BRAINSTORM

by Gordon Kessler

  I had to try.

  I moved back out to the middle of the hallway and yelled, “Get up!”

  It worked. They all sat up slowly in their beds, their eyes slightly wider than before, but still droopy enough for someone to think they had gone a couple days without sleep.

  “Stand up,” I commanded, and they did.

  “Come to me,” I said, and they began moving slowly toward the doorways.

  I walked backward. “Follow me.”

  They did, their steps short and slow, like mindless zombies.

  My platoon of turnips and I proceeded from the C residence out into the children’s ward.

  Then I saw it. I didn’t understand how I’d missed it before. The door opposite Residence C that we just exited. This door was labeled Residence B and was not padlocked.

  * * *

  In the DPV, Gunny Sampson raced into Mount Rainy Biotronics’ vacant parking lot as the last of the cars left. The tail end of an incredibly long line of vehicles snaked down the mountain highway to Gold Rush.

  As he pulled up to the front entryway of the facility, a large man in a police uniform came running through the doors.

  Sampson yanked an M-16 from between the seats and leveled it at the man.

  Dailey held his hands up but continued hustling toward Sampson’s DPV. He stopped shy of the passenger’s side. “You with the rescue team?”

  “The question is, who are you with?”

  “I’m on your side, damn it! My name’s Eldon Dailey, sergeant, U.S. Marine Corps.”

  “Kinda old for a buck sergeant, aren’t you?”

  “I made time-in-grade thirty years ago. They call me Chief Dailey here. What’s important is now. Your boy is inside with a whole mess of people who need to get the hell outa here.”

  A helicopter came speeding along the roadway toward Biotronics. Dailey and Sampson watched as it neared. Only seconds passed before the big MH-53M was hovering and then set down. The Gunny and Chief squinted into the rotor wash as Major Jax hustled to them.

  Sampson’s smile was big, as he shook the major’s hand. “Damn, sir, I thought you bought it.”

  “Not yet, Gunny,” Jax said. He studied the man with Sampson. “Who’s your friend?”

  “Says he’s on our side—a Marine buck sergeant, thirty years’ time-in-grade.”

  “Humph,” Jax said with a nod. He told the two, “Get in the chopper.”

  As they obeyed, Sergeant Chambers called to the major from his seat in the cargo bay. He held the SatCom unit, taking over for the fallen Lieutenant Carpenter.

  “What is it, Sergeant?” Jax answered.

  “Our remote viewer says we’ve got trouble inside the facility, sir,” Chambers said. “The recommendation she gives is drastic.”

  “All right,” Jax said as he climbed aboard, and the helicopter lifted off. He went to the sergeant and looked at the communiqué on the laptop’s screen. “Good lord.” Jax shook his head and took a deep breath. “Send a message to the President, Sergeant Chambers. It’s time we let him in the game. Let’s just hope he’s on our side.”

  Chapter 33

  My troop of thoughtless bodies stood silently, four wide and ten deep, like rows of corn as I carefully turned the knob of Residence B’s door. Forty people—how could I possibly get them all out safely? And what would I find behind this door?

  My M-16 leveled and ready, I shoved the thick, insulated door open. Behind it was music, soft, flowing—and voices.

  “Dr. Xiang has ordered me to take charge.” It was Yumi’s voice.

  “But he did not tell me,” said a male voice as I slipped through the doorway and crouched behind a stack of file boxes on a hand truck.

  Yumi was arguing with a small Oriental man only fifteen feet away.

  My jaw went slack as I viewed the incredible sight behind them. Filling a room as big as two basketball courts, a formation of dozens of men and women stood in the same kind of white hospital gowns as my veggie platoon—the same vacant look on their faces.

  Yumi brought her Makarov pistol out of her pocket and showed the mean end to her opposition. She told him, “Dr. Xiang said if I had any trouble, to use this.”

  The man said nothing, a shocked expression on his face, and bowed as he stepped backward. He turned from her and scurried past me, opened the door and left without looking back.

  Yumi pocketed her handgun and followed him to the doorway as I edged around the boxes so she wouldn’t see me. I wondered what she was up to. She looked about the large room as if checking to make sure no one else with any mental capacity was watching. She opened the door and held it while withdrawing her keys.

