Light of the Last

by Chuck Black

  “He’s angry, Drew, because your subconscious is being threatened by me. That’s where he lives. It’s where all of them live. This is how you’ve been able to cope with all the tragedy, the guilt, and the pain.”

  Drew’s mouth opened, but he could form no words. Validus looked as if he were going to kill Whitton. Drew considered warning him, but…but what if Whitton was right?

  Validus gave Whitton one last piercing gaze and vanished through the wall. Whitton came and sat in front of Drew again. He put a hand on Drew’s knee.

  “Think this through, Drew. Everyone has a limit. When Joey Houk died, you didn’t know it, but your subconscious began looking for some way to help you deal with the pain, guilt, and remorse. It’s a defense mechanism that all of us have. And when Berg came along with a fascination for alien life, your subconscious grabbed hold, waiting for the opportunity to give you an escape route from the reality of pain you’d been dealing with. That lab accident, your temporary blindness, Berg’s expulsion from school—all of it was the catalyst to finally let your subconscious take over.”

  Drew listened and tried to reject it, but it made so much sense. He hated the loss in his life. He hated what it had cost him. Maybe it had affected him more than he realized.

  “Think about it, Drew. Your subconscious has constructed the absolutely perfect escape for your conscious, and all it took was a willing, quirky friend and a blurry picture. Has anyone other than you ever seen one of these invaders?”

  “Of course not; it would take a functioning LASOK or—”

  Whitton cut him off. “A device that conveniently doesn’t work and never will because Berg has convinced himself it’s true too. Or it would take eyes like yours that no one else will ever be able to see through. Don’t you see, Drew? It’s a perfect setup.”

  Drew couldn’t deny it. The LASOK seemed ever elusive. Everyone in school thought Berg was crazy, and so did Sydney, in the end.

  “Even when your invader translated into our existence, did anyone see him? Don’t you think it’s more than coincidental that every time another person might see him, he would disappear?”

  Drew sat stunned, trying to process Whitton’s rational and logical words.

  “Your subconscious will always orchestrate the scenario so that your invaders’ existence is never revealed to anyone else. It must keep the charade going in order to protect you. Right now it’s screaming against me and the words I’m speaking because this is the first time your subconscious has ever faced such exposure.”

  Whitton gave Drew a few seconds to process.

  “There is a time when our subconscious reveals its alarming creativity and intelligence in a way that isn’t damaging—in our dreams. Have you ever had a dream where other people in your dream say things or do things that surprise you? Perhaps do things that you would have never thought to do?”

  Drew realized it was true. And honestly those dreams rather disturbed him.

  “But your mind created those characters and their actions and their words, right? Those are created by our subconscious and can be so unique that our conscious mind is truly surprised. Are you following?”

  Drew slowly nodded.

  “Drew what if you were stuck in a dream and your subconscious was free to generate and create at will, surprising even your conscious mind?”

  Drew began to shut down. His mind replayed all the encounters he had had with the invaders, looking for an exception to what Whitton was saying but finding none. Then he realized that everything Whitton was saying was true.

  “You are stuck, not in a dream but in an altered state of mind that exists right on the fringe between your conscious and subconscious mind. And it is all in order to give you respite from dealing with the pain of severe loss.”

  Drew had no response. He was undone. Breached. Conquered. “I…I…”

  Whitton seemed to know the depth of his distress. “Before I came to work for the CIA, I counseled hundreds of vets with posttraumatic stress disorder. Many men and women who served our country with courage and honor deal with it. You’re not alone in this, Drew. The onset of PTSD can be delayed for months and even years after an event. Even before you became a CIA agent, your symptoms were classic. Always on guard for danger, overwhelming guilt, self-destructive behavior—in your case, canvassing the ghettos for action—trouble sleeping; the list goes on. Most of my patients experience distressing unwanted memories, flashbacks, or severe reactions to something that might remind them of the event. For you, it took a more advanced form.” Whitton’s face turned darkly sober. “You are suffering from schizophrenia.”

