"Elijah, slow down. How...?" His feelings of animosity toward Elijah for causing the darkness and leaving Rick to be blamed for everything abated, replaced by pity and confusion. "How on Earth are you still alive?"
"Alive?" Elijah looked up, eyes wide. "Oh... no, no, no... I'm- I'm not alive. I've been dead, you see. Dead quite some time. Like him," he waved a gesture at the corpse in the chair, "I continue coming back, reliving these terrible times. Punished for eternity."
Rick frowned, knitting his brow. Michaels' chatter about immortality rang in his thoughts, but the concept still seemed so bizarre, so impossible. He tried to find adequate questions, but nothing came forth.
"You must be dead as well, to be joining me here." Elijah developed a pitying frown. "I'm so very sorry, Rick. Sorry to have betrayed your trust, and sorry that my actions have brought you to suffer here with me."
"Where... where exactly do you think we are?" Rick asked, tilting his head.
Elijah seemed taken aback. "Why, isn't it obvious? We're in Hell."
Chapter 16: Discord
Quinton's attitude held quiet and aloof for the first portion of their walk-around, but he warmed to neutral after a while. Kaylee suspected he preferred to work by himself, trusting his own instincts and methods without having to worry about or rely on anyone else.
She understood and respected this well enough, so she allowed him peace and quiet.
Their patrol revealed straggler groups of Citizens and OHU members hurrying towards the Institute, but the last they'd come across had been quite a bit earlier.
"So far so good," Kaylee said. "You think maybe Nigel decided to take the night off after all?"
Quinton grunted in response, neither affirmative nor negative.
The search continued, both relaxing a bit more as time passed. Another half-hour went by before Kaylee and Quinton caught the very obvious sign of trouble.
At first, both simply squinted in the darkness, wondering if they were losing their minds or if the mass of people approaching from the distance was real. After a few seconds of blinking and growing alarm, they exchanged glances and started running.
"That was a lot!" Kaylee shouted as they moved. "Right? A lot?"
Quinton met her eyes, his breathing labored. He gave a nod.
Behind them, a wall of individuals advanced at a march. A long distance off, it seemed Kaylee and Quinton hadn't been spotted, but moving through cross-streets revealed more large groups on a slow approach.
"Why are they moving like that?" Kaylee asked, already knowing the answer but not wanting it to be true. "All open, not even trying to hide their numbers?"
Quinton met her eyes briefly, raising an eyebrow as though the answer was obvious. He held a stitch to his running, a lingering pain from his wounded leg, but he kept up the pace without any problems.
She focused on running. Warnings might not help. These guys aren't going for subtlety because they've got enough people to overwhelm us. Dammit.
******
Michaels breezed back into the lab. "My suspicions were correct. It would seem a few of our deceased in the morgue are now breathing again."
The girl, Cassandra, sat in a swivel chair with her knees tucked in. "That's a good thing, right?"
"After a fashion," he replied. "Were everyone not running around trying to set up this place as a fortress, I'd suggest we ought to move them elsewhere. It's safe enough for the time being, though, and we certainly don't have time for it." He eyed the unconscious Malcolm. "How is he?"
She gave a shrug. "I looked him over like you said. The wounds have all closed up, but he still hasn't moved. Do you know why his skin is blue?"
"Something to do with the genetic traits of the original host, I would imagine." Michaels checked Malcolm's pulse rate.
Cass stared with wide eyes at the body on the table. "Are we all going to look like him?"
The researcher replied, "It's possible, although I believe the subsequent generations of organisms expelled from his body are more attuned to our physiology. He is likely a hybrid, but now the devices can enhance without altering. At least, I suspect as much. Time will tell."
Michaels continued to bustle around the lab, examining blood and tissue samples and conducting quite a bit of business Cass didn't understand. He doesn't seem to care that we're probably going to be dead in a few hours.
