by Jason Brant
Wondering whether she would be struggling with that experience for the rest of her life made Christie cry even harder. How long she sat on the floor, tears coursing down her cheeks, she didn’t know. After a while, her sobs eased, the tears washing away much of her fear.
She’d made it home. She was safe.
After wiping at her face with the back of her hand, Christie’s eyes settled on the small cylinder on the floor. The temptation to toss it down a storm drain had remained strong for the long trek home, but she’d refrained.
The man had given his life to ensure that whatever it was would get out of that damn subway. She picked it up, twisted it around in front of her face. It looked like a cheap lipstick tube.
Get this to Detective Andrew Lloyd, she thought. That’s what the man told me to do.
Christie cupped the cylinder in her hand and pushed herself off the floor. She staggered into the kitchen, downing a glass of water.
The bloody visage of the bearded man on the floor of the platform popped into her mind. She heard his screams, smelled his blood.
She turned on the faucet, splashed water on the face.
Forced herself to breathe.
After standing in front of the sink for nearly a minute, Christie abruptly spun on her heels and marched into the living room. Though her furnishings were meager, they were clean and decent looking. She took great care of the few possessions she had, knowing she couldn’t replace anything that was broken or worn out. The coffee table, sofa, chair, and crummy entertainment center all came from a secondhand store, but she felt a modicum of pride at how well she’d maintained them.
A small, flat-panel television sat atop the cheap entertainment center. Christie grabbed the remote and turned it on. The local news stations were going batshit crazy.
Christie flipped through a handful before settling on the local CBS affiliate.
A short-haired brunette woman sat in front of a backdrop of the Capitol building, staring intently into the camera. “—are still coming in, but initial reports are indicating the death toll could be in the dozens. As we learned earlier, the signal does not appear to have come through a cell phone. The incident is contained, and there is no reason for panic. I repeat, there is—”
“My ass.” Christie dropped the remote to the aged coffee table in the middle of the room. “There are a million reasons to panic.”
Even though it had taken Christie nearly two hours to get home after fleeing the subway, the idea that the men in the suits had used a different mode of transmission for the signal hadn’t occurred to her. They’d used some form of device to broadcast the crazy into everyone.
Everyone had looked at cell phones as if they were poisonous snakes after Arthur’s Creek. They thought staying away from the airwaves would keep them safe.
But now...
Christie shivered.
“—subway is temporarily shut down.” The newscaster brushed a lock of hair from her forehead. “A state of emergency is in effect for—”
Christie held the small cylinder up again, rolling it between her fingers.
Her old, slow-as-hell laptop sat on the floor beside the coffee table. A power cable snaked from the side of the computer to an outlet to the left of the television. The battery had kicked the bucket over a year ago, and Christie had barely scraped together the money to get a new one. Even though she’d finally saved enough cash and popped the battery in a few months prior, Christie struggled to break the habit of always keeping the laptop plugged in.
She reached down, grunting from the small effort. Exhaustion had come, gone, and returned again.
After setting the computer in her lap and opening the lid, she waited for what seemed an interminable amount of time for the operating system to wake up. As she did every time she used it, Christie considered slinging the piece of crap across the room. If only she could afford an upgrade.
Christie went to Google, searched for Detective Andrew Lloyd.
A handful of news stories popped up, most from several months ago.
The title of one read Detective Tracks Down Serial Killer Andrew Phillips. A handful of pictures of teenage girls lined the top of the article. Christie felt her throat tighten as she read the first few sentences. Phillips had kidnapped, raped, and murdered young teens for years.
The vast majority of the other articles described the attempted assassination of President Thomas. Detective Lloyd had discovered the plot and helped to stop the assassin.
Christie vividly remembered that day. It had the same emotional impact on her as 9/11 had, as Arthur’s Creek had. Some days were etched in her mind by their associated horrors. She could remember where she was when the Twin Towers fell, and she could recall what she’d been eating when the Secret Service attempted to kill the president.
She scrolled through the list of articles, hoping to find an interview with the detective, but couldn’t find much. He’d given a small statement after the assassination attempt, but that had been it. He didn’t seem to address the media much.
That was a far cry from some of the detectives Christie had seen on shows like 48 Hours Mystery and 20/20. Some of those men basked in the glory of the catch. That didn’t appear to be the case with Lloyd.
No profiles came up on Facebook, Twitter, or LinkedIn.
One of the articles about the serial killer mentioned the station where Lloyd worked in Baltimore. Christie typed the department name into Google, found a phone number.
She fished her cell phone from her purse and tapped it in.
Her pulse quickened as the phone rang in her ear. She hadn’t done anything wrong, but knowing that her involvement in whatever had happened in the subway was about to get even deeper made her anxious.
An automated system answered her call.
It took her an obnoxious amount of time to ring through to the homicide department. Christie wasn’t even sure if that was the department where Lloyd worked, but she assumed that to be the case if he was tracking down serial killers.
The phone rang several times.
