Haven

by Justin Kemppainen

  She pounded on the door a few times, the hollow sound ringing in the hallway. A small panel slid open, and a pair of bright blue eyes glared at her from within. Elijah.

  “You’re late.” The passive voice came out.

  She held up the dented can. “There was trouble.”

  The eyes narrowed. “Of what variety?”

  She sighed, “Junkies, soldiers, and monsters, okay? Just take the goddamn peaches and let me go.”

  “Oh, I don’t want them. I hate peaches.”

  Kaylee was stunned. “W-what?”

  “I don’t want them. You may go.”

  Fury boiled through her veins, igniting her nerves. He mouth worked up and down, grasping for some kind of appropriate response, but no sound emerged. She shook with anger, white knuckles gripping the can. “Y-you… You’re joking, right? Do you have any idea what I’ve been through?”

  “Aside from taking far too much time with a simple task, no.”

  Kaylee cut loose scream of rage and pounded the can against the door several times, causing Elijah, surprised, to retreat from the opening. The startled guard by the door dropped his magazine and leapt to his feet. He grabbed her arms, struggling to restrain her as she jumped up and down, kicking at him and the door, screaming curses and threats. She managed to stomp down on his foot, and he bellowed in pain.

  “Get her out of here!” Elijah shouted from inside the room.

  The sounds of commotion brought several other men into the hallway. Rough hands grasped Kaylee and dragged her off, moving down a few flights of stairs as she screamed and struggled. Finally, after being hauled around for a time, she was tossed into an empty room with a bed and a bucket. The door slammed shut behind, and she flung herself against it, pounding and yelling. After a few minutes of slowly withering intensity, her hoarse voice could barely muster a whisper, and her exhausted body ran out of adrenaline to fuel her efforts. She leaned up against the door, sliding down to a slumped position. After a few moments of hard breathing, her eyes slid shut. Exhausted, she fell asleep almost instantly, still cursing Elijah as she drifted off.

  Chapter 8: Rude Awakening

  Gregory Michaels awoke with a start in his four-poster full-sized bed to the sounds of pounding on his door. As always, he was alone in his very ample-sized room in the Institute’s housing complex. He glanced at the clock, which read, in dark green light, 3:00 AM. Disoriented, he pushed the covers aside. Swinging his legs to the edge of the bed, he rose to his bare feet. He shuffled towards the door to his bedroom wearing only an undershirt and boxer shorts. He grabbed a thick, blue bathrobe from a hook, donning it. The pounding increased in urgency.

  “Just a minute!” he yelled, fumbling at the tie rope.

  He padded across the lush carpet in his small living room with very little furniture or decoration and glanced through the peephole. He recognized the stiff figure of Inquisitor Herman Gottfried standing in the hall. He twisted the deadbolt lock and opened the door.

  “You are needed in your laboratory immediately. Your assistance is required for the treatment of several subjects, some of whom will not live out the hour.” He turned on his heel and walked away, leaving Michaels standing dumbfounded in the doorway.

  “Wait, I’m-” Michaels shouted long after the Inquisitor was out of earshot.

  I’m not a bloody doctor, Michaels thought. He sighed heavily, which transformed into a gaping yawn. He shuffled back into his apartment, crossing the living room, into his bedroom once more. He rubbed his eyes with one hand, fumbling around on the nightstand for his glasses, knocking over a half-full glass of water. The liquid spread across the surface, spilling down onto the carpet.

  Michaels swore loudly, using the sleeve of his robe to mop up the liquid. He jammed the spectacles on to his face. He glanced in a mirror on the wall. Balding, bad posture, bags under his bloodshot eyes, unclean and unshaven. He rubbed his face again, sighing once more.

  Several minutes later, he emerged from his living quarters, dressed in the previous day’s clothing, tired, and irritable, having contacted the housekeeping staff about the small clean-up. Hopefully, they’d send out one of their drones before too long; he hated having any contact with them, especially if they happened to have been one of his prior subjects. Of course, that was fairly common now, as he’d been administering the conditioning process for years; he’d given the treatment to quite a few people. He walked down the tile hallway, heavy footfalls echoing.

