My head slumped, and my chin drove into my sternum with each step. The base of my neck screamed out when I tried to lift my eyes. Hands gripped beneath my arms, straining my joints as their fingers dug in, bearing the full weight of my body. I couldn’t see. Dark fabric covered my face and cinched around the front of my throat. Vibrations resonated up through my legs as my feet dragged behind us. There were two of them. I could hear the irregular cadence of their footsteps as they pulled me along.
Unwilling to remain helpless, I lifted my knees to assist. It took a moment for my feet to wake up, but soon, I was able to alleviate the pressure under my arms by stumbling along at their pace. I reached up to remove whatever was obscuring my vision, but as soon as I did, the man to my right shot his balled fist through my solar plexus. My lungs emptied. With the wind knocked out, I was resigned to being drug along once again.
The two men stopped, and I heard elevator doors open before us. I was thrown into the room, flopping onto the frigid hard ground. The footsteps came closer, followed by the door closing and the sudden rush of blood from my head into my abdomen as we bolted upwards. When we stopped, the men picked me back up and proceeded outside. Even before the doors opened, I could hear the din of a bustling street. A hand gripped the top of my head, yanking the fabric down. The street was packed with the city’s residents aimlessly milling about. Looming shadows cast over the crowds. My eyes caught a flicker of light to the left. I looked over to find one of the architectural projections flashing as the light emanating from a long black bar embedded in the sidewalk fought to stay lit.
A woman with a thousand-yard stare clumsily weaved through the crowd, passing just beyond our doors. Her shoulders pin-balled off the chests and backs of the people around her without anyone noticing. She stopped briefly and turned toward us. Her eyes were sunk in, her face expressionless. Like a ghost, she stared right through me. I felt a cold spike worm up my spine from her gaze. She was distant. Close enough to reach out and touch but too far gone to hold.
One of the men pushed me out into the crowd while the other grabbed hold of the back of my arm. I stumbled forward, catching myself before meeting the ground. When I looked back up, the woman disappeared into the endless mesh of bodies. I looked to see who my escorts were. They wore the same brown blouses as everyone else, and what they lacked in stature, they made up for in demeanor. Whispering in my ear, the man holding my arm said, “Try and run, and we’ll cut you down. Walk where we lead you. Don’t make a scene. It wouldn’t do you any good anyway.”
I let the two men guide me through the horde unimpeded, knowing I had no place to run to even if I wanted to. I was at the whims of my captors, sent on a fool’s errand to talk revolutionaries off a ledge I didn’t understand.
Did Augustus really think that field trip would sway me to get involved?
I had no business concerning myself with the qualms of this time. Still, if what he said was, in fact, true, I needed to grapple with a new reality. I had an unborn child, and what that meant to me, I did not know yet.
Slivers of light trickled down from the concrete canopy above us. The crowd thinned as we continued along the street until, abruptly, the men turned me into an alley and quickened their pace. Nearly at a full sprint now, we broke off down an adjacent corridor, dodging waste bins and low-hanging fire escapes.
No rust.
Even in the most secluded nooks of the city, everything was immaculate. Every metal ladder protruding out from the dizzying heights above us had a fresh coat of red paint. Not even the bins had a visible scratch. I had become so accustomed to the overwhelming stench of trash and piss that clung to the cities of my time that my senses were disoriented.
Am I in a simulation?
I kept pace with my captors, never letting them get more than a step ahead. Suddenly, the lead runner put his hand squarely on my chest, compressing my lungs as I lunged forward. Catching my breath, I was pulled into a short door a few steps below ground level into a dank room. Horizontal rectangular windows lined the top of the walls. They were covered, and a few dangling light bulbs lit the room. The door behind me shut, followed by the scrape of a heavy latch into the wall’s masonry.
The room’s interior wore a familiar elegant decorative projection. Like the exterior, the walls shone from small slits displaying fine-crafted moldings and hanging art. The projection waned like a distant memory of a time long passed. Sitting in the middle of the room were two men and a woman, eyeing me up and down. I felt naked, being gawked at by onlookers.
“This him?” One of the of the men asked.
“Who else would it be,” my escort replied.
“I thought he’d look different,” The woman stated.
“How?”
“I don’t know. Just, not like the rest of them.”
