The Path Of The Nightmare

by J. J. Carlson

  15

  Hasan Sarr was drowning. His chest convulsed, fruitlessly trying to pull in oxygen. His eyes snapped open and his hands shot to his throat. There was something in his mouth, blocking his airway. He coughed violently, spewing thick clots of coagulated blood. Slowly, his head began to clear. The first thing he noticed was the pain on the right side of his face. Then he realized he couldn’t see out of one eye. His memory flashed to the moment before he lost consciousness, of the gray wall tearing the skin from his bones. His fingers gingerly touched his face, and he shuddered. The panic only lasted a moment; his warrior instincts reminded him that he may still be in danger.

  Reaching out with his other senses, he tried to form a picture of his surroundings. His one good eye was little help. Everything was dim and blurry. Still, he got the feeling that he was in a classroom. A thumping sound reached his ears, then the familiar voices of his men. His lieutenant was shouting, telling him they would save him from…something. Hasan turned his head, not sure if he had heard right. His lieutenant’s voice was loud and clear this time. “We will save you—we will kill the nightmare!”

  As Hasan tried to figure out what his comrade meant, a black form took shape in front of him. He rubbed his eyes and the image became clearer. It was a large man, dressed in black from head to toe. Some sort of mask obscured the face, and Hasan couldn’t make out any distinct features.

  Hasan followed his instincts. Propping himself up with one hand, he lashed out with the other. The man leaned his head back, almost lazily, out of Hasan’s reach.

  “Don’t move,” the man said. “You’ve lost a lot of blood. If you exert yourself, you might pass out again. I need you awake for what comes next.”

  Despite the pain, Hasan sneered. He spoke through one side of his mouth. “My men will kill you. Then I will rape your corpse and hang your body from a tree.”

  The dark figure ignored the threat. He was staring at Hasan’s chest, as if listening to his heart. Hasan felt his strength returning, and he got to one knee.

  “You are not afraid,” the dark man said. It was a statement, not a question.

  Hasan grit his teeth and stood. The exertion reopened wounds on his face and blood poured onto his shirt. “I fear no man,” he said.

  Suddenly, the black figure vanished. Hasan glanced around, wondering if he had imagined him, and a voice whispered in his ear.

  “I am no man.”

  He spun around, and the figure reappeared. Hasan stuck out his chest and said, “I don’t care what you are. I am a warrior, built in the fire of war. I fear nothing, not even the gods.”

  The pounding continued, and a door crashed open somewhere in the building.

  Sarr gave a half-smile and said, “It doesn’t matter. You will not escape my men.”

  The man didn’t seem to hear. He moved forward, as if gliding on air, and said, “Scream for help.”

  Hasan laughed, throwing blood and spittle. “I will not. Soon, you will be the one begging for help. Then you will beg for mercy.”

  The dark man was staring at Hasan’s chest again. Several seconds passed, then the man said, “It sounds like you’re ready.”

  The figure vanished again, not from a trick of light, but by the swiftness of his movements. An arm wrapped around Hasan like an iron python. Pain shot down his side, and he looked down to see ebony claws piercing his shirt. He grabbed at the black hand with both of his own and tried to pull it away. He grunted with exertion, but couldn’t remove the black talons. They penetrated the soft flesh beneath his lowest rib, plunging deeper and deeper.

  His stomach turned. He wretched, spilling the acidic remains of his lunch on his chest. Still, he didn’t stop fighting. He twisted against the man’s arm and pulled furiously at the claws. “Stop!” he shouted. “Release me!”

  He felt one of the sharp fingers curling around his bottom rib. Pain shot up his chest as something popped free from his sternum. Sarr’s eyes widened and he gasped as if he’d just been doused with ice water. Slowly, meticulously, his rib was being pulled through the flesh on his side. The cracked, bloodied bone pulled outward, inch by inch, until it was sticking out like a spine.

  Sarr’s gasp returned as a shriek, and a voice behind him shouted in merry optimism, “One down, twenty-three to go!”

  The boy’s entire world had been shaken. On the other side of the door, his master was screaming like a woman in labor.

