Ignatius-Valdis [Heaven’s Curse, #0]: Chapter 2

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The echo of the prisoner’s voices trilled in anger and discontent. Swiftly silenced by officers on their last rounds. Thick prison walls secured the criminals, hiding them from barren bushlands that bloomed with dangerous reptiles, insects and other fauna.

The office above the cells in the far corner was supervised by two prison officers late this evening—Noel-Len Ignatius and Phillip Lee, both of whom were like oil and water.

Regardless, Noel-Len never predicted that when he embarked on his position within the watchtower over a year ago, that it would be filled with an unsettling culture and dangerous stigma that he could not utter a word on.

Phillip Lee, on the contrary, freely expressed his honest thoughts, not once biting his tongue as he sat beside Noel-Len, he voiced his opinions without much care. “I can’t believe this! This shouldn’t be happening!”—he yelled at the television.

Noel-Len listened, however, not as attentively as he once had.

Phillip scowled at the small television in the far corner, forever critical of everyone portrayed on the screen, much to Noel-Len’s amusement.

Beneath the white, fluorescent lights, Noel-Len’s tidy dark hair complemented his fair russet skin, dark impassive eyes, and the straight-line of his mouth. His gaze drawn to the printed ink before him.

His attention briefly flickered to the security camera monitor, exposing the prisoners in their cells and the empty halls, then to the television, taking note of the horrific destruction.

Before returning to the digital newspaper he held, his attention lingered over the carnage of the destroyed buildings and cars.

The tabloid would be frail a grainy in texture if he had the printed version. It was stencilled in perfect letters that further caught Noel-Len’s concentration as he searched for information that could explain the nascent rumours among the letters and pictures until his focus wavered.

“What’s that?” Noel-Len, despite his reluctance, felt inclined to ask.

“Why are those people attacking our soldiers?” Phillip cursed beneath his breath. His light brown eyes glistened in detestation.

Everyone Noel-Len had shared a shift with would not bother turning on the television, but this was Phillip. He was a man who felt inclined to watch the six o’clock news regardless of how many times Noel-Len told him not to.

“Because they have a problem with us,” Noel-Len flatly replied, not fond of how bitter it tasted in his mouth.

Being an officer of the law in recent years, Noel-Len understood there were both good and bad people amongst humanity. However, his job was to enforce not criticize. Regardless of where they were from or what they appeared like; everyone had a choice to do either. Good or bad. A person’s actions would always define their character.

“Yeah but what did we do? We fed their poor, healed their sick and allowed their refugees into our country. Some of those so-called Australians we let migrate here are re-joining them with hopes to wipe out the government that sheltered them, and guess where that leaves us?” Phillip growled, running his thick, tanned hand through his oily chestnut hair.

That was a question Noel-Len was far too familiar with and one he never appreciated. In these dubious moments, Noel-Len would cease to listen. There were time when Phillip was worthy of attention but now was not one of those times.

While tranquility invaded the office, Noel-Len was aware of the severe threats that awaited him and his colleague beyond the red door.

Noel-Len leaned back in his seat. His dark eyes flickered to the pale ceiling above in thought. Stretching his arms behind his head, he folded his fingers beneath and began to contemplate the past and the future. Then answered, “That leaves us with traitors and a never-ending war.” His eyes lingered on the ceiling.

He felt Phillip go quiet beside him. Phillip examined the man beside him in disapproving silence.

He was confused by the quietness that assaulted the room. The younger officer peered at the older man surprised by his critical speculation.

“Are you mocking me?” Phillip queried at last.

“No.” Noel-Len replied, with a raised brow before the buzz of the red door evaporated the uncomfortable air between both men and allowed entrance to a blue-uniformed man.

Both Phillip and Noel-Len regarded the familiar man with surprise and discretely sat up straighter. As usual, Phillip switched off the television before their superior officer noticed. Noel-Len had a strange feeling that the Constable knew, even if he didn’t mention it.

Before Senior Constable Mark Roberts could speak, the ground quaked beneath everyone’s boots. The fluorescent lights flashed disconcertingly overhead, flickering in response to the shuddering ground, knotting their stomachs and heightening their anxiety.

Mark unlocked the door connecting the control centre to the rest of the prison workplaces. Scanning the hallway cautiously, he checked the surroundings.

Voices beckoned over the radio with questions while both Noel-Len and Phillip listened to Mark’s inquiry over the channel, confirming the recent quake with the other Constables.

“That was strange . . .” Phillip muttered apprehensively. Noel-Len eyed Phillip before his attention glided from the high glass window and to the cells below.

