Chapter 01 (Complete)

Chapter One

His mind constantly chased itself in circles as he looked up and marveled for a moment at the clouds looming above. They sat shifting violently like waves smashing into a rock face. It all seemed so far away from the inside of his car. The fields were being torn apart, their limbs ravaged and their bodies soaked. While he felt as safe as one man possibly could inside the black sedan, his leg refused to stop jerking and his mind wandered around the constant thoughts which popped into his head.

It was a yellow day. The only sun he saw was through sparse intervals of radiance; auric in its beauty, it shined down and lit only certain areas of the waving fields in between the rock-strewn knolls of Olster County. The drizzle, like the slowly churning wind, seemed inappropriate, or at the very least inadequate; only barely did it cover the windshield of his car. It wasn’t even a mile away, but in the distance he could see the rain plummeting to the Earth, all bunched together and ready to explode.

Seldom did it happen, but every now and again large drops of rain would fall, popping onto his window and snapping his head back to attention. In the foreground, where the horizon met the sky and the illumination of the day began to fade into a blur, the clouds sat smeared and black. It seemed to him that there was no better timing or atmosphere, though it was a cliché and for a moment he pondered whether or not it was even worth it to inspect the house.

Long after he would pass away, writers would fawn over his life, they used this one day as the crux of their story. Granted, it was mostly because his only public statement was of that day, to which he wrote:

“It was little more than a horror movie. The stereotypical storm clouds and the haunted house sitting just in front of a forest; it was the epitome of every cheesy slasher movie I had ever watched when I was a kid. There were no monsters or creatures, though. No demons, no beasts, no hidden threats, just the very extract of our society pushed into one little corner in a house in New England.”

As the slow drizzle came tapping at his window he looked up and then quickly buried his head once more. His oval face, one with a thin and pale complexion, wobbled back and forth. He thought of his wife and of the world he was forced to leave time and again. It had begun to age him, though he was only thirty-two and he looked quite young to most people. And while they would have most certainly considered him decently attractive, he made sure they passed him by without thought or notice.

His mantra was simple: “Life is easier when no one notices you.”

With a peaceful gaze, even in the situation before him, he lifted his head for one final time and let out a deep exhale. Under it all, the facade of calmness, there sat an exasperation permeating his eyes. Purple lines strayed out like grass in the fields, plaguing his reddened eyes, and his mouth sat at a crook, hanging open as if it had forgotten to stay shut. His dark brown hair, which was once neatly combed and only barely straighten to the left, now hung like a mess. Perhaps it was the fear of what sat in the house just down the long driveway that kept him still.

He did not smoke, nor had he ever, but at that moment the very urge to start seemed to fill his body. It was suddenly a good idea, the very best he had ever had. Unfortunately, since he didn’t smoke, he had no cigarettes available. Instead, he breathed in and let loose a torrent of his own, the one the wind refused to allow into the open. It was different than the sigh he let out earlier. This was to calm him, to force a sense of actuality and realism into his conscience.

While it was true he was quite new in comparison to the other investigators, this certainly was not his first time. Even so, he could still remember what happened during his first accident survey. And again he saw himself in that spot, just as he was that day. Yet, as his eyes seemingly refused to blink, he tried to remind himself time and again that this was not his first inspection of an abandoned Advent commune. He was a professional, he told himself. There was to be no tears or fits of rage.

His thoughts always went back to his past experiences. There was a loss of humanity at each commune and the more he found their leftovers the more he began to lose his own faith. There was no panacea to cure the headaches which often came surrounding him afterwards. There were no hidden methods or strange magical chants, no prayers, and nothing any God, whether he be omnipotent or gracious, could cure or even ease. His hands would shake and his knees would grow weak, but as he sat there he knew he would be fine.

The door opened and he got out, shutting it with a firm push and doing so as quickly as he could. As he stepped out into the open world before him he felt a strange calm coming over him. It was the placid mist which came down in light waves. Even though he could barely convince himself to begin his march down towards the house in the foreground, he openly admired the beauty of the city and the county where it sat in between. The adulation struck him as quickly as his own home had when he first saw it. Yet, as he stared at the sight before him, his interest began to fail him.

