Kaylee started to feel better, her task nearly finished. She didn’t like risking her neck for Elijah, but she grudgingly admitted that he had helped many people, including herself. Elijah, despite his cold nature, inspired a fierce loyalty in his people. Kaylee, not having been around quite as long as some of the others, didn’t quite understand it. Elijah seemed more than a little reluctant to dispense trust to anyone; outsiders and newcomers definitely no exception. Maybe he’s not that bad after-
“Bring me a can of peaches,” he said, breaking her train of thought.
Kaylee stopped dead on the threshold, in moderate shock. “You’ve got to be kidding me,” she exclaimed. “That’s it?”
“Yes, hurry up and keep quiet,” he ordered.
This was too much. She spun back towards the camera, put her face inches from it and screamed, “You sent me into this festering shithole with corpses so you could have a can of goddamn peaches?! You son of a bitch. When I get back, I swear to God I’m going to-”
“Going to do what?” The intercom inquired back, a sliver of irritation seeping into the pool of calm. “Return to the streets, alone and helpless? No. You will do as I ask. Get going.”
Trembling, Kaylee obeyed and pulled the door open. As she crossed inside, cool air washed over her. She turned, pulling the door shut. The hydraulics kicked in and tugged, sealing the door and trapping her.
She walked down the middle, past shelves holding canned vegetables, boxed dry pasta, cans of sauces and soups, and plenty of sealed bottles of water and juice. She stole glances about, fingers twitching, desperately wanting to snatch something and stuff it into her pocket. Stealing was frowned upon, and the penalty for such behavior was harsh. There, peaches. Sitting on a shelf next to pineapple, mandarin oranges, and pears. Kaylee began to salivate, anger momentarily forgotten, replaced with rampant desire.
With a squeal of feedback, the transmitted voice spoke, echoing loudly in the concrete room, “Are you finished?”
Cursing silently, Kaylee snatched the can of fruit from the shelf and trotted back to the entrance, which, remote released by Elijah again, swung open. She stepped over the threshold, turning to close the door.
Behind her came a noise of slapping bare footfalls, quickly approaching on the metal grating. She tried to spin around and face whoever it was, but she was seized from behind. A forearm clasped on her throat and something sharp jabbed into her back.
“Don’t move,” a raspy voice and breath like rotting meat assailed her as the arm tightened around her throat. She almost gagged, eyes watering, but she ceased struggling for just a moment. Lulled into a sense of security at her obedience, relief spread at the point of her back as her attacker took the knife away. Kaylee saw this knife hand reach past her, trying to hook around and pull open the bunker door, which hadn’t yet closed enough to trigger the hydraulic sequence. As he fumbled with the heavy door, his grip around her neck loosened slightly.
Seizing the moment, she deftly slid the knife from her pocket and triggered the blade. She jammed it into the side of his thigh, the cold metal sinking deep into the tissue. Her assailant screamed with pain and anger, loosening his grip. Instead of fleeing down the hallway, Kaylee sprang in the other direction, throwing her weight against the door. It slammed violently upon his hand and wrist still hooked around it. With an audible crack, his undernourished, brittle bones shattered. The man screamed and sobbed, swinging wildly with his other hand to grab at her. She whirled, ducked under his outstretched arm and sprinted down the corridor, swinging around the elevator door to make a hasty retreat up the ladder.
Only he wasn’t chasing her. Screaming curses, his hand was caught in the door. After it slammed, the door had engaged its hydraulics, trapping him. He tugged feebly at his injured wrist, bellowing in agony as the central sphere of the door spun round, setting steel bars back in place and tightening the seal on the door. The already broken bones in his hand ground into powder, blood spurting from the wound and splashing down onto the metal grating. The vault door finally nestled back firmly in its cradle, becoming silent. The man continued to scream obscenities and yank at his pulverized hand.
