Thursday Midnight

by Zachry Wheeler

  “Best of luck, Mae,” Korovin said under his breath, then killed the feed and slipped the phone into his jacket pocket. He stared at the ground for a moment before lifting his gaze to a storefront, the downtown branch of Doren’s Odds and Ends. The stylized entry featured dark wood patterns with towering typesets, a hyper-contrast that captured the vibe of a vintage market. His mind replayed several conversations from a turbulent past, none of which offered any comfort. He could only brace himself and proceed into a den that he had promised not to revisit.

  A brass bell rang overhead as he stepped inside, drawing his gaze up the doorframe. It was a tone long forgotten, but one that conjured a wealth of memory. His wandering eyes drank in a rich portrait of the Roaring Twenties, a period of great fascination for the store’s owner. Numerous patrons wandered a network of aisles stocked with the essentials of everyday living. Smooth jazz played in the background, a signature that buzzed through every branch. Apart from a touchscreen register, the store transported Korovin back to simpler times. He reveled in the moment before refocusing on the task at hand.

  The agent rounded a corner and spotted Doren chatting with an employee. His lanky frame bobbed and swayed as he recounted one of many amusing stories. The employee laughed as she tried to restock a shelf, which Doren saw fit to thwart with his campy antics. His posh attire and slicked hair painted the portrait of a rollicking ringmaster. Korovin grinned while watching the scene from afar, a quirky drama that never disappointed.

  The employee met eyes with Korovin and poked Doren, assuming the man was an inquiring customer. Doren ended the banter with a sharp quip, then resumed his managerial persona and spun to face the man. His cheerful demeanor melted away, leaving a cynical glower. Arms fell to his side as a torrent of contrition flooded his mind. It was a foreign image to the employee, who recoiled with concern.

  “Is everything okay?” Nadia said from behind.

  “It’s fine,” Doren said with a subdued tone, then turned to her with the eyes of a concerned parent. “Do you mind taking over for a little while?”

  “Not at all.”

  “Thank you, dear.”

  She glanced at the stranger, then back to Doren. “Should I be worried?”

  “No, it’s okay.” Doren conjured some of his usual pep to curb the angst. “Tell you what, you have my full permission to bulldoze any fool that griefs you.”

  “As if I need your permission.”

  “All the same, it gives me boss cred.”

  “Yes sir,” she said, then strolled down the aisle towards the stranger. She gave the man a sharp look as she passed, then rounded a corner and disappeared.

  Doren locked eyes with Korovin.

  The rumbles of commerce faded into the background as tensions mounted, like a standoff before a gunfight. A hard line rested between them, one that Doren drew himself, and one the agent pleaded to cross. After a fraught deliberation, Doren sighed and nodded towards the rear. Korovin smiled and heeded the cue, releasing a tangle of friction.

  Doren turned around and walked ahead, opting to save greetings until drawing a veil of privacy. They dodged locals along the way, all of whom remained glued to their phones. Doren led the agent down a narrow hallway towards a back room, a familiar place for both. They slipped inside without a word and Korovin shut the door behind them.

  Doren flicked a wall switch, illuminating a modest office with the warm glow of Edison bulbs. The agent allowed his gaze to wander, drinking in a canvas of period design. Bold patterns adorned the walls and ceiling. Blunt furniture with sharp angles rested on parquet floors. As a former citizen of the Soviet Union, Korovin had suffered through immense poverty and unrest during the Roaring Twenties. His hatred of American culture took centuries to extinguish, but it was Doren and his affinity for Art Deco that turned indifference into admiration.

  Korovin opted to remain standing as Doren took a seat behind a varnished desk. Its thin legs and slivered drawers created the vibe of a retired professor. Ledgers and random knick-knacks littered the surface, the standard flare of every shopkeeper who maintains a busy schedule. Even the coffee mug harkened back to a bygone era.

  Doren crossed his arms and leaned back in his chair. He gave Korovin a final glance over before breaking the ice. “I can probably guess why you’re here.”

