The Path Of The Nightmare

by J. J. Carlson

Maria began to protest, but Susana scooped her niece up and carried her off.

  When his daughter was gone, San crumpled up the paper and threw it and Daron’s chest. “How could you,” he said through gritted teeth.

  “San, we don’t even know where these messages came from,” Daron said. “They could be a trick from—”

  “Enough!” San bellowed. “I am tired of your lies!”

  Anita and Philip took a step back, surprised by the ferocity in his voice.

  “I trusted you,” San thundered on, “and you repaid me by tearing my family apart!”

  Daron’s face grew dark. In a low voice, he said, “You should be thanking me. Your son exposed his location to the entire world. If we didn’t grab him, he’d probably be dead right now.”

  A fire burned in San’s eyes. “You used me! You could have told me he was safe, but you needed him to trick Jarrod into—”

  “Thousands of lives are at risk,” Daron interjected. “And Jarrod is our only hope of saving them. You’re right, I took your son into custody. He had to sit in a room for a few days and you had to shed a few tears. Big deal. Just look what it accomplished! Jarrod is out there, right now, taking the fight to Katharos.”

  Glaring at the black-ops commander, San said, “You had no right.”

  “Here we go again…” Daron said, rolling his eyes. “Let me remind you, we are at war. Good people are dying, so I’m not going to apologize for hurting your precious feelings. If it meant saving lives, I’d do it all over again.”

  Taking a step forward, San jammed a finger into Daron’s chest and said, “If you think the ends justify the means, then you and Roberts have a lot more in common than you might think.”

  “Take your hand off me,” Daron growled. “You think because you’re not a soldier you don’t have to take risks? Well I’ve got news for you: the world doesn’t give a damn about feelings. Nobody, not you, not Philip, not Anita or Maria, is above sacrificing something for the cause.”

  “Maybe not,” San said, “but you don’t get choose what sacrifices my children are going to make!”

  Daron turned away. “I don’t have time for this.”

  “Don’t you turn your back on me!” San roared, gripping Daron’s wrist.

  After weeks without enough sleep and losing nearly two dozen men, Daron finally snapped. He whirled around, aiming a backhand at San’s face. Before the strike connected, Daron’s vision erupted into bright stars. A powerful blow hit his jaw, lifting him off the ground and pitching him into the wall.

  Daron held his cheek and stared at the floor until his eyes came back into focus. Blood poured from his mouth and his jaw hung loose. Propping himself on his elbows, he looked back, wondering how San could have hit him so hard.

  San and his family stared back at him, aghast. Then the answer slowly materialized in the air.

  Janson and Ford charged in seconds later, their pistols trained on Jarrod’s head.

  Daron tried to tell them to stand down, but he couldn’t form the words. Instead, he held up a closed fist, then motioned toward the ground.

  Jarrod watched as Ford and Janson holstered their weapons. “Good choice,” he said.

  The operatives glared back at him, their hands at their sides like gunfighters in a Hollywood Western.

  Jarrod ignored their aggressive stances. Kneeling beside Daron, he whispered, “If you ever lay a finger on this family again, I will hunt you down and kill you. Slowly. You can’t even imagine how long and agonizing your death will be. Do you understand?”

  Daron winced, then nodded.

  “Good,” said Jarrod. Standing, he addressed San. “I can’t stay, there is too much to do before the attack tomorrow. Please treat Daron’s wounds and move him to a location near the Pentagon. His expertise will be needed for the defense and counter-assault.”

  San blinked. “Okay, Jarrod. No problem.”

  Jarrod nodded, then looked at Ford and said, “Ten o’clock in the morning. Be in position.” Without waiting for a response, he stepped over Daron and left the safehouse.

  35

  Lights were blinking all over the server room. After Emily addressed one server, another immediately begged for attention. Eventually, the room settled down to just one alarm. Approaching Server Six, she eased into the desk and began reading messages. Dozens of brief statements appeared, describing a growing number of field units that weren’t checking in.

