“But then I found out who you really were and what you were really after. I had no choice but to run.”
“Well, now you have a choice.” He pushes the barrel hard against Sonja’s head. “Do you know how much trouble you’ve caused me in trying to get that damn code? It’s difficult, you know, pulling off this shit, creating these scenarios for you. We thought it’d be easy. Once you came for Sonja, and we knew you would, all we had to do was pump some Tilt10 and you’d gleefully tell us the code. We’d give you a little story, like visiting Grant in jail, or stealing something from him... We had a list of them, believe me. Down the checklist we went. And man, we couldn’t shut you up. Just couldn’t get you to say the one damn thing we need! And now look at this mess. All the bodies. All the pain.”
I was hoping I could protect Sonja. But I was wrong. Very wrong. Now she’s just leverage.
I shake my head. “Fuck you, Levi! You’re not getting your hands on the damn code.”
He presses the gun harder against her head. “Do you want to check with Sonja first? Do you think she agrees with that analysis? We won’t stop, Jason. We will get it. You believe me, right? That we’ll do anything? You remember those old people from the diner?”
How can I ever forget? “You’re a god damn animal, Levi. Twisted Fuck!”
The gun is heavy; I can feel it pull my arm down. It shakes a little. I run through the options in my mind, try to find a way out of this mess.
“Stop it, Jason,” Levi says. “I know what you’re thinking. There’s no way out.”
“So, what do you want to do? How do you think this is going to pan out?”
“Time’s running out, Jason. How long are you willing to stand here for?”
“As long as it takes.” The gun shakes a little more.
“The Senators will be here soon. Isabelle and Grant. They’re going to want answers, they expect results. They made that clear to you. They want that code, Jason, they need that code. If they get here and this isn’t sorted, all of us are in for a world of hurt.”
“I’m not scared of them, not anymore. I’ve taken precautions, just in case things went to shit... which they have.”
“Oh, you mean Olivia Barr?”
I stop breathing. He knows.
“Forget her,” he continued. “She’s gone—long gone—along with all the evidence you sent her.”
“But...How did you...”
“It’s over. There’s not going to be an investigation. There is no cavalry coming to your rescue. You’ve got nothing, Jason. Nothing and no one. Why not just give us what we need?”
I flick my eyes to Sonja.
“I’ve still got something,” I say solemnly.
“Oh, Jason. Listen, she doesn’t love you, whatever you may think.” He tightens his grasp on her and she groans. Anguish. “I mean, how could she? Someone like you!”
I look at her.
“He’s lying,” she huffed. “I love you. Just get me out of here.”
Couldn’t tell if what she was saying was true or not.
“If time passes and we don’t have the code, you both are dead. And I’ll make sure Sonja dies first, and horribly. But it doesn’t have to be that way. We’ll honor the original agreement, no questions asked. The code for a life. Sounds like fair trade to me.”
Few options. I raise the gun and point it at my head. The barrel feels strangely at home there. I cock the weapon.
“No!” Sonja screams. I couldn’t tell if it was anguish or desperation.
“Woah, woah, woah, big guy,” Levi says. “No need for that. Just take it easy.”
“Why? It solves so many problems. It stops anyone getting the code. It stops the voices; gets rid of the things I’ve seen. Stops thinking about the things I’ve done. It’s like wiping a hard drive, starting over.”
“But you wouldn’t be starting over now, would you?”
“Maybe not, not me anyway. But maybe there’s a chance for someone else.” I look at Sonja. Tears stream down her red cheeks. She sobs. Levi fights to keep her up, to bolster her weak knees.
I begin to squeeze the trigger. The amount of times I’ve been here, in this exact situation, with my life in the balance. I would hate the world, loathe my parents, lament the past. Look for a way out. Then they would come, the chatter, and the world would disappear, fade to black. And I thought it was done. But each time, it wasn’t. I would wake. A different time, a different place, and bad things would happen. But not this time. Not this time.
“Stop!” Levi yells. “Just stop. Fuck, Jason. What’s it going to take? What do I need to do to get that code?”
I shake my head. “Nothing. It’s too dangerous. You can’t do that to people, innocent people.”
“What the fuck do you care about people?” he shoots back. “People have done nothing but beat you down, tear you apart, break you. And now you want to protect them?”
“It’s just not right.”
“Listen to you, standing on your soapbox. How the fuck do you know what’s right? You think killing yourself is going to somehow clean your soul of everything you’ve done?”
I think about it. The bodies. The blood.
“Shit,” Levi spouts. “You’re fucking unstable, Jason. You need help. Real help. Let us help you.”
“No. This is better for me, better for everyone around me.”
“You think you’re doing the noble gesture here?” he retorts. “You pull that trigger, and I make sure Sonja suffers!”
I hold the trigger in place. Maybe it didn’t matter now.
Levi smirks. “Who are you really helping here, huh?”
We’re here, Jason.
We can help you.
Yes, let us help you.
