Haven

by Justin Kemppainen

  Jeffrey was unaware of how Elijah knew so much about what he called the ‘conditioning process,’ but he was assured that the delta wave, deep unconsciousness gained from the drug would minimize the effects of the sensory bombardment, keeping his mind from being panicked into any weakened state.

  Of course, had Michaels been paying a great deal of attention during those hours, he may have noticed that Jeffrey’s heart rate and blood pressure dropped almost dangerously low, and he nearly expired on the table. Michaels also would have noticed that Jeffrey didn’t move much or react as prominently as other subjects.

  As Jeffrey, lucky to be alive and luckier to retain conscious thought, passed from the tile sidewalk onto the grass, he marveled at the lush, green grass. He smiled just before his body convulsed. His entire muscle system seemed to spasm, and he collapsed on the ground, writhing in pain. He wanted to scream but fought to keep silent, biting down on his cheeks to keep all sounds in check.

  Of course, there had been a few side-effects. Most times his body trembled a little, whether out of withdrawal or something else he didn’t know. He’d barely eaten anything in the last twenty-four hours since he’d been captured, discreetly throwing up everything he took down. He suffered from a droning headache, as well as the occasional severe muscle cramp. He had been dealing with a medical condition for years before this, but it seemed to be getting worse.

  After a moment on the ground, his abused system relaxed, leaving his body feeling drained. He picked himself up, swaying and unsteady, on his feet before resuming a slower pace towards the servants’ quarters. Once inside the structure, he proceeded to the laundry room to deposit his cleaning supplies. He stopped in the bathroom, staring at himself in the mirror. He was still heavily bruised and beaten. He winced at the sight. He held his head under the sink, letting cool water rinse away his perspiration. He dried himself with paper towels, and put on his most passive, agreeable face, phasing into the servile character that was expected of him.

  Once the servants were indoctrinated they were largely ignored by Citizenship, who often would go out of their way to avoid any contact with them. They trusted so much in Michaels’ skill and procedure, as well as the ignorance and inferiority of those taken from down below, that the servants became nearly invisible. “Perfect for intelligence gathering,” Elijah had said.

  Of course, the nature of strategic, political, and military planning was handled by the higher class Citizenship, and they guarded their speech carefully. Jeffrey held no illusions of receiving tactical data, but that was not his primary purpose.

  He volunteered for the job in order to cultivate a brief deception, leading to a massacre of Citizen soldiers. Anything else he managed, Elijah would consider a bonus.

  When he had been approached by Elijah with questions about the feasibility of an operation like this, Jeffrey volunteered immediately to do the job, considering it of vital importance. However, there was another reason why he agreed so quickly to the mission that would not entail a return. He was dying.

  Jeffrey was another insightful, gifted young man left unwanted by any guardian when restrictions on Citizenship loosened. Elijah seemed to have a knack for finding people of that caliber, and Jeffrey’s mild-mannered temperament and average physique would have left him, as a child, starving in a month. Indeed he nearly did.

  During the planning phase, he and Elijah had crafted the perfect set of information to bring concern to the high-order Citizens. Intelligent leadership mobilizing forces in a certain location, munitions discovered, and other worrisome bits set leadership in a flurry, just as Elijah predicted it would. The difficult part, making sure Jeffrey could relay that specific information after interrogation and conditioning, had already been completed.

  As he continued to stare into the mirror, Jeffrey’s body started getting chills, shaking. He gripped the sides of the sink, willing his body to cease trembling. Pale and sickly, he looked horrible. He was briefly thankful for the bruises scattered across his body, giving him an excuse to appear to be in poor condition; he did not want very much scrutiny in his direction regarding anything, including bad health. Not that it matters, he thought.

  His health had been on a steady decline for months, and it was only in the last day that the cramping, nausea, and vomiting had gotten this bad. At first, he thought it was merely something like ulcers, but it seemed much worse than that. Without any access to someone who could diagnose it, he could only fear the worst.

  Jeffrey stepped out of the bathroom, taking several deep breaths. Unsurprised, the cueing light on his bed was light, indicating a summons. He pressed the button, displayed a message directing him to Inquisitor Gottfried.

