by J. K. Scott
“I’m here to warn you. The images are about survival. Solve it!”
The stunning words swirled in my mind. I strained to focus on the form as I watched it evaporate in front of me. Sweat drenched my body, and my erratic heartbeats slowed as I took deep breaths.
After a moment of recuperating, I thought I must have been dreaming or hallucinating. Or could I be teetering on the brink of madness?
2
BAFFLED BY THE troubling and strange experience, I sat up in bed and slowly glanced around the room. The empty chair seemed ominous. It had to be a lucid dream. Or was it a hallucination? I discouraged the thought that I had lost my mind. The words “I am you” echoed in my mind.
I activated the light, ambled over to the chair, and eyed it for a long moment. Cautiously, I sat in the chair. I couldn’t feel any variation in temperature or static. Suspicious, I wondered if Cascade wanted to traumatize me. Could the FBI be recouping the project? And what were these images about?
I glanced at the calendar clock. It was already Friday, and I had to scrap my plan to stay at my cabin this weekend. I felt an intense urgency to solve the images and be more informed about the case. Suspiciously, I wondered if Cascade could be watching me, even though my bedroom was off-limits. I moved from the chair to put on shorts and left the room to clear my head.
After brewing a cup of coffee, I sat at the kitchen counter with a paper tablet and scribbled the messenger’s words. I drew the two images on a separate sheet and recreated the forms in various positions. I felt certain there was something amiss. I tucked the drawings in my gray backpack to review later. I flushed the inflammatory message down the toilet. How could I forget those words? I retired to the couch to listen to flute music and hopefully drift off to sleep.
I awoke with a strained back and moaned as I lifted myself from the couch. While drinking my second cup of coffee, I knocked it over and had to mop the dripping mess off the floor. Later, in the bathroom, I dropped my razor on the tile floor, and when I attempted to step into my khakis, my foot got tangled, and I had to grab the bathroom counter before falling. Realizing that my thirty-five-year-old body was suffering from a bad case of stress, I sat on the cushioned bench to get my bearings and easily put on my pants.
Finally, without any more fumbling delays, I pulled my bike from the entry closet and opened the door to leave. My jaw dropped as I saw Mary waiting for me at my doorstep. Surprised by Mary’s behavioral change, I jokingly asked, “Won’t you be in trouble for being at my door?”
Mary politely smiled, rolled her eyes, and stepped aside for me to wheel my bike outside.
I asked, “Well, why are you here?”
“Let’s go; you’re late,” she said. She followed me down the three flights of stairs as I bumped the bike tires along the way.
Stepping off the last step, Mary adjusted her smart watch and asked, “Did you sleep well last night?”
I looked at her watch, wondering if she was recording me. Mary caught my look and shook her head.
Mary had never met me at the door. The act appeared personal, but I knew better. I often wondered if Mary ever thought about me other than with regard to work. Noticeable with towering height, blonde hair, introspective green eyes, and a taut, muscular body, she preferred the camouflaged look. She wore no makeup, and her stringy blonde hair needed a trim. She wore baggy beige shorts, an oversize sleeveless shirt that exposed her faded black athletic bra, and dirty gray tennis shoes. The message came across that she didn’t care how she appeared, or perhaps she dressed to dampen my masculine interests. I assumed the latter.
Mary repeated, “Did you sleep well?”
I calmly asked, “Why are you asking?”
Obviously incensed, she raised her voice. “Dak, I have a job too. Something happened to you after midnight. Your heart rate set off alarms. And you slept restlessly on the couch. Be prepared for a physical this morning.”
Mary had violated Cascade’s strict protocol by telling me about my heart’s reaction, which alarmed me. Cascade’s invasive monitoring had no limits. Wishing I could express more, I simply said, “Thank you for the advice. I had a bad dream last night.”
Mary gave me a questioning look before she headed for her bike inside the garden gate. Politely, she opened the gate, saying, “Be cautious, Dak.”
I rolled past her. “I appreciate the warning.”
Mary followed closely behind me; obviously, she had new instructions. That wasn’t a good sign. Oblivious to the scenic ride, I focused on fabricating a convincing dream to justify my heart palpitations.
With certainty, I knew I had to solve the images, but I couldn’t fathom how they were related to survival. Were they related to my survival or that of others, the world, or something else?
At Cascade, Mike opened the electronic doors, and I rolled my bike into the storage closet. Immediately, Big Bear trotted over to me and panted. I started to reach down to scratch his soft, furry neck, when he unexpectedly jumped up and put his front paws on my shoulders, almost knocking me over. Even Big Bear seemed to be warning me.
With Big Bear’s paws on my shoulders, we stood face-to-face. He stared at me for several seconds before releasing two loud barks, causing Mike to yell.
“Big Bear, get down!”
Big Bear barked again and then jumped down. He stood by me and kept nudging my knees with his snout.
Mike said, “He’s warning you—too many late nights!”
I knew Big Bear wasn’t concerned about my work. He sensed my apprehension this morning. After all, Big Bear had a distinguished military résumé and was well trained. As a security service dog, he earned a hefty income from Cascade. As Big Bear’s master, Mike received double pay while working with his best friend.
