Forging the Nightmare: A Jarrod Hawkins Technothriller

by J. J. Carlson

  Eugene furrowed his brow. “You mean like using excessive force in armed conflict. Seems dangerous, for Jarrod, I mean. Having his hands tied like that could leave him vulnerable.”

  “It hasn't been an issue. At least, not in the simulations. I've been told Phase Three is supposed to provide him additional protection against small arms fire, but I'm doubtful.”

  “Does he normally kill the simulated enemies?”

  “No, he never does.” Emily closed her eyes tight and pinched the bridge of her nose for a moment. “And after all of their planning, they want to throw it all away by making him more aggressive. They aren't seeing the results they want in training, and they think the solution is to turn him into a psychopath.”

  “Wagner thinks Phase Three will make Jarrod more controllable,” Eugene said. “If you ask me, it’s better to leave him the way he is now, and focus on training.” He sighed. “But I'm just a grunt, I don't get paid to make the big decisions.

  Something caught Eugene’s attention, and he added, “Heads up, it looks like he's approaching the house.”

  Jarrod moved quickly through the dense underbrush of the simulated South Carolina forest, then slowed as the vegetation became sparser. Tall pine trees provided overhead cover, but there was little concealment in the understory. Crouching down, he stopped at the edge of the woods to observe the open ground ahead of him. A gravel driveway led up to a large garage to the north; on the south end, a pair of black Chevy Impalas were parked behind a Ford Bronco and a Mercedes sedan.

  Jarrod recalled his objectives: Eliminate or incapacitate three armed combatants within the structure, secure civilian hostage if possible. Jarrod skirted the tree line, passing the parked sedans. He eyed the Ford for a moment. It was an old Bronco, and it felt strangely familiar. The dent in the front right fender, the aftermarket swamp lights, the chipped paint on the hood...

  Jarrod dismissed the thoughts. They weren’t actionable intel. Settling into a patch of tall grass, he watched the house in silence for nearly ten minutes. When he felt confident no one had seen him, he stole across the yard and skirted the outside wall of the garage. He recognized the model of the home’s security system by a keypad near the far corner, and knew it would be easy to bypass. He just had to remove the panel and—

  CLACK! CLACK CLACK! There was a sound like a hammer striking plywood, which he recognized as gunfire from a Heckler & Koch MP5 fitted with a suppressor. Staying low, he ran toward the source of the noise. He halted by a window next to the front door and carefully peered inside. The body of a young boy lay slumped against the front door, blood pooling around him. The image sent a jolt of recognition up Jarrod’s spine.

  Flattening himself against the ground, Jarrod dragged himself to the front door. He considered different ways to bypass the heavy locks, but once he saw the keypad on the front door, he was struck with another feeling of familiarity. Staying as flat as possible, he reached up and punched in a 9-digit code. A green LED flashed and the lock clicked. Without hesitation, Jarrod pulled the door open, reached in with one arm, and yanked the boy's body outside. A spurt of gunfire splintered the door as he slammed it shut. He dragged the small corpse out of the way and, momentarily concealed in the bushes, stopped to study the boy's features. Jarrod shut his eyes tight, trying to hold back the images of his son that flooded his mind. His instincts battled an irrational, emotional urge. Bloodlust and logic fought for supremacy until, all at once, the different parts of his brain struck a compromise. His primary objective twisted into something new. The quick, clean plan to incapacitate his enemies was rejected in favor of something much darker.

  Eugene ripped the glasses off of his face, the image of Josh's lifeless body burning in the forefront of his mind. “This is messed up, Emily. I can't watch you screw with someone's head like this.”

  Emily stood up so fast her chair tipped over. “You think I enjoy this? You think I would ever do this if I thought there was another way? If I can prove to Wagner that Jarrod will act irrationally when faced with an emotionally charged scenario, then maybe, just maybe, he'll pull the plug on phase three. Please, put the glasses back on. For Jarrod's sake.”

  “What do you mean, irrationally? Is there a way for him to fail this scenario?”

