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Shadow of Fear by Archangel_7
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Shadow of Fear: Prologue
Date: 10 October 2008, 7:14 am
Signals from the Lighthouse; The Wake Up Call to a Sleeping World
"Lighthouse to Porta de Lisboa, I'm uploading the scans to the network now." Adriano hung up the phone and clicked the "Begin" button outlined in blue on his screen. An indicator bar appeared, tracking the file's progress as the data began uploading. Adriano leaned back in his chair, stretching his arms and glancing at the cheap watch clasped around his wrist. "Eleven-fifteen PM."
The air was thick, as it often was around the sea. He glanced out the window, down on to the dark water. Lighthouse Station was placed appropriately at the edge of the ocean, perched on the crest of a sheer cliff looking out onto the endless expanse of waves. Every night Adriano came to survey for signs of storms or pressure fronts coming in off the ocean, but in all his four years of working here he had never come across something as unusual as this.
He took a sip from his mug of coffee, and grimaced at the bitter taste. "Well, I suppose I've never known much about coffee," he whispered to himself. It might not have been pleasant, but at least it would be more than serviceable to keep him awake. He set the cup down.
Two minutes later he heard a chime from the monitor's speakers. A message reading "Transfer Complete" flashed across the screen. Adriano picked up the phone again. "Lighthouse to Porta de Lisboa, do you have the scans?"
There was a moment of silence from the other end of the line. "Yeah, we have them."
"Well? What do you think? Do we have something here?"
"Yeah…" the dispatcher sighed. "Yeah, we have something here alright. Listen, I'm going to set up a direct uplink with your station, just accept it when it comes up."
Adriano clicked the button to accept and in another window an exact reproduction of the dispatcher's screen popped up. His window was open to the scans that Adriano had sent him several minutes ago.
"You know, I don't need to look at these again."
"Just bear with me," the dispatcher replied. "Now these are the scans you sent me, right? Now take a look at the lower edge of where the sonar anomaly picks up." He studied the area and saw what he had noticed earlier: A bulbous protrusion from the cloud of distortion that reminded him somewhat of the head of a snake.
"Alright? Now let me overlay another anomaly the Darmus group picked up in the a few months ago." Another scan came up on the screen, and a red outline was traced around the borders of the anomalous object. The dispatcher transferred the outline to the other scan, and lined up the odd protrusion with the equivalent one on the first scan. Much to Adriano's surprise, they lined up perfectly.
"That's not all. We picked up a similar distortion just off the coast of Africa. Look at this." A different scan popped up, with a similar flowing distortion centered on a seemingly arbitrary point.
Adriano remained puzzled. "I've never seen any system like this over there before. Where exactly around Africa did you get this reading?"
"That's what's worrying me. The unmanned scanners picked this up over Mombasa, exactly three days ago."
"Shit…" Adriano breathed. "Oh God. What are the protocols for this?"
"I've already contacted the military reserve at Rio. They told us that we have to pack up and keep quiet about this as long as possible. But what I recommend you do is stay put, and keep Dispatch updated."
"I don't know about that. Someone might want to know more. They might show up, start digging around, you know? The last thing I need is ONI sticking their noses here. I'm not in the mood to deal with red tape."
"Well, just think about it for a minute," the dispatcher said. "You're alone in the middle of nowhere, miles in any direction from any major population center. Let's face it, the Covenant aren't going to care about some tiny weather station, and neither are the Spooks. They have more important things to worry about."
Adriano nodded in silent agreement. "I... I guess I'll keep you posted."
Shadow of Fear: City in Flames
Date: 31 October 2008, 8:49 am
City in Flames
From the Journal of Raoul Acosta, October 28, 2552.
I find myself awakened with a distinct pain in my head, an ache in my neck, and the taste of cold ash in my mouth. 'Where am I?' I whisper to myself. It was only several hours ago that I had been sitting in the lounge of this very hotel, sipping from a piña colada I had stolen from a passing waiting tray. What had transpired, between then and now? Why could I not remember?
I trip over a large black suitcase as I get out of bed. Why is this here? I try to open the suitcase, but some demented trickster has the latches locked, with no way of opening them. I toss it aside, and try to make sense of my surroundings. Luggage was flung all across the room, most which I was sure was not mine. One of the curtains was torn from the window and draped over some mound in the corner. Ashtrays with half-burned cigarettes litter the tables. A wheeled rack of uneaten food stood over the floor, strewn with garbage and women's undergarments.
