by Micah Thomas
***
Sanders woke suddenly, his danger sense ringing loud in his mind. The soft light of half dawn painted the room in grays. He looked over at Eva's bed and saw only her indent in the blankets where she should be. The door was cracked open and he could hear the rain coming down outside. Thankful that he'd slept with his shoes still on, he went outside into the misty parking lot. His mind both alert and foggy from the half sleep.
The street light was out, adding to the hazy darkling sunrise. He listened and heard a squelching sound from behind a large SUV. With practiced caution born of experience, he edged around the obscenely large vehicle to see the source of the sound. His impulse to get involved, that same impulse that lead him here in the first place was stopped short by the unyielding horror of it.
A man lay between the SUV and another truck, and Eva upon him, her face close to his, their pants pulled down, and obviously mid coitus. The man made a wet gurgling sound and Sanders silenced a gasp, his nightmarish dream slamming back into his mind. He saw Eva, not at Eva at all, not a young girl, but a ferocious, carnivorous woman. She flickered back and forth between representations, a morphing transition that could not possibly be real. She, it, whatever she was, stood, pulling back on her pants, and without looking back to see if she had an audience, walked back to their room. Sanders crouched low, watched her go, and saw the blood now, pooling between the cars, diluted in the rain. The man was dead, half consumed like a bear mauling.
Sanders was consummately torn between impulses. The law man, the do right man, the unerring moral compass inside was decimated by the complicit horror of this deed. Yet, a felt a mental pull, a weariness that called him back to sleep, back to bed. An internal assurance that this was just another bad dream. The thought came to him with such compelling force that he could not resist. He glanced once more at the dead man, and then walked back along the way he came. He again locked the door, and felt a relief that Eva was sleeping, lightly snoring. As he laid down, aware he was putting his muddy shoes up on the covers, he fell into a deep and dreamless sleep.
When true morning came, sunlight through the window and an ache in his neck, he awoke to Eva sitting on his bed offering him a toothbrush.
"You wouldn't think they'd have amenities, but look, I got us toothbrushes," she said cheerfully.
Sanders rose and drank some of last night's coffee. It was cold and bitter, but helped wash down the night's weirdness.
"Yeah. Thanks. I'll be right back," he said almost tripping over himself to get outside.
He wanted to see, wanted to know if last night had been a dream. The white SUV was still there, parked between his own rental car and another truck. Each step closer to the gap filled him with dread and he felt bile cruising its way up his throat. But nothing was there to indicate anything untoward. No blood on the street, no viscera trailing the parking lot, no splatter on the cars, and most importantly, no body.
They drove to the ferry, declining Eva's insistence to stop for donuts, because, you know, cops and donuts. They rode the ferry in silence, watching people do yoga in the rain on the platform. In the absence of a baseline, anything can feel normal. Sanders felt a duality of this that he couldn't shake. Everything was fine and on one hand, nothing was remotely ok. He caught himself looking at Eva and wondering if she really contained monstrosities. Wondering why she was really at Black Star. Trying to put the pieces together was impossible. Henry started fires, that part might be real. What did Eva start? Lilith. They'd called her Project Lilith.
He knocked on her parents' door, a large house with exposed redwood beams and a manicured wilderness of gardens out front.
A pleasant smile greeted him, dad, a middle aged white man getting ready for work, slacks on but still in an undershirt.
"Oh, hi. How can I help you?" he said.
Sanders slipped into his cop manner, "Sir, I found your daughter wandering around outside last night."
"Is she ok? Honey, come here, Evie is in trouble," he called to someone in the house, mom probably.
Mom came to the door, stylishly dressed in athleisure wear.
"Excuse me, who are you?" she asked.
Sander raised his hands in a calming gesture, "It's ok. She's fine. I'm an off-duty cop and I picked up your daughter and brought her here."
"Oh, good," she said with a heavy sigh, "She, our daughter has gotten into trouble before. She has a condition."
