Relapse (The Vs. Reality Series Book 2)

by Blake Northcott

  “That’s crazy,” says Cole, for lack of a better phrase.

  “It gets worse. So dad takes a swing and hits her jaw, knocking her cold. She falls and the back of her head catches the edge of the counter. Now she’s bleeding all over the floor, unconscious. As far as we knew, we just saw our father kill our mother. She lived, but we didn’t know that at the time.”

  “Oh my god...”

  “And that’s when it happened. We ran upstairs and locked ourselves in the bathroom. I just remember wishing and praying that I could leave. Just go anywhere. Any place I had seen on my globe; Paris, Rome, Moscow, Sydney. I didn’t care. I just wanted to be as far away from there as possible. Then I felt something happen…it was like a new person was waking up inside of me. All of a sudden I was seeing these places – the Eiffel Tower in Paris, the Coliseum in Rome, the Sydney Opera House – and I knew that I could open up a door and walk there in a second if I wanted. I just knew it.”

  Cole’s eyes widen, riveted by her story. “So did you?”

  “A lot of what came after that is still a haze, but I remember pulling open a small rift, probably just big enough to fit my arm through. The light and the heat that poured from the opening scared the hell out of me, so I just backed away and started screaming. That’s when my dad kicked the door in.”

  “What did he do?”

  “I don’t know,” says Dia, shaking her head. “Things get really fuzzy after that. I do remember my parents divorcing, seeing a therapist on the army base, going to school and trying to pretend everything was back to normal…but not much else.”

  Her attention drifts down to the GPS on the dashboard. Jens resists the urge to start repeating the phrase ‘are we there yet?’ just as she begins to pull off the side of the road.

  They drive down a long gravel pathway and arrive at an old wooden house with a rusted red pick-up truck parked out front. The cracked white paint and sagging porch give the house a distinctive look of neglect, almost as if it had been abandoned, but several lights gently illuminate the windows, barely visible behind closed drapes.

  As the van comes to a stop Paige double-checks her phone. This depressing home is hardly indicative of a man who makes millions of dollars predicting the future, but according to her information the address is correct.

  Dia lugs the heavy metal briefcase across the unkempt lawn and up several creaky steps, and the rest of the group follows. After several knocks and a three minute wait the door swings open, and they’re assaulted by the harsh odor of cat litter and cigarette smoke; they’re greeted by a short, disheveled looking man in his mid-forties wearing a tattered green housecoat.

  “How long have you guys been waiting on the porch?” asks the man, scratching the side of his unshaven face.

  “Just a couple minutes,” says Dia as she peers over his shoulder, trying to get a better look inside.

  “My wife is supposed to answer the bloody door,” says the man with a frustrated grunt. He takes a step inside and shouts up the staircase. “Hey, Karen, why didn’t you answer the door? My guests have been waiting outside on the goddamned porch!” he hesitates for a moment, anticipating a response, but there is only silence. “I’m sorry about that guys, she can be a real bitch.”

  After an awkward pause Paige responds with noticeable uncertainty. “Um, I don’t think you’re the person we’re looking for. Did you move here recently?”

  “Nope. Been here for almost ten years. I’m guessing you’re Paige, right? You need my help with a dream or something?”

  She raises a skeptical eyebrow. “Good guess.”

  “I’m Mike – I’ve been expecting you. Well, don’t just stand there,” he says, stepping to the side and gesturing inside his home. “Come on in. I have to let you know in advance that I just raised my rates; the price is thirty dollars a person. I can only read one person at a time, so you’ll have to be patient. And if you’re not completely satisfied with the results you get your money back, no questions asked. Take a seat and make yourselves comfortable.”

  The small, dimly lit living room is a cluttered mess. Illuminated by two lamps and decorated with furniture that looks older than the house itself, the space is littered with newspapers, empty coffee mugs and scattered clothing. Everyone takes a seat on a couch or chair, shoveling debris aside to make space.

