could be seen on advertising screens across the planet, saying he had a bold new strategy to oust the Martian rebels. Taxes, rationing, energy saving. We fuel the strategy. Generals and tyrants always wrap themselves in the cloaks of patriotism and religion, but for the people it means you must pay for all of it, at a premium.

  Matthew and I talked about our finances and how we’d survive through the war. He assured me that we were still better off than most, always better off than someone, and that we should appreciate what we have. He looked into my eyes and told me that we’d be all right. His confidence is something I’ve always loved about him. Somehow, whenever he told me that we’d be all right, I believed him. That time though, I knew he was worried, just not about credits.

  Orintus assured us that the Mars Rebellion would be stamped out within weeks, and the FRE Colonies’ betrayal would be punished. We waited patiently. Weeks turned to months. There had been longer wars in our history but none graver than this one. Months turned to bloody years.

  Earth must always be victorious with no compromise. Two years in, the Martians were winning. That’s when the draft went into effect: at least one member from every family. Matthew came home late one day, and I knew the worst news had struck us when he didn’t have his usual smile to show us. He showed me his blue form from the Federation. The paper was simple. It bared the Federation insignia in the top left corner and only a few sentences but the paper itself might has well have weighed a hundred pounds.

  We talked for hours. Days even. There were tears, hugs, and whatever time we could spend together. Nothing could prepare myself.

  Matthew shipped off a week later. When I left the skyport that day, I sank to the floor in my room, crying. Waving goodbye, I feared was the last I’d see of him. What do you tell your son when he asks why his father hasn’t come home yet? How do you explain war to a young boy? How do you explain that your husband has been sent to his death?

  Federation filters meant messages rarely got through to front lines, but one day I woke in the middle of the night to see my message terminal blinking. It was Matthew. He looked into my eyes and told me that we were all that mattered to him, and that he’d be damned if he let a war stop him from seeing us again. He just had to do his duty to Earth before he could. Somehow, I believed him, just as always. He cut the transmission after telling me his unit was getting ready to assault Martian artillery positions on Europa. I didn’t sleep that night.

  When I saw the reports on the InfiNET the next morning, I dropped my glass. It shattered on the ground but I didn’t pay any attention to it. Earth Federation Forces Decimated on Europa: Withdrawal in Progress. The reporter didn’t realize what she was saying. I couldn’t watch anymore. She couldn’t have picked a better word: decimated.

  There were no happy stories coming from the war. Maybe it was to make us hate our enemies even more. It worked, as I wasn’t alone in hating them. At that point it was easier not to tell my son. I waited by the message terminal for days for an automated call from the Federation, trying to prepare myself to hear it officially. And eventually, I did.

  I waited at the skyport that was scheduled to receive a shipment of returning troops: their remains. I wasn’t alone as I stood beside many wives, husbands, daughters and sons. None of them were without tears, all of them weeping for their lost. All but me. I don’t know why I wasn’t; maybe I’d already cried enough. There must have been hundreds of plastic caskets exiting the cargo ships.

  Every day this happened. Every day, thousands came home to be buried. Each had the Earth Federation Navy flag laid on it, every victim’s family given the flag by military personnel. One by one I saw them take the flags, folded neatly in their hands. I wondered when I’d receive Matthew’s. More caskets began pouring out of another ship, and another. But I didn’t see any caskets exit the final ship; just one man in a blue officer’s uniform.

  I didn’t believe my eyes. I was afraid I was looking at a ghost. He looked around, scanning the port. His eyes finally connected with mine. My Matthew had come home. The war had taken his left arm, replaced by a cybernetic prosthesis, the weight from his leg resting on a cane.

  We were lucky. I knew that many others gave a much bigger sacrifice. But rig
ht now I ran straight into his arms and embraced him as hard as I could. “I thought you were dead!” I yelled at him.

  Earth logistics was scattered to the wind during the later months, and names couldn’t be matched with kin anymore. Another fallen Marine had been misidentified as Matthew. A Martian scout found him bleeding out on the Ubat plains on Europa. I’m grateful to whoever that scout was, even if he was the enemy. As I cried in his arms, I kept screaming at him to never leave me again.

  Matthew placed his hand on my face and said two words: “Never. Again.”

  As I looked into his bright blue eyes, I believed him.

  The war’s end took everyone on Earth by surprise. Not because of Earth’s victory, if it could even be called that, but the political rabble that followed.

  Matthew was on leave from Interpol until his body accepted his new prosthesis when we watched the vidcast stating that the war had finally ended. The last of the Martian forces were defeated on Titan, but right after that, a liaison from the Revente Emperor announced that Michael Orintus was under investigation for war crimes and illegal political practices. He had staged a coup on Mars and the Martians knew it, which is why they fought, but the messages and propaganda that poured from Orintus had fooled our planet.

  Still, he’d spoken many truths during his time using the Earth VOX. Many here never liked the Martians in the first place. Too disconnected from civilized society, fueled by war and violence. They were a threat far before the war ever started. Even one of the Martian generals in the trials said that his goal post-war had been to transition Earth into a land of order by making it a military state. Earth wanted the Sol System and so did Mars, but neither gained anything.

  In the years that followed, Matthew was back at work as a Lieutenant, his prosthesis in good health, our son happy. But even with all the pieces back together, our lives were different. I wanted him back. I tried to pretend he was okay. But I’d wake in the middle of the night to hear him screaming. When we’d be eating dinner, he would break down at the table and bawl. He’d stare at his prosthesis for hours. I pretended it was all okay. But I was selfish. Matthew hadn’t come home.