BRAINRUSH, a Thriller

by Bard, Richard

  What others are saying about Brainrush

  “A terrifically entertaining thriller with three finely executed set pieces strung together with nice characterization. Especially successful is Bronson, an amiable, low-key tough guy able to rescue his princess, survive brutality, and retain a sense of humor.”

  – Publishers Weekly 2011*

  “Brainrush explores the bonds of friendship while pushing the boundaries of science, creating a compelling, action-packed thriller with a climax that's a knock-out!

  – CJ Lyons, New York Times Best-Selling Author

  “If this startling debut doesn’t have you turning pages at breakneck speed, then you’re not paying attention. Rich characters, crackling dialogue, and a climactic sequence that is stunning, enervating, and innovative all at once. Richard Bard is a voice to be reckoned with.”

  – Rebecca Forster, USA Today Best-Selling Author

  “An inventive and compelling hybrid of science fiction, adventure, and political thriller. Rather than end the novel with a simple rescue operation, however, this author provides a far more intriguing and unexpected conclusion.

  – Publishers Weekly 2010*

  *Note: As a semifinalist in the 2010 and 2011 Amazon Breakthrough Novel Awards, the unpublished Brainrush manuscript received two separate reviews from Publishers Weekly

  BRAINRUSH

  By Richard Bard

  Kindle Edition 2

  Copyright © 2011 Richard A. Bard

  All rights reserved.

  ISBN: 1-46353-492-2 (trade paperback)

  ISBN-13: 978-1-463-53492-9 (trade paperback)

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2011909059

  License Notes

  This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return it and purchase your own copy at any online eBook retailer. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  This book is a work of fiction. The characters, circumstances, and dialogue are drawn from the author’s imagination and should not be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or individuals is purely coincidental.

  All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the price of this book, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the author.

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  Part I

  “The fear of death is the most unjustified of all fears, for there's no risk of accident for someone who's dead.”

  Albert Einstein

  Chapter 1

  Veterans Administration Medical Center

  Santa Monica, California

  Jake Bronson spent the past two weeks preparing to die. He just didn’t want to do it today trapped in this MRI scanner.

  The table jiggled beneath him. He was on his way into the narrow tube like a nineteenth-century artillery round being shoved into a cannon. The glassy-eyed gaze of the bored VA medical technician hovered over him, a yellow mustard stain on the sleeve of his lab coat.

  Comforting.

  “Keep your head perfectly still,” the tech said.

  Yeah, right, like he had any choice with the two-inch-wide strap they had cinched over his forehead. Another wiggle and the lip of the tunnel passed into view above him. Jake squeezed his eyes closed, anxious to ignore the curved walls sliding by just an inch from his nose. Three deep breaths and the table jerked to a stop. He was in, cocooned head to toe. He heard the soft whir of the ventilation fan turn on at his feet. The breeze chilled the beads of sweat gathering on his forehead.

  The tech’s scratchy-sounding voice came over the speakers in the chamber. “Mr. Bronson, if you can hear me press the button.”

  A panic switch. Hadn’t he been in a constant state of panic ever since the doctors told him his disease was terminal? He’d agreed to this final test so he’d know how many months he had left to live, to make at least one positive difference in the world. After today, no more doctors. After today, he’d focus on living. Jake pressed the thumb switch gripped in his hand.

  “Got it,” the tech said. “If it gets too confining for you in there, just press it again and I’ll pull you out. But remember, we’ll have to start all over again if that happens, so let’s try to get it right the first time, okay? We only need thirty minutes. Here we go.”

  Jake’s thumb twitched over the panic button. Crap. He already wanted to push it. He should have accepted the sedative that they offered him in the waiting room. But his friend Marshall had been standing right there, chuckling under his breath when the tech suggested it.

  Too late now.

  Why the hell was this happening to him again? Cancer once in a lifetime was more than enough for anyone. But twice? It wasn’t right. He wanted to lash out, but at what? Or whom? This morning he’d smashed the small TV in his bedroom over a movie trailer for Top Gun 2. “Coming next fall.” He hated that he was going to miss that one.

  The chamber felt like it was closing in on him. A claustrophobic panic sparked in his gut, a churning that grew with each pound of his heart, a hollow reminder of the crushing confines of the collapsible torture box he’d spent so many hours in during the Air Force’s simulated POW training camp.

  Come on, Jake, man-up!

  Thirty minutes. That was only eighteen hundred seconds. He clenched his teeth and started counting. One, one thousand, two, one thousand, three—

  The machine started up with a loud clanking noise. The sound startled him and his body twitched.

  “Please don’t move, Mr. Bronson.” The tech was irritated.

  The tapping noise sounded different than he remembered from the MRI he had ten years ago. “Lymphoma,” the flight surgeon had said. “Sorry, but you’re grounded.” And just like that, his childhood dreams of flying the F-16 were cut short on the day before his first combat mission. The chemo and radiation treatments had sucked. But they worked. The cancer was forced into remission—until two weeks ago, when it reappeared in the form of a tumor in his brain.