The new wound seemed like the least of his problems. Finally able to fully view the man, Kaylee was horrified to see the nearest to death one could get. His skin was ashen. His hair was thinning and filthy, matted against his scalp. His cheeks, like the rest of his body, were gaunt and hollow, his whole face looking like a bag of loosely hanging skin. Needle marks decorated both of his arms, along with festering open sores found everywhere on the exposed skin.
He was wearing a tattered brown T-shirt, whether natural color or just stained that way Kaylee couldn’t tell, and filthy jeans. He wailed, an agonizing sound that made Kaylee cringe. He turned towards her, glaring at her with bloodshot yellow eyes, filled with hate, his cracked lips barely concealing rotting teeth.
She froze, watching in horror as he turned back to his trapped, pulverized hand, and wrenched over and over, each time a sickening crack greeting her ears as he exacerbated his injury. His struggle to free himself came accompanied by a low, mechanical hum, and Kaylee felt a chill run down her spine as she thought she knew the source.
He, too, paused for a second, listening to the din which grew less faint. He glanced down at the dead man next to him. Dark realization crossed his eyes as he connected the burnt corpse to the metal grating upon which he stood. Frantically, he turned again, head jerking back and forth in terror, looking for something to help. Finding nothing, he began frantically pulling at his trapped hand once more. Kaylee could hear him wheezing, “Help me, help me, help me,” over and over. The statement didn’t seem to be directed at her, but she had no idea who or what he was talking to.
Electricity slammed into the poor addict’s body, causing him to spasm violently. Kaylee looked away, tears in her eyes and the fresh smell of burning flesh and hair wafting over, along with something bizarrely sweet. Sparks flared, creating an eerie, inconstant blue glow, casting shadows upon the walls. The man himself was silent, trying to cut loose an agonized shriek with muscles bound too tightly to allow any noise to escape. After what felt like a lifetime, the sounds of electrical discharge faded along with the deep hum, and there was silence for several moments.
“Hurry up,” came the pitiless voice. Kaylee wiped her face with her sleeve and turned towards the elevator shaft.
“You’re not forgetting anything?”
She paused. The peaches. She no longer held them. She looked back over. Three bodies now adorned the small corridor, one still-smoking caught within the hold of the powerful steel door. The can of peaches, dropped when she was attacked, had exploded from the electricity upon the metal grating, coating a small area with sticky, sweet, preservative syrup and bits of fruit. That’s what the smell was, she thought, cooking peaches.
Without warning waves of revulsion coursed through her body, bile raged in her stomach, threatening to-
She turned towards the elevator shaft and voided the contents of her stomach into the yawning darkness, faintly splattering heard some distance below. She gripped the ladder, taking several deep breaths, spitting a few times, trying to clear her mouth of the bitter acids.
“Are you all right?” An almost sympathetic tone resounded in the corridor.
“Yeah…” She muttered. She looked, sadly, down upon the mangled can of peaches with the sizzled, burned fruit. It seemed like it should have been metaphorical or poetic somehow, but if it was, she couldn’t figure it out. She walked over to the elevator shaft and carefully scrutinized the area as far as she could see. Nothing. No one else.
“Okay. I need to get a new can.” She said.
“Are you certain the area is clear?” Elijah’s digitally transmitted voice came once again, sounding doubtful.
“About as certain as I was a couple of minutes ago, but I’ll go quick, and this time, I won’t drop ‘em no matter what.” Kaylee took a deep breath.
The room filled again with
the sounds of grinding, mechanical devices as the door once again laboriously unlocked and disengaged, the deceased, cooked captive falling next to it. Barely looking down, Kaylee stepped over the corpse and into the bunker, hurriedly striding to the shelf, and grabbing another can. On her way out, she snatched a bottle of water. “I’ve earned this.” She said before the intercom could object.
“Very well.”
Once she was back outside, the door sealed itself shut one final time, secured and near impenetrable. This time, thankfully, it held no starving madmen in its jaws. Kaylee walked briskly without so much as a downward glance, through the hallway to the elevator shaft. She cracked open the bottle and rinsed her mouth out before taking several generous gulps.
