Unleashed

by Patrick McLaughlin

  Chapter 42

  The Energy Lab was created in 1974 as a test bed for renewable energy resources for the Hawaiian Islands. Since its creation, the Lab hosted research and development scientists working for various marine and energy technology companies. One of these was Photon Corporation. Today, however, the Energy Lab was closed to all but essential personnel.

  Craig had requested from Langley that a platoon of Marines be sent over from Kaneohe Bay to act as temporary security, along with two Coast Guard patrol boats off the nearby beaches. When the Marines arrived, he brought them in and told them to forget the asinine rules of engagement imposed by some politically-correct do-gooders. Craig gave them unwavering shoot to kill orders for anyone approaching the facilities outer fences. He had posted SWAT teams further out to prevent the meandering tourist or any employee who may not have gotten the word from coming up to the gate. “So if you see someone approaching consider them a threat to be neutralized at once.” The Marines liked this guy. They were trained to kill and grateful to be commanded by such a no-nonsense individual. “If you see it, react appropriately and kill it,” Craig ordered.

  Craig had also contacted a medical unit from a local hospital to check out Drake Powers and asked for specialists from the Center of Disease Control to be included in his examination. He couldn’t even begin to imagine what types of diseases could be brought over from another dimension.

  As soon as they arrived he ordered his men to take Powers to the employee lunchrooms in the adjacent building and turned one side into an infirmary, the other into a confinement room for Drake. He had cots and food brought in to make him more comfortable. After all, the kid wasn’t a wanted terrorist but someone caught up in something even he was having a hard time wrapping his head around. For now though, Pérez would come with him.

  Outside, two agents opened the rear of the SUV and awkwardly unloaded the laser, while Craig marched Shawn into the main building. Shawn’s hands were still bound, but once inside, Craig ordered the plastic tie cut. Shawn rubbed his chafed wrists as he made his way into an especially dark room. As his eyes adjusted from the bright sunlight outside, he squinted and walked carefully to avoid tripping over anything in the unfamiliar surroundings. Then he heard the familiar voice.

  “Major Craig, what is Shawn Pérez, the photographer, doing here?” Jarrard asked.

  “Holy shit, if it isn’t dimwit! What the hell are you doing here El Jarrardien? Thought we left you far behind in the California Valley!”

  “Knock off the bullshit,” Craig said impatiently. “Jarrard, do you have the image file and the individual images of El Sharrad? Give them to Mr. Pérez here. But before you do that, take this computer of Dr. Campbell’s we brought back. They were using it up at his lab and had recreated a dog before we arrived. I think they used it to bring back the surfer Drake Powers as well. Do whatever you need to do to hook it up to the main system. Pérez, you sit down and get to work.”

  “This may take some time,” said Shawn, assessing the computer files before him. “I can’t just pull this type of composition out of my ass under these conditions. I’ve never even seen the guy in these photos, and I didn’t take the pictures. This is a shitload different than what I’m used to.” Shawn began clicking through image file after image file. “This is going to take a whole lot of finesse. Many of these photos you took of the bad guy are pretty shitty, and most are from a great distance. Hell, half of them look like they were taken from a plane.”

  “They were. Get on with it, and get it done,” Craig ordered, trusting the artist in him would do the most with the least. If Jarrard can get as close as he did, Pérez will get the job done.

  “Yes, well about that,” said Shawn. “I’m not doing anything here with these files until you promise something: that after this is all done, you will leave us alone. That includes Sally, I mean Dr. Evans, Ben, Drake, Frisco and me. I’m not doing shit for you until you give me your word. Better yet, I want it in writing.”

  In one motion, Craig had Shawn’s shirt collars in his hands, his breath heavy upon his face and he responded, “Remember I have your surfer friend, who everyone thinks is dead, who could simply be dead again. Who would miss him? Do you want to continue this conversation now or do you want me to walk over to the other building where Mr. Powers is?”

