The Collective Protocol

by Brian Parker

  “I think so. I mean, I’m in the lobby of the club with the bouncer,” she replied.

  “If there truly is some type of mass hysteria event, you may need to move further away from the club than you are now. Are you able to do that?”

  “Uh, yes. I guess so.”

  “Okay, I’ll need you to go outside and wait for the officers. There was a car at the university; it should be there any moment.”

  Sirens wailed outside the building and Reagan walked towards the door. “Hey, where are you going with my phone?” Slade asked.

  “I’m sorry, this isn’t my phone,” Reagan told the operator. “The police are here, so I can just talk to them.”

  “Alright, ma’am. The officer has arrived on site. Be safe.”

  “Bye,” she mumbled automatically and hit end on the phone’s front. Then she handed the phone back to Slade and said, “Thanks, man.”

  She opened the door to the alley slowly and stepped outside. The police cruiser was at the head of the alley and the officer was talking into his radio. “Hey, over here!” she shouted and raised her arms above her head.

  The officer looked over at her and said something else into his radio before slowly walking over. “What seems to be the problem, miss?”

  “I was down in the club and everyone started freaking out. They attacked each other. I know for sure that one woman is dead and a bunch of people are injured.”

  “Okay, okay. Calm down,” the police officer replied with his hand out in a placating gesture. “Why hasn’t anyone else called this in?”

  “I’m not lying! Look, I have blood all over me,” she answered frantically.

  “What? Wait a minute!” The officer bent his head to his shoulder and put a call over the radio for backup. “Where is the fight taking place?”

  Reagan gestured towards the door of the building and said, “In there. You go through the lobby area and down the stairs into the club.”

  “Okay, I need you to stay here. There should be an ambulance here in a few minutes. They’ll take care of you.”

  He placed his hand firmly across the pistol grip of his 9mm and stepped inside while she stood helplessly in the alley waiting for the rest of the police officers to arrive.

  TWO

  In the bustling city of Calgary, Alberta a new high rise overlooking the river had just been completed. The builders removed the old bus station to the east of the small college campus near the Bow River Pathway and the skyscraper took up the entire city block. During the fourteen months that it was under construction, the people of the city often wondered what the building would be. The typical builder’s notice of who owned the property or what the building’s purpose would be wasn’t posted like they normally were. Most of the passerby’s thought that it was probably another apartment complex with poor advertising, but as the time passed, the building became more mysterious to everyone.

  Once it was finished, a simple sign hung above the lobby entrance that announced that the building housed the offices of The Collective Protocol. Several of the city’s residents tried to discover information about the organization on the internet without any luck. Some of the more adventurous even attempted to enter the lobby which was clearly marked with signs saying trespassers would be prosecuted. Those unfortunates discovered how harsh the Canadian government could be on those individuals who were labeled “domestic terrorists.”

  High above the petty problems of the average citizens below, a meeting was in session on the 25th floor between the Canadian Security Intelligence Service, Canadian Forces, the Royal Canadian Mounted Police and Paige Watkins, the head of the Collective Protocol. The meeting was the first time that all four elements had physically been in the room together since the project was originally envisioned more than two years ago.

  “I told you that it could be done,” Paige stated with a smirk.

  “I never doubted you for a second, dear,” the Commissioner of the RCMP stated. Gavin Dartmouth had been the chief officer in the Mounties for a little over five years. He’d worked closely with Paige since the very beginning when her special abilities were brought to his attention. He was aging and knew that his time was running out; the Collective Protocol was his only chance to see the nation of heathens to the south go to hell, like they deserved.

  “I know, Gavin,” Paige replied. “You’ve always been there for me, even before my powers were fully developed and I was little more than a sideshow attraction.”

  “Miss Watkins, I know that you’re talking about us, but believe me, the Canadian Forces are now one hundred percent behind you,” Brigadier General Mark Patel rebutted. “Your demonstration in Washington, D.C. was nothing short of amazing.”

  “It’s only the beginning, brigadier. I can replicate that same scenario a hundred times or I could start race wars that will ripple beyond the people that I initially controlled. We could also change it to something more subtle. The future is wide open for our cause.”

  “And what exactly is ‘our cause,’ mademoiselle?” the French Canadian CSIS officer asked. “We know why our government wants to overthrow the United States, but why is it that you’re so eager, hmm?”

  “I have my reasons Antoine. I told your predecessor the same thing… Before he went mad and threw himself in the river, that is.”

  “Do not threaten me, girl. I won’t hesitate to kill you.”

  Suddenly Antoine stood up and slapped himself across the face. Then he sat down looking stunned. “That was just to show you that you have no power against me, Antoine,” Paige hissed. “Don’t ever threaten me again, or I won’t hesitate to make you kill yourself.”

  “I… I have never been treated this way, mademoiselle!” the spy blubbered. “How dare you violate my mind?”

  “It’s easy. A really crappy childhood tends to change your perspective about what is and isn’t allowed in society.”

