Old Fathers
Sometimes, they came back as cold meat in bloody rags. Occasionally, they returned with flesh untouched but minds fractured. But all too often, they didn’t come back at all.
I wondered which one I’d be as I sat in the back of a pickup truck, zip ties on my wrists and ankles, staring at the bruised, purple sky. The October air rushed past me, stinging my bare chest and bald head. The snow-capped mountains in the far distance looked like the teeth of giants. Two other trucks flanked us, their beds filled with crouching soldiers.
Next to me, a girl in her early twenties, dark-skinned and hair dyed blue, wearing pajama pants and a top dotted with pink hearts. Ankles and wrists bound like mine. To my right, a man in his mid-thirties, dressed in a wrinkled navy suit and tie, scruff peppered with grey whiskers. Bound like us all. I had no idea who they were, why they were here, or what sins they were paying for. But I sure as hell knew my own.
“Hey, slow down,” the well-dressed man said as the wind roared. “I’ll pay you... just let us go.” Silence from the masked driver—not even a tilt of the head. But the girl looked up, and a spark of hope glimmered in her eyes before dimming.
I appreciated the man giving it a shot, but I knew no matter what we said, no matter how much money we had shoved in some safe in our bedroom closet, we were never going back home. Not whole, anyway. The Council paid the right people the right amount of cash, so these goons would be impossible to bribe.
My leg muscles tensed as I debated kicking through the cab’s window and striking the driver in the head, but by my calculations, we’d be riddled with bullets before I could do any damage. So, I remained motionless, waiting to see if an opportunity would later present itself.
The vehicle raced past the outskirts of Salvation City, where the paved roads ended, and sagebrush dotted the landscape. My teeth chattered from the cold and the ancient truck’s harsh shocks. In the distance, high-pitched wailing echoed like a coyote’s howl, but throatier, wilder. Were they out hunting already?
I knew where we were headed. We all did. Since we were kids, we had all heard the stories from our parents or grandparents of where the Old Fathers lived. And where they fed.
After minutes passed like hours, I could see it coming up fast. Generator-powered flood lights surrounded the edifice that pierced the sky, a black tower that gleamed like polished marble. In Salvation City, the tower had a name: the Obsidian Heart.
It had once been a hospital. Before The Fall. Before governments around the world collapsed like dominoes, forcing those who survived the Last Great Wars to survive by any means possible. This hospital wasn’t a place of healing any longer.
All three trucks slammed on their brakes about fifty yards from the entrance. After the engines cut off, I heard shrill cries again. The cries of something more than human, more than animal.
Soldiers hopped out of the trucks, full black uniforms, brandishing assault rifles. Out of the passenger door of our truck, a short, stocky man exited. No weapon in hand, so I pegged him as their leader. They all wore white arm bands with black lettering: SC MP. They were the force charged with keeping the peace in Salvation City. More like the dogs of the Council to keep the sheep in line.
The driver of our vehicle and two other soldiers pulled us out of the pickup truck bed by our arms. As they dragged us toward the hospital entrance—which was the mouth of the Obsidian Heart—two soldiers picked up what I first thought was an oversized canvas sack. But when I saw an arm dragging along the ground and the canvas stained with dark splotches, I knew. A recent sacrifice thrown back from the Old Fathers as a cat would a ripped-apart mouse.
“On your knees now,” the squad leader barked, his voice carrying more weariness than I would’ve expected.
“Fuck you and your dickhead friends!” the girl screamed. She shook free of one of the soldiers’ grasp and bolted toward the leader. The soldier recovered quickly, smashing the butt of his rifle into her back, sending her crashing to the ground. Instinct kicked in, and I charged toward the soldier who struck the girl, but another guard delivered a blow to my spine, sinking me to my knees.
“Listen up,” the leader announced. “You have all knowingly and willingly broken the laws of the Council and put Salvation City in jeopardy. You must be punished for your sins.”
The leader’s words burrowed into my skull, but as I closed my eyes, all I could see was my grandfather, his frail hands reaching out for me, his gaze pleading…
“In honor of our Saviors, the Old Fathers, we offer these sacrifices. Fathers, we beseech you to continue protecting our homes from the Outsiders, from the diseased, impure marauders who beset us. Long live the Fathers.”
The soldiers, in unison, shouted, “Long live the Fathers!”
The leader placed brown dresses and moccasins in front of each of us, then pulled a Leviathan cross necklace out of his uniform and kissed it, looking up at the Obsidian Heart. He dropped to his knees with outstretched arms raised palms up, his eyes shining skyward. The wind raged across the barren land, cutting through my tattered jeans and beat-up athletic shoes, chilling me to my core.
After a full minute of silence, he rose and looked at us with the strange light of the insane.
“Rise. Put on your sacrificial dress and meet your fate. But know that you are also blessed. Though you sinned, your sins will be our salvation.”
“Screw you, pig!” the girl shouted again.
He ignored her insults, and in a voice void of its dreamy lilt, he said, “You’ll now be unrestrained. Try anything and we’ll knock you unconscious, dress you ourselves, and place you within the Heart. Understand? Now, rise.”
We rose to our feet, slowly. The breath of the soldier behind me tickled my neck. He smelled like sweat and gun powder. Each of us had a designated soldier standing guard at our backs. The rest of the armed men formed a half-moon around us, assault rifles at the ready.
Staring straight ahead, I whispered to the guard behind me, “When we escape, we’re coming back for you all.”
“Shut up, transgressor,” he said, pushing me hard with the side of his rifle. “Put on the ceremonial clothes and remain quiet.”
After my hands and feet were free, I pulled off my jeans, staring into the leader’s eyes while the girl stripped off her clothing and threw on the brown cotton dress with intricate gold stitching around the neckline. The other man meticulously took off his tie and jacket, placing them on the dirt before slipping on the dress.
I never thought I’d end up here, even if every citizen of Salvation City knew there was a chance it would be their fate. The Old Fathers hunted our enemies, and in return, we gave them our scum, our degenerates, our unsavory denizens. Blood is never free. Blood always comes at a cost.
As we all stood before the leader, he looked almost wistful, as if he was obeying a higher power and he had no say in the matter.
