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@theredhavendelegate
Welcome To The Redhaven Delegate!
If you're new here, probably jump over to the FAQ and content warnings sections before getting Started
The Redhaven Delegate is a biweekly series of horror/drama short stories set in The fictional great-war era city of Redhaven. Horror, drama, political upheaval, over-the-top journalism, that sort of thing. The Redhaven Delegate is written and maintained by Emmett Kane.
Iss. 12:
Breaking News!
(Skip to the end for update)
---
The office door slams open. “Millie! Dunc!” a gruff, mustachioed man shouts as he enters.
A young woman with short, brown hair glances up at him from her desk. Another man is seated to her left. He has an unshaven face and eye bags, and he bolts upright at the intrusion, sending an empty mug to the floor.
The moustache turns around and slams the door. He locks it. “I am being followed!”
Millie frowns, leans back in her chair, and opens her journal to a fresh page. “By-who and what-for? Don’t spare any details.”
“Put that thing away, Mills. This is serious.” The man walks past her desk and scoops up the fallen mug. He drops it on a table nearby and fills it with coffee from a room temperature kettle, then explains, “I’m Harvey Donaghue, the one and only! I’m the man who runs the papers—”
Duncan interrupts, “Except for The Broad Street Negotiator, The True-Blue Tribune, The Ne—”
“Hacks and tabloids!” Harvey shouts. He takes a sip from the mug he stole and immediately spits it into a sink near the coffee station, its stainless steel basin stained brown. “This isn’t the Candamoran blend, what is this crap?”
Millie rolls her eyes. “That is the Candamoran blend, it’s just been left overnight. Nobody drinks that ‘crap’ except for you and Lord Redhaven anyway.”
Harvey empties his mug into the sink. “Good coffee is the mark of a good leader.” He sets about preparing a fresh kettle. “Now, where was I?”
Duncan, half yawning, answers, “You were, uh, being…followed?”
Harvey snaps his fingers victoriously. “I was being followed! Right, a half-dozen mystery men, all clad in white chemical suits like the specters of a life not lived!”
Millie scribbles everything he says into her notebook, grimacing at the prose.
Harvey continues, suddenly grave, “They’re from the government, the lord’s estate I’m sure. The truth is too much for them to handle. I’m confident this time, they’re coming to shut down the presses, to silence the voice of The People.”
Duncan rubs the sleep out of his eyes and stands up. “They’re probably just fumigators. Miss Flannigan had an infestation of…something the other week.”
“And how. I could hear mice in the wall we share with her,” Millie remarks, scrawling in the margins of the page as the conversation develops.
“Quiet!” Harvey hisses.
The air is filled with the dull bubbling of the kettle, the hiss of escaping steam, and something scrabbling in the wall. There is a metallic click-clack coming from the door. Someone is fidgeting with the handle on the other side.
Millie squints toward it, Harvey kneels behind the coffee station, and Duncan glances around. “Should I get it?” He whispers.
The rattling stops.
The steam hisses louder.
The door explodes off of its hinges and 'half a half-dozen mystery men, all clad in white chemical suits like the specters of a life not lived', come barreling in.
---
Hiya, it’s me, Emmett. You know, the guy who runs this blog? I hate to break character, but this one’s important: The Redhaven Delegate is going on indefinite hiatus. I’m going back to school, and my other projects (mostly Ghost Bricks) are eating up a bigger percentage of my time and energy than I’d hoped.
When will it be back? No idea. You’ll just have to wait and see.
Until then, dear reader, take care of yourself and watch your back. You never know what’s lurking out there in the void.
---
First
Prev
Iss. 11:
The Wildlands of The Void!
A new frontier has opened up all around Redhaven: The Voidfields. Advanced respiration technology now allows properly protected individuals to traverse the lilac mist that surrounds the countryside, free from the dangers of the poison gas.
These individuals, ordered under the estate of Lord Redhaven himself, seek to learn more about The Void. They strike out and return, day-by-day, with samples of soil, gas, and other, stranger things, often reporting movement in the distance and far overhead, as well as rumbling from deep below.
Most prized of all is the Void Crystal, a rare mineral that is charged with a type of energy foreign to humanity, but ripe for harnessing.
One team, however, made an altogether more unsettling discovery… ---
The sky overhead is grey and sunless, about as bright as it ever gets. The field is dry and dead where it meets the purple fog. The science outpost creaks gently with the faint breeze.
George Bailley speaks, his raspy timbre muffled by a gas mask, “No leaks, Minnie. Your suit looks good, now check mine.”
The laborer turns around and his shorter compatriot pats him down. She inspects the seals around his neck, wrists, waist, and ankles, then tugs on the seams, twisting the fabric to check for holes. She nods. “You look good.”
George turns and shouts, “We’re set, Doctor Campbell!”
A tall, thin figure emerges from the outpost laden with two heavy duffel bags. He is wearing a sealed suit that matches George and Minerva, though he has yet to don his mask. His blonde locks are short and well kept, and his face is blemished only by the bags ‘neath his eyes. He strides over, dour-faced, and hands a bag each to the laborers. “This is your first time in the voidfields, yes?”
George nods and Minerva answers, “Yeah, but this is pretty routine for you by now, right? With the laborers getting rotated every couple days and all, you must get out there a lot.”
Campbell twists up his face and shrugs. George and Minerva share a look.
The doctor puts the mask over his face, wrapping the rubber carefully over his hair and behind his neck, clipping the metal ring of its base to a matching ring on the neck. He rolls his head as far as the getup will allow, then turns suddenly back toward the outpost, striding back to where he came from.
As he disappears inside, George whispers, “That wasn’t very reassuring, eh? Why d’ya think they even need to rotate the assistants out so often?”
Minnie grimaces behind her mask. “Probably partial exposures or something. Newbies like us don’t really know what we’re doing out there. It can’t be that stressful though, it’s not like there’s anything in the voidfields besides fog and dirt.”
Campbell reappears, this time closing the outpost door as he exits. He is carrying a pump-action shotgun.
“You just had to say something, eh?” George jabs quietly.
The doctor motions for the two of them to follow as he passes and they are surrounded by mist just a moment later. Visibility drops to a few feet and sound is strangely muffled as well. Campbell leads silently, walking at a comfortable pace. The ground is hard, rough, and devoid of plant life. The sky is hidden completely by the mist, and even though it is mid day, it is only as bright as the evening out here.
Minerva clears her throat after a while. “So, Thomas—”
“Doctor Campbell, please,” their guide interrupts dryly.
Minnie sighs. “Doctor Campbell. What’s it we’re looking for out here exactly? You seem to know where you’re going.”
He glances to his wrist, where a compass is mounted. “Indeed. All headings are made relative to Redhaven, which, as the strongest source of magnetic interference, is where all compasses have pointed since The Transit. We’re looking for the regular round of samples, soil and air, but the previous team found a surface vein of void crystal, and I intend to collect some larger pieces for study.”
George’s eyes glaze over and he ganders around. The environment is monotonous, uniform and without interruption, until something dark flies silently overhead. He startles and whispers, “Uh, Doc? Is there anything living out here? The onboarding guys said that there wouldn’t be anything else out here.”
Campbell doesn’t turn around. “I find it extraordinarily unlikely that this place is entirely devoid of native life. Right after The Transit, for example, troubled citizens reported encountering strange organisms, and The Redhaven Estate confirmed the acquisition of some such samples. Just as well, this dimension is likely just as old as our home dimension, so to think that no life would have evolved here, separate from us, is nothing less than hubristic.” That final note is marked with disdain.
The doctor pauses, then stops in place. He turns around and stares at George. “Wait…why do you ask?”
Before George can answer, something plummets from the sky. It is barely visible through the fog, a dark thing of chitinous scales and leathery wings, silent as death. It strikes Doctor Campbell over the shoulder, the force of it sending them both to the ground as his weapon tumbles off into the fog.
Campbell wrestles with it, swearing and shouting and swinging his arms as it tries to take off with him between its talons. George jumps on top of it, grunting and dragging even as it threatens to carry him off as well. Minerva dives for the gun, tromping around in the mist with her back hunched, looking for a glint of metal until…”There!”
She picks up the shotgun and turns with it. “Get off, George! I don’t wanna put a hole in ya!”
The man complies, or is made to comply, as the beast flexes a wing and discards him.
Minerva pulls the trigger and a spray of black filth and chipped chitin tears into the air aloft birdshot. The monster release Campbell and shrieks, flapping and flailing into the atmosphere even as Minerva chases it with another shot.
Doctor Campbell gasps and fumbles to his feet, holding the shoulder of his rubber suit in a folded mass. George rises as well and rushes to the doctor’s side. “Thomas, my god! Are you alright?”
The researcher groans and, through gritted teeth, mutters, “Doctor Campbell…and no, I’m actually doing quite poorly.”
Minerva backs up to the group, shotgun still held aloft, head swiveling. “Your suit’s ripped up, doc. We gotta get out of here before too much of the gas gets in.”
“Agreed,” Campbell manages. “There should be tape in one of the bags. I want to patch myself for now at the very least.”
George rifles through his duffel, shakes his head, and then rifles through Minerva’s. “Got it!” He continues to talk as he works. “There, just keep it pinched ahead of where I’m working. Doctor, there’s blood! Are you gonna make it.”
Behind his mask, Campbell’s wincing contorts into a frustrated smile. “I don’t exactly have many options now, do I?”
George doesn’t grant that a response. “There, all done. Now, which way’s back?”
Campbell raises the compass on his wrist, but does not speak. He keeps his arm raised, but his other hand fidgets at his side. Finally, he turns the compass outwards.
The face of it is broken and the needle is fully detached.
The doctor cocks his head to the side and says, “Looks like we’ll have to guess.”
Minerva shakes her head. “Doc, don’t we have flares or something? I though you had special shells for the shotgun.”
Campbell laughs. “We were the only ones at the outpost today, and we’re now too far out for flares to be visible from the city. You can shoot them off all you like, Minerva, but I think we’re far and away more likely to attract more of the wildlife than we are to attract help.”
He doesn’t allow the others a moment of respite, even as their panic begins to germinate. He starts off in a random direction at once.
George and Minerva move to keep themselves up tight behind Thomas, sweeping the fog around them with their eyes, occasionally exchanging glances, but never words.
The air of abandon that saturates the voidfields has been replaced, has contorted. Every errant shadow is the tip of a beastly spine, every incline and hill, the back of some enormous creature. The sky overhead, muted by the soupy air, seems to teem and flow with hungering, predatory shades.
There is a change far away. Something glows, pulses with strange light. Doctor Campbell tenses and the aura about him shifts, no longer desperate, but something else.
Minerva and George tiptoe on the silence, their feet falling just in their guide’s shadow so as to avoid breaking the razor-thin sense of security he provides.
Campbell’s pace quickens and the fog grows thin and gives way.
There is a place in the middle of the voidfields where the fog cannot seem to penetrate, a hemisphere of fresh, clear air. Plants grow here, sinewy, muscley things with red flesh and purple veins. Their petals fold neatly over one another and thorns sprout from their stems. Their roots dig into hard stone, cracking it like ice, weaving through it like sutures.
At the center of the clear is a large glowing crystal. It is purple and riven with clusters of an opaque, copper-colored mineral. It pulses with a light that is cool and comforting, even beckoning. Something sings deep beneath the ground.
Thomas strides up to the stone immediately. “George, gather samples. Stone, air, and plants. Let me handle the crystal and don’t wander out of the clear area. Minerva, guard him.”
The laborers set about their work. George bottles material: plant stems, thorns, petals, chips of stone, and clear air. Minerva watches the area all around and the sky above. Campbell takes a chunk from the crystal at the center and the light pulses once, this time shifting slowly, like syrup. The song in the deep whines.
“Minnie,” George suddenly whispers, standing at attention.
“What’s the matter?” she whispers back, turning to face him. George doesn’t speak though, just points.
There, on the edge of the mist, there is a dark shape, a mass of insectoid legs, like bent steel sticking out of flesh. They are curled upwards like those of a dead spider, utterly unmoving. If the creature has eyes, it is not looking into the clearing.
Minerva takes an uneasy step toward it, shotgun barrel first. There is a dark purple fluid pooled beneath the creature. She prods it with her weapon and, when it doesn’t move, she whispers, “I think it’s actually dead, George, and look at that.”
She takes a hand off of the gun and points. George squints into the fog, leaning uncomfortably over her shoulder. His mouth falls agape at the sight of a broken walking stick. “No, it couldn’t be…not all the way out here…”
Minerva shakes her head. “It is. It has to be. That’s Eustace’s cane.”
Doctor Campbell whistles in the distance. “You two, pack it up. We’ve got what we came for, and while you were futzing around, I’ve fixed the compass as well. Don’t touch that body either. We aren’t taking samples of wildlife until we have a proper protocol. That thing may still be waiting in ambush, or it may explode with acid blood if disturbed.”
Minerva and George share a look, then hurry back over to the doctor. He cocks his head to the side. “You didn’t find anything else of note, did you?”
Minerva shakes her head, and George answers, “Nope, just more fog beneath a sunless sky.”
---
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Iss. 10:
Field Workers on Strike! Picket Line or Firing Line?
Supplies of staple oats and root vegetables are expected in increase as efforts to revitalize agriculture in Redhaven’s countryside show promise. Farm workers speak hopefully regarding the new program and are more unified than ever, though some already complain of long hours and harsh management by Confederation overseers.
Scientific progress marches on at the estate of Lord Oswald Redhaven. Last week’s recruiting drive was a resounding success, and the bright minds up on the hill have already made a number of interesting discoveries, at least according to Head Researcher Earnest Bell.
The work is being carried out primarily in temporary science outposts on the edge of the Void Fields, where the fog meets the air. There was trouble at one of these outpost yesterday, however, as dissatisfied laborers and onsite medical staff rebelled due to repeated exposure to void-fog.
This stunning turn of events drew the eye of local police, Frontline Confederation officers and, eventually, occupying general Bradley Harrison himself.
