The Devil's Dream: A Nightmare

by David Beers

  “President’s aware of it too. There’s good news and then there’s really bad news. The really bad news is that at least a few of the scientists pulled into that meeting see this whole thing as possible. We already have the power to split an atom. That’s basically what we’re talking about here, is an atom bomb. The bomb dropped on Hiroshima split an atom, which caused all the destruction. So, we’ve been able to do it for years, practically every developed country in the world can. What we think Brand is talking about is something like building one hundred, billion, trillion atom bombs and then launching them at the sun.”

  “And they think that’s possible?” Jake asked, not realizing he was about to speak until the words had left his mouth. Both men looked at him.

  “Some think it may be.” Gyle went back to Art. “Not everyone, but probably six out of the ten in the room think Brand might be able to accomplish it. At least the part about splitting every atom in a human body. Where disagreement rises is whether he will have the ability to channel that energy and somehow fire it at the sun. Only one person said she thought it could be done, but her opinion rested on the fact that Brand was doing it. She said if anyone else attempted it, it wouldn’t be possible, which doesn’t really help us much.”

  “If he can harness the energy, but can’t direct it, it’ll simply blow up the world instead of the sun,” Jake spoke to himself, in awe at what that meant. He had heard the call made to Art, heard Brand say the human body contained seventy trillion suns inside of it. If he failed in taking all of that energy and hitting the sun with it, everything would explode right where he extracted it from. There would be no more world. There probably wouldn’t be a sun either, because the detonation might even encapsulate objects that far off.

  Both Art and Gyle were looking at Jake. “Smart, but doesn’t really stay quiet, huh?” Gyle asked.

  “He actually hasn’t said much the whole trip over. I guess he was holding it in for this meeting.”

  “He’s right,” Gyle continued. “So we have a sixty percent chance that Brand can split all those atoms. The rest doesn’t really matter. Whether or not he takes them and fires them at the sun like some kind of super missile or it blows up in his face, we’re dead if that sixty percent is right.”

  “Jesus fucking Christ,” Art said, putting a finger to each of his temples. “There’s good news?”

  “Kind of. As long as he’s putting bodies across the city of Boston, nailing them up to crosses and what not, he’s going to have a tougher time collecting the bodies he needs for all those atoms.”

  “That’s our good news?” Art asked. “So we’re not going to publish what he wants us to publish? We’re not going to tell the world what’s going on?”

  “We’re not going to tell anyone. Not our allies, not the newspapers here, no one. We’re going to find Brand on our own, and until we do, let him crucify as many people as he wants. If we do anything else, if we tell anyone about this, the entire world is going to want in. The UN, China, Russia, everyone will attempt to have some kind of police force in America, all of them trying to find Brand. It’ll be a cluster of cosmic proportions.”

  “How are we going to find him, then?”

  Gyle leaned back in his chair and looked up at the ceiling. “That’s the hard part, isn’t it? If he keeps up this crucifixion nonsense, it’ll be pretty easy to capture him. We’ll simply wait for a black guy in a white van to drive into Boston, pull him out of the van, and arrest him. He’s not that stupid though. No matter how much we want him to keep crucifying dead people and littering the city with them, he’s going to figure out some other way to get his message out.” Gyle looked down from the ceiling and over at Jake. “You got kids? Parents?”

  “Parents, sir. No kids.”

  Gyle nodded. “Your grandkids, Art. We’re going to need to get them locked down pretty hard. It would be much easier for Brand to grab up someone close to us and ransom them off for his message. I don’t think the President would go for it, but it would be a better idea than the current one he’s running with. Jake, you’re going to want to have your parents go into hiding for a while, if you plan on staying with us. If you’d rather not work with us so that your parents don’t need to go into hiding, Art and I would understand, but that’s just the way this is going to be played out unfortunately.”

  Gyle paused, swallowed, and then continued. “Everything we have is going to be focused in Massachusetts. Everything. Every missing person that comes up, every sighting of Arthur Morgant. The scientists are making up a list of what they think Brand might need to do all this, and we’re going to trace every piece of metal on that list bought in the past four years, and see what shows up in Mass. When we leave here, Art, you’re going to want to have Arthur Morgant’s picture on every newspaper, news program, and internet website you can think of—that’s the man we’re looking for, and we’re looking for him because he’s hanging people on crucifixes. His name isn’t Arthur Morgant; it’s whatever you want it to be. We don’t want anyone tracing this back to The Wall and then making inferences that it’s Brand. Get a team together, Art. Pull in everything we have. The scientists say there really isn’t any time limit on this thing. As soon as he has fifty-five bodies, they said he can go ahead and start. He needs fifty-one more.”

  “I didn’t want to speak in there—” Jake started.

  “Really? Seemed like you did to me,” Art broke in, both of them walking down the hall leading away from Gyle James’ office.

  “I mean, I didn’t want to say anything bad about his plan. That can’t really be what we’re considering doing, is it? Bringing everyone in the FBI to Boston and having them, do what, look around for a black guy driving a white van?”