“We’ll open the doors now. Pray for forgiveness and let the Old Fathers welcome you into their embrace. Pray that you’ll avoid eternal damnation.”
Two of the soldiers pulled open large, iron doors ornate with Leviathan crosses. Even the oldest among Salvation City’s residents did not remember a time before the Heart, before the Old Fathers became our protectors as well as our executioners.
We turned to face the darkened entrance, me first, then the girl, and then the other man. A soldier shoved me, and I started marching forward. Distant ululations echoed in the wind.
“May the Fathers bless and keep you all,” the leader said as the heavy doors clanged shut behind us.
#
I expected darkness, but surprisingly, wan light flooded the hospital’s foyer. Maybe powered by some geothermal system or rooftop solar panels that were installed before The Fall, before the birth of Salvation City and the other scattered clusters of humanity.
We crept shoulder-to-shoulder toward the reception area. The air was as cold as a cellar in winter. Antiquated computer monitors lay smashed on the ground amid overturned chairs and a few scattered wheelchairs. Broken glass everywhere. Dark stains on the tile floor.
I trained my ear for any other sound, of howling from inside the Heart. Nothing. Not yet anyhow. Only the buzz of the lights overhead.
“Find whatever you can use as a weapon,” I said, glancing at my companions. I could feel their bodies quake next to mine.
“No shit, already on it,” the girl snapped, peeling away from me, scrounging around the debris. The man wandered to my right, lifting up a chair then putting it down again, moving glass shards around with the toe of his moccasin. He cleared his throat and started to speak.
“So, um, my name’s Xenon 84587,” the man said. “What about you guys? Why’d they put you here?” He picked up a bent cane in the corner of the room and inspected it closely, waiting.
“What the piss does that matter now?” the girl said, flinging a chair into a wall.
“Just trying to understand who I’m shut in this hell hole with,” he said. “You know, I think I’ve seen you before. Didn’t you work the Council Banquet a couple weeks ago? You were a server, right?”
The girl glared at him, as if she’d kick him in the balls if he got any closer.
“Yeah, one of the drunk soldier boys tried to assault me in the kitchen,” she finally answered. “He’ll be wearing a patch and pissing blood for the rest of his life. But it cost me. Fucking men. Name’s Neon 65783, if you must know.”
“Yes, fucking men,” he answered. “Well, Councilman Electrum 12 never minded where I placed my hands, until his wife walked in on us in one of those private rooms above the banquet hall. He always paid well, at least. But what better way to clean up a mess than to ship it to the Heart, right?” Xenon attempted to bend the cane back into shape. “So, what’s your story?” He nodded in my direction, his eyes trained on me.
Eyes. I could still see my grandfather’s eyes peering into mine, a moment of lucidity, of panic right before I lowered the pillow onto his face.
“My name’s Invar 251,” I said, ignoring their shocked looks. “And no, I’m not one of them. Not really. My grandfather was, but now he’s dead. But he wasn’t like those scum.”
I wasn’t about to lie to them about my name. These stupid monikers and numbers were just one of the Council’s rules established for no apparent reason other than to demonstrate their control, to shape what was left of society to their whims. Non-metal elements for the plebeians, a new number for each birth. Metal and metal alloys for the Council and their lineage. Like me.
I remember visiting the Heart once as a kid, right before I turned eight, about a year after both my parents succumbed to one of those viruses no one could cure. We had rolled up in a bullet-hole ridden Mercedes and parked behind the military vehicles. It was common for Council members to bring their kids along on official business. Probably to groom them for the job someday.
My grandfather stared straight ahead as a half-dozen people—most of them in their seventies and eighties—were shuffled into the mouth of the Heart, their cries hung on the wind and wormed their way into my thoughts.
I asked my grandfather why they were crying, why the soldiers forced them to go into that place. He squinted, his eyes glassy. In a creaking voice, he said, “Invar, if I don’t send them in there, if I don't do the things that I do, then they’ll take you from me. And as long as I live, I’ll never let that happen. Never mention this conversation to anyone, okay?”
I never went with my grandfather to the Heart again. And that was the last time I asked him about what he did or why he did it. But I knew the only reason he remained with the Council was to care for me. And I loved and hated him for it.
These memories invaded my head as I found a splintered crutch underneath a heap of broken chairs. Neon unearthed some duct tape and bound a large glass shard to a chair leg. Xenon had his cane, so we walked back to the far end of the foyer where black steel plates barricaded two large windows.
I walked up to the elevator at the far end and pulled on one of the doors until my arms ached. It didn’t budge.
“Do we just hunker down here and wait?” Xenon asked, his head swerving left and right.
“No way in hell,” Neon answered. “I won’t become their dinner without a fight, and I’m not going to end up like the Unsane Twins. If the Old Fathers can leave this place to go hunting, then that means there’s a way out. Let’s keep looking.” Neon bounded up the stairs.
Wordlessly, Xenon and I followed close behind her.
As we walked up the stairs, I thought of the Unsane Twins, as most of Salvation City called them. Six months ago, twin teenage girls were taken from their home, supposedly for setting fire to one of the Councilmen’s mansions. The Council made a big show of their capture.
Two weeks later, both girls, dressed in brown dresses, shambled into the heart of town. No one knew how they escaped, or if the Old Fathers had released them. But they were broken. Their eyes were wild, their movements spasmodic. They coughed and laughed and sang uncontrollably, wandering the downtown streets. The Council let them roam free, didn’t arrest them. Probably as a cautionary tale for the rest of us.
With every step, I felt weighed down, the air growing thick and heavy. Anger burned in my chest. Protection and Safety for All was the Council’s motto to placate the masses. But their motto was hollow, rotted out.
We pushed through double doors to the second floor that opened up into a nurses’ station. More smashed computers. Paper files sticky with dark matter littered the floor. The far wall had floor-to-ceiling windows that were now closed off by black steel. Yellow light cast shadows in the room. Someone had carved letters into the nurses’ station desk: Pain is Salvation. The smell of something rotting hung in the air.
“Where the hell are the Old Fathers?” Xenon said, looking down a hallway. “Aren’t they supposed to be giants or something?”