"I know. She told me. It's none of my business, but maybe you should rethink using Black Star Institute services."
Eva let herself out of the car and came bounding up the stairs.
"Hey moms, hey pops," she said pushing through and letting herself inside.
The three of them stood in a warm embrace, posing like for a family photo.
Sanders clicked his teeth, "Well, I guess I should be going."
"Wait," dad said, "What's your name? What's this about the Institute? I'll call Cyndi this morning. If they let her just wander out into the streets, my god, there will be hell to pay."
"Don't worry about it dad. Officer Dan took good care of me," Eva said, lying about his name for some reason he himself wasn't sure about, but it made sense and he went with it.
"That's right. She's fine and that's all that matters," Sanders said.
He left them to their domestic bliss and whatever stories she would tell them. Only at the airport getting ready to board, did Sanders question how easy it was, and how Eva had plucked the name Dan from the air. "They're all a little bit psychic," Jane had said of the Institute's subjects, maybe a lot psychic. He wasn't sure of how much Eva could influence the thinking of others, but he was coming to the conclusion that maybe he and Jane, and maybe Eva's own parents were impacted by that powerful mind. The further he got away from the situation, the more sure he was. They shouldn't have acted like this was normal. This wasn't normal.
The airport had been almost empty, but the security presence was hard not to notice. Something had definitely happened. Sanders texted Dan that he was ok, and flying home right now, and that he'd never leave again. The gate agent, somber-faced like everyone else there, informed him that he was very lucky that the flight wasn't canceled. Sanders was too busy trying to process his night's adventures to understand why, but on the flight, Air Marshals stood by with guns visible. Someone very important was on this flight. A man in a suit boarded last, surrounded by his own security detail. Sanders' curiosity was peaked. This was unusual.
The pilot made an announcement, "We've been cleared to fly, but it will be a much longer flight than anticipated. In this time of national tragedy, we ask for your prayers for the nation."
Sanders looked at the news on his phone. The president was dead. Las Vegas had been attacked. People are dead and missing. Something had gone terribly wrong in the world, and he'd been on a boondoggle. Images of a massive fire, an explosion, and Sanders thought of Henry. Then he thought of Eva and the dead man. What hell has been loosed? What had he done?
***
Cynthia didn't even bother to get dressed. She sat at her austere desk, watching the monitors. She skipped the speeches, the strange sleeping spell that fell over the crowd, and watched the explosion over and over again. Alerts popped up on the screens as one by one her passwords and were revoked, triggering credential access errors. They'd failed. They'd failed in the most spectacular way. Henry, the least important, least prioritized project had come back to bite her. She had to give it to him, no one but Henry had even tried to take Hakim out. Such a strange alignment of interests. She'd wanted to contain Wiseman, and he'd been trying to stop Hakim in his own way, moving pieces on the board in his own inexplicable way.
She almost expected it, when they came in for her. Men with guns, dressed in that stereotypical garb of the government spook.
"May I get dressed?" she asked and idly twirled the apple core on her desk. She'd eaten it for breakfast. Tasty little thing that it was, despite it age.
"Ma'am, please come with us. Your things
will be taken care of," Spook #1 said.
She was glad they took her from her room and not in the offices. How scornful would those petty glances be in such a walk of shame? They marched Cynthia down and deep, down into the labyrinth of the building, into the wing that housed the subject quarters. She sighed and remained complaint as she entered the replica of an apartment. It would be highly monitored, doors locked, but someone would come.
Someone did come, as almost immediately, Jimmy walked out of the bathroom wearing only a towel, his middle-aged paunch suddenly sucked in.
"Heeyoo! Sorry, I didn't know I was getting company," he said.
"We're short on space, so you'll be doubled up for a while," Spook #1 said, leaving abruptly.
Jimmy plopped down on the recliner and idly picked up a magazine with glossy celebrities on the cover.
