The Little Demons Inside

by Micah Thomas

  "It's a long drive. If you want to just take a nap, its fine. We don't have to talk about it again," Del said, trying to be casual about having witnessed an event so out of the ordinary that it was making him question god, the universe, and everything.

  "It's ok," Henry said quietly.

  Henry's resolve to be an outcast was cemented firmly. The sense of near acceptance, so close, lost again by this frightening thing. Did he think he was going to take a job on a ranch and so something other than drift around with his life? Despite the obvious aimlessness of his hobo persona, he had actually enjoyed spending time with people again. But, fire transforms, fire consumes, fire breathes in all the oxygen in a room. There is a fire in all things, deep down in the atoms, heat and entropy, the excitable leap between states from inaction to action. He felt it in every moment, like a hyperactive puppy that doesn't know its own strength or understand consequences. He was not surprised that it had happened, had gotten out again, and was deeply glad to be on his way.

  "You made a lot of progress here though, man," Del said.

  "I feel better and owe that to you, but I'm not better."

  Bobbie said, "I don't understand what you are, but I don't think you are a skin walker. I don't know. I don't want to think about the ramifications of what it means. That someone can become fire. Like, the biblical, or scientific, whatever... but I've accepted that life is strange and I hope you figure things out. I really do."

  In the lull of conversation, Del turned up the radio, flipping through stations until he found NPR. The announcer was talking in the excited tone, one reserved for the Hindenburg disaster.

  "Once again, we are live from Bangalore City, India. The city is in a tumult; we're staying indoors with a family that helped us in the street. At this time, we don't know much about the situation, but social media reports are flowing in, except when those systems go down, which is often. We aren't 100% sure that our broadcast is working moment to moment."

  Bobbie perked up, "What is happening out there?"

  The reporter continued, "There's speculation that there was an attack, something electromagnetic perhaps, like an EMP weapon, but its inconsistent. Power is disrupted through the city, and families, no, whole communities are migrating, moving through the city with strange stories. The government is publishing assurances, but no explanation, least of all for the walls... for lack of a better word, the force fields sectioning off parts of the city and countryside. It's like nothing anyone has seen outside of movies. There's mention of messages being exchanged, but no one that's seen them will talk to us."

  "It's like the world has gone mad overnight," Del said.

  The vibration of a car, ever since he was a baby, lulled Henry to a sleepy state. Motion made some people sick, but it was like being rocked in a bassinet. As he drifted off, losing track of the radio, losing track of the endless repetition of the desert shrubs, he felt the doubling of consciousness, awareness split and broken. The dreams had grown more and more disturbing, tearing at his fabric of self, as real events merged with dream nonsense, and the lucid sense of being awake within the dream, but out of control, added to the mounting evidence that Henry was losing his mind. Was it just that he'd taken too many drugs, or was it a side effect of the thing inside him, but if the latter, what the hell? He felt hands rummage through his memories, dredging the muddy lake bottoms for things he'd wanted to forget, surfacing these recollections as dreams, distorted by the in and out of third person observation and giddy highs and lows as the thing trilled and gushed at Henry's relived emotions.

  He heard his own voice narrating, but commingled with someone else's tones, as if his brain had tuned into some crazy person radio station.

  "I am at once myself, and not myself. My thoughts have gone strange and my memory, a slide show of someone else's life and doings. My body moves around in non-symbolic thought, and my will takes me from room to room, but it is my own unseen hand which guides this body to unknown destinations. Why do I try? They will not listen, and I cannot speak."

  "They will come upon them like angry bees. The sting, transformational. It is the end of everything. I can't see. I can't see. Please, someone close the door and let them sleep. Your oracular devices cannot save you from the devils. They will offer a yoke and I must do my best to stop it."

  "Addled! Addled and yoked. They'll take everything and condemn you to eternal damnation. Endlessly repeating."

  The world of black nothing and the rambling voice transitioned quickly to a memory. Home. Henry's last home.