“I heard they looked like oversized spiders,” I said, recalling various stories my grandfather had told me. “But no one has lived or stayed sane long enough to find out for sure, so who knows. All that the Council cares about is that Salvation City hasn’t been burnt to the ground by the gangs. And that they have the Outsider bodies to prove it. Maybe the Old Fathers are clustered near the top floor like rats in an attic.”
“Then why the hell are we going up then?” Xenon asked.
“Because, dumbass, have you seen a way out yet?” Neon shouted, spit flying out of her mouth. Her narrow gaze barely held back her fear. Oddly, it wasn’t fear that flowed through my veins. Rage consumed all other emotions. Fury directed at the Council for sticking us here, for putting innocents like Xenon and Neon in harm’s way. At what they did to my grandfather. But I needed to focus, channel the anger so that I could find a way out of this hell, for all of us.
“That’s enough,” I said to Neon, “Let’s go down one of these halls. Maybe if we get lucky, one of these rooms might not be boarded up.”
We huddled close as we inched down a darkened hallway, waving our makeshift weapons at the slightest noise. I pushed open the first hospital room door with my crutch and peered inside. Mold blackened the beds’ mattresses and slime oozed across the fetid sheets. A small window was closed off by steel plates.
For the first time, we didn’t move as one entity, but spread out, propping open doors on the left and right, each creak making us jump. The same results: empty with no means of escape.
“I didn’t even get to say goodbye to my parents,” Xenon said, moving slowly down the right side of the hall. “Those soldiers just beat the hell out of me, threw me in a cell for a few days, and then tossed me in the back of that truck. My mom’s probably going out of her mind.”
“They picked me up in the middle of the night,” Neon said. “I’ll never forget my little sister bawling her eyes out on our front lawn when they shoved me in the van. Those scumbags don’t care. When I get out of here, they'll pay.”
Images flashed in my mind, of coming home from my day job salvaging scrap parts from nearby wreckages—sweaty, fingernails and hair caked with grime—only to take care of my grandfather. Spoon-feeding him applesauce, too weak to even lift his arm. No, the Council didn’t care. Even among their own…
The sound of something heavy colliding with metal shook the walls. Neon let out a yelp. And then came a scuttling sound like a hundred crabs on a tile floor.
I turned my head as the hospital room doors burst open and a yellow spike ripped through Xenon’s chest. The spike resembled the horn of a rhino, covered with ooze as black as the outside of the Obsidian Heart.
Life dimmed in Xenon’s eyes, then faded.
I would’ve stood there waiting for the creature to emerge from the room, when I felt a hand on my wrist, pulling me forward.
“Invar, move!” Neon shouted, her touch breaking the spell.
We sprinted down the hallway and plunged through large double doors that opened into a wider corridor, an entrance to some sort of medical facility.
My chest hurt as we raced down the hall. Another undeserving victim. Xenon was sacrificed because a councilman couldn’t admit what he really was. I gritted my teeth, pain and hate propelling me along.
We pushed through another set of doors that opened up into an operating room with tables covered in pale green sheets that were pushed to the far walls. Black slime slipped off rusted medical devices. The stench of decay was cloying, like milk left out in the sun. In the center of the operating room, several emaciated figures clawed at a naked male corpse lying face up on the tile floor, his chest ripped open, his insides spilling out.
All of the figures wore the same brown dresses. Two women with long hair gnawed on what had to be an intestine. A corpulent man with a white beard licked a ribcage. One of the women spotted us and smiled while the others started to sing in a language that sounded made up.
“Welcome, welcome,” the smiling woman said. “Come join us, there’s enough for everyone. The Fathers provide. They provide for their children. Give in, it’s better this way. Give in and look upon your Fathers.”
Neon and I buried our heads into each other’s shoulders. The old tales had to be true; it wasn’t just the Unsane Twins. Stories that we all heard as children stated that if you looked into the eyes of an Old Father, you’d go mad.
We had expected one of the Old Fathers to careen into the operating room right behind us, but it didn’t. No clacking sounds. Just buzzing lights, slurping from the crazed victims, the occasional cackle, a hushed lullaby. I wondered why the Old Fathers had let these people live and wander about the Heart while others ended up as food. Did they crave followers? I knew it was a fool’s game to try and understand their behaviors, their motivations. The Old Fathers hunted, they killed, they fed. And now I was trapped inside their lair with seemingly no way out.
#
We continued on, inching our way toward an adjacent exit, not wanting to attract any more attention, leaving the others to their grotesque feast. We placed our backs against the wall, gently moving operating tables and wheelchairs out of our way as we slid along the room’s perimeter. And then something fell through the large vents in the operating room ceiling and landed with a sickening, snapping sound.
I only caught a glimpse. Skin like tanned leather, like old parchment. Long, curved talons instead of arms and legs. I averted my gaze as quickly as I could. Cheers and clapping erupted from the demented ones.
Neon screamed, her voice piercing, enveloping all other sound. I blindly groped for her arm, to pull her along, but she slipped through my grasp, and her screams soon transformed into laughter, unhinged and deafening. She started to sing out of tune, fragments of lyrics professing her love for the Old Fathers. Her mind shattered like the others.
Such bullshit, such a waste. The bravest of us three now another Old Father plaything.
I didn’t look back but charged through the exit doors that were mere feet away. I dashed down a short hallway to where a stairwell entrance resided. This time, I heard the scuttling right behind me and the sound of voices—manic voices—ringing in my ears.
Emergency lighting bathed the concrete stairs in a crimson glow. The stairwell was even colder than the rest of the Heart, but the air not as stifling. I ran as fast as I could. My thighs burned, and my chest ached so much that I wondered if I were having a heart attack. And the higher I climbed, the more black slime covered the steps, the walls, and even the handrails.
At about the twelfth landing, I slipped and fell hard, biting through my lip, the skin on my palms and arms on fire as it made contact with the ooze. The clacking sound resounded even sharper in my ears, so I regained my footing and raced up the stairs again until I spied a small landing with a doorway where the stairwell ended. I prayed that the door wasn’t locked, and I wouldn’t have to fight those monsters. My poor excuse for a weapon—the wooden crutch—was long gone.
I reached the landing, my heart thrashing against my rib cage. I tried the doorknob, and it turned. Sliding inside, I emptied out into what looked like a large hall once used for hospital staff presentations.
