Exodus (The Fall of Haven)

by Justin Kemppainen

  His living situation stayed quite comfortable. His occupation and acquaintances gained from it were excellent. By all rights, Nigel should have been either content, like a few Citizens, or heavily ambitious to gain more, like many of them.

  Nigel experienced neither contentment nor ambition. Nigel simply felt bored.

  The posturing, the rigors and requirements of social standing became rather tedious. He enjoyed his own company but found himself obligated into many extra activities in order to retain the employment which created decent luxury.

  Years of this tedium filled Nigel's adult life, never prospects for anything else and the existence of the posh and decadent Haven becoming more and more dreary in his mind. He craved something else, something more exciting.

  At first, simple talk about Old Haven, a taboo subject in most circles, became a small thrill for the accountant. However, like all things, this too grew tedious. Thus, he dove for more information, asking at a risk to his personal reputation. As such, a few of his clients refused to work with him any longer, citing his proclivities to be too unusual.

  Deeper and deeper his fascination with the world beneath became, like some manner of animalistic habitat. Beasts who walked like men, hunting and killing each other; the situation developed into a romanticized absurdity in Nigel's desperately bored mind.

  Obtaining a firearm seemed to be the last straw, as the final few clients of high esteem he held departed upon hearing of his acquisition. Firearm possession wasn't illegal, but Franklin Lange had long since cultivated an attitude of mockery toward those insecure enough in the Citizenship to believe they needed to protect themselves. In short, unfashionable described the desire to own personal firearms, and high-society judged him harshly for it.

  Not that Nigel cared. His mind delved into the future of wonderful events he'd become a part of. Living off the land, taming the savages... Like a story out of a book, adventure and excitement awaited him, far away from the dreary boredom of Citizen life.

  The stench of decay held no aversion. It provided an exotic and thrilling aspect, much like the crumbling, filth-encrusted brick of the buildings. The pale yellow light cast shadows with danger in every corner, and exploring the mystery created an intoxicating excitement for the former accountant.

  With his servant, Paul, a "recovered" savage to guide him along, he drank in the majesty and wonder of the former city. This dream of his flowed along without interruption, for a time.

  He remained a free and un-accosted man for the span of ten hours. He explored the city and met the locals. Ancient ruins and savages, his mind whispered. The few individuals he came across generally skittered away. They were unwilling to risk any sort of entanglement with the unknown, something he craved.

  Twenty steps into Miguel's territory, the thrill and excitement disappeared, giving way to horror. When Paul received a fatal wound and the two of them were captured, Nigel's mind returned from the fantasy of Old Haven. He came back to reality for tiny moments of lucidity, realizing everything he had built up existed as no more than a fevered dream of wishful thinking and idealistic farce. These people were not simply unenlightened savages, they were people: bad, good, smart, stupid, greedy, and all other things people could be.

  Such as barbaric.

  Nigel realized, before he went mad from the starvation imposed upon him, that he had the poor luck to be caught by some of the very worst people. His mind had returned to that logical, realistic state long enough to understand what a colossal mistake he'd made before it cracked apart forever.

  What twisted dreams formed while he lived in chains, encrusted in his own filth while wasting away from hunger, would never be uttered. Every day he begged for death from his captors, only to be spat upon and laughed at. They accused him of atrocity himself, of coming there to hunt them for sport. He denied it, unable to explain why he came to Old Haven. Truly, he no longer understood it himself.

  The tiny shreds of sanity in Nigel's mind snapped the moment his hunger became too unbearable. What his captor wished of him to do with his dead servant seemed obvious, and the agony of starvation he endured disappeared behind what was at first complete revulsion.

  Reason vanished, and time became an object of no influence or interest to what remained of Nigel. All guilt and inhibition eroded away during the period of captivity, and indeed he couldn't even recall who released him or how it was done.

  Nigel, a prophet among lunatics, couldn't even remember life before his captivity and release. Indeed, the exit seemed as much a birth to his thoughts as anything else. It became the moment of his true enlightenment.

