Forging the Nightmare

by J. J. Carlson

  “Eastpoint Mall, Northeast Lot, Friday, 1730.”

  His first impulse was to grab a phone and call Emily to see if she had received the same message, but he thought better of it. The whole point of the hand-delivered messages was to remove the need for phone calls, text messages, or other means of communication that could be intercepted.

  A chill ran up San’s spine. Jarrod had broken into his house, the place where his wife, teenage son, and eight-year-old daughter slept. He looked into his children’s rooms and found them sound asleep. He checked the front door, back door, and windows, but there were no signs of forced entry.

  It would be at least an hour before the kids woke up to get ready for school, so he finished brewing a pot of coffee, poured himself a piping hot mug, and sat down at the kitchen table. Friday afternoon was two days away, and he was more nervous than ever about the meeting. As he took his first sip of coffee, he wondered if it was pity or fear causing his insides to twist into knots.

  Friday finally arrived, and San parked at the Eastpoint Mall nearly an hour early. He passed the time reading a novel on his phone, then listening to the radio, browsing social media, twiddling his thumbs, reading some more, and checking his e-mail. Emily pulled into the space next to him at precisely five-thirty. San got out of his car, walked around to the trunk, then stored his phone in the insulated container Jarrod had left there. Emily climbed out of her vehicle and, after exchanging some hand gestures with San, stored her phone in the same, soundproof box.

  “Now what?” San asked.

  Emily shrugged. “Beats me. I guess we wait for him to come get us.”

  “Did you get the old computer you needed?”

  “Yep,” Emily said, patting an oversized laptop bag.

  San took a deep breath, stuffed his hands into his pockets, and looked around the parking lot. It wasn’t busy compared to some of the other lots, but there were still plenty of shoppers coming and going. San glanced at a security camera on the corner of a building. Then something caught his eye. A man was waving at them from beneath the camera, his back leaned against the wall.

  “I think that’s him,” San said, poking Emily in the arm. “Let’s go.”

  They tried to walk casually, as if they were meeting an old friend for drinks, but San couldn’t keep from checking over his shoulder every few seconds. Jarrod was wearing a black baseball cap and the same bulky sunglasses with a red polo shirt under a brown jacket. With his khaki pants and cheap athletic shoes, he fit the look of an underpaid retail employee perfectly.

  “Follow me, single file,” Jarrod said.

  They fell into step behind him as he led them around the building. Jarrod stopped them several times, avoiding the gaze of pivoting security cameras. Eventually, they came to a metal door behind a pair of noisy heating units. Jarrod pushed the door open and ushered them inside.

  The room was small, no more than ten feet each way. There were tools hanging from the wall and stacks of glossy advertisements on the floor. A uniform layer of dust over everything hinted that the room was seldom used. Jarrod invited them to sit on a pair of plastic crates. They obliged, and Jarrod remained standing.

  “It’s good to see you,” said Emily.

  Jarrod ignored her and opened the door a crack to peek out.

  “Emily is going to fix you up, Jarrod,” San said. “I have faith in her.”

  Emily dug into her bag and pulled out a bulky laptop. She set it on a crate and hit the power button. It began to click and whirr, seeming to struggle as it loaded its operating system.

  “What have you been up to?” San asked in a friendly tone.

  Jarrod pushed the door shut. “Waiting.”

  “Just…waiting for three days?” San asked, his eyes wide. “I wish I had your patience.”

  “Aha!” Emily said, clapping her hands together. “I thought this old relic would never boot up. It looks like we can get started.”

  Jarrod remained by the door, ignoring the implied invitation to sit down.

  Emily wasn’t surprised and showed no sign of impatience. “Your situation is complicated, Jarrod. Drastic changes have been made to the physical structures within your brain. Ideally, we could plug you into the mental conditioning machine and treat you with that. It was one of my original intentions when designing the machine. However, it has since been adapted for combat-related applications. In any case, it is out of our reach for now, and we will have to treat your symptoms with more dated methods.”

