Before the Nothingness

by Kevin George

  More fighting emerged from the supply bunker. A villager tried running away while carrying an armful of supplies, but two men caught him from behind, one of them taking a swing at him, smashing the villager in the back of the head with some type of metallic pole. Horace heard a sickening crack and imagined the villager’s skull caving in. He wanted to rush to the helpless villager’s defense, but the two men took turns hitting him until the villager no longer moved. They quickly gathered the supplies and brought them back toward the supply bunker, but they didn’t make it back before three more villagers surrounded them and attacked.

  The action inched closer to Carla and her father’s body. Horace doubted any of the fighters would stop long enough to make sure Carla remained safe. He knelt beside her, gently taking her arm to ease her back. Carla’s arm tensed and she wouldn’t budge, even when Horace pulled harder.

  “We have to go,” Horace said. “The fighting’s getting too close.”

  “I don’t care,” Carla said, keeping her head buried.

  “Your father wouldn’t want you to—”

  She yanked away from his grip and stood, stomping toward Horace until bumping into him. Horace was glad to see her moving, but he’d never seen such fire or hatred in her eyes. She pushed him over and over, stalking toward him each time he retreated. Horace desperately wanted her to calm down, but he was glad to be luring her away from the danger.

  “You could’ve stopped this,” she snapped.

  Horace shook his head. “Nothing was going to stop the fighting,” he cried. “The villagers were always going to rise up against the gangs who took control of—”

  “Not that!” Carla yelled. “My father. . . if you’d trusted me with your precious supplies. . . if my father didn’t have to come here. . .”—her jaw clenched but then eased before she turned back around, her eyes widening at the distance between her and her father’s body—“. . . if he didn’t feel the need to fight for my mother’s medicine. . .”

  Carla headed back toward her father, and toward the battle approaching his body. She didn’t appear to notice one of the fighters turn toward her approach.

  “No!” Horace called out.

  The fighter swung his metallic pipe at Carla, but she ducked at the last moment, scooping up another piece of metal among other scattered supplies. She clubbed the back of the fighter’s knee, causing him to collapse in the snow and howl in pain. Horace may have enjoyed the moment had he not seen two other fighters rushing toward Carla. He reached her just before they did, tackling Carla to the snowy ground, holding onto her tightly, shielding her despite her screams to be let go.

  Before Horace could answer, he heard the thud of pounded flesh and felt an intense burning in his ribs. All breath was sucked from his lungs and his body went limp. As he struggled to breathe, Carla pushed him away, cursing for the others to leave them alone. Horace wanted to fight back, but he was quickly pulled to his feet, a metal pole shoved against his windpipe, making it impossible to take a single breath.

  “Drop the metal, little lady, or your friend will be the one to pay,” the fighter warned. “At least the one to pay first.”

  Carla dropped her weapon. Two more fighters seemed to appear from the storm and grabbed her from behind.

  “Kill them both!” screamed the injured fighter, who remained on the ground, grasping at his broken knee.

  “That what we should do?” the fighter whispered in Horace’s ear, squeezing the pipe tighter against his throat. “No answer?”

  The fighters erupted in laughter, especially when Carla writhed in their grasp.

  “What about you, sweetheart? Any reason why we should save you?”

  Carla looked down at her father, her body going slack in the grasp of her captors. Blackness began to push in from the edges of Horace’s vision. He hated the idea that the last thing he’d see would be Carla giving up, not that other plans they had for her would be any better. . .

  “If you kill him,” she said calmly, her words barely louder than the howling wind, “then be prepared for the full force of Mountain security to unleash its wrath on every one of you.”

  The fighters’ laughter stopped. Horace shook his head, only able to do so because his captor eased the pipe on his throat. He exploded in a coughing fit but finally took deep gulps of freezing air, the sting in his lungs clearing the darkness from his vision. Horace mustered what little strength he could to force out three pained words.

  “Don’t. . . tell. . . them. . .”

