All we knew was the Haven. Our salvation lay in the Haven. Without this monolith, nicknamed during its construction as ‘Humanity's Last,” most here would be dead. Others, not even born. The Haven, home to thirteen-thousand residents; a huge structure of safety and life that had existed for over three generations. The bronze was all we were forced to know, although even with its downsides, it was life. Humanity itself was ungrateful for it. Still, even with the lack of thanks, you couldn't blame any resident for the restlessness The Haven seemed to engender in them.
It was twenty-five years into Rezmov. Each hallway, dwelling and atrium of the Haven continued in decoration of his party, messages of submission and acceptance in an apparent attempt to keep the talk down. They tried to monitor everything. Tried. But with each passing year, it had grown into a vibrantly blossoming flower. A flower planted on the first day the Haven opened that now was evolving into a spectacular array of color, yet so far kept behind the black and white lens Rezmov had everybody behind. At this point, you couldn’t avoid the talk, even the most loyal took turns criticizing the authoritarianism. This was an offense often met with brutality, but the talk was low, so it was often that they never found out.
The last three years had been the worst. The flower that was once a vibrance of color, quietly overpowered by criticism now reeked of the obsidian of distrust. Lies. And the Truthseekers went for it, they claimed was worth the life we would lose. Not everybody went with them, but sometimes they would get a crowd, and would be met with death.
Blood was now systematically being spilled, had been ever since Rezmov had taken power. The Morality Police often asked: Why try and peacefully control the population when you can beat it into them? Beat it into them with barbed-wire bats, old crowbars, and dull machetes. And even to the residents who saw the true consequences of this ideology, even they could recognize there was a truth to the sentiment. Nobody wanted to die that way, and because of this there was little outward attack against Rezmov by anyone. And if there was, they would be gone soon after. Instead, the talk was kept in tight-knit groups, among friends and individuals you trusted not to turn you in. Still, sometimes a worm would slither its way into a group, and the next day more bodies would be hung in the atrium, like ornaments. They would be often kept up for months until the skin was green and maggots covered the flesh. Eventually, the flesh and bones would become too weak to be hung by the wire, and it would rip, and the body of the rebellious, or those the top would deem dangerous, or potentially so, would fall. It was clear the examples the bodies were made into were meant for everyone, and it was certainly effective.
I was more careful now than ever. If anyone here was deserving of that dangling fate, at least according to the minister, it would be me. The contraband I had hidden under my bed, smuggled in during the lenience of Nor by my Father and Mother, wrapped in old blankets was more than enough to fight back. That’s what I had been doing the last year. Trying to fight back.
The older residents, even as the dusty, living fossils they were, showed just as defiance as the young. Most of them remember fondly of the time of Nor, although I’m sure their perception is stirred, warped because of the control that Rezmov has brought. Most wouldn't say it. That blind hope, the nostalgia they held onto acting as the only reasons to keep their rapidly deteriorating bodies moving, day in and day out, to avoid becoming a body in the atrium, although some already looked the part, their skin sagging, skin turning a light green color from the normal tan, the bags under their eyes sagging deeper and deeper into their cheeks with each day they found themselves still living, their hands looking much more like bones than skin and muscle. I hoped to die before I got to that point, it seemed like a hopelessly awful state to be living in.
Tig was much younger than me; he was, according to himself, around twelve years old. He also claimed I was probably around twenty-three years old, to which in response I had scoffed. What did he know? Even after I stopped counting my birthdays, a commonality among the workers, Tig had not. He found something interesting in counting. Counting birthdays, counting days and months and years, writing down every big event that occurred. He kept a small book on him, or at least he used to. That’s where he wrote his countings down. It was leather, and he said his father had given it to him before he became a decoration like many others. Leather was a luxury most could not afford, even in the marketspace on the third floor, the few bits of leather were sold, were sold at a price nobody could afford.
