The Last Hope

The Iskhei Files

This story is set in a far future, in a alternative reality where the USSR achieved global conquest.

***

“What is it?” the low hissing of the welding tool sizzled and went quiet, as the continuous mute thrumming inside the oval object vibrated in his bones. 

“How would I know, debil I just got here.” Iskhei lit his cigarette, its oozing nicotine dropped onto the floor, where the object bled. 

“Is it alive?” The dwarf was curious, he performed experiments on the new salvage for nearly his entire shift, and still he couldn’t even tell if it was biomaterial or artificial. As far as he knew, it was neither, it was supernatural in all indications. 

Iskhei ignored the dwarf slave as long as possible, before the rough coughing of the midget mutant made him shout out, “da poshel the!” 

“Language.” The dwarf kept a swear jar, but he could never get an agent to put even a single ruble into his filthy little jar. Oftentimes Iskhei would take it, and blow smoke in the dwarfs face for no particular reason, which is why he hid his jar in his toolbox. 

“What is it doesn’t matter.” Iskhei put out his cigarette half-smoked into the oval object, as it seethed with internal commotion. Heat was emanating from it enough to cause the remnants of his cigarette to burn to a charred speck in seconds. Edges of his fingers were burned a bit, the black tinge of his skin tingled with the delightful agony of heat related pain. 

Just like when his father would burn his fingers with his lighter when he caught him smoking, but he was dead, his old man was pulled off the iron lung. A redundancy to the healthcare bureaucracy, he was offered a slow death of suffocation or a bullet to the back of the head. 

He asked for suffocation, so Iskhei shot him in the head. 

“I don’t want this thing here, if it's going to explode.” The dwarf worried as he saw flame spark up near the base of the oval object, which spread the writhing material on the floor, as if it were a fungus infection. 

“Doesn’t matter what you want, doesn’t matter what I want, it stays here, and you have to destroy it, if you don’t—” Iskhei came a over to the dwarf, towering over the diminutive homunculus of scientific meddling and kicked him hard in the guts, making sure it was enough force to make the midget double over in agony. “—I’ll throw you into the molten salt pit.” that was no idle threat, as he had thrown another dwarf in there for attempting to strike him with a hammer. 

Where that dwarf was more deviant of the norm, the dwarf that cringed from the kick was docile, like the rest of his mutant brothers. Completely subservient to his masters, a perfect slave to do such high risk jobs. 

“I’ll get it done…” the little man pleaded. “Just don’t throw me in there.” memories of watching nearly liquefied skeletal hands reaching out of the pile of molten rocks made him sick on the inside, cause it was his job to clear away the molten gore. 

Iskhei said no more, and left the workshop, he would come back later in the metric, as his translucent watch tattooed on his wrist was turning from 23:59 to 00:00, a new metric, this one would be shorter, only going up to 15:00, and he didn’t even sleep yet. Swearing to himself he went for another cigarette but he was out, the metallic case he kept them in was empty. 

“Ethot scanck.” he bitterly spoke. The woman he spent the early part of the metric with had stolen his ration of cigarettes. Losing his stimulation would mean he had to sleep, but he didn’t want to, no one wanted to, the Brain People would torment them as they slept. A continuous torture to punish them for allowing the administrators to imprison them in the caves beneath the Metroplex. 

His dreams were always the same terrors, the feeling that made his legs spasm in nerve stretching pain, as spiders would attack him in his mind. Biting him, tackling him, and wrapping them in their webs as if he were a fly. The thought made his back twinge, he had to get his cigarettes, whatever else he had to get them, he only hoped she didn’t smoke them all before he got to her. 

***

“Where are they, you cunt!?” Iskhei hurled an expensive looking lamp at the far wall, embedding the ivory into the drywall. 

“I don’t have them.” Mischell cried. Her face bruised, her swollen belly bruised and indented, her baby shaking violently inside of her, she was trying to find a knife to defend herself. Opening a drawer in her kitchenette in her one room apartment, she tried to take out a long chef's knife, but her wrists were pinched by an overpowering force. 

