Summon the Nightmare

by J. J. Carlson

  George’s face softened with compassion. “No. Normal nurses don’t do that.”

  His most treasured hope had been confirmed. The atrocities on the mountain really were atrocities. Which meant the feelings of shame and violation were normal. And it meant Byron wasn’t God. Cameron’s rebellion had been justified and, in some ways, noble. Like water through a bursting dam, tears and words poured out. He told George about the photos he was forced to pose for when he was just six years old, the way he and the other children were locked in rooms with adults having orgies, the beatings, the incest, and the child-brides. He described how his mother had presented his older sister—who was thirteen at the time—as a gift to Byron, who “married” her three days later. He told him how, nine months later, his sister had died during her second miscarriage.

  Cameron’s tale gradually became unintelligible, and he wept openly for several minutes. When he had no more tears to shed and the sobs had dwindled to occasional sputters, George spoke.

  “Cameron, has anyone ever told you what a cult is?”

  He nodded and wiped his face on his sleeve. “They’re false religions.”

  “That’s right. And do you know what all cults have in common?”

  Cameron studied the floor between his feet for a long moment, then shook his head.

  “Cults are all built on a foundation of lies, and God is not in them. Do you understand?”

  “I think so.”

  “Then follow the logic with me. If a particular religion is founded on the word of God, it couldn’t possibly be a cult, right?”

  Something deep within Cameron’s mind sparked to life—a survival instinct that had been dormant ever since he left the mountain. “I—I guess.”

  George’s face became solemn. “Based on your account, I believe most theological experts would describe Wisdom and his followers as a cult.”

  Cameron’s eyes drifted toward the door, but George leaned forward and interrupted his view.

  “But don’t you see? It’s because they don’t know the truth. There could never be a cult on Holy Mountain because God lives there.”

  It was as if someone had ripped Cameron’s soul from his body. He became so numb, he wasn’t sure he could speak. Somehow, he formed an accusation. “You’re one of them.”

  George rose to his feet and lifted his necklace from behind his shirt collar. At the end of the chain was a small pendant—three black rings surrounding a single blue ring. “The fear of the Lord is the beginning of knowledge, but fools despise wisdom and instruction. We are all children of Wisdom, Cameron, and there is nowhere his children can hide from his unending love.”

  6

  Ellicott City, Maryland

  Santiago Torres carried a sack of groceries up the steps, then shifted the weight to one arm while he reached for his keys. Before he could get his key in the door, the lock turned on its own. San held up the groceries as if they were a gift and waited for his wife to open the door.

  “For me?” she said, taking the paper sack from him. “You shouldn’t have.” Leaning back, she shouted over her shoulder. “Phil, come down here and help put the food away!”

  Phil, a teenager who hadn’t quite grown into his long arms and legs, trudged down the stairs and took the bag from his mother. As he turned toward the kitchen, he nearly collided with a blur of colorful clothing and pigtails—his sister sprinted past him in an apparent attempt to break the sound barrier. “Jeeze, Maria,” he complained, “take it easy!”

  Maria skidded to a halt, inches away from her father, and held up a sheet of brightly colored paper.

  San took the page and examined it. He gave a nod of approval and said, “This is beautiful, sweetie. Did you make it for me?”

  Maria nodded emphatically, then crossed her arms. “Do you know what it is?”

  San bit his lower lip. He always dreaded high-stakes games of Pictionary. “Of course, I do. It’s obviously a…a…”

  Maria didn’t take the bait. She raised an eyebrow and tapped one foot as she waited for an answer.

  He cringed and spoke with less confidence than he’d hoped. “Dog?”

  Rolling her eyes, Maria snatched the paper out of his hands and walked away. “It’s a horse, Papa. A horse. You can tell by the tail.”

  San watched his daughter disappear up the stairs, then shrugged.

  His wife gave him a quick kiss on the cheek. “You can’t win them all.”