  The boy was one of Hasan Sarr’s soldiers—or slaves. The distinction had been blurred in the eleven-year-old’s mind. He was well-disciplined, like any good warrior should be, but he would never have followed his commander’s orders if it wasn’t for the constant fear of death. In the past year, the boy had been forced into battle over a dozen times. He had killed men far older than him, good men that hesitated in an armed standoff with a child. Every single one of them haunted his dreams.

  Mwaka lived in shame. He scolded himself constantly for being such a coward. If he wasn’t so afraid of Hasan, perhaps some of those men would still be alive. Their children would still have their fathers.

  Mwaka had a father once, a strong man that made an honest living as a mechanic. Mwaka could still smell the grease on his father’s hands. He could still see the calloused fingers turning pages as he read Mwaka a bedtime story.

  Hasan claimed to be his new father. Some of the other boys had grown up in broken homes and, having never met their real dads, seemed to latch onto Hasan. But Mwaka knew what a real father was. He wasn’t drawn in by Sarr’s demented affection. Given the chance, Mwaka would gladly plunge a knife into Hasan’s back. At least, he told himself he would. Deep down, he wondered if he could go through with it. He hated Hasan with everything in him, but he was also terrified of the bloodthirsty commando.

  Until that moment, he had feared Hasan more than anything in the world. But standing near the door, listening to the screams turn into choked whimpers, he was even more afraid of the unseen beast inside. Mwaka had watched Hasan get plucked from the crowd of schoolchildren and thrown into the air like a doll. He had trembled as the mighty Sarr was slammed into the concrete wall and pushed along, leaving a trail of blood behind. This thing seemed to be punishing Hasan for his deeds.

  Mwaka wondered if he, too, deserved to be punished. He hadn’t wanted to kill those people, but he had been afraid for his life. Now, the excuse didn’t seem to matter.

  Mwaka shook his head, telling himself he deserved everything that Hasan was receiving. Perhaps the beast would have pity, give him an easy death because he was still so young. In any case, he knew he would be the first through the door.

  Hasan’s lieutenant was urging two of the other grown men to hit the door harder. They struck the hinges with the butts of their rifles and threw their shoulders into it.

  Mwaka knew they were holding back. They didn’t want to get through the door any more than he did. His heart skipped a beat as a hinge tore free. The men gave the door a few forceful kicks, and it fell away. The lieutenant prodded Mwaka in the back, gesturing for him to go inside.

  The classroom was dark, and the screaming had stopped. Mwaka swallowed and put a shaky foot onto the fallen door. The Makarov pistol in his hands seemed to weigh a ton. With a tremendous effort, he held the weapon up, though he doubted if it would be any use against a ghost.

  There was a dark silhouette floating in the air. A wet, sucking noise was coming from it, and something dripped in a swift cadence. The black shape gurgled, and the dripping became a trickle.

  Try as he might, Mwaka couldn’t take another step. He was paralyzed by fear. He wanted to run, but he couldn’t tear his gaze from the thing in front of him. He couldn’t tell if it was the beast or his commander, and something inside him dreaded to find out. Not knowing what else to do, he shut his eyes.

  The men in the hallway cursed at him, called him a coward. The insults rolled right off Mwaka. If he really was a coward, why was he the only one standing in the dark room?

  There was a double
-click—the sound of the lieutenant’s flashlight coming on. The click was followed by a gasp, and Mwaka pinched his eyelids tighter.

  The light played over Hasan Sarr. The big man hung from the ceiling by his own intestines. His rib cage was open, the bones arranged like the petals of a rose. The glistening lungs and heart were still twitching, and the mouth seemed to form inaudible words. One of Hasan’s eyes was gone, and the other stared straight into the lieutenant’s soul. The gaze was beseeching, as if his commander was trying to warn him away, to tell him to run.

  There was a whistling noise like a bullwhip soaring through the air. The lieutenant turned just in time to see a man’s head separate from his shoulders. Blood splashed on his face, and he raised his weapon.