  Emily crossed one leg over the other and rested her hands on her knee. “If you feel uncomfortable at any time, know that we can always stop and take a break or even come back to it another day. I will not rush you, or judge you harshly at any time. Does that sound okay?”

  Jarrod nodded.

  “Excellent. First, I want you to know that there is no reason to believe you can’t be treated. The human brain, and the mind within it is more complicated than anything else in the known universe. Yours was poked, prodded, and adjusted, but not changed entirely. It is still a wonderful, unique, and adaptable part of your body, and it can still heal. Would you mind telling me the symptoms you have that led you to consider therapy?”

  “Disorientation characterized by a loss of spatial awareness and sense of time,” Jarrod rattled off. “Hallucinations, that negatively impact vision, sense of smell, and hearing.”

  “Wow. That’s pretty specific,” Emily said, grinning. “Is there anything that triggers these hallucinations? Perhaps a thought, or some sort of cue in the external environment?”

  “There are environmental cues,” Jarrod said, “but it’s generally internal. Any efforts to remember events prior to the night when I escaped Hillcrest can bring on the hallucinations.”

  “That is not surprising. You may be trying to shut out traumatic or unwanted memories, and the nano-machinery in your brain may allow you to do it very effectively. If you have a particularly vivid memory, it may be difficult to keep it from overwhelming you when you try to recall anything about it. Can you tell me what you see when you hallucinate?”

  Jarrod’s head twitched. “Talking about it might trigger one, and I don’t know if I am coherent when it happens.”

  “That’s alright,” Emily assured him. “San and I will be right here. You are safe in this room with us, and I know what to listen for. I can help you sort things out, even if you become disoriented.”

  Emily took a deep breath, and added, “It might be scary, reliving whatever memory pops up, but it will help to talk about it. Eventually, your brain will begin to realize that it is just a memory, and you will be able to access it without losing awareness of where you are.”

  Emily reached into the bag and pulled out a small audio recorder. “I’d like to record what you say while you are having your hallucination. I’ll give it to you, and you can listen to it later. If you listen to it repeatedly, it may help you become more comfortable with the memory.”

  Jarrod glanced at San, as if blaming him for letting Emily bring the device to the meeting.

  “It’s okay,” San said, “Emily is really good at this. If anybody is going to help you get better, it’s her, and I would trust her with my life.”

  Jarrod looked back at Emily and nodded his approval.

  Emily clicked the record button and said, “Jarrod, can you tell me the name of the building you were operated on, and then escaped from?”

  “Hillcrest Trauma and Rehabilitation Center.”

  “That’s right. Do you remember the name of your combatives trainer at Hillcrest?”

  “Eugene Carver.”

  “Correct. Do you remember what my office at Hillcrest looked like, the place where you would come in to talk to me before they moved you into the basement?”

  A twitch. “Yes.”

  “Very good. Now…” Emily turned the laptop around so Jarrod could see it. The screen displayed an image of a large home surrounded by tall pine trees. “Can you tell me who resided in this house?”
r />   “Jarrod…Hawkins,” he answered slowly. “I did. I lived there.”

  “You’re doing very well. Keep breathing, everything is okay. Keep in mind that you are safe in this room with San and I. Do you remember the names of the people that lived in this house with you?”

  Jarrod twitched again; this time his right shoulder shot toward his ear. “I do.”

  “Please tell me their names.” Emily’s voice was compassionate, but authoritative.

  “M—Melody,” Jarrod stammered. “Melody Hawkins, and…”

  Jarrod’s chest began to rise and fall rapidly. He glanced around the room as if seeing something the others couldn’t. “Joshua!” he shouted. His voice was high-pitched and wracked with pain. “Oh, God, no!”

  Jarrod reached out with his arms, as if feeling his way through the dark. “Joshua!” Tears poured down his cheeks. “Joshua, please, open your eyes!”