  The crack house. The squat house. A small, abandoned, half built construction site that smelled like the buckets where they collected their shit and piss. Almost worse were the body odors permeating and expanding in the wet fart humidity of the famed, rainy Seattle climate. Three living bodies smell so human, you could gag. Two girls and a guy lived in that fucking mess of a home. There were even a couple cats running around the mattress on the common room floor.

  "You know your girlfriend is a slut!" called out a voice from the open and utterly nonfunctional bathroom.

  "Shut the fuck up," Henry yelled back.

  The usual retort and parry. Another despicable housemate sat in front of a stolen laptop, trying feebly to guess at the unlock password.

  Henry took a shirt from his garbage bag of clothes, sniffed it and put it on. The phone rang with its already old fashioned flip-phone ring tone. Another stolen and shared commodity.

  "Henry! It's about your fuck stain!"

  Henry rushed into the room and took the phone from the gloating evil-eyed girl gutter punk.

  There was snow and there was ice rain coming into the room. It was cold and Henry held the phone close to his ear, but for a long time, no one spoke.

  "There's been an accident," someone said.

  "No."

  "Chloe is dead."

  One after another, his not-really-friends, flatmates in that hellhole, burst into flames, their eyes melting out of their sockets, skeleton grins streaming with runny fats and liquified flesh. The whole place went up, and Henry stood amid the fire, his own heart ablaze. His only thought was to burn. To burn this memory all away.

  Henry moaned in his sleep, and Bobbie changed the radio station to a streaming podcast. She kept an eye out for signs that something was going to happen, while Del drove. They were going to interview Wiseman today. What a time to be alive, she thought. Fire beings, force fields and countries in disarray, and then Wiseman. Something completely crazy was going on and Bobbie just wanted to drop Henry off and head back to the farm, far from the grid, away from this madness that was coming at the world like a storm on the horizon.

  ***

  David had hosted many shows, written dozens of books, and interviewed people from all walks of life. His modus operandi was to find the connections between disparate things, to question assumptions that made up the publicized version of events and maybe get to the truth. He was interested in the Wiseman phenomena from the beginning. He had a print out of all of Wiseman's quotes in the media thus far. They were riddles, rarely responses to direct questions, but laying out something indirectly. David's concern was the effect that Wiseman's questions had upon individuals. He had the apparent ability to rapidly hypnotize someone and then all bets were off, and all hope for a directed interview, over. Unlike celebrity guests, Wiseman had no agent or representation to negotiate with, no pre-approved topics or parameters of conversation. He seemingly approached on-air talent directly, in person or on the phone, and no one had said no to an opportunity to have him on the show. David was no different.

  "Hello, we have a change tonight from our usual programming and I'm excited to tell you this. Rather than the advertised guest this evening we will be talking with Wiseman. Due to security concerns, we are not reporting from the studio. We are in a secret anonymous mobile lab. So please, forgive us if there are any unplanned interruptions. At the end of the interview, we will be taking your calls, but we should warn you, Wiseman has b
een credited with fairly unusual abilities and talking with him may be unsettling."

  "Hello, Wiseman. Are you on the line?"

  "Hello, David. Thank you for having me."

  "We have a lot of questions so let's jump right in."

  "Sure, David."

  "We've seen your ability to compel behavior in others, especially to compel them to disclose anything, deep private thoughts. How do you do it? It was cute, then it was scary, and then some say you engaged in sleight of hand, magic. Then, the implications shook the internet, if this is true, that is really independently verifiably true, then who is Wiseman? Savior or charlatan? And what do you have planned for a final reveal?"

  "I was born three times. Each birth more strange than the last. The last was the birth in which I became the person you call Wiseman. These things you say I can do, it's nothing, fluff, you might say. I was born only to give you gifts to keep you safe for another generation."

  "What gifts? Safe from what? This isn't the first time you've mentioned something like this in an interview. Your philosophy is opaque and your responses, I'd even say, too guarded to implement any meaningful changes in our life, or at least my life."

