Apocalypse: Regression

The door creaked on its hinges. Malcolm stepped into the dimly lit corridor of his apartment building. It was nestled in a neglected part of town where the roads held more cracks than the walls, and the few unbroken streetlamps flickered like lazy fireflies when night came.

"Afternoon, Mr. Rothman," Mrs. Henley called out from her doorway. She stood clutching a hefty bag of groceries, the flour, pork, and milk pushing to escape the brown bag as she struggled to hold it.

"Let me help you with that, Mrs. Henley," Malcolm offered, reaching for the bag with a practiced smile that never quite reached his eyes.

“Oh, aren’t you always helpful,” she replied, beaming at him.

“Maybe, but I’m beginning to think you time your grocery trips just so I’ll give you a hand,” he laughed, setting down the bag inside her apartment.

As he continued up the stairs, the other tenants nodded or waved, their faces lighting up as he paused to talk for a moment with each one, repeating conversations he’d had with them a hundred times before, not that they minded.

When he finally reached his own apartment and went to put his key in the lock, turning it like he always did, he noticed it didn’t move that much. In fact, it barely rotated at all. He pushed a little harder just to make sure the door was unlocked.

He slowly, quietly, retracted the key from the hole, hoping that his earlier effort hadn’t been noticed by whoever might still be in his apartment. Then, he then calmly opened his inventory and pulled out a small sawed-off shotgun that had been modified by one of the artificers in his guild. The barrel injected magic from a well-placed mana crystal into each slug such that it would create a small implosion on impact, capable of compressing even titanium. Next, he put just enough tension on the door so that the turning handle wouldn’t make a sound.

“Malcolm, it’s me. I don’t know what you’re up to, but don’t come in shooting,” a familiar voice came from the other side. It was Steven Girard, one of the higher Forebears of Ingenga.

“It seems you’ve sobered up,” Malcolm replied with a sigh, noting that his friend wasn’t slurring his speech. He stowed his gun in his inventory and opened the door. Steven was sitting on Malcolm’s bed, head in his hands. “And I’m sure you’ll be happy to know, I saw your niece, Jennifer, at the cleanup today. It seems she’s perfectly fine, healthy, and in good spirits.”

“And hunting me down like a bloodhound, desperately sniffing around at the insurance company and all my businesses,” Steven blurted out, clearly agitated. He scratched the back of his head nervously as he looked at Malcolm. “What am I supposed to do?!”

“I don’t know. Nothing?” Malcolm raised an eyebrow at his friend and then scanned the room to see what the unstable, depressive drunk might have done to his place.

Steven slumped back against the wall at the head of the bed.

Malcolm frowned a little. “You know, if you’re not sleeping, use the chair, not the bed.”

“Yeah, thanks, I should get some res—”

“That wasn’t an invitation to sleep here. I only have one bed, Steven. If you’re going to sleep, there’s a motel down the block I’m sure you can afford, or you could just go back to your own home,” Malcolm told him as he kicked off his shoes and stepped through the doorway into the small studio’s kitchen.

“I can’t go back there . . . Jennifer would know I’m there,” Steven protested as he stood up, brushing off the bed behind him to undo at least a few of the wrinkles he had made.

“I still don’t understand, Steven,” Malcolm said with a sigh as he took off his jacket and hung it on the hook on his door, blocking the peep hole to his room. “How is it you were brave enough to face death head on, but can’t even tell your own niece that, no, you don’t want to talk?”

“It’s not that simple—”

“It is that simple. Steven, you just need to straighten your back, collect yourself, and go about your day-to-day activities like nothing happened. That’s all you need to do: deny, deny, deny.”

“But, but . . . before I—” Steven sputtered, still trying to come up with excuses for his behavior.

“No buts. None of your actions were illegal or point to the creation of a rift, and even if they did: you have more than enough wealth and connections to push back against any official inquiry,” Malcolm insisted. “Even then, if someone asks how you knew about the danger, just deny it. You were with your niece at a business partner’s Christmas party. You weren’t one of the mages that sacrificed their life to crack the rift open. You were just a businessman riding a ship that didn’t sink.”

“That’s . . .”

“In fact”—Malcolm scratched his chin for a second as he took a step toward Steven—“if anything, this is your moment to shine.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, you’re an insurance company. The city has just collapsed into chaos, and people are going to be needing help now more than ever. If you’re going to be useful to Ingenga in the future, you’re going to need to act now and act quickly,” Malcolm continued, going and pulling two packets of ramen out of the cabinet.

