The Nightmare Unleashed
A Jarrod Hawkins Technothriller
A novel by
J. J. Carlson
The following is a work of fiction and contains content that some readers may find disturbing. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Copyright © 2018 J. J. Carlson
All rights reserved.
Visit www.brightinthedarkbooks.com
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
“For it is not light that is needed, but fire; it is not the gentle shower, but thunder. We need the storm, the whirlwind, and the earthquake.”
-Frederick Douglass
1
Manchester, England
The key bounced against the locking cylinder, then slipped and left a deep scratch in the brass doorknob. Abigail Walker swore under her breath, steadied her hand, and reinserted the key. The well-worn tumblers fell away, and the lock clicked open. Breathing a sigh of relief, she entered the apartment building and crossed the foyer. Her eyes flickered to the steel mailbox assigned to her apartment, but she didn’t break stride. She wouldn’t feel safe until she was locked inside her bedroom.
Passing beneath the black dome of a security camera, she entered a winding stairway and began to climb. Her high heels clacked against the concrete steps and her pulse throbbed in her ears—a side effect of the adrenaline coursing through her veins. She reached the third-floor hallway and marched to her door. Glancing once over each shoulder, she fumbled with her keys and let herself in. Once inside, she scurried into her bedroom and placed her back against the door. Finally, she felt safe.
She slid down and sat on the floor, then began to cry.
It had all started two weeks ago, when she visited her gynecologist for a routine checkup. Except, her gynecologist wasn’t there. She had been replaced by someone new—a dark-haired woman with a clinical demeanor. To Abigail’s surprise, the doctor had insisted that she be “put under” for the exam. After a brief protest, Abigail had relented. A technician had fitted her with a triangular mask that covered her nose, then fed nitrous oxide and pure oxygen through the line. Once she was drowsy, the technician inserted an IV in her arm and sedated her.
When she awoke, she immediately knew something was wrong.
The doctor had assured her it would be a standard examination, with the addition of a small biopsy. But when Abigail awoke and the medication began to wear off, the inside of her abdomen felt like it had been scraped with a wire brush. It had taken a week for the pain to become tolerable, and then she began to experience migraines for the first time in her life. Following the advice of her best friend, she scheduled an appointment with a different office.
That appointment had been today, and the examination had spiraled into a whirlwind of tests, phone calls, and accusations. The memory of the doctor’s horrified expression flashed through her mind, making her stomach turn.
“You went in for a pap smear?” the doctor had asked.
Abigail had nodded, then added, “And a biopsy.”
Without another word, the doctor had left the examination room. A few minutes later, a sonographer entered, wheeling an ultrasound machine. The technician didn’t speak as she scanned Abigail’s abdomen, despite Abigail’s pleas. When the ultrasound was complete, the technician told her she could get dressed, then left the room. The doctor returned thirty minutes later, looking grim and confused.
“Your ultrasound was…abnormal,” the doctor said. “So, I called the other office.” She held up a medical chart. “And they claimed you weren’t scheduled for an exam. You were scheduled for a total abdominal hysterectomy with bilateral salpingo-oophorectomy.”
Abigail blanched. “What does that mean?”
The doctor took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. “Abigail, your ovaries are…gone. Surgically removed.”
Gone. Even hours later, the word made her feel hollow. Crawling on her hands and knees, she crossed her bedroom floor, hugged a garbage can, and threw up.
After the doctor’s declaration, the rest of the day became a blur. Somehow, the office that had overseen her unwanted sterilization had been able to provide records going back months that detailed her adamant consent for the invasive procedure. They even had recordings of phone conversations between her and the doctor. Conversations that Abigail had no recollection of.
Conversations Abigail knew had never taken place.
When she threatened to speak with a lawyer, the doctors and nurses looked at her with pity rather than fear. To them, she was a crazed patient suffering a mental breakdown—in denial about her decision to undergo sterilization.
After leaving the clinic, she had stopped by the police station and given a full report. Though the police officers tried to appear reassuring, she detected the same mask of skepticism. She had returned home after dark, feeling violated by the surgery but strangely apathetic about her sterility.
Wiping the acidic residue from her lips, Abigail glanced across the room at a photo album on her dresser. Getting to her feet, she staggered forward and opened the cover. She scanned the glossy photographs that filled the pages. In perhaps half the photos, Abigail held a newborn baby or toddler in her arms—her nieces and nephews. She remembered holding the small children and longing to have babies of her own. She even remembered paging through the same photo album and reigniting those same feelings. But now, no matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t feel the bygone longing.
Something had changed. She no longer felt the nostalgic pull, the desire to one day be a mother. She wondered if the condition was physiological or psychological. Did the total hysterectomy remove her desire to have children, or was she simply reeling from the knowledge that she couldn’t?
