Summon the Nightmare

by J. J. Carlson

  Byron waited for the creature to fall silent. “How—I mean, uh, why did you do that?”

  The beast rested a hand on his quivering shoulder and said, “You are going to tell them the truth.”

  Byron swallowed hard. “Some of them already know...but others don’t. They’ve been so dedicated to me for so long—if they find out I’ve been lying to them, they might kill me.”

  “They will not hurt you. I promised you would live, and you will.”

  Jarrod walked side-by-side with Byron all the way to the front door. Then, as he pushed the door open, he faded into invisibility. The courtyard had already begun to fill with hundreds of optimistic adherents, and they greeted Byron with triumphant applause.

  Byron wore his best smile as he teetered toward the crowd on weak legs. A pair of concerned women noticed his unsteady gait and rushed toward him, but he held up his hands, signaling for them to stop.

  “Please, tend to the wounded,” he said in a weak voice. Speaking louder, he addressed his audience at large. “My children, the night demanded much from you. Your faith was tested, and you endured unimaginable trials. But the dawn is borne on the wings of hope. You are the survivors. You are victorious. Rejoice, and be glad.”

  The crowd exploded into shouts of joy and fatuous applause. Even after Byron lifted a hand to silence his followers, it took nearly a minute for the noise to die down.

  “Tell them. Tell them now,” Jarrod whispered in Byron’s ear.

  Byron thought for a moment, nodded, and spoke in a shaky voice. “I hope you’re proud of what you have accomplished, sons and daughters. Because you have done it on your own.”

  A man’s voice rose above the crowd, “Praise be to Wisdom, who delivers us from evil.”

  The other adherents replied in unison, “Praise be to Wisdom!”

  Jarrod leaned closer, so the bridge of his nose brushed against Byron’s ear. “Tell them, or die.”

  “Please, listen to me.” Byron wrung his hands together and shifted his weight from one leg to the other. “I did not rescue you from your tormentor. You survived on your own, because…because…”

  “Spit it out.”

  “Because I am not the second Son of God.”

  His confession fell on deaf ears. The Adherents still watched him with glistening eyes, mumbling in adoration.

  “Do you hear me?” Byron shouted. “I am not your king. I never was. I'm flesh and blood like all of you. I cannot walk on water, or raise the dead, or even remember all of your names. I’ve been lying to you. Don’t you understand? All of your devotion has been for nothing.”

  Silence descended on Holy Mountain. Then, a portly man with a lined face strode forward, leaving deep footprints in the sand. He stopped in front of Byron and whispered in his left ear. “I understand you have had a long night, but you cannot say such things.”

  “I am telling the truth,” Byron hissed.

  “Look around. Do you think any of them care about the truth?” He shook his head. “They follow you because you tell them what they want to hear, not because they believe you. You are a figurehead, nothing more. Don’t think you can ruin the party for the rest of us just because you decided to grow a conscience.”

  Byron studied the throng of people staring back at him. A few looked confused, but the majority wore deeply-furrowed scowls, angry at Byron for telling a secret they did not want him to tell.

  Jarrod placed a hand on Byron’s shoulder. “You’ve done what I asked. I’ll take it from here.” His armor darkened, giving him shape. The heavyset man next to Byron gasped and fell flat on his back, then scrambled away like a frightened crab.

  Jarrod marched forward and pointed a ten-inch claw at the Adherents. “You are, all of you, without excuse. This mountain is not a holy place, it is a pit of festering rot. You came here to satisfy your sickening urges while the innocent pay the price.” His voice rose sixty decibels. “But no more! I have seen your perversion and read your twisted thoughts. You are guilty; I will follow you for the rest of your lives. You will run and you will hide, but you will never be rid of me. I am the whisper in the dark. I am the shadow in the night. If you ever, ever try to practice your so-called religion again, I will arrive when you least expect me.” He strode forward, gripped one of the wounded guards by the neck, and tore off his head. “And I will show you no mercy.”

  The Adherents fled, stumbling over one another and screaming in terror. They bypassed the homes, barracks, and outbuildings, leaving the city itself. Even Byron tried to run, but Jarrod caught him by the collar and dragged him back.

