The Slip

by Tom C Willoughby

  Susan had talked to each of the two alters for about an equal amount last session, 20-25 minutes apiece. What Carla described was definitely not their last session. Maybe this was a new alter?

  “I remember speaking for a good 20 minutes at our last get together, are you sure you are thinking of your discussions with me and not someone else?” Susan pursued.

  “It was you doctor, but I was in a different body…my body. I think?”

  Was this a new personality, or was Elizabeth playing some sort of game? In their previous sessions Elizabeth had exhibited a particularly nasty, very aggressive and malevolent personality. Dissociative personality disorder was almost always the result of traumatic childhood experiences. Creating alternate personalities allowed the sufferer’s psyche to withdraw while a newly created, often tougher personality suffered the traumatic episodes. It was still early, but Elizabeth might be the alter that Carla’s subconscious created to deal with some otherwise unbearable events earlier in her life. Commonly such patients had more than one alter, 10-15 was not unheard of and in a few extreme cases over 100, so there was still much work to do.

  This type of challenge associated with DPD, and the many unknowns that surrounded it, had captured Susan’s imagination many years ago and had driven her to become a now world renowned specialist in this disorder within her professional circles.

  “Well, then I must apologize for my behavior and ask for your forgiveness. You have me at a disadvantage as you know my name and I have yet to learn yours.”

  Susan watched as Carla played with the tassels on one of the throw pillows and squirmed awkwardly in her seat. Her other hand moved like a spider along the overstuffed arm of the sofa. She moved her mouth a little but did not seem able to get it to do what she wanted it to, or so it appeared. The placid look in her eyes was at odds with her agitated movements.

  With an inaudible click Carla’s body went still and her eyes transformed to an intense glint. If eyes could smile these eyes grinned evilly with vicious intent.

  “Is everything okay, you seem a little agitated?” Susan asked already assuming that a transition had just occurred to a different alter.

  “Agitated, is certainly one word for how I feel. Fucking angry is another one. Let’s stick you in this place and see how you feel after a couple days. You might feel agitated or maybe you’d be ready to fucking kill someone!” Carla punctuated with some spittle projectiles. This was the Elizabeth Susan knew.

  At the end of their session Elizabeth was displaced briefly by the unknown alter. The desperation returned this time as a controlled urgency.

  “Doctor, can you make these other people go away? I’m getting better at taking back control but it’s difficult… it’s tiring… some of them are frightening…”

  Each alternate identity a DPD sufferer has, represents different memories and experiences of the overall person’s life. One of the major goals of treatment was to have the alters become aware of each and to have them communicate with each other. This begins the process of stitching the different parts of the patients life back together. It used to be thought the elimination of alters should be the goal of treatment, but often the patient would not react well to what felt like the killing off of parts of themselves. Most professionals, including Susan, now looked to help the alters know each other and learn to coexist. This enabled patients to function in the world and over time sometimes the alters would combine and disappear, but sometimes not.

  This might be a breakthrough with Carla. This new alter was aware of the others and seemed interested to learn how to cope with them.

  “It’s okay. I understand you’re frightened, and I can help. Can you tell me your name?”

  “I… don’t know. I can’t remember anything before the shopping cart… I have strange dreams or maybe memories but they’re so strange they can’t be real…”

  “That’s okay, let’s start there. Can you tell me what you remember starting with the shopping cart?” Susan asked gently.

  “I was pushing this cart…the smell…there was an awful smell. I think I had been on the streets for a while. I threw up… and then the angry man took over…”

  “Okay, what happened then?” Susan encouraged.

  “I watched as the man took out a big knife. He was very angry and started yelling and was swinging the knife around. The police came and took us…me… away. I was moved to a couple different places and that’s when we met.”

  “That’s when who met?” Susan asked.

  “Us… you. That’s when I met you. I was chained to a chair. We were in some kind of cell.”

  John Doe!? Angry man… two men came in, the orderlies? Susan’s scientific mind pushed back against the irrational thought that had started to germinate.

  “FUCKING CELL! What are you talking about? This whole place feels like a CELL!” Elizabeth screamed, taking over yet again.

  Before leaving the hospital, Susan sought the on-call nurse who had greeted her when she came in. Her name tag read Lizzie and Susan took her to the side to speak with her privately.

  “Dr Reynolds, is everything okay?” Lizzie asked her with a hint of worry in her voice.

  “I’m not sure. When I came in earlier, you mentioned a traumatic episode in conjunction with Carla. What were you referring to?” Susan asked.

  “Well, one of the newer nurses was escorting Carla from her room to the therapy rooms, where she was to meet with you, Dr Reynolds…” Lizzie’s voice died off, clearly she was uncomfortable about something.

  “Yes, and, go on,” Susan said impatiently.

  “Well, the nurse forgot to tell the front desk she was moving a patient and unfortunately there was another patient being brought down the hall in the other direction. There was an encounter.”

  “What do you mean encounter?” Susan asked.