The situation reached a fever pitch around midnight… ---
Eric lights a cigarette beneath a pitch black sky. It winks like a lone firefly, lighting the tip of his nose and his stubbled cheeks, flashing off his eyes beneath a pitch-black sky. He wears the jacket of a Frontline Confederation soldier, though the orange armband is torn off along with the rank patch. He leans against the tin wall of a temporary structure and glances to the north.
Lilac mist gathers about five hundred feet away, strange lights flowing behind it like syrupy will-o-wisps. Redhaven rises far to the south, a gathering of buildings with glowing windows and and street lamps, cyclopean eyes in the dark.
Something moves around on the edge of the city, many somethings, little lights and shadowy forms, first as a loose flood of hourglass sand, and then in termite formation. They come not within a mile, halting to surround the structure. They set up mobile lamps, more eyes to keep watch.
Eric tosses the butt of his cigarette into the wet grass and stomps it out. He turns and knocks once on the door to the building, calling, “Ingrid, they’re here.”
There is chatter from inside, the murmuring of a dozen voices, some small and worried, some cocky.
A rough woman with messy blonde hair steps outside and closes the door behind herself. She turns a freckled face towards the gathered horde and inhales sharply, “Shit. They aren’t playing around, are they?”
Eric nods. “Two companies, most likely. The 1st General infantry company, veterans of the civil war, the same people who occupied the city initially, and the 1st Redhaven auxiliary. Those are the locals who volunteered to fight for their own occupiers, mostly green opportunists.”
Ingrid squints between the formations, where they’ve created alleys for their lamps. There are small groups working within those alleys, maneuvering some kind of equipment. She asks, “What are those ones doing?”
Eric doesn’t answer initially. He pouts and wrings his hands, then finally relents, “Artillery. We—I mean, The 1st has an artillery corps. Six guns, mostly meant to counter tanks, but, well…a cannon is a cannon.”
Ingrid blanches.
Eric clears this throat after a moment and asks, “How’d it get like this? Weren’t the other unions supposed to back us up?”
“Well, they will. They haven’t gotten to meet yet though, that’s next week. The farm workers will have us for sure, Jens wouldn’t let us down, and if we keep taking losses and illnesses the way we have been this past week, there won’t be anyone left to go diving into the void for the eggheads. If we can get a meeting with someone tonight either way, we should be able to buy some time.”
Eric doesn’t respond, he just pulls out another cigarette and lights it.
Ingrid takes a shuddering breath and whispers, “Do you think they’ll actually use those guns.”
“I doubt it,” Eric answers, his voice flat and his throat dry. “Probably just a scare tactic, probably just a trick.”
A short man in a bowler hat and wire-rim glasses walks down an alley. Another man, this one tall, with olive skin and a large metal case, follows closely. They do not speak.
They work their way to the end of the alley. The man in the bower hat glances around the corner, and then the two cross the street at a trot. They continue like this for a minute more until they reach the base of an old stone tower with an iron door, the feather of Redhaven cast into its surface. The Valet produces a key and, with a gloved hand, inserts it into the door to reveal a dark interior, a rusting ladder at its center.
“After you, Hasan,” he whispers, the words piercing the silence like a needle through fabric.
The marksman nods and steps inside, loading the large case onto his shoulder via a canvas strap. Whatever is inside doesn’t make a sound as it’s upturned. He climbs the ladder, which whines with each step until Hasan reaches a square hole in the ceiling and clambers through.
The Valet joins him a moment later and both are gifted with a clear sight out over Redhaven’s countryside. A small army has assembled just beyond the city limits. The termites stand in even, slouching rows, and the aisles between them are lit with flickering lamps, candles on a table.
The hordes face off against a small, temporary building. The faint glow of a lit cigarette can be seen just before the door, emanating from the hand of a figure so far as to be faceless.
Ingrid Larsen mills about inside of the research outpost, which is damp and cramped. A dozen other figures are scattered around, bearing the worker’s uniform: calloused hands and wrinkled brows. A few glance up to her, three play cards without money, and the rest converse quietly or mill about.
The space is lit by gas lamp, dim bulbs hissing and flickering near the windows, makeshift funnels turning their soot to the outside, from which the clatter of the distant soldiery can just be caught.
“Ingrid,” Eric calls from outside. “Someone is coming this way!”
His voice is firm, a thin guise to his worry. Ingrid nods reassurances to the rest of the crew and exits, and she is greeted again by the moonless night of The Void.
The field between the science outpost and the soldiers is barren except for a single figure on horseback. He rides up with an air of simultaneous poise and impatience, clad in a great coat and the pointed hat of a general.
He comes to a stop less than five feet from Eric and Ingrid and they stare up at him. He looks down over a bushy black beard and moustache, assessing them like cuts of meat.
“Hello and well met,” he declares pompously. “You have the pleasure of parlaying with Bradley Harrison, general and commander of The Frontline Confederation’s 2nd northern assault army.”
The two continue to stare for a moment, until Ingrid answers simply, “Hello.”
He glares at her from his saddle and squints. “I have it on good account that you disgruntled laborers have taken the researchers of this outpost hostage. You are to release them immediately and surrender, so that you may be subject to the justice of Redhaven and The Frontline Confederation.”
Ingrid turns to Eric and frowns, then leans in to converse with him at a whisper. “Is this guy fucking nuts, Eric? I don’t even know where to start with this.”
The ex-soldier huffs and replies, “I might have an idea, just don’t piss him off.”
Eric turns to Harrison and lowers his head respectfully. He dons the tone of a simple worker and says, “Sorry about the confusion, Mister Harrison sir. There aren’t any researchers in the building, just us voidsmen. You can send a couple fellows inside to check if you like though, just to poke around. See, we just haven’t gotten the safety equipment we need, no hazard pay, and—”
Bradley cuts the man off. “My sources don’t lie, and I won’t stoop to negotiating with troublemakers. Release the hostages and surrender within ten minutes, or we will be forced to assault the outpost.”
Eric motions to respond, but the general has already begun to wheel his horse around. Harrison adds, “This will be your only warning,” before galloping off.
Eric goes wide-eyed. Ingrid watches the clouds of dust fade out behind the general’s horse and grumbles, “He must not be the type to respect common people. That was just another scare tactic though, right? Just trying to turn up the pressure on us?”
Eric doesn’t answer.
Hasan lays the metal case on the floor of the tower roof. “This is a cozy spot for a lookout,” he remarks.
The Valet, standing at attention by his side, responds, “The Carmine household is a patron of history. Towers and other such historical sites are littered throughout the city and maintained at their expense. Your own quarters beneath the town hall are also historic, a former dungeon from Redhaven’s earliest days.”
“Fitting,” The marksman comments playfully. He opens the case to reveal a long, ornate rifle. It’s stock and body are made of dark wood, ornately detailed with gold and silver inlay and colorful gemstones. The hexagonal barrel is polished to a shine, and there is a complex, multi-lensed scope affixed to the top.
He withdraws it from its perfectly-fitted, felt-lined home. His hands cradle it as if it was made of porcelain, and his fingers pass along its grip and mechanisms tenderly.
“Tell me again, servant of Carmine, why we are up here on such a dreary night.”
The Valet keeps his eyes fixed on the field. “The General is on rather thin ice. Negotiating with him is difficult, and he continues to make trouble on his own time that bleeds over into matters of state.”
Hasan opens the chamber of his rifle and inspects it, millimeter by millimeter. “I thought this was an over watch mission, not an assassination.”
“It isn’t,” The Valet replies coolly. “Unless, that is, General Harrison decides to cross the line.”
The marksman inserts a round into the chamber, a gleaming brass bullet with a dark, shining tip. “And where is that line? I wouldn’t want to make any trouble, the sort that might ‘bleed over into matters of state’.”
The Valet’s eyes flash, just subtly, and he fixes his glasses with two fingers. “Watch the big guns. If they fire even once, use their sound for cover. There is the potential here for collateral damage that we can scarcely afford.”
Hasan takes a step over to the tower’s edge and lays the barrel of his gun between two stone crenelations, then kneels down. He stairs through the lenses of his scope and sets their center-most dot on the head of a man on horseback. To The Valet, he replies, “That’s a good, clean line. I won’t have to think twice.”
The lines of massed soldiers have begun to droop. A few murmur here and there only to be silenced by their officers, and they increasingly unsling their weapons and set them stock-first on the ground.
A horse trots down the line and then back up. Its rider adjusts his pointed hat, checks his watch, then stops beside one of the mobile lamps. A senior officer nearby salutes and clears his throat. “The kidnappers haven’t made a move, general. What are your orders?”
Harrison’s permanently furrowed brow furrows more deeply, receding into itself, and he sighs. “They leave us no choice.”
The soldiers nearest tense up and their apprehension spreads through the ranks. A new wave of dissonant murmuring goes up and is hushed in short order, and the lines straighten out.
The faint light of a cigarette near the outpost extinguishes.
The general purses his lip and rides to a point at the head of the formation where the various artillery teams can see him. He calls out. “All artillery crews, to alert!” Their commanders hurry to position themselves and soon, the barking orders start to ring out over the field like bells.
“Targets are in the science outpost! Load and aim!”
A rattling, clanking, thunking chorus sings its grizzly promise to the sky and, each at their own time, the artillery teams call out, “Ready to fire at command!”
The general raises a fist. He breathes, and something catches his eye.
Someone is walking between the lines towards him. They are wearing some kind of rubber suit beneath a lab coat, and their face is concealed with a black filter-mask. They have a warning hand raised.
Harrison’s seriousness melts into something more resembling worry. He opens his fist to reveal his palm and shouts, “All crews, hold!”
The masked figure lowers their hand and nods gratefully.
Harrison grimaces and mutters, “What’s the matter now, Earnest. Sorry, Doctor Bell.”
The scientist adjusts his mask slightly and answers, voice all gravel, rust and haggard breathing, “There are…are…th—things in that outpost that…that we cannot easily…recreate, and the people are…v—valuable, in their own…right. It would set us back…q—quite badly to lose all…all that. Lord Redhaven would not…approve, and you know how the people love Lord Redhaven.”
The general sneers. “Really now? What do you propose then, should we just leave them alone in there with all your ‘irreplaceable’ research? And for what? Lord Redhaven’s altruism?”
Though Bell’s face is hidden, he seems to glower pitifully with his whole body. “You could…could simply…fire them. Th—they are…under your management, a thing which…which I recall you fought f—for quite determinedly…”
The scientist spreads his hands out in a placating gesture, and he turns his head around, seeming to look for something back in the city.
As General Harrison tries to track Doctor Bell’s gaze, a sourceless shudder runs up his spine.
His hands tighten around the reins of his horse and he swallows, then relents. “Fine. I…I need clearer directions in the future though, let Lord Redhaven know that comes from me personally. If these sites need to be guarded inside and out, then so be it. If something like this happens again, I won’t be deferring my authority.”
“I’ll b—bring it to…to him for…consideration.” The doctor adjusts his mask again and nods, then walks back down the line of soldiers.
The artillery commanders stare at Bradley for direction and, after a moment, he clears his throat. “All crews, stand down!”
Hasan raises his head. Far away and below, the soldiers of The Frontline Confederation part as a group of common laborers pass between them anxiously. “Is that it?” he asks aloud.
The Valet wipes his glasses with a kerchief. “I suppose so, and Miss Carmine will be most grateful for that.”
“What about Bradley?” Hasan asks, stepping away from the parapet and over to his gun case.
The Valet replaces his spectacles. “He’ll be quite angry, I’m sure. His authority is undermined, the outpost and its contents have been preserved, and the void workers that I’m sure he just fired have nowhere to go except into the arms of his enemies.”
Hasan wipes the fingerprints from his rifle and returns it to its felted home. “What kind of strategy is this, Valet? You agitate your allies, weave a web of uneasy alliances, manipulate the population, but never outright punish them, and, at great expense, furnish a personal marksman of the highest caliber, all so that he never actually pulls the trigger.”
The Valet glances at the marksman, then looks back out over Redhaven. He contemplates the question, then answers, “It’s a sort of fixed tension. If one side pulls too hard, the other sides react and compensate, bringing things back into balance. We agitate Harrison so that he clamps down on the laborers, who rush to the Blue Coalition for protection, who grow overconfident and overstep their bounds, and are in turn cut back by the Confederation. See?”
“That seems like a dandy way to keep your blood pressure high, but where do I fit in?”
The Valet laughs softly. “Well, even the best plan can fail.” He pushes up his glasses and flashes a grin. “You’re insurance.”
---
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Off The Record No. 1: Carmine Letter
Here's a scoop you won't get anywhere else. They won't print stories like this in the paper, not even in rags like The Broad Street Negotiator.
If you want to know what's really going on in Redhaven, then you have to go off the record.
---
A man in a bowler hat, a vest, and wire-rim glasses walks down a long hallway. The carpet is ornate, patterned with fibers of dark red, blue, and gold. The walls are papered with an equally ostentatious style, and wood trim covers them from the baseboards to a little over waist height. It is dim, lit just by gas lamps. The windows are all shuttered.
There are paintings hung along the way, well dressed figures standing alone, contrasted and framed by rolling landscapes, statues, and bowls of fruit. One portrait depicts a brown-furred foxhound so saggy and wrinkled that it appears to be melting.
The Valet stops in front of a pair of hand-carved wooden doors and knocks with an uneven cadence. The response is a single knock from somewhere on the other side, and The Valet enters.
The room is a study, walls lined with bookshelves and more paintings. There are side tables, a couch, a balcony, and a large, imposing wooden desk at the center, which has been etched on its front with the image of a large feather.
Behind the desk is a woman with long, reddish-brown hair and ice-blue eyes. She wears a small amount of makeup, something to sharpen her brows and, to the keen-eyed, foundation on the cheeks. Her clothing is practical, though flawlessly tailored from shoe to cuff.
She smiles coolly at The Valet and gestures with a hand as she says, “We’re on a wonderful little adventure now, meddling in the affairs of the lay folk so directly. I wonder, will it all play out in our favor? I worry that I’m beginning to lose my edge.”
The Valet closes the doors behind himself with a featherlight touch, and then walks over to the desk. Arms at his back, he replies, “One cannot make statements encapsulating a whole person, but your plans, at the very least, are as keen as those of any Carmine to come before you.”
