Coffee Among Ghosts

  The air in the Edgefield Complex cafeteria didn’t smell of mold or death, but of roasted coffee and disinfectant—an aroma that, to Henry, felt more artificial than a vacuum. He walked between the tables, his blue uniform without the mask a dissonant smear in a sea of gray and red.

  The Legion soldiers, stripped of their M50 masks for the meal, revealed faces that were young, clean-shaven, and hauntingly ordinary. They were bureaucrats of violence. Henry sat at an isolated table, the absent weight of the Five-Seven on his hip making him feel naked.

  “The coffee here is still better than that rust-tasting well water Solomon used to give us, isn’t it?” A familiar voice, droll and laced with a melancholic scorn, sounded beside him.

  Henry froze. He didn’t need to look to know who it was. Turning slowly, he came face-to-face with the man who haunted his youthful memories. Vector Angileri was there, just inches away. His brown bangs partially covered his right eye, but they couldn’t hide the map of scars climbing his cheek and vanishing into his temple: the cross of branches, carved into his flesh by Solomon himself nine years ago.

  “Vector...” Henry murmured, his voice failing for a second. “You’re alive.”

  “'Alive' is a strong word, Henry. I’m functional.” Vector took a slow sip from his mug, his eyes locked onto Henry’s. “It’s been nine years since you all held me down on that floor. Well, you didn't hold me. You were the only 'brother' who had enough cowardice or decency to just watch while the old man branded me like an animal.”

  “I didn't agree with that, Vector. You know that.”

  “But you stayed, Henry. You kept wearing the mask. You kept eating at the table of the man who mutilated me for doing what was necessary.” Vector leaned forward, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. “I saw what happened in Chemult. I saw the names scratched onto my barrel. Eight of them are already gone. Do you know what I feel when I think of Piro or Kane? Nothing. Just the weight of an unfinished job.”

  Henry felt his stomach churn. The man in front of him was the reflection of what he himself feared becoming: an absolute void.

  Henry held Vector’s gaze for a few seconds, the silence between them weighing heavier than the clatter of metal trays around them.

  “I’m sorry for what they did to you, Vector,” Henry said, his voice low and genuine. “But it’s been nine years. You don’t need to hold onto this grudge anymore. Solomon is dead. The world that created us has crumbled.”

  Vector stopped his mug halfway. A dry, rhythmic sound escaped his throat—he was laughing, but it was a laugh devoid of any humor, a sound that seemed to tear at the scars on his face.

  “You’re right, Henry... I don’t need to hold a grudge.” Vector leaned in, a closed-mouth smile stretching the scarred skin of his cheek. “Do you know why? Because they’ve turned to dust now. Almost everyone who held me down on that floor has rotted away. Only you, Leo—who I actually like, he was always a good scout, liked to hunt with me...—and that bastard Kol are left.”

  Vector patted Henry’s shoulder, a gesture that simulated camaraderie but carried the force of a threat.

  “Besides, in here, my methods work. I’m a Captain, just like you,” he spoke, still smiling with his mouth shut. “Here, the blood I spill is called order, not sin.”

  Henry paused for a moment. As Vector drank, the soldiers at the surrounding tables stopped what they were doing, their eyes fixed on Henry with a mix of confusion and caution. Henry felt the weight of the sudden silence and simply said:

  “What is it?”

  The command was clipped. Instantly, all the soldiers looked away, returning to their meals as if they had been caught doing something forbidden. Vector finished his coffee, satisfied, and walked away without another word. Henry, however, remained seated. The environment around him began to fade, and the noise of the cafeteria was replaced by the sound of rain and screams from nine years ago.

  His mind was pulled back to the year 2032...

  FLASHBACK (2032)

  Outskirts of the Portland Ruins – The Winter of Famine

  Oregon in 2032 was a meat grinder. The Heretics were already feared as killers, but they operated under Solomon’s code: kill the oppressor to feed the oppressed. However, for Vector Angileri, the line between justice and extermination was an insignificant blur.

  That night, under a snowfall that fell like cold ash, Vector and young Leo—at the time a thirteen-year-old prodigy scout—had just intercepted a group of looters. Vector hadn’t stopped at neutralizing them; he hunted them across the rooftops with a ferocity that left Leo paralyzed.

  After the massacre, Vector descended to a small refugee tent. Inside, a family—father, mother, and a young son—huddled together in terror. Vector carried a sack of recovered grain and medicine. His hands and uniform were drenched in warm blood that still steamed in the freezing air.

  He dropped the bag at the father's feet. He expected a look of relief. He expected to be the hero of that darkness.

  “Eat. You’re safe now,” Vector said, his voice muffled by the red wooden mask.

