Down the Psycho Path

by Mandy White

“You’re going to like this. It’s better than fiction. Coffee?”

  “No. You already asked that. Got anything stronger?”

  “You’re right. Screw the coffee.” Jay reached into her desk drawer and produced a flask, which she sampled before passing to Damien.

  “That’s what I’m talking about.” He took a hearty swig.

  “Ok, so it goes like this. A billionaire businessman, who will remain nameless, commits suicide. Apparently he was suffering from advanced dementia and a bit of a drug problem. His wife freaks out when she finds his bloated old corpse in the Jacuzzi tub, slit at the wrists. Not because the little mail-order bride gives a shit, but because his life insurance won’t pay out on a suicide. She wants to make sure she gets ALL the money, not just most of it. She needs time to dispose of the body via a secret cremation while giving the impression that everything is normal. Through some of her old-country connections, she finds her way to Obert’s team and this project. We were way over budget and on the verge of being shut down by the current administration, which had decided to go in a different direction. Obert took matters into his own hands to prove the project’s worth to the powers that be. Mrs. Moneybags bankrolled us on the condition that she got the first test unit. She needed a stand-in to pose as her deceased husband – one she could be certain would never blackmail her. She needed the public and those in authority to see him alive and well before his official death, which was to be staged via a plane crash. Fiery crash, bodies burned beyond recognition, or perhaps lost in the ocean…I don’t know which way it would have gone, but that part is irrelevant because it never happened.”

  “Shut up! You’re telling me the fucking thing is… him?”

  “None other.”

  “But how? I mean he… it… what the hell do I even call it?”

  “It blended into the social scene seamlessly, better than we ever thought it would. It seems we chose the perfect environment in which to introduce a polymer-coated android… a world filled with phony plastic people. I mean, the thing was so hastily assembled – disproportionate body parts, unnatural flesh tone – and nobody even noticed.”

  Damien took another swallow of whiskey. “Ok, I get why the unit went into the field prematurely. But how did it get from there, to…now?”

  “Give me some of that.” Jay grabbed the flask and helped herself to a generous portion.

  “The rest of the story you already know, from watching it on the news. The unit decided it liked being in the spotlight and before we realized there was a problem with the programming, it had already…”

  “Run for President, and won.” Damien finished.

  “Yes.”

  “So how do we shut it down without blowing it up?”

  “That is exactly the problem. So far we haven’t found a way. Like I said, it’s a suicide mission. And we are also talking about treason. Nobody on the team is exempt. We may be on a military payroll, but we acted on our own to create this mess. Obert did not have clearance to release the prototype for testing. As far as his superiors knew, the project was shelved pending cancellation.”

  Damien paled. “Jesus, Jay. Treason? I didn’t sign up for this.”

  “Neither did I. All I wanted was what everyone wants. A career. A comfortable government salary. Maybe a chance to make the world a better place. Now I’m as good as dead. If we don’t shut this thing down, there’s no telling what damage it will do. It’s only been in office a few weeks and it’s signing executive orders like they’re fucking autographs.”

  “Maybe it thinks they are,” Damien mused. “It looks like it signs anything they put in front of it.”

  “If we don’t shut it down, treason charges will be the least of our concerns. This thing is in charge of nuclear launch codes. It’s batshit crazy, and it has already threatened a number of nuclear-capable countries.”

  “So in other words, we’re all as good as dead.”

  “Pretty much. Unless a professional sniper is willing to step up and take one for the team.”

  * * *

  Billy turned his red baseball cap backwards to keep the brim out of his line of vision. He wiped the sweat from his battle-scarred forehead, cursing the Florida heat. It brought back unpleasant memories of Iraq, with the added discomfort of stifling humidity.

  He caressed the stock of his newest acquisition. The new, more lenient firearms regulations had hastened his purchase of the AR-15. He might have missed the rally if delayed by the inconvenience of procuring the weapon illegally, but he would have gotten it either way. When you made up your mind to blow someone’s brains out, legality was the last thing on your mind. However, Billy appreciated the irony that his target’s own actions had expedited his execution.