  “Then go ahead.”

  “It wasn’t him.”

  Korovin shrugged. “It never occurred to me that it was.”

  “But the fact that you are standing in this office means that he is involved in some way. So do us both a favor and just cut to the chase.”

  “You’re not watching the conference.”

  “About an axe murderer?” Doren huffed and sneered. “Not to swing my dick, but after holding the plague to end all plagues, a slasher with a logging fetish fails to register on the shock-o-meter.”

  Korovin ruffled his brow, a rare moment of surprise for the seasoned agent. “Jonas showed it to you?”

  “What, you thought that he came to you first? I was his best friend, of course he showed me. In fact, he wanted me to turn him in.”

  “He said that?”

  Doren tilted his head. “Do you even have a friend?”

  Korovin frowned, enough to convey annoyance without stifling the discussion.

  “Jonas is bound by his own integrity. You know that and I know that. I was not about to condemn him to a fate that he didn’t deserve.”

  “Noble. Stupid, but noble.”

  “Fuck you, man. You used me like a cheap ass rental car. Actually fuck that, you pay for a rental car.”

  “We paid you with freedom.”

  Doren snorted and glanced away in disgust.

  “When we approached you, Jonas was a—”

  “You can stop right there, Sherlock. I know the fucking story. Just get to the point already.”

  Korovin sighed, then strolled up to a guest chair in front of the desk. He lowered himself onto a meager cushion and adjusted his suit jacket before returning his gaze to Doren. With his window of decorum closing, he decided to offer an olive branch. “I do not believe that Jonas had anything to do with the incidents.”

  “Duh. Wait, incidents?”

  “The first was in Georgetown. He massacred a party in an abandoned warehouse. It seemed like he was targeting dregs under rift cover, but the second occurred in a service tunnel beneath the Municipal Tower.”

  Doren softened his glower.

  “The killer sent us media from each event. Snaps from the first and video from the second.” Korovin retrieved his phone and accessed the image gallery. “What you haven’t seen are the messages he left at each location, written in the ash of his victims.” He lowered the phone to the desk, spun it to face Doren, then pushed it across the surface.

  Doren hesitated before leaning forward and lowering his gaze to the screen. The images pierced his mind, resulting in fluttered breaths and a slack jaw. He shifted his posture and covered his mouth in obvious discomfort.

  “I hope you can appreciate the gravity of this situation. Please know that we respect your autonomy and recognize your sacrifices. I would not be here were it not an absolute necessity.”

  Doren offered a slow nod, trading his gaze between the phone and agent. “I don’t know where he went.”

  Korovin maintained an unflinching stare.

  “But, um ... I think I can get a message to him.”

  The agent reached into his breast pocket and retrieved a contact card. He placed it next to the phone and scooped the device on the return. Without another word, Korovin rose from the chair and turned to make his exit, leaving Doren in a state of nervous apprehension.

  “Agent,” Doren said.

  “Don’t worry,” Korovin said, then tossed a glance over his shoulder. “That war is over.”

  He slipped through the door and disappeared.

  CHAPTER 6

  The elevator door closed, silencing an onslaught of barking reporters and camera flashes. Agent Jemiso
n settled against the rear wall and plunked her head back for a needed reset. Two other agents had joined her for the ride up to the fifth floor. Nestor was a lanky bloke with kind eyes and a sharp nose. Yulia was a stout and stocky woman with curly hair, the type one would imagine as the headmaster of an all-girls boarding school. She and Nestor traded tense glances while Jemison continued to wish herself anywhere but there.

  “Well that was a disaster,” Jemison said.

  Nestor puckered his lips and nodded in agreement.

  “I wouldn’t say that,” Yulia said with a dash of hauteur. “To be perfectly honest, I don’t see how it could have gone much better.”

  Jemison pulled a skeptical gaze over to Yulia, which the elevator saw fit to accent with a ding of arrival. The doors rumbled open, revealing the main lobby of NExUS Security. Nestor, ever the gentleman, offered a slight bow to Jemison to exit first. She heeded without reply and tramped into the lobby, retaining her soured expression. Yulia followed close behind and Nestor brought up the rear.

