The Theory of Insanity

by Rick Newberry

  She wrinkled her brow, shooting me a confused stare. I understood at once what a blunder I had made. She may have died long before ever having heard the well-known song. I added this to the never-ending list of tactless statements I had made in my life, and now continued to do in my after life. A wrong-place, wrong-time kind of announcement I consider witty, but are really not, yet seem to spill effortlessly from my mouth. Now I had to work on the puzzle of how to talk my way back from the crass remark.

  “No need,” she said. “Stairway to Heaven, Led Zeppelin, early seventies.”

  “You’re reading my mind, aren’t you? Sorry. Wow, I guess I’ll never be able to keep any secrets from you, will I?”

  “Why would you want to? I’ve always been with you and know everything there is to know about you. But you caught me off guard. I never thought, being in the presence of all this,” she said stretching her arms out over the panorama, “would remind you of an old rock and roll anthem.” She turned her attention back to the scenery. “Isn’t it beautiful?”

  The sunlight brightened her eyes—her honey-colored hair literally glowed. The word beautiful did come to mind. I turned back to the incredible view, remembering to keep my eyes open and my mouth shut. With a clear mind, the power of the moment pulled me in, like being magically painted into a life-sized canvas.

  “I used to come here as often as I could, but always alone.” She smiled. “It’s much nicer to share.”

  “Why did you stop coming here? Is it because you were assigned to me?”

  She simply smiled, avoiding an answer.

  “We’ll have to come back here when the mission is over,” I said.

  With a wan smile she said, “It’s a date.”

  I searched for any hidden meaning behind her words. I saw nothing behind her eyes so I let the declaration stand as delivered. I fought the urge to say something stupid again, to lighten the mood, which is always too easy—at least for me. I could have made a silly remark about the hundreds of visitors around us—something along the lines of selling tickets and making a killing. I kept silent, instead. Standing next to her, feeling her warmth, I enjoyed the sweet air and did my best to commit this perfect moment to memory.

  In a quiet voice, like that of a child’s, she said, “We should go.”

  I nodded, not wanting to abandon the serenity but accepting the inevitable.

  Samantha backed away from the railing and reached out her hand. “Wouldn’t want to lose you.”

  I held tight and we made our way through the crowd and down the stairway. The thought of merging in with the millions of souls on the avenue below made me nauseous, but there was no other way to get back to the House of Questions. I tightened my grip on her hand and dove into the fray, which had grown considerably.

  The first few minutes were rough going as I got my feet wet, like kayaking into rapids minus the kayak. Once we entered the main stream of people, however, their momentum swept us along, the spongy ground aiding our movement. The tough part was keeping upright—not letting myself get shoved off course or knocked down.

  Nobody seemed to be panicking, not yet, but the signs were there—anxious expressions, nervous voices, unpredictable movements. All it would take for this crowd to turn ugly would be one or two unexpected surprises.

  The first surprise happened not too far from the stairway. The weight of the crowd shoving against a neon signpost became too much for it to bear. Sparks lit up the top of the sign, and letters came crashing down onto those around it. Screams bounced off the skyscrapers. We were swept away from the swarm rippling out from the scene of the accident.

  Sam yelled, “They can’t be…they can’t—”

  I stared down at her but couldn’t hear much of what she said over the uproar. I wrapped my arms around her and leaned down. “What are you saying?”

  With a full-out shriek she said, “The souls who were caught under the neon letters can’t be harmed. It’s not allowed. Before any harm comes to them, their souls will be relocated.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “Whisked away from harm, sometimes a few feet, sometimes a few miles. But they must be new here and don’t understand the rules yet.”

  Surrounded by thousands of terrified “newbies,” I recalled my first thoughts in this unfamiliar setting. I probably would have been just as rattled being surrounded by this mob. My hold on Sam tightened, concentrating on those around us. An obvious pattern emerged as far as the eye could see—souls caught in full anxiety mode, their guides trying to calm them down.

