Fear Factors

by Peter Sacco

  “She’s a witch! She was disguised as a pretty lady!”

  “Whatever are you talking about, Sarah?” asked Mr. Carter.

  Mrs. Carter shook her head and offered a warm smile. “It was just a dream, Sarah.”

  Sarah shook her head. “There’s evil in that apple. There’s bugs! There’s an eyeball!”

  “For crying out loud! It’s my apple,” shouted Jack.

  Mr. Carter took the apple from Jack and examined it. “That’s my candy apple, dad!” exclaimed Jack.

  “I know it’s your candy apple and you’ll get to eat, after I check it.”

  Jack glared at his sister and gave her a subtle finger.

  “I don’t see anything wrong with it,” as Mr. Carter examined the apple.

  “Cut it open!” cried Sarah.

  “Holy cow! I want my candy apple!” cried Jack impatiently.

  Mrs. Carter placed her hands on her son’s shoulders and sighed. “Cut it open, Jack, and humor your daughter.”

  Mr. Carter grabbed a knife from the drawer and studied the apple once more before slicing into it. He held the apple firmly as he was about to cut it. He slowly cut the apple open, as Jack watched impatiently. The sliced apple broke open in two as the blade penetrated through. Not paying attention to the position of his hand, Mr. Carter lightly skinned the palm of his hand causing a small stream of blood to puddle.

  “Way to go, Sarah, now you made dad cut himself with the knife.”

  Mrs. Carter grabbed a dish towel and applied pressure to the wound. Jack offered his father an inquisitive stare showing little concern for the cut. “Go on and eat it,” said Mr. Carter.

  “I knew it. She just wanted it for herself,” grunted Jack. Jack picked both halves of the apple and stuck his tongue out at Sarah. He disappeared with his prize into the living room. Mr. Carter, now tending to his wound, offered Sarah a less than sympathetic look. “Do you not have something better to do, or do I have to find something for you?” asked Mr. Carter.

  Sarah stared momentarily at her father’s wound then sheepishly left the kitchen. “I don’t understand,” Sarah said to herself under her breath. Sarah suddenly came to a dead halt in her tracks as she heard Jack scream from the top of his lungs. The shriek came from the living room. Both of her parents ran out of the kitchen. She knew what it was. She was afraid of what it was. And now, unfortunately, Jack knew what it was. She didn’t want to see it. She didn’t want to. She tried not to move but felt her feet leading the way. Her feet had a mind of their own. They wouldn’t move in dreams when she was being chased, and now when she wanted them to remain still, they wanted to go for a walk.

  As she entered the living room, her worst nightmare came true. Her parents were both kneeling over Jack as he lay motionless on the floor. She couldn’t see his face as her father’s torso was in the way. She didn’t want to see his face. Too late! Her father ran to the telephone to dial 911. She saw it. It was utterly repulsive.

  The insects! All over the place! Her brother! The poor little guy was motionless. And that thing glistening in his mouth. It was watching her. Good Lord...it was an eyeball!

  Sarah Carter awoke from her sleep on the green-striped couch in the family room. She stared at the television screen as she tried to adjust to her new surroundings. She rubbed the sleep away from her eyes as she watched the end credits roll down the television screen for Stephen King’s movie “Silver Bullet”.

  She noticed her clothes were damp with sweat and her eyes were sore the way they usually were after she had been crying. For the life of her, she could not remember what she had dreamed. Whatever it was, it sure as hell must have had some bite. She recalled being wakened by her father’s voice. She believed her father was upstairs scolding her brother for something he had done. What else was new? Her brother Jack, the little devil in angels wings.

  She decided to go upstairs and see what kind of trouble her younger brother had gotten himself into this time. She felt it was her duty as his sister to go upstairs and rub it in any way she possibly could. What the heck? What’s a little more salt into a bitter tasting wound?

