by Jeb Bohn
If not, then where exactly?
Had more than just the two men been in New Mexico?
Too many questions, not enough answers.
Frustrating.
Okay, let’s focus on what we do know: you’re running a small team; you could only afford to send two scouts for a major operation. You got lucky in Colorado and managed to half-ass your way through it. You’re not trained mercenaries, yet you know an awful lot about your targets. If you’re based in Colorado, the Sioux Falls site is the next closest target. If you’re in New Mexico, Brawley would be the spot.
There was no noise, no chatter. Maybe they had gone underground to regroup. Maybe they had been scared off of their crusade.
No, you haven’t given up that easily. No one commits to doing what you’ve done and just quits. You plan to bring every facility down and two dead bodies aren’t going to stop you.
Michael had wanted to capture, not kill the two men. His proposition was that they be injected with the same substance that made his minions controllable and devoid of free will. The supposition was that they could be made to reveal intimate details about this rogue group, where they were stationed, and what their next target would be.
It doesn’t work like that, he had been told. Think of it like the radio in your car. You have it tuned to your favorite station, you get to the edge of its effective coverage area, and another station using that frequency breaks in. The new, more powerful signal overrides the weaker one. You might catch bits and pieces, but never enough to put anything together.
The gist was that anyone under its control could be manipulated like a semi-intelligent puppet. They could be given commands and retain enough of their facilities to be able to carry them out, but if you asked one who the president was they would just stare blankly with those eerie, glowing eyes.
He had countered, his argument shifting to turning them into unwitting double agents. This was poo-pooed on the grounds that there were too many variables. The men may very well refuse to return to the rest of their team. Maybe they would simply commit suicide. Perhaps the group used signal jammers that would be capable of disrupting the transmission of data to the implants.
He had thought it was all bullshit and said as much, though it did nothing to change any minds.
You’re missing the big picture, Mr. Conacher. You can catch them in the act. They can be arrested, put on trial, and set to waste away in a federal prison.
That was when he had stopped listening. It bored him. Many parts of this job failed to hold his interest. The money was excellent and having a small army that followed his every command without hesitation was an enormous ego boost. Apart from that, it was primarily sitting around and studying maps. Hell, his employers had this amazing tool for controlling people and seemed to have developed cold feet about using it.
He knew of the fate of the Bermuda installation and, what is more important, he knew what their plan had been. Dumping a substance into a massive water supply that could potentially leave millions ready to dance and cater to your every whim? That was fucking ballsy. In the wake of the destruction and subsequent investigations, the people at the top had gotten cold feet.
What a shame.
To him, it was akin to some rich asshole buying a Lamborghini and leaving it to collect dust in a garage. What’s the fucking point? If you have something like that, you use it.
The bigwigs may well be men of weak conviction but that was one descriptor that could never be applied to Michael Conacher. He intended to do his job and collect his pay.
He also intended to get his hands on this magical scientific find and have a little extracurricular fun.
The ringing of his cell phone abruptly derailed this train of thought. “Yeah?”
“Awaiting instructions.”
It was his wild card team. Perfect timing.
“I need you to pay a visit to someone. He may just have some information that’ll prove valuable to us.”
“Where?” The voice was flat and tinny.
“North Carolina. Call me when you hit the border and I’ll tell you where to go.”
He disconnected the call, his gaze returning to the dingy ceiling.
“Time to make a little noise.”
Unexpected Departure
The sun painted broad, beautiful brushstrokes across Herman’s front yard as it began to sink below the horizon. It soaked the yet-to-bloom dogwood trees in a brilliant orange light. Around back stood a pair of tall pines, casting shadows that were long and slanted, their clean lines broken as they climbed the steps that led to the backdoor.
Ray and the Tall Man were in the kitchen discussing what lay ahead over cups of coffee.
“I think I may set up shop here while you two are gone.” Ray seemed distant, his eyes fixed just above the rim of his mug.
“I’d say that’s a solid idea. Fortified door upstairs, small assortment of firearms, fair amount of ammo.”
Ray’s face stretched into a small, mirthless smile. “I was thinking more like taking a boat out on the lake and doing a little fishing.”
The Tall Man chuckled as Ray continued.
“Hell, it’s supposed to be sunny and in the low sixties the next few days. Not bad for February.”
“You do much fishing back home?”
“Nah, too many people, too much traffic. I used to go to the Bay Bridge-Tunnel, but they shut the pier down for construction. Bastards.”
Ray got up and headed to the coffeepot for a refill. After topping his cup off, he turned towards the table and shook the carafe.
The Tall Man put a hand in the air, shaking his head faintly.
Ray took a sip before picking up where he had left off. “Here though? I can drive from here to the lake and back and see fewer cars that I would driving half a block in Virginia Beach. That, friend, is the kinda thing I could get used to.”
He took two more swigs of coffee before finishing his tangent.
“You can laugh chucko, but if you and Herman end up muerto, I will strongly consider moving in permanently.”
His hand gripping the coffee mug, the Tall Man pointed at Ray with his index finger.
