Summon the Nightmare

by J. J. Carlson

  “Can I help you?”

  San’s eyes sparkled with recognition. “You must be Deedee. Is your father around?”

  “He is.”

  “May I speak to him, please?”

  Deedee thought for a moment. “Maybe. Have we met before?”

  San shook his head. “No, but we have a mutual friend—your brother, Jarrod.”

  Her eyes widened, and she pushed the door open. She hurried down the hallway, leading San into a living room that smelled like an upscale museum. Adam Hawkins was sitting in an armchair, staring down at a Sherlock Holmes novel through a pair of bifocals.

  “Dad, Dad, Daddy,” Deedee said, twitching at the knees. “This man knows Jarrod.”

  Adam glanced up and frowned. He scooted forward, braced his hands on his knees, and slowly got to his feet. “Is that so?” He stepped closer but made no move to shake San’s hand. He eyed the newcomer for a long moment, then said, “How, exactly, do you know my son?”

  Everything San planned to say disintegrated beneath Adam’s piercing gaze. “I—I…” He swallowed and stared at his feet. “I met him in a government laboratory. I’m one of the men who turned him into what he is.”

  Adam’s eyes narrowed; his gaze flitted to San’s forehead, mouth, hands, and chest. “Well, better late than never.” He turned to Deedee. “Would you mind brewing a pot of coffee, my dear. This man and I have much to discuss.”

  She nodded at Adam, then at San, then excused herself from the room.

  Adam gestured toward a chair. “Please…tell me everything.”

  42

  Ford squeezed his rifle’s pistol grip. He strode up the length of the driveway, then back again. He glanced at his watch, then up at the stars overhead. “What is taking so long? This isn’t a social call.”

  Eugene cracked one eyelid and glared at his teammate. “Can you keep it down? Some of us are trying to sleep.”

  The big operative scowled. “The longer we spend here, the better the odds we’ll run into you-know-who.”

  Eugene rolled over and curled up with a porcelain garden gnome. “Not losing your nerve, are you Ford? That hole in your stomach still bothering you?”

  “My stomach is fine. This is common sense—you don’t sit around inside a bear’s den. And San’s in there giving out classified information to a civilian.”

  “Who happens to be Jarrod’s father. And besides, if we take these people by force, Jarrod will kill us. Period. It won’t matter where we go or how deep we dig in—he will find us, and he will kill us. If they walk out on their own…” He shrugged. “We might have a chance.”

  Ford closed his eyes and took a deep breath, then exhaled slowly. “Sorry. I’ve been doing this for a long time, and some things are instinct by now. Sitting on the objective doesn’t feel right.”

  Eugene didn’t respond, though he was surprised to hear his teammate apologize.

  After several seconds, Janson crossed the front yard and took Ford’s hand. Together, they stared up at the cloudless sky, and waited.

  Adam limped across the room with a bulky photo album in his hands. He set it on the coffee table, flipped it open, and sat next to San. Smiling, he flipped to a picture of his son and grandson. “Jarrod and Joshua.” He teased the photo out of its plastic sleeve and handed it to San. “Those two were a handful. When they were together, Jarrod acted like a hyperactive little boy. Which was funny, because he was never a difficult child.”

  San bit his lip to fight back tears. “He was beautiful. And he looked happy.”

  Adam nodded, and his face fell. “He was. And Melody was, too.” He sighed. “They were everything to Jarrod.”

  San handed back the photo and wiped his eyes with the heel of his palm. “He took their loss hard. It’s the reason he volunteered for the program.”

  “I can understand that. I only wish he had come to me first, instead of throwing his life away.”

  “I wish that, too.”

  Adam put the photo back in the album, then studied a picture of Melody. “Jarrod won’t talk to me about them. Which makes me wonder, was it really an accident, when they died?”

  San pondered for a moment. “No, it wasn’t. It was a professional murder, carried out by a criminal organization. Jarrod had killed a prominent warlord in Africa, and the warlord’s relatives killed Melody and Joshua as an act of vengeance.” He rubbed his temples. “After Jarrod changed, he tore down the organization from the ground up.”