  “Jarrod, listen to me,” Emily said firmly, “Joshua is not here. What you are seeing is not real.”

  Jarrod’s chest continued to rise and fall in half-breaths. He glanced at Emily, then at his hands. Confusion spread over his face and he looked around the room with sharp glances. “Emily?” he asked.

  “That’s right. I’m here, Jarrod, and so is San.”

  Jarrod glanced quickly at San. “San? Where is Joshua?”

  “Joshua is gone,” Emily answered for him. “Joshua and Melody are dead. You know this. They died in a car accident, and you were there, you saw it happen. But you are not there now.”

  Jarrod sucked in a deep breath, regaining his composure. He inclined his head toward the door, then opened it a crack and looked outside. He put his ear up to the gap, listen for a full minute, then closed the door and turned around.

  “Again,” he said.

  “We can take a break, Jarrod,” San said. “You don’t have to do this all at once.”

  Emily squinted in thought. She spun the laptop around, clicked a few times, then turned it back toward Jarrod. The screen was entirely black except for a small, white circle that blinked back and forth.

  “We are going to go through it again, Jarrod. And this time, I want you to follow the little white light with your eyes.”

  Jarrod’s looked down at the screen. His eyes flicked back and forth.

  “It’s called Eye Movement Desensitization and Reprocessing,” she explained. “It’s not a new technique, but it might help. We’ll talk some more, but I want you to keep your eyes focused on the light the entire time, got it?”

  Jarrod nodded, and Emily began again.

  Emily, San, and Jarrod emerged from the room three hours later. They backtracked toward the parking lot with Jarrod leading the way.

  Jarrod stopped short at a merchandise loading bay and said, “You can go back to your vehicles from here.”

  San put a hand on Jarrod’s shoulder. “You going to be okay?”

  “I’ll contact you soon,” Jarrod answered.

  “You did extremely well today,” Emily said. “I don’t know if your resiliency is innate, or if it’s a by-product of your transformation, but I am very impressed with the progress you made.”

  Jarrod held out a hand, indicating for them to return to the parking lot.

  “Right. We’ll see you soon, Jarrod,” San said with a bright smile. He started to cross the parking lot with Emily at his side. After a few paces, he chanced a look back, but Jarrod was gone.

  “That was incredible,” San whispered. “I can’t believe his stamina, reliving that terrible moment over and over again.”

  “Repetition is important,” Emily replied. “And I have a feeling his capability for recall and adaptation are even greater than I anticipated. If he does the homework I assigned, he should make rapid improvement.”

  “You think those machines in his head are helping?”

  “I think they can help him recover. But they also make my job more difficult. His hallucinations are probably more vivid than any normal person could experience.”

  San nodded. “I’m glad you’re the one taking care of him, he couldn’t be in better hands.”

  “I hope you’re right,” Emily said.

  When they reached their cars, San opened his trunk and returned her phone. “Well, have a good night. Let’s do this again sometime,” he said, grinning.

  Emily slipped her phone into her pocket, and the covert therapists bade each other goodbye.

  29

  Reclining beneath a large hickory tree in the center of an urban park, Jarrod discreetly took in his surroundings. Thin row houses surrounded the island of green like decks of cards standing on edge. The architecture heralded back to a time when the neighborhood was upscale and quaint. Now, paint was flaking badly from the exterior of the homes, and many of the windows were boarded up with plywood. Rusted, broken-down vehicles lined the streets on all sides of the small park. It was nearly two hours past midnight on Sunday morning and loud music still thumped within several of the homes.

  Jarrod held a large bottle in his right hand. The half-gallon jug bore a label for cheap vodka but was actually filled with tap water. Jarrod sipped it, eyeing the street from under a dark hood. His time with San and Emily had improved his mental state—he could search his memories without experiencing flashbacks as long as he avoided thinking about his deceased wife and child. Emotions still eluded him, but he was beginning to learn who he once was. The old Jarrod had been lighthearted and brave. He often ventured into the most hostile parts of the globe protecting people he did not know, and he loved all children as if they were his own.