I scratched under Big Bear’s neck, and his ears perked up. When I stopped, he barked and then turned in circles. Maybe he was trying to warn me. Big Bear followed me to the elevator, appearing dejected. I stepped into the elevator, headed for the third floor, wishing I could take Big Bear with me.
In my office, I glanced around for any intrusion before stuffing my backpack into the spacious cabinet. My desk was devoid of personal items since I considered my job temporary even though I had a three-year contract. An electronic pictorial calendar displayed the twelve best beaches in California. Living in the desert, I had a severe case of ocean fever, which mandated I take a few ocean holidays. That seemed more unlikely today.
Aware of the security cameras in my office, I activated my computer and accessed my message board. It was totally blank. There should have been a log out time from last night’s work. Scratching my head, I accessed the program file and stared at a blank blue screen. This meant the image file had to be in central services, or I’d been pulled from the assignment. I felt another spike in my stress level. I had to continue working on the images. Distraught, I decided if all else failed, I would contact the Maricopa Forensic Science Center, who’d received the SD card and released the report.
A red flashing message interrupted my dismal thoughts. My heart sank. I had to report to the medical office. My shoulders slumped with dread. I left the office with a sense of urgency to talk to Brandon before reporting to medical.
Brandon’s door was partially open. I poked my head in. “Hey, Brandon, did you see the news about an unidentified man found in the desert?”
Squinting at me as if irritated, Brandon sarcastically said, “I haven’t seen the news in days!”
“Oh, you didn’t receive a new project this morning?”
Brandon’s eyes widened. “What new project? I have a report due at noon. And I’m behind on two other programs.”
“Sorry for the interruption,” I said, hoping the project was in central services for approval to forward a file frame to Brandon. I probably would be chastised for not getting approval first.
Reluctantly, I headed for
the medical office, acutely aware that I had to pass the physical examination planned for me.
3
ON THE FOURTH floor, the executive offices housed a medical laboratory that employed a well-qualified staff who worked on classified cellular biology projects. Also, they provided general medical tests for employees. I often wondered why the lab was located on the executive floor. In Dr. Matthew’s office, I sat patiently as he read my chart, hoping he wouldn’t ask me a flood of questions.
Dr. Matthew, in a soft voice, said, “You understand why we are concerned?”
“Yes, I had a bad dream last night.”
He disregarded my remark casually, saying, “We will start with an echocardiogram and possibly a perfusion test that will include a florescent fluid to examine the blood flow to your heart.”
I took in a deep breath, knowing that any special fluid could last days in my system. I also knew that certain ingested fluids could be monitored remotely for a short duration. Smartphones and satellites were no longer the kings of tracking; GPS sensors were pervasive and could be temporarily or permanently implanted in organisms.
He did the perfusion test even though the echocardiogram indicated no blockage. After two hours of tests, I waited in a private room for the final results. I drank as much water as I could and peed profusely to flush the liquid test.
Dr. Matthew arrived with my report. “Your heart is healthy. However, I’ve recommended that you see Dr. Sonya, our resident psychologist.”
A frown spread across my face. Though I was glad my heart wasn’t damaged, the thought of seeing a psychologist rattled me.
In a monotone voice, Dr. Matthew added, “She’s expecting you this morning.”
This wasn’t my first psychological session. Two years earlier, I had refused to recant my evaluation on a controversial image from a rogue nation’s satellite. I’d vehemently defended my judgment and bucked Cascade’s preferred outcome. My behavior had classified me as “troublesome or unmanageable,” and I’d had to see a psychologist to review “my decision analysis.” This time, the stakes were far more personal. If not for my special skills, Cascade would have chosen a more cooperative operative.
To confirm my recollection, I asked, “Where is Dr. Sonya’s office?”
“I’ll take you to her office,” he said, shoving his glasses higher on his nose.
We passed the executive row of offices, which displayed brass door numbers instead of names and titles for security reasons. I only could name two executives from memos.
Dr. Matthew palmed the security pad to enter Dr. Sonya’s office. He seemed listless as we waited to see her. I wanted to avoid this session but needed to resolve the images.
Dr. Sonya greeted us with a smile, and Dr. Matthew quickly left. Dr. Sonya was an attractive blonde woman in her forties. She was of medium height and dressed in a white silk blouse and tan skirt. She appeared friendly but in command. She briskly said, “I will need your contract number to view your personal file.”
I politely gave her my file number and personal information. As she read my file, I looked around at the bare beige office walls without any framed certificates. I suspected she was under contract too.
Finally, she spoke. “You have an impressive dossier.”
I said, “Thank you,” wondering why that was valuable.
While she focused on her handheld computer, I refrained from fidgeting. Something captured her attention. She squinted and moved closer to her screen and took her time to read my file.
She leaned back, pushed a strand of blonde hair behind her ear and firmly said, “I don’t believe your dream story. You were conscious when your heart became erratic after midnight.”
I didn’t reply but wondered how she’d come to that conclusion.