By reflection she dropped the knife on the counter, and her most recent client snapped the bone in her wrist, she let out a long, ear dreading cry, as deep as any woman could make. 

“Alright, they are in my vanity box, under the tray, don’t hurt me again.” he pushed her with enough force to slam her into the wall, causing her unborn baby to gyrate as it felt all the pain his mother was experiencing, she rubbed her belly hoping that her son wouldn’t die. 

Tearing open the small jewelry box, he snapped off the lid, and threw aside the tray held there by tiny hinges, and to his relief he saw his and many other cigarettes. Covetously he took his and the rest, which the bloodied and bruised lady of the night protested. 

“Please don’t take them all…I need them for the baby, he won’t sleep otherwise.” she stroked her blackened bellow that protruded through her torn nightgown. 

“You’re lucky I didn't kill you.” Iskhei took all of them, put one in his mouth and lit it, and put the rest in his cigarette case, he had to squeeze close the lid to fit them all inside. “I leave you as you would leave me you worthless piece of garbage. I should, but I’m sure I beat your child retarded, I think that is punishment enough.” 

Inhaling deep the sleep, erasing chemicals into his lungs, he exhaled a horrid, yet aromatic blue fume that made Mischell envious. 

“However—” Iskhei’s eyes went to a furious coldness, as he glared at the badly beaten woman. “—you are no longer welcome on the surface district. If you don’t go back below by the next metric starts, I’ll kill you, slowly.” to emphasize his point he shoved his cigarette into her unbruised eye, burning the iris, and enticing a shrieking wail from her hoarse throat. 

Leaving her to tend her freshly blinded eye, oozing with blood, he was confident she’ll rush her move, as he was too tired to give her another beating. Once in the hallway of the apartment building, he lit the cigarette he used to burn her eye, and listened as her screams filled the hallways. 

People poked out of their apartment but went back inside, when they saw Iskhei wore the armband of an agent of the Bureau of Cooperation, the most feared of all the government's faculties. 

Checking his digital tattoo, he saw the time had just turned to 02:45, it was time to eat his lunch, but first he’d get some sleep. Some nice, dreamless coma, in his car, before heading to the local dinner. Leaving the apartment he met with no eye wanting to look at him, no one wanting to speak with him, as soon as he got outside, the starless, eternal night sky seemed to consume his existential dread. Often he feared he’d fall right into the inky blackness over his head, and often he wished that same fear upon others. 

Going to his car, half buried in the heavy but gentle snowfall, he went inside, turned on the engine. The hollow heat didn't give him any warmth but melted the snow, he set the auto-driver console to drive him to the diner, the estimation to arrival was eight hours of the current metric. Satisfied at the time, he pulled back his seat, crossed his arms as if he were a vampire in its coffin, and slept. 

***

The dinner was nearly empty, except for three men in workman’s jumpsuits at the back corner, it was just him and the dinner operator and the cook in the kitchen. Seated on the stool at the counter, he looked at the heavy mustached man, a brutally homosexual spared reeducation, due to his service in his wars against the Brain People. 

Completely bald, staples folded his skull in on itself, as he needed extensive brain surgery to keep from being manipulated by the psychic terrorists. Lighting a cigarette, Iskhei looked at the three men in the corner, with a slight head tilt, their talking had suddenly gone quiet. 

“So, Fred…” Iskhei’s mouth was gaped open as the cigarette hanged loosely in his mouth. “...quiet night?” 

“Yes.” Fred didn’t want to talk much, because talk caused problems, especially with a bureau agent. 

“They cut the ability for small talk out of your brains, or do faggots not know how to do small talk? I can teach you if you want.” Fred’s eyes didn’t move, but they were deliberate. Iskhei knew that they wanted to look at the men in the corner. “I want beans, eggs, and ketchup.” the order flew over the burly man’s head, till he realized it was a food order. 

“Yes, sure, right away.” 