Chairs were strewn across the floor, most smashed beyond usage. Black sludge covered everything. The ooze burned where it clung to my ankles.
At the far end of the hall—an elevated platform with a podium toppled over and a microphone stand bent in half. Above the platform, several bodies—men and women—were plastered against the wall by the black slime. Their chests were cracked open, emptied of entrails and organs. Huge makeshift Leviathan crosses littered the stage, made from old chairs, table legs, microphone cords and duct tape, probably constructed by those whom the Old Fathers allowed to wander the Heart.
The rush of wind chilled my skin, and I gazed up at a gaping hole in the ceiling that was cracked open to the sky. The stars resembled glinting glass shards against a backdrop of pure black. For a brief moment—seemingly suspended in space and time—I felt huge and safe and part of something vaster, far away from this horror, far away from the petty greed of this dying world. I was clean and empty and alive.
My thoughts drifted to my grandfather. When I grew older, he confided in me that he had been trying to undermine the Council in ways both large and small. Pardoning “transgressors” before they were shuttled to the Heart. Punishing any MP who used violence and rape as intimidation methods when collecting debts from Salvation City inhabitants. He even sent those perpetrating soldiers into the Heart to become nourishment for the Old Fathers.
Other members of the Council—such as Councilman Electrum 12 and Councilman Platinum 9—must have taken note.
They poisoned my grandfather at their most recent banquet, which was supposed to be a celebration of his retirement from the Council. Probably the same banquet Xenon and Neon attended.
I remembered my grandfather pale and shaking when he arrived home. He told me what had happened while he was still lucid. The Council made sure my grandfather knew exactly what they had done to him.
I understood that they would come for me, too. And I knew that I had no place to hide. They wanted to leave just enough time for my grandfather to suffer and for me to care for him, to feed and bathe him, to watch him wither, watch his eyes darken and his memories fade.
My grandfather deteriorated quickly—within days—and could barely speak at the end, but when he did, he mouthed words of suffering.
Somehow, the Council must have found out that my grandfather was near the end. In the middle of the night, I awoke to slamming metal and a pounding on the door to my grandfather’s home. In a matter of minutes, they would’ve forced their way inside to abduct me while my grandfather helplessly watched. A final punishment for one of their own who tried to take a stand.
So, I ended my grandfather’s pain as those cowards never would have. I ended it with a pillow over his face before the Council’s dogs could drag me away. Those bastards made me destroy the only person in the world that I loved.
Anger swirled within me toward the unrelenting Old Fathers, toward the Council and their minions who were safe and warm in bed while those of us who were deemed expendable fought for our lives. My hate turned my thoughts black, and the world rushed at me again, my body ready to collapse, my muscles screaming to stop with nowhere else to run.
I turned around as not one, but dozens of Old Fathers surged through the narrow doorway that I had just exited. They resembled everything and nothing like the old tales described.
Their skin sagged, decorated with gaping wounds that effused black liquid. Instead of arms and legs, yellow talons protruded from their shoulders and thighs, dripping with black muck, the scuttling sound now blasting my ears with their high-pitched clatter. They were nude, and my eyes traveled their weathered bodies up to their faces; some were bald with misshapen heads, others sprouted grey hair at their temples. They all sported white beards that hung down to the floor. When the Old Father closest to me opened its mouth, I witnessed rows and rows of jagged teeth, some sharp, some twisted backwards and resembling the mountains I saw when being taken to the Heart.
And their eyes. Eyes like obsidian stones lodged into empty sockets, exuding no emotion—not love or hate, just an emptiness that seemed to unfurl forever. Just like my grandfather’s eyes at the moment I placed the pillow over his mouth and nose, his instincts kicking in as he struggled, and then ceased to move, ceased to be.
Blind fury rose in my chest, and I snatched a large glass shard from the black ooze on the floor, leaping to cut the nearest Old Father in the chest. My attack missed, merely slicing its beard.
I then stared into its eyes, which felt like wading into cold, black water. I didn’t care anymore. I wanted to stop running and confront my fate. I now understood how their gaze caused insanity; my mind and memories started drifting apart as ice does on an endless sea.
The Old Father raised one of its sharp talons, and I braced myself for the agony, closing my eyes. The talon ripped into my stomach. A moment of pain, that was all, and I wondered why I wasn’t dead. I opened my eyes and looked down at the talon, but all I felt was cold as the black slime slipped into my body through the edges of my wound, my body freezing on the inside, crystals forming in my veins, coating my cells in black ice.
I looked up again at the Old Father who had speared me, peering into its dark eyes, and I could feel myself fall away as they howled in unison, in perfect pitch, the wind baying with them. Darkness swam through my mind, and my skin started to wither, to sag like ancient flesh, a talon already forming from combined toes, ripping through my brown moccasins.
My memories now adrift; I couldn’t remember my parents’ names, couldn’t recall if I ever had a brother or sister. But anger still surged through my blood. I fought against the raging current of ice and darkness inside of me. I needed to hold onto my hate, my fury toward Councilman Electrum 12, Councilman Platinum 9, Councilman Titanium 14 and their ilk, at their avarice, at how they destroyed the only person that I had in the world. And how they forced my hand to perform the act.
But even that rage remained elusive now, like trying to hold onto a stone slick with rainwater, my hatred transforming into blind instinct, into a collective hunger with no bottom.
I tried to push my anger into a small box that I could tuck under my heart, so that when I finished this turning, finished becoming another Old Father, I could open that box and unleash my wrath not on the Council’s enemies, but on the Council members themselves, on the fat, greedy men who caused my grandfather’s demise. That was my last wish, my only wish; to turn my internal hell outward, to come back as punishment long overdue. My thoughts swarmed with shadows. How would I remember? How could I resist becoming just another Old Father, another tool of the Council?
With the shard of glass still in my grasp, utilizing my last threads of will, I hastily carved letters into my chest—upside down—to remember the truth when the darkness fully swept through my mind like a cataclysmic flood.
I cut deep; crimson letters that read G FATHER. Blood slid down my chest, blackening, congealing into dark ooze. The glass shard fell from my hand as newly-formed talons ripped through my palms, the transformation almost complete, a silent invocation dying on my lips, a pledge, that for the Council, vengeance would soon be on its way.