  The second surprise caught me truly off guard. An overhead pedestrian bridge wobbled under the sheer weight of travelers. Swaying to the left and right, it threatened to crash down without warning. People screamed and the stampede I feared began. The sudden surge moved us along, turning us away from our destination. The crush of bodies jostling against us pulled at my hold around Sam.

  I leaned into her and yelled, “We need to calm them down.” I could barely hear myself talk over the deafening crowd. I put my face next to Sam’s, directing my thoughts at her. We have to calm this crowd down. Can you hook up telepathically with the other guides to break the panic? Sing something, maybe? Music to soothe the soul?

  She nodded and closed her eyes. All at once, the sweetest sound I had ever heard arose from the multitude, well, from half of them anyway. It sounded like a choir of angels humming a soothing version of Greensleeves. The movement of the swarm slowed. The jostling subsided and little pockets of space opened up, not much, but enough to allow for breathing room.

  Through the continued humming I directed Sam, little by little, back on course toward The House of Questions. The overhead bridge stopped swaying, and debris from the neon sign vanished. Steady currents of movement once again pushed and pulled us toward our goal.

  “You doing okay?” I shouted over the drone of footsteps.

  She glanced up at me and smiled. Her small stature meant she couldn’t peer ahead over the top of the crowd. I checked on her at regular intervals, assuring her we were getting closer to our destination. If she were alone, she very well might have been carried off by the sea of souls, winding up miles off course. I liked keeping a silent watch over her.

  “Like my guardian angel,” she said with a grin.

  “Please,” I said imitating her words, “we’re called guides.”

  She squeezed my hand. I leaned back, slowing my gait to allow a small space to develop in front of us. Using that space, I drifted to the left, step by step, shoving against the constant tide of human souls until we reached the front yard of the green Victorian house.

  Thorogood was right—since we’d left the House of Questions, the amount of people in the city had increased exponentially.

  IX

  At first glance, the mood of those loitering in the front yard of the old Victorian seemed pleasant enough, even sociable. No doubt milling about here would be easier than in the avenue, being swept along with the millions. Still, their very presence posed a threat by blocking our path to the front porch. I kept Sam close to me and shoved my way through the crowd. Progress was so slow at first, as though I slogged along through knee-deep mud. When I reached the cobblestone walkway leading to the stairs, I struggled for every inch of ground.

  The more I pushed my way through the horde, jostling for position, the quicker their mood changed from hospitable to hostile. Some pushed back. The guides did their best to calm the mood, but it was too late—a spark had been lit.

  The actions of the swarm seemed calculated. They did what they could to impede our progress to the House of Questions, short of punching us—something I hadn’t ruled out. Sam used the term mob mentality earlier when she helped calm me down. She also warned it could go this way, too. The Lucifer Effect.

  Size worked to my advantage in prodding through the angry mass of souls. It was the opposite for Sam. I turned just in time to see her fall. She reached out and I grabbed her hand. The crowd’s actions were now out of co
ntrol, regardless of how much serenity the guides invoked. I held Sam close, continuing to fight for real estate.

  “Thank you, Brooks,” she shouted over the melee, “they would have trampled me.” Her voice remained cool and calm. I detected fear, however, when she yelled, “We’ve got to reach the door before this gets any worse. We can’t afford to be relocated. It’s almost noon.”

  “Roger that.”

  I stiff-armed my way forward a few more feet, then hit a wall of angry souls with bad intent. Two of them separated me from Samantha. I struggled to get back to her but couldn’t budge the mob around me. They kept my arms held behind my back while a big brute in a business suit put his meaty paws around my throat.

  “Hold on, señor,” a familiar voice called out. “You need help?”

  The business suit brute grimaced as his feet swept out from under him. He went down in a heap. I bent forward and sent the man holding me from behind over my head.

  “Jorge?” I knew the man who helped me but had no idea where we’d met. He risked his own safety for ours, but the reason was unclear. “Jorge Robles?”

