The Theory of Insanity

by Rick Newberry

  “Lieutenant, do a double check on the credentials of the crew on the catwalks.” His expression told me he needed a clue as to how to proceed. “Cross their personal ID’s with their HR files if they’re arena personnel. If not, check their ID’s against police records.” He was still unresponsive. “Here’s the cell number for my information tech. Her name’s Liz. Get her to do a quick background check on every person who’ll be working up here tonight.”

  “Will do.” He scribbles another note in his pad.

  In the elevator to the underground parking garage, Lieutenant Benson stands at ease with his hands in front of him. I note the camera in the corner, against the ceiling as the doors slide open. So far, I counted fifty-three security cameras, far more than the number of monitors in Mr. Benny’s office. That meant dozens of cameras were dummies. Dummy cameras kept honest people honest—they rarely stopped criminals—not even real cameras did that.

  With a “beep” the elevator doors open at UP1—underground parking level one.

  “The garage opens at five tonight,” Benson says, “two hours before the event. The parking crew will be coming on shift in a few minutes.”

  “How many are there?”

  “It’s an automated parking system, but there’s still six attendants—give or take. They’re contracted out, not arena employees. Anyway, most folks park in the casino lots and walk over to the arena.”

  “Why’s that?”

  He scoffs. “Arena charges a fortune to park, casinos a little less.”

  We ride back up to the main concourse and step out of the elevator. “Thanks for the tour,” I say shaking the young lieutenant’s hand. We march back into the darkened arena.

  “My pleasure, sir. I’ll get on this list right away. It sure was nice to meet you. You know, I’m a big fan of Dr. Knight. It’s about time someone delivered a positive message to the world, a message of hope. I got two little ones at home and the way I see it, hope is a good thing—don’t you think?”

  It sure is. I hope the arena doesn’t blow up. I hope Mr. Benny’s warning about having a Plan B is just bluster.

  I hope tonight isn’t the beginning of the end.

  XXVII

  The little voice in my head is angry. It’s nagging. You’ve overlooked something—you’re not trying hard enough. You’re going to fail—you won’t find Plan B in time.

  Well, at least I found Mr. Benny’s secret stash of Lucky Turkey Straight Bourbon Whiskey in the bottom drawer of his desk. I sit in his office with the lights out. Closed-circuit monitors provide the only illumination—enough to check the label on the whiskey bottle for an age statement. How naïve. Instead of a production year, there’s a month—July. Fireworks light up my head with the next swig.

  Putting the bottle aside, I take time to meditate—or am I just tired? With eyes closed, I draw in a deep breath, hold it, then let it out slowly. My emotions are calm, my mind clear.

  “C’mon, Samantha Greene, where are you?” No answer.

  A stark realization hits me—I’ve just held a séance. But Sam’s ghostly voice, the one that drives me insane at times, is silent in my time of need. Great. I grab the whiskey bottle and send another river of lava down my gullet. Call it a force of habit, call it an addiction. Whatever it is, I savor the rush alcohol gives me—a jolt to my system.

  “We’re five minutes out,” Junior says over the ComLink.

  Damn, cheap whiskey makes time fly. Glancing at the monitors behind me, I search for something, anything out of the ordinary that would make me call off tonight’s event. Other than the usual “anti-globalist” protesters waving their signs and marching in front of the arena, there’s nothing to warrant such a drastic call.

  It’s eighteen hundred, one hour until Dr. Anwar Knight takes to the stage for his final speech of the We Are One world tour.

  I stand, stretch, and face the huge one-way mirror. Some early-birds are arriving. Ushers gather in groups, talking and laughing. A few security guards roam the floor, final touches are tended to on stage, and a sound check is under way.

  Chaos plays out on the monitor labelled MLB—Main Lobby. I grab the microphone from Mr. Benny’s desk and hit the “talk” button. “Lieutenant Benson, come in.”

  “Yes sir, Mr. Davis, this is Benson.”

  “Benson, get some control over the crowd coming in. Lock down half the doors. Have your team establish lines, check handbags and backpacks, do some pat-downs for show. Funnel the crowd to the center of the detectors, and for God’s sake, keep calm.”