That must have been it. Or at least I hoped it was. In my acid-fueled haze, the worst I had done was to take a woman in the throes of passion. No crime there. Not unless she was the one draped under the curtain.
At that moment, I spied a .45 caliber pistol lying on the dresser drawers, next to the TV. 'Oh god,' I breathed, praying to any heathen god listening that the pistol had not seen recent use. I came to this city with the idea that I was the last gleaming hope of incorruptible sanity (or insanity) in this wretched place. What would come of me, if I found that I was responsible for some irredeemable act? I am Don Quixote, staring down the proverbial giants. I have to maintain my grip, or else fall off the horse and into the same disillusioned fear and hatred as everyone else.
I hear the patter of the shower in the bathroom starting up, and I slump over in relief. She was still alive. Whatever was under that curtain, however, probably wasn't.
I pulled my slacks and Acapulco shirt on quietly, not quite sure when the owner of this room would come out, if at all. I decided it was best if I take a small hit of Oxy, grab the suitcase, and escape before she could blame me for this horrific crime and sic some government cronies on my trail like so many English hounds on a crippled fox. I grab the pistol and a box of hollowpoints and stash them in my tote. No point in letting a good .45 go to waste, no matter the consequences. Now I can make my escape…
"I'm sorry, sir, but the police have requested that all guests remain inside until the situation is under control." Raoul glared deep into the eyes of the lithe, brown-skinned woman.
"Listen, goddamnit, this is serious!" Raoul screamed, the hastened tempo of his voice slurring his words. "It's imperative that I get out of this building as soon as possible!" Raoul slammed his fist repeatedly on the busboy bell, drawing fearful stares from the hotel patrons walking past. "Who's your manager? Get him out here; I want to talk to him."
"Listen, sir, I understand your concerns, but we just can't allow you to walk right out into the middle of a riot. Please, we're only doing this for your own good."
"Shit," Raoul groaned. "You listen here. I know what I'm doing, and I know what is good for me and what isn't. I've covered wars, for god's sake. And I know what wouldn't be good for me is staying cooped up in this hotel while some dingbat whore calls the damn Rio Secret Police on me. Now if you don't mind, I'll be leaving."
He stormed off through the middle of the crowd of people that had gathered in the lobby. They were all huddled around the front windows, watching from behind the reinforced glass as rioters on the street were gassed by the police crouching behind the concrete barrier separating them from the beach. Raoul grimaced. He trudged through the crowd, making a break toward the hotel bar.
Raoul took a seat, hoping to calm the panic of fleeing the crime scene with a couple rounds of mezcal. Perhaps if he plunged himself into alcohol, rather than adrenalin, he'd be able to relax. Maybe even take his mind off of the mound rolled in the hotel curtains.
The news on the television still broadcasted in simplified Portuguese. Raoul found it amusing how even now, with the whole world held under the UNSC's thumb, the closest the nations on Terra had gotten to cultural unity were mandatory courses on English and the ironing-out of their various language's quirks. Raoul only had a passing understanding of the language, but although he could not follow the rapid-fire speech assaulting him from the speakers he could read the subtitles just fine.
". . . UNSC has declared a state of emergency following leaked news concerning the sightings of several large unidentified craft hovering over local airspace. Rio and the surrounding area has been declared officially under the UNSC's military jurisdiction. Citizens have been advised to remain indoors as the UN Police Forces attempt to control the outbreak of violence that has erupted in the wake. . ."
"Jesus God Almighty," Raoul whispered. "I need to get out of this godforsaken city." The cards had been dealt. Out on the street those pigs were trying to usher in the Sixth Reich. Above him, in a pantie-strewn hotel room, a murderous wench might have been waiting to call out the dogs and use him as a scapegoat. He needed out of this city. He needed to find a way to escape this madness.
Grabbing the suitcase, he quickly forced his way through the bar, weaving between the multitudes of patrons sitting at the glass tables. "Out of my way. . . Você vai, Você vai, goddamnit. . . "
"Sir!" a voice called out. Raoul stopped, growling under his breath as he turned to face the tall, rat-faced waiter stumbling over a set of tables to reach him. "Sir! You can't leave the hotel!"