“He’s taller.”
“Well, yes. I suppose there’s that.”
“Does he speak?”
“If he does, I haven’t heard him.”
“Yes,” I interjected.
“What’s his name?”
“I don’t know.”
“Jack. My name is Jack.”
“Jack— for John, right?”
“Yes. My real name is John, but I go by Jack.”
“Is that the name you were given, or did you choose that name?”
“My parents chose the name. After my grandfather.”
“How long were you out there?” the last man to speak asked.
Shadows marked the man’s face as he leaned forward in his chair.
“And you are?” I asked the man.
“My chosen name is Peter.”
“And your real name?”
“Some long lost relic of a dead empire.”
“Where do you want us to keep him?” One of my escorts asked Peter.
“Depends. How long were you out there?” Peter asked.
“No more than fifteen minutes.”
“That’s too long,” Peter scoffed.
“We moved as fast as we could.”
“It’s not your fault. We were too ambitious,” Peter replied, shifting his gaze to the locked door. He leaned forward, tapped the table, and then stood. With a sense of urgency, he continued. “Let the bureaucrat go. Dump him in an alley blindfolded to wander.”
The woman sitting next to Peter nodded before leaving the room through a door opposite us.
“Julius?” I inquired.
“Was that his name? We just called him Bureaucrat. Nice enough guy— once you got through his insults.”
“Insolent traitor. I think that was my favorite,” the man next to Peter noted.
Peter chuckled. “I think that was his favorite too. He sure liked repeating the phrase.”
“What are your plans for me?” I asked, interjecting into their banter.
“I don’t have plans for you, Jack. Constantine, on the other hand— well, he always has plans.”
“Whose Constantine?”
“My brother.”
“And?” Peter’s neighbor prompted.
“And the head of this whole operation.”
“Was he responsible for the terminal bombing?”
“No, that credit goes to me.”
“And Julius’s kidnapping?”
“Those were Constantine’s designs. I wanted to strap him to the bomb, but my brother insisted we take him hostage. Now we have you. But we won’t for long if we don’t leave soon.”
“Torch the place?” One of my escorts asked.
Peter nodded in return. The man released my arm and uncovered silver cylindrical cases under a cloth tarp in the back corner of the room.
“It’s a shame. This might be one of a handful of the last true wooden pieces of furniture left.”
My other escort twisted my arm toward a long sofa against the back wall. He pressed his boot up against the armrest and kicked his leg out. Hidden underneath was a break in the floor. Only faint seems were visible, but they marked the outline of a door. Peter pulled at the leftmost seam, releasing the panel and exposing a black cavern below. One of my escorts turned over a canister, pouring a sublimating liquid across the floor.
Ammonia.
I recognized the smell. It was seared into my memory from the terminal attack.
Hydrazine.
The foul aroma incited flashbacks of long days at the engine propulsion labs outside Salt Lake.
How did they get their hands on hydrazine?
It made sense. The liquid under this pressure, or lack thereof, was turning to vapor, wafting into the room. The other canister, oxygen presumably, would be the catalyst to wipe away part of this city block.
All they need is a spark.
Peter tossed a small device to one of the men. Carefully, they placed the little black box in the center of the room.
“Everyone in the tunnel,” Peter said, pointing down the pitch-black shaft.
I shuffled over, placing one leg down the hole to stabilize my torso from falling in.
“Is there a ladder?”
“It’s a short drop. Promise.”
I swung my other leg in, and with a pump of my arms against the ground, my body straightened, falling through the opening. The drop was longer than I anticipated. The floor rose abruptly, buckling my knees as I landed.
“Dropping,” echoed a voice from the top of the shaft.
I hurried out from underneath the base of the hole as best I could. Another body flopped to the dirt, skidding across the floor to break its fall.
“Are you hurt?”
“No, but that was little more than a short drop.”
“Can you stand?”
“Yeah, I think so.”
“Good.”
Another figure landed, this time with more grace, bending at the knees to absorb the impact. My eyes had just adjusted to the dark, allowing me to pick out outlines within the room when a small sun illuminated above us, marring my vision. Another thud, then another. Five in total, including the woman. My eyes readjusted, but Peter turned off the lights just as they did. In the room above, what sounded like a battering ram against the thick steel doors reverberated down the shaft. The door gave, producing a violent crash as it came off its hinges.
