The Path Of The Nightmare

by J. J. Carlson

  The walls of the SUV were closing in around him. The hair on the back of his neck stood on end, and he began rocking back and forth. He sucked in forcefully, trying to clear the fog settling in over his eyes. Where was Eugene? He would surely be back by now if everyone was safe inside. What had he found? San crossed himself and began to mutter a desperate prayer. A thousand “what-ifs” burned at the edge of his mind. What if men had broken into the house while he was gone? Would they have killed his family, or taken them hostage? What kind of treatment would they receive if they were taken? Would they torture and rape his wife? Or beautiful Maria, who was so young…

  San’s pulse raced. Oxygen flooded his brain, but he still felt as if he was suffocating. Darkness crept at the corners of his vision. His head began to sag, and he teetered on the edge of consciousness. Then a firm grip on his shoulder dragged him back.

  “Hey,” Daron said, “that’s your cue.”

  San glanced around wildly as reality came into focus. Eugene was standing by the front door, beckoning for him. San left the SUV and collapsed onto the ground. After righting himself, he crossed the street without checking for oncoming traffic. A beige minivan honked as it swerved to miss him.

  Eugene winced and said, “Take it easy, big guy. We’re all clear here.”

  “Did you see them? Are they safe? Where are they?”

  Eugene grabbed San before he could rush through the front door. “Hold up. I don’t want you to run in there and draw the wrong conclusions.”

  San’s eyes widened. “What do you mean ‘the wrong conclusions?’ Where is my family?” With a burst of energy, he shoved Eugene and clawed at the doorway. Eugene turned aside, dodging the brunt of the push. With lightning speed, he wrapped one arm under San’s shoulder and pushed his hip against San’s lower back. San tried to break free, but couldn’t. Eugene was lifting him off the ground and he had no leverage.

  “Knock it off, San! Your family’s fine, but they’re not here.”

  San stopped fighting and hung loosely. Eugene set him down. Keeping one hand on San’s shoulder, he said, “Somebody came in and searched the place. They kicked in doors and tossed furniture, but your family wasn’t here.”

  The color drained from San’s face. “How could you know that?” he croaked.

  “Because the house has been ransacked. If they captured or killed anyone inside, they would have left immediately. They wouldn’t risk staying in the house unless they didn’t find what they were looking for in the first place. I need you to keep a cool head so we can find where Anita and the kids are before someone else does.”

  San nodded.

  “You good, then?”

  San nodded again. “Yes. I’m okay. Just…tell me what to do.”

  Eugene led San inside. The house looked as if it had been turned upside-down, shaken, then placed back on its foundation. The furniture was toppled. Every drawer in the kitchen had been pulled out and emptied. Splintered doors hung precariously on one hinge. San took in the scene through unfocused eyes, his jaw slack.

  “Some pictures have been taken from the bookshelf over here,” Eugene said. “You can see blank spaces in the dust where the frames used to be. Do you know what was in the pictures?”

  San tried to imagine the room as it had been. The bookshelf held almost as many picture frames as it did books. In the largest photo, Anita, Philip, and Maria were standing in front of something bright.

  “The beach,” San mumbled. “And…a forest. I think they were pictures of my wife and kids on vacation with Susana.”

  “That’s good,” Eugene said. “If the goons are looking for them the old-fashioned way, it means they aren’t tracking them through their phones. It’ll give us a big advantage. Now, think. If your wife decided to leave without a phone, how would she try to get in touch with you?”

  San ran a hand through his hair. “I’m not sure.”

  “What about a note? If you were Anita, where would you leave something so that only you could find it?”

  The feeling of helplessness was returning. Self-doubt bombarded San’s mind, making it difficult to think. “Only me? I don’t know…I don’t come over here that often…”

  “Come on, San, you can do this. Is there somewhere that you normally sit? A favorite piece of furniture that only you use?”

  “No…I sit in whatever spot is open. Like I said…” San’s words trailed off and he suddenly glanced toward the kitchen. “There’s only one thing that I use and nobody else does.”

