Summon the Nightmare

by J. J. Carlson

  Eric hesitated for several moments, then decided to play along. “Pretty much.”

  Byron leaned back and nodded knowingly. “Those negative feelings are from the Evil One. From Satan. I would never wish guilt or unhappiness upon my children. Every blessing, joy, and pleasure comes from above. When you feel good, it is because what you are doing is good.”

  “That’s debatable. One man’s pleasure might be another man’s torture.”

  “You’re a fast learner. But you still aren’t counting the work of the devil. It is because of him that one man is rich and another is poor. One woman fertile while another is barren.”

  “Let me get this straight: you’re saying if Satan wasn’t around, things that are wrong would suddenly become right?”

  Byron shook his head. “I’m telling you, it’s a matter of perspective. Pain experienced for the joy of others would be seen for what it truly is—love, in the form of self-sacrifice.”

  “So, something like polygamy is actually love, or it would be if the devil wasn’t tricking people?”

  “Precisely.”

  Eric’s pulse quickened like that of an angler reeling in his trophy. “Is that why you encourage illegal sexual practices, like statutory rape and incest, on the mountain?”

  Byron’s smile waned. “No, not illegal. In this place, my word is law, as it is in heaven.”

  Eric feigned surprise—his client had told him all about Byron’s ridiculous claims. “In heaven? Are you saying your commands supersede God’s?”

  “That’s not what I’m saying.” He stood and spread his arms wide. “I am telling you, Eric Larson, that I am God.”

  Eric took a deep breath. “Sorry, Byron, I’m not buying it.”

  “As well you shouldn’t. I’m not selling you anything. One day, every tongue will confess I am God, and every knee will bow.” He gestured toward Kane. “But the greatest treasure remains for those who gladly choose me now.”

  “But you’re…human.”

  “I walk the earth in a vessel of flesh and blood, as my predecessor did two-thousand years ago. But this vessel does not diminish my power or my love.”

  Eric studied Byron, wondering if this man actually believed what he was saying.

  “That’s right, Eric. I am the second Son of God. The early church misinterpreted the holy texts. They thought Jesus Christ would return one day, and because of this, billions of people missed the importance of my arrival.” He held his hand vertical in front of his face, then made the sign of the cross. “In the name of the Father, and of the Sons, and of the Holy Spirit, amen.”

  Even though Agatha, Eric’s client, had told him about Byron’s delusions, it still shook him to hear the words spoken aloud with such passion and conviction. He licked his lips before speaking, softly at first, and gradually growing louder. “I’ve done some terrible things in my life. I’ve seen things that will haunt my dreams until I die. I’ve traveled to every corner of the world and back again, and even though I’ll never claim to be smarter than anyone else, there’s one thing I’m sure about: evil exists. And you Byron, are evil, even if you’re too sick and twisted to realize it.”

  Byron’s grin returned, and Kane broke into uproarious laughter.

  Eric ignored him and spoke loud enough to be heard. “You’re a pervert who pretends to be a god to justify his own sick desires. You didn’t establish a religion; you started a club for pedophiles. But your party’s coming to an end, very soon.”

  “You poor, blind child.” Byron placed a hand on Eric’s shoulder. “My reign will never end.”

  “I wouldn’t be so sure. That video of Cameron was pretty convincing. And I get the feeling the police are about to have a lot more evidence coming their way.”

  “Your words will not sway them. And I’m sorry, but I cannot let you keep your cameras.” With a flick of his wrist, he plucked the glasses from Eric’s face and tucked them into his pocket. “I am not the fool you think I am. This device, and your phone, and everything you brought with you—even the clothes on your back, will be placed in our incinerator.”

  A wave of dread crashed over Eric. They’d known all along, and yet they had told him everything he wanted to know, which meant they either planned to kill him, or they were convinced he posed no threat. But without evidence, was there anything he could say to the police to convince them to raid the mountain? After all, the cult had been untouched for more than fifteen years, weathering dozens of accusers before him.

