by Justin Bell
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Like a gentle breeze, the leaves rustled as the three men in black slowly crouched through the woods behind the Strickland residence. Burndock held up a closed fist and the other two halted and unpacked their gear, going for the goggles first. Burndock was impressed by how quickly the surveillance subject picked up his normal routine again. As he had before the incident at Pollard Construction, William Strickland spent the first several hours of the day on the internet and then followed up with physical training. Lots of physical training. Burndock had to wonder if this was Strickland's nature, or somehow was now coded into his genetic structure. Rewriting someone's base DNA was a huge step forward, and it seemed like a waste to do it without sneaking in some secret genetic motivation to work hard and train harder. Jesus this shit was scary.
Unlike the first time around, it took William Strickland an extra couple of hours to locate the hidden wall panel in his office, but he did manage to locate it, and he dug through the paperwork concealed within, still desperate to find any clues he could about his life and his family. This time around, the building permits and contracting documents were easily located in the filing cabinet, and as he read them, the details were more or less forgotten. Rifling through paystubs and other paperwork made for a boring few hours, and shed very little light on the real details of his past life. He paused for a moment looking at one of the stubs.
What did he do for a living?
He actually had no earthly idea, but the fact that he had a secret room full of weapons, bulletproof vests, scopes, silencers, magazines, all complimented by fake papers told him all he really needed to know about his lifestyle. For whatever reason, this revelation didn't give him pause; it just allowed some missing pieces to fall into place. His gaze lingered on the weapons hanging from the wall.
Was he a killer? The armory in his hidden room would certainly indicate that he led a life of violence. However, being a soldier was different from being a killer? and at this point, he wasn't sure upon which side of that line he stood. It was coming up close on twelve o'clock, so Strickland pushed himself back away from his laptop and leaned back, lacing his fingers behind his head. His brain growled and churned, digging as far back as it possibly could, looking for some hints of his past life. The lights seemed to go out and he felt himself falling backwards, somersaulting, spiraling, and tumbling through thick red cotton clouds, swirling and swarming around him. The fall was endless, with no ground in sight, even as he breached the clouds and hurtled into blank black sky.
He swept through open air, yet still felt branches and twigs scraping at his face, clawing at his neck, and trying to rip his shirt? he ran on all fours, his heart thrashing in his ears, his breath coming in sharp, stabbing gasps. Squinting through the blackness, there was a light path beneath him, a path of dirt that he ran; trees and branches tearing at him? until suddenly he was clear. A small light shone from above as his body lurched into a blank area of this dark, mythical woodland. Looking to his left, he saw a series of tall stick figures, a row of accusing, blank faces, staring him down, almost as if in judgment. Withdrawing from their withering, emotionless glare, he looked straight ahead again and almost wished he hadn't. Before him, as it was to his left there was something there? a tall, wooden structure, standing above him, with twin rectangular windows like blank yellow eyes. A tall doorway stood open like the mouth of hell, and a deep red light belched forth enveloping him in a crimson hue. Slowly, reluctantly he plodded forward on all four legs, approaching this frightening structure, resembling a cabin deep in the woods.
As if physically pulling him in, the windows and door of the cabin hummed, compelling him to tread forward, growing closer and closer. Above this building, the sky changed from inky blackness to the same deep, dark red, the color of blood, with dark gray clouds smashing slowly together high up in this dream world's atmosphere.
Then he was in the cabin. Inside this small structure, the walls seemed to rise and grow together claustrophobically, sending him down to the ground, withering in fear and panic.
Help me?
It was a small, pitiful voice, but one that his very soul recognized. One that he desperately had hoped to hear again someday.
Help me.
Somehow, he knew it was her.
It was Jennifer. His wife.
The voice was all around him. He swiveled his head left, then right, his eyes widening and narrowing as he scoped every corner of this dark, mysterious structure.
HELP ME!
Strickland spun around in his dream world and finally! He saw her! She stood there, her arms outstretched, right behind the door, but something was behind her! Something large and monstrous covered in hair, tendons, and muscles rippling underneath the thin layer of dark flesh. Its hind legs were animalistic, with large, pronounced hipbones, and thick, tree-trunk legs. This particular mammal stood on two legs, a good seven feet tall, and its muscled arms clung hard to the squirming body of?
Was it her?
Strickland screamed in his dream world and started forward, just as the beast opened its mouth wide, flecked yellow teeth bared, and thin strands of drool stretching between them.
NO! His dream-self screamed, just as the mouth slammed shut around the woman's neck and the entire world went stark white.
It wasn't a scream, but it was some vocalization of his innermost fears and horrors that exploded from his mouth as he jerked awake in his swivel chair. Leaning forward in the chair, his breath was thin and forceful as he placed his hands on his knees and tried to search back into his brain for any sort of thinly veiled meaning to that particular nightmare. Deep in his gut, he knew that had been her. That was his wife. Was this a bad dream, or even worse? some vivid memory that had become unlocked? It couldn't have been a memory. That creature? that thing was not of this world.
What is happening to me?
Rubbing a hand over his sweating forehead, Strickland walked from his office into the larger section of his unfinished basement, over to where the canvas heavy bag dangled from a chain. Squinting, he could picture the woman's petrified eyes in his half-asleep state. Muffling a shout, he swung a vicious right cross into the bag, then followed it up with a quick left, and slid back on the balls of his feet, then lashed out with a swift right roundhouse kick. Very slightly, the horrid memory faded from his mind? and he threw himself into his training, desperately trying to shut out his horrific nightmare.