The R.E.M. Project_A Thriller

by J. M. Lanham

  Soon he had heaved all he could, and there was nothing left in the tank. He collapsed on the toilet seat, hugging the ivory throne with no regard for how filthy it must have been. He didn’t care. In an instant, he had been drained of every ounce of energy he had. He was utterly exhausted, and closed his eyes to rest.

  And the visions came.

  They seemed innocuous at first. A montage of men and women of all ages wearing pajamas and nightgowns and taking their Ocula pills before tucking themselves comfortably into their beds. Nightlights and side-table lamps were clicked off, and in an instant the actors were fast asleep. Restful. Peaceful. All of them, sleeping like babies without a care in the world. They were anonymous at first, but soon one of the blurred female faces began to clear.

  It was his wife, Cheryl.

  Anthony opened his eyes and searched the bathroom stall, trying to escape the scene in his head, but that was impossible. He looked forward to the blank wall behind the toilet only to see his bed at home as his wife lay in it, tucked in under the large comforter and fast asleep. The first dim light of dawn glowed behind the curtains as she stretched and began to wake. She squinted and looked up, smiling at her husband.

  “Hey, sweetie. What are you doing up so early? Did you forget to take your pill last night?”

  Anthony didn’t speak. She sat up in bed, her smile quickly turning to concern. “Is everything okay?”

  A chef’s knife was in Anthony’s hand. He lunged forward, sticking the piercing steel blade into the left side of her slender neck before pulling the razor’s edge up and across, slicing veins and arteries before hitting her trachea. The rigid tube put up some resistance, but Anthony muscled through. She started to scream, but the noise was soon muffled by the sound of a terrified and confused woman gurgling in a river of her own blood. Her eyes met her husband’s. She didn’t speak, she couldn’t. But her eyes said it all:

  Why?

  Back in the bathroom stall, Anthony screamed. His fingernails dug into his scalp so deeply that it brought blood; a desperate attempt to dig out the horrific thoughts straight from the source. The sound was deafening and caught the attention of everyone in the restaurant. Couples stopped eating. Blue collars stopped drinking. All eyes were fixed on the entrance to the men’s bathroom.

  Isaiah dropped his plates in the sink and rushed in to see what was wrong. “Mr. Hoover! What’s the matter, Mr. Hoover? Everything okay in here?” He approached the locked stall.

  There was no answer.

  With the strength of a scared parent, Isaiah grabbed the top of the stall door and jerked it off its hinges. He let the door fall to the side as he tried to understand what he was seeing.

  Hoover lay by the toilet in the fetal position, grasping his own arms and shaking all over. He mumbled something, and Isaiah leaned down to get a better listen.

  “Mr. Hoover? I think I’d better call 911.”

  Anthony quickly grabbed Isaiah by the arm. “No!” he said. “Don’t call the police. It’s not the police.” He let go and returned to rocking on the floor. “The police can’t help her now.”

  Confused, Isaiah asked, “Then what’s the matter? Everyone in the restaurant heard you screaming in here.”

  “It’s—Ocula.” Just uttering the word made Hoover want to vomit all over again.

  “Ocu—what? Mr. Hoover, I’m just not sure I understan—”

  “YES! OCULA! IT’S GOING TO KILL HER!”

  Isaiah fell back and gave up all efforts to comprehend what was going on. A waitress was standing at the door with a dozen other people behind her. “You want me to call the police?” she asked.

  “Yeah. I think we’d better get an ambulance up here.”

  A small crowd stood slack-jawed at the door, Hailey included, not a single one of them sure of what they were witnessing.

  But Anthony Hoover knew. He also knew what he had to do to stop it.

  Chapter 24:

  Voices

  Three men and a teenager sat in the crowded lobby of the Savannah Inn on Friday morning, drinking coffee and Red Bulls in an epic battle to stay awake after a sleepless night. Their eyes were bloodshot, and the caffeine was doing little to take the edge off. At first glance, they could have easily been mistaken for a bachelor party: two middle-aged men and their teenage son, spending all night on the town, trying to show the groom-to-be a good time before taking the plunge. Had that been the case, the only thing they’d have had to worry about that morning would be how they were going to sober up before the wedding.