"Yeah?" Raoul replied, a cigarette hanging from a Marlon Spike in his lips. "Well, try and stop me." He kicked open the door, much to the chagrin of the waiter, still wailing and forcing his way through the crowded restaurant. Raoul stepped out into the back alley.
Immediately he was overcome with a sudden wave of sound. Terrible cries of pain and anger came wafting through the air just as thick as the stinging mist of tear gas. Several gunshots cracked through the clamor. Raoul quickly ducked behind the nearby green dumpster.
The alley was fenced off from the street. On one side lay the familiar Avenida Atlantica, now crawling with fleeing tourists and rioters. Raoul reasoned that where there were rioters, there were police. Where there were riot police, there were bound to be trigger-happy psychopaths, and it would only be a matter of time before one of them decided his head would make an appealing target.
Opposite the beach lay Domingos Ferreira, another main drag lined with shops and tourist traps. Luckily, the wall of hotels lining the beachhead would keep the UN forces from advancing much further. At least until they called in the dropships.
Heading west would be the safest route, he decided. Out into the mountains, away from the frightened tourists in the south. Heading north would also be a treacherous route. The city would be riddled with angry locals, ready to slaughter any foreigner on sight, military or otherwise. Escape was the only instinct, the only urge driving him on. How long could he maintain? Could he break free before the chaotic city swallowed him whole?
He leapt up and scrambled over the eight-foot fence. Dropping to the other side, he quickly took in all the necessary information: the wavering blue and red light of a police barricade to the right; a cloud of angry voices and tear gas to the left. Without hesitating, he quickly removed his outer shirt and wrapped it around his head, covering his nose and mouth.
He charged to the left, into the heavy throat-burning mist. There was screaming, and objects flying past his head in every direction. He had to get off the main streets. He stumbled around, his visibility limited to a few steps in any direction. "Oh god," he moaned. Gunfire clattered in the distance. The pavement quaked as some huge aircraft rumbled overhead. Finally, Raoul collided with a storefront. Throwing open the door, he rushed in.
The store owner blocked his path, throwing up his arms and yelling incomprehensibly in Portuguese."Fuck off," Raoul mumbled, snatching the .45 from the front pocket of his tote. A look of terror struck across the shopkeep's face as Raoul brandished the gun, waving it as though it were a crucifix warding off some indescribable evil. He backed towards the rear exit, crashing through a pair of doors to the inventory room, and finally broke through the outer doors.
He was met with the sight of an apartment building burning directly across the narrow boulevard. Smoke billowed from the entire height of the structure, saturating the air with suffocating, noxious fumes. The fire roared on, bright red flames lapping at the darkened sky. Raoul found the heat unbearable. Sweat poured from his face, down his neck, down his arms. Salty tears stung his eyes.
Before Raoul could regain his bearings, another roar ushered from above. A pair of blinding lights appeared from the darkness, forcing him to shield his eyes as he continued running. His chest heaved, his lungs cried out in pain. "The fucking pigs are on to me!" Another heavy rumbling shook the ground, tearing his feet from beneath him. He keeled over, scraping his arms and knees against the concrete. The Marlon Spike dropped from his mouth, rolling down the sidewalk to parts unknown. Overhead, hovering thirty or so feet above the street, was one of the UN's birds, a gunmetal behemoth known as the Pelican. A blast of hot air washed over him as he struggled to his feet. "No! Not like this!"
"All civilians move indoors immediately!" boomed a disembodied voice from a bullhorn up above. "We have been authorized to use any force necessary. Return to your homes!"
A spotlight swept across the smoke-choked street, revealing the silhouettes of several dozens, Molotovs and pistols in hand, stunned by the dropship's sudden appearance. "Return to your homes and places of business immediately!" At that instant a pair of ropes descended from the rear of the Pelican, and Raoul could see dark, formless masses poised to slither to the bottom. Marines.
Gripped by adrenalin, Raoul ran, staying within the scattering crowd. Strength in numbers, let the weak fend for themselves. A pair of muffled cracks broke above the wailing. Another tear gas salvo streamed overhead, landing directly in his path. Desperate, he sprinted toward the nearest building he could see. Crashing into the wall, he scrambled for the front door's handle, only to discover, much to his despair, that the door had been locked. "Damn you, let me in!" he screamed, smashing his fist into the heavy steel door. Another round of muffled cracks. "No!" he sobbed between gritted teeth. "God damn you..."