As quick as you please, the sizzling of the grill was heard over the dominating silence, no one wanted to make a move, but they all knew a move would have to be made. 

“I don’t believe I’ve seen you boys around here before.” Iskhei looked at them through the reflective metallic siding on the top of the wall. “They don’t speak where you are from?” 

Nervously, the youngest of the trio spoke up, much to the chagrin of his companions. “We just got in after work.” 

“Oh.” Iskhei feigned acceptance. “Where do you work?” There was silence, and the youngest of the three looked at the other two, one shrugged helplessly with panic in his eyes, and the third with wild beard and hair gave him an angry scowl. “Is that a hard question?” 

Iskhei looked at their reaction in the metallic siding, as a complimentary cup of coffee was being poured for him by Fred. 

“They just came in, I don’t really know—” Iskhei held up his hand, to silence the diner operator. 

“You know ignorance isn’t an excuse, and besides, I know.” It was evident the moment he saw them, their uniforms betray them. “After all why would rail track workers be on the surface, where there aren't any trains?” 

Shocked, the three of them checked their backs, and saw the unmistakable symbol of the railroad tracks in crisscross, it was evident they stole the wrong working uniforms.
“You disunionists are all the same, vying for a nostalgia you never had, like some ancient good ol’ boy, like the John Wayne.” mocking them, the agent knew they were going to pull out their illegal firearms. Made from pipes and discarded metal scraps, already he heard them fumbling for their weapons under their jumpsuits. 

Spinning on his stool, he pulled out from his right sleeve a unfolding Mauser, long barrel pistol, and through the tattoo ring around his right eye he saw the target reticle. 

One eardrum shocking shot continued after another, three in total. Heart shot. Heart shot. Heart shot. The shock of having one of their most vital organs violently penetrated sent them into death seizures, which resulted in their joints getting stiff, then relaxing as blood streamed across the snow white floors. 

Folding up his pistol, Iskhei returned it to his sleeve and drank some of his black coffee. 

Fred looked at him with fear in his eyes. “I didn’t know—”

“Yes you did, you were a trained soldier, you knew.” there was no room for denial. 

“I served well, I didn’t want to get involved in these political—” 

“I don’t care, Fred. Willful ignorance is a crime, and you know what they’ll do to you for this.” Iskhei gingerly drank his coffee till he got used to the heat on his frostbitten lips. 

“Please, you can help me, please.” Fred knelt down and begged as if he were praying to God. 

“I won’t.” Iskhei finished his coffee. 

“But you can.” 

“But I won’t.” Iskhei made his position clear. “It doesn’t matter, I work for the bureau, and you broke the law.” 

Fred looked utterly defeated as his cook looked at the scene with a look of utter misery in his eyes. “Can’t you do anything for us?” Fred was desperate. 

After sighing through his nose, the agent reached into his inner coat pocket and produced a cylindrical vial of stainless steel. Undoing the cap, he gently tapped out two multi-color tablets. 

“You have ten minutes to ingest these, one each. It’ll be gentler than what they’ll do to you at the Correction Office, they’ll make it last many years.” he watched as Fred scooped up the merciful tablets and with wincing fear, slowly went into the back. “I’m gonna have to cancel my order…I lost my appetite. Dermo.”

Leaving the diner he looked up on the white haze street, to find the familiar blinding crimson dot shining through the night and snow. A camera captured the whole event, and soon agents will come to apprehend all survivors. Hopefully there won't be any. Just as he was getting into his car, Iskhei received a call through his ear tattoo. 

Swiping across it, he heard a voice speak clearly in his ear. 

“Yes, I was there…no he won’t be available for questioning…he was a veteran, I offered him standard protocol assistance…yes the cook too, I thought it best he died in the arms of his…partner…no I didn’t know that was the standard practice, I will for the future…yes I am heading to the workshop now, over and out.” removing his teeth tore at his cracked lips, and spat out the dead skin he tore from there, feeling the metallic taste of watery pus drip from his sore. 