  I stood up, my M-16 pointed at her midsection. “Where are you going?”

  Her look was complete surprise. Her eyes widened. “What are you doing? You must leave. Get out, now!”

  “I found my son. I realize now everyone was right—I don’t have a son. I set loose everyone in Residence A.”

  “That is good. It is what I was going to do next. But why are you pointing that gun at me?”

  “What were you going to do? Lock these people in here?” I glimpsed behind me at the quiet crowd—rows and rows, I couldn’t guess how many.

  “Yes. They must die.”

  “What are you talking about? They’re innocent, harmless.”

  “Innocent they may be. Harmless, they certainly are not.”

  I glanced at them again. All had full heads of hair. Then, I noticed the numbers on the pockets of their white gowns. All the numbers I could see were lower than the one assigned to me, 374. The front row had only double digits. Still, they appeared innocuous, staring out like the others, their eyes lazy, bodies relaxed and unmoving.

  Yumi said, “Do not you see? They have all had their implants and completed their programming. They have finished the practical orientation phase you started when you awoke this morning. They are now in a hypnotically induced state of unconsciousness.”

  “But you said most of those who went before me died, or were killed.”

  “That is true. You are looking at the numbers? What you do not understand is that once a subject died, his number was used again. There have been nearly seven thousand subjects. The failure rate was one hundred percent until four years ago. Since then, it has been closer to eighty percent. Over six thousand subjects died during our experiments or had to be destroyed. All their bodies were incinerated.”

  I gaped at her. “Jesus.” Xiang’s Brainstorm project—the Biotronics facility truly was a giant chamber of horrors. I let down my guard and scanned over the crowd. When I turned back to Yumi, I asked, “So who can they hurt?”

  “They are armed assassins, just like you,” she said, her voice desperate, pleading. “They were to be disbursed to locations throughout the world: Paris, Madrid, London, Rome, Moscow, Buenos Aires, Rio de Janeiro, Warsaw, Tokyo, Mexico City, Prague, Copenhagen, Ottawa, Helsinki, Athens, Jerusalem, Los Angeles, Chicago, New York, Washington D.C.—all of the major cities and capitals of the world. All have been assigned targets, primary and secondary—presidents, heads of state, kings, prime ministers, military leaders and politicians, holy leaders, the Pope. Their support teams are already in place and waiting. The bodies standing before you are no longer mere innocent people. They are psychic warriors—two hundred and eighty-eight of them.” She stared at me, her eyes still wide, and I stared back, felt my eyes bugging from the shock of what she was telling me as I lowered the muzzle of my rifle. She said, “Dr. Xiang had sent a security team to bring them to the second plane. I diverted them, said Xiang changed the plans and for them to ensure the building was evacuated from the top down. They listen to me as Xiang has used me many times to pass on orders.” She glared out at the large group of emotionless bodies. “They must die, be disintegrated with the facility. Come with me so that I can lock this door, and you can flee to safety.”

  I’d never imagined the scope of this thing. I couldn’t fully grasp what I was hearing. Still, I k
new it was wrong—wrong to leave these innocent people. They had been kidnapped, taken away from their families, their lives stolen from them. They had been brainwashed as I had. Even without the vaguest idea how I could save them, I had to try—couldn’t just let them die.

  I brought the assault rifle’s barrel up and aimed it at Yumi. “You go. I’m getting these people out.” I shook my head. “If I can’t get them out, I’ll die with them.”

  Yumi said, “Then, it is surely what will happen.” And she left.

  * * *

  On the way to his plane, Xiang had a premonition of doom. That, he was not ready for. Setbacks happened, no way around it when dealing with typical human beings. But failure was unacceptable. What he feared most was that somehow Yumi or Wu might have gotten into trouble. He did not want to lose either of his trusted supporters. With that on his mind, he had his driver turn his limousine around. As he entered Biotronics’ sub level two from the tunnel, he did not care when the group of Orientals ran panicky past him. Without a plane, they would not escape. Let them run, let them scream, let them pray to their gods—they would die without hope.