  He passed several doors that contained other apartments of various sizes and shapes, housing other important people working for the Institute, researchers and a few high-ranking assistants. Cleaning and maintenance staff, some of the conditioned subjects, lived in what almost appeared to be a barracks outside the compound. It was a long rectangular structure with rows of bunk-beds, footlockers, and a couple of unisex showers and bathrooms.

  An uneventful walk later, he rounded the corner, heading towards his lab. The usual guards with automatic weapons stood flanking the door, but rather than lazily staring off into space, they appeared apprehensive. As was his custom, Michaels paid them no attention. He palmed the panel next to the door, which slid open.

  Absolute chaos greeted him. The usual single patient bed had been cleared out, numerous tables were arranged in no particular order in the large circular lab room. Over a dozen men of in various states of severe injury lay upon them. Several were unconscious, most of them were bleeding, seeping off of the tables and dripping onto the floor, and those still awake expressed their injuries by crying out or moaning. A few surgeons and medics milled around, binding wounds, tying sutures, and fiddling with IV’s, occasionally conferring with one another. A few soldiers were positioned at the circumference. The place was a flurry of activity and noise.

  Michaels gaped. He paused in the doorway for several moments, staring at the scene.

  “What the- who the- why-” he stammered to no one in particular. A few people gave him brief glances but returned to their work. He spotted Inquisitor Gottfried speaking with calm at a visibly upset doctor. Michaels waded his way through the room, catching bits of the discussion as he neared.

  “-critical condition and cannot be subjected to any questioning! They must be moved to a hospital for treatment and observation!”

  “They may contain valuable information that must be attained at the first available moment,” came the stern reply from Gottfried. “When it has been determined that they have divulged everything useful, they will be released to receive proper care.”

  “But some of them will die very soon if they are not treated immediately!”

  Gottfried turned towards Michaels as he approached. “Some of them will die regardless. Information needs to be retrieved from them before this occurs, and it needs to be done without any delay. Do you not agree, Citizen Michaels?”

  Michaels glared at Gottfried, aware of the man’s authority. “I’m sure if you deem it necessary Inquisitor Gottfried, then any loss or permanent injury for these men will be regrettable.”

  Gottfried nodded and gave a thin smile. The doctor, frustrated, stalked off towards the room center, pausing to evaluate a few patients.

  Michaels glared at Gottfried, “Tell me Inquisitor. What in the nine hells is going on in my lab?!” He demanded.

  Gottfried regarded Michaels with the same intense calm as he gave the angry doctor. “I apologize for the late hour, but as the good doctor was kind enough to mention, several of these men have very little time left.” The stone face cracked slightly, displaying a tinge of an emotion that looked something like concern. “You have been roused this evening to assist with the interrogation of the survivors.”

  “But I’m not a doc-” Michaels paused, thinking, “Wait, survivors of what? What the is going on?”

  The Inquisitor’s calm appearance faded further as his jaw clenched, “I advise you, Citizen Michaels, to get to work immediately. The soldiers are dying as we speak, along with their valuable information.”
<
br />   The edge of Michaels’ fatigue faded. “Was it a failed incursion?” He looked once more across the busy room, then back into Gottfried’s face, which betrayed an affirmation. “How is that possible?”

  Gottfried’s calm shattered, clear irritation in his gaze. “That is what I would like to find out. Get to work!”

  Michaels hesitated a moment longer, then pushed past the Inquisitor, towards the subjects. He technically had a doctorate in biology and chemistry, but his clinical knowledge of treatment was limited to the effects of various drugs on various organisms. Well, if Gottfried wants them awake and not screaming, maybe I can help. He pulled out several vials and syringes out of drawers. Working on the table, he tapped into the vials, filling several of the needles with the drugs.