Normally he would have drove, but sitting before him was a paved road so badly torn apart that driving down it in a normal car was nothing short of foolish. Large potholes and purposefully dug craters marred the road, making it look more like a wall from a beehive than concrete. With all his strength, he placed his hands in his pockets and began the walk down it, trying his hardest to avoid the apertures.

The building, once known as the St. Kolbe Center for Rehabilitation and Child Rescue, sat on forty acres and had enough room for a dozen houses. Instead, however, they had one. It appeared more to be a colonial relic than a church. A long wraparound porch straddled the building with pillars every seven or so feet. And then there were the sets of windows, which were mostly shattered, but he could imagine the beauty they once held.

He stopped walking, though. Something was off and he could feel his feet growing light. The very visage of the house had changed so drastically that for a moment he figured he had come to the wrong place. His mouth hung open and he began to silently count each floor of the old commune. It was not his eyes, though. It only came to him as he looked up near the top of the building: the roof was missing.

“Five floors, fifty rooms, and two basement levels,” he said. It was the information given to him by his boss, who had made sure he knew them by heart. “There is one entrance, three backdoors; one leading into the basement. There is a small orchard hidden near the trees about forty-seven feet away, and a few sheds on the side to house gardening, fishing, and maintenance equipment.”

Nevertheless, no matter how many times he counted, the roof was missing along with two other floors. There should have been an arched room with several windows popping out from within the attic, which was used as a medical supply center by the priests, and two chimneys on both sides. Yet, standing before him was nothing of the sort.

As he drew closer, his legs finally finding their way, he noticed small holes that covered the sides. While most of the windows had been shattered, a few were still intact, and the front door looked as if someone had tried to burn it.  It seemed they even tried to burn down the porch, which from afar looked quite normal but as he came closer to it he noticed that it was blackened with soot and scorch marks.

Just before the house was a circular driveway and in the middle stood a proud statue of Saint Maximilian Kolbe, whose unfortunate fate in life was mimicked by the statue carved after him. A platform, once a square of sorts, was so badly damaged it looked more like a rock. It now only held up the cross at the end of its North side and the bottom half of St. Kolbe’s robe. The rest of it sat scattered on the ground, broken into a dozen or so pieces, as well as the leftovers of dust and debris.

He was a balding man with a clean shaven face and round rimmed glasses; a look of peace was forever turned into that of sorrow, and there it sat in the mud and the muck drug through and onto the pavement by whoever once inhabited the grounds.

He was not a particularly religious individual, but he prayed daily and he followed his wife’s lead in regards to their church. Beyond that he thought poorly of organized religion, going so far as to scoff at it. Yet, even he felt bad as he stood in front of the broken statue. For a second he closed his eyes and mourned the second death of St. Maximilian Kolbe.

At one point, the St. Kolbe center was a haven for all those who had lost their way. They accepted all, whether they were affluent or impoverished. In fact, they were one of the few centers openly accepting children for free. While they specialized in addiction, they were also well known for taking care of children who were abused.

Those raised by the center were given two options once they were adults: they could either stay and help with taking care of other children, as well as furthering their study of the Holy Bible, or they could leave and never think of the center or St. Kolbe again. Very few ended up choosing the latter. Their faith and their integrity were spread and those who chose to leave did so in order to help others and start up their own centers.

At the sound of a ring, he stopped and reached into his pocket. Much to his chagrin, his company refused to use the social norms in terms of phones. Instead, they used the old cell phones, an antiquated device rarely even seen anymore.

With a cracked voice, one wrought with discomfort, he answered, “Yes, sir?”

“Have you inspected the St. Kolbe’s Center yet?”

As he figured, it was Haden.

“Sir, I’m about to enter the center.”

“Why are you late?”

“I couldn’t find it, sir,” he lied. “The roof sunk in on itself and a few floors collapsed. I did not recognize it from the description you gave me.”

“Best of luck, Atlas.”