  Shawn put up both hands as if surrendering, “Yo, back up bro, no problem, reading you loud and clear.” And Shawn’s second bluff abruptly came to an end. “Jarrard, you have those files ready yet? I have a shitload of work to do!”

  Craig let go his grip, and Shawn came off his toes. “I want the best you have, in four hours!” Craig yelled, as he stormed out to check on security and Drake.

  Shawn’s eyes had come accustomed to the dim light, and he noticed Jarrard didn’t look so hot. “Dude, you look like you went over the falls at Jaws, what’s the deal? I mean, I know why I’m here, but why did this fucking spook dude bring you here?”

  In spite of the situation, Jarrard could not refrain from indulging his ego, and said indignantly, “There is no question why I was brought here — he knows my skills are critical to bringing the terrorist back. What I fail to see is why you’re needed.”

  Tired, pissed and angry, Shawn shot back, “Listen, from what I’ve heard you’re as worthless as tits on a bull! Sally doesn’t even know why your company keeps you one except maybe they have some reason they can’t fire you, but if we’re going to get out of here and away from this nutcase, we need each other to give him what he wants. So, we both know we don’t like each other, but today, we’re amigos. Comprende?”

  Shawn’s words bit deep and for once, Jarrard was truly hurt. In spite of his hubris, he always felt he played a valuable part of Dr. Evans’ research unit at Photon. At once humbled, he submitted himself to Shawn. “Really, she said that?” and then added, “I tried producing this terrorist El Sharrad back at Photon, but our results were hideously disturbing and we nearly blew up the building. What was I missing? Whatever you need me to do, I will. Now I only want to get my life back to some stage of normalcy.”

  “Well, right off the bat, unless you’re a closet photographer, (Shawn smiled as he said this, the phrase conjuring up all types of sick thoughts) if you put the images together wrong, you’re basically creating a creature of your own design, like Mr. Potato Head in a way.” Shawn spoke as he rifled through multiple sets of dozens of images, displayed on monitors along the wall. “If you don’t make the sandwich the right way, there will be some ham, or cheese, or both hanging over the edges. Glad I wasn’t around to see the weird shit you made.” Shawn said as he looked up at Jarrard.

  “The images should contain only the essential quantum-level data, and then you give it time to form, time for the particles to find their correct alignment. In other words, it takes it upon itself to fulfill its natural relationship with the other photons and electrons.”

  Impressed, Jarrard asked, “Did you figure this out on your own?”

  “No, my new pal Ben gave me the lowdown. So yeah, what more can I say dude? Start with shit, end with shit. It comes down to the raw ingredients. Most people think all it takes to be a photographer is to have cute girls or wedding couples to stand in front of you and smile nice. Damn, that’s only half of that whole.”

  Caught on in the moment of his favorite topic, Shawn stopped his work on the layers. “A smile is more than how you make your mouth curl up on the ends. A smile has to come from within — spontaneously — and even then, the eyes tell the real story. Shit, I’ve taken photos of some of the most beautiful women in the world and deep inside, through their sparkling gaze, I’ve seen sorrow or despair, even hate. So job one for a photographer is to take them away from all that and to find the little girl or boy within the layers of man-made worry. You have to uncover a time they lived without concern or hardship, with the pure joy of life we are all meant to live. Bet even you have some joy underneath the shrouded layers of your life,” Shawn quipped.

&nb
sp; “I didn’t have a very happy childhood, but I don’t want to talk about me. It’s not why we are here. One of my problems was working with images of a man I assumed to be evil incarnate. It was hard to spend time looking into his eyes,” Jarrard said.

  “I get that and yeah, he is grotesque. Part two is what we do with these images. Even shooting with the Sentient there is distortion due to aberrations in the lens, glare, and dust. It’s not easy distinguishing and capturing the reality of what our eyes actually see versus what is really there. Only a micro shift of the angle or distance from your subject magnifies the variables on how the visual information enters the lens. Like music, when a band goes into a recording studio, they don’t call it a sound room for nothing. There are always one or two talented sound board specialists mixing the voices and instruments to find best levels. Shit, I don’t go to concerts to hear good music. I go for the energy from all the positive people. What I’m telling you, Jarhead, is that for the fraction of a second it takes me to snap a pic, I might spend hours, or even weeks polishing the image before I release it.”