  Mike takes a seat on the opposite side of the room in a large battered recliner next to a small end table. The only items on the surface are packs of cigarettes, a lighter, and an ashtray that looks like it hasn’t been emptied in a decade. He retrieves a cigarette from the tray that is still smoking, and taps it several times before taking a long drag. “Can I grab anyone something? A snack? Maybe a Dr. Pepper or a bran muffin? What about a cigarette?”

  “No, thank you,” replies Brodie, looking more awkward and out of place that he did in the forest. “I think we’re good.” His hands are folded tightly in his lap, afraid his exposed skin might come on contact with something in the house.

  A scruffy black cat missing half its left ear scampers in from another room and jumps into Mike’s lap. It circles a few times before curling into a ball and closing its eyes, letting out a long, rusty purr. “So, did you guys have a hard time finding the house?” asks Mike as he absently strokes the cat’s head.

  “No, we made it here okay,” replies Paige. It’s evident by her tone that she’s still not completely convinced that they’re in the right place. “So Mike, how long have you been doing the psychic thing? Professionally, I mean?”

  “Professionally? I would hardly call myself a pro anymore. I just do this after work and on weekends to make some extra cash. I’m a sales rep for a pharmaceutical company by day.”

  Paige remains unconvinced. “Uh-huh. So do the people who work at your office know what you do in your spare time?”

  “Are you kidding me?” says Mike with a snort, exhaling two plumes of smoke through his nostrils. “They’d all think I was insane. Imagine if I went around telling people that I had psychic powers? I keep everything I do here a secret. I don’t even advertise; all my business comes from referrals, and I don’t give out my last name. I used to do work for the government out in D.C. but things were getting a little hot for my liking. I could see some bad things developing so I came back out west.”

  Donovan can sense Paige’s apprehension, but there’s no harm in giving him a chance at this point. “So Mike, I don’t mean to be rude, but do you think we can get things rolling? We’re in a bit of a hurry.”

  “Okay, but you can’t sit so close to Dia on the couch,” Mike replies, making a small sweeping gesture with his cigarette indicating that they should separate. “When you’re sitting right next to each other it makes it harder to get an accurate reading.” Dia scoots over a few feet before he continues. “So, you need to know about some dreams you’ve been having?”

  “Yeah,” says Cole, “I’ve been seeing the future…I think. Things that I’ve dreamed about have come true, and they’ve been scary accurate.”

  “And you want to know what’s going to happen next, but you can’t seem to get your mojo working, am I right?”

  “I guess you could say that.”

  “Alright, so we’re going to need you to fall asleep.”

  “It’s the middle of the day,” Cole replies with a hint of confusion.

  “That’s not a problem,” says Mike with the utmost confidence. “Just close your eyes and think of a small black dot. Trust me; I know what I’m doing.”

  Cole hesitates for just a moment but eventually lets his eyes fall shut as he leans back. “Alright, I’m picturing it. Small black dot. Right in front of me.”

  Mike uses his cigarette to trace small circles in the air as he closes his eyes. “Now imagine the dot getting bigger. It’s an endless void and it’s expanding, coming closer to you by the second.”

  “Got it.”

  “You don’t need to keep affirming that it’s actually happening,” says Mike, “I can see it too.”


  “You can?” asks Cole as he cracks open his left eye.

  “Probably best if you’re quiet right now. Keep your eyes closed and focus.”

  “Sorry, okay.”

  Mike continues to trace circles in the air, expanding larger and larger as the smoke forms a perfectly round circle. “The black void is approaching. You can see it expanding and filling your entire field of vision. Soon there will be nothing around you but more nothingness. You’re weightless, floating in it.”

  Cole opens his mouth to respond but he doesn’t say a word. His eyes flutter slightly and his fingers twitch, his body sagging deeper into the couch as his head tilts back.

  “Is he okay?” asks Dia, placing her hand on Cole’s knee as she leans towards him.