"Remarkable," he said, "even injured and losing considerable amounts of blood, the concentration of the micro-organisms does not seem to have changed." He held up a glass slide with a sample of Malcolm's flesh in it. "It seems his tissue houses large masses of dormant organisms, ready to awaken upon injury. Perhaps it's a function to allow for expelling them with regularity, spreading them all around. Regardless, it's absolutely amazing."
"Does that mean you can take some from him and give them to us?" she asked, changing the subject. "Like, can we make our guys as strong as the people coming to kill us?"
He waved a dismissive hand. "Of course not. I suppose I could run about injecting people with Malcolm's blood, but it takes time for the organisms to make their alterations to muscle and bone structure. At best I suppose it would make them come back more rapidly from their inevitable injury and death, but they wouldn't see any strength or speed enhancement within a few hours."
Cass frowned. "Then why are you bothering with this?"
"What should I do differently?" Michaels snorted. "Should I cower in a closet and hope no one finds me? Perhaps I should secure a firearm and join the rabble at the walls? Or perhaps I should continue my own work and ignore the constant shifting of idiotic politics and patterns of hatred."
Somehow I don't think Nigel's people are going to let you keep working while they chew on your guts, Cass thought. Trying to keep from causing excess irritation to the doc, she switched gears. "All right, so what are you working on, then?"
Michaels sighed. "I'm trying to discover if there's a way to use the organisms as a means to reverse the conditioning process."
"Oh. This is about that person you care deeply about, right? The one you mentioned before?"
He nodded. "Claudia. She's in a room of the Institute, upstairs. Just before the uprising, she was declared a traitor by the former High Inquisitor. He had someone use my process upon her."
Cass swallowed hard. "Sorry, doc."
Michaels waved it aside. "What worries me is that a solution of a physical nature may not be able to fix the psychological trauma induced by the process."
She gave him a blank stare.
"The organisms can repair damaged tissue, and I would assume they can return normal function to neurotransmitters, but will this suffice? Some of Nigel's followers and Nigel himself have been driven mad by death and rebirth. Their tissue, their bones, blood, and brain matter have been restored, so why do they continue with their cruelty, madness, and sadism?"
Cass sort of understood what he spoke of, but one thing didn't quite click with her. "Some people are just born rotten, right? Nothing's wrong physically, but maybe they turn out to be killers, or maybe they just become jerks." She stared pointedly at Michaels.
"Or they change, sometimes into a nicer person. Whatever," she waved her hands back and forth, "I guess what I'm trying to say is even if a bashed-in head or messed-up neurons can get healed... Scars, memories and stuff, or just bad, hidden personality things... maybe they go deeper than what these little guys can fix."
"Ah," Michaels held up an index finger. "You've come to the heart of my problem."
She understood. "Oh. You're wondering if the conditioning thing can't be fixed by them."
He nodded. "Not every quirk of psychology holds a physical component, at least by our current understanding. Repairing damaged neurons and balancing neurotransmitters, for example, might not restore a person to functionality."
"Why not try? Get a big needle, grab some of his blood, and try it out on your girl?"
Michaels frowned. "It's not so simple. There are risks involved. It probab
ly wouldn't work, and lord only knows what side-effects might occur."
"Aren't we all in serious danger of getting chewed to bits here?" Cass asked, giving him a condescending look. "What's the harm in trying? She's probably going to get as temporarily or repeatedly dead as the rest of us, so why not get in a minute or two of happiness before it happens?"
The doc opened his mouth to respond, but instead he seemed to stop and consider it. He shook his head. "No, it's foolish. How could I...?"
Cass lit upon an idea. "Are you more afraid of her getting hurt or her waking up and blaming you?"
"Blaming me for what? I would never have-"
"You created the process," Cass interrupted. "C'mon, anyone could tell it eats at you. I bet you even feel a little bad for the rest of the people who've gotten this done to 'em."
Michaels said nothing, frowning.
"You know I'm right, and hey, even if she does blame you, a couple minutes of arguing is better than nothing, right?"
