by Jeb Bohn
Everything disappeared into a sea of black, though only for a moment. As his vision returned, he found himself falling face-first onto the course grass near the facility’s main driveway. Pushing himself up, he dug a foot into the ground and tried to propel himself forward. Instead of the intended action, his leg locked up and his arms gave way. With each attempt at movement resulting in violent spasms, he wondered if he might be having a stroke.
Things went dim again, continuing to do so with every other step that he took. He could hear the crunching of gravel under his feet but he couldn’t feel it. Everything felt like a simulation, a virtual reality nightmare come to life. Once things came back into focus, he was standing face to face with Schultz.
“I thought it was about time that you experience that from the other side.” He moved over to the rear of the SUV and out of sight; the clacking of keys was the only clue to his position. Less than a minute later, he was back. “Don’t you think so, Sam?”
He tried to tell him to go to hell, the words echoing inside his head. There was an itch inside his brain, a worm chewing through gray matter as it bore towards his mouth. When it crawled out, it had transformed into something else entirely. “Yes, Greg, I do.”
Schultz bobbed his head, genuine excitement splashed across his face. “Jesus Christ, this stuff is something else.” He went back to the far side of the vehicle, returning with a laptop. Attached to the side was a small box with an array of short antennas. “Come on, we’ve got to get you all dolled up for showtime.”
◆◆◆
Herman sat inside a small coffee shop two hours outside of Brawley, his laptop open and mind racing. For the past hour, he had been typing with great vigor. Acting in accordance with Walt’s advice, he was throwing every bit of information he had found into a massive data dump. He knew that it was somewhat counterproductive; few people would sit and read such a densely packed article, but he wanted to put everything out there for the world to see. Everything that led from Skywood through its transformation into QNI was laid out in hastily constructed paragraphs. That was fine. He wasn’t writing a novel, he was simply relaying information.
The inspiration for publicly purging the intelligence had come well before he reached the California border. There was, however, something compelling him to push on; that voice in his head refused to move his foot off of the gas pedal. The further he drove from the shootout at the Gas & Lube, the more indignant he became. It went beyond the murder of his friend; it was more than Amanda’s disappearance; countless lives had been ruined by these people and now the CEO who had spearheaded everything was on to new endeavors. No jail time—that was reserved for his subordinates—just the chance to increase his wealth and destroy more people.
Herman’s sense of justice wouldn’t allow him to sit this out. He realized how pompous that sounded but that didn’t deter him; he had witnessed too much to stand by idly. It was unimaginable what was to come if people like himself refused to stand up and push back. The capability of humans to sugarcoat or disregard heinous situations never failed to amaze and horrify Herman. There was something in our DNA, some ingrained herd mentality that led to everything from willful ignorance to violent conflict. The abhorrent could take place in sight of two dozen witnesses but, unless one of them spoke up, they would all stand by and watch the destruction. This mental inertia was not something Herman was willing to afford himself, not anymore.
He did, however, have to account for the wild card: Greg Schultz. On the surface, Schultz was engaged in a crusade that was at least partially constituted of a noble cause. He had seen the full scope of what was coming as well as what would be done to maintain secrecy. He could have succumbed, agreeing to go along in exchange for his life. He could have killed himself and Herman wouldn’t have judged him for it. Schultz had decided that defiance and reprisal were more to his liking and he went for the jugular. He bristled when his fellow journalists labeled the attacks as acts of terrorism; these were not strikes aimed at an imaginary monster born of rhetoric; they were acts of rebellion and they were directed at a very real threat.
The concern was that he had come unglued and was drifting in and out of reality. Now, instead of being a threat to those he set out to stop, he presented a danger to anyone unlucky enough to be in his vicinity. All of that made Herman uneasy but there was one thing that made it worse: he was walking the same trail as Schultz and he didn’t know if he could stop. He also didn’t know whether he wanted to.
He was at least confident that he had gotten as much as he could into the article and that would have to be enough for now. After he checked to make sure it went live, he packed up his stuff, setting his bag on the table and squeezed past the counter towards the men’s room. As he washed his hands and admired the fresh lines that were etched into his face, he heard a voice. At first he thought it was in his head but quickly realized that it belonged to a woman placing an order. Sure that he knew the voice, he cracked the door, hoping for confirmation.
There stood Amanda Marsh, perfectly made up, no signs of injury or distress and no captor in sight. To the casual observer she was just a woman getting coffee. Herman started out of the bathroom with the intent of approaching her before something in his gut stopped him. He complied, observing as she walked out of the door and across the street before climbing into a dark sedan. There was no one else in the car, at least no one that Herman could see.
Once she was out of sight, he emerged from the men’s room and made his way around to his car at the rear of the building. Something was off. His stomach felt like the venue of a death match between to very angry snakes as he remembered the photos he had sent to the Tall Man. The air around him felt alien when he thought about how his friend had responded:
That’s not the woman that was working with Schultz.
“What’re you thinkin’, Herman?”
He jerked around, coughing as excess saliva threatened to choke him.