  The rally was underway, judging from the sounds of the unruly crowd in the street below. Soon the buffoon who had stripped Billy of his Social Security benefits, health care and reason for giving a shit would begin another hour-long incoherent ramble that passed as a speech in this messed-up world. Billy had plenty of time. Hell, he didn’t even need the scope. The 90-round drum magazine held enough firepower to take down dozens of those cockroaches along with their leader, as fast as he could pull the trigger.

  Billy’s historic blaze of glory would conclude with him deep-throating the barrel of his .44. His time as a POW had taught him that being taken prisoner was not an option. When left with nothing to lose, take as many bastards with you as you can.

  He aimed the barrel out the window of the hotel room, easily finding his target in the crosshairs.

  As he squeezed the trigger, he muttered,

  “I can’t believe I voted for you.”

  Thank you for reading! If you enjoyed this book (or even if you didn’t) I would be ever so grateful if you could take a moment to post a review on Amazon.com to let other readers know what you thought of it. Word of mouth is integral to an independent author’s success.

  Mandy White

  You can read these short stories and more on Mandy White’s website: http://mandywrite.weebly.com/

  ~*~

  About the Author

  Mandy White currently resides on Vancouver Island with her family and a menagerie of pets.

  Being one of those weird, reclusive writer types, Mandy may be found lurking in the forest, daydreaming dark thoughts that inevitably come to life in print.

  This author's work often features Canadian characters and locations; she delights in twisting her everyday surroundings into weird and disturbing tales. Caution: if you happen to cross her path, you may find yourself in an upcoming story.

  Author of three novels and two anthologies, Mandy is particularly fond of short stories. She is founder of WPaD (Writers, Poets and Deviants), a group of writers known for publishing charity anthologies for MS.

  Books by Mandy White:

  Phobia

  The Feeder

  Avenging Annabelle

  The Jealousy Game

  Dysfictional: Short Stories for Twisted Minds

  Dysfictional 2: Shreds of Sanity

  Dysfictional 3: Down the Psycho Path

  Creepies: Twisted Tales From Beneath the Bed by WPaD (contributor)

  Creepies 2: Things That go Bump in the Closet by WPaD (contributor)

  Passion’s Prisms: Tales of Love & Romance by WPaD (contributor)

  Dragons and Dreams: A Fantasy Anthology by WPaD (contributor)

  Tinsel Tales: A Holiday Treasury by WPaD (contributor)

  Tinsel Tales 2: Holiday Hootenanny by WPaD (contributor)

  Goin’ Extinct: Tales From the Edge of Oblivion by WPaD (contributor)

  Strange Adventures in a Deviant Universe: WPaD Science Fiction (contributor)

  Weirder Tales: An Omnibus of Odd Ditties by WPaD (contributor)

  - All of Mandy White's books are available worldwide in print and ebook editions from Amazon.com and other online book retailers.

  http://www.amazon.com/author/mandywhite

  - To learn more about upcoming p
rojects, visit Mandy White’s website: http://mandywrite.weebly.com/

  Facebook fan page: http://www.facebook.com/authormandywhite

  or follow @mandywrite on Twitter

  Please read on to sample more work from the same author:

  ~*~

  Preview:

  Phobia

  Copyright © 2014 Mandy white

  ~ 1 ~ Control

  “I’ve always been afraid of losing control.

  I’m not some kind of control freak, like those people who always have to be in charge and act like the boss of everyone. I’m talking about irrational fears – phobias.

  Take my fear of heights, for example. It’s not the height itself that scares me. I enjoy a good view as much as the next person.

  I’m afraid of myself.

  I’m afraid to stand too close to the edge of a cliff or a high rooftop, but not because I think I’ll accidentally trip or lose my balance.

  I fear a lapse of sanity.

  I’m afraid that for just a few seconds, I will lose control of my faculties and run full tilt off the edge, laughing like a lunatic. I would regain my senses and realize what I had done too late to stop it from happening.