  The annoying rattle settled into a pattern. Jake let out a deep breath, trying to relax.

  Eight, one thousand, nine, one thousand—

  Suddenly, the entire chamber jolted violently to the right, as if the machine had been T-boned by a dump truck. Jake’s body twisted hard to one side, but his strapped head couldn’t follow. He felt a sharp pain in his neck and the fingers on his left hand went numb. The fan stopped blowing, the lights went out, and the chamber started shaking like a gallon can in a paint-store agitator.

  Earthquake!

  A keening whistle from deep within the machine sent shooting pains into Jake’s rattling skull. A warm wetness pooled in his ears and muffled his hearing.

  He squeezed down hard on the panic button, shouting into the darkness, each word trembling with the quake’s vibration. “Get—me—out—of—here!”

  No one answered.

  He wedged his palms against the sidewalls to brace himself. The surface was warm, getting hotter.

  The air felt charged with electricity. His skin tingled. Sparks skittered along the wall in front of his face, the first sign in the complete darkness
that his eyes were still functioning. The acrid scent of electrical smoke filled his nostrils.

  Jake’s fists pounded the thick walls of the chamber. He howled, “Somebody—”

  His body went rigid. His arms and legs jerked spasmodically in seizure, his head thrown back. He bit deep into his tongue and his mouth filled with the coppery taste of blood. Sharp, burning needles of blinding pain blossomed in the hollow at the back of his skull, wriggling through his brain. His head felt like it was ready to burst.

  The earthquake ended as abruptly as it started.

  So did the seizure.

  Jake sagged into the table, his thumping heart threatening to break through his chest.

  Faint voices. His mind lunged for them. He peered down toward his toes. A light flickered on in the outer room. Shadows shifted.

  The table jerked beneath him, rolling out into the room. When Jake’s head cleared the outer rim of the machine, two pairs of anxious eyes stared down at him. It was the tech and Jake’s buddy, Marshall.

  “You okay?” Marshall asked, concern pinching his features.

  Jake didn’t know whether he was okay or not. The tech helped him sit up and Jake spun his legs to the side. He turned his head and spat a bloody glob of saliva on the floor. Holding the panic switch up to the tech, he said, “You may want to get this thing fixed.”

  “I’m s-so sorry, Mr. Bronson,” the tech said. “The power went out and I could barely keep my balance. I—”

  “Forget it,” Jake said, wincing as he reached over his shoulder to massage the back of his aching neck. He gestured to the smoking chamber. “Just be glad you weren’t strapped down inside that coffin instead of me.” He slid his feet to the floor and stood up.

  The room spun around him.

  He felt Marshall’s firm grip on his shoulders. “Whoa, slow down, pal,” Marshall said. “You’re a mess.”

  Jake shook his head. His vision steadied. “I’m all right. Just give me a second.” He took a quick inventory. The feeling had returned to his fingers. Other than a bad neck ache, a sore tongue, and a tingling sensation at the back of his head, there was no major damage. Clutching the corner of the sheet on the table, he wiped at the wetness around his ears. The cotton fabric came away with a pink tinge to it, but no more than that. He stretched his jaw to pop his ears. His hearing was fine.

  Using the small sink and wall mirror by the door, Jake used a damp paper towel to make sure he got all the blood from his bitten tongue off his lips and chin. His face didn’t look so bad. The tan helped. His hair was disheveled, but what the hell, sloppy was in, right? And if he could get at least one good night of sleep, his eyes would get back to looking more green than red. It was a younger version of his dad that stared back at him. He sucked in a deep breath, expanding his chest. Six foot two, thirty-five years old—the prime of his life.

  Yeah, right.

  He tried to sort out just what had happened in that chamber, but the specifics were already hazy, like the fading details of a waking dream. He threw on his T-shirt and jeans, then grabbed his blue chambray shirt from a spike by the door and put that over the tee. Slipping on his black loafers, he glanced back at the donut-shaped ring of the machine that had almost become his tomb. The seam that traveled around it was charred, faint wisps of smoke still snaking into the air.

  “Never again,” Jake muttered.

  On the way out, a pretty nurse grabbed Marshall’s hand and slipped him a folded piece of paper. Jake stifled a smile. Ten to one it was her phone number, though the concerned look Marshall exchanged with her suggested otherwise.

  He stuffed the paper in his pocket, turned his back on her with a friendly wave, and followed Jake out the door. “Dude, you sure you’re okay?” he asked.

  “Sure.”

  But an odd, sporadic buzzing in Jake’s head told him something was very different.

  Chapter 2

  Redondo Beach, California

  Jake slouched forward on the edge of the patio chair on his backyard deck, hands clenched, elbows propped on his bare knees protruding from his favorite pair of tattered jeans. The midafternoon sun was finally beginning to burn through the clinging marine layer, with patches of sunlight punching holes through the clouds and warming his skin. He drew in a deep breath of moist salt air, his eyes half closed. One hundred feet below his perch, a lone surfer paddled through the breakers. The soft rumble of the waves was a salve on Jake’s nerves. Seagulls drifted overhead, seemingly suspended in the gentle offshore breeze.