  Sarah clicked off the television and went upstairs. As she got to the top step, she noticed her next-door neighbors, Mr. and Mrs. Downes, were standing half-dressed in her kitchen. She noticed the two of them look quite worried. Mrs. Carter descended the stairs carrying a couple of towels and holding her brother’s coat. Her father came out from the kitchen holding her brother in his arms. Her brother helplessly glanced over at her. Blood trickled in little streams down the side of his mouth.

  Mr. Carter handed Mr. Downes something on a bloody, white handkerchief. Sarah caught a glimpse of what it was. She saw that it was a razor blade. And through the kitchen door, she saw an apple lying on the floor in a little pool of blood. And something blue and round glistened from within the apple. It reminded her of a blue pearl smothered in the meat of an oyster. It was no oyster, just as it was not a pearl. It looked like an eyeball peering at her. It couldn’t be!

  She now remembered her dream. She gazed at her brother and was unable to shake the fear which paralyzed her. The hair on the back of her neck was electrified with terror. Her mouth had become the driest of deserts. There was an intense ringing in her ears. Everything tasted like copper. For it was not a dream, the witch was real. “You all come back now!”

  Chapter Nine

  The Fourth Reich

  Date: Christmas Eve 2003. The world was still here. Much was made about how California was going to disappear into the Pacific after the Big One, but California is still here, as glittery as ever. Sure, they had more than their fair share of earthquakes, however modern technology was able to help stop the shifting of the spreading ridges and eventually the fault. Californians were able to sleep a little easier at nights not having to worry for fear of the Big One.

  The economy in the United States was booming. The Democratic Party had led the nation toward prosperity. The States were second only to Germany in wealth. Japan had slipped to fourth behind Switzerland. Unemployment rates in the States were the lowest they had been in some time. On the other hand, the quality of pay had also changed. There were very few middle class jobs and plenty of low-class paying jobs. A couple of years ago much of the social assistance had to be eliminated given the increasing debt. Those collecting social assistance were now forced to work.

  Just as the economy was prospering, so was violence. Gang violence escalated. Cuts in the police force made it difficult to compete with perpetrators. Home security systems and firearm use had truly peaked in 2002 in the States.

  An old breed of gang was also flourishing to awesome power in the United States. The gang called themselves The New White Supremacists. Their power was taking hold across the United States and Canada. They stood for W.A.S.P., the White Anglo-Saxon Protestants, who were there to preserve their species and wipe out all minority groups standing in their way. Nightly news broadcasts included at least one episode of terror the group had laid claim to each day. The nation was becoming gripped by fear.

  Blacks, Jews, Italians, Latinos, Asians – no one was safe. Congress had called in the National Guard in four of the southern states to try and suppress the group. The President of the United States spoke diligently about the need to strive for peace and unity. Countries trading with the United States were growing concerned and uneasy about the future. Rumor on the streets of major cities was there would be a violent revolution in the States in the year 2004. Americans began arming themselves for the worst; possibly the rumble of rumbles.

  Nazi-fascist parties were also springing up in other parts of the world. Secretly operating in several European countries for decades, they were now becoming highly visible. In Germany, Austria, and Hungary, fascist groups were becoming more powerful than the IRA ever hoped to be in Ireland. Ironically, the IRA had actually banded together with the r
est of Ireland and Britain to fight the terror in the streets being created by the fascist parties. The party was also growing quite powerful in Africa. The years of fighting and bloodshed to abolish the Apartheid had been in vain. White supremacy was once again rising to prominence in South Africa. The United Nations had met to discuss the growing concern of white supremacy and the Neo-Nazi movement. There was worry the world would be seeing the rise of the Third Reich all over again. The United Nations did not want to see World War II revisited. If this was indeed happening, World War III was perhaps just around the corner in the year 2004. People were terrified with predictions of doom and gloom. Was it all true? Was it really going to happen?