  San half-jogged to the ransacked kitchen. He reached into an open cupboard and removed a hideous clay coffee mug. It was a sickly olive-pink with a purple handle. When Philip was very young, he had bought it for Susana at a garage sale. He purchased the horrible mug with his “lucky nickel,” a coin he found on the ground at the age of four and carried for years. Susana graciously accepted the gift, and though she could never bring herself to drink from it, she could never throw it away. Any time San visited his sister-in-law, he used the awful mug out of pride for his son’s generosity.

  He gave a shout as he looked into the mug and saw a small slip of paper.

  “What is it?” Eugene asked.

  San tipped the mug upside-down and let the paper fall into his hand. He read the note aloud, “San, I pray you get this message safely. Susana received a strange phone call from someone asking about you, so we left right away. We don’t have our phones with us. If you get this message, meet me at the first place where I said ‘no’ at 8 AM tomorrow. Love, Anita.”

  A massive weight fell from San’s shoulders, and he breathed a sigh of relief. When he turned and noticed Eugene’s expectant look, he chuckled. “I’m sorry. I’m just so glad they’re okay, and so proud of my wife. You see, I proposed to Anita three times before she finally said ‘yes.’ She didn’t want to plan a wedding while we were both in school. As you can imagine, I was embarrassed about my rejection; I never told anyone about it. She is the only other person who knows.”

  Eugene nodded, but he didn’t share San’s levity.

  Hardly able to contain himself, San rushed on, “The first place she said ‘no’ was at—”

  “Shh!” Eugene interrupted. He tapped on both ears and swept a hand around the room. There could be prying ears anywhere.

  “Oh…” San said, turning pink. “I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t worry about it. Head outside; I’m going to poke around some more.”

  The patsy was dead. His body lay bloody and torn on top of Jarrod, who pushed him off. Taking a quick assessment of his own body, Jarrod found several contusions where shrapnel had impacted his armor. No bones were broken, and the nano-machinery in his bloodstream was already working to repair his bruised tissue. As a precaution, he stripped off his clothes and adjusted his armor to refract light, rendering him invisible.

  The drone was gone. Whoever had sent it apparently had access to sophisticated, long range communications equipment. It was the only way they could have known about Jarrod stopping the driver.

  The short time it took for the drone to arrive was unsettling. It wasn’t a long-distance model, so it must have been pre-positioned nearby, covering this particular area. One thing was clear: whoever was behind the plot to blow up the embassy was well-equipped. They would probably send someone to make sure no one had survived the explosion.

  A new objective came into Jarrod’s mind, and his primary mission to avenge the death of his family was put on hold.

  He was a super-soldier, designed to carry out any task assigned to him. But no one was giving him orders. After his escape, he had acted purely on instinct. He reacted to threats directly; self-preservation was the only thing that mattered. Then, as he regained some of his old memories, he started to receive mental target packets as clearly as if they were made of paper and ink. The ghost of his former self observed everything he experienced and gave him tasks that were to be strictly followed. The new Jarrod was cold, logical, and calculating, but he never questioned the obje
ctives passed along from the old Jarrod. At the moment, his subconscious was directing him to find out who was responsible for tricking and ultimately killing the driver.

  He moved back toward the road, making no more sound than a rolling bank of fog. There was a crater where the Ford Ranger had been. His Toyota, still partially blocking the road, was charred, smoking, and riddled with holes. Moving past the crater, he climbed a tree overlooking the road. He clung to the branch with the ease of an arboreal ape and stretched out to bask in the sun.

  His suit reverted to pitch-black. The dark color soaked in the entire spectrum of visible light, fueling chemical reactions within his skin. Synthetic organelles in his tissue busied themselves with a process similar to photosynthesis. Sunlight, combined with water from his body and carbon dioxide from the air, provided the fuel and energy for the organelles to manufacture sugar. Jarrod could make his own food simply by basking in the sun’s rays, as long as he was well hydrated. And at this time of year, the lush forests carried vast stores of water.