  Drew cringed. No. He would not accept it. There was too much evidence, too much to prove it was all real.

  He shook his head. “How come I can react faster, see better, hear better?” he shot back at Whitton. “You can’t explain that!”

  Whitton straightened and lifted his chin. “The mind is still a mystery to us, Drew. We all know that most humans only use a small portion of their brain. We are all walking around with amazing untapped potential.” He leaned forward and looked at Drew as if he were evaluating the results of an experiment. “Your schizophrenia has allowed you to tap into levels of your brain that most people will never use. It’s put your subconscious into overdrive. Your extra abilities are unique, Drew, but not unprecedented. Remarkably, you have been able to harness the side effects of your schizophrenia to become a very efficient and productive agent for the United States government. It’s why Mr. Ross hasn’t given up on you. It’s why I’m still talking to you and you’re not on a one-way trip to a psychiatric hospital.”

  “But there are times when the invaders warn me of danger before there are any signs of it…before anyone else can see it,” Drew protested.

  “Your increased cognitive abilities are able to pick up clues, like a modern-day Sherlock Holmes, and predict dangerous situations developing. Then your subconscious fills in with invaders to add to the effect,” Whitton explained.

  Drew dropped his head into his hands. Was it possible? Had he gone insane?

  Whitton put his hand on Drew’s shoulder, but Drew didn’t look up. “Drew, you have all the symptoms of schizophrenia. Thoughts of imminent danger, hearing voices, seeing people that no one else can hear or see. Surely you must have wondered along the way?”

  Drew hated to admit it, but Whitton was right. He had often wondered if any of what he was seeing was real. But then something would happen, and he would be thrust right back into the dream, this blasted inescapable dream. Drew dropped his hands and stared at Whitton, grasping for some shred of hope that this wasn’t all a wild fabrication of his broken mind.

  “But what about the dark invader slashing through the tire on the church van? How do you explain that?”

  Whitton nodded as if to agree with him. “Have you ever dreamed you were drowning only to wake and find that you were facedown in your pillow? Or that a police siren was sounding only to discover your alarm clock was going off? The subconscious is very powerful. It has the ability to shut down sensory input, craft a believable sequence of action, turn back the senses and chronologically rearrange events to make a seamless, believable story. The tire was a broken piece of glass or a popped valve stem. Your subconscious coincided the swipe of a dark invader’s sword exactly when it needed to, possibly delaying your conscious mind’s ability to hear the sound until it was time. Our subconscious can be a master time-line editor, and it does it all for your protection. For most people, this all happens while they sleep, but for you, it’s happening while you’re awake. But the results are the same: vivid, detailed visions and memories.”

  Drew was reeling. Whitton had a logical and plausible answer for everything Drew had experienced.

  “There’s a reason you didn’t tell Sydney Carlyle about the invaders.”

  Drew looked at Whitton. He knew his own reasons, but he was afraid Whitton was about to dismantle those too, so he just waited.

  “Revealing the invader
s to Sydney would threaten everything your subconscious was trying to do. And that’s exactly what happened, isn’t it? She didn’t believe you, and in order to keep the facade alive, you retreated from her. Your subconscious forced you to go away.”

  Whitton paused for a few seconds, then seemed to look right into Drew’s heart with his sympathetic eyes. “You love Sydney, don’t you?” He didn’t wait for a response. “When you went to save her in the gang’s hideout, your subconscious turned her into a hero. It’s often what we do in our dreams with people we love. Rather than turn against her, which your subconscious knew was impossible because of your deep feelings for her, you turned her into an agent with great power. Your subconscious wove her into the story so you could still love her and not reject her. Although you love her, she’s a threat to exposing the plots of your subconscious. It will never allow you to end up with her in spite of your love for her.”