  The pipe tightened against his throat, cutting off his oxygen yet again.

  “Think we were born yesterday?” Horace’s captor asked. “We’ve all lived here long enough to know The Mountain cut itself off from us. The answer they promised us is never coming. And if they didn’t show up when we killed every other thief trying to steal from us, what makes you think they’re coming for him?”

  Horace clutched at the pipe, momentarily easing the pressure before his captor pulled even harder, lifting Horace off of his feet. His ears rang as bright lights popped in front of his eyes. Carla’s next words sounded farther away. . .

  “That’s Horace Jonas, son of Samuel Jonas and grandson of Charles Jonas.”

  For a moment, all sound seemed to fade down a long tunnel and Horace felt warmth overwhelming his entire being. Then, the pipe loosened from his throat and he dropped straight down, collapsing into the snow. Wind and human screams rushed back to his ears and he coughed over and over. Horace felt the hood of his parka ripped back and his vision focused in time to see nearly a dozen men encircling him, all of them staring down.

  As strength returned to Horace’s body, he raised himself onto hands and knees, turning his head until he found Carla. Her brow was furrowed, but she no longer struggled in the fighters’ grips.

  “You shouldn’t have told them,” he croaked.

  “No more wasting our time at a supply bunker,” the gang’s leader said, pulling Horace to his feet. “We have our ticket to get into The Mountain.”

  The gang began to drag Horace and Carla away from the bunker, crossing the village in the direction of The Mountain. Horace saw Carla look back at her father’s body, but she didn’t fight to stay behind.

  Focus on your mother. . . on the family you do have left, he silently urged her, advice she seemed to be taking.

  “We’ll never. . . survive. . . the journey,” Horace said. “It’s too long. . . too cold. . . should wait.”

  “And give your father time to launch a rescue attempt?” the gang leader snorted. “No, we’ll make it to The Mountain.”

  Horace looked at Carla, her head hanging low, her body slumped in defeat. The fighters practically had to drag her. He couldn’t imagine them wasting so much effort on her once they reached the White Nothingness away from the village. Horace snapped his head back, pain exploding in the back of his skull as it connected with his captor. The man grunted and released him, but only for a split second. Soon, the pipe was back around his throat.

  “Let him go!” snapped another gang member.

  “Yeah, we need him alive if they’re going to let us in!”

  The leader gave a final squeeze against Horace’s throat before releasing him. He spit out a wad of blood, unable to hide the pain in his voice.

  “Try that again and I’ll be delivering a dead body to your father,” the leader growled.

  “And then you’d never be allowed into The Mountain,” Horace said, massaging his throat. “But grant my one request and I’ll make sure you get in. . . that you all get in and receive proper accommodations.”

  “You’re not in position to ask for anything,” their leader said.

  But the rest of the men gathered closer, darkness unable to hide the hope of their faces. Horace looked at each gang member, ending with the two still restraining Carla.

  “Let her go,” he said. “She’ll mean nothing to my father, so she has no reason to come. Release her and I’ll do what you say.”

  “If we
release her, you’ll have no reason to do what I say,” the leader said. “I don’t think so.”

  “Do what I say,” Horace told the others. “Or we’ll all die outside of The Mountain.”

  Before their leader could order otherwise, the gang members shoved Carla to the ground. She scurried to her feet, slowly backing away, only stopping when she looked at Horace. She shook her head and opened her mouth, but Horace didn’t let her get out a single word.

  “Get the hell out of here,” Horace said. “Go home. . . see your mother. . .”

  “But. . .”

  “Go! Now!” Horace yelled, turning to the gang. “Get her out of here.”

  The gang took a step toward Carla, who held up her hands and backed away. Horace gave her a final nod before she turned and ran into the snowstorm, heading toward the outskirts of ISU-Ville. Once Carla was out of sight, Horace exhaled deeply. He suddenly felt much colder, each footstep slow and stiff in the deep snow. As they crossed ISU-Ville, the group encountered more villagers, some of whom demanded to know where they were going and what they were doing. When the gang didn’t respond, some of the villagers returned to their ISUs; others followed.

