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>How did you get here?
>…
>”Anton?”
>…
>And what were you doing before all this?
>…
>You… can’t remember a damn thing
>…
>Only…
>…your name
>”Anton…?”
>…
>A distant voice is calling your name
>It’s a voice you think you know
>She composed her voice in rough English — learned from books and practice with her comrades, but still jagged around the edges
>Edges that need grinding down, refining
>You volunteered to help her learn, right?
>”Someone, please, bring water!”
>There’s motion and noise, though you can’t see it behind shut eyelids
>You can only barely hear it, because your eyelids won’t obey
>A group of men and women shout and strain with their very souls; their cries lost amongst each other in a desperate tangle of screams
>If you’re in pain, you can’t feel that either
>You feel adrift on a cloud
>Almost like you’re dreaming
>So now, amongst all this darkness and noise, it’s a good time to mention:
>You still get nightmares
>And lately
>You get a lot of nightmares
>Nightmares slip in your bedroom door while you sleep, disguised as old friends, professors…
>”How’s the dream walker? Is he awake yet?” a man’s voice, ragged from exhaustion, says
>…comrades…
>”I-I think he move a little…”
>…even loved ones…
>”Be quick about getting him back on his feet — we can’t hold those goddamn animals back for much longer, got it, bird?”
>”Skaa kha’nokh — I doing all I can! He is not waking, but I know he is alive!”
>You don’t recognize the anger in her voice
>It’s a desperate, scared anger that makes your heart kick like a frightened rabbit, makes you wonder why you can’t move or see
>…How did you get here again?
>And what were you doing before all this?
>”Water, please?” she says, voice a desperate plea. “Anyone, please, water for Anon?”
>As if on cue, you feel into your pocket with your left hand
>Oh, you can move again!
>Your hand moves along your sides
>You come upon something metal, holstered in leather
>Huh
>A loaded service pistol
>Also, there’s something slender and brass in the pocket of your fatigues
>A brass key
>”Here, but — we’ve not got much left, and there’s a lot of wounded-”
>At that, your strength returns, and you sit up, about to say something, when a splash of warm canteen water baptizes you into the world of the waking
“Goddamnit Squawks I’m awake! I’m awake!” you sputter
>Water pours out of your open mouth, and stings the back of your throat
>Gloved hands find your shoulders and give you a life-affirming shake
>Your head rolls backwards
>”Anon! Are you with us?!?”
>Even through the tanned leather gloves, through the dense fabric of your Foxer’s uniform… you’d know her touch almost anywhere
>There’s what feels like a stroke of lightning between the two of you — as if you’re plugged into each other’s circuitry for the first time in such a long, aching time
>But this all goes unseen
>It’s an exchange of emotional data, like two wild animals of the same species catching one another in the brush, warning one another what paths are safe, where the best place to rest is, and how to avoid predators
>The same feeling you felt when you first touched hands together
>You forget everything about being stuck in nightmares, body wracked with terrible world-ending anxiety. You forget about sleeping too much, sleeping too little, smoking your lungs dry out of fear
>Because even if you tried to remember what you were doing before you woke up down here
>Just seeing her eyes looking back at yours — blue like sapphires set into her dark skull…
>…glassy with concerned tears…?
>Smiling ear to ear
>It’s enough to make your mind go blank
>”Anon? Can you hear me?” she squeaks, blood smeared all over her clothes, body heaving with fright
>You sit up on both gloved palms
“I can hear you, Squawks,” you say, trying hard to keep the pain out of your voice. “You sound a little less fluent than usual, as expected.”
>”In your people’s tongue, the response to being saved is ‘thank you,’” she says
“Well, aren’t you a bright little scholar?”
>Around you, the ground shakes with rhythmic tremors, as if God above was stomping on the mountains, trying to bring them down upon you
>Like a drum
>BAM
>BAM
>Must be a LOT of harvesters on the surface or something
>Or a quake
>A hail of concrete chunks and cave wall rain down from the high ceilings above, dropping like comets onto the concrete floor of this makeshift laboratory
>This lab, constructed however many years ago by people who know nothing of your struggle and your God, seemed to have stood the test of time
>Until you all arrived down here, descending those thousands of stairs into the mountain in a panic, the patients — suspended in Traumatin-induced coma at the center of the room — were the only thing down here for centuries
>Asleep for centuries, dosed with an experimental drug, and left for dead
>Presumably
>Your eyes flick over to the murky yellow pods in the center of the room, of which there are three
>Roughly human in shape and size, the medical-steel pods churn and hum, full to the brim with centuries-old Traumatin, the yellow chemical visible through small glass panels fixed onto the front of the pods
>Metal signs above the small portholes do not list off the occupants’ name
>But it lists their patient status
>Patient one
>Patient two
>Patient three
>She distracts you from studying patient one, earning your attention with a small squawk
>”Thank the ancestors that you still draw breath, Anon. I- I worry for you, you know,” she says as she draws her features up into a weak smile
>”Come, stand, if you’re able.”
