“What’s going on, Danny Boy?” Zin calmly said. “You expecting someone to parachute into the Yard?”
Danny shook his head.
“None of this was supposed to happen,” Zin said. “I shouldn’t be here and Sid shouldn’t be wherever he is. Did you do something?”
“No. Not really.”
“Well, what did you do?”
Danny sat down, rested his elbows on the tabletop. All the dorm windows were open except Reed’s. The curtains were drawn. He was probably curled up in the dark recovering from God-knows-what they did to him. And now Danny had to tell him that he had another round to go.
“I blew it, man.”
“Ah, yes. You’ve got the world by the balls here on the island. You can do whatever you want, as long as you go to the Haystack and let them drill your head. Yeah, how could you blow that?”
“You really want to know?”
“I’m all about knowing.” He held out his hands and smiled, typical Zin fashion.
Danny sat nodding and thinking. He got up, walked around. The sundial was fifty feet away. It was the center of Foreverland. Maybe it meant nothing in the real world, but he didn’t like being that close to it, not when he was about to tell Zin everything.
“Let’s go see Reed,” he said.
46
The Director draped his floral shirt over the back of a chair and buttoned up a beige long sleeved one. He had not been for a walk on his island for quite some time. Lately, it had been all work, work, work.
When he first arrived on the island some thirty years earlier, he hiked every day. He could also see his abs. Now he couldn’t see what color flip-flops he was wearing. It was the price of intelligence, he often told himself. That, and becoming a lazy slob.
It was an abandoned resort when he first arrived. Most of the buildings were in severe disrepair. The jungle was taking them back. It wasn’t worth much. So he bought it.
He didn’t know why he was so hasty. At the time, he just wanted to escape the world. He’d seen his share of heartbreak (his fiancé was having an affair) and disappointment (his business partner died of a stroke at the age of 41) and wanted to heed the advice of a famous philosopher, one Henry David Thoreau.
Simplify.
He planned on living out his life on that island. But nothing stays the same. That was the only guarantee life gave you: things change.
Yes, they do.
He needed to get out. He was nearing the most critical point of the program, of his life, and he needed to be thinking with a clear head. He had just returned from the fourth floor and had seen what Danny had done.
He spent some time contemplating it, but his penthouse was suddenly suffocating. Now he was lacing up snake boots to get outside for awhile. He shirked the flip-flops and shorts. He wasn’t opposed to risk, just not when there wasn’t a payoff. And what he’d seen on the fourth floor was a risk, indeed.
But the payoff was worth it.
The boy became data.
The fourth floor analyst, Mr. Jackson, advised him to remove Danny from the program. When boys went inside the needle, they needed a digital body. Once that was gone, the identity would scatter into the Nowhere, bodiless. Lost. Nothing.
But Danny didn’t need a body. He became data, floating through the system like a ghost. He had done something no one had done before. Something the Director didn’t know was possible. He had no idea what kind of power he had. It came too easy.
He could bring everything down the next time.
Danny had sensed the trap. The Director made it obvious, rigged it so that Danny would suspect it was too easy. He knew the boy was brilliant, and with brilliance comes patience. He wasn’t hasty. He would look for another way to escape the island’s network to get into the outside world, and the only other way was to infiltrate the heart of the Chimney.
Right where they wanted him.
Danny moved inside the Loop Program: a digital environment that simulated the outside world. There was a chance he would recognize it was a mock-up, but he didn’t. Danny thought he had escaped again and went right through the United States military firewall like it was a video game.
His infiltration of Milstar was all inside the network of computers on the fourth floor. If he had actually been in the real world, there would be a satellite-filled crater somewhere on the island.
Brilliant.
Mr. Jackson suggested Danny be removed from the program permanently. What if he knew it was the Looping Program and slipped out?
Well, he didn’t.
Mr. Jackson didn’t understand what the Director saw. He didn’t see the potential. He knew that Lucinda was an anomaly that escaped from Reed’s mind and haunted Foreverland. He knew that she was getting stronger and more troublesome. But he wasn’t looking in the other direction.
They were on the threshold of mankind’s next great discovery. Freedom from the body. Enlightenment through technology.
The Director would go down in history ahead of Edison, Einstein and Jobs.
He would become the 21st century Buddha.
When the Director was young – in his 20s – he travelled to Third World countries, places like Ethiopia and Rwanda. He went there to help people with suffering. He brought them medicine and food; he worked with government officials to curb corruption. He educated them. But there was nowhere to go. And the more he helped, the more he saw their suffering.
It wasn’t just the physical suffering. It was the suffering of the mind.
He decided, after only two years of service, the world needed a revolutionary way of healing the mind. If the mind operated clearly, physical suffering could be tolerated, even avoided. Nothing in the last thousand years brought relief to the mind. People weren’t going to the mountain tops to meditate for twenty years, they were plugging in smartphones and tablets. They needed easier access to real freedom. The record number of prescriptions for depression was proof we were doing something wrong.