  Three hours passed as he soaked in the sunlight, storing up carbohydrates. Then there was a rumble of approaching trucks. To Jarrod’s discerning ear, it sounded like a convoy of four M35 two-and-a-half-ton cargo trucks. The six-wheeled vehicles, originally designed for use in the US military, were now used all over the world.

  This complicated things. The people who organized the intricate plan to bomb the embassy with a SEMTEX-laden truck wouldn’t be driving M35’s. They would choose faster, lighter vehicles that wouldn’t stand out as much. The trucks had to be filled with local law enforcement or members of a militant group—unsuspecting pawns in a larger scheme. Jarrod’s figure turned green, then clear as he waited for the convoy to arrive. As he suspected, four M35’s came into view. They were early models, rusted to the core and belching black smoke from their massive diesel engines. The trucks rolled past the crater and stopped just short of the damaged Toyota. A ragtag group of armed men jumped from the lead vehicle and probed the area with AK-47 assault rifles. Seeing nothing of interest in the smoldering Toyota, the men returned to the back of the rusty troop-carrier. Before sitting down, the last man waved at the second vehicle.

  The second truck’s bed was covered with a tarp canopy, concealing its occupants. At the signal from the man in the lead vehicle, a man jumped out, ran to the back, and threw open the tarp. A dozen children between the ages of nine and fourteen climbed down. The older boys carried hunting rifles, and the rest were armed with machetes or Makarov pistols. They followed the barked commands and spread out to search the forest.

  As Jarrod watched, the process was repeated for the third vehicle, which disgorged ten more child-soldiers. His mind identified and cataloged every weapon in sight, then attached risk assessments to each of the potential combatants. The children, like the adults, were labeled as armed threats. If not for the voice of his subconscious, they would be treated as such. Instead, the children were marked as off-limits in his mind’s eye.

  The presence of the under-age combatants shifted Jarrod’s priorities. The adults in the group would have to die, and the shadowy organization behind it all would pay dearly.

  He was about to drop from his perch when the lead vehicle lurched forward. It forced the battered Toyota out of the way and rolled onward. A man whistled, and the children ran back to the trucks. When they were all back inside, the rest of the convoy set out for an unknown destination. The militant group had more important things to attend to.

  As the last vehicle rumbled by, Jarrod dropped to the ground. He had no choice but to follow on foot.

  12

  It was 2:00 AM when Daron and Eugene disposed of the dead body at a clandestine, government-owned incinerator. Thirty minutes later, Eugene pulled the SUV into a convenience store parking lot. The two men told San to get some sleep and took turns standing guard. San spent the next four hours tossing and turning, and he was relieved when Daron informed him it was time to move.

  As Daron backed out of the parking space, he asked, “Where are we headed?” Out of caution, the former Hillcrest head of security had advised San to keep the location a secret until the last moment.

  “Mount Vernon Place,” San answered. “The George Peabody Library.”

  “Nice spot,” Eugene said, “really romantic place to propose.”

  San sighed. “It would have been if she hadn’t turned me down. I haven’t been back since.”

  A minute later, Daron rolled onto Interstate 83. The southbound traffic was lighter than usual, and they made good time. San watched the sprawling Druid Hill Park roll by, then had Daron take the exit for Maryland Avenue. They passed a blend of historic brick buildings and glassy modern structures as they continued south. They veered to the right on Cathedral Street, then turned left onto Mount Vernon Place. The narrow street opened up to a large roundabout with a towering monument to George Washington in the center. To San’s surprise, Daron followed the roundabout past the Norman-Gothic cathedral of the Mt. Vernon Methodist Church.

  “Why aren’t we stopping?” he asked.

  “It’s standard practice for counter-surveillance,” Eugene explained. “That’s why we’re here so early. Well pass through a few times, then stop and watch the entrance for a while.”

