The Little Demons Inside

by Micah Thomas

  "Thank you, Larry."

  Rand had a small and mischievous face. He'd seen the frauds tumble beneath the weight of science before, and his successes gave him a gamey confidence.

  "Do you have a series of experiments for Wiseman to solve this evening?"

  "No. None of that. Mr. Wiseman, if I may, you are aware of the news from my home country, India?"

  Larry leaned back, a bit confused about this line of thought. This was not what he had planned. He gave a look up to the producer's area and shrugged. Wiseman, those languid fingers clasp in a loose knit on the desk, merely nodded.

  "I've devoted my life to exposing frauds. Religious and spiritual exploitation takes something wonderful and trades it for cash, preying on the vulnerable believers," he said, obviously worked up, but Larry still didn't get it.

  "Why now? Mr. Wiseman, why now? It's been 2000 years since Christ walked on water and we've been doing fine without miracles. And now, there's you with your game show tricks, and I know where you've been, don't mistake me for another sheep. I'm aware of the Institute and what goes on there."

  Wiseman looked like a gentle grandfather, so very with kind with those sensitive brown eyes, and an obliging half smile on his lips.

  "I am, like you, not infallible. I did what I did out of compassion. I saw my lines of fate as a helper, as in my nature. Your words are correct though, I was a pawn, and the consequences of my folly may have endangered everything."

  "That's so goddamn oblique," Rand was not going to let his question go, and continued, "I want to know what your friends, or former friends if I understand your current relationship to be, what was released in my home!"

  Larry, ever the mediator, rose his hands up, "Gentlemen, this was to be an exhibition in the tradition of testing out psychic abilities. Can we move back to that?"

  The audience tittered with the tension.

  "Larry, I am an old man. Older than you even. There's nothing the shadow government can do to me, so I will damned well expose them now if I choose. We don't have to waste time proving this man's abilities, if he's even really a man. There's another like him though, promising eternal life, repeating every promise every religious savior ever said, and the danger of this, I don't even know, but you hear me well, we deserve to know the truth. Now, Wiseman, do you know the truth about this Hakim? Are we in danger?"

  The station cut to commercial, unceremoniously and sudden. Larry saw men in suits through the producer window. He couldn't read lips, but they were being shut down. He glanced off stage and saw more men in suits approaching. The studio audience had not caught on yet, the only tell being the red on air light blinking.

  Wiseman stood and walked around the bewildered Larry, to lean and whisper something to Rand, who initially looked like he might object. The exchange was brief, and Wiseman walked off stage, behind the curtain. No one stood in his path. The audience watched in total silence, unsure whether to expect some piece of magic.

  Larry looked around confused, "Say, can anyone tell me what's going on up there?"

  Rand's mischievous expression had fallen to a sad expression of worry, and were those tears in the corners of his eyes.

  "Larry, I'm sorry. I'm going home," Rand said as he pulled off his microphone.

  The men in suits left and the red on air light returned.

  "Well folks. I'm sorry about the confusion here on set, but live TV happens! Let's shift gears and review political commentary across the web. Our Twitter is blowing up, and we'll try to address your questions in a future episode."

  Larry, a veteran of television, knew dead air was the real enemy and launched into an ad-hoc monologue about the state of the union, social divides in light of President Chissom's new health care bill. It was true though, the internet would chew on this moment for days to come, until the next shiny thing catches their eye, the next funny cat video, the next political scandal. Even considering absolutely weird happenings, who had the attention span anymore?

  CHAPTER THREE

  DEEP INSIDE THE Black Star Institute was an unassuming conference room. It could have been any business office in the tech heavy city of Seattle. Large smooth conference table, twelve chairs, flat screen monitors flashing various dashboards, reporting status metrics. Centrally located for convenient web casting were cameras, and jacks and ports for any and all planned obsolescent tech released and replaced in the last decade or so, VGA, RCA, S-Video, microUSB, miniUSB, type B standard USB, type A standard USB, HDMI, microHDMI, DVI-A, DVI-D, DVI-I, just a whole lot of tangled bullshit under the sleek table. This was the room for project status meetings.