Getting into his car, he set the destination to the workshop, and growled in disappointment at the estimated travel time due to the pause in road clearing. 

‘It’ll be a new metric when I arrive.’ He was falling behind schedule. He took a cigarette from his case, and started to smoke, as he engaged the vehicle's auto-drive, as he reclined and stared at the ceiling smoking his cigarette, trying to kill the thoughts in his mind. 

***

Fire blazed on the snow, melting the centuries old ice under the snow, and sending a wall of flame to the other depots in the compound. Charred bodies of dwarfs littered across the snow, their bodies still burning with crimson flame. Iskhei saw the ablaze from afar, but had to continue on, stopping the car at the chain gate, which was now white open and unguarded. 

The guardsman on duty had fled, leaving his post unmanned. Going into the trunk of his vehicle, Iskhei got out his portable minigun, a long cylindrical pull, with a single trigger on the midpoint down from its body. 

“Chert vozmi!” he said aloud, as he entered the compound determined to finish off the entity he was ordered to keep on eye on during testing phase, and who now was roaming free, as the dwarf had obviously failed to terminate before its hatching. 

Following the path, he saw the dead curled up, or sprawled out, unable to escape their burning demise. The psychic mutant within that oval object was found during the scavenging mission in the Chernobyl Zone. An unhatched genetic offshoot of the Brain People, who obviously has the mental capabilities for pyrokinetic. 

As he went towards the blaze that now collapsed the workshop it was housed in, Iskhei saw the dwarf who he placed in charge of the ovals' destruction, lying in the snow, shivering and covered with skin blistering burns. 

“Please…help me…” the dwarf could barely speak, he was in so much pain, but not to a fatal degree. 

“I told you to destroy it!” Iskhei pointed the gun at the dwarf’s head, and before he could cry out, a harsh shot echoed in the air, as the dwarf lay still, his skull busted open from the impact of the bullet. 

Going around the blaze, he searched for signs of the creature's whereabouts, but then he saw it, in the courtyard between the workshops. It was a young woman, budding into early signs of puberty, she was quite young in features, covered in shimmering scales of molten skin, feathers of some mythical creature from forbidden books. 

‘I am Phoenix.’ she psychically spoke into Iskhei’s brain. 

Sharp pain in his skull made his vision seem to expand in all directions, and his nose started to bleed a black sludge. “I don’t care…” he acted unfazed by the psychic mind connection. “...you have to die.” 

‘No, you must live. You don’t understand, this isn’t where we should be, you should be so cold. Let me show you.’

Images showed in his mind’s eye, large pyramid of stone and metal, rising from a landscape of fruit bearing tropical trees, and vines. People of magnificent beauty eat and enjoy life in the subterranean paradise, heat flows freely as rivers of magmatic energies give them warmth and refreshes their spirit. 

Truly nothing so beautiful was seen by anyone above the core of the planet. 

‘Do you not see? We are not imprisoned, you are.’

Iskhei saw the truth, he understood he was living a life unfulfilled, forcing misery onto others that he suffered. However, that didn’t change his mind. 

Before Phoenix could say project anymore into his mind, he shot her in the head and as she fell to the ground riddled her bodies with gunfire till her flame died, and her scales chunks of charred gore on the snow. Torso and chest ripped open exposing her skeletal insides, Iskhei felt the blood run freely from his nose, as he returned to his vehicle. 

Putting the minigun back in the trunk, he went to the driver’s seat, and lit a cigarette. Smoking he heard his tattoo notify him of an incoming call. Pressing his hand to his ear he heard the voice of his superior. 

“...yes she’s dead…yes it was a she…I didn’t think of her in that way…no…yes…no…she is ready for extraction and disposal…yes…no, she didn’t show me anything…she’s dead, I am sure…over and out.” Setting the console to drive him to his next assignment, he reclined the seat back, staring at the ceiling, smoking his cigarette, allowing sleep to come over him, a dreamless, hopeless slumber.