Raoul dropped to his knees, a painful nausea gripping him from the very bottom of his stomach. "This is it," he said, submissively. "They're going to find me like some punk on the side of the street. If I'm not slammed outright for disturbing the peace, they'll check my connections, they'll search my possessions, and let's not forget about the hotel room. They'll see what kind of rotten bastard they're dealing with, and then they'll leave me in some dank backwoods prison to rot. This is it, man. The whole fucking city is burning, and I'm just going to burn with it."
"Quick, in here!" Before Raoul could see the source of the low, husky voice, pair of large hands gripped his shoulders, pulling him to his feet and tossing him inside. His temple smashed against the dark oak leg of a table, jarring him from conscious reality and sending him sinking slowly into darkness.
Shadow of Fear: An Honest Man's Work
Date: 7 November 2008, 9:45 am
Doing it Write
Bleeding Phae's Bank Account since 2008!
An Honest Man's Work
From the Journal of Raoul Duke, April 11, 2552
Had I known the horrible mess I was getting into, would I still have done it? Hell yes. Take the ticket and ride. No point in looking back. At that point none of us had any regrets. There was nothing to regret. For all we knew, it would be the last night of our lives. That was the handle. All of us knew what was happening, even though those UNSC shitheads wouldn't come out and tell us. Our heads were full of animalistic fear, confusion, and loathing. Our hearts, however, filled with a strange and twisted sense of both joy and despair. Horrible atrocities were committed that night, in a final celebration of all the primal cruelties humanity was capable of.
I've lived a life of insanity and intoxication. But this goddamned city brought me to a place I've never been. However, one of the things you learn, when you've lived a life like mine, is that sometimes, the real fiends are the only ones with true grit. The crazies, the loners, the outsiders; the kinds of people who live outside the law. To be an outlaw, you have to be honest, otherwise you're just a criminal, looking out for yourself. I found hope in this strange vision. That basic trust in the decency in humanity was the only thing keeping me going.
Raoul took a whiff of the air as his consciousness returned. The place smelled dingy, with smoke and cheap liquor on the air. The kind of rotten place he'd find himself in on any decent Saturday night. It was Raoul's kind of place.
He slowly stirred, raking his hand against his swollen temple. A guttural moan escaped his throat, and he could taste a warm stream copper trickling in from the split in his lower lip. A terrible aching in his lower back stung him as he tried to sit up. He inhaled air in gasps. His ribcage was tight. "You alright, feller?"
His .45. Where was it? Raoul's hand flashed to his waist, padding his slacks, searching for any sign of the heavy, cold steel. His eyes darted open, only to be met by a pair of gleaming brown orbs staring down at him. "Augh!" he screamed. He swung frantically at the pair of eyes, swiping the air with a pair of balled fists. "Get away from me you whore! I'll claw your fucking eyes out!"
"Woah, woah, woah, woah!" The same voice called out. Raoul felt his arms being slammed firmly to the floor. "Take it easy!" Struggle as he might, Raoul's fierce thrashing and gyrating could not break him free. "We're all friends here. I'm your friend."
"Hah!" Raoul scoffed, "Like fuck you are." Blood ran profusely from the cut in his lip. "Where the hell am I? Are you one of them?" A pair of brown eyes stared blankly from above a scraggly grey beard. "Answer me, goddamnit! If I'm going to be held down and probed by some ONI spook, I want to know now! I have rights! Even in this country I have rights!"
"Buddy, I don't know what the hell you're going on about, but ain't gonna' hurt you." The man released his grip on Raoul's arms and backed away. The crazed dope fiend shuffled away, backing himself into a corner behind the pockmarked billiards table.
"Alright, maybe I believe you," he said, brushing the sawdust from his Acapulco shirt. "Your accent. You're American, aren't you?"
"Yeah," said the man. "Name's Rebus. I'm from San Antonio."
"Raoul," he said, giving a weak wave. "Los Angeles."
"Well, Raoul, if you must know this is my own little place in Rio." Rebus shifted around, his arms open. "I call it the 'Sawtooth,' but most locals just call it 'Merda.'"
Raoul shrugged. "... Yeah. Well, good luck with the business, man, real classy joint. Let me know how this goes, and now I'll just be leaving. . . ."
