The Nightmare Unleashed

by J. J. Carlson

  The door squeaked on its hinges, and Susana poked her head in. She eyed him up and down for a moment, then said, “Impressive.”

  Eugene unfolded himself and stood up. “That’s nothing. You should see my Wounded Peacock.”

  Susana smiled and raised an eyebrow. “Wounded?”

  Eugene winced, then said, “Oh, grow up.”

  “You first.” She draped her forearms over his shoulders and gave him a kiss. “There’s food downstairs. Care to join me?”

  “I’d love to.” He held out a hand for her to lead the way and followed her to the kitchen.

  Philip, Santiago’s teenage son, greeted them, his mouth full of food. “Hey, Eugene. How’s it going?”

  “Better now,” Eugene said.

  “Phil,” Susana cut in, “you were supposed to wait until everyone was ready to eat.”

  Phil shrugged and bit into a tostada. Chicken and cheese tumbled off the edge of the crunchy tortilla and onto his shirt.

  “Seriously,” Susana said, grimacing, “do you have to eat like a wild animal?”

  “I’m hungry,” Philip protested, wiping his mouth on his sleeve. “I didn’t have breakfast or lunch today.”

  Susana rolled her eyes. “That’s what happens when you work the night-shift.” She turned to Eugene. “Except, Philip wasn’t out saving the world last night—he just stayed up playing video games.”

  Eugene stuffed his hands into his pockets. “Video games? I thought electronics weren’t allowed at the Clearwater Ranch.”

  “They aren’t,” Philip complained. “No phones, no laptops, no tablets—nothing wireless. But I found an old-school Nintendo in the basement.”

  “And he’s been binging ever since,” Susana added.

  “What do you expect?” Philip said. “I haven’t touched a video game in months. I need my fix.”

  “Could be worse,” Eugene offered. “He could be addicted to meth.”

  “That’s what I said.” Philip set the tostada on the table. “But if you asked Mom, she’d say they both rot your brain, and I should go back to reading books or putting together model airplanes.”

  As if on cue, Anita entered the kitchen through the front door. “That’s because I want what’s best for you. And besides, where would you find drugs at a top-secret ranch?”

  San entered behind his wife, followed by Maria. The family circled around the table and took their seats. Despite the fact that he had already eaten, Philip sat down and closed his eyes as his father said a prayer. Then, as the group sprinkled ingredients over their own tostadas, he asked if he could be excused.

  Anita thought for a moment, then nodded. “You can go. But no video games tonight, and you’re going to do the dishes when we’re done eating.”

  Philip groaned, drawing a sharp glance from San. He winced, then added, “I mean…sure, Mom. Sounds great.”

  Eugene chuckled as he watched the lanky teenager scurry away. He took a bite of his food and raised his eyebrows. “Wow, this is really good. Thank you, Anita.”

  Anita shook her head. “I didn’t make it. I made sandwiches for lunch, but you didn’t wake up in time.” She nodded toward her sister. “Susana made these.”

  “Really?” Eugene said, leaning his shoulder against Susana’s. “I didn’t know you could cook.”

  Susana sighed. “It’s one of four dishes I know how to make.”

  “That makes seven between the two of us.” Eugene shrugged, then took another bite. “We’ll live. That’s one for every day of the week, right?”

  Susana and Anita laughed, while San remained silent. He loved Eugene, and he loved Susana. As individuals. It would take some time for him to get used to them as a couple.

  The meal continued for over an hour, and the adults kept the conversation light until Maria asked to be excused.

  When the nine-year-old bounded out the front door to play, Eugene lowered his voice and said, “I won’t be able to stay long. Daron and Ford had to take Janson to the hospital, and once she’s stable, they’ll try to link up with me.”

  “Goodness,” Anita said, placing a hand on her chest. “Is she alright?”

  Eugene stared at the table for a moment as his mind flashed back to his teammate falling off the catwalk. “She’s…strong. She’ll pull through.”

  Santiago crossed his arms, his face etched with concern. “Do you know which hospital they took her to?”

