The prisoners screamed in anger and discontent until they were silenced by passing officers on their last rounds. Thick prison walls secured the criminals, hiding them from the barren bushlands that bloomed with dangerous reptiles, insects, and other fauna.
The office housed above the cells in the far corner, was supervised by two prison officers this evening. Noel-Len Ignatius and Phillip Lee, who were like oil and water.
Noel-Len never predicted that when he embarked on his position within the Watchtower over a year ago, it would be filled with an unsettling culture and dangerous stigma that he could not talk about.
Phillip Lee, on the contrary, freely expressed his honest thoughts, not once biting his tongue. Even now, 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 straight line of a mouth. His gaze was 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 once more, taking note of the horrific destruction.
His attention lingered over the carnage of the destroyed buildings and cars, before returning to the local newspaper he held.
The tabloid was frail and grainy in texture, printed in perfect letters that further caught Noel-Len's concentration.
Among the letters and printed pictures, he searched for information that could explain the nascent rumours, 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 else Noel-Len shared a shift with would not bother turning on the television, but this was Philip. 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 and not criticise. Regardless of where they were from, or what they appeared like, everyone had a choice to do either. A person's actions would always define their character.
'And this is why we don't meet outside of work', he wanted to say. Instead, he folded the newspaper loudly.
"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.
This was a question Noel-Len was far too familiar with and one he never appreciated.
Phillip Lee was a Class Two Auxiliary Officer; as such, it was expected for Noel-Len to show Phillip the proper respect, even if at times, he questioned some of Phillip's actions and assertions.
In these dubious moments, Noel-Len would cease to listen. There were times when Phillip was worthy of attention but now was not one of those times.
While tranquillity invaded the office, Noel-Len was aware of the severe threats that waited for him and his colleague beyond the red door.
The younger man 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.
"That leaves us with traitors and a never-ending war," Noel-Len replied, while his eyes lingered on the ceiling.
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?" Philip queried at last.
"No," Noel-Len replied, with a raised brow, before the buzz of the red door evaporated any uncomfortable air between the two 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, Philip switched off the television before their superior officer noticed, but Noel-Len had a strange feeling that the Constable knew, even if he did not 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 causing further alarm.
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 . . ." Philip muttered apprehensively. Noel-Len eyed Philip for a moment before his attention glided from the high glass window to the cells below.
Vigilantly, the inmates scrutinised the walls of their cells and assessed the flickering lights overhead.
"It's got to be an earthquake or something, right?" Philip prompted.
When Senior Constable Mark Roberts re-entered the room, poignant words slipped coolly from his lips, "We don't have earthquakes in Australia. . ."
The quivering ground intensified, causing the officers to grip the desktop and walls for support.
"Does this mean . . .?" Philip 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, pleading for release, 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 at once respond 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 beyond the cell door in a muddy pool of blood, which reached towards Noel-Len and Phillips' feet where they stood before the cells.
Noel-Len pointed his gun at the only survivor. His clothes were tattered and covered with the flesh of his cellmate.
Voices of the other officers called over the radio. Mutually, Noel-Len and Phillip attentively listened to the distinct orders, aware that their comrades were on their way. Philip confirmed their location before drawing his Glock, aiming the weapon at the man drenched in blood.
Noel-Len tensed when the inmate staggered towards them.
"Don't move!" Philip warned.
"How far away are the others?" Noel-Len asked. Phillip's unsteady hands that caused Noel-Len further alarm. He needed to calm Phillip down.
The adrenaline coursing through Noel-Len's body refused to allow his brain to process that his friend was terrified of the silent inmate.
"Not too far away," Philip said, stepping cautiously towards the prisoner who paused and watched them. "Cover me." Noel-Len held his breath when Philip opened the cell.
The soles of his once-clean shoes were caked in more blood and tissue.
Noel-Len could not make sense of the explosion.
His mind wandered to all different possibilities while his eyes remained alert, analysing spatter on the walls and flickering lights above.
His thoughts paused when Philip 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 did not stop, Philip fired—fashioning a puncture mark into the prisoner's chest. Black blood oozed from the wound, while 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 neutralised the threat." Noel-Len lowered his gun and turned away to inform the other officers without any further delay. That is, until he heard Philip's gurgling gasps.
Quickly, he turned to face Phillip and saw the man struggling to breathe, struggling to do anything as his body convulsed—prisoner's arm penetrated his chest. His hand, silver and sharper than any knife, transformed back into a normal hand.
Noel-Len's eyes widened in horror.
Effortlessly, the prisoner jerked his arm free and dropped Philip's unresponsive body to the ground.
The prisoner's eyes fell on Noel-Len, who took in his flaky grey skin and black eyes.
It was at that moment he realized: the prisoner was not human. Especially, when Noel-Len noticed his once-flat Human teeth become serrated, like a wild beast's—ready to devour its prey.
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, but he did not stop.
Noel-Len backed away, as the man persistently stumbled towards him, as if the bullets were never fired.
"What the hell?" he wondered, aloud.
"Stand down!" Mark yelled, entering the room, with more police officers. Even with their pistols, heavy weapons, and armour, the prisoner continued to step forward, ignoring the command of the officers. Shock and terror consumed them all 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 but understood the determination in Mark's posture and in his eyes when he ordered: "Fire!" Ammunition emptied into the chest of the prisoner.
Noel-Len felt it was excessive but did not 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, leaving a bullet wound between the monster's brows. The man stopped and crumpled to the ground.
Noel-Len was secretly grateful for all those hours he spent practising.