  Drew turned his head away and stared at a painting on the far wall. He wanted to disappear, dissolve away just like his fabricated invaders. This was too embarrassing to deal with. His whole life he had imagined himself to be mentally strong. Now…now…

  He turned back to Whitton and lowered his gaze to his trembling hands. “What do I do?” His voice was weak and muffled, but it was a sign that he was beginning to accept or at least consider Whitton’s words.

  “For now, nothing. You have a lot to process, and you’ve taken the first and most important step. You’re acknowledging your condition. Many people with schizophrenia lead productive, normal lives.”

  Drew sat numb and dazed. The fabric of his life had been unraveled in an hour.

  “Rest and think about all this, Drew. I can help you, now that you recognize it and want it.”

  —

  The next day, Drew was afraid to go back, but he needed to know, no matter what it meant. He hated lies, especially those that people told themselves. It seemed as though he were guilty of the worst of it.

  The first half of the session with Whitton was more logical and rational explanations of every situation that Drew could throw at him. The second half of the session, Drew was silent, slowly accepting the fact that he was schizophrenic. It was a hard pill to swallow.

  “Why did this happen to me, Whitton?” Drew asked at the end of the session. “Why schizophrenia?”

  “One percent of the population deals with some degree of schizophrenia. Often it follows family lines but not always, as in your case. I believe you experienced its onset because of repressed grief in your life. In all that you’ve told me, it doesn’t sound like you ever let yourself properly grieve your losses. Your father’s death, your grandmother’s death, the loss of your dreams to play college football, Joey Houk’s death—you never really grieved, and it may be because you needed to be strong for your mother.” Whitton’s gaze fell to the floor. “Believe me, Drew, I know what that’s like.”

  Drew rubbed his eyes. All this time he thought he was some hero for the downtrodden, helping the weak, but in reality he was selfishly insane and trying to cope with his own mental weakness. It was too much.

  “I’m going to help you, Carter. The most courageous thing you can do is face it and conquer it.”

  “Conquer it? What does that mean? I can make this go away?” Drew grasped this sliver of hope. All along he had wanted to go back to a normal life where invaders didn’t exist—the life that most other people lived.

  Whitton held up his hand. “Let me rephrase, Drew. Your schizophrenia is extremely defined and entwined with both your conscious and your subconscious. Most people with this condition learn how to rationally cope so they can live a somewhat normal life.”

  “How long does it last?” Drew asked.

  “For most, their entire lives.”

  Drew’s shoulders slumped. He shook his head.

  “But now that you know it and are willing to deal with it, we can give you techniques so that it doesn’t control you but rather you control it. That’s what I meant by ‘conquer.’ In spite of how you are feeling right now, you’re a tough, resilient agent. I’ve read your file. Are you willing?”

  What choice did he have? He couldn’t run, not from himself. Whitton seemed his only hope.

  “Yeah.” Drew nodded. “Help me, Whitton.”

  —

  Over the next two months, Dr. Whitton treated Drew and began to reshape his thought processes, equipping him with coping techniques to deal with his schizophrenia.

  There were times when invaders came or appeared to influence circumstances, but Drew recognized them for what they were and ignored them. Validus appeared twice. Drew found him the most difficult to deal with because he seemed so real and personal. Drew marveled at the power of his subconscious. Validus looked disappointed, almost ashamed that Drew had given in to Dr. Whitton’s evaluation. Drew did his best to ignore Validus, but it was difficult. At least if he closed his eyes, everything went away, unlike many schizophrenics who dealt with constant voices.

  At the end of eight weeks of therapy, Drew stood at the door, ready to leave Whitton’s office.

  Whitton’s gentle smile was notably absent. “You’ve done well, Drew. I’ve submitted my final report to Mr. Ross. For the record, you are classified as severe posttraumatic stress disorder.”

  Drew lowered his head. In spite of the gift of not being labeled schizophrenic, he knew it was over. “Surely the CIA is done with me.”

  He looked at Whitton and read the answer in his eyes.

