by Paul Emil
A long metal table filled the small, windowless room. Large circular lights loomed over the table like UFOs over a cornfield at night. Three men stood at the table like alien abductors preparing to do an anal probe.
The MP officer cinched his grip on my arm and shoved me towards the table. I turned my head to eyeball him. He stared back, daring me to give him a reason to attack. He was big and I guessed he was around my age. It was impossible to tell for sure. We both looked at each other, silently saying, “I could kick your ass.” But, being in handcuffs, I wasn’t going to test that theory. And besides, if everything went according to plan, my revenge might get him too. That would be a bonus.
I turned back to face the men in the room. Once I got a better look I saw three familiar faces. They belonged to Dr. Smith (Owl-Eyes), Major Jones, and Chandler the Handler.
Well, well, well, I thought. The gang’s all here.
“Mr. Abrams,” said Dr. Smith, his good mood as mysterious and inappropriate as ever, “Have a seat.”
I hesitated, and the guard put his hand on my shoulder and shoved me down into the chair. The cuffs were not removed. I felt like a criminal in court. The cuffs implied that I was dangerous and incapable of controlling myself. The message was that I needed to be restrained because I might I suddenly jump up and attack people. I was insulted, but to be honest, their fears were totally justified. I had anticipated this. Since my hands were cuffed behind my back, the people around me felt safe. Fools.
Smith gave a nod to the guard, dismissing him. The MP and I locked eyes a final time, and he left. I turned back to the group. They sat down.
“Mr. Abrams.”
“Dr. Smith,” I said.
Smith seemed to light up, as if happy that I remembered his name.
“Mr. Abrams, do you know where you are?”
I felt like saying, “In a room,” but decided to avoid sarcasm. I had to pretend to cooperate to make sure I could pull off my plan. Also, I wanted answers.
“I’m in some type of detention wing of the training base in Idaho.”
When asked how I knew that, I answered, “You wanted to check me out immediately after I got out of that … thing. Also, whatever it is you’re working on here, you want to contain it here. So the answer is ‘Yes, I know exactly where I am. I’m at the Rock.’”
Owl-Eyes looked sufficiently impressed. I felt like saying, “See? I still have logical thinking skills. My brain isn’t totally fried, even after all the shit you did to me.”
Major Jones looked at me like a trained dog waiting for its master’s command to attack. “You didn’t file a full report!” he barked.
“Sir?”
“Explain yourself, Soldier!”
“Sir! I was not competent to deliver a report, Sir!”
“Bullshit!”
“Gentlemen, please,” Owl-Eyes interrupted. “Let’s be civil, and let’s allow Mr. Abrams to speak freely.”
Jones snarled, but eased back and said, “Your report is incomplete, Abrams. In it, you say almost nothing.”
“I gave a general report,” I said, deliberately feigning innocence.
“Bullshit! You left stuff out. We know you did. We know you’re lying.”
That was true. I left out all of the freaky, supernatural shit and attributed the deaths to friendly fire and the fog of war. Which was true. It just wasn’t the whole truth.
I briefly wondered how he knew. Could it be that some of those things weren’t hallucinations? The disappearing windows, the ghostly girl in the moonlight – could some of those have been special effects or something they knew about?
As if reading my mind, Jones said, “The live cams. Remember? We recorded everything.”
“Well, why talk to me if you got it all?” I knew I was pushing it.
Jones was like a big scary dog barking from behind a fence when you walk by. Like the thin wood of the fence, this metal table, the presence of the other two men, and military protocol were the only things protecting me from a viciously mauling.
“Look, you little piece of crap,” Jones said, “Don’t fuck with me! You’re in deep shit here. Six men died on your watch. You’re the only one who walked away. How do you explain that?”
There it was. That’s what they really wanted to know.
“I don’t know,” I said.
“You alone survived because you murdered them, you sick bastard! You’re a terrorist! We have special places for people like you!”
I almost fell into the trap. You see it on cop shows all the time. The cops are questioning somebody they know has information. They accuse him of committing the murder (even though they don’t think he’s the killer). The perp freaks out about the possible murder charge, and starts talking fast to convince the cops that they got it wrong. Sometimes, he even confesses to minor crimes right there. Better to get busted for just about anything other than murder.
The technique could work on people who were scared and guilty. Good thing I wasn’t.
Now it was my turn to turn the tables. I looked at Jones and said, “I know you’re lying.”
Smith rolled his large owl-like eyes. He was clearly frustrated with Jones, who knew how to intimidate scared people into submission, but not how to do a decent interview.
The handler spoke up. His manner, as usual, was calm and non-confrontational. He was clearly trying to appear to be my “friend” – the seemingly sensible one between the cold, scientific Smith and the brutal military structure represented by Jones.
“What we need,” Chandler said, “is for you to tell us everything you remember. And that means everything that happened in that house, and everything you saw, or think you saw, no matter how crazy it might seem. There was a firefight, and honestly, most of the time on camera, we couldn’t tell what you guys were shooting at. Please help us understand.”
“You drugged us,” I said. There. I said it. I wanted to hear them deny it.