  Gavin held up his hands and pleaded, “Please, don’t start with this. We all know that Paige could dispose of any of us whenever she wishes. It wouldn’t take much for her to rearrange our minds until we were blithering idiots. We also acknowledge that we’ve agreed that in exchange for our technological assistance, no one in the Collective Protocol’s inner circle would be subject to her mind manipulation. We’re on the same side, united in a common goal.”

  “You’re right, Gavin,” Paige admitted. “I’m sorry, Antoine. I just don’t do well with people threatening me. I took it my entire life, until my powers manifested themselves. I’ll keep my end of the bargain and stay out of your heads.”

  “Please do,” Antoine stated. “My superiors are still interested in why you want the Americans to self-destruct so badly that you’d be willing to kill millions of people.”

  “Let’s get this straight, I’m not killing anyone.” Paige corrected him. “I simply take what is already bubbling beneath the surface and turn it up while removing their inhibitions. It’s their own societal norms that have created their ability to react so violently.”

  The CSIS agent threw his hands up in exasperation. “Please, you don’t expect us to believe that! If that were truly the case, then your suggestion for Phase Two wouldn’t make any sense.”

  She stared at him coldly and replied, “I have my methods. I don’t need to explain them to you.”

  “So, let’s look at Phase Two then, eh?” Brigadier Patel said.

  “Right. Phase One’s demonstration was a brilliant success,” Gavin answered and began reading from a piece of folded paper. “The local news reported that more than four hundred people were killed in the mass hysteria event and another two hundred wounded. They’ve done autopsies and can’t find an initiator for the event—which is what the prime minister was primarily concerned with. No drugs or excessive alcohol which would have caused people to beat the hell out of each other until they died. Survivors have no recollection of doing any of this and report blacking out halfway through the concert.”

  “You’re absolutely certain that
there’s nothing to tie this to the Canadian government?” Mark Patel asked.

  “It would appear to have been a clean demonstration,” Antoine Leclerc answered. “We have spies throughout their country and everyone is talking about the insane actions of their youth all over the United States. It’s not just in D.C. Most people believe that the victims actually did take some new form of drug that their government doesn’t know how to test for. No one suspects that the music carried anything.”

  The brigadier ducked his head. “Then we believe that the demonstration was proof enough,” he said. “The Prime Minister has authorized us to move on to Phase Two.”

  “There will likely be considerable collateral damage to the animal population,” Gavin warned.

  “It can’t be helped. We just need your people on the border to ensure that the madness does not spread into Canada.”

  “Actually, I’ll focus the Protocol’s efforts further south,” Paige interjected. “They don’t understand borders or anything like that, so it will be easier on us. It’s a big country, there’s lots of room to operate away from our borders.”

  “Good,” Patel replied. “Let’s move forward with this and meet back here next month.”

  “Agreed. Watch the news, it will be fantastic,” the Collective Protocol’s lead officer stated.

  THREE

  Reagan’s cell phone blared loudly, waking her for class. She slapped uselessly at it in an effort to get it to switch over to snooze and then it accidently fell off the nightstand to the carpet below. The alarm’s church bell chimes continued to echo from under the bed where the phone had settled amid her discarded books.

  “Ugh,” Reagan moaned out loud. She’d had a rough week since the incident at the Razor’s Edge last Saturday night because the police had interrogated her just about every day. She needed a break, but still had one more day of classes until her weekend could begin.

  She tried to reach down to get her phone but couldn’t find it. When she finally forced her eyes open, everything in her room looked purple and her sleep-numbed mind had difficulty processing why that would be until she swept her hair out of her face and everything cleared up. The blogger sat up and stretched her arms luxuriously above her head. The vintage R.E.M. t-shirt that she wore rode up and exposed several smaller tattoos on her stomach and the bottom of a larger piece on her ribs.

  “Fine,” she muttered towards her stupid phone that continued to announce its wake up call.

  She slipped out of bed and crouched down to search for the offensive piece of equipment. When she finally found the phone, she slid her finger across the touch screen to turn it off. Her reward was blissful silence. For three seconds.

  “Honey, are you okay?” her mother asked as she knocked softly on the door before entering.

  “Yeah, Mom. I just dropped my phone.”

  Heather Lockhart came over and sat down on the edge of the bed and stared at her daughter sitting on the floor. “Are you sure? You’ve had a tough week.”

  “Yes, Mom. I’m sure.”

  “Okay. I just want you to know that I’m here to talk to if you want to tell me anything or talk about what happened.”

  “Mom, I’m okay! I’ve got to get ready for class,” Reagan stated and gathered her feet underneath herself to stand.

  Her mother nodded her head slowly and turned to walk out. It made Reagan’s heart soften a little bit to see her hurt expression. “Hey, Mom. Thanks for checking up on me. I’m okay, really.”

  The older woman turned and gave her daughter a hug, “I just don’t know what I’d do without you. You’re my everything.”

  “I know. Maybe once I’m done talking to the police every day I’ll be able to talk to you. It’s just a lot right now, y’know?”

  “I know, honey,” her mother replied. She stepped back from her daughter and rubbed her upper arm lightly. “Alright, get ready or you’ll be late. I like your new color.”

