Thursday Midnight

by Zachry Wheeler

  The remaining guard shook with horror. With nowhere to go and death closing in, she summoned a final battle cry and charged her assailant. Sharp clanks echoed around the lobby as the intruder deflected strikes with the axe handles. She reared back for a mighty swing, but he ducked beneath her arm and spun around with both blades, plunging them into her flank. She howled in agony. Using the momentum, the Axeman spun again and launched the guard towards the barrier. Her body crashed through the glass, showering the floor with shards. She skidded to a halt against the reception desk and coughed a final bloody breath.

  Tammy had pressed herself to the wall behind the desk, paralyzed by fear. The Axeman locked his gaze to hers and glowered before stepping forward. Her lungs fluttered, but her feet remained welded to the floor.

  Glass crunched beneath the footsteps.

  Tammy whimpered in response.

  Then silence.

  The Axeman lifted the blades overhead and hammered down with a fearsome blow. Tammy screamed and pinched her eyes shut. The weapons struck the desk, splintering the wood and spraying her blouse with residual blood.

  Stillness returned to the lobby, allowing Tammy to open her eyes. Axe blades protruded from the desktop, wedged into deep fissures. She traced the handles up to the Axeman standing between them, calm and silent with dollops of red staining his ratty garb. He leaned forward and gripped the desk with both hands.

  “I would like to speak with Agent Korovin, please.”

  Tammy paused to digest the gruff voice, then responded with a slight nod.

  The Axeman returned the nod and moseyed back to the lobby, leaving the blades lodged into the desk. He selected a random chair and lowered himself onto the plush cushion, releasing a grunt of comfort. Fingers rapped on the armrests as his gaze wandered the carnage, taking stock of his grisly handiwork. He sighed, then glanced down to a coffee table where a blood splatter painted a stack of magazines. The top cover stirred no interest, so he plucked the one underneath and started flipping through the pages.

  CHAPTER 7

  [Invaders Forum / tMV - 79.2K replies, 24.4K followers]

  [Post: Anonymous, 10.03.2580 AD, 444 EA]

  I repeat, it wasn’t us.

  I opted to hold my comments until after the briefing in order to respond in kind. First off, Agent Jemison is correct in her assessment. This is not a transient resurgence.

  The innate desire to blame us is understandable, as the assertion was valid for centuries. However, that particular threat died years ago, along with every fanatic that carried the torch. We survive as an opposition to that movement.

  We are allies.

  As such, I must admit that the footage was chilling. We cannot comprehend a brutality of this magnitude. You exert a strength that is many times our own. It is why we relied on UV weaponry. The Great Onslaught and Savage Gap taught us a valuable lesson. We learned that violent confrontation is antithetical to our survival. It is a lesson that we continue to heed, despite living under a constant threat of assault.

  Even so, today was different.

  This man shocks me.

  Like all of you, I can only guess at his motives. I cannot and will not comment on the impulses of a murderer that I do not know, nor will I muse on the intent behind a level of savagery that I cannot fathom. I can only offer my dismay and sympathy as a member of our shared society, one that I will continue to defend until my dying breath.

  We are the Mortal Vestige.

  [End Post]

  Iron Works was one of the most popular blood bars in the city. It attracted every type of clientele, from the posh and classy to the lowly and unkempt, not that it mattered. The pub offered a life-giving service that nullified the social spectrum, one that required a constant influx of governance and regulation. NExUS controlled every drop from field to tap, giving them unchecked power over distribution.

  When choice is constrained, there is no choice.

  The transients had favored the blood bars for this very reason. They offered a peek behind the immortal curtain, allowing them to scan the schoolyard for anyone of value. Agent Korovin had studied countless hours of surveillance footage where Jonas, Anna, and Doren chatted around the rugged tables of Iron Works. They had their favorite spots, including a booth near the back. Audio was limited, as the bar hosted large crowds of thirsty patrons. Korovin merely sought to study the mannerisms of the ultimate mole. Jonas never disappointed.