  He swallowed hard and exited into the soft morning light. He hadn’t any clue if his body could handle the punishment; if he would seize, swallow his tongue, and suffocate, or if his heart would simply stop. He shook his head, clearing it, and resumed his duck-footed walk and passive expression. His job was finished; any other information about the surface he could manage to pass to Elijah.

  Jeffrey crossed back into a hallway of the living quarters of the Institute, passing by numerous guards, scientists, and other Citizens. They ignored him. He turned a corner, keeping his head down as he continued his stuttering gait and vacant expression, until he moved through a hallway and a set of doors into the main lobby of the Institute. The large, square room featured four columns spaced evenly from the corners and a large, circular central reception desk with a marble top and various stalls. Jeffrey thought it looked like a bank.

  During the peak hours of the day, there were usually at least three people seated at the large desk, handling everything “Business?” One woman, seated front and center, asked.

  “I’m here to speak with Inquisitor Gottfried. My name is Jeffrey.” He said in a small, polite voice.

  She woman glanced down and typed something into a keyboard. She said, not looking at him, “Go through those doors.” She pointed behind, northward. She pressed a button, and a buzzing could be heard.

  Jeffrey crossed over, pulled the door open, and moved through it. The white tile flooring shifted to waxed, obsidian black. The walls and ceiling remained a sterile white; markings of the eye insignia adorned the hallway on both sides, giving a constant feeling of unease and imbalance. The long hallway ended in another reception area, complete with a similar desk and two wings. Different from the civilian section of the Institute, the Inquisition area held three elevators at the north end instead of a set of doors. On the back wall, emblazoned above the receptionist and elevators in block letters read one word imposed over the eye. Vigilance.

  The receptionist, a severe looking woman with glasses wearing a conservative suit, gave him one appraising look before pressing a button. The elevator doors on the right slid open. Without a word, she gestured, and he moved inside.

  The vertigo of motion without motion rattled his upset stomach as the elevator moved upward. He closed his eyes and swallowed hard, trying to resist the nausea. Eventually, the doors slid open once more, and Jeffrey found himself facing a large office. He walked out of the elevator.

  Commendations decorated the walls. Bookshelves containing countless volumes on interrogation, surveillance, and various other related techniques lay at the sides. A large maple desk inlaid with a terminal screen, which was closed, was at the center in the back of the room. On his left, a bay window to the outside could be seen, and Jeffrey could see into east side of the park.

  The most important offices of the Inquisition were found at the head of the double-armed, cross-shaped Institute, which also served as the north-most structure. As a result, out the window, Jeffrey could see a stretch of the northern wall, built at the top edge of the valley. Above the wall, instead of horizon, a deep, dark blue haze appeared from the strange unknown shimmering energy. Obviously, no one saw fit to tell the servants about the sterilization field, not that most of them would be able to comprehend it, so Jeffrey was left uncertain and uneasy
about it.

  He was unable, however, to stare overlong out the window, as he was being watched by the shrewd and observant Inquisitor Gottfried. Jeffrey steeled himself to play his role carefully.

  There he was, sitting at the desk, watching him. Jeffrey had flashes of a shed with a cold concrete floor, swinging bare bulb, physical torture. A figure silhouetted in the first sunlight he’d seen in twelve years, asking question after question, pausing only to allow thugs to pound him further.

  Gottfried was seated in a high-backed black leather chair, observing Jeffrey as he approached. “You do not look at all well.”

  Jeffrey gave the Inquisitor a vacant stare, letting silence permeate before widening his half-lidded eyes in realization. He flung his hands up to his bruised face. “Oh! No, I’m fine, sir. It was my fault for being so stubborn.” He put on a grin. “You saved me, in spite of myself, sir. I owe you everything.” He clasped his hands together.

  Gottfried kept his face blank, not acknowledging the gratitude. “Sit.”

  A metal folding chair sat opposite the Inquisitor, and Jeffrey seated himself in it, crossed his ankles, and absentmindedly rubbed the back of his neck with one hand. Don’t over play it, he thought, toning down the fidgeting.