A man eventually picked up. “Homicide. Detective Johns.”
Christie’s mouth popped open, but no words came out.
“Hello?” Johns had a gravelly voice, as if he’d smoked cigarettes since a young age. “I can hear you breathing. Say what you gotta say or hang up. I don’t have time for—”
“I’m looking for Detective Andrew Lloyd,” Christie blurted.
Johns paused. “Who is this?”
“I’d... rather not say. I need to talk to Detective Lloyd.”
“He’s on a leave of absence. I’m handling his caseload until he comes back. If you have information on any—”
“When will he be back?” Christie spoke quickly, her words crowding one another. “I have to talk to him.”
“I don’t know when he’ll be back. But miss, you can tell me whatever is. I’ve worked with Detective Lloyd for years. He trusts me.”
Christie chewed on her lower lip. She considered spilling everything she knew to the man on the other end of the call, but fear held her tongue. What exactly was she getting herself into? Could she trust a random detective that she called on the phone? The Baltimore police didn’t have the best reputation lately.
As she sat there and thought about it, she realized she didn’t even know why she’d called. Some guy had shoved an object in her hand while he was dying and told her to pass it along. And for some unknown reason, she’d decided to comply.
She didn’t ask for any of this.
“Miss?” the man asked. “Are you still there?”
“Never mind.”
“But—”
Christie ended the call, tossed the phone onto the cushion beside her.
She glared at the cylinder. “Time to go bye-bye.”
Feeling better about her decision to step away from the craziness of the morning, Christie got up and quickly walked into the kitchen.
She opened the cabinet door under her sink a
nd threw the object into the trash can.
It bounced off the side with a thunk before tumbling to the bottom.
Christie was about to slam the door shut when she noticed something had changed with the cylinder. Before, it had been a solid silver color.
Now there was a small, black line running around the curved surface at one end.
She reached down, picked it up.
As she inspected it, she noticed that the line wasn’t a color, but a gap. She grabbed the top and pulled it off.
It was a cap.
A USB connector stuck out of the top.
The man had given her a thumb drive.
5 – I Don’t Smell Like Shit
They said you couldn’t teach an old dog new tricks. I still hadn’t figured out who they were, but the certainty that they were full of shit was at an all-time high.
If I’d learned one thing over the past few debacles, it was that I didn’t shower enough. Every single time things went haywire in my life, I somehow had to wade through the troubled waters while smelling like a sewage plant.
I’d decided to become a maniac when it came to showers. If I was going to punch murderers in the face and get in gunfights with terrorists, then I could at least smell pleasant while doing it.
It just wouldn’t do to have a magnificent Adonis such as myself being dragged down by terrible B.O.
I stepped out of the shower and toweled off. With any luck, that would be the first of many for the day. It was the kind of thing that Drew and Nami would have normally poked at me for, but they both approved of the new, clean Asher Benson.
My living quarters were small, but clean. That in itself was a minor miracle. Drew liked to feign shock at the neatness of my space. What a friend. It wasn’t too difficult to keep your place tidy when you didn’t have many belongings. It also helped when you actually threw the garbage out rather than stacking it in the corner.
Amazing, I know.
Ever since The Massacre, I’d aimed all of my energy into finding Smith and emptying a full mag into his stupid, scarred face. That entailed actually getting my shit together, for the most part. I worked out, helped reman the Psych Ward, and focused on honing my unique talents.
I still drank a lot though.
That damn monkey climbed higher up my back with each passing week. The effect the booze had on quieting the voices in my mind was my best excuse though, and I planned on hanging onto that gem as long as I could.
The space the government had given me to stay in was essentially a studio apartment. I had a bed, fridge, oven, computer, and television all jammed into the same room. At least the shower and toilet were in a separate space.
Cases of beer were stacked high beside the fridge. The urge to crack a can open tugged at me a bit as I got dressed. I resisted the urge.
Barely.
Instead, I grabbed a jug of protein powder and dumped a few scoops in a shaker. My epic muscles wouldn’t feed themselves. The powder tasted like cardboard, but it made me feel like He-Man.
After pulling on some jeans and a T-shirt, I stood in front of the mirror in the bathroom and stared at myself. I did that every morning. Facing who I was, what I’d become, the things I’d done, was part of my daily routine now. I had to embrace all the bullshit surrounding me, not run from it. The old me ran.
You’ll get them all killed, Sammy whispered.
“No.” I grabbed the sink, ground my frustration into it.
Everyone you care for will end up like me.
I tried to convince myself that the voice wasn’t Sammy’s, but the specter of whatever part of her I’d taken with me as she’d died. It didn’t work. Hearing her soft voice speak those horrible words really kicked me in the nuts. My stomach tightened every time it happened.
I hadn’t told anyone about our little conversations because I knew they’d take me off the mission and out of the Psych Ward if they knew. Drew would be all motherly about it. Nami would shit on me. Nelson would have kittens.
I couldn’t get my revenge if I sat on the sidelines with electrodes connected to my temples.