  “I’m not much for art, or music, but you have a valid point. We do much the same with science. If it takes you that long, how can you combine all the photos of this terrorist the way we will need it in just four hours?” Jarrard asked thinking, I wish I listened more, I might learn something.

  “Exactly,” Shawn answered. We are going to give Craig what he needs, not what I want, or would be satisfied with. Except we have a big problem, these pics are jacked. Never mind the variations in distances, of at least a third of them, he’s beat to hell or screaming in agony. What did he look like when he came up for you?”

  “I can’t really describe it too well, but yes, now you mention it, his face was disfigured. Looked like a rubber Halloween mask. I can see already how differently you’re compiling these.” Then, Jarrard held up his hand and pointed at the laser. “What about this, how does this contribute?”

  “It’s the juice dude. Ben figured it out. Like Frankenstein, the hologram was assembled of all the right shit, but it needed a jolt from within. The power creates the hologram; the laser gets the heart pumping so to speak.”

  Shawn spent a few minutes running through the method Ben used and added, “Glad we’re at the Energy Lab, shouldn’t have a power-down issue here! We knocked all of Ben’s generators out. I can’t even imagine what would have happened if they cut out before we brought the subject all the way back. Now, go find some cables to unplug and plug back in so I can get this done, make him happy, and save our asses.”

  For two more hours Shawn and Jarrard kept to themselves, fully consumed with their work. The guards both in and outside the lab relaxed a bit. Craig was still with the doctors examining Drake so the tone had lightened considerably.

  Outside at the front gate, and Energy Lab researcher with a top-level security clearance talked his way past the first line of defenses. The Marine captain under Craig’s command radioed him and described the situation. Craig gave the approval for him to come in and the captain gave the stand-down order. Accompanied by a heavily-armed Marine, they passed through the lobby and into his office. A guard took up post outside the door. Between his office and the lab where Shawn and Jarrard were held, was a small glass drawer, the type a bank teller would use at a drive-up window. It was used during certain experiments when the researcher suited up in protective clothing.

  While the scientist busied himself looking for “something” in his office, he slid open the drawer, dropped a thumb drive in, and closed it forcibly enough for Shawn to notice, but for the guard not to realize where the sound came from. Shawn glanced at the window, saw the scientist look down at the drawer as if to signal him, then hastily leave the office.

  Shawn called Jarrard over. “Man, can you ask one of the guards if we can get some coffee or something stronger? I’m whipped.”

  Jarrard agreed. “I don’t usually drink coffee, but I too could use something with some kick to get my energy level up.” And he went out to the entrance to speak to one of the Marines.

  As soon as Jarrard moved away, Shawn stood and pretended he was stretching; he’d been hunched over a computer for two hours, so it did feel pretty good. He walked around, yawned, touched his toes, and made his way over to the drawer.

  Looking down into the slot, Shawn spotted a thumb drive. Waiting until Jarrard had his head down behind the laser, and the guard’s head was turned, he popped the drawer open, grabbed the drive, and slipped it in pocket. Back at the workstation, he snuck into one the open USB ports and at once up popped a very small balloon with a little dancing figure of Gretchen inside. There was one line text of text he couldn’t make out. Ben, he instantly thought and the message read sweetsafe-ashesofsorrow-remember&watchforthedrivescare and that was all.

  What the fuck? he thought knowing Ben’s no dummy. Shawn wondered what the hell Ben was trying to say. At least the first part I get. I know he heard me call Sally “Sweetie” dozens of times, but what are “ashes of sorrow,” could he mean Drake? But Drake is alive. Wait, Drake’s funeral. He’s trying to tell me something about Drake’s funeral? Well, I got to get back to this or whatever he’s telling me won’t be for shit. Sounds like he is at least telling me Sally’s okay.

  Shawn stuffed the drive back into his pocket.

