The New Haven Incident - Part Fifty-Three

Sebastian roared down the empty road, the feeling of the powerful engine between his legs left his toes tingling in the dirty white sneakers he wore. He revelled in the whipping of the wind chilling his ears so much that the edges had become painful. The view of the autumnal trees blurred into a mosaic of reds, oranges and golds. It had taken less than a week of work to restore the bike Oliver had left in his shed. There had been little else to do in the isolated hunting cabin that had become his home since escaping New Haven City.

Now he raced along the gently winding roads, headed back to New Haven. News of the city’s destruction lasted barely three days in the news cycles. It was blamed on a domestic terrorist organisation - Neocron. Sebastian knew well enough that this organisation did not exist; it was a fabrication of The Department; a convenient scapegoat on which to pin all the terrible things the government and those in their employ did.

People would get arrested, no doubt Department plants who were now given a convenient excuse to enter prisons to gain intel on non-fabricated threats and persons of interest. It made Sebastian angry if he thought too much about it, so he tried hard not to on the three-day journey to the smoldering crater that used to be New Haven City.

He slowed as he approached, noting the flattened houses of the suburbs. The smell of ash still lingered in the air, and there were several thin plumes of smoke that rose from the pile of rubble that was the centre of the city. There was not far to go once he reached the outskirts of the city before the area was cordoned off; a tall electrified fence encircling the enormous area.

Sebastian approached the checkpoint slowly, feeling vaguely numb as the early afternoon sun shone brightly, mocking the terror that was buried beneath the ash and molten glass.

“No further, sir,” a young man in an army uniform said, walking forward, his rifle across his chest.

“It’s alright, son,” an older man in the typical dark, unmarked uniform of The Department said. “He can come through.”

Sebastian offered the man a small smile. “Volkov,” he greeted.

“Connors.”

The barrier blocking entrance to the action zone lifted and Sebastian drove through, slowly at first, then picking up speed as he approached the city centre. There was a lot of ground between the barrier and the destruction. Sebastian slowed, then stopped as the edge of the crater came into view. He parked his bike, taking a moment to steel himself before sliding off the saddle. There was a small hillock to his left. He walked to its crest and stared out over the crater.

The destruction was complete. The tallest buildings had been brought to the ground, with nothing to prove their height. At best, there were clusters of twisted steel rebar that stood no more than shoulder-height. Not very far from where he stood, excavation equipment sifted through the rubble. These were operated entirely by The Department. Sebastian recognised the guard, standing in a perimeter, fully armed to discourage anyone from approaching.

There were no reporters.

Sebastian stood for some time, surveying the ruins.

“You’re looking well,” a familiar voice noted from the bottom of the hill. Sebastian felt his shoulders tense. He turned his head, noting the slender man with thinning brown hair in an immaculate suit at the bottom of the hill. Saying nothing, Sebastian returned his attention to the crater.

“Looking for survivors to abduct, Warner?” he asked as he felt the man come to his side.

The man scoffed and shook his head slightly. For a moment, neither man talked. Then, softly, the man in the suit broke the silence.

“We haven’t found her.”

Sebastian turned sharply to the man. He scowled.

Warner offered him a small, sad smile. “I promise we’ll tell you when we do. I can’t offer you much, Connors. But closure… that’s something I can do.”

Anger flashed through Sebastian. He froze a moment, fighting the urge to wrap his hands around Warner’s neck. Eventually, he smirked; a wry, humourless expression. He turned to the man who had pulled him from the wreckage of Cedarwood City and sent him, shocked and numb, to The Department’s secret training facility.

“Fuck you, Warner,” he said. Not waiting for a response, Sebastian turned and made his way back down to his bike. He’d seen enough. Firing up the engine, he turned the bike and drove away.

Warner watched him go with a heavy heart, before turning back to the crater.

The diner was busy. The increased military presence injected new life in the tiny, dying town of Farso over a month ago, a week before the neighbouring city of New Haven was bombed to hell. The conflagration had been easily visible from Farso. The glut of reporters that swarmed the area following the bombing had made working the diner hell for a week. The news hounds left, unable to get past the no-go zone created by the army and a couple of sections of government that refused to identify themselves. 

With the reporters gone, working at the diner was much more pleasant. The military men and the government suits were all unfailingly polite; a delight to deal with. The waitress, a no-nonsense woman in her fifties named Dolly, was filled with new energy. She beamed brightly at every patron who wandered in to be fed.

Warner took his usual seat, in his usual booth, and placed his usual order. It had been a month of this, and Dolly had his order memorised, and always made sure to put on a fresh pot of coffee for him. He gratefully accepted the cup and settled in to await his breakfast.

He opened a newspaper, noting with satisfaction that news of New Haven City had all but faded from the country’s consciousness, replaced by a scandal involving some Hollywood starlet and a foreign prince. There was only Murphy; an old man who shuffled through the streets of Farso yelling at anyone who would listen about how the bombing was an inside job, because New Haven had been overtaken by space aliens. No one took him seriously. He already had the reputation of the town crazy.

It took Warner some time to realise that someone was standing by his table. He looked up from his paper with a frown.

Previous Part                                                                                                                                                                          Next Part