My mind wandered out, tendrils of consciousness floating through the building before settling on Nami. I didn’t read her thoughts or invade her privacy, too much, just got a feel for her mood level.
She was agitated. Downright pissed off.
Fantastic.
I considered getting a beer again as I walked to the door, but decided not to be too pathetic already this morning.
The hallway outside, much like my room, didn’t have much character. Gray paint covered the walls, cheap Berber carpet stretched across the floor. Doors lined the walls down the hall where new recruits to our little operation would live. A few men were in them now, though most were empty.
Drew and Nami had rooms around a corner to my left. They were both really pissed off that they were being held here. Even though our current living situation kept us safe, that didn’t change the fact that we were essentially prisoners.
I’d been a slave to my affliction for the past half a decade, so I didn’t care as much as the others. My life sucked nads no matter where I slept at night. And to be honest, this beat a cabin in the middle of nowhere with empty beer cans stacked four feet high in the corner.
Nelson was the only part of the Psych Ward who didn’t currently live at the installation. No one knew about his involvement with us, so permission had been granted for him to go home every night and sleep in his own bed. Nami, Drew, and I were all prime targets for Smith, so we were granted jack and shit.
Because of the chaos created by The Massacre, President Thomas, whose life I had so graciously saved earlier in the year, had his feet held to the fire. After Murdock had nearly killed him, Thomas’ approval ratings shot up.
But when an entire town had been churned into a bloody pulp, he’d fallen out of favor with the people. What had once appeared to be a slam-dunk reelection for him next year was now in serious question.
He’d managed to sell the idea of an outside terrorist being the cause of everything to the public, but people wanted said terrorist’s head on a stick and he hadn’t provided it yet. Even worse, his own government was turning against him.
Those in the senate knew that something else was afoot, and they were asking questions. When Murdock had crushed the Psych Ward, he’d also killed the handful of people outside of the organization who even knew it existed. Only Thomas and Smith had remained, and they were in the middle of a nasty divorce.
The FBI, CIA, and Secret Service were all running their own investigations into what had occurred and were coming up with jack squat as far as I knew. I figured it was only a matter of time before they turned something up and then all hell would break loose. The world wasn’t ready to hear about telepaths and mind control.
After what happened in D.C. and Arthur’s Creek, it would be my head on a pike as soon as people learned about my gift. No one would care that I had helped to stop those two events. People feared what they didn’t understand.
While I was pounding beers in West Virginia, The Psych Ward had been restarted by a man named Albert Nelson. He’d been charged with resurrecting a program from the dead. The previous Psych Ward used individuals with unique talents, such as myself, to pilfer secrets from other governments and terrorist organizations.
The new version of the program currently had one goal—find Smith and take him out.
That mission was the only reason they’d managed to talk me into joining this little shindig. Before bringing me on board, Nelson had recruited Nami and Drew, who were chomping at the bit to get after Smith after the whole Murdock fiasco.
Nelson had sent them to Arthur’s Creek to find me, convince me that joining a secret government program that wanted to exploit my malady was in my best interest, and to integrate me with the team they were forming.
I had balked at the idea.
But not anymore.
Even though I knew better than to expect anything but an unhappy endi
ng from being involved with the government, I’d decided it was time for me to step into the ring and throw a few haymakers.
Unfortunately, we weren’t doling out ass kickings just yet.
The Psych Ward was currently outside of congressional oversight and a secret of the highest order. To keep it that way, President Thomas had ordered us to be stashed away on Aberdeen Proving Ground, a tiny little post in Aberdeen, Maryland about thirty minutes northeast of Baltimore.
The post was primarily used for research and didn’t have any soldiers or Marines stationed there.
Abandoned World War II buildings covered most of it. As far as military bases went, Aberdeen ranked high on the crap-o-meter. Locals referred to it as Aberdump.
But being stationed there kept us out of the limelight and in a spot where no one would think to look. Bragg, Hood, or Meade were all more obvious choices, which was why we weren’t there.
It wasn’t too much of a stretch to figure they’d stashed us here so that I couldn’t get into trouble too. We were in the middle of the most downtrodden, abandoned section of the post. There wasn’t anyone around for half a mile. I couldn’t get a glimpse into the heads of any government researchers if they kept me hidden away.
Though I’d focused all of my efforts on finding Smith, I still discovered the occasional nugget of information from a government-funded scientist who strayed too close to our building. While most of the research happening on APG had to do with ordinance, vehicles, or tactical armor, there were a few other programs of bigger significance happening.
I knew for a fact that a large-scale particle collider was being constructed underground. The fact that the project had never been announced to the public, and must have required a colossal budget, made me wonder just what in the hell they were doing. A secret project of that scale made me uneasy.
Sometimes, I wanted to spend a little time to find out what kind of nonsense the Department of Defense was up to on the post, but usually, I just focused on my own little war. Asher’s War—as Drew called it.
There would be time for inter-governmental snooping later.