  Horace tried talking sense into the group, tried explaining how they should return to their ISUs and wait out the storm, make this trek when conditions were more favorable.

  “At least wait until the morning when there’s light,” he begged.

  “What do we need light for? We know which direction to walk; we won’t miss The Mountain,” the leader said.

  “And who says they’ll see us?”

  “You think we weren’t warned about trying to return?” the leader said. “You think we weren’t shown the armed battlements guarding the entrance? Whoever’s in them will see us coming.”

  Horace wasn’t so certain but could sense the desperation oozing off every villager in the group. These people were ready to risk their lives for proper shelter. As the night sky darkened, the snowfall eased just enough to let them watch their numbers slowly whittling away. Horace fell several times—certain he’d die in the White Nothingness—but he was dragged to his feet each time, though the men pulling him were getting weaker themselves.

  The same help wasn’t offered to the others that fell and didn’t pull themselves back up. More than once, Horace heard pathetic cries and pleas for help from those too frozen to continue, but every time those cries and pleas faded behind the shrinking group, which kept pushing forward. Horace wanted to give up—and was ashamed that he would’ve done so on numerous occasions—but the pain of cold eventually faded and he repeated the same phrase to himself, over and over, a mantra that kept him strong enough to trudge one foot after another.

  “Have to survive. . . for her. . . survive. . . for her. . .”

  Samuel Jonas closed his eyes and breathed deeply, the only thing he could do to stop the room from spinning. He was glad to be sitting in a high-backed chair or he would’ve already collapsed. But he refused to admit weakness, especially in his present company.

  “Okay, that should be enough.”

  Samuel nodded, a slight gesture that may as well have mimicked sitting in the middle of an earthquake. He felt a slight burn in his arm as the needle was pulled out. Samuel thought he was maintaining his balance until he finally opened his eyes and saw the floor rushing up at him.

  “Whoa,” a nearby voice said.

  A pair of hands suddenly hooked beneath his arms and pulled him back to an upright position. Samuel sensed movement shifting away from him but returning moments later. A cup was thrust to his lips and he was given a simple instruction.

  “Drink.”

  Samuel drank the cold water, taking long, deep swallows, feeling life flow through his veins. Within seconds, he felt stable again and his sight cleared. He nodded and took another deep breath, handing the cup back to the doctor.

  “Thanks, Nigel,” Samuel croaked. “Didn’t realize how dizzy I was.”

  “I should’ve realized,” Dr. Weller said. “I told you so many blood donations in a short period of time would take their toll on you.”

  “Can’t slow down progress on the Aviary because you ran out of blood to sample,” Samuel said. “The more you need, the closer you are to creating a viable dose, right?”

  Weller nodded. “But that would also be the case if you allowed me to experiment on a B sample, a sample of my own blood to keep this project tied to both of us.”

  “Using your blood would mean this project was tied to you, and you only,” Samuel said. “Tell me, where does your true allegiance lie? With me? The Board? Yourself?”

  The words sprang from Samuel’s mouth and a part of him regretted blurting them out. Samuel’s concerns about the doctor had been on his mind for months, but he never would’ve asked him straight out had his mind not remained foggy. Weller stared at him, his expression hardening, his lips drawing tightly shut. He appeared genuinely hurt, but that somehow made Samuel feel better.

  “After everything we’ve been through—after so many secrets we’ve kept, so many plans we’ve kept between us—you’re questioning my loyalty?” Weller said, crossing his arms.

  He stood on the far side of his lab’s outermost room. Samuel half-expected the doctor to turn and access his private lab, to which Samuel still didn’t have clearance. He considered pointing that out to Nigel, but Samuel knew plenty of his own Mountain business he wasn’t about to share with his closest ally.