Steven blinked in confusion. “What?”

Money was no longer a significant issue for the Forebears of Ingenga. They’d resolved that a long time ago. What his cult needed most was social credit, a currency that was often much easier to obtain than cash if you already had recognition.

“It’s perfect,” Malcolm thought aloud as he took out a small pot, filled it with water, and set it on one of his two electric heating ranges before pushing it to the side a little and putting a pan on the second. “I’ll arrange for a few members to pretend to have witnessed you taking part in the cleanup, and we’ll use that as an explanation for your absence from work today. You come out tomorrow and create a public statement about how your company, without investigation, will be honoring all policies. That you’ll be donating to the relief fund and doing your part to restore the city . . . Yes, that’s where you should begin.”

“But . . .”

“Steven, I’m going to say this one time and one time only since there seems to have been a misunderstanding between us. This is not a discussion, and I’m not asking you as a peer. I’m telling you. I will not hear the word ‘but,’ I will not hear an excuse, and I will not hear a single deflecting remark come out of your mouth. Handle the order, and handle it promptly. Unless, of course . . . like last night, you’ve once more steeled yourself and prepared for death.” Malcolm opened up the tiny mini fridge on his kitchen counter and took out four eggs, one of the small cubes of butter he’d pre-cut, and some green onions and vegetables.

“Fine. B--” Steven stopped himself, careful to not say the word he’d just been forbidden from. “Can I at least know why I’m doing this? What’s the point? The rift is already made and—”

“The rift has been created but not controlled. We need a way into that portal at all costs,” Malcolm explained, pointing at Steven with the kitchen knife. “I cannot and will not fail to cross that threshold, Steven. We must build inroads, ingratiate ourselves with the gatekeepers.”

Malcolm turned his attention back to cooking, carefully and quickly chopping the green onions.

“Why? This isn’t what was supposed to happen,” Steven replied. “The city was supposed to fall to the monsters, galvanize the people against the greater threat, and terrify the world into helping our cause and saving humanity. But now, everything is different than it's supposed to be. What are we doing now?”

“Don’t question the will of Ingenga. We do not see her purpose. Everything that has happened, everything that will happen, is within the scope of her planning. You must have faith, or humanity will be lost to the monsters that will come,” Malcolm insisted as he put down the kitchen knife and ushered Steven out the door and toward his next mission. “Have faith, brother. Have faith and do as you are told. Your work will be the reason this world survives.”

Malcolm closed the door behind the nervous wreck. He had said what Steven needed to hear. That everything was going according to plan, that it was all in line with what was supposed to be. But he’d had the same thoughts, the same questions. Time and again, Ingenga had proved correct, and every sacrifice had proven its worth. He had never given any forebear the full picture, the true plan. He’d only ever imparted what they needed to know to do their part.

While the water for his ramen came to a boil, Malcolm threw in the two seasoning packs and set the alarm for two minutes and fifteen seconds. Then, he retrieved his most precious possession: the book that he’d found so many years ago in his search for answers after Sandra died. It was a gift from the one who had welcomed him into the order when he’d finally climbed up to the position he was in today: a journal that let him communicate directly with the holy Ingenga. Opening its pages, he used a magically engraved pen that had cost him a small fortune to procure.

The rift is open and has not fallen under the control of the government. Plans in place to push control to the chosen one.

As he finished writing those words, a new sentence began to appear under the one he’d just written: “He is indecisive and cautious. You must clear his obstacles and remove his burdens. If he does not reach me in time, all will be lost.”

Malcolm frowned as he watched his sentence vanish along with the words that just appeared, fading from the page as he began to write his reply.

Understood. I will make him push onward, no matter the cost, Malcolm wrote, wishing she had been more clear about what was holding the boy back. However, Malcolm was sure of one thing: Nick wouldn’t be the only one to reach her; Malcolm would be there too. He would not let go of this opportunity. He had followed Ingenga for years, listening to every word as gospel, and he would not pass up the chance to meet her.

The alarm beeped, letting him know it was time to separate the ramen from the water. He closed the book and set it aside. He had already prepared all the necessary ingredients and turned up the heat. All that was left for him to do was put every piece together. You gave me such an easy task this time, he thought as he tossed the ramen into the pan to fry on top of the aromatic vegetables and butter on one side, and the four eggs on the other.