"Just wait. They don't start poking, prodding, and probing you until after the orientation," he joked.
"What do you mean?" Cynthia asked, taking a seat on the sofa across from him, across from the double-sided mirror.
"Tests. You know, for contamination. We're in quarantine sweetie."
"You look familiar," she said.
"I should. I was the mild-mannered host of the highest rated TV show in the United States, until a week ago. I'd like to say I'd go back to work, but from the news they let me see, not sure there's much to go back for. Is it really WWIII out there?" he asked.
Ignoring his question, Cynthia asked with shock, "You've been here a week?"
"Oh yeah. What a ride. Not just me. I saw Larry and David through a lab window, and that soldier that was on my show, you know, a guest. I'm guessing they grabbed anyone that met him."
"Who?"
"Wiseman. So, did you? Meet him, I mean."
Cynthia was temporarily lost in thought, "Hmmm."
"Say, what are you in for if you didn't meet him? You're not in the industry, are you?"
She looked him straight in the eyes and said, "Until moments ago, I was in charge of this facility."
Thomas spoke from behind the glass.
"It's time, Cynthia," he said.
"For what Tom?" she asked.
"To give up," he said.
"You can't keep me down here, like some sort of animal. Contamination, my ass. What are you up to?"
"You are, in fact, the last living piece of collateral, core to legacy BSI, not operating at the pleasure of the president under the name Latria. It means worship suitable for god alone. I thought you and your penchant for obscure names would like that."
"You're insane. They are not gods," she said, almost spitting with contempt.
"No. You searched and found only demons. Perhaps there was something about the seeker and not the method. Prayer is prayer whether you pray to the devil or the divine."
Jimmy looked back at the mirror and Cynthia.
"If you guys have been watching me this whole time, I'm sorry about the fap action. I'm only human," he said, but they ignored him.
"Where's Matthew? Your little puppet. You had to have help, all this, hiding this from me," Cynthia asked.
"Collateral damage. Your plan was grossly unprepared for the other. I know you've seen the videos. We allowed that access so you could see the depth of your hubris. Matthew was there at ground zero."
Cynthia crossed her legs, adjusted her position on the couch, almost satisfied, that niggling feeling of wanting to be absolved of responsibility. The fear of letting go was, in reality, not so bad. They'd use her knowledge, how could they not?
"Do you have anything to eat?" she asked Jimmy.
"Sure thing. You like eggs Benedict?" he asked, jumping up and heading to the kitchenette.
"We'll be speaking," Tom said.
Cynthia flipped him the bird and picked up the magazine Jimmy had been reading. Everything was fine. This was fine.
***
Cassie rolled over onto her back in her bed in Phoenix. She'd been dreaming but whatever images and narrative had been entertaining her were being replaced by the feel of her comforter, the rattle of her AC. In that sleepy state, she wondered if she'd forgotten to set her alarm. Work would be pissed. They hated it when she was late. These lazy thoughts fled from her mind, as she sat up suddenly.
How did I get here, she wondered? Home. She was home. In her apartment. This was real and not a dream. She was also naked. She stood and quickly inventoried her body, complete and present, she was fine. She looked beside her bed and beneath the covers for her phone, but didn't find it. A cold sweat broke out on her skin, as memories bubbled up, Vegas, oh shit Vegas. What the fuck had happened and what day was it? The list of questions outnumbered her sense of what to do first.
She quickly dressed, pulling on a pair of yoga pants, but before she could get a sports bra on, she had the sudden sense that she was not alone. Not that she'd heard anything, but it freaked her out, badly.
"Hello?" she called to the empty apartment before opening the bedroom door. The lights were turned off and the curtains pulled closed. Armed with only her fists, she checked the bathroom, the kitchen and living room. She was alone.
"Fuck," she said to herself.
She sat cross-legged on the couch and opened her laptop. The Google homepage, usually a friendly image celebrating diversity or innovation or something damned cheerful was replaced by a streaming block of video, chyrons streaming beneath red and angry.