  Mwaka heard the lieutenant’s shrieks. His eyes were still shut, and he wanted desperately to close out the noise. Dropping the pistol, he covered his ears. The room was filled with screams, gunfire, and the rain of warm blood. A hand slid over Mwaka’s eyes, and he knew the moment had come. He prayed it would be over quickly.

  To his surprise, a gentle voice whispered in his ear, “It’s okay. I would never hurt you. The men are gone, and I’m going to take you away from here. Please, don’t open your eyes.”

  Covering the boy’s eyes with one hand, Jarrod lifted him off the floor. The traumatized child shook in his arms like a frightened bird. There was little time to spare, but he didn’t want the boy to witness the grisly scene in the hallway.

  Jarrod reached the front office and pushed the door open with his foot. He set the boy in a chair and said, “Don’t go outside. There are still bad men around, and they must be punished.”

  For the first time in months, Mwaka began to cry.

  Jarrod pulled his hand away from Mwaka’s eyes. Yellow and white pigment flooded his armor, giving him the appearance of a gold and ivory sculpture.

  Mwaka’s mouth fell open, and he watched the bright figure leave the room.

  Jarrod crushed the door knob, locking the boy inside. The color in his armor faded to gray, then to black. He decided not to realign the microscopic orbs in his armor to refract light. The locals would view his dark, featureless body with superstition, and the image would leave a deep psychological scar. The story of what The Nightmare did to the slavers that day would be told for years to come.

  16

  San’s eyes snapped open, and he struggled to get up. Something was restricting his arms. Coming to his senses, he realized it was just his sleeping bag. He pushed the silky material aside and reached for his wife.

  Anita was screaming. Her eyes were closed, and she was thrashing around. “Get it off me!” she yelled. “Get it away from me!”

  San spoke soothingly and placed a hand on her shoulder. With a sudden spasm, she opened her eyes. Gazing around the tent, she began mumbling incoherently.

  “It’s okay,” San whispered, pulling her close. “Everything’s okay, it was just a dream.”

  Two shapes rose out of the darkness, silhouetted against the tent’s blue walls.

  “What’s the matter with mommy?” a small voice asked.

  “Mommy’s fine, Maria,” San said. “She was just having a nightmare, that’s all.”

  “I’ve never heard her scream like that,” Maria said. “Are you okay, Mommy?”

  Blinking and trembling, Anita said, “I’m alright, sweetie. Papa’s right, it was just a bad dream. Go back to sleep.”

  “Papa?” Phil asked, seeking further reassurance.

  “Go back to bed,” San said. “We all need our rest.”

  Reluctantly, the children crawled beneath their blankets.

  San waited until he could hear their steady breathing before whispering to Anita, “Was it the jogger?”

  She paused. “Yes.”

  San reached through the dark and stroked her face. “I’m sorry you had to see that. I’m sorry about all of this.”

  “Don’t apologize,” Anita said. “It isn’t your fault.”

  San wished he could agree with her. But if it wasn’t for his job and connections at Hillcrest, Katharos would have no reason to target his family. “It is,” he said. “They’re after us because of my link to Emily.”

  Anita pushed herself onto an elbow, and hissed, “How dare you take the blame for her. She is the one responsible for all of this, not you. Knowing someone does not mean you have to pay penance for their crimes.”

  San nodded. Though she couldn’t see the gesture, Anita sensed his agreement. She settled back and San wrapped an arm around her.

  “She will pay for what she’s done,” San assured her. “In this life or the next.”

  The statement brought Anita a measure of peace, but she still couldn’t close her eyes Every time she did, she saw blood and brains pouring out of a sharply divided skull. San slowly drifted off, and she lay awake, waiting for the sunrise.

  Dr. Emily Roberts ran her hands beneath the scalding water, lathering soap up to her elbows. She scrubbed for three minutes, then withdrew her raw, pink hands. With her elbows bent and her hands above her head, she walked through an automatic sliding door into a small room aglow with ultraviolet lights. She kept her eyes downcast so the harsh rays wouldn’t damage her retinas. The lights turned off, an electronic bell chimed, and another door opened on the opposite side of the room. She stepped into the next room and donned a white biohazard suit with a self-contained breathing apparatus on the back. After pulling up the last airtight zipper, she hit a button on the wall, and an enormous ventilation fan in the ceiling began to spin. It sucked the air out of the room and pulled in fresh, sterile air through vents in the wall. Nearly a minute later, the fan shut down, and nozzles sprayed her with aerosolized disinfectant.