  The man looked at the bag, then at Vector’s hands. The horror in that family’s eyes was absolute.

  “You... you’re a monster!” the mother shrieked, shielding her son’s face. “Get out of here! You’re worse than they are! Murderer! Demon!”

  The ensuing silence was cutting. Vector remained motionless. He had risked his life for these people, and his payment was disgust. Something inside him—the thin thread connecting him to Solomon’s humanity—snapped.

  “If I am the monster...” Vector whispered, his voice now glacial, devoid of any emotion, “...then why would I let you live with that fear?”

  In a fluid, mechanical motion, before Leo could scream or intervene, Vector drew his serrated knife. With three precise, silent strikes, he ended the family’s screams. Blood splattered against the tent’s canvas, painting a map of death over the shelter. He felt no rage. He felt he was merely completing the world's logic: monsters leave no witnesses.

  The Trial at the Base (Three Days Later)

  Word of the crime reached Solomon. At the Heretics' HQ, the air was as heavy as lead. The entire group was assembled.

  “We are killers, Vector, but we are not executioners of the innocent,” Solomon said, his voice vibrating with disappointment. “You didn’t save them. You erased them because your ego couldn't handle the truth.”

  “The truth is they were weak, Solomon!” Vector roared, defiant in the center of the hall. “I freed them from the suffering of this rotted world!”

  Solomon gave the signal. Kol and Kane stepped forward. Vector fought like a cornered beast, but he was subdued and pinned against the oak table.

  “Henry!” Vector screamed, his eyes locked on the "brother" who always stood by him. “You know this world only respects blood! Help me!”

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  Henry took a step forward, his fists clenched. He hated Solomon’s brutality, but what he had seen in Vector’s eyes that night—the absolute void after killing that family—made him freeze. Henry refused to hold Vector down, but he did nothing to stop it either. His omission was the verdict.

  Solomon approached with the white-hot knife. Without hesitation, he carved the cross of branches into Vector’s face, searing the skin and the soul of the young captain.

  “You are no longer a Heretic,” Solomon sentenced. “Go be the freak you chose to be.”

  Vector stood up, his face raw flesh, and looked at Henry. There was no plea now, only a promise that the monster they created would return to devour its creator.

  The Pact with the Devil

  Edgefield Complex – Present

  Henry snapped out of the memory with a knotted stomach. The scent of blood from 2032 seemed to have permeated his nostrils, a stain that even Edgefield’s filtered air couldn't scrub clean. He rose slowly from the cafeteria table, feeling the weight of the world on his shoulders.

  “Captain?” A Legion soldier approached, snapping his heels together at attention. “The Colonel is waiting for you in his private quarters. He wants to see you now.”

  Henry furrowed his brow. Captain. The word sounded like an insult coming from that mouth. He didn't offer a reply; he simply walked, escorted by the rhythmic thud of military boots against the pristine linoleum floor, toward the solid oak door that separated the world of the living from the "Puppet Master’s" office.

  Colonel Turner’s Office

  The office was vast, bathed in a yellowish light that gave Colonel Turner the look of an ancient statue. He sat in his leather armchair, peering at a marble chessboard, but his eyes drifted up the moment Henry entered.

  “Henry. Sit,” Turner said with paternalistic calm. “I’ve been reviewing your record. You possess an infiltration skill that my soldiers, despite all their technology, still can’t emulate. I want to test this... 'art' of yours.”

  Henry didn't sit. He remained standing, arms crossed.

  “I’m not your soldier, Turner.”

  “Not yet.” The Colonel gave a lopsided smirk and, with a slow movement, pulled a metal box from beneath the desk. Inside lay the FN Five-Seven. “But necessity is an excellent teacher of loyalty.”

  He slid the pistol across the desk. The black polymer gleamed under the light.

  “I don’t know how you got your hands on this, kid. In today’s world, this weapon has devastating armor-piercing power. It’s a gem of engineering among so much mechanical scrap.”

  Henry reached out and took the gun. The weight was familiar; it was the weight of technical death.

  “I took it from one of your creations,” Henry replied, his voice glacial. “He was killed at the hands of my brother-in-arms, Kol. This weapon belonged to Elijah.”

  Turner paused for a second, a shadow of recognition flitting through his eyes. “Elijah... yes. He was an incredible fighter. The reflexes of a god. But he was far too arrogant.”

  The Colonel then pulled out a sheet of brown paper—a small tactical map with coordinates marked in red ink. He pointed to the first spot: an abandoned junkyard on the edge of the northern sector.

  “First, I want you to do some housecleaning. At the junkyard, there are beings of the worst kind: Nazis. It’s staggering how, nearly a hundred years later, these ideological tumors still find ground to grow in the ruins. Put an end to them, Henry. No prisoners.”

