Thursday Midnight

by Zachry Wheeler

  He rounded a final trailer to reveal the loading dock of an arena facility used for sporting events and concerts. The pulsing beats of pop music swelled from the open bay. An army of tour personnel tended to a barrage of tasks. Some carried equipment from previous sets while others prepped new rigs. Eager fans stood in roped off sections, hoping to catch glimpses of their favorite stars. Coolers of blood pints offered quick rations to busy hands. Managers barked their instructions over the madness, governing a choreographed dance of timing and execution.

  The man paused to marvel at the controlled chaos before pushing his way through the crowd. He zigzagged around carts and gear, adding nods of apology whenever needed. Soon after, he climbed a broad ramp next to the bay doors and slipped into the loading dock. A mixture of road crew and stage management filled the space, trying their best to keep up with the evening demands. His gaze wandered the hustle before a honking vehicle jerked his eyes behind him. He hopped aside to avoid a shuttle of background dancers clothed in shiny garb. The bizarre sight drew a snicker and headshake.

  The man ducked into a stairwell to escape the hysteria. He leaned against the cinderblock wall and expelled a sigh that no one could hear. The ceaseless rhythm echoed inside the shaft, pounding the metal stairs with a hollow melody. The man recognized the tune and hummed along with the scant refrain. A far cry from Mozart, but catchy nonetheless. Another worker clanked down the stairs and waved at the man before disappearing into the flowing crowd.

  He climbed the stairs to the next floor and emerged into a corridor of colorful merchandise. Barking vendors offered trendy wares stamped with band logos, all of which carried price points that took advantage of impulse highs. Throngs of fans happily parted with credits to own junk that would end up in landfills and thrift shops. The man cringed while weaving through the consumer frenzy. Fleecing at its finest, he often thought.

  As he neared the backstage, a large security guard stood at attention, but recognized the man from previous passes. Without breaking stride, he fished an ID card from his shirt pocket and presented it with a smile. The guard swiped the badge and waved him through. They nodded at each other like corporate dregs clocking in for another day of boredom. The man returned the card to his pocket and ducked behind a wall of black curtains.

  The music amplified as he pushed through a labyrinth of ropes and drapes. Overhead cans dropped hazy beams into the darkness, like breadcrumbs leading to a mystery party. Bundles of wires snaked across the floor, protected by metal panels marked with glowing yellow tape. After a short yet vexing hike, the man emerged into a holding area near the main platform.

  Stage managers with bulky headsets relayed commands to crew and personnel around the arena. Thunderous cheers filled the breaks between tunes, followed by some frivolous banter before launching into the next arrangement. Towers of pulsing speakers thumped the man’s chest and teased the hair on his arms. The energy inside the facility was difficult to ignore and powerful to witness.

  With a final duck and curtain swipe, he emerged into a peripheral space with performers waiting to take the stage. Some gossiped with the crew while others loosened up with jumps and neck rolls. The same dance troupe in shiny garb appeared from an adjacent hallway, wearing their go faces. Music blasted from a large opening near the waiting area, the entrance to the main stage. Lasers and strobes punched through a haze of fog. The man positioned himself near the corridor for a better view. He cut through a line of waiting dancers and parked himself behind a wireless mic hub. The operator gave him a quick glance before returning his gaze to the console.

  The man smiled as a roaring crowd unfolded before his eyes. Thousands of adoring fans screamed for the current act, a pop diva known for her sultry take on music. A sleek gown hung from her shoulders and teased the tops of her thighs, leaving little to the imagination. Towering heels and numerous accessories glittered beneath the spotlights. She belted out a string of popular tunes while bouncing through choreography meant to accentuate her body more than her art. Background dancers in saucy outfits flailed behind the star on a multi-tiered stage fit for a queen. A force of habit compelled the man to scrutinize the structure, making sure that it withstood the ceaseless abuse.