>You meet her gloved hand with your own
>She almost falls backwards trying to pull you up, but you manage to keep her upright
>Besides, you have at least one-hundred pounds on her, so you end up doing most of the lifting anyway
>BAM
>BAM
>Staggered, you look down into her eyes as you feel her gloved talons coil around your side, finding their natural home against your body
“Thanks for the catch — we’ll work on your upper body strength when we get out of this, aye?”
>She looks up at you, her face twisted up sweet with concern, dirty blue eyes wet with tears
>A smile — bloody, ragged, but a smile — beams up at you
>”You need another face wash, aye, human? Skaa venaaialas nii!”
>BAM
“What? You almost dropped me.”
>BAM
>Courage warms a smile on your lips
“Still, thanks for waking me up,” you say, swiping canteen water off your face. “Next time, if you can’t get me to wake, do what Echo does.”
>”Which is?” she says, crooking her head, blinking in confusion
“A kiss wouldn’t hurt,” you mutter, trying your damndest not to embarrass yourself down here on such an… important mission…?
>Somehow, memory finds you, like finding a friend at a crowded party-
>-her arms tighten around you, and the feeling of unease vanishes like a puff of air into the cold October sky
>Besides
>What you were doing before all this, and what you plan to do after, doesn’t matter
>So long as you have her
>It doesn’t matter where home is
>Where your allegiances are
>It doesn’t matter if you still get nightmares
>Because you have her
>BAM
>BAM
>Except, when she opens her mouth
>And when she speaks again
>You don’t hear the voice you know as hers — flinty, with halting, broken English; still squeaking with girlishness. Damnit.
>It’s growing on you
>Yet, her own voice does not echo out of her tired throat
>You stare back at her, wide-eyed, trembling with shock
“What did you say?”
>Is she asking you something?
>Her mouth is moves fast, but you can’t hear her voice
>There’s these… DRUMS
>BAM
>Blotting out
>BAM
>The way
>BAM
>Her throat
>BAM
>Conjures up air
>BAM
>And her tongue
>BAM
>Shapes the sound you love
>BAM
“Squawks? C’mon, it’s so fucking loud down here, I-”
>Her eyes narrow into confident slits, and she rattles off something on her fingers, counting one, two, three, but you can’t understand what she’s saying
>There’s these…
>Drums
>Playing over everything
>BAM
>You look around in a panic
>Does anyone else hear this shit!?
>BAM
>Corpses litter the surrounding area
>Corpses spread across the floor
>Corpses lean against the cave walls, fresh blood rivering out of them
>There’re dead Zealots and there are dead ravens in heaps on the smoothed concrete floor
>There’s man and bird with their throats cut open, spilling their veins onto the dirty floor, piled on top of one another like old blankets, bleeding into collective pools of crimson at the bottom of the pile
>Man and beast made brothers by blood
>There are some with missing limbs — arms and legs blown off, torn off, or gnawed off by something more evil than cross builders
>And there’s some people without faces
>Their history, their eyes… even their souls, scraped away with claws, replaced by a nauseating slurry of blood, hair, bone, and stumps where character traits once stood proud
>Like a nose
>Ears
>Brown eyes with a touch of green in them
>BAM
>BAM
>Your eyes drift towards the commotion on the other end of the underground lab
>BAM
>BAM
>Those who still live — a meager smattering of Zealots and ravens — now press their exhausted bodies against a mechanical bulkhead, forced shut via brute strength
>The soldiers heave ancient furniture against the door, and tend to those still wounded, fighting against blood loss, paralysis, trauma, or worse
>You realize:
>What you were doing here, so deep within the mountains
>So close to patients one, two, and three
>BAM
>HOLY FUCK THE DRUMS
>They’ve been going for so long, it sounds like they’re about to reach something
>A crescendo
>BAM
>And the living are shouting something too — shouting to get closer to the door, shouting to pile more against the bulkhead
>But all you hear now
>BAM
>BAM
>Are drums
>BAM
>BAM
>You try to shift focus back onto her — something you can ground yourself with
>Maybe you just didn’t hear what she said
>You’ve never been a good listener. Damnit, you hate to admit that she’s right… usually
>BAM
>BAM
>She smiles, starts speaking as though she’s grateful to see you — you can read lips, after all
>But something is wrong, almost immediately
>It’s not her voice that comes out of her throat
>There is sound, sure
>But no
>NO
>That is not HER voice
>The voice that comes out of her is cold, empty of life, a vacuum of essence
>And it addresses you by rank
>”Foxer, Foxer…” ‘she’ says, dark voice failing to match the pace of her working jaw. “Man of Enclave, have you not the heart to do your Lord’s will?”
>That voice is-
>Oh God
>You stumble backwards — away from her, gaining at least several feet of distance
>Oh God
>Oh God
>She’s — or rather it — is right
>It’s all coming back to you, what you’re supposed to be doing down here
>The pistol on your hip feels so heavy
>’My Lord’s will?’
