The Little Demons Inside

by Micah Thomas

  He wasn't going to sleep tonight, he decided. He got dressed instead and looked up Cassie's contact info from his notebook.

  ***

  Cynthia's personal apartment in Black Star Tower was sparsely decorated and styled in the model of a designer hotel. There was a sofa in the living room area that no one had ever sat on. There was a guest room, never used, but 100% free of dust or clutter. Though Cynthia was well-read, there wasn't a single bookshelf nor coffee table book. Any trace of her personality could be extrapolated from the austere neatness. Tidy but lacking warmth of human comfort. It's a design ethos echoed through her every aspect.

  She couldn't sleep. The executive status meeting, ending with evidence confirming the rumors that Project Brahma had indeed gone rogue, was seriously upsetting. The function of the org structure had absolutely been necessary, she knew that. Scalable enterprise follows certain rules. She wasn't wearing a lab coat in the trenches doing pure research. That door closed decades ago as the Institute grew. There was financial responsibility, governmental relationships to manage, yet, if she had been there, personally in control, none of this would have happened.

  Nothing has changed. Everything has changed. The project, no, the entire program, was spinning out of control. Denzel, Wiseman, Henry, and now Hakim. All of the well-made plans, slipping into what? What have we done? Sat reports have stopped coming in from India. It'll make the news soon. She had no concrete idea what was going on out there. Her normally ordered thinking, precise and calculated, scattered across the multiple lines of chaos that were threatening to upset her, pulling her into emotional territory and doubts. It was not comfortable terrain for her.

  Cynthia sat at her desk and contemplated whether to fire off more emails asking for status. The team was no stranger to late night missives and as she'd set the expectation high, response was required within the hour per standard Service Level Agreement. Her asks were to be the highest priority, always. She decided to forgo a punishing message; they knew what needed to be done and nothing was going to change tonight. Instead she went to a historicals folder. Sometimes you had to remember where you had been before you could know where to go next.

  She pulled up the archives, and opened a video titled "Project Brahma - session 1.0." This was where things started in India, really started. The office had been in operation since the late '90s, when IT discovered cheap call centers weren't the only resource to exploit from the subcontinent. Bright minds trained in software development became "offshore" and the world expanded a bit. Black Star saw this as a legitimate foothold to set up shop as well. One more US technology entity harvesting the brain power over there would hardly draw attention. Their goals, however, had almost uniformly been unmet, due to either lack of compatibility or lack of trying. Cynthia loathed the climate and the dust and general energy, so at odds with her preferences for a controlled universe. No, she'd delegated their operational control and that directly led to her kicking herself now. Their only success, if we could call it that, started with this, session one with the man they'd called Hakim.

  The video centered on a young man, close cropped black hair and large expressive eyes, ruddy brown skin smooth and pretty with the soft glow of sweat. His hands empty in front of him on the interview table.

  "Hello, Hakim. How are you feeling today?"

  "I am well. Could you tell me, when will I get paid?"

  "After the interview, Hakim. Did they explain it to you out front, in the lobby?"

  "The man said go sit down and wait. That I would get paid today."

  Ugh. To hell with quality processes. Contrary to poems and conventional knowledge, Cynthia knew it wasn't the center where things start to fall apart. It can be at the bottom too. Cynthia advanced the video, skipping the squabbling over compensation, the introduction and background. Really, who cares who he used to be, it's about who he became. She jumped to right after the chemical cocktail injection and the hypnotic induction.

  "Do you see the tree?"

  "Yes. I am afraid."

  The man's eyes were closed lightly and Cynthia could see his eyes darting around as he looked around that alien inward space.

  "Don't be afraid. Are you alone?"

  "There is a man. He is old. I can only see his back. He's doing something with his hands. If I could get closer. Is he sculpting in the mud?"

  "Does he see you? Recognize you?"

  "He wants me to sit with him. Dare I do so?"

  "Yes. Sit with him. Remember to tell us everything."

  "I remember," Hakim said as his hands moved together, shaping the air, moving with a fluid grace.

  "Hakim?"