  Art laughed. “What do you think we should do? We need people here and we need to start looking. As leads turn up, we’re going to follow them and adjust our plans.”

  “Brand needs fifty-one bodies. That’s a lot. Last time he wanted four and look at the mess he made. Fifty-one? He can’t get them the same way he did last time. He’s not going to be able to keep this crucifixion thing up much longer either. He has to know that. He made his point, that he’s serious about us telling the world, but he won’t have the time to continue this, and after this morning, he won’t be able to drive an inch into Boston without someone recognizing him. The crucifixion thing is done, so what other leads are we going to be looking for?”

  Art stopped and turned to Jake. “I’m not going to pull the ‘how many years have you been doing this’ card, but if you’re going to shit on what the FBI Director just told us to do, have something better to put in its place.”

  “All I’m saying is, finding that many bodies is going to be hard. Especially if you’re taking them from the general population. He won’t be able to fly across the country and grab them one by one. He won’t be able to take them from families like he did last time, because it’s too many and we’ll find out too fast. He’s going to have to look outside of the general population, and the easiest way to do that is to take the homeless. No one misses them. No one knows they exist until they’re asking for money. That’s where we need to be looking. The crucifix stuff is over, and he’s going to start pulling large amounts of people soon.”

  Art both loved and hated DC. He hated it because of the people that lived here. The vast majority of a liberal breed so pure that Art was shocked they hadn’t created laws to kick out anyone who even hinted at conservative thoughts. Not that Art was a huge conservative, just that he really wasn’t a fan of liberals. He lived amongst them because he had to, because his position at the FBI demanded he live in DC, and he made it a strict rule to never discuss politics with anyone within a hundred miles of the city. Once he got outside of a hundred miles, he’d begin discussing whatever was popular on the news, and his own ideology after a few drinks.

  He loved DC too, though. One reason was the ability to step outside of almost any building, walk three blocks in any direction, and find a Catholic c
hurch. The good Catholics had decided to populate the nation’s capital with buildings, and that was fine by Art. He had his church that he went to each week, but getting over to St. Gregory’s during the middle of the day, like right now, wasn’t going to happen.

  Still, he needed some time to be alone with God, to think, to pray. He could always do that in his office, but interruptions happened there. Prayer wasn’t as respected as much as Art would have liked, and right now, he didn’t want any interruptions. He briefed Jake on who Jake would need to begin speaking with, allowed him use of his office, and told Jake that he would be back in a little bit. Art didn’t mind working twenty-four hours a day if needed, as long as he could take time to pray when it struck him.

  Art was glad he brought Jake to D.C. That insight into the homeless alone was something Art might not have seen. Someone else may have, and it could have risen up through the line, but not this quickly. Jake made it so that on day one, they would have the ability to watch the homeless shelters, to know who was coming up missing.

  “I have blind spots. I’m old. Nearing sixty now and my blind spots are worse even than what they were four years ago,” he had told Jake. “Right there, you saw one of them, and Goddamn, it was a big one. That’s why you’re here. No other reason. That’s why I didn’t say shit when you spoke up in there. You’re going to get a lot of responsibility and really fast. You get to keep it as long as you don’t fuck up.”

  The kid said okay and then Art said he was going to pray.

  “You curse a lot to be going to pray.”

  “That’s why I need to go,” Art said and left Jake in his office.

  He walked outside of his building into the DC heat. People in Texas didn’t appreciate this heat. It might not be as hot as South Texas or Florida, but people weren’t walking around in three-piece suits every day in those places. They did in DC, so the lack of temperature was more than made up for by the added clothing. Art wiped at his forehead a few feet out onto the sidewalk but kept walking.

  It took him about ten minutes, but he arrived, his suit jacket draped over his arm and the back of his neck dripping sweat down into his shirt. He didn’t exactly love coming out in the middle of the day to pray, but sometimes it just couldn’t be avoided. Most of the time he would say something quietly at his desk, or maybe head to the john for a few minutes of silence. Today, though, none of those options would work.

  He opened the door to the massive cathedral, stepping into the atrium, feeling small immediately. That’s what Catholic churches did to people, and Art thought it good. The human race was nothing. All of their problems, all of their issues, all of their contrived self-importance was insignificant. The world had existed long before them and God long before that. In the end, they were all here because of God’s grace, and stepping into buildings like this helped remind Art of that. He walked through the atrium and into the actual cathedral, where he dutifully formed the sign of the cross, and then walked over to a pew midway through.

  The lights were dimmed as they always were at this time of the day. Art appreciated that as much as he did anything about this place, because it gave a sense of reverence and allowed him to focus easier. He bowed his head and closed his eyes, trying to find the place where he always spoke to God and sometimes God spoke back. Not often, but sometimes, if Art listened close enough.

  God.

  I’m scared pretty much shitless right now. Why did you create this man? I can’t even begin to understand how he’s running around in someone else’s body. It’s beyond me and yet you’ve put him in my way for the third time. The first time I hunted him to a cabin in the woods, the second time, to a warehouse, and now he’s here again. He’s here and he’s threatening to destroy everything you’ve created.

