Mind Power- America Awakens

by Diane Matousek Schnabel

  The family room was littered with broken photographs. Furniture had been toppled; sentimental tchotchkes, swept from bookcases. The kitchen had been stripped of food, and broken dishes coated the hardwood floor like a layer of jagged snow.

  Through a window, Missy glimpsed four Night Sector thugs lounging on the hood of their pickup truck.

  Why are they still here? What are they waiting for?

  She crept closer to the broken kitchen window, crouching to remain out of view, and strained to hear their conversation above the whoosh of her pulse.

  “... You ever see one of these before?”

  “A fire ...? Sure.”

  “Not your run-of-the-mill fire. A high-tech, secret weapon kind of fire. Faster. Hotter. More destructive. Think incineration ...”

  Missy’s breath solidified in her throat.

  Her limbs froze.

  Her mind locked up like a computer program trapped in a loop.

  Oh God, oh God, oh God ...

  Then Matthew’s plaintive cry fractured her paralysis.

  I have to save my baby!

  The courage she couldn’t muster for herself engulfed mind and body, and she scrambled back to the bathroom, skidding over debris. She scooped Matthew from Tilli’s arms, and the toddler’s cries ebbed to a sleepy whimper.

  “We have to get out. Now!”

  The elderly woman lifted an arthritic leg from the chute and sniffed in three quick whiffs of air. “I don’t smell any smoke.”

  “No time to explain.” Missy kicked aside the shower curtain and metal rod and hurried toward the window. No Night Sector soldiers were posted in the backyard.

  Thank you, Jesus!

  Leaning over the toilet, she pushed against the double-hung window with one hand. The stubborn sash refused to move. Missy pounded the swollen, wooden frame with her fist to break through decades of paint, and tried again. The window stuttered upward, and a single jab dislodged the brittle screen from its track.

  “You go first, then I’ll hand Matthew out.”

  Tilli used the toilet seat as a stepping stone, hoisted a leg, and lunged toward freedom. “Oh no,” she whined, straddling the windowsill. “I’m stuck. I can’t do this.”

  “Yes, you can! You have to!”

  “No. I’ll fall.”

  “Would you rather break a hip? Or burn alive?” Without awaiting a response, Missy shoved the elderly woman through the window, and climbed onto the toilet seat. She lowered Matthew to the ground. The toddler plopped onto his backside and began to cry.

  Tilli was sitting upright, legs spread, cradling her right arm. “Why did you push me? I think I sprained my wrist.”

  “Beats the alternative. Matthew, move out of the way, Doodlebug.” Missy threaded a leg through the window, and the air around her became charged with energy. A crackling buzz amplified, and as she propelled her torso onto the sill, a purplish-blue streak of light arced between the electric socket and light fixture. Flames ignited, consuming the plaster walls, then the miniature lightning bolt began to glow like the sun.

  Flash-blinded, Missy turned away, cracked her temple against the sash, then slid down onto the ground. Matthew’s little arms clamped around her neck. His body was trembling; his forehead drilled into her shoulder as if trying to burrow inside for safety.

  She reassured the toddler, her words devoured by the tumultuous buzz of the fire, then she helped Tilli to her feet.

  They shambled through the backyard, hunkered down in the woodlands just beyond the property line, and watched the spectacle in awe. The house was being consumed by a ball of energy that dimmed and brightened like a flickering lightbulb. There were no discernible orange flames licking skyward, and the smoke emitted was a whitish-gray and reeked of a burning electrical odor.

  Vibrations from the zapping sound tingled against Missy’s cheeks.

  “Those bastards,” Tilli sobbed. “First, they murdered Tom and now they’re incinerating his memory.”

  A secret weapon ... Faster. Hotter. More destructive. Think incineration.

  “... I’ll check over here.”

  Missy felt as if the earth beneath her had given way. Her head jerked toward the male voice, and she locked eyes with one of the Night Sector soldiers.

  Tidbit # 1: The Odessa Massacre

  In 2014, a group known as Right Sector instigated the Euromaidan, an uprising in Ukraine which forced the ouster of President Victor Yanukovych, and riot police were intentionally set on fire.