The mayor leans back in her seat and steeples her fingers. “You would know better, wouldn’t you? I see vanishingly little of the effects of my decisions. The balcony provides a stunning view, but very little insight. Enlighten me.”
The servant nods and removes his cap to reveal a mostly vacant scalp which is interrupted by a neat row of thinning strands. “You’ve chosen wisely. All the laborers you’ve selected have agreed to the meeting, including today’s visit, Mister Dahl. He has more influence than he realizes, and his cool temper should prove a balm to that of The Blue Coalition’s agents. All that said, assuming this first meeting goes well, Redhaven’s laborers should be protected without upsetting General Harrison too badly.”
The mayor scoffs. “Nothing could prevent that man from getting his medals in a tangle.”
“Quite right,” The Valet agrees.
There is a knock at the door and the mayor comments, “Right on time. Let Lord Redhaven in and fetch us refreshments. You know what he likes.”
The serving man goes towards the door, his gait soft and prudent. He pulls open them open to reveal an old man with a white, well kept beard and a broad build. The Valet bows and gestures deeper into the room, and once Lord Redhaven has walked past him, closes the doors again. The valet exits through a side door.
“Oswald,” Mayor Carmine calls brightly. “Please, make yourself comfortable. My man will be back in a moment with tarts and Candamoran coffee, a good, coastal blend.”
The lord’s brow is furrowed and his lips are slightly pursed, but he forces a smile and nods, taking a seat before the desk. He slouches deeply into the maroon upholstery and clears his throat. “Well, Desdemona. It’s good to see you again.”
She beams fawningly. “My lord, the honor is all mine! It’s always a blessing that you’re willing to take time out of your busy day to talk about matters of such import with a lowly public servant.”
He rubs a temple. “Well, my schedule only gets busier with the passing days. Did you know that the Confederates conducted an inquest at my estate? They wanted to imprison half of my scientists and philosophers! Claimed they were operatives of The Covenant! I had to bargain directly with that upstart general just to keep those good people free, and I still had to lay a few of them off for his satisfaction.” Oswald has begun to rake his fingers through his beard and the strong impression that he’d been wearing sloughs off to reveal weariness.
The side door opens silently and The Valet returns. He carries a sterling silver platter, upon which rides a set of fine porcelain serving-ware: saucers, teacups, and a steaming carafe, along with a plate of fresh fruit pastries.
The server fills a cup with coffee so dark it seems to suck the light out of the air around it, and then passes it to Oswald. The lord takes a sip and another layer sloughs off of him, weariness giving way to calm. He mutters to the man, “Thank you good sir, thank you.”
Mayor Carmine serves herself a cup as well and turns to The Valet. “Thank you, that will be all.” He bows low, a hand on his bowler hat, rises, and takes his leave.
“Now,” Carmine begins, “It can’t all be bad news, can it? What have your learned men discovered?”
Oswald turns his chin up slightly and smiles. “Ah, yes. Progress. The fog, which had been making people quite fatally ill, can be filtered. Doctor Bell has already seen success with a round of prototype suits, which also mask his condition to his satisfaction while he searches for a cure. He’s rather a lot more confident with his face covered. Another thing: The complex is finally secure again. The entrances that formed during The Transit are all locked down and it’s no longer threatening to collapse, and we’ll be back at full capacity in another month or two.”
Desdemona nods and stirs her coffee, which must have four sugar cubes in it by now. She says, “That’s wonderful to hear. I’ll have you know that the civil side of things is stabilizing as well. Our friends in orange should have their hands full soon enough, and The Blue Coalition won’t be any bother. I’m working on giving them some…competition.”
Oswald nods with a furrowed brow, “I see,” he says, clearly lying. “This…competition, you said? It should see a little…uh…reduction in the population’s general anger, yes?”
The mayor nods decisively and stirs her coffee.
“Good, good then.” Oswald takes another sip from his cup, closing his eyes and sighing with contentment.
A grandfather clock by the window chimes and his eyes snap open. “Oh, goodness me! Is it that late already?” He rises, mildly aback, and sets his cup on the platter. “I’ve got to see Doctor Bell. He has a demonstration for me, something about these peculiar crystals he’s found in the ‘Void Fields’, as he’s taken to calling them, but it was a fine visit, very fine.”
Desdemona pushes the plate of pastries towards the lord and he takes a strawberry one from the stack as he turns to the door. “I really ought to arrange to swing by more often. I swear, our conversations are the only times that I get any rest. Take care and all that.” She nods and waves, and the lord hurries off without another word, pulling open the office doors with one hand while the other handles his tart.
Carmine stares at the doors as they shut and she keeps her eyes fixed on them as Lord Redhaven’s tread fades down the corridor. Once the sound has fully vanished, she sets her untouched drink back on the platter and claps once.
The Valet reemerges from the side door and strolls over to the desk, placing a notepad on the corner of the desk. A few pages are filled with large, neat handwriting, which mirrors the conversation that had just taken place. Carmine tucks it into a drawer as the serving man carries off the platter, and she sets to work writing her own notes after a moment.
She doesn’t write for long. There is a thunderous knock on the door, a sound that echoes throughout the room, and Carmine’s face rankles with displeased familiarity. “Enter,” she vociferates dispassionately.
A brusque man pushes through the doors and throws them closed again. He has rich, olive skin and black eyes that pierce the gloom. His clothing is robe-like, beige and maroon and tied off at the waist with yet more fabric. He carries himself to one of the chairs in front of they mayor’s desk, seats himself, and crosses his legs. “The seat’s still warm,” he remarks.
“Indeed,” Desdemona sneers, not bothering to look up from her note-taking. “The lord was just here a minute ago, and I doubt he’d be happy to see you out and about.”
The man pouts. “You consider this ‘out and about’? You really out to get more sunshine.”
Carmine sets down her pen and glances up, locking eyes with the man. “You are here under my service, Mister Jazari.”
“Please, call me Hasan,” he interjects.
She relaxes slightly and rolls her eyes. “I can tell that you’re bored, Mister Jazari, but I’ve got a bit of good news for once.”
The mercenary raises a dark brow.
The mayor explains, “We’re expecting some agitation at the northern science post not too long after public hiring begins. You’ll be on over-watch to make sure nothing gets too loud: we want to bring things to a simmer now, not a boil.”
Hasan cocks his head to the side and grins. “Over-watch,” he repeats, gnawing on the word slightly. “Sitting around and gazing about? Holding fire unless absolutely necessary? That means I get out of the kennel and I don’t have to waste ammunition. I like the sound of that.”
Carmine furrows her brow. “Regardless of how much ammunition you expect to waste. Make sure you and your rifle are ready. The Valet will give you more details on a need-to-know basis.”
The mayor goes back to writing, and Hasan stares at her for a moment. without looking up, she says, “There are fruit tarts in the pantry, help yourself, and don’t come back in here until I call for you.”
The mercenary grins and finally rises. He heads off through the side door and disappears, leaving Carmine alone in her office. She sets her pen down and strolls over to the glass balcony doors. The sky outside is a dim grey, and it grows dimmer by the minute.
“We’re on a wonderful little adventure now, aren’t we?” she whispers to no one in particular.
“A wonderful little adventure.”
---
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Iss. 9:
The Hands That Toil: Redhaven's Labor Shortage!
Bouts of rain have been hitting Redhaven over the course of the last week, and the new government is making haste to take advantage of that fact, initiating a program to revitalize agriculture in Redhaven’s countryside. The program will involve the hiring of farm laborers from the city’s civilian population placed directly under the management of Frontline Confederation officers as farms are rebuilt and replanted.
In a related move, the estate of Lord Oswald Redhaven is looking for scientists, engineers, and researchers to conduct investigations into the fog surrounding Redhaven and what lies beyond it. Thus far, head researcher Earnest Bell has determined that we are, all of us, in another dimension. He explained to The Delegate, “This new world is just like our old world in many ways, but it differs in many more. These distinctions are mounting and have begun to form the basis for a whole new frontier of scientific possibility.”
The estate has officially termed this new dimension, “The Void”
Despite the confidence of the new government, as evidenced by the farming and science programs, there are those who have reservations. Chief among these individuals is a farmhand you may recall from an older interview with The Delegate, Jens Dahl… ---
Gerhardt square’s cobbles are wet with rain water, though the downpour has passed. A bald man with white, well-groomed facial hair stands in front of a podium. He is wrinkled with worry and age, though his back remains straight and his chin held high. A badge of silver and gold sits on his breast, shining bright: the feather of Redhaven. His feather.
There are police present, a few in front and a few in the wings, but the crowd is passive and admiring. Some are even awestruck.
Another man watches from the edge of the crowd with his brow furrowed and his shoulders sagging, not quite as old as the speaker, but worse-for-wear by a lifetime. Jens Dahl listens intently to the speech, eyes squinting through the gloom of the sunless afternoon.
Lord Redhaven’s voice booms, “Though we’ve all lost much in The Great Transit and the days that followed it, there is new faith to be found. Professor Bell and his team have discovered new materials within the fog, materials that may change life itself for you, the citizens of Redhaven. This ‘void crystal’ as it has been named, may well be the future, and it is only by the strength of our people that we can understand it, that we can take this future into our own hands.”
A pack of journalists to Jens’ right scribble furiously, marking down every syllable. He tilts his nose up warily and waits.
Lord Redhaven continues, “That is why we are calling for anyone with experience in academia, research, engineering, and chemistry to join the call. My estate will be open immediately following this event, where Professor Bell will be conducting interviews and selecting the most promising candidates to further his research, and to further our future.” The statesman pauses for a moment, gauging the crowd with his eyes. “So, thank you, people of Redhaven, for fighting on through this tragedy. We will come out of this stronger than ever before, so long as we stick together, so long as we keep heart.”
There is a roar of applause, swelling like the tides and flooding the senses. Lord Redhaven nods humbly and makes his way off stage. The assembled officers form up to surround him and a few of the reporters rush up, shouting questions as the road is closed off to block them.
The audience lingers, murmuring about applications, about qualifications, wondering if there will be opportunities for common laborers or veterans.
Jens does not wait though. He turns around and separates himself from the pack as quickly as he can, trotting down the high street until he’s clear of the throng and the buzzing conversations. He slows slightly and his breathing evens out, though he carries on for another few blocks to the stoop of a duplex apartment. He knocks on the door, asking, “Ingrid, are you in?”
A high and rough voice calls out, “It’s unlocked.”
Jens wipes his feet off outside and enters, closing the door gently behind himself as he does. The interior is dim and much smaller than it seemed from the outside, but it is well kept. A rough-looking woman with messy blonde hair is lounging on an old couch and reading a newspaper.
“Sit,” she commands, and Jens rolls his eyes.
“Where do you get off, giving orders to a guest?” he responds, more tired than annoyed.
The woman closes her paper and straightens up. “It wasn’t an order, it was advice. I can hear you panting.” Jens’ frown drops just a little bit lower, then he concedes, taking a seat on a wooden chair in the corner. Ingrid continues, “How was the speech? Was the magnanimous Lord Redhaven as impressive as everyone says?”
Jens hunches in the chair, setting his elbows on his knees. “Sure, sure. He seems spry for his age, sprier than me for sure. Talked a lot about what his cabinet of experts have found out about this ‘void’ we’re trapped in.”
There is a pause.
Ingrid leans forward and says, “But you’re worried about something.”
Jens bites his lip. “The good Count put out a call to hire. He specified researchers and academics and that sort of thing, but they’ll need regular folks too. Equipment will need to moved, infrastructure repaired, supplies manufactured. Between this and the farming program, a lot of people who were out of work last week will be back to it.”
Ingrid leans back and shrugs. “So what? We’re workers, we work. You’ve been a farmhand your whole life and you’re doing fine.”
“That’s not all of it though. The Field Workers local went up in smoke. Same for most of the other trades. Farm work was hard, but we did fine so long as we had our reps. I’ve worked fields without contracts, and it isn’t pretty.” Jens is stewing now, thoughts rattling around in his head like loose change.
Ingrid scratches the back of her head and squints, finally rising to her feet to stretch. “You’re the most experienced one left, right? How long were you a foreman? Ten years? Fifteen? All the surviving farmhands know and respect you, so just open another local for them. You’ve already been arguing with the bosses, so you’re basically already a rep.”
Jens’ eyes go wide as dinner plates and he cocks his head to the side. He stammers for a moment, then finally mutters, “That’s too much. I don’t think I can do it all on my own.”
Ingrid shrugs. “You could always ask The Blues for help. I hear they do this kind of thing all the time: agitation or aggravation, or something like that.”
Jens shakes his head. “I’m sure the Coalition has done lots of good around Redhaven, but I don’t like ‘em. That Calloway guy? The one who started the riot earlier in the month? They haven’t given him up and he shot someone. Who knows how many other crazies they’re protecting?”
A silence passes between the two, then Jens speaks again. He asks, "Why don't you do it? You're more social than I am, friendlier and what-not, and you're great with names and faces."
Ingrid replies, "No offense to you, Jens, but I'm not going back to farm work. I'm still good and strong, but it wasn't for me, not for the long term. I like to jump between things, you know?"
She goes to continue when there is another knock. It is quiet but firm, assertive and yet, strangely patient.
Ingrid puts up a hand to silence Jens, and then walks over to the door. She questions aloud, “Who is it?”
The voice is even and refined. “A friend from The Mayor’s office. She sends a bottle of cognac, and a proposal for your guest, Mister Dahl.”
Ingrid flashes Jens a questioning look and he shakes his head uncertainly. Ingrid whispers, “Should I let him in?”
Jens answers, “It’s your house. I hate brandy though.”
Ingrid rolls her eyes and opens the door to reveal a rather short man, somewhere around five feet tall. He is well-dressed, with a vest, bowler hat, wire-rim glasses, and a thin mustache. A silver watch chain hangs from a pocket, and he presents a bottle squarely in front of himself with both hands. There is a silver ribbon near the cork and the liquid inside seems to shine in the dim daylight with a color that ranges from yellow at its shallowest to crimson at its depths. The man looks expectantly towards Ingrid.