“Shit. You’re taking this ghost stuff a little too seriously, don’t you think?”
“Be serious. You’re two hours from, erm, well, I don’t know what the hell to call it. A showdown? A slaughter? A trap?”
“You wanna know what I think? I think that just about every person I’ve talked to has either been full of shit or fucked in the head.”
“Those two things aren’t mutually exclusive.”
“Point taken.”
“Why didn’t you talk to her?”
Herman repeated the question, unsure of the answer. “Because something is off. I mean, she disappears and I find the world’s worst glamour shot on my windshield. Now she’s within spitting distance of Brawley, without a scratch and looking like she doesn’t have a care in the world. What the fuck is that about?”
“What do you think it’s about?”
“Christ, are you really going to answer a question with a question?”
“Does that bother you?”
Herman broke away, opening the car’s boot and taking stock of the few weapons he had kept stored there since the onset of his mental decline.
“Holy shit, maybe you are Rambo. You don’t have training, discipline, or a plan but you sure do have guns. Seriously, Herman, what are you gonna do?”
Herman slammed the boot lid, its edge scraping down his leg. “I don’t know!”
“You okay, son?”
Herman turned sharply, slamming his knee against the bumper as another unexpected question startled him. The voice came from an elderly man at the far end of the parking lot. A thick and impressive beard obscured his face though the tone in his voice was sincere.
“You havin’ car trouble? I can give ya a jump if ya need it.”
“No, thank you but no. I’m a, I’m just having a mental break.”
The man began walking in Herman’s direction. “Yeah, this town’ll do that to ya if ya let it. I have a bottle of rye in the truck, helps me most days.”
“Any other time and I’d take you up on that but I have
a bit of a haul ahead of me.”
“Suit yourself.” The old man stopped next to Herman and placed a hand on his shoulder. “Son, maybe you’d best ease up on the caffeine. Haul or not, that stuff’ll fry your nerves.” With a pat on the back he was gone, pulling himself into the cab of an old pickup and driving off to parts unknown.
Herman dropped in behind the wheel, guiding his car out of the small town and towards the I-10. He was in no particular hurry to catch up to Amanda as he already knew where she was heading. Part of him wanted to follow closely due to the possibility that she was being followed. Instead, he chose to obey his intuition and maintained a safe distance.
◆◆◆
Michael Conacher—he couldn’t think of himself as anyone else—was heading west, approaching the Nevada-California border. His brain was firing off a random sequence of thoughts, each fighting for space, time, and energy. He gripped the wheel tightly every time his mind went to his partner. Why had she abandoned him? She had taken precautions; leaving her cell phone off, removing the tracker that he had installed on the car. He had found it in a ditch less than twenty minutes after obtaining his current ride. No note, no souvenir. She had thrown it away as nonchalantly as she had Michael.
He scratched his chin, more out of irritation than any itch, his thumbnail slicing a small groove. This minor incident led him to slam a fist down on the dash, a spiderweb of cracks cascading across the touchscreen radio. One punch turned into a dozen and, before he knew it, he had stopped in the middle of the battered two-lane road. Flashes of his dreams played on a loop, the automotive glass becoming the thick shards of a liquor bottle. White specks crossed his field of vision as the embers of his identity blew away.
With the vehicle’s cabin shrinking around him, he threw the door open and leapt out before diving onto the shoulder. Sweat rolled into his eyes as he gasped, sucking dust into his lungs. Muddy spit bubbled and fell from his lips. Then, as quickly as the fit had set upon him, his mind began to calm, the ataxia declining. One thought persisted, however, and it was that the stranger was right. He couldn’t explain how he knew that but he felt it and it threw everything off.
There was no more job; his primary goal was to find the woman who left him for dead. He didn’t know what he would do when he did but he’d figure it out. Everything else would be addressed once that situation was settled. One step at a time. His focus regained, he stepped towards the car. “What the hell?” The rear of the car was sitting a few inches lower than the front. He tapped the trunk as headlights broke the horizon; he would find a place to hole up for the night and then he’d find out what was weighing the car down.
◆◆◆
The Tall Man’s duster danced across the sandy ground as the Brawley facility came into sight. It was an impressive structure; its modern design with acres of glass was antithetical to the sterile aesthetic adopted by QNI. Nestled in the shadow of the Imperial Sand Dunes, the edifice fit in about as well as a pair of testicles on a forehead.
A gracious trucker had carried him nearly 200 miles before depositing him on State Route 78 at the western edge of the dunes. The trek had taken its toll; his legs fought him and his brain screamed for him to sleep. That was gone once he caught sight of the finish line. He had no idea what the ultimate outcome would be but he knew that the end was inevitable. The desert air around him hummed with electricity.
He watched, through a cheap pair of binoculars, as Schultz pulled into the garage. A man who he assumed was Samuel Wright rushed outside and he had considered snagging the fugitive himself. Before he could move, the man had fallen and began convulsing before calmly standing up and walking back inside. He knew what that meant and it worried him. If Schultz had control over his former boss, who else might he have? Who’s to say he hadn’t either recruited a new team or maybe kidnapped a few unlucky bastards to serve his purpose?
