The Suicide Society

by William Brennan Knight

  The few other passengers that roamed the vacant hallway looked at her with a mixture of fear and sympathy. While Kathy felt in tune with the universe, those around her saw a disheveled woman talking to phantoms and ghosts.

  An elderly woman approached cautiously and gently placed her hand on Kathy’s arm. “Ma’am, are you all right? Do you need medical attention?”

  Kathy smiled. “I’m fine, but thank you for asking. I’m just talking to my husband. Would you like to meet him?”

  “I—I don’t know…”

  Kathy held up her hand and looked off it the distance. “Oh, I’m sorry, I have to run. There’s my son at the gate. He must be here to see me off. Ryan! I’m over here.”

  The befuddled woman shuffled back to her husband. “She’s on something. Maybe that crack or ecstasy.”

  The man shook his head slowly. “Everyone is on something these days, Martha. Everyone is on something…”

  Kathy saw Ryan standing in front of the departure gate while he beckoned her to come forward. “Stay there, baby. Mama’s coming.” Kathy sensed the odd stares and whispers as she approached her son. It didn’t matter what people thought; she focused on Ryan and his attempt to communicate.

  She slowed her approach as the distance between them closed. Standing a few feet from her son, Kathy shuddered a bit and reached out her hand. “Oh Ryan, is it you? Is it really you?” He was dressed in his favorite jeans and the T-shirt with crazy-hair Einstein on the front.

  Ryan didn’t say anything, but he continued to gesture for Kathy to come closer. A smile spread across his lips as she moved forward and held out her arms. She stopped no more than six inches away. In fact, so close that his scent lingered in the air. She breathed deeply and let out a small shutter. As she leaned in, he cupped his hand over her ear and whispered. Kathy closed her eyes and hung on every word.

  When the last echo of his voice faded away, she waited a moment before opening her eyes. As expected, her son was gone. A small crowd of people gathered around her, mumbling, pointing and debating whether to alert an authority.

  Kathy turned and looked at the spectators with nothing more than amusement. Ryan had talked to her; she was sure of it. His instructions were very specific. Kathy walked through the crowd and sought out a concierge. She desperately needed to find a cab.

  ***

  Munoz turned sharply onto State Street as the rear of the car skidded in protest. Like every modern police vehicle, the squad was equipped with a state-of-the-art, voice-activated GPS system, and Munoz refined his search as he drove. He prayed that his revelation in Cardinal Riggs’ quarters was divinely inspired.

  The detective glanced at the digital clock on the dash just before turning on Pearson Street with tires squealing wildly and the siren blaring. The time was 9:37. He had 23 minutes to find the nuclear device. Yet, Munoz was no bomb disposal expert. Even if his intuition proved right and he found the weapon, he had no idea how to disarm it.

  Two blocks later, he pulled up to the curb and jumped from the car, leaving the motor running and the driver’s door wide open. He looked up at the sign that read, Wulfric University, John Howard Student Center and Holy Trinity Chapel.

  Munoz rapidly ascended the steps of the building and moved inside while searching for the elevator. It was Riggs’ diplomas on the wall of his private residence that gave Munoz his moment of inspiration. The Cardinal graduated from Wulfric University, a Catholic school named after the famous Haselbury hermit and Catholic saint. A quick GPS scan located the chapel, which was inside a multi-purpose building a mere block from the parking garage where the terrorist’s vehicle had been found.

  Munoz located the emergency stairs at the rear of the building and sprinted toward the firewall door. The chapel was on the third floor, and he couldn’t wait for a slow elevator. He bolted past a security guard who rose from his chair and began to follow, but Munoz lost the man as he swung the door open and ran up the stairs.

  He exited on the third floor and looked down a long hallway. All of the suites were marked with numbers rather than names, which slowed his progress as he was forced to look inside the different classrooms. As he rounded the corner, Munoz came upon a pair of arched doors with crosses affixed to the wood. A single embossed sign hung above a threshold that identified this particular room as the chapel.