She hesitates for a moment, and then accepts the bottle. “Come inside, then,” she remarks, leading the way and passing the alcohol to Jens.
Though Ingrid invites him to sit with a gesture, the man remains standing. “Mister Dahl, Miss Larsen,” he expresses, as if playing host, “I represent the office of Mayor Desdemona Carmine and the interests of Redhaven. I am aware that Jens is well positioned to represent the agricultural laborers of Redhaven.”
Jens sits up straight and interrupts, “Were you eavesdropping?”
The man turns up his nose and shakes his head slightly. “Not at all. You’ve garnered a reputation of sorts, a good one.” Jens hunches over again and rolls one of his wrists. The man continues, “The heads of various unions and co-ops within the city will be gathering soon, and nobody is currently expected to represent your bloc. Your inclusion in this momentous event could be arranged, however.”
Jens mulls the words over for a minute, and Ingrid interjects with a question. “Great, that’s nice, but why is this meeting happening at my house?”
The bowler-hatted man blinks slowly, like a cat, and sighs. “Ah, yes, that detail. Mister Dahl’s home in the countryside is being watched, not everyone is as pleased by his reputation as we are. Actually, assuming that he agrees, we have secured new lodgings for him already.”
The sag in Jens’ shoulders grows deeper. He glances around the room, to Ingrid, to the man, to the bottle, to the shuttered windows, and then to the floor.
He takes a deep breath, then looks back up. “I’ll do it.”
The man claps his hands together quietly and nods. “Very well. I’ll provide you with a date and address, and show you to your new quarters tonight, let’s say…” he withdraws his pocket watch, “six o’clock?”
Jens nods, then stops. He raises a brow. “Wait, wait. What’s your name? What do I call you?”
A tiny smile, unnatural on the man’s face, grows and then disappears. “If all goes well, you won’t be speaking with me again after tonight. You can call me ‘The Valet’, in relevant company though. If they know who I am, then they’ll know who you mean.”
The Valet waits for a moment, then tips his hat, and says, “I’ll see you at six. Good day, Mister Dahl, Miss Larsen.” He leaves the two, and the door closes heavily behind him.
---
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Iss. 8:
Terror On The Block!
The city begins to settle, but something may be lurking beneath the calm surface. Rumors have begun to spread concerning the presence of members of The Eudax Peace Corps in Redhaven. Informed readers may know that The Peace Corps was a branch of The Eudax Covenant’s military that specialized in infiltration, assassination, and (some whisper) even torture.
Special agents with the occupation force claim that some of these spies may still exist within the city, lying in wait to strike out against Confederation forces and government officials alike. A Frontline investigator and counter-terrorism specialist has been searching for evidence of these malefactors for several weeks and claims to have neutralized one such individual already… ---
It rains.
For the first time since the transit, clouds form in the sky and water falls in drops. The rain tamps down the dust, washes away the blood and ash, and beats against the windows of a brick building near Gerhardt Square.
A man sits inside and listens as windows and doors open outside and people step out onto the streets. They hoot and revel, voices echoing between the buildings and into the uncaring sky. Some gather up rain in buckets, wells having just begun to run dry. With all the terror and instability gripping Redhaven, a threat as complete and incurable as the water issue had seemed like the shadow of a noose, and now it was simply solved.
“A miracle by any other name,” the man mutters, rubbing the short, rough hairs on his chin and cheeks.
He wears a white button-up, suspenders, and a pair of sensible cotton slacks. His hair is short and messy, and there are bags under his eyes so old they’ve started paying rent. His skin is tanned, rough, and wrinkled, and his desk is a mess of papers, photos, and unlabeled folders.
There is a placard on the corner of his work top embossed with the phrase ”Det. Frederick Boyd, FC 1st Special Unit”. It is covered in dust.
The rain turns into a background din as Frederick reorganizes his investigation files. He places an old photograph of a young man in uniform, with a square jaw and a shining smile, next to a newer one: the same man, wrinkled and dead-eyed.
A folder ends up beneath the photos and the rest of the material goes into a stack off to one side. The detective pinches the bridge of his nose and pulls a notepad out of his pocket. He flips to one page covered in smudged chicken-scratch and focuses in on the words, ‘hangs out at warehouse 9, block 3’.
“Peace Corps,” he grumbles, rolling the words around in his mouth like the shells of sunflower seeds, spitting them out with disgust. He flexes all four of the fingers remaining on his left hand, the ghost of an index finger pulling taut around nothing.
He takes a deep breath, rises to his feet, and shuffles his files away into a locked filing cabinet. He draws a revolver from the drawer beneath it, then he dawns a coat and hat. He stares out the widow, looking over the square as a group of children run around the statue at it’s center. One rascal jumps in a puddle and then kicks a wave onto the kid nearest, laughing all the while.
“It’s a terrible day for rain,” Fred murmurs. “But not for everyone.”
---
It rains.
A man stands on a street corner beneath a faded blue canopy, situated across the street from a towering brick building. He is wearing a coat and hat, and his gaze lingers on the end of the road.
A figure emerges from around a corner, another man, this one in his late middle-ages. He is well worn, his broad build and sagging shoulders suggesting lost strength. Fred ducks back into cover as the stranger hurries along the sidewalk with a suitcase, then stops in front of a door. The man glances around and pushes his way into the massive brick behemoth.
Frederick waits, just for a minute, then crosses the street. The rain is thundering now and he’s soaked by the time he’s fully across. The door isn’t shut all the way, it’s cracked just a hair, and a shuffling sound echoes from deeper within.
The detective places his hand on the door and then stops himself from pushing it open. He glances up at the barest glint of light on glass, an empty bottle set on the top lip of the door. He pauses, takes a breath, then opens the door fully with one hand. The other snatches the bottle out of the air as it comes tumbling down and Frederick sets it on the sidewalk before allowing himself in.
The interior of the warehouse is cool. The air is damp and almost every surface is dusty or cob-webbed, clearly having been abandoned since before The Great Transit.
Fred moves slowly, the rubber soles of his shoes barely tapping as he works his way around a stack of crates to get a better view of the warehouse floor. The ground is strewn with detritus and the center of the space isn’t as dusty as the rest. The older man is working near the opposite wall, tossing pieces of broken palette wood into a barrel and pouring petrol in after. His suitcase is set to the side.
Frederick watches the man work for a moment longer, and then he lights the flame. The contents of the barely go up with a woosh that echoes around the warehouse and shakes the high glass windows, and Fred finally comes out from his cover.
He steps into the gloom, raising his revolver with his left hand, and clears his throat. “Step back and put your hands behind your head.”
The man turns around with his hands slightly raised. “What do you want,” he groans, his expression fearful. “I don’t have anything left to take.”
Fred answers, “I want to know what’s in the suitcase. It seems to me that you’re attempting to dispose of something.”
“Dispose of something?” the man whines. “People burn their trash all the time, toss things into ditches, who cares? It’s garbage, not a crime.” His demeanor has shifted slightly. The fear is giving way to something that’s harder to read, calmer.
Fred takes a few steps forward and says, “If it’s just trash, then you won’t mind if I take a look, just to make sure?”
The man doesn’t answer and the detective takes that as permission. He sidles over to the suitcase, keeping as wide a berth as he can from his target.
He places a hand on the suitcase, keeping the revolver raised with the other, and undoes the latches one at a time. He catches sight of a uniform as the lid swings open. Dark grey with dark green trim, and his eyes fall for just a second.
There is a crash, a heavy, metallic thunk-thud as the man throws the burn-barrel to the floor. Ash and debris blow out in a cloud and embers fly through the air, landing on every flammable thing in the space. Frederick raises his gun again but lowers it when ash lands in his eye and blinds him. By the time he can clear his vision and put his finger on the trigger again, the man is gone and the back door is swinging.
Fred takes off, across the room, through the door, and into the downpour, ash running off of his hat and coat as rivulets of clay.
He pounds down the alley and rounds a corner. His target is attempting to climb a fence. He pauses to aim. The man flounders. Frederick pulls the trigger with his middle finger and the shot rings out.
His quarry fumbles off of the fence and onto the ground.
The man clutches at his leg, dark, dark red seeping out and mixing with the rainwater beneath him. He watches the detective approach, old eyes sharp with pain, but mouth silent.
Fred doesn’t lower his gun as he approaches. At around ten feet, he stops. “Were you with The Peace Corps? Do you know about any other agents in the city? Have they really all been disbanded?”
The man coughs and shrugs. Fred pulls the trigger half way, engaging the hammer and drawing it partially back. The man slumps and says, “Yes, no, and I don’t know.”
“What do you mean by that?”
The man grits his teeth, “First: I used to be, second: I don’t know of any others in the city, and third: I don’t know if they’ve been disbanded. They kicked me out several years ago, dishonorable discharge.”
Fred tilts his head slightly. “What for? Crack too many skulls?”
The man laughs at that, then winces. “No, but that’s a funny thing to say. Exact opposite, actually. I went soft, disobeyed orders, and you wouldn’t believe some of the orders they gave. They took everything from me and sent me packing. I didn’t turn into a good man, but…well…” He waits for a moment, something stirring on his face. He looks up again sorrowfully and finishes, “I could’ve been worse.”
The detective keeps his target sighted, but he pauses now. As he stares, realization grows on the his target’s face.
The wounded man asks, “What happened to your trigger finger, southpaw?”
Frederick lowers the gun slightly, tightens his lips, and mutters, “Lost it to the same folks.” The detective lowers his gun further and raises a sympathetic brow. He sticks his right hand out and says, “Look, whatever you did before, you might be able to make up for it. Why don’t you come with me, sort things out?”
The man’s eyes have gone dark, his shoulders slumped and his clothing soaked through with rain and blood. He shakes his head. “I’m sorry, I really am, but there are sins you can’t atone for, things that nobody can atone for.” He makes a sudden move, reaches behind himself and pulls up a dark object.
Frederick fires on reflex.
The object falls to the ground.
It’s an empty leather wallet. The detective stares at it, at the man, who seems to stare back with unblinking eyes. He can't tear his eyes away.
It’s a terrible day for rain.
---
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Iss. 7:
A New Order In Redhaven?
Gerhardt Square awoke to much pomp and solemnity on Sunday morning as Desdemona Carmine, Redhaven’s duly elected Mayor, came by with a formal announcement. Her office, Lord Redhaven’s estate, and occupying forces from The Frontline Confederation have reached a power sharing agreement.
The following conditions are now in effect: Though Redhaven retains its police precinct, The Frontline Coalition will be forming its own law enforcement body which supersedes local authorities. City administration is now a joint effort between the mayoral office clerks and separatist quartermasters, who will set and collect taxes together. Lastly, a curfew of 9pm is in effect now and for the foreseeable future throughout the city.
This change in authority, though not the first in Redhaven’s history, has not gone unchallenged. Isaac Kells, the voice of the political action organization known as The Blue Coalition, has raised concerns about the present and future state of Redhaven in an exclusive interview with The Redhaven Delegate. Though his associates have chosen to remain anonymous, he has come forward with a series of scathing indictments…
A woman with freckled skin, black hair tied back in a bun, and rough hands waits on a street corner. She glances at a pocket watch. The hands tick around the face, the short one pointing to twelve and the medium one to three while the longest moves faster than is worth checking. She stows the device and huffs. Another minute passes and she places a hand on her pocket, squeezing the fabric around the watch impatiently.
Before she can withdraw it, a man rounds the corner and waves. He has caramel skin and dark brown eyes, and he smiles sheepishly as he draws near.
The woman raises a brow and waits. The man shrugs and says, “Sorry Alessa, I had to reroute for more new demolition.”
The woman rolls her eyes. “So says you. I don’t think you should even be out here, Isaac. Do you really think its smart?”
The man pauses for a moment, and then nods. “I do. We don’t have many resources to allocate so I have to make sure they’re being spent wisely. Anyway, I have to be out here. Who wants to fight for someone who isn’t willing to fight for them as well?”
Alessa offers a wry smile. “All those saps with the orange patches seem perfectly fine dying for their betters.”
“Well maybe, given enough time, we can change their minds.” Isaac speaks confidently but Alessa only purses her lips.
Another woman walks down the street dressed from head to toe in green robes. Her demeanor is chilled and her brow is furrowed. She nods wordlessly to Alessa and Isaac as she walks by, and then she turns to enter the wooden double doors of the temple nearby.
As the doors slam shut, Alessa whispers, “They conscripted the orphans. They’re using them for message runners mostly.”
Isaac chews on the thought, then he whispers back, “It takes a lot to bring up children. The separatists will either realize that or pay for it.”
Alessa shakes her head. “Who’s going to make them pay for it?”
“Probably the kids,” Isaac answers quickly. “Let’s get moving.”
The two begin to stroll down the road. The streets here are whole, unbroken by The Great Transit, though the lack of recent upkeep is obvious between the building piles of trash and loose cobbles. The doors are locked and the windows are shuttered save for that of the post office, the door of which bears an orange flag alongside the Redhaven feather.
The street widens out into an open-air market. The stalls are empty, as are the aisles between them, but a few shops remain open on the edge of the square in the permanent buildings. Business is steady there, customers roaming quietly, purposefully between them and then back out of the square again.
Isaac takes a seat on a bench and watches for about half-an-hour. Alessa remains standing by a lamp post, glancing down the adjoining roads, into the windows of nearby structures, and at the rooftops that overlook the space. One of her hands hangs from her messenger bag by its thumb the whole time.
There is a commotion, the sound of shouting from the other side of the square, and Isaac starts off towards it. Alessa falls in behind him and releases her bag.
The two draw near to a butcher’s shop where a middle-aged man in an apron is waving a meat cleaver wildly in the direction of a smaller man in a vest. The two don’t notice their audience.
Alessa leans over to Isaac and whispers, “Tax collector.” Isaac nods.
The butcher shouts, “I shouldn’t have to pay! What about the meat shortage and The Transit and what’s money even worth now, what with everything that’s happened?”
Isaac will comment, “The butcher’s right.”
“The butcher is swinging a knife at a tax collector,” Alessa ripostes.