  He wrinkled his nose. “Yeah, but you can.” He’d never seen Anita fail to guess one of Maria’s drawings with 100% accuracy.

  “It comes with practice. All those years you spent trying to save the world with science, I spent appraising ambiguous artwork.” She followed him into the kitchen and sat at the breakfast bar while San helped Phil put away groceries. “How was work, by the way? Did you have a tasking?”

  San shook his head. Even though his new home had been custom-built with electronic surveillance deterrents, he never gave specific details about his job. Anita understood the need to keep his work classified, so she only asked vague questions. She used the word “tasking” to describe any operation of any length assigned to the people under his command.

  “It was an easy day. I finished some paperwork and spent some time in the infirmary.”

  Anita nodded. “And how is everyone doing?”

  “Better than ever. As it turns out, our research can be used for benign purposes.”

  Anita stopped him as he carried a bag of corn flour toward the pantry. She grasped his forearm and looked into his dark eyes. “I am so proud of you for accepting this position. Our country needs men like you to step up and take charge.”

  Sensing the serious tone in his mother’s voice, Phil quietly excused himself and trotted upstairs.

  San set the corn flour on the counter and lowered his gaze. He had been in charge of the Hillcrest Trauma and Rehabilitation Center—DARPA’s premier weapons-development facility that masqueraded as a hospital—for less than a month. And yet, it felt like it had been years. It wasn’t the workload that lay heavy on his shoulders, it was the weight of responsibility. The position only required him to be present thirty hours per week, but during that time, he directed the manufacture of earth-shaping technology and supervised the most fearsome soldiers in history. His assault team lived under the cloak of black-operations, pursuing a new breed of terrorists to every corner of the world and killing them at will.

  By nature, San was a peaceful man, so the burden of his decisions sometimes felt too difficult to bear. He’d been offered the job by the Director of National Intelligence, who believed the world’s most advanced weapons should be aimed by someone with a fine-tuned moral compass. The work was repulsive to San, but he pressed on, hoping to save tenfold as many lives as he took and begging God for mercy every night. He frowned, then said, “I…I wish it could be someone else.”

  Anita wrapped her arms around him. “I know you do. And that’s a good thing. Because the people who want to wield this kind of power are the exact people who shouldn’t have it.”

  “Maybe. I just—” San stopped short and raised an eyebrow. A white note lay on the center of the breakfast bar, and he was surprised he hadn’t noticed it before. He picked it up and read the message. I need to speak with you.

  There was no mistaking the block-style handwriting, so precise it appeared typewritten. He handed the note to Anita and said, “How long has this been here?”

  Her eyes widened, and she shook her head.

  San ran a hand through his salt-and-pepper hair. He glanced over his shoulder, then returned his gaze to the counter and jerked back so hard he nearly lost his balance. There was another page on top, this one bearing the message: I am here.

  He clutched his chest to keep his heart from smashing through his ribs. He closed his eyes for a moment, took a deep breath, and said, “Could you go upstairs for a few minutes? I need to talk with an old friend of ours.”

  Anita hugged herself and hunched her sho
ulders as if there were invisible bats fluttering through the air above her. “Alright. But tell him to call ahead next time.”

  San nodded and waited for her to mount the stairs before speaking. “I’m not as young as I used to be, you know. One of these days, you’re going to give me a heart attack.”

  Jarrod Hawkins materialized from the ground up. Then the liquid-metal armor around his head withdrew to the level of his collarbones, exposing his mottled gray face. He nodded at San’s chest and said, “Your epinephrine levels are elevated, but your valves and heart rhythm sound quite healthy. I doubt any fear or startle response would trigger a myocardial infarction.”

  San eased into a chair and rested his elbows on the counter. He wiped his face with his hands, then leaned against the backrest. “What can I help you with, Jarrod?”

  “Recently, I’ve been experiencing new emotional responses to specific cues in my environment. These responses are leading me to question my directives, and I’m uncertain of how to proceed.”

