by Tyler Hanson
Quentin pulled himself to his feet, penlight aimed ahead, while Maddie stuck close to him. The beam of light passed over the bodies of his brief co-conspirators, the fallen pile of medical supplies, the boxes of food and electronics, the portable generator, and the smoking Bogeyman. Everything seemed the same.
The two crept up the stairs into the garage. The air felt sterile, the slatted windows in the garage door dark. Wherever they had landed, it was probably nighttime. He continued into the living room.
Darkness permeated the space, and he was careful to avoid stepping on the fallen corpses of the intruders. He shined his flashlight at the glass patio door to see outside and gasped.
There was nothing.
The doors, the windows, everything beyond was solid darkness, like the darkness within the space of Bogeyman transport. Quentin pulled at the handle, but it vibrated, resisting his touch. He reached for one of the weapons discarded on the floor and fired it at the glass; the bullet bounced away as if made of rubber, but the door remained unscathed.
Quentin let the gun fall back to the ground. “Maddie . . . what are we going to do?” They returned to the bunker, where he connected his portable generator and activated it.
The space didn’t seem to disrupt the resource, because his lights, computers, and other electronics came back to life. The Bogeyman hummed, announcing its viability. The primary monitor flickered on, displaying the folder that Quentin was browsing before the attack.
DOSSIER CLASS FELDGRAU.
He turned back to his dead friends, his face scrunching. “I’m sorry we could not survive this together, mes amies. I appreciate all that you’ve done to combat injustice today. The people responsible will be exposed; I swear this to you.”
He turned to the keyboard and opened the primary folder, his mouse hovering over a sub-folder.
FACTION HOSTILES.
“If I am to keep my promise,” he added, “I cannot do it alone. I must rely on the old adage . . . do you know this one, Maddie?”
The Dutch Shepherd grumbled and curled up on the floor, weary from today’s battles. He offered her a thin, soulless smile before turning to the sub-folder and opening the list of names within.
“That’s right. The enemy of my enemy is my friend.”
Shadow’s Report
01.16: “Conscription”
Guatapé, Colombia
December 31, 1999-A
Catalina rested atop El Peñón de Guatapé, a two-kilometer-high rock jutting into the sky and overlooking a small town. Below her, bathed in moonlight, the townspeople gathered in celebration, with lights and dancing; singing and laughter. Catalina took a swig of the rum bottle next to her, surrounded by the isolation of the rock and the darkness of the night sky. The wind swirled her hair, muddying her vision. Beyond the breeze, she heard footsteps climbing the makeshift wooden staircase created to bring the townspeople to the top of the rock.
“It’s funny seeing them celebrate down there, don’t you think?” asked the new arrival.
Tilting the neck of the rum bottle into her mouth, Catalina turned her head, curious. A woman in a red jacket, sporting a pink-and-black pixie haircut, approached her through the shadows. Catalina frowned. She’d heard a masculine voice.
“Countries who deem themselves ‘civilized,’ dependent on their own technology, scramble in fear of the New Year,” the mysterious voice continued, and Catalina squinted. The woman hadn’t opened her mouth at all. Catalina’s eyes drifted to something small and metal glinting off the lapel of the woman’s jacket.
From the lapel came the man’s voice. “They worry that their lack of foresight has led them down a path of destruction; that the computers their world relies on will fail at the turn of a new century.”
The woman stopped, standing next to Catalina, remaining silent while her hidden compatriot continued his monologue.
“Yet here they are, a small town in South America, simply celebrating. Watching them brings me a tumultuous combination of inspiration and pity. I’m inspired, for they have found a way to make their corner of the world work in their favor. But I pity them, for they are unaware of the dangers encircling their oblivious existence.”
The voice paused. The distant shouts of the Guatapé townspeople below broke the silence, and the voice spoke over their celebration. “Though I don’t suppose I have to tell you any of this, do I, Catalina?”
The moment he said her name, she swung her legs at the woman’s ankles. She didn’t connect with them, though. The pixie-haired stranger’s body shimmered and pushed itself away from Catalina’s attack in a gust of wind. Catalina reached for her boot and produced a snub-nosed revolver, thumbing the hammer.
The woman raised her hand. “We’re not from any rival cartels,” she said, speaking for the first time in a thick, Taiwanese accent.
Catalina just stared at her, gun raised.
“And I’m not working for your father,” the man’s voice added. “In case you were unaware, you father has passed away.”
Catalina felt her nose twitch involuntarily at the news.
“So, you didn’t know,” he said. “I’m sorry for your loss, and that it had to come from a stranger.”
Maintaining her grip on her revolver, she began to sign in LSC, then stopped herself. Before she could tug at the scarf around her neck, the woman lifted her hands and made a few gestures. [Do you know ASL?]