  Terry Nagle was a young-looking man for thirty-seven. His dark hair and dark skin made him appear even younger. Of average height with a somewhat athletic body, Terry’s dark green eyes radiated the competitive spirit which made him tick. He was the only child of a mother of Italian descent and his father was as rich as American apple pie. Terry had grown up an athlete and had attended Penn State on football and baseball scholarships. During his senior year he tore up his right knee while out with his dorm mates doing some drinking. The knee was never the same and his lifelong professional sport dream was shattered. Despite this monumental disappointment, he still lived for sports.

  Everything he thought about had a sporting ring to it. Even his job with American Intelligence made him feel like he was on a team. He was on the good team, the Hall of Justice, and they were out to improve on their winning season against the bad guys, the visiting team, Neo-Fascists.

  Living in Washington, DC was like playing in the best stadium in the world. You were always the home team and you always received media coverage. Nagle had been on the national news three times within the last year and a half. When not speaking with his folks over the phone, they could keep tabs on their son from their Boca Raton retirement home by watching the news.

  Nagle did not see his parents as much as he would have liked to. After they retired to Florida, having lived in Pittsburgh most of their lives, the visits had grown few and far between. The only time they could truly count on seeing their son was at Christmas. Except this year. It wasn’t as if he had to spend Christmas at the in-laws. He wasn’t married, nor did he have any serious relationship on the burner. His job was all he had and at times he was even at risk of losing it.

  Nagle had his mother’s Italian feistiness. Unfortunately, his temper became uncontrollable at times, even violent. It plagued him through college and into adulthood. It seemed to peak when his athletic career came to its abrupt end. It was even worse whenever he drank. He had been on and off the wagon like a pendulum, but was finally able to stay on after beating the shit out of his fiancée’.

  He nearly killed her after learning she was out with another male. He tracked the two of them down to a restaurant and after stuffing a bowl of clam chowder, bowl and all, into her friend’s mouth he then laid a beating on her. He was a monster when he was angry. This was not the first time he had beaten up a woman. However this was the first time he had ever been charged. As it turned out, the male friend was gay and a caterer and met with the fiancée to plan the upcoming wedding. Put away the rice and confetti, wedding kyboshed!

  The damage was irreparable. His insecurity, the trigger for his anger, had destroyed whatever might have been between Jane and him. Both his fiancée and her gay friend sued and pleaded for Nagle to be locked away. He was a woman beater. Who wanted this kind of trash in society? Luckily, Nagle had a golden reputation as a government agent and it would be a complete waste to lock him up and throw away the key. The D.C. brass were able to pull many costly strings and get him off the hook. The incident, like all the others, never happened. At least on paper. Nagle was ordered to get help for his anger.

  He became part of an anger management group and now rode shotgun on the anger management wagon. There were other men in the group who had beaten up women, but all paled in comparison to what he did. He was even feeling some shame for the first time in his life but this passed quickly. As far as he was concerned he did not have a problem. It was all their fault. They were nothing but conniving bitches who were out to ruin him. Who needed them anyway? He took the anger management to save his bacon. He loved his job and no one was going to cause him to lose it. Whether it was the group, or scarcity of women in his life, something was working because he wasn’t blowing his stack. This was good because one more strike and he was definitely out. No one would be able to save his ass next time.

  Last year the White House had assigned him to investigate why the white supremacy movement had grown to such proportions in the U.S. Where did it come from? Where was it going? How was it getting funded or by whom? How was it tied to other countries? How could it be stopped? Agents assigned to the case up until then had let the monster escape from its cage.

  While they thought they had things under control, the monster grew like a Chia Pet and exploded in their hands. The Agents’ small concern had escalated into disproportionate worry. They had always been able to keep the horse in the barn. Someone was careless and left the door open. The horse was now out and it was Terry Nagle’s job to devise a way of corralling it before it got too far away.

  Charlie Monger, known as Chuckster to his blokes, held different goals. Monger was the leader of the Neo-Fascists in the United States and was pushing for a takeover. He had founded the original sect of the party almost a decade ago and led it to prominent power. Given Monger’s wit, intelligence and ambition, if he were politically correct, he could have been a future president of the U.S. As far as Monger was concerned, he only wanted to be the ladle which stirred the pot. He had a much better person in mind for dictator. He would lead his fascist group to the promised land and, once there, the person he had in mind would take them over the top. They would conquer the world.