  At three hours and fifty-eight minutes since he left, Craig came in through the entrance to the lab. “Mr. Powers, you better be ready.”

  “Listen brah, did my best, but these images suck. I’m used to working with my own photographs; whoever took these had no eye. And all the decent ones show this poor bastard writhing in pain. I know it will come together, but not sure you’re going to like it,” Shawn warned.

  “As long as you bring him to a point where he can think and talk, and you keep him alive long enough to get what I want out of him. You do that, and we’ll discuss your future,” Craig said. “Are we ready to go?”

  “The software is at ninety-eight percent, about four more minutes, and the composite will be ready to bring up as a hologram. This is going to be like a friggin’ horror movie!” Shawn laughed. He watched the bar hit one hundred percent and yelled, “And Bingo was her name!”

  “Pérez, are we a go?” Craig had only ever worked with hard asses and he was kind of starting to like this guy. “Do we have to stand behind any shields or leave the room before this begins?” he asked, as he remembered Jarrard’s last attempt.

  “Nah, all cool. Let’s go Jeeried. Let ‘er rip!” Shawn hit the Populate Hologram icon in the software while Jarrard kicked in the main power to the floor.

  “With this software and 3D imaging projector Sally modified, we can create on the go. The tough part is a consistent power supply and, of course, a high- powered laser,” Shawn explained to Craig above the din.

  El Sharrad’s outline began to define and fade as the particles swirled, and define again, becoming more lifelike with every repeated sequence. No one was surprised at the anguish and suffering visible as the hologram materialized. Craig had caused it firsthand, and both Jarrard and Shawn had spent hours working with the photos, but when it came to full resolution, Shawn had followed Craig’s order and isolated a single moment in El Sharrad’s existence where the pain caused by tortured was unbearable. They heard his voice, even before the laser went in to the core of the hologram. El Sharrad bellowed in agony, “No, no, stop, kill me, I want to die!”

  The guards in the lobby and adjoining hallways could hear the screams, and they couldn’t help but look in through the observation windows.

  There was something else, something much more barbaric than any suffering by man in all time. El Sharrad was frozen in this moment; it didn’t pass. The intensity of the pain at the instance Shawn had pinpointed to use as the basis for the replication was highly concentrated. To Shawn, it overwhelmed the transcendent nature of the other replications of Drake and Frisco. El Sharrad would be stuck in this moment forever, or as long as this dimensional exi
stence of his duplicate self-lived.

  Craig understood this at once. While Jarrard and Shawn covered their ears and tried, but were unable to look away, Craig shouted, “Wonderful!”

  They both turned towards Craig in disbelief.

  Shawn yelled, “Are you for real? You are one sick mother!”

  Jarrard called out as well, “What kind of sick man are you?”

  Craig kept smiling, his grin widening. “Keep going, bring him back, do it, do it now!”

  In Shawn’s mind, he couldn’t care less about Craig’s mission. Replicating the poor soul was against every sense of caring and kindness he had lived his life by since a child. “No, I can’t do it. The guy is frying!”

  “Pérez, do it, now, or you’ll never see daylight again, and I promise your Sally will rot in a prison cell. I said, hit the laser!”

  Jarrard, shocked but with none of the ethical strains with ran in Shawn’s blood, activated the laser and it pulsed into the chest of El Sharrad. Solidifying, El Sharrad fell to the ground, bending and twisting like a worm on a hot summer sidewalk. “Kill me, kill me! I want to die, someone kill me!”

  Craig called in two Marines who were blown away with what they were witnessing. Both were Iraq vets and had seen death in many ways, but to see a man in such incredible pain drew looks of revulsion on their faces.

  “Bind him; I don’t care how you do it. Just keep him in one spot, put a spike though his leg if you have to. He needs to answer two questions and then we’ll decide what to do with him.”

  The Marines resorted to dropping a long table, up-side-down, across El Sharrad’s torso, and Craig had two others sit on the table’s ends as if on a see-saw. This one, however, bounced violently with El Sharrad’s every move, rather than pivot up and down.