His celebration halted, when his eyes met Phillip's blank ones, studying Philip's dead body. Not noticing Mark when he sprinted over to the fallen officer, he ordered,
"Call an ambulance!" Another officer radioed for aid. However, Noel-Len knew it was too late.
Philip's life seeped from his desolate eyes. It was a few silent moments later before Mark proclaimed, "He's gone."
Noel-Len gaped at Phillip's unmoving frame. He had seen his mother die before and never realised he would react the same way. Noel-Len had known that a person's life was as fragile as the glass lining the windows high above. It was something he knew 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 obvious 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 gaped at Philip. He hoped that Phillip would get up and say it was just a flesh wound. When he did not, guilt tightened in Noel-Len's stomach.
"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. He had to keep himself from ending up the way he did after his mother's death.
"Sir," Noel-Len forced out, struggling to swallow his bile.
"Do you know what happened here?" Mark asked tactfully. When Noel-Len did not 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 detainees. They were scared." His eyes drifted over the blood on the ground slithering towards the drains, a reminder of the most recent trauma. "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, Philip 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 pierced Philip. I shot him. Then. . ."
". . . Then, we showed up." Mark finished; his dark, conflicted gaze drifted over the cameras in the corners 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 accepted the emotion Noel-Len refused to show—utter fear—and with that, Mark offered strained a smile.
"Go home. I think you've had enough drama 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 to freeze in his bedroom doorway.
His dog sat patiently and obediently in the shadows of the room, but not for him. The dog sat at a stranger's feet, his tail happily wagging. The woman's slender hand gently and affectionately stroked the canine's head. Her eyes scrutinised the framed photo clasped in her opposite hand.
Noel-Len recognised 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—courtesy of his mother's best 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 eyes shadowed her antagonising smile.
"Who are you?" Noel-Len discreetly glanced at the crystals on his bedside table. "Also, get out of my house."
As she turned to fully face him, his body tensed. His feet parted in a wider stance, bracing himself even as she set the cherished photo on his bedside table where he left it, as if it had never been touched.
"Why would you need to ask? You should already know: a stranger. And, I am not going anywhere until I get what I came for. 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."
Noel-Len regarded the black singlet, jeans, and boots she wore.
"What are you talking about?" he questioned, wondering if he had heard her properly, "Get out!" Her black eyes searched his, as if she were peering through him, unbothered by his raised voice.
She's enjoying this, he thought, and his stomach dropped at the curl of her lips.
"You know the people of this world, the Human Race. Odd, 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, if I should be satisfied that you creatures are as incompetent as ever."
"Get out of my house," he demanded but not as forcefully as he had. The fear of her presence constricted his throat. There was a brief flicker of annoyance in her calculating gaze, one engulfed by anger and impatience.
Within an instant, the woman disappeared and reappeared in front of him. She moved faster than he had ever thought possible. Or had she moved? He thought.
Within a single bat of his lashes, Noel-Len felt her firm grip around his throat.
The impact of his body cracked the cement wall behind him and winded him, almost paralysing him before his nails clawed at her strong hands, desperate to break the connection.
"You don't need to be so disrespectful."
Noel-Len desperately strained to breathe.
"What . . . are you?"
"That is a question I'm not obliged to answer," she remarked. Lifting her free hand, she curled her fingers into a fist. A long sharp blade glided from above her wrist and stopped centimetres from his eye. It was a weapon he had not seen, fashioned on her bare wrist.
Noel-Len knew that, if she wanted to, she could release that blade quicker than he could make an escape. She was taunting him. She knew he understood his position, as the blade inched closer to him. As it crawled nearer to his exposed left eye, she demanded in a threatening tone,
"Now, tell me where Natalia Ignatius hid it."
"How do you know my mother?" Noel-Len asked through arduous breaths. "And what are you talking about?" Each word strained his lungs. His muscles burned beneath the pressure as she held him. His mind became both fuzzy 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 seemed sporadic.
He felt her dithering choice as she regarded him carefully, ignoring Mike's persistent barking at her feet; he was surprised the dog had not attacked her yet.
As the blood rushed to Noel-Len's ears, 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 recognised Natalia's features, and released him.
Swiftly, the woman's attention shot to back door at the sound of the Xzandian trackers in the backyard. Their boots trod over the mowed lawn.
Before Noel-Len had a chance to catch his breath, she vanished.
Mike licked his owner's face as he crumpled on 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, through hefty breaths of air, rubbing his throat.
Decisively, he moved to the kitchen and yanked out a knife he had secured beneath the table and inspected his house for the stranger. To his frustration, every room was empty.
It was not until he heard a thump from the backyard and Mike running to the door, growling at the noise that his hope to find her blossomed.
Noel-Len leaned against the backdoor frame, predicting her next move, before opening the door.
To his surprise, the backyard was empty, and the woman—his attacker—was nowhere to be seen.
A knock sounded at the front door, pulling his attention from his backyard, aware his shed was the perfect hiding place.
Discouraged, Noel-Len closed the door and locked it, aware it would not stop her, not even 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, one he had not felt for years. A fear he had not experienced since the first invasion.
He forced his fear to subside, and his mind to think of other topics, but no matter how hard he tried, it weighed on him.
It was a dangerous feeling, something he could not understand.
It's the fear of the unknown that frightens me, he thought as he stared at where the inhuman woman was last seen. Pulling out his phone, he contemplated letting the others know of the assault, only to place his phone back in his pocket. No one would believe me, he reminded himself, before moving to the front door where an unexpected guest awaited him.