Vigilantly, the inmates scrutinized the walls of their cells and assessed the flickering lights overhead.

“It’s got to be an earthquake or something right?” Phillip prompted. His eyes scanning the walls.

When Senior Constable Mark Roberts re-entered the room, poignant words slipped coolly from his lips, “We don’t have earthquakes in Australia . . . Only the effects from nearby countries.”

The shaky ground intensified causing the officers to grip the desk and walls for support.

“Shouldn’t it be this bad . . .?” Phillip began, distressed, before the Constable hastily fled the room, ordering both men to watch the prisoners.

A little shaken, Noel-Len discovered the monitors showed portions of the prison filled with terrified inmates stationed and confined behind bars. They bawled and shrieked, others stayed silent, indirectly pleading for their release from the cells, a sight that terrified both officers.

Moments later, the monitor presented a video of inmates slaughtered and no longer identifiable in a spray of blood and guts.

Noel-Len smashed the emergency button, and a siren shouted throughout the prison.

Both Phillip and Noel-Len rushed from the room and to the cells below, aware the other officers would respond at once to the unexpected horror.

Human remains scattered the cells of the once alive inmates, and Noel-Len did not attempt to suppress the horror he felt crawling across his skin.

The prisoner’s flesh was scattered in a muddy pool of blood and ichor beyond the cell door, which reached Noel-Len and Phillip’s feet, where they stood before the cells.

Noel-Len pointed his gun at the only survivor. His clothes, covered in his cellmate’s flesh.

Voices of the other officers called over the radio. Mutually, Noel-Len and Phillip attentively listened to the distinct orders, knowing their comrades were on their way. Phillip confirmed their location before drawing his weapon and aiming it at the man drenched in blood.

Noel-Len tensed when the inmate staggered towards them. “Don’t move!” Phillip ordered.

“How far away are the others?” Noel-Len asked. Phillip’s unsteady hands caused him further alarm. He needed to clam Phillip down.

The adrenaline coursing through Noel-Len’s body refused to let his brain process that his colleague was terrified of the silent inmate.

“Not too far away,” Phillip replied, stepping cautiously towards the prisoner who paused and watched them with black, red eyes. “Cover me.” Noel-Len held his breath as Phillip opened the cell. The soles of his once-clean shoes were immediately caked in blood and tissue.

Noel-Len could not make sense of the explosion and the blood spatter. His mind wandered to different possibilities while his eyes remained alert, analysing the direction of spatter on the walls, floors and flickering lights above.

His thoughts paused when Phillip panicked.

“I said: stand down!” he shouted, backing out of the cell as the inmate stepped forward. Noel-Len watched the barrel of Phillip’s gun tremble as it had before. “I’m warning you!”

When the prisoner didn’t stop, Phillip fired—puncturing a bullet into the prisoner’s chest, black blood oozed from the wound. At the same time, his exposed hands and head turned grey with a network of black and purple veins running along the surface before the prisoner collapsed.

Phillip declared, “Let the others know I’ve neutralized the threat.” Noel-Len lowered his gun and relaxed. Then turned from Phillip to inform the other officers without further delay. That is until he heard Phillip’s gurgling gasps.

Quickly, Noel-Len faced Phillip and saw the man struggled breathe as blood pooled over his lips. His body convulsed on the prisoner’s arm as he penetrated Phillip’s chest. His thick black taloned hand, curled into a fist.

Noel-Len’s eyes widened in horror.

Effortlessly, the prisoner jerked his arm free and dropped Phillip’s unresponsive body to the ground. The prisoner’s eyes fell on Noel-Len, who took in his flaky grey skin, black claws, black-red eyes and serrated teeth.

Noel-Len discharged his weapon, and two bullet holes punctured the prisoner’s bare chest. Blood seeped from both wounds, soaking the prisoner’s uniform black. The prisoner didn’t stop.

Noel-Len backed away as the man persistently stumbled towards him as if the bullets were never fired. “What in the h—?” he wondered out loud.

“Stand down!” Mark yelled, entering the room, with more police officers. Even with their pistols, heavy weapons and body armour, the prisoner continued to step forward, ignoring the command of the officers. Shock and terror consumed them as they saw the black blood stain his attire.

Noel-Len watched Senior Constable Mark Roberts in front of the heavily armed officers, with his weapon armed and ready to fire.

“I said: stand down!” he repeated. Noel-Len heard the fear in his voice. He understood the determination in Mark’s posture and his eyes when he ordered: “Fire!” Ammunition emptied into the chest of the prisoner.

Noel-Len knew it was excessive but necessary and didn’t say anything when he watched the inmate stumble away from the group before falling to his knees.