  “Si, señor.” The voice sounded so familiar, but this was no time to reminisce.

  I clawed my way back to Sam, pushing her captors aside. “Jorge, we need your help to get to that house,” I said, pointing at the Victorian.

  He grinned and blocked for us. I shielded Sam, hugging her tight to my chest, like guarding a football. I shoved my way closer to the goal. Jorge pushed and elbowed his way through the swarm, giving us enough room to slip by and hit the bottom step leading to the porch. We ascended the stairs without being touched. The mob did not follow.

  I turned around to thank Jorge. He was gone. I held onto Sam and scanned the crowd for him. He disappeared. Chaos ensued. The horde moved in unison, a few steps to the left, then to the right, then bulged out onto the street. Their numbers gobbled up by the millions in the avenue until fully absorbed.

  I shook my head, watching the upheaval play out on the once quiet avenue. The poor souls had lost their humanity, acting instead like wild animals.

  “You arrived with the first wave,” Sam said freeing herself from me, “ahead of the billions. You had a chance to acclimate. But these unfortunates…” The thought evaporated, like the angry mob we had just faced.

  But the sentiment, although unfinished, still hurt. If not for me, these “unfortunates” wouldn’t have been here at all. Being responsible for the suffering of billions brought a weight I struggled to bear—not being able to help Jorge added to the guilt.

  “Stop it,” Sam said. “You didn’t plant the bomb. The end of the world wasn’t your fault, but you can stop it. That’ll be the best way to help your friend.”

  I wanted to believe her, but found it difficult, so I changed the subject instead. “Is the bomb always hidden in the podium? Hell, come to think of it, is it always a bomb that puts the end of the world into motion?”

  “Yes, it’s always a bomb, but it’s never in the same place. The last time it was planted in the podium. Before that, it was under the stage. Before that, it was in the rafters above the stage. Before that, the mission ended in the Portal—a snafu with the membrane.”

  “What? What kind of snafu?”

  “The membrane ripped and you were lost among millions of incoming souls. It took hours to find you and sort it all out.”

  “You call that a snafu? My God, woman, what do you call a real problem?”

  “You see,” she said, hands on her hips, “maybe that’s why Sebastian didn’t want to tell you about the previous missions. What’s done is done.”

  I took a mindful breath. “Sorry. Let’s get back to the last mission. How did you know the bomb was in the podium?” She hesitated, so I pressed for an answer. “You rushed the stage and knew the bomb was hidden in the podium. How?”

  “I don’t know, I just felt it.”

  “You felt it? You didn’t see someone plant the bomb, or overhear someone talk about it?”

  “No. I just knew it was there, don’t ask me how.”

  “Why does it keep changing locations?” This time I didn’t press her delayed response. I put my hand on her shoulder and smiled. In a much softer tone I asked, “Why do you think it keeps changing locations? Help me out here.”

  “I’ve thought about that.” She looked away. “You’re not going to like my answer.”

  “Try me.”

  She whispered, “The only thing that makes any sense to me is that we’re trying to change the inevitable.”

  She was right, I didn’t like the answer. “You’re talking about fate—as if the end of the world is supposed to happen, which means anything we try to do to stop it is useless.”

  She nodded. “It’s just a theory.”

  I stepped closer and leaned down, my breathing irregular and shallow, as if I had been punched in the gut. “You might be right, but we can’t let that stop us. We’re going to succeed this time.”

  “How can you be so sure?”

  “I don’t know, it’s just something I feel.”

  The din of the crowd faded into waves of background noise. The door creaked behind us. Both Sam and I turned around. Sebastian didn’t open the door this time, it just…opened.

  I entered before Sam, my eyes wide. When we were both in the entrance hall, the door slammed shut. I tried the knob—it wouldn’t budge. I reached under my coat, forgetting my 9mm wasn’t there.

  Sam touched my arm. “Weapons aren’t allowed here.”

