The Probing: Leviathan, The Mind Pirates, Hybrids, The Village

by Frank Peretti

  “I was hoping for something less obvious,” the professor said drolly.

  Andi ignored him. “I don’t know why I didn’t see it earlier.”

  “A pattern?” I said.

  She nodded. “And the professor is right, it is obvious.” She turned to the TV screen and waited for the cycle to begin again. When it got there, she said, “Superman begins with the letter S.”

  The screen flickered and switched to the Rocky movie.

  “Rocky, R.”

  The screen switched to the spinning top.

  “T is for top,” I said.

  “Perhaps. But if we’re naming movies . . .”

  “Inception,” Cowboy said. “That’s from Inception.”

  Andi nodded. “I is for Inception.” The screen switched to the flying telephone booth. “And this is the British TV series DoctorWho.”

  “D,” Cowboy said. “For Doctor Who.”

  The image switched again.

  “The Hunger Games,” I said. “T.”

  “Except most people drop the first word when it’s as common as the,” Andi said. “So let’s consider this one an H.”

  Next came the cartoon with the talking ants. No one had a clue except the professor. “That’s Antz,” he said. “My nephew loved that movie. Couldn’t get enough of it. He’s now an entomologist.”

  “A is for Antz,” Andi said.

  The Rocky scene came back on. “And we’re back to R,” I said.

  Andi nodded. “But a different one.”

  “That’s your pattern?” the professor groused. “Random letters?”

  “Not so random.” Andi looked back to the TV as the scenes cycled again, starting with the Superman clip. This time she called out each letter as the scene appeared: “S . . . R . . . I . . . D . . . H . . . A . . . R.”

  “That’s not a word,” Anderson said.

  “Sridhar!” I half spoke, half whispered. “The kid from our first mission. The one at the Institute who did the psychic dreaming.”

  “Lucid dreaming,” the professor corrected.

  “He’s doing this?” I turned back to Andi, waiting for her to answer. She didn’t have to. Suddenly the TV fritzed out. Instead of movie clips we were back to watching Cowboy’s football game. On the screen the crowd had leapt to their feet, cheering and clapping . . . as if someone had just scored an important goal.

  CHAPTER

  7

  So you’ve been fighting these supposed bad guys, this Gate, for how long?” Anderson asked.

  “Long enough to know they don’t play nice,” I said.

  “Such as?”

  Cowboy answered, “Flying orbs, deadly molds—”

  “And mind games.” Andi sounded a little sheepish, no doubt thinking of her last encounter with them in Florida. “They’re pretty good at those.”

  “No argument there,” I said, thinking back to my own experience at the show.

  We’d been sitting around Andi’s hotel table for the last hour, explaining what we knew. Anderson listened carefully. He wasn’t showing any of his cards, but you could tell he was interested. And concerned.

  Finally he asked, “Why?”

  “Why what?” I said

  “What’s their purpose?”

  The professor answered. “That, my good man, is the million-dollar question. They appear to want some sort of control. World control. World dominance.”

  “Like in the end times,” Cowboy said.

  We looked at him.

  “You know, like it says in the Bible.”

  Anderson turned to the professor, who said, “Not everybody is as gullible as our young friend here, but it does give one pause.”

  “And this Sridhar person?”

  “A boy we tried to help. One who apparently feels compelled to reconnect.”

  “By jamming TVs, cell phones, and monitors?” Anderson asked.

  “And maybe more,” Andi said. “Do you remember what happened to your coffee in the control room?” She turned to me. “Or the water glass in the cafeteria?”

  “Or my Coke can right here in this room,” Cowboy added.

  Andi nodded and pointed to the TV. “If he is indeed lucid dreaming, then maneuvering something with so little mass as electrons or as fluid as water would be the easiest way to impact our own world.”

  Anderson looked at her skeptically. “Lucid dreaming?”

  “A technique first developed by the Department of Defense.”

