Zach was compelled to move out from the shadows without regard for consequences. He projected himself toward the black apparition as the girl gyrated vigorously. If he was concerned about Zach’s presence, the unnerving man-ghost didn’t show it. He continued to keep his eyes on the woman, communicating instructions through gestures and apparent thought transference.
Now only a few feet away from them, Zach noticed a plasma-like charge that glowed momentarily before separating from Mr. Cox. With barely a nanosecond to respond, Zach tried to shield himself while instinctively and unexpectedly releasing his own mass of kinetic energy.
The pulse struck Zach squarely and coursed through his body and scorched the nerve endings in his extremities. He stumbled in blind confusion until he fell to the ground, his brain scrambled like a corrupted CPU in a desktop computer.
After a moment or an eternity, Zach was finally able to organize his thoughts, and he sat up staring straight into the eyes of Mr. Cox. The experience was terrifying, and he quickly looked away as the sickness penetrated the shield of his aura. From the periphery, he could see the girl moving slowly toward the door. Each step looked heavy and plodding.
Zach sacrificed a moment of self-control and projected a message toward her. In that instant, it felt like someone had exploded an incendiary device inside his head. Mr. Cox had unleashed another barrage of negative energy. A powerful flash accompanied a sensation of molten lava rippling through the interior of his skull. Zach again grabbed at his head and collapsed in agony.
***
The eruption that occurred inside Mr. Cox’ body was temporarily paralyzing. Originating from the interloper, a vile stream of pure white energy invaded his perfect mind and tainted the symmetry of the dark flow. Shock waves rippled outward like a stone thrown into the middle of a lake. Cox fell backwards, and for a moment, he lost partial command of certain aspects of the Network. In that instant, many of those under his direct control were freed from his oppressive influence.
While he remained partially incapacitated, Sarah Johansen broke out of her mental bonds and stood upright, looking left and right for the first place to run. Cox grabbed at his head and sunk to his knees, pushing outward and moving his influence through the kinetic tendrils he used to manipulate his most dependent followers.
The shower of igneous thought glowed bright and burned hot at the point of contact like a superheated thermite reaction. The Benefactor summoned all his awareness and pushed against the pristine presence of the other. As he recovered, the rage within him intensified, and the stream grew darker, thicker and more potent. He stood upright, and his apparition moved toward the white silhouetted figure of Zach, whose projection still lay on the dirt floor writhing in agony.
Cox worked quickly. He entered and explored the sensitive areas inside his antagonist’s psyche and searched for information. Who was this person that threatened his intricate plan? He poked and probed and then confronted Zach directly. You again…Who are you? Who ARE you? I—I believe I know you from somewhere.
As much as he tried, he could not penetrate the interloper’s deep mental defenses. Reluctantly, Mr. Cox withdrew from the vision. The flow was severely compromised as he turned the majority of his force of will against the dangerous apparition. Countless conduits of black energy were ruptured or destroyed, hemorrhaging throughout his mind and flooding his being. They were his first priority. Fortunately, he could control and repair the damage, but the Benefactor still envisioned thousands of enslaved individuals who were self-aware and momentarily beyond his direct control. The sensation was exceptionally disquieting. He writhed and convulsed as he fought to control the breach.
***
Anston stood over Zach’s prone form and watched his friend continue to spasm as his face transformed from bright red to purple. Like a grounded fish, Zach gasped for air. Eventually, the thrashing began to slow, and Zach’s color grew almost blackish before slowly fading to a ghastly white. Anston struggled as Zach slipped further into a coma and then suffered cardiac arrest.
Anston’s attention was momentarily diverted to the sound of the front door opening and banging off the molding, rebounding to strike the entrant as he hastily crossed the threshold. Detective Munoz heard the convulsive thrashing from outside and quickly unlocked the door and ran in. Upon seeing the prone figure of Zach lying on the floor, he pulled off his jacket and loosened his tie. He checked for a pulse and then propped Zach’s head back. Munoz was certified in CPR and began the resuscitation techniques he performed countless times on other stricken citizens.