Shape charges. These guys are serious.
Boots thumped across the room as they filed in.
“Detonate the charge,” I heard the woman’s muffled voice beg.
“Not yet,” Peter whispered back.
Distant voices rattled down into our cave. Unfortunately, the hole in the floor was hard to miss. If a grenade had dropped down the shaft, it would’ve turned us into grease stains on the wall, given the immense compression in such a confined space.
The story has been taken without consent; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.
“Cover your ears,” Peter warned just before clamping down on a device in his hand. The room lit up, but all sound ceased. The walls closed in, sucking the oxygen out. I choked, unable to pull air from the vacuum created by the detonation above. A storm of dust and broken concrete rained down on us. A column of superheated air pushed down the shaft, engulfing us in heat before receding.
I stumbled back into the hard-packed dirt wall. I traced the wall to find the exit when the lights flicked on. I shuffled forward, allowing the white blur to dissipate before taking full steps again.
“Grab him.”
I stepped forward but had to catch myself on a metal support pillar with my shoulder before continuing. Peter grabbed me by the back of the shirt and pushed. The tunnel made a sharp left turn and carried on for several hundred yards. Behind, a ground-shaking rumble worked through the corridor. The walls cried out, shedding their top layer of dust into the air. The strand of lights running the passage length went out.
“Keep moving. If the power is out then the building came down,” Peter directed. I followed the tunnel, never letting the sound of footsteps to my front drift too far away. Another rumble shook the cavern. This time, it was far more violent, sending me to my knees in its wake. Peter yanked my shirt, lifted me from the dirt, and shoved me forward. We raced down the cramped corridor, bouncing off the walls with every gentle turn until the passage ended in another room.
A boot placed on the back of my knees brought me down. My hands were unbound and yanked up to a metal rung. I reached out with my other hand and took hold of a ladder. It led to a hatch that opened as soon as the person above me neared it. Light flooded the shaft, and another set of hands reached down, pulling me up. Once topside, I tripped and fell into a small group of onlookers standing around the open hole.
“Who the fuck are you?” A short, gaunt man asked after I’d climbed off him. I rose to my feet and offered to help, but instead, he rolled to his side and laboriously dragged himself from the ground.
Who the fuck are these people?
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to barrel into you like that.”
“Apology accepted. But again, who the fuck are you?”
“His name is Jack, Simon,” a stocky but chiseled man standing beyond the small crowd bellowed. He had short-cropped hair, blending into week-old stubble around his chin. His blue eyes pierced mine when I looked down at him. He caught my gaze, offering, “I’m Constantine. My brother might have mentioned me.”
“He has,” I said, giving a subtle nod.
Peter emerged from the shaft, swatting the dust and debris from his clothes as he entered the room.
Everyone had made it out, a feat Constantine praised his brother for. Peter grabbed the back of my shirt once again and bound my hands.
“They found us,” Peter said.
“How long were they out there?” Constantine asked.
“Fifteen minutes, give or take. Long enough to get ID’d and tracked.”
“There’s no way. We were careful Constantine. We slipped down back alleys, always doubling back at least twice before continuing,” one of my escorts said.
“Why were you out there that long?” Constantine asked.
“The hideout was too far,” Peter admitted.
“So you weren’t careful.”
“We were—“one of the escorts began.
“If you were, I wouldn’t have a leveled building and half the Capital Guard on our tail.”
“They got there quicker than I expected,” Peter said.
“What are you saying, surveillance didn’t ID them?”
“I don’t know. Maybe it was surveillance. But they were on us quick, brother.”
“You weren’t dumb enough to be followed?” Constantine directed at the escorts.
“Maybe it was him,” the woman said, pointing at me.
Me? How?
“Get his hands on the table,” Constantine instructed.
I was grabbed from behind and wrestled over to the table. My bindings were dragged to the center, stretching the front of my shoulders to their limits. Facing the other side of the room, my hands were placed palm up. A set of meaty fingers began massaging mine, kneading the skin as their thumb and index finger rolled my flesh across the bone. At first, it was just uncomfortable, but as they applied more pressure, a sharp pain shot up my hand and into my wrist. Something had dislodged. I felt a muted crack against the bone.