  Adam shook his head. “It’s good to know my grandson and daughter-in-law’s killers were brought to justice, but revenge is not the answer. Without forgiveness, humanity would cease to exist. Everyone has a reason to hurt someone, and the cycle will never stop until someone forgives.”

  “I agree. Which is why I came here tonight—not for my own forgiveness, but for Jarrod’s. He has done terrible things since he was changed. But he’s sick. I’ve forgiven him for his actions, and I want to help him. But I can’t do it without your help. I need you to come with me.”

  They sat in silence for a long moment before Adam responded. “No. I’m sorry, but no. My responsibility is to my daughter. Like it or not, Jarrod is your responsibility now. I hope and pray that you can heal him, but I can’t pull up Deedee’s roots.”

  The phone in San’s pocket felt like a ticking time bomb. It was the last card he had, and the time had come to play it. He fished it out, unlocked it, and retrieved a video. “You may know that Jarrod is sick, but I don’t believe you know how sick he is. I notice you don’t have a television—so you may not have seen the news. This video was taken a few hours ago, in Washington D.C.”

  He handed the phone to Adam. “The dark shape at the corner of the screen is Jarrod.”

  Adam played the video, and his hands began to tremble. Even through the phone’s tiny speaker, Senator Harrington’s pain was unmistakable.

  San stood and moved to the edge of the room, giving Adam space. The elder Hawkins looked as if he had been stabbed in the heart. Tears flowed freely, dropping from his face and landing on the screen. When the video was finished, he set the phone on the coffee table and held his face in his hands. It was several long minutes before he regained enough composure to speak.

  “I will go with you, and help you in any way I can. I just need to gather some things.”

  San nodded. “Thank you. I’ll help you pack if you’d like.”

  Jarrod knelt in a mulched flower bed and twisted the faucet open. He lowered his head to drink, and as his stomach swelled with water, steam began to rise from his body. Escaping Washington unnoticed had been difficult. The number of cameras and sensors in the nation’s capital bordered on Orwellian. But he had made it out.

  He had made it home.

  The message he sent with the execution of Harrington was the last he would ever send. There was no reason to continue hunting the Adherents, despite his threats to do so. The cultists had seen enough—if they didn’t change their ways now, they never would. And he didn’t have the patience or desire to kill them one by one.

  He wiped his mouth on his hand. Maybe, if he waited long enough, his father would accept him once more. If it took months or even years, Jarrod didn’t care. He would perch in his hiding place among the tree branches, guarding his father’s home and paying his penance until he could hug his sister once more.

  The faucet was beginning to soak the flowerbed, so Jarrod twisted it shut and waited for the water to course through his veins. He took deep breaths and blew excess heat into the air, and the nanomachines busied themselves with repairing his tissue from the long journey. The night was calm; there were no gunshots, no shouts of anger in the surrounding neighborhood. There was nothing but—

  His body tensed, readying for action like a bolt-action rifle being chambered.

  It can’t be, he thought, they wouldn’t dare.

  But the sound was unmistakable. He tilted his head back and focused his powerful eyes, and had visual confirmation seconds later. A Reaper dr
one floated on the wind, high above. Four Hellfire missiles hung from pylons on its wings, and the round window on its sensory pod wandered back and forth, searching for a target—searching for him.

  He studied the flight pattern; it wasn’t cutting swathes through the sky, it was circling. This wasn’t a search-and-destroy mission. The Reaper was there for overwatch and close air support. Which meant there must be a team on the ground.

  Like a cannon filled with too much gunpowder, Jarrod exploded forward.

  43

  “Raven One, this is Grim. Come in, over.”

  Eugene opened his eyes and jumped to his feet. He covered his ears with his palms and replied to the drone pilot. “Go ahead, Grim.”

  “I might have something on infrared, three miles south of your position. There’s a man standing behind a house. Could be nothing, but he’s giving off a lot of heat.”

  Eugene was about to thank the pilot and tell him to watch the suspicious person when Grim keyed up the radio.