  Gottfried watched him for several moments, sizing him up. Jeffrey felt nervous but was trying very hard to remain absorbed in the beige carpeting.

  Finally, the Inquisitor broke the silence, “How much of your prior life do you remember?”

  Jeffrey screwed up his face, as if in thought. “Most of it. I think, sir.”

  “Do you recall our session yesterday?” Gottfried referred almost casually to the interrogation and battery of questions post-conditioning.

  Jeffrey gave a huge smile and nodded, vigorously. “That was when you saved me. Thank you, sir!”

  Gottfried blinked. “Who did you work for?”

  “Elijah, sir.”

  “Where is he located…” On and on, the repeated questions from the previous day continued. Jeffrey answered each in similar fashion with exuberance and the air of one pleased to serve his master. Questions came about Elijah, what he knew about the other community and faction leaders like Sergei and Desmond, locations of dwellings, rough layouts of certain areas, weapons capabilities: all of them rattled by. Gottfried’s eyes continued to bore into him, as though willing him to provide some other bit of useful information.

  “What do you know about a Silver Fox crest?”

  Jeffrey almost broke into a huge grin. Had his face not been so marred and distracting, he was sure some subtle reaction would have given him away. “It is the symbol of a man named Miguel. He’s a faction leader. Very mean.”

  Gottfried frowned, moving on, “You were the most rapid individual to be re-educated in the Center’s history; were you aware of that?”

  Jeffrey gave an awed smile. “Me? Really?”

  “Why did you request assignment here?

  Jeffrey offered a confused look. “This… this is my home, now, sir. It was where I was…” He screwed up his face again, with visibly intense thought. “Where I came into my new life. Sir.”

  Gottfried glared at him, frustration edging into his passive expression. “You desired to be near the Institute and Citizen Michaels.”

  “He… they, you… saved me. From myself.” He put on a disgusted face. “and Elijah,” he added.

  There was a twinge in Jeffrey’s stomach. It felt uncomfortable. He held his expression as the discomfort formed into a cramp, knotting the muscle painfully. He clenched his teeth together. He gripped the arms of his chair tightly, and held his breath, hoping the Inquisitor wouldn’t notice the changes in his behavior.

  Gottfried rubbed his eyes with one hand. Jeffrey jumped on the opportunity to try and divert the questioning. “Is there anything I can get for you, sir? Coffee? Do your quarters need cleaning?” He fought to keep the strain out of his voice.

  Gottfried shot him a look. “No, that will not be necessary. You may go.”

  Jeffrey stood, gave a tidy little bow, and walked to the elevator. He kept his vacant expression and downcast posture all the way until he was outside, through agonizing stomach cramps. He hurried from the Institute building over to the servants’ barracks and into a bathroom stall. He collapsed against the toilet and let out huge, gasping breaths. His body shook all over, and perspiration cut loose, drenching him in a cold sweat. Waves of nausea passed over him, and he labored to fight them off.

  Even though he was in intense pain, he cracked a smile. After a few minutes, the pain subsided, but his smile lingered. I win again, he thought. He stood up straight, stretching his back out. He returned to his slumped posture and expressionless face, and walked out of the bathroom, sitting down on his bed. Not standing out, even among the other mindless servants, was still a good idea. With no other immediate tasks, he lay down on his bunk and closed his eyes, still hints of a smile on his bruised face.

  Chapter 10: Discovering Purpose

  Kaylee awoke. She kept her eyes closed for several moments, letting consciousness sweep through her. She had roused a few hours earlier, still hunched up against the door with horrid cramping in her neck and spine, long enough to crawl over to the smelly mattress and pass out again. Now, she woke once more in the room, feeling somewhat refreshed and renewed. She stood up and stretched, ignoring the complaints of her sore muscles. The can of peaches lay, still dented, on its side on the floor.

  The outburst and rage she had thrown around the previous evening seemed like a distant memory, vague and nonspecific. Overall the experience proved cathartic, and the half-dead sleep was life-saving. She went to the door, which was surprisingly unlocked.