Dr. Smith looked nervously at the others, and turned to me and said, “There are hallucinogenic properties in the location you scouted, but that shouldn’t have …”
“You drugged us!” I shouted, definitely not playing it cool. “Say it!”
The men looked at each other uneasily, but remained silent. “You want me to be straight with you? You better be straight with me. So let’s have it.”
The three men sat like statues, staring at me.
“I know I’m right,” I said. “And I’ll tell you how. I just want to hear you say it.”
The panel and I sized each other up. Finally, Dr. Smith sighed and said, “Psychotropic drugs were involved. There were … unintentional side effects.”
Jones looked me, stone-faced. The handler looked as his partners. Smith gave him an almost imperceptible nod. Chandler turned to me and said, “OK. Yes, you’re right. We admit it. How did you know?”
“You answer my questions, and I’ll answer yours.”
“Deal.” The handler didn’t look for approval this time. We were negotiating. This was his territory. “What do you want to know?”
I had several questions swirling around in my head, but one floated to the surface and came into focus.
“What happened to Kaz?”
The men looked at each other nervously. Then the handler looked at me and said, “He was bitten by a snake.”
“He was bitten by a snake?” I repeated incredulously. “You expect me to believe that?”
“Well, what do you think killed him?” The doctor asked.
“He was … well … he was bitten on the neck and thigh,” I said. Smith nodded his head, smiling eagerly. “There were two little puncture marks …”
“And what do think made those if not the snake?”
I didn’t know what to say.
“Say it,” the handler said, echoing my line earlier. “We have a deal.”
He was right. We were being honest now. That was the deal.
“The woman!” I blurted out. “The naked girl! She must hav
e been a vampire!”
“You saw that?” Smith asked.
“Yes,” I said, “I mean no. I mean, not really. I saw her silhouette. Twice.”
“Fascinating,” Smith said.
“You know about that? So what the hell was that?”
“Hallucination,” Chandler said.
I was going to call “bullshit” when Dr. Smith said, “There are parts of the house where we introduce other stimuli, such as female pheromones. The scent, in combination with drugs, produces some very interesting results in men. That explains why the man removed his clothing. As for the snake, it wasn’t supposed to be there. But remember, the house is in the desert.”
“The house was sealed,” I said.
“Ah, well, yes. In an earlier experiment, we did include live snakes. That was fascinating. The men in that experiment ignored the real danger posed by the animals, but responded to imaginary threats. The snakes were all supposed to have been removed. Apparently, there was one in the bed the subject got into. The subject didn’t perceive the danger and put himself at risk.”
That was cold. I was about to rail on how that “subject” was a real person with a name, but the interrogators interrupted.
“Our turn,” Jones said. “This is important, and you better have a good answer.” His eyes locked on to me like missiles acquiring a target. He leaned forward and asked, “Who is Ashira?”
28
“Who is Ashira?”
That was a hard question to answer. I could only go with the truth.
“An angel,” I said without hesitation. The doctor and the handler looked at me skeptically. The major stared, stone-faced. They needed more.
“The first angel,” I said, clarifying my point. I don’t think any of them picked up on that.
“Please explain,” the doctor said, eager to hear more. I described Ashira in a staggering amount of detail. The doctor and the handler just stared. Major Jones was not amused. He might as well have if called me a liar to my face. I wanted to punch him in the nose, but I know what his behavior was supposed to elicit from me – frustration. I stayed cool though. My vengeance was coming.
“Wow,” Jones said sarcastically. “I’d like to meet Ashira.”
“Oh, don’t worry,” I said, smiling wickedly. “You will … soon.”
That answer drew strange looks from all of the men. They wondered what the hell I was talking about.
“I think you’re full of shit,” the major said, looking like a pit bull. The leash holding him was taught and ready to snap.
“Maybe it was all of the pheromones you pumped into the air along with the drugs!” I shouted.
His face darkened. From the corner of my eye, I saw the doctor’s gaze go past me, looking for the guard posted at the door.
“I’ve seen Ashira before,” I said quickly, knowing the doctor would want to hear more.
“Really?” said Smith, taking the bait. “When?”
“Years ago,” I said. “I wasn’t sure if she was real or not.”
The men looked at each other, and then back at me.
“Let me guess,” I said. “She didn’t appear on tape.”
“No,” Smith said.
“That’s because she’s all in your little head, you sick bastard,“ said Jones.
I locked eyes with the major, wondering briefly if he were right. Then I said, “But if that’s true, then where did I get all of the knowledge? She was the one who told me all of the secrets of the house.”
The interrogators paused, as if they needed time to comprehend the meaning of that.
Silence. After a stretch of time where nobody spoke, I asked the only question that really mattered. “Why?”
“Why what?”
“Why any of it?” I demanded. “Why?”
“Because,” the said Major Jones, “We have created the ultimate weapon.” He was eerily calm now, as if he were a religious zealot speaking with a hushed respect when talking of his god.
“Pan’s Horn is a powerful hallucinogen. It induces panic and uncontrollable fear. We can make our enemies to destroy each other. Then it dissipates and is untraceable. Can’t you see the irony? The evildoers kill themselves, while leaving all of their technology and infrastructure intact. Now that is justice. And the success rate is almost 100 percent.”