Unaffected, the monster climbed to his feet once more, and Noel-Len did not hesitate to discharge his weapon temporarily doused in fire, leaving a single bullet wound between the monster’s brows. The man stopped and crumbled to the ground, red and orange veins raised briefly over his skin before fading. The monster’s breathing ceased. In that moment, Noel-Len was secretly grateful for all those hours he spent at the firing range.

His appreciation halted when his eyes met Phillip’s dark ones, studying his dead body. Not noticing Mark sprint over to the fallen officer and ordered. “Call an ambulance!” Another officer radioed for aid. However, Noel-Len knew it was too late.

Phillip’s life seeped from his cold eyes. A few silent moments later, Mark proclaimed, “He’s gone.”

Noel-Len gaped at Phillip’s sturdy frame. Noel-Len had known that a person’s life was as fragile as the glass lining the windows above. It was something he knew all too well.

Mark scanned the officers behind him before observing Noel-Len’s stiff posture. The tightness of his jaw and the distress in his stare was evident to any who would dare look.

Mark climbed to his feet, informing the surrounding officers to secure the area before he wandered to Noel-Len, who stared at Phillip’s unmoving frame. A part of him hoped he would get up and say it was just a flesh wound. When he didn’t, guilt tightened in Noel-Len’s stomach. If only he had shot him in the head sooner. He’d still be alive.

“Noel-Len,” the Constable called through his troubled thoughts.

His eyes gradually moved to his commanding officer. It was a difficult task on his behalf, though he knew he had to try and keep himself from freezing over.

“Yes,” Noel-Len forced, struggling to swallow the trauma.

“Do you know what happened here?” Mark asked tactfully. When Noel-Len didn’t find the words, he asked again, “Noel-Len. How did these men die?” It was a battle of determination and shock that shadowed Noel-Len’s features. Mark waited for the younger man to find his words.

Noel-Len hesitated.

“I don’t know exactly. I remember looking at the monitor. I saw the detainees. They were scared.” His eyes drifted over the blood on the ground slithering towards the drains, remining him of what had just taken place. “Then there was blood everywhere, but this prisoner was unaffected. Phillip entered the cell to restrain him, and the man wouldn’t comply. Then according to protocol, Phillip shot him, but that man didn’t stay dead.” Noel-Len and Mark regarded the body on the ground, “I turned away to pass on the message and when I looked back, the man’s hand had impaled Phillip. I shot him. Then . . . .”

“. . . Then, we showed up.” Mark finished; his dark conflicted gaze drifted over the cameras in the corner of the prison. His jaw was tight and his lips pressed together. “We need to get this to Major Crimes.”

“Do you think they’ll know what happened? Will anyone be charged?” Noel-Len inquired.

Mark didn’t answer and accepted the emotion Noel-Len refused to show utter fear—and with that Mark offered a strained smile but couldn’t smile at the same time. The trauma evident in his dark eyes.

“Go home. I think you’ve had enough work for one night.”

With a brief nod, Noel-Len turned his heel and collected his things before heading home, but not without repeatedly replaying the events of that night in his head.

Later that evening, Noel-Len returned to a dark silent house. The reality of recent events appeared as an illusion, making him unsteady. What surprised him most was how his recently adopted puppy was not there to greet him. “Mike,” Noel-Len whispered into the dusk of the oncoming evening.

Flicking on a few lights, Noel-Len searched the house for the dog, only freeze in his bedroom doorway.

His dog sat patiently and obediently in the shadows of the room but not for him. Instead, at a stranger’s feet, his tail happily wagging. The woman’s slender hand gently and affectionately stroked the canine’s head. Her dark eyes scrutinized the framed photo clasped in her opposite hand.

Noel-Len recognized the photo she held. It was a photo of him when he was eight. His mother held him under the rays of the sun on the day they went for a picnic beside the courthouse—the photo was taken by his mother’s friend, Julia. He remembered his mother’s jet-black hair, black eyes and brown skin framing him in the photo.

Cautiously, he noted the stranger, taking in her equally black hair that hauntingly fell along her back in smooth waves.

She eyed him shrewdly over her shoulder, now conscious of his presence. Regardless of her calm composure, Noel-Len felt danger swell in the air between them.

He held her unwavering gaze, even if his heavy limbs rooted him in place just like they had in the prison.

The menace in her yes shadowed her antagonising smile.

“Who are you?” Noel-Len discreetly glanced at the crystals on his bedside table. “Get out of my house.”

As she turned to fully face him, his body tensed. His feet parted in a broader stance bracing himself for what would happen. The woman set the cherished photo down on the beside table where he’d left it as if it had never been touched.

