The Theory of Insanity

by Rick Newberry

  “You’ve always been a nervous flier,” Samantha says.

  How does it work?

  “Shouldn’t we get off the plane? We need to get to Vegas.”

  Tell me how this whole changing the past thing works.

  Samantha speaks with purpose, as if every word is precious. “After the bomb explodes in Las Vegas, a nuclear war breaks out and the world is destroyed. I meet you and we go to The House of Questions—”

  Where?

  “The House of—”

  No. After I die. You said you meet me. Where do you meet me? In Heaven?

  “No, of course not.”

  “I knew it. I’m in Hell.” It’s not a silent thought—I blurt it out for all the plane to hear.

  “Sorry, pal,” a passenger calls from across the aisle, “this may look like Hell, but we’re still in Mexico.”

  “It sure ain’t Vegas,” someone else says holding his hand up, his index finger and thumb an inch apart. “We missed it by that much. What are the odds?” A few dry chuckles come from the rear of the plane.

  “Viva Chihuahua,” someone starts to sing to the tune of Viva Las Vegas.

  “Shhh,” Samantha says, “look what you’ve started. Keep your thoughts to yourself.”

  Listen, if I don’t go to Heaven and I don’t go to Hell, where do I wind up?

  “It’s a place where all souls go after death. It’s not Heaven, and it’s certainly not the other place. It’s a special place known as After World.”

  Okay, so I get to this After World place, then what?

  “Then I take you to The House of Questions where Sebastian tells you about travelling back to earth and changing the past, you know, stopping the bomb.”

  And I’ve done this before?

  She doesn’t answer.

  How many times?

  In a weak voice, like someone afraid of the dark, she says, “Eight times.”

  I pull the ComLink from my ear and tuck it away. The plane is nearly vacant. I notice a flight attendant at the forward exit with her eye on me, probably wondering why I haven’t rushed into the aisle like everyone else. I stand, stretch, and wait for an opening in the line of disappointed passengers who missed Vegas by that much.

  The plane is parked close to the tower, but still sits about two hundred yards away from the terminal. Instead of being connected to an arrival gate by a jetway, a portable boarding ramp has been rolled into place next to the aircraft. A bus awaits thirty yards away.

  “Please have your passport ready,” the flight attendant announces with a faux smile.

  Her words chill my skin. Something’s not right—not right about the emergency landing in Chihuahua, not right about the thirty yard clearing at the bottom of the ramp. It’s a wide-open space, a perfect spot for an ambush—a kill zone.

  I put the ComLink back in my ear.

  Someone really doesn’t want me to reach Las Vegas. This emergency landing is a set-up.

  “What are you going to do?”

  I back away from the exit door. “Whoa,” I say to the attendant, “I’m suffering a little vertigo here. The stairs are so steep. I need a moment.”

  “Wait here, sir, there’s just a few more passengers behind you, then I’ll escort you down the ramp myself. It’ll be alright.”

  I glance at her name tag, “Okay, Jenny.” I do as I’m told and focus on the line of passengers behind me, waiting to exit. I have my passport in hand, looking for the right opportunity. As a beggar, however, I can’t be choosey.

  “What about him?” Samantha says, right on track with what I’m planning.

  Too short.

  “Him?”

  Are you color blind?

  “Well, you’d better hurry up, you’re running out of options.”

  The way I figure, whoever grounded the plane, wanted to single me out and change my final destination. That’s why they were checking passports, not normal for an in-country flight.

  I feign unsteadiness and collide with a male passenger in a turquoise, Hawaiian shirt, his passport tucked loosely in his pocket. I make the switch and apologize for my awkwardness.

  “No worries, mon, we all thirsty, yeah? We be in Vegas soon enough,” he says, his lyrical Jamaican accent dancing from his lips.

  I back up and let him pass. After two more passengers, it’s just me and Jenny.

  “Take my hand,” she says, “we’ll be on the ground in no time.”