  “Supposedly developed,” the professor corrected.

  Andi ignored him. “Select soldiers with psychic propensities were trained to send their souls out of their bodies while sleeping.”

  “To what purpose?”

  “To spy on enemy facilities.”

  “You’re not serious.”

  “It’s documented.”

  “In part,” the professor said.

  “And it worked?” Anderson asked.

  “According to the records. Though with some serious side effects.”

  “Like running into demons and stuff,” Cowboy said.

  Anderson threw him a glance and looked back to Andi. “And you think that’s what this Sridhar fellow is doing, trying to get our attention?”

  I spoke up. “The last time we saw him, Sridhar was being trained to work for The Gate.”

  Anderson nodded. He looked out the sliding glass door to the balcony, thinking.

  “So why did you come here?” Andi asked him.

  I added, “Other than irritation over some cell phone malfunction?”

  Cowboy interrupted. “If it’s ’bout what I did at your show, I’m real sorry. But that boy, you could see he was hurt real bad. Like he was gettin’ ready to check out.”

  “Which you may have noticed was the entire point of the show,” the professor added drolly.

  Cowboy looked down and shrugged.

  Anderson stared at the big guy a long moment. Finally he spoke, quietly. “What you did tonight, that was some trick.”

  “Not his first,” Andi said.

  Cowboy tried again. “Like I said, I’m real sorry, but—”

  Anderson held up his hand. “No, no. What I saw you do, it was a lot more substantive than anything we were doing. Than anything I’ve ever done.”

  “So why are you here?” Andi repeated.

  He took a breath, then answered. “Those pillars at the airport, the ones on our phones? I believe they’re connected to your Gate . . . and my show.”

  “Leviathan.”

  I turned to see that Daniel had entered the room. He stood in front of the table holding up my sketchpad. The one with the monster and tentacles. He repeated the word: “Leviathan.”

  The professor turned back to Anderson. “Explain.”

  Anderson nodded to Daniel. “I’m not sure about that. But there are some things you should know.” He hesitated a moment, then continued. “I think it’s best I show you.”

  CHAPTER

  8

  Forty minutes later, courtesy of another limo ride, we were at St. Bartholomew’s Medical Center. It was pretty close to the airport. I stayed outside a minute or two to catch a smoke. When I joined the others, they were having coffee with some rich and entitled doctor barely out of puberty. I was not a fan.

  “Yeah, June thirtieth, hard to forget.” The doc took a sip of vending-machine coffee and made a face. Obviously not the gourmet roast he was used to. “Starting around one in the morning we had a huge rush. Stabbings, gangbangers, gunshots, rapes. You name it. And not just the usual minorities and lowlifes.” He turned to me. “No offense.”

  I was liking him even less.

  “And?” Anderson said. The kid looked at him and Anderson explained, “What you were telling me earlier. About the location.”

  “Oh, yeah. This was the crazy part. Every one of them had either been passing through LAX or lived near it.”

  We traded looks.

  “These people,” I said. “Any way we could talk to some of them
?”

  “That was nearly six weeks ago. Everyone’s been released by now.”

  “What about addresses?” Andi asked.

  “Doctor–patient confidentiality.” He thought a moment. “But . . . we still have one with us. Least until we ship her off to happy acres.”

  “Pardon me?” the professor said.

  “A nursing home. Soon as she gets out of here, her kids are sending her to a raisin farm.”

  My affection for him was not increasing.

  “She’d been in an auto accident. Severe head trauma.”

  “Could we see her?” Anderson asked.

  “Right now? No way.”

  “Right.” Anderson nodded. “Of course.”

  We sat in silence. I was still trying to piece it all together. What did the violence have to do with The Gate? The pillars? I glanced at Daniel. With the leviathan?

  Anderson wasn’t quite done. “Listen,” he said to Doc. “I got those new headshots of your niece.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Getting prettier by the day. In fact, there’s a pilot coming up that we just might be able to use her in.”