  “Let me go! You promised you’d let me live!”

  “You misunderstand me,” Jarrod growled as he threw Byron into the ring of wounded cultists. “I am not going to allow you to live, I am going to force you to live, even when you beg me for death. Get on your knees, king.”

  Byron obeyed, planting his knees in the sand and wincing as the grains dug into his skin.

  Jarrod stood over the blond, fair-skinned guard and dug black claws into his back. He gripped the man’s spine like a handle and carried him over to Byron.

  “Look at him,” Jarrod barked. “Look him in the eyes and tell him this is all your fault.”

  Byron could not. He lowered his head and covered his face with his hands. “Please…don’t do this.”

  “I said…” Jarrod gripped both of Byron’s shoulders and twisted them out of joint, so the cultist’s arms hung loose at his sides. “Look!”

  Byron pinched his eyes shut in pain and revulsion. But Jarrod was ready. With surgical precision, he held Byron’s head tight and cut away his upper and lower eyelids, then fed nanomachinery into the wounds to stop the bleeding.

  Byron fell back, writhing in agony. Jarrod pinned him down with one foot, positioning the fallen king so he could watch what happened next.

  The blond guard fixed Byron in a pleading gaze. His lips formed silent cries for help, and then his jaw clamped shut against the pain. Jarrod fed tendrils of metamaterial into the man’s ears, filling the spaces in his skull before rigidizing the armor.

  The guard’s head split along hardened cranial sutures, distorting the face and forehead. Jarrod withdrew the metamaterial and tossed the guard aside. He knelt beside Byron and said, “I hope you’re enjoying the show, because it is far from over.” Jarrod seized the next guard, dragged him through the sand, and positioned him in front of Byron’s lidless eyes.

  27

  September 5th

  Hillcrest Trauma and Rehabilitation Center

  Baltimore, Maryland

  One hundred and fifty feet below ground, Santiago Torres bustled around a secure briefing room, stacking paper and throwing empty coffee cups in the trash. It had been days since the Director of National Security, Leopold Buchanan, had visited Hillcrest. And usually, the DNI gave several hours’ notice before arriving. But Buchanan was already descending into the labyrinth, accompanied by two members of the Hillcrest Security Team.

  San took a step back and surveyed the long conference table. All the chairs were pushed in, the garbage was cleaned up, and the tabletop gleamed with its usual shine from end to—

  San hurried to the edge of the table closest to the door. There was a crusty, dark red mark on the glossy surface. Blood—probably Eugene Carver’s—from the last debriefing. San’s team of operatives were so dedicated to their work, they often reported the details of their missions before visiting the infirmary.

  Searching the room for cleaning supplies and finding none, San grimaced and pulled his arm into his sleeve. Using his thumb for pressure, he buffed out the dried blood, then wiped the spot down. As soon as he’d finished, the steel door slid open, and the DNI walked in.

  San jumped away from the table and clasped his hands behind his back. “Welcome to Hillcrest, sir. It’s good to see you.”

  Buchanan raised an eyebrow. “Did I interrupt something?”

  “No, I just—” San blushed and averted his eyes. He knew better th
an to lie. The DNI was an expert at seeing through deception, and San was a terrible liar. “I was cleaning some blood off the table.”

  Buchanan chuckled and sat in the nearest chair. “Don’t worry about it, Mr. Torres. A little spilled blood comes with the territory. Please, have a seat.”

  San took the seat next to Buchanan and intertwined his fingers. “What brings you here at such an early hour, sir?”

  The wizened spymaster leaned back in his chair so he could better observe San’s body language. “What have you heard about the incident in Colorado?”

  “Not much. The analysts at the CIA decided it wasn’t an act of terrorism, so it fell off our list of priorities.”

  “Oh, it was terrorism, but the target was not your average U.S. citizen.” Buchanan opened the leather flap covering his computer tablet and typed in his passcode. He brought up a high-definition image of a handsome man with gray eyes and a dazzling smile. “Do you know this man?”

  The face looked familiar, but San couldn’t place him. “I might have seen him on the news, I think.”