  “Uh…roger that, sir.”

  I stare at the monitor. Seven guards soon arrive and shut the glass doors, locking several of them. After some coaxing, three entrance lines are created, and all incoming bags are being checked. “Good job, lieutenant,” I say to myself.

  The black limousine comes into view at the rear loading dock. For whatever reason, there’s still a semi-trailer backed into bay number three. I turn for the door. “Junior, give that semi a wide berth. I don’t know why it’s there. I’m on my way.”

  “Copy that, boss.”

  I grab the microphone from the desk again. “Benson, check out that semi-trailer backed into loading bay number three.”

  “Will do.”

  By the time I reach the loading dock, Junior, Wade, Smitty, and Richard are escorting Dr. Knight down the long hallway to the green room. He smiles and waves at me from behind his taller human shields. I don’t want to stop their progress, so I proceed to the green room, unlock the door, and hold it open for them. Smitty remains in the hall, guarding the door.

  “Brooks,” Anwar calls out once he’s safely in the room and free of his detail. “I’m sorry about Gayle, my friend.” He puts a hand on my shoulder.

  “Thank you, so much.” Words are sometimes cheap—his aren’t.

  “Instead of sorrow, my heart fills with joy at having known her. Her light will always brighten my path.” He leans in and gives me a quick embrace. “How are you doing? Is there anything you need?”

  I shake my head. “It’s still sinking in. I’m doing all right.”

  “Wade tells me you have Tilly in a safe location. What does that mean? She’s never missed a speech.”

  “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you earlier, but as you can imagine—”

  “Nonsense. However, I would like her to be here for the press conference.”

  “Don’t worry, she’ll be here.” I force a smile, hoping to put his mind at ease. “Everything will work out. I’m looking forward to your speech.”

  He scoffs. “You really are my biggest fan, aren’t you Brooks? Have you given any thought to our conversation?”

  “I have. If the offer still stands, BDI is definitely interested in providing security for your new venture.”

  “Excellent. I’ll have Gunther draw up the papers immediately.”

  “Burns? Is he here?”

  “Of course. I spoke to him just this afternoon. He was thrilled at the success of the world tour. In fact, he said he’s truly looking forward to our next undertaking.”

  Interesting choice of words. Burns has been in the wind since the tour began. He was originally responsible for selecting BDI to protect Knight during the tour, and my gut tells me his sudden appearance in Las Vegas is not just a casual happenstance.

  The problem is, I don’t know how the Nefarists operate—how they inhabit, or infect, their human hosts. I might have known at one time thanks to Samantha’s data download, but that knowledge has all but faded, as promised. Just a few fragments remain. In fact, with zero communications from After World, I’m even starting to doubt its existence. That damned inner voice of mine is whispering. This is all a crazy dream, a delusion, like the ones you suffered after the war. Keep your mouth shut. Don’t tell anyone about After World or they’ll lock you up.

  No. I remember it clearly. Mr. Benny dragged me into The Abyss.

  You’re simply reliving your imprisonment behind enemy lines. It’s all in your head.
>
  Nonsense. That Nefarist beat the hell out of me.

  That’s nonsense…the enemy tortured you while in captivity.

  Sebastian rescued me, I remember it distinctly.

  Wade was the one who rescued you.

  You’re mixing everything up. I’m here to stop the end of the world.

  Your world ended years ago.

  Anwar puts a hand on my shoulder. “Are you okay, my friend?”

  “Yes…yes, sir.” I force a breath.

  “Good.” He pats me on the back and checks his watch. “I must prepare for my speech. We’ll talk again at the press conference. After tonight, nothing will be the same.”

  He has no idea. We shake hands and I leave him in the green room.

  “Boss, where you going?” Smitty asks.

  “I’ll be in the security office. Just before the speech ends, have Junior pick up Tilly at the Mojave Springs Hotel. She’s in room 422. Have him bring her here.”

  “What’s she doing at—”

  “Just stay on ComLink and have Junior get her here in time for the press conference.”