  “Yes,” said Emily. “Every simulation comes with an algorithm-derived solution that provides for the best chance of success while ensuring Jarrod’s survival. He isn’t given the solution when we plug him in, but so far, he’s never missed. He takes the ideal path every single time. In this scenario, his best option is to disable the enemy vehicles and set the house on fire, forcing the armed combatants to evacuate the house.”

  “So, what’s the likely outcome of the simulation if he doesn’t?” Eugene asked.

  “He’ll probably be killed. The computerized opponents are well armed and highly aggressive.”

  Eugene took a deep breath and exhaled slowly, then slipped on the glasses. “Alright. Let’s see if he takes the bait.”

  Jarrod reached out and caressed the boy's bloodied face, then sprinted around the side of the house. With startling agility, he climbed to a low portion of the roof, then moved around the outside of the house and climbed further. At the roof's apex, he put his fist through an attic window. With a bloodied hand, he reached in, unlocked it, and slid it open. He then crept noiselessly through the attic and climbed out the window on the opposite side. He slid down the roof, stopping himself by grabbing the edge. Suspended from a gutter, he kicked a bedroom window, which shattered loudly.

  He immediately pulled himself back up and slipped back into the attic window. As quietly as a ghost, he moved to the attic trap-door. Pushing it downward, he peaked into the upstairs hallway. When he saw the coast was clear, he hung from one arm and dropped to the floor.

  “Pretty slick,” Eugene noted. “Threw them off of his point of entry and provided a distraction at the same time.” Emily didn't respond. She leaned back in her chair, chewing the end of a pen.

  Jarrod entered the virtual reproduction of his master bedroom. Just inside the door, a man stood facing away with a shotgun in his hands. Another man with an M-4 assault rifle slung over his back investigated the window more closely. He lifted the pane and stuck his head outside.

  Jarrod snaked an arm around the first man’s neck. Squeezing hard, he collapsed the man's windpipe and dragged him into the hallway. The man dropped the shotgun and clawed at Jarrod's arm. Jarrod kept up the pressure and reached down the man's side. He pulled a knife from the man's hip, rotated it, and shoved it into the base of his skull. His victim jerked, then fell limp.

  Easing the man to the floor, Jarrod slipped back into the room. The man with the assault rifle was hanging halfway out the window, surveying the property. Jarrod crept into the walk-in closet, and crouched behind the door. The man pulled his head back inside and shut the window. Realizing his teammate was missing, he snapped his rifle up. With heel-to-toe steps, he approached the hallway and checked around the corner, his finger on the trigger.

  Taking advantage of the distraction, Jarrod moved out of his hiding spot. The man heard him coming, but it was too late. Jarrod grabbed the hand guards on the man's rifle and thrust upward, slamming the metal carbine into the man’s face over and over again. The man squeezed the trigger, shaking the room with the concussion of the discharge. Jarrod didn't even flinch. The front sight post dug into the man's temple, and he lost consciousness. Jarrod unslung the weapon from around the man’s shoulder and pushed him toward the ground. He took a step closer to the unconscious victim’s head and, raising his right knee, drove his heel into the man's throat.

  Eugene winced. “I take it that's not standard procedure.”

  “No,” Emily whispered.

  Jarrod dashed down the hallway; enemy footsteps were fast approaching from the kitchen. Before his next target rounded the corner to the stairs, Jarrod jumped over the railing and landed in the living room. A moment later, the hostile charged up the stairs with an MP5.
He stopped to look down at his fallen compatriots and was distracted a moment too long. Jarrod reached to top of the stairs and launched a powerful kick into his lower back. The man toppled forward, but Jarrod stayed with him. Reaching under the man's elbow, he hit the magazine release on the MP5. The thirty-round magazine dropped to the floor with a clunk. Jarrod pulled downward on the submachine gun, and the chambered round fired harmlessly into the floor.

  He kept pulling on the submachine gun, spinning the man around to face him. Pivoting on his toes and generating force with his hips, Jarrod struck the man in his chin. The computer-generated enemy stumbled backward, regaining his footing too late to stop the next attack. Rushing after him, Jarrod kicked downward on top of the man’s right knee, which pitched backwards. The simulated opponent didn't cry out from the injury, but only because it wasn’t set to animate pain responses. Jarrod grabbed the man before he could collapse and smashed his head into the wall. The man's body went limp, but Jarrod held him up and began pummeling his face with elbow strikes.