  “His name is Byron Doyl. He’s the leader of a cult known as the Voice of Wisdom or simply The Voice. The cultists are rumored to be sexual sadists who rape, brainwash, and abuse women and children. In our circles, we know this to be a fact.”

  San’s eyes widened. “Wait…we know what they’re guilty of, and we haven’t intervened?”

  “That’s correct.”

  “Why?”

  “Because the cultists and their leader pose no significant threat to national security. And the National Security Agency’s surveillance of Doyl is not admissible in court. Trust me, we have bigger fish to fry.”

  San bit his tongue and counted to ten. He rubbed his eyes for a moment, then looked at Buchanan. “Why are you telling me this?”

  “Because early yesterday morning, an unknown group or entity assaulted the cult headquarters—a town called Holy Mountain. More than two hundred people were injured during the attack, and thirty-nine were killed. In grotesque fashion, I might add.” Buchanan tapped the screen to bring up a photo of a man so bloodied and bruised that he barely looked human.

  “This is a photo of Byron Doyl, taken last night.”

  Not believing his eyes, San picked up the tablet at studied the image. “What happened to him?”

  “We’re not sure. My men in the DHS questioned him, but he was nonsensical—unable to form words. Apparently, he was found on the doorstep of a Colorado State Attorney in Denver.”

  “What did the attorney say?”

  “Nothing. The investigation team couldn’t find his head. We believe the attorney might have been involved in a cover-up, sheltering the cult from legal action.”

  San let the tablet drop onto the table. “You think Jarrod did this, don’t you?”

  “I’d prefer if you referred to him as subject Four-Seven-Charlie. Jarrod Hawkins is deceased, officially. And I don’t think he did this, I know he did. Our monitoring system in Langley picked up a phone conversation between a woman named Kayla Larson and Four-Seven-Charlie’s adoptive father, Adam Hawkins. Larson—maiden name Reilly—was an old associate of our rogue weapon system. Her employer, Thomas Ward, visited Adam Hawkins the night before the attack and boarded a private plane bound for Denver. Just after sunrise, the security cameras inside the Holy Mountain Temple captured images of this man.” He slid the tablet closer to San.

  San’s heart sank. The screen showed a broad-shouldered man standing over Doyl, who was holding out a piece of paper. San leaned back in his chair. “Alright, it was him. What do you want me to do about it?”

  Buchanan steepled his fingers and rested his forehead against his thumbs. “Normally, we would send a team to cover this up. A few weeks ago, we received reports of a ‘shadow-monster’ attacking a group of human traffickers near the Mexican border. It took hundreds of man-hours and millions of dollars in bribes, but we managed to hide Four-Seven-Charlie’s involvement. This—” he pointed at the screen. “Is too big. A Denver K-9 unit followed Byron’s blood to the edge of the city and into the desert. They found a trail of footprints accompanied by a shallow ditch—presumably left by Byron as he was dragged along. They are still following the trail back to its source, but I can guarantee it leads all the way to Holy Mountain.” He leaned in for emphasis. “More than two hundred miles away. The story has already made the national headlines. Which leaves us with the unfortunate task of damage control.”

  Jarrod, what did you do? San thought. He pinched his eyes shut for a moment, then said, “What do you want me to do, kill him? Because we tried already, and we couldn’t pull it off.”

  “For now, I just want to rein him in. If we bring him under our control, he will be a valuable asset in kinetic operations around the world. The scientists here tell me they’ve developed a neural interface that can subdue his sense of free will and make him more compliant.”

  “You want my team to…take him prisoner?”

  “I’ll leave the specifics up to your staff, but yes. That sums it up.”

  San thought for a long moment. “Mr. Buchanan, you made me director of Hillcrest to be the voice of reason. So, with all due respect, I’m telling you this is a bad idea. Jarrod can’t be controlled—he’s the product of billions of dollars of weapons development and years of genetic research. Not to mention, we downloaded the sum of human knowledge in military tactics and espionage into his brain. Until we know how to bring him in peacefully, we are better off leaving him alone. He reacts violently when he suspects he’s being manipulated, and we have no weapon capable of hurting him.”

  “Had.”