Taking advantage of the large windows, he kept watch. After an hour the only people he had seen were the would-be martyr and his hostage. All the movement involved only the two of them; there were no conversations with unseen henchmen, no strange gestures. With a measure of relief he left his perch and walked towards the structure. He had no idea if anyone else would be coming but, if he was lucky, he could diffuse everything before they arrived. He had managed no more than a few steps before headlights appeared on the service road 200 yards to his right.
With the complete lack of daylight, he decided to continue along his path, keeping a close eye on the approaching car. As it rounded the final curve towards its destination, he was able to make out enough detail to know who the driver was. Grabbing his pocket flashlight to signal, he hesitated. He wanted to be sure that his assumption was right and that there was no outside interference.
◆◆◆
Herman walked slowly towards the open gate that led into the compound. His left hand held a duffel containing his modest arsenal; his left clutched a revolver. Had he been able to see himself in the third person, he’d probably laugh at the absurdity. However, he didn’t have that ability and the only given in this situation was that at least one of the men inside the building was mentally unstable.
And armed, possibly with a bomb.
So in he walked, bringing guns to a demolition. He chuckled at the thought, his twisted wit serving to vent a small amount of tension. The apprehension was unwanted; caution was a favorable feature but the overriding discomfort was draining. He tried to hold on to his anger, to the reason he had followed through on this fool’s errand, though it did little more than turn his stomach. It had run through his veins for so long that his body felt as if it were filled with poison.
He entered a garage that was empty save for one SUV, presumably Schultz’s. He edged past it into the stairwell and quietly began ascending. A man’s voice grew louder as he reached the second floor landing, one that he couldn’t place. Coming to a set of doors at the end of a short hallway, he peered into a largely empty room. A card table and folding chair were the only items he could see. Behind the table sat a man who looked to be in his sixties, dried blood painting a third of his face. He was looking straight ahead, talking to an unseen party.
Herman leaned against the wall, simultaneously trying to get a better view and stay out of sight. He saw Schultz standing five feet in front of the makeshift desk; in his hand was a cell phone. Was he about to bring the entire building down? No, he had the device turned sideways; it looked to Herman like he was shooting a video. Top ten tips for taking hostages and blowing up buildings; straight and to the point, solid title. His self-amusement stopped when a hand fell on his shoulder, nearly causing him to fire off a round.
“Good to see ya, Hermano.”
“For the love of all things fuck.” Herman felt a rush of anger, though it wasn’t real anger; it was the flash of rage you get when you hit your head unexpectedly. He held his tongue as he realized how happy he was to see that his friend was alive and upright. He placed his hand on the Tall Man’s shoulder, a gesture identical to the one that had startled him. His intent had been to go in for a hug but decided that the timing wasn’t great.
“What the hell are you doing?”
“Just glad to see you.”
“So, what’s going on in there?”
“A bleeding man tied to a chair, nothing out of the ordinary.”
“Schultz?”
“Oh, yeah, making a home movie. At least he had the decency to shoot it in landscape, I hate it when people shoot video in portrait.”
“Anyone else?”
“No, and that concerns me.” Herman filled his friend in on his trip with Amanda Marsh, her subsequent abduction, and the disturbing photo left behind. “Speaking of fucked up things that I found, there’s something that you need to see.”
“I think I already have a good idea.”
“I mean you really need to see this.” Even as the words left his mouth, Herman was gripped with apprehension; he had no idea how the news would land.
The Tal
l Man turned his head, looking dead at Herman. His eyes were heavy and wounded yet determined. “Pete’s alive. We’ll talk about that later. I’m hoping he shows up but for now let’s find your friend.”
“What about Schultz and his bondage buddy?”
“Do you really give a shit?” With an exaggerated expression, Herman shook his head. “Yeah, I don’t either. After we find the people we came here for, he can do whatever the hell he wants to with this damned place.”
“So, what do we do?”
The Tall Man took two steps, pushing his way through the doors.
“Shit, I was really hoping it wouldn’t be that.”
Shultz, who had moved to a standing desk next to a wall of monitors, didn’t look away from his laptop, nor did he seem concerned. “Welcome to Brawley, gentlemen. You’re a little late to help.”
The Tall Man walked towards Shultz, appraising the situation. “Who else is here, Greg?”
The response came as a disinterested shrug, a gesture that wasn’t taken kindly. He took another step, grabbing Schultz by his shirt and pressing him against the monitors. “What did you do with—” he paused and looked at Herman.
“Amanda Marsh.”
Shultz sighed. “It’s just me and Sam,” he said as he pointed towards the bound man. Sensing that his statement was in doubt, he nodded towards the wall of screens. “See for yourself. Every square inch of this property is under surveillance.”
The Tall Man scanned the monitors, seeing only night vision images of industrial equipment and vacant land. He loosened his grip on Schultz, eventually letting him go.