I wondered which one I’d be as I sat in the back of a pickup truck, zip ties on my wrists and ankles, staring at the bruised, purple sky. The October air rushed past me, stinging my bare chest and bald head. The snow-capped mountains in the far distance looked like the teeth of giants. Two other trucks flanked us, their beds filled with crouching soldiers.
Next to me, a girl in her early twenties, dark-skinned and hair dyed blue, wearing pajama pants and a top dotted with pink hearts. Ankles and wrists bound like mine. To my right, a man in his mid-thirties, dressed in a wrinkled navy suit and tie, scruff peppered with grey whiskers. Bound like us all. I had no idea who they were, why they were here, or what sins they were paying for. But I sure as hell knew my own.
“Hey, slow down,” the well-dressed man said as the wind roared. “I’ll pay you... just let us go.” Silence from the masked driver—not even a tilt of the head. But the girl looked up, and a spark of hope glimmered in her eyes before dimming.
I appreciated the man giving it a shot, but I knew no matter what we said, no matter how much money we had shoved in some safe in our bedroom closet, we were never going back home. Not whole, anyway. The Council paid the right people the right amount of cash, so these goons would be impossible to bribe.
My leg muscles tensed as I debated kicking through the cab’s window and striking the driver in the head, but by my calculations, we’d be riddled with bullets before I could do any damage. So, I remained motionless, waiting to see if an opportunity would later present itself.
The vehicle raced past the outskirts of Salvation City, where the paved roads ended, and sagebrush dotted the landscape. My teeth chattered from the cold and the ancient truck’s harsh shocks. In the distance, high-pitched wailing echoed like a coyote’s howl, but throatier, wilder. Were they out hunting already?
I knew where we were headed. We all did. Since we were kids, we had all heard the stories from our parents or grandparents of where the Old Fathers lived. And where they fed.
After minutes passed like hours, I could see it coming up fast. Generator-powered flood lights surrounded the edifice that pierced the sky, a black tower that gleamed like polished marble. In Salvation City, the tower had a name: the Obsidian Heart.
It had once been a hospital. Before The Fall. Before governments around the world collapsed like dominoes, forcing those who survived the Last Great Wars to survive by any means possible. This hospital wasn’t a place of healing any longer.
All three trucks slammed on their brakes about fifty yards from the entrance. After the engines cut off, I heard shrill cries again. The cries of something more than human, more than animal.
Soldiers hopped out of the trucks, full black uniforms, brandishing assault rifles. Out of the passenger door of our truck, a short, stocky man exited. No weapon in hand, so I pegged him as their leader. They all wore white arm bands with black lettering: SC MP. They were the force charged with keeping the peace in Salvation City. More like the dogs of the Council to keep the sheep in line.
The driver of our vehicle and two other soldiers pulled us out of the pickup truck bed by our arms. As they dragged us toward the hospital entrance—which was the mouth of the Obsidian Heart—two soldiers picked up what I first thought was an oversized canvas sack. But when I saw an arm dragging along the ground and the canvas stained with dark splotches, I knew. A recent sacrifice thrown back from the Old Fathers as a cat would a ripped-apart mouse.
“On your knees now,” the squad leader barked, his voice carrying more weariness than I would’ve expected.
“Fuck you and your dickhead friends!” the girl screamed. She shook free of one of the soldiers’ grasp and bolted toward the leader. The soldier recovered quickly, smashing the butt of his rifle into her back, sending her crashing to the ground. Instinct kicked in, and I charged toward the soldier who struck the girl, but another guard delivered a blow to my spine, sinking me to my knees.
“Listen up,” the leader announced. “You have all knowingly and willingly broken the laws of the Council and put Salvation City in jeopardy. You must be punished for your sins.”
The leader’s words burrowed into my skull, but as I closed my eyes, all I could see was my grandfather, his frail hands reaching out for me, his gaze pleading…
“In honor of our Saviors, the Old Fathers, we offer these sacrifices. Fathers, we beseech you to continue protecting our homes from the Outsiders, from the diseased, impure marauders who beset us. Long live the Fathers.”
The soldiers, in unison, shouted, “Long live the Fathers!”
The leader placed brown dresses and moccasins in front of each of us, then pulled a Leviathan cross necklace out of his uniform and kissed it, looking up at the Obsidian Heart. He dropped to his knees with outstretched arms raised palms up, his eyes shining skyward. The wind raged across the barren land, cutting through my tattered jeans and beat-up athletic shoes, chilling me to my core.
After a full minute of silence, he rose and looked at us with the strange light of the insane.
“Rise. Put on your sacrificial dress and meet your fate. But know that you are also blessed. Though you sinned, your sins will be our salvation.”
“Screw you, pig!” the girl shouted again.
He ignored her insults, and in a voice void of its dreamy lilt, he said, “You’ll now be unrestrained. Try anything and we’ll knock you unconscious, dress you ourselves, and place you within the Heart. Understand? Now, rise.”
We rose to our feet, slowly. The breath of the soldier behind me tickled my neck. He smelled like sweat and gun powder. Each of us had a designated soldier standing guard at our backs. The rest of the armed men formed a half-moon around us, assault rifles at the ready.
Staring straight ahead, I whispered to the guard behind me, “When we escape, we’re coming back for you all.”
“Shut up, transgressor,” he said, pushing me hard with the side of his rifle. “Put on the ceremonial clothes and remain quiet.”
After my hands and feet were free, I pulled off my jeans, staring into the leader’s eyes while the girl stripped off her clothing and threw on the brown cotton dress with intricate gold stitching around the neckline. The other man meticulously took off his tie and jacket, placing them on the dirt before slipping on the dress.
I never thought I’d end up here, even if every citizen of Salvation City knew there was a chance it would be their fate. The Old Fathers hunted our enemies, and in return, we gave them our scum, our degenerates, our unsavory denizens. Blood is never free. Blood always comes at a cost.
As we all stood before the leader, he looked almost wistful, as if he was obeying a higher power and he had no say in the matter.
“We’ll open the doors now. Pray for forgiveness and let the Old Fathers welcome you into their embrace. Pray that you’ll avoid eternal damnation.”