  “If I’d wanted to betray you, I would’ve used my own blood for Aviary testing a long time ago,” Dr. Weller said. “But I didn’t, even when it would’ve made things easier, even though these blood meetings are becoming more and more dangerous with The Board’s eyes and ears throughout The Mountain. I think that should prove my loyalty.”

  Samuel scanned the mostly-empty room. “Do you really think. . . The Board. . .”

  “I’m sure they can’t hear us talking in here,” the doctor said. “But anyone monitoring the security cameras from the hallway could let them know you’re here.”

  “That’s why I waited until night to come,” Samuel said, though he knew The Mountain’s security force worked around the clock. “The Aviary. . . the project is close to. . .”

  Dr. Weller nodded. “Human testing.” He held up the vial of blood he’d just drawn from Samuel. “This should be enough to let me make final adjustments and produce the first dose suitable for humans.”

  “Who will. . .” Samuel stopped, wondering if he really wanted to hear the answer to his next question. He finally sighed and continued. “Who will receive the first injection?”

  Weller frowned. “The Mountain has lots of widows,” he said. “There’s also the women and children of the expelled traitors, though some of the more fertile ones might come in handy for other experiments.”

  Samuel cringed at the thought.

  “I know it’s not ideal, but let me handle those unpleasant details,” Weller said. “You can keep focusing on security and ISU-Ville and whatever else you think is most—”

  A knock on the lab’s outer door silenced Weller. They both looked in that direction before turning to each other, as if the other might have an explanation about who was out there.

  “Mr. Jonas, it’s Moretti,” a muffled voice said from the other side of the door. “We have a security issue outside of The Mountain.”

  Samuel and Weller looked at each other again. Weller held up the vial of blood and hurried into his lab, telling Samuel that he’d update him later. Samuel rushed out to the hallway and followed Moretti to the security level.

  “Outsiders finally arrived to try sacking The Mountain?” he asked. “Are they being led by the traitors we released near Billings?”

  The head of security shook his head. “There’s been no activity beyond One Corp.’s lands for months. We still have access to a few cameras at the Communications Center and we’ve seen nothing. No, the outside world is struggling to survive and nobody foolish enough to stay in this area could
travel this far. In fairness, I used to think the same about those from the ISU village.”

  “They’re coming here?” Samuel asked, his stomach sinking at the thought of one villager in particular. “In the middle of the night? Has the weather broken enough for them to travel this many miles?”

  Moretti shook his head.

  “Then how could this happen?” Samuel demanded.

  “We sent normal patrol drones earlier and received footage of increased turmoil, which wasn’t exactly surprising,” Moretti explained. “Small issues have been festering in the village for months, mostly due to worsening weather and ISU breakdowns. Recently, we got an influx of messages from villagers about trouble at supply bunkers, but we did as you ordered and sent another news blast about an answer coming. That didn’t work. I guess the village have-nots finally got desperate enough to fight for supplies. Should we send a few cargo drops to see if that calms the situation?”

  Samuel frowned and shook his head. “We have a surplus of supplies, but that won’t last if we start giving them away every time villagers steal from each other.”

  After a quick elevator ride, they emerged in the security center, where workers scurried around, most of them focused on greenish holographic images transmitted from drones armed with night vision. The workers quieted as they turned to Samuel and Moretti. The images showed a group of several dozen people hobbling through the storm.

  “How far away?” Samuel asked.

  “Less than a mile, sir,” a security worker answered.

  Samuel couldn’t shake the feeling of dread swelling in his chest. There’s no way he’s with them, he told himself. He wanted to be out there, not in here. And I made his life easier by giving him the Jonas ISU. He’d have no reason to be with them. As much as common sense told him one thing, Samuel still found himself staring at each villager plodding through the storm.

  “Zoom in,” he ordered.

  The drone operator did as he was told, but the greenish images were blurry and the villagers all looked the same. They watched as one of the villagers suddenly fell into the snow and no longer moved. Samuel waited for someone to help, but nobody did.