Positive Downfall

[Jambo6c 0]

/* This is a story I started writing about 2 years ago now. I only got about midway through chapter 3 when the HDD on my then-laptop crashed. Luckily I'd uploaded the first 2 chapters to Bebo (of all places) before the crash, so I thought (after remembering I had this and somehow getting it from Bebo despite not being on it any more) I'd post it up here and give you guys a look. See what you think :)

 

CHAPTER ONE - A New Dawn

 

Michael’s eyes flickered. They had been closed for a long while and needed to adjust to the light before they could work as they once did. Finally, after a minute or so of adjustment, Michael opened his eyes, the olive green inside focusing on what lay in front of him.

It was still as he’d remembered it, but it didn’t have the same feel he’d once experienced. It seemed…different, somehow. If he had awoken in the same place he’d entered sleep in, then that would mean they hadn’t found him. This took a minute to sink in, but when it did, Michael breathed a sigh of absolute relief. ‘Wait a minute,’ he thought to himself, ‘they haven’t found me – is that good or bad?’ He wondered about whether them not finding him, meant they had no use for him – this would mean the unthinkable had happened. Michael’s mind quickened his flow of thoughts, almost to the point he couldn’t keep up.

He stepped out into the room that lay in front of him. ‘UN Army C.L #001’ was branded on the wall in big, block letters. Michael leaned round the cylindrical space he had found himself in. His face brightened – all his equipment was still there, making him certain he’d not been found. On instinct, even though he was pretty sure no one was watching, he looked side to side swiftly, before grabbing his Z7 Pistol, and Kushka rifle. Cocking it as he remembered all too well, he felt a burst of adrenaline shoot through him. That old feeling he thought he had lost had now returned. Clicking his neck to each side, as so many people had done before him, he took a deep breath, and headed for the ladder.

At the top of the ladder, Michael moved to his right, getting into a fairly small space. He grunted as he attempted to turn the wheel on the hatch in front of him that had now rusted, and had obviously become stiff from not being moved in a while. Eventually, Michael’s strength got the better of the stubborn wheel, and he was able to turn it. Once he knew he had turned it as far as he needed, Michael took great care to open the hatch slowly, using only one hand – the other was readily on his Z7, with his Kushka slung over his shoulder in a certain way, making it easily accessible, minimizing delay for any required weapon-changes.

The sound of falling water immediately hit him, much as he’d hoped, and he peered through the slit of a gap he’d created by opening the hatch slightly. He wasn’t bothered by the stench that being in a sewer forced upon him – his attention span was one of the best around – when he last checked, anyway. Michael’s eyes looked out; always at the point just inside the door he was slowly opening, to check the entirety of his surroundings. As he finished opening the hatch door, he was sure that the area was safe. He turned to face the room he was leaving, and shuffled back until he was hanging from the opening he’d come from by his free hand. Swinging the hand containing his Z7 round, he shoved the door to shut it, removing his hand from the entrance, sliding down the curved wall, and silently into the shallow water.

Concentrating on thinking about anything but what he was wading softly through, he reached the other side of the flowing water, to the side of a walkway. He hoisted himself up onto it, turned sideways, and rolled quietly under the railing. Quickly deciding his route, the way he’d come in so long ago, he edged along the curved wall, until he reached the corner. Next to him, on his right, a pipe lead directly upwards, telling him two important facts; 1) remembering this pipe meant he was heading in the right direction, and 2) he was directly below part of what was, or what used to be – he couldn’t be sure, home.

Voices. Michael’s heartbeat quickened, and he slid in the small gap the pipe left in the alcove beside him. Switching his Z7 to his right hand, and swinging his Kushka round to access with his left, he held both ready for use in case he was about to see what he’d been dreading ever since he woke up. The voices got louder, and obviously closer, eventually getting loud enough to tell Michael he was moments away from either shouting for joy, or having to come to terms with the worst scenario. His mind’s eye told him what he was watching for, and as the moments passed between just loud voices and a visual on their sources, Michael formulated a 2 second plan in his mind.

“Well how did you know?”

“Ah, I just knew – I’ve got a knack for that kind of thing.”

Two figures walked by, dressed in suits. Suits? Michael reserved judgement for now, but remained cautious. The voices faded away, so Michael, re-arranging his weapons as they were before, slid out of the shadows and edged to a corner in the path about 10 yards in front of him. He crouched down to peer round the corner at the innermost part of the curved wall. Exactly as he remembered - a small flight of stairs leading to a secret door in his wine cellar. He smiled slightly – if there was to be any consolation from what may be to come, it was that he could have a drink.

