by Taylor Kole
He had the special right, Alex thought. “Hi, um, this is Alex Cutler, returning your call.”
“Good thing you called, Mr. Cutler. I couldn’t allow you to avoid me much longer.”
Alex rolled his eyes. “How can I help you?”
“We have a situation unfolding and would like your assistance.” He cleared his throat. “I may not hold the highest regard for the fast life you lead, but I reserve hope that when your country calls, in need of your expertise…” He paused as if that final word hurt him, then continued, “That when your country calls, you’ll be willing to push aside your arrogance and come to its aid.”
Alex droned his reply. “I’ve been advised not to speak with any member of law enforcement without my attorney.”
“Yes, yes, we’ve contacted Mr. Mueller. With what he charges, you should have heard from him by now.”
“I still think I should wait for his counsel before saying anything.”
“Let me speak,” Andrews said. “If you make the trip to the FBI building tomorrow morning, regardless of whether you decide to assist us or not, we will remove the GPS monitor from your ankle.”
Alex looked at the electronic manacle above his foot. Step one to seeing Rosa, Tara, or Rebecca Trevino outside of these walls without triggering his surveillance involved its removal. “Sure,” he said. “When do you need me?”
“As I said, tomorrow. Seven a.m. Try not to be late.” Another pause, then, “We’ve had disturbing… progressions, which other people feel you may be able to assist with.”
By the time he replied, “I’ll be there,” the line was dead.
With the phone in his hand, he considered calling Rebecca Trevino right then. Tossing the phone on the cushion, he decided to contact her at a more appropriate time.
Flopping against the back cushion, he tore open the package of E.L. Fudge cookies.
Recalling Andrews’s parting words, he tried to picture a progression more disturbing than the ones the world currently faced.
Chapter Thirty
A teenage Roy Guillen waited on a grassy field in a modifier room. A panorama of jungle unlike anything found on Earth waited before he and Charles. Trees as tall as skyscrapers crammed in an unnatural density, stretched as far as the eye could see. A pterodactyl-like avian glided before the wall of forest. A caw shattered the silence, and Roy jumped.
His throat constricted, his lips stayed dry despite his near constant licks. Stepping into the awaiting world would officially end the life he’d known for nearly nine decades.
“You all set?” a twelve-year-old Charles asked.
“I’m not sure how to answer that. I’m scared out of my wits.”
“Been some ride, hasn’t it?” Charles said.
Roy kept sight of the flying creature, his thoughts on his first marriage, the birth of his son, the later death of that son. “It’s just getting started, old friend.” His voice sounded high-pitched, mellifluous, sparking a question. “Do you remember what you sounded like at this age?”
“Probably like this,” Charles said with a coy smile.
“Not me. My voice was nasally. I had a lisp. Very distinct. It was a big reason I didn’t land a date until college. The words would logjam in my brain.”
“If you talked less?” Charles laughed. “I’d love to get that kid back?”
Roy chuckled. Despite the impossibility, he had recaptured his youth. “This is the most surreal moment of our lives,” He stared at the edge of Barchania, a land of enchantment, sorcery, and all forms of creatures. Due to the memory suppression, once they stepped from the modifier room to their chosen world, their knowledge of the past—marriages, children, finance, the world—would vanish. They’d become two young wood elves from a small fishing village. He searched Charles’s face. “Can a friendship survive a two-thousand-year life span?”
“With the correct self-awareness, of course.”
“Have you considered that if one of us dies, we’ll be kicked into the Lobby, where our new memories will mesh with our old? The one who dies will know this was part of our eternity in the Lobby, but the one who lives will be distraught over having lost a friend. Unaware they’re in a program.”
“I have. It’s really great.”
Roy breathed deeply.
“Our friendship will endure because we possess the two most important attributes for friendship: forgiveness and understanding.”
“You’re probably right,” Roy said with a twinge of nostalgia.
“Let’s make a pact. If one of us dies, we’ll visit San Francisco 1968 every new decade, on New Year’s Eve. That way one day, perhaps after centuries pass, we’ll reunite.”