This morning, like any other, the voice of the daily announcements protruding its way into my quarters, the thin scrap metal door of course couldn't keep the noise out. My room was inhumanly small; the metal cot creaking with every movement. The small desk in the corner had a half-burnt candle on it. I couldn't afford another one, not right now at least, so I had to use the lights-on time as much as I could, to every extent. As the announcement’s monotonic voice finished droning on about ‘those to die’ and ‘updated rationing schedules,’ I had hoisted myself out of bed. The floor was a solid, scrap metal amalgamation of welded sheets, always room temperature along with the rest. The rusty flooring of my third floor dwelling was in dire need of repair, even if it was nothing more than new welding along the seams, so the sharp edges would finally stop being a threat to my barely covered feet. The edges would commonly cut through the cheap, barely-padded footwear like a hot knife through butter.
The heat of course didn't help. The constant of the thirty-six degree humidity that seeped into everything, dehydration setting in faster than it would in normal, climate-controlled rooms, of which there were no more. Water had slowly become a luxury right next to leather or peaches or even goddamn pillows, increased by the rising need for water due to the temperature. Some could afford better, but right now I was on a budget, since losing my job a month ago, after the anxiety of Rezmov himself forced a re-assigning of all those who worked in any sort of close proximity to him. I was just maintenance staff, but apparently that was dangerous enough to remove me.
Underneath my bed, I had an arsenal. A few machetes taken from the armory up on the first floor I had snuck in my pocket while mopping the floors up there. Along with that, some homemade knives, dull to cut, but anything could stab. And in the far back, a small handgun, chambered in .22. It was hand-made as well, crafted from scrap and, since it was in abundance at the time of its craft, engraved wood on its handle, a carving of a cross on both sides. It was single shot, breaking open from the top. I could only bring it out rarely, during times in the night when the generations gave out and power was completely lost to this section. At times like those, the cameras were off, and I could practice reloading it with some old brass I had found in the corners of the armory. They were already shot, of course, but I had been looking into that. I had to be careful, and I was.
My efforts never produced anything but empty brass. Empty. Warm to the touch. Pursuing the problem of no ammo seemed significantly difficult, and with such a lackluster performance so far, my motivations were low, especially with the useless gun just sitting there, waiting to be discovered. Is it worth it to keep, just in case I can use it? Or should I dispose of it? I doubted not a single resident of the 13,519 who occupied The Haven didn't have a single .22 bullet tucked somewhere, although who would give that up? A bullet would be worth more than leather. Worth more than the gun itself.
The Morality Police of course had much nicer weapons, apart from their bats and machetes, they had assault rifles and shiny pistols with colored grips. Nice, stamped steel, the effects of uncare to the weapons, rust growing on the slides and muzzles was clear. But even with rusty mechanisms, I doubted they were worse than my tiny pea-shooter. They had magazines, and someone with training could empty them in seconds. Of course, you need ammo. They had some, but it was dwindling as more and more of the rebellious met their end, said the rumors going around.
Without a doubt, today would be a day Tig would have written down. After all, it was the first murder in thirty years, aside from that of the police killings, of course, even at that it was clear in its execution. The body was right outside of my door, sitting underneath one of the lights. The reflections emphasizing the scarlet blood that painted over the corpse, like an ink sketch by the devil. One of his hands was missing. It was vivisection. In the chest of the unlucky individual, a man, was the cut-out section, a symbol of a cross. His ribs could be seen easily through it, only the top skin and muscle had been sliced out, moved to the side, or removed altogether on the body. I had an odd curiosity with the body, I hadn't called for the police for a few minutes, as I inspected the body. Focusing on the incisions left across the chest and arms of the corpse. That was when I had been seen.
It was a younger woman. Her hair was a fiery red. She was a little older than me, if Tig was correct, she was most likely in her early thirties, although I’m sure she didn't know herself. She screamed when she saw me with the body, with the metal of the halls, the scream echoed far along the bronze scrap metal of the hallways. It could be heard throughout most of the dwellings on the floor, the scrap helping to carry its message of distress. Soon the police descended upon me. I hadn't moved. It wouldn't have helped. As my face was shoved against the hot floor, the rivets indented my face and arms, leaving purple marks. I was beaten. Badly. My back ached, my legs limp and throbbed with an unstoppable pain. My head, a splitting, seizing throb that came and went in waves. I couldn't move, and once they were done, I was dragged, arms first, down to the fifth level.