  Minutes elapsed in the video. The audio crackled with a slight hiss.

  Hakim opens his eyes and like a magician pulling a rabbit out of a hat, unfolds his fingers to reveal a small apple in his hand.

  Cynthia, once again, as she always did, doubted what she saw. Did he come in with that?

  He held the fruit up for inspection.

  "This is the first of many minor miracles."

  The damned thing was beautiful. Perfect. A slight shine to the skin. Perfect ripeness out of a commercial.

  "Take a bite? It will not harm you."

  The interviewer's hand reached out to take the apple. Hakim laughed and the video ended.

  Cynthia pushed back from the computer. And that's how we fucked up.

  She stretched her back, unsettled by the twinge of pain there. Everyone gets old eventually, she thought. Shaking her head and feeling like she learned nothing new, she went to the tall security vault in her closet full of designer suits, and entered the key code. Inside the vault, behind a small glass box, the apple sat alone on a velvet cushion without so much of a bruise. A thin slice was cut out, still looked like the moment techs took the sample. Results indicated that it was indeed an apple. Sugars and pulp. Nothing strange about it, except that it came out of absolutely nothing, transported from an alien world, or perhaps made into matter directly from energy. It was a trick she'd personally witnessed with Wiseman many times over the years, though Wiseman's gifts were always more cerebral, devices, diagrams for devices, things we turned into patents and monetized and weaponized, inventions of transubstantiation. Nothing in the last five years have penetrated the secrets of the apple. What would eating something like this do to a person? Was this fruit of the tree of life or the tree of knowledge? Cynthia reached forward as if to open the box, but closed the cabinet instead.

  ***

  Cassie sat in her car parked outside her apartment. She wanted to finish up her phone call with her mom before going in and letting the stress of the day collapse her like a tower of cards. Calls with Mom were long, drawn out affairs wherein Cassie listened more than she talked. It was as if her mom, knowing that Cassie's life was boring and uneventful, had a predetermined plan to fill up the space in the conversation with every mundane detail in her life. Friends whose children are getting married, friends who have had Botox and should she get it done, after all it's not very expensive and takes the years off. Cassie usually succumbed to the flow of information, but today was a bad day.

  "Oh Mom, I lost a patient today."

  "I'm sorry honey. Johnny is sick again. I took him to the chiropractor and they wanted $500 to work on him."

  "Johnny?" Cassie wasn't exactly perplexed by the lack of empathy, but disappointment was eternally renewing in this relationship.

  "My baby. You know that. My precious kitty cat. Was your patient very old?"

  "She seemed so good. I know it comes with the job, but this one hit me really hard."

  "You should get a new job. You know your cousin does nails and could train you. No one dies getting their nails done."

  Mom is a mom, Cassie thought. Sure, leave a career in medicine for retail services. Tell me more about your goddamn cat. While she considered what to say next that wouldn't hurt her mom's feelings, she saw two men she recognized approaching her apartment door. They walked right passed her car
and didn't even notice. Private eyes, sure, what did they say, private research firm. A bunch of assholes.

  "No. Well. I don't know. Maybe I could use a change. Hey Mom, let's catch up tomorrow. I gotta go."

  She could imagine her mom preparing to launch into another story of a sick animal and how she spent her social security check on helping a Nigerian prince. As she hung up, the phone rang immediately. Thinking it was her mom again she said, "Mom, please."

  "Miss Cassandra Lima?"

  "I'm sorry. I thought. Never mind. Who is this?"

  "This is Officer Sanders, from the Tempe police department. We met a few weeks ago. Do you have a few minutes?"

  "No. Yeah. Hey, actually. Can you come to my apartment? There's a hired detective that's been harassing me, and he's not alone. They're trying to break into my apartment right this minute."

  "Excuse me? Did you call 911?"

  "This just happened. They've been pressing me about the fire and that guy I helped."

  "Henry."

  "Yeah. Henry. They came to my work and asked a bunch of questions. Can you come? Are you close?"

  "I'm on my way. Are you in your apartment? Are you safe?"

  "I'm watching from my car."

