Exodus (The Fall of Haven)

by Justin Kemppainen

  Gottfried's people were able to track the movements of Davidson's attack force with little trouble, but that was about it. It doesn't take a genius to determine their intentions, he thought, kicking a lamp which had fallen to the floor. Davidson wants to escalate the conflict, and to do so he needs to eliminate the contingency plan.

  One of his subordinates stood near the door, sweating and nervous. Some part of Gottfried's brain realized his irrational behavior and its potential to undermine his authority. Most of him didn't care in that moment. His head still hurt, thudding from being knocked unconscious the night before.

  The High Inquisitor drew in a deep breath. "Nothing at all regarding other plans or movements?"

  "No, sir," the man replied. "The only abnormal movement was the strike team moving to the Institute."

  "What about conjecture, rumor?" Gottfried ran a hair through his coarse hair. "Have we heard anything, anything at all about more bodies turning up?"

  The other Inquisitor shook his head. "I'm sorry, sir. It's only been a few hours; do you want me to recall them? We could try a more direct approach..."

  "No, no..." Gottfried sighed. "We are not yet ready to make our intentions known to Davidson. If he suspects any sedition or even more than a hint of disagreement, he'll likely have all of us removed."

  "We can't just sit here and do nothing, sir."

  "I know." The High Inquisitor rubbed his chin, wishing he could get back in contact with Rick. As reckless as the man often seemed and in spite of hatred fired upon him from all sides, Rick had his finger on the pulse of most events. "Blast!" Gottfried shouted in frustration, pushing past the subordinate.

  His office and a tiny room to sleep in lay housed inside one of the Inquisition buildings existing throughout the city. Since they had been the main policing force, it had been necessary, like actual police stations in times long past, to have them scattered about.

  The office he set up used to be able to connect to the larger surveillance network, including infrared sensors as well as cameras. Since the power had turned finicky and considerable damage had been done to the general infrastructure of Haven, it didn't function as such any longer.

  However, it provided enough space for his efforts, and Gottfried had grown accustomed to being in there most of the time in spite of many months of failing equipment. Communication with his loyal people remained possible, and a considerable amount of files had been gathered and stored there: physical back-ups from the Institute's data stores.

  Information of every shape and size, Gottfried thought as he walked through the hallway, and yet none of it is of any use to me. Preserving varied Citizen documents had been someone else's idea, and he didn't particularly care about the project. On occasion, having the information was helpful, but the collection featured sporadic and incomplete files.

  He suspected the project as more of a way to reestablish some means of civilization once the fighting and strife had passed. However, most people loyal to him understood and agreed with the concept of pursuing means of escape if rebuilding wasn't possible.

  Out into the cold and dark night air he passed, taking a slow, deep breath and trying to calm his irritated nerves. We cannot sit around and do nothing, he thought, yet there is nothing we can do.

  Tilting his head, he rubbed his eyes with a thumb and forefinger. He didn't hear the sounds of rapidly approaching footfalls until they came up right next to him.

  Before he could react and even see his attacker, the wind pounded out of his lungs by a shoulder ramming into his midsection. Pain exploded in his stomach, bright spots dancing in his eyes. Moments passed as he waited, expecting to collide with the cold ground, but awareness returned for him to discover blood rushing to his head.

  Gottfried bobbed up and down. The shoulder which struck him remained uncomfortably deep in his midsection, pinning his holstered sidearm as well as preventing Gottfried from catching his breath.

  By God, something is trying to carry me off! the thought finally occurred. He remembered the brutalized Citizen carcass and began to panic, thrashing around.

  Gottfried didn't hold a small stature. At over six feet tall with solid muscle structure, his efforts provided no change or release from the arm clamped around him, nor did the person carrying him slow the running pace.

  "Unhand me you fool, or I'll have your flesh stripped from your bones!" Gottfried shouted, hoarse and much weaker than he wanted.

  Either the message had its intended effect, or whoever carried Gottfried arrived at the intended destination. The figure turned a corner and dumped the High Inquisitor.