Two of the soldiers pulled open large, iron doors ornate with Leviathan crosses. Even the oldest among Salvation City’s residents did not remember a time before the Heart, before the Old Fathers became our protectors as well as our executioners.
We turned to face the darkened entrance, me first, then the girl, and then the other man. A soldier shoved me, and I started marching forward. Distant ululations echoed in the wind.
“May the Fathers bless and keep you all,” the leader said as the heavy doors clanged shut behind us.
#
I expected darkness, but surprisingly, wan light flooded the hospital’s foyer. Maybe powered by some geothermal system or rooftop solar panels that were installed before The Fall, before the birth of Salvation City and the other scattered clusters of humanity.
We crept shoulder-to-shoulder toward the reception area. The air was as cold as a cellar in winter. Antiquated computer monitors lay smashed on the ground amid overturned chairs and a few scattered wheelchairs. Broken glass everywhere. Dark stains on the tile floor.
I trained my ear for any other sound, of howling from inside the Heart. Nothing. Not yet anyhow. Only the buzz of the lights overhead.
“Find whatever you can use as a weapon,” I said, glancing at my companions. I could feel their bodies quake next to mine.
“No shit, already on it,” the girl snapped, peeling away from me, scrounging around the debris. The man wandered to my right, lifting up a chair then putting it down again, moving glass shards around with the toe of his moccasin. He cleared his throat and started to speak.
“So, um, my name’s Xenon 84587,” the man said. “What about you guys? Why’d they put you here?” He picked up a bent cane in the corner of the room and inspected it closely, waiting.
“What the piss does that matter now?” the girl said, flinging a chair into a wall.
“Just trying to understand who I’m shut in this hell hole with,” he said. “You know, I think I’ve seen you before. Didn’t you work the Council Banquet a couple weeks ago? You were a server, right?”
The girl glared at him, as if she’d kick him in the balls if he got any closer.
“Yeah, one of the drunk soldier boys tried to assault me in the kitchen,” she finally answered. “He’ll be wearing a patch and pissing blood for the rest of his life. But it cost me. Fucking men. Name’s Neon 65783, if you must know.”
“Yes, fucking men,” he answered. “Well, Councilman Electrum 12 never minded where I placed my hands, until his wife walked in on us in one of those private rooms above the banquet hall. He always paid well, at least. But what better way to clean up a mess than to ship it to the Heart, right?” Xenon attempted to bend the cane back into shape. “So, what’s your story?” He nodded in my direction, his eyes trained on me.
Eyes. I could still see my grandfather’s eyes peering into mine, a moment of lucidity, of panic right before I lowered the pillow onto his face.
“My name’s Invar 251,” I said, ignoring their shocked looks. “And no, I’m not one of them. Not really. My grandfather was, but now he’s dead. But he wasn’t like those scum.”
I wasn’t about to lie to them about my name. These stupid monikers and numbers were just one of the Council’s rules established for no apparent reason other than to demonstrate their control, to shape what was left of society to their whims. Non-metal elements for the plebeians, a new number for each birth. Metal and metal alloys for the Council and their lineage. Like me.
I remember visiting the Heart once as a kid, right before I turned eight, about a year after both my parents succumbed to one of those viruses no one could cure. We had rolled up in a bullet-hole ridden Mercedes and parked behind the military vehicles. It was common for Council members to bring their kids along on official business. Probably to groom them for the job someday.
My grandfather stared straight ahead as a half-dozen people—most of them in their seventies and eighties—were shuffled into the mouth of the Heart, their cries hung on the wind and wormed their way into my thoughts.
I asked my grandfather why they were crying, why the soldiers forced them to go into that place. He squinted, his eyes glassy. In a creaking voice, he said, “Invar, if I don’t send them in there, if I don't do the things that I do, then they’ll take you from me. And as long as I live, I’ll never let that happen. Never mention this conversation to anyone, okay?”
I never went with my grandfather to the Heart again. And that was the last time I asked him about what he did or why he did it. But I knew the only reason he remained with the Council was to care for me. And I loved and hated him for it.
These memories invaded my head as I found a splintered crutch underneath a heap of broken chairs. Neon unearthed some duct tape and bound a large glass shard to a chair leg. Xenon had his cane, so we walked back to the far end of the foyer where black steel plates barricaded two large windows.
I walked up to the elevator at the far end and pulled on one of the doors until my arms ached. It didn’t budge.
“Do we just hunker down here and wait?” Xenon asked, his head swerving left and right.
“No way in hell,” Neon answered. “I won’t become their dinner without a fight, and I’m not going to end up like the Unsane Twins. If the Old Fathers can leave this place to go hunting, then that means there’s a way out. Let’s keep looking.” Neon bounded up the stairs.
Wordlessly, Xenon and I followed close behind her.
As we walked up the stairs, I thought of the Unsane Twins, as most of Salvation City called them. Six months ago, twin teenage girls were taken from their home, supposedly for setting fire to one of the Councilmen’s mansions. The Council made a big show of their capture.
Two weeks later, both girls, dressed in brown dresses, shambled into the heart of town. No one knew how they escaped, or if the Old Fathers had released them. But they were broken. Their eyes were wild, their movements spasmodic. They coughed and laughed and sang uncontrollably, wandering the downtown streets. The Council let them roam free, didn’t arrest them. Probably as a cautionary tale for the rest of us.
With every step, I felt weighed down, the air growing thick and heavy. Anger burned in my chest. Protection and Safety for All was the Council’s motto to placate the masses. But their motto was hollow, rotted out.
We pushed through double doors to the second floor that opened up into a nurses’ station. More smashed computers. Paper files sticky with dark matter littered the floor. The far wall had floor-to-ceiling windows that were now closed off by black steel. Yellow light cast shadows in the room. Someone had carved letters into the nurses’ station desk: Pain is Salvation. The smell of something rotting hung in the air.
“Where the hell are the Old Fathers?” Xenon said, looking down a hallway. “Aren’t they supposed to be giants or something?”
“I heard they looked like oversized spiders,” I said, recalling various stories my grandfather had told me. “But no one has lived or stayed sane long enough to find out for sure, so who knows. All that the Council cares about is that Salvation City hasn’t been burnt to the ground by the gangs. And that they have the Outsider bodies to prove it. Maybe the Old Fathers are clustered near the top floor like rats in an attic.”