  "Stay there."

  Cassie watched as Goon #1, as she thought of him, stopped his partner from digging in the flower bed for a spare key, and put a device over the lock on her door. It opened within seconds and they went inside.

  With a deep breath, old conditioning to threat responses kicked in, and Cassie took her gun from the glove compartment, checked that it was loaded. She knew she should wait, but the intrusion was so personal. As she walked up the steps to her apartment she firmly decided she wasn't going to be anyone's victim, not today. She swung the door open with a flourish and stepped inside.

  "Freeze fuckers!"

  Cassie pulled the door shut behind her and leveled the gun at the men, both kneeling on the floor looking at her laptop on the coffee table. Her google history was open, showing multiple searches for Black Star and Wiseman YouTube videos and also makeup tutorials, but they were likely not interested in that. Cassie took it all in, the world in slow motion thanks to adrenaline coursing through her.

  "Hi, Cassandra. You remember us, Don and Peter," he said with a genial smile and started to stand.

  "Stay down. Keep your hands where I can see them."

  "Absolutely, Cassandra. You weren't replying to our calls so we were worried about you."

  "Cut the shit, cocksucker. I told you. I don't know anything about that guy."

  "Henry."

  "Right. I don't know him. I don't know his last name. I don't know his aliases. I don't know his whereabouts."

  "There's been another fire."

  "So what?"

  "We know it was your friend again this time. It could have been you that burned up."

  Goon #2 chimed in, "We want to know why it wasn't you, you know, last time."

  "We know you've been looking things up. A little research."

  "It's a free country, asshole."

  "We don't want you to stop. You're not in trouble with us. Not at all, actually. Henry spared you once. You helped him. He likes you. That's good."

  "We also researched you a bit, while you were busy searching out our... our principals."

  "So what?"

  "U.S. Special Ranger turned medical professional?"

  "A girl's gotta make rent."

  "You got tired of killing and decided to heal. That's admirable."

  Cassie lowered the gun, but kept an offensive stance and asked, "What do you really want?"

  "We want to offer you a job. It's dangerous, but you're obviously prepared for anything. Can we sit down and talk?"

  "No. Stay right where you are."

  "We are close to finding Henry. He needs to come home before anyone else gets hurt. Our client's labs are made especially to treat people with his condition."

  "And what is that condition?"

  "Uncontrolled pyrokinesis."

  "You're shitting me."

  "You know, that's what I said too. But it's true. Unbelievable, but true."

  "Henry's been in therapy, there's a psychological element to it. I'm not technical, but I know it's for his best, to control him."

  "Control?"

  "Look, we leave that to the doctors and experts. We're just hired investigators, third parties. We think that if you approach him, he'd be less likely to have an accident."

  "An accident? Christ, man. You want to use me as bait? Fuck that."

  "We said it'd be dangerous. Which is why we are prepared to compensate you well, and some portions in advance. This is very important, Cassandra."

  "I'll think about it. You need to leave now though. A police officer is on his way here."

  "Ok ok. We are going to stand up and leave. Can you call us tomorrow?"

  "Sure. Whatever, just leave."

  They flashed their used car salesmen smiles, straightened their suit pants as they stood, and left. Cassie put the gun down and walked a quick circle in the apartment. Did they bug her place? Were they legit? Was this some stupid prank? What the actual fuck. She checked her laptop, but if they had installed some monitoring software, they'd done it fast. It looked more like they had just been digging in her history tab. The stages of dealing with a break in were violation, anger, inventory, and then back to violation. Cassie didn't think there was an acceptance stage at all after that, just repeat.

  Sanders pulled up to Cassie's apartment and watched as two men in suits exited. They walked in an unhurried manner, and got into a tan sedan. They'd left the apartment door open. Sanders watched with anticipation, ready to spring into action, but he saw Cassie in the doorway. She looked unhurt and unconcerned, maybe pensive. She scanned the parking lot and locked eyes with Sanders before going back inside. The sedan pulled out of the parking lot, and did they give any notice to the police cruiser? This didn't look like a crime scene. Yet, here he was again, taking the work car to what? A dalliance? At least there was no smoke.

