“The meeting is in 20 minutes, Ian,” a woman said with a curt tone.
“Don’t worry,” he said. “We’ll make it in plenty of time.”
“How have I never heard of this place?” another man said while gazing overhead.
“It’s more of a maintenance shaft than a thoroughfare. Just connects parking decks, so nobody really uses it outside of service personnel.”
“It smells like farts.”
“Because it’s also a drainage tunnel.”
“So we’re tromping through a goddamn sewer.”
“No,” Ian said with a hint of irk. “We’re well above the sewer system. Do you not see the grates?”
“Not to point out the obvious,” another man said, “but we won’t make the best impression if we all smell like piss and shit.”
“For fuck’s sake, we’re only in here for a minute. Relax.”
“A minute of nasal torture.”
“It’s still the fastest route to the Municipal Tower. I just saved you a half hour of rain and traffic. You’re welcome, by the way.”
The group fell into a restive silence for the remainder of the hike. Ian upped his pace to a light jog when he spotted the door at the other end, hoping to soothe some irritation with a swift and easy exit. He grabbed the handle and gave it a yank, but it remained shut. A subsequent jostle failed to release the latch. He groaned with frustration, then grasped the handle with both hands and jerked back as hard as he could. The door clattered, but refused to budge. Huffs and moans filled the tunnel as the group took their final steps.
“Are you fucking kidding me with this?” a woman said.
Ian barked some curses, kicked the door, and bowed his head in shame. “This has never happened to me before.”
“Yeah, I’m sure you’ve said that a lot.”
He swallowed the barb without retort.
“Someone let Lucya know.”
“I got it,” another said with phone in hand.
“She’s going to be so pissed.”
A chorus of sighs filled the space.
“Back to base, I guess,” a man said from the rear, then spun around and tromped down the tunnel.
The group followed one by one after lobbing stink eyes at Ian. An awkward vibe infected the passage, broken only by the hollow plods of angered suits.
A dark silhouette appeared in the distance, stopping the group in their tracks. The shadow floated towards them at a slow and steady pace.
“H—hello?” the man in front said. His stammer echoed down the tunnel and disappeared.
“The door on this end is locked,” a woman said. “Would you happen to have a key?”
The veiled figure maintained its silent approach. Cones of light uncovered a bearded man, his face hidden beneath a stockman hat.
Ian, desperate to redeem himself, pushed his way to the front and tried to command the situation. “Yo, we could use some help here. You maintenance or something?”
The man raised his arms with a slow reveal, stretching a pair of axes out to the walls. He pressed the blades against the concrete and dragged them along. Sparks rained to the floor as the blades carved lines into the stone. A shrill rasp needled ears from afar. The sleeves of his duster cloak hung like the wings of an angel.
Whimpers floated around the group as fear seized their minds. A woman rushed back to the door and pounded it with a blind ferocity. The others whipped wide-eyed gazes around the shaft, searching for another way out. Ian lifted his palms into the air and took a wary step forward, opting to meet the stranger one-on-one. Twenty meters of walkway rested between them.
“Okay friend,” Ian said. “You’ve made your point. We shouldn’t be down here.”
The man maintained his stride.
Ian took another step. “Just stand aside and we’ll leave. Simple as that.”
No reaction.
Another step. “C’mon man, this isn’t funny.”
No reaction.
Another step. “Please. There’s no need for—”
The man whipped the axes inward, catching Ian’s neck like a pair of scissors. Blood sprayed the walls as the blades cleaved through flesh and bone. The body convulsed before smacking the ground. The severed head bounced along the walkway and rolled to a rest. Screams filled the corridor as the man lowered his arms and resumed his stride.
* * *
The Zenit Tower in downtown Seattle was the beating heart of NExUS within the Northwestern States. Agents and security forces occupied the first seven levels, with the rest devoted to the drudging bureaucracy of world governance. Agent Korovin worked on the fifth floor. He had secured a permanent transfer from Moscow after leading a successful campaign to eradicate the global transient threat. But that was years ago. These days, the closest he got to a stronghold invasion was through the feed replays. As proud as he was of the accomplishment, part of him still yearned for a rabbit to chase.