  Marshall’s grinning face popped through the small kitchen window. In spite of the slim wireless earpiece that had become a permanent fixture on his left ear, girls seemed to flock to his dark features, though Marshall had never exhibited much of a talent in figuring out how to deal with them. His genius was with computers, not girls—a point that Jake often ribbed him about.

  “You better put beer on the shopping list,” Marshall said. “These are the last two. And I threw out your milk. It expired two weeks ago, dude.”

  Jake shrugged. His sixty-year-old two-bedroom Spanish stucco home wasn’t anything to brag about. But it was the one and only place he had planted roots after a lifetime of bouncing from one location to another, first as a military brat and later as a pilot in the Air Force. The panoramic coastal view stretched all the way from Redondo Beach to Malibu.

  The porch screen door slammed closed as Marshall walked over and handed him a beer. “If you have to keep every window in the whole house open twenty-four/seven, you’re going to have to start wiping the counters once in a while. It looks like a college dorm room in there.”

  Jake ignored the comment. He liked the windows open. Dust was the least of his problems.

  Marshall cut to the chase. “You gonna reschedule the MRI?”

  Jake shook his head. “No way.”

  “You’re not worried about another shaker, are you? After a couple days of aftershocks, the tectonic pressure will be relieved and that’ll be the end of it, at least for a while.”

  Jake recalled the radio broadcast on the ride home. The earthquake had been a 5.7, centered just off the coast, but it had been felt as far south as San Diego and as far north as San Luis Obispo. After the initial jolt, the rolling shaker that followed had lasted only ten or fifteen seconds. Damage had been light, injuries minor.

  “No more MRIs. No more doctors,” Jake said.

  “But you have to, right?” Marshall left a trail of sneaker prints as he paced across the remnants of dew that coated the wooden deck. He wore a white, button-down shirt, khaki Dockers, and his trademark multicolored Pro-Keds high-tops. “I thought it was the only way to identify how far the disease had spread. You could die, man.”

  “Yeah, well, ‘could die’ is better than ‘would die.’ So, forget about it.” Jake wished he’d never said anything to Marshall about the tumor that drove him to the MRI in the first place. Marshall was the only one of his friends and family who knew. Even so, Jake still hadn’t told him it was terminal. With only a few months to live, the last thing he wanted was to be surrounded by pity. He’d had enough of that the first time around ten years ago.

  His mom’s uncontrolled sobbing was the first thing he’d heard when he regained consciousness after the exploratory “staging” surgery. Dad seemed okay, but that’s because he kept it bottled up as usual. Jake felt their fear, knew they were both petrified that they might lose their second son, too. When his older brother died in a motorcycle accident, grief had shaken the family to the core. Now it was Jake causing the grief.

  Months of chemo and radiation therapy had followed. His weight dropped from two hundred down to one forty in less than six weeks. He’d lost all his hair. But he hadn’t quit, on himself or his family. Halfway through the treatment, Dad had died of a heart attack. A broken heart, Jake remembered thinking—his fault. That’s what unbridled grief did. His mom would be next if he didn’t pull through. His little sister would be all alone. Jake couldn’t let that happen. He’d beat it.
He had to.

  In the end, the aggressive treatment regimen had defeated the disease. The war was won—at least the physical part of it. His health improved and he became the anchor that allowed his mom and sister to pick up the pieces of their lives.

  No, Jake didn’t want to be surrounded by pity again. He couldn’t handle it a second time around.

  Marshall paced back and forth in front of the rail, his fingers unconsciously playing over the smooth corners of the iPhone snapped into a holster on his belt. He took another slug from his bottle of beer. “Dude, at least tell me what happened when you were inside that machine. You’ve barely said a word since we hightailed it out of there.”

  Jake still couldn’t remember the sequence of events that actually occurred while he was in the MRI machine, but he recalled the resulting sensations all too clearly: heart pounding, shortness of breath, helplessness, uncontrollable panic—feelings he wanted to banish, not talk about. “Something weird happened to me. I’m still trying to sort it out. I freaked in there. A full-fledged, your-life-is-on-the-line panic, like when your chute doesn’t open and the ground is racing up at you.”

  His voice trailed off. “The next thing I can remember is the news talk-radio show in the Jeep. The announcer was reeling off the game scores, and somehow that relaxed me. I saw each score as a different image in my mind. It’s crazy, but instead of numbers I saw shapes.” Jake closed his eyes for a moment. “I can still recall every one of them, and the scores that went with them.”

  “Of course,” Marshall said.

  “No, really, Marsh, I’m serious.” Jake closed his eyes and recited, “Boston College over Virginia Tech, 14-10; Ohio State beat Penn State 37-17; USC-Oregon, 17-24; California-Arizona State, 20-31; West Vir—”