Roy smiled. “That’s a deal.” He felt so alive, so ready to discard a thousand regrets and live new.
“Correct me if I’m wrong,” Charles said, “but the ultimate goal here is to locate the Staff of Eldwin and unite the kingdoms.”
“That’s one of the unattainable goals. As is the Horn of Domerly, which allows the owner to command titans.”
Both men went silent.
“What do you think Alex is up to?” Roy asked.
“He’ll be fine,” Charles said. “Things will improve. They always do. He has a wonderful wife, and soon they’ll start a family. With little ones running around, this will become a distant memory. If I had those things, you’d be starting this adventure on your own.”
Roy hoped his friend spoke the truth. Hurting Alex was one of the greatest regret of his earthly life. “I want him happy, is all.”
“He is. He’ll continue to be. No financial worries, a sharp mind, an ideal wife. You need to be worried about being torn in half by a giant troll.”
“Yeah,” Roy said. He clung to an image of Alex and Rosa at their wedding, smiled, and brushed the thoughts aside. Things would work out for Alex. “You ready to forget about our lives, start new ones?”
“As ready as I’ll ever be.” Charles clasped Roy’s shoulder. “Again, when one of dies, we will pop back in the Lobby and presumably remember this talk. San Francisco 1968, every new decade, New Year’s Eve.”
“Got it.” Roy hopped up and down to spike his adrenaline.
“No time like the present.” Charles strutted forward, met the forest, and disappeared into the portal.
Roy examined his smooth skin, sinewy arms, and enjoyed the healthy thump of his youthful heart. Never in a million daydreams had he envisioned something so marvelous. He’d miss Alex. He wished his great-granddaughter all the good fortunes life could provide. Striding toward the Barchanian forest, he found himself jubilant over the prospect of leaving behind everything he knew.
Chapter Thirty-One
General Koster had attended many meetings of magnitude throughout his illustrious military career. Nearly all of them took place in wing seven of the Pentagon, allotted for the United States Army.
Spotting a crucifix on the wall in the room he’d been summoned to brought immediate comfort. Thirty inches high, the artist had etched Jesus to perfection: emaciated body, muscles straining. His face was turned to the side and showed just a hint of anguish.
When taking all five floors into account, the Pentagon had seventeen-point-three miles of wide, marbled hallways. That made it over a hundred times the square footage of the White House, allowing it to offer ten times the situation rooms, and proportionately more problems.
Nearly as fabled as the Oval Office, the drama that unfolded within the Pentagon happened daily, covered a wider spectrum, and took place with less civility, and often with greater consequences at stakes.
The meeting rooms acted as refineries for most of the crucial talks presented to the president. With the current global strife, today’s meeting would likely be the most important of his life, and the first with little hope of reaching the President.
The stocky man in the gray suit introduced himself as Carter, but Koster had seen the Man of Gray before, ten years back, talking with a now retired two-star major general�
��the very man Koster replaced. His friend of two decades had stiffened when pressed about the identity of the short man in the restricted area, and the reason for the man’s presence.
Over the years, Koster had heard about the Man of Gray (under different names) heading strange projects. One employed mind control using intestinal bacteria and some form of communication with them. Another mixed hypnotic and mentalist fundamentals to create a form of persuasion capable of being administered within a handful of words, granting access to a person’s belief system. No one could hack Koster’s belief system. The world was black and white. No gray. No mercy. Just the devout against heathens.
Koster found the above experiments more legitimate than the common “he worked with aliens” angle. He knew enough about physics and the vastness of space to know the impossibility of leisure travel between galaxies. Excluding wormhole technology, if little gray men scoured the cosmos and found life, like shipwrecked sailors suffering from exposure, they would rush to the first person they saw, fall at their feet, and cry.
The Man in Gray dimmed the lights as if about to show a video. But with no screen present, Koster figured it was a ploy to dull his features, or to produce discomfort. A few of Koster’s peers griped about the lights affecting their vision, but to their chagrin, were ignored, which started the meeting on a clubfoot.