  When he drank in the life of the person who'd freed him, he felt a great white light pouring through his body. In that moment, Nigel believed he had been drawn into the presence of the divine, and everything had seemed so beautiful and wonderful... he felt he would burst before it ended. His awareness to reality, though still wreathed in madness, finally returned to find himself weeping, head rested upon the dead person's chest.

  Twisted ideas about blood and life formed in the weeks which followed, and somehow like-minded, broken-minded, individuals began to join in his eternal hunt for the unearthly Light. Nigel spoke to them, told them of it. They listened, in complete awe, and later joined in, gaining full understanding of this wondrous power.

  In spite of madness, caution uncharacteristic for their mental state ruled their actions carefully. They left behind no evidence for quite some time, and life in upper and lower Haven remained chaotic enough for them to pick off individuals here and there.

  Uncertainty and the despair of recent times made many of the thousands of individuals in Haven crack. Nigel described it to his followers later as a calling. A calling of servants to common ground. Many answered.

  Months passed, and their numbers grew.

  Macabre philosophies continued to develop regarding the importance of blood, fear, and agony in the process of freeing men and women from their mortal shells. Nothing written down, but knowledge shared among Nigel's people, set loose to do the wonderful works.

  Finally, it became time for Haven, for the whole world to know of the Light and to experience the magnificent anguish and freedom. More miracles began to occur, solid evidence of the divine rights they now enjoyed.

  No greater proof of their crusade and the righteousness of their cause resulted than when the demon creature assaulted their enclave. Strong and brutal beyond anything they could imagine, they pounded against it and drove the beast off.

  The demon's existence and their ability to defeat it had proven they walked upon the right path. The work continued with renewed vigor. Plans and schemes developed, fervor intensified.

  "There are a great many of those who cannot understand what we have come to know. Too many, both above and below with us." Nigel spoke, grinning to his followers. "Too many. What comes in the days to follow will be a great reckoning. They will come here. They will test us, and many will fall. But..." he let the word hang in the air, his devoted children clinging to his every breath. "If we again prove ourselves worthy, as we did against the demon, then all the heavens and the gods themselves will know of our devotion. Pain will not stop us. Death will not stop us."

  All became ready. The trap was prepared, and the quarry, a large number of dangerous individuals, walked into it without hesitation.

  Grinning, Nigel greeted the men and women who came to invade his home and kill his people. No fear or hesitation remained in this man, once a bored and meek Citizen of Franklin Lange's regime. Not even a memory of who he used to be clouded his judgment. No, the madman, king amongst the insane, held not even the slightest doubt about what he intended to do.

  It is time to show them, Nigel thought.

  ******

  Nerves and a moment of hesitation lost any opportunity.

  The word fire! died on Isaac's lips the very second the sounds of screaming and shouting echoed all around. The grinning madman on the steps whirled around and disappeared int
o the building, saved by the moment of hesitation.

  Shock pooled in Isaac's stomach as dozens of individuals poured out of side buildings and flooded the streets. In bare moments, all exit points were cut off, and the large crowd of howling madmen leered, taunting and grinning. They carried an assortment of make-shift weapons from kitchen knives to tire irons.

  "Form up!" Isaac shouted, sweeping a hand around. "Form up and prepare to fire!"

  Far from worrying about stepping on each other's toes, the two leaders of the OHU were accustomed to dispensing orders in tandem. As such, Sergei jumped in, "Time your reloads; no lulls!"

  The various soldiers scrambled back to position, the opportunity to remove the leader lost in favor of the need for a tight defense. Isaac raised a fist. "No one fires before ordered!"

  Such a command mostly went without saying, but the expressions on their people appeared close to terrified. Shouting the varied orders, among other reasons, would set their minds to the task and hopefully quell their humming nerves.

  The circle resumed its position, this time with the front line kneeling and another just behind them.