“Fuck,” Constantine uttered.
What was that all about?
“What? What was that for?”
“Hold him,” Constantine instructed the two escorts.
He reached into his pocket, producing a short blade with fine-grained wood inlaid into the handle.
“What the fuck are you doing?”
I yanked at my arm, trying to free myself, but the two goons had a grip on me I couldn’t break. Constantine, grabbing at my forearm, sunk the tip of the knife deep into my finger above the first joint. The pain was jolting, screaming out in agony as the sharp metal rooted around in the flesh, spritzing the table with a mist of crimson.
“Keep him still,” he yelled.
The two men tightened their grasp, twisting my arm upright for Constantine to work. He turned the knife and wiggled the blade. Blood drained from the wound, pooling on the table and soaking the arm of my tunic.
“What the fuck is that?” I cried, looking behind at a black disk extracted from my skin.
Constantine looked up at the group, “Get the fuel. We have to go. Now.”
The scene played out just as it had last time. Slender metallic canisters were emptied onto the floor, turning to vapor as they did. Oxygen bottles were opened, releasing pure 02 into the room.
“You have a place in mind, Brother?”
“We’ll go to the school. Hopefully, they won’t follow us there.”
“And if they do?” Peter asked, ushering bodies back down the shaft.
Constantine declined to respond. He hurried to help the rest of the group down into the tunnel.
Shaking, I pulled my released hands off the table, putting pressure on the open wound. Once in, Peter took the lead, navigating us in the pitch black through a series of nondescript junctions of intersecting shafts.
This must have taken ages to build. Are these under the whole city?
I kept pace, trying to keep my mind off the throbbing, oozing appendage that flooded my neurons with pain every time my heartbeat. A low rumbling, much like the ones before but more distant now, shook the Earth. We continued along until a light appeared in the distance. Then another. And another. We were headed into a lit-up section of the cave. I was relieved, but the illumination allowed me to see the damage done to my finger. Half its face lay flayed open, nearly translucent with a white hue and jagged blue edges. Beneath, a sinewy round edge protruded where the knife had separated the meat from the bone.
Another ladder reached down to the ground. Peter was the first there, pulling himself up before helping others to the top. With every rung, my hand cried out for me to stop.
No more ladders.
I stood in the middle of a large gathering when I reached the surface. Blank, drained faces peered at me like a thousand arrows piercing a target. I stepped back, allowing Constantine to emerge and obscure me from their silent gaze. A pair of hands rebound mine. One of the escorts produced the black face covering from before and dropped it over my head.
******
Shuffling feet echoed off the walls. Whatever they’re doing, they’ve been at it for hours. The ground grew cold as the faint illumination permeating my face covering’s fabric dimmed. My shoulders screamed from their relentless abuse. The binds cut into the meat of my wrists as they pressed against the concrete floor. I continuously adjusted my legs for a more comfortable seating position, but a dull ache bounced between my knees and lower back. My finger throbbed. The bleeding had stopped for the most part, but a small puddle of liquid clung to my hands.
A nearby door creaked open, its metal latch sliding against a rough surface. I heard a single set of footsteps, and then an object was dropped onto the floor with a metallic clang.
“I’m sorry about earlier, Jack. My brother should’ve known you were chipped,” a low voice rumbled.
“Luckily, the bleeding looks like its stopped.”
“Good. I’ll have someone come in and take a look at it. We should’ve bandaged it earlier, but there were more pressing matters that we needed to attend to.”
I hung my head in silence.
“You must be hungry. We’ll get you some food, too.”
“Could you bring some water?”
“Of course.”
“What was that chip you pulled from my hand?”
“A monitoring device. Everyone has them. Well, everyone except us now.”
“To track my location?”
“That, and to monitor your vitals.”
“My vitals? Why would they monitor that?”
“Like I said, they monitor everyone. Everyone who is permitted to live is tracked so the Capital can forecast and allocate nutrition.”
What did he mean by permitted?
“Makes sense, I suppose.”
I could make out Constantine’s outline through the minuscule breaks in the black fabric.
“Jack, why did they give you up?”
“Why did you want me? You traded a hostage for me, right? Why?”