  “No kidding?”

  “Of course there’s a hundred other kids wanting the part, too.”

  “Right. Of course.”

  It seemed a strange topic to bring up now. But Anderson wasn’t a top producer by accident. “About this older patient,” he said. “You’re sure there’s no way we could wake her? Just talk with her for a couple minutes?”

  The doc snorted. “They’d have my head.”

  Anderson nodded. “Right.” He paused, then added, “Too bad.”

  Another pause. Longer. Cowboy, who hated any silence for over five seconds, was about to speak when I caught his eye and motioned for him to stay quiet. Something was up.

  Finally Doc cleared his throat. “When did you say those auditions were coming up?”

  “Hmm? Oh, next week.”

  He nodded.

  Anderson took a sip of coffee, then added, “Sure is a cutie.”

  “Yeah,” the kid said.

  “Yeah,” Anderson agreed.

  Another pause.

  “Listen.” The doc rose from his chair. “Hang here a minute. Let me see what I can do.”

  “About?”

  “The raisin.”

  “But you just said—”

  “I know, I know, but if there’s some way to help you out . . .”

  “That would be great,” Anderson said. “I mean if it doesn’t jeopardize your position.”

  “This time of night? No one will know.” He turned and started for the hallway. “Let me see what I can do.”

  He disappeared and I turned to Anderson. “You’re good.”

  “Good?” he scoffed. “I’m the best.”

  “But what’s that got to do with them pillars?” Cowboy asked.

  “Hang on,” Anderson said. “We just might find out.”

  Twenty minutes later we were on the third floor talking to an elderly Mrs. Whitaker. Eighty, if she was a day.

  “Land sakes,” she said. “It was the strangest thing. Sometimes when I can’t sleep, which is a lot these days, I go driving. I was on Century Boulevard and this young fellow cut me off. Right in front of me. Didn’t even look back. I think he was black.” She turned to me. “No offense.”

  From her, I didn’t mind.

  “I didn’t even honk at him. I just scowled. Real hard. Like this.” She squinted, losing her eyes in folds of skin.

  “And then?” the professor asked.

  “And then he made one of those obscene hand gestures, like young folks do. And I got so mad. I can’t explain it, but he really got my blood to boiling. Worse than I can remember in a long time. So I gunned it. And at the next intersection, when he slowed to make a turn, I slammed into him. Hard. Bam! And boy oh boy did it feel good. And I would have done it again, you know . . . if I’d still been conscious.”

  “You just sped up and hit him?” Andi asked.

  “That’s right.”

  “Couldn’t help yourself?” the professor said.

  “Oh, I’m sure I could. But I didn’t want to. That’s the strange part. I wanted to knock the stuffing out of him. So I did.”

  I couldn’t help but nod. After what I went through during last night’s show, I knew exactly what she was feeling. Only with me it hadn’t been anger. It was the thrill of violence. I knew it was wrong. And I could have looked away and calmed down if I really wanted. But the thing is . . . I hadn’t wanted to.

  When we were done, we thanked her and started out the door.

  “Young man?”

  Cowboy, Anderson, even the professor turned around. But she was talking to Anderson. “The doctor tells me you’re a TV producer.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Well, I did a little acting. In community theater, I mean. So if you ever need a feisty, go-get-’em gal who’s middle-aged, look me up, okay?”

  He smiled. “Middle-aged?”

  “Or older. There’s lots of things you can do with makeup to make me look older.”

  “Yes, ma’am. I’ll keep that in mind.”

  We did our best not to smile as we turned and exited into the hallway. As we approached the elevators, Anderson looked to me. “So what she was feeling . . . sound familiar?”

  I nodded. “Sure did.”

  “But what’s that got to do with those pillars at LAX?” Cowboy asked.

  We arrived at the elevators and Anderson hit the button. “It’s about time you see.”