Setting the photo album aside, she sank onto her bed. She wiped the back of her hand against her tear-stained face, smearing her makeup. She told herself everything would be okay, that she could still adopt and be the mother she was meant to be. The thought sent a fresh pang of misery through her chest.
Being sterilized against her will was horrible, but the belief that no one would pay for the mistake was worse. Someone had intentionally removed her reproductive organs, then made it seem like it was her idea all along. But who could do something like that? Who had enough power to forge documents with her signature and replicate her voice?
Suddenly, the hair on th
e back of Abigail’s neck stood on end. She shivered and glanced at her bedroom door. The button lock was still depressed, and she knew she had locked the front door as well. But she couldn’t shake the feeling that she was being watched.
It’s just paranoia, she told herself. There are no monsters under your bed, or in your—
She froze. Even if monsters did exist, they couldn’t hide under her bed. The frame went all the way to the floor, and the space beneath was taken up by rolling drawers. Her closet was another matter. Typically, she made sure to close the white folding closet doors completely. The doors fit together so well, keeping them shut made the entire room seem bigger. But they weren’t shut—not entirely.
Her eyes fixated on the centimeter-wide crack between the doors and the blackness within.
Don’t be stupid, she scolded herself. You just didn’t close them tight when you left for your appointment. You were distracted, that’s all.
Abigail settled into bed, pulled her blanket around her, and closed her eyes, trying not to give weight to her irrational fears. But the darkness behind her eyelids made her mind race. The feeling that someone was in the room with her grew, crystallizing into a terrifying image. She pictured a man dressed in black creeping across the carpet, a knife in his outstretched hand. As the panic grew, she held her breath, and thought she could hear someone else breathing over the pounding of her own heart.
Her eyes snapped open, and she scanned the room.
Nothing. No one was sneaking up on her. She inhaled and felt some of the tension leave her shoulders. Rolling over, she decided to sleep with the lights on, but she would sleep. She needed the rest after a long and frustrating day.
Taking slow and steady breaths, her eyes began to flutter. Her gaze softened, rolling across the paintings and wooden decorations on her wall. Her eyes settled on the closet once more, and any plans for sleep disappeared.
Her eyelids shot open and she sat up.
The black, centimeter-wide crack between the closet doors had grown. Now, the gap looked large enough to fit two of her fingers inside.
“Who’s there?” she said, scrambling back against the headboard.
There was no answer. An uncanny stillness settled over the room as she waited for a response. One minute passed, then another. Slowly, she gave in to the explanation that her mind was playing tricks on her, but there was no way she could fall asleep without making sure.
With her eyes focused on the closet, she reached out with her right hand and grasped the heaviest object within reach—the photo album. She hefted it and stood, then said, “I’m calling the police, so you’d better get out of my apartment while you have the chance.”
Taking a step forward, she added, “And I know how to fight. I’ve been taking boxing classes since I was in preschool.” It was a poorly-delivered lie, but she didn’t care. Every word she spoke strengthened her conviction that she was, in fact, alone.
She took another measured step, then another. She stopped a few feet from the door and raised the photo album above her head with one hand. With the other hand, she reached forward. Every inch of her body tingled with electricity. She hesitated, her fingers inches away from the crack. Her focus was so intense that the dark gap seemed like a trench into the abyss.
“Just open the door,” she whispered, “and you can go back to bed.”
The tip of her index finger settled on the wooden panel. She adjusted her feet so she could throw the door open with one push of her hand.
Then someone chuckled.
After so many hours shrouded in darkness, the light from the ceiling fixture sent a jolt of pain through Otto’s left eye. He smiled, welcoming the sensation. The sudden illumination meant only one thing: his prey had arrived.
In the two years since Otto had joined Katharos, he had spent more than four hundred days learning how to kill people and less than two weeks actually doing so. The long gaps between kills left him anxious and unfulfilled, and he longed for tonight’s mission like a chain smoker awaiting a morning cigarette. The woman came into view, flipping through a photo album, and a surge of excitement buzzed in his fingers and toes. He licked his lips and silently backed away from the slit in the closet door, his gloved hands twitching in anticipation.
As he waited for the right moment to strike, he recalled his favorite assignments—the fat man he had bludgeoned to death, the mayor he had stabbed with a kitchen knife, and the woman he had drowned in a swimming pool. He enjoyed the up-close and personal hits the most. They satisfied him completely, and he wouldn’t feel the urge to kill again for weeks or even months.
Not that he wouldn’t, if the mission called for it. Lately, the Empress had given him increasingly frequent tasks. In the past month, he had executed four dissidents—people who acted in opposition to the glorious aspirations of Katharos. If the operations tempo continued to accelerate, Otto would be pursuing a different target every night.