  “Why not?” I had to lash out at something, an enemy to kill. Too much in life had been taken from me. At least in death, I needed to be in control. Scanning the entry hall, I searched for anything that might be used for defense—an umbrella perhaps, or a small table—maybe a shoe.

  Sam opened her mouth. I put a finger to my lips, shushing her. I refused to be dissuaded in my search for weapons. We scowled at each other. Our private disagreement silent and brief. In the long run, also moot—the entry hall had no makeshift arms of any kind.

  I bowed my head and whispered in her ear, “Start to count.” I began my multiplication tables, hoping she followed suit with her divisions. Sebastian was dead set against me knowing I had gone back to earth eight times already, failing with each attempt to reset the past. Whatever his reasons for me going back as a blank slate, I would never know, and, of course, never agree with. I had to go back to earth with as much knowledge as I could stuff into my subconscious mind—like a shoplifter concealing stolen memories before leaving the big store.

  “Seriously,” she said, “if we can’t trust the Director—”

  “I-don’t-know-a-bout-him-but-you-have-to-trust-me,” I said while reciting the tables in my head.

  “There they are,” Sebastian said marching up to us, a wan smile on his face, “right on time, not a moment to spare.” He slapped me on the back and gave Sam a curt nod. “Come now, follow me.” He stood between us, draping his arms over our shoulders. We strolled down the hallway as if three best friends out on the town. “You’re cutting it close, my dear,” he said to her, “I didn’t think you were going to show.”

  “Too-many-souls-in-the-city,” Samantha said. The cadence of her words brought a smile to my lips.

  Sebastian wrinkled his brow. “Quite right. Well then, off we go, yes?”

  He led us into a room opposite the den, into what I assumed must be the “great” room. Its size as vast as a cavern—dark like ink and cold as an iceberg. I had never seen anything like it before. Hundreds of people, all wearing white lab coats, stood on various levels of the massive room. The hum of electronic circuitry filled the air. Giant flat-screen monitors lit up the darkness with their electronic glow. Panels of indicator lights, switches, and readouts climbed to the top of the ceiling—if this room even had a ceiling. Technicians tended to the operations of each monitor, panel, and work station.

  In the center of the enormous space rested a huge red neon lamp. Sebastian led us to the light. He
turned to me, his face illuminated by the red glow. “This is it, my son, the entrance to the Portal. Now, don’t worry, the injection will only sting for a moment or so.”

  “Injection? What inject—ouch! You never told me about…”

  “There, now, that wasn’t so bad, was it? You’ll feel a bit dizzy. Better sit down.”

  Someone pushed a chair under me, brushing against my calves. My head heavy, my throat dry, I sat down and turned to Sam. A hypodermic needle was pulled from her arm. She nodded at the technician and sat down at once. I kept my eyes on her, wanting to remember everything about the girl—her green eyes, strawberry hair pulled back into a ponytail, the freckles running across her nose. I would not lose her this time.

  “We’re still working on the communication glitch,” Sebastian said, his voice sounding scratchy and electronic. “The technicians have managed to strengthen the Portal membrane separating incoming from outgoing, so there shouldn’t be a problem with that anymore. I wish you luck. You’ll arrive two days before the end of the world. Can you still hear me?”

  Good question. My eyelids felt like two bricks.

  I thought about standing up but thinking about it was as far as I got. I focused even harder on Samantha. She gazed at me, forcing a smile to her lips. I tried to return the gesture but could not. The red lamp turned green.

  I don’t know if her eyes closed before mine. It was hard to tell. My consciousness plummeted into a dream so deep I thought I had died for real this time. The room began to float, or was it me? Was I floating? I couldn’t be sure. The sensation of staring down into a void so deep it seemed to have no end swept over me. I remained in this state for what could have been hours, or just a few seconds, half awake, half dead—high above the earth, and deep below the ground. Even though my eyes were shut, I visualized everything. The cliff. The tunnel. My heart raced, my blood sizzled. A pair of hands touched my back.