Isaac waits for a moment longer, takes a breath, then walks up to the storefront with Alessa in tow. The butcher doesn’t acknowledge him but the tax man turns.
“Sorry sir,” Isaac says, halting the argument. “I know him, he’s good for his taxes and his permits and all that. Just swing by tomorrow and it’ll be sorted out.”
The butcher seems suspicious, but he is unwilling to contest the sheer confidence with which Isaac speaks. The official raises a brow then looks to the butcher, who mutters, “Uh, yeah. Won’t be any trouble, we’re old pals.”
The tax collector waits another moment, glances between Isaac, Alessa, and the butcher’s now slack-held cleaver, and then nods. “Alright, one more day can’t hurt. Be well then, I’ll see you in the morning Mister Flanagan.”
He takes his leave.
There is a moment’s pause, then the butcher sighs. “Alright, what’s the scam? I know you’re with the Blues, so what do you want from me?”
Isaac shrugs and says, simply, “We want to help.”
Before the butcher can ask another question, Alessa interjects, “How much do you owe?”
He pouts and leans back. Alessa glares at him and he crumples. Isaac puts a hand on her shoulder and offers a sympathetic frown, and she finds something else to glare at.
The butcher softens and mumbles, “A hundred and twenty dollars, after the fees. That’s enough to put me out for good.”
Isaac nods his understanding, though Alessa remains alert. The former says, “Okay, that’s not too bad. We can cover it for you. There’s just one condition.”
The butcher seems doubtful and a prideful shine reappears in his eye, but he still nods for Isaac to continue.
He does. “There’s a building on lower street, number fourteen. Swing by there tonight and ask them about business management. We’ve got an accountant who should be able to get you back on track and, if you hear him out, we’ll pay off your current debts in full.”
“That’s it? What if I don’t?” the butcher responds, chin raised.
Alessa offers a soft smile. “Then the tax man will come back, probably with a pair of soldiers in tow. Instead of paying your debts, you’ll get a black eye. Maybe worse.”
The butcher holds Alessa’s gaze. Isaac waits.
The butcher nods. “Sure. I’ll think about it.”
Isaac smiles and pats Alessa on the back. “Let’s get going then. No point hanging around longer than we need to.” He waves at the butcher and starts away. Alessa follows, though her guard doesn’t drop until they’re down the street and around a corner.
Continuing down the road at a cantor, Alessa grumbles, “Business management? Accountants? I can’t believe our little underground movement is busy teaching old men how to fill out their check books while The Confederates are cracking down on innocent people.”
Isaac keeps his eyes forward and responds, “It keeps the community healthy. I’d rather shoot the tax man too, but I think we both know where that leads.”
Alessa retorts, “And what if he just ignores the advice?”
Isaac shrugs. “Then he can keep the money. It’s just taking up valuable warehouse space until it’s spent. Plus, you saw our track record: every business we’ve advised is doing well and every business that snubbed us is either closed down or floundering. What is the city doing to help these people. What are the occupiers doing?”
The conversation dies down and the next few minutes are spent in silence.
The pair emerge from an alley into a courtyard, and the faded stone of Redhaven is replaced by greenery and trellis fencing. The courtyard contains a well tended garden and is surrounded by red brick walls, clean and bright. A few others move about the space and wave Isaac and Alessa on in. Isaac remarks, “Prettiest place in Redhaven, and all it took was a little work.” He stops by a planter with strawberries growing in it and picks one. “This is what we’re working for Alessa. This is why the guns are only for self defense.”
He tosses the fruit to her and she catches it. “Strawberries? We’re fighting for that?”
Isaac is already heading up towards a door. “Gardens, growth, safe places, and yes, strawberries.”
Isaac carries on inside and Alessa follows him. The two work their way up a narrow stairwell and then into an office, one with a view to the outskirts of Redhaven and the lilac fog beyond beyond the countryside.
The space is gloomy compared to the outside until Isaac pulls the curtains the rest of the way open. pale, colorless light washes over the room as Alessa sits down on a creaking armchair.
Isaac pulls a bottle of brandy out from beneath the room’s desk along with a pair of tulip glasses. Alessa shakes her head and he returns one of them, then fills the other about a third of the way.
At last, he sits behind the desk, takes a sip from his glass, and asks, “So, what am I missing.”
Alessa takes the messenger bag off of her shoulder and places it on the floor, then steeples her fingers. “Not much, honestly. The money goes in and out below budget, recruitment is going well amongst the first responders and the laborers, and your…gentle…approach seems to be keeping the authorities off our backs. If this were a normal city back in Eudax, whether it belonged to The Confederation or The Covenant, I’d say that things couldn’t be better.”
“But it’s not a normal city,” Isaac responds dryly.
Alessa nods. “You got my report about the tunnels, and I’m not the only person who’s found one. There are more monsters coming out of the fog as well and nobody is actually trying to stop them except for the farmers.”
Isaac takes another sip from his glass and thinks for a moment. He looks wistfully towards the window. “We’ll get guns to them then, hunting rifles and coach guns.”
Alessa clears her throat. “Yeah, yeah, that’s fine, but that’s not why I’m worried. I’m worried because none of my contacts know why they aren’t trying to stop the monsters. No soldiers to guard the farms, no patrols around the countryside, no watchtowers on the edge of town. That’s suspicious.”
Isaac finishes his drink and shrugs. “Suspicious activity is your area of expertise. What do you think is going on here?”
“I think they’re waiting to see how dangerous these things are, waiting to see if they can be harnessed. Doesn’t matter to them if a few farmers get killed, it’s valuable research. Neither side held back in the civil war on account of their morals, I don’t see why they’d start now.”
Alessa leans back in her seat and waits for a response. Isaac taps the bottle of brandy and raises an eyebrow, and this time she nods. He pours her a drink and walks it over to her. She drains the glass and hands it back before he can turn, not frantically but with a sort of practiced motion.
Isaac retakes his seat. “The work never ends,” he says, more considering the words than declaring them.
Alessa frowns. “You wouldn’t have it any other way.”
Isaac doesn’t answer aloud, but a small smile awakens on his face and his eyes gleam softly in the pale light.
---
First Prev Next
Iss. ---
Addendum
Regarding yesterday's "surprise" issue, The Redhaven Delegate would like to extend an apology to its loyal readers and severely admonish the as-of-yet undetermined columnist responsible.
The Redhaven Delegate stands for journalistic integrity and reporting of only the highest caliber, and such dereliction will not occur again so far as it can be prevented.
- Harvey Donaghue, Editor-in-chief, TRD
Iss. ---
Wooahwg
She Red on my Haven until I Delegate
Iss. 6
The Unknown Rot, Redhaven's New Illness!
Part Two
Our last issue covered part of the story of the disappearance of Eustace Simmons, a local artist and lifelong Redhaven citizen. Thanks to the hard work of Delegate investigators and journalists, we’re able to bring you the conclusion of this tale, though it may beg more questions than it satisfies…
---
A gentle breeze rolls down the street, twists, scatters, and merges invisibly but for the dust and refuse it tosses into the air. Eustace’s shoes scrape along the cobbles and his fingers skitter along the brick wall, planting themselves more firmly to support him here and there.
His head throbs and his breath quakes, the night seeming more to pulse than to flow; in and out it goes, a few minutes spent in conscious travel, then a whole block passes in a blink.
Eustace swallows but the spit seems to want to rise back up with a heave. He widens his stance and leans hard, both into the wall and onto his cane. The wood bows slightly beneath his weight, then the nausea passes.
Something moves out of the corner of the painter’s view, a flash of gnarly fabric.
The scent strikes him like the ringing of a bell. It is a salty, rancid odor, like the alley behind a butcher shop in August. His senses return to him all at once. The pain in his head and hand fade, his eyesight grows sharp, and his hearing clears.
Eustace bites his lip gently and glances towards the source. He can hear the patter of shoes down an alley and pushes off the wall towards it at a run.
In the gloom of the back street, away from the flame of the gas lamps, a hunched figure trots away like a lame horse. Their clothes are dark and torn, stacked in layers and soiled. They glance back with a diseased, terror-stricken face, and round a corner away. Something crashes beyond it.
Eustace thunders after them, their scent sticking in his nose and on the tip of his tongue. His eyes grow dull yet open wide and focused like a raptor’s, his purpose fading as it is replaced by hunger.
Time blinks out again as one alley corner turns into another, as a narrow street turns into a wide one, then a narrow one again, as Eustace draws near his prey, then far again, then near.
The painter rounds a final corner and skids to a stop. The ground cuts downward sharply sharply to reveal a set of stairs, which seem to lead the blackened maw of hell itself, filled with a shade so dark that looking into for too long fills Eustace’s eyes with colorful lights and shapes.
He stumbles back a step and glances up to a sky that has lightened to the gentle gloom of dawn. He glances around. The streets and buildings here are completely unfamiliar and in a ruined state.
Eustace stares back down into the darkness. The scent is gone and pain is gradually working its way back into his hand. His legs ache softly as well, especially around the knees and ankles.
The darkness waits.
The darkness beckons.
Eustace swallows and taps his cane nervously against the ground, then shakes himself off. “If that’s where they’ve gone, then that’s where my answers lie.”
Unsure still, he starts down the stairs.
They are slick and the shadows swallow sight absolutely. Eustace descends at a snail’s-pace, pressing one hand into the wall to steady himself while wielding the cane in the other, using it to find the edges of each step. They seem to go on for minutes and, glancing back, only a tiny spot of dark grey sky peers down the well towards him, offering not a slip of illumination so far down.
The staircase terminates. Looking forward again, Eustace can make out weak light in the gloom of a linoleum hallway. Emergency lights flicker and hiss at intervals no closer than fifteen feet, and only along one wall. The odor of the space is sickly sweet, rotten, and carried upon a moist, pitiful breeze from deeper within.
The painter strains his eyes and swallows, white-knuckling his cane as he maneuvers deeper in. Each step drains him, his head aches, and soon his gait turns uneven and shambling. He leans harder and harder on the cane, on the walls, and upon the numbness overtaking him.
His eyes snap wide open. The hall around him is no longer familiar, extending in either direction forever front and back, with no sign of a staircase. A thin bead of drool has accumulated on his chin and he wipes it away groggily. There is a door to his side. “Was it…was it here before? How far did I walk?” he mutters.
He shakes himself off and stares up at the door. It is heavy, rough, and made of dark, light-eating iron. There is a track in the floor where a single wheel on the bottom can glide to allow it to scrape open. A bright brass plate on its face reads ‘Infectious Study Chamber’. An even less welcoming sign beneath reads ‘WARNING: DO NOT ENTER WITHOUT PROTECTION!’
There is a skull on the sign, a curving biohazard symbol, and pictographs of facemasks, gloves, and hazmat suits.
Eustace attempts to swallow but his mouth and throat are bone dry.
He pulls the door open and it does so smoothly and with an eerie silence. The room beyond is about the normal brightness of a lamp-lit interior but Eustace squints and recoils as his eyes adjust anyway.
It smells painfully clean, plain and sharp, and a little bit sweet. ”Pickles?” Eustace asks, though the room doesn’t answer. The dull corpulence of the hallway is crushed under the onrush of this new, medicinal odor.
Eustace stumbles in, tripping slightly over the threshold as he enters a large lab space bedecked with tubes, bottles, beakers, tables, cabinets, diagrams, worktops, burners, and devices which he cannot name.
He traces the ‘pickle’ scent to an open glass basin filled to the brim with a yellow fluid. There is a mass of flesh suspended in the fluid, a nondescript chunk of pale, hydrous meat. Eustace swallows, his mouth suddenly rehydrated, then he shakes himself off. He walks away from the basin, glancing back once or twice with longing and self-disgust until he bumps into a table with drawers.
Eustace startles and looks down. The tabletop is covered in papers, some grouped together with staples or paperclips, and several are stamped with the feather of Redhaven, the city crest, right next to the neat signature of someone called ‘Earnest Bell’.
The painter thumbs through the documents, skimming their contents and tossing them aside until he stops on a page dated to a day earlier in the week. He reads, quietly, “Subjects do not recover…no treatment as of yet found to be successful…degeneration of impulse controls…hunger for raw meat…wounds cease to recover…originates beyond the fog?”
Eustace can feel eyes on the back of his neck and the little hairs there rise like soldiers. He doesn’t turn around though, he just sets the papers down gently and tilts his head up. “It’s you again, isn’t it? You know what’s wrong with me?” he grumbles, more resigned than afraid.
Ragged breathing, torn like shredded foil, rasps out from behind. It is a miserable sound, limp and dry. Finally, it speaks. “You’re…y-you’re s-sick. You…y-you’ll…die…”
Eustace turns around. The ragged individual stands by the open lab door. They are grotesque even in the brighter lighting, all sores and scrapes and pale skin and rags, but they seem smaller. The painter assesses them, shifts his cane from his left hand to his right, then a flash of pain forces him to shift it back. Something clicks into place: one of their layers is an off-white, soiled coat that almost touches the floor.
“Doctor Bell?” Eustace asks.
The figure cringes, then glances back up and nods indiscernibly.
Eustace asks, his voice now quivering slightly, “Are you sure that I’ll die of this? I have a daughter, I have unfinished work, I have friends. I don’t want to let it all go. I can’t even enjoy my last days, if these are my last days, between the hunger and the aching.”
The doctor twitches a smile, then shrugs and turns half away. They clear their throat and rasp out, “One way…m-maybe…” Eustace leans back slightly and raises his chin. Bell continues, “Go out…i-into the-the mist, follow the…north road. I sent…a team. Maybe they-they’ve…got it…solved…”
Bell waits a long moment, then shrugs. “M-maybe…not…” The doctor pushes the lab door open and exits without another word.
Eustace watches as they leave. He clutches his cane tight to his chest and stands still for a while.
The lamps hiss and the medical odors pervade, and the quiet hum of the emptiness swirls around low to the ground, imperceptibly rattling the soles of Eustace’s shoes. He glances back at the desk and draws open drawers until he finds ink, fresh paper, and a fountain pen.