  He needed to get his phone outside. As soon as it connected to the network, it would upload the videos to three separate servers. But the phone was with Thatcher, and the devoted guard wouldn’t give it up unless…

  He closed his eyes. Unless a fight broke out in the kitchen.

  Abandoning his professionalism, Eric sneered and pointed at Byron. “You make me sick. You hide inside your castle, protected by your guards with their guns. But I know you’re type—you’ve never won a fight in your life, and you’d run like a little bitch if you didn’t have your men to protect you.”

  Byron shook his head. “I love you, Eric, and nothing you can say or do will change that. The hate in your words will not affect me, but it will poison your heart.”

  Eric jumped to his feet, knocking his stool over. In the blink of an eye, Kane had drawn his revolver and aimed it at his head.

  Staring at the man behind the gun, Eric said, “He’s using you, Kane. You and all the others. If he really is God, wouldn’t he know that my phone is uploading the evidence as we speak?”

  Kane glanced at Byron, barely missing a fleeting look of fear.

  “Do not worry, my son. He is lying.” Raising his voice, he called for Thatcher.

  The guard pushed into the kitchen and, seeing Kane’s gun drawn, raised his shotgun.

  “There is no need for that, Titus. We have everything under control. I simply want to reassure Kane that nothing is amiss. Could you please bring me the cell phone?”

  Thatcher skirted the room, fished the phone from his pocket, and handed it to Byron.

  Relief flooded Byron’s face as he tapped the phone and saw that it had no signal. “You see, Kane? Everything is fine.” Sidling past Eric, he dropped the phone in the sink and turned on the faucet. “You can lower your weapon.”

  Kane spun the revolver on his finger and dropped it into his holster.

  “Now,” Byron said, clapping his hands together, “you are free to go. For your sake and your employer’s, don’t try to convince the authorities to intervene. They won’t help you. You will only embarrass yourself.” Turning to Kane, he said, “Put him outside the walls.”

  Eric watched Byron leave the kitchen, then smiled and gave a little snort.

  “What’s so funny?” Thatcher demanded.

  “He really thought the video was uploading. Kind of gullible, for a deity.”

  Thatcher aimed his shotgun at Eric’s knee. “You shut your mouth, heathen.”

  “Don’t listen to him, Titus. He is ashamed of being caught in his sins, and he seeks an outlet for his guilt.”

  Eric covered his mouth as if to suppress a laugh. “And then he starts gloating and puts the phone in the sink. Any idiot could tell it’s waterproof.”

  “Shut up. Just shut up!” Thatcher raised the shotgun and jabbed him in the chest with the barrel.

  Hours later, the young enforcer wouldn’t even remember making the threatening gesture.

  With one fluid movement, Eric stepped aside and lifted the shotgun with his forearm. As he followed through, he drove the weapon’s stock into Thatcher’s face then hit him with a powerful uppercut. Thatcher fell limp, but Eric caught and carried him, using his body as a shield.

  Kane had drawn his pistol, but he hesitated for fear of hitting Titus. Eric charged forward, slamming Thatcher into Kane and bulldozing them both into a refrigerator.

  The revolver clattered on the floor and slid out of Kane’s reach. Eric watched it go, then unslung the shotgun from around Thatche
r’s neck and rushed over to the sink. He kicked the revolver across the room, then grabbed his phone and pivoted toward the exit.

  As he turned, a scorching pain streaked across his forearms. He dropped the shotgun and the phone and stumbled forward. Ribbons of blood appeared on his forearms, and he wondered if he had been shot. He glanced at the revolver, which still lay on the floor, then back at Kane.

  The Adherent had wriggled free from Thatcher’s unconscious form and was on his knees, waving one arm above his head.

  There was a sound like a gunshot, and a slash appeared on Eric’s chest. He fell backward, crashing through the door into the hallway. Clutching his chest, he rolled out of sight. The bullwhip! He thought. I forgot about the damn bullwhip!

  Knowing he had just seconds before Kane recovered one of the guns and followed him into the hallway, he jumped to his feet and sprinted toward the exit. He crossed the foyer, rushed down the adjacent hallway, then rounded the next corner and crashed through the front door. A half-dozen guards turned his direction and gave him curious glances, but they didn’t raise their weapons. The dogs, having been ordered to leave him alone, cocked their heads and watched him run.