  “Roger that.”

  Is the arena half full, or half empty? There’s no time to contemplate that age-old question, Anwar will take the stage in less than thirty minutes. Glancing up at the rafters, I spot a few workers hooking up to fall protection, checking cables, and positioning equipment. I haven’t heard a negative report about any of them from Lieutenant Benson or Liz. I’m confident I can move the catwalk crew to the back of my mind and continue the search for Mr. Benny’s Plan B elsewhere.

  Seats are filling fast. I make my way back to the security office. Just thinking about another quick snort of Lucky Turkey makes my throat burn. Scanning the closed-circuit monitors one at a time, I search for anything out of the ordinary—people running, open doors, lone individuals keeping to themselves, anyone wearing heavy coats, unattended packages—that sort of activity. The only thing that draws my suspicion is the semi-trailer backed up to loading bay number three with its back doors open. Lieutenant Benson found it empty.

  Anti-globalist protesters have been pushed away from the arena by Las Vegas Metro units in tactical gear. This being the final stop of the world tour, the police look to be anticipating the worst. So am I.

  I check my watch. The main lights in the arena go out. The crowd roars. This is it.

  An enormous screen behind the stage comes to life. Three giant words appear—white letters on a black background—We Are One. Another cheer erupts from the crowd and cell phones are raised throughout the darkened arena. A chant begins. “We are one…we are one.”

  Dr. Knight’s face materializes on the huge screen. “Since time began, man has struggled to survive, rising up through the primordial muck, keeping just one step ahead of extinction. With natural selection and the heritable traits of biological populations, we now have all the proof we need to speak the one known truth…”

  The screen goes black and a spotlight captures Dr. Knight, live, on stage. “We are one.” To say the crowd goes wild would be just an overused cliché. After two full minutes of raucous applause, the audience finally settles down.

  I take my seat behind Mr. Benny’s desk and watch the proceedings through the one-way mirror. Wade and Smitty stand a few feet behind Anwar, their eyes trained on the crowd. I speak into the ComLink, “It’s all green.”

  I turn my attention back to the monitors, trying to take in all thirty screens at once. Everything appears normal, but my heart still races. I’m sure I’m missing something. What’s worse, I have a sinking sensation it’s staring me dead in the face.

  “Thank you for taking time out of your busy lives to be here tonight,” Dr. Knight says, his hands outstretched, trying to quiet the crowd.

  “We love you,” a fan shouts over the din.

  “And I you,” Knight answers with a smile. After another minute, the audience gives him their full attention. “It seems only appropriate that the final stop of our We Are One world tour is here in Las Vegas, Nevada.” After a few shout outs from the locals, he continues. “For this is where the world forgets its problems, celebrates life, and, as the Beatles once said, comes together. Vegas is where the world leaves its worries behind for a short time to laugh, and sing, and dance, and love as one people, one tribe, one race. The human race.”

  My eyes hover over each screen from left to right, searching, scanning, trying to pinpoint anything I might have missed. What am I not seeing?

  I freeze. A familiar face catches my eye on the monitor labelled L2A—level two, section A. Using the toggle control, I zoom in—Major Roberto Flores from Mexico City is standing and applauding. He blends in with the rest of the crowd around him. I focus on him for a few seconds, trying to determine if this is Mr. Benny’s Plan B. I decide against it. He’s too far away from the stage. Besides, Paul Varjak told me he’s an anti-globalist, which means his agenda is more political than otherworldly. I make a snap-decision to keep an eye on him, but continue the search for Plan B.

  “War, suffering, poverty, hunger, disease,” Dr. Knight says, “these are the enemies. Only as one people, can we hope to defeat hunger, eliminate disease, and do all the things necessary to ensure our continued evolution. Together, there is nothing we cannot do, no challenge we cannot face, no enemy we cannot defeat.” He speaks in a sing song fashion, the crowd urging him on. “Our differences do not divide us—on the contrary—our differences give us common ground. I tell you it is because we are different, that we are the same—we are one.” The assembly jumps up and chants, “We are one…we are one.” Major Flores stands as well. He’s not chanting.