“If we turn up muerto, you may well want to find a house somewhere in South America.”
“If you two are dead, I doubt very much that Gaston, North Carolina is going to be high on their list of can’t miss destinations.”
“Touché.”
While the two men continued their conversation in the kitchen, Herman was in the upstairs bathroom showering. The hot water helped to shake off some of the cobwebs from his mind. As he dried himself off, he stared into the mirror through a thin film of condensation, marveling at how much he had aged.
Jesus Christ, what the hell happened to me?
He walked into his bedroom and quickly dressed before rummaging through the closet for a suitcase or a duffel bag. With a suitable option secured, he returned to the bedroom and began packing. “Packing” was generous: it really amounted to little more than tossing in clothes pulled from an unsorted pile. He wasn’t sure which if any of the clothes were clean, nor did he bother to check.
He marveled at how quickly and easily he had slipped into a suicidal state. He had seen some strange and terrible things, things that culminated with a massive fireball in central Florida. Throughout everything he had maintained, for the most part, his wits and sense of humor. That was the only way he was able to cope.
The problem was that he hadn’t coped, not really. Instead, his brain had filed everything away in a box and banished it to a corner, dark and deep. Over time, the box had fallen open and spilled its contents into his subconscious where they had run amok. Synapses were being set aflame while the screams of madness echoed through the sulci and gyri.
Dark thoughts had relentlessly beset him and he wanted nothing more than to smother them in a blanket and beat them to a pulp.
Drinking had only intensified their effects.
Smoking weed had served no purpose except elevating
his paranoia.
One night he picked up a handgun and put it in his mouth. There was no magazine in it and the chamber was clear, however he still could not bring himself to pull the trigger.
What if I’m wrong? What if through somehow there is a bullet in there?
The next night, after polishing off a fifth of bourbon, he placed the same gun back into his mouth and pulled the trigger.
Click.
He pulled the trigger five more times.
Click. Click. Click. Click. Click.
That showed him that he had the nerve. Two days later and he was fumigating his car with carbon monoxide. Herman had opted for this route simply because it would, in his estimation, leave a much less gruesome scene in its wake. When he closed his eyes that night, he was sure that it was for the last time.
Now he was right back in the middle of a growing shit storm.
“God damn it.”
The most infuriating part was not knowing why he felt so hesitant about getting involved again. In his heart, he knew that the biggest thing that had driven him to the brink was a complete lack of purpose. Yes, anxiety had strengthened its grip on his mind, but the driving force was the dark void inside his chest. The transition from having an objective to feeling aimless had been a jarring one.
The moment that damned package showed up his life had been given purpose. He’d felt alive for the first time in a decade. Then, just as abruptly as it had begun, it was over. He stayed busy afterwards, though he couldn’t help but feel like a famous musician giving a “final farewell” tour: go on stage, perform with a bitter apathy, and disappear from the public eye.
Thank you for the mountains of cash! Now I must retire to the solitude of my millions!
Now he had been given another chance to find direction in his life.
The fear of dying wasn’t a likely deterrent, given his actions over the past 24 hours. He was scared, but why? He had no wife, no kids, no brothers, and no sisters. He had Otis, but the Petersons would care for him should something permanent happen.
Sitting on the edge of the bed, he glanced at the alarm clock on his nightstand:
6:01 PM
Let’s not play games Herman; you know why you’re scared.
It isn’t the grim reaper.
It isn’t mind-controlled goons in black suits.
His hands began to shake, a tremor that quickly spread up his arms and through his torso.
You know why.
The trembling intensified to the point that he felt like his bones were grinding into dust, ready to spill his gelatinized body to the floor. Dry, harsh sobs caused his chest to heave.
Stop being a child and face the truth!
A high-pitched whimper started to flow out of him, an action that he had no control over.
YOU KNOW WHY! SAY IT! SAY IT, YOU COWARD!
He slammed his face into his shuddering hands, unkempt nails cutting into his forehead. His entire body was thrumming with a frenzied current.
You aren’t Herman anymore, are you? You wear his skin, you speak in his voice but you are not Herman Ingram.
A hand moved away from his face and formed into a fist before returning swiftly and delivering a painful blow.
Herman’s will? Gone.
Another blow.
Herman’s cynical outlook and wry sense of humor? Gone.
And another. Blood began to trickle from a small cut his thumbnail had made along the side of his face.
You, my wretched and lamentable friend, are insane.
He began striking himself with both hands, increasing the tempo and intensity of each hit.
The thing you fear is facing the truth; you’re an unfeeling and loosely corked bottle of bitterness and rage.
“No.” Tears were leaking from his tightly closed eyes.
Oh, I think so. You’re a danger to everyone who has the misfortune of being near you.
“Shut up.”
The truth hurts, doesn’t it? Now, your tall and mysterious friend will probably be fine. After all, he’s strong and he has a penchant for surviving, but Ray? He’s an old man. His mind is strong, but he’s in no shape for this. Face it, he’s easy prey and you’re begging death right to his feet.
“Shut. Up.”