  Reagan stumbled into the bathroom and turned on the shower to warm it up. While the water heated she brushed her teeth and brushed the knots out of her curly hair so she could wash it. She’d forgotten this morning that she switched her hair color last night from the red shade that she’d worn for a few months to a bright purple. The box called the dye color ‘heliotrope’ and it was actually much brighter than she thought it would be when she started. She really liked it, though; it made her feel pretty.

  Once she was done with the shower she threw on some street clothes. Then she wrapped a towel around her head to help soak up some of the water and sat at her computer to check email and her blog’s message board. There were several people asking why she hadn’t posted a new video in a while, but she had to bite her tongue and make generic replies about being busy in school.

  The police had expressly forbidden her from talking about the events of the concert until the investigation was over, but one of the officers had admitted to her that they had no clue what the cause of the problem was, so they couldn’t keep her silent forever. The general belief was an unidentifiable drug that had been administered to everyone before Reagan got there or through the drinks that she didn’t order. Unfortunately, the bartender was among the club’s dead. All the tests from the bar inventory came back negative for chemicals so the authorities were truly stuck at a dead end.

  Reagan answered a few more private messages and then logged off when her alarm went off a second time. This alarm was the one that told her if she didn’t leave right now she wouldn’t make it to school on time. She picked up her backpack and walked down the hall. Her mother stood by the front door, like she did every school day, with a bottle of water and an apple wrapped in a paper towel. Reagan grabbed the apple as she walked by and blew a kiss towards the older Lockhart woman.

  She thought about how lucky she was to have such a dedicated family. Her mother had always been a stay at home mom and made sure that everything was perfect around the house. Even as a small child, she never remembered the house being a mess, which was an accomplishment once her little sister Ansley came along. Her father was a defense contractor and had worked for over thirty years for the same company. As a contractor he’d been able to pick and choose his assignments so they’d been able to stay in D.C. the entire time. Hell, Reagan still occupied the same bedroom that she did when she was in diapers.

  For now, staying at home was the most advantageous situation for her. It was much better than getting an apartment with a roommate. She was able to dedicate time to studying and developing her website instead of working, like most of her friends had been forced to do in order to make the rent. Plus, her mom always had food available and even did her laundry. But the biggest advantage in Reagan’s mind was that their house was a six-minute walk from campus, nine to the front door of her first class this semester. There was no way that she could afford any of the apartments or houses that close to the university. That also translated to saving money on a car payment and she could ride the Metrobus everywhere else that she needed to go in the city or even the Metro if she needed to go farther out beyond the city.

  Reagan had been lucky enough to schedule all of her classes on Monday, Wednesday and Friday’s this semester, but it made for long days. She took a bite of her apple and waived to the cop who sat in the unmarked car watching her house. They’d been there since the incident and it was clear that they didn’t trust her or believe her story that everyone was fine one minute and then killing each other the next. She was still a suspect in their eyes.

  Behind her the unmarked car shifted into gear and slowly followed her as she walked toward school. God, what a toolbag! They could at least have the decency to get out and follow me on foot. She was already bored with the whole ordeal. It had become routine at this point and it needed to stop. While Reagan admittedly didn’t have much of a social life outside of clubbing and chatting with internet friends, the constant police presence was definitely interfering with the possibility of her having a social life.

  Eight minute
s later she opened the door to the performing arts center to begin her long day of classes.

  FOUR

  The crosshairs on the rifle’s scope intersected right behind the buck’s furry ears. From this distance Seth couldn’t tell for sure how many points the rack was, but he guessed that it was at least twelve. Damn, that’s bigger than the ten-point on my wall, he thought while he shifted his aim point to the animal’s chest where the heart resided. No sense messing up the head. I can get that stuffed and mounted. It would look great over my couch!

  He rested his finger against the trigger and exhaled slowly. He was ready to go when a growl close behind him startled him enough to pull his cheek from the rifle’s stock. He turned in time to see a coyote in mid-leap coming directly for him. He rolled to the left and the animal landed right where he’d been lying.

  “Hey, get outta here, you!” he yelled to the coyote. It turned towards him and growled again as it crouched low, preparing to jump again. Damn thing must be rabid, he told himself as he swung his rifle around towards the animal. He held off shooting until he was sure that it was going to attack. The moment the coyote’s front feet left the ground he fired into its chest. The animal crumpled to the ground, dead before it settled.

  “Dammit!” he cursed out loud. The deer was probably long gone now and he didn’t have anything to show for it. He’d been certain that the buck’s head was going to be mounted in his house and now he was upset. It wasn’t fair. He always had bad luck; it seemed to follow him everywhere.

  Seth pushed himself up off the ground and walked cautiously over to the twitching coyote. “What the hell was that all about?” he asked the corpse as he used the barrel of his rifle to open the eyelids to see if the pupils were dilated, which along with the actual attack would be an indicator of rabies. Animals in Alabama were always coming down with rabies, so the school system had drilled into everyone the signs and symptoms. Once an animal actually began to display any of the symptoms of the disease, then they were a goner. Nothing could be done for them.