She unmuted the audio.
Vice President Dick Morey, white hair shellacked to his pin head like a Lego figure, stood erect, stern-faced and obviously worked on, at a podium before a giant American flag. "The country is under direct attack and you may hear that there's an offer of peace, that they come in peace. I refute it. I absolutely refute it. The country is under attack, and I hate to say it, I won't say it, but we are witnessing the end times. Hold your family and pray to Jesus. I mean that, pray to Jesus on your knees. We don't have to hide his name anymore, get on your knees. The president is dead, our precious leader, a great man, was taken from us in this terroristic attack on our freedom, on our soul, on our gem of a city Las Vegas, god rest her soul. And it's not done. They are here, on our soil, setting up bases of operation and spreading his wicked lies," his voice cracked with his passion.
"We must be strong. We must carry on. We will miss the day when all we had to fear was Islam and the liberal gay agenda. That's right, we're beyond telling ourselves lies now, and we must stick together. This Hakim is the adversary, the devil, the morning star, the fallen one. Every word he says is lies because he is the lord of lies. And he's not alone. Look closely now, we aren't sheltering you from this, no guilty until proven innocent, no, not now."
The screen flipped to a four square of portraits with names listing: William 'Bill' Sanders, Eva Lilly Price, Cassandra 'Cassie' Lima, Henry Dolan.
The Vice President continued, "These are not men and woman. These are demons, literal agents of Satan."
He continued but Cassie muted the audio.
"That's a pretty good photo of you actually," a familiar voice said.
Cassie spun around, seeing no one.
"I know. I was freaked out the first time this happened to me too," the voice continued.
Cassie darted to the bathroom and promptly threw up in the sink.
"Cassie, hey, hey, don't worry. It's me."
"Henry?" Cassie said out loud to the voice.
"Yeah. I'm, well, I'm in your head now."
"You sound different," she said, looking in the mirror, wondering if she had lost her mind.
"Check this out. Wiseman did this once, so so can I."
In the mirror, an image formed, hazy at first, then a ghostly representation of Henry appeared, smiling back behind Cassie's left shoulder.
"Why are you smiling?" she asked, almost in tears.
"You have great tits," he said.
She laughed and did cry.
"What now?" she asked.
"Well, there's more, I guess. Watch," he said.
She felt her attention, not really bent, but pulled in the direction of the scented candles on the back of the toilet.
A rapid sense of euphoria raced up her spine, and then poof, the candle wick lit in a tiny spark of flame.
"Yay! We finally have control of our hot-headed little friend," Henry said directly in her head.
"I don't understand," she said.
"We're all in here, you, me, and it. I've spent the last day getting you home, hydrating, and getting to know this new state of being so to speak," he said.
"So I'm naked because?"
"Because it's too damned hot in Arizona," he said and she could feel he was laughing.
"Back to the point, what now?" she asked trying to accept this. She had to accept this.
"I don't know, but whatever comes next, we won't be alone."
EPILOGUE
THINGS FALL APART. Season finales end with your favorite cast of characters learning that it was all a dream, or that they were dead all along, or that the big bad was really an inter-dimensional spider. Closure almost never satisfies, because, after you turn of the tv, power down the Kindle, or close the laptop, your life goes on. Climax and anticlimax are both full of empty revelations. That was great, but what next? You may ask, 'what of Henry? What of the others like myself?' I'm afraid that I simply do not know.
We are scattered. The diaspora of what we were must have been liberating to those trapped in our little box world. What will they find now? Where did they go? Will some invisible tether of fate pull us back together again? I can sense a few of my brethren, and in that seeking, I can say some are near, and others were cast out so very, very far away. Our home is gone. I know that much. We demons are inside your world now, though some, not at all upon your little planet. I pray they remain distant, content to churn in some dark corner, never bringing their dark thoughts here to you.