  He was halfway to the greenhouse when he heard Kane shouting in the distance.

  “Don’t let him escape! Shoot him! Shoot him!”

  The ground twenty feet ahead of Eric erupted, and sand bit into his skin. He juked to the right, crouched, then slid behind a low stone wall. More gunfire rang out, and the sand on both ends of the wall splashed upward.

  There was nowhere to go; if he stood, a sniper on the catwalk would drop him before he could take a single step. He was protected on one side, but it wouldn’t take long for the guards to maneuver around him. Bringing his right leg forward, he settled into a crouch. If he was lucky, one of the guards might come to close to the wall. He could pounce, then use him as a hostage.

  The back-and-forth rifle reports dwindled, then stopped. Eric held his breath and listened—he could hear cautious steps sinking into the sand. His muscles tensed, and he held his hands out like claws, ready to disarm his opponent.

  But he never had the chance. Well beyond reach, Kane stepped into view, holding the revolver in one hand and the whip in the other. He grinned, raised the whip, and brought it crashing down, opening a deep cut on Eric’s shoulder.

  Eric fell to his knees and dug his hands into the ground. He came up with two fistfuls of sand and threw them at his attacker, but Kane sidestepped, twirled the whip, and snapped it again. Another cut appeared, this one crossing Eric’s face from scalp to jaw, barely missing his eyes. The pain knocked him onto his back, and the next lashing left a trail of blood halfway down the length of his torso. Another crack and his thigh split, exposing the muscle and fascia beneath.

  Three more cracks of the whip accompanied three hot knives of pain. The cut on his face bled freely, obscuring his vision. Though he desperately wanted to fight back, his limbs wouldn’t respond. As his consciousness began to fade, he was vaguely aware of a shadow passing over him. Then he heard Kane’s voice.

  “May God have mercy on your soul, Eric. And may Wisdom carry you, cleansed of sin, to his embrace. Amen.”

  11

  Charlotte, North Carolina

  The dew-laden grass flattened beneath Jarrod’s feet but made no sound. He couldn’t help but walk silently—it had been hardwired into his brain and reinforced hundreds of times when stealth was vital to a successful mission. But he had no need for silence on this particular task, so as soon as he reached the backyard, he held a fist against his mouth and coughed.

  Adam Hawkins turned away from the bird feeders he’d been filling and studied his son’s appearance. “Good morning, son. Here to use the burn barrel?”

  Jarrod picked a shard of broken glass from his hooded t-shirt. “No. I just want to talk.”

  Adam poured another cup of seeds into a clear tube, then hung the tube on a steel post. “Well, don’t be shy. You don’t need to ask permission to chat.”

  Jarrod stepped forward and took down a feeder that had been built to resemble a log cabin. “I wanted to let you know that I’ve thought about what you said, and I want to change who I am.”

  “That’s wonderful news.” Adam tilted the bag of seed, pouring directly into the log cabin feeder. “Of course, wanting to change and actually doing so are two very different things. What were you up to last night?”

  Jarrod slid the “roof” of the feeder into place, then hung it back up. “I was on a mission. But I changed the parameters, even though it made the results less efficient.”

  “I see. And…did you break the law during the course of your ‘mission?’”

  Jarrod nodded. “To my knowledge, I broke fourteen laws and three ordinances.”

  Adam raised an eyebrow and frowned. “That isn’t a good start. Did you hurt anyone?”

  “That depends. Are you including emotional and mental trauma with physical trauma?”

  “For now, we’ll stick with physical trauma.”

  “Then, no.”

  “Well, that’s an improvement over the night before. But I don’t approve of you breaking the law. Did you at least have a good reason?”

  Jarrod’s tone changed, taking on the precise clip of an air traffic controller. “According to my decision-making algorithms and emotional input, yes. I discovered several high school students with symptoms of N-methylamphetamine addiction—enough to indicate the existence of a large-scale drug operation. Through non-violent questioning, I ascertained the identity of the man producing the drug. I then used psychological warfare to ensure he ceased production.”

