Afraid

by Jack Kilborn

  Fran nodded at Josh.

  “Okay, you can come closer. But please keep your hands where I can see them. We’ve had one helluva night.”

  The man walked forward, keeping his arms raised. He stopped next to Josh’s door and squatted. Up close Fran saw that he was older, perhaps late fifties, and so thin his Adam’s apple looked enormous. His helmet was askew, revealing a bald head dotted with liver spots. He smiled, his front teeth slightly crooked.

  “I’m Dr. Ralph Stubin. You’ve met Mathison, I see.”

  Woof walked over and gave Stubin a sniff, then began to bark.

  “Woof!” Fran used her firm voice. “Shush!”

  The dog woofed once more, then turned a circle and sat back down.

  “Is Mathison yours?” Duncan asked Stubin.

  “Yes and no. I bought him, but he’s a sentient being and really only belongs to himself. We’re friends more than anything.” Stubin stopped grinning, and his face became serious. “You’re probably wondering what’s going on here, and how I fit in. I’m guessing there’s a roadblock ahead?”

  Josh nodded. Fran wondered why Josh didn’t speak and realized he was waiting for information before he decided to share any. Smart.

  Stubin rubbed his pointy chin. “I was afraid of that. Standard operating procedure, I suppose. Have there been any casualties yet?”

  “At least four people have died,” Josh said evenly.

  “But we got away!” Duncan added.

  Fran gave Duncan a small pinch on the bottom, a signal to stay quiet.

  “You got away?” Stubin raised his thick gray eyebrows. “Extraordinary.”

  “Do you know what’s going on?” Josh asked.

  “I have an idea. This is kind of a long story, and I’m guessing you don’t want to invite me into your car. And rightfully so. Do you want to talk outside?”

  Stubin’s eyes flashed to Duncan, then back to Fran. She understood. There were things her son didn’t need to hear.

  “Duncan, stay in the car with Woof and Mathison.”

  Duncan opened his mouth, apparently ready to protest, but then Mathison pulled himself onto Josh’s shoulder and began picking at his hair.

  “He’s grooming you,” Stubin said. “He only does that with people he likes.”

  “Can I pet him?” Duncan asked.

  “He doesn’t like his head being touched, but he likes belly rubs.”

  Duncan tentatively tickled Mathison’s midsection, and the primate cooed. Fran relished the big smile on Duncan’s face, then she and Josh got out of the Roadmaster. She met them by the front of the car.

  Josh folded his arms and said, “Okay. Tell us what the hell is going on in this town.”

  “May I ask your names?” Dr. Stubin asked.

  Josh offered his first name only, and Fran followed his lead. There was a round of hand shaking, and Fran found Stubin’s palm to be hot and moist.

  “Where to begin, where to begin?” Stubin laced his fingers together and rocked back on his heels, looking beyond them. “Okay. You’re familiar with terrorism, correct? Not the acts of terrorists so much, but the ideology behind terrorism.”

  Josh answered. “Violence directed against civilians, meant to cause fear.”

  Stubin nodded. “Excellent. Yes. It should be added that noncombatants are the targets, but the goal is to send a message to those in power. If you scare enough people, the thought is their government will change its policies. We erroneously believe that terrorism is used primarily by fundamentalists, or extremists. But that’s BS. All governments, even Western nations, support terrorists. Sometimes it’s through discreet funding—remember the Iran Contra scandal? The so-called freedom fighters that our government supported were a group of raping, murdering thugs, who destroyed more than a hundred Nicaraguan villages.”

  “Is that what we’re facing here?” Josh asked. “Government-sponsored terrorism?”

  Stubin frowned. “Actually, what you’re facing is much worse. In recent years, many countries have begun training their own terrorists rather than clandestinely funding them. These units are code-named Red-ops. Everyone has a Red-ops program. And one of them has accidentally landed in Safe Haven.”

  Fran thought about Taylor. While he didn’t fit her conception of a terrorist, he certainly did his best to instill fear. “Who sent them?”