  Eugene shook his head. “They’ll stay off the radar. If I could track them down, then Katharos could, too. My only option is to wait until they make contact.” He stretched his arm and rested it on the back of Susana’s chair. “Which is why I came here.”

  San nodded, then frowned. “But…what about your prisoner? Shouldn’t you be back at the safehouse watching her?”

  “Probably. But she’s a psychopath, and the company here is infinitely better.”

  San looked at the hand squeezing Susana’s shoulder. “And we’re…glad to have you, Eugene. But I hope the prisoner’s welfare is being provided for in your absence.”

  Eugene nodded. “She’s better off than she deserves. There’s a group of CIA shooters guarding the trailer where we have her stashed.”

  “Is she giving you good information?” Susana asked.

  Eugene withdrew his arms and propped his elbows on the table. After a brief hesitation, he said, “Yes.”

  “But?” Anita asked, leaning forward.

  “But I still don’t trust her. Nobody that sneaky just surrenders. She was in the wind—there was no way we could’ve tracked her down. And she showed up on our doorstep like a gift.” Eugene glanced at Susana, then added. “An unattractive, demented-terrorist gift.”

  Susana wrinkled her nose in shared contempt of the Katharos agent.

  Eugene sighed. “Still, she is providing good intel. We’ve kicked down doors at nine different Katharos hideouts and prevented three terrorist attacks.”

  “Has she told you anything about Emily?” San asked.

  Eugene shook his head. “No. She’s keeping the best information to herself so she can barter for better living conditions and more privileges. She doesn’t seem to understand that our resources are limited until we can—”

  He paused and turned his ear to the door. In the distance, a pair of diesel engines whined like impatient dogs. “Are you expecting a resupply tonight?”

  Anita and San exchanged glances, then San said, “No. It shouldn’t be here for another three days.”

  Eugene jumped to his feet and pushed through the front door. His eyes scanned the ranch, and he was comforted to see armed guards moving into position near the entrance. Striding forward, Eugene crouched at the edge of the tall grass. He watched the guards to see their reactions, then relaxed when the point-man held up a hand to give the all-clear.

  A black Chevy Suburban streaked along the driveway, grinding to a halt a few yards away from Eugene. A bus came into view a moment later, bouncing frantically along the dirt road. A cloud of dust blew in with the passenger vehicle as it shuddered to a stop behind the SUV.

  A burly man with a round stomach stepped out of the Suburban. The veins stood out from the dark skin on his forearms, indicating that he had been holding the steering wheel in a death-grip.

  Eugene stood and hooked his thumbs in his pockets. He nodded at the big man and said, “Daron. You got here faster than I expected. Is Janson alright?”

  Daron Keeler waved for him to follow and trotted toward the house. “That’s why we’re here. Agent Janson is in a coma.”

  Feeling the blood drain from his face, Eugene hurried after the black-ops commander. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Ford leave the SUV and jog toward the house next door.

  “Janson suffered minor injuries from the fall,” Daron explained, “but the bullet that struck her helmet caused severe trauma. She still hasn’t woken up, and the doctors put her on life-support.” He stopped on the porch and locked eyes with Eugene. “They don’t know the full extent of the brain
damage, but it’s serious.”

  Eugene followed Daron inside. “That sucks. It sucks big time. But what can I do?”

  Daron stopped at the edge of the kitchen table and stared at San. “Gene, we didn’t come here for you. We came for him and all the other scientists.” He took a deep breath and exhaled. “We’re going to reopen Hillcrest.”

  6

  London, England

  The old man awoke for the tenth time and rolled onto his side. He frowned, deepening the lines in his jowls, and opened his eyes. A pale blue light leaked into the room beneath the curtains. Squinting in the low light, he read the hands on his titanium Bremont sailing watch. He scowled, bitter that the sun would soon be up. He considered going back to sleep but thought better of it. Because of his arthritis and fickle bladder, his mornings normally started at 5 AM, anyway. He would be better off going to bed early the following evening.

  His hand stretched out for the lamp on his nightstand, and he flicked the switch. Rubbing his tired eyes, he sat up, reached for his bifocals, and slipped them on. His Honor, Judge Percival Cunningham, was not ready for what he saw.