  San nodded and wrung his hands together. He was more than happy to leave the spy stuff to the professionals, but he was eager to see his family. The idea that someone was following them, or knew they were coming, made his stomach twist into knots.

  No one said a word as Daron guided the bulky SUV through the crowded avenues. He weaved a seemingly random pattern for fifteen minutes, then parked with the George Peabody Library in full view.

  “And now we wait,” Eugene said.

  San tried to help watch for anything suspicious, but when he tried to point anything out, he was quickly silenced by the others. Daron’s trained eye scanned the street, and he called out descriptions of pedestrians or vehicles he wanted Eugene to investigate. Eugene did so with a high-powered spotting scope. The intense scrutiny continued for nearly an hour before Daron was satisfied, and San breathed a sigh of relief.

  Suddenly, San bolted forward and said, “That’s her!” Halfway up the block, his wife scurried out from under a maple tree, crossing the street and entering the library.

  “No shit,” Daron grumbled. “She’s been here as long as we have. You didn’t see her sitting on that bench, hiding behind a newspaper?”

  “No,” San replied. “You could have said something!”

  San reached for the door, but Daron grabbed him by the forearm and said, “Don’t.”

  San froze and waited for an explanation. When Daron didn’t give one, Eugene said, “I know it’s hard, but we have to make her wait for a while. We’ll watch the street to see if anyone is following her, then send you in and do the same for you.

  San’s eyes flashed. “You’re using my wife as bait?”

  “It’s not like that,” Eugene assured him. “It’s for her protection, and yours. If we see anyone suspicious, you can bet we’ll roll them up.”

  San frowned.

  “Take them prisoner,” Eugene explained. “No one would have a reason to follow her, or you, unless they were one of the bad-guys.”

  “Katharos,” San said quietly. “But are you sure I should go in alone? What if someone is waiting for us inside?”

  Eugene shook his head. “There’s no way they could have known where the meeting was. Daron and I didn’t even know until right before we left. If anyone is following us, we need to be outside when they make their move.”

  San took a deep breath, nodded, then shut his eyes. He waited for several minutes, trying not to think of the killers after his family.

  Daron finally spoke. “Go ahead, San. We’ll keep an eye on you from here.”

  San opened his eyes. For a moment, the thought of seeing his wife washed away all of his fear. He pulled open his door and jumped outside, then power-walked toward the library’s front door
.

  Inside the SUV, Daron sighed heavily. San was drawing attention from everyone on the block with his frenzied gait.

  In San’s mind, he was as cool and casual as Jason Bourne, but his mind was stressed to its breaking point. He pushed through the doors of the George Peabody library so hard that everyone on the main floor looked up.

  Without thinking, he said, “Anita?”

  At least a dozen people responded with a unified “Shh!”

  San grimaced, remembering the library’s particularly strict noise policy. He whispered, “Sorry,” and stepped onto the black and white marble floor. There were dozens of desks in front of him, each bearing reading lamps and stacks of books. About half of them were occupied by patrons browsing the library’s tomes, but he didn’t see Anita anywhere.

  He tilted his head back, taking in the sweeping architecture. Five balconies with ornately carved pillars towered in front of him. He could see all the way to the top floor and the massive skylight sixty-one feet above him. Cast-iron rails protected visitors from falling and added to the stately decor. There were hundreds of shelves lined with precious books, and every one of them was available to the public.

  Anyone could come in off the street and browse the library, but the books had to remain within the building. Because of this no-lending policy, there were plenty of desks and cozy nooks to conduct research. San decided to visit a small table on the third level—the place where he had proposed.

  His shoes squeaked on the polished marble floor as he bounded up the stairs. When he reached the third tier, he was again greeted by patrons frowning at him. He flashed a bright, apologetic smile and tried to get his pace under control. He passed through an aisle of books and looked to his left. His eyes landed on the spot the table had been. It was gone.

  All of his energy rushed out of him. His shoulders slumped and he let out a long, disappointed breath.

  “Are you going to give up that easily?” a voice behind him asked.