The Theory of Insanity

by Rick Newberry

  I shove my hands under my armpits, snuffing out the flames. I’m sure I’ve felt more pain in my life but can’t remember when.

  Ignoring the agony, probably because I’m in shock, I drag Mr. Benny’s corpse off the sulfur pod and think about feeling for a pulse at his jugular. I reject that idea as he no longer has a neck. Smoke rises from where his face used to be. The stench of sizzling skin makes me heave.

  A thundering roar of inhuman creatures grows louder. Struggling to rise, I find my balance. The daylight at the end of the cavern is about a hundred yards away. I turn and shuffle toward it with a broken body as well as spirit. In my mind’s eye, sharp claws reach out, scratching at my back while furred beasts sink their teeth into my flesh. Fear helps me scamper toward the light. Shrieks grow louder.

  An electrical flash explodes in the cave a few feet in front of me. I’m momentarily blinded by the light. Sebastian appears, brushing at his coat, and smiling.

  “There you are, son. I’ve been looking everywhere for you.” He peers over my shoulder. “Oh my, this is awkward. You’d better stand back.”

  He darts around me and reaches back, making sure I’m behind him. The creatures are now only a few yards away. Yellow, red, white and dead eyes zero in on the both of us. Sebastian turns toward me and grabs my broken hand. I wince but don’t complain—there’s something far worse than just pain coming our way.

  “Here,” he says, shoving a ruby red orb into my hand. “Hold tight and squeeze it with both hands, squeeze it with all your might—do it now.”

  A pack of feral creatures’ pounce at us, emitting a communal scream. The raw smell of animal rage and rotten sulfur fills my nose. I squeeze the orb. It creates a red spark igniting the cave in a brilliant glow. The giant winged insect lunging at me vanishes without warning. All the beasts disappear.

  My last glimpse of Sebastian is a macabre scene of claws, teeth, flesh and blood.

  XXVI

  “Boss…boss, what are you doing here? Are you okay?”

  I crack my eyes open. The darkness sinks my heart. Am I still in the cave? Where’s Sebastian? The creatures? A hand touches my back. I raise my head.

  “Boss, wake up. Where’s Mr. Benny?”

  I try to get my bearings. The pain that held me captive in The Abyss is gone, like a distant memory. I can see through both my eyes now. Richard Blaine stares down at me. I’m sitting in an office chair. He bends forward and places an object on the desk, my 9mm. “You might need this.”

  I’m in Mr. Benny’s security office. After a deep breath, I examine myself, feeling for the pain of cracked ribs. My hands are unscarred and free from burns. I’m not even short of breath. At first, I question my journey to The Abyss—it had to have been a dream. Then I recall Sebastian telling me about the regenerative powers of the Portable devices.

  “What’s wrong, boss? Where’ve you been?”

  Ignoring his question for the time being, I open my hand and let the small red orb roll onto the desktop. This remarkable device was not only capable of instant transportation, it healed my wounds. I pick it up, conceal it under the desk, and give it a gentle squeeze. Two miniature red sparks shoot out from between my fingers.

  I stand up, in a free and easy motion, and face Richard. “I came in here to speak to Mr. Benny but he was gone. I guess I sat down and sort of dozed off for a minute or two.”

  “This job can do that to you, believe me. Pure stress—keep squeezing that ball.”

  My ComLink is on the desk. I grab it, place it back in my ear, and put the “stress” ball in the top drawer. “Samantha. Samantha, come in. Can you hear me?”

  “Brooks?”

  “Samantha,” I say with a sigh, “it’s so good to hear your voice. I thought I’d lost—”

  “Brooks, this is Liz. Who the hell is Samantha?”

  Closing my eyes, I plop back down in the chair. I recall Mr. Benny telling me how Samantha “floated back” to After World. He also told me I have no soul. If he was telling the truth, and there’s no reason to doubt him, then I’m all alone on this earth. No guide, no soul—just me.

  “Sorry, Liz. Give me five. Please.”

  “You got it.”

  The ComLink goes back in my pocket. I pick up the firearm Richard placed on the desk, and return it to its shoulder holster, giving the soft leather a gentle pat.