Life is suffering.
The Director came to the island to save humanity because God wasn’t helping. He meditated on the cliffs and explored the wild. He rebuilt the island, renovated the buildings and created a paradise that would heal the body and nurture the soul. His father – just before his death – had developed alternate reality and the Director used it to rewrite corrupt minds and correct bad habits. He would do what the Buddha failed to do: bring enlightenment to the masses.
Such an endeavor wasn’t free. He would need money. Lots.
But the Investors would need a reason to spend that kind of money. They weren’t interested in altruistic endeavors like the Director; they needed a return on their investment that would be worth the risk. The Director gave them one. He gave the old and dying Investors what they desired most. He gave them the only thing their money couldn’t buy.
More life.
The Director holstered a machete to cut through the overgrown paths. He carried a sitting cushion to the elevator. He decided that he would sit meditation on the cliff to further contemplate the future of the program. His thirty years had culminated at this very moment. He did not want to be rash.
Mr. Clark waited in a golf cart outside the front doors of the Chimney.
“Director,” he said, “the Investors would like a word.”
“I see.” The Director started around the cart. “I will hike first, Mr. Clark.”
“They request your presence immediately.”
“Mr. Clark, I am not prepared for a meeting. I have a schedule. Presently, they’re not on it. But I’ll make room later today.”
The Director started around again and Mr. Clark bumped the cart in front of him. “I think now, Director, would be an appropriate time to alter your schedule. Impatience can fester, you see. I suggest you come along.”
“I see.” The Director balanced the tip of the machete on the front of the cart. “Mr. Clark, what is it that cannot wait an hour?”
“Your future, Director.”
&nbs
p; He laughed. “I don’t attend those meetings.”
“Today, you do.” Mr. Clark patted the seat. “We’re all in this together. And we don’t care how silly you look.”
The Director didn’t mind the insult to his hiking gear. He didn’t like meeting on their terms. And certainly not on their grounds. But he slid onto the seat. Without the Investors, there was no program. And he was so close.
They took the wider path, heading for the Mansion.
47
Danny stepped back into the cover of the trees. He had been hiding outside the Chimney, trying to figure out how to get around Mr. Clark and through the front doors. Danny assumed he was there to pick the Director up, but the minutes dragged on.
The Director looked like he was going on safari. Danny had never seen the man in person. There was a picture of him in the cafeteria posing with a bunch of happy boys like they’d just won the lottery. He was smaller in person and sported a pot belly. He was wearing long sleeves and rugged pants with boots laced up to his knees.
He wasn’t happy to see Mr. Clark, the way he jabbed the machete into the cart. After a few words, he got on the cart and they started in the direction of the Mansion.
Danny went to the front door but it was locked. He wasn’t sure what he was going to do if he got inside. He just figured it was time to talk with someone in charge.
He had gone to Reed’s room earlier that day. He began to open the door—
“Son!” Mr. Smith shouted. “Don’t go in there.”
Danny backed away. Mr. Smith walk-limped as fast as he could. He was carrying a lunch bag.
“I just wanted to say hello,” Danny said.
“He’s in no shape to talk with anyone.” Mr. Smith huffed.
“Yeah, I wonder why.”
“Don’t take that tone, my boy. Have some respect when you talk—”
“What did you do to him this time? Did you poke sticks in his ears or rip his fingernails off? Did you break him in half? What was it this time, Mr. Smith?”
Zin pulled him back. “Danny Boy, come on. Let’s come back another time.”
“No, he needs to answer me!”
“Now, relax a second, son.” Mr. Smith stopped Danny with a hand on his chest. “None of the treatments are permanently damaging. He’ll recover just fine, he’s just a little uncomfortable. It’s for his own good. All of this is for his own good.”
“Treatments? You’re torturing him, admit it!”
“I’m going to call Mr. Jones.”
“I don’t care if you call God.”
Danny pushed open the door.
The room was dark. Reed was curled up on the bed. He tried to roll over but convulsions shook him like he’d been struck by lightning.
Mr. Smith reached inside his pocket and then Danny went down. Everything went black.
He woke up on his bed with Mr. Jones.
It took several moments to realize Mr. Smith hit his tracker. Mr. Smith. That wasn’t his real name.
When Mr. Jones finally left, Danny snuck out. And now that he saw where the Director was going, he could find plenty of trouble.
All the bastards will be together.
48
Mr. Clark dropped the Director off at the front steps of the Mansion and took the golf cart through the slowly opening garage door, closing just as slowly behind him. The Director stroked the flat side of the machete, contemplating the front doors and brass knobs. He despised going inside their fortress. It smelled old. Smelled like dying.
The Mansion was built upon the remnants of the resort’s hotel. He had no input of how the original Investors would build it, only that it needed to keep the boys out. He envisioned a fence, but the Investors and their mountains of cash built a damn fortress that dissected the southern tip in gaudy, institutionalized fashion. There was enough square footage to hide a small village.