  The foggy room came into focus, revealing the messages carved into the bedroom walls and ceiling. Percival’s eyes danced around the room as he read the graffiti, and dread held his heart in an iron grip.

  You are as guilty as they are.

  Out of nowhere, a soft voice whispered, “Run, Judge.”

  “Who said that?” Percival snapped. The rough edge to his voice contrasted with his movements; he gripped his blanket in both hands and held it up like a shield.

  A glass frame bearing Cunningham’s diploma slipped off the wall and shattered on the floor. Then, a bronze award for excellence in criminal prosecution lifted off his dresser. It floated on the air for several seconds, then hurled across the room and crashed through the window.

  Cunningham pinched his eyes shut. “No,” he told himself, “this isn’t real. It’s just a nightmare.”

  The voice erupted into cackling laughter. “You don’t know how right you are, Judge.”

  Suddenly, an unseen force tore the blanket from Cunningham’s grip. The heavyset judge gasped, forced himself to his feet, and ran from the room.

  “That’s it!” the voice boomed after him. “Run, Judge! Run for your life! RUN!”

  The last word rippled through the house, vibrating the dishes in the kitchen sink. Percival bounced off the kitchen counter and stumbled through the living room to the front door. His pale, numb fingers fumbled at the deadbolt and chain, but he finally unlocked the door, stumbled onto his tiny porch, and slammed the door behind him.

  He looked left and right, then ran north on Abbotsbury Road. The upscale London neighborhood was peaceful at such an early hour, and the street ahead of him was vacant.

  “Help!” Cunningham shouted. “Something is in my house!”

  Was in his house. The front door exploded outward, slamming against its hinges.

  Cunningham glanced over his shoulder, saw no sign of his pursuer, and continued to run. “Please! Someone, stop this thing!”

  A woman in bright yellow fitness apparel rounded the corner and jogged in his direction.

  “Thank heavens,” Cunningham said, lumbering toward the woman. “You have to help me, something is trying to kill me.”

  The woman slowed to a walk and removed one of her earbuds. “Judge Cunningham, is that you?”

  Percival closed the gap and grasped her arm. “Yes, yes, it’s me. I—I need you to call the police.”

  “Let go,” the woman said, taking a step back. “You’re hurting me.”

  Cunningham only tightened his grip. His eyes bulged like a madman’s, and he said, “Don’t you see? It wants to kill me for my verdict!”

  The woman scanned the street and saw no signs of anyone following the judge. She pushed against his chest and pulled her arm free. “Yeah, I’ll call the cops, but only because you’re off your rocker.”

  Cunningham swore and pushed past her. When he looked back, he saw two figures watching him. There was the woman, who held her phone to her ear and mumbled something he couldn’t make out. And there was someone else—a black, stone-like man with no face, standing a few paces behind her.

  Percival shrieked and fled, his bare feet slapping against the sidewalk. He stumbled across an intersection and continued past stately brick homes. Yellow squares appeared on the buildings as residents threw aside curtains to investigate his screams.

  He paid them no notice. His instincts had taken over, and his only focus was on getting as far away from the dark figure as possible.

  The homes on the right side of the street gave way to a dense forest, filled with broadleaf trees and bordered by a wooden fence. Holland Park, he thought. Maybe, if I could hide in the bushes…

  A ghostly voice behind him pleaded, “No, not the park,” and Percival’s frantic mind instantly made its decision. If the creature didn’t want him to go to the park, then that was exactly where he would go.

  He lumbered up the street for another block, then entered the park through a gated entrance. The manicured grass felt heavenly beneath his feet, and he picked up his pace as he fled deeper into the park. A network of trails, meant to display the beauty of native trees and shrubs, crisscrossed acre-wide sections of forest. Cunningham sprinted until his legs threatened to give out, then ducked behind the low canopy of a dogwood tree.

  He gasped for breath and clenched his heaving chest, his eyes searching for the creature. A branch snapped in the woods behind him, and he spun around. There, perhaps ten feet away, was the dark man he had seen on the street.