  Craig came up and knelt on the center of the table. With his full weight on El Sharrad, he put his hands on his shoulders, and brought his face six-inches from the terrorist and spoke directly to him in a measured voice. “Is the pain unbearable? Well, you died. You might remember…,” Craig wondered if those replicated had memories of future events after the images used were taken, “…you died, and I now have the power to bring you back into a life of never-ending suffering.” Like those who lost husbands, wives, daughters, sons and parents on 9/11, he thought. “Every moment you shudder in agony brings me pleasure and, even better, it will never stop, not until I allow you to die again. But unlike the innocent victims of the Trade Center attack, you can stop your torment. On your word I will kill you and end the pain. Tell me where the attack is to be made: when, where and how. Tell me, and I will kill you!”

  El Sharrad opened his mouth to speak. His words melted in his cries, difficult to distinguish. “My death, aaayiee, I know, aarggh, it was wel..aaa…come! Pain….yiiieee, unbearable. Yes…aaaoo, kill me!”

  “Yes, I will kill you, but only after you tell me everything. And we can take our time, your choice,” Craig said.

  For the next fifteen minutes, El Sharrad told Craig everything, including the alternative triggerman Murad who by now was somewhere in the U.S. picking up where El Sharrad had left off. During the entire exchange, the terrorist shuddered in misery, his body convulsing, his lucidity clouded, only the will to die drove him to speak.

  When he was done, and Craig was satisfied, El Sharrad begged the Prophet Mohammed to call him home. El Sharrad’s skin was now peeling away from his body, his pours oozing a reddish bodily substance. “Kill me, do it now, aaaayaaiiiiee, it is a terrible pain!”

  “No,” Craig said. “I know of every child you maimed, all mothers murdered at your hands. You will die, I will let you die, but it will be slow and merciless if I let you die at all in the miserable state you’re in. Far as I’m concerned, you can stay this way forever.”

  Craig gave orders to the Marines to move El Sharrad to a convict maximum-security vehicle outside, but no one wanted to touch him. They threw loops of rope around his ankles and wrists, tossed them over a beam in the ceiling, hoisted him like livestock and put him on a stretcher. Shrieks of woe were continuous and the young men performing the move put yellow foam earplugs in to keep from hearing his calls, but it barely helped.

  Shawn and Jarrard were terrified and used Craig’s preoccupation to sneak out of the lab, unnoticed. They found a short hallway and sat against a wall covering their ears. Once El Sharrad was out of the building in the back of the truck, Craig found them and congratulated Shawn. “Job well done, you have any idea of how many lives you saved today?”

  “How do you do what you do? Are you some type of devil?” Shawn said looking up.

  “Pérez, for every evil person I kill, I save countless lives, for every minute I torture, it offers years of life to families who would otherwise be victims of terrorist acts. You and I are the same in a way. I don’t say this too often, but I admire you. You see and capture the multiple layers of our complex reality. I see the same, but in unique layers of good and evil. We both understand how they interact. My role in this society is to eliminate the bad which would hurt the good.”

  “How do you deal with what we just saw?” Shawn asked again.

  “Shawn, we all hear about the suffering in the world. Most won’t accept it and shield themselves, particularly here in the United States which I call the spoiled society. We here in the U.S. are sheltered from an unforgiving reality. Even the poorest citizens are one hundred times better off than the majority of the humans on our planet. Hot/Cold, Up/Down, In/Out; everything must be counterbalanced to exist in harmony. All things need an equilibrium or opposite. I dance between the two.”

  And Craig then spoke to Jarrard, “Now, enough, Jarhead,” (Craig found Shawn’s name to be appropriate) “…you’re still working for me so get your ass in there and clean up the lab and back-up Shawn’s work. If or when we let El Sharrad die, we may want to replicate him again in case we missed something. Shawn, you need to get back to your friend Drake. You have plenty of explaining to do. We checked him out and he’s in perfect health. Marine, bring Mr. Pérez to the room where Drake Powers is being held.”