Catalina gestured back at her. [Of course I do. It’s one of the first ones I learned.]
The man said, “Thank goodness. When I read your file, Butterfly and I had time to learn one form of sign language before we met you. I made an educated guess with the world’s most popular one. I am not yet fluent, but some more practice will certainly help.”
[That’s very exciting,] signed Catalina. [Don’t offer your condolences about my father unless you liked him. He was a remorseless killer, and he worked for the worst scum. The world is better place without him.]
“In all fairness, I didn’t know him,” the voice admitted. “I’ll concede to your expertise.”
The woman, presumably Butterfly, finally lowered her hands. “May I approach?”
Catalina nodded, saying, [How did he die? Was it the same group who almost killed me? Or was it pathetic and mundane, like a heart attack or car crash?]
“Actually, Catalina, the way he died is the reason we’re here today,” Butterfly replied.
The voice cleared his throat. “First, I want to introduce myself out here in public, but I will only do it once. My name is Quentin Lefebvre, and I am a former operative of France’s intelligence bureau. As I mentioned, this is my colleague, Butterfly.”
Butterfly waved.
“You must understand, nothing I’m about to tell you has existed, does exist, or ever will exist. It will not be found in public records. That was my doing. Anyone who can vouch for my authenticity or credibility is conveniently deceased; that was their doing. As such, my persona is distilled into a singular identifier: Proxy.”
Catalina grimaced at the codenames.
“Don’t be like that,” Butterfly chastised. “Our chosen names are for our anonymity, as well as the anonymity of those we help.” She glanced over her shoulder before looking back at Catalina. “These enemies . . . they’ve killed my friends, my coworkers, and my contacts. They even hunted down my surviving relatives, people I barely even knew. They did the same to Proxy—and to your father.”
[We don’t share these enemies,] Catalina said, tucking away her revolver. [I’ve never met you in my life. The only enemies I have are the cartel, and you aren’t with them. I’m nothing more than a freelancer.]
“You’re selling yourself short, Catalina,” Proxy said from Butterfly’s lapel. “You are a ‘freelancer’ in the same way I am a ‘traveler.’ Call it what it is. You hunt monsters.”
Catalina offered a slight shrug in response.
Butterfly looked over the rock on which they perched, and Catalina followed her gaze. The men, wome
n and children in town were bringing out their Año Viejo dolls, life-sized figures in nice clothes wearing paper faces. The dolls were meant to harbor the negativity accumulated throughout the previous year. When the New Year began, they burned the effigies, giving the people of Colombia a symbolic fresh start.
If only we could all be so lucky, Catalina thought.
“Listen to me, Catalina,” Butterfly said, still facing the town below. “These monsters you hunt aren’t accidents. They aren’t freak mutations or supernatural entities. These creatures are designed.”
Catalina glanced at her, incredulous.
“Now, we don’t know the intent behind the designs of the monsters you fight,” Butterfly continued. “On the surface, they seem to be for nothing more than to spread pain and suffering. Based on Proxy’s research, they may be something resembling revenge.”
Proxy chuckled softly from the lapel.
“It doesn’t matter why they were made,” he said. “Not to me. The monsters are the least of my worries.”
[What do you mean?] Catalina asked.
“The people who made them have their sights set on so many other goals. Terrorism, assassinations, natural disasters, human experimentation, and biological warfare, just to name a few.”
Catalina shook her head. This is insane. Who are these people?
“These are only the things that have happened,” Proxy said. “This is what has been done while we lived our own personal lives, oblivious for only a few decades. Can you imagine, as our world changes and our understanding of science improves, what is being planned?”
Catalina scowled and signed at him. [This is ridiculous, Proxy. You’re raving like a madman.]
Loud, harmonious cheers erupted, and Catalina looked back at the town. The Año Viejo dolls burned, parading through the streets on sticks.
Midnight. The New Year. In this time zone, at least.
“I have the records, Catalina,” Proxy said. “I have evidence of what I’m telling you. The U.S. Pentagon, Britain’s MI6, India’s RAW, and China’s MSS are all under my observation. Did you know a KGB base was secretly built beneath the Kremlin, and is now co-opted by Russia’s SVR intelligence? I didn’t either, until I started watching these communities for patterns, for opportunities to identify the people in charge of this manufactured nightmare.”
The flames around the Año Viejo dolls smoldered, leaving only blackened forms behind.
“Proxy isn’t wrong,” Butterfly said quietly, finally turning to face Catalina again. “I run a refugee camp in the Middle East for people like you. People with abilities. We’ve encountered things you’d never believe without seeing them for yourself.”
