BRAINSTORM

by Gordon Kessler

  I tossed the empty eyeglass frames to the side, took out my old pair of cracked spectacles and put them on. Reaching for the phone, I thought about calling Mike at the Gold Rush Gazette newspaper, where he was editor, to make sure he was okay—or maybe try calling him at his home. But I began questioning Mike’s friendship. I didn’t know why. He was my best friend, had been since grade school. He was best man at my wedding and me at his. He was Michelle’s brother, my brother-in-law. He had fixed my shower so I wouldn’t fall and hurt myself again, and he’d given me ninety dollars and invited me to a football game. Why would I doubt his friendship?

  I couldn’t put my finger on it, then Harvey did. He was afraid of you, Superman. And he was packing heat.

  I told Harvey he’d been reading too many Raymond Chandler novels, as if imaginary talking rabbits could read. At the same time, I was becoming more and more confused by it all. And my abundant disarray had spilled over into something much more unnerving—terror. I began to tremble again, a shiver at first and then uncontrollably.

  Should I go next door and call Chief Dailey?

  No, Harvey said.

  Was I going mad? Did I have some sort of disease? Should I call Dr. Xiang, or the emergency room?

  No.

  What then?

  Hang on. Help is coming. You’ll know soon.

  My eyes shifted around my store. There were no customers. Harvey’s voice was still crystal clear. Where was it coming from? It couldn’t be my own thoughts. Yes, it was inside my head, but there was more to it—more to all of this. I began worrying for my own safety. For Michelle’s. For Will’s. Something very strange was happening in Gold Rush, and I seemed to be the focal point.

  I stood up and quickly went to the door, locked it and flipped over the door sign to say Closed. After backing away from the entrance, I shrank to the floor behind the counter, and sat in the broken glass of the display case. I prayed whatever was happening would be temporary, caused by my concussion, and it would soon dissipate . . . and I tried to hang on, afraid of what I was hanging on for.

  * * *

  Defense Secretary Banks opened the large wall cabinet opposite the President’s desk and turned on a wide-screen TV. President Mason came around and sat on the desktop, and the rest of his advisors turned their chairs to better view the demonstration. Banks pressed the remote control several times. He stepped back as the screen lit and several figures quickly materialized.

  “Dr. Ultar, Jake Banks here with the President and some of his staff. Can you hear me okay?”

  On the TV, a balding, dark-skinned man in his early sixties turned to look up into the camera. He adjusted his thick glasses. His voice came over the speaker sounding as if he were talking into a can. “Fine, Mr. Banks. Mr. President, it’s truly an honor to be able to give you a little video tour of our project.”

  President Mason went fishing. “Dr. Ultar, I’m pleased to meet you. I’ve been wanting to learn more about your work. I understand there’s no one else with your kind of experience and expertise in the field of remote viewing in the world.”

  “Thank you, Mr. President. I wish I could say that’s so. Since Dan McMaster left our project seven years ago, I try to get by.”

  Mason frowned at Banks then looked back to the TV. “So what about this demonstration? Are you ready to give us a show?”

  “Yes, sir.” Ultar stepped away and the camera pulled back showing more of the white-walled room. Five large containers filled with water were arranged like wheel spokes in a five-point star at the center of the room. Inside each of the clear aquarium-like boxes was a floating human body, clad only in bathing suit, electronic leads fixed to various points of the cranium, neck and torso.

  The camera zoomed in on Ultar as he approached the tanks. “These are our sensory deprivation tanks.” He rested his hand on the side of one. “We’ve tried about everything over the years—hard wooden chairs, big, plush recliners. It seems with our RVs inside the SDTs they are distracted the least and find better focus.” He motioned across the room with his hand. “Even the white walls are relatively new. For the longest time, we thought complete darkness would be more conducive to concentration. We found the white walls stimulate brain function and alertness without disrupting attention.”

  “Are your RVs awake?” Mason asked. “From here it looks as if their eyes are closed.”