His feats in the field earned him a corner office, one that he accepted with an air of reluctance. Never one to seek the finer things, he much preferred the communal churn of the main floor, where he often loitered about. A mahogany desk with fancy inlays filled most of the space, a gift of sorts that came with the upgrade. It remained unadorned to a comical degree, like the showpiece of some high-end furniture store. Floor-to-ceiling windows filled an entire wall, overlooking a bustling downtown marketplace. He appreciated the view, as it gave his brain something to process during long spells of boredom. Layers of tempered glass muted the barks and bellows, creating a cavern of solace in which to retreat from the world. A tattered office chair rounded out the interior, an old companion that he had shipped from Moscow. The warped cushions had seen better days. The frame held up over many years and many cases, but the ratty monstrosity was more suited for a landfill. Even so, it offered a needed sense of comfort.
The frame squeaked as Korovin rocked back and forth. He donned a miffed expression while listening to a yapping voice on his phone. With a heavy sigh, he leaned forward onto the desk and rubbed his forehead.
“I understand that, Cheryl. I should also point out that I requested those funds when we renewed the protocols.” He rapped his fingers on the desk, then pinched his eyes shut with obvious frustration. “Yes, I understand your concern, but rift sites don’t appear at random. They are a predictable outcome to prolonged withdrawal. Same thing happens in wartime. You don’t just bomb a town and walk away. You occupy and rebuild. Otherwise, the ruination can fester into something much worse.”
Agent Jemison leaned into the room and knocked on the open door.
Korovin glanced up and waved her inside. “Yes, Cheryl. Just consider it, would you? I gotta run. Spasibo.” He ended the call with a dramatic tap, then groaned and dropped the phone to the desk.
“Any luck?” Jemison said as she lowered herself into one of the guest chairs.
“Not much. Apparently murder doesn’t rank very high on surveillance protocols.”
“Meh, you know the drill. Privacy and whatnot.”
“Like NExUS gives a shit about public perception.”
“Two words, transient overreach.”
Korovin frowned and nodded. “Good point. So what do you have for me?”
“Impact studies came back.”
“And?”
“Check your inbox. I want to see your reaction.”
Korovin scrunched his brow, then roused his tablet from sleep. He accessed his NExUS account and tapped the new message from forensics. A casual scan of the report came to an abrupt stop. He squinted, then lifted a perplexed gaze to Jemison. “Axes?”
She replied with pursed lips and a heavy nod. “I know, right? And it’s not like these were camping hatchets. We’re talking full-on lumberjack shit.”
“Well that’s ... unnerving.” Korovin glanced away for a needed mull. “Do we know anything else at this point? Age, gender, group or solo?”
“Nope, nope, and no idea. Nothing useful in the pictures and the warehouse
is a giant Petri dish. Between the rats and vagrants, the chances of getting a viable bio-marker are close to none.”
“So all we have to go on are axes.”
“Pretty much.”
Korovin chuckled into a heavy sigh. “Okay then, round up anyone who has ever enjoyed a slasher flick.”
Jemison grinned with solidarity. “And what about you? Any lead on Jonas?”
Korovin swiped his tablet to another screen, then flipped it around and slid it over to Jemison. She studied the citizen profile that filled the pane. A spry young fellow stared back at her through a blank expression, his short hair and plain features emitting the vibe of an average nobody.
“Jonas Sevastyan Cahill,” she said with a slow delivery. “I had already forgotten his last name.”
“It’s all smoke and mirrors anyway. Everything but the ‘Jonas’ part.”
Jemison smirked as she scrolled through a detailed bio, complete with residential and employment histories. “It still amazes me that the transients were able to do this.”
“Every system has cracks in the foundation. Even Fort Knox has cockroaches.”
“We could talk to employers or landlords.”
“No, he was too smart for that kind of slip. And besides, it’s been years since he vanished. To be honest, I’m not sure why I even accessed the profile.”
