“Let me see that! Dr. Collins jerked the small journal from his colleague’s hands. “Devin snow?”
“They’re all like that,” Forrest told him. “Entries 20 through 33 are all like that. Devin snow. Maybe we were right. Maybe Snow had assumed total control by the time he escaped. Maybe the transformation was—”
“Becoming.”
Forrest Shrugged. “I don’t know,”
“Yes you do,” Dr. Collins pressed. “Becoming. Devin Snow.”
“Just exactly what are you getting at?” Dr. Forrest asked.
“I think our mission just changed.”
“Changed?”
“I think it’s safe to assume Dr. Bryan Flannigan no longer exists.”
“You can’t just erase a personality like that! It’s who he is!”
“It’s who he was.”
“Like I said,” Forrest insisted, “You can’t just erase a personality from existence. That’s not how bipolar or multiple personalities exist. They exist back to back, one after the other. Often unaware. But…”
“That’s not how it works for normal human beings. That’s not how it works in our reality. But, when reality loses its grip, nothing works like it’s supposed to. This is not a simple case of one man’s schizophrenia or daddy’s rough hand causing a multiple to be created. This is—”
“Oh Geez!” Forrest shouted, “You’re talking straight out of some J.R.R. Tolkien novel!”
“That may be so,” Dr. Collins said, “but we’re not dealing with a simple hobbit.”
“Okay,” Dr. Forrest sighed, “what do we want to do about it, Mr. Hemingway?”
“I think Flannigan supplied us with the answer himself.”
Dr. Forrest looked more confused than before.
“Look here,” Collins pointed to a passage in the diary, “Entry number 12. Death must come. Well then it will come.”
Silence. Uncertainty.
“How do we even know that this Snow can be killed?”
“If we’re wrong,” Collins said, “we’ve just spent the last several years of our lives helping Bryan Flannigan destroy humanity.”
The room grew colder.
Much colder.
“So” Dr. Forrest asked, “you want to call him or shall I?”
Without a word, Dr. Gene Collins picked up the receiver on his desk phone. He punched in a sequence of numbers. Dr. Forrest didn’t ask who he was calling. He didn’t have to. They weren’t the only scientists and researchers who used this man to clean up their messes.
“Burke,” Collins spoke abrupt and to the point. “We have a situation. Report to base immediately for your assignment. Status three.”
With those words, he hung up. Dr. Forrest didn’t even know if he had reached a person or a machine, but it wasn’t for him to know. He knew what was coming and he prepared himself for the worst.
* * *
Flannigan Project Entry 20
Personal Diary of Devin Snow
TERROR ONE
Listen to my story told
For no man knows of its unfold
You’ve heard the tales of heroed men
Whoever vanquished Hell’s villains
But only having heard this tale
Will you know of Darkest Hell
That which is evil from kind and just
As innocence returns to dust
No greater tale I dare say unfolds
Than this new tale in times of Old.
No greater Hell did spawn of Fate
Than in the heart filled deep with hate
Born in the name of Flannigan
Christened in blood, the Devil’s Sin
The secret son in shadows slept
Smiling in the hearts that wept
No Power had he, save strength of hand
In which Fat held Time’s trickling sand
The Power of decision in his mind’s eye
The hourglass broken, sand running dry
Immortal to the eyes of Fear
Timeless as a sand-filled sphere
No hand of man may smite his head
For Living Death can’t be made dead.
* * *
At thirty-four, Burke Atherton was a busy man, though he gave the appearance to the contrary. He lived a quiet life, unassuming, unknown to many of the tenants surrounding is Galveston beach house. His choice of coastal living wasn’t by chance. Nor was it forced upon him.
Burke loved the water, always had. In his otherwise stoic existence, it was the one thing that charged him with passion. That and the feel of his M4A1 carbine. Ah, that’s a beautiful lady!
Burke was, in all forms of the word, a trained killer.
When he pushed the talk button on his phone, he knew these precious moments of relaxation were at an end, even before he heard the voice on the other end. There were now only three people in the country that had his number. He was one, Gene Collins was the second. The third was a man with whom he often worked side-by-side, despite a mutual penchant for anonymity and solitude.
His eyes were a piercing shade of blue, oceanic blue. He stood just a shade under 5’10 and weighed around 190, solid muscle. Chiseled face, dusty blond locks, cropped short, swept left. He was, loosely defined, a business man. He was in the business of taking people out. One person, two people, or the entire Third World army of whatever dictator was currently threatening freedom. It didn’t matter. Burke Atherton might not have been a saint, but he certainly had rid the world of a great many sinners.
Burke’s history with the SEAL team went all the way back to Panama. It was his first assignment out of SEAL training.
His was just one of thousands of stories CNN never got wind of. He was one of the ones that, when asked where this medal or that medal came from, would stare cold in your eyes and remind the interested party what curiosity had once done to the proverbial cat. He was nothing if not SEAL to the bone. And, even today, he took pride in everything he did.