He stopped at the top step and knocked with the backside of the blade. He stepped inside the foyer, patting the machete in his open palm for all the old codgers to see. He thought it might be over the top, but it wasn’t. They were on the veranda waiting for him. He saw them through the glass wall. Beyond their gray and balding heads, he could see the ocean.
All forty of them were in attendance.
They had pulled chairs onto the expansive veranda that jutted out from the back of the building. A few of them had canes leaning against their knees; others had oxygen tanks parked next to them. It looked like the Board of Directors for the AARP.
A podium was set in the center. In front of that, facing the committee of Investors, was a lone chair. Ceiling fans blew down on the Director as he stepped out to greet them, still handling the machete.
“You may shield your weapon, Director.” Mr. Black, a fat Arabian with a checkered headdress, stepped to the podium. “Threats are not necessary.”
“What, this? It’s for brush cutting. You thought I was going to chop you up?”
These old bastards, so used to their former lives as CEOs and business titans with their formal rules and procedures, had to have a freaking podium just to talk. Now the Director regretted not changing back into his flip-flops.
“Please.” Mr. Black aimed his best glare at him; a glare that worked well with employees.
The Director sheathed the blade with a flurry of sword-fighting moves. “I’m not sitting, gentlemen. This will be a short meeting. You’ve all signed contracts agreeing to the terms of the island and I have final authority of how to proceed. The fact I’m even here is a modern day miracle, so make it quick.”
“I speak for everyone in attendance,” Mr. Black said. “And we have had enough.”
The Director rolled his eyes.
“We have sacrificed much, Director. But we are powerful men and we do not take risks without contingency. We will replace you if changes are not made.”
The Director rumbled with laugher.
“Mr. Black, with all due respect to you and your gang,” he cleared his throat, “I AM THE PROGRAM! You can’t replace me, gentlemen, I am every reason you are here today. I brought you here because I have proved, over and over, this program works. You didn’t risk everything because I made a promise, you did it because I deliver. I am the way, gentlemen. I am the Alpha and the Omega. Without me,” he tapped his forehead, “there is no program, I suggest you understand that.”
The men did not stir.
“Be that as it may,” Mr. Black said, “there are reasons for concern. Eric Zinder has fully recovered from his progress with his memories intact. At the same time, Sidney Hayward has become completely unresponsive. And now we are hearing reports that Danny Forrester has circumvented security.”
“Where’d you hear that?”
“We are not ignorant, nor will we sit back and be taken advantage of, Director. You are taking unnecessary risks that could impact all of us.”
“You’re not qualified to judge the program.” He fingered the hilt of the machete. “None of you know what it takes to run this island, to do what I do. It cannot be done, it cannot be understood by anyone else but me, gentlemen. You should not speak where matters do not concern you.”
“On the contrary, they do concern us. And, despite what you believe, we are the program, Director. We fund this operation. Without us, you are nothing. You are playing a game that you won’t win. I suggest you listen.”
The Director nodded along with the accusations. He let go of the chair, meandered around the Investors and leaned against the railing. The ocean breeze was warm but cooled his face as it filtered through his beard that was becoming itchy with perspiration.
“Director, please come back to the chair. Some of the Investors cannot see you.”
“And what game would that be, Mr. Black?”
Chairs scuffled.
“Director, please.”
“What game, Mr. Black? What game am I playing? The game that extends your lives another 80 years, is that the one you’re referring to?”
“We are not
barbarians, Director. You are torturing one of the boys. We did not agree to the inhumane treatment of them, that was in the contract. Perhaps you should review it, yourself.”
“I see.” The Director didn’t want to leave the edge of the balcony, took his time doing so. He returned to the chair that was on trial and sat this time. Mr. Smith was sitting on the far left side of the semi-circle, arms crossed and tight-lipped.
“Gentlemen,” the Director said, loudly and slowly, “you bought these boys. You arranged for them to be delivered to the island. You’re not barbarians? What is it do you think we’re doing to them that is not barbaric?”
“We agreed to discomfort, not torture.”
“We have to make adjustments for abnormality. Mr. Smith has invested as much as the rest of you, I believe he has every right to collect on that investment. As would the rest of you.”
“The boy is in agony.”
“He won’t be for long.”
“You’re not being honest, Director. These are more than minor incidents.”
“Every science has its wrinkles, Mr. Black. We have to adjust. I assure you, the program is well. We are analyzing the current state of these abnormalities and will act accordingly.”
Quiet settled, interrupted by the hiss of an oxygen tank.
“Now, if we’re finished—”
“We want to suspend Daniel Forrester, Reed Johnston, and Eric Zinder,” Mr. Black stated.
Mr. Smith stood up. “That was not what we discussed!”
In-fighting broke out.
The Director sat back, twirling the curly whiskers on his chin. Let them tear each other apart. They had no alternative, they knew it. They were all accustomed to having control and that rarely made for good teamwork. Especially when you add the desperation of impending death. They were all dying and that would tend to make anyone impatient, especially power-hungry old men.
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