You were right to try to kill yourself, but you couldn’t even manage to pull that off. Now more people are going to get hurt, all because you. Couldn’t. Do it.
“GODDAMNIT, SHUT UP!”
He stood quickly and picked up his nightstand, spilling the lamp and clock that had rested on it gracelessly to the floor. Spinning on his heels, he threw it against the dresser. Splinters of wood sprayed into the air as both pieces of furniture came to rest in unnatural positions.
He stood there, deep breaths forcing air into his burning lungs. From below came the scurrying of feet as his friends fled the kitchen and ran upstairs to see what had happened.
“Herman,” Ray called out. “Are you all right?”
A moment later the Tall Man entered with Ray right on his heels.
“Jesus Christ, Herman,” Ray said as he surveyed the damage to the room and his friend’s face. “What the hell happened?”
Herman didn’t answer; he just stood there feeling like he would never catch his breath.
“Answer me, Herman. What’s wrong?”
“Just doing a bit of light redecorating.”
The answer was quickly followed by a frantic laugh, one that straddled the line between clarity and insanity, mirth and misery.
“Enough bullshit Herman. Enough is enough and goddamnit I have had enough.” Ray made no effort to hide his anger. He was unashamed since it sprouted from concern for his friend.
Herman scoffed and started towards the hall. The Tall Man, who had been observing silently, held a hand up and stopped him dead.
“I’m calling this whole thing off.”
“What the fuck are you talking about?”
“You’re coming unglued. If you get wrapped up in this, even as a spectator, you’re liable to get yourself killed.”
Herman knocked the man’s hand away and strode out into the hallway, stopping once he’d reached his office. Ray and the Tall Man shared a look of concern before following him. By the time they reached his office, Herman was furiously pacing along the length of the couch.
The Tall Man spoke first, attempting to give Ray more time to calm himself. “You should get some fresh air, Herman. What’s say we go get your car, get you out of the house for a while?”
“I don’t want to, I don’t want to drive that car. I don’t even want to touch the damned thing. To hell with it, push it in the fucking lake.”
He was manic, words pouring out of his mouth at light speed.
“Well, I’ll be glad to take it off your hands. Better yet, let Ray have it. It can be a gift for putting up with your sour disposition all these years.”
“I’ll go,” Ray chimed in. “I’ll drive it back. Of course by that, I mean back to my house.” He gave a smile, hoping Herman would have some snappy retort. None came.
“No, it’s my responsibility and I won’t ever hear the end of it if I don’t do it. I’ll go.”
“Good,” Ray said. “I’m too tired to deal with any more bullshit, and I’d be shocked if that car isn’t stuck in the damned mud.”
Truthfully, Ray would gladly have taken his friend’s place, however he didn’t want to leave Herman alone. Not after he had tried to kill himself and not after whatever the hell he had just done to his nightstand.
Showing no outward emotion, Herman walked over to his desk, opened the center drawer, and retrieved a handgun. He walked calmly over to Ray and handed the weapon to him.
“Expecting company?” Ray was aiming for levity but his heart just wasn’t in it.
“I hope not, but my gut tells me otherwise.”
“Yeah, and if they’re coming to see you they won’t be bringing chocolates and daisies.”
Ray was about to expound on that thought
when Herman looked up at him. He didn’t see the man that he had mentored these many years. Instead, he saw profound sadness, pitiful enough to break the most hardened resolve. To Ray, he looked like a beaten dog.
Without thinking, Ray took his friend and embraced him. Some innate parental instinct kicked in and took control. Herman held tightly, like a small child awakened by a terrifying nightmare.
“You’re a hardheaded, tough son of a bitch, Herman. This won’t break you. They can’t beat you because you are walking the path of the righteous and honorable. Don’t you forget it, you insufferable prick.”
Herman broke the embrace, pulling himself away and laughing. While that made Ray feel some amount of relief, he noticed that tears were spilling down his friend’s cheeks and that his hands were shaking.
“You two go and get that damned car, and if anything’s open in this one horse town bring back some dinner for Christ’s sake.”
Herman sucked his teeth and walked out of the office, patting Ray on the shoulder as he walked by. The Tall Man nodded and followed Herman downstairs and towards the back door. Ray walked over to the window, placing the handgun on the sill, and stared out into the darkness.
By the time that the Tall Man exited the house, Herman was standing just outside, smoking a freshly lit cigarette.
“Okay, Hermano.”
“So, you’re back on that shit.”
“Shhhhh.”
Someone was in the right-hand side of the yard. They had made a clumsy attempt at hiding behind a tree to avoid detection, but they had been too slow. In the next instant he spotted movement on the left.
His forehead creased, the Tall Man’s voice became low and forceful. “Get back inside.”
“What?” Herman turned just in time to see the man pulling a gun out from inside his coat.
“Now!” He opened the back door and shoved Herman inside. “Lock this door and get to wherever you keep your guns.”
Herman froze, dumbfounded.
“Go!”
◆◆◆
With Herman in the temporary safety of the house, the Tall Man crouched behind his rental car and set about assessing the situation.