He smiled at the thought. His skills had improved significantly between his first and fourteenth kill. After a few dozen more, he would be unstoppable.
Moving his eye back to the gap in the doors, he checked on his quarry. She had abandoned the photo album and was stretched out on her bed with her eyes closed. He hesitated for a moment, trying to decide if he could make it across the room and cover her mouth before she screamed. In this situation, stealth and precision were absolutely imperative. He couldn’t afford to have her kicking and screaming—a single bruise on her hands or face would give everything away.
He decided to make his move, and slowly pressed on the back of the folding closet door. Millimeter by millimeter, it slid along its track, allowing more light into his hiding place. His pulse quickened, and his breathing became heavy as he imagined the fear that would soon be plastered to the woman’s face.
Suddenly, she opened her eyes and sat up in bed. Otto held his breath and backed away from the door, cursing himself for moving before she’d fallen asleep. The woman searched the room in a panic, and her eyes widened as they alighted on the closet door.
Shit, Otto thought. He concealed himself in the darkness and listened to her movements. He could hear her soft footsteps on the carpet, and his mind raced to come up with a new plan. His original plan of smothering her to the point of unconsciousness, then carrying her to the bathroom would no longer work. The hit would have to happen here, in the bedroom.
The woman spoke, offering threats that wouldn’t intimidate a rabbit. Otto suppressed a laugh at the fear and embarrassment in her voice. He doubted if she really knew he was there—if she did, she would run, rather than investigate on her own. Seconds passed, and the edge of a finger appeared at the crack in the door. Otto risked a peek and saw her holding the photo album above her head. The impromptu weapon was too much for him to bear. He grimaced, trying to hold back his laughter, then let out a soft chuckle.
The woman’s eyes bulged, and she took a step back, but not far enough. Otto exploded from the closet like a trapdoor spider, his hands outstretched. He clamped down on her mouth, his cushioned glove stifling her screams and preventing any bruising. He grabbed her wrist with his other hand and twisted just enough to make her let go of the photo album, then forced her onto the bed. She wriggled and kicked, so he climbed on top of her and used his weight to pin her hips down. The woman’s eyes bulged, and her skin took on a bluish tinge. Thirty seconds later, she blinked and fell unconscious.
Otto worked quickly, retrieving a cotton cloth from his pocket and stuffing it into her mouth. He gripped one of her forearms with one hand and drew a razor blade across her wrist with the other.
The pain shocked her back into consciousness, and she tried to scream, but the gag muffled her voice. She bucked and writhed, trying to free herself. Otto held her down with the tenderness of a parent coaxing a child through a night terror.
“That’s it…” he whispered. “Get it all out. Keep moving until every last drop is gone.”
The blood poured from the woman’s wri
st, forming a diffuse puddle on the comforter. Otto adjusted his knees to avoid getting it on his clothes, then reopened the clotting wound with his razor.
“This is actually a terrible way to kill yourself,” Otto informed her. “Too far from the heart, you see. And the wound usually clots up. But don’t worry, when you pass out, I’ll make sure it stays open.”
The woman threw her knees into his back, but he didn’t budge. The color began to drain from her face as her body drew precious blood from her capillaries to supply vital organs. Her efforts to resist grew pitiful, then ceased entirely. She laid her head on the pillow, closed her eyes, and drew shallow breaths through her nose.
Otto sliced the wound one more time, then climbed off his victim. He tidied the blankets around her, then tucked the razor into her hand. Wrapping his fingers around her fist, he forced her to cut her forearm a few inches from the first incision, then he stood with his arms crossed and waited until she stopped breathing.
Satisfied, he closed the closet doors and left the bedroom. He looked into the hallway outside her apartment, then stepped out. Using a lockpick, he locked her door from the outside and strode away. There was no one in the foyer, and he made sure to face away from the camera until he was outside the building. Pausing on the concrete steps, he pulled off the thick black socks he was wearing on the outside of his shoes and stuffed them into his pocket.
To his surprise, the street was nearly deserted. There was only one person in sight—a man in a red sweatshirt with the hood pulled over his head, sitting on a low brick wall, staring at his phone. Otto grinned, turned on his heel, and took wide strides along the sidewalk. Once he reached his car, he would be untraceable. He would travel back to London and climb into his bed for what he expected to be the best sleep he’d had in days.
In order to avoid the increasing number of street cameras, Otto had parked in an alleyway several blocks from the woman’s apartment, but he didn’t mind the walk. The night air was cool and refreshing, and he needed to come down off the high of his mission. Rounding the corner at the end of the street, he glanced at the rows of brick buildings, casually searching for threats. Like before, the space in front of the brick apartment buildings was quiet. The porches, sidewalk, and cobblestone street were empty, except for—
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