A small, oddly wistful smile crossed the doc's lips, as if bickering held some kind of allure. Crap, he's a weird one, she thought.
"Very well, then," Michaels said. "If we're to die, we may as well attempt something impossible, stupid, and potentially miraculous first." He smiled at Cass. "Care to assist?"
******
Rick's body hadn't been evident in the tangled wreck of the fallen elevator, which now blocked easy access to the shaft. Without the man present to chastise for the accident, Davidson and Gottfried returned to coordinating the defense. Two of the guards in the room set about carefully pulling out pieces of the wreckage, but there wasn't manpower for anything else.
Davidson explained the plan to each squad leader, elaborate details repeated over and over. Gottfried came and went, verifying and ensuring the tasks were being conducted all around the Institute. Isaac tagged along, assisting in general and providing a symbol of obedience to OHU members skeptical of defending alongside Citizens.
Gottfried found the mild cooperation encouraging, no squabbling or fistfights thus far between the new allies. They're likely too exhausted, terrified, or confused to object at present, he thought, considering the whirlwind activity of the evening.
Bleary-eyed individuals randomly assigned to the windows received firearms, also handed wood-scraps and an assortment of nails, screws, and other fasteners. With the materials, they also were given hammers, bricks, and other blunt objects to be used to erect a crude barricade. The defenders could still fire through the windows, but attackers would have to push through one more small layer.
More circles of defense were set up progressively closer to the central area of the Institute. All available guns and ammunition had been passed out. The people at the outer layer received priority, and in total, fewer than half of the defenders received a firearm.
And hardly enough ammunition to last ten minutes. Gottfried wondered if anyone had realized how low the munitions supply had gotten. Weeks of minor skirmishing created no large drain on resources, but all available weaponry firing in tandem would cause very quick depletion.
Isaac trailing behind, Gottfried conducted another sweep outside. Only a few stragglers hurrying toward the Institute remained instead of large, confused crowds. Good, he thought.
About to conduct a brisk walk around the bottom level hallways and rooms, Gottfried squinted into the darkness. A pair of figures were approaching, quickly. A twinge of tension dissolved as the High Inquisitor noted the returning forms of Kaylee and Quinton.
"They look like they've been running," Isaac said. "That can't be good."
No, Gottfried thought, preparing himself for ill news. It likely isn't.
******
"Hell? What do you mean, Hell?" Rick asked, wondering just how crazy his ex-leader had gone.
Elijah cocked his head. "Is this so difficult to understand? I died. I... remember dying. My heart," he laid a hand across his chest, "it stopped... it couldn't handle what I'd done. Yet I remain here. He," he pointed toward the corpse in the chair, "is also dead, but I've killed him... countless times. He refuses to stay dead."
Rick's mind swam at the implications. How many who've died are alive again? This is nuts. "Listen, it's not the afterlife or some kind of punishment. You remember-"
"I refuse to stay dead. More than once, I think..." Elijah looked at Rick with a pleading expression, seeking either refutation or confirmation; Rick couldn't tell which. "I can't remember... I can't remember eating, or drinking, for... how long has it been? Years? How could I not be dead?"
More than a bit crazy, I'd wager, Rick thought, trying to find the best way of explaining the situation to Elijah.
"He wakes up, and I kill him. It is my punishment, the cycle of Hell I must endure because of my betrayal. Have you...?" Elijah squeezed his eyes shut. "I can't remember if you're part of the cycle or not. Are you?"
Rick held up a hand. "No, I'm not. This isn't Hell, Elijah. It's something else entirely, and you've just gone a little batty from it."
Elijah looked at him, confused.
"Malcolm!" Rick snapped his fingers, lighting upon an explanation. "Do you remember Malcolm?" Rick asked.
Eyes going wide, the older man gasped. "The demon!"