The fifth floor was the warmest. Humid beyond anything I had ever felt before. Three restless nights I would spend in the cell. I could have gotten out much sooner, but the pain in my limbs and head hindered my progress of escape, my progress of a rapidly developed plan. I needed to make sure I was well. Sleep offered no respite; the hours I could get terrorized by nightmares. Images of the body I had seen, rising from the floor, bending and tearing the metal as if it were paper. It rose up, running to me with a horrifying scream. Its lacerated, blood-stained fingers wrapping around my throat. The air bursting from my lungs, and escaping when it couldn't return. My muscles spasming as Death’s face drew closer. In others, all I saw was Death himself, creeping towards me, the creature’s fingers beckoning to me, its scythe cutting into me. It was then that I knew, I was not being terrorized. The hand that felt my neck was not Death. No. It was the hand of God, I was being enlightened. Rebirthed. I knew then what I was. What I was to do.
The red bronze appearance of the metal walls surrounded everything. Red. Red. Red. The same monotone announcements every day, the hum of the lights. The darkness when they went out. The monotonous food, nothing but grain bars, and ivory-colored vegetables. Everything reeked of red. Everything was red! I was red! The people were red! Yet they didn't want it! They wanted white. No. They needed white. They needed me!
On the fourth morning of my imprisonment, I came to the side of the cage. The room I was in was small, surrounded by thin alloy cages. In the middle was a bucket, of which I had used many times. The only thing keeping the door shut was a small rope, tied in a knot. The officer, who had kept watch over me, was now at his lunch. The blind trust they put in what they perceived to be a murderer was astounding. Almost as if they had set it up for me. I untied the rope but kept it loosely knotted in a single tie around the post, keeping the perception I was still confined by it. I brought the bucket closer to the door, and then I began to cry out.
“God! Help me! Save me!” I cried. The officer, aggravated at my disturbance, got up from the other room. I could hear his footsteps echoing along the hallway
“Imbecile! Dirty fucking rat!” He shouted, ramming and dragging his bat across the rattling cage. Once he walked by the door, I looked up from my crouched position. For just a second, our eyes met.
“Oh..oh god!” He yelled out of fear. Was he scared of me? I sprang up, rapidly kicking the cage door open. It swung quickly, the hinges creaking as it hit the officer's knee. He bent over yelling curses and clutching his leg. I grabbed the bucket, dousing the man in feces and then shoving the bucket over his head. He began yelling something. I wasn't paying attention. Instead, I grabbed the bat he had dropped to his left. It was weighty, solid. The official kind, from production, not like the scrap sheets found under our beds. I hoisted the bat over my head, and then slammed it down onto the man. He screamed again, his back wrenching where I had hit him. His arms flailed backwards, and he tried to stand up. I rammed the bat into the bucket that lay over his head, it made a loud, reverberating vibration and the man puked. His breathing was rapid, uncontrolled. Mine the opposite, controlled. I felt exhilarated.
I kept bringing the bat up and down as the man screamed and screamed. His left leg was now badly broken, bending forward at the knee. There was blood rushing in rivulets from underneath the bucket, pooling into a puddle on the floor. It almost matched the crimson, bronze color of the metal floor. With each crash of my weapon, his weapon, it pushed him closer and closer to death.
“Why do you fear me? Because you are the damned?” I yelled at him. His cries of agony gained in pitch as I hoisted the bat over my head once again. As his scream reached its apex, I brought the bat down one more time. As the bat hit the bucket, the bucket caved, splitting into sharp edges as they plunged into the man’s face, and neck. The shards still covered part of his face but revealed one of his eyes. It was green, at least I thought. But now it was pooled with a flaming red.