  “I’m not in the Intelligence loop, but we think they’re Canadian. It’s very likely they got much of their training in the U.S., though.”

  “But Canada is our ally,” Josh said.

  “Yes. That’s sort of where I come in. I’m a brain surgeon who specializes in transhumanism. It’s a catchall phrase for making humans better with the help of technology. I’ve been working with our own military, experimenting with enhancing soldier performance. Mathison is one of my early successes.”

  Fran glanced back at the car. Through the windshield she watched Duncan and Mathison playing what looked like patty-cake. “He seems pretty smart.”

  “He’s very smart. It’s safe to say he’s the smartest animal who ever lived, except for human beings, and he’s probably smarter than a great many of those. I named him after Alan Mathison Turing, the grandfather of modern computers. Turing invented machines that run sequentially, figuring out tasks in linear fashion. The human brain, however, is a parallel processor, absorbing and dealing with a lot of information at once. For example, right now you’re looking at me, and listening to my words. But at the same time you can feel the cool breeze, see what’s going on behind me, plus you’re already formulating more questions to ask, and performing dozens of other biological and sensory processes at the same time. A lot of recent research has been done, trying to make computers more human. My research is opposite—implanting neuroprosthetic devices to make human beings act like computers.”

  “Brainwashing,” Josh said. He didn’t sound enthused.

  “More like programming. The chip allows for the downloading of information directly into the brain, just like running a program on your computer. When the program is initiated, the subject can function with pinpoint efficiency, able to complete tasks that would normally require years of training. For example, here’s one of Mathison’s programs, initiated by a simple word command.” Stubin snapped his fingers, getting the monkey’s attention. “Mathison!” he called to the car. “Dance, please.”

  Fran watched as Mathison hopped through the side window and onto the hood. The primate stood on two legs and stuck one paw out in front of him. Then the other. He turned up one palm, the other palm, touched his head with one hand, then the other hand …

  “Is that … ?” Josh asked.

  Stubin nodded. “Yes. He’s doing the Macarena.”

  Duncan clapped his hands, delighted. Fran was amused at first, but the display quickly became sort of sad. It reminded her of that old movie A Clockwork Orange.

  “How long will he dance for?”

  “Until the song ends. We can’t hear it, but it’s programmed onto the chip in his head. The technology is really quite revolutionary. I’ve been able to grow neurons—actual brain cells—on the silicon of integrated circuits. The neurons actually bridge the gaps between transistors, which transmit electrical impulses just like neurotransmitters. Mathison’s dance is a computer program, but to him it feels more like an irresistible thought or impulse. All other thoughts are overridden. As such, he can do things no other monkey can do, without ever even having to practice. Very much like savants can play an entire concerto after only hearing it once, or solve complex mathematical problems without a calculator. With this breakthrough it is now possible to bypass education and automatically download professions into people’s brains. With the right program, a man can have all of the skills of a surgeon, or a lawyer, or a mechanic.”

  Josh said, “Or a terrorist.”

  “I’m afraid it appears my Canadian colleagues have done just that.”

  Fran folded her arms. “And you haven’t?”

  St
ubin eyed her, and Fran could detect a sliver of distaste. “I haven’t worked on humans. The U.S. government won’t allow it. But imagine having a group of soldiers who could follow complicated, specific orders, better and faster, without questioning them.”

  “We don’t have to imagine them,” Josh said. “They’re here in Safe Haven.”

  Mathison finished his dance, and Duncan applauded. Fran scanned the tree line, suddenly feeling very exposed. Stubin didn’t seem worried.

  “The army asked me to come here, to lend my expertise. But I’m afraid the Special Forces unit I came with was killed. I’m trying to get into town where I can contact my superiors.” He glanced at the broken window, and then up the road. “I’m guessing the people at the roadblock weren’t very welcoming.”

  “So why are the Red-ops here?” Fran asked.

  Stubin adjusted his helmet, and it slipped right back into its original position. “As far as I know, this Red-ops unit crashed here accidentally, and they’re carrying out their objective and treating your town like an enemy territory.”

  “What’s their objective?”