  Once again, I do as I’m told and grab her hand. Keeping my eye on Mr. Turquoise Shirt, I let Jenny lead me down the steps at a slow and steady pace. Two soldiers check passports at the bottom of the ramp. The passengers who have already been screened are lined up, waiting to board the bus. With a shout, the Jamaican is pulled out of line. I hear his voice rise, “Hey, what’cha doing, mon? That ain’t even my passport.” They escort him to a waiting sedan despite his protests.

  “Shouldn’t we help him?” Samantha barks through the ComLink.

  I let go of Jenny’s hand at the bottom of the stairs and thank her. They’ll check his ID against the passport and soon realize he isn’t JoJo Jackson. It’ll buy us some time to get away.

  “Brilliant.”

  Stuck in Mexico in the middle of the night, hours from Las Vegas. Yeah, brilliant. I glance at the passport I’ve stolen—Fayard Powell, thirty-six years old. He has a movie-star-smile I can never hope to imitate. Hey, I’ve gotten three years older, just like that.

  “Yeah, but I like the name Fayard. You?”

  It’ll have to do. I step aboard the bus. Hopefully I’ll be able to buy a ticket to Vegas using Fayard’s passport before our friends realize their mistake.

  “Wouldn’t a charter be better than commercial?”

  I smile, nowhere near the celebrity grin in the passport picture, but as close as I’m ever going to come. Brilliant.

  XVI

  “I know, Liz. I know. I know. Yes, charters are expensive, and so are helicopters. Throw in the new communication system you said we couldn’t live without, and—”

  “I believe my exact words were… ‘ComLink 6.0 looks better on a contract proposal than still using a carrier pigeon.’”

  I waited a beat. “My point is, we’ll be lucky to break even on this Knight’s job. I mean let’s be realistic, from now on, no more international gigs.”

  “So, you really want to go back to babysitting boy bands?”

  “It paid the bills.”

  Liz keeps the books. Her contagious optimism talked me into purchasing the new ComLink 6.0 system. The-state-of -the-art communications package—touted as the latest and greatest, released just a month before. It came with all the newest features, including lifetime software upgrades and support. Even I was impressed, and that’s saying something. I’m still an analog guy living in a digital world. Liz likes to tease me about the five-year-old Windows operating system running my office desktop. Hey, if it ain’t broke…

  But she was right about our communications system. We badly needed the upgrade. Besides, without the new equipment, I might never have discovered Samantha.

  “Boss, we talked about that a few months ago.”

  “Talked about what?”

  “You’re the one who wanted to take the business to the next level. We can’t do that with outdated, underperforming—”

  “Hey, I get it, Liz. I’m sorry we, uh, I mean, I wound up in Chihuahua, it couldn’t be helped. And I know a charter is expensive, but it’s necessary. We can talk about it in Vegas.”

  “No, I’m sorry, boss. You’re right about this job being a nightmare. And now with JoJo…” A heavy sigh. “Speaking of which, it turns out there were some cameras in the garage, after all. The news outlets paid a fortune for phone stills and videos. Guess what?”

  “None of the cameras caught the shooter.”

  “Bingo. How’d you know?”

  “Educated guess.”

  “Anyway, we’ve been contacted by all the major networks. They’re begging for an exclusive inte
rview.”

  “Not happening.”

  “I sure am glad this job’s coming to an end. And you’re right, maybe we should reassess our current situation when it’s over.”

  “Nothing too drastic, Liz, not yet. We’re down, but not out. Keep your head up and we’ll see you in Vegas.”

  “We?”

  “Just an expression.”

  “Roger that. Out.”

  I pluck the ComLink from my ear, push the seat back to recline, and close my eyes. The jet engines of the private charter lull me into a light sleep. My body’s floating, but my mind won’t shut up.

  I had always known this job was over my head, but I honestly thought we could handle it. And we did, until Mexico. I never had a client attacked before, hell, I had never even drawn my weapon while on duty before. I guess, sometimes, when you think you’ve got something under control, it’s the other way around—it controls you.

  Dr. Anwar Knight isn’t just a man, he’s an international phenomenon. How I thought my motley crew, highly motivated though we were, could protect him is beyond me now.