  He moved his finger to the second spot, a vast structure that had once been a shopping mall.

  “The other location is the Mall. There, the problem is different. There’s a group of lunatics who disguise themselves among the mannequins. They stand perfectly still, waiting for prey to pass before attacking with knives. They’re mental parasites. I prefer to send you there because... well, it’s not worth wasting my military-grade ammunition on that sort of thing. Consider this your rite of passage.”

  Henry looked at the map and then at the Colonel. He knew that each mission was Turner’s way of gauging his efficiency—of turning him into a useful tool before either discarding him or corrupting him entirely.

  The Weight of the Crown

  Henry gripped the map tightly, but he didn’t move. The weight of the Five-Seven on his hip felt lighter than the question burning in his throat. Before leaving, he stared down the man Jester called "Grandpa," but whom the world knew as the architect of the apocalypse.

  “May I ask what your motivation was for kidnapping so many children twenty years ago?” Henry asked, his voice steady. “Silas told me the story. Every Reaper hated you. And honestly, with good reason.”

  Colonel Turner didn’t flinch. He took a deep breath, a sound that seemed to carry decades of exhaustion. With a slow movement, he reached into his tunic pocket and pulled out a small silver pocket watch, worn thin by time. He held it out to Henry.

  “Look.”

  Henry took the object. Upon flipping the lid open, he found an old photograph. In it, Turner appeared thirty years younger, in uniform, holding a baby—a boy. Beside him stood a woman of radiant beauty. Her fair skin was lightly tanned, her blonde hair short and charmingly messy, and her eyes were green. She was holding a baby—a girl.

  Henry felt a knot in his chest. The boy had Fabrizio’s jawline. The girl had Silvia’s indomitable gaze. He handed the watch back in silence.

  “That young woman was my wife. Her name was Daniela, the love of my life,” Turner said, his eyes lost in some point in the past. “That photo was taken nearly thirty years ago. We were with our newborn twins. In 2020, she passed away. She died of a rare skin disease. Even sick, she was still beautiful. I stayed by her side until the end. Fabrizio and Silvia were the last light she saw before falling asleep for the last time.”

  The Colonel snapped the watch shut with a metallic click.

  “Losing her destroyed me, Henry. Months later, I founded—and with CIA backing, we funded—Project '777.' The goal was to create near-immortal super-soldiers. My children were last on the list. Even knowing the risks, I put them in. I wanted to make them invulnerable so I wouldn't risk losing them in the future, like I lost Daniela. In the end, it was a success; both survived alongside nine others. In 2030, they rebelled. I already knew that would happen eventually, which is why I wasn't present on the day of Silas and the others' rebellion.”

  A long silence hung in the room. Henry processed the image of the "ultimate villain" acting out of a desperate fear of loss.

  “Do you regret it?” Henry asked.

  Turner looked directly into Henry’s eyes, his voice sounding sincere, yet as cold as steel:

  “If I could go back in time, Henry, I would do it all again... but without my children involved. The price was losing their love, and now Fabrizio is dead.”

  Henry felt a wave of bitterness. He thought of Silvia and the childhood she never had, transformed into a killing machine because a father couldn't bear the thought of mortality.

  “Forgive the question...” Henry began, his hand already on the doorknob, “...but have you ever wondered what your wife would think of you putting her children into such a risky project?”

  The Colonel didn’t answer immediately. He simply turned back toward the window, leaving Henry alone with the silence and the weight of that doubt.

  The Encounter in the Hallway

  Henry left the Colonel’s office with the weight of that conversation crushing his chest. The silence of the hallway was broken only by the hum of the fluorescent lights. But he wasn't alone.

  A few yards away, Vector was waiting for him. He was leaning against the wall, one leg hooked back and arms crossed over his red jacket. The smile he gave Henry was heavy with dark irony, the scars on his face stretching under the cold light.

  “I’m coming with you, Scout,” Vector said, pushing off the wall with predatory agility.

  Henry paused, eyeing the man who was living proof of his past sins. “I can handle it on my own, Vector.”

  “I know you can. But it’ll be fun, for old times' sake,” Vector remarked, falling into step beside Henry. “Besides, the Mall is a labyrinth. Two pairs of eyes see more than one, especially when the mannequins start moving.”

  Henry didn't argue. He simply gave a short nod, and the two began walking toward the complex exit. Along the way, they exchanged sporadic words about routes and the dangers of the northern sector—a technical conversation that masked the abyss between them.

  In the distance, on the training grounds, the sound of rhythmic gunfire echoed. Kol and Leo were there, running target practice with confiscated M4 rifles. Catching sight of Henry’s blue silhouette crossing the courtyard, Leo let out a loud whistle to get his leader’s attention.