  CHAPTER

  9

  We were back in the limo heading for LAX. Anderson still wasn’t playing all his cards. Not that I blamed him. Truth is, if he’d told us what he knew, we wouldn’t have believed him anyway.

  But we’d find out soon enough.

  Meanwhile, Andi had found something on her tablet. “Hey guys, check this out. In the early morning hours of June thirtieth, Precinct 14 reported an unusual number of arrests—everything from DUIs to convenience store robberies, to date rapes, you name it.”

  “Precinct 14?” I said.

  She nodded. “LAX is in that jurisdiction.”

  “It’s just what the kid doctor said.”

  “And more.” We turned to the professor. “If Andrea’s information is correct, then crimes of rage weren’t the only offenses being perpetrated.”

  Anderson agreed. “They were crimes of impulse, lack of self-control.”

  I nodded. “I could have turned from last night’s fight any time I wanted.”

  “But you chose not to.”

  “I knew it was wrong. I knew I shouldn’t. But I didn’t care.”

  “Because we were able to reduce the inhibition impulses of your brain.” He took a breath. “At least that’s what the tests showed.”

  “You’ve run tests on it?” the professor asked.

  “Not us. An independent firm. One hired by an organization that likes to keep a low profile. Someone we’ve already discussed beforehand. Your friend and mine . . .” He let the phrase hang until Andi finished it.

  “The Gate,” she said.

  He nodded. We all sat in silence, absorbing the information. A moment later he spotted something outside. “Here.” He rapped on the glass separating us from the driver. “Stop here.” The driver lowered the window, and Anderson repeated, “Stop here.”

  “But, sir, there is no parking—”

  “Stop here!”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The driver slowed and pulled to the side. Before the limo even stopped, Anderson was out the door. He crossed the four-lane road and headed toward one of the pillars. It rose from the grassy median, about twenty feet tall and glowing purple.

  We got out of the car and followed. Even at three in the morning there was traffic—complete with honking horns and irate drivers motioning us to get out of their way. By the time we arrived, the pillar was turning a pale blue. I tapped its side. It was made of thick milky p
lastic. The color came from lights glowing inside.

  Anderson knelt down at its base and pushed away some of the landscaped bushes. At the very bottom a metal box was attached. Rectangular, two by three feet. Camouflage green. A small amber light glowed on the top. Beside the light was a digital screen.

  “And what precisely are we looking upon?” the professor asked.

  Andi knelt to join Anderson as the man explained. “These are the same emotional generators we have stationed around the arena back at the studio.”

  “Emotional generators?” I said.

  “Yes.”

  “That’s what got Miss Brenda all worked up?” Cowboy asked.

  Anderson nodded. “They are designed to create and amplify the signal that reduces our inhibitions.”

  “The signal that those earplugs blocked,” Andi said.

  “Correct. They generate the signal, then cycle it from generator to generator, amplifying it until it is strong enough to direct at the audience.”

  “Like the old crystal lasers,” the professor said. “Aligning and reflecting light frequencies back and forth until they’re powerful enough to be released.”

  “If you say so. The point is, once they’d been thoroughly tested, my production company ordered six of the units.”

  “And?” I asked.

  “We were charged for twenty-one.”

  “That’s a big difference,” Cowboy said.

  “I put our production accountant on it and she said the other fifteen were donated to the Light and Luminescence Corporation.”

  “The who?” I said.

  “The company in charge of maintaining these columns.”

  “Why would they need fifteen generators?” Cowboy said.

  “How many columns do they have here?” Andi asked.

  Anderson looked at her. “Fifteen.”

  The professor spoke up. “So your theory is that these generators are what affected the people in this area on June thirtieth.”

  Anderson nodded. “Lowering their inhibition and self-control.”

  “And this amber light?” Andi pointed to the little light on the box.

  “It’s in standby mode.”

  With effort, the professor stooped for a closer look. “Meaning what, exactly?”

  “It’s ready to transmit at any time.”

  “Now?” I asked.