  Cynthia sat and greeted her teams as they came in. At over 50, her actual age a secret more closely held than any of their projects, Cynthia was the old person in the room. Oh, these bright young things, she thought with contempt that she never bothered to conceal.

  Some came with laptops, some with printouts and binders. Thomas was first and dialed in the bridge number, collecting names as beeps signaled callers joining. While he managed Project Ifrit himself, he was also the overall senior project manager, sometimes an overpaid admin, but his time with the company gave him some perceived seniority. Each project had such a PM, driving planning, resource management, the various ramp ups and project closures. The hierarchy lent an appearance of organization, but Cynthia ruled like a tyrant. When all twelve managers and assistants and specialized SMEs, subject matter experts needed for the call had taken their seats, they were ready to start.

  "Ok, we have quorum. Let's go around and give status updates. If no one has any objections, I'll go first," Thomas said in crisp angled tones. He looked around and saw no complaints, no other volunteers, "Ok. For Project Ifrit, we are reporting yellow overall, due to program dependencies and risks which..."

  Cynthia coughed and gave him a glare.

  "Which we are all aware of, at this point. Last week, we made progress in the discovery and return of the core project collateral. Subject Henry was positively identified in Phoenix, Arizona. Contact has been made with key witnesses and impact zone measurements outside of the lab actually advance the effort in unanticipated ways. For instance, we now have data related to localized atmospheric interactions, sphere of influence and exhaustion rate. This week, to further the project, we intend to secure and return the Subject for a return to secured analysis. Outstanding blockers and risks are, well..."

  "Spit it out, Thomas."

  "Of the five fires in Phoenix we tracked, three were ruled out of project scope. One highly visible incident 100% confirmed, but regarding the outstanding incident, let me just project for a minute."

  "Sure."

  Thomas took a few seconds to dicker with the video input setting before his laptop screen was shared to the monitor. He navigated his browser to YouTube.

  "Sorry about the ad."

  The room sat through a banal advertisement for toilet tissue, though not so much as a snicker in the goddamn humorless lot of them, before a local newscast came on.

  "And now at 7, a report from Surprise that is rekindling the belief in spontaneous human combustion. Long believed to be an urban legend, a case of possible arson has taken the life of Denzel Borken."

  The video cut to a field reporter.

  "Thanks Jan. Around 2 a.m., a neighbor called emergency services reporting a pungent black smoke coming from the Surprise residence. When the fire department arrived, there were no active fires, but they did find that the kitchen of the home appeared to have seen temperature in excess of 5,000 degrees. That is four times hotter than a volcano, and approaching the heat of the chromosphere of the sun. The victim was charred beyond dental records, and even his teeth and bones have been reduced to carbon."

  The reported asked the arson investigator on scene, "Do you have any forensic idea of what can cause temperatures of this magnitude?"

  The scene showed melted granite countertops, cooled but looking like a Salvador Dali painting in the drippiness.

  "This is an ongoin
g investigation, but I can say we are not currently operating on the assumption of a meth lab. None of the evidence immediately points to any accelerants or any typical accident or arson methods."

  "Local authorities are investigating this mystery. This is the fifth fire in Maricopa County this month. Please note that arson is not ruled out at this time, and the authorities would appreciate any witnesses to immediately report anything strange to the nonemergency police line."

  Thomas stopped the video as another ad started to play.

  "Denzel," Cynthia said with a touch of uncharacteristic sadness.

  "Doctor Borken. Yes. A former employee and partner with us."

  "Yes. Oh, Denzel. What were you up to? Thank you, Thomas. Moving on, Rachel, do you have an update?"

  "Project Wiseman is red. We thought that we were close, but look, all of the data is suspect. We need a test to see if our own operatives have been compromised, because I can't even tell if we've made contact or not anymore."