She secured the new can of peaches under her chin, swung out to the ladder above the yawning darkness, and carefully began to ascend. Elijah hadn’t said anything more, yet. She briefly wondered if she’d be punished for the trouble. She cast aside the thought, understanding that, as she reached the ground level of the living quarters, she would once again need to focus upon passing undetected.
Chapter 4: What Used to Be
Citizen Gregory Michaels pulled the round spectacles from his face. He rubbed the bridge of his nose, frustration tearing at the edges of his concentration. He wiped the sweat from his receding hairline with the white sleeve of his laboratory uniform, and turned back towards the subject.
A shirtless man, roughly mid-thirties lay on the table, drugged and helpless. His head lolled back and forth, mouthing and vocalizing random gibberish, breathing in short gasps. Bruises and abrasions adorned his body. His face was purple and swollen, nose still broken. A surprisingly well-groomed beard adorned his face but was stained with crusted bits of dried blood.
An apparatus, oddly like swimming goggles, covered his eyes, appearing entirely black from the outside. The casing stretched over his ears, enveloping them as well. A few wires snaked into both sensory pieces, connected to a controlling device with buttons and dials. The device also connected to electrodes on his body, monitoring his vital functions.
Michaels was privy to scenes like this repeatedly throughout his work week. He found it to be a pointless waste of his time. The conditioning of subprime, genetic wastelands was technically his area of expertise, but his impending promotion had left him frustrated with his old tasks.
The conditioning process was necessary to integrate the vermin into their roles in society. First the body must be broken, he heard his own words ringing in his mind, then the mind. Once this is accomplished, there exists no will or spirit, and the subject will be prepared to accept any instruction. His presentation had received thunderous applause, as it would solve many of the insubordination issues created by the menial labor force.
Of course, when it was approved and set into widespread usage, he didn’t expect to be the primary person responsible for dealing with the subjects himself. The process itself was practically automated; sedatives and mild psychotropics were administered along with an overload of sensory bombardment, primarily audio and visual. The overwhelming nature of the process effectively crushed the person’s mind; hours of constant panic and fear drove them to regress to a fragile state. Then, through careful, gentle coaxing, they were conditioned into perfect servitude. Combined, then, with a chemical castration to purge their inferior genes from the human race and facilitate docility, the perfect, obedient servant could be trained to do any task. It was a brilliant system.
But why do I have to be the one to deal with them? Michaels wondered.
The man on the table coughed, spitting up a jot of blood. Michaels frowned. So uncivilized. He glanced over at the intravenous apparatus. The bag was empty. Close enough, he thought, glancing at the vitals.
He leaned over, slowly twisted a knob, dialing back the intensity of the visual stimulus, and said, as per protocol, “You’re safe now.”
Over the course of another couple of minutes, he reduced the stimulus to nothing, whispering assurances. “Tell me your name,” he said softly to the man.
The man opened his mouth, coughed again, “J-Jef-Jeffrey.”
“Do you know where you are?”
The man took a few quick breaths, “I… I-I’m… safe now…”
Michaels raised an eyebrow. What a strange response, he thought, never having heard it before in hundreds of subjects. Whatever.
Moving away from the center of the circular room, he touched a button at the wall, contacting the receptionist at the front desk. “Tell Inquisitor Gottfried that his ‘priority’ subject is stable and prepared for transfer.” Michaels didn’t really know, or care, why the high-ranking Inquisitor had any interest in the subject. As far as Michaels could tell, this Jeffrey was just another worthless denizen of Old Haven, ready to serve.
A female voice came back, “Yes, Citizen Michaels.”
“Oh, have someone bring me a cup of coffee; I’m returning to my office to see if I can complete any real work today. Let no one bother me for the next three hours.” He said wearily.
“Of course.”
Michaels sighed heavily, not even looking at the misfortunate soul laying, stretched out, unlikely to have any status improvement in the future. No matter, the man’s fate was not his concern. He slid his glasses back upon his face, pushed them up with his index finger, and walked towards the exit. The doors slid open, and he passed through them, unmindful or caring about the armed guards standing at attention on either side.