  “He’s moving. Shit, it’s him, and he’s coming your way, fast.”

  Eugene’s blood ran cold. He glanced at Janson, then at Ford. The operatives were already taking position, their rifles at the ready.

  “You’ve got three minutes, maybe less,” the drone pilot reported. “I can’t get a lock on him, and he’s too close to civilian structures for me to engage. You’re on your own, Raven.”

  “Copy that, Grim,” Janson said. “We’ll handle it.”

  Eugene clenched his fists. “I knew the drone was a bad idea. We should have had him sweep the area and clear out.”

  “Now’s not a good time for I-told-you-so’s, Gene,” Ford grunted.

  Eugene walked forward slowly and held up his palms in a calming gesture. “Actually, it is. Think about it, how did things turn out in California?”

  Janson and Ford exchanged glances.

  “Or Siberia? How about when you chased Jarrod into the mountains after he escaped Baltimore? How did that go?”

  Ford shifted slightly. “What’s your point?”

  “My point is, Jarrod has schooled you more than once, and each time he let you live. But this time, we are on his turf. We can’t expect him to hold back.”

  “What are we supposed to do?” Janson asked.

  “Show him you’re not a threat to his family. Lower your weapons. Hell, throw them on the ground.”

  The enhanced operatives stared at each other for several moments, and Eugene realized the source of their hesitation. They were fiercely protective of each other. They were both willing to die if it meant the other would live. He cleared his throat. “Ford, if you want Janson to live, lower your damn weapon. Janson, if you want Ford to live, you’d better do the same.”

  That did it. The operatives lowered their rifles, aiming them at the ground.

  “You’d better be right about this,” Ford said. “Because if we die, I’m going to kick your ass in the afterlife.”

  Jarrod’s feet pounded the ground, launching him ten meters forward with every stride. Wind whistled past his ears, and his armor pulsed red and black. His mission, his only reason for living, was in jeopardy. And nothing would stop him from protecting her.

  Digging in with his left foot, he leaned to the right and shot around a street corner. In the distance, two black SUV’s idled in the street beside his father’s house. He lowered his head and sprinted onward, sharpening the armor on his forearms to a razor’s edge. As he drew closer, he raised one arm, preparing to decapitate the nearest soldier. Then he realized who it was.

  Ford. And his weapon was down. Jarrod slowed his pace and studied the operative more carefully. His body language indicated nervousness, not aggression.

  Jarrod lowered his arm and ground to a halt in the midst of the three operatives, showering Eugene with dirt. Janson and Ford jumped back but managed to keep the barrels of their weapons pointed down.

  “Jeeze,” Eugene said, clutching his chest. “I knew you were coming, and you still scared the hell out of me.”

  With a blur of movement, Jarrod seized Eugene by the shirt and pulled him close. “What are you doing here?”

  Eugene stared into Jarrod’s featureless visage. “You know why we’re here. You don’t execute a U.S. Senator on live television and get away with it.”

  Jarrod’s hand shook with barely-restrained rage. When he spoke, his voice was like thunder. “If you want to chase me, fine. But you don’t bring weapons to my father’s house.” He pointed at the sky. “And you never bring one of those!”

  “Your family is safe, Jarrod. San is in there with them right now. And I agree—we shouldn’t have brought weapons, much less missiles to your father’s house. But I’m in the minority. There are people watching from hundreds of miles away who wouldn’t hesitate to nuke half the city if it meant bringing you down. So please, for the sake of your family, remain calm.”

  The clawed hand slackened a little, then released its grip. Jarrod took a step back. “If you want a fight, I’ll be happy to give it to you, but not here. Leave, and I promise I will meet you at Fort Bragg tomorrow morning. Bring whoever and whatever you want, just leave my father and my sister out of it.”

  “I don’t want to fight, Jarrod, and I don’t want anyone to get hurt. If we need to leave your family here to ensure their safety and ours, we will.”