  As he stepped out of the limo at the tunnel entrance, the last of a large group of the Oriental workers ran by. Xiang was both surprised and relieved to discover Yumi sprinting from around the corner behind them. He smiled broadly, knowing it was quite uncharacteristic of himself. That was why Yumi looked so astonished—even frightened, he decided. He took her by the arm and stared into her eyes. But what he saw, he didn’t like. He saw lies and incredible deceit. She had been his right hand, like a daughter to him, yet he saw fear in her eyes. She had no reason to fear him . . . unless she had betrayed him. He must find out the truth.

  Yumi immediately became limp and submissive from Xiang’s entrancing gaze, as he took a moment to orient himself. He scanned about and saw the nearby shipping and receiving room. After dragging her briskly inside the room, his gaze returned to her, still intense.

  “What have you done?” Xiang insisted.

  Yumi did not answer, not even under his forceful stare.

  Xiang sensed she had deceived him incredibly, that perhaps Subject 374 was still alive and so was the woman—that perhaps they were attempting to escape. He smiled. Impossible. Them attempting to escape didn’t matter. It was too late. And now he would teach Yumi a lesson. She was no longer like a daughter to him.

  Xiang slammed the door closed. With a mighty swing of his forearm, he cleared off the top of the nearest desk and threw Yumi onto it. When her body slammed against the desktop, it seemed to bring her out of the trance in which he’d placed her, but he was on top of her in a second. She did not speak, but struggled violently, yet feebly against his strong hands as he made his way to her undergarments, and he discarded them to the side. He could take her easily, control her with his mind and without a struggle. But if she succumbed to his psychic influence, she would not have the same delightful fear in her eyes, the great anticipation of what was to come, as she did now.

  He struck her open-handed and put his mouth to hers to taste her blood. It was not enough. He raised up and slapped her again, only to taste her blood once more. Still, she struggled ineffectively. He considered striking her with his fist, his bare knuckles would do considerably more damage. But he realized why she was such an attraction to him. It was that struggle, that defiance he knew he would find when he pressed himself against her. He would give her that—the knowledge that she had resisted. Perhaps it would help her restore her dignity after their first encounter, for he was sure there would be many more—if he decided to keep her alive. If it weren’t for her betrayal, he would have thought this to be only a game she played—a little girl’s game that all spirited women played. What woman would not wish to be his sexual partner—a man such as him, large, masculine, dominant, brilliant, a leader of peoples?

  And now, he suspended his violent foreplay and celebrated victory—Yumi’s body relenting as he forced himself inside. And it was good, what Xiang had anticipated it would be . . . until the gun appeared in Yumi’s hand and slammed into the side of his temple.

  It was all he could do to pry the pistol from her hand before she had a chance to shoot.

  * * *

  It took a full five minutes to get my new entourage completely out of the huge Residence B room and into the main corridor. I now had a small army of vegetative followers. I was lucky the new regiment took commands and were as easy to direct as the smaller group.

  Once we made the stairway, I gave the command to go single file, and we cautiously stepped past the trash on the steps by staying close to the outside wall. In preparing my tactical delaying measures, I’d been careful to leave the outside twelve inches of each step clean of honey and garbage. At the first floor landing, I instructed my silent group to stop by yelling up the stairwell so that all three hundred or so could hear. They did well, halting immediately, and they remained still. I diligently passed through the doorway, closing the door quickly behind me. I didn’t want what fumes remained from the cleaning concoction I’d prepared to irritate my quiet mob on the stairway. After skirting the slick dish soap and thumb tacks, I ran the remaining twenty-five feet to the morgue doorway to gather up Sunny and leave this place of hell.

  When I shoved open the door, I found all of the stainless-steel tables empty. Sunny and all of the dead bodies were gone. The door to the furnace room was blocked open, and inside, through the inspection window on the incinerator door, all I could see were flames.

  Chapter 34

  They had come into the morgue while I was gone and cremated all of the bodies on the tables. Before I had left Sunny, I had covered her face as if she were dead. Had they cremated her, also?

  I began shaking uncontrollably. I should have left her face exposed, they would have seen she was alive and left her out. If it had been some poor hospital slug’s job, an assistant to the assistant of the department, he wouldn’t have known Dr. Xiang wanted her and me dead. Then, she might have been taken care of.