“Because I think you can help us more than any bureaucrat hostage could.”
“How?”
Constantine sat silently for a moment before asking, “Do you know who we are, Jack?”
“You didn’t answer my question. How do you think I can help you?”
“I’ll answer your question, but humor me. Do you know who we are?”
“A gang. Terrorists.”
“Why would you think that? Is that what you were told at the Capital?”
“The bombing at the terminal. Only terrorists bomb civilians.”
“We’re not terrorists, Jack. We’re fighting for a better future.”
“Freedom fighters,” I chuckled, clenching the pain bursting from my finger.
“Yes, exactly. But why is that funny to you?”
“In my time, anyone who called themselves that wasn’t fighting for freedom.”
“Tell me then, what would they be fighting for?”
“Power. Their own self-interest. In many parts of the world, tyranny and liberation had a funny way of going hand in hand.”
“We aren’t tyrannical, Jack. We’re liberating our civilization.”
“What do you call yourselves?”
“The People’s Liberation Movement.”
A short burst of laughter escaped me. “The PLM, then?”
“You find that funny?”
“Every terrorist or paramilitary organization of my time wore the same three letter acronyms.”
“Were they successful?”
“Depends on your definition of success. But some were, I suppose,” I grunted, adjusting my position to release pressure from my spine.
“How did they do it?”
“Do what? Stage their revolts?”
“Yes,” Constantine said. I could feel his presence leaning in closer.
“Various ways.”
“Did you ever serve with them?”
“I never lived in a country with such a movement. But during my time in the Navy, I fought against a few.”
“Did you win?”
Chuckling, I replied, “No.”
“So they defeated you and your government?”
“Not really. No one wins a war of insurgency. One side just seems to outlast the other.”
“What’s an insurgency?”
“You should know. Your bombing of the terminal was a hallmark of one. Was that the first attack?”
“No, one of many.”
“Do you always bomb your own people?”
“We hit targets important to the workings of the Capital.”
“Sure, but do you kill more of the civilian population than them?”
“Yes, some have to sacrifice.”
“Then you’ll fail.”
Constantine stood, the legs of the chair screeching across the floor as it pushed back. Without another word, he stormed out of the room, slamming the door behind him.
*******
The food and water that was promised never came. My thirst overpowered my senses, beating the drum of my temples with each dry breath. It had been hours since Constantine left. The relentless movement outside the room diminished, leaving me in relative silence. Still, sleep eluded me. A gnawing hunger bit at my ribs. Coupled with a parched throat, the best I could muster for rest was to slide back into my own mind.
Claire’s vibrant eyes dazzled mine as she peered at me across the room. Her parent’s house, full of family and cluttered with Christmas garlands and fake miniature trees, sang out as the party roared. A Christmas Story played on the TV for all her nieces and nephews, captivating the audience with the narrator’s melodic prose.
I was stolen away by one of her many uncles and dragged into a conversation on politics I had no desire to be a part of. His words passed through my ears unnoticed. All my attention was on her and the bump that had begun to form under her baggy sweater. The drink in her hand was spiked with little more than tonic and lime. We hadn’t yet told her parents. I was still a novelty to them. The fighter pilot Claire met while studying marine biology at San Diego State brought home to a storybook New England town in northern Vermont for the holidays.
I was entranced. Unable to look away from Claire, I strained to follow the plot of her uncle’s line of questioning. Another war here, another there. It was a cycle of violence I desperately wanted to escape, yet all those who hadn’t experienced it desperately wanted to be enveloped. I played my part, always humoring her family’s constant questions on matters they had no business asking. What were the horrors of this world to a sleepy, picturesque town in northern Appalachia?
Claire slipped away from the kitchen, lightly traipsing up her childhood home’s second-story steps. I followed, taking an opportunity to excuse myself during a pause in her uncle’s rant on the importance of culture to civilization. The floorboards squawked under my weight. After a hundred years, the house bellowed and moaned from its age.
I found my darling, legs crossed, sitting at the edge of a quilted twin bed. The headboard wore a chipped white patina to which childhood photos and letters were pinned - a chronicle of a life I was now and would forever be a part of.