  Not expecting it, Gottfried's feet skidded, and no balance could be gained. He threw his hands in front, scuffing them lightly but preventing his face from colliding with the ground.

  The High Inquisitor didn't hesitate. He rolled forward, springing to his feet. He spun around, drawing out the side-arm from inside his shoulder holster. His finger tightened on the trigger as he drew a bead on the hulking figure in the shadows.

  He didn't fire, alarm replaced by confusion when he saw glowing eyes staring out at him. Gottfried blinked, vision hazed. "Marcus? Marcus is that you?"

  A hiss escaped the figure. "Not my name."

  The lack of blood and oxygen in Gottfried's brain as well as the sudden burst of activity caused a brief moment of gawking silence. He remembered the creature, and he remembered it used to be his colleague, Marcus Lexington Coleman. He remembered being knocked unconscious the day before, but nothing else occurred to him about the creature.

  "Malcolm..." the High Inquisitor whispered, the name popping into his head along with a semblance of composure. "Malcolm, what are you doing... why did... how...?"

  The creature only stared, blinking.

  Gottfried took a deep breath and drew himself up to his usual stiff posture. "What is the meaning of this assault?" Realizing his aim still held at the brute, he lowered the weapon but didn't holster it.

  Malcolm's head twitched to the side, back and forth, as though hearing something. He closed his eyes, appearing to concentrate while Gottfried looked on in confusion.

  Head clearing and eyes adjusting to the darkness, the High Inquisitor finally noticed that Malcolm was not attired in his usual garb. Indeed, Gottfried felt a chill to see the blue-gray flesh from waist up, the drawn back stomach region with powerful upper-torso, all below a tapered face with bulging ocular structure. Tangled white hair spilled about Malcolm's shoulders.

  Malcolm opened his eyes and drew himself up to full height. He took a deep breath, and as the creature began to speak, Gottfried almost lost the first few words in his surprise. The one face-to-face interaction he'd had suggested the creature hardly spoke, or did so only in halting, short sentences.

  Instead, the brute spoke in a rather clear and expressive manner, if still remaining naturally harsh in tonality. "There is trouble down below. Bad people are killing," he pointed in various directions, including down, "lots of others. Yours, theirs, others. You are ally, yes?"

  An ally of whom? Gottfried wondered, mind stuttering. He cleared his throat, deciding to speak the question out loud. "An ally of whom?"

  "Rick. Hkhaylee."

  "Yes, yes I am," the High Inquisitor replied. Portions of his mind began to function and kick back into gear. "Who is behind the killings?"

  Malcolm shook his head. "Bad people."

  "Their numbers?"

  "Many."

  Gottfried folded his arms, frowning. "Why did you come to me? What is it you think I can do to help?"

  The glowing eyes narrowed, but Malcolm paused again, concentrating. Gottfried held a moment of confusion as to the creature's hesitation before a realization struck. His grasp of language is imperfect, he thought. To form more than one word answers, he has to focus and think it out beforehand.

  Malcolm said, "Many people down below... civ... civilyans in danger. Rick, Hkhaylee are in danger. You... we... need to help. We need to stop bad people. You are ally. You need to h
elp."

  Composure almost entirely regained, Gottfried considered the words of the creature. He brings information: something my best people couldn't manage. An unknown force of killers in Old Haven, and my foolish allies are apparently in danger from them.

  He set his gaze back upon Malcolm. "What current level of threat is there? Are they being attacked, planning to launch one themselves? Has anything happened as of yet?"

  Malcolm shook his head. "Don't know, but very bad people..." he paused, thinking, "getting... getting ready. Preparing."

  A scowl formed on the High Inquisitor's face, frustration at only receiving scraps of information. "Is there nothing else you can tell me?"

  Cocking his head, Malcolm's glowing eyes narrowed; something like irritation in them. He reached down and grabbed his own wrist, raising it into the light spilling in from the street. Gottfried drew in a sharp breath when he saw ragged stitching crawling across the blue-gray flesh. He was attacked... and injured?