  He poised over one injured subject, who bled from several torso wounds, ready to administer. The same annoyed doctor reached over and grabbed his wrist, “You can’t give that man an adrenaline shot. If his heart rate rises before we can stabilize him, he’ll bleed out in minutes.”

  Michaels scowled at the doctor, “Out of the way, or I’ll have you shot.” The doctor paled and released his arm, backing off. Michaels cracked a smile, and thought, that was kind of fun, before plunging the long needle into the unconscious man’s chest.

  Michaels jumped as the man awoke, screaming bloody murder and trying in vain to struggle against the restraints. His eyes were wild, and he continued yelling and screaming. Michaels jabbed him with another needle, a painkiller, and watched as the man’s eyes took on a glazed-over look; his yelling gradually faded into soft whimpering. The man breathed in rapid gasps, and Michaels could tell by the amount of blood welling out of the wound that his heart rate was erratic and rapid.

  Michaels shouted and waved Gottfried over, who hovered over the soldier, who, shaking, quietly answered the questions that were asked of him. Michaels watched as, a few minutes later, the man slipped into unconsciousness again. Gottfried gave a nod to another angry-looking female doctor who rushed in, trying desperately to save the soldier’s life.

  An indeterminate amount of time passed as Michaels passed from patient to patient, pulling victims of horrendous injury to consciousness. Several of them screamed in agony prior to administration of numbing agents or painkillers. He worked quickly, pouring chemicals into their bodies. Gottfried followed close behind, hovering inches away with questions. Once he finished, the men were given emergency care. A few died before, during, and after being questioned. They were carted off without question.

  At last the final man was removed from his lab. All of the doctors and soldiers had moved elsewhere, leaving a hideous mess and the smell of sweat and blood lingering in the air. Michaels leaned against a table as Gottfried spoke in hushed tones to a soldier, who saluted and left.

  At last he turned around and walked towards Michaels. “You have attained a status privileged enough to be made aware of a few things regarding the events of the last several hours.”

  Michaels raised an eyebrow, and motioned for him to proceed.

  “Due to information gleaned from one of your subjects yesterday it was determined that the denizens could no longer be left to their own devices. There has been intelligent organization. Several tactical teams were dispatched to the given locations. When they failed to return or report, additional men were sent.” He gestured around the empty room. “What you saw here was the remains of over one hundred trained soldiers. We cannot account for any enemy casualties.”

  Michaels did a double take. “That’s impossible!”

  Gottfried grimaced slightly. “Clearly not.” He folded his arms behind his back. “They were ambushed. Cleanly. Proficiently.”

  Michaels stared in disbelief, “How could that possibly happen?”

  “It is still unclear,” Gottfried gave his head a slight shake, “but it would appear that our informant’s information was correct, if more advanced than we realized.”

  Michaels rubbed his chin, still shocked, “Did you find anything else?”

  “One of our men, who died of knife wounds in hand to hand combat, held in his hand a torn strip of cloth from an enemy uniform. A fox insignia etched into clothing. Perhaps we may divine something useful out of this, perhaps not.”

  Michaels’ mind whirled. “What is to be done?”

  The Inquisitor considered the question before responding with, “Unknown. Yet. None should dare strike against us in such a fashion, and this will not be forgotten. Whoever engineered it must be dealt with.”

  Michaels nodded seriously before letting out a gaping yawn. He glanced at his watch; it was nearly six.

  “You must be tired,” Gottfried said. “Return to your quarters and rest.”

  Yawning again, Michaels nodded and departed the lab, hoping that he either wouldn’t need to be there before it was put back together.

  A few minutes later, he arrived at his room. He passed his ID badge over the scanner on the wall, hearing the lock give a faint click. He walked in and pulled the glasses from his face, closing his eyes as he moved towards the bathroom. As he arrived, he heard a noise.

  His eyes popped open and he jammed the glasses on, seeing an intruder standing, facing the night table bent over. Michaels grabbed a lamp sitting on his dresser near the door, brandishing it in front of him.