  San had encouraged him to listen to his feelings, but it was difficult. Now, emotions came to him like words on a teleprompter. Merely knowing how the old Jarrod would react to things was not the same as feeling the emotions himself.

  Two men started shouting on the street to his right, and Jarrod didn’t even turn his head. His survival instincts kicked in, telling him not to get involved. He knew if he stayed motionless he would probably remain unnoticed. If the men discovered him, it would be easy for him to outrun them. Before he even sat down by the tree, Jarrod had scouted out a dozen escape routes.

  Still, he didn’t think the old Jarrod would sit and hide. The old Jarrod would at least investigate to make sure there were no innocents in danger.

  Fighting his instinct to hide, Jarrod placed the jug on the ground and crept toward the sound of the heated argument. He flattened onto his stomach behind an evergreen shrub and peaked out with black eyes.

  A man in his mid-twenties was shouting at a younger male. The younger man was perhaps sixteen, but stood three inches taller than the other.

  Jarrod could taste fear, anger, and intense hatred in the air. The older male said something about disrespect, then reached behind his back. The younger man took a step back and turned to run, but it was too late. The other man pulled a silver pistol from his waistband and shot him twice in the back. The teenager toppled forwards, clutching at the exit wounds in his torso.

  The man with the gun took a step forward, raised his pistol, and put another round into his victim’s head.

  No curtains flung open. No sirens sounded. No concerned citizens ran to the scene. The murderer simply hid the pistol under his shirt and jogged away.

  Eddie looked left and right, then ducked into an unlit alley. It wasn’t the first time he had killed someone. It wasn’t even the third time. He doubted the police would be called until morning, but he needed to dump the gun just in case. The chrome-finished .40 caliber pistol was unregistered, but he couldn’t keep it now. His disrespectful, loud-mouthed cousin had taken three slugs that could potentially be tied to the weapon. Eddie wiped down the gun with his shirt and tossed it into a storm drain. Digging his hands in his pockets, he turned toward home. It would only take him a few minutes to walk the three blocks, and then he would be untouchable.

  There was a scratching noise behind him. He ignored it, knowing better than to turn his head and show his face. Inst
ead, he strode forward with the confidence of an innocent man. After ten more steps, he heard another sound to his right. This was louder, like the sound of someone dragging their feet though dried leaves.

  “Somebody there?” he said without breaking stride.

  A dog barked in the distance, and the dark street grew quiet. Eddie picked up his pace, skirted the illuminating beam of a porch light, and turned a corner. When he passed a chain link fence, it shook violently and he jumped aside.

  “Who is that?” he shouted. “Don’t play with me, man. I ain’t somebody you wanna mess with.”

  Eddie peered into the darkness surrounding the fence and thought he heard someone breathing. He took a step forward, and the breathing stopped. Something shot past him, and he whirled around. In the shadows on the other side of the street, a small child started to cry.

  “Kid, you need to get outta here, and mind your own business,” Eddie said, shaking his head. He turned and had a hitch in his step as he walked away. Two more blocks to safety.

  He passed an old brick house with broken windows. The house was abandoned, had been since old man Jefferson died. But for some reason, Eddie felt like someone was watching him from inside.

  Something thumped against the roof, and Eddie took a step back, trying to see what made the noise. For a moment, he thought he could see the shape of a person. Then, the hot sensation of someone breathing in his ear made him spin around again. A man in torn blue jeans and a brown, hooded jacket stood inches away from him.

  “The hell?” Eddie shouted, nearly tripping over himself as he brought his fists up. “Why don’t you back off before I do something you’ll regret.”

  The man in the hood held up his hands and backed away. Eddie squinted, trying to see a face, but all he saw beneath the hood was blackness.

  Eddie puffed his chest out. “I’m telling you, back off!”

  The hooded figure took a few mores steps back, then turned and walked away. Eddie watched him until he disappeared at the end of the block.