  "Rachel, I appreciate your candor, but your project is benefiting from the consumption, freely borrowing resources left and right across the Institute, and your, do I really have to say it? Your subject has appeared on national television for weeks."

  The longest running project at the Institute, Wiseman had been Cynthia's responsibility in the old days. Delegation to the team had been a necessary step to her rise in the organization; to allow her to take greater and greater roles, she had to let go, but no one envied her backfill.

  Multiple teammates started talking at once, across the table and in personal asides.

  "CogEng owes us the test. We had one in the lab environment, why can't they deliver one to the field? That's all I'm asking for at this moment."

  "She didn't even read the email. I sent slides on this."

  "It's not my fault."

  "I don't want to be here."

  "Someone has to say something," said a man in his twenties.

  The chatter and cross talk died down. There was a long silence as Cynthia sat with her arms folded across her chest. God damned interns. He wasn't really an intern, but that's how Cynthia thought of him. A junior player.

  This bold young man in a far too tight tailored suit had to get it off his chest, "This program is not following any established methodology. We should follow the plan I created. It will work. We've run the simulation."

  There was a loud laugh followed by voice with a lilted Indian accent came over the conference line.

  "It's fine, Cynthia."

  Intern forgotten, all eyes locked on Cynthia to see how she'd handle this saucy interloper. They might not be following the Project Management Institute guidelines by the book, but in this office, you spoke when Cynthia called on you.

  "Prasad, is that you? Has your project crossed into the Wiseman work stream and not informed us of this development?"

  "Actually, no. Brahma is live in production. We recommend deprioritizing and descoping Wiseman, and indeed, all other projects pending."

  Another voice on the line piped up, "Cynthia?"

  "Yes? Who is speaking?"

  "This is Hakim. A project subject, you surely recall"

  Thomas interjected, "Prasad, this is highly unorthodox. Subjects should not be included in program leadership team meetings," before pressing mute on the call.

  "Cynthia, I didn't know about this," Thomas said.

  "Unmute. I want to hear what they have to say," Cynthia said.

  Thomas frowned but obliged.

  "Prasad, is the subject in trance state now?" Thomas asked.

  "Prasad was called away, I'm afraid. For the purposes of this meeting, and going forward, I am the project leader now. Where Wiseman failed you, and led you astray, I will deliver the people to all rewards. In fact, I will be onsite soon. Plan for it, or not, but forget about Wiseman. People are suffering and his meanderings have done absolutely nothing for anyone. You've done nothing. I'll not stand for it any longer. I am unlike that weak old exile you found. It is without consequence, but life is not without consequence."

  The line beeped once as the India team hung up and still, all eyes were on Cynthia.

  Thomas took a deep breath, channeled his inner project manager self, "OK. Moving on, Project Lilith? Where do we stand?"

  A nervous looking woman sat up, and stared deep at her printout. "Subject is in development. No issues to report."

  "Is anyone on the line for Project Mater?"

  "There's never been a compatibility vector for Mater. We don't even know if it exists." Cynthia said with exasperation. "Rachel, you are now on Ifrit. Thomas, I want you directly on Wiseman. As for the rest of you, just update the status trackers. No change from last week. You may go."

  ***

  Somewhere in the Phoenix suburban sprawl, in the interchangeable regions of Tempe, Mesa, Guadalupe, Gilbert, Sanders sat in bed with his husband, indulging in a very unhealthy but decadent bowl of ice cream in bed. The 120-degree heat made one do uncharacteristic things for relief. In many ways, the officer persona left when the uniform came off, but despite efforts to compartmentalize one's life, work creeps back in. You could go to the movies, and still catch yourself observing movie goers as they came into the room. Measuring potential for threats. The hyper vigilance never slept. Someone's cellphone beeps during the movie, will there be a confrontation? Will someone draw a gun? What if there's a fire? Are the exits reachable? What would be the plan to evacuate? Simple pleasures compromised by the watching eye, the inner voice that says what if? And sometimes, not always, but sometimes is proven right. The world had gone mad after all and Sanders had to be ready. It was his nature.