At the first sound of the alias he had been given, Atlas that is, he winced as though he had been kicked in the stomach. How embarrassing, he thought to himself. Haden, without care or thought, hung up, refusing to say goodbye. Granted, was surprised he was called by the man at all. His usual contact was not someone so high in regards to rank.

He placed the phone back in his pocket and turned around, once again facing the monstrosity. Now more than ever it looked as if it was an open wound. The very area was an abomination; it seemed alive and ready to consume, whether consciously or not, the lives of any fool dumb enough to open the front door. Though, as he made his way up, he figured he wouldn’t have been able to actually open the door anyhow.

The first few steps of the stairway up onto the porch, the veranda, were broken in and splintered by bricks, which were left sitting around the sides. The bushes and plants, those not lit on fire, were torn out of the ground and tossed onto the platform on the outside of the house. Unfortunately for the would be arsonists, most of the plants and bushes around the area were far too moist to actual light. Instead, they managed to muddy up the entirety of the premises.

Atlas proceeded up the stairs, trying his best to avoid slipping on the wetted wood, and up onto the long porch. It was there that he could see the real damage. A pile of plants, shrubbery, and books sat just in front of the door. They had been ignited and used to try and burn the house down. Thankfully, they managed only to char the front door, weakening it incredibly but still allowing it to keep enough strength to stand.

Before entering the house, if at all possible, he stopped as a familiar sound echoed behind him. After so many years in the United Army he had become unusually accustomed to hearing people approach him. From the way they walked, however, he could tell immediately that they were not from the Advent.  The people who were coming up from behind were lazy and walked like horses, their feet clomping on the ground recklessly and without thought. Even the Adventists knew better.

For a moment or two all of the men stood still and did nothing but listen to the fabricated silence which loomed about. After it passed, one of the men behind him took a step forward and said bluntly, “Hello, how are you this evening?”

“I’m doing fine, how may I help you?”he asked as he turned to face them.

There stood before him three men, each of whom carried a rifle. Unlike most modern weapons, these were bolt action and made of wood. While many people would have laughed at such a gun, he took solace in what he saw. They were antiques, just like his G27. Surely they could have been replaced by far better weapons, but their sentimental value was far more than anything a modern weapon could have given them. And as he stood before them, he felt an ease soothe him. They were not from the Advent, which alone made his day that much easier.

The three men lined up in a row, to which the two younger ones stood behind the one in the middle. Unlike the others, he had his rifle shouldered and, even though he looked displeased, he came forward a few more steps and said in a deep and stiff voice, “Unless you’re a member of the Catholic Church you’re not allowed on the premises.”

Dealing with the public seemed to be an afterthought to Atlas, something that should have been taken care of by the officials at the State Guard. His greatest claim to fame, or so his wife Eloise thought, was the day he was asked to stand next to the Attorney General for the North American Republic after the Eislen occurrence.

He paused a moment before replying, knowing for sure they would lambast him for his name. Surely he could have given them one of his alias’, but it would have done very little to conceal his identity either way. So, with a stiffened lip, he replied, “I’m a junior investigator with the Incident Investigation Agency; also known as the I.I.A., if you like.”

“What’s your name?”

After a second of silence he replied, “My name is Atlas.”

“Atlas?” he heard one of the younger men say in bewilderment.

The older man barely had to turn his head to quiet the men behind him down. Hesitating at first, he said in response, “I apologize, but you’re still not allowed on private property. I won’t let you wash away this place like Ostheheim.”

“I’m not with the State Guard,” he lied. “The I.I.A. is a private organization; we have no ties whatsoever to the government and only report to them when we find out something illegal has happened. Essentially, we are hired by private citizens to investigate the scene of what they consider an accident and make sure there was none. We were the ones who had the State Guard soldiers in Ostheheim arrested, the same goes for Eislen and if there was misconduct here by the authorities then they’ll face the same penalties and jail time.”

Whether or not the men believed him, and truly he tried his best to make sure that they did, none of them budged. They stood like stoic guardians, though what they defended was none of their business.