  Munoz cautiously moved inside and glanced at his surroundings. The chapel had a Spartan appearance, especially when compared to the opulence of the Church of the Holy Name. It had 20 rows of pews at most. A wooden table with a white cloth served as an altar, and a small, raised platform was used as a pulpit. The far wall behind the pulpit was covered by a gold curtain held in place by a long brass rod anchored into the ceiling.

  At first glance, Munoz’ heart sunk as he looked around the chapel. Where would someone hide a suitcase bomb in this small place? He looked nervously at his watch and realized he had less than 20 minutes before the explosion. There was nothing to do except search between the rows of pews. As he moved forward, he became increasingly certain he had failed.

  Munoz frantically moved from pew to pew looking under each bench for something resembling a bomb. His frustration grew as he sifted through discarded items including a diaper bag, a textbook and several plastic bottles. When he reached the front row and discovered a small cooler, the detective almost stopped breathing. Moving cautiously toward the container, he lifted the lid and slowly opened his eyes. His heart sunk as he realized the box was empty.

  The beaten detective threw his hands up in disgust and fell to his knees. Fifteen minutes before the destruction of the city of Chicago and the possible collapse of civilization, Munoz had missed an opportunity to save humanity.

  An audible click from somewhere near the altar caused the him to jerk his head forward. Through years of training and field experience, Munoz knew the sound of a firing unit engaging. With fourteen minutes left before the detonation, the click may have signaled the arming device to begin a final countdown.

  He scrambled to his feet and moved quickly to the altar where he grabbed the white tablecloth that covered the bench and yanked it hard. The gold chalice, offering plate and communion tray clattered to the ground as Munoz looked frantically beneath the table.

  He found nothing.

  Sighing deeply, he leaned against the pulpit. Think, Munoz, think.

  As he lifted his elbow from the sloped surface, the detective looked down at the Bible that lay open on the shelf with a simple bookmark sitting in the crease. The pulpit was actually a podium framed and covered with plywood on three sides. The sign of the cross was burned into the wood. Munoz walked around so he could look at the book. It was opened to a highlighted passage in Mathew 10:26. Therefore do not fear them, for there is nothing concealed that will not be revealed, or hidden that will not be known.

  Munoz shook his head sadly. Indeed, something was hidden, but it had surely not been revealed. The detective crossed himself and asked for God’s forgiveness. He had failed in finding the bomb. There was nowhere left to look.

  In a mental fog, he prepared to make his way back to the pews. Munoz wondered if he should spend his last moments on earth in prayer. He turned to leave, but his foot struck something underneath a lower shelf inside the pulpit. It moved slightly. How odd…

  He dropped to his knees and looked in the cranny. His foot dislodged a piece of plywood wedged between the sides and shelf of the pulpit. Munoz removed it carefully and peered into the cavity. There was a box inside, relatively small and made of some sort of plastic or fiberglass. It looked just like a large suitcase. He pulled on it and immediately noticed there was a padlock that held the lid and body together.

  Hesitating only a moment, Munoz stood over the box, raised his leg, and brought the heel of his shoe down on the lock with all the force he could muster. He slammed the mechanism repeatedly. While the lock itself would not give way, the hasp and staple slowly began to separate from the metal shell. With a last forceful kick, the ent
ire lock mechanism tumbled to the floor.

  With trembling hands, Munoz reached down and raised the lid. He stared down at a massive harness of wires, circuit boards and a slick, stainless steel tube about three inches in diameter and 8-inches long. A digital clock in the corner continued to count down from 12 minutes 38 seconds. 37, 36…With each flash, Munoz felt like he lost another a small part of his sanity.

  The enormity of the situation suddenly struck him. He found the bomb, but didn’t have a clue as to what to do next. The CPD. bomb squad would never arrive in time, and Munoz lacked the required training to disarm the device. This was far more sophisticated than anything he had ever worked on at the academy.