You don’t need to do this.
We can find a way out.
Together.
All of us.
Together.
I squeeze my skull between my hand and the barrel, between life and death. The Lord giveth, the Lord taketh away.
“Shut up,” I plead. “Just leave me alone.”
Let me help you.
I can protect you.
We all can.
Let us.
Yes, let us.
I squeeze my eyes shut, will myself to do it, and squeeze the trigger. End it all.
Barked words disappear into the concoction of all the other voices in my head. Layers upon layers. Drowning in the audio. I can’t breathe. I hear Levi. I hear Sonja. I hear Jet. I hear Sloan. I hear Atlas. I hear Talon. I hear Stone. I hear Tessa. I hear Elton. I hear Tealson. I hear them all. All of them. I am them. They are me.
I open my eyes.
Silence.
In that second.
That millisecond.
Peace.
Chaos.
Serenity.
Panic.
Love.
Hate.
Light.
Dark.
Life.
...
It’s getting dark. So very dark. It has to be this way.
...
Boom!
...
Then Death comes for the spoils.
Epilogue
Light—blinding. Pure.
I cover my eyes from the glare of the afternoon sun cutting in through the window. I note my leather jacket, the sleeve of my hoodie extending beyond the jacket’s cuff. Air gushes into the vehicle through an open window. There is static. White noise. The radio is seeking a signal. Snippets of sound over flowing wind and the soothing, constant whir of an engine. Louder and softer. Finally, a station’s airwaves come through clearly.
“Police are investigating after four bodies were found at the old Brennan Fields Psychiatric Facility. They were alerted to the scene following an anonymous phone call reporting multiple gunshots at the abandoned hospital. Detectives remain at the scene; however, they have been unable to identify the bodies. For more on this story...”
More static. Music. Drums. Guitar. Acoustic. Melody
. Harmony. Off.
“You awake back there?”
I grunt.
“Exactly what I was thinking,” she says.
She turns to look at me, then does a double take. “Come on, you. Get up here. You’re missing the view.”
I crawl over the middle console and ease into my seat. To my right, snow-capped peaks pierce an impossibly blue sky. To my left, past her, a picket fence of palm trees passes by in a blur. Beyond that, white waves crash and leave their marks on a white beach, creating the barrier between dry sand and the ocean. In front of us, a deserted highway disappears into the distance, swallowed by tomorrow.
“I’m sorry,” she says. “For everything.”
“You have to stop saying that.” I look out the window. “It seems like it all worked out in the end.”
I look down at my hands. “How...how did we get here? I mean, I don’t remember.”
Silence.
Then she says, “We’ll talk all about it when we get there. There’s a lot that happened.”
I nod. “How long before we get there?”
“Soon. I think.”
“And then beaches and palm trees?” I ask.
“And margaritas. And more than you could ever imagine.”
Letting that sink in, I close my eyes, enjoying the breeze, the warmth on my arm resting on the windowsill.
“How are you feeling?” she asks, breaking the comfortable silence.
“Great. It’s so damn peaceful here. I just hope it stays this way.”
“Do you think it will? Is it over?” Trepidation.
I’m not sure what she wants to hear. I hope it is. But who can tell? At this stage, it’s not about telling the truth; it’s about giving the right answer.
I smile. “Yeah, it’s over.”
She reaches out a hand, and I grab it. I squeeze, hard. There’s a future for us. A fresh start.
I never want to let her go.
Ever.
Outside, the landscape races by in an easy blur.
I peer into the side mirror.
Stop breathing.
“Hey,” I say, staring at the reflection. “Remember, how you asked if it was over?” I look over to her.
She glances to me and registers the expression on my face. Smile drops. Checks the rear vision mirror and swears.
Grips the gear lever, down shifts, and piles on the gas.
Sometimes, what we want and what we get are two different things.
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Acknowledgements
Oh man! What a journey to get here! Although The Humanist could be considered my debut novel, it isn’t the first one I’ve ever written. I spent a long time engaging with literary agents in an effort to realize my dream of seeing my work in a bookshop. However, there comes a time when you need bite the bullet, accept reality, and take a chance. And here it is!
Fortunately (or unfortunately, depending on your perspective), the story of Jason (and his many alter-egos) went through many changes before landing on what you’ve just read. It originally started as a short 50k fully encapsulated story. One day, I asked myself a very dangerous little question: What if? Well, that question really opened up a can of worms, and led me here.
The one contradiction I enjoy is the fact that writing is a lonely business, and many people are required in order to make it happen. A big thanks to those who read early versions of the story and gave me great feedback, including Rachel Haydon, Alex Blackbourne, Rick Robinson, Jade McCleave, Nicky Bittenbinder, and a host of others. Your support means a hell of a lot to me.
As always, a final message to my kids: Be careful of those little voices in your head. Make sure they are helping you, not hindering.
