Michaels held himself back from bursting into the room. Drawing in a few breaths to still his vibrating nerves, he reached over and slowly opened the door.
The orange glow of her nightlight bathed the room, spilling over her sleeping form. He noted the slow rise and fall of her breath, and a quick glance about revealed nothing amiss in the room. Michaels released a quiet sigh of relief.
Of course nothing is wrong, he thought. Why would there be?
Stepping softly, he crossed the room and knelt by the side of her bed. Though he hadn't made much of a sound, Claudia stirred, turning over and stretching. Michaels winced, having not wanted to wake her.
He remained motionless, and her breathing settled back into a slow rhythm. Reaching over, he brushed a strand of hair out of her face. At his touch, her eyes fluttered open.
Drowsy confusion crossed her features as she blinked up at him.
"There, there," Michaels said in a soft voice, hushing her. "It's only-"
"G-Gregory?" she asked, hesitant but speaking clearly. Recognition, perhaps motes of intelligence lay within her eyes.
A pool of cold shock spread across him. Since the conditioning process, she had never spoken his name in spite of being reminded countless times. She's almost... almost lucid!
Excitement coursed through him, and he clasped one of her hands. "Yes, yes Claudia! It's me. Do you... do you remember?"
She turned her head away, trying to pull her hand out of his grasp. Too eager, he didn't release her, and she pushed at him, crying out in discomfort.
Surprised, he let go, and Claudia scooted to the back corner of her bed, leaning up against the wall with her knees tucked in. She gazed at Michaels with mild distress.
"Claudia, what's wrong? It's me. It's Gregory." He reached for her, but she cringed away.
He searched her face, her eyes, for some mote of the brief intelligence and recognition she displayed a moment earlier, but... nothing remained. Perhaps there was nothing to begin with, his thoughts whispered. Perhaps she didn't even say your name: all conjurings of your flailing mind.
Michaels drew back his hand, sighing with disappointment. "It's all right," he said, "I won't hurt you."
Some of her discomfort disappeared, replaced by wariness. She didn't move away from the wall.
Michaels stood. "I'm sorry to have frightened you. I'll leave now." He walked out of the room, hanging his head in bitter disappointment.
"There you are," someone called from down the hallway. Michaels looked up, seeing Rick moving toward him.
"Why did you run off?" the man asked, irritated. "Is what we've got to get done not important to the mighty doctor? I mean, if you can't help, say so, but don't run off doing your own thing here. We don't have a lot of time, so-"
Michaels shot him a glare. "Yes, I understand. Shut up."
Rick raised an eyebrow in response. "All right, fine, I won't push it provided you drop the cranky shit. Okay?"
"Very well," Michaels responded in flat tone. "Lead the way."
******
The relocation proceeded well, for the most part. Citizens grumbled and complained about the entire affair, but at least they moved quickly enough.
Personal effects were gathered together, some Citizens clinging to more than others, and individuals set off in small groups toward the Institute.
The move was efficient but disorganized. Individuals balked, questioned Davidson's sanity, and a few refused, but little time became dedicated to convincing them otherwise. Most fell in line at the notion of being left behind, and all in all the sudden relocation went as well as could be expected.
After picking up important materials from his office and delegating others to collect the rest, Davidson and his entourage prepared to leave. Though impatient, Davidson realized the importance in not hurrying to abandon the rest of the Citizens. The grasp he held on leadership wore thin by this whirlwind decision, and it wouldn't do to aggravate his people by suggesting he cared little about them.
It provided time to gather more items of note and worth. Davidson fully expected to take possession of and set up his new office that very night. Thus, having the proper materials on hand right away would prove helpful.
A certain amount of time passed, and Davidson decided to let whoever remained catch up as best they could. Sufficient support staff stayed behind as guides, ensuring no one was left behind save those refusing to leave.
Davidson carried a briefcase, and his bodyguards hauled dufflebags containing the rest of his effects.
They managed to travel four blocks before something occurred.
A booming noise filled the air, curious and indistinct. It sounded vaguely of a thunderclap or explosion, but something was different, and the reverberations fragmented, separating out into something which sounded like...
Voices? Davidson wondered.
Silence pressed in all around; each of Davidson's group paused, glancing about and tightening grips upon weaponry.
Seconds dripped by. Nothing happened: no further sounds.
Davidson drew in a shallow breath. "We should consider moving. Quickly."
No sooner did he finish his statement before a high-pitched scream sounded behind them, the volume indicating somewhere close by. It hung in the air, piercing and terrible, until abruptly cut short by something else unseen. Davidson's mind swept across the field of possibilities, landing with certainty on the one most probable.
"No, stop," he grabbed the sleeve of the closest guard, the entire lot appearing ready to investigate. "We need to leave, n-"
The Citizen leader was interrupted when another of the booming, choral shouts filled the air. This time, with ears better attuned, Davidson determined with clarity that it indeed belonged to a group of people.
A large group, he thought, anxiety growing. He had no particular desire to leave any of the stragglers behind, but...
The echoes faded, and Davidson spoke with rising urgency. "We need to move. Now!"