  She frowned as she scrolled down, absorbing the gravity of the reports. There were too many failed check-ins for this to be the result of physical attacks. There was only one possible explanation—desertion.

  Somehow, Jarrod had convinced her field units to abandon their posts. The horror stories had run rampant, and they now feared Jarrod more than they feared her.

  The list continued, each one a flagrant insult to her authority. Her hands trembled, and she finally reached the end of the reports. Then, as she watched, three more units missed their check-ins.

  She let out a screech of frustration and slammed her fists against the desk. The screen in front of her blinked, and a new message appeared.

  Are you okay, Mommy?

  Glancing past the display, she noticed Six’s expression. The middle-aged man’s eyes were frozen in a glassy stare, but his eyebrows were furrowed and his lower lip jutted out.

  Sighing, she moved to his side and stroked the gray skin on his face. “It’s okay…Mommy’s just a little sad, that’s all. You’ve been such a big help and I’m so proud of you. Don’t worry, in a few hours, I’ll feel much better, and we can all celebrate.”

  The man’s expression slackened, reverting to a dull smile.

  Emily studied him. He, like the other servers, was emotionally fragile. The process of turning them into perfect computing machines had stunted parts of their brains. As a result, they could no longer walk, their immune systems were deficient, and they reverted back to a toddler’s stage of emotional development. Still, they served their purposes flawlessly, and had taken Katharos to new heights.

  Standing, Emily surveyed the other innocent faces. They were so powerful, yet so delicate. So innocent, though their abilities would bring about unfathomable holocausts.

  Suddenly, a plan came into focus. It was simple, but it would temporarily take Jarrod out of the equation. His absence would allow the Pentagon team to complete their mission unhindered, and the great idol to global defense would fall.

  “Six,” she said, “I need you to mobilize a team; two or three agents will do. I want you to have them attack a daycare. A very large one that’s at least an hour away from the Pentagon. Tell them to begin the attack at nine-thirty eastern time.”

  Orders have been sent. Anything else?

  Emily smiled. “That will be all. Thank you, Six.”

  Body count. That was Jarrod’s only objective as he sped down the urban street in the Corvette Z06. The sun was rising, and he had done all he could to temper the oncoming storm. He only had time to attack one more hideout before taking up a defensive position, and he wanted it to count.

  The tactical interrogations he conducted in the preceding days had been increasingly fruitful. His unsavory psychological operations were working perfectly, loosening the tongues of some Katharos agents and encouraging others to flee. Every agent he came across seemed eager to tell their secrets in a desperate plea for mercy. But the time for mercy had passed. There would be no survivors tonight.

  The sheer size of the Katharos army in Maryland had been staggering. Most of the rogue agents were native-born Americans, turned to Roberts’s cause through the surgical application of radical ideology and a healthy dose of fear. If even a third of the sleepers were mobilized, it could mean the utter destruction of the Pentagon and a host of other buildings. The death toll could easily number in the thousands, and the United States’ defense research would be set back decades. He had done everything he could, but the real challenge still lay ahead—a mission that had been on his to-do list for far too lon
g.

  A craggy, pitted parking lot came into view, and higher thought faded from Jarrod’s mind. He stretched out with his senses, watching, listening, and feeling for danger. His first target surfaced a moment later—a man smoking a cigarette. He was standing outside a dilapidated building that still bore the skeletal sign from its days as a franchise hardware store.

  Jarrod brought the corvette to a screeching halt and stepped out, his jet-black armor glistening in the morning sun. There was no need for stealth or subtlety. He approached the smoking man at a brisk walk, his head down and his shoulders back.

  The man squinted at the approaching silhouette, then dropped his cigarette. His eyes widened and his heart began to race. The figure walking toward him had been the subject of his nightmares for days. He hesitated, trying to decide between going for his gun or running for his life. The last thing he wanted to do was turn his back on the terrifying creature, so he reached into his waistband and drew his .40 caliber Smith & Wesson pistol. As he leveled the barrel, he heard the creature say, “A message for the Empress…”

  The man pulled the trigger, and his first shot hit the center of the black chest. The creature bucked slightly, but didn’t break stride. He pulled the trigger again, and a round glanced off the creature’s head. Still no effect. The dark figure bore down on him, its arms spread wide as if inviting more shots. The man took a step back, firing until his slide locked back.