  “Isolate. Terrorize. Annihilate. That’s what they do.”

  “Then why were they asking about Warren?”

  Stubin blinked. “Warren?”

  “He’s the sheriff’s brother. If they came here by accident, how do they know about Warren?”

  “That’s also standard operating procedure. When a Red-ops unit invades a town, they seek out information—phone books, directories, and such—and memorize it.”

  Fran frowned. “Taylor called me by my name. How did he know it was me? My picture isn’t in the phone book.”

  Stubin shrugged. “They might have accessed the state driver’s license database. Or maybe he looked through your personal belongings. He attacked you?”

  “At the diner where I work.”

  “The diner? Do you wear a name tag?”

  Fran did wear a name tag. She flushed, feeling stupid. But it still didn’t make sense.

  “Taylor knew about Duncan.”

  “Duncan?”

  “My son. Bernie had gone after Duncan.”

  Stubin stared at her for a few seconds before he spoke. “I have no idea how they knew that. This makes it a lot worse.”

  Fran didn’t know how this could possibly get any worse, but she asked anyway.

  “Perhaps the Red-ops units didn’t crash here accidentally,” Stubin said. “Perhaps they’re here on purpose.”

  Taylor looked at the woman bleeding out on the shower floor and felt remorse. She was a tasty little morsel, but he hadn’t had the opportunity to really enjoy her. He recalled his past, before death row, and the women he’d been with. There was one girl, in Chicago, a tiny thing with fingers like pretzels that went crunch crunch—

  Taylor experienced something like a flashbulb going off in his head, and before the memory became too pronounced the Chip sensed the deviation from the program and rebooted. Without thinking he reached for his case and removed a Charge capsule, breaking it under his nostrils. The fumes—a mixture of acetylcholine, trichloroethylene, amyl nitrite, and several other proprietary ingredients—traveled up his nasal passage, entered his lungs, and then permeated his bloodstream. From there the chemicals reached the brain and defragmented the memory center, clearing it of all unnecessary neurotransmitters.

  Taylor stopped thinking about the past and once again reverted to Chip protocol. Interrogate townspeople. Find Warren Streng.

  He looked at his partner, Logan, who wore civilian clothes rather than the black body armor, the result of changing soon after they’d landed. Logan enjoyed bloodshed as much as Taylor did and had been the lucky one chosen to kill their handlers in the helicopter, cutting their throats so deeply their heads were practically severed. Taylor would have liked that duty, but he’d been busy helping Santiago set the charges, blowing up the chopper to make it look like it had crashed. In the unlikely event they were caught, the government could claim it was an accident, rather than intentional.

  Though the Chip didn’t allow for personal feelings to get in the way of the mission, if Taylor were to pick his favorite team member it would be Logan. They had similar backgrounds. Both were serial killers, with oral fixations. Both equated pain with sexual arousal. Both were behind bars when the Red-ops recruited them. If it wasn’t for one vital difference, they might have been identical twins.

  Logan was currently dressed as a townie, but it didn’t fool many people, because everyone here knew who everyone else was and could spot strangers instantly. But if everyone knew everyone, why were they having so much trouble locating Warren?

  “Erwin? You in there?”

  A male voice, coming from around the corner. Taylor nodded at Logan, who quickly intercepted.

  “You’re not allowed back here, sir.”

  “My buddy Erwin just went in there.”

  “He left.”

  “He didn’t leave. I’ve been standing here the whole time. Look, I’ve seen some crazy shit tonight and I just want to make sure … Jesus Christ.”

  The man had gotten past Logan and stood in the locker room, taking in the carnage. He was short and bearded and wore filthy overalls and a filthy baseball cap. Taylor could smell the sewage on him from ten feet away.

  Logan came up behind the man, placing a knife to his throat. Taylor shuffled over. The name OLEN was stitched onto the man’s bibs.

  “Hello, Olen. Where’s Warren Streng?”

  Olen’s lower lip bounced like it was made of rubber. “Wiley? He lives on Deer Tick Road, on the little lake.”