“This place has already been damn near destroyed by other people just wandering in,” he said. “Maybe you don’t care and I don’t blame you, it’s an ugly building, but this is as holy to me as the Vatican.”

On the right side of the man, the younger looking fellow said in haste, “Don’t worry, I can go with him, dad. I’ll make sure everything is fine. If there was an accident…”

Before he could even finish, his father interjected, “No, no, you won’t be going in there with him.”

“Then you’ll let him go through there alone? That doesn’t help the situation at all either. I’ll be fine,” the boy said, handing his gun over to his brother.

The father wanted to argue, in all fairness he wanted to grab his son and yank him back. Unfortunately, as his face went pale, he knew he hadn’t the ground to stand on. In silent defeat, he nodded and walked back toward the statue, mumbling under his breath to his other son, “stay ready.”

With the situation somewhat cooled, Atlas turned back around and past the pile of burned bibles. The son climbed his way up and joined him, staring a horrible gaze down at the man. Unlike Atlas, who was average height, the son of the older man was at least six foot three and looked as though he had worked on a farm his entire life – most likely because he had.

“What’s your real name?” he asked.

“My name is Atlas… my parents didn’t like me very much.”

Before he could say anything in response, Atlas reared back and kicked the door open, causing the father down below to give a startled turn. The soot from the door rushed forward and like an explosion at sea, a ripple of energy moved into the main entrance room. With the exception of a light in the far end of the main hallway, there was little illumination to speak of. The only source were the small holes dug into the wall and the front door, which now hung by a thread.

Atlas cleared his throat as the soot began to rise and took a step inwards into the house. The furniture was mostly burned and the ceiling was singed from the awful heat. Other than that, however, there was practically no sign of life. The walls were stripped of their photos and the color had all but faded into grey. The only thing which sat unharmed was the chandelier, though it hardly represented what St. Kolbe’s stood for.

Atlas began to notice the man who was escorting him in did little more than stare at him. Hoping to ease it a bit, he asked calmly, as he passed the furniture and the front desk, “What’s your name?”

“Elijah… my name is Elijah.”

“I take it you’re a religious bunch then, yeah?”

Elijah said nothing, ignoring the question.

The two continued down and into the hallway where door after door sat open or broken. Inside were the personal belongings of two parties: the priests and doctors who once owned the building and those who dwelled in it after the Second Schism. Unfortunately, the remains of the vagabonds were far more disgusting. Soiled clothes and a stench of ammonia covered every inch, soaking the building with a horrendous odor. It became so overwhelming that Atlas nearly took off his tie to cover his nose.

One by one, the two went in and searched the rooms, finding nothing but exactly what Atlas figured he was going to. Whether it was trash or human waste, every abandoned building the Advent stayed at was the same. The walls were covered in excrement and the floors soaked in filth. Rotten food, used sanitary products, and propaganda; it was always the same. There were no monsters and never were, but to Elijah it seemed as unholy as something could be. This was once a place of humanity, now forced into a fetid example of the worst type of man.

“Why are you looking in every room?” asked Elijah. “Shouldn’t you just have to check to see how they damaged the place?”

“I’m looking for bodies,” he was quick to reply.

Atlas proceeded down the hall, but the man did not. He stopped in shock, the idea never really hitting him. Nothing would have convinced him such a thing could happen, and yet he began to believe it more and more as he stepped closer into the hell. The smell was quickly changing and took on a rancid odor, one so thick it began to form a flavor in the back of his mouth.

At the very end of the hallway was an entrance to a stairwell, which had been added long after the first design of the building. Unlike the rest, which was made with an antiquated idea of beauty in mind, the square room was lazily built and made of the same sort of concrete the road was. The stairs led from the left all the way around until it reached the second, third, fourth, and finally fifth floor.

It was not the stairs which caught him off guard. Instead, it was the massive hole and collapsed sides which shook him. It was true, the roof, along with three, not two, floors had fallen in. Even the stairs, which were made of stone and concrete, were broken and bruised.