Michael shot his head round to look behind him – no one coming. He stood up, checked the magazine in his Z7 was loaded, and swivelled round the corner, heading for the door. He moved slowly, but with confidence, counting the steps between himself and his door. Climbing the steps, his anticipation rose as he longed to be back home, before it all started. He reached for the door, but before his hand grabbed the handle, he heard the familiar click of the door opening, and he darted behind it. Another man walked out of the door and down the steps. He was an African American, well-built and about six feet tall.

Michael’s olive green eyes widened, and he stood in shock for a moment. The man had let the door shut behind him, so no one had followed him – no danger.

Michael recognised the man immediately, and although he knew who it was, he couldn’t believe it.

“Ryan!?”

 

END OF CHAPTER 1

 

 

 

CHAPTER 2 - The Union

A twenty-year old Michael Turner kicked the ball back to his mate,

“You’ll have to do better than that buddy,”

he chuckled, banging his goalie gloves together in a playful yet provocative way.

“Yeah? Well you’ll be laughin’ on the other side of your face after this one,”

the eighteen-year old Ryan Naismith called back in the same manner. He rolled the ball to a predetermined position with his foot, and stopped it in the same way. Ryan took a few steps back from the ball, before running back towards it, and striking it with the front of the inside of his right foot. The ball flew upwards, to Michael’s left. Michael leapt towards the ball like a Cheetah pouncing on its prey. His fingertips touched the leathery surface of the ball, but nothing more, pushing the ball only slightly off-course. Ryan cheered as the ball hit its target – as close to the goal post as it could go without hitting it. He pulled his t-shirt over his head, and screamed out a muffled

“Goooaaalll Lazio!”

Michael sighed, spitting loose grass out of his mouth, before calling up to the ecstatic Ryan,

“We’d better get back to base”

 

The present, 40-year old Ryan scratched his head. He jumped up out of his armchair and paced the well-decorated apartment. “Michael,” he repeated, “Michael Turner. How long has it been man?” He grinned, thrilled to see his best friend standing in front of him once again.

“Well, it’s gotta be…twenty years for you.” Michael replied, still slightly surprised himself.

“Yeah,” Ryan agreed, “and not more than a day for you, huh?” he asked, chuckling.

“That’s right,” confirmed Michael. His smile faded only slightly before asking the next question. “So..so what happened?” he asked, deeply intrigued, and desperate to get the answer.

“Well-” Ryan began, but was interrupted by three loud bangs on the front door, preceding a shout of “Union Officials, open this door immediately.”

Ryan sighed, turning to the door. He walked over and opened it, to reveal two men in typical ‘Official’ black suits. The two men held up badges before walking past Ryan, who stood aside willingly, and towards Michael. Michael immediately noticed something wasn’t right with these men; he’d never heard of any ‘Union’, and the fact that they were wearing what looked like wireless earpieces just increased his suspicions.

“Michael Turner, I am U.O. Smith, and this is U.O. Jones, would you come with us please?” The shorter, black haired man said in a flat, unfeeling tone.

“Wow, Smith and Jones, great imagination,” Michael replied sarcastically, shooting a glance at the taller, blonde haired Jones.

“We’re not here to play games, Michael, if you do not comply we will be forced to take further, less polite action”

Michael narrowed his eyes at the man stood in front of him. It was obvious to Michael that he was serious. However, Michael wasn’t prepared to go anywhere until he got the answer to the question he need to ask, that he had asked but hadn’t received the answer to. Click. Michael had drawn and cocked his Z7, and had it pointed directly at Smith’s chest. “Oh, I’m not complying,” he replied, smirking. However Michael’s smirk quickly faded when Smith grabbed the barrel of his gun and bent it away from him. “Very well,” Smith said, in an authoritative voice, “Jones, Mr Turner is coming along the hard way.” Suddenly, a big hand from Jones caught the astounded Michael’s neck, and everything went black.

 

When Michael eventually came to, the first thing that hit him was his head throbbing uncontrollably. He tried to bring his arm up to touch it, but he discovered he was unable to move it, along with his other arm, and his legs. He had been immobilised, and on opening his eyes he could see why – clamps.

Michael was suddenly alerted by an unfamiliar voice;

“Hello Michael, nice of you to finally join us”

“Wha-wh-” Michael tried to speak, but found his speech a bit slurred.

“Oh don’t worry about that,” the voice said, which Michael could now tell was sounding from behind him, “the effects will wear off soon – just a slight step up from what you’d call…a sedative.”