He made a gurgling noise, a horrible gasping noise as he tried to take a breath. His chest moved up and down, but no air entered his lungs. The screaming had stopped. That’s how I left him, choking and hungry for air, one of his arms outstretched upwards, grasping at nothing. His muscles spasming, blood pooling from each limb, and covered in feces. I was far from disgusted at what I had seen. I hadn't ever heard the noises like I had then, never had I seen or felt what I did. I wanted more. Craved it. Relished in the feeling and wanted more.
I walked through the halls of the fifth floor, carrying the now blood-stained bat. The bronze tubing that surrounded me often expelling white-hot air. I sliced three more damned apart. One met the bat, it was quick. He collapsed to the floor swiftly, his knees giving out, his head hitting the floor. I wanted more, and so I had grabbed this officer’s machete, bringing it down onto his wrist, slicing it. This was not a trophy. I needed it, because it was a part of me, belonging to me. I knelt to collect the hand, and using the drawstring of his pants tied it around my waste. I thought it absurd at first, I could feel the pulse of the dripping scarlet appendage. The other two met the machete, I ran it swiftly through their torsos, blood covering my linen tunic. They would scream, but only for a moment. Death was swift for them. I was merciful to them. I was Mercy.
I kept up my charade, three hands now decorated my waist. The blood by this time had dried, turning the bottom of them an ugly brown. The skin now a devoid gray, the hands each lifelessly hanging along my waste. The claret doesn't stay that way. I laughed. It was almost poetic. I had been entrusted with the hand of God, of salvation. I was Mercy. I laughed again, kneeling on the cold floor. My ivory shirt finally had shown some color, as had I. I was Mercy. The damned as a collective were vast, empty, and I was to bring it life. Merciful, saved life, their agony finally released. By the hand of God, I was to be a bringer of salvation.
I found the elevator fairly quickly, especially for never having been to the fifth floor. Its layers of hallways and stacked closets built purposefully like a labyrinth. The fifth floor, now housing no more than a few dusty cages and most of the police force, was originally built as nothing more than a prison.. The elevator was a small, cage-like compartment, old rusty fencing surrounding me as I took it up. Through the fence, I could see the shaft walls blurring together as it shot up. The screeching noise of the coil winding digging deep into my ears. As the cage screeched to a slow, agonizing crawl, and finally stopping, I saw an older man perched nearby, waiting for it. He was an older man, and he had jumped back when he saw me step out. He quivered, shook and stuttered, falling to his knees. Another damned.
“Why do you fear Mercy? Do you wish to keep your agony?” I asked him as genuinely as I could. The voice that spoke for me was not mine, it was different. It scared him, evidenced by his stuttering and shaking with each new word that left my lips. It made little sense to me, to fear Mercy even as a damned, to wish not for Mercy to arrive. The man was knelt, his hands clasped together, eyes shut tight. His gray, silky hair covered his sagging skin dotted with blemishes. He never responded, his voice never known to me, although his mouth moved. He was silent in his quivering begs of God. Pathetic. My arm shot out, and the machete- into his chest. He fell backwards slightly as I let the handle go. He let out an agonizing moan and went limp. With this, I added another hand to my collection.
As I walked through the floor, others mimicked the old man at just the simple sight of me. I didn't know why so many did, but what I did know was that nobody feared Mercy, nobody who wanted to embrace it. I was surrounded by the damned! Those who did not want to be mercified, or those who could not comprehend it! And for this sin, they would not meet salvation, but instead an agonizing death. Each and every one of them.
Seventeen hands now decorated my waist. It would take a long time for me to make it to each subdivision of The Haven. There were twenty-two of them, after all. The section I was in, Section Y, would be the lucky ones, if they chose to be. Then I would meet with the minister for further instruction. The veins in my arms now shadowed a black ink. My skin deteriorating into a disgusting, endearing obsidian. It wasn't all the way up, only to my elbows with sections of un-affected skin blotching the surface. I didn't know what it was and that scared me.
The fourth floor was almost empty, I suspected many had heard of my presence, and either ran like the others, or were waiting for me somewhere. The silent alarm pulled, residents evacuated. There weren't a lot of places where an entire sector could stay, all except the atriums. Of course Rezmov would want them in the same area for surveillance, which made my job much easier as well.