“Why would you need to ask? You should know a stranger when you see one. And I am not going anywhere until I get what I came for.” Her voice cool and clear in the darkness of the room. “Then again, this world loosely asks, ‘Who are you before understanding the dangers?’ A terrible habit you’ve been taught. That fear in your eyes tells me everything, child.”

Confused by her demeanor Noel-Len regarded the black shirt, jeans and boots she wore. A strange contrast to how she spoke.

“What are you talking about?” he questioned, wondering if he had heard her correctly. “Get out!” Her black eyes searched for his in the darkness, searching him as if she were peering through him, unbothered by his raised voice.

His stomach dropped at the curl of her lips.

“You know the people of this word the Human Race have no right telling me what to do. Oddly you seem to have forgotten about prior years’ events. I do not know whether to feel sorry for your kind who work to forget that invasion or not. Or, if I should be satisfied that you creatures are as incompetent as ever.”

“Get out of my house. I will not ask again,” he said.

The fear of her presence constricted his throat. There was a brief flicker of annoyance in her cold calculating gaze engulfed by anger and impatience. Then she vanished.

Within an instant, the woman disappeared and reappeared in front of him, moving faster than expected and faster than he ever thought possible. Her firm grip tightened around his throat, shattering his frame against the concrete wall behind him, winding and injuring him. Paralysing him. Moments later, he registered and his nails clawed at her hand desperate to break the connection.

“You don’t need to be so disrespectful,” the woman said. Noel-Len struggled to breathe.

“What . . . are . . . you?”

“That is a question I’m not obliged to answer,” she remarked, pressing him further against the wall. Lifting her free hand, she curled her fingers into a fist and a long sharp blade glided out of the silver armour above her wrist, stopping millimeters from his eyes—a weapon he had not seen fashioned to her bare wrist.

Noel-Len knew that, if she wanted to, she could release the blade quicker than he could escape. She was taunting him. She knew he understood his position as the edge inched closer to his left eye. She demanded in a cold tone, “Tell me where Natalia Ignatius hid it.”

“How . . . do you . . . know my . . . mother?” Noel-Len barely managed through arduous breaths. “What  . . . are you . . . talking  . . . about?” Each word strained his lungs and burned his throat. His muscles burned beneath the pressure of her grip. His concentration faded and distorted, regardless of how hard he fought to stay conscious. The burden of her hand constricted, then relaxed at his words—her intention to kill—sporadic.

He felt her dithering choice as she regarded him carefully, ignoring Mike’s persistent barking at her feet. Noel-Len was surprised the dog had not attacked her yet.

Blood rushed to Noel-Len’s ears’ while Mike’s yelps hummed in the background. With a raised brow, she questioned uncertainly, “You’re her . . . progeny?”

He held her gaze, and she studied him, searching for deceit. She recognized Natalia’s and his father’s features then released him.

Swiftly, the woman’s attention shot to the back door at the sound of the Xzandian Trackers in the backyard. Their boots trod over the freshly mowed lawn. Before Noel-Len had a chance to catch his breath, she vanished in a cloud of black and purple smoke.

Mike licked his owner’s face when he crumpled to the ground, gasping for air. Mike whined when Noel-Len crawled to his feet and gently pushed the dog aside.

“I’m alright boy,” he whispered, rubbing his throat through hefty breaths of air.

Decisively, he moved to the kitchen, yanked out a knife he had secure beneath the table and inspected his house for the stranger but was met with empty rooms and silence.

It was not until he heard a thump from the backyard that he recognised where she might be. Mike ran to the door, growling. At that, Noel-Len’s hope to find her blossomed.

Before opening the door, Noel-Len leaned against the back-door-frame, predicting her next move.

To his surprise, the backyard was empty, the woman—his attacker—was nowhere to be seen.

A knock sounded at the front door, pulling his attention from the backyard, aware his shed was the perfect hiding place. Discouraged, Noel-Len closed the door and locked it, aware it would not stop her, nor slow her down.

Her odd visit, the man at the prison, Phillip’s preventable death and images of the prisoner stumbling towards Noel-Len lit up a new sense of fear he had not felt in years. A fear he had not experienced since the first alien invasion.

He forced his fear to subside and his mind to think of anything else, but it weighed on him no matter how hard he tried.

It was a dangerous feeling—the fear—and something he couldn’t understand.

He stared at where the inhuman woman was last seen in his room. Pulling out his phone, he contemplated letting the others know of the assault, only to place his phone back in his pocket. He reminded himself; no one would believe me. Before moving to the front door, where an unexpected guest awaited him.