  Eugene looked on in horror. The man's face was completely disfigured, but the attacks didn’t stop. He had seen enough. In a cold voice, he said, “Wake him up.”

  “I can't,” Emily said, shaking her head. “I have to move the simulation to a neutral location first, or he might wake up disoriented.”

  Eugene pulled the glasses off. “Wake him up, now!”

  Emily turned and tapped the screen twice, then slid a bar from right to left. Jarrod jolted in his chair and inhaled forcefully. He glanced around the room with wide eyes, then stood up and walked toward the door, staring at Emily as he went.

  Eugene took a step forward. “It's alright, buddy. You did good. You gave ‘em what they deserved. Now let's get you back to your quarters so you can get some rest.”

  Jarrod walked out of the room. With a grim face, Eugene said, “I sure hope you know what you're doing,” then followed him out.

  Emily nodded her head. When the door closed, she mumbled, “Me too.”

  Sighing, she grabbed a disinfecting wipe and started cleaning the sweat off Jarrod's chair. When she got to the stainless-steel arms, she froze. The square hand rests had been crushed into tight, metallic balls.

  15

  Wagner rubbed at tired eyes. “I read your report Eugene, but I don't share your opinion that Four-Seven-Charlie is a threat to this facility's security.”

  Eugene shifted in his seat. “He’s becoming less predictable every day. It's hard for me to explain, but since the simulation a week ago, he seems...different.”

  “I assume that you are referring to Dr. Roberts' scenario in the subject’s house. I must say that the results I saw in the virtual playback were impressive. However, I have seen nothing in his behavior to substantiate the claim that he has experienced some sort of psychological shift. He still refuses to attack human sparring partners, and his demeanor remains largely docile. Has he shown any aggression toward you or anyone else outside of a simulation?”

  “No,” Eugene admitted, “he hasn't. But I think it's only a matter of time. I'm telling you, he's different. He was like a machine before—head and eyes straight forward, only doing what he was told. Every day was the same, he was always standing where I expected him to stand, moving how I expected him to move. Now, it's as if he's taking everything in. His eyes are always roaming. I turn away for a second and he's on the opposite side of the room. There’s something else, too…the guards keep reporting unexplained 'malfunctions' in their weapons when they check them at the end of the day.”

  Wagner's tone turned condescending. “And have the security cameras picked up on any of this alleged tampering?”

  “No,” Eugene replied, “which is even more unsettling. Something is going on, and we have no one else to blame for it. We've experienced sporadic power outages on two separate floors, without any identifiable cause or explanation. One of the guards even reported that paperwork has gone missing from his locker. I'm worried that this behavior might escalate, and someone could get hurt.”

  “Wouldn't that be a happy surprise! Up to this point, I've seen no indication that our experimental weapon is even capable of hurting anyone. From my point of view, you and Doctor Roberts are blaming the subject for your own mistakes.”

  With an air of finality, Wagner added, “You will continue the training as planned. When I am confident that Four-Seven-Charlie is capable of meeting objectives in the real world, we will proceed with Phase Three. Until then, try to provide some proof for the claims that you’re making against him.”

  Eugene’s jaw tightened. “Yes sir. I'm sure it won't be long before I have something to report.” Shoving his chair back, he marched out of the room.

  A few minutes later, Eugene met with Daron and Jarrod in the facility’s lowest level. They were standing in front of a black door, and Daron was briefing Jarrod on a training scenario.

  “We've set up an assortment of security measures on the other side of this door,” Daron said, “Do whatever it takes to get past them without triggering any alarms. At the far end of the corridor, there is a computer data stick that you must retrieve. Remember, we will be monitoring the sound levels in the course. Get too loud, and it's mission failure. You'll have five minutes to get in and get out. Good luck.”