  “Well, the other patient became suddenly very aggressive and lunged at Carla pinning her to the wall momentarily. Carla was understandably quite shaken but wasn’t harmed,” Lizzie said.

  “Who was the other patient?” Susan asked.

  “It was a John Doe transferred from an arrest a couple of days ago,” Lizzie said biting her lip.

  Susan paused in thought for a moment and then directed Lizzie to put Carla in with another patient named Harlon for a few hours before the end of the day. Harlon was a gentle and quiet patient that Susan was also working with.

  Susan directed Lizzie to put them in one of the rooms with cameras. She knew the nagging thought in the back of her mind was impossible but she couldn’t help taking it a little further, anyway.

  DAY 12

  8

  “HI PAUL… I MEAN DIRECTOR Greenfield,” Julia said mock sheepishly as she entered, keeping the door open just long enough for her salutation to be heard outside his office.

  Paul Greenfield, Director of the CIA could be a little formal at times and while Julia's relationship with him allowed some informality (at least in Julia's mind), she knew he appreciated an official address in earshot of others, and she playfully enjoyed his scolding glare.

  Paul was not a sentimental man but he had a soft spot for troubled youth. He was the first person she talked to at the agency when he was the head of the Clandestine Service, now known as the Directorate of Operations (DO). Julia had been in her early twenties. It was a rough period in her life working multiple jobs to earn enough to live on her own. Some of the jobs she tried to forget but she did what was necessary to get away from her adoptive parents.

  Paul had approached her at the coffee shop she regularly visited, handed her his card and said he would like to talk to her about a job with the CIA. “Think about it, we might also put you through college. My numbers on the card,” he had said and then turned and left. She remembered he seemed aloof, like she was someone he randomly picked to approach; almost disinterested. She later understood that this was just his way. He never exhibited overt emotion, but his actions told a different story.

  Julia had eventually
contacted Paul and agreed to attend a local university in exchange for a 5 year commitment with the DO. Paul was always there to provide encouragement when the going got tough, and eventually became the most stable person in her life those four years of school and to some degree beyond. When she graduated he became her boss and shepherded her through the Professional Trainee Program followed by the Clandestine Service Training Program and then into regular service.

  She later discovered the agency did not have a program to pay university tuition for incoming trainee’s. A fact Paul continued to deny to this day. Julia wasn’t sure where the money had come from but she did come to know a few other recruits from difficult backgrounds who had a similar experience as her in conjunction with Paul.

  “Julia, good to see you, please have a seat. Against my mother's wishes we will have to skip the niceties and get right to business.”

  Against “my mother's wishes”? Always a strange bird, Julia thought.

  “Julia, there was a full cabinet meeting with the President late last night regarding some alarming reports coming in from the CDC and a large number of hospitals around the country. There are apparently many recently admitted patients with a variety of diseases typically not seen in North America.” Paul got all this out before Julia’s rear hit the seat of the leather guest chair in front of his ridiculously out of place ornate mahogany desk, which looked like it should be in a Victorian mansion.

  Julia feigned a thoughtful pause to digest the information while trying to situate herself in the old-fashioned club chair. The tall, solid wood, leather adorned arm rests forced Julia to keep her arms at her sides lest she look like a bird about to take flight. She also had to lean forward on the front edge of the chair to avoid being sucked into the depths of leather. It forced the occupant to sit forward in a reverent pose, elbows at sides with hands clasped or in one's lap. Perhaps this was Director Greenfield’s desired goal, to keep his guests from getting too comfortable.

  Julia took it as a challenge to find a position of some decorum. She was again failing as Paul interrupted, “Julia, the President has asked all agencies to return with initial thoughts and recommended actions at a follow-up meeting tomorrow. DARPA has been tasked with leading and coordinating the investigation and they have pulled their best man for the effort. Hopefully, with DARPA in the lead all the agencies will play nice with each other but the historical record is against us.”

  She concealed her antipathy and with the death of another small part of her ego Julia gave up and leaned forward, elbows on knees, hoping she looked engaged and not like she was squatting on a toilet. Either way, she needed to focus and make Paul un-tilt his head and stop looking at her quizzically.

  “Because the President called a cabinet meeting, I assume someone views these as unnatural events. Any cause determined yet? Are we talking about chemicals?” she said.

  “The CDC is working as quickly as they can to help local hospitals diagnose the diaspora of symptoms, but it seems clear we are dealing with multiple viruses such as Ebola, dengue fever, necrotizing fasciitis, and other diseases rare in this part of the world,” Paul said as he returned to a more businesslike expression.

  Was that a hint of a wry grin at the corner of his mouth? Certainly not, Julia thought. “Is it possibly an environmental failure at an infectious disease lab? What other details were given at the meeting… and what the hell is necrotizing facial whatever you said?”

  “Lab breaches were discussed and none have been reported. What we know at this point is that the infections are not confined to a small area. The reports are coming in from thousands of hospitals throughout the Midwest and in parts of the northeast. The CDC estimates initial infections occurred two weeks ago, and the symptoms are pointing to the worst of the worst diseases with high mortality and contagion rates.