  Ultar smiled looking over his aquatic team of three men and two women. “In literal terms, awake yes. However, they are all in a self-induced, altered state of conscious. Notice the thin covers over their ears. They’re unable to hear us—a soft electronic noise is being piped to them. It is neither rhythmic nor tonal. Note the microphones near their mouths. You’ll see their lips move slightly on occasion. They quietly speak what their subconscious mind sees, and that information is recorded for their debriefing. That’s where they draw out what they’ve seen onto paper, and we help them interpret it. It is not a science, more of an art at this point, really.” Ultar smiled at the five RVs. “They are completely involved in their assignment.”

  “And that is?”

  “They’ve been instructed to remote view Gold Rush and to find Daniel McMaster.”

  Mason was confused. “Of course you know we’ve determined McMaster isn’t in Gold Rush, Colorado.”

  “Yes, Mr. President. We’re well aware of your physical findings; however, all five of our remote viewers are unbudging about the locale—perhaps there is another Gold Rush or a place with a similar sounding name. Anywhere, Montana . . . far south in the Andes . . . Asia, Europe, or even in our own backyard—the Appalachians, the Adirondacks.”

  “Ridiculous,” Chief of Staff Thurman said under his breath.

  Remembering that the RVs had conjured up the name of the New York Consul General from China as a part of this assassination scheme, Mason glanced at Defense Secretary Banks for assurance and got a skeptical head shake in return. Even the thought of the possibility such a plot was being carried out a stone throw from the nation’s capital or the nation’s largest city caused a shiver.

  Ultar continued, “Regardless, I’ve decided not to tell our RVs any different as they seem to be finding a considerable amount of other information.”

  “Considerable?” Mason asked.

  “Well, Mr. President, it is considerable for us as remote viewers. You see, this process cannot be rushed. The information we glean from a remote viewing session comes in precious small quantities. It materializes in images, shapes and forms that must be further analyzed before its true meaning can be learned and attested to. And the sessions themselves are exhausting. We’ve determined that any more than two, at the most three, fifteen minute sessions over a twelve-hour work day is as much as a human body can stand without serious physical health risk.”

  “Is it that taxing on all remote viewers? Do they all go through this process?”

  “Well, no, sir. There are those rare and gifted few—like McMaster for instance—who actually see and seem to experience their target assignments in a realistic, three-dimensional view. They seem to move through the ether with relative ease. McMaster compared to one of our current RVs would be like pitting a marathon runner to a Sumo wrestler in a footrace around the DC beltway. There are only a handful of those special remote viewers in the world. Many are considered shaman, prophets, conjurers or witchdoctors in their cultures. McMaster was second to none as far as I know.”

  “Tell me more about McMaster.”

  “Daniel was special—he was an RV of the third protocol. He could transcend into the universal matrix and connect to it upon a whim, travel through space and time freely.”

  “Do you expect me to really believe that, Dr. Ultar?”

  Ultar smiled again into the camera. “That makes no difference to me, Mr. President. I know it is true, and I speak only the truth. What you do with that truth is up to you. I would suggest, however, that you keep an open mind. I’ll only ask you if just because you don’t see something in your eve
ryday life, does it mean that it doesn’t exist?”

  “Okay, say I believe you. Why did he quit if he was so good?”

  “Perhaps I’ve made it sound too simple—too easy. Daniel’s trips into the ether were not without cost. Although the physical effects to him were relatively minor, the emotional and psychological ones were very exhausting. To see the true past, to experience it as if you are there, to learn the lies, is an incredible shock. To see the suffering that has happened, see the faces of the tortured dying. To hear their pleas for only one thing—to live, and to realize that their words are futile, that you can do nothing about it, and their suffering will be long and hard until they die. To see the future, have knowledge of it and learn what is to come is no less stunning. And with this knowledge, what do you do? Change the present so that this or that does not occur in the future? Then what? How have you affected the future? Have you made it worse? Who are you to say what should and shouldn’t happen, who should and should not live? The responsibility was overwhelming.”