  "Bad people," Malcolm repeated, letting the arm fall limp. Something in the glowing eyes suggested he wished to say no more on the subject.

  Gottfried wiped his mouth with a hand, pacing back and forth in contemplation. "All right, I'll gather my forces together. I take it you know where we need to travel?"

  Malcolm gave a nod.

  "Very well. You will have to lead us, but I'll ensure my people provide no hostile attitude or action toward your presence. Is this acceptable?"

  The creature tilted his head before nodding again.

  Gottfried placed the weapon back into his shoulder holster, straightening his clothing. "Provide me with one hour to prepare a small detachment and travel to a safe meeting location. By Davidson's order, you are a priority one interrogation and study target, so I'd prefer if we were not seen interacting in any common area. Meet me and my people at ground level in Old Haven. You'll have no difficulty tracking us without being seen, correct?"

  "Yes."

  "Good, then we shall see you before terribly long." Gottfried gave a crisp nod, and the creature darted away. Heavens, he's fast, the High Inquisitor thought.

  Rather than dwell upon the strange beast or his behavior, Gottfried immediately left the alley. Moving at a brisk pace, he considered who to bring with.

  Chapter 7: Blood

  During his lifetime, Eugene had been on the receiving end of propelled ammunition on a large number of occasions. He worked for Sergei, an underboss in a criminal organization before the separation, for many years. With the seedier business dealings, the need to offend or defend was backed up by firepower. Since said firepower flowed in multiple directions during a number of such dealings, Eugene had been hit a few times.

  In the period of and before the uprising, threats pressed in from above and on all sides, and thus it became less about profit and enforcement and even more about the need for survival. Fighting to live had again caused more than one small lump of metal to tear into his flesh.

  No matter how many times it happened, Eugene never experienced exactly the same variety of sensation from a bullet wound. Sometimes he'd collapse instantly into a fit of weeping, cursing, or some combination of the two.

  Sometimes, he would feel nothing but sheer numbness, certain sensations disappearing in places of his body related or unrelated to the wounds themselves. One instance held him not noticing an injury until some time later.

  In addition, the pain never came forth quite the same, and this held a small correlation to his reaction of weeping, cursing, nothing, or something else.

  This particular instance of being shot held no exception.

  Twelve dead men lay scattered around him. Three were of the Institute guards, and the rest were Citizen dogs. More of his people were sprawled in the hallway behind him, casualties of the charge and fight.

  Gunfire chattered in the distance, blurry to his ears and indistinct even though no more than a few dozen yards away. Hands on his shoulders, someone shook him as well, and he heard shouting but couldn't quite catch the words. Many of his bodily sensations dulled.

  What he could feel, with pristine clarity, were the thirteen bullets which burned in the various places of his body. Every other sensation was hazy, but he could feel and count each one separately, and indeed the last few minutes saw Eugene doing so. Even as blood leaked from his body, he counted the number of distinct burning sensations over and over.

  "You'll not be dying today, you worthless old goat!" Someone's shouting cut through his muddled wits.

  Tanya, he thought. I always knew she would nag me until I reached the gates of the afterlife.

  Considerable blood spilled out of his wounds, but for some reason, even with the dizziness and burning pain, he didn't feel death creeping upon him.

  "Th..." he tried to speak, but blood bubbled up between his lips. He licked them clean and said, "Thhirrtteeeennn..."

  "Eugene! Oh, Eugene. You're going to be all right!" Fear and apprehension clouded her face, and tears spilled down her cheeks. His blood smeared all over her hands and front as she tried to cease its flow out of the many wounds. "I swear by everything you'll be okay. I will make sure of it. I promise you, Eugene!"

  Her voice and assurances dripped away into the haze of his mind. Unconsciousness loomed ahead, and he felt ever so tired. Oblivion beckoned, and he held one final thought before being swept away:

  Of course I'm going to be okay. Why wouldn't I be?