  “What’s wrong, boss?” Richard says.

  I glance up at him. “What time is it?”

  He checks his watch. “Sixteen hundred.”

  We have four hours until Anwar’s speech, just enough time to wrap my head around the task at hand. My team and I face an impossible situation tonight, but just using the word “situation” brings back a clear memory, giving me a modest amount of comfort. After all, Sebastian was fond of saying death was nothing more than a “situation.” I stand up. “Who’s watching Knight?”

  “Wade and Sean are with him now. Junior’s picking up the limo.”

  My modest amount of comfort vanishes. With only six employees, counting Liz, tackling a job thirty well-trained agents would find tricky, the word comfort is not in play. The ComLink goes back in my ear. “Listen up, team. We’re going to have to form a ring around Anwar tonight. He’s gonna scream bloody murder, but I don’t care. Unless it’s your mother, nobody gets close to him, check?”

  “Roger that,” Liz says. “What about me?”

  “Liz, you’ll handle communications from the hotel, as usual. Also, contact the sheriff and see if Metro can lend us any officers—make a pledge to their benevolent fund, whatever it takes. We can use active duty, off duty, retired, anything. The rest of you will stick with Knight in the car, on stage, and off, even in the bathroom. Check?”

  “What about Mrs. Knight?” Wade says.

  “I’ve got her tucked away in a secure location.” I lie. “It’s just the six of us against the world tonight. I’m sure Richard told you what we found under the floor of the arena.” I glance at him and he gives me a thumbs-up. “Someone really wants to end our client tonight.”

  “That’s not gonna happen,” Wade says, “not tonight.”

  His enthusiasm is contagious. I push all negative thoughts out of my head and concentrate on strategies for success. “Richard, go back to the Diamond Oasis and head up escort duty. Junior, turn that limo inside out, then stay in it until it’s time to leave for the arena. We need to keep Anwar under lock down until it’s time for his speech. Got it?”

  “And after?” Richard asks. “There’s media here from all over the world, remember? He’s supposed to make some sort of big announcement after the speech.”

  Shit. I’d forgotten all about the broadcast to the world, his kick off of his SST accord. The dawn of a new age. “There’s no other way to say this, it’s gonna be a fire drill tonight—we need to play it by ear. I’ll stay at the arena and sweep the conference room. I’ll also talk to Mr. Benny’s people. We’re going to have to rely on them to do most of the heavy lifting with the crowd and the media. Our main focus has got to be on Knight. I trust you guys to have each other’s backs. Stay alert. If in doubt, err on the side of keeping the client upright and breathing. Any questions?”

  “Boss,” Wade says, “what time you figure for end of watch?”

  This is as good a time as any to let my team in on the one piece of good news I can deliver. “Knight is going to make an announcement tonight about a global alliance he’s initiating. It’s supposed to be big, thousands of employees worldwide. He wants to hire BDI as security for this new organization.”

  “The six of us?”

  “Think bigger, Wade—sixty of us—maybe six-hundred, who knows. In any case, it’s going to be a long-term gig if we accept.”

  “If,” Junior says chiming in, “what’s with the if? Like you said, think bigger. This’ll put us all on the ground floor of something huge.”

  “I’m with Junior, boss,” Liz says, her excitement plain to hear. “This is what we’ve always talked about. I say we
go for it.”

  I pause and bow my head. “Good. But we have to get through tonight, first.”

  “Roger that, boss.”

  I pull the ComLink from my ear and offer my hand to Richard. “Good luck tonight.”

  “Same to you,” he says giving me a firm handshake.

  “Richard, about this new gig, I want you to oversee it in case…in case something happens to me.”

  He frowns. “Get that thought out of your head. Nothing’s gonna—”

  “Just in case. Listen to me, I want you in charge.”

  “What about Wade?”

  I smile. “He hates paperwork. Make him second in command, he’ll like that. Plus, he loves the tactical side of the job. And keep the squad together. We’re a good team.”

  “Roger that, boss. And, by the way, we’re not a good team, we’re a great team.”

  “That we are. Now take off.”