  Mason saw his point, but couldn’t understand it fully. He assumed it would not be all candy and ice cream to be able to see the future—to use the knowledge to make the world better—but how could any sane man turn away from such power? This fact added to his skepticism.

  He asked Ultar, “Your present staff—what are their capabilities and limitations? What, exactly, can we learn from these RVs of yours?”

  “These fine viewers are of the second protocol. Highly trained. Skilled, their minds well-developed, psychic instruments. They see shapes, colors, sometimes even clear images and interpret them. Connecting what they see with what they have been assigned to see, we are able to translate that into useful information.”

  Chief of Staff Edward Thurman turned away and went to the window where Mason had stood earlier. “Bunk!” he said. “I’ve heard enough. Pure bullshit.”

  A knock came from the door, and Banks opened it slightly and looked out. When he turned back to the President, he said, “Marine One is ready and waiting, but we’ve got some bad weather coming in, Mr. President. The pilots are concerned that if we don’t get you on the way now, we’ll get socked in.”

  Mason punched the power button on the television screen. “I’ve heard enough. Let’s get going.”

  * * *

  Sitting on the floor behind the counter in my hardware store, it took a while for me to gather my thoughts and mold them into a halfway functional form. When I checked my new Seiko, it still showed only a couple of minutes past eleven. Its hands were motionless, its crystal cracked and smoky. I’d been damn hard on watches lately.

  If I rose only a couple of inches from behind my busted display counter, I could see a large clock in the print shop across the street. Occasionally, I checked it but time seemed to creep around the big clock’s dial. Finally, when it read a quarter till noon, I could take being alone in the store no longer. If I wasn’t insane now, I would soon drive myself crazy—with Harvey’s help. I had to get out and find some sort of distraction from the madness.

  I tried calling Michelle again, but now the store’s phone was out, too—no dial tone. I hoped she had already left for the restaurant. It was a little early for lunch, but getting away to see Michelle’s cheerful face was sure to be therapeutic.

  I locked the cash register and grabbed my sport coat. At the cracked front door window, I set the hands on the closed sign for one p.m., and I hoped somehow the world around me would quit tumbling by then. I wasn’t in the mood to deal with all of the broken glass and windows right now. It would have to wait. I would call the glass shop in Summitview when I returned from lunch. I didn’t have any idea what my insurance company would say about the damage and couldn’t remember what my deductible was.

  As I stepped outside and locked the door behind me, I noticed two men looking in my direction from across the street.

  Harvey was as curious as I was. What’re they looking at?

  I tried to pay them no attention, but after all that had happened earlier, a chill shot through me. On the second glance, as I walked away, they still watched me. One threw his cigarette to the sidewalk and smashed it out with his toe. They both stepped from the curb and started toward me. I expected them to say something, I didn’t know what, but they didn’t utter a word.

  Then, I considered the color of their suits.

  Navy blue, Superman, like the woman’s.

  Navy blue like the guy in the van—the dark-blue van. Like the car that had pulled away from the curb after Mike Wu ran out. True blue, I thought. That means trust.

  Wake up! Get real. Where’d you get this conditioned response?

  I turned up the street and walked briskly, wondering about that—a conditioned response. It was just something I’d been taught by my parents, grade school teachers—I didn’t know. Then I thought about the first two men who’d waylaid me. At least they hadn’t died—they just vaporized. But they wore no blue.

  I looked back to see the two men jog around the corner, so I sped up. After a few feet, I checked over my shoulder. Now, they were running. Still they said nothing, only ran, so I sprinted all out but soon found I was obviously out of shape. I gasped with every breath I took. My legs were like concrete columns. The men were closing in on me. I didn’t dare look back as it would slow me down, but I could hear their footfalls.