  Instead, the group was hunched over the table, trying to let the dire news the young computer hacker was telling them sink in.

  “Let’s go over this again,” Dawa said. “The Costa Rican project was not the only location Ocula was being used illegally?”

  “That’s right,” Fenton said between sips of his energy-drink-on-ice. “What kicked this entire debacle off was a total coincidence. Tanner had retired from the CIA to try his hand at a high-paying pharmaceutical company. Doyle’s the one who got him the job. His ties to George Sturgis go way back.”

  “This is Richard Doyle?” Dawa asked.

  “Yeah, Dick. The one and only.” Fenton continued, “Apparently semi-retirement wasn’t in the cards for Tanner, because once he caught wind of the weird side effects coming from some of the Ocula trial participants, those old CIA gears started turning again. Sturgis funded the project, hoping that letting Doyle and Tanner run their experiments would land him a government contract.”

  “Greedy bastard,” Paul said.

  “No doubt. You know those Big Pharma fuckers are making bank to begin with, feeding us pills we think we can’t live without before sending us a bill that looks more like a mortgage payment—”

  “Let us return to the task at hand,” Dawa said, interrupting the over-caffeinated teenager. “You said Tanner was playing both sides?”

  Fenton nodded. “For sure. Tanner took one out of the George Sturgis playbook and cut out the middleman, deciding to sell the highly synthesized Ocula 2.0 to the federal government himself. A few calls to his old buddies at the CIA and the feds were well on their way to developing their own facility in Virginia.”

  “Jesus,” Donny chimed in. “It’s bad enough the plain-Jane stuff’s out on the open market, but another facility working on the sequel? Owned and sanctioned by the federal government? I mean really, fellas, what the hell are we supposed to do now?”

  Dawa said, “I am not surprised, Donald. Nor should any of us be. We all knew Tanner and Doyle were ex-CIA. We also knew they utilized old CIA contacts to do their dirty work. It makes sense this conspiracy rises to a very high level, but that does not mean there is nothing we can do.” He turned to Fenton and asked, “All of this you are telling us, Mr. Reed. Do you have hard evidence?”

  Fenton patted the backpack sitting in the chair next to him. “Yep. It’s all right here. What’d you think I’ve been doing for the last six months? Running up pay-per-view tabs?”

  That’s exactly what Paul had assumed. The kid looked like the last person on Earth to blow the lid off a government conspiracy, but there was no denying he was proving his worth. Cooked books. Illegal overseas slush funds. Communications between parties linked to the Costa Rica facility and Asteria Pharmaceuticals. If everything Fenton said he had was truly on his computer, then they would have everything they needed to bring the guilty parties to justice.

  That didn’t mean it would be easy. While the hacked documents, files, and records would shed light on the conspiracy of the century, none of it would be admissible in court. If this was going to go anywhere, the case would have to be tried by the media. Paul drummed his fingers on the table and thought of Claire. Really could use her help right about now.

  The three men sat back in their chairs and looked at one another. Finding Fenton Reed in Savannah had been a godsend. The discovery was also something Dawa and Paul were having trouble wrapping their minds around, but Ford was far from surprised. His convic
tion that Fenton Reed was in Savannah had been unwavering from the moment he’d envisioned the scraggly teenager inviting him to River Street. Ford was eager to talk about it, but none of them wanted to spook the teenager away. The task at hand was to get Ocula off the market—not reminisce tales of loopy dreams and extraterrestrial contact from the higher plane. There would be plenty of time for that later.

  Still, Donny couldn’t help hinting at it. “Still can’t believe you were here, Fenton,” he said, drawing a couple of glares from Paul and Dawa that urged him to shut his big mouth.

  Fenton asked, “How’d you guys know where to find me again?”

  “Put out an APB in Savannah,” Dawa quickly answered. “Foot patrol spotted you, and we followed up.”

  “But aren’t you guys from Atlanta? How’d you know I was in Savannah?”