His guards exchanged glances, hesitating, but a third booming cry filled the air. The echoes faded, dissolving into varied, indistinct shouting and screaming. Spurred to action, Davidson's group took off at a rapid clip.
Shouting, further agonized screaming, and a few scattered gunshots resounded behind them. They passed by small groups of slow-moving Citizens, who were confused by the activity. Davidson spared little time outside of brief and harsh words to get them moving more quickly. Before long, a large group had collected together, not-quite running but frightened enough to do so at any slight provocation.
The frenzy of yelling, fighting, and what Davidson assumed to be slaughter continued, its volume not decreasing from distance. They're following. Dear God...
In his entire life, as a Citizen, then a prisoner, then a leader to the Citizens, nothing had worried him much in terms of physical harm. He planned, considered, deduced, never fought. He didn't even carry a gun.
Davidson wished he had one now as the pace cranked up another notch, the group growing nearer to panic. A couple individuals decided quicker motion and further distance provided the best option, so they ran ahead. A few others followed suit, going so far as to abandon the items they carried. Davidson couldn't blame them, but his long-legged and wiry runner's physique had never actually been used as such.
Already he could feel the pace, the last several minutes wearing at his weak endurance. He contemplated having one of the larger guards carry him but immediately disregarded it upon considering the few dozen Citizens the group had collected. Having subjects here see such profound weakness would undermine their confidence in my ability. I must persevere.
A blur of motion burst from the shadows on the right side, ramming into one of the running Citizens. The tackled woman released a terrified scream, and a flashing blade in the assailant's hand silenced her in an instant.
The sudden violence exploded panic in the running party, more than half taking off at a sprint. Others froze in place, including Davidson himsel
f. The assailant snapped his head up from the dead Citizen, baring teeth and launching himself at the nearest target.
Deafening weapon reports filled the air as one of Davidson's guards drew and fired his pistol. The attacker shuddered under the impact, taking another five steps and three bullets before going down.
Another scream issued from the halted party, and attention snapped over to an older Citizen gaping in horror at a knife protruding from his chest. The attacker, grinning, stood several paces away, drawing out another knife and preparing to throw.
Davidson scrambled behind his bodyguards, horror and panic seeping into him. Numerous shots rang out, muffling the wounded Citizen's screaming. Davidson squeezed his eyes shut.
Rough hands grabbed and hauled him into motion, reality swimming for the Citizen leader. Images came to his fractured, terrified senses: the knife thrower already down from a hail of gunfire. The wounded Citizen laying upon the ground, alive but abandoned. Blood spattering his face as one of the bodyguards took a hurled brick to the skull, crumpling and likewise left behind.
More violence, more running, more death, and all of it blurring to indistinction in Davidson's addled mind.
Chapter 15: Punishment
The hours passed with ineffectual research and study on the area above the Inquisition. None of the files they discovered had any amount of information detailing the security system in place or indeed any information regarding Franklin Lange's intentions for the city after his death.
Michaels made brief mention of rumor regarding Citizen One's contingency against assassination and uprising, but nothing he'd heard suggested a city blackout and turning the Institute spire into mausoleum and deathtrap.
A helpful OHU member provided further detail on how the basic attempts in exploring the upper floors of the Inquisition spire resulted in utter disaster. Deadly traps filled the elevator shaft and any upper-levels accessible by stairs. Numerous incursions resulted only in dozens wounded and worse, and thus, Isaac and Sergei made the decision to seal the areas off.
Rick, Michaels, and Malcolm decided the elevator shaft first would provide the quickest option, or so they thought. Tearing down the welded doors had proven easy enough, but then the process became much slower.
Careful study of the elevator opening revealed the car out of sight, presumably somewhere high above, with automated turrets hidden in the walls of the shaft. This discovery arrived when Rick attempted to catch a glimpse upward using a shard of mirror. The weaponry provided the barest hesitation before targeting and annihilating the shard, almost taking Rick's hand with it.
Further experimentation of tossing objects of different sizes created the same brutal response, and thus began exploration into the files and potential nature of the defenses.
"We can't find anything because there isn't anything to find." Michaels kept up an attitude of brooding impatience, and it grated on Rick's nerves. "Citizen One either kept the records to himself or made sure none of it was recorded in the first place."
Rick replied, gritting teeth. "Do you have a better idea? Ooh, maybe we can start tossing knick-knacks into the shaft in the hopes that the turrets run out of ammo sometime this year."
"Perhaps you can hurl your own foolish self into the breach and spare us your idiotic sarcasm," Michaels shot back.
"Ah, I got it." Rick snapped his fingers. "Your ego should be big enough to deflect bullets, so how about you go first?"
Malcolm, hunched over a stack of files and sifting through the documents, released a grunt of irritation, and Michaels seemed to bite back his next retort. It wasn't the first time Rick and the doc had started bickering, and each argument ended in being silenced by the creature.
Rick sighed. Frustrations mounted with the time spent in lacking results. He contributed to the disagreement as much as Michaels... but dammit if the doc's bloody pouting doesn't make me want to piss him off more.