He shakes the pen gently. “Dry,” he mutters, unscrewing the end of the implement and taking up an eyedropper. He transfers ink from the bottle to the pen, hands shaking, then caps it once again.
He begins to write, recollecting what he can of the last few days, filling in gaps, crossing out errors, starting again. Stroke, stroke, scratch, shake, stroke, stroke, wait, wait, cough, stroke, stop.
The writing is barely legible, but deep exhaustion is spreading out under him like the gentle swell of a tide. He sets the pen down and blows on the sheet, pounces it with sand from another container, then shakes it off.
“Home first. Drop this off. Then…”
Eustace feels nauseous. The ground seems to move under him and he shuts his eyes tight. He strains the muscles in his face against a headache, clutching his cane in one hand and the letter in the other. Time turns to sap and flows around him, melting, melting, soaking into the ground…
Eustace opens his eyes. The sky over head is the murky, sunless grey of mid-morning. He is faced with a wall of lavender fog while Redhaven watches him from behind, its tallest towers waving farewell in the breezeless sky. He turns forward again, to the mist.
To the mist.
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Iss. 5:
The Unknown Rot, Redhaven's New Illness!
Part One
Another supernatural tragedy struck Redhaven as local painter Eustace Simmons passed this week due to an unusual disease. The Redhaven Delegate has secured, with permission from the family, a report on the circumstances of his passing and the source of his strange illness.
It seems that the new world we find ourselves in does not abide by all the same rules as the previous one did, including the rules of life and death... ---
Eustace Simmons, stubbled face crumpled with effort, grunts along the evening sidewalk. Another man hangs from his shoulder by one arm, the other slung loosely across the neck of a woman with her dark, greying hair tied into a bun.
Eustace and the woman carry their charge along for another minute or so then slow to a stop, setting the man on the ground and propping him against an unlit barbershop.
Eustace leans hard against his knees and huffs, coughing out, “Did he gain weight d’ya think, Minerva?”
The woman finishes coughing herself and then cackles disdainfully. “Its all water-weight, or booze-weight, I guess. Too much for one evening, methinks. It’ll be a few more blocks yet anyway, so catch your breath.”
Eustace grimaces and raises a brow. “A few more blocks? He lives right down at the end of Linden, doesn’t he?”
Minerva rubs the back of her neck and shrugs, gesturing vaguely toward an upcoming street corner as she replies, “You didn’t stop by George’s place before going to the pub, but they closed off Linden Street this morning to take down a few of the damaged buildings. We’ll have to go around.”
The man groans and begins to protest, but his companion hushes him. “Just relax, we’ll be there before you know it. I’m not cutting through any constructions site, either. I’d throw my back out! Now, help Georgie up again, he’s starting to drool.”
Eustace does, though his brown eyes remain half shut in annoyance the whole time. “Throw your back out,” he mutters, “As if that weren’t what we were already doing.”
Minerva doesn’t respond as the two continue to carry their friend down the road.
They pass the construction site, previously humming but now silent and desolate. One formerly filled building lot is now an empty foundation, a repository for rubble, mostly brick and wood. Several other lots are cordoned off and waiting. They carry on another block and then turn down an alley by the light of the gas lamps, the moonless, starless skies overhead.
Between breaths, Eustace mutters, “Do you…hear…that…Minnie?”
She doesn’t answer but a figure emerges from up ahead.
They are covered in layers of dirty, torn clothing, hood and all, and they reek even at a distance. Their gait is uneven, unsure, and they stumble against a wall to hold themselves up.
As Eustace and Minerva draw close and start to pass, the figure groans, “H-help…me…please…”
Eustace responds almost right away, taking a careful breath first. “Sorry, we really have to get our friend home. There’s a clinic down the street though, the way we came. The doctor is a live-in so you should[TWO DASHES]”
Eustace is cut off as the figure darts upright. Their hood flies back to reveal a sickly, pale visage, sunken cheeks and eyes, their face and neck covered in open sores, purple bruises, and unhealed cuts.
Before either Eustace or Minerva can shout or dodge, the person lunges towards Eustace and takes hold of him by the arm. They grab his right hand and yank on it with desperate ferocity. They bite into his hand, deep, and Eustace kicks them several times until they thrash away.
Eustace stares at the gangly figure, arms held up defensively, primed for another attack, but the assailant slinks off into the shadows again, muttering, “Sorry, sorry, sorry…”
“Is your hand alright?” Minerva asks, breaking Eustace out of his focus. She is half lent against a wall, barely holding George up under his armpits.
Eustace glances down at his bloody hand and then winces, looking away and paling.
“I’ll take that as a no?” A low, gruff voice emits from George now, he’s eyes have just cracked open.
The drunk sobers up slightly and lifts himself to his own unsteady feet as Minerva wipes her hands off on her skirt. He speaks, though his speech is slightly rounded, sanded off at the corners. “Whaddid ya do to piss that guy off, eh? Grumpy bastard, he was.”
Eustace presses his hand tightly between the folds of his overcoat, barely staunching the flow of blood at the cost of a sharp spike in pain. He responds through gritted teeth, “Don’t know, they just came at me. Damn.” His face pales again and he groans, “Minnie, can you get George home now that he’s walking? I need to get back to my place before I…uh…” Eustace’s head grows light and his vision flashes with darkness, but he shakes off the sensation. “…before I pass out.” He finishes curtly.
George steps in an uncertain circle, then nods. Minerva withdraws a baton from her coat, just a metal stick a half-foot long, and nods as well. “We’ll see you tomorrow at the pub again, right?” she asks, voice shaking just a hair.
Eustace grins, though it shows as more of a grimace, and he answers, “Of course, you two are the only people I can stand to be around these days besides Millie. See you in the morning, good night.”
“Good night.”
“Night.”
---
Eustace sets a stack of off-white dishes into a kitchen sink, bread crumbs and coffee stains inside and atop them. He rinses his hands off with plain water, taking care around the right one, which is wrapped in partially soiled gauze.
He wipes his face with a dish towel as well, evacuating the remnants of his breakfast from his motley stubble.
He finally makes his way out of the kitchen and into a side room, a painting space into which falls the dull, whitish rays of the sunless dawn. There is an incomplete painting propped upon an easel, a collection of brushes and pigments, and an unusual still life arranged before them.
The center of the scene is a disused typewriter surrounded with carefully stacked notepads and writing instruments, arranged not for practically but for visual appeal. The pads, pencils, pens, and quills form patterns that subtly lead the eye around the table, to the typewriter, then back out for another lap.
He opens a few of the pigments and takes up a brush in his right hand, then begins to work.
The first few strokes are simple, easy, then his hand begins to rebel, attacking him with flares of pain that make him grit his teeth. Sweat beads up on his brow, errant strokes demand patient correction, more time, more pigment, thicker layers, dip, dip, stroke, flare, grit, sweat, dip, dip, dip.
Eustace throws his brush across the room and the gauze comes loose on his hand. A fleck of dark, rotten blood flies from it and lands on his canvas. He stares at the spot.
There is a knock a the door, genial, confident. Eustace chokes once, then clears his throat and calls out, “I’ll be right there.” He lumbers to the kitchen and removes his still-soiled dishes from the basin, then washes his hand fully. Black-red something comes away, thicker than blood, though the pain isn’t as bad as Eustace expects. He ruins a towel drying his hand, packs cotton around the wound, and wraps it up with fresh gauze.
A voice calls through the front door, slightly muffled but high and calm, “I can go if it’s a bad time.”
Eustace’s heart jumps and he turns hard on his heel toward the voice. “No, no, not at all!” He powers over and opens the door with his left hand to reveal a pleasant young woman, almost his spitting image though with much longer hair. “Millie, dear, it’s great to see you! Come in, please! I could put on some coffee or something if you like, tea maybe?”
The young woman smiles smugly and enters, “Oh, the royal treatment? This is a much warmer welcome than I’m used to.” She sits down at a small round table as her host fills a kettle. jovially, she continues, “And you’re going with Millie now, not Mildred? What’s gotten into to you?”
Eustace answers casually, though his tone is flecked with worry. “Well, I’m just a bit shaken up lately is all. It’s just quite nice to have something to take my mind off of things.”
Millie raises a brow and asks, “Shaken? What’s that for, is the painting difficult? You aren’t already running out of supplies, are you?”
Eustace sets the kettle on the stove and turns around, raising his bandaged hand into the air. “It’s just this. I was attacked on the way home from the bar the other night. Strangest thing, the fellow bit me on my good hand. I’ll be fine though, it just needs time to heal.”
Millie raises an eyebrow, unconvinced, but doesn’t question it. “Well, Harvey gave me a day, so I thought I’d swing by to see your latest project if you don’t mind. I take it you aren’t done?”
Eustace tuts and pours coffee into a small cup with a floral pattern. “Not quite, I’d be done today, but it seems unlikely now. Technically it was supposed to be a surprise for you, but I don’t mind sharing.”
“Oh no, I love a surprise so don’t spoil it! We’ll just chat then, I’m in no rush.”
And they do for a little while. Eustace’s focus goes in and out and Millie flashes him an odd look here and there, but the subject matter remains light. Eustace grumbles about the pain in his hand, the prices at the pub, George’s drinking habits, and Millie matches with comments about her coworkers and how strange the sky is to look at, day or night.
“Are you going to report it?” Millie asks abruptly.
Eustace spaces for a moment, then responds, “Report what? Oh, the attack?”
Millie nods.
“To who, the police? They’ll just turn it over to the confederates, and the confederates don’t work for locals like us.” Eustace grumbles.
Millie shrugs and says, “Well, at least have your hand checked. I’m sure the clinic by George’s will take a look.”
Eustace nods and the two sit in silence for a minute or two. Millie finishes her second cup of coffee and rises. “I think that’ll do it then. I have a few errands to run but it was nice catching up.” She flashes another smile, this one warmer, and sets her cup in the sink. “Tell George and Minnie I said hi, and…dad?”
Eustace raises an eyebrow.
“Take care of yourself, alright?”
“Of course,” Eustace answers with practiced, dry composure.
He rises a moment later and shows her politely to the door.
When she’s gone, he returns to his studio and takes up his brush again, this time switch-handed. The effort feels wasted. The strokes are even less confident then they were in his right hand, and the corrections even more demanding. Dip, dip, stroke, dip, wait, wait, glance, dip, stroke, curse, grumble, stroke, wait, wait…
Eustace sets down the brush and turns away. It’s dark outside already. The light coming in the window is the yellow flickering of the gas lamps. Eustace glances back to the clock above the doorway. “The pub is already closed? How did I miss so much time? Hmm, I hope Minnie and George aren’t worried too much.” “I suppose if they were,” he thinks, “then they’ll swing by”
Time seems to melt again as Eustace heads to his bedroom. The night carries on but sleep doesn’t come, just more pain in his hand and a growing headache. He turns and throws his bedding on the floor. He’s beginning to sweat and his stomach rumbles ferociously. He rises and mutters, “Breakfast, I only had breakfast today.”
He stumbles to the kitchen and digs through the pantry, bumping his knees, elbows, and knuckles on every available surface. He pulls out bread, crackers, vegetables, canned fruit, and despite the continued growling in his stomach, the hunger in his throat; the sight of them elicits disgust.
He pushes the goods away, drops them on the floor and discards them to-and-fro, until he finally gets to the fridge. It’s a small appliance, one that sits just at counter height with a large radiator on top. He opens it up. Inside sits an uncooked chicken breast among other things.
His stomach growls again and the pain in his hand flares up ferociously. Something about the pale meat, partly thawed for tomorrow’s dinner, is hypnotizing. The gentle, gelatinous pink, the fatty streaks of white, all glistening and soft, demanding to be--
Eustace is leaning over the sink. “How did I…” He stares into the basin. His hands are slightly slimy, especially on the fingertips. There is a taste lingering in his mouth as well, just faintly there, sweet and savory. He washes his hands and then checks the fridge again.
The chicken is gone.
Eustace feels as though he should want to retch, but he feels comfortable, full and satisfied. The pain in his hand has eased tremendously as well and his headache has fled.
“Something…something is very wrong with me. I need…I need to go somewhere…” he mutters. “Where though? The clinics aren’t open at this hour, and what would they even do?”
Eustace flexes his right hand and a mild pain jolts through it and up his arm. He peels back the bandage slightly. The wound still hasn’t healed at all, and neither have any of the little bumps or bruises he’s suffered over the course of the day. His mind flashes back to the alley, to the wounded person who bit him.
Quietly, Eustace heads into his studio and takes a notepad, not one from the still life but a spare one, and begins to write:
“Millie or whoever is reading this, I’ve come down with something terrible and am searching for help now. Please take care of the house until I’m back, and if I don’t come back, the house and everything in it should go to Millie Simmons.”
He signs his name beneath in a clean, cordial hand, then tears the note out.
Eustace walks back into the kitchen and sets the note on the round table, takes his coat from a hook by the door, and grabs a rarely used cane.
He feels ill at ease, something is lurking within him, behind him. He considers running from it but steels himself instead.
He opens the door and disappears into the moonless streets of Redhaven.
---
The story doesn’t end there, but further investigation is ongoing at this time. The Redhaven Delegate will have the complete picture soon, so if you want to know what happens next, make sure to pick up the next issue as soon as it comes out.
As always, The Redhaven Delegate stands with The People, and for The Truth, no matter how strange. - Harvey Donaghue, Editor-in-chief, TRD
---
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Iss. 4:
Rising Tension And Blood In The Gutters!
As the situation in Redhaven proper begins to simmer down, other tensions bubble up: a riot broke out on Broad Street in front of the Frontline Confederation recruitment center last night. Occupation soldiers reportedly initiated a scuffle with citizens protesting their presence in Gerhardt square, Redhaven's historical city center.
One civilian participant, injured during the brawl, elaborated, "Redhaven doesn't belong to The Confederation or to the Covenant. Redhaveners have always decided our own fate, and we'll fight for that."
By contrast, General Harrison made an announcement decrying the violence this morning: "The Frontline Confederation," he said, "have come as liberators, to protect Redhaven from the lingering tyranny of religious dogmatists and violent anarchists alike. There is no cause for this aggression, and those involved will be punished justly."