The first few breaths he blew into Zach’s’ lungs evaporated into a rattling death wheeze. He alternated between mouth to mouth and chest compressions, waiting for signs of life, but the limp body lay still on the floor.
“Damn!” yelled Munoz in frustration, slamming his doubled fists into the center of Zach’s rib cage. “Breathe you bastard—breathe!
***
As the two apparitions dissolved before her eyes, Sarah Johansen screamed silently, clawing at the skin on her face until she bled. She knew the power of the Benefactor, having experienced his humiliating control many times before, but she never knew he was able to project himself over such distances.
Did she see another? Sarah recalled sensing a glowing human form shimmering somewhere in the background. It clashed with the Benefactor, and both seemed to be in significant distress before they retreated and disappeared. She wondered if any of it actually happened, or perhaps she had finally succumbed to the madness that sometimes distorted her perception of reality.
Sarah struggled to her feet, shifted her clothing and instinctively brushed back her clumped and tangled hair. She stumbled out of the barn and moved toward the pickup still parked on the dirt road. Where would she go now? How could she possibly escape someone who could reach her no matter where she went? With her head buried in her hands, Sarah fell to the ground, and began to sob. She cried for her dead parents, her dead aunt and uncle and the years of abuse she suffered in captivity at the hands of the Benefactor. Where was the gun? After all, she had stopped in this place to end her miserable existence.
At that moment, she was sure she heard a voice.
Sarah… Sarah, don’t be afraid, I’m here to help.
She backed up against an exterior wall of the barn and again looked left and right, but no one was there. Somehow, the voice was inside her head. My God, she thought. I am losing my mind.
Don’t be afraid. You must drive to Portland. I will wait there for you. He will not be able to find you; I can make sure of that.
“How…” Sarah said out loud, “how can you make sure? He is everywhere, he knows everything.”
Please, trust me. I can protect you, but I need your help. I must learn more about him. Drive to Portland, and I’ll guide you when you get there
Sarah struggled to her feet. Her eyes darted back and forth while sweeping the landscape, hoping to find the source of the voice. There was only blowing dust and the keening wind as it peeled layers of dirt away from the desolate farmland.
She turned and walked to the truck, unsure of her own sanity. Sill, Portland would be nice this time of year, and after all, where else could she go?
***
The moment was at hand, and Prime Minister Ivan Petrov wept and drank brandy at a large mahogany table where King Dragonov IV had laid out battle plans for the unsuccessful attack against the Huns at the Danube in the first century.
Here, today, he would authorize an invasion against the Turks. The outcome of an expected war was a foregone conclusion since Turkey possessed a much larger population and military presence. Yet, Petrov understood that this was not about winning a war. It was about a greater justification for something much more sinister. Regardless of the means, Petrov knew the conflict would bring intense pain and suffering to the lives of countless millions.
As he sipped at his brandy, Petrov wept and recalled the day the Benefactor found him. Depressed, despondent, bankrupt an
d divorced, Ivan Petrov sat in a dimly lit motel room in the red light district of Vienna with a loaded pistol inserted in his mouth.
Remarkably, just as his finger tightened on the trigger, the eerie shadow of Mr. Cox appeared in the doorway, altering Petrov’s life forever. Within months of pledging loyalty to the Benefactor, Petrov became a deputy clerk in the transportation division of the central government. From there, his rise to the top of Bulgaria’s complex political infrastructure was meteoric. Just shy of three years after the incident in the flop house, Petrov was elected prime minister.
Naturally, he became self-absorbed in the process. His ex-wife suffered a nervous breakdown as she watched the man she discarded assume ever increasing positions of power. He basked in the glow of adoration from the commoners and relished the respect his children gave him, something he never experienced before. Ivan Petrov became completely fascinated with himself and began to believe his accomplishments were his own.