  "You're too late."

  Sanders let himself into the apartment, closing the door behind him, and saw Cassie sitting cross legged on the couch. Arms folded on her chest.

  "Is that thing loaded?" Sanders gestured to the revolver sitting on the coffee table.

  "Yup, but you are welcome to unload it yourself. There's coffee in the kitchen."

  "Mind if I just take a seat?"

  "They were here about Henry. They came by my work, too."

  "Slow down. Who are they?"

  "Don and Peter, or Peter and Don. Probably not their real names. I don't think they even keep which is which straight half the time. Contract investigators. How much of this do you know or want to know? Really, Officer, I'm fine. They won't be back again."

  "Cassie, I had called you because, well, there seems to be something going on. Please, go ahead and tell me everything. This is not an official investigation. This is me, getting involved, trying to help. I don't believe you've done anything wrong, but something stinks."

  "It's ok. I trust you, I guess. And I appreciate what you just said, I just don't know what I could even expect you or the police to do."

  Sanders looked at her sympathetically and gestured for her to continue.

  "I'm not sure what's going on, but they said they work for a psychiatric institute, or something, that was treating Henry. They are trying to retrieve him, help him."

  "I see. Did Henry have a condition? Something about lighting fires for instance? What they used to call a pyromaniac?"

  "Yes and no. Look, they were just looking for him and want my help. That's all. Big misunderstanding. You can totally go. I can take care of myself."

  "Of that," Sanders picked up the gun and examined it, "I have no points. Got a license for this?"

  "Come on, man."

  Sanders looked at her with a raised eyebrow.

  "Yes. I do. Need to see it?" she asked.

  "Ever u
se it?"

  "Sure. At the range on weekends, like a good patriotic Arizonian," Cassie said.

  "Ever point it at a person before tonight?" Sanders asked.

  "Not that one, but a few like it."

  Cassie tossed him the medal she'd been holding, still in its felt lined box.

  He held it reverentially, "They don't just hand these out."

  "I was a nurse first, then a soldier, now I'm a nurse again. It's weird, those guys knew that about me. Said they'd researched me," she said.

  "What type help do they want from you? The soldiering kind or the nursing kind?"

  Cassie looked away and sighed a shaky breath.

  "They think he'll trust me, because..." Cassie trailed.

  "Because you helped him. Cassie, do you know where Henry is?" Sanders asked.

  "No," she replied quickly.

  "Do you have a way to contact him?"

  "No. Do you?" she said, in an arched, sarcastic tone.

  Sanders tolerated the smart-ass comment with a sigh, "I think he's in a lot of trouble."

  "You don't have to convince me," Cassie said.

  "Promise me something. If they take you to Henry, or tell you where he is, that you'll call me."

  "I didn't say I was going to cooperate with them."

  "Did Henry start those fires?" Sanders asked.

  "They think so. But not how you think. They said he starts them with his mind."

  "Do you believe it?"

  "Do you?"

  Sanders and Cassie sat in a moment of silence.

  "You don't seem to be in any danger, so I should go."

  Cassie nodded in silent agreement.

  He turned at the door, "And Cassie, what was the name of the institution that hired those men?"

  She was holding her medal again and answered without looking up.

  "It's called the Black Star Institute."

  ***

  Another day, another dollar. Cassie never thought of her job as transactional, but she barely made 50k a year, and there were costs, emotional costs that came with caring for the dying. In a metaphysical sense, we are all dying, some fast, some slow, since birth. She didn't go there with her thoughts often, but what difference would it make if she was there to bear witness versus anyone else. Was this really the only job she could do? She'd not really asked herself that question too many times, but something was shifting inside her head. Part of it was the cash offer to go on a little road trip. Another part of it was that she'd just been through what some might consider a traumatic event. And yet another part of it was hard to explain. She'd dreamt of Henry. Not really a dream about him, but she'd woken up feeling like she knew him, or had known him as a kid. It was dumb, but dreams could leave a person feeling pretty strange sometimes.