  Daron pulled the door open for Jarrod, who examined its frame before walking inside. Daron pushed the door closed, then beckoned for Eugene to follow him. They rounded a corner and approached a monitor built into the wall. Daron typed a code into the left side of the screen and a security feed lit up the display.

  Daron nodded toward the screen. “This is the footage from the course. There are cameras hidden in the ceiling at regular intervals. This way we can his techniques as he moves through. If there are any issues, we can give feedback to mental conditioning.”

  Eugene nodded, then mumbled, “Things didn’t go well with Wagner.”

  “I told you,” Daron said, “the man’s like a freight train. He’s incapable of turning left or right when he has his mind set on something.”

  “Yeah. I just thought I could reach him if he knew the staff was in danger, but he won’t budge until we have proof.” Eugene frowned. “Shouldn’t we be able to see Jarrod right now?”

  Daron tapped the screen, cycling through the different cameras. Jarrod wasn’t visible on any of them. “Hmm. Maybe I can get him on the audio feed,” Daron said. “He dialed up the sensitivity of the microphones hidden in the course. There was a scratching noise, and then silence. Daron looked puzzled.

  “What's wrong?” Eugene asked.

  “It's strange…with the mic turned up this high I should be able to hear the kid think. I've got it cranked all the way up and I can’t hear a thing.”

  Suddenly, the security feed went blank. Daron tapped the monitor, but it gave no response.

  “A glitch in the system, is all. Nothing to worry about.” Eugene didn’t try to hide his sarcasm.

  “Sure…a glitch,” Daron said, frowning. “We'd better go check it out.”

  They hurried around the corner and pushed through the door into the course. It was pitch-black inside. Daron produced a flashlight, and they hadn't taken more than a few steps when the door closed behind them.

  “Jarrod?” Eugene called out, rushing back toward the entrance. Daron followed him back out into the hallway. Jarrod was nowhere in sight.

  “Did you see him?” Eugene asked.

  Daron shook his head. “No.” He handed Eugene the flashlight. “Why don't you head back in, I'll see if I can get the cameras back up.”

  Eugene almost felt guilty for the anxiety he felt as he walked back into the course. Jarrod had never given him any reason to worry for his own safety, and it felt like betrayal to even entertain the idea of an attack. Still, he was relieved when the overhead lights came back on.

  Sticking his head out the door, he said, “It looks like you fixed it.”

  “I didn't do anything,” Daron said. “It just came back on
by itself.”

  Eugene pulled his head back through the doorway and jumped when he realized Jarrod was standing right behind him.

  “Jeez, buddy. You about gave me a heart attack. Did you get the data stick?” Jarrod gave no response, and pushed past him into the hallway.

  “Hold up, kid,” Daron said, pressing a hand against Jarrod's chest. “We need to figure out what went wrong in there.” Jarrod stopped and remained still.

  “It's no use,” Eugene said as he stepped out from behind Jarrod. “This guy's not much of a talker. I'll write it up in my report so Wagner can ignore it later. C'mon, I think it's about time for lunch anyway.”

  The trio made their way to the cafeteria and sat down. Jarrod popped a food block into his mouth and stared at the table as he chewed. Eugene watched him out of the corner of his eye as he bit into an apple. Across the room, a pair of security guards unslung their weapons, sat down, and started unpacking their lunchboxes. Suddenly, one of the guards started cursing.

  He stood up and looked furiously around the room. “Is this some sort of joke?” Who the hell did this? You think this is funny?”

  “Calm down, Phil,” the other guard said. “What happened?”

  The first guard's voice was contorted with anger, and his eyes glistened with tears. “Somebody put this in my lunch,” he said, slamming a note down on the table.

  Daron caught a glimpse of it as the other guard picked it up, and a gasp escaped his lips. Scrawled in child-like handwriting were the words, “I miss you daddy.”

  The guard’s fiery gaze locked onto, who continued to stare at the table. “You!” he shouted. Snatching his weapon off the table, he stormed across the room Jarrod.

  Daron intercepted him. He put his hands on the guard's shoulders and spoke in low tones. “Phil, stop. We don't know who did this, and there's no way we'll figure it out right here or right now. Why don't you take the rest of the day off?”