  Starting out as a bodyguard all those years ago was cake, even fun—easy money and part time work. But after a while, I wanted more. I applied for a business license and added another employee, then two. We provided protection for wannabe pop idols, then graduated to serious bands—those making real money. That’s when things got complicated. I hired Liz to help with logistics and communications. She threw in the bookkeeping for free. Add a few more employees, and the next thing I know, I bid for this crazy We Are One world tour. I needed one more team member—actually I needed several, but one was all we could afford—so I hired JoJo last minute.

  Now, he’s dead, and some whacko named Major Roberto Flores and his evil henchmen are after me—not the client, mind you, they’re after me, personally. How had it all come to this?

  My eyes shot open and I sit upright. Security will be easy, I told myself all those years ago, just rely on your military training. Ha. I plug the earbud back in and rub my forehead.

  Samantha pipes up, “Brooks, you’re not the bad guy here. Stop putting the problems of the whole world on your shoulders.”

  I scoff. According to you, as impossible as it may seem, the fate of the whole world is already on my shoulders…literally, remember?

  “Of course I remember, do you? The difficult can be done immediately, the impossible takes a little longer.”

  Her words shake me. That’s on a plaque hanging on my wall. How could you know—

  “Exactly. Think about it.”

  But how…how could you know about that? Am I still dreaming? Having a conversation with someone in my head is crazy—am I hallucinating?

  “Brooks, we should be way past that by now. You know I’m real. I helped you talk with JoJo, we saved Jorge, and we escaped Chihuahua. This charter was my idea, remember?”

  I need a drink.

  “No, you don’t. You need to think.”

  She’s right. I thought I had turned “need a drink” into “want a drink” years ago. Tell me again. Tell me about Sebastian and the end of the world. Tell me about The Portal and Soul Sparks…tell me everything.

  “I can do better than that, but first I need to make sure you can handle it—most human beings can’t.”

  I furrow my brow. Okay, what do you need me to do?

  “There’s a way I can share all my knowledge with you, all at once, but it’s a dangerous process, well, for you, not really for me. Like I said, most humans can’t handle it. It can be painful, but the reward is worth the risk.”

  Have you ever tried it before? I wipe my sweaty palms on my pants. Can it kill me?

  “No, there’s no chance of that.”

  Then do it.

  “But it might fry your brain a bit.”

  Then hold off.

  “Ha. I’m just teasing. There’s no chance of frying your brain.”

  Then do it.

  “Even still, there’s the unbearable pain, and that’s no joke. So, which is it, Brooks? Shall I share my memories with you, or do you want to remain ignorant? There’s no shame in it—no judgement, at least, not from me.”

  I glanced out the window, wondering whether we’d crossed over the border into America. Would I face the unbearable pain in Mexico or the US? I guess it really didn’t matter much, except to me. The last time my brains were fried, I was a million miles from home in the middle of a burning desert. I just needed to know where we were.

  “We crossed over a few minutes ago,” Samantha said, “we’re in the USA.”

  Do it then—share your memories.

  “Once again, I must warn you, downloading a massive amount of data directly into your brain will be something you’ve never experienced before. The process should move along fairly quickly, though, depending on how open you are to receiving the information. Are you ready?”

  I squeeze the armrest like a classic white-knuckle flier and close my eyes, preparing for an electrical shock to surge through my body.

  “It’s nothing like that. From what I’ve been told, you may feel like you’re drowning—like you can’t take in any air, but that will pass.”

  I relax and take a deep breath. No feeling of an electrical surge? Promise?

  “No.”

  “What?”

  A searing pain digs into the back of my neck and races down my spine. It branches out, attacking every nerve ending, moving fast, picking up strength. My fingers twitch, as do my eyeballs. Breathing is sketchy at best. White noise rings in my ears. Spittle drips down my chin. Red is the only color. Samantha was right—the lack of air is like drowning. But I’m right as well, I’m also being electrocuted. Will the torture never end?

  “There now, that wasn’t so bad, was it?”