"I just saved your ass, so you could stand be a little more grateful, son. Texan hospitality. Right now all that's keeping you from getting your hind end shot off is that there door." Rebus pointed to the door to his left. "And all your jabbering ain't making it much safer in here. Comprende?"
Raoul nodded. No point in confrontation, especially with much greater odds at stake.
"Now, I gave your things to that man over there," Rebus continued. Raoul looked in the direction his finger pointed and could see a wide-brimmed hat extending over the back of the corner booth seat. "You can take it anytime you like, but I don't think that fella's going to take too kindly to someone shooting up the place. I'd watch out."
Raoul nodded, and got to his feet. Taking a precarious look back at Rebus, he pressed on toward the corner booth. The man's face was still hidden, even as Raoul stood over him. "Hey, uh, listen, man," he began.
"If you want your stuff, just ask."
Raoul was rather taken aback by the man's calm tone. "Listen, I'm sure you're busy with your beer and all, but . . . "
"I said you'd have to ask."
"Listen man, let's get down to brass tacks. It's a fucking warzone out there. You and I don't have time to be fucking around in some beat-down bar. We've got to get the hell out of here. Now, I'm a reasonable man. And I'm sure you're perfectly reasonable too. I'm sure you've got better things to do than to, and so do I. Now if you'll just give me the bag, I'll be on my way, and you'll never see my sorry ass again."
"Look here," the man continued, his head still covered by the wide brim of his hat. "I'm a man in an uncertain business, and in an uncertain business we have certain ways of doing things." The man tipped his hat up to reveal a pair of sunken blue eyes. "What's your name?"
"My name?" he replied, stabbing a finger into his chest. "Raoul Acosta."
"You have a strange way of speaking, Mr. Acosta." The man took another sip from the drink he was nursing. "The name's Everett. Everett Millers. Now, I'd normally see the wild look in your eyes, smell the liquor on your breath, and say to myself 'You know, maybe I oughta bring this boy in.' Then I'd take you down to the police station and have them sort you out. But, like you said, I'm a reasonable man, and these are unreasonable times."
"You mean to tell me you're a fucking narc?"
"No, Mr. Acosta, as a matter of fact I'm not." The man shifted in his seat, turning to face Raoul. "You might call me a lawman, but I don't enforce their kind of law. They just pay me to come in and clean up their messes, whenever they might need to."
"Well I'm sure you've got your hands full tonight–"
"That I do, Mr. Acosta, that I do. I can see the people behind all this craziness, and although the people out there might seem like animals right now, I know they're no different than you and I. I'm inclined to see the good in people, Mr. Acosta. Some might call it a weakness. I think it's a strength, myself. I can look into a man's eyes and tell what he truly intends, and where the man really stands. And it's only when you know where a man really stands that you can say you deal justice. Most other folks might look at you and see a drunkard, a wreck of a man hopping from one high to the next. But when I look at you, I see a man like me, trying to make sense of a world that doesn't make much sense at all."
"Well, that's great and all, but I really need to be leaving. I have to get out into the mountains, slip the noose around my neck."
"Out west?" Everett asked. "You won't make it out west."
"Well, why not? It's a perfectly reasonable place to go, isn't it? I've been out in the jungle before. Hell, I've spent two years with the Corps. I can hold my own, man."
"No," said Everett. "I mean you won't be able to get there at all. UN's already blocked the city off."
"How do you know that?"
"I have my connections." Everett downed the last of his beer. "Now, Mr. Acosta, are you any good with this .45?"
"Well," he replied, "I'm a little out of practice. But I can use it."
"Good." Everett slipped the brown tote from under the table and slid it to Raoul. "If you'd be willing to travel with me, I think I might have a mutual solution for both our problems"
"Yeah? What's that?"
"If we're going to get out of the city, we're not going to be able to do it without the UN's say-so. I might have to pull a few strings, but I'm fairly certain that if we can reach the UN's Green Zone up north, we might have a shot of getting out of here alive."
"We'd be facing certain death, man. What kind of gear do you got?"
"I have a truck waiting out back. Three rifles, four shotguns, two pistols, and more than enough ammo for all of them."
"Two guys with a truck full of guns facing down an entire city crawling with panic-stricken people, police, and Marines. Hell, man, I got to admit I like those odds." Raoul drew a cigarette from his bag and stuffed it into the Marlon Spike. "Going on a picaresque crusade straight through the heart of madness? I like the sound of that."
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