The Creator (Scarrett & Kramer Book 1)

by Neil Carstairs

  ***

  Ben woke to a hammering on the door. In the confines of the small room, he thought he was trapped inside a drum skin. The table top lamp gave him a little guidance as he stumbled to the door and opened it. He blinked in the bright lights of the corridor.

  Joanne Kramer looked into his eyes and then down his body which was when Ben remembered he had gone to bed in just a pair of shorts.

  ‘What time is it?’ Ben half retreated into the shadow of his room.

  Kramer checked her watch. ‘Oh-one thirty,’ she said. ‘There’s a meeting in Briefing Room Two in ten minutes.’

  Ben rubbed his eyes. ‘And you want me to be there?’

  ‘Yes, preferably dressed.’

  ‘Oh, gee, and I thought you might be nicer to me if I went like this.’

  ‘I might,’ Kramer said. ‘But I’m not sure Dawson or the rest of my team would appreciate it.’

  ‘I’ll be there,’ Ben sighed as she turned away. Kramer got halfway down the corridor when he called after her.

  ‘What?’ she stopped, half turning to face him so he got a profile view of her.

  ‘Where’s Briefing Room Two?’

  ‘Take the elevator to the Second Level. Then ask one of the guards.’

  Ben sat on his bed for half of the ten minutes trying to wake up. Finally, he dressed, went to the washroom to splash cold water on his face and reached the briefing room with about thirty seconds to spare.

  Dawson stood behind a lectern, watching Ben as he entered. ‘Nice of you to join us,’ the General said.

  ‘Nice of you to invite me.’ Ben tried a smile but got nothing in return. He glanced at the long table; the only free space was next to Kramer. Ben went to it. He had just reached his chair when Dawson said, ‘We have a developing situation. This has already occurred and our people haven’t observed any signs of it.’

  He touched a remote control and the white board that dominated one wall at the end of the room flicked into life. ‘At approximately nineteen hundred hours Pacific time Grant Fenton and members of his family and staff were murdered.’

  That got Ben’s attention. Fenton’s name was synonymous with technology, but also with a growing influence in the Republican Party. His money had opened a lot of doors and his speeches in the last presidential race had won him admirers and critics in equal numbers. Particularly his stance on foreign policy.

  ‘What were the circumstances?’ one of Kramer’s team, a private with the name tag Pruitt, asked.

  ‘Fenton had just returned home. There was one guard on duty at the gate, plus Fenton’s driver who doubles as a bodyguard. They both witnessed Fenton and an aide enter the property. The driver drove the car into a garage that is part of a separate annexe. The gate guard reported hearing what sounded like brief gunfire. He tried calling the two men on duty and also the house reception. When he received no reply he alerted the driver and directed him to observe the rear of the property. He then made a nine-one-one call.

  ‘The first police arrived in three minutes; once four patrol cars were in place officers and the security guards entered the house. They found this in the kitchen.’

  The screen image changed from a portrait shot of Grant Fenton to an interior image of a large kitchen. There were five bodies lying on the floor. Dawson used a laser pointer to count through the dead. ‘These two are security guards. This is Carly Yeomans, Fenton’s P.A. Next is Martha, Fenton’s second wife, and finally Elaine Fenton, his twenty-two-year-old daughter. They had all had their throats cut.’

  ‘Jesus.’ Ben glanced to his right, the speaker was a young red-haired soldier with the name Trudel.

  ‘Grant Fenton’s body was discovered in the master bedroom. He had multiple gunshot wounds to the chest. Crime Scene Investigators are on site so we do not have definitive identification of the weapon used but initial reports suggest an assault rifle.’

  ‘Must be at least four bad guys to overcome that many people without any alarm.’ Martin Rettig sat opposite Ben.

  ‘The number of attackers is unknown. Local SWAT units swept the house and grounds and no trace of the attackers was found. The property is monitored internally and externally. We’ve managed to get a prohibition on the digital recordings. Our specialists will be reviewing them in the morning. Until then, there’s a C-21 due to land at Kenyon in one hour. You’ll leave on it as soon as ground crews can turn it around. Any questions?’

  ‘Do we have any indications from our civilian teams of what may have or be happening?’ Kramer asked.