  Korovin would frequent the pub during the heights of his investigation, mostly to monitor Jonas and relay info to Doren as needed. Before long, work mutated into pleasure. He grew to appreciate the unique ambience and continued to visit after the final invasion, despite being out of the way. He even requested the same booth when available, a seat he occupied at this very moment.

  A half-empty pint of dark beer rested on the table. Agent Korovin stared at the glass as he replayed his conversation with Doren. The constant roar of banter created a rumbling backdrop that doubled as a mental buffer. He found refuge within the crowd, using it to numb the thoughts of a city on the brink. His job was to weave peace, yet he could never find any for himself. A heavy sigh deflated his chest, not that anyone could hear. His fingertips twisted the glass in a slow circle, mirroring his current state of mind.

  Korovin lifted his chin and allowed his gaze to wander. An army of wait staff and bartenders managed the needs of a packed house. Trays of beers and spirits floated atop a sea of barflies. His eyes raised to a ceiling covered in dark wood with ornate patterns, like the inside of some ancient library. Broad columns and black railings invoked a Victorian vibe, despite the swath of modern fashion swirling within. As he glanced around the interior, he imagined looking through the eyes of Jonas, the would-be terrorist that saved the world from itself. How strange it must have been, harboring the mortal will to deceive the veterans of deception.

  A petite waitress with a taut ponytail scampered by the booth. She paused to check in, donning a wide smile as she balanced a tray of empties overhead. “How are you doing, sweetie? Can I bring you anything?”

  Korovin returned the smile and shook his head, mostly to save her from the additional work.

  She nodded and resumed her trek towards the kitchen. Her tiny frame zipped around a mass of wandering patrons before disappearing through a swinging door.

  Korovin eyed the entrance to the blood parlors nearby, a black door with a red teardrop. A suited man emerged from within while buttoning his jacket, providing a brief glimpse of the tiled lounge. Management had revamped the interior from stem to stern, a fact that teased his curiosity. A debate ensued on whether to partake or return to the office, but a grip and sip resolved the conflict. He whittled away at his tasty beverage, counting down the remaining moments of a break spent in hiding.

  He lowered his gaze to the table and studied a particular groove in the surface, one that Jonas had often traced during his chats with Anna. Hours of footage showed him picking at the edges while battling a dilemma for the ages. The agent retraced those lines while pondering the pressure of such a gut-wrenching decision.

  His phone vibrated with a new message, which rumbled the table and drew his gaze. He scooped the device, studied the text, then immediately shot to his feet and began shoving his way through the crowd.

  * * *

  A mob of reporters and onlookers swarmed the entrance to Zenit Tower, creating a traffic morass. Korovin grumbled inside his squad car a full block away while the nav system struggled to calculate an efficient route. The gridlock forced him to abandon the ride. He engaged an autonomy function before opening the door, allowing the vehicle to cruise back to the parking garage on its own accord.

  Korovin darted through a snarl of honking horns before leaping onto the sidewalk. He pushed to a brief sprint, but a wall of gawking pedestrians proved a frustrating obstacle. The swirling beams of squad cars reflected off the glass of surrounding towers. The bright lights of television cameras shined a collective spotlight onto the entry. Korovin shoved
through the remaining bystanders and jogged by a covey of frantic reporters. They addressed their respective audiences with the tower steps in the background.

  “The dark assassin known as The Axeman has wrought carnage ...” one reporter said.

  “Multiple deaths inside the tower ...” another said.

  “The suspect was apprehended shortly after ...”

  “Blood ...”

  “Murder ...”

  “Transients ...”

  A hologram police line surrounded the entire building, keeping the press and public at bay. Patrol officers secured every entry from surface docks to lower corridors. A guard engaged Korovin just before he sliced through the glowing yellow line. His NExUS credentials pinged on every nearby scan plate. The guard retracted, morphing his outstretched arm into a salute.