  A group of citizens opposed to the coup, dubbed “terrorists” or “Colorado beetles,” were chased into a trade union building. Right Sector allegedly cut off the water before setting the structure ablaze with Molotov cocktails; and when trapped citizens jumped from second-story windows to escape the flames and smoke, many were savagely beaten. Forty-eight lost their lives, including children.

  The similarities between Ukrainian Right Sector and American Antifa are alarming, both in rhetoric and tactics, which is why we were compelled to write about this.

  According to the U.S. State Department under President Obama, the victims were “terrorists,” who ignited the fire through careless handling of their own Molotov cocktails. We invite you to watch the YouTube documentary Roses Have Thorns (Part 6) The Odessa Massacre and decide for yourself who was telling the truth. Be forewarned, it is graphic and heartbreaking.

  Chapter 8

  DAY 702

  Saturday, January 21st

  24

  District Three, Washington, D.C.

  BRADLEY STOOD AT THE edge of a buckled span of the I-395 bridge, gazing down at the Potomac River three stories below. A fifty-foot section of the road deck had collapsed. One end was mired in the muddy river bottom, the other inclined at a thirty-degree angle.

  The gap is twenty feet, he thought. The distance was doable, based on his track-and-field experience, but he would be free falling more than a story, and he wouldn’t be landing in soft sand.

  Inside him, a war was raging, emotion versus logic.

  Jumping will get me closer to the shore and minimize my swim ...

  But how long will you last in that fifty-degree water?

  It’s a ten-yard swim. I’ll be out of the water within minutes ...

  And into the thirty-eight-degree night air. How long before hypothermia sets in?

  Well, I have to do something. Abby’s life is on the line ...

  Killing yourself with a stupid stunt won’t help her.

  “Stop overthinking it,” he grumbled.

  Bradley backpedaled, his steps in rhythm with the distant whump of helicopter blades.

  The Marines aren’t going to find her in D.C., he thought, bursting into a sprint.

  Wind at his back, he charged forward, heart hammering, arms pumping, and leapt from the edge of the bridge.

  A beam of light blinded him.

  Shit! How close am I to—

  His feet struck the road deck; his knees bent, absorbing some of the shock; then Bradley tucked his head and rolled to disperse momentum. The helicopter’s light was strobing with each revolution of his body. The sound of rushing water was growing louder; the fetid odor became pungent enough to taste.

  What was I thinking?

  Boots scraping against concrete, limbs extended, he managed to halt his forward progress a yard shy of the vile river. From this perspective, the current seemed much faster; the shoreline, more distant.

  This was a REALLY bad idea, he thought as the helicopter glided past him. Would the pilot alert the authorities?

  If they take me into custody, I won’t be able to find Abby. Damn it!

  Bradley stood upright and shielded his eyes from the light. The helicopter was making another pass, coming in low, and he watched in disbelief as the left side of the landing gear clanged against the steel tubing that capped the guardrail.

  The chopper had no doors and resembled the Little Birds used to insert troops into confined areas. Bradley jogged toward it, struggling to conjure
up a credible excuse for his flying leap. He clamped a hand on the landing skid, hoisted a foot onto the guardrail, and hurled himself onto the copilot’s seat.

  Maybe I can talk him into dropping me on the western bank, he thought, pulling on a headset and night-vision goggles.

  The helicopter lifted from its perch, swerved southward, and accelerated along the Potomac, well below radar.

  “Webber, are you out of your fucking mind?”

  Face partially hidden behind a helmet and night-vision gear, the pilot could’ve been anyone, but the voice sounded familiar.

  “CJ?”

  “That was the stupidest thing I’ve ever seen.”

  “Did the Colonel change his mind?” Bradley asked.

  A cocky grin sprouted under the greenish glow of night vision. “No, I uh ... sort of borrowed the Little Bird.”

  “Why are you putting your ass on the line? I mean, taking a helo without authorization will get you court-martialed.”