  They were watching reruns of Friends, when the program changed to the nightly news. The top story was a fire in Surprise. Someone died. At least one someone. When the picture showed the house in question, windows black from soot, chills crept up Sanders' arm in a rush of uncomfortable gooseflesh. He knew that house. He'd been there once before.

  "Henry. What did you do?" he muttered.

  "Who's Henry, love?" Dan, the confidant, his former partner on the force, later his lover, now husband, asked as he pensively stirred his own bowl of melting ice cream around with a spoon.

  "Remember that kid I told you about?"

  "Oh, the broken wing you charitably gave a ride to with our tax money? The one little dalliance that made you overtired for our anniversary brunch? Yes. I recall."

  "And I remember telling you that I'm not having illicit affairs with runaway youths."

  "Ok, ok. I'll can the faux jealousy. What about Henry? Is he in trouble again?"

  "I may have made a horrible mistake."

  Sanders pushed his own ice cream away, appetite lost with the sinking bad feeling in his gut. His mouth was suddenly dry and the sweet taste of cream was souring in his stomach. Denzel Borken suspected dead, but that was just based on last known residence. Not even teeth left for matching the identity. Denzel, not a Mr. Wiseman. Stupid of him not to have asked for identity. He seemed like a good kid. Troubled. But good. I guess so did Ted Bundy, I'm sure. Shit. Sanders chastised himself several times over.

  "Wait, is it the fire? Is that where you dropped him off? You think he did that?"

  "I don't know. Yes. That's where I took him. To that man who lived there."

  "Did you report that little trek out to Surprise?"

  "No. I was officially off duty, but they could track the car. Time and place via GPS."

  "You did a nice thing. How could you have known?"

  "First that gas station, now this. Is this kid unlucky or what? A fire bug?"

  "Oooohh. I see. Two fires. One commonality."

  "No. Two commonalities. Henry and me."

  Sander's mind raced. Fifteen years on the force. A closeted gay, Afro American cop in a Republican city with a legacy of shithead racists in power. Of all the close calls over the years, Sanders had never actually felt like he'd done anything wrong. Would this random act of kindness bring his whole life down?r />
  "Worry about it tomorrow. It's still your day off," Dan said, always the voice of reason as he turned off the TV and picked up his Kindle and started reading.

  He knew that Sanders wouldn't be able to let this go, but space, freely given, would be the best gift right now.

  Dan was right of course. Nothing could be done right now, but his mind was too active to rest. He tossed and turned.

  The nurse. Find the nurse. Maybe she knows more about Henry. She did leave with him. Maybe maybe maybe if if if. How was he going to sleep on this? The curious mind encounters a puzzle and wants to sort it out. He'd possibly assisted an arsonist. He never should have helped him and when he did, he should have reported it. Now someone was dead. Was there a security camera footage somewhere of his cruiser pulling up to the house, him walking to the door? His thoughts flitted from self-preservation to minimizing the situation. There was no way Henry was responsible for the Circle K. He'd seen the video; he'd been there after the fact. The man was having a seizure. There'd been no evidence of arson, no bomb residue. It was bad luck, that's all. Right? Bad luck and coincidence. These factors have landed the wrong man in prison more than a few times.

  Sanders left the bedroom under the guise of getting a glass of water. He walked through the dark house, looking out the window at the calm street. They lived in a nice neighborhood, one that looked just like the one in Surprise. Fires happen. Bad wiring from the housing boom and contractors cutting corners. It's not unheard of. A small, almost undetectable motion caught his eye, something crawling on the carpet. Sanders grabbed the black light flashlight from the coffee table and shined it on the floor. A scorpion, scourge of the desert, glowed in an eerie yellow green, alien like illumination. It froze in place, as if knowing that this was the show down of its life. A few inches long, this was a mature scorpion, menacing sure, but less dangerous than the adolescents unable to control their poison. Sanders smashed the bug with a book from the shelf because that's what you do when confronted with something dangerous, something with no redeeming value to the ecosystem. You kill it.