“He has kind eyes,” she said, then slid the tablet back to Korovin. “Maybe you just needed a reminder.”
“Perhaps.”
“I still think you should have tracked him.”
“Even given what he did for us?”
“He was a transient. Betrayal doesn’t absolve that fact.”
“He saved the world, Mae. Past aside, I think that earns him a reprieve.”
Jemison sneered. “Still should have tracked him.”
Korovin snickered in response.
A commotion out on the main floor hooked their gazes to the doorway. Soon after, a plainclothes detective rushed into the room without knock or warning. The distress on her face caused the agents to tense.
“What is it, Sharon?” Korovin said.
“We have another one,” she said in haste.
“Another what?” Jemison said.
“The Axeman hit again.”
“The Axeman?” Korovin scoffed. “I wouldn’t go tossing around nicknames when we don’t even know how many there are. Hell, we don’t even know—”
“Begging your pardon, sir, but we, uh ...” Sharon sighed and bowed her head. “We received a video.”
Korovin and Jemison traded stunned glances.
“Send it to me.”
“You already have it.”
Jemison leapt out of her chair and scurried around the desk to look over his shoulder. Korovin opened the message and took a measured breath before tapping the video clip. A grainy feed from a mobile device started to play. The screen bobbed and shook as the operator recorded a dingy tunnel littered with butchered bodies. Crimson pools covered most of the floor. Blood trickled through the drains, adding sharp drips to a horrid backdrop. The feed jumped from victim to victim, flaunting an array of split skulls and grisly wounds.
Jemison covered her mouth.
Sharon squirmed with visible discomfort.
Korovin maintained a rigid focus, but his mind recoiled with fright.
The feed made a final circle before the operator flipped the phone and tucked it into the front pocket of a victim. The camera gazed down the empty passage as a rustle sounded off-screen. Metal scraped on concrete as the man retrieved his bloodied axes from the floor. He stepped into frame and wiped the blades clean with a silken handkerchief plucked from the suit of a victim. He eyed the camera lens from the shadow of a stockman hat, his mangy hair and coarse beard catching the haze of floodlights. He crumpled the cloth and tossed it at the camera, cloaking the feed. Footsteps echoed from behind the bloody veil as he strolled down the tunnel and disappeared.
A cold silence infected the office.
“He walked away,” Jemison said. She lowered her hand and turned to Sharon. “So how did he send the video?”
Sharon stammered with a palpable hesitation.
“What’s the matter?” Korovin said.
“This, um ... this was a livestream.”
The statement stole the breath from both agents.
“We intercepted after 20 minutes, but there is no telling how many people saw it beforehand.”
Korovin locked eyes with Sharon, even though his mind had ventured elsewhere. He swallowed the fear of a public panic, of emergency briefings, sweeps and lockdowns. The situation carried an air of familiarity, but it still managed to shock his psyche from every direction. His gaze dropped to the desk for a mental reboot. After a bout of rumination, he lifted a resolute gaze to the detective.
“Let them know we’re en route,” he said, then turned to Jemison. ”Mae, summon a transport.”
“That won’t be necessary,” Sharon said.
“What? Why?” Jemison said.
“It’s faster to walk.”
CHAPTER 4
Anna buttoned up a thermal shirt as she strolled towards a winding staircase made of reinforced steel. She grabbed the railing and started to climb through a three-story tunnel. A pair of thick wool socks muted her ascent. Motion sensors triggered LEDs along the central pole, filling the shaft with soft light. They cut off automatically as she reached the top, leaving her trapped beneath a wooden hatch. She grasped a thick metal handle and gave it an upward push. The panel opened with minimal effort, using a set of pressure hinges to counter the weight.
She emerged into the rear corner of a quaint living room. A simple couch, coffee table, and various country trimmings created the cozy image of a rural getaway. Most houses in the area featured a similar vibe. Eternals viewed the Yukon as more of a rare summer jaunt, leaving the territory largely devoid of activity for most of the year. A small population braved the region year-round, opting to stare death in the face every time they ventured out for supplies. In order to survive, most homes carried retrofits with deep basements that could maintain temperate climates with little fuss. But for the vast majority, the risk was too great to bear.