  Finally, the last door opened, and she reached her destination. It was a large room with rows of hospital beds on each side. The temperature was a comfortable sixty-eight degrees Fahrenheit, and full-spectrum lights illuminated every inch of the space. There was a desk with a computer next to each bed, and tubes running from the beds to the walls. Some of the tubes provided the occupants with food and water and removed waste. Others provided a steady flow of chemicals to keep the invaluable tenants happy and functioning at peak performance.

  Six faces turned to look at her, and she smiled. This room was her newest, and perhaps greatest achievement. To the uneducated, it might look like a strangely decorated cancer ward. To her, it was the most powerful array of communications servers in the world.

  She approached the first bed, labeled “One,” and sat down. A teenage girl watched her movements with unblinking eyes and a placid smile.

  “How are you feeling?” Emily asked, caressing the girl’s bald, grayish scalp. Her gloves rose and fell over tiny silver disks, disrupting dark streams that led from the disks to pores in the girl’s skin.

  “I feel wonderful,” the girl said. “Thank you for asking.”

  Emily nodded, and moved on to the next bed. “Two, how are you doing today?”

  “I’m great!” a young boy with the same, pewter complexion answered.

  Emily grinned and squeezed his cheek. He was her favorite—barely ten years old with a dazzling smile. She moved through the room, greeting each of the occupants in turn. When she reached the final server, number six, she didn’t say a word. There was no need to; the middle-aged man couldn’t speak. At least, not with his mouth. Not while he was “active.”

  Passing his bed, she sat at the adjacent desk. She waved her fingers in front of a high-tech sensor like a concert harpist. Menus flashed across the paper-thin screen, eventually leading to a chat-style application. Lifting her index finger a fraction of an inch, she opened the first message.

  High-priority message: Massive algorithmic search detected for keyword: Katharos.

  She paused for a moment, then said, “What is the country of origin?”

  Another message appeared. Search originated from United States military communications satellites.

  Emily frowned. “Can you tra
ck the message to its original distribution server?”

  Pentagon server CR483.

  Emily closed her eyes. This wasn’t part of the plan. No one in the Pentagon was supposed to know about Katharos. The attack was still ten days away, and if someone had gathered enough evidence to justify an evacuation, it would ruin everything.

  She took a deep breath. “Who launched the search?”

  Daniel Young. Analyst, Defense Intelligence Agency.

  After pondering for a moment, Emily gave her instructions. “Revoke his privileges. Frame him for accessing classified information without authorization and forge a series of official memorandums.”

  It is done. Should I assign assets in the field to capture or kill Daniel Young?

  Emily shook her head. “No. That would draw too much attention. Just be on the lookout for more probes.”

  Should I monitor civilian communications as well?

  Emily smiled. “That’s alright. I’ll put three and four on that. Good work, six.”

  It is my pleasure.

  Emily twiddled her fingers, closing the application and locking the computer. She waved goodbye to the servers, and they waved back with childlike excitement. The copper-plated door at the end of the room opened, then closed behind her. As she stripped off the biohazard suit, her thoughts turned to an old friend. Santiago Torres was undoubtedly causing trouble with his battle-hardened allies—Eugene and Daron.

  Giving the order to have him and his family killed was one of the hardest things she had ever done. She viewed Maria and Philip as her niece and nephew, and Anita as a sister. And San…he had been closer than any brother.

  When she moved to Baltimore, she was alone. She had no friends in the area, and couldn’t risk communicating with anyone from Katharos, so she dedicated herself entirely to her work. San was the first person to reach out. He invited her over for dinner and Jenga. She reluctantly accepted, and was glad she did. It had been so much fun for her and the Torres family that they decided to make it a weekly tradition.