  Through bleary eyes, I frantically counted the tables to see if one had been removed from the room in hopes my suspicion was incorrect. There were ten tables. There had been ten tables there when I left. None of the tables had been carted out, a living, breathing Sunny as its beautiful payload. I had killed Sunny as surely as I had killed my wife. As surely as I had killed Vanzandtz. As surely as I had been killing all day long. I fell to my knees as nausea came over me, and I vomited straight away onto the crematorium floor. The emotions overwhelmed me, and for the first time that I could remember, I knew they were genuine. I sobbed hard, deep gasps—being responsible for the death of a dear lover striking me hard.

  Now, I was completely alone. I had no son. Everyone I knew, or thought I knew, was either dead, had left, or was trying to kill me. I felt the M-16 in my hands and briefly considered ending it all, right there and then.

  I stared into the furnace and cried out, “Sunny! Sunny, I’m so sorry!”

  Harvey said, They need you.

  I remembered the veggies waiting out in the stairwell and probably lined up halfway down the second floor hallway. They still had a chance, although a slim one. And I knew Sunny would have wanted me to help them, especially if one of them might be her husband. If I could get them to the chopper, we could load as many as would fit, and the rest surely wouldn’t protest if they stayed behind to die with me. That was the logical plan, to evacuate as many of these living, breathing, even if non-thinking, human beings as we could.

  But when I returned to the hallway, I was suddenly surrounded by five, very unkempt guards, their guns all pointing at me. I suspected they had been some of the security team Yumi diverted from escorting my brainwashed herd. By the trash hanging off each of them and their bloodshot eyes, I was sure they’d been through my little tactical delay measures.

  “Hold on, fellas,” I said. I dropped my weapon and raised my hands above my head. My only hope was to convince them that they’d been double-crossed
by Xiang and Wu and were perhaps unknowingly waiting for their end from a nuclear fireball. “You guys have been duped, you know that, don’t you?”

  They stood, not saying a word, but glanced at one another through their goggles. I wondered then if they’d already suspected as much.

  “Honestly, guys. Dr. Xiang is gone. He left you behind to die, like he did several thousand other folks. You don’t have anything to fear from me. You probably passed my little group in the stairwell. We just want to get out of here, just like you.”

  Again they eyed each other. This time one of them said, “I told you. I told you they were going to blow this place.”

  “Shut up,” said one of the guards in the middle. I figured he must be in charge.

  “Come on, Top,” the first guy said. “We don’t have much time.”

  “All right,” the leader said. “But we’re going to kill this asshole, first.” He raised his gun, and I felt like I’d run out of options. They all wore the copper-lined helmets—my psychic gift would be useless.

  I yelled out to my zombies in a bottom-of-the-barrel attempt, “Get them.”

  The few of my night-shirted morons that I could see standing on the other side of the stairwell doorway window stood motionless, but it bought me a second as “Top” glanced back toward my group of blanks.

  His head cocked and he grinned. He turned back to me, his rifle barrel aimed at my chest.

  * * *

  Fast forward, Harvey says.

  And I go into future mode.

  The world is in slow motion. Although my thoughts shift to high gear, I can not move faster than my adversaries. But I see their movements in advance and know when they will make them.

  As the gunman squeezes the trigger, I lurch to one side. Two bullets exit the muzzle of his gun, spinning out with smoke and nitrate debris. My body edges to the side, feeling as cumbersome as a huge aircraft carrier, and the tiny missiles, like torpedoes in the water, come at me. The first will clearly miss. The second bullet becomes a tremendous concern, for I see its green tip and know that the leader’s weapon is loaded with armor-piercing rounds. Guessing what I now wore was likely the latest generation of armor, it still wouldn’t guarantee against penetration from a zippy little 5.56 X 45 mm round at close range, let alone armor piercing. Ten feet away, I twist my torso, a fast jerk in real time, a snail’s crawl in my fast-forward vision. And the projectile zips to me, my side twisting back mere centimeters to avoid it, and it strikes me. The bullet enters the body armor, and although the blood is yet to flow, the blazing pain yet to be felt, I know that it has found flesh.