  San studied the mass murderer who was officially dead, according to the U.S. Government. “I’m not your commander, Jarrod. You can talk to me like a human being. What kind of emotion?”

  Jarrod’s head twitched to the left. “Sadness.”

  San’s face brightened. “Really? That’s wonderful!”

  “Why? It produces negative physiological responses and reduces decision-making speed and confidence.”

  “It’s wonderful because it’s human. It means your mind is healing from…from what we did to you last year. When did you start feeling this way?”

  “Three weeks ago, when I met with my father and sister. And again, this morning.”

  “What do you think made you sad, during those times?”

  Jarrod crossed his arms and leaned against the wall, affecting discomfort and trying to appear more human. “Well, the first time, I felt sad because my absence had caused Deedee emotional trauma. And today, because my father forbade me from seeing her again if I continue to complete objectives.”

  “And by that, you mean killing people?”

  “Yes.”

  San sighed and gave a sympathetic nod. “I can understand how he feels. I wouldn’t want you living with my children, either.” He caught himself and held up his hands. “No offense.”

  Jarrod tilted his head back like he was trying to catch a faint melody in the air. Then he shook his head. “Nothing. It’s strange—your words didn’t create any response within my body. But when my father said something similar, it felt like my internal organs had been crushed to a pulp. Why?”

  “Because you love Deedee. That’s what you’re feeling. Love. Before we changed you, your emotions were destroying you in a very real way. And Wagner started your transformation before you had a chance to heal. Now, I believe your brain is repairing itself, and you’re beginning to feel things the way you should. Have you felt any other emotions?”

  Jarrod nodded. “Hate.” He glanced away. “And anger. And wrath.”

  San frowned as he felt a pang of guilt returning. “That’s…understandable. You were designed to kill and conditioned for aggression. Most people wouldn’t have the capacity for violence without those specific emotions. I only wish there was a way for me to repair the damage we’ve done to your psyche. Unfortunately, the government doesn’t spend billions of dollars on technology that helps soldiers become well-adjusted.”

  “Don’t worry about it. I wouldn’t let you fix me, anyway. I wasn’t tricked into Project Nerium—it was what I wanted. And since then, I haven’t second-guessed a single decision I’ve made.” He rolled his broad shoulders forward. “At least, not until now. That’s why I’m here. I don’t know what to do. Pain means nothing to me—just electrical signals that I can heed or ignore as I choose. But the sadness…I can’t bear the sadness.”

  San thought for a moment, closing his eyes and massaging his temples. Finally, he said, “I know how you feel. Sometimes, we only need to decide what is most important to us to escape the sadness. Other times, we need to own our sadness and carry it for the good of those we love, like when our children grow up and move away.” He steepled his fingers. “And sometimes, there is no way to win—which is a tragedy that comes with living in a fallen world. When that happens, we must make the best decision we can, knowing we might be wrong but hoping for the best.”

  Jarrod nodded. His skin had discolored to a uniform gray.

  “The question is,” San said, leaning forward, “can you become more than we made you to be? Or maybe, are you brave enough to love again?”

  Jarrod’s metamaterial crept up around his skull. Millions of microscopic orbs on his arms rotated, catching the light and bending it around him. The rest of his body followed, and he faded until he was nothing more than a distortion of the air. “Thank you, San, and goodbye. I won’t be bothering you anytime soon.”

  San nodded. “Take care, Jarrod. Remember, your weaknesses show where your heart is. Cherish the people who have the power to hurt you.” He followed the wisp into the living room and watched the front door open and close on its own. Then he sank onto the couch and stared at the middle-distance, wondering if his decision to let Jarrod roam free was the greatest mercy, or the greatest mistake of his life.

  7

  Craig, Colorado

  Ryan Renner didn’t wait until the end of his shift to update Eric and Kayla. After returning Cameron to Holy Mountain, he dropped Claire and George off at the police station, then drove directly to the hotel where the private investigators were staying.