These men and women worked hard and were entitled to respect. Particularly from a man who, through some unorthodox means, sat higher than them on the chain of command.
As the Man in Gray started his sermon, Koster surveyed the room. To his left, Nadine Dewind, assistant to Terry Eding, CIA head; Brandon Palmer, presidential advisor; Jim Standly, FBI; Jeff VanNoord, NSA; Colonel Stafford; and one-star General Onaki from the Air Force.
Koster couldn’t peg the common denominator linking these people, but one existed. Koster disliked most people, but he respected all present.
The Man in Gray had promised monumental intelligence. His first few sentences about suicides used as rewards proved him correct.
“Everyone,” the Man in Gray said, ending the info dump portion. “I’ve brought you up to speed, and now there is much to do and little time.” He remained at the head of the table as he spoke. “You’re all soldiers of faith. God’s warriors. These troubling times grant us an opportunity to serve.”
Koster flushed as the link of those present hit him: Christian faith. Brandon Palmer even attended his church.
Behind these walls, he followed the Lobby’s ongoing developments as a representative of the United States military, keeping his opinions to himself. He had listened to the media discuss the Lobby stealing souls. Sickening bullshit. Seething internally, he’d pushed the religious implication out of his mind and focused on his duty.
However, religious undertones had crept into almost every conversation. Judging from the glares in the room—the two people he saw kiss the crosses around their necks, the one man who dropped into prayer—these members had serious, willing to die for, opinions on the subject.
“We have an enemy I won’t name,” the Man in Gray said. “Things are progressing rapidly, attempting to catch us off guard. Your commitment will keep us abreast of evil intentions. Lean on your faith. Listen to your hearts. You will find that everyday citizens are willing to pay the ultimate price to mitigate this blasphemy. What I intend to outline for those of you willing to help is of a delicate nature, but its question will be the same: in this dire hour, will you use your appointments to heed God’s call?”
He let a moment pass in silence, then continued, “There are countries openly refusing to comply with the Lobby ban. Right now, Inside Today is airing. Rebecca Trevino will review the past week’s events, captivating the world. Yet it is tomorrow’s special edition that will rock the fabric of society and ignite a controversy to divide the globe.”
Koster found the way the man stayed ramrod straight, unnerving. His voice hardly fluctuated, yet his intensity rocked a ten. Perhaps those voice control rumors had merit. As the Man in Gray droned on, Koster wanted to interrupt, to tell him he didn’t need to hear any more spin.
“Tomorrow night’s program will expose the Death Trips operating in all four of the Japanese Atriums. It will also show evidence that Russia, China, and India are providing Death Trips.”
General Koster’s back stiffened at the naming of countries, especially as if they were aligning against the United States. That particular step preceded building a case for military action.
Koster, along with everyone in the room, understood that no government held the authority to enforce the Lobby ban globally. America intended to do so nonetheless.
Koster would back whatever country decided to act. Suicides could never be normalized. The desecration of religious beliefs intolerable, regardless of their geographic location. The people in this room could spurn military action. And all present were aware that if they didn’t mesh church and state and radicalize, someone they loved might soon fall victim to the madness.
The planet’s citizens needed a voice of reason, a guiding light, not some man from across the ocean speaking about a Seventh Plane of Existence and every person’s right to die.
Thankfully, others supported his philosophy. An estimated one point six billion Christians populated the world, with Muslims matching that number.
The number of fatwas issued against each Atrium, and a prominent employee of the Broumgard Group, had grown too numerous to count. Millions of Islamic people swore their lives to destroying the Lobby, and despite every inclination he’d ever had about the nutty jihadists, Koster admired their conviction.
One hundred percent of his Christian brothers and sisters might not fervently rally, but many would. Clandestine talks of taking action into their own hands—pure treason—populated the military and government. They increased daily. Now this, an open meeting in a U.S. facility. Koster’s heart knocked. Count me in.