  ‘I’ve had three of them woken. They’re being talked through the incident now. If we get any hard information it will be forwarded to you.’

  ‘Where did this incident take place?’ Sergeant Jason Buhl asked.

  ‘Fenton’s main residence in Seattle,’ Dawson said.

  ‘Are there any reports of other damage inside the house?’ Ben asked. ‘Like burn marks or scorching?’

  ‘Nothing yet,’ Dawson told him. ‘We have a direct feed from any findings C.S.I. make. You’ll be included in the circulation of any findings.’

  No one else spoke up, Dawson nodded once. ‘I want you on site as soon as possible. If this is what we think it is it will be the first time it has occurred on U.S. soil. That will be a major threat to our security, and we need to stop it immediately.’

  Kramer stood, ending the meeting. Ben watched her team move out. There wasn’t much chat. They were professional men ready to do their work. He headed out of the room as well, aware that he needed to be ready. Back in his room, he had no idea how long he would be gone. So he stuck a few items into a washbag, a couple of changes of clothing into a backpack and headed to the elevator.

  Cold night air filled the hangar. The door had been half opened to allow a fuel bowser to meet the incoming C-21. Kramer’s team were already there, sorting through a couple of boxes that Ben saw were full of weapons and ammunition. He didn’t ask if they were expecting a war. These men had faced down the African creatures so they knew what to expect.

  Kramer and Dawson came across to him, and the General said, ‘We pretty much have confirmation from Alan Sieting, he’s our psychophoner. He’s been relaying messages from one of the victims. It looks like entry into the house was made in their words ‘by magic’.’

  ‘Does he just talk or can we communicate with the consciousness that’s using him?’

  ‘He just talks, and mostly it’s all repetitive. You’ve got to remember that this is the spirit of someone who has recently died a violent death. They’re not going to be in control of themselves.’

  ‘It was the same with the African village,’ Kramer said. ‘Sieting relayed messages from victims in both Arabic and a local dialect. Two languages that he had no ability to speak before but all we got was comments like ‘they’re killing us’ and ‘monsters, monsters’.’

  One of the hangar crew called over to say the C-21 was on final approach. Dawson looked at Ben and said, ‘Whatever evidence and information is gathered you will need to analyse. We’ll relay anything our civilians produce but you have eyes on the ground so use them. We need to get a lead on these people.’

  ***

  Alan Sieting wore a dark dressing gown over his paisley pyjamas. His usual you-can-trust-me smile was missing as he sat slumped in a soft blue armchair. He sat in semi-darkness, unaware of the five video cameras, two of them thermographic, that filmed him from different angles. There were also four separate audio recordings being made and monitors wired to his head and chest were recording his physical reactions to the consciousness that spoke through him. Two parapsychologists sat in the room with Alan and two more occupied an adjoining room monitoring all the feeds.

  Right now, tears ran down Alan Sieting’s face. ‘I’m dead,’ he whispered. ‘I’m dead.’

  Claire Attreed leant forward and said, ‘We understand, but please don’t hurt the man you are with.’

  Sieting’s head rose a fraction, seeking the source of Claire’s voice as i
f he was blind. ‘I’m dead,’ he said again.

  Claire sat back. Across the room, her colleague Ross Wilkinson watched a spike in Alan’s vital signs as his blood pressure rose. Ross had to stop a smile from spreading across his face. Six months earlier he had been the one faculty member of a mid-west college dealing in parapsychology. He wouldn’t have called himself a laughing stock, although some of the other faculty might have. His department lived in an old stable block with a roof that leaked and cockroaches for company. When the new Christian backers of the college found out about his research his funding dropped to zero. An assistant vice-principal then suggested he ‘look for opportunities elsewhere’.

  ‘Who’s laughing now?’ he thought, watching the blood pressure reading drop a fraction. The good old boys who wrote the cheques thought they knew everything. But the last six months made Ross realise he rode the leading edge of a new wave of research. The government had finally come through; Ross and his colleagues now received the kind of backing and respect they had never had before. It all came down to money. And subjects who were actually psychically skilled.

  Ross glanced at Claire and suppressed another smile. Nights like this turned her from a researcher into a woman. Dealing with the spirit world turned her on and Ross could look forward to spending four or five hours in her room once Sieting was asleep. ‘Where am I?’