“This was where they had Christmas,” Elijah said, finally coming into the square room and breaking Atlas’ attention. “It doesn’t look very nice, but it used to be a lot better. There were wooden floors and the walls had paneling on to hopefully keep the cold out. The Stairs were covered in wood as well and garland sat hanging from them. In the middle was the Christmas tree.”

Elijah was no older than twenty and even that was being liberal, forcing Atlas to wander how he knew all about it. Even the boy’s father was too young, though he was clearly in his sixties. Before he could ask, he saw Elijah come closer into the room and look up at the second floor, his eyes glinting with tears from either the thoughts of what the building once was or the rotten odor which lingered.

“The head priest, I forget his name, would dress up like Santa and barge into this room. He’d cry out loud for the boys and girls to come get their gifts, to find what the Lord has given them. Usually it was nothing but bibles or something like that, but at times, when they had the money or when the community pitched in, they would receive real toys.

“They would run out from their rooms and peer down from the banisters, able to see everything sitting around the tree below them. So badly did they want to charge down the stairs, but the nuns refused to them let. One by one in a single line they marched down, itching to grab their gifts, even if it was only a bible.”

By the time he had finished, Atlas was nearly at the second floor, still amazed by how he had known what happened long before even he was born. It had been ninety years since the place shut down and the only people alive to tell its story were too senile to do so.

The second floor was far different than the first. Unfortunately, there was no longer a third, only a half fallen ceiling and horribly weakened walls on their last breath. Now more so than ever, Atlas was afraid. He could hear the sound of rain growing, finally letting loose and covering the fields with a heavy bit of well deserved release. However, as the ground grew softer and the walls weaker, it was only a matter of time before more of the building collapsed.

Ignoring the obvious qualms he may have had, Atlas trudged on and down the long hallway. Like a snake tunnel it led into a dark, deepened pit which bent slightly inwards. Atlas checked each room, though he only had a few he could reach. These rooms were exceedingly different than the ones below him. There was no human waste or trash left over, the walls were marred only by the bullet holes, and nothing had been burned. Unfortunately for him, there were no signs of his goal.

“Damn it,” he cursed under his breath after checking the sixth room, all the while letting out a horrid cough.

By the time he moved onto the seventh, Elijah came barreling up. He had lost himself in the rancidness of the open stairwell. Long green and black blotches of mold could be seen everywhere, immediately stirring his stomach. Everything was covered in a rot-like substance, constantly wet and always ready to break off.

“Damn it,” Atlas cursed again, this time drawing the attention of his escort.

Elijah walked over, wiping his nearly shaved head of fallen water, to watch as Atlas tried to force open the seventh door. It was stuck, or had the appearance of it anyhow. Carefully, Atlas listened for the sound of someone pushing against the other side, but after a moment of struggling, he heard nothing but himself.

“Are you alright?” he asked him.

“Come over and help me… be careful though.”

The man nervously agreed and walked over next to him. In unison, the two men pushed forward and slowly, like a car through mud, the door began to open. A sudden smell, one Elijah had never experienced in such potency, overcame him and he fell back, but the door still slid open. It was a lucid moment which brought about all the emotions of bewilderment, as strangely as that may sound. Like a sudden jab in the gut, Elijah couldn’t find his breath.

“What happened?!” Elijah asked, his face raped of emotion with the exception of sheer horror.

He looked into the heavily lit room and with tears beginning to form in his eyes, he took a breath. It was the first one he had since he started pushing and the sudden acrid taste began to form, forcing itself onto his tongue and down his throat, invading every part of his body. Atlas, on the other hand, covered his mouth with the cuff of his collared shirt and took a step back in amazement. Surely it was no worse than Eislen, but never was it normal.

After a moment his eyes focused and both men saw it: the floor in the room was moving, or so it seemed. Like an explosion of all things awful, insects and larva pushed and squeezed their way through the chunks of flesh and bone. The sound echoed and soon the entire building sounded more like a hatchery than a tomb.

Atlas bowed his head and walked past the stunned Elijah, whose mouth still hung open. Still, ignoring him as he passed, Elijah sat in shock and utter horror. It wasn’t just the smell, which alone was bad enough, but the sheer amalgamation of bloated flesh all pushed into one being, like some viscous atrocity. And then there was the liquid which slowly seeped out from within, inching itself closer and closer to his feet.