  Monger was from British decent. His parents, now deceased, had immigrated from Britain before Monger was ever a thought. His parents had died of lung cancer having been heavy smokers and excessive social drinkers. Monger had also developed the same habits in moderation. His father had been an architect. He passed away the year before he was due to retire. Monger’s mother had always worked as a hairdresser and had passed away last year.

  At forty-three, Monger had already lived a complete life. He had been an environmentalist, worked for Greenpeace and other Save The Environment organizations. His trouble with the law soiled his reputation with respected movements and he was blackballed from participating in their causes. At thirty-two, Monger met up with Trace Henry. Trace was a fair-haired, fair-skinned man like Monger. Trace had been an active member with a white supremacist group at the time. The two had met in jail. There Trace convinced Monger his group was where the future was going and guaranteed him money, power, control and a political voice.

  Monger could do without the first three as they never meant much to him. But the voice thing, well that was what he wanted most. He believed the country was going to pot and he wanted to save it. Monger had always had a dislike for blacks and other minority groups. Henry reinforced Monger’s dislike and shaped it into hate. Henry taught Monger the country was worse off because of minority groups. By purging itself of the minorities, the country would rid itself of a malignant tumor. The cancer was spreading rapidly throughout the U.S. and Henry told Monger they were the radiation needed to cleanse the body.

  Henry told Monger the Southern United States would be first target. Within the next four to five years they had hoped to reduce the black population and minority groups through whatever means necessary. Monger balked at the idea and believed Henry to be both immoral and wrong. Monger had always been a passivist and always lived and let live. Not Henry. For fifty bucks he would shoot his own father.

  Monger left prison and had nowhere to turn. Against his better judgment, he turned to Henry. Henry accepted Monger with open arms. Monger became part of the famil
y. Henry took care of him. He groomed him to be a Henry clone. Monger shaved his head, eyebrows, and had a swastika tattooed onto the side of his right temple. He now looked like part of the family. Henry taught Monger to kill. At first Monger was reluctant, but he learned fast. Henry made Monger what he was. A killing machine! Monger would be the best product they manufactured at least until their leader was born.

  Monger became the commander for the time being. Monger’s brother and best friend were executed in the state of California six years after they had met. Monger had blood in his eyes and rage in his heart. He could taste his bile when he thought about the death of his mate. He was going to carry on what his brother had started. The stage was set for North America to erupt into a frenzy and blood would flow like lava through the streets.

  Even though Nagle and Monger were on opposite sides of the continuum, they were very much alike. Both were very passionate men driven by self-righteousness. Each believed aggression to be the best possible means for achieving an end. Both struggled with their own inner turmoil.

  Nagle had an explosive anger, a keg of dynamite a match away from the big bang while Monger had a moralistic, manipulative anger, a knife in the back when you weren’t looking. They would be two minds at distinct ends of the chess board. This would be a game to see who the better player was and who was willing to sweat blood. Nagle was in it for both the sport and because of his intense hatred of Monger. Monger, on the other hand, was in it for the greater good of mankind. If Nagle happened to get in the way he would squash him like an ant. Besides, it would be fair to pay back the son of a bitch who had him locked up several years earlier. Payback was a bitch and Nagle had it coming.

  ***

  It was remarkable the amount of funding underground organizations received from businesses. Some businesses had members involved in the cause and donated freely. Other businesses, as well as private citizens, donated moneys to this organization after they were led to believe they were contributing to a worthy cause. Needless to say, the arms Monger and his group had built up over the last five years had become awesome. Worldwide, Monger’s organization was probably capable of destroying most of the smaller and weaker countries. Those would come in due time. Monger had his eyes set on the big prize, the U.S. of A. Monger’s headquarters was set up below a savings and loan office. The owner of the business was a very active member of Monger’s organization. He felt very safe with Monger just below his building.