  That made Ross blink. He looked at Sieting. The older man no longer slumped in his chair but sat upright and gazed steadily around the room. Ross turned his head to Claire and met her wide eyes with his own questioning look. ‘I asked where am I?’ Sieting spoke again, in a way that demanded an answer.

  ‘You are in a secure government facility,’ Claire said.

  ‘Where?’ Sieting asked.

  Claire sent an uncertain glance at Ross. He shook his head and touched a button on the desk beside him. ‘Greg?’ he whispered. ‘Are you getting this?’

  ‘Sure am,’ the reply came into the headset Ross wore. ‘This is incredible.’

  ‘Who are you talking to?’ Sieting turned his head a little at a time, as if the bones of his neck were rusted together.

  ‘One of my colleagues,’ Ross said.

  Sieting studied Ross for a moment. His head turned slowly again until he faced the wall to his right. A hand rose and he pointed. ‘Behind there,’ Sieting said.

  Ross felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. He didn’t know what to say and a look at Claire showed her eyes wide with fear. Sieting turned to them again, a frown on his face. ‘This body is not good,’ he said.

  ‘Why?’ Claire asked.

  ‘The heart.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ Ross said, ‘you should release him. To save causing harm.’

  ‘No.’

  Lost for words, Ross could only stare at Sieting as in his headset Greg said, ‘Keep him talking.’

  ‘Why won’t you release him?’

  ‘You haven’t told me where we are.’

  ‘We have,’ Claire said, sounding a little more confident now. ‘We are in a secure government facility.’

  ‘Where?’

  Claire and Ross shared another quick glance.

  ‘We can’t tell you,’ Ross said.

  Sieting smiled almost derisively. ‘Yes you can.’

  ‘No.’ Ross shook his head. ‘I’m sorry, but we can’t. It’s our procedure.’

  ‘This man will die,’ the voice said.

  ‘What man?’ Ross watched spikes appear on Sieting’s readouts. Blood pressure and heart rate jumped off the scale. He reached for an ampoule of propofol, ready to inject the relaxant into Sieting.

  ‘He is weak. His body is weak. He will die.’

  ‘Then release him. We can speak to you again when he is feeling stronger.’

  ‘I don’t want to release him.’

  Claire and Ross exchanged a glance. She saw him holding the propofol and nodded. Ross stood, moving towards Sieting. The psychic watched him approach. Ross had the drug ready to administer, figuring to go into the thick muscle of Sieting’s thigh.

  Sieting hit him. Ross never saw the blow coming. He just felt the impact as a blast of pain as his cheekbone fractured. He fell back, taking cameras and cables with him. Ross heard Claire scream. Tears filled his eyes and the image of Sieting blurred as the psychic rose from his chair. Ross spat puke from his mouth as he reached out to grab Sieting’s ankle. The psychic stamped down on Ross’s hand. Bones shattered. Ross saw Claire run to the door. Her fingers jabbed at the security keypad. Sieting got to within arm’s length of her when the door opened. Claire threw herself out of the room and the door slammed shut behind her. Ross heard the electronic chime of the lock secure.

  Sieting seemed to study the door before turning back to Ross. ‘What is the code?’

  Ross shook his head, feeling lightning bolts of pain in his face and neck. Sieting came closer. Ross still lay where he had fallen. He used his legs to shuffle back as he tried to find a path between camera tripods and ECG machines. Sieting stepped on Ross’s ankle. ‘Tell me,’ Sieting said.

  ‘No.’ Ross tasted bile in his mouth. He wondered how he could be so brave.

  Sieting leant close. ‘I will kill you,’ he said. ‘And then I will return and kill the rest.’

  The door opened. Ross saw two security guys come in. They wore full combat gear and had sub-machine guns braced to their shoulders. Sieting turned towards them. They gave him no warning. Both fired and Ross saw the rounds blow through the psychic in a spray of flesh and blood. Sieting fell across Ross, the heat of his blood like a warm bath. Ross stared up at the single ceiling light and thought he saw a twisted spirit staring down at him in hunger.