  No one stood outside to guard. Kaylee shrugged, assuming that she would have been in trouble after her angry outburst. She traveled through a hallway and up some stairs, moving within the bowels of the theatre building until she found herself facing the same guard who appeared to be reading the exact same magazine in front of Elijah’s secure room. He looked up at her with clear irritation in his eyes. He rubbed his foot. Kaylee ignored him and pounded on the door, once again.

  Those same glaring, blue eyes appeared as the door slot slid open. Elijah said nothing, only watched.

  Kaylee stared back at him. The two stood in silence, heavy metal door between them. She relented.

  “Sorry.” She said.

  “That’s better.” He replied.

  “You really hate peaches?” She almost didn’t want to know.

  “Terrible food.”

  Kaylee frowned. “Then why did you send me out? Do you have any idea what happened to me?”

  He disappeared from the doorway, leaving Kaylee in a confused silence. She imagined she heard some whispering. Before she could give this possibility consideration, the blue eyes reappeared.

  Elijah looked over at the seated man, “Leave.” The man folded his magazine under his arm and strolled off without hesitation.

  Kaylee was growing ever more confused; nothing like this had ever happened. Before she could puzzle out the details, several sounds of various metallic scraping filled the hallway as locking bolts slid. The door shuddered open. She blinked, uncertain of what to do. “Hurry up,” came Elijah’s voice from inside.

  Kaylee entered, hesitant. As soon as she was inside, an enormous bald man in jeans and a long-sleeved shirt shoved the door back in place. She waited as he slid no less than half a dozen heavy bolts in place. Kaylee could see he carried a huge handgun in a shoulder holster.

  “Elijah?” Kaylee asked. The bald man looked at her with those piercing blue eyes she knew so well and shook his head. He pointed at something behind her.

  She turned around to see a short, thin man who looked to be at least in his sixties with gray, wiry hair and soft brown eyes. He rattled away at a keyboard on a workbench, staring at an old CRT monitor. In and around the workbench were several computer units. Mounted to a rack on the wall were about a dozen other monitors of different sizes
with various pictures and text. She could tell a few were camera feeds, and one she recognized as grainy, black and white images of the bunker hallway, empty and corpse free. Swiveling around in his rolling chair, the man squinted up at her.

  “Ah, Kaylee.” A quavery yet confident voice came from this man, one she didn’t recognize. “I apologize for the poor treatment.” He chuckled in a grandfatherly sort of way. “That was quite an impressive outburst you had.”

  “Who the hell are you?” she asked.

  He presented her with a warm smile. “Why, my dear, I am Elijah. It is good to finally meet you face to face.” He stood up and offered his hand, which tremored lightly as he held it out. She gave him a wary look before slowly extending her hand to shake his. “I’m glad we can finally speak. I hate having to use Victor,” he gave the huge, bald man a little wave, who nodded back, “as my mouthpiece, but you understand the necessity. Coffee?”

  Kaylee sputtered, at a loss for words. She just shook her head, unnerved and off-balance by the hospitality he offered. It was entirely unlike anything she’d experienced with Elijah prior. But I guess that wasn’t really him, she thought.

  “I understand this must be very strange for you. Or,” he chuckled again, “at least a little different than what you’re used to. I, unfortunately, have to be a bit unyielding until I know who can be trusted. I assure you, deceptions like these are important to survival.

  Kaylee found her voice, “Survival for who?”

  He smiled at her, creasing lines over his aging face, “Everyone.” Far from comforting, his smile put her on edge.

  Elijah laughed out loud, watching her tense stance. She didn’t move and didn’t join in the mirth. Her eyes moved back and forth, taking in all of the room, but never leaving the old man long enough to give him any opportunity to make a move.

  Woodworking equipment, radial, table, and band saws were shoved into the corner. Next to them lay a pile of welding tools. Stacks of plywood, two by fours, and miscellaneous scraps were against the far wall. Faded paint stains of various colors decorated the floor. A ventilated room for paint storage, now likely in use for something else, was set in an alcove across from a sink a few feet inside the room and to the left. Despite confirmation that set construction used to happen here, Kaylee was not thrilled to notice that there was only one other visible exit at the far side of the room, which had numerous layers of sheet metal welding it to a sealed status.