  As the last piece of brass hit the ground, twenty-seven Katharos operatives in the building leapt from their beds. The moment they had all secretly feared had arrived.

  Jarrod closed the gap to the lone sentry with a tremendous leap, planted his feet, and struck with both palms. The force of the blow instantaneously collapsed the man’s rib cage, stopped his heart, and launched him into the air. There were easier ways to kill a man, but this technique came with a bonus—distraction.

  The corpse crashed through the sliding glass doors and rolled across the floor. Jarrod sprinted into the building, slipping past a dozen Katharos gunman who were flinching from the glass explosion. He juked left, taking cover between a set of empty shelves.

  Footsteps echoed through the building as eight more Katharos agents ran to join their comrades. A half-circle formed around the spectacle of broken glass, and the onlookers aimed an assortment of weapons at the parking lot.

  Jarrod crept out and moved closer to the bristling contingent, gliding like a snow leopard in fresh powder. He stopped behind the midpoint of the semi-circle, his face inches behind the nearest agent. Jarrod’s dark face stretched downward and his chest expanded. The man in front of him cocked his head, then dropped his weapons and gripped his ears as Jarrod unleashed a piercing shriek.

  The scream’s volume and pressure popped two fluorescent light bulbs overhead, raining down white shards. The noise had a similar effect on the capillaries and tympanic membranes in the agents’ ears. Every weapon hit the floor in unison as the men and women of Katharos thrust their hands to the sides of their bleeding heads. Several even closed their eyes in an irrational attempt to shut out the sound.

  Jarrod took full advantage of their vulnerable state. He moved to the right first, lashing out with spiked fingers. One by one, he severed spinal cords and punctured hind brains until half of the agents were dead. The remaining agents looked on in horror, fumbling for their weapons, but their fates were already sealed. In ignorance or drowsiness, they made the fatal mistake of standing too close together. Nearly shoulder-to-shoulder, they were incapable of maneuvering effectively. Jarrod’s iron-like fist crashed into the first man’s temple, knocking him aside. His black forearm, sharpened to a knife’s edge, cut down the next person in line, and a clawed hand tore through the third. He repeated the process, hacking and tearing through his enemies until they lay scattered at his feet.

  When he had slain the last agent, he paused to listen. Seven to go.

  Securing the Pentagon was a logistical impossibility. There were over seventeen miles of corridors and six and a half million square feet of floor space in the nation’s military headquarters. Twenty-three thousand people worked in the massive structure, and another four thousand passed through the Visitor Entrance daily.

  Eugene jogged past the blocky columns of the Mall Entrance and flashed his access badge to a hawk-eyed Marine. This was Eugene’s second lap around the building’s perimeter, and he worried the robust security measures wouldn’t be enough. Thankfully, the Joint Chiefs of Staff had heeded Daron’s warnings and taken extra precautions. Hundreds of extra soldiers, marines, airmen, sailors, and coastguardsmen patrolled the sprawling grounds, while only a skeleton crew remained inside. Still, the Pentagon was too important to evacuate completely. Ten thousand people still manned cubicles and roamed halls within the building. In Eugene’s mind, they were all potential casualties in the battle that lay ahead. He knew what Katharos was capable of—they would find a way in. Eugene, Ford, and the other shooters on the ground were simply damage control.

  Eugene shivered. With the added security, they could repel a small army…unless Melody Hawkins was leading the charge. He had seen pictures of Jarrod’s stunning wife while she was still alive, which only made the transformation more horrifying. Her body had become a flesh and metal atrocity. Next-generation steroids were pumped through an artificial bloodstream by a battery-powered heart until her muscles were hard and swollen. Black cameras replaced her soft, brown eyes, and a computer-driven brain controlled her movements. Unlike Jarrod, she was merely a shell. Project Lateralis did not bring her back from the dead, it only used her biology as a framework for a remotely operated weapon system. And she was lethal beyond compare.