  “It doesn’t belong to the U.S. Military.”

  Baffled, Bradley stared out at the swampy tributaries, abandoned boat docks, and barren trees; then the truth detonated like a stick of TNT. “You stole a chopper from The Consortium? And you think I’m out of my fucking mind?”

  Shrugging, CJ said, “I have no intention of getting caught.”

  “Did you, by any chance, filch a rifle?”

  “Two M16s and survival bags in the back.”

  Why is Wingnut so gung-ho to help me? Bradley wondered.

  Cruising at full throttle and keeping a safe distance from Quantico, it took nearly an hour to reach the coordinates; then CJ switched on an imaging system and began flying a grid pattern over the desolate land below.

  Bradley squinted at the technology, which was peering through solid walls and rooftops. “Where did The Consortium get T-ray vision?” he demanded, referring to terahertz waves, a frequency on the electromagnetic spectrum between microwaves and far infrared. “And why—the fuck—don’t the Marines searching for Abby have it?”

  “T-rays see through clothing. You okay with the guys seeing your wife naked?”

  “Hell no!” Bradley barked, angling the monitor away from CJ. “That’s got to be an unreasonable search, a blatant violation of the Fourth Amendment.”

  “Didn’t stop them from installing naked body scanners at the airports.” CJ proffered a taunting chuckle. “You want to turn it off? So you’re not violating anyone’s rights?”

  Bradley sighed, contemplating the time required to physically search all the abandoned buildings.

  I guess the invasion of privacy is preferable to Abby being tortured or raped or—

  “Two o’clock!” he blurted. “Someone’s in that church!”

  CJ maneuvered the Little Bird into a swooping dive that sent Bradley’s stomach into his throat.

  Just inside the nave, he saw a man’s naked form lying in the aisle, eyes and mouth hanging lifelessly open. Bullets had pierced his chest.

  Agent Peters, he thought. You’re lucky you’re already dead, pal.

  A second body was sprawled beside the altar.

  “This is where they were holding her,” Bradley said. “But she’s not here now.”

  “No vehicle at the scene,” CJ observed. “Maybe she escaped.”

  Did she drive off to safety?

  Or did Agent Leezuh transfer her to another location?

  Damn it, Abby could be anywhere!

  25

  West of Fredericksburg, Virginia

  “FATHER” IBIS ENTERED the sanctuary, wearing a red druidic robe, and sneered at the ornery teen. His young apprentices had sustained serious injuries—a broken nose, a gouged eye, and a vicious bite that just missed the carotid artery—but they finally managed to subdue the warrior, stripping off her clothing, applying a gag, and shackling her into position for the ritual. Lying supine on the floor, her arms and legs were splayed atop a white pentagram, inscribed within a circle and illuminated by candles.

  Glaring up at him, she continued to flail against the restraints.

  “Scream and struggle as you wish,” he told her. “We feast on fear and pain.”

  His apprentices had changed into ceremonial black robes and stood with their backs pressed to the wall, on either side of the chamber’s sole window. Their rifles were displayed in a “present arms” position, the barrels supporting torches that cast ghostly shadows and enhanced the macabre atmosphere.

  Ibis approached the east-facing window, bowed in reverence to Moloch, and lifted a penlike device from the sill. “Electrocauterization is the process of cutting through soft tissue with a metal probe heated by electric current. I’m going to carve a pentagram into your abdomen to brand you in the service of my master.”

  Ibis planted his knees on Abby’s pelvis to immobilize her thrashing hips. “Can’t have you squirming and ruining my artwork.”

  The v-shaped wire began to glow a bright orange, then someone shouted, “Stop!”

  The voice was deep and thundering and piercing, like an auditory bed of nails.

  Where had it come from?

  Ibis’ head jerked toward the window and he gaped at the silhouette of an owl.

  “Moloch?” he stammered.

  “Submit, my vessel, that I may savor this sacrifice.”

  Ibis had summoned demons before, after consuming a secret elixir, but Moloch wasn’t known to converse with lowly priests. That honor was reserved for the top of the pyramid.