  San shook his head. “I’m sorry?”

  “We had no weapon capable of hurting him.” Buchanan brought up the schematic of a cone-shaped object. “I tasked some of your engineers with a side-project—developing a projectile capable of penetrating Four-Seven-Charlie’s metamaterial armor. They gave me this. On one end, it’s no different from our titanium-based ammunition. But the other end comes to a pointed tip that is less than ten nanometers across. And tests prove its ability to cut through adaptive armor.”

  San’s fists shook as he clenched the tablet and stared at the diagrams. “You…ordered my people to develop this without my permission?”

  Buchanan’s face hardened. “Need I remind you of your chain of command? This facility is the property of DARPA. And every experiment undertaken within these walls requires my approval before it receives funding. I needed an effective weapon to use against Four-Seven-Charlie, and your people delivered. Now, I need soldiers to carry that weapon into battle.”

  “How can you be sure it will even work? The metamaterial armor we have on hand cannot reshape based on neurological input. Jarrod is the only person capable of using it to its full potential.”

  “The engineers have assured me the projectiles will work, regardless of the armor configuration. This is happening, San.” Buchanan jabbed his index finger against the tabletop. “I want your best operatives put on this assignment tonight.”

  San’s eyes narrowed. “In case you’ve forgotten, they’re already in the field. Pursuing a known terrorist.”

  “Then call them back in. This mission takes precedence.”

  He shook his head. “I can’t do that. This is a high-value target, and we won’t have another opportunity like this. You’ll have to find someone else.”

  Buchanan slapped the tablet cover shut and pushed away from the table. “This isn’t up for discussion, San. If you won’t call them in, I will.”

  28

  11 Miles West of Morgantown, West Virginia

  Eugene Carver watched the intersection through a high-powered spotting scope. The branches hanging over the dirt road shook as a squirrel wove through the trees and a goldfinch took flight. On the ground, an ever-vigilant rabbit hopped once, then stopped to listen for danger. Eugene blinked, and his eyelashes grazed the glass lens. He was comfortable lying in the prone position for hours at a time—he
had cut his teeth doing surveillance and reconnaissance in the Marine Corps—but he preferred doing it in silence. Behind him, a man and woman conversed in low, jovial tones. His teammates were unusually plucky today.

  “I think I liked you two better when you acted like robots,” Eugene murmured. “Will you cut the chatter? I’m trying to concentrate.”

  Ford, a big man known for lacking a sense of humor, whispered something Eugene couldn’t hear, and the woman giggled.

  Eugene rolled onto his side and looked back. Was Ford actually smiling? “I’m sorry, I thought I was working with professionals.” The woman he knew only as ‘Janson’ elbowed Ford in the ribs and covered her face to hide her grin.

  Rolling his eyes, Eugene settled in behind the scope. “Just keep your hands to yourselves, kids. If Woodfall shows up, we need to be ready to move.”

  It felt like ages since the fall of Katharos, a terrorist organization with enough money, power, and soldiers to change the course of history. In truth, it had been less than a month. Eugene still wore compression sleeves on his wrists, knees, and ankles to speed his recovery from an ill-advised fight with a cyborg. He’d lost the fight and nearly lost his life, but Hillcrest had won the war thanks to Jarrod Hawkins. Eugene had watched as Jarrod tortured the leader of Katharos, forcing him to trigger the kill-switches inside the brains of more than thirty thousand Katharos agents. It wasn’t a pleasant memory.

  Still, some good had come from Eugene’s captivity in Katharos Headquarters. He’d learned the identity of Borya Tabanov, the secret emperor of the organization. And with the help of the Russian FSB, the CIA identified Tabanov’s past associates. Then the NSA plugged the names and photos into their supercomputers and waited for someone to surface.

  Eugene had hoped a street camera or orbiting satellite would track down Audrey Stokes, a vicious Katharos operative who had seduced and murdered an innocent Hillcrest employee. Instead, the NSA caught Lukas Woodfall glancing up at a gas station security camera. They tracked him back to his rustic hideout in the hills of West Virginia, and San dispatched the Hillcrest Security Team, hoping to capture him alive.