  “Good. And make sure—” Jarrod turned his head toward the house. He stared at the door and dug his toes into the soil. Something behind him moved, triggering an alarm in his head. Every fiber of his being demanded action. Demanded violence. The command was hardwired into his brain, and he was powerless to resist.

  San carried Adam’s suitcase down the hallway and set it at the edge of the living room. He nodded at Deedee and said, “Do you need help carrying anything?”

  She shook her head, then extended the handle on her luggage. “It rolls. Thank you, though.”

  Adam joined them, wearing a small satchel over one shoulder. “We won’t be gone long, will we?”

  “I don’t think so. A week, at the most.”

  “Then I think we have all we—” Adam stopped short, interrupted by a booming voice outside.

  Deedee’s eyes widened. “That sounded like Jarrod!” She abandoned her luggage and started to move, but Adam held up a hand.

  “Deedee, stay where you are.”

  She whirled to face him. “But…what if he’s in trouble?”

  “If he is, he will be fine. Your brother is quite capable of taking care of himself.”

  Tears welled in her eyes, and she shook her head. “But…I saw people with guns outside. I have to help him!”

  “Deedee, no!”

  It was no use. She ignored her father and ran from the room, turning the corner into the main hallway. She charged up to the front door, ripped it open, then stepped outside. As her eyes adjusted to the growing darkness, she started to scream.

  Hours later, Janson would be the only person who could accurately recall what happened in Charlotte. The nanomachinery in her brain had been gradually enhancing her senses, allowing her to process visual and audio data in as little as two milliseconds.

  She heard the disturbance inside the house; she saw Jarrod turn his head. She realized what was happening, but she couldn’t move her body fast enough to do anything about it.

  Ford was one of the best shooters on earth, but his reaction time was slower than hers. When the front door started to open, he reacted instinctively. His muscles went through the motions they’d been through hundreds of thousands of times in training. His shoulders tightened, making him a smaller target. The fibers in his biceps contracted, fighting gravity to raise his rifle. As the weapon leveled out, his eyes shifted in focus, peering first at his weapon to check his alignment, then beyond to see what threat was approaching.

  It didn’t matter that there was no threat bursting through the door. It didn’t matter that Ford’s finger wasn’t on the trigger. A chain reaction had begun, and it could not be
stopped.

  Jarrod whirled so fast he slipped in and out of Janson’s vision. He brought one hand up, striking Ford in the nose and pulling back the metamaterial hood. His other hand came in slightly lower, flat like a knife. The leading edge pierced the skin on Ford’s neck but lost no momentum. It continued through, severing his spine and the flesh on the other side.

  Janson never aimed her weapon at the woman in the door, but she tried to aim it at Jarrod. He was too fast. And this time, he didn’t restrain himself. The trigger guard snapped the bones in her index finger as he tore the rifle away. Powerful blows rained down on her from every direction, cracking her ribs, snapping her forearms, crushing her knees, and pulverizing her face. The metamaterial hood fell away, and the last thing her eyes ever saw was the sky above—the starry, endless sky she had shared, for a moment, with the man she loved. Then the talons punctured her corneas, and there was nothing but darkness.

  Jarrod retracted his thumbs from Janson’s eye sockets and spun towards Eugene. To his surprise, the former Marine’s hands were at his sides. There was no fight in him—only sorrow.

  As Jarrod’s brain cycled through combat priorities, he became aware of the screaming. Deedee’s screaming. He launched himself forward, landing fifteen feet from the front door. His clawed hands reared back, ready to tear apart whoever was hurting her. But there was no one there. Puzzled, he took another step forward.

  “Stay away from me!” Deedee shrieked.

  It was like he had collided with an invisible wall. Instantly, he froze in place. He pulled the armor away from his head, revealing his face. “Deedee, it’s okay. It’s me.” When she didn’t relax, he added, “It’s your brother.”

  “You’re not my brother! You’re a monster!” She stumbled backward, into the house, then slammed the door.

  A message appeared in the forefront of Jarrod’s mind. All systems failing. Temporary shutdown required. His knees gave out, and he fell face-first against the sidewalk.