  “There are so far over 10,000 deaths attributed to the initial round of infections. About 150,000 people die in the U.S. in any two-week period like we are talking about, but percentages from these diseases has never been seen before. Some of these diseases are extremely contagious and there could be many more rounds of infections and patients depending on how many patient zeros there were and how many of them got to the hospital before transmitting.

  “We don’t know how people are being infected, why it is happening in these locations, and most importantly how to stop it.

  “The President has indicated that we are to treat this as an act of aggression as far as internal protocol, with everything staying highly confidential until we know more, in order to avoid a public panic. The CDC is pushing back hard on keeping this under wraps but that is where things stand.

  “And necrotizing fasciitis is better known as flesh-eating bacteria which is apparently quite nasty and hard to control once it takes hold, often requiring amputations and such to cut off the path of infection in the victim.”

  Stunned and involuntarily wincing from the imagined pain Julia said, “Unbelievable! Where do I start?”

  “Read through all the information we have to date and then report to the DARPA team,” Paul said.

  Julia imagined Paul smiling his form of a proud approval after she had turned to leave his office.

  9

  AT THE DEFENSE ADVANCED RESEARCH Projects Agency (DARPA) Headquarters in Arlington, VA, 10 miles from the CIA Headquarters, Brian Storm had received a similar download from his superiors first thing that morning along with instructions that his group would focus on the same issue full time, working closely with the CIA.

  As one of the top Program Managers at DARPA Brian had bristled when directed to drop his current projects. He had become used to little oversight and choosing the subjects and types of projects he and his teams worked on, a privileged and unusual testament to his intelligence and creativity. Upon review of the unfolding catastrophe at hand and its potential magnitude, Brian quickly checked his ego and spent the remaining portion of the morning extricating himself from his ongoing projects and getting a team transported to his office for a kickoff meeting with the CIA liaison at 11:30 am.

  Brian was renowned for his eclectic selection of team members, often including specialists from disparate and unrelated fields. But his results spoke for themselves and Brian’s superiors had long since learned to leave him to his own devices.

  Brian had private planes bringing in the team members who were far away to hit the 11:30 am kickoff. Things were moving quickly, and he would have it no other way. Thankfully DARPA afforded significant access to money and influence and he knew how to use it to get things done.

  About to kick off the most important task of his life, Brian’s pulse quickened; he felt energized and guiltily excited for the challenge of solving what could be the largest attack on American soil in history.

  10

  “MR. STORM I HAVE A Ms. Cacerek here for you,” the building security escort announced to Brian, knocking on his open office door.

  Standing bent over his desk reading some papers, Brian gave an automatic “thank you” as he looked up with a brief stutter, caught off guard by the stunning woman standing in his doorway.

  Julia Cacerek was wearing black dress slacks, high heeled closed toe shoes, and a crisp white shirt underneath a fitted suit jacket. She had sharp features with dark blue eyes accentuated by her black pixie hair cut.

  Brian remained frozen. Julia cocked her head to the side as if looking underneath something, met his eyes and smiled introducing herself, “Hi, you must be Brian Storm. I’m Agent Julia Cacerek with the CIA.”

  His hands still planted on his desk, Brian realized he had not moved and quickly straightened and pulled himself together as he walked around to shake hands. Her grip conveyed a sense of coiled strength underlying her professional exterior, like she could inflict sudden and permanent harm on him if she so desired. Well, she is with the CIA, he thought. “Yes, I’m Brian. Nice to meet you Agent Cacerek.”

  “Please call me Julia. Sorry to catch you off guard. You looked deep in thou
ght.” Julia was aware of the effect she could have on men (and women for that matter) and was practiced at playing it down to avoid awkward situations. Connecting with his dark brown eyes, Julia could see a deep intellect - maybe he truly had just been stuck in deep thought.

  Brian was wearing a black polo shirt, dark jeans with what looked like black leather skater shoes. He was taller than her at about 6 feet, and in what looked to be good shape, but was not physically imposing.

  His curly light brown hair bounced as he shook her hand. The lines at the corners of his eyes made it look like he could burst out laughing at any moment.

  “Not at all, and please call me Brian. I was reading over some information that just came in regarding the current situation we are going to be working on together,” Brian said, fully recovered and back to his confident self.

  “I have assembled some of my team to help us get started. Let’s go down to the conference room and greet them together,” Brian said.

  11

  JULIA ENTERED THE CONFERENCE ROOM through the door Brian held open and saw a group of six people. By habit, she scanned the room, her subconscious identified all the points of entry and exit and assessed each person for identifying features and their threat potential. Julia was surprised to see a face she recognized.

  “Dr. Reynolds?” Julia said.

  Susan Reynolds had recognized Julia as soon as she had come into the room, but per doctor-patient protocol did not initiate contact. As a psychotherapist it was common that patients did not want to advertise that they were seeking treatment for a mental condition. Julia had made the first move, so Susan responded, “Julia, hello, great to see you.”