With his usual hunching posture, he ambled down the sterile white hallway with its clean tiles and lack of any sort of intrigue or imagination. It was just as he liked it to be. Clean. Efficient. No unnecessary ornamentation to interfere with work.
He turned down another hallway, identical to the last save perhaps only in distance. His body was keenly aware of the correct path and went through the motions. His mind was occupied elsewhere, with the curious situation that fell into his lap not terribly long ago.
Citizen Marcus Lexington Coleman used to be the head of the Natural Philosophy branch of The Institute of Intellectual Research and Development of Haven, commonly referred to as the Institute. The Institute was the pinnacle of Haven’s power and intellect, the crowning achievement of Citizen One, Franklin Lange. Citizen Coleman was a not-terribly old sort of man with a very grandfatherly attitude of tolerance and benevolence.
Another significant waste of time. Michaels gave a thin smile, remembering for the hundredth time very clearly, ‘Citizen Coleman used to be…’
Citizen Coleman used to have access to the near unlimited resources of the Institute. He used to sit in a very similar plush leather chair in the large office that Michaels found himself once again giddy to be entering. It was the size of a small apartment, even including a lavatory. Coleman used to have a kitchen facility, but after the incident, Michaels opted not to bother replacing it. He knew very little about cooking, and eating was something he seldom did. Even then it was only with the strongest of urging from his thin, reedy body. Instead he used the space to put in more storage.
Coleman also used to have access to the terminal laid into the desk and the database within. He used to be able to house every single file of potential interest within the vast storage space, as well as access to huge volumes of research materials. He used to enjoy the finest, most unbreachable security on his files, ensuring that only he and possibly Citizen One or Inquisitors with a potent override code could view them at his leisure.
As was noted, Coleman used to be a grandfatherly sort, from the old realm of thought that there was some intrinsic value to be found in every person, including the desperate urchins from below. He used to feel that they could be helped, cared for. He used to be a champion for their rights, fighting to integrate them into society, rather than continue to keep them apart or, worse in his mind, destroy their capacities with physical and mental abuse before putting them into slavery. He used to be a brilliant man.
Coleman used to have a lot of things;
used to be a lot of things, Michaels thought smugly. He also used to be alive.
That thought, morbid as it was, provided Michaels with the impending promotion that he felt was so richly deserved, and it seemed that Citizen One felt a similar way. That was probably why Coleman’s office was destroyed, the poor man still inside, with a mild incendiary device, or so it was rumored. Officially, the report stated that the coffee maker he owned had started a fire, which somehow tripped the sprinkler system and shorted the electronic locks. Never mind that what remained of Coleman had been found imbedded in what remained of his leather chair.
There weren’t even enough remaining features of the body to be identified by sight, thought Michaels with macabre satisfaction. They had to pry open the jaw on his brittle blackened face and check against his dental records. In the end, it was confirmed. Marcus Coleman was dead, and his place as head in the Natural Philosophy wing was wide open.
In the beginning, Michaels respected and even admired the man. That was well before Coleman continually and publicly spouted all of the old-world drivel about equality and tolerance towards the genetically inferior. It was odd behavior, especially from one with such a high standing in society and a place on the secretive ‘advisory council.’ That mattered little to Michaels, however, because it wouldn’t have mattered if he had worshipped Coleman for a hundred years. Michaels was a man of ambition. Anything within the farthest reaches of blocking his path was despised, undermined, and ultimately eliminated.
Michaels seated himself in front of the terminal, summoning the interface to begin digging through the files once more. In reality, he thought, it was a merciful favor that Coleman had died when he did. Were it much longer, I may have had him dragged from his bed and shot in the night.
He paused for a moment, considering, wondering if he could have that kind of authority. A touch of a smile crossed his lips, and he returned his attention to the console. Despite being granted access to the most extensive resources anyone could enjoy by the most important Citizen in existence, Coleman apparently did not retain much confidence in his fellow man.
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