  Heels clacked across the tiled floor of a spacious foyer. Couches and chairs formed a perpendicular puzzle, similar to a hospital waiting room. Textured walls with plain trim and sunny paint gave the interior a restful vibe, a decision steeped in strategy. Fake plants that would fool a botanist decorated the nooks and corners. An assortment of coffee tables offered magazines from local shops and complexes. Several eternals sprinkled the seating, everyone from suits and briefcases to sweaters and satchels. They waited to talk to someone useful about something important.

  A barrier of tempered glass separated the waiting area from the main offices, guarded by a pair of officers in black uniforms. Clear doors with pipe handles led to a receiving area with a monstrous desk that spanned the length of the enclosure. Hallway entries flanked a smiling receptionist, each with a bio-scan lock that prevented nosy visitors from wandering into sensitive meetings. The space offered little visual appeal aside from “NExUS Security” stamped above the desk in raised lettering.

  “You may have to explain that one,” Jemison said as the agents strode through the main lobby.

  Yulia shrugged and cocked an eyebrow. “Basic logic tells us that any statement was doomed from the start.”

  Jemison stopped in her tracks and spun an irritated gaze to Yulia, halting all three. “That’s not as comforting as you think it is.”

  “Not meant to be. The public had already made up its mind before the briefing. Your job was to navigate them to the least upsetting conclusion.”

  Nestor cleared his throat with a touch of drama, hooking their attention. His widened eyes glanced around a lobby of citizens without moving his head, shouting Can we not do this here? without saying a word.

  Jemison grimaced, then about-faced and continued her trek. She nodded to the nearest guard as she thumped the glass door with a forearm. The guard returned the nod and held the door as the agents slipped into the receiving area. They regrouped along the reception counter, granting them enough privacy to continue the chat.

  Tammy, an upbeat receptionist with a permanent smile, greeted their arrival. Her wavy locks and generous breasts bounced with every perk and nod.

  “Good day, Agent Jemison,” she said.

  “Hey,” Jemison said without making eye contact.

  “Hello, Tammy,” Yulia said like a doting mother.

  “Good day, Agent Razin.”

  “For the last time, please call me Yulia.”

  “Maybe one day,” Tammy said with a polite giggle.

  Nestor and Tammy traded flirtatious glances.

  Jemison crossed her arms and settled against the desk with her back to Tammy. “So how exactly would angered dissent be the least upsetting conclusion?”

  “The public is scared, Mae. They don’t want you to calm their nerves. They want a venting post, someone who will listen to their fears.”

  “They certainly tore into me, that’s for sure.”

  “Was anything thrown? Did anyone resort to violence? They were doing what anyone would do when confronted by an extraordinary predicament that is out of their control. They lashed out, but remained civil.”

  “You call that civil?”

  “Yes, given the situation. What did you expect, exactly? There hasn’t been a single murder worldwide for over two years. Furthermore, there hasn’t been an eternal-on-eternal incident for much longer than that.”

  Jemison sighed and shook her head. “I shouldn’t have said ‘transient.’”

  “Again, I disagree.”

  “Of course you do.”

  “It’s an enemy they know. At this point, the truth is an inconvenience. I would rather see the public united under a fiction than divided by reality. That is more important than plainly stating that an axe murderer is on the rampage.”

  Jemison gnawed at her lip, then turned to Nestor. “What do you think, Nest? You’ve been awfully quiet.”

  He shrugged. “Gotta side with Yulia on this one.”

  Jemison huffed. “Thank you for the stunning insight.”

  “Not much to add, really. You looked good up there.”

  Jemison allowed herself a half-grin.

  “So where are we then?” Yulia said.

  “I’ll meet with Korovin when he returns, see what he has to add. This will likely require some addendums, so we will work on a briefing schedule.”

  “The indies will spin the narrative every which way, so the sooner the better.”

  “Agreed,” Nestor said.