******
I bolted upright. The door had swung open and caught its latch on the adjacent lock, ricocheting a metallic clang between the room’s walls. My head throbbed with a maddening thirst. Footsteps approached, stopping just short of me before setting down a metal tray. Through the slit of my uncinched covering, I could see a grey gelatinous mush wiggle as it landed. A hand lightly grasped the black bag, lifting it from my head. Constantine stood before me, looking back at the open door. Before saying anything, he walked over, shut the hatch, and locked it.
“I’m sorry about earlier. I should’ve brought you this sooner. You must be half starved.”
“I’m more thirsty than hungry, to be honest.”
Constantine held a metal flask from his back pocket to my lips. Gently, he raised the container, allowing the brisk liquid to grace my throat. I chugged as much as he allowed before pulling it away.
“Did I offend you earlier?” I asked as Constantine took his seat.
“The truth can be difficult to hear sometimes, but necessary. I took some time to think about what you said, though. We’ve been at this for years with little to show for it. Then we hear the most unlikely visitors from a different time stumbled into the Capital’s solar nets,” Constantine paused momentarily. “Why were they willing to send you down here?”
“Augustus?”
“Yes.”
“He asked me to talk some sense into you and the rest.”
“What, specifically?”
“If you continue on this path, many will die. By famine or purge.”
“They couldn’t possibly believe anything you could say would have an effect. So, why did they send you?”
“That’s it. That’s all Augustus asked of me. He wanted me to tell you of my time. Tell you of the atrocities that took place. Tell you of the atrocities that will take place if you don’t stop.”
“What government willing to purge the city of its people cares about atrocities?” Constantine posited.
“I’m not here to convince you, Constantine. Just relay what was said and what was asked of me.”
A dull bump vibrated through the wall, drawing his attention momentarily. When he returned his gaze, Constantine asked, “Why did you leave your home?”
“You don’t already know? You must. You knew they intercepted my station.”
“I know of it, at least all that we could gather from our sources in the Capital. I’m asking, why you left your home? Your chances of ever returning were… well, to say they were slim would be generous.”
“That’s not the way we saw it,” I chuckled.
“Virtue then? For the benefit of all mankind?”
“That was the idea.”
“What were you hoping to find out there?”
“We wanted to make contact with whoever, or whatever, sent the signal. The world was descending into chaos. It was hail marry… among countless others.”
“So you weren’t the only mission?”
“No, not at all. Many were sent out by various governments.”
“What did you think you’d find?” Constantine asked.
“The hope was… we hoped to find a more advanced form of our civilization. One that had technological advancements we could use to restore Earth’s deteriorating capacity to sustain life. At least, that’s what we believed. Officially, our mission was to make contact and report back, but that was our government’s goal from what we could tell.”
Constantine smirked before letting out a low, protracted sigh. “I’m not sure you’d want our solutions to that, Jack.”
“The GCS?”
“Yes. The cure was worse than the disease in this case.”
I nodded, looking at the rapidly cooling plate of food resting on the floor.
“Did you want to save humanity? That’s why you went, is it not?”
I let my head drop.
“You might not be able to save it in your time, but you could make a difference here.”
“Truthfully, Constantine, I didn’t go up in some vein attempt to save the world.”
Constantine leaned back in his chair, his piercing blue eyes trained on mine.
“Whoever…” I paused, contemplating how to describe my intentions. “Whoever sent the signal managed to send it back in time. I don’t know how. It defied even the most theoretical physical laws. I needed… need to know how they did it.”
“Why?”
My lips pursed as I broke his gaze and turned an eye toward the door.
“You can tell me in your own time, Jack. I don’t know anything about the signal you’re referring to. There’s never been any official mention of ever having received one.”
“I know.”
“I can’t promise anything. But if you help us, we’ll be your best chance at uncovering what the Capital knows.”
“How?”
“If we can get into the Capital Tower, you’ll have free reign of all its archives. If there was a signal, and if there’s been more since, you’ll find what you’re looking for there.”
“How do you plan on getting into the capital?”
“That’s the difficult part. One I’m hoping you can help with.”
“I don’t know what I could possibly have to offer that would help you.”
“You’ve seen it done. You said it yourself earlier.”
“When?” I asked, puzzled by the intensity in which his eyes burned.
“You called them insurgencies.”