Justice? I thought. Success?
What I did say was, “No. You don’t get it. You’re the military. I’m not asking why you want a new way to kill, especially one with complete deniability. That’s not what I’m asking. When I ask, ‘Why?’, I’m asking ‘Why us? Why did you do this to your own troops?’”
The men looked at me blankly. Finally, the handler babbled, “Uh … we had to see the effects on trained personnel in a controlled environment. Who else … I mean … it’s for national security.”
“I didn’t donate my body when I signed up for this,” I said.
“Oh, but you did,” the major said.
I still couldn’t believe what I was hearing.
“You sacrificed your own people? How many? How long has this been going on?”
No answer.
“Why not test it on our enemies? You know, real terrorists? Or on prisoners? Hell, even they don’t deserve it.”
I looked around. None of the men, not even Jones, was willing to meet my gaze.
“What? No denial? Hey, why not civilians? Let’s test it on them too!” I said sarcastically, looking around.
The doctor was looking at something on the ceiling. The major was looking at me, but he had lost his focus. The handler’s eyes wandered from the table to the corners of the room. They were all avoiding eye contact.
It took me a few seconds to figure out why. Then the answer clicked into place. They were ashamed.
I said, “My God. You’ve done that.”
Everyone was silent for a moment. Then I added, “Who are the sick bastards now?”
The handler composed himself and said, “OK. So that was your big question. We answered. Happy? Now it’s our turn. We want know how you knew the secret and how you survived. The drug was designed to cause a complete mental breakdown, but you overcame it.”
“Not really,” I said. “I did have a mental breakdown. Several, in fact. But there’s something you didn’t consider.”
All three men leaned in to hear.
“You can’t drive people crazy if they already are.”
The three men stared at me. Was I really crazy? Who could answer that? Crazy or not, I was alive, and in a few moments, these guys wouldn’t be. I would have my revenge. Now.
29
It was time. I started pitching forward in my chair and had a weird look on my face.
“What the hell?” said the major.
“Gas,” I grunted. Then I joked, “It’s the prison food.”
I was playing for time. I grunted more.
“There’s something else,” I said. “The drug affects the sense of touch too. In the house, I felt weird chills.” That was true.
“Even now, my butt itches.” That was a lie. I slipped my cuffed hands into the back of my pants. My face relaxed, and I smiled.
The major rolled his eyes, assuming I was wasting time, playing games, or still tripping.
I groaned. My face tightened like a clenched fist. Something slowly squeezed into my hands. I finally relaxed when it was out.
The men backed off, looking at me incredulously. There was a hiss of air. I laughed it off. The major looked disgusted.
“Soldier, is this your idea of a joke?”
“No,” I said, “It’s just a little something to remember me by.”
The handler had a lopsided smile on his face. The doctor looked like he wanted to be somewhere else. The major wanted to attack but didn’t want to come near me. They thought I had crapped myself.
The hiss of air remained.
“What is that?” Major Jones barked. The men looked confused.
“What’s what?” I asked innocently
.
“That noise!” he exploded. “What is that?”
The color bled out of Dr. Smith’s face.
“Oh no,” he said. “Oh God no.”
“What?” the handler said, turning to Smith.
I stood up and turned my back to my interrogators. I wanted to make sure they got a nice inhalation.
The major’s face fell. “Is that …? My God … Guard! Guard!”
The guard rushed in. I turned my back to him. It’s the last thing you want to do in a fight, but I wanted to make sure he got a good whiff too.
I felt like I’d been hit by a car. The man took me to the ground and ended up on top of me. Strong hands peeled my fingers away to free the filthy object.
When he’d secured it, the guard stood up and triumphantly held up a slimy silver cylinder.
“Got it,” he said, not sure of what type of weapon or contraband he had just confiscated. He grimaced. It smelled like shit, since I had stashed it in my rectum. It never would have fit in there if I hadn’t been violated back in the barracks.
“He … He got it out of the house,” the doctor said. His voice was hollow and faint, like that of ghost.
“Damn it!” the major yelled. “How the hell did he get that in here? Wasn’t he searched?”
“They did a search,” the handler said, “just not a full cavity one.”
“We have to shut it down,” the doctor droned, as if in a trance. “We have to be separated. We need to be locked up now, or …”
“What’s going on?” the guard asked nervously.
“Shut up!” the major shouted. “We have a situation here! We have … wait … did you hear that?”
“Hear what?” the handler said.
“That alarm! My God. How can you not hear that?” He covered his ears with his hands. I couldn’t hear an alarm. The handler looked confused too. The doctor just sat there, staring at nothing.
“They’re sealing us off!” the major said. “All because of you, you little fuck! I’ll kill you!”
The major jumped over the table to get to me. The guard, thinking the major had lost it and was coming after him, dropped the canister. He met the major in a clinch, and they both joined me on the floor. Ironically, the canister rolled within my reach again. I felt for it with my hands still cuffed behind my back. A rush of adrenaline and a wave of pleasure came over me when my hands found it. I palmed the capsule and jammed my thumb into the nozzle. The drug-laced air hissed out again.