  Pride and self-importance inflating inside him, Ibis said, “I surrender body, mind, and soul, o immortal Moloch. Do with me as thou wilt!”

  He felt a strange energy tingle through his body, a feeling of intense power; invincibility and omniscience.

  I am possessed by the almighty Moloch!

  Ibis’ fingers began moving involuntarily, and he watched, mystified, as his hands jettisoned the electrocauter. He rose to his feet, nodded toward his apprentices, and, for some reason, they extinguished their torches.

  “Surrender the rifle.” Ibis’ vocal cords, tongue, and lips were under the master’s control, forming syllables and expressing thoughts independent of his own.

  I’ve become a human robot.

  Ibis had always assumed possession would be like falling into a coma, that he would be unaware of his actions. Executing the will of Moloch while bearing witness to his wrath—this was the ultimate reward.

  The master seized the long gun and returned to the pentagram.

  What grisly punishments will the dark lord inflict on her? A beating? A penetration?

  The rifle barrel lurched upward. Two rapid shots discharged, and his apprentices wilted into moaning, cottony black mounds of death.

  Why is Moloch sacrificing his worshippers?

  The godly, piercing voice replied, “They were traitors in service of the enemy.”

  Each word rumbled through Ibis’ bones, making every joint in his body ache, and he sank onto his knees. His fingers unlocked the steel restraints that bound the girl’s ankles to the floor.

  Why, master? Why are you releasing her?

  “Question not, Ibis. Obey!”

  Her unshackled legs kicked wildly, landing several blows as his subservient body circled the pentagram. Again, he dropped onto bended knee, and words tumbled from his mouth. “After I untether your wrists, run for your life!”

  Instantly, Ibis began to salivate.

  Moloch was releasing her into the surrounding woods so he could hunt her down like an animal.

  That would magnify the girl’s terror and suffering, thereby turning a mere meal into a feast.

  26

  West of Fredericksburg, Virginia

  “IN THE CLEARING AT ten o’clock,” Bradley said, speaking to CJ via the helicopter’s headset. “There are people inside that isolated building.”

  CJ banked the Little Bird into a hard left turn and dipped lower for a closer look.

  The structure was divided into two wings, each partitioned into na
rrow, prisonlike rooms. The west side was populated with teenagers, anchored to a steel hook in the floor with iron collars and chains.

  Like dogs on a leash, Bradley thought, simultaneously grateful and disappointed that Abby wasn’t among them.

  The other wing had larger rooms, three with metal cots and trunks, and a fourth serving as an armory.

  A fifth room comprised the eastern flank of the building, and it contained a trio of male bodies. All three had suffered bullet wounds to the chest and bled out. Scattered over the floor, there was an AK-47, four metal restraints, and something that looked like a soldering iron. No sign of Abby.

  Bad actors, a few miles apart, all dead, Bradley thought. That can’t be a coincidence. Did she fight her way out of the church, show up here looking for help, and have to fight her way out again?

  “Abby’s not there,” he told CJ. “Can you circle the area?”

  “Will do.” He piloted the Little Bird in an enlarging spiral pattern, skimming just above the treetops.

  A few miles from the hellish prison, Bradley spotted Abby’s naked silhouette, crouched beside a boulder, an AK-47 in ready position.

  “I see her! Land!”

  “Where? There’s nothing but trees and—”

  “You got any rope in those survival packs?”

  “Affirmative. But it’s not thick enough for fast-roping.”

  CJ was right. A typical rope, less than 1.6 inches in diameter, would be jerked wildly by the rotor blast of the helicopter.

  “It’ll have to do.” Bradley retrieved the fifty-foot length of nylon, secured the end to the Little Bird’s frame with a Prusik knot, commonly used in mountaineering, then grabbed one of the M16s.

  “Call in the coordinates for the second location,” he instructed CJ. “Seventeen teenagers are being held captive. Abby and I will meet you back there.” Bradley peeled off the headset and goggles, tied the backpack to the loose end of the rope to weight it, and lowered it to the ground.