  The current song ended with a resounding blast, cueing another round of cheers. The stage lights dimmed, leaving a lonely spotlight on the diva for some audience goading. The current dancers flowed off stage as another troupe hustled to replace them, like passing trains in the night. Soon after, a beloved melody echoed through the arena, igniting a roar of elation. The lights returned and the show continued.

  The man watched with fascination for a time, content in his cozy corner of the backstage.

  Then his phone vibrated.

  His smile inverted as a chill gripped his spine. He closed his eyes and steadied his nerves before retrieving the device from his pocket. He spun from view and tapped the screen, revealing the current time.

  Midnight.

  The concern in his face melted away.

  The man dropped the phone to the ground, along with the bundle of wires in his other hand. He turned back to the stage and started walking through the corridor, passing by a queue of waiting dancers. They eyed him with confusion as if something had malfunctioned, but his steady pace carried no urgency. He wore a blank expression as he emerged onto the main stage, much to the surprise of the dancer near the entry. She bumped into him and barked an array of insults, to which he did not respond.

  The distraction expanded.

  The next dancer lost her groove and paused to address the commotion. The fans along the side stopped cheering to focus on the antics of the mystery intruder. His drab duds and nonchalant presence kept the crowd alight, convinced that he was tending to something important. The dancers struggled to retain their rhythm as the man continued his trek out to center stage, where a sparkling runway split the crowd in two. Strobes and lasers rained down a stream of excitement, but all the dancers had come to an abrupt stop. The diva continued to pipe and prance along the runway, but the sudden listlessness of the crowd forced her to botch a lyric. She turned back to the main stage, only to confront the approaching man. A rush of dread locked her in place. He snatched the microphone from her hand and shoved her aside. She tumbled to the ground, drawing a collective gasp from the crowd.

  The lasers ceased.

  The playback stopped.

  The crowd held its breath as a dreadful silence infected the arena.

  The man seized every eye in attendance. Security forces remained at their posts and stopped to listen, as if unaware of some crucial announcement. The man raked his gaze over the massive crowd, many of which had begun to livestream the interruption.

  “Purpose,” the man said with a forceful tone. His voice boomed through the arena like a pious preacher. “This night has none. Our lives have none. We are aimless apparitions, vagrants in a world that does not want or need us. We have embraced a shadow realm, a crippled womb that we refuse to leave. Our permanence is an affront to the mortality that birthed us. And tonight, we rectify that atrocity.”

  Bouncers began to scramble as the man reached into his satchel and withdrew a spherical device the size of a softball. A cocoon of clear plastic enclosed a wired mesh. He flicked an external switch, which induced a whirring tone.

  “Brothers and sisters, I restore your purpose!”

  Attendees started to scream as security closed in.

  The man reared back and hurled the device high into the air. It sailed to the top of an arch, which triggered an internal fuse. A massive burst of ultraviolet light flooded the arena, incinerating everyone inside, including the man. Thousands of people reduced to ash in a blinding instant. Livestreams continued to broadcast the horror as phones clattered onto the floor. Empty clothes floated down from the bleachers as a gray fog engulfed the space.

  * * *

  Stadium lights loomed over a sporting field in Portland, shining on multiple levels of empty seating. A gentle breeze stirred c
louds of ash and dispersed them around the stands. Empty jerseys draped over dusted seats, matching the ones drifting across the field. A parachute fluttered at the center, attached to a skydiving harness. Its owner had detonated a similar device as he glided into the stadium.

  * * *

  A grim silence fell on Union Station in Los Angeles. Ash swirled around the interior, choking the air and clinging to every surface. Clothing, shoes, and gadgets rested in perfect stillness on the tiled floor. Footprints cut through the grime in all directions, the ghostly trails of those fortunate to avoid the blast. Distant howls echoed through the entrance hall as survivors panicked in the streets.

  * * *

  Empty bathing suits littered a popular beach in Tijuana. Lapping waves lifted several pieces and carried them out to sea. Pulsing lights from a vacant stage punched through an ashen haze. An unmanned DJ console recycled a rollicking playlist. Spotlights swirled nearby, kissing the clouds above a barren beach festival.