  Adam tilted his head back. “I’m sorry, Jarrod, but I’m not a military commander. What do you mean by psychological warfare? And how can you be sure he won’t start cooking drugs again?”

  “I used active adaptive camouflage to trigger feelings of superstition within him. I am certain he will not produce drugs again because he is dead.”

  Adam’s face fell. “But you said you didn’t hurt anyone last night.”

  “I did not hurt him. He took his own life.”

  “He just decided to commit suicide? You had nothing to do with it?”

  Jarrod shook his head. “On the contrary. I manipulated the circumstances to give him feelings of hopelessness and desperation, then provided the means for him to shoot himself.”

  After letting out a long sigh, Adam crossed the patio and settled into a chair. He tapped the arm of the chair beside him and said, “I know you’re not much for sitting anymore, but do you mind humoring me?”

  “I do not mind.” Jarrod sat down and swiveled his head to face his father.

  “Now, I’m not trying to be rude, I’m just telling you what I see. You seem…damaged, son. Sometimes it seems like I’m talking to a robot. Other times, when I’m watching you with your brothers and sister, you seem like your old self. At first, I thought you were still struggling with the memories of losing your wife and son. But I don’t think that’s true anymore. When those scientists changed you—made you stronger and gave you better hearing—did they…brainwash you?”

  “Not in the traditional sense of the word, but yes. They utilized microscopic machines, synthetic microorganisms, and computerized simulations to rewrite most of my synapses.”

  “Could you say that again, in English?”

  “They brainwashed me to turn me into an ideal soldier, operative, assassin, and saboteur.”

  Adam leaned back, and his features creased with sorrow. “That’s…downright abominable. And our government did this?”

  “Yes. A secretive branch of the Defense Advanced Research Projects Agency.”

  “Jarrod, why didn’t you tell me?”

  “I did not find it pertinent to my new objective, which is ensuring Deedee’s safety.”

  Adam rested his hand on Jarrod’s iron forearm. “Trust me, it’s pertinent. I definitely would have liked to know that I was living with an assassin. And, although I
appreciate the effort you’re making to go against your…brainwashing…I still can’t allow you to stay here.”

  Jarrod’s head twitched, and he stared down at his knees. “I understand.”

  Adam watched his son with his peripheral vision. “That is, not until I can help you work through some of your moral confusion. I’d like you to come to the mall with me.”

  “For what purpose?”

  “I’d like to see the world through your eyes. I want to know how your decision-making thing works. Maybe then I can help you see the difference between right and wrong, like I did when you were a boy.”

  Jarrod paused for a moment, then said, “I would like that.”

  Adam grinned and struggled to his feet. “You might want to put some shoes on. You’re going to stand out enough as it is.” He walked to the back door and pulled it open, then shouted, “Deedee, your brother and I are going downtown. We’ll be back in a few hours.”

  “Okay, Dad,” she answered. “Love you.”

  The sound of her voice sent a jolt through Jarrod’s chest—a sensation infinitely worse than pain. His entire body shuddered, and he whispered, “I love you, too.”

  After a quiet ride to the Northlake Mall, Adam led Jarrod to the small bench on the second level, just outside the food court, where he habitually sat with Deedee every Tuesday afternoon. A security guard in a white uniform passed, waved at Adam, then stopped short. She leaned in and stared beneath Jarrod’s hood, watching the pulsing, silvery veins on his forehead. She rested her palm on a can of mace.

  “Mr. Hawkins, is this man bothering you?”

  “Not at all. He’s a friend of mine.”

  She narrowed one eye. “Does your friend know Halloween is next month?”

  Jarrod turned his face away and grazed his forehead with his fingertips. “It’s a skin condition,” he explained. “It causes welts and discoloration, but it’s not contagious.”

  The woman grimaced. “Oh. I, uh, didn’t mean to—” She crossed her hands in front of her waist and gave a curt nod. “You have a good day, sir.”

  As the guard scurried away, Adam gave his son a disapproving look and said, “Why did you lie to her?”