However, when he assumed the Prime Minister’s chair, Mr. Cox returned, exactly four years to the day from their earlier meeting. The Benefactor reminded him of his obligations and the commitment he made on that horrible evening many years ago.
Shortly thereafter, Xavier Watts entered Petrov’s life, and his depression worsened. In some ways, Watts was just as cruel as the Benefactor, and his interactions with the Network’s second in command were almost always direct and uncomfortable. Watts approached Petrov with his plan many months ago and forced the Prime Minister to begin stockpiling armaments in Varna. As a result, 30,000 troops, 200 tanks and 55 aircraft would descend on unsuspecting Turkey at 5:45 a.m. today, just an hour from now.
Petrov sat back in his chair and looked at the loaded pistol that sat in his desk. He briefly thought of grabbing it and finishing the job he started those many years ago, but Cox would know and intervene. Cox always knew. Petrov suspected he would be kept alive at least until he was no longer useful.
He hesitantly picked up the phone and secured a hard wired line linked to the Supreme Commander of the Armed Forces.
“General Ivanovich?”
“Yes, Prime Minister?”
“It is time. I am authoring the attack against the Turks… Launch the all-out assault.”
A long silence followed. “You recognize that the Turks outnumber us in men and have far more sophisticated weaponry.”
“Of course I understand, General. However, we will deal them a fatal blow with our surprise attack.”
“Is this a wise? I mean…”
“General! You have your orders.”
“Mr. Prime Minister. Your will shall be done.”
Several hours later, Petrov watched on closed-circuit TV as wave after wave of Russian made MIG 21’s and MIG 29’s roared to life, lighting their afterburners and streaking off into the night sky. Each aircraft carried two 500kg bombs intended for civilian targets in Istanbul. Turkish fighters would scramble and intercept them at the border. In the end, Bulgaria’s limited air force would prove to be quite inferior to the sophisticated Turkish arsenal, which numbered 500 strong and included advanced F-16 and F-35 fighters.
Of course, none of this would really matter since the Benefactor was the ultimate equalizer. Petrov could only imagine the horror that Mr. Cox planned as an outcome of the war.
***
Alan stared silently at the computer monitor array. His hands shook as he typed furiously at the wireless keyboard, and his eyes remained glued to the scrolling event list from the Western United States section. A noticeable decrease in violence throughout California and other adjacent states caught his attention. In the Sacramento region, a dozen precinct managers failed to carry out missions, and two area directors hadn’t reported in for several hours.
Alan pounded the keypad of his phone and the line connected to Xavier Watts.
“Mr. Watts, what the hell is going on in Sacramento? The Mayor of Modesto had strict instructions on blackmailing three members of the city council with bribes and sex pictures. That damn Mayor Blum never gave out the photos, and the board voted to increase funding for the police. There will be fewer murders and less crime. My data miners are asking questions. What the hell’s happening, Watts? And where is my father?”
When Xavier Watts spoke, his voice was low and menacing. “Look Alan, take a deep breathe and collect your thoughts. Are you ready to be rational?”
“Yeah, fine. Now tell me what’s going on.”
“How far has the contagion spread, Alan?”
“It centered in central and northern California, but it’s spreading north to Oregon and east into Nevada. So, what the fuck is it?
“There have been—difficulties. I need you to concentrate on isolating that area. Step up the cyber-attacks and the misery index in that section. We need to see a ten-fold increase in layoffs, bankruptcies, foreclosures and felony crimes. In particular, you get some compromising pictures of Mayor Blum and take them to his wife.”
Alan grinned on the other end of the secured line. “Now you’re talking.”
Chapter Nineteen
Munoz continued the resuscitation while shouting instructions to Anston. He brought his fist down hard on Zach’s chest, trying to stimulate his heart. For a seeming eternity there was no response, and Munoz feared that Zach would suffer brain damage if he didn’t die outright. Just as Munoz readied another blow to the chest, he noticed Zach’s lips moving slightly. This was followed by a strong gasping breath, and his eyes fluttered and then opened wide. He grabbed Munoz’ arm with surprising strength and started muttering nonsensical gibberish mixed with guttural gurgling noises.