  I made it to the next corner in front of Prospector’s Bank and had another one of those shooting pains, and I staggered. I turned up Sluice Drive toward the police station. The pain worsened, and I finally had to stop and use one hand to steady myself against the limestone wall of the bank. Whatever was going on wasn’t normal. Two people had died this morning for no apparent reason. I’d driven two men away who had just simply vanished. The meeting with Mike Wu and the breaking glass was far too weird. Now two more men were chasing me, and most of these strangers and Mike wore the same color clothes. And these headaches. It was too Twilight Zone.

  The pain diminished quickly, and I was about to resume my run when I realized I couldn’t hear their footsteps anymore. The way those guys were sprinting, they should’ve been within a few feet. I took the chance to look over my shoulder again, but saw no one on the street behind me.

  Maybe it had been some sort of bizarre coincidence. Those men were trying to catch up to a friend or something. How crazy to think they were after me. When I was back at the store, my concussion must have somehow distorted my perception of Mike’s visit and a sonic disturbance had cracked my windows and broken my glasses and the display case. That was as good of an explanation as any—a lot to happen in this sort of coincidence and compounded by the earlier happenings of the morning, but it took me out of the Twilight Zone and back to an explainable realism.

  Still panting, I chuckled to myself and bent over, my hands on my knees, trying to catch my breath. For a while, I had been wondering if I might run smack into the extended belly of Alfred Hitchcock or the grim face of Rod Serling. After all, I had convinced myself I’d been plucked from reality and dropped into the middle of one of their films. I was being far too paranoid, and neither the concussion nor Harvey was helping.

  Then came the scream. Several people from across the street ran toward the front of the bank. I cautiously walked in that direction. In spite of my breathlessness, when a man’s voice called out, “Get a doctor!” I trotted to the corner.

  Careful, Superman, it could be a trap.

  I slowed up at the intersection and edged to the corner of the bank. Carefully, I peeked around it.

  I couldn’t believe what I saw. Just past the corner, two groups of a half dozen or more people had gathered about twenty feet apart. Someone lay in the middle of the closest group.

  I shoved my way through the crowd. There before me was one of the men, the cigarette smoker, his body still, eyes parted slightly, lifeless. At the center of the other group was the second man. He also lay motionless.

  It was too much to bear. Something terrible was happening, and I sa
t unwarily in the eye of it. For some reason people were dying because of me. Who else might die? Would others in the crowd drop dead if I didn’t get away from them? Would more people in blue chase me? Should I go to the police, a doctor, a priest? If I were to go to Michelle, would she also be in jeopardy?

  I could think of nothing else to do but run.

  And I ran aimlessly. Hiding behind trash dumpsters, in alleys, in corners and behind delivery trucks. But all along I felt I was being watched. When I came to the Gold Rush Memorial Park, I ran into it and finally collapsed under the protective boughs of an old blue spruce tree surrounded by spirea bushes.

  Exhaustion and bewilderment took over. I curled into a fetal ball, as a montage of memories came to me in images like pictures on playing cards shuffling through my mind. My head ached again, this time a steady and throbbing stab that debilitated me. The card-like images tossed, fluttering in all directions inside my head. From around the neighborhood, came explosions of various magnitudes—the pops of streetlights to dynamite-like blasts of electrical power transformers. It would be absolutely crazy to think they were somehow related to my dilemma, but I was sure they were.

  I soon passed out in pain and confusion.

  Chapter 12

  Major Jackson had been speaking with Sergeant Chambers at the fence when they were interrupted by odd popping noises. He frowned curiously at the distant sound of explosions. Something unusual was happening in Gold Rush. Was it hand grenades, gunfire or fireworks? He hoped whatever was taking place wouldn’t interfere with their mission.

  When Lieutenant Carpenter called out frantically for Jax, he turned to see his young officer standing over Sunny who was sprawled on the ground.

  Jax rushed from the fence line and knelt beside her. As he lifted her limp head and shoulders, Carpenter said, “She passed out, sir. Fell out of the DPV right here in front of me.”

  “Sunny,” Major Jax said lightly, noting her skin was pale, almost blue. “Come on, Sunny, wake up.”