  "Is life not full, here in this world? Sensations help in shifting perception. Safe in your crib of mind and mundane. So much here to explore for the curious, at home in a walnut of infinite spaces, and still the searching into other depths persists. It looks like you all know these truths, deep inside. Even in your fictions, in your stories and myths, you repeat the message: All these worlds are yours, except. Eat from all trees, except, except, except."

  "Wiseman, I don't have your abilities, but I hope you will answer my questions directly. With the ability to really, without uncertainty, know the truth of another's mind, will you involve yourself in service for our government?"

  "Ah. If I sat at a desk and the world of people queued up one by one and told the truth of their hearts, I'd grow old and hoarse and no betterment for the world would come of it."

  "Then why even show us that it's even possible? What is the point?"

  "Dearest listeners, steal your minds upon your loved ones and enjoyments, eat your harvest feast. Despite myself and my nature, I am your Baptist and avatar for those to come and I weep for you."

  "If you're not here to save us from ourselves, why are you meeting with the president in Las Vegas?"

  "I've heard about that, David. I like you so I'll say this, stay away from Vegas."

  "Again Mr. Wiseman, what is the message you are trying to share with us?"

  "There are others that have the gift of persuasion far better than I. I'm afraid my thoughts flow in rhythms beyond my body's ability to encapsulate thoughts in your language. Talking is a great chore."

  "I do appreciate you talking with us then. If I paraphrase what I've heard from you, can you try to let me know if this is on the right track?"

  "I'd do that for you, David."

  "Ok, you show us magic, opening up Pandora's box to reveal that the impossible is sometimes possible. Then you warn us, don't go poking in the box. It's a little contradictory, no?"

  "I see your point. I was shooting for ratings, David. To increase the audience, to tune in and retweet, and chatter. It's entertainment. I love entertainment, and greedily, I hadn't been able to participate in the media before, so, I acted out, but I've been involved behind the scenes for a very long time."

  "Wiseman, the media circus was doing fine without you. Thanks to the internet, consumption of streaming content is at an all-time high. From mobile gaming to social media, I'd say people are absolutely tuned in. Is that what you are attempting to encourage and at the same time, take credit for?"

  "Well, I hate to brag, but I was influential. It's a good life I've helped usher in."

  "Again, you say you've helped, and praise the good life, but what exactly do you mean? What is this threat you continue to allude to, and does it play a part in the news out of India?"

  "Our time is up, David. This has been very pleasant. You have visitors."

  David looked up from his laptop and saw men in black shuffling around the van. A bang on the door, and then door pulled open.

  "Listeners, we are being pulled off the air, the broadcast is being interrupted, this is not a drill. The men appear to be uniformed..."

  The broadcast ended as David was pulled roughly from the van and the wires abruptly ripped from their inputs.

  ***

  The dreams stopped, and he saw flashes behind his eyelids, red and yellow, bright and urgent, pulsing with his heartbeat and in time with loud chopping sounds. Henry woke up with a panicked feeling fresh from his dream, and the realization that they had stopped moving. Something was wrong. In his mind, he felt the familiar, escape, run, escape mantra repeat. Del angrily honked the horn in reply to the challenge of other cars. The conversation of cars always sounded so angry. Henry felt alarmed, but doesn't everyone feel that way when waking up to anger?

  "Where do you think I could possibly go, asshole?" Del shouted without being heard.

  Bobbie turned in her seat, and saw Henry was awake, "There's some sorta road block. Probably a sobriety check point or a manhunt or something ICE related. Hope you have your traveling papers, comrade."

  The joke wasn't funny.

  "I don't feel good about this," Henry said.

  The echo of the helicopters was fear-inducing, buzzing around like giant insects. This was strategic. Another bleating of horns blared as traffic backed up in both directions.

  "There's not usually this many people on this road."

  "Does that line of black SUVs look like something out of a movie or what?"

  They were ten cars away from the impromptu checkpoint when Henry felt nauseous.

  "I think I should get out."

  As if on cue, they heard a megaphone voice instructing everyone to stay in their vehicles.

  "I don't know Henry. There's probably an escaped convict out here. It could be dangerous."