  Did…did I…pass out?

  “Ha, you wish.”

  What’s that supposed to—

  Wait. What’s this? I’ve wasted enough time talking to her about the process of memory sharing. Like the sun appearing after a sudden rainstorm, my mind clears, made new and fresh by parting clouds. All thoughts of pain, of anguish, are forgotten. This is awesome.

  My new memories, materializing from nowhere like clean, fresh air are sharp. Memories of the past are unimportant—swept away like dirt. Complete recollection—nothing falls through the cracks. It’s weird, I’m navigating an unknown course, but know exactly where to go.

  I think of a Soul Spark and instantly have full knowledge of its theory, design, and use. I see it being tested. I witness the spark being extracted from a pure soul, then packaged neatly into a small milk-white capsule and launched to earth via The Portal. Everything makes perfect sense. Soul Sparks are a way for Sebastian to send messages to earth—to me. The messages are involved. They carry pin-point, on-the-nose meanings that detail the current state of the investigation. It takes an incredible amount of celestial energy to send each Soul Spark, that’s why they’re so rare. The investigation, however, is ongoing, and more soul sparks are being readied for launch.

  I explore my relationship with Sebastian. How I admired him, then doubted him, then went against his command in an attempt to try something different on this, our last attempt, at changing the past.

  I see the magnificent buildings of the neon city. They climb straight up into the sky for miles and disappear into the clouds. The spongy ground beneath my feet helps me trudge along for hours with no need to rest. The air is sweet, enriched with vital nutrients, giving me everything I’ll need for a long and healthy after-life.

  Babies, toddlers, and small children arrive in After World, delivered from earth for whatever reason, and immediately mature into angels and guides. I have empathy with everyone—feeling instant liberation from chronic pain, unspeakable injury, and horrifying disease. All arrivals are made whole, both in body and soul, to the best version of themselves.

  Everything makes perfect sense, fitting together like a jigsaw puzzle. The Nefarists, are nothing more than shadows, t
he darkness of all that’s good in the universe. They dwell in The Abyss, forever intent on destruction. Only recently have they discovered The Portal.

  Pain tears into my stomach, like a hot acid drip, doubling me over. What’s…what’s wrong? I manage between gasps.

  “The memories aren’t permanent,” Samantha says, “hold on to them for as long as you can. They’ll fade quickly—faster than your own memories die.”

  The process is ending far too soon. I want to see the lab, touch the Pearly Gates, and visit Heaven. But most of all, I want to meet Samantha in the flesh.

  “Here I am.”

  She appears, taking shape from nothing. Five-feet-two, strawberry blonde hair, green eyes, a warm smile.

  “Are…are you real?”

  She nods. “It’s really me, your Guide.”

  I wrap my arms around her. She fits next to me like she belongs, like something I need but had lost for a long time. I back away and beam. “You’re shorter than I expected.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Nothing. I don’t mean to insult you. Come here.”

  She steps closer. I embrace her again. This is my Guide. My imaginary friend when I was a toddler. The one who heard my prayers in times of trouble—and now, a colleague assisting me in saving the world. This is Samantha Greene.

  All at once, I’m hugging nothing but air and have returned to my seat on the plane. Nausea overtakes me, even my hair hurts. What’s the matter with me?

  “Whoops,” Samantha says, “I forgot to tell you about the withdrawal.”

  Stumbling, half blind, down the aisle, I hope I can reach the restroom in time. Bile fills my throat. My head is splitting, and my eyelids feel like sandpaper. I never want to do this again.

  “You did great, Brooks. I’m so proud of you.” In my mind’s eye, I see her arm reach through a wall of smoke and touch the back of her hand to my forehead. In a flash, she’s gone.

  I stand at the restroom door, but don’t open it. All my symptoms vanished at once. I turn around and return to my seat. She was right—the pain was intense, but worth it.

  The pilot’s voice comes over the cabin speakers, “Welcome to Las Vegas. Temperature is a flat one hundred degrees. Please fasten your seat belt and prepare for landing.”