His orders were clear. Report to Ackerby with the team, which is to say his partner and a couple local muscle hires Burke had grown accustomed to using. Must be something serious, he thought to himself. With Iraq’s hand firmly slapped and Russia out of business, as the new millennium was beginning, Status Threes were rare.
He ended the transmission and speed dialed the only other person that had the number to his cellular. The closest thing he’d ever had to a real friend since leaving SEAL life behind.
“Will?” he said, speaking quietly but with an evident air of urgency. “Burk here. The entire team’s been called up. I need you to contact the guys and meet me at the airstrip in two hours.”
A pause. Silence.
“I don’t have any details, but plan on full gear. I was told this was Stat Three.”
With that, the two exchanged brief pleasantries and confirmed plans to meet at Burke’s private airstrip for the journey back to Fort Ackerby.
* * *
Flannigan Project Entry 23
Personal Diary of Dr. Bryan Flannigan.
I don’t know how long I have been gone. Dr. Forrest does not trust that it is me again. I believe Dr. Collins suspects the truth, but I can’t be sure.
The Voices! Can’t Ignore Them!
Timeless as a sand-filled sphere.
Flannigan is dead!
TERROR TWO
Old men still cry of long ago
When beat the heart of Devin Snow
And spoke did he of Satan’s Sin
In Prophecy called Flannigan
The key that was the innocents
His prophecy a testament
With courage fought he Flannigan
With battles waged in hearts of men
No life untouched as battle raged
Twixt Devil’s Sin and Heaven’s Page
In darkest hours ride the knight
On heaven’s steed of love and light
With powers matched to Flannigan
Where darkness falls, light lives again
Darkness battles purest light
Eternity’s unending fight.
If Innocence should die away
Flannigan would win the day
With power multiplied by five
Innocence remains alive
To fight the fight that has no end
The weakest fall to Flannigan
Their power multiplied again
They cast a light on Heaven’s sin.
* * *
“Look at this!” Dr. Collins shoved the diary toward Dr. Forrest.
As Dr. Forrest read the entry, his head swam. Tingles, not unlike the painful results of smacking your elbow on a metal desk, spread from his scalp outward, covering his face, settling in his spine.
“I thought you said all the entries were Devin Snow, from like 20 on?”
“I thought they were,” Collins said.
“Could have been a trick.”
“Could be. But we can’t be sure. I remember him trying to convince me that he was Bryan Flannigan again. I remember him asking crazy things. I remember questioning the possibility, even hoping—”
“Hoping he’d won.”
“Precisely,” Collins said, nodding. “Look at the way this poem reads in contrast to the previous one.”
“Reads different?”
“Quite different. Look here.” Collins pointed to the middle of the poem. “In the first poem, it was as if it was a warning that Devin Snow was this Ultimate Evil. Like some self-serving admonition that he was Satan himself. But—”
“Here,” Dr. Forrest continued, finally realizing where his colleague was heading, “It’s as if Devin Snow is warning us that he’s the good guy and Bryan Flannigan is the Devil. Like maybe Devin is the result of the Devil’s work?”
“I couldn’t have said it better.”
“I’m no psychiatrist, but I think he was playing with our minds. I think he wanted us to doubt everything. Doubt Flannigan, doubt ourselves. Doubt our sanity.”
“”But look at this,” Collins said, pointing to the last line of the poem. “If this is to be believed, then there’s no longer any question. Bryan Flannigan is, indeed, dead.”
“You can’t believe—”
“Can’t I?” Collins asserted. “What’s believable anymore? That Bryan Flannigan is the Antichrist incarnate? That this Devin Snow is some innocent creation of a very evil man? You knew Flannigan. He might have had his problems, but he was no Antichrist.”
“So, you’re saying…What exactly?”
“I’m saying that Bryan Flannigan, Devin Snow whoever he is, will have to be destroyed. The Flannigan Project is officially over.”
“What about the other?”
“We must leave no trace that Project Flannigan ever existed.”
Silence.
The blood left Dr. Forrest’s face. He needed to steady himself.
“No trace, Doctor,” Collins repeated.
“I understand.”
CHAPTER 14
WHEN IT SNOWS IT POURS
It was dark when Tina pulled into the parking lot for her night class. Psychology. On the upside, she only had it once a week, even if it was at night. On the down side, it was at night. At least tonight seemed to be a decent night. There was a slight chill to the wind, but nothing severe enough to warrant more than a light coat. As she entered the Student Services building, she noticed the familiar Mall area had been cleaned during the day. Vaporous lavender illumination dangled from the lampposts above. Given the number nearby, she was taken aback how dark the immediate area remained, as if the light itself were being sucked out of the world, despite the best efforts of the nearby lampposts.
A large number of cars filled the two nearby parking lots. An oddly large number, given the time of night and the few classes being offered during this time. As she passed through the corridor of the Student Services building, she noticed a young man in a wheelchair, wandering the halls as if confused about where he was supposed to be. Though young, he looked to be a few years older than Tina. Maybe 23, if she had to guess. Dark hair, but she couldn’t quite see his eyes, in the dim light of the corridor.