There was a stairway leading up to the sector atrium, an officer stood guard in front of it, his pistol drawn, hammer at the ready. He saw me far after I had seen and approached him. He made a little yelp, jumping and swinging the gun around, pointing at me. The barrel was only a meter from me, I could smell the fresh scent of lubricant that had probably been applied to it this morning. He could have pulled the trigger, and put lead into my brain but he didn’t. He waited for a few seconds, his breathing was fast, sporadic. His hand, shaking rapidly. Eventually, he dropped the gun, falling to his knees. His arms hit the floor, and he began to cry.
“Do you fear Mercy?” I asked him, my voice, much more vast than I had last remembered it to be. He looked up to me, his tears drying on his face. He stopped crying, and he stopped stuttering and praying as soon as he looked into my eyes. His face donned a look of awe. He was the first. The first to accept Mercy. I left him there, picking up the pistol on my way past. He kept kneeling. He had been saved.
At the top of the stairs was a crowd. They looked scared. The atrium was fairly large, a bunch of tables that normally sat inside had been moved in order to fit more people. They were bunched up. Were they waiting for me?
Like a theatrical performance, I walked quietly across the edge of the room, dodging my way behind the stage that sat against the side in order to try and stay unnoticed. It was often used for announcements, or executions, or anything else Rezmov or the Morality Police wanted people to see. Brutality. I found the back entrance, and stepped through. Instantly at the sight of me, some screamed, pushing past others as if doing so would escape me. Some stared in awe. A few came closer, kneeling. But only a few. Five or six among the three hundred people that were in the atrium itself. I stood there. Silent. The people who had ran slowly began to realize that there was no other way out. The entrances had been locked by Haven administrators to try and keep me out. The only exit was through the stairs to floor five, of which was too close to me for many to want to try it.
As I stood before them, I spoke again. My voice, now completely unrecognizable to me. The ink had spread even more. “Do you fear Mercy?” I spoke. A woman in the front shuddered and fell to her knees, tears falling from her face. A man in the back cried out some unintelligible phrase, beginning to walk backwards slightly, tripping over his own feet and falling. Another woman let out a shrill, ear-bleeding scream. There were many that had their hands clasped together, their mouths moving but no words exiting their mouths. Their eyes were closed, many were kneeled or standing, their arms outstretched towards the ceiling. “You should not fear me!” I screamed. I was sick of those scared of what I had to bring. Did they not realize I was not something to fear? I am not Death! I am not the merciless, grotesque caricature that Death had donned! I was Mercy! Nobody who is to be saved fears Mercy. This fear means they are also the damned! They have no right to walk among the saved!
I drew the pistol, pointed it at the crowd, and shot, my arm felt the recoil but remained unmoving still. Two people fell, collapsing into a heap of unmoving, uncontrolled limbs. At this, many began to scream again, trampling over each other to get away from the stage. Pushing and shoving and stomping. I saw children getting kicked and stomped on the ground, their innocent tears pooling onto the floor and mixing with the blood dripping from their injuries. I saw empathy leave as a wave as those put their own damnation before others. Laughable, willing to hurt anyone or anything to do it.. “You shall not fear me…” I screamed, pointing and firing. “...For I am the Alpha…” I pointed and shot again. “...And the Omega…” Blood painted the floor as scarlet did the bodies. The panic was at an apex, people sprinted towards the locked doors, banging on them. “...The beginning…” The room was now unrecognizable due to the red. “...And the end…” and at that, the room was silent. It was done. The gun had never run out of bullets, like fish and bread. I dropped it onto the stage floor, jumped down and walked amongst the bodies. There were only six of them. Only six who had accepted Mercy and they were by the stage. They were quiet and kneeled. They were saved.
I followed through with the third, and second floors. I didn't have time to decorate my waist with every hand, but now hung twenty-one of them, and part of another hanging on my waist. Many more had begun to be saved. I found the stairwell to the first floor. The first floor never contained anyone but the minister and the exit, always closed of course. The gate was unguarded. I called out, hoping for someone. But nobody came.