  Isaac swung a glance all around, seeing dozens upon dozens of the Nigel-guy's people on all sides. The hesitation and nerves continued to assail him, and something about being so close to this place made him lose focus.

  Feeling a tug at his side-holster followed by the weapon sliding free, he spun around, aiming his submachine gun at the thief. Visions of assassins diving out of the sky danced in his mind. Upon seeing Rick, he didn't lower the weapon. "What the hell do you think you're doing?"

  Rick turned the gleaming revolver in his hand, nodding. "Yeah, this'll do." He raised an eyebrow at Isaac. "You've got more ammo for this thing, right?"

  Part of Isaac chafed at Rick's insolence, but there wasn't time to discuss it. The madmen hadn't continued the advance, but the noise level and their shouting grew louder with each moment. They're trying to scare us... he thought.

  Another part of Isaac felt annoyed at Rick stealing that particular gun. The huge pistol had belonged to Miguel, his former leader. The weapon was ridiculous, overpowered, impractical, and took far too long to reload in battle circumstances, but Isaac associated it with his authority. It bothered him to have it taken away.

  On the other hand, not using every available fighting resource, even someone not yet proven trustworthy like Rick, would be stupid. Scowling, he loosened a strap and pulled an ammo pouch free from his belt. He tossed it to Rick without a word.

  His mind forgot about the supposed traitor the moment Isaac turned his attention back to the impending fight. Vaguely aware of Sergei next to him, he heard the Russian cursing under his breath, but Isaac's greater focus swept across the swarm of individuals.

  Men and women of varied ages, shapes, and sizes surrounded them. Most of what they carried seemed to be knives, but those too were of a variety: kitchen, hunting, even a few with dull flatware could be seen. Others held screwdrivers, small hatchets, or even wrenches, but Isaac noticed no firearms. In spite of being vastly outnumbered, the weapon superiority gave him a small measure of hope.

  However, the behavior of the mob provided an impression of a massive, insane creature. Not people at all, they were psychotic, frenzied, and Isaac knew somewhere, deep down, that nothing short of death to the last individual would stop them.

  All at once, the surrounding mob fell silent. Hundreds of individuals leered, still grinning but keeping entirely quiet.

  "What are they doing...?" Sergei muttered.

  Isaac didn't reply, absorbed in watching.

  As one, the mob spoke, chanting, their words coming faster with each passing of the phrase. Isaac froze, terror clenching his breath.

  "FEAR IN THEIR HEARTS! FEAR IN THEIR BLOOD! FEAR IN THEIR HEARTS! FEAR IN THEIR BLOOD!"

  On and on it went, faster and faster.

  "FEAR IN THEIR HEARTS! FEAR IN THEIR BLOOD!"

  Isaac became aware of the heart hammering within his chest. The world took on a haze.

  "FEAR IN THEIR HEARTS! FEAR IN THEIR BLOOD!"

  A thought sprang through his rising apprehension. Enough of this. We have to act before everything falls apart. He made eye contact with Sergei, seeing the same resolve and letting that confidence and knowledge brush aside the fear.

  He opened his mouth, issuing a sharp order which cut through the chanting and mounting fright of his and Sergei's people:

  "Open fire!"

  ******

  Tiny moments, the thought ran through Rick's head more than once during the hours which followed. Tiny moments really can make all of the difference. Mistakes, advantages, even just dumb luck...

  He thought back upon his combat career, both grunt and makeshift officer. He'd seen a variety of fighting in a number of ways. Guerilla tactics and ambushes being among his stronger victories, Rick reflected on his repeated successes.

  Was everything I ever did all about tiny moments and dumb luck? He prided himself on finding enemy weakness. Or friendly weakness for that matter, as he could readily see how foolish the workings of Sergei and Isaac were, not that their demeanor toward him held much cheer.

  Rick found he couldn't answer his own question. Thinking back, he couldn't pinpoint the tiny moments of skill, luck, and whatever else was required to turn the tide in prior endeavors. The uprising seemed a blur from a lifetime ago, the days of fighting boiled down to nothing but running, shooting, and hiding. He remembered there had been plans for battle and weaknesses to exploit, most of which revolved around the arrogance of their foes. However, the actual moments of fighting seemed lost behind the hours of scheming in his memory.