  With that, Richard Blaine marches out of the darkened office. I sit behind Mr. Benny’s desk and take a deep, cleansing breath. Images of wild creatures and haunting screams race through my head. I shiver. The unwelcomed thought of my recent return to earth from The Abyss shakes me. I have no soul. I have no guide. In a little under two days I’ve walked the squishy paths of After World and the rocky ground of The Abyss. I’ve been shot at, beat up, and two of my teammates have died. My hands tremble to the point of convulsion.

  I stand up, clasping my hands together to stop the tremors. The disturbing visions of beasts and sulfur pods is replaced by an equally disquieting thought—Mr. Benny said he didn’t care that we found the bomb buried in the arena floor, because he had a Plan B. Was he bragging, was it wishful thinking, or was it the truth? As I just instructed my team, I’d better err on the side of keeping the client upright and breathing.

  If he had, indeed, spoken the truth, what would Mr. Benny’s backup plan be? He was a curious little character, hard to figure out, but he also spoke from the hip. I’d often found a straight delivery with few “ers” and “uhs” to be an honest one. I glance at the monitors behind the desk, trying to put myself in the little man’s shoes.

  I take in the images playing out on the various monitors. Uniformed employees set up chairs, security guards make their rounds, and delivery trucks filled with food supplies are unloaded.

  The security office is freezing. It reminds me of the cold, dank cave in The Abyss. The thought disgusts me, so I push the memory aside and keep my mind occupied with the monitors.

  Cleaning crews scrub floors. Maintenance workers replace lights bulbs. Souvenir stands are being stocked. Activity near the loading dock catches my attention as local and network news crews roll out miles of cable for their camera and lighting equipment. The movement is non-stop, a hundred people performing a myriad of tasks, all visible from Mr. Benny’s secluded cave, which is sheltered from view near the main arena floor.

  Only three monitors are black. I reach over and turn on the one labelled FFE. The main entrance of the arena comes to life. “First Floor Entrance?” A team of window washers are busy cleaning every square inch of the plate glass façade. I switch on LVB, and a panoramic view of Las Vegas Boulevard fills the screen. Protesters line the arena, their signs held low until the media cameras are in place. The final blank monitor is labelled MBD—Mr. Benny’s Drone. I glance at the sleek controller sitting on the side desk. It looks just like a video game controller with a cell phone attached. It makes sense that the monitor is black, since the drone is grounded. All of the other monitors are lit up, giving the dark room an electric blue tint.

  I stand up, put the ComLink back in my ear, and place the Portable device into my coat pocket. With the orb and 9mm, I’m ready for action. In the top drawer is a monster key ring holding about thirty keys of varying shapes and sizes. I take it, stride to the door, and make sure one of those keys turns the lock. With a final glance through the one-way mirror at the sweeping view of the arena, I exit Mr. Benny’s office.

  The door clangs shut behind me. It’s time to get to know the US Data Center Arena, inside and out. I head toward the loading dock.

  “Hold it right there, sir. I can’t let you go any further.” A young, fresh faced kid, wearing a security uniform, puts up both hands. His expression is dead serious. He’s been told to secure the loading dock and, by God, that’s what he’s gonna do. His name tag says Lt. Benson, and his confidence is impressive.

  I flip open my ID book and stop inches from his personal space. “I’m with the event tonight. My name is Brooklyn Davis. I need to check the dock.”

  He reaches for his walkie-talkie. “I need to clear that with operations.”

  “Operations took the day off. Mr. Benny has the flu.”

  “He didn’t say anything to me about—”

  “He called me. Check it out with headquarters.” Whoever, or wherever they were.

  “Let me see your ID again.” I raise it to his face. “Well, okay, go on in, but I’m still gonna have to check it out.” He even opens the door for me.

  Lieutenant Benson’s heart is in the right place, although his adherence to protocol sucks—nothing a few years in the military wouldn’t straighten out. I raise my hand to my forehead and give him a faux salute. “Who’s second in charge below Mr. Benny?”

  Benson hesitates, swallows, and says, “I am, sir.”

  I smile. “Great. Would you care to join me on a walk-through?”