  Eleven minutes and counting…59, 58, 57…

  The door burst open with a loud bang. A frocked priest stepped through the threshold with a golden scepter raised above his head and a menacing look etched into his furrowed brow. “You’re the one who caused the carnage and killed Cardinal Riggs!” he bellowed. “The survivors have warned us to protect the cleansing fire. You must die!”

  With a roar of extreme rage, the priest charged up the aisle directly toward Munoz.

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Zach never bothered to answer the question the Benefactor posed. Throughout the conversation, Mr. Cox continued to relentlessly probe his mind, disrupting Zach’s thought patterns while searching for more information. As a result, they became so connected mentally they were virtually indistinguishable from one another.

  So, you decline my offer, Mr. Randall? A pity, a pity indeed.

  I could never join you. For whatever reason I was chosen, this gift is meant to be used for good. You’re an abomination. You have abused the gift, and you disgust me. Tell me where you came from.

  The Benefactor boiled with rage, and he sent spikes of black-hot energy into the center of Zach’s cerebral cortex. Like an infusion of 10,000 volts, his body went rigid while he bit hard on his tongue. An explosion of light blinded his eyes, and he struggled to regain a semblance of composure.

  You dare call me an abomination? You know nothing of what I endured. You want to know where I came from? The bowels of hell, Mr. Randall. The bowels of hell itself.

  Against his will, Zach turned back to the Benefactor, whose eyes blazed red with a passionate fire of hate. “It is time, Mr. Randall,” he said out loud. “Time to finish what you started. If you will not join me, then you must die. You are the rogue, and you must be neutralized.”

  A growing volume of energy consumed Zach on a cellular level. Every thought, memory and impulse was influenced by the dark presence. He struggled to fight back, but he knew the effort would be futile. Mr. Cox disengaged thousands of black energy tendrils that connected him to his followers and directed the resulting telekinetic force toward Zach. The Benefactor disassembled Zach’s brain a single synapse at a time. A regression of his tuned consciousness was underway, and he struggled to remain coherent.

  Like an overloaded circuit, internal systems began to shut down. The pressure in his head continued to build, and his limbs flapped uncontrollably as the nerves separated from the electrical impulses that guided them. In a fundamental and primitive way, Zach understood he was dying.

  From somewhere in the distance, he heard Sarah’s voice sounding surprisingly assertive. “So, it was you all along. I would have never guessed.” A nearly inaudible chuckle escaped her lips.

  The intense white light came in a 360 degree arc that enveloped the black energy of the Benefactor, much like an acetylene torch cutting through thin steel. A momentary stillness was followed by a massive temporal shudder that stunned Zach and left him paralyzed and disoriented.

  The anomaly sucked in the surrounding air like a fire at flash point, and within the vacuum and void, the Benefactor released his grip on Zach’s mind. He immediately turned toward the source of the massive surge of focused white energy. In less than a nanosecond, the entire episode was completed on a wholly telekinetic level.

  Zach projected his own weakened thoughts back to the source. The shrouded figure stood motionless. As the mists of purity and light faded, the perfect image of Jarad Anston emerged.

  The Benefactor instantaneously understood the ruse. You, he sputtered, how?

  We have been aware of you for some time. Anston projected his essence through his thoughts. We needed to understand the depth and breadth of your power. It would take someone who was unaware of our presence. Someone who could draw you out and expose your considerable capabilities so we might find you. Individually, you are far too powerful for us. But collectively, with the element of surprise, we felt we might be able to channel and focus our own power to defeat you.

  Who—who are you?

  We are the Suicide Society—a small group of survivors. Like many who serve you, we all have tried to take our own lives. Yet, within the depths of that despair, we were given an extraordinary gift.

  But… but I know of everyone who commits suicide. I know them all.

  You assumed you knew them all, but your arrogance has proven to be a fatal error. You never became aware of those few who actually died but came back from the dead. After we received the gift, we remained hidden from you.