  Taylor moved closer, getting in Olen’s face. He noted that even the man’s teeth were stained gray.

  “You actually know where he lives?”

  Olen appeared ready to cry. “I … I cleaned out his septic tank a while back.”

  “Do you have his address?”

  “Wiley doesn’t exactly have an address. He likes to live off the grid, he says. No mail. No utilities. Only comes into town once in a while.”

  That explained the trouble they’d been having.

  “Whether or not you die depends on how you answer my next question. Can you take us there?”

  Logan drew a little blood on Olen’s neck to drive the point home.

  “Yeah … yeah, I can … no problem.”

  “Good,” soothed Taylor. “Very good.”

  A thought, or the chemical/electric approximation of a thought, flashed full-blown into Taylor’s mind.

  Eliminate townspeople.

  He guessed it appeared in his partner’s head, as well, because Logan was already kneeling by the backpack and removing gas masks. Taylor forced one onto Olen’s face and put one on himself. Then he and Logan donned clear plastic ponchos, gloves, and leggings, and each strapped on a bandolier of aerosol canisters.

  “If you try to run, I’ll pull off your mask,” Taylor told Olen. “And you wouldn’t like that.”

  The three of them walked out of the locker room, into the gymnasium. The crowd of over three hundred didn’t react immediately. It took a few seconds for them to notice the gas masks and a few more seconds for them to question what was happening.

  By that time Taylor had already activated and thrown two cans, Logan three. The hydrogen cyanide gas was colorless but carried the odor of bitter almonds. The canisters hissed as they rolled through the bleachers, and the smell—coupled with the trio’s attire—induced panic. Screams popped up here and there, then mingled and joined into a communal wail that sounded as if it came from a single entity.

  People tumbled over each other, tripping down the riser stairs, falling and trampling and stampeding toward the exits, which did no good because they’d been previously locked. A foolish man rushed Logan, who slashed open his trachea before being touched. Taylor kept Olen in his sights but probably didn’t need to bother; the sewage man seemed frozen to the spot.

  After sixty seconds the panicked screams were replaced by another
sound: wheezing. The gas entered their bodies through the lungs and mucus membranes, and it quickly induced runny noses, dilated pupils, and tightening of the chest. This was followed by coughing, panting, throwing up, urinating, and defecating. Then came convulsions and death.

  Taylor found it quite enjoyable to watch. He’d been recruited by the Red-ops, secretly saved from death row, because of his appetite for death. For him, killing was like riding a roller coaster or seeing a good movie. His levels of serotonin and dopamine rose, prompting a sense of well-being and pleasure. The Chip enhanced this effect. Taylor licked his lips, and his heart rate increased, but he made no attempt to touch his growing erection. Rape wasn’t in the programming today.

  The three of them stood there for almost five minutes. Not everyone died, but those that still breathed were comatose or on their way. Taylor was grateful that the gas mask filtered out odors, because the gym was lousy with bodily fluids. He tugged Olen by the arm and followed Logan to the table near the gym entrance, watching his step. The town treasurer still sat at the table, mouth open and eyes bugged out. He’d managed to get the keys out of his pocket but died before being able to use them. Logan tugged them from his hand.

  It took a bit of pulling and pushing to move the large pile of bodies away from the door, and when they got to the bottom of the stack Taylor was tickled to see Mayor Durlock still alive, twitching and wheezing. His chest and face were speckled with bloody vomit, and the front of his pants was stained.

  Taylor bent down so the mayor could hear him.

  “I lied to you about seeing your wife and daughter again. They’re already dead. But thanks for helping out.”

  Mayor Durlock’s face contorted into a lovely mix of shock and anguish, which morphed into pure pain when Logan cut out his eyes. Logan tossed one to Taylor.

  “I’ve got an eye on you.”

  Then Logan’s face went blank. The Chip, rebooting. No time for play right now.

  Taylor unlocked the door and dragged Olen outside.

  “Where’s your vehicle?” Taylor asked.

  Olen didn’t answer, but he did raise his hand and point to a tanker truck with a skunk painted on the side.