  My head throbs, focusing on each one of the thirty monitors. I know the answer is here, right in front of me—why can’t I see it?

  Finally, I do see it. It’s been staring at me since before the speech began. Ice chills my veins. All thirty monitors are on—even the one labelled MBD—Mr. Benny’s Drone. I turn and stare at the side table. The remote control is gone. “Shit.” It takes less than a second to build the scenario—a drone, Semtex, ball bearings, a timer.

  I scrunch my nose against the one-way mirror, straining my neck to get a better view of the rafters. That’s where I’d be if I were controlling a drone carrying C-4. Although Mr. Benny’s Plan B won’t take down the entire arena, it will decimate the stage and wipe out the first thirty rows or so, killing hundreds of innocent people. Those kinds of casualties might be more than enough to give the president sufficient excuse for his nuclear response.

  Without hesitation, I sprint for the stairs. By the time I reach the second level I’m struggling for air. “Liz,” I manage.

  “Go, boss.”

  “Liz.” It’s no good. I have to bend over and take several deep breaths before I can speak. “Liz, you have Lieutenant Benson’s cell phone number.” I rush toward the door marked Production Team Only.

  “Roger that.”

  “Get a hold of Benson,” I shout into the ComLink, “tell him to stand by.”

  It seems like the key ring now holds a thousand keys. I take far longer than I should to unlock the door and step out onto the steel mesh landing high above the arena floor. The stadium, filled with thousands of boisterous fans, unfolds below me, giving me a fresh taste of vertigo—and bile.

  Squatting down for a better view, I peek around struts, trusses, and railings, searching for the drone operator. Was I wrong? Was the drone being controlled from down below? No. I catch a glimpse of a man standing on a platform, high above the middle of the arena. He holds the controller, his elbows stuck out. He sways to the left and right, using body English on the drone. His back is to me, which is good. The bad part—I have to race across forty yards of catwalk to reach him.

  The drone hovers just below the truss I stand on. How had Mr. Benny described his “pride and joy?” An octocopter—eight blades with a payload of fifteen pounds. That’s a hell of a lot of C-4.

  The crowd shouting, “We are one..we are one,” mask
the sound of my footsteps. The vibration of my shoes, however, clomping along the metal catwalk is another matter. The drone operator spins around. It’s Gunther Burns.

  My first punch crushes his nose, making him drop the controller. It teeters on the edge of the truss. I throw an uppercut to his jaw and kick him hard in the midsection. He falls straight back, out cold, on the truss. The controller slides over the edge of the catwalk. Diving onto my stomach, I reach out, snagging the device just before it plunges to earth. The drone wobbles and careens downward.

  I’ve never controlled a drone before, but it seems fairly straightforward. The remote is configured much like a video game controller—two toggles, one for left/right, one for up/down. The thing that catches my eye and stops my heart is the iPhone connected to the controller. The screen shows a clock display—3:22 and counting down.

  The controller has an altitude hold button, which I press at once. The machine stabilizes and hovers in place on auto pilot. With a final glance at the drone, I race back across the truss and burst through the door to the second floor concourse.

  I reach the top step of the stairway and gaze up at the machine hovering in midair. The countdown clock reads 2:21.

  “Liz, relay to Benson.”

  “Go ahead, boss.”

  “Tell him to meet me at the loading dock.”

  “You okay?” Junior asks.

  “What’s going on?” says Wade.

  I decide against telling the team about the drone. They need to concentrate on Knight. “I’m doing just fine.” I lie and make a mad dash down the stairs, taking them two at a time. My attention is split between the drone and not falling. A few spectators brush up against me. I clutch the controller tight, hurtling toward the arena floor.

  The clock reads 1:17 when I hit the bottom step. I take off the altitude hold. The drone wobbles and falls downward. A gentle push on the right toggle helps it climb a few feet. The drone wiggles back and forth, dipping up and down, mimicking my quick practice of remote controller skills. In a few seconds I’ll have to guide the machine through a tunnel toward the loading dock. Any contact with the walls, ceiling, or floor will prove disastrous. :37.