“There’s more of us out there,” Proxy continued. “We have political allies in South America and a cluster of scientists in East Asia.”
A gust of wind ruffled Butterfly’s pixie hair, and Catalina’s own hair whipped around her face.
“Collectively, we call ourselves The Faction,” Butterfly said. The wind blew stronger, swishing Butterfly’s jacket around her body. She shivered, pulling it closer.
[Okay,] Catalina said, [how do I meet the others?]
Butterfly frowned. “Most of our communication is done through instant messaging and public forums, to preserve security and anonymity. Sometimes we establish telephone or radio contact. In emergencies, the Faction cells may send messengers to meet. Anonymity keeps us alive. The day I compromise my camp’s anonymity might be the day my people die.”
[You didn’t seem to have a problem sending someone else to meet me in person, Proxy. Why not come yourself? Why the smoke and mirrors?]
Proxy sighed. “There’s no trickery here. I’m . . . for lack of better phrasing, I’m imprisoned. I have no way of physically reaching the outside world.”
Butterfly extended her hand. “We came here because we have faith in you, Catalina. You’ve been fighting our fight for years without even knowing it. We just want to make it official.”
Catalina stood still, but Butterfly didn’t budge. Proxy broke the silence and said, “Listen, I need you. Butterfly has her own group to look after. She’s only here as a courtesy. I’m starting from scratch, building my own group. I need people who can cut through the politics and the distractions of the other Faction cells and deal with threats in real time. Do you think you can handle the challenge?”
Oh, now he’s goading me? Well . . . it’s working. Catalina finally took Butterfly’s hand, shaking it.
Proxy uttered a sigh of relief. “Now, you’ll need your own alias. I knew someone much like you several years ago, and if I may be so bold as to offer a suggestion . . .”
His voice trailed away as a tone filled Catalina’s ears. It was a distant, high-pitched whine, like the noise that old-fashioned television sets emit when they first power on. The sound wasn’t loud enough to be bothersome, but it drowned out other noises enough to make itself noticeable. Butterfly looked at Catalina, and based on her expression, she heard the tone, too.
The tone arrived only a moment before—
ERROR
ERROR
ERROR
C
O
R
D R
E U
T P
E T
C I
T O
E N
D
REBUILDING REPORT . . .
REBUILDING REPORT . . .
REBUILDING REPORT . . .
. . . REPORT RESTORED
Guatapé, Colombia
January 1, 2000-B
—the afterimages.
The two Faction members looked over the crest of El Peñón de Guatapé, at the town below them. Buildings, trees, and people shifted, translucent and separated into two doppelgängers. The original objects stayed in place, but their doppelgängers hung in the air, upside-down like a bat. Both versions of the world overlapped, much like the optical illusion present when one crosses their eyes while touching their fingertips together.
It wasn’t just the town, though. Catalina saw afterimages of Butterfly and herself; she saw a phantom version of their rock floating above their heads like a mirage. Past the image and into the night sky, even the stars had duplicated, each pinpoint in the darkness finding a ghostly mate.
Then, just like that, the world returned to normal. The tone in her ears faded, and the afterimages collapsed into each other, reducing themselves back to a singular version of each object. Catalina didn’t feel any lasting nausea, disorientation or any other physical symptoms that would have explained her experience as a medical one.
Butterfly rubbed her eyes and looked at Catalina. “So, that wasn’t just me, right?”
Catalina shook her head.
The pixie-haired woman stood with the huntress at the edge of the rock, the wind toying with their bodies. Their shadowed forms were so close to a whole community of people, yet to Catalina, they were an entire world away. The pair swayed there, silent, the atmosphere peaceful. Catalina savored it, for she suspected another moment like this would not come for a long time.
A smile in her voice, Butterfly said, “I suppose it’s just another sign of change.”
DOSSIER CLASS FELDGRAU
Folder 1 Completed
Granting Access . . .
. . . Access Granted
Folder 2 Unlocked
Thank you for visiting the world of The Faction! I hope you enjoyed your time there. I’d love to know your thoughts on Personnel, so please leave a review!
More information about The Faction can be found at jointhefaction.wordpress.com, and you can check me out on Twitter @VitameatavegamN!
About the Author
Tyler Hanson is a science fiction and horror author based in Nashville, Tennessee. He loves animals, tolerates people, and detests writing about himself in the third person.
Horror was a big part of Tyler's childhood, and he strives to recapture that sense of terror and wonder for others to enjoy. Sometimes horror has a foo
thold in reality, and as a member of the LGBTQ community, he explores the oppression of minority groups through fictional retellings of historical events.
When he isn't writing, Tyler can be found exploring small towns, trapping himself in escape rooms, and catching Pokémon with his cat, Tiger Lily.