  Korovin vaulted up the front steps and hurried through a pair of glass doors. A large gathering of agents, detectives, and beat officers filled the main lobby. The random cries of frightened personnel echoed around the interior. He rushed towards the elevators, only to discover that all were down for fear of another attack. His stride diverted to the nearest stairwell. A constant flow of foot traffic held the door open. He slipped inside and climbed up to the fifth floor, using rail tugs to skip steps.

  Korovin emerged into the hallway and pushed towards the lobby. His mouth hung open as heavy breaths fled his lungs, the combination of dread and fatigue. He rounded a corner and halted with the reveal of a bloodbath. Crimson pools stretched across the floor. Red splatters dripped from the walls and furniture. Toppled chairs lingered as the wake of a blind panic. Survey drones hovered overhead, recording a gruesome scene that nobody thought possible. A group of agents and detectives examined the room, each wearing an expression of disbelief.

  Korovin stepped around the slaughter, careful to avoid blood and glass. The bodies were in various states of wither. Pockets of ash had formed on their flesh, the random craters of true death. Flecks departed and floated to the ground like grisly snow. Korovin examined a body next to the elevator and shuddered at the sight. Nestor lay in a large red pool with his skull cleaved in two. The impact had destroyed one eye and left the other staring at nothing. Korovin covered his mouth in a rare moment of horror.

  Agent Jemison stood in the receiving area with her back to the main lobby, creating a haunting silhouette framed by the shattered glass. She studied a pair of axes wedged into the reception desk. Korovin regained some composure and stepped across a plane of shards to join her. The crunching footsteps seized her attention. She turned to the agent and offered a pained smile, a small gesture of comfort more than a greeting. Korovin returned the smile, conveying a shared unrest. He settled at her side and paused to digest the view before him. His gaze walked down the wooden handles to a pair of metal blades stained with blood.

  “Tammy?” he said with a delicate tone.

  “She’s okay.” Jemison sighed. “Well, not okay. She’s alive and in holding.”

  “Injured?”

  “Nope, left her unharmed. He murdered the desk, then asked to see you.” She turned to Korovin, who clenched his lips while studying the splintered counter. “This maniac cut through the entire lobby, then sat and read a magazine as he waited for the cavalry.”

  Korovin met her gaze.

  “And I haven’t even gotten to the worst part.”

  His mind recoiled, but forced itself to listen.

  Jemison leaned in for a whisper. “He’s human.”

  Korovin palmed the desk for support, heeding a sudden drop in leg strength. His jaw slacked as a flood of foresight crushed his mind from every angle. The distress yanked his gaze between the carnage, the axes, and the worried eyes of Jemison. He closed his eyes and dropped his chin, eager to wake from the nightmare. After a round of steadied breaths, he returned his gaze to Jemison. “Where is he now?”

  * * *

  Korovin and Jemison stared at a scraggly man through a one-way mirror. The interrogation room was a small gray box with a metal table and chairs. Apart from an LED strip along the ceiling, little else caught the eye. A sturdy column attached the central table to the concrete floor, reinforced to withstand a raging eternal. Half-rings of titanium served as handcuff anchors, but they remained unused. The captive, after all, was only human.

  The man sat in an aluminum chair with his back to the wall, patiently awaiting an unknown fate. His hands rested in a limp pile upon his lap. The duster jacket and stockman hat were absent, leaving him to a dirty shirt, rugged pants, and frayed boots. Numerous stains littered the fabric, as if plucked from a jaunt through the sewers. Crooked strands of hair caught the overhead light, creating the portrait of an unwashed vagrant. He stared at the opposite wall, floating in a haze of indifference.

  A distinct unrest infected the adjacent room. The agents stood in the darkness with arms crossed, pondering the next move. Agent Korovin sighed and rubbed his temple.

  “We should have upgraded the thermal tech,” he said.

  “Wouldn’t have mattered,” Jemison said. “It was all over in an instant, and it’s not like he planned to escape. Alarms would have probably made things worse.”

  “All the same, we should be able to detect this.”