  “Your old roommate from Atlanta gave us a box of your old stuff. Information obtained led us to search the Savannah area.”

  Fenton squinted inquisitively. They were hiding something, and he knew it. Plus, he couldn’t for the life of him recall anything in his personal possessions that would have led them away from his friends and family in the Atlanta area to search a small town some three hours away.

  What he could recall, however, were his own bizarre dreams that seemed to melt into reality. The apartment visit from Mr. Buzzcut. Free room and board at various motels across the state. The unexplainable compulsion to take the 7:30 Greyhound to Savannah the night before. He had developed a heightened sense of awareness through dreaming, and he wondered if one of them—or all of them—had the same ability, too.

  It was clear their official story didn’t add up, but he opted to ignore the details for now. “Well,” Fenton said, “the important thing is that we bring these guys down. I’ve been on the run for the better part of a year, and I’m tired of running from a bunch of stooges in suits who are trying to kill me.”

  “You’re talking about the Consultants,” Paul said. He looked toward the bright lobby windows and thought of Alex. The same people who had murdered his brother were trying to exterminate this poor teenager sitting in front of him. And Donny Ford, too. The latter of which, Paul supposed, wouldn’t have been quite so bad. Claire had told him Tanner’s stooges were off the radar. But Paul wasn’t about to let his guard down.

  He looked at Donny, who was sitting across the table from him. “You know all about the Consultants, don’t ya, Don?”

  Donny didn’t answer. He stared into space out of the same window Paul had been focused on seconds earlier.

  “Donny?” Paul asked. “You okay over there, man?”

  His expression was hollow and blank. He continued to stare, eyes fixed on an imaginary horizon. Dawa and Fenton noticed too, but remained silent. Finally, Paul leaned over and snapped his fingers, and the trance was broken.

  “Yeah,” Donny said, startled. “Wait. What were we talking about?”

  “The Consultants.”

  “Yes, of course. Whew . . . Bad people, those guys.”

  It was clear Donny hadn’t been paying attention, something Paul found easy to ignore and move on from. He turned to talk to Fenton about the information the teenager had uncovered by hacking databases from Atlanta to Virginia.

  But while Paul was engaged in conversation with their new young friend, Dawa’s attention remained on his old friend. Something had Donny in distress, some psychological pain that had taken the reins in less time than it had taken Fenton to down a Red Bull. The pitchman’s sharp eyes glared into the distance, teeth grinding, hands gripping the edge of the table as if he were trying to tear off a piece or two.

  Dawa leaned over and whispered, “Donald. Is everything okay, my friend?”

  Defensively, “Sure. Why wouldn’t it be?”

  “You seem nervous. Like something is bothering you.”

  “No, no. Nothing’s bothering me.”

  “Perhaps you have had too much caffeine? Maybe an ice water would help calm your nerves?”

  Donny shook his head in agreement, then stood up from the table. “Sure. Ice water. Sounds great, Graham. How ’bout you order me one. I just need to step out for a bit. Get some fresh air.”

  Everyone looked up. “Where are you going?” Dawa asked.

  “Just for a quick walk.” Donny sensed the concern around the table—and the need to downplay his behavior. Casually, “Hey, guys, I’m fine. Just need to stretch my legs for a minute. Being holed up in a hotel room all night’ll do that to ya, am I right?”

  “I’ll go with you,” Fenton said, scooting his chair back.

  “No!” Donny said. “I mean, come on, kid. This is a lot to process. Sometimes the grownups just need a minute alone, kapisch?”

  Fenton nodded and sat back down in his chair as Donny left. He let the man get out of earshot, then said, “That’s weird. Think he’s got diarrhea or something?”

  Paul shrugged without saying a word as the three men at the table watched Donny Ford walk hastily toward the door.

  ***

  What in the hell is wrong with me?

  Donny looked out over the Savannah River, trying to focus on the boats and the bridge and the people walking by, yet unable to escape a single terrifying thought. He looked down at his hands, palms up. Sweaty and shaking. He clasped them together, holding tight and trying to keep them still.

  Great. Now it’s just two hands shaking like crazy. He shoved them in his pockets and stared out toward the water, trying to process the noise in his head.