  He hesitates again. That’s got to stop. “It’s SOP, son.” His blank stare forces me to say, “Standard Operating Procedure.”

  “I know what that means.” Did his voice crack?

  “Good, then let’s start at the loading dock, work through the offices, make a sweep of the first floor, move up the levels, and finish on the roof. Sound good?”

  He nods and we begin. The loading dock is directly behind the stage. It consists of several huge bay doors capable of handling an event like tonight—a single speaker with limited crew. Or, a spectacle with thousands of moving parts—from monster trucks to indoor football. Two of the twelve dock doors are open. Trucks full of food stuffs and souvenirs are being unloaded by workers in white coveralls. I open a cardboard box at random, one of the many stacked up on the dock. I take out a black t-shirt with bold white letters—WE ARE ONE.

  Not one security guard stands inside the loading and unloading zone. I turn to the lieutenant. “I want at least two officers stationed here.”

  “Uh, okay.” He reaches for his walkie-talkie.

  “Do you have a notebook? Better write this down, it’s going to be a long list.”

  He glances at his watch.

  “It’s going to be a long night, too.”

  We negotiate our way through a maze of wide hallways leading to the stage. I check each door along the way. “I want all janitor’s closets, maintenance rooms, and service doors locked. That goes for all storerooms, cubbyholes, spare rooms, dressing rooms, holding areas, and offices. This hallway needs to be secured.”

  “Yeah, I know,” Benson says, “we keep telling the staff to lock the doors behind themselves, but you know how it is.”

  “No, lieutenant, I don’t. How is it?”

  He opens his mouth to answer, thinks better about it, then jots something down in his notebook. I believe he’s starting to get the message.

  We ascend a few stairs and take the stage. The folding chairs on the main floor are set up in orderly rows. “What’s the seating capacity on the floor?”

  “I’ll get that for you.”

  The multipurpose arena is an egg-shaped bowl consisting of an upper tier and lower tier separated by a ring of luxury suites. The top tier sections, 201 to 221 holds about three hundred seats each. The bottom tier, sections 101-121 are closer to five hundred seats per section. I estimate the floor capacity at two thousand. Adding in the luxury boxes, Dr. Knight will address over 19,000 spectators tonight. Throwing in the press, vendors, and staff, it’ll be about twenty thousand people against my six-person team. In a
city of odds, I don’t like ours.

  The lieutenant and I make a tour of the main concourse. Vendors are stocking their stalls with food. The liquor consignments are setting up, along with souvenir displays. Cleaning crews are sweeping, mopping, wiping, and dusting every square inch of the upper and lower concourses. I take note of the stairways, elevators and exits, as well as keep an eye on the camera locations.

  “How many guards does the arena employ?”

  With a broad smile, as if he’d studied the test, Lieutenant Benson says, “Sixty, sir.”

  “Where are all the others? What time do they start?”

  He glances at his watch. “I’m the only full timer. The rest are part-time. They all start at six. A few get here early, but they have to wait until six to punch in.”

  “When the early ones get here, let them punch in right away.”

  “But if they work over, we’ll have to pay them—”

  “We’ll pay them.” I stop and stare down at the lieutenant. “We need them to start as soon as they can.”

  He nods. “Yes, sir.”

  I pat Lieutenant Benson on the back. He’s coming around.

  “We need to check the catwalks and rafters.”

  “I never been up there.”

  “You’re kidding, right?”

  “No, sir. To be honest, I’m afraid of heights.”

  Me too. Vertigo has always been my little secret. “I won’t force you to go with me—just point the way.”

  The view from the center catwalk is dizzying. I hang tight to the guardrails, stepping with purpose across the intricate artery way in the sky. Platforms designed for lighting, sound, cameras, effects, and stage rigging are deserted. But in a few hours, dozens of highly skilled professionals will “walk the sky” above the arena. Several ladders offer roof access. I decide against exploring that avenue without proper fall protection. Before leaving the catwalks far above the “nosebleed” seats, I give the arena a final once-over. In the calm silence of the empty building, it’s hard to imagine this is where the world ended—eight different times before.