“Relax, Zach, relax.” Munoz turned to Anston, who remained surprisingly composed throughout the ordeal. “Jarad, get him some water and wet a towel for his forehead.” Anston moved stiffly to the kitchen and drew a glass of water into a plastic cup.
Munoz raised it to Zach’s lips and watched as he sipped and swallowed with difficulty. After several minutes, Zach struggled up to a sitting position. He still looked ghastly pale, but some color returned to his cheeks, and the deep bruising under his eyes began to fade a bit.
“I understand now,” Zach rasped, “I’ve learned something about what he intends to do. He is incredibly strong. Strong and dark… Horribly dark.”
As time passed, Zach regained enough strength to stand, and his thought processes began to unscramble. He huddled with Anston and Munoz around the laptop computer that sat on the kitchen counter. They alternately looked at each other and the computer screen, which contained pages of names and data stored on a flash drive. Zach felt like he was nursing a horrible hangover as he tried to align the information Munoz discovered with the bizarre experience of his visions.
“Zach, your heart stopped for God’s sake; we should get you to a hospital immediately,” said Munoz.
“No, no hospitals. I’m feeling a lot better, and there’s no time for tests and lying in bed right now. I’ll rest tonight, and I’ll be fine in the morning. It had nothing to do with a heart problem. It was… him.”
“I still don’t like it. I—I guess we’ll just have to watch you closely…”
Zach nodded. “So, what do you make of it, Munoz? What does it all mean?”
“I’m still not sure. It seems like some sort of well-organized underground crime confederation. Its reach is far longer than I suspected. But the purpose evades me.
“Look at Harold Moss for example. He has about 20 names directly linked to him in this flow chart. I assume these people report to him somehow. Then there are five names directly next to his that seem to be reporting to the same person above him.”
“This spreadsheet is missing a lot of information,” said Anston.
“What the hell are they up to?” Zach pointed at the screen. “You can see there are several sections missing.”
“I suspect there are additional regional organizations similar to the one operating here,” said Munoz. “Moss apparently was not privileged to that information. Still
, there are only five names next to Moss and two names above those. Whatever they’re up to, we’re getting closer.”
Standing up and walking to the refrigerator, Anston said quietly, “How are any of these names linked to the visions? What exactly did you see in this last one, Zach?”
“I’m not sure how to explain it. There was a being or entity in the vision. I saw him when I was with Maybel Downey, but he didn’t attack me as viciously he did this time. There was also a girl there. I’m pretty sure she was going to kill herself. I struggled with this—thing. Not in a physical way… It’s almost impossible for me to explain because none of it fits in this world as we see it. But I swear it was real.” Zach paused a moment and rubbed his eyes while trying to capture the essence of the confrontation in words. It was proving difficult.
“There was this clash of energy, I guess. I could see these outlandish colors and a pliable, rippling reality. I had this overwhelming feeling of being crushed from an enormous pressure.”
“But did you learn anything?” asked Anston.
Zach rubbed his chin and shook his head. “Not really. Except that he wanted to know who I was, and he accused me of ruining his perfect plan.”
Munoz, who only recently was told about the visions, wondered out loud if Zach was suffering from some sort of mental illness. “Are you sure these aren’t hallucinations of some sort? Do you have a history of this sort of thing?”
Anston shook his head. “No, there is no chance of that. He had absolutely no knowledge of Helena Bostwick, Maybel Downey or Curtis Roberts prior to the visions. Yet, two of them committed suicide, and the other died in a gruesome way. They lived many miles apart from each other. I was skeptical, but I’m afraid the visions are real.”
“Well,” said Munoz as he fidgeted nervously with his fingers, “is there anything useful to be gained from them?”
The Suicide Society Page 19