Stirring words from both sides. The Redhaven Delegate, though impartial, wishes to remind all our readers that there are three sides to every story: Our side, their side, and the Truth. ---
Dark. There isn't a moon or a sun, just an empty sky that waltzes sluggishly between dun grey and black with a faint and uneven purple tint. The gas lamps at night are the only real source of light along Broad Street, and they over-watch an increasingly ominous scene.
The road turns off in the middle to a large square, forming a sort of wide, chunky T. Orange banners marked with wings and stars hang on every building and from every post. People with hard eyes, rifles, and red-brown uniforms, line the edge of the square and face off against a disorderly group in common clothes.
One of the soldiers steps forward from the line and shouts, "You are to disperse immediately, this gathering has not been properly permitted by the--"
"Fuck you, you orange confederate shithead!" someone calls from the crowd, their face shrouded by the mass of bodies. A cry goes up in support, and a different voice shouts, "If we need your permission, then what's the point? You'll just tell us to fuck off!"
A mousy boy, small and swift, darts around behind the soldiers. He wears a red-brown canvas coat one size too large and a newsboy cap with a gleaming brass pin in the shape of a wing on it. He clutches an envelope tightly in both hands.
The lead soldier starts to shout again, ignoring the cries of the crowd. "Disperse immediately! By order of General Bradley Harrison and The Frontline Confederation, you are to disperse!"
A young man with a blue arm band steps to the head of the crowd. He brushes a calloused hand over short, dark hair and straightens out his coat, a military jacket of a different kind than that of his interlocutor. He speaks with a slight smirk. "Gerhardt square is the property of the citizens of Redhaven, outlined in its laws and governed by them. As of yet, no agreement has been reached allowing your occupation of it. If anybody should disperse, it should be you!"
There is a rolling cheer as the crowd presses forward a few steps, and the soldiers retreat an equal distance, backing towards the buildings to their rear.
The mousy boy jumps out of the shadows and to the side of the lead soldier, who addresses him curtly and quietly, "Michael, what's this you've got?"
Michael hands off the letter and the soldier tears it open. His eyes scan it, then his expression goes slightly grey. He waves the messenger off, sending him back into the darkness, then nods to the other officers nearest to him.
Turning back to the crowd, he shouts, "Disperse immediately! Use of force has been authorized to clear the square! This is your last chance to disperse and return peacefully to your homes!"
The pause is hideous. It is grave and twisted. Not everyone present was prepared for this ultimatum, and it can be felt as the uncertainty reverberates through the crowd in the form of shuffling and murmurs.
The young man with the blue armband has lost his smugness, and half raises an arm to calm the people at his back.
Then another voice, faceless and full of anger, emits from the crowd. "If you want us to go, you'll have to force us out!" A moment later, a cobblestone comes sailing through the air, catching the lead soldier in the chest and sending him stumbling back onto the ground.
The surface tension breaks in an instant and the built-up rage escapes, liquid fury pouring out over the square in a flood of color and sound, lit dimly by the gas street lamps as it mixes with the scent of spent gunpowder and spilt blood.
Bodies fall and gunshots ring out, people from all around peer out of their windows or lumber into the street to get a better view. Michael watches from an alleyway. A dozen more soldiers come pouring out from the largest building in the square, equipped with steel armor and shields. A wave of hurled stones fall on them, but they press through in their iron shells.
Michael flees down the side street and into the darkness until the sound of the fray has faded to a distant thrum, and a triangular building emerges around the corner. He charges onto the stoop and knocks heavily a few times, then waits.
A middle-aged woman opens the door. She is dressed in a simple green vestment with a brass hourglass hanging about her neck, and she raises a brow at the messenger. "Michael, what brings you to the temple? Won't they be missing you at the barracks at this hour, the other cadets?"
Michael mutters for a moment, his voice skipping and stuttering, then he stops and starts again, "I-I don't wanna...go to th-the barracks now, Sister B-berns."
The Sister eyes him for a moment, then sighs and pushes a stray brown lock back over her ear. "Well, the foster hall is empty, but I keep the beds made. I'm sure you can find yours still. Go on."
---
Night turns into morning, then to noon. Nobody comes by the temple looking for Michael, so there he remains, ambling about an empty room full of bunk beds and cots, familiar but for their emptiness.
The building only has four rooms. The temple hall, where religious services are held, the bathrooms, which are public, the Sister's chambers, where she lives and sleeps, and the foster hall, where Michael currently resides.
He occasionally hears the squeak and thunk of the main doors, but not often. There is shuffling occasionally as well, Sister Berns sweeping the floors and altars, wiping windows and polishing candle holders.
Michael shuffles across the floor and pries gently on a loose board, revealing an old wooden box. The word 'Foundations' is painted on it in flaking gold lettering. He removes it from the hole and opens it up.
Inside, there is a deck of yellowing cards and a collection of strange brass instruments. There is a manual as well, a set of instructions, but it has never been used and Michael has no intention of doing starting to use it now. He draws a random card from the deck.
There is an image of an hourglass printed on the back, as is true of every card. On the face-side, there is a detailed image of a wooden building with an open roof, a graveyard on one side and a vineyard on the other. Bold letters at the bottom read, "THE COURTHOUSE". Michael stares at it and whispers, "Justice, j-judgement, honor, p-punishment." His mind lurches back to the night prior.
He draws another card. This one depicts a mountain with a storm blowing on its left side and a waterfall pouring off of its right.
Michael whispers, "D-desolation, plenty, h-hubris, accomplishment."
The door to the foster hall creaks and Michael freezes up as Sister Berns voice calls warmly, "Michael? Are you hungry?"
Before the door is fully open, there is a bellowing knock on the temple door. Sister Berns startles and says instead, "Well, someone's here. I'll leave the soup by the door, on the little table. You can get it if you like." Her footsteps start up and fade as she walks away from the door.
Michael relaxes a moment, then puts the cards away, burying them beneath the floorboards again. His stomach growls and he hurries over to the doorway, but stops himself just short of opening it. He listens, instead, to what is happening on the other side.
The heavy temple door swings open, and there is a slight gasp on the other side. A new voice cuts the air, though softly. It's a little on the low side. "Relax, you're not in trouble. I didn't get sent by Bradley or anyone else. I just...I didn't know where else to go."
There is a quiet moment, shuffling of feet, and then the door closes. Two pairs of footsteps work their way across the floor of the temple hall, then stop. Chairs scrape and creak, and Sister berns breaks the quiet. "Soldiers from your faction aren't allowed to practice the covenant faith, even coming here is a strange risk to take. It's my duty to listen though, regardless of creed. What's troubling you?"
There is a pause, then a sigh. "I know I don't need to tell you my name, you didn't ask, but I'd like you to know me if you're going to give me advice. I'm Eric Sanders, I joined the Frontline Confederation because I believed in what they were doing, and last night, I helped stop a protest that...that...well...it shouldn't have gone like that."
There is a quiet moment, then the Sister says, "You aren't the first person to come here today with troubles over the riot. Do you feel responsible for what happened?"
"I don't know if I do. I didn't shoot anyone, or hit anyone. They gave me a gun but I just shot the ground. I don't know if I can do that every time though, and there's another thing--see, this message runner, I know him, he moved paper for the recruitment office, he was there that night and I can't find him now."
The Sister keeps a silent composure. Michael can imagine her now, closing her eyes and nodding gently. She finally speaks, "Did you know his name, or what he looked like?"
"Michael Ashling, twelve years old maybe, messy blond hair. You'd know him if you saw him."
Sister Berns clicks her tongue and replies, "I can't promise that he'll turn up, many are still grieving from their losses during The Transit, let alone recent events. I can still look though." There is a pause, then she continues, "As for your guilt: can you split yourself in two? One who is a soldier and one who is not?"
Eric doesn't answer for a long while, then he groans. "I don't know. I don't think I can stay, but I don't know if I can desert now either, we're not in Eudax anymore. If we were, I could grab a truck or a horse and disappear into the countryside, but here? There's just Redhaven." He stops, and his chair creaks heavily for a moment. "Is it better to die myself than hurt someone who doesn't deserve it?"
"Is that what your heart says?"
There is quiet on the other side of the door, a long, uneasy quiet. There is another creak, more shuffling, and Eric clears his throat. "I don't know. I got a lot more to think about though...thank you, Sister."
A set of footsteps make their way over to the exit. It creaks open, then thuds shut again.
Michael waits a moment, then opens the door to the temple hall. There is a bowl of room temperature soup on a small table nearby, and he takes a couple of uneasy steps towards it, looking pointedly away from the Sister. She sits in an old wooden chair and stares at him, head cocked gently to one side. She doesn't stop him.
He returns to the foster hall silently. Noon turns into afternoon, and afternoon turns into evening.
Michael removes the wooden box from its hiding place and squirrels it away into his ruck. He creeps towards the door and opens it just a crack. Nobody is in the temple hall.
He scampers back to his bedside and gathers up his bowl and spoon, then slips through the door into the gloomy chapel. He sets his dishes on the small table, then slinks to the temple's main doors. He does his best to open them quietly, but the old hinges still squeal and whine. Michael slips out anyway, and the heavy wooden panels thunk as they fall back together.
Sister Berns listens from her quarters, peering around the door frame and into the empty space. She sighs and whispers a prayer.
---
A mousy boy, small and swift, darts through the shadows just beyond the gaze of the street lamps. He passes down the roads on memory now: Landry, Coulton, First, Second, then onto Broad Street.
He rounds onto Gerhardt square and stops suddenly, catching himself on the corner of an old brick building.
There are more protesters here, more than a hundred packed onto the plaza. Soldiers wait in the windows and in front of the buildings, weapons at the ready. One soldier steps forward and shouts, "This is an illegal gathering, violating restrictions on space and curfew! Disperse immediately and you will not be harmed!"
Michael starts to slip around the side, his backpack bouncing with each stride.
The young man with the blue armband is at the front of the group again, barely visible until he steps up onto a box. He has a bruise on the side of his head and his jacket is slightly torn. He shouts, "Redhaven has always been a victim in Eudax. It has always sought to be free, and because of The Great Transit, it finally has a chance to become free!"
There is a change in the air and Michael stops.
The man continues, "Part of Eudax, hateful and cruel, still clings to Redhaven like a leech. Today is our day to cut. It. Off!"
The lead soldier calls again, "Disperse at once or--"
There is a gunshot. The man with the blue armband has drawn a pistol. The lead soldier drops dead. Someone shouts, "Open fire!" though their identity remains unknown. Chaos erupts again in the square, though this time it is markedly louder.
There is gunfire on both sides now, there is bludgeoning, and somebody has brought explosives to the mix. Burning bottles of alcohol and grenades fly through the air and explode, bursting and lighting up the square.
Something collides with Michael, the invisible force of a shock wave. His ears ring and his whole body throbs as he is thrown to the ground. His vision blurs and darkens.
---
The bed is warm, though most of Michael's sense of feeling is numb now.
"Boy, boy? Are you awake?"
Michael blinks hard a few times, then turns his head, squinting, towards the voice. A soldier wearing a red-brown uniform, rail-thin and gaunt, stairs at him with worry. Sister Berns stands behind the man, expression hard-but-gentle.
Michael groans and turns over to find something clutched in hand, a wooden box with faded gold lettering on its cover.
He glances up at Eric, who answers, "You were holding onto it tight. Couldn't even pry it out of your grip while we were treating you."
Sister Berns shrugs. "It's an old deck, a tool for Brothers and Sisters of the faith. I don't know where you got it, but you should hold onto it now."
Michael goes to nod, but the pain suddenly sets in, all over his body, and he's taken into darkness again.
---
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I can't believe that the Redhaven Delegate is reporting such weird supernatural affairs two issues in a row! This feels like soldiers who came back with bad stories. They need help, not to get their stories dramatized. - Concerned Reader of the Redhaven Delegate
The Redhaven Delegate understands the severity of the material we cover, from the thorough research our journalists do to our careful editorial process.
These things aren't understood well enough though, and nobody can get help without the truth first. That's not a reason to withhold these stories, it's the very reason they need to be printed.
Other rags like The Broad Street Negotiator refuse to tell the tale, hide away the gory details, but we believe that intention is misplaced. Our work is meant to stir the imagination, the hearts of our readers, to drive them to action, and that ain't always pretty. But it has to be done.
- Harvey Donaghue, Editor-in-chief
I can't believe that the Redhaven Delegate is reporting such weird supernatural affairs two issues in a row! This feels like soldiers who came back with bad stories. They need help, not to get their stories dramatized. - Concerned Reader of the Redhaven Delegate
The Redhaven Delegate understands the severity of the material we cover, from the thorough research our journalists do to our careful editorial process.
These things aren't understood well enough though, and nobody can get help without the truth first. That's not a reason to withhold these stories, it's the very reason they need to be printed.
Other rags like The Broad Street Negotiator refuse to tell the tale, hide away the gory details, but we believe that intention is misplaced. Our work is meant to stir the imagination, the hearts of our readers, to drive them to action, and that ain't always pretty. But it has to be done.
- Harvey Donaghue, Editor-in-chief
Iss. 3:
Mysteries Beneath The Rubble!
Census workers from the mayor's office continue to aid in rescue and recovery efforts following The Great Transit, cataloguing the losses and tearfully reuniting the survivors.
The work is difficult, and while it has been getting physically easier as the days go on, the emotional toll only grows higher by the hour.
Most of the casualties have been due to crushing, blood loss, and sudden trauma, but unusual cases have gradually begun to bubble up. Though the offices of the mortician and mayor have refused to make statements on the matter, an anonymous Blue Coalition volunteer has come forward with a startling report... ---
The red bricks and colorful awnings, the copper roofs and cobbled roads, smashed and shattered and tossed and mixed, have combined to form a dusty, deathly grey, a beach with no waterline: an ossuary.
Alessa's soft nose and thin lips are covered with a hand-sewn mask. She and half-a-dozen others, each with a band of blue fabric on their upper arms, crawl over the debris with shovels and picks.
One of them calls out, voice echoing over the ruins: "Found one!"