  Cunningham scrambled out from under the tree and returned to the trail. He sprinted to the next intersection, turned left, then dove for cover in the trees. He peeked out through the sheltering branches, checking to see if the man had followed him. The path was deserted, so he checked over his shoulder.

  Impossible! he thought. The creature was there, creeping toward him on its hands and feet like a panther.

  Though he hadn’t caught his breath and his muscles burned with lactic acid, Cunningham left the forest and began to run again. He reached an intersection, turned right, then sprinted toward the Kyoto garden. The sound of rushing water reached his ears before the ornate landscaping came into view. Hand-laid cobblestones and Japanese sculptures surrounded a modest pond. Pink Wisteria and Japanese Maple hung low over the reflective water, and a wooden bridge connected two sections of trail near an artificial waterfall.

  Cunningham had spent many peaceful evenings basking in the fragrances and sounds of the Kyoto garden, and the idea of leading a dark monster to this sanctuary made his stomach turn. He continued past the serene garden and turned left on a straight section of path. Finally, he found what he was looking for—a park bench filled with people.

  He slowed to a trot as he approached the bench, and pain shot through his right knee. It had been years since he’d had this much exercise, and his joints were no longer adapted to the strain. He winced and, doing his best to ignore the pain, limped onward.

  “Excuse…me,” Cunningham said between ragged breaths. “Do you…have a phone?”

  The three figures on the bench didn’t stir. They sat with their chins on their chests as if sleeping.

  Cunningham hobbled forward. “There’s some sort of creature in the woods. Please, you have to help me.”

  When he was a few paces from the bench, Cunningham felt a spark of familiarity. He took another step and realized he knew these young men. “You?” he gasped. “Why are you here?”

  The men still didn’t respond, so Cunningham limped around to look at them. Then he saw the blood.

  All three of the young men were bound at their wrists and ankles. Their shirts were drenched in fresh crimson, which still oozed from deep, half-moon cuts on their throats.

  Cunningham swayed on his feet. Time seemed to slow, and he mumbled, “What have I done?”

  “This is what justice looks lik
e,” a voice behind him said.

  Cunningham turned to face the dark figure. He didn’t run—his will to flee or fight had been sapped. “What did you expect me to do, sentence these boys to death for a lapse in judgement?”

  The dark man clenched his fists. “A lapse in judgement? They stole an innocent girl’s life!”

  The judge stared down at his own, mangled feet. “No one is truly innocent. What they did was wrong, but they still had potential to do great things. Was it a sin for me to give them a second chance?”

  “These men were rapists,” the man said, laying a clawed hand on Cunningham’s shoulder. “Violent rapists. Their potential was irrelevant.”

  Cunningham took a deep breath. “Prison changes people. I…I didn’t want them to suffer through that. I thought they could—”

  The clawed hand tightened, sending a bolt of pain through his shoulder.

  “Do you watch the news, you disgusting pig?” the creature demanded.

  Cunningham winced and buckled beneath the iron grip. “I—no. What are you talking about?”

  The creature took a deep breath and barked in his ear. “She’s dead! She killed herself last night! You gave these men two years of parole, because you thought they were destined for greatness. And she’s dead. What about her potential, Judge?!”

  “It wasn’t an easy decision. Please…stop.”

  The dark man pulled his hand away, then leaned in so his face gently touched Cunningham’s forehead. He took a deep breath, then growled, “Run.”

  7

  Undisclosed Location, Central Siberia

  The scalpel cut into Borya Tabanov’s puckered skin, opening a two-inch-wide incision at the base of his skull. Emily Roberts set the scalpel aside, then took a transcranial endoscope from her assistant. She held the delicate instrument in both hands and waited for her assistant to clean the incision. Taking a deep breath, she eased a needle-thin rod into the fleshy gap. Though the endoscope was top-of-the-line for traditional brain surgery, it was like wielding a sledgehammer when compared to the precision of intracellular nano-machines. Thankfully, the microscopic robots already permeated Borya’s body. All she had to do was complete a few circuits between a pair of neural implants, and the machines would do the rest.