  If I find myself on a high place, I stay as far from the edge as possible. Logic tells me I am safe, but inside I feel it – that magnetic pull toward the edge where the maniac inside my head wants to run.

  I’m not suicidal. I can hear you making assumptions and questioning whether an intervention is in order. A suicidal person wants to die – I don’t.

  It’s self-preservation that makes me afraid. If I wanted to kill myself, my feelings probably wouldn’t change the moment I jumped. I’d just sail over the edge and go splat.

  I’m afraid that the temporary lapse of sanity I feel inside could fight its way to the surface at any moment and make me do things I wouldn’t ordinarily do.

  It’s that sort of thing that feeds my phobias. My mind plays out a little ‘what if’ scenario, filling in the details until it feels like it’s already happened. I see the potential for disaster in ordinary situations. Roofs and cliffs become bridges and rivers; standing becomes driving. How easy would it be just to drive off a cliff or veer into oncoming traffic? I now know it isn’t safe for me to drive. I proved that when I had the accident.

  Walking is also risky. What if I suddenly lost my mind and ran into traffic? Or what if some driver had a heart attack and ran me down on the sidewalk? What if… what if… the possibilities are endless.

  I’m afraid to go boating or take a ferry in case I get a sudden urge to jump overboard. I never learned to swim because I’m afraid of being underwater. Flying? Forget it. What if I happened to lose control while going through security in an airport and got shot down as a terrorist?

  See? I’m not suicidal. In fact, it’s just the opposite. I live in constant fear for my safety.

  Control equals safety. Safety keeps fears at bay.

  Phobias are every bit as crippling as physical disabilities. Scoff all you want, I don’t care. Take social anxiety, for example. It’s the engine that drives a lot of my phobias. Essentially, I’m afraid of people. Why? I’ve been around people all my life and learned the necessary social skills at an early age, so what the hell is so scary about interacting with people?

  It’s fear of ridicule, embarrassment, of being singled out and stared at, laughed at and called names.

  Fear of losing control of the situation.

  Picture this scenario, as insane as it sounds:

  I’m carrying on a conversation with someone I don’t know very well – maybe a salesperson, a business associate, or an acquaintance I ran into at the mall. Suddenly the familiar fear begins to rise – that fear of a brief lapse of sanity. What if I suddenly lost control and did something crazy, like hugging the person for no reason or saying something completely inappropriate. I know I’d never intentionally do such a thing. But what if sanity slipped, for one disastrous moment?

  My social phobias are rooted in a fear that I will not be able to keep it together, to say the appropriate thing, or present an acceptable persona for a given situation. What if someone asks me a question I can’t answer? The unexpected terrifies me. It’s what I like to call FOBPOTS: Fear Of Being Put On The Spot. FOBPOTS prevents me from answering the phone, the doorbell, or doing anything that could put me in a situation where I might be asked an unexpected question or pressured to do something I don’t want to do.

  All of these things feed my anxiety. Anxiety, as we know, can develop into a full-blown panic attack with the right trigger. Fear of having a panic attack in public gives the phobia more power over the phobic. People will notice that I’m acting funny. They will stare and they might even, heaven forbid, ask if I’m okay.

  What’s wrong with being asked if I’m okay? you’re probably thinking.

  Don’t you see?

  It would worsen things hundredfold!

  When people ask questions, they expect answers. From me! The pressure of having to think of an appropriate response on the spot makes my mind go blank. I forget everything – my name, what language I speak, or even how to reply to a simple question like,

  “Are you OK?”

  My face would start to feel hot. I’d know I was turning all red like some stupid giant tomato, but I’d be powerless to stop it. I’d start sweating, everything would look fuzzy and I’d hear this high-pitched buzzing in my head. I’d feel short of breath, dizzy and nauseous.

  I would need to escape, but running away would attract more attention. I’d be trapped – terrified of embarrassing myself by either puking or fainting in front of everyone.