  Kayla answered the door and, after a glance in each direction, ushered him inside.

  “I know it isn’t right to intrude like this, but this thing with the boy is making me sick.”

  “No need to apologize—we’re glad you’re here.” Eric offered Renner the lone chair in the room, then sat at the end of the king-sized bed. “Do you mean the boy from the video?”

  “That’s right. His name is Cameron Rollins, and his mother allowed us to bring him into town for a psych-eval.”

  “Which is good news, right?” Kayla said, taking a seat next to Eric. “I mean, it was part of the plan.”

  “Yeah, well, it didn’t go as planned. Not by a long shot.” Renner smacked his fist into the heel of his palm. “The psychologist hasn’t given an official diagnosis, but he said he feels confident Cameron isn’t and never was in any danger. And then he said he wants to accompany us back to the mountain so he can talk with the boy’s mother.” He shook his head. “I’m no expert, but I know an abused kid when I see one. Anyway, we arrived at the top of the mountain, and the doctor had a chat with Mrs. Rollins. He said he thinks Cameron has ‘schizotypal personality disorder,’ which is kind of like schizophrenia. Since the psychologist was court-appointed and Cameron didn’t tell anyone else about what’s happened to him, our hands are tied.”

  Eric worked his jaw. “Let me get this straight—you found the boy from the video, brought him safely down the mountain, had him talk to a shrink, and then took him back to Holy Mountain?”

  “I didn’t exactly have a choice, did I? His mother still has rights, and if I kept him, I could be charged with kidnapping. And don’t forget, I’m doing you a favor. I’d be neck-deep in shit if anyone found out I was talking to you.”

  “And we appreciate it,” Kayla said, “but inaction is not an option. What else can we do, legally, to get Cameron and our client’s niece off the mountain? Would it help if we called in an ‘anonymous’ tip?”

  He shook his head. “Not a bit. Holy Mountain has its own police force. If our dispatch received a call about child abuse, they would be the ones to handle it. And if things are as bad as I think they are, that might be a death-sentence for Cameron.”

  Kayla didn’t break eye contact. “There has to be options. Is there anything we can do to move forward without escalating the situation?”

  “Hell if I know.” Renner sighed, stood, and began pacing the cramped space. “You might wa
nt to ask a lawyer because I’m out of ideas.”

  “What if we got you more evidence?” Eric asked in a low voice.

  “Can’t say for sure, but I bet it’d be the same as today.”

  “But what if I prove their police force is dirty?”

  Renner shifted on his feet. “That’d be a different story. If we can provide evidence that the municipal police are acting against the boy’s best interest, we should be able to get his cased assigned directly to me. But…how would you do it? Those cultists are experts at covering their own asses.”

  Eric smiled. “It’s probably better if you don’t know.”

  After a thoughtful pause, Sheriff Renner nodded and turned on his heel. “You folks have a nice night.”

  “You, too,” Kayla called after him. When he had gone, she locked the deadbolt and sat across from Eric. “What do you have in mind?”

  Eric reached into a black backpack and withdrew a bulky, helmet-mounted camera. “I thought I’d do some sight-seeing.” Setting the helmet aside, he unfolded a pair of white-rimmed glasses and put them on. “But it’s so easy to get lost in these hills. You never know where you might end up.”

  To make his story more plausible, Eric parked at the base of the mountain and hiked around the north side before beginning his ascent. He wore lightweight clothes that could be found at any outfitter and carried a backpack filled with commercial climbing equipment. By the time he was halfway to the top, the sun had dipped below the horizon. He settled in, waited a few hours for the moon to rise, then reached the base of a towering cliff and began to climb.

  Climbing alone was dangerous, even in broad daylight. At night, with only the aid of a headlamp, it was practically suicidal. But he continued steadily upward, taking short breaks when his legs began to shake and recalling Cameron’s cries for help when his commitment faltered.