  The man stood up and turned around, jumping slightly when he noticed Michaels wielding a lamp. He held a blow dryer and towels in his hands.

  Michaels’ mouth hung open. “What the hell are you doing here?”

  A man with a bruised, swollen face and short, now-clean hair gave him a little smile. It was the man he applied the conditioning to earlier that day. What’s his name? Michaels couldn’t remember. James? John?

  “I’m very sorry to bother you, sir. You sent for cleaning.” He kept his eyes to the floor as he offered the towels and blow dryer as proof of the statement. “I’m finished here, sir. Sorry for the delay. Have a good morning.” He started walking out, making short, stuttering steps.

  Michaels moved to the side and stared as he passed, hand clutching the lamp hanging limp at his side. There was something unnerving about the fellow that he couldn’t place. What was his name…?

  “You there!” Michaels called out. The man stopped and turned around, standing in the doorway, staring at Michaels’ feet with vacant eyes.

  “Sir?” came a soft, polite reply.

  “What was your name?”

  “Jeffrey, sir.”

  Michaels appraised the man, wondering what it was that bothered him so much. Jeffrey merely stood there with a dull, vacant expression. “All right, you may go.”

  “Thank you, sir.” The servant departed.

  Ah, that’s it, Michaels thought, realizing what was so bothersome. He doesn’t seem to blink.

  In a rare moment of weakness, Michaels briefly entertained the idea that what he was subjecting people to could have been, in some ways, inhumane. It was just yesterday that the man was captured, beaten, interrogated and subjected to alteration of mind and body. He’s already working in housekeeping, how strange.

  “It’s nothing,” Michaels muttered. Pulling off his lab coat, he lay down on his bed. He remained awake for quite some time before gradually drifting into a fitful sleep.

  Chapter 9: Deception

  The man called Jeffrey, upon exiting Michaels’ room, ceased his stuttering walk and traveled as normal through the hallway. He couldn’t believe the stroke of luck allowing him to get into Michaels’ living space so soon. Of course, the Re-education Center was always relieved to have such a willing, eager subject, ready to dedicate his time and effort towards making those who made his new existence possible. They were just happy to be rid of me so easily, he thought.

  The servants’ building was located about one hundred feet away from the western face of the Institute in a small park area; a safe distance with concealment that kept any Citizens nearby more at ease. It was widely understood that, although cured of any aggression or
barbarism, the impure denizens gleaned from down below for labor purposes were still inferior specimens of humanity, and no one really wanted much direct contact with them.

  As he passed outside, he again marveled at the sidewalks, which was a lightweight yet dense ceramic tile material of a milky white hue. Panels of these stretched everywhere, and the city floor was largely composed of similar materials. Strong, but not so heavy as to collapse everything below as existing structures continued their rise and new ones cropped up. Maintenance was in the forefront of concern; no one wanted to let their decadent society crumble, especially not in any literal sense. He looked up again, at the circular field overhead, shimmering, letting the clear blue sky and soft, morning sunlight filter through. Jeffrey had no idea what it was or why it was necessary. Some kind of force field, maybe? He stared for a moment, contemplating possibilities.

  Jeffrey had spent less than three hours at the Re-education Center before they deemed him appropriate and prepared. It had merely take a measure of proper eagerness and gratitude to convince them to send him to work at the Institute as part of cleaning and maintenance. They weren’t monsters; servants were given at least a measure of regard after having emotions stripped and their reproduction crippled.

  It actually seemed a little too easy. Jeffrey was uncertain as to which method of preparation allowed him to keep pieces of his mind intact. Perhaps it was the deep, drugged conditioning that Elijah subjected him to for months, feeding him the answers he would, hopefully, unerringly repeat under similar conditions.

  In addition, they devised another measure that would hopefully keep his mind relatively together. In a small false tooth at the back of his mouth, was a dose of rohypnol. Just before he was strapped in the patient bed, he loosened it with his tongue, painfully as his face was swollen and tender from the severity of the beating, and swallowed it. Shortly after, he blacked out.