There is a pause, tinted painfully with hope. The voice calls again, slightly grey now: "They're gone."
Another volunteer shuffles over with tools and a canvas bag.
Alessa carries on, clears the doorway to a house whose roof has collapsed, knocks in the window to a shop, shouts, "Hello? We're here to help, just make a sound, anything!" Her tone is not frightened or desperate. It isn't even protective per se. It is purposeful and sure, unfazed as a lighthouse amidst a storm.
Despite the softness of her features, her hands are calloused and scarred and her body subtly muscled. She breaks off ahead of her group, leaving blue fabric flags on any building that's held together well enough to have preserved those inside, until she spots the hole.
It's vast, an entire block seemingly sucked into the ground. It runs a hundred feet across and fifty feet at its deepest. Steep walls rise on every side and water, gas, and sewer lines jut out of them like rough, toothy needles.
"Sinkhole, maybe?" Alessa wonders, then something catches her eye. All around the edge of the hole are red signs, marked with the feather of Redhaven and the phrase 'Danger, Do Not Enter!'
Alessa glower's at the nearest one, daring it to stop her, then glances back down into the chasm. There are all the components of the street within: bent and curling lampposts, shattered windows, cobbles and curbs. No victims, though.
She waits a minute longer and, just as she goes to heft her tool bag back onto her shoulder, there is a sound: a scrape, then another, then a series of rasping coughs. A man tumbles out from beneath a shaded overhang and crumples to the floor, where he lies, wheezing.
Alessa drops her tools into the hole, down the shallowest of the slopes, then navigates herself down as well. Despite the desperate condition of her target, she moves comfortably, testing each step with almost half of her body weight before taking it fully, knocking away loose ground and rubble with kicks and nudges as she goes.
Her feet hit the basin floor and she scoops up her bag, preemptively fishing for the first aid kit as she makes her way over, though she stops searching for it once the man comes clearer into sight.
He is disheveled, dusty, bloody, and his breathing is shallow. There is a splinter, reflective, like blue-ish glass, sticking out of his neck. Several more protrude from his head. Each is six or seven inches long and noticeably barbed. He rolls over as Alessa approaches, and he gurgles, "...Others...help...", even as his eyes grow glassy and still.
Alessa stares at him for a moment, her soft brown eyes growing slightly dim and her brows sinking just a hair.
She glances up and away, beneath the overhang and into a terrible darkness that lies behind the man. There is an open doorway made of cut stone, the entrance to a basement or underground utility tunnel that slopes away gently and into the earth.
Alessa takes a look back up at the red warning signs, watching her from way above like curious angels, waiting, hoping, judging.
She shakes her head, hangs a blue flag by the doorway, and enters, lighting up an large, clunky flashlight. Its flickering yellow beam barely cuts through the gloom and the buzz it emits seems to barely cover an audible aura about the place.
Alessa proceeds down the tunnel, only slightly bothered by the atmosphere. She follows a trail of blood, barely present this far in but growing thicker. More glassy barbs appear, some stuck into walls, cut right into the stone, others discarded on the floor and stained partly red.
The tunnel goes on for too long, and without any of the usual furniture of a cellar. No barrels, no shelves, just more damage and evenly spaced, unlit bulbs of a newer style. There are holes in the walls and floor at odd intervals, a foot or two in diameter and organically shaped like ant burrows. Many are scorched, sprayed with black soot and reeking of kerosene.
The tunnel turns into a hall quite suddenly, lined with steel, linoleum, and occasionally, human bodies. Each is dressed like anyone might be, in vests, suspenders, shirts, blouses, skirts and slacks. A few wear long white coats that display unfamiliar insignia. Some are gnawed, filled with spines, or missing chunks. Some bear stranger afflictions still.
Alessa closes in on one that's huddled the corner of an intersection, a middle aged woman with strawberry blond hair tied back in a bun. Half of her face and skull has turned mostly transparent and hard, like smoked glass, to reveal her brain and optical nerves. The hair on that side of the head has fallen cleanly out and onto the floor. Her expression is locked, forever more, with eyes wide and mouth agape.
For the first time this week, Alessa recoils, though she recovers herself quickly.
In the grim quiet, a sound starts to echo out, ringing down one of the corridors and bounding through the crossroads. It is heavy, thunking and shifting. Alessa darts down another hall and rounds a corner, then extinguishes her light. She is cast in total darkness.
The sound draws near at an anxious, uneven pace. It pauses. There is muffled conversation and then clanking, a heavy click, then a thick wooshing sound. Bright light carries itself down the hallway and around the corner, then comes a wave of heat, and finally, the smell, sour and sharp like rotten eggs and vomit, and kerosene too.
Alessa reaches into her shirt, lays a palm on the handle of a revolver, and leaves it there.
The thunking movement begins again, draws close to the intersection behind the dimness of flashlights. The source of the sound grows visible now, two figures dressed from head to toe in thick white suits, like enormous anthropomorphic marshmallows. Alessa cracks a slight grin.
One of them is wearing a heavy tank on their back and carrying a sort of pump connected to it via hose. A little candle of a flame glows near its tip. The other wields a pump action shotgun, something sturdy and reliable, and clearly well used. Both have lamps mounted to the shoulders of their suits.
Alessa pulls herself back around the corner. One of the men begins to speak, voice muffled, yet still clear enough to read as uncertain. "That's it for this section. Let's get out of here and seal off the northern tunnel."
The other nods affirmatively and takes half a step, then stops. He tilts his gun up and into the darkness.
A sound begins. Clicking and chirping, harsh and organic, insectoid, like from summer cicadas. Darker though, harder.
Closer.
The man pulls the trigger.
The sound is deafening. Alessa's ears ring. The flash is what matters more though, as the whole space lights up for just a fraction of a second. The hallway she'd originally come from is now filled with chitinous things. Many armed and legged, constructed like armored, pincered ponies, slick and clinging to the walls and ceiling and packed in as if a single mass.
The man with the flamethrower lets loose, the man with the shotgun racks another round, and both start screaming in sync. A racket of scraping, cackling, clattering chitin fills the air. Alessa turns on her flashlight again and bolts away from the action. The hallways are all nearly identical, some are lined with doors, some turn off into narrow, dead-end alleys, while others feature thick, valved pipes and wall access panels of unknown purpose.
Even as the frenzied sounds fade away, absorbed by tile and steel and stone, twisted and choked by the labyrinth, Alessa runs. She pounds the ground with her boot-clad feet until she's blue in the face and her lungs ache, until she rounds a corner into another long, straight hall that slopes mercifully upwards.
She crashes against the wall, slumping into it and breathing heavily. Her knuckles hurt. She pulls her hand, finally, out of her shirt, fingers white and bloodless, joints aching to return to the shape of the revolver's grip. She stretches out her hand and starts up the slope.
There's daylight at the end, misty and grey, and relief floods the volunteer like cold water. As her senses return, a gaze burns into the her neck, a presence. She doesn't face it. She only whispers, "If you want to kill me, you'd better do it now, while I'm too tired to fight back."
Nothing attacks her, and as she reaches the end of the hall, which is set into the mouth of a cave in the semi-familiar outskirts of the city, she glances back. Only darkness stares back.
Only darkness.
---
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Iss. 2:
A Brave New World? Redhaven In Limbo!
Although rescue efforts are still ongoing, the conditions on the ground have begun to stabilize. Meanwhile troubled citizens from the countryside make their way downtown with unusual reports.
Creatures of a supernatural origin have been spotted many miles outside the city limits. Glass-like birds, enormous hogs with rocky skin, and glowing insect swarms are just a few of those thus far reported, and though they seem largely passive, citizens are advised to keep their distance.
Additionally, the roads that once connected Redhaven to the rest of Eudax appear to only lead into a dense grey-purple fog. Those that have entered it and returned fall ill and perish soon thereafter. Citizens are likewise advised to keep their distance.
A member of the Field Workers Local 13, Jens Dahl, has provided The Redhaven Delegate with an interview concerning his first-hand experience with one of these anomalies, a warning tale... ---
The ground shakes. The shake goes up his legs and into his stomach. Wind tears up the loose soil, lashing him with small stones and debris. The dust grows thick enough to block out the sun and to choke the farmhand.
Jens feels his knees knock together then give out. Even lying down, the vertigo roils beneath his pounding skull. His nose fills will dirt, and more piles up on his legs and torso. He flails his arms, struggling for force himself above a building tide of soil.
All at once, it stops.
The weight releases its grip on Jens, then all of gravity does as well. The ground drops out from beneath him and he falls along with it.
A sick feeling grows in his stomach as the earth pulls away, inch by inch, only connected to him by a thin stream of loose dirt.
The ground stops, and for a split second, Jens continues to fall. Then he catches up.
Darkness surrounds him for a time, envelops him, and he floats on it dreamily until his eyes snap suddenly open to reveal a soft, grey, sunless sky. His head throbs and he turns onto his side, hacking up a wad of something thick and crimson.
He stays down. He squeezes his eyes shut and slaps one arm around in the dirt until his knuckles rap against something hard. He takes it up, pulls it close.
It has a wooden handle with a flat, steel blade set ninety degrees to the shaft. It is gnarled, grey with the sun's bleaching, but sturdy and familiar. Jens rises, leaning hard on the tool, and grumbles, "Lucky that I didn't land on ya, right?"
The hoe doesn't respond and Jens coughs up again, another wad of phlegm with less blood in it.
The farmhand glances around at the ruined field. The harvest is badly upturned, whole rows are torn out, twisted, and covered in soil. A barn a few hundred feet away is leaning at nearly a forty-five degree angle and a shed next to it has been reduced to scrap. Jens grumbles some more and runs a tanned, liver-spotted hand through his short grey hair, sending a cascade of dirt to the ground behind himself as he straightens his locks.
"Bad for the harvest. It's been a good year so far though, I just...I..." Jens mouth falls slightly slack as his eyes fall to a the sight of an uncommon plant nearby: a pale hand, sticking crookedly out of a pile of gravel and dirt.
Jens swallows. He waits to see if the pile heaves. He waits to see if the hand twitches.
It does not.
The farmhand holds up five fingers for a moment, then lowers one.
He starts limping off down the rows in silence. His body protests, a fact he ignores with practiced indifference.
The sky isn't evenly clouded. The air itself is just grey. There isn't even a hint of a sun, no bright patch, no thin golden rays. There's no wind either. The barley and the wheat stand to crooked, disinterested attention.
Jens carries himself to the end of the aisle and up a hill. Looking down from another, majestic and imperious, is a farmhouse painted a sunny yellow that contracts mockingly with the atmosphere.
The roofs sags slightly, though it always has, and one of the windows in the front is blown in. That's new.
Jens moves towards it steadily, huffing by the top and leaning harder on his makeshift cane.
He knocks on the white door and rasps, "Is anyone in? Did you all see what happened?"
There is no response and, a moment later, the door falls off of its hinges and thuds against the wooden floor.
The interior of the house seems to whisper, beckoning, until Jens enters. The entryway is clear save for a coat that lies on a tilted rack and a pair of muddy boots thrown haphazardly across the floor.
Jens rights the rack and sets the shoes up in their cubby on reflex, swallowing down the tickle in his throat instead of coughing it out.
He steps beyond the entryway and into the kitchen. The window is blown out and the chairs are scattered. One of them is shattered, it's back, legs, and seat separated like tinker toys.
A stout woman with brown hair lies beneath a planter box, her chest, arms, and face pierced and peppered with fragments of glass. Her arms are splayed out and her eyes are as lifeless as marbles.
Jens swallows. He waits for her chest to rise. It does not.
He holds up four fingers for a moment, then lowers one.
Jens taps his hoe on the floor a moment and shakes his head.
The quiet of the house continues to whisper, Jens' own breath echoing, the floorboards creaking as he shifts his weight onto and off of the tool in his hand.
It whispers for a long time. Jens listens, but it doesn't make sense. It's as if the house knows that something terrible has happened, as if it knows why, but won't share it.
A call breaks the quiet through the shattered window. Jens startles at the sound and rushes to the front door, so much as he can. He shoves it open and stumbles up against the porch railing.
The skies are still ashen and the field still upturned. In the midst of it though, there is movement: three figures, two clearly human, one clearly not, circle each other like wolves.
The two people, a young man with a pitchfork and a young woman with an axe, shout and cry out at the other creature, lashing out with their tools to keep it at bay.
Their foe is formed improperly, with an abdomen like a horse, but its long legs are angular and pointed like those of an insect, and there is a puckered orifice where there should be a head.
Jens starts down the hill with his hoe, three fingers held at his side subconsciously. The young man jabs with the fork and shouts, "Git, you! Git away from here!"
The beast hisses and lunges towards him, batting the tool away with a sharp leg and slicing the youngster's arm open to expose muscle and bone.
Jens stumbles partly as pain flairs in one of his knees. He catches himself, but his vision dulls as he starts to move again. When he looks up, the woman has buried her axe into the beast, black blood dripping off of it like syrup, pooling in the dirt as it shrieks.
The monster flashes towards her and knocks her to the ground, then turns back to the young man and sets upon him with a storm of piercing blows; into his chest, into his neck, into his arms, until he stops swinging back.
Jens drops one of his fingers as the distance vanishes. There is fury in his mind, but his other organs voice their disagreement sharply: his lungs hack and shudder, his eyes blear, and as he closes in on his target, tool raised aloft, a pain erupts in his chest, something akin to intense heartburn, and he slumps into the dirt.
Jens' hand closes into a loose fist as vision fails him.
Darkness surrounds him for a time, envelops him, and he floats on it dreamily until his eyes snap suddenly open to reveal a soft, grey, sunless sky. His head throbs and he turns onto his side, hacking up a wad of something thick and crimson.
A woman stands over him, her face and clothes spattered with black, reeking fluid.
She whispers, "Jens, are you okay?"
He tries to smile. He scowls instead. "Ingrid?" There is a pause, and he asks, between rasping breaths, "Just us left?"
She doesn't answer, just turns her head to look at a pitchfork, bent and discarded in the dirt.
"Just us," she finally says.
"Just us."
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