>Those are the words used to discuss Operation Long Night of Solace
>How does she know the-
>She starts towards you, concerned, her expression wounded by your disgust
>And then she says something again, but there’s no sound — at least, not in her voice; not in a way that matches the way her lips move
>There’s
>Only
>Drums
>And that voice coming out of her
>Cold, appraising
>Tinged with anger, waiting to be fulfilled
>It speaks
“Even now, dream walker, you fritter away your chance to end this petty war,” the voice says. “You squander the sacrifices of millions who came before you, but I’m not surprised. I always knew your blood was weak. Fickle. Dishonorable. Child of out-wallers and vagrants.”
>Old…
>Inhuman…
>You know whose voice that is. You know the next lines, even
>Your hand moves towards the service pistol on your hip, as if you have no control over what’s about to happen next
>Because really, you don’t
>You’re like an actor
>On a stage
>Only, you haven’t had time to read or rehearse your lines
>And like any decent, literary-abiding play, you even have a gun in act one
>Surely to go off
>In act three
>You let instinct guide you — the instinct that tells you she is not who she says she is
>Her voice goes on to prove it
>”Kill her. Kill the other dream walker,” the voice says as she takes another confident step forward towards you. You can see on her face that she’s trying to reason with you — Anon — but the voice speaking over hers is too much
>You can even see how close she is, as she reaches for your hand-
>You raise your pistol to her chest
>It feels like it weights fifty pounds when you aim it at her, and something catches in your throat
“DON’T COME ANY CLOSER!”
>At the sound of your terrified voiced, she halts in place, frozen mid-stride
>Her blue eyes widen in shock
>With a sudden movement, she puts her gloved hands up above her head, as if surrendering to an enemy combatant
>And the look of hurt in her eyes…
>…aiming your weapon at her…
>Well, you’d rather chew glass
>It’s those damned eyes
>Stung with tears
>Confused, desperate to help you
>But now…
>Terrified for her life
>No longer recognizing the one she loves
>Then, she speaks…
>Or, she tries to
>Something speaks over her small, scared voice — someone else
>”Absolution for you. For your family. For Natalie. For Greg. To even THINK of throwing all of that away over a heretic goes beyond madness.”
>”It is the incarnation of evil,” she growls
>You level the gun at her chest once more, fighting tears
“JUST- JUST STAY WHERE YOU ARE, OKAY!?”
>She stands up tall, her spine iron-rod straight
>With the back of her gloved hand, she swipes the gathered tears out of the corners of her eyes, blue like sapphires set into her dark skull
>Though her frame is barely five feet, she seems twice her size, taller than a harvester
>She looks… stronger now, even though she still battles tears
>It’s like some kind of resolution or powerful conviction has taken hold of her entire form
>She looks baptized in the realities of this world — baptized in the realization that despite everything… she’s still the enemy
>Despite the gun leveled at her chest, she walks forward, slowly, arms still raised above her head
>And the voice that comes out of her?
>You almost killed her right there
>“You think she will not do the same to you? You think your feelings for her can speak louder than the Almighty? No. This heretic will lead you astray, and in the darkness, she will abandon you — and all our people.”
>”Soon, you shall see that her orders are the same as yours. Fulfill your oath,” the voice booms. “Fulfill your oath and know absolution for all time, for all you care for. Do this, and pass into Sainthood.”
>BAM
>BAM
>Your breathing hitches in your chest as she walks towards you, confident, like she could deflect anything off her chest
>Even a bullet
>She opens her mouth, face contorted up into an ugly mask of anger and blood and exhaustion and sweat and dirt and concern and…
>Love
>Love enough for you to reach for your gun
>”Put the gun down-”
“DON’T TOUCH ME!” you scream as you knock her aside with a free hand
>The force of your blow causes her to stumble backwards and slip on a broken piece of glass from one of the shattered monitors lining this room
>She squawks in pain, dropping onto one knee, nursing a slice in her talon
>Your chest heaves with fear, drunk on adrenaline
>And the distinct feeling that what you just did was wrong
>BAM
>But you have no control
>Why don’t you have any fucking control!?
>If you did, you’d wake up, end this whole damn charade
>You feel more than regret when she turns her head up at you, eyes pleading for you to return to your old self, the Anon she knows — thought she knew
>BAM
>Thus, despite your objections, like a puppet on invisible strings
>You aim the weapon square at her chest
>Where you hope her heart is
>So…
>If you fulfill your oath — if you are a loyal man of Enclave
>You know, when you squeeze the trigger
>It’ll be quick
>A fraction of a second
>And she’ll go somewhere else
>Not here, not deep within the mountains, so far from Enclave
>No longer in this world of death and God and Ancestors
>She’ll go to a place where she can finally rest her head
>Having earned some peace at last
>With summer cattails bursting
>Slamming on her skin
>Home
>BAM
>BAM
>She tries to limp upwards again and reaches for your gun with an outstretched hand
>And this time, you hear her voice — her authentic voice, so small, weak, and hurt
>”Anon, please. This isn’t you. Just wait-”
>BAM
>BAM
Oliver Hart
Author of Foxing, Leaves of Fall, Liquid Courage, Beating the Heat, A Red Winter, Weber’s Gambit, and many other stories. He primarily writes hmofa, but dabbles in most genres. Interests include, writing, reading, technology, and music.
Stories: Foxing, The Leaves of Fall