  * * *

  Midnight marked an end to the grand illusion.

  CHAPTER 16

  Agent Korovin stood by the rear door of the interrogation room, peering through the window slit for signs of activity. The occasional rustle drew his cheek to the glass. His eyes traced the frame out of habit, but the room design ensured a lack of weakness. They could withstand the raw force of a raging eternal and safeguard any secrets they uttered. The reality of the situation stifled an urge to pound on the door, as any reasonable trapped animal would. They could only wait for rescue, should the option remain in play.

  Jonas sat on the concrete floor, tucked into a far corner with his head against the wall. The weeping and writhing had stopped, leaving him a depleted husk. Tears had dried into salty streaks. Reddened eyes gazed into the abyss as his mind raced through a loop of outcomes, flogging itself with horrific images of what could be.

  “How did you do it?” Korovin said, still gazing through the window.

  Silence responded.

  Korovin stepped away from the door and turned to the pile of flesh in the corner. “I saw the wounds on your wrist. I saw the sensors in the train station. How did you do it?”

  Jonas blinked out of his funk, then slogged his eyes over to the agent without lifting his head from the wall. “I was a transient and a programmer. How do you think I did it?”

  Korovin coughed with disgust. “How is it that your kind manages to undercut the most sophisticated technology the world has ever seen?”

  Jonas glared at the agent, offended by the complete lack of empathy. He allowed the question to linger as an unseen middle finger. “Because our survival depends on it.”

  “You had no reason to deceive us. You were getting out, human or not.”

  “We both know that’s not true,” Jonas said, then rolled his head back to nothing. “You’d have never left me alone. I needed to die that day to earn my freedom. It’s not my fault that you couldn’t see through the bigotry.”

  Korovin gnashed his teeth and lunged at the human, but a rush of duty stifled his anger. He redirected to the nearest chair and plunked onto the frame, scraping the metal across the floor. Heaves turned to sighs as he fell into a burdened silence. After a brief reflection, he leaned forward onto his knees and lowered his gaze to the ground.

  “You’re right,” he said with a hesitant nod. “Everything leading up to this has been a blur. I never had a grasp on it. I’ve been locked inside a tunnel from the second I saw your name in the ash, and I keep pushing through it without any thought as to why I’m there at all.” His laden stare returned to Jonas. “You were right to leave the way you did.”

  “And yet here I am.”

  “I’m sorry, for what it’s worth.”

  Jonas rolled his head and pierced the agent with a riled gaze. “She begged me to respond.”

  Korovin frowned and glanced away.

  “We had finally broken through,” Jonas said, his voice cracking with grief. “We were having the conversation that this world so desperately needs.” His rage cued a coughing fit, which ended with a head thump back to the wall. “And then you showed up. You offered us a big shiny pulpit and I was dumb enough to take it.”

  Korovin narrowed his gaze. “Us?”

  Jonas sighed with the realization. He closed his eyes and weighed a confession, one that could implode the entirely of his existence, but none of it mattered without her. “We’re on your side, agent.”

  Korovin sneered and clenched his lips before surging to his feet. The chair toppled under the force and clattered to a rest, drawing flinches from Jonas. The agent paced around the enclosure while searing his spite into the human. Jonas eyed his feet with each pass, refusing to meet his gaze. With a final turn, Korovin halted mid-stride and loomed over the human. Jonas recoiled like an abused dog.

  “How can you say that?” the agent said. “How can you say that when one of your own murdered innocents inside this very station? You swallowed the same hatred that drove him into the lion’s den. You share the same history, the same mortality. You are much more alike than different.”

  Jonas shook his head before lifting a dejected gaze to the agent. “He’s right, you know. You can only see us for what we’re not.”

  “This does not leave the room. Understand?”

  Jonas refused to respond.