  Eugene selfishly hoped she was miles away, preparing to attack faceless strangers in a remote part of the world. Crossing a wide patch of lawn, he approached a gleaming black trailer. A panel swung open and a set of titanium stairs descended, stopping inches above the ground. He hopped up the steps and entered a dimly lit command center. The overhead lights were off in order to improve the clarity of the monitors plastering the walls. Ford waved without looking up. He was gazing over the shoulder of a uniformed technician. Eugene skirted past the operative and several more technicians, then halted behind a broad-shouldered man in a black t-shirt.

  Daron Keeler turned in his chair, revealing a bruised and swollen face. A doctor had reset his dislocated jaw and tied it in place with a white bandage. It was a temporary fix, but it allowed Daron to form words with his puffy lips. One eye was so inflamed he couldn’t open it, but Eugene could see the sorrow in the other window to his soul.

  “Eugene, I was an idiot,” he said, his words lacking the inflection a working mandible could provide. “I lied to you and screwed everything up. I betrayed your trust and Jarrod’s, and you two were good enough to clean up my mess. Thank you for backing me up despite everything I’ve done.”

  “Don’t read too much into it,” Eugene said. “I’m here because there are a lot of people in danger.” Eugene glanced around the pulsing control center, then added, “And whether I like it or not, you’re good at this.”

  Daron nodded, wincing slightly, and said, “Works for me. See any more gaps in the perimeter that need plugging?”

  Eugene shook his head. “I don’t think our weakness is in lack of firepower, I think it’s in communications. They can hack our network, which means they know exactly what we’re doing to stop them. With that much intel, you can bet they’ll find a way through. On top of that, we don’t know what to look for. Are they going to hit us with rockets? Suicide bombers? Hijacked drones? We can’t really prepare if we don’t know how they’re going to attack.”

  “Agreed,” Daron said. “That’s why I’ve got medical teams positioned at every corner of the building. Firefighters and bomb-squads, too. I think all we can do is respond when it all starts and move cleanup teams in fast to minimize damage.”

  Eugene nodded slowly. He stared at an aerial photo, his eyes drawn to the Pentagon’s star-shaped cou
rtyard. “I’m about to suit up. You mind if I keep Ford with me?”

  “Hell no,” Daron answered. “I want you two out there for the counter assault. We’ll need your expertise, especially if Katharos brings their ringer.”

  Eugene’s stomach turned. “Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that. Because I haven’t seen our ringer all morning.”

  36

  In the heart of Siberia, Emily Roberts stood at the helm of her own command center. The circular room had a rustic, theatrical feel, with frescos adorning the stucco walls and tiered plateaus leading down to a round stage. Much like Roberts, the charming room was brutally utilitarian beneath the surface. Under the hand-painted frescos were layers of concrete, lead, and steel rebar. As an additional precaution, the entire structure was built hundreds of feet below ground.

  Emily took a deep breath and let it out through her nose. The intricate murals depicting scenes from Dante’s Inferno and the fortifications behind them gave her a sense of serene confidence, and from that confidence bloomed righteous determination. The hour had finally come. Years of planning would come to glorious, purifying fruition. She was about to deal a devastating blow to American military supremacy and transform Katharos into a global movement with limitless resources.

  She smiled. At this point, failure was an impossibility. The only question was how long the United States would teeter before tumbling into the abyss. Crippling the Pentagon would speed the process along, perhaps by several years. The President and the Joint Chiefs of Staff would flee to their burrows under the mountains, and millions of people would feel vulnerable for the first time in their lives. Then, in a vain attempt to reestablish their sense of security, they would come together like never before and march, arm in arm, into the fiery pit.

  America’s true power wasn’t in its military. It was in wealth. Its economy dwarfed that of every civilization in the history of the world. Still, the United States spent less than four percent of its resources on defense. If everything else was equal, it wouldn’t even rank in the top ten nations most committed to military might.