  Anston focused a small tendril of white energy toward Zach. Zach, I am so sorry. If there was another way, we would have taken it. Your ignorance of our existence provided the perfect cover and persuaded the Dark One that you acted alone. It pains us terribly that your own free will was sacrificed this way.

  Zach tried to communicate, but he struggled to overcome the damage Mr. Cox inflicted. He could only convey feelings to Aston, which brightened the glow of both men. Zach understood and forgave.

  The Benefactor howled and screeched with rage, summoning every fraction of his considerable power in an effort to overwhelm Anston. Yet, his consuming obsession with Zach had left him completely vulnerable through the portal Anton exploited. Before the Benefactor had the opportunity to strike, Anston thrust the collective energy of the Suicide Society directly into his mind.

  The intense mental push drove deep into the afflicted memory centers, shredding the defenses that were already compromised in the battle with Zach. Anston flooded the nearly infinite compartments of Mr. Cox’ consciousness as he simultaneously searched for the time and location of the of the Chicago bomb. In the last vestige of his own power, Anston confronted a weak temporal guard Cox placed in front of his most vital secret. He plunged in with no regard for the Benefactor’s safety. Anston ripped through several layers of sensitive information until he found exactly what he needed.

  Zach, I have the location of the bomb, but there is only six minutes left until it detonates. There is one more task we must ask of you. One of Cox’ thought tendrils is still in place. It’s attached to a person under his control, someone who is closest to the bomb. They have attempted suicide and therefore will be open to accepting your influence. You must summon the strength to travel through the portal and into that person’s mind, and you must disarm the bomb with the code I will give you.

  Zach nodded physically and managed to mutter Yes by way of a telepathic reply.

  You must understand the tendril will dissipate when I finish with the Benefactor. You may not return from this. Anston’s pain and anguish saturated his thoughts as he tried to soothe and comfort his friend’s ravaged mind.

  On a primal level, Zach conveyed his understanding and approval. He turned toward Sarah, who pressed up against the cage and smiled while extending feelings of love and compassion. She inhaled the vapor of his power and emotion and reached a hand through the bars. “Zach, no please… don’t leave me.”

  Zach attempted to reply, but in that instant, he was shuttled through the last remaining black energy tendril that still emanated from the Benefactor’s mind. Once he was encapsulated, Anston sealed the final portal and disconnected it from Mr. Cox. The plug on the Network was finally pulled.

  Summoning the cumulative power of the Suicide Society cooperative once again,
Anston began remolding the diseased brain of Mr. Cox. With meticulous precision, he eliminated certain defective neurological pathways while rerouting and reconnecting others. Throughout the process, the Benefactor desperately tried to resist, but caught virtually defenseless, he was unable to reach Anston before the cerebral restructuring was completed.

  The entire process was finished in an instant, and when it was done, Mr. Cox was left babbling like a benign idiot, and Anston knew exactly where he could recover the 3rd Orb of Gehenna.

  The lieutenants and world leaders remained fixed on the Benefactor as they sat at the conference table in stunned silence. They waited for his next words, and instead, there was only a sly grin and a blank stare.

  Anston led Mr. Cox over to the chair at the head of the table and gently pushed his fragile frame down onto the seat.

  The room grew deathly quiet as the participants looked around at each other in confusion. The tendrils of control and malevolence were completely severed. They exchanged terrified looks and awkward glances. Several of them pushed away from the table, unsure of what they should do next.

  The leader of the International Monetary Fund was the first to react. The scorching pain of his actions came crushing down on him and collapsed the inner structure of his being. His hands clawed at his eyes, and he tried to locate the nearest implement he might use to end his life and discontinue the agony. Around the table, there was much moaning, writhing and expressions of sorrow and horror.

  Only Delgado, Watts and Hefe remained calm. True wickedness shows no remorse.

  Anston stood motionless for some time, encouraging the full regret to descend on the evil doers. When he was satisfied that more suffering would only serve to satiate revenge, he entered each mind and began the reconstruction process. No one at the table would ever have the mental capacity to engage in a nefarious act again.