With a stern voice, she asked, “What really happened last night?”
“I had a bad dream.”
“Tell me about the dream.”
Calmly, I said, “I was in a driverless vehicle without headlights under a dark sky. Concerned, I could barely see the road when suddenly a man appeared in front of the vehicle. That was it.”
“If it was dark without headlights, how could you see the man?”
“That was my perception in the dream.”
“Did the vehicle hit the man?”
“No. The dream ended,” I said, feeling uneasy.
Dr. Sonya frowned, observing the screen. She asked, “How did you feel when the man suddenly appeared?”
Curious what the screen displayed, I said, “I panicked.”
Dr. Sonya casually said, “Your psychology tests reveal a low fear syndrome compared to other males your age.”
Unaware I had taken a fear test, I asked, “What does that mean?”
Dr. Sonya took her eyes off the screen and asked, “Dak, what really frightened you last night?”
Looking back at the screen and not me, I realized she was monitoring my emotional reactions. I suspected Dr. Matthew’s fluid had more technical monitoring capabilities than I understood.
I sarcastically asked, “Are you monitoring my reactions?”
She said, “You are really defensive.”
“Wouldn’t you be?” I testily said, angry that the fluid could be a truth serum for all I knew.
With a smug expression, Dr. Sonya said, “You have a reason to be upset. Dr. Matthew gave you a special fluid to monitor your emotional responses.”
My left eye twitched. “I object to this invasive treatment.”
Her blue-green eyes glared at me as she leaned back in her chair. “Dak, what’s really bothering you? Could the images be upsetting you?”
Reactively, I decided the interview was over. This session could only get worse. I stood and calmly said, “I had a bad dream. End of interview.”
Sarcastically, she replied, “You need my permission to leave.”
I wasn’t waiting for her permission. I stood and walked out of her office. I prayed that security would not intercept and prevent me from leaving. Relieved that the empty elevator doors opened, I took deep breaths to restrain myself from reactive impulses. This project was too important.
The hallway to my office appeared exceptionally quiet. I palmed my door pad screen and read the red flashing words: “Entry restricted.”
Dr. Sonya’s voice echoed in my mind: “You need my permission to leave.” The steel office door appeared larger. I had to make a decision that I wouldn’t regret. First, I knew it would be reckless to leave without proper protocol. Secondly, I had to protect my BBB clearances. More important, I had to control the frustration that smoldered inside me. Immediately, I tried to calm my rebellious nature.
4
UNABLE TO RETRIEVE my backpack, I realized I hadn’t shredded my drawings, which defied regulations regarding working on sensitive projects outside Cascade. Fortunately, I had cash and electronic cards in my wallet. I had no choice but to see John Wheeler, the security manager. Confidently, I walked to his office, aware that security cameras followed my every step.
The office lobby was unattended, but through a cracked door, I could see John at his desk. Politely, I tapped on the door. “Hello, John. Do you have a moment?”
Wheeler grinned. “Come on in, Dak. Take a seat.”
I had met with John several times over contract negotiations and attended his mandatory security meetings. We had no personal contact, since Cascade discouraged any socializing. In the company café, posters lined the walls, quoting the consequences of idle chatter, including “Loose lips sink ships,” “Leak the name, suffer the blame,” “Rumors cause tumors,” and more fearful reminders.
I took a seat, firmly saying, “I’m restricted from my office.”
“Dak, you know the protocols.”
Unsure which protocol I had breached, I said, “Was leaving Dr. Sonya’s office a serious offense?
”
Wheeler leaned back in his chair and rubbed his chin, as if deciding what to say. He had accountability to the powers that be, but I wasn’t sure about the extent of his authority.
Wheeler leaned over the desk and motioned me to move closer. He whispered, “Dak, there’s heavy pressure for interpretation of the images. And there are hidden forces that want Cascade to fail, which includes you. The focus is on you and your ability to envision the origin of these fragmented images.”
Taken aback by his truthfulness about the weight of the project, I asked, “What do you recommend?”
Wheeler exasperatingly clicked his pen. He looked at me as if he were disappointed he couldn’t say more. Was he trying to warn me? Could Cascade legally hold me for security reasons? Could I cancel my Cascade contract?
Wheeler stopped clicking the pen. “You could resolve your insubordination with Dr. Sonya.”
“I’d like to reconsider with a couple days off.”
Wheeler smiled. “That could be complicated. I’ll need to view your personnel file.”
I gave John my contract number. I watched him closely as he thumbed through his computer, and his eyes widened. Then a strange low hum persisted on his computer.
Wheeler seemed disturbed. “Your request for time off is denied.” He stood from his chair and moved around his desk. “Dak, there’s an alarming report in your file.”
“What report?” I asked, feeling anxious.
With a cracked voice, Wheeler said, “This is serious; follow me.”
Uncertain what this meant, I followed him through a door marked “Storage.” Inside, we went through another door that opened to a hallway. Wheeler hastened his pace and opened a door to a stairwell that set off a full alarm. We pounded down three flights of stairs as I gasped, “What was in that report?”