  Perhaps this fight, the fight against Nigel's insane followers, had been different.

  He could see the flaws, plain as day, obvious and glaring. Maybe it's because I came along for the ride, he thought, but who knows if it could have been any different had I been in charge.

  With so little to do besides fling the occasional shot with the impractical weapon, he somehow became a spectator to the madness and chaos. For certain, his rounds discovered enemy bodies more often than not, but somehow everything seemed to move slowly enough for him to pick out those tiny moments.

  The tiny moments which led to somewhat crushing defeat and a not small number of friendly casualties.

  One, he thought. Numbers. We had no idea how many there would be, and we still blazed in their like we knew what the hell we were doing.

  Two. Sergei and Isaac are idiots.

  Three. Setting ourselves up to be surrounded.

  Four. Letting Nigel slip away. This one bothered Rick, as he too had been staring in surprise at the crazed man on the steps. Not one individual retained the presence of mind to stop Nigel, an obvious hostile. Rick could make the excuse that he hadn't snatched a sidearm yet, but distant thoughts wondered if it would've made a difference.

  Five. Not running soon enough. Not having a solid plan to counter an ambush. Losing two-thirds of our people.

  Six. Sergei and Isaac are idiots.

  Tiny moments, Rick finally decided after much consideration, were quite important. Yet none of them, the actual moments rather than insults, would have been insurmountable.

  He realized, with only a small measure of vindictive ire, that points two and six truly made the greatest difference. What's the saying about failing to plan and planning to fail?

  As much as he assumed they'd blame him for leading them out there, Rick knew with the greatest certainty that fault rested with Sergei and Isaac, and the consequences which resulted...

  Their plan, or lack of it: their failure.

  Rick remembered the fight, better than any other he'd been in. Maybe the zealous attackers made it unique. Maybe he could provide a greater analytical eye when not in command. Maybe it had to do with exhaustion, fear, hunger, or some combination of a thousand other things.

  Maybe he remembered it because his side lost.

  ******

  Clouds
of death flew in every direction out of the circle, the stench of gunpowder and a light haze settling over the immediate vicinity. The obscene roar of their weaponry obscured all other noise. Tiny chunks of smoking brass pelted individuals in the firing lines, and the bodies of their foes toppled en masse...

  As the chaos of combat dominated all actions, Cassandra did absolutely nothing. Her finger didn't touch the trigger. She aimed, she watched, but she didn't fire.

  In spite of the percussive noise drowning out everything else, she could hear only one thing, resonating in every fiber of her being:

  FEAR IN THEIR HEARTS! FEAR IN THEIR BLOOD!

  The attackers ceased shouting anything specific, their utterances returning to the cries regarding the thrill of battle or pain of injury. Even so, Cass remained entirely frozen, unable to fire her weapon or do anything but focus on her terror.

  Even the fact that not a single one of the psychotics drew within twenty paces of the line during the unknown eternities of the early fight did nothing to comfort her flailing mind. She couldn't think; she couldn't act.

  Only the hideous shouting and one tiny other thought rang in her mind. A thought which wished she could be somewhere very far, far away. Somewhere quiet and calm.

  The battle pressed on regardless of her lacking participation. No one seemed to notice her rifle absent any action, or perhaps some did but believed its contribution too small to make a difference.

  Dozens of their people falling with ease made no difference to the advancing attackers. Already shouts and hand signals went up and passed through the line, Sergei and Isaac ordering ammunition conservation. Cass had already been way ahead of them.

  Seconds later, as it appeared their efforts amounted to little slowing of their attackers, Sergei and Isaac passed orders for a break and retreat toward the building called Heavenly Bodies, awaiting a signal flare to make the move. A few individuals thinned the line in other areas to create a weaker pressing of enemies on that side.