“Then why the hell are we going up then?” Xenon asked.
“Because, dumbass, have you seen a way out yet?” Neon shouted, spit flying out of her mouth. Her narrow gaze barely held back her fear. Oddly, it wasn’t fear that flowed through my veins. Rage consumed all other emotions. Fury directed at the Council for sticking us here, for putting innocents like Xenon and Neon in harm’s way. At what they did to my grandfather. But I needed to focus, channel the anger so that I could find a way out of this hell, for all of us.
“That’s enough,” I said to Neon, “Let’s go down one of these halls. Maybe if we get lucky, one of these rooms might not be boarded up.”
We huddled close as we inched down a darkened hallway, waving our makeshift weapons at the slightest noise. I pushed open the first hospital room door with my crutch and peered inside. Mold blackened the beds’ mattresses and slime oozed across the fetid sheets. A small window was closed off by steel plates.
For the first time, we didn’t move as one entity, but spread out, propping open doors on the left and right, each creak making us jump. The same results: empty with no means of escape.
“I didn’t even get to say goodbye to my parents,” Xenon said, moving slowly down the right side of the hall. “Those soldiers just beat the hell out of me, threw me in a cell for a few days, and then tossed me in the back of that truck. My mom’s probably going out of her mind.”
“They picked me up in the middle of the night,” Neon said. “I’ll never forget my little sister bawling her eyes out on our front lawn when they shoved me in the van. Those scumbags don’t care. When I get out of here, they'll pay.”
Images flashed in my mind, of coming home from my day job salvaging scrap parts from nearby wreckages—sweaty, fingernails and hair caked with grime—only to take care of my grandfather. Spoon-feeding him applesauce, too weak to even lift his arm. No, the Council didn’t care. Even among their own…
The sound of something heavy colliding with metal shook the walls. Neon let out a yelp. And then came a scuttling sound like a hundred crabs on a tile floor.
I turned my head as the hospital room doors burst open and a yellow spike ripped through Xenon’s chest. The spike resembled the horn of a rhino, covered with ooze as black as the outside of the Obsidian Heart.
Life dimmed in Xenon’s eyes, then faded.
I would’ve stood there waiting for the creature to emerge from the room, when I felt a hand on my wrist, pulling me forward.
“Invar, move!” Neon shouted, her touch breaking the spell.
We sprinted down the hallway and plunged through large double doors that opened into a wider corridor, an entrance to some sort of medical facility.
My chest hurt as we raced down the hall. Another undeserving victim. Xenon was sacrificed because a councilman couldn’t admit what he really was. I gritted my teeth, pain and hate propelling me along.
We pushed through another set of doors that opened up into an operating room with tables covered in pale green sheets that were pushed to the far walls. Black slime slipped off rusted medical devices. The stench of decay was cloying, like milk left out in the sun. In the center of the operating room, several emaciated figures clawed at a naked male corpse lying face up on the tile floor, his chest ripped open, his insides spilling out.
All of the figures wore the same brown dresses. Two women with long hair gnawed on what had to be an intestine. A corpulent man with a white beard licked a ribcage. One of the women spotted us and smiled while the others started to sing in a language that sounded made up.
“Welcome, welcome,” the smiling woman said. “Come join us, there’s enough for everyone. The Fathers provide. They provide for their children. Give in, it’s better this way. Give in and look upon your Fathers.”
Neon and I buried our heads into each other’s shoulders. The old tales had to be true; it wasn’t just the Unsane Twins. Stories that we all heard as children stated that if you looked into the eyes of an Old Father, you’d go mad.
We had expected one of the Old Fathers to careen into the operating room right behind us, but it didn’t. No clacking sounds. Just buzzing lights, slurping from the crazed victims, the occasional cackle, a hushed lullaby. I wondered why the Old Fathers had let these people live and wander about the Heart while others ended up as food. Did they crave followers? I knew it was a fool’s game to try and understand their behaviors, their motivations. The Old Fathers hunted, they killed, they fed. And now I was trapped inside their lair with seemingly no way out.
#
We continued on, inching our way toward an adjacent exit, not wanting to attract any more attention, leaving the others to their grotesque feast. We placed our backs against the wall, gently moving operating tables and wheelchairs out of our way as we slid along the room’s perimeter. And then something fell through the large vents in the operating room ceiling and landed with a sickening, snapping sound.
I only caught a glimpse. Skin like tanned leather, like old parchment. Long, curved talons instead of arms and legs. I averted my gaze as quickly as I could. Cheers and clapping erupted from the demented ones.
Neon screamed, her voice piercing, enveloping all other sound. I blindly groped for her arm, to pull her along, but she slipped through my grasp, and her screams soon transformed into laughter, unhinged and deafening. She started to sing out of tune, fragments of lyrics professing her love for the Old Fathers. Her mind shattered like the others.
Such bullshit, such a waste. The bravest of us three now another Old Father plaything.
I didn’t look back but charged through the exit doors that were mere feet away. I dashed down a short hallway to where a stairwell entrance resided. This time, I heard the scuttling right behind me and the sound of voices—manic voices—ringing in my ears.
Emergency lighting bathed the concrete stairs in a crimson glow. The stairwell was even colder than the rest of the Heart, but the air not as stifling. I ran as fast as I could. My thighs burned, and my chest ached so much that I wondered if I were having a heart attack. And the higher I climbed, the more black slime covered the steps, the walls, and even the handrails.
At about the twelfth landing, I slipped and fell hard, biting through my lip, the skin on my palms and arms on fire as it made contact with the ooze. The clacking sound resounded even sharper in my ears, so I regained my footing and raced up the stairs again until I spied a small landing with a doorway where the stairwell ended. I prayed that the door wasn’t locked, and I wouldn’t have to fight those monsters. My poor excuse for a weapon—the wooden crutch—was long gone.
I reached the landing, my heart thrashing against my rib cage. I tried the doorknob, and it turned. Sliding inside, I emptied out into what looked like a large hall once used for hospital staff presentations.
