The Anti-Universe Beckoned

The hitmen gazed at one other, then at the empty room. They lowered their rifles, wary of mutual armament.

The first said, "Are you here to take him out too?"

The second said, "Yeah." "It looks like many people want him dead."

Henry "Hank" Kingston is who I am. You?

"Christian." Hello, Henry "Hank" Kingston. Are you familiar with that disappearance?

"Just that it's usually gone for a while, but it can come back."

"Then, we should prepare a surprise for when they return."

"Your style appeals to me. Come on, I have some ideas.

Uncertain of the timetable but quick to make plans, they left to arrange the travelers' deaths and set up shifts to wait for the machine to return.

A month and a half into her campaign, Margaret Lowenstein sat in her house. She had around two hundred followers who respected and trusted her. She was plagued by doubts.

What if I'm mistaken? What if we are indeed protected by the shield? What if they discover that I made this up—deluded and unable to think clearly? Are they going to hate me? Or even worst, continue to follow me?

Her refusal to accompany her followers outside the shield for enlightenment was met with increasing opposition. They publicly urged her to leave if she believed her own words, challenging her beliefs.

There was a problem. How can I react without looking foolish? I can't leave because I don't know what's out there, but I have to say something. What justification maintains my protection while justifying its removal?

Some of her supporters walked to the edge of the shield while she struggled with this, convinced to go beyond. I'll take the blame if they pass away. I will be relentlessly persecuted if their deaths are found out. I have to move quickly.

Bravo Shield VIII, the area's last shield, was rocked by an explosion that sent the power facility into complete darkness. Subways stopped because it was too dangerous to travel blind tracks, and communications broke down.

A malfunctioning antenna caused one subway, the 6:00 126 into Bravo Shield VIII, to miss the notice. Its problems went beyond communication, making it the oldest in service. It rumbled on, oblivious to the commotion on the surface.

When the tunnel lights ahead remained dark, the engineers knew something was wrong. The train was slowed, but not sufficiently.

The tracks were obscured by shadows as faint, ancient lights struggled to break through the darkness. It was too quick for the situation, even at the speed allowed by law.

The engineer pulled the brake lever all the way back when he saw a repair cart obstructing the way. It could have been stopped sooner if there had been brighter lights or a motorized tunnel. Rather, the train slowed but did not stop as it crashed with the cart at thirty miles per hour.

The automobiles were flung into the tunnel wall as the impact caused the engine to derail. As parts ripped away, metal screamed, leaving passengers confused by the confusion.

Cars that were tilted threw their occupants, fracturing bones but not immediately killing anyone. The subway was destroyed, but when people clambered out, they were protected from the tearing concrete walls.

Paradoxically, Bravo Shield VIII's sole electricity passed through the tracks. Electricity rushed through the metal as cars sat on the live rails, turning it into a deadly conductor.

Fires were started by sparks, one of which was moving toward the engine's reserve fuel tank. Some of the escaping passengers died instantaneously after grazing hot rails or electrified wreckage. As they ran along the rails, survivors learnt to tread carefully and stay away from metal.

Unbeknownst to the outside world, the engineer took heroic action when he noticed the fire approaching the tank. In an attempt to put out the flames, he flung himself onto them. Burns burned his face and upper torso, yet his bravery was not recognized.

A wave of fire blazed down the tube as the fire reached the tank. The courageous engineer and everyone else inside vanished in an instant, leaving no sign for subsequent rescue attempts.

The blast's force was increased by the tunnel's constraints, which directed it along the tracks. Flames raced after the escaping passengers, engulfing them.

Near the epicenter, the explosion caused the tunnel's construction to deteriorate, causing concrete to collapse inward and shutting off a portion surrounding the blast site.

Some survived the initial death and sustained severe burns. Others suffered, trapped in the crumbling tunnel, dust suffocating their lungs, while others died of shock. Burned flesh was mashed on the ground as coughs racked their charred bodies.

None had survived by the time rescuers got there. The last prayed for relief from their suffering as they clung to life in agony.

Onlookers were startled and repulsed by the savagery of the wreckage. Knowing there were no survivors waiting, rescuers labored to excavate the twisted subway—a sad necessity. Although no one could wish such a fate upon another, the attack on the power plant, which claimed ninety-eight lives, was the catalyst. Punishment was imminent.

The news was watched with grim enjoyment by Gregory Rylance. He wasn't prepared for the power plant strike. The unanticipated bonus of the subway catastrophe disrupted transit and communications for Bravo Shield VIII. Instead of making his men uneasy, he hoped it would give them more courage. The less dedicated would falter; they would need to be eliminated, possibly like Arthur Gilford, who was targeted at his place of employment.

It was a calculated risk to strike the plant with Gilford there, moving the clock forward to eliminate dangers. The war had started, and it would go on until someone won. Gregory Rylance would be the winner.

With one laser deactivated, Martin Wilkerson, Jonathan Aston, and Katherine Branson traversed the anti-universe. Repairing it right away was essential to avoiding a mishap when reentering the real world.

Jonathan Aston and Katherine Branson were astounded by the anti-universe, an unimaginable world, as Martin Wilkerson rewired the laser.

With the exception of the machine and its inhabitants, the landscape was a uniform gray. Everything squished together; this cosmos was far smaller than the real one.

They were four times larger, or Earth seemed a quarter its normal size. Earth was brushed by Venus and the asteroid belt, while the sun, a dull, gray orb, was only a few hundred miles distant. They were not affected by heat or cold, and even in the absence of oxygen, their respiration did not falter.

There was nothing in this cosmos, nothing bad or good. They were not physically ill; they blended into its emptiness.

Nevertheless, Katherine Branson shuddered, a shiver of terror grazing her neck—not from the cold, but from the fear of this nothingness, of being trapped in a world where neither death nor life had any power. Is it possible to die here? The consequences of the thought were too terrible, so she pushed it away.

A breakthrough was made by Jonathan Aston—until the time difference hit him. The colony ship might be delayed if they lingered. When he attempted to tell Martin Wilkerson, he discovered that there was no sound present. All was quiet—a possible problem in the future, but not right now.

There was a second problem. A wire came free while Martin Wilkerson worked. It jerked back to the actual world after being released from the grip of positronic regression.

Christian and Henry "Hank" Kingston, the hitmen, waited for the passengers to return while maintaining vigil in the lab. Their patience paid off as a single cable appeared on the ground.

Christian picked it up and saw that the end was ragged, bullet-severed. Henry "Hank" Kingston, you may have crippled their ship with your shot. They might not come back.

Henry "Hank" Kingston hissed, "I hope they do." "My kills are never stolen."