Having completed her ascent, Anna gripped the open hatch and gave it a gentle pull. The panel floated down to the floor and resealed itself with a muted thump. Tiny leaves along the edges concealed the outline, creating an unbroken plane of wood flooring. Anna wandered through the living room and into a tiled foyer. She opened a coat closet full of winter garb and plucked a custom jacket lined with heating elements. The inner lapel featured a flexible panel of digital controls, allowing her to regulate the radiant warmth. She slipped her arms into the coat, hiked it a few degrees, then completed the ensemble with gloves, boots, and head gear that remotely connected to the heating system.
An abundance of precaution was a mandatory burden, despite the external temperatures lingering several degrees above freezing. A swelling storm could strand an eternal far from home. Stories abounded of hapless locals trapped by sudden blizzards, only to remain frozen in stasis until the spring thaw. A tiresome ordeal, but at least they survived. Not a year went by without someone stumbling across the corpse of a human in hiding.
Anna departed through the front door, locked it behind her, and proceeded towards a tiny garage. Snow crunched beneath her feet as she trekked across a modest lawn. She paused at the center and lifted her eyes for a brief stargaze. The canopy of a moonlit forest rustled overhead, framing a vast sea of glitter. A tangle of hope and trepidation formed a knot inside her stomach, forcing her mind to sway with the treetops. The howl of a swift breeze snapped her back from the quagmire. She sighed, then detached from the sky and resumed her walk.
Anna hooked the garage door handle and applied some upward pressure, freeing the slats from a layer of frost. The internal wheels rolled along a set of rails with little sound, allowing her to ignore a tin of lubricant resting on a nearby shelf. A simple hatchback wi
th blue paneling filled most of the garage. She started the vehicle and allowed it to warm before disconnecting the charging cable. A discreet array of solar panels powered everything on the property, including their occasional trips to town. Apart from a satellite signal, isolation governed their entire existence.
The car crept through a tunnel of evergreen branches, carving shallow channels through the snow. Anna pushed towards a main road off in the distance, a paved two-way linking the nearest towns. The vehicle hobbled up onto the asphalt, allowing her to increase the pace to a comfortable cruise. The muted hum of an electric engine filled the cabin with a soothing purr. Journeys into town offered reprieves from the deafening silence, fleeting spells of stimulation that Anna grew to appreciate.
After a brief rumble down the roadway, the headlights uncovered a hand-painted sign for Carcross, a small town tucked between a pair of mountain lakes at the southern end of the territory. Its proximity to the Inside Passage kept the climate tolerable. Doren would often reference the area with his trademark toast, To the Horses, a callback to Dead Horse Gulch to the south. His cheeky salute had answered a vital question. When it came time to flee the city, they knew the how and why, but not the where.
Anna pulled into the parking lot of a corner store, little more than a stretch of blank pavement with a shallow curb. She slowed to a stop in front of a glass door entry where a flashing “open” sign punched through a hanging mist. Her blue hatchback was the only car present, an expected sight around those parts. Two cars was a rare treat, as it offered the chance for some social interaction. Three cars would fill the lot and constitute a rush.
A brass bell rang overhead as Anna walked inside. The sharp tone conjured images of her days back in Seattle as a clerk in Doren’s stores. She missed it, enough to yearn for a visit despite the nature of her departure. Maybe one day, she thought. After the world has mended. She could only hope that Jonas lived to see it.
The store offered several aisles of essentials, everything from cleaning supplies to chilled jugs of blood. Locals had little need for the finer things, so shopping was spartan to a fault. Anna freed a wobbly cart from a handful of others and paused to access her mental list. She meandered for a little while, plucking impulse items from random shelves. As she rounded an endcap, a familiar face appeared. A frumpish woman with stringy hair and practical clothes was stocking a battery display. She carried a middle-aged mark, the norm around town. Anna smiled and abandoned her cart in the middle of the aisle, not that anyone would care.
Thursday Midnight Page 3