  My heart would race and pound, and I’d realize with relief that I was having a heart attack – just a heart attack! Genuine medical distress would be welcome at that point because I’d have a valid excuse for the way I was acting. I’d fantasize that an ambulance would arrive to whisk me away and rescue me from humiliation. I would be relieved of having to answer questions. But of course, the heart attack would never come and neither would the ambulance. It was merely a panic attack.

  It makes me angry because the whole scenario is avoidable! If I’m not forced to interact with people to begin with, if some nosy, insensitive asshole doesn’t ask if I’m okay, then I’ll be just fine. Why can’t people mind their own business and leave me alone? What’s so damn important about being social? I feel like a chimpanzee in a zoo sometimes. I just want privacy, free from prying eyes and nosy questions.”

  I cleared my throat nervously. “Anyway… that’s what my phobias feel like. Thanks for letting me rant.”

  I slumped back in my chair, breathless, pulse racing. I looked up from the paper from which I’d just finished reading, waiting for the laughter; the scoffs; the ridicule. All I heard was silence.

  I closed my eyes for a moment, taking slow breaths through my nose to calm the tightness in my chest. I had written my contribution to the group session ahead of time and read it to them. As prepared as I’d thought I’d been, panic still threatened to take over.

  I checked my webcam to confirm that the little piece of black tape was still in place over the lens. They hadn’t been able to see me while I spoke, so nobody knew I was sweaty and flushed. I surveyed the familiar room, reassuring myself that I was safe in my own home. Hundreds of miles separated me from the other members of the online therapy group.

  After what felt like eternity, the voice of Colin, the group moderator, broke the silence.

  “Dana, can you hear me?”

  “Yes,” I replied.

  “Hang in there, okay?” he said. “You’re going to be fine.”

  “Okayyy… I guess so.” I replied. I wasn’t quite sure what kind of psychological advice that was, but maybe he didn’t know what to make of someone like me. Typical. I shouldn’t even be surprised, I thought. Nobody understood what it was like to be me – a terrified nutcase. Nobody.

  I’d waited until the end of the session to speak because I wanted
to avoid being interrupted (interrupting was a nasty habit the group had).

  “Does anybody have anything else they’d like to share before we wrap up?” Colin had asked. When nobody spoke up, I’d taken it as my cue to jump in. I started reading my written description of life with phobias before I lost my nerve.

  * * *

  I had come a long way in the short time I’d been part of the therapy group. All I’d done before today was listen, but I could remember a time when even the suggestion of therapy triggered a panic attack. My group met on the Internet and the moderator was only a student, but it was a step, however small, toward recovery. Perhaps one day I would be able to venture beyond the safety of my home and meet some of those people in person.

  I hadn’t always been a shut-in. Once, I’d had a life, a job, and even some friends. My phobias had always lurked in the shadows but for years I’d managed to keep them far enough at bay to remain functional – if ‘functional’ was the right word to describe what I had been.

  All of that was before the accident, of course.

  That one moment when I happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time was all it took to change my life forever.

  ~ 2 ~

  Crash

  May 21 was like any other Thursday morning, except I was on my way to work with the intention of handing in my resignation.

  I sensed my job was coming to an end anyway. My performance had been poor and my absences had increased. I’d used all my sick days and was running out of excuses. I decided I’d beat them to the punch and quit to avoid the humiliation of being fired. My desire to work from home and avoid the daily two-hour commute hadn’t gone over well with my co-workers. The other drones thought all employees were obligated to put in their daily eight hours of cubicle time. Who cares what those idiots think? It wasn’t like we were friends or anything.

  A heavy spring rain spattered the windshield, reducing my visibility to almost nil. My car slogged through deepening pools of water, forcing me to reduce my speed, much to the annoyance of several drivers behind me. I glanced in the rear-view mirror and shook my head in disbelief at the tightly-packed field of tailgaters behind me. There were always some asshats who thought it was mandatory to do whatever speed the signs said, regardless of road conditions.