However, prudence suggested a different approach: an attitude somewhere between sympathy and groveling to keep Michaels in a calm, collected state. Screw that, Rick thought. Maybe I'll just ignore the whining and try to focus on cooperation.
Rick stepped forward in front of the yawning death trap. Hands on his hips, he blew out a breath between pursed lips. "All right, this is going nowhere. Finding-"
Michaels interrupted with a sharp laugh. "Is it? I hadn't noticed."
Shooting him a dirty look, Rick continued, "Finding an easy-access off switch might not be possible, so we need to try something else. Do we have any options for disabling power sources?"
"I profess no expertise," Michaels scowled at Rick, "but to my limited knowledge, I'd wager we can't reach their wiring without digging through the walls here," he jabbed a finger at the wall above the elevator, followed by motioning to the open door, "or in there. Switching to the stairwell route may provide a better option."
Rick chewed his lip. "As you mentioned, they don't get up to the, uh, council chamber thing. So not only would we have to contend with breaking more sealed-off areas, but we're just as in the dark about the kinds of death those places can dish out. Not to mention whatever amount of ceiling we'd have to crack through if we even got that far."
Presumably noticing the halt on research, Malcolm set down his stack of papers and stood. Rick hardly paid attention; the creature didn't provide much in the way of insight or suggestions, so these occasional, often futile brainstorming sessions didn't involve him.
"What do you suggest, then?" Michaels folded his arms.
"I'm wondering if there's anything we could use to, well..." Rick stared at the opening, shaking his head and giving a helpless shrug. "I dunno. Blow them up?"
Michaels hesitated, as if considering a sharp retort, but his brow knit and whatever potential insult did not spring forth. "Such a tactic seems folly. We have no means to properly set explosives inside the shaft without considerable risk."
Rick nodded, rubbing his chin. "...and a grenade not cooked quite right will fall back down. Maybe we could toss together some kind of quick adhesive junk. Y'know, chuck a grenade up the shaft, sticking it to the wall? You gotta have some kind of chemistry kit around here."
"This sounds like a terrible idea," Michaels replied, an expression of distaste forming.
Malcolm stepped over to the elevator, passing between the other two.
"I'm just jawing, doc, trying to get creativity flowing."
"Admirable in some fashion, I suppose, but perhaps keep the absurdity to a minimum. Desperate though we may be, I doubt we wish to convince ourselves to take rash action. The number of horrible things which could result from improper detonation is not small, and don't forget that the spire houses a potent reactor."
Rick grumbled in frustration, nodding agreement. It's bad enough he's right about this, but now I can't even fault him for being a smug jackass about it. He turned back to the opening, willing the yawning space to release a plausible solution.
Malcolm stood near the edge, engaged in similar consideration. Maybe he'll finally contribute something to the conversation... Rick thought. "Any ideas?"
The creature didn't speak, not that Rick believed he'd add anything, but he continued staring. Malcolm slid the glove off of his injured hand, flexing and twisting it around.
"Looks like your arm's getting better, eh Malcolm? At least now you'll be able to-"
Rick halted speaking as Malcolm quickly stripped off his trenchcoat, scarves, and hat, casting them aside. God, I'll never get used to that, Rick thought, staring at the dusky blue skin of Malcolm's arms and the alien structure of his face.
He opened his mouth, intending to ask what Malcolm was doing when a portion of the creature's plan dawned on him.
Before the jumbled objection could spill out of Rick's mouth, Malcolm swooped down, snatching up a portion of the broken elevator door. The creature spun around, using momentum and inhuman strength to hurl the object up the shaft.
A heartbeat of silence ensued.
The soun
ds of apocalyptic gun-fire issued, the turrets ripping into their target. Gunfire screeched in the elevator shaft, ricocheting, bouncing, and echoing to a cacophony of horrid racket.
Rick scrambled backwards, hoping to avoid any collateral spilling out of the opening. He wondered at Malcolm's possible intention of damaging a turret with his projectile just before the creature leapt into the elevator after it.
The horrific and deafening gunfire continued on, and Rick could only stare slack-jawed at the opening. Deadly fire continued to drill into the walls and floor of the elevator shaft, and spent shell casings rained into view.
Michaels shouted something, unheard in the noise. Rick focused his attention on the opening, cringing when indistinct bits of crushed metal fell in clumps.
In Rick's imagination, the noise became ever-so-slightly less deafening, and more of the twisted metallic remains crashed into the bottom of the shaft. Not able to get close enough to identify whatever it was, Rick's first thought wondered if they were the remains of the elevator door shard Malcolm hurled as a decoy target.
A heavy wham! resulted in the bottom of the shaft as the shredded remains of the door slammed into the machinery already present, and Rick realized the other falling bits were destroyed turrets.
The gunfire slowed to only one or two sources, and Rick could now hear the screech of metal as the turrets were torn from the walls. After another few moments of this, the gunfire ceased, and the last few bits of shell-casing and crushed metal clanged their way down the shaft.
The room fell to silence, but Rick continued to hold his breath.
One last shape blurred by and slammed into the bottom of the elevator shaft, this one large and non-metallic.
Exodus (The Fall of Haven) Page 33