  “He’s fine,” says Mike curtly, “Now please sit back and give me some space to work. He can’t hear you anyway; he’s already entered a dream state.”

  The group stares at Cole’s body with fascination as his mind slowly disappears into the void.

  Chapter Eleven – Vigilance

  Arlington County, Virginia | August 29, 2011 | 11:59 am, Eastern Daylight Time

  In a warehouse-sized room filled with an endless array of cubicles and desktop computers, more than four hundred agents – mostly first year graduates and paid interns – monitor the country.

  At one time this facility was used for wire tapping and data mining on a national scale; the agents would listen in on telephone calls and read email communications that were flagged for certain keywords pertaining to terrorism, both domestic and abroad. But transparency laws instituted by the New World Council made the practice illegal, shutting down the operation.

  What few people are aware of is that several years later, the same monitoring equipment has been adjusted to detect a specific type of heat signature using dozens of satellite dishes that hover above North America. The system, code named ‘Argus’, is able to observe every square inch of the Unites States in search of unnatural power spikes associated with the use of supernatural abilities. The technology itself is still somewhat of a mystery, even to many high-ranking government officials, but its effectiveness is undeniable. Argus has been operational since The General acquired it from The Collectors during their bargaining agreement, and it remains one of the most closely guarded secrets at Langley.

  Buried deep in the labyrinth of workstations, an exhausted intern rubs his eyes towards the end of a twelve-hour work day. He lets out a silent yawn and prepares to log off, readying his computer for the incoming afternoon shift. Before he’s able to execute the command a strange reading registers over his designated sector: a small section of the Pacific North-West. He takes a quick swig of coffee from his chipped mug, gulping down the lukewarm liquid before reaching for his mouse and zooming in on the source of the power spike.

  Forks, Washington.

  With a few rapid keystrokes he adjusts a satellite dish and enlarges the image, displaying the crumbling rooftop of a small house buried deep in the forest. Most of the overhead view is obscured by the canopy, but it’s clear where the reading is originating from.

  His supervisor marches down the aisle of cubicles and stands behind his chair, peering over his shoulder. “Hey Randy, I just got a notification that you adjusted a dish. What are you looking at this time, another topless sunbather?”

  “No, Rebecca,” says Randy with a groan of disappointment, “my sector isn’t in the Florida Keys anymore, remember? I’m in Washington State now. They reassigned me three months ago.”

  “Yeah,” she snickers, poking her elbow into the back of his shoulder. “And we all know why, don’t we?”

  “Ha ha, very funny. Check this out, I think I have something.” Randy presses his finger into the monitor and indicates the location of the house, and trails it down to the corresponding reading. A red line bounces along a small bar on the bottom of the screen, growing more agitated by the second. A moment later an additional red line appears, jumping with a similar frequency.

  Rebecca pulls a small set of reading glasses from her shirt pocket and adjusts them on her nose. “Hey, look at that. Something is going on there.”

  “For sure. And see that second line? There are two people there. Both started at a level two – which is totally normal for low-level psychic activity, and we see that all the time – but they just popped right up to a seven.”

  “A seven?” says Rebecca with surprise. “The last time we saw a reading spike that high it was…”

  “New York City.” Randy interjects. “Right before the building collapsed. There was a blip about forty miles from this spot around an hour ago, but it only lasted a few seconds. I thought it was just a glitch but this is holding steady. We have at least two SP’s in that house, and they’re definitely up to something.”

  Rebecca pulls out her phone and frantically types the emergency number into her keypad. “I’ll get The General on the line. Randy, contact the Seattle branch and get as many armed agents out there as possible right now. Unmarked cars, no sirens. I just hope we have someone in the area.”

  “So the order still stands?” asks Randy. “No one fires at Dia except with tranquilizers?”

  “Right.”

  “And everyone else?”

  “Nothing has changed,” she says, putting the phone to her ear. “Shoot to kill. And we don’t leave any witnesses.”