Atlas reached into his pocket and took out his phone, dialing the number for Haden by clicking on the obnoxious photo of him. Before the first ring even ended, Haden answered with an empathic, “Have you found Evelyn, Atlas?”

Once he reached the edge of the second floor he said, “I’m sorry but if you were holding out any hope for Evelyn you may want to put your faith elsewhere. Perhaps we should look for Advani.”

Again silence came over the phone and the two both stood and waited for something more to come. Despising the utter silence, Haden quickly found himself asking, “How many of them did you find?”

“Honestly, sir…” he began, not knowing entirely what to say, “I don’t know if I could count the bodies. Some aren’t even human anymore. They’ve all bloated up and burst. If I were to guess, I would say at least a dozen, if not two.”

“I take it that you don’t know if any of them are men?”

Atlas found a moment of levity, replying with a snicker, “Of course not, sir. You know as well as I do that they don’t kill their men.”

His response was accompanied by a final silence. The sound of the dial tone came quickly afterwards as Haden hung up. It was almost expected, in all fairness. As he began to take solace in the sudden bit of silence, he felt a presence behind him. The phone hid the sound of the feet behind him.

Elijah lurched forward and grabbed Atlas by the hand which held the phone and the collar of his shirt. He forcibly moved him closer to the edge and shouted in anger, “What the hell is going on? I know your name isn’t Atlas, no one names their kid Atlas. Who are you?..”

Before he could say anything else, Atlas replied, “It’s my nickname from the State Guard Conservatory, my real name is…” he paused a brief moment to think one up. “My actual name is John Haley.”

He couldn’t believe it, of all the names to say he chose that of John Haley. Though, it was the only one which came to mind. Even his normal alias’ seemed to dissipate in the struggle.

“You people, you State Guard asses, you’re the ones who did this, didn’t you? Just like Eislen, just like Ostheheim, and just like everything else – you stick you god damned noses in everyone’s business.”

Atlas regained his bearings and, as Elijah held him, he used his left arm to reach under his jacket, grabbing the pistol which nestled itself in its holster. He moved his hand out and exposed the gun, forcing his arm further backwards until Elijah felt the subtle poking in his stomach. With one glance he immediately let go of Atlas, nearly pushing him off the side of the stairs. Atlas turned around and switched the gun to his right hand, but he didn’t aim it at him. Instead, he put it back in his holster and wiped his brow from the rain which drizzled onto it from the broken ceiling.

“Know your enemy,” Atlas said. “Unfortunately for me, I’m not yours, so shooting you would only make me look worse. Now, in regards to who did this, I have some ideas… However, I can’t say with assurance.”

Elijah quickly asked, interrupting him, “It’s the State Guard, it always is. Just admit it, you killed all those innocent people, didn’t you?”

“I am not your enemy,” he continued. “These people were followers of the Šero Advent and either their leaders or the State Guard had them all killed. I don’t belong to either group. Not to mention, if I were a member of the State Guard and we did in fact organize this conspiracy to kill random groups of people, why would they then send me to look for their remains?”

His phone began to ring, drawing Elijah’s direct attention.

“Hello,” Atlas said, putting the phone next to his ear.

“Virgil is on his way over to help…”

“Tell him to watch out for the locals, they’re not very friendly,” Atlas replied.

Haden, with a bit of concern in his voice, replied, “Do I need to send Helios as well?”

“No, I think they’re just a bit distressed by it all.”

With that, Haden hung up once more.

After putting his phone back in his pocket, Atlas fixed his tie and collar and began to leisurely walk down.

“That’s it?” Elijah said from the second floor.

“An associate of mine, along with a port-a-morgue and some doctors, will be coming to gather the dead and take any samples needed.” Atlas reached the bottom floor before stopping and looking up, saying to the obviously distraught Elijah, “Everything will be alright. Go home with your family and don’t let anyone on your own property. Well, unless it’s me.”