  ***

  Jane DeForrest woke in the dark to her daughter’s shout of terror. She reached her daughter before the light from the bedside lamp had time to illuminate the room. Emily slept in a small side room, something that had once been a stationery store converted now to a bedroom. Jane saw her daughter sitting up in her bed. Her eyes staring into the shadows.

  ‘Emily? Em?’ Jane sat on the bed. She put her arms around her daughter and pulled her close. Emily’s head rested on Jane’s shoulder. ‘It’s okay. You’re just dreaming.’

  ‘No.’ Emily shook her head. ‘No, I wasn’t dreaming.’

  ‘Honey, you were asleep.’

  ‘Mommy.’ Emily pulled back a little, looking up at Jane. ‘There are monsters coming.’

  Jane took a breath to calm herself; ever since they had come to this base she had worked hard to try and make it like Emily was living a normal life. But how normal could things be when they were living below ground and Emily’s best friends were either middle-aged psychics or a bunch of soldiers who had adopted Emily as their mascot.

  ‘Where are they coming to?’ Jane asked.

  ‘Here,’ Emily said.

  ***

  Ben stood in a barren world of bare rock and dust. Ahead of him, glowing through a fine mist, hung the golden arches of a McDonalds. Ben felt the pull of the restaurant in his gut, as if a giant hand had taken hold of his insides. He dug his heels in, resisting the urge to move forward. He didn’t want to take one step more.

  So the restaurant came to him. It slid over damaged ground; broken asphalt and shattered concrete. Ben saw a hand come out of a fracture in the land. A dirty, bloodied hand that reached for him and seized his ankle. It held him in place as the McDonalds slid nearer with a grinding roar that filled Ben’s ears. Ben tried to step back but the hand, more like a talon now as its claws sunk into his flesh, held firm. The restaurant reached Ben and absorbed him. It sucked Ben in through plate glass windows to a cool space of shouted orders and the heavy scent of cooking oil.

  A child ran past, carrying a Happy Meal. A girl called out to her friend. A fat Korean guy in an overcoat stopped in front of Ben and smiled.

  ‘Scarrett? Scarrett?’

  Ben woke with empty lungs. He stared hard at Joanne Kramer as she shook him awake. ‘You okay?’ she looked concern
ed, almost like she might care for him.

  ‘Yeah.’ He pushed himself upright in the airline seat. He only remembered where he was until he saw the men asleep across the aisle from him. Ben wiped at his face and said, ‘It was just a dream.’

  ‘Maybe more like a nightmare?’ Kramer suggested. ‘I woke you before you made too much noise and disturbed the others.’

  Ben had his breathing back under control now so he nodded his thanks, mumbled an excuse and headed to the small rest room at the rear of the passenger cabin. Once inside he relaxed a bit. He didn’t want Kramer getting any wrong ideas about him, and cursed the dream for hitting him when it did.

  They’d left Kenyon pretty much on schedule. Chasing the hours west towards Seattle. There hadn’t been much space in the C21 once all the team were on board, and Ben had found the only spare seat was next to Joanne Kramer. There hadn’t been much to say. The hour was late and the alert from Dawson had woken them both. So Ben had pretty much gone straight to sleep. Looking in the mirror he saw his eyes were bloodshot. Splashing cold water on his face helped the eyes a little and woke him up a bit more. Anyway, Ben knew from experience that he would find getting to sleep difficult after the dream.

  When he returned to his seat he found Kramer talking on a satellite phone that one of the flight crew had brought through to her. The co-pilot hovered to one side, getting an eyeful of Kramer. Ben spoiled his party by dropping into the seat beside her.

  ‘And have there been any developments from Seattle?’ he heard her ask. ‘Okay, I’ll be in touch once we are on the ground.’

  She ended the call and handed the phone back to the co-pilot with a distracted smile. When the guy had disappeared back to the flight deck she said, ‘Alan Sieting is dead.’

  ‘Sieting?’ Ben frowned, recalling the name. ‘One of the psychics?’

  ‘Yeah, thin guy with sandy coloured hair. The psychophoner.’

  ‘But he looked fine earlier.’

  ‘Well, he’s not now. That was General Dawson on the phone. They had Sieting in one of the labs to see if he could contact any of the Fenton victims. He had a consciousness talking through him when another took control. And this time the team in the room actually had a partial conversation with the spirit.’