  Both women sneered at him.

  “What? You said I was too quiet.”

  “I’ll keep you posted,” Jemison said. “In the meantime, I need you both to run interference. Yulia, contact Cheryl and give her the current status. Nestor, head back to the briefing room and answer any lingering questions the best you can. Keep it soft and off-record. We don’t want anyone to leave in anger if we can help it.”

  Yulia nodded and broke away from the group.

  Jemison departed as well, exiting through a side door.

  Nestor shifted his lips, then met eyes with Tammy and sauntered up to the reception desk.

  “That seemed intense,” Tammy said.

  “Par for the course,” he said, then leaned forward and rested on his elbows. “That was an utter shit show.”

  “I watched a little from here. Is it really that bad?”

  Nestor sighed with too much drama, trying to play the burdened cop. “Well, I can’t divulge much, but I wouldn’t worry your pretty little head. We’ll get ‘em.”

  She replied with a doe-eyed smile. “We still on for Iron Works later?”

  “Yes, ma’am. I should wrap up well before lockdown, so four is still good. Meet you downstairs?”

  “Works for me.” She added a wink.

  Nestor smirked, then tapped the desk with his fist and turned away. His attempt at rugged manliness faded with an amorous stride. He may as well have floated on his own personal cloud through the main lobby. A whistling tap on the down arrow summoned the elevator. He exhaled a sigh of contentment and glanced back at Tammy. She grinned and waved through the glass barrier, which he returned in kind. The elevator dinged with arrival, regaining his focus. As he turned to the sliding doors, he caught the gleam of an axe blade just before it plunged into his skull.

  The savage strike cleaved his head from scalp to jaw. A spray of blood rained into the foyer as the twitching body smacked the cold tile floor. The crack of metal through bone snared every eye in the room, uniting them in a split second of communal shock.

  The Axeman stepped out of the elevator.

  Tammy shrieked.

  The lobby erupted into chaos.

  The invader leapt into action, dropping a fleeing woman with a vicious blow to the back. The next cleaved her spine, silencing the wails. He spun to the next victim, fanning the air with his duster jacket. A swinging axe caught a man in the upper chest as he sprinted by. The impact stole his feet and ushered death before his back hit tile.

>   The guards fumbled for their stun batons as a swarm of panic trapped them along the reception area. They shoved people aside while shouting them towards the exits. Shrieks of hysteria filled the stairwells.

  A would-be hero rushed the Axeman from behind, but lost a leg to a sudden duck and counter. The blade popped through her kneecap and scraped the floor before swinging around with a fatal blow to the temple.

  A slender man in a three-piece suit trembled in a nearby corner, catching the Axeman’s gaze. He pleaded for mercy, but a brutal strike removed his head and lodged the blade in the wall. The killer yanked it free as the body buckled to the floor. The head rolled to a rest against a couch, staining the upholstery with its bloody stump.

  The lobby had emptied through a wailing terror, leaving the two guards in uniform. They stood firm in front of the glass barrier, flanking the entry. Fear began to take root as they struggled to maintain a veneer of authority. Their eyes locked onto a walking apparition, a nightmare come to life.

  Screams of the fleeing faded into the distance.

  The crackle of stun batons needled the air.

  The Axeman stepped to the lobby center and turned to face the guards. Red splatters painted the walls around him. Crimson pools crept across the floor. The metal blades hung with weighted intent, dripping blood onto the polished tile. His gaze shifted between the guards, framed by the shadow of a bloodied hat.

  The standoff was brief.

  The killer stepped forward without fear or favor.

  “Stop!” an officer said, lifting a palm.

  “Drop your weapons!” the other said.

  “Stop or we will engage!”

  “I repeat, drop your weapons!”

  The guards backed away, but found themselves pinned against the barrier. Forced to attack, one guard gnashed his teeth and rushed the intruder. The Axeman sidestepped the assault and hammered down on the guard’s foot, cleaving it in two. He yelped and crashed to the floor. An ensuing blow to the head snuffed the bellows.