I stepped up the stairs, noticing a distinct lack of the footprint the residents often left behind in the form of garbage that had littered the other stairwells, now replaced with a pristine marble-tiled floor. Marble, a stark, almost unwelcoming contrast to the crusty red scrap I had come to know so well. As I stepped out of the stairwell, and into the chapel, I found myself in the rays of God. Glass windows stretched to the top of the room, the windows despite being glass, were completely opaque. Varnished wooden pews lined the floor. The stage in front hosted a bright, metal podium, and on top of it stood the Devil. A man dressed in white. He was old, the gray hair that matted the sides of his scalp and the front of his face looked like dust. His skin sagging low, dotted with blemishes and scars. He stood tall, looking at me, on the podium sat an open leather book. He raised his right arm, and pointed a finger at me.
“You…are not Mercy.” he spoke. His voice echoed throughout the nave.
“Who is a charlatan to tell me what I am?”
“You are so masked behind your own delusion, you believe you house the hand of Mercy?” He shouted the final words, his voice echoed among the walls, and laughed. It burrowed into my head. It stung my brain. I fell to my knees. “Blame no entity for your suffering. It is of your own accord!” His words cut through my veins, flesh and bones.
“No!” I shouted. “I am the speaker of the saved!”
“You are the speaker of the damned!”
“You are a deceiver!”
“Can you not see yourself reflected in the spilt blood?”
“I defy death with my own hands!” The room then grew to a deafening silence.
“The hands of the stolen?” he asked calmly and smiled. The hands across my waist began to move, shift, and grab. They wiggled their fingers as the minister pointed at them. One ripped the string from my waist, and they all fell to the floor. They sat at my feet, wiggling. Crawling.
“Your deception of life will not be ignored!”
“You cannot pretend to be something you are not. Your skin turning obsidian is your penance. Your only severance with it must be damnation!” The minister drew his hand back into his robe. “You are far from the Alpha, and Omega. You are not the beginning, but you will be the End.” Tears began to flow, boiling as they hit the floor. My eyes drew to the minister’s own. They were bloodshot. He thought of me as Death!
In an instant I shot forward, my feet slamming into the smooth, marble floor. Cracking it. I grabbed him by his silk clothing and pinned him to the ground. My hand shot into his torso, through his skin and ribcage and flesh. I began to rip out his organs. His blood decorating my now vast, black skin, which now covered every bit of my skin. All the while he laughed, and laughed, and laughed. I kept ripping into him, in and out. He was spread all across the floor. Mercy was to save and to kill. I was to kill. He kept laughing, his booming voice becoming louder, and bolder as it went on. It echoed into my ears and stung with a pain I had not felt before.
And then he was bones. His skin was gone, along the floor lay his pink, moving, working organs. But he was still laughing. I could see the bones myself. He drew his hand. There was no flesh. He grasped it around my neck, and I found myself unmoving. He brought my face closer to his, and he spoke directly to me as I was losing air. His voice was calm, cold. Little did it resemble his earlier, booming voice.
“You are not Mercy. Mercy does not massacre. You have been blinded, no. You chose to be blinded by your own nightmare. But your crisis is over. Welcome it. Embrace it. Don’t be like the others, the fallen, the cowards!”
And as he spoke, I was. I found myself outside. The trees I had not known for a long time blew in the cold breeze. Cold. The Haven looked much larger than I had last remembered it. A huge structure that stood a thousand feet tall, the bronze metal contrasting against the palette of green foliage it was surrounded with. The white cloak now draped across my body was a silky material, heavy and concealing. But none of this was new, of course. It was mine after all, and it always had been. The hands that had once left now were tied around my waist once again, but cleaned from stains and remaining subordinate, the string binding forever. I looked up to the night sky. The moon was bright. Full. Under the guise of darkness, revealed by the moonlight: “I am.”
And with this, the voice of God finally spoke to me once again.
“Welcome back.” And I basked in the light of the New Lord once again.
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