  Henry's mind raced. This didn't feel like Black Star's style. As far as he could tell, BSI operated more under the covers than this. Maybe it's unrelated, maybe it's Maybelline.

  "I'm going to get out. It's me. They want me. You guys, turn around and drive as fast as you can."

  "Don't be ridiculous."

  "I'm serious. Thanks for everything, but this is it."

  Henry closed the door and looked back at Del's worried face. He could read his lips, forming an exasperated what the hell? Henry's feet felt heavy as he walked by the line of cars towards the row of black SUVs. He imagined he could hear the click of the agents' rifles as they took aim at him. Maybe this would be the end.

  "Stop where you are." The megaphone voice, simultaneously from the helicopter and from some loud speakers in the SUVs.

  Henry raised his arms over his head and got on his knees on the side of the road.

  Agents spilled out of the SUVs like ants. Riot gear storm troopers circled him in a tactical choreography, some directing cars to turn around, making a wide circle around Henry.

  A calm voice, that of a hostage negotiator, you could hear the training in his voice.

  "Henry. We are here to help you. You're not going to give us any trouble, are you?"

  "Who are you guys?"

  "The good guys, Henry. You're in a heap of trouble. Don't think we don't know what you're capable of."

  Henry looked back at Bobbie and Del and saw that they'd been pulled over by another SUV in the opposite direction, not far from where he left them.

  "Let them go. They don't know anything. They were just giving me a ride."

  "Aiding and abetting, Henry. That's serious too. You know we have to talk to them as well."

  Henry felt a deep agitation in his core. An animal panic at how utterly out of control the situation was. Somewhere inside, a secondary fight or flight voice was making itself known.

  "You need to get these people out of here," he shouted.

  Henry heard Bobbie
shout, "Henry!" He turned his head and saw Del's bloodied face where he was roughly being restrained to the classic tune of don't resist. Time slowed as a familiar double perception slipped over Henry's eyes. He saw the moisture evaporating on the agent's skin, he felt the whisper of highly potent combustibles within the armaments aimed at him. And the sun! He cast his gaze at the sky, the noon day sun shining bright and he felt a strange kinship to it. A shiver ran down his arms and a first pulse of heat expanded outward from him in a rolling wave. The encircled agents uniformly took a step back, lowering their weapons in a shock that must have made them question their role in this dance.

  Henry took slow deep breaths. His own heartbeat the only thing he heard. He no longer cared about clearing the scene. That thought was so low a priority now, when all around was opportunity. Bubble of molecular bonds ripe for popping into new states of excited existence. He heard, as if it was directed at no one at all of consequence, the order, take him down.

  The helicopter exploded with a pop so crisp and bright, there was little more than ash falling to the ground. The first bold agent made it nearly to Henry's elbow before melting into a smokeless soup. Even his bones liquefied in the instant. Others ran, their boots melting into the pavement. Screams were unheard over the ensuing explosions of gunfire, drivers, families, business men, the line of cars emptied, some taking shelter in the nearby underpass. Henry felt the bullets not on his skin, but on the external skin of the bubble of intense heat. Small prodding taps unable to penetrate his sphere of influence before they too melted and skimmed around in the air on tendrils of sparking arcs. Henry, exalted on the rush of power, stood and laid his expanding perceptions on the caravan of SUVs, taking in the slow-motion disarray of civilians and agents alike. In a whoosh of heat, his sphere expanded in a wall of incinerating flames. Burn. Burn. Burn. And then it was over.

  There was no more man with a calm voice. There were no more guns or aggression. Henry felt the presence slip back into some sleepy place and he wanted to sleep too, but where were Bobby and Del? Henry felt dreamy and drunk. Almost as if this was all a bad dream, he looked at the molten sludge pooling where people and cars had been. Stupefied, he walked towards the untouched cars, still idling beyond the localized ring of fires. He could hear the cries of the people huddling together in the underpass. He looked in their direction and heard fresh shrieks of terror. An agent among them, his eyes wide in shock, huddled with the rest of the no more than a dozen survivors, Henry guessed they might consider themselves.