  Chapter Twelve – Enlightenment

  Forks, Washington | August 29, 2011 | 9:08 am, Pacific Daylight Time

  The darkness becomes a bright, blinding blue, and in a flash Cole is transported to a soaring mountain top in central Tibet. The landscape is a stunning portrait of towering grey monoliths, their jagged edges capped with fresh white snow. Absorbing his surroundings, he takes a few cautious steps to the edge of the cliff and peers down, thousands of feet to the rocks below.

  Not certain how this dream is going to offer any additional information, his concentration is broken by the sound of rotating blades. Two black transport helicopters approach from the distance, making their way towards Cole. Touching down in a clearing, the doors swing open and The General steps out first, knee-deep in snow.

  His cold eyes remain unchanged, but his face is different. Younger. His battle-worn features are smoother, and the distinctive scar over his eye is gone. The gray hairs are replaced by brown, and his hairline is fuller than before. Cole doesn’t know what year this is, but based on the photographs he’s seen The General looks to be two decades younger, maybe more.

  The spinning rotors come to a stop as more soldiers, dressed in ski masks and winter camouflage, spill out of the helicopters with machine guns in hand. They’re followed by a tall man in a dark cloak; his thin, angular face obscured by the heavy hood that conceals all but his mouth and chin. The General treks towards the white temple in the distance flanked by his entourage, who march in perfect formation without requiring any instruction.

  They make their way past several monks who have gathered outside the stairs that lead to the entrance. A number of them glance at the ominous intruders, but their interest seems to wane after a moment.

  Ascending the seemingly endless staircase, they arrive at the temple doors that have been left ajar. The ancient room is vast and cavernous, but still manages to be dominated by a gold statue of Buddha that nearly reaches the peak of the towering ceiling. A single monk sits in meditation facing the statue, as serene and motionless as the structure itself. Seated on a thin mat with legs folded and eyes closed, his breathing is the only sound that fills the room between the boots of the oncoming soldiers hitting the tiled floor. Barefoot, head shaven and dressed in a traditional orange robe, the elderly man does not appear much different than the monks they passed on the way in.

  The soldiers separate and allow the man in the cloak to approach. He folds back his hood, focusing intently for several seconds before his eyes transform; the dark pupils and brown iris completely dissolve, and they radiate with a pulsing white energy. “He’s the on
e,” says the cleric in a deep, otherworldly voice, affirming his findings to The General with a small nod.

  The General nods back and proceeds forward. “So you’re the man who’s going to help me,” he commands, stomping authoritatively with each stride. He circles in front of the diminutive monk and looks down, awaiting a response.

  “I was expecting you,” the monk replies with a pronounced Tibetan accent.

  “And you didn’t try to run or hide? You weren’t worried that I was going to kill you?”

  “I relinquished my attachment to the material objects of this world long ago,” says the man, his eyes still closed in meditation. “That includes my physical body.”

  The General draws his sidearm and cocks the hammer with his thumb; the ratcheting sound echoes softly through the silence of the temple. Of course, as with every modern pistol, it’s completely unnecessary to manually pull back the hammer before firing, but the unmistakable click is a threat in itself. “So you’re telling me that you don’t care if I put a bullet in your brain? Don’t try and bluff me, old man. No one is that fearless.”

  The monk smiles with warmth and sincerity as his eyelids slowly open, and his eyes roll up to meet The General’s gaze. “If you do not live without fear, you never truly exist.”

  “If you don’t care about yourself you have to care about your people. Tell me what I want to know or we’ll go into the village and start exterminating them one by one. I’m guessing that there’s someone nearby that wants to keep their physical body intact for at least a little while longer.”

  “It was always my intention to give you the information that you seek, Douglas Davenport. I have taken a vow to share my knowledge with all who desire it. I am merely a messenger.”

  “So you know what I want?” asks The General, his grip tightening around the handle of his gun.

  “I know what it is that you believe,” replies the Monk with a peculiar sense of certainty.