Michael took in his new surroundings – he was clamped to a chair, in an office; with a tinted window leading out to a blue sky, an oak desk topped with posh stationary, and branded with a sign that was new to Michael. He studied this sign for a moment – a red circle with what looked like Earth in the middle, but the Earth-shaped symbol had thick blue lines striking across it, as if a ribbon were wrapped around a circular present. Continuing his scan of the room, Michael, who could only move his eyes for whatever this man had done to him, looked to the right. He saw, from an unclear angle, a painted portrait of a man – clearly someone high up in this ‘Union’. To his left, Michael caught a glimpse of the only familiar thing in the room – a bottle of scotch. He smiled to himself, before a tall figure in a pinstripe suit walked past him on his left, and sat at the large, brown chair behind the desk. The man, who Michael could now see was in his fifties and was bald with small, square glasses on his head sat back in his chair, crossed his legs and linked his fingers together on his lap.

“We’ve been looking for you for a long time, Michael,” the man said, in a slightly irritated voice. “In fact, and I don’t give out praise like some sort of candy, I’d say you hid yourself pretty well that day. You know which day I mean Michael,” the man added, noting a sense of questioning in Michael’s eyes upon the term ‘that day’. “Now that you’re here, however, I really couldn’t care less where you went,” added the man, smirking. He paused for a moment, and Michael took this moment to focus on regaining the control of his bodily functions – primarily his speech. In what seemed like an impulsive move, the man rose from his chair, and strode over to the scotch. Pouring himself a glass, the man said, “I would offer you a glass, Michael, but I don’t think it’s wise – not in your state.” Smirking again, the man returned to his chair, and took a sip of the scotch, eyeballing Michael from behind his desk. “So, how did you do it?” the man asked rhetorically. “Well you’re still looking a sprightly young man,” the man continued, “of no more than about….twenty, I’d say,” he said, maintaining his smirk. ‘This man must know,’ Michael thought to himself, it was obvious, ‘but how?’ Before Michael had time to even think about an answer to this question, the man spoke again.

“Oh yes,” said the man, as if knowing exactly what Michael had been thinking, “I knew from the moment I saw you that it was you, and I immediately figured out how you’d done it – how you’d hidden away, ‘beneath the radar’ if you will. I’ll admit, it did come as a shock that you’d managed to evade us all this time,” he scoffed, “hell I even thought you were dead!” The man took another small drink of scotch before continuing. “But when you think about it, it’s a bit of a shortcut to just freeze yourself,” the man angrily added. This was it – after all the trouble they’d gone to trying to stop Michael from being found – it was over, and Michael couldn’t believe it.

“Underground. That was the shortcut.” Michael replied, his speech now only partially slurred.

The man’s eyes widened. The brown inside them, which perfectly matched the dark oak of the desk, was now clearly visible. His smirk had gone, and was replaced by a stern face, seemingly trying to stare a hole in Michael’s own eyes. Just as quickly as the man had lost his smirk, he’d regained it again. “You just have no idea, do you?” he chuckled. He continued chuckling for a few seconds, before the chuckle developed into a hearty laugh.

“Oh dear, oh dear,” the man laughed, “The great Michael Turner really doesn’t get it!” he exclaimed. The man smiled mockingly, shaking his head in what he pretended was a disappointed way. “Castro!” he called in a light voice, clearly still laughing inside, “Take him back to Ryan Naismith’s.” He swung round on his chair, easily ignoring Michael’s slurred shouts of objection.

A tall man with brown hair and a tiny arrowhead of a beard approached. The clamps around Michael’s arms and legs loosened, but as Michael fell the approaching man, who was obviously known as ‘Castro’, caught him. Turning Michael around, and putting one hand under each of his shoulders, Castro hoisted Michael up onto his right shoulder. Michael’s view was turned upside down, making it harder for him to make out the offices that surrounded him. He noticed that the one he’d just been in was at the end of a long corridor. Office doors lined the walls leading towards the other end. Similarly like the room he’d just been in, all the windows, as far as the eye could see, were tinted in such a way that people on the outside were unable to look in. Michael caught a glimpse of light shining on the navy blue carpet a few yards along. As they approached where the beam met the corridor, a lift door in front of them opened, and Michael could only see out to where the light was coming from for a second, before they entered the lift, which offered even less light than the corridor.

In the space of just a few seconds, Michael’s mind played the image he’d seen over and over. A big, ‘mall-like’ room, which on further thought, Michael realised was too big to be a room, and was more like a plaza. A white walkway linked something Michael couldn’t see on the left, to the same on the right. A similar white desk lay closest to the corridor, on the left of the opening into the plaza.

Suddenly Michael felt something solid hit his right side. He soon realised it had been the floor, and Castro was now crouching over him. The tall man forced a capsule of some sort down Michael’s throat, which he was unable to resist due to his arms and legs still being rendered useless by the last thing he’d been given.

“You’ll be back quicker than you know it,” Castro’s voice echoed patronisingly. The echoes became more distorted by the moment, and the colours of the lift’s interior gained fuzz from Michael’s view, before blending into one, black mass of darkness.

 

END OF CHAPTER 2