  I’m old. I’m not ready to retire exactly but I don’t know if I can do this. I don’t know if I can face this man down, if he’s even a man. I know Jesus asked for you to take the cup from his lips, that he didn’t want to drink from it. I don’t want to drink from it either, Lord. I don’t want anything to do with this and yet I’m not sure who else I can pass it too. There are other people in the Bureau, sure, but none that were there the last two times. I’m more scared at what failure means this time. It seems that no one is really considering that. The whole conversation with Gyle felt like we were talking about possibilities, but there wasn’t any real worry that we wouldn’t find him. That I wouldn’t find him. And what if I don’t?

  Am I responsible for the death of your world?

  Is that the weight which is actually being put on me right now?

  Art paused, letting his thoughts sink in. He didn’t open his eyes, but concentrated on whatever feeble connection he was making with God. The weight of the world was slowly descending on him in this cathedral—the realization that some seven billion people were counting on him. Were asking him, even though they didn’t know it, to keep them safe. He swallowed and turned his folded hands into fists, trying to stop their shaking.

  No one said those words to him in his office. No one told him, hey, this guy who’s threatening the world, he may actually be able to do the things he’s claiming, and we’re kind of looking at you to stop it, or we’re all going to die. No, it had been business as usual, like they were looking for some kind of bank robber.

  Now, bearing his soul to God, Art was coming to the realization that this was no bank robber, that Brand wanted more than money. He wanted seven billion lives. Seven billion souls.

  Art tried to swallow but there wasn’t any saliva left in his mouth.

  What the fuck am I supposed to do? Find him? Kill him? You do realize we killed him last time, right? We shot bullets through every part of his body, and he still came back. He still was able to implant his mind into someone else’s.

  So, what. The. Fuck. Am I supposed to do?

  Art fell silent for a long time. No more angry outbursts, no more questions, just silence. Someone looking in might have thought he was sleeping, such was his stillness. Art didn’t know much about meditation and he never tried to do it consciously, but when he prayed, when he felt his anger rising at a God he couldn’t understand, one that didn’t seem willing to make himself understandable, Art fell silent. He fell silent and listened for anything that God might give him. If nothing, fine. Art deserved nothing from God and so, while he might demand something in moments of anger, when he found his focus again, he realized that God was a being unto Himself. A being that could only be revered, not questioned.

  Your will not mine. In Jesus’ name, Amen.

  “You’re going to need to get out of town.”

  “Why?” Jake’s mother almost shrieked over the phone. “Out of town? What the hell are you talking about?”

  “Calm down, Martha. Let him talk,” Pete Deschaine said.

  “I can’t go into detail right now. I think you’ll hear about it soon enough, but you can’t stay where you are. You can’t go live with Aunt Belle or any of your friends from church. You need to get out of town, and I’d prefer out of the country.”

  Pete laughed, and Jake smiled in spite of the situation's gravity, smiled at his father’s voice, laced with that supreme confidence which permeated everything he did. Thirty years in the military did that to someone. It did a lot of other things, Jake understood, but it also created a sense that one had seen everything that could be seen, so why worry any longer?

  “Why do we need to leave? You got some loan sharks after you?” Pete asked.

  “No. I really can’t tell you, Dad. I can say though, that if you stay in the country, especially in Mississippi, much longer, you’re going to be in more danger than you would be if you headed to an island for a month or something. Just think of it as a vacation. We all know that you two have the money saved up, so you could do it and not feel anything financially.”

  “Maybe you’re right there, but I don’t like being run out of my home if I don’t know why,” Pete said.

  “How’s police work in Texas got
anything to do with your father and I in Mississippi?” Martha asked.

  “It doesn’t,” Jake answered.

  “Naw, it don’t, Martha. What Jake’s telling us here is he’s either gotten in some trouble with unsavory folks or he’s gotten a promotion. If it’s unsavory folks, then he doesn’t want us to know, and if he’s gotten a promotion, then he can’t tell us. That about the gist of it?” Pete asked.

  “Yes, sir, that is,” Jake said. His father was sir. Not every time, but a lot of the time and especially when Jake was trying to convey something important. He had said the same thing when his Dad told him he wasn’t to be drinking and driving after prom. “Yes, sir.” He hadn’t either. He had parked his car first, and then gotten about as drunk as a seventeen year old could get, throwing up all over his tuxedo but never returning to the car. Jake had built a life off his Dad believing him when he said ‘yes, sir.’

  He heard his Dad sigh into the phone. “Martha, you’re always saying you want to visit Mexico. How long of a trip should we take do you think, Jake?”

  “Three weeks for now. It might stretch out as long as two months, but I doubt that.”

  “Martha, we could use three weeks in the sun, and you know you’ll be half drunk the whole time, so it’ll feel like one week for you.”

  “Are you okay, Jake? Should I be worrying, because I’m going to be honest, I’m worrying pretty hard right now,” his mother said.

  “I’m fine, and no, don’t worry. I’m just taking precautions. You’re in no danger right now and most likely, if you were to stay, you would be fine. I just want to make sure.”