  It was an utterly wicked thought, one that had caught him completely off guard, bringing with it the kind of fear he hadn’t felt since the car wreck six months earlier. It was so vivid, so clear. And the noise . . . God, was it loud! Where had such a thought come from? He tried to ignore it, but ironically that only made it worse. Clearer. Louder. Even when he got away from himself for a moment—using the practice of mindfulness to separate himself from such a wacky train of thoughts—it was always on the back burner. Always right there, waiting to tell him something was amiss. Something was off. And something had to be done to fix it all.

  He muttered to himself, “Just don’t think about it, Don. It’ll all go away . . .”

  Jump in the river, Donny.

  He grabbed his forehead and moaned with disapproval. Jesus, would you just stop it already?

  Silence for a second or two, then the internal argument started again.

  Jump in the river, Donny.

  Fuck off!

  It’s the only way, Donny. The only way.

  Insanity. That’s what this was. Years on the road, working impossibly long hours, and the occasional drug use had finally taken its toll on the traveling speaker. Again,

  Just do it, Donny.

  Who knew thoughts could hurt? It was as if a person were standing by his side, hand cupped, whispering into his ear.

  Jump on in, Donny. The water’s fine.

  A devil in his mind, the Great Tempter. Sent by some ominous force to convince the man the thoughts were his own.

  But they were his own, thought Donny. They must be. It was all in his head, after all. His heart fluttered and his chest weighed heavy. He put a hand to it, fingers searching the flesh over his breastbone. A nervous lump shuddered up from his chest and filled his throat. Breathing was getting tough now—all because of the voice. He couldn’t stand it. He wanted it gone. What would it take to get it to leave? He tried to shake it loose (even catching the attention of a few pedestrians nearby who in turn pulled their kids in closer and sped past), but his efforts were futile, and only strengthened the thought:

  You’re a horrible human being, Donny. What kind of man treats people the way you do? Best if you just climb over the rail up there and jump in the river. Best thing for everyone.

  Donny stood motionless now, caught up in the firm grip of his mind’s eye. The voice continued, Just do it, son. See that bridge up yonder? Pick you out a nice little spot, stroll to the top, and step off. Let that tide carry th
e trash on out to sea.

  Donny checked his surroundings and saw exactly what the voice was referring to. Half a mile up the river was the Talmadge Bridge, a cable-stayed bridge spanning the aquatic gap between Georgia and South Carolina. The bridge could be accessed from River Street, just a short walk away. It was high near the top, too. Plenty of space to get him out over deep water …

  WAIT . . . What in the hell are you even thinking, man? A war brewed in Donny’s head, the two vastly polarized sides determined to overtake the other. Had Donny paid more attention to Dawa’s eternally dismissed teachings, he would have known it was better to ignore thoughts like these rather than entertain them. They were like schoolyard bullies: show any sign of weakness during a barrage of taunts and you’d earn yourself a group of personal tormentors for the rest of the year. Ignore the bastards, on the other hand, and they’d likely move on to the next untrained prey.

  Unfortunately, Donny was proving he was quite the novice at fighting the demonic thoughts within.

  It wasn’t just the voices that bothered him, either. More frightening than the horrific commands going off in his head were the feelings that went along with them. Shame. Remorse. Guilt. Self-pity. A sense that everyone’s problems were rooted in his shortcomings, and the lives he’d affected would be better off without him.

  What did he have to bring to the group, anyway? To an outside observer, the obvious answer would have been that without his help the whereabouts of Fenton Reed—the one outlier who seemed to have the drop on Asteria and company—might never have been known. But to the new Donny Ford, there was no positive, only negative. He couldn’t rationalize; couldn’t be pragmatic; couldn’t take a step back and realize the chatterbox going off in his head was nonsensical and foreign.

  No. The only answer he had for the current situation was to jump off the bridge and kill himself. Soon he was walking at a steady pace, eyes locked onto his final destination. He looked around at the people passing by and wondered if they knew his intentions. Nope. No way. Just another guy taking a riverside stroll on a Friday morning.