  “At a train station, sure. But a NExUS Security branch? This is something we never conceived as a possibility. And besides, we already have the basics installed.”

  “Which means he’s using a thermal cloak.”

  “Actually, no.”

  “Then how the hell did he get inside without the alarms going off?”

  Jemison sneered through the mirror. “The alarms did go off. We just didn’t hear them because he disabled the sirens beforehand. The seventh floor security team saw everything, but it was over before they could mount a response.”

  “So he’s a hacker.”

  “Looks like.”

  Korovin chewed his lip. “Which also means ... he likely has ties to a transient element.”

  “You said it, not me.”

  “And if true, we’re talking a foundational fissure.”

  Jemison turned an anxious gaze to Korovin. “This can’t get out, Victor. It just can’t. The panic alone would push us back to post-Gap measures.”

  Korovin sighed and nodded. “I know.”

  “So what are we going to do?”

  “First things first. He wants to talk, so let’s see what he has to say.”

  Korovin turned for the exit, leaving Jemison to observe the exchange alone. He made his way around the corner and to the interrogation entrance. After a brief pause to assume character, he unhooked his scan plate and swiped it across an access panel. A buzzer sounded overhead, prompting the door to unlock with a hollow clunk. Korovin steeled his gaze and pushed the door open.

  The Axeman locked his eyes to the agent, straining the meet before the door closed. A strong musky aroma polluted the air, the obvious result of days without bathing. Korovin had smelled much worse during post-invasion interviews, so he used it as a barometer for health and vanity. The agent stood near the door with hands at his side, offering the first words to the captive. But alas, the man knew the game quite well. No reveal until eyes were level, a gesture of strength from the lower ground. The man retained a hardened stare as the agent stepped forward and took a wary seat across the table. Chair legs scraped the concrete as he settled, prodding a hanging tension. The captive waited for the room to regain its stillness before opening the dialogue.

  “Agent Victor Alik Korovin,” the man said with a raspy voice. “Been waiting for you.”

  “Apologies for the delay,” Korovin said with a touch of sarcasm. “Your ruckus caused quite the stir.”

  “I imagine so.”

  Korovin leaned forward and rested on his elbows. After brief silence, he shrugged and fanned his fingers, gesturing to proceed.

  The man responded with a slight smirk.

  “You asked to see me?” the agent said.

  “Yes.”

&nb
sp; “About what?”

  “About everything.”

  Korovin huffed. “You need to be more specific.”

  “Do I?”

  The agent tapped his thumbs and glanced away, opting to convey impatience.

  “I thought my messages were quite clear,” the man said.

  “Again, more specific.”

  The man leaned forward onto the table, bringing them face-to-face. His eyes narrowed as he studied the agent like an artist contemplating a statue. A mild smirk morphed into disappointment. “So this is the great savior, the eternal who grasped the vial and rid the world of humanity.”

  “Obviously I didn’t.”

  “Obviously.”

  “Who are you?”

  “An echo of failure.”

  Korovin rolled his eyes. “You can stop with the priggish bullshit. You know what I mean and you know what I do, so drop the tormented soul act and get to the point.”

  The man retained a cold stare, then shifted his posture and folded his arms. “Where is Jonas?”

  “Again, more specific.”

  The man pinched his brow slightly.

  Korovin caught the gesture and took a mental note.

  “And then you heed the prevalence of the name Jonas. And then I offer specifics in order to clarify my intent. And then you question that intent in order to stoke a retort. And then I bark some crucial piece of intel in an effort to reaffirm said intent. Sound about right?”

  Korovin opted not to respond.

  The man sneered. “With all due respect, you will receive the intel that I am inclined to give, be it through torture or conversation. Your choice.”

  The agent retained his poise, despite a sudden chill.

  The man leaned back and returned his hands to his lap. “So let’s start again, shall we? Where is Jonas? And by Jonas, I mean the former transient that betrayed the human race.”

  Korovin paused for weight. “We don’t know.”