Oh lord... Rick winced. "Yes, I suppose, but not exactly. It's complicated. Y'see-"
"Is he not my tormenter? Does he not keep me locked in this horrible place, forced to relive my moment of selfish weakness for all eternity?"
Rick blinked. "Uh... yes and no. Yes, as in he's the source, but no, as in it's not his intention or fault..."
Elijah stared with a confused expression.
"It's complicated." Rick ran a hand through his hair. "Okay, so you know how he's big, strong, and near-indestructible? Yeah, the stuff that makes him like that is contagious, I guess. So now we're all like him, can't die, and... well..." He gave a helpless shrug.
Rick thought he detected the slightest tinge of Elijah's former, intelligent and discerning nature. "Eternal life, you say? Endless cycles of death and rebirth?" Elijah gestured at the monitors. "I watch a little from time to time. I know it's not real, of course, but would you say much of existence is a constant struggle?"
"Yeah, but-"
"And you suggest we aren't actually in Hell?" Elijah smiled his familiar, heartwarming and kindly smile.
He makes a compelling argument, Rick thought with a frown. Sighing, he said, "Look, I get that this doesn't make much sense, but I need your help. Bad stuff is happening-"
Elijah leveled a condescending gaze. "Terribly surprising."
"Yeah, I know, but it's why I'm here. We want to turn off the field. Do you know how?"
"Of course I do," the older man replied. "I am the creator of this place in our former reality and I'm sure here as well. Over the years, my hands and mind crafted the wonders of the terrible, terrible city. This place, my Hell, has been recreated from my memories to bring forth an eternity of suffering."
"Um... okay then. Since none of this is real, will you turn it off?" Rick asked.
Smiling, Elijah said, "Of course not."
******
Citizen Jeremiah Davidson pretended to work.
Leafing through documents both on the desk and in his briefcase, he jotted aimless notes, nonsense words, and sometimes nothing at all.
In truth, there was nothing to be done. He and Gottfried finished defensive strategy and coordination quite a bit earlier. Implementation lay in the hands of others, and he'd be damned if he would stand at the walls himself to defend.
However, he felt it important to hold a calm and functional appearance. Business as usual, he thought. They must see a calm resolve to conduct necessary work in an orderly fashion.
More than the thoughts he repeated often to make himself feel better, it took every fiber of will he possessed to keep the pen in his hand from shaking.
Davidson was terrified.
The chanting of Nigel's innumerable followers began a short time earlier, a buzzin
g murmur heard even in the Inquisition lobby. Nothing about the approaching troops held subtlety. They didn't attempt to hide their numbers or spring a sneak attack. Kaylee and Quinton's report sped the progress of locking-down the Institute, but the gradual advance of the enemy meant the early warning hadn't been necessary.
Their confidence, their unhidden, fearless advance drove a hopeless terror into the Citizen leader. The mind-numbing drone of their chant made him want to scream out loud, find a dark corner, and fade from notice. So little hope seemed present. Ending the conflict and uniting Citizen and Old Havenite meant nothing in the face of overwhelming, crushing odds.
Worse was the uncertainty. No doubt in his mind lingered regarding Michaels' warning. The plague which now crawled in the veins of every Haven denizen made futile any hopes for a quick and simple death.
A hush fell over the room, the chanting of the horde outside stilling. Gottfried and Isaac stood by to protect the Inquisition lobby, and countless others had joined the defenders at the outer wall. Floors of offices, labs, and other places, windows crowded by terrified OHU members and Citizens...
We cannot stop them. He checked his watch, seeing the early morning hour. A terrible certainty fell over him, a knowledge that he wouldn't live to see another sunset.
Silence disappeared into a roar of voices which seemed to echo inside Davidson's mind. The attack was beginning.
The pen in Davidson's hand trembled, and this time he could do nothing to stop it.
******
Nigel's people hurled themselves at the walls of the Institute, clambering over their dead to get at the doors and windows.
Exodus (The Fall of Haven) Page 36