  “I’m not sure, Carter. That’s not for me to decide. I just know that you are going to do okay if you keep your wits about you. You’re strong and you are able.”

  “So what now? Where do I go? What do I do?” Drew asked.

  Whitton motioned for Drew to follow him to the window. He pulled back the curtain so they could see the street from his second-story office. A black car waited at the curb.

  “I don’t know, Carter, but I have a feeling you’ll find some answers there.”

  Drew took a deep breath. He turned to Whitton and stuck out his hand. “Thanks for seeing me through this. I would have never made it without you.”

  Whitton gave him a firm grip. “You’re a good man, Carter, and this world needs good men. Be careful out there.”

  Drew flashed a humble grin as Whitton reached up and squeezed Drew’s shoulder. Then for a brief few seconds, his imaginative mighty warrior, Validus, appeared behind Whitton, eyes burning with anger.

  Drew blinked hard, suppressing the flush of adrenalin that hit his veins. When he opened his eyes, all was normal again, and Whitton’s genuine smile reassured him that all was right with the world.

  Drew exited the building and looked at the black car with darkened windows. The rear door opened, and he hesitated. How willing would the CIA be to allow a schizophrenic with secrets and tradecraft skill to walk free? Would prison be enough? Were the secrets and reputation of the CIA worth the life of one man?

  Drew quelled rising thoughts of paranoia. Perhaps it was just his final debriefing out of the CIA and into civilian life. That was what he hoped for.

  He pulled his leather gloves on a little tighter and then stepped into the car, sat down, and closed the door.

  15

  OUTCAST

  A man sat beside Drew, staring out the opposite window. The car began moving, and the vibrant images of the world outside turned dark, gray, and cold.

  “Carter, you are psychologically unfit for duty in the CIA or any other government agency.”

  Drew recognized the voice immediately. Ross turned and looked at Drew.

  “Your dismissal as a CIA agent is effective immediately. Having recruited you, I felt it was only proper for me to personally tell you.”

  Although Drew knew it was coming, the impact on his gut was no less diminished. Hearing Ross state the sentence with such callousness crushed his soul. Drew looked out the window. He let the images wash by like an old silent movie. He felt numb, a spectator of some cinematic tragedy
.

  He frowned as one of his imaginary dark invaders looked up and straight into his eyes as he tormented a young teen girl walking down the street. Drew saw the emotional pain on the girl’s face and knew that his subconscious had conjured up an invader to justify what he saw. Drew stared. The scene came and went like a dramatic moment in a slow motion sequence. Why him? Why crazy?

  Drew turned and looked at Ross’s stone face. “Are you taking me to prison, Mr. Ross?” he asked, emotionless.

  Ross’s glaring disappointment was hard to bear. “You’ve served our country well, even if only for a short time. That’s worth something. No, I’m not taking you to prison. Your training, your missions, your identity are all classified. You are not to divulge any information in regard to your time in the CIA.” His countenance eased slightly. “I recommend continued treatment. Your transition back to civilian life will be challenging without it.”

  Drew turned back to look out the window. What Ross was offering was a gift, but it still hurt. He was relieved and saddened at the same time.

  They were passing a park filled with trees, benches, and walkways. The car pulled up to the curb and stopped.

  Drew felt frozen, unable to leave the car. In the CIA he felt like he was making a difference, that his abilities were being utilized for something good. Now it was gone. Once he stepped back into the world as a civilian, that would be over forever. He looked back at Ross once more.

  Then a sobering reality hit him. Ross was letting him go? It seemed unlikely. No, it seemed impossible. They would never let a crazy man with knowledge of the inner workings of the clandestine agencies free into the world. Fear began to well up inside him.

  “Take a walk with me, Carter,” Ross said and reached for his door handle.

  In silence, Ross and Drew walked along an abandoned walkway into the trees. When they approached a bench, Ross motioned to it and Drew sat down. Was a gunman with a silencer waiting behind him? Drew wasn’t sure of anything anymore.