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About the Author
I started writing in 2008, and after years of professional rejection, I started my self-publishing journey in 2020. I enjoy any story that keeps me guessing, hate contradiction, and fear spiders and hypodermic needles. Writing is my meditation. I became an Amazon bestselling author through my first publications IDENTITY. When I’m not writing in Brisbane, I’m facilitating workshops, MCing conferences, and keynote speaking all over Australia.
Find out more at my website https://kennethjamesallen.com/
Don’t forget to check out my other books
Special Extract
Chapter 1 – The Briefcase
Blood. Everywhere. I held my hands in front of my face. Stained. Dripping with violence, a gun in one of them. The outline shimmered in the low light. Room came into focus slowly, like a hazy fog dispersing. The room swung sideways, and I fought the urge to fall with it and vomit on myself. Wooden floorboards creaked under my weight. It’s hot and stuffy and I can’t escape the smell of death that is consuming my airways. Gun slipped out of my hands and hit the floor hard.
Picture sharpened, edges defined. Small space. Claustrophobic. A window, too dark and grimy to be of any use. A chair, wooden, old, simple. On it was a body. Trench coat, suit. Looked important, but now he was dead. Arms hung by his side. His face in permanent shock. Probably had something to do with the gaping hole in his forehead, a thin trail of blood working its way down between his eyes. He was bald, a thick scar ran down the side of his face.
I reached into his jacket and pulled out a thin wallet. Opened it. Federal Agent credentials stared back at me with the name Drew de White. I looked at the identification, then back to the body. The face matched. Dropped the wallet on the ground and inched backwards. Stopped when I kicked something. Looked down at the limp hand between my shoes. Turned.
A body lay on the ground. He didn’t seem to have fared as well as his counterpart. He wore a dark coat and under that, what used to be a white shirt. Now the entire garment was a wet red mess and shredded in several places. Throat carved open; face caked in blood. Next to him, a leather wallet lay sprawled near his hand. I picked it up. Observed the badge and read out the three letters screaming at me: D.E.A. Under the agency identifier was his name: Walter Reed.
I looked around at the carnage, knowing it had happened again, just not knowing how. It was the same old story. One minute doing something entirely innocent. The next I wake in a deranged scene with bodies and blood and god knows what else. What made it worse is that they were both law enforcement, begging the questions: Did they lure me here? Or did I lure them? But then I stopped. Where was the knife?
I backed into the middle of the room while patting down my pockets. I was wearing jeans, hoodie and leather jacket. None of it looked familiar, but that came with the territory. Besides my wallet, phone and keys, all the pockets came up empty. And I couldn't tell whether that was a good thing or a bad thing.
In the middle of the room was a table. Well, actually, a packing crate turned on its side to resemble a table. Makeshift. Guess it did the job, because on top of it were two briefcases, lids closed, facing their respective owners. Ex-owners. I guess I owned them now, and the contents within.
I turn one to face me and opened it. Bags of white powder packed in tight. I guess its cocaine, given my knowledge of watching those crime shows on television. I opened the other one. Neatly stacked piles of bound notes: tens, twenties and fifties.
To my left, an open wooden door beyond that, I caught sight of a porcelain bowl. I picked up the first briefcase and carried it in, tipping the powder packages into the toilet. I hit the flusher without thinking. Nothing seemed to move. In fact, water filled to the lip of the bowl, seeping out from under the seat, like a tree bleeding sap. I considered opening the bags and emptying the contents directly, but toilet water infected them and I couldn’t bring myself to touch them.
I retrieved the gun and pointed it at the mound. Fired a round into the plastic. A
puff of white dust erupted in front of my face like a volcano, followed by a piece of the bowl breaking off. Water escaped onto the floor, pooling around my feet, and I cursed myself repeatedly until I felt better about the situation. I fired two more times. Stood there and looked at the wreckage of torn bags, wet drugs and a broken toilet, and wish I had thought my actions through a little longer rather than acting on impulse. I decided the best course of action is to leave before the gunshots roused the local authorities. That last thing I needed was for the police to tangle me into a murder investigation, or a drugs investigation, or any connection to any policing organization whatsoever. And what made everything worse was the fact the bodies belonged to law enforcement.
I threw the gun into the second case, locked it, and scooped it up. Running for the only other door in the shack, I shouldered into it and burst out into the cold night air. My breath became visible as I skidded to a halt on the slick, water-pocketed concrete ground. Saltwater and fish smells enveloped me. To my left, moored commercial fishing vessels bounced on the steady ripple of water and nestled into their dock bumpers. On my right, a ridiculously large warehouse where most of the ocean fragrance was emanating from.
I circumnavigated the building, trying to find my way out. I felt like I was forgetting something, but every time I reached for it, it would disappear into the recesses of my mind. Whatever the thought was, it was playing hard to get. I had come to terms with things like that.
I eventually found myself on a street walking toward lights, stealing myself away from the massacre I appeared to have caused. I didn’t know where I was or how I got there, who the dead guys were or why I decided to hike it with a briefcase full of cash.
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