  “Hey, Henry!” Leo shouted, gesturing toward the firing range. “Get over here and test your aim!”

  Henry stopped for a second, looking at his two friends—the last pieces of the family he had left. “I’ll stop by later!” Henry called out. “I’m on a mission right now!”

  Leo and Kol waved back, watching Henry and Vector head toward the Legion’s armored vehicles. Leo lowered his rifle, his expression shifting from excitement to silent concern.

  “He’s been acting a little strange, don’t you think?” Leo asked Kol as he reloaded a magazine.

  Kol, who was cleaning the barrel of his weapon, looked toward where Henry had disappeared. “Why do you say that?”

  “I don't know... he hasn't slept right since we left Cascade. He barely drinks anything but coffee; he looks exhausted. He seems, I don't know... depressed,” Leo commented, kicking a spent shell casing on the ground.

  Kol let out a heavy sigh, his executioner’s face hardening. “Well, everyone here has problems, kid. Let’s leave him to his for now. But he needs to sleep if he wants to pull off these missions. If his mind fails in the field, his body will go with it.”

  The Clown and the Queen

  Heretics’ Headquarters – Security Bunker

  In the building's bunker, Freya sat on an old mattress, rocking little Silas in her lap. She made soft clicking sounds with her mouth, a rhythmic whisper to lull the baby to sleep, trying to drown out the sound of her own heart, which had been racing since the Legion's armored vehicles surrounded the building.

  Suddenly, three rhythmic knocks echoed against the steel door. A high-pitched, bouncy, and distinctly artificial voice pierced through the metal:

  “Knock, knock! Is Mommy in there? Henry sent me to fetch you!”

  Freya froze. She didn't let go of the baby, but she remembered Henry’s radio warning from the night before.

  “Are you the douchebag clown he told me about?” she asked, her voice thick with suspicion.

  A shrill laugh came from the other side. “Ouch, that hurts my feelings! But yes, that’s me. Come on, open up. I promise I won’t bite. Henry and I have a plan, but you need to eat and be safe. At the Reaper Base, we’ve got everything: food, security, and...” Jester’s voice made a dramatic pause, “...there’s someone there for you to talk to. Another woman with babies. What are the odds, right?”

  Freya furrowed her brow, not understanding the last part, but the mention of Henry’s plan and her son’s safety carried more weight. She unlocked the door and pushed it open.

  The figure before her was surreal. Jester wore his tattered patchwork uniform of red and blue, his happy-skull mask gleaming under the hallway flashlight. On his head, the bells on his jester's mask jingled slightly, a tinkle that seemed to mock the seriousness of the apocalypse.

  Jester gave an exaggerated bow, bending low. “It’s an honor to save the former Queen of Highway 97. And I see the 'little bun' must be Silas’s nephew.”

  Freya pulled the baby tighter against her chest, her eyes locked on the clown mask. “Yes. I named him after my brother. But wait... you said another woman?”

  “Yes, yes! My sister-in-arms, Silvia. She just had two babies, and do you know who the father is? Wait, don’t even try, you’d never guess... of course, it’s Henry!”

  Freya stood in shock. “Henry?” she murmured, incredulous. “He fell for a killer like that in just a week?”

  Jester let out a little giggle, but then his posture shifted. The high-pitched clown voice vanished, replaced by the natural, pragmatic tone of someone who commands drones and death strategies.

  “Love is a fascinating system error or success, Freya. Come on, let’s move. The ride is waiting outside.”

  End of Chapter

  Character Data

  WAR LEGION:

  Vector Angileri (32 years old, American): Former member of the Heretics brotherhood and the first heir to Solomon's ideals. He stands 5'9" (1.75 m) tall, with olive skin and brown hair featuring bangs that lightly cover his right eye; he wears a red utility jacket that once belonged to the Heretics. At some point in 2032, Vector murdered innocent people he had just saved after they called him a "monster" for disagreeing with his cruel methods, even though the end result was the same. He was once a righteous Heretic like the others, fighting for the noble cause of ending famine, but his methods disturbed Solomon. One day, Solomon expelled him from the brotherhood and ordered Kol and Kane to hold him down while he carved his face with a knife, leaving several scars that, together, formed the shape of the branch-cross from the Heretics' mask. Henry considered Vector a brother, and that was one of the few days he disagreed with Solomon, refusing to hold him down. Vector, like all Heretics, is impeccable at parkour and combat, being the most pain-tolerant among all 11 members. After his departure, his red wooden mask was passed to Steve Piro. Today, he serves as a Captain of the War Legion and uses a riot gun as his primary weapon; on the barrel, there are 11 markings—8 of which have been crossed out—symbolizing the fall of his former brotherhood, one by one.