“Japan has been gathering allies,” the Man in Gray said. “Demarcations are being drawn. Countries with no godly ties are uniting to impose their atheism or Buddhism or Hindu falsity on the world. Fourteen nations are putting aside old grudges, and coming together.”
The Man in Gray motioned to Jeff VanNoord, the presidential advisor. “Our commander in chief is securing his own allies. Christian and Muslim nations are sitting at the same table with true kinship for the first time in modern history. Unified in their determination to stop the spread of the warped Buddhism and to eradicate this blasphemous concept of suicide as an accomplishment.”
The Man in Gray stepped to the side and, using a cellphone as a projector, cast an image on the wall. “I’ve edited a probable copy of tomorrow night’s episode of Inside Today. In this struggle to avoid the end of days, I request your loyalty above all else. I have thirty years of across-the-board clearance, and am one of the few men on our planet who has overseen projects at Sci-deck, Area 51, as well as every bio and nanite technology none of you will ever hear about. I pray you will accept my self-edification. If you do, then hear these words: there is a God. He possesses a form of lethargic emotions. He rewards those who do more than vocalize their sympathies. Once you know this as surely as I do, nothing else matters.
“I will call on each of you to act in His defense. Your response will mold the eternity you spend floating in the paradoxical, single-entitied vastness, know to us as the universe. A place of unlimited joys or torments, where all will reside until the rejoining—a time when the chosen will know the absolute bliss of God’s love until the new birth, trillions of years from now, that ends existence for us all.”
A cold numbness traced Koster’s spine. The man’s words didn’t totally compute, and Koster wouldn’t ask him to elaborate. The Man in Gray’s confidence left an imperceptible presence in Koster, as if what the general heard stirred a dormant understanding embedded in his DNA.
“This video will be shown to the world tomorrow. Imagine the impending problems. Ask yourself if they merit your involvement.�
�� The Man in Gray activated his phone, strolled to the door, and after surveying the attendants, exited.
Koster didn’t want to watch a video. He wanted to behead an infidel.
Chapter Thirty-Two
Arriving at the federal building ten minutes before seven in the morning, Alex nodded at the agent holding open the door for him. He emptied his pockets into a pink basket and passed through the metal detector with a lump in his throat, nervously inspecting the gun at the observing guard’s hip.
Agent Andrews exited a nearby elevator and waited for Alex to repack his keys and phone. He offered no scowl. He simply stared, a disdain emanating from his aura. As with all unpleasant people, two choices existed: argue—which fed the beast—or bide time and vacate as soon as possible. Alex looked forward to the latter.
Andrews passed the underling a pair of garden shears. “Remove his monitor.”
Andrews spoke without a snarky tone. That, and him helping Alex by removing his tether, spurned more concern. Powerful figures awaited his arrival. Most likely, they had ill tidings.
“Good morning, Mr. Cutler.” The tether unclasped with a snap. The sound lightened his entire body, increased his capacity to deal with future blight. Despite his situation, he smiled, extended and retracted the liberated limb several times before making the mistake of meeting Andrews’s face.
To Alex’s surprise, the troubled man didn’t snarl. With only a twitch of Andrews’s right eye, the agent led them to the fourth floor.
At this early hour, Alex hadn’t expected the office to be alive with agents, but they bustled. Judging by rolled-up sleeves and unwinding French braids, these people had been here for hours. Their professionalism astounded Alex. Not one set of eyes stayed on him, longer than a flicker.
He trailed Andrews into a boardroom. Two men and a woman rose in unison. Agent Andrews closed the blinds, shut the solid oak door, and activated the lock.
“Mr. Cutler, my name is John Willis, Deputy Director of the Los Angeles branch of the FBI.” He was a dapper African American with salt-and-pepper hair, the gritty look of a war-vet, glasses too large for his head. “To my left is Agent Martineau from our New York organized crime division.” Martineau wore a shirt and tie. With shoulders a yard across, the tie seemed comically small. He had olive skin, a mustache perfect for 1970s pornography, and curly hair. He reached across the table, and swallowed Alex’s hand in a powerful grip.