  A loud buzz interrupted the exchange and yanked their eyes to the ceiling. Jonas climbed to his feet while pawing at the wall for balance. The rear door opened, revealing Agent Jemison. She wore a horrified face that crushed the hostility and seized their undivided attention.

  * * *

  Chaos plagued the streets of downtown Seattle. Shrieks and shattering glass echoed from all directions.

  The panic had begun.

  Eternals in suits and sweaters alike ripped the gates off storefronts to steal what little supplies they could. A morass of vehicles clogged the roads as citizens struggled to flee the city, but with nowhere to go and hours before sunrise, they could only confront a newfound fragility. Many wandered aimlessly, gazing into their phones through a lens of shock and horror.

  The terrorists struck the city several times. One blast tore through a popular concert hall. Another exploded above an open-air market. Every bomb targeted the many, and every bomber hailed from the eternal society. The assault exposed a rotting wound, a rift long ignored by the grips of power. Their hatred flooded the world, scorched into the pages of history by onlookers with handheld podiums.

  The public had come to fear the transients, and NExUS leveraged that fear to restrain the masses. As with any new threat, the most terrifying rivals are the ones that rise from within. The foundations rumbled. The lenses cracked. Many would seek refuge in the arms of authority. Others, it would seem, had finally awoken.

  * * *

  Korovin and Jemison hurried down a fifth floor hallway with Jonas following behind. The entire station had erupted into turmoil. Most struggled to digest the situation, shifting focus between obligation and suspicion. There were notable absentees, but the ceaseless discord prevented anyone from confirming defections. A slew of baseless accusations began to erode trust inside the building.

  “Reports are arriving from Alaska all the way down to Central America,” Jemison said.

  “How far down?” Korovin said.

  “Panama.”

  Jonas tried to insert himself. “We need to—”

  A detective rushed by in the opposite direction, forcing the agents to the wall. The man knocked Jonas into a twist and stumble. He regained his balanced and tossed a glare at the detective, but the man maintained his wide-eyed sprint down the hall. Another officer rushed by and shoved Jonas against the wall, but with decorum a luxury, he could only shake off the encounters and jog to catch up.

  “Do we have any estimates?” Korovin said.

  “No idea,” Jemison said.

  “We should—” Jonas said.

  “Ballpark.”

  Jemison stammered. “Millions?”
>
  Korovin shuddered into a halt. He spun to Jemison with a mangled expression of disbelief.

  “They targeted areas of density. Concerts, markets, you name it.”

  “Using what?”

  “The feeds show a UV flash device, similar to the flares used by transients, but far more powerful. We haven’t seen them before.”

  Korovin tossed a glare at Jonas before resuming his trek. They rounded a final corner and entered the main lobby. A constant influx of personnel invaded the space, flowing to and from every direction. Officers lined the reception desk as operators struggled to manage a deluge of inquiry.

  “Suka blyat,” Korovin said. “We need to coordinate with Cheryl right away, get hold of the narrative before the feeds run wild.”

  “They already are,” Jemison said.

  “Guys, can we—”

  “Who’s on point?”

  “Fletcher is down in the briefing room. He will—”

  “Will somebody tell me what happened to my wife?!” Jonas shouted. His voice boomed through the lobby, bringing all conversations to an abrupt stop.

  Korovin and Jemison eyed each other before turning to the flustered human.

  Jonas seethed with rage. The room recoiled as he buried visual daggers into the agents. “I came here to help you! To help all of you! Now it’s your turn to help me!”

  Jemison opened her palms and softened her voice, as if to talk him off the ledge. “We understand your frustration, but there are more imp—”

  Korovin grabbed her arm.

  She nodded and yielded the space.

  Jonas tightened his stance as Korovin stepped forward, bringing them face-to-face. Tensions mounted, but a shared reservation guided them to a crossroads. The agent frowned as he reached across decades of sorrow to grip the shoulder of an ally. An understanding settled between them, giving Jonas a regard that had been so tragically absent. A peculiar calm washed over him, as if the world had finally affirmed his suffering.