This particular building was in terrible shape. The walls were dingy. The floors were dusty and unkempt. There was a foul odor in the air that Tina could neither locate nor describe. As she began her trek up the staircase to the second floor, the young man in the wheelchair spoke to her.
“Excuse me.”
Tina turned, tried to put on as welcome appearance as possible. “Yes?”
“Can you tell me where room 231 is?”
“I’m not sure, but I’m thinking it’s upstairs. Are you sure you have the right building?” Tina was amazed that she had managed to feign such an interested response.
“Yes,” he sighed, obviously frustrated at the outdated facilities he was attending. She couldn’t tell if he was more mad, sad or simply unsure as to which emotion more accurately described his precarious position.
Tina couldn’t and didn’t pretend to understand his frustration. This building contained no elevator and the powers that be had been slow about renovating, despite pressure from local authorities that they get their buildings up to code. Even in a world where Tina was content to keep her head down, she was not ignorant of the recent events surrounding the simple truths of life.
Still, this was no time to keep her head down. It wouldn’t be right to at least act helpful, she told herself. Reluctantly, Tina found out which class the young man was looking for, the name of the teacher and informed him that she would be sure to let the teacher know of his situation. It was the least she could do, she told herself. With that simple promise, she was off to class. Having informed the teacher of the young man, whose name she had not bothered to acquire, Tina’s duty as the Good Samaritan would be done. She tried to brush the young an out of her mind, but even in her standoffish existence, Tina found herself occasionally wondering what was going to happen to the young man in the wheelchair.
* * *
Tina was shocked that there was a building anywhere in the world that could withstand this kind of neglect. The top floor was terribly in need of renovation. The first door she passed read “News Room”. She surmised that was the entrance to the student newspaper. The next door had the number 231 on it. The teacher was the only one in the room, so Tina did her duty and informed the woman of the young man awaiting assistance on the lower level. Right beside room 231 was the room in which the college yearbook was created. There were several computer stations in the room, but no other desks to speak of.
The rest of the corridor was dotted with rooms that were oddly out of sequence. The doors past room 231 and the yearbook room were numbered 226 and 221 respectively. Numbers on the opposite side of the hallway were 213, 216, 227 and finally room 222. At the very end of the corridor was a door with no number or designation. Perhaps a closet, Tina thought. Perhaps an unused office or that of a professor who, like Tina, valued his personal space to a fault.
It was room 216 that Tina needed. When she entered, she found 2 other students in the classroom. Both were silently reading their textbooks. One, a male, possibly around 25 years old, looked up and smiled but said nothing.
The desks were arranged to accommodate quite a number of students. Seven rows of seven chairs and one row of four at the far end of the room, where a protrusion prevented chairs any further back. So far, neither of her other classes had nearly enough students to fill the chairs therein, though they came close. Tina could only hope that there weren’t 50 students as desperate as she for a psychology credit.
Tina made her way toward the back of the row closest to the door. Odd for her character, rather than retreat all the way to the back, she chose the third seat from the front. Sitting down, she turned, momentarily considered moving back, but decided against it, as such a move would draw unwanted attention. She’d chosen her seat. Here she would sit.
She retrieved a pen from her purse, placed the notebook on the desktop, opened it to
the front section trying desperately to look busy. The textbook for this class was the thinnest of the three, not counting a study guide she’d picked up for her history class. About the thickness of a mass market paperback. The aqua cover was a hardback, bearing no picture to accompany the words “Introductory Psychology” and the author’s name. A very simple book for what she expected to be a very deep class.
A little closer to 6:30, students began to filter in. All together, Tina counted 17 students, including herself. She didn’t recognize any of the faces as sharing day classes with her until, to her surprise, Devin Snow appeared in the doorway, looking very much different than his daytime self. His features were the same, but there was a gray tint to his skin. His eyes looked like he hadn’t slept in days. He looked almost ill, though his walk was quite deliberate. Even his manner of dress was different. Looking at the gray duster, Tina was reminded of the recent tragedies among the nation’s high schools. It wasn’t until Devin saw her and smiled that her mind eased. Even still, her insides shook.
She returned Devin’s smile, watched to see where he would sit. There were three choices near her. The seat immediately in front of her, the one immediately to her left and the one to the left of the person sitting behind her. She watched Devin, who seemed to wander, if with intent. Eventually, he made his way down the row next to Tina. He waved. At first, Tina thought he was waving at her,, but soon realized he was waving to the person sitting to Tina’s left.
Tina watched as the young man who was sitting there got up, picked up his books and moved two seats back, without so much as a word to anyone, even Devin.
When Devin sat down in the seat beside her, Tina whispered, “So you know that guy?”
“No,” Devin said, matter-of-factly. “I just wanted to sit here.”
“And so you are,” Tina said, confused. She could feel the hurt manifesting in her look, and forced a smile to cover her trepidation. Something in Devin’s returned smile lacked the warmth of earlier that day.
“Um, Devin?” she whispered, shyly.
“Just as he turned to look at her, Tina’s gaze was diverted by the teacher entering the room. To her surprise, a familiar face of Dr. Malcolm Shepard smiled back at her. Her future employer was teaching the class?
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