  ******

  Rage boiled in Tanya's body, igniting her veins with a trembling anger as Eugene's eyes slid shut.

  Thought vanished, her vision glazed over to a bloody red, and she ignited with a fury which subsumed her entire self...

  The initial fight through the wall of smoke had been rather easy. The enemy soldiers laying down suppressive fire had no sight lines through their own visual barrier.

  Even so, it seemed doubtful any one of the eight soldiers occupying this particular checkpoint on the way to the lab expected two screaming individuals to burst from the smoke.

  With the element of surprise, quick, bloody work resulted with the first group. However, progression became brutal and slow, Tanya and Eugene having to fight inch by inch down the subsequent hallways. Enemy soldiers had dug into the varied rooms, peeking out and firing.

  Tanya's own bloodlust and aggressive nature outranked caution, and she advanced without thinking. Out in the open, five soldiers caught her defenseless and immediately began firing.

  Complete shock filled her body, and she froze in place. Time slowed to a crawl in those endless moments between moments, and an eternity passed while the deadly cloud of ammunition swam toward her.

  She had flown sideways into an open room, Eugene knocking her aside and wildly firing his own weapon. Bullets intended for her shredded through his body. Even as his blood spattered the walls and floor, his finger squeezed tightly on the trigger, receiving death and sending it right back.

  Tanya had scrambled to recover, to exact her own retribution, but the other allied soldiers had finally caught up. Three seconds of battle had finished off the remaining ambush party before they could realize they were terribly outnumbered and scramble for cover.

  Caught between horror, unending sorrow, and a developing fury, Tanya had crawled over to Eugene's fallen body. Again the moments stretched out into eternity; his blood had seemed to flow everywhere no matter how hard she tried to stop it.

  Tears streamed down her cheeks, torrents of emotions roiling within her as she had viewed her companion, her lover, and everything she cared about in the world lying on the ground, bloodied from saving her.

  "You'll not be dying on me today, you worthless old goat!" she cried, shaking him. His eyes focused for a moment, seeing her, and a touch of a smile crossed his lips.

  She had shouted more, telling him, swearing to him that he'd live through this, that he'd be all right, and he muttered something she couldn't quite catch.

  Then, his eyes closed.

  For the next large span o
f time, longer than she herself could tell, this particular sequence of memories - her foolhardy advance, Eugene's sacrifice, and her kneeling over his wounded form - played just beyond the red haze of her vision. A few moments of her subsequent actions bled through:

  Rage, slaughter. Screaming faces, twisted bodies.

  At some point, the automatic reaction of shooting and reloading ceased. Perhaps she ran out of ammunition, perhaps she simply dropped the weapon while dodging return fire or some such action. In either case, a few concrete glimpses of reality granted sight of her holding a long knife, slick with blood.

  Frightened faces flickered through her mind, men and women in the moments before their deaths.

  How long her spree of subconscious massacre continued, she didn't know. Eventually, a deafening explosion sounded. A wave of force picked her up and carried her into a wall.

  Blissful nothing embraced her.

  ******

  Progress was slow.

  Rick wondered if the idiotic and suicidal attacks which occurred every few minutes served as part of some intentional plan to slow the advance on the red-light district. Oh good lord, I hope not. It's bad enough these people are batshit crazy. To find out they're strategically motivated and willing to die for a detailed plan would put us in some serious trouble.

  He kept the thoughts to himself while the group moved along. They had formed a tight circle after the first knife-wielding maniac leapt out of the shadows and wounded one of Sergei's people before being quickly cut down. The subsequent formation had guns pointing at every angle.

  Unfortunately, in spite of the fact that he hadn't fired upon them or even done much besides threaten them, Sergei still required Rick relinquish his own weapon. Being unarmed, especially with hostiles probing them on occasion, made Rick somewhat twitchy.

  Every twenty minutes to half hour later, another attack by one, two, or three individuals resulted. With the circular formation, not a single individual drew anywhere near close enough to get in a strike. However, it also meant that movements became very slow and methodical.