Chairs were strewn across the floor, most smashed beyond usage. Black sludge covered everything. The ooze burned where it clung to my ankles.
At the far end of the hall—an elevated platform with a podium toppled over and a microphone stand bent in half. Above the platform, several bodies—men and women—were plastered against the wall by the black slime. Their chests were cracked open, emptied of entrails and organs. Huge makeshift Leviathan crosses littered the stage, made from old chairs, table legs, microphone cords and duct tape, probably constructed by those whom the Old Fathers allowed to wander the Heart.
The rush of wind chilled my skin, and I gazed up at a gaping hole in the ceiling that was cracked open to the sky. The stars resembled glinting glass shards against a backdrop of pure black. For a brief moment—seemingly suspended in space and time—I felt huge and safe and part of something vaster, far away from this horror, far away from the petty greed of this dying world. I was clean and empty and alive.
My thoughts drifted to my grandfather. When I grew older, he confided in me that he had been trying to undermine the Council in ways both large and small. Pardoning “transgressors” before they were shuttled to the Heart. Punishing any MP who used violence and rape as intimidation methods when collecting debts from Salvation City inhabitants. He even sent those perpetrating soldiers into the Heart to become nourishment for the Old Fathers.
Other members of the Council—such as Councilman Electrum 12 and Councilman Platinum 9—must have taken note.
They poisoned my grandfather at their most recent banquet, which was supposed to be a celebration of his retirement from the Council. Probably the same banquet Xenon and Neon attended.
I remembered my grandfather pale and shaking when he arrived home. He told me what had happened while he was still lucid. The Council made sure my grandfather knew exactly what they had done to him.
I understood that they would come for me, too. And I knew that I had no place to hide. They wanted to leave just enough time for my grandfather to suffer and for me to care for him, to feed and bathe him, to watch him wither, watch his eyes darken and his memories fade.
My grandfather deteriorated quickly—within days—and could barely speak at the end, but when he did, he mouthed words of suffering.
Somehow, the Council must have found out that my grandfather was near the end. In the middle of the night, I awoke to slamming metal and a pounding on the door to my grandfather’s home. In a matter of minutes, they would’ve forced their way inside to abduct me while my grandfather helplessly watched. A final punishment for one of their own who tried to take a stand.
So, I ended my grandfather’s pain as those cowards never would have. I ended it with a pillow over his face before the Council’s dogs could drag me away. Those bastards made me destroy the only person in the world that I loved.
Anger swirled within me toward the unrelenting Old Fathers, toward the Council and their minions who were safe and warm in bed while those of us who were deemed expendable fought for our lives. My hate turned my thoughts black, and the world rushed at me again, my body ready to collapse, my muscles screaming to stop with nowhere else to run.
I turned around as not one, but dozens of Old Fathers surged through the narrow doorway that I had just exited. They resembled everything and nothing like the old tales described.
Their skin sagged, decorated with gaping wounds that effused black liquid. Instead of arms and legs, yellow talons protruded from their shoulders and thighs, dripping with black muck, the scuttling sound now blasting my ears with their high-pitched clatter. They were nude, and my eyes traveled their weathered bodies up to their faces; some were bald with misshapen heads, others sprouted grey hair at their temples. They all sported white beards that hung down to the floor. When the Old Father closest to me opened its mouth, I witnessed rows and rows of jagged teeth, some sharp, some twisted backwards and resembling the mountains I saw when being taken to the Heart.
And their eyes. Eyes like obsidian stones lodged into empty sockets, exuding no emotion—not love or hate, just an emptiness that seemed to unfurl forever. Just like my grandfather’s eyes at the moment I placed the pillow over his mouth and nose, his instincts kicking in as he struggled, and then ceased to move, ceased to be.
Blind fury rose in my chest, and I snatched a large glass shard from the black ooze on the floor, leaping to cut the nearest Old Father in the chest. My attack missed, merely slicing its beard.
I then stared into its eyes, which felt like wading into cold, black water. I didn’t care anymore. I wanted to stop running and confront my fate. I now understood how their gaze caused insanity; my mind and memories started drifting apart as ice does on an endless sea.
The Old Father raised one of its sharp talons, and I braced myself for the agony, closing my eyes. The talon ripped into my stomach. A moment of pain, that was all, and I wondered why I wasn’t dead. I opened my eyes and looked down at the talon, but all I felt was cold as the black slime slipped into my body through the edges of my wound, my body freezing on the inside, crystals forming in my veins, coating my cells in black ice.
I looked up again at the Old Father who had speared me, peering into its dark eyes, and I could feel myself fall away as they howled in unison, in perfect pitch, the wind baying with them. Darkness swam through my mind, and my skin started to wither, to sag like ancient flesh, a talon already forming from combined toes, ripping through my brown moccasins.
My memories now adrift; I couldn’t remember my parents’ names, couldn’t recall if I ever had a brother or sister. But anger still surged through my blood. I fought against the raging current of ice and darkness inside of me. I needed to hold onto my hate, my fury toward Councilman Electrum 12, Councilman Platinum 9, Councilman Titanium 14 and their ilk, at their avarice, at how they destroyed the only person that I had in the world. And how they forced my hand to perform the act.
But even that rage remained elusive now, like trying to hold onto a stone slick with rainwater, my hatred transforming into blind instinct, into a collective hunger with no bottom.
I tried to push my anger into a small box that I could tuck under my heart, so that when I finished this turning, finished becoming another Old Father, I could open that box and unleash my wrath not on the Council’s enemies, but on the Council members themselves, on the fat, greedy men who caused my grandfather’s demise. That was my last wish, my only wish; to turn my internal hell outward, to come back as punishment long overdue. My thoughts swarmed with shadows. How would I remember? How could I resist becoming just another Old Father, another tool of the Council?
With the shard of glass still in my grasp, utilizing my last threads of will, I hastily carved letters into my chest—upside down—to remember the truth when the darkness fully swept through my mind like a cataclysmic flood.
I cut deep; crimson letters that read G FATHER. Blood slid down my chest, blackening, congealing into dark ooze. The glass shard fell from my hand as newly-formed talons ripped through my palms, the transformation almost complete, a silent invocation dying on my lips, a pledge, that for the Council, vengeance would soon be on its way.