Intercepts: a horror novel Page 9

  The closest she ever felt to this sensation was the time she went on that backpacking trip in the mountains for Chloe’s birthday. She was fifteen. She promised her mom that both of Chloe’s parents were chaperoning. It would just be a night of girls out in the woods having fun.

  Meanwhile, Chloe told her parents that she was spending her birthday night at a sleepover at Riley’s house and that Riley’s mom would be watching over everyone.

  Chloe’s older brother then drove them and two other girls out into the woods and dropped them off. No boys. No parents. No adults.

  Maria brought booze. Stacy brought weed. Riley had never smoked before. After she took the first two hits and didn’t feel anything, she convinced herself that she had a high tolerance for drugs (and the Jack Daniels that Maria brought). Riley took two more hits and three more shots and before she knew it, she was fucked up.

  She couldn’t understand why people liked being high. Or drunk. She hated not having control.

  All night, like the most stereotypical teenager-who-gets-high-for-the-first-time story ever, she spent the night looking at her hands, trying to figure out how her brain was telling her fingers to move. Then she tried to figure out how her eyes reported back that Yes, boss, the fingers have moved. Repeat, the fingers have moved.

  The weird delay that her brain felt that night was the closest sensation to what she felt now. At least back then it was because she was baked out of her fucking mind. Today, the sensation came from overwhelming exhaustion and terror.

  Riley never told her parents about that night, about throwing up and passing out in the woods. When she came home, she put on a brave, sober face for her mom. She looked her mom in the eye and lied to her. She had all sorts of stories about the delicious chili dogs and s’mores that Mr. and Mrs. Robertson had made for the girls. Mr. Robertson played the guitar, and we all sang ‘Country Roads’ around the campfire. We sang until midnight, and then we giggled and talked about boys until 3 a.m. Tee-hee. I’m exhausted. Gonna take a nap. Byyyye.

  She always felt guilty about that lie.

  Over the next couple years, Riley convinced herself that her mom saw through the lie and that, together, it was their little secret they kept from her dad. Riley imagined that one day, when she was in her twenties or thirties, she and her mom would joke about how her mom knew immediately that her daughter had come home drunk, stoned, hungover, and had barfed into her own shoes because it was the only receptacle she could find. They’d have a good laugh about it and would be all the closer. A true mother-daughter bonding moment.

  That moment would never come now.

  The lie could never be undone.

  Riley let that realization sink in. She hoped that thinking about her sadness would act as a sort of pinch to her system that could snap everything back into place. She wanted to cry and scream out. She wanted her eyes to fill with tears and her breaths to be deep and painful. She wanted to mourn.

  But numbness overshadowed her emotions.

  Time for another cup of coffee.

  She stood in the kitchen, trying to keep her motions smooth and silent for fear of awakening the demonic woman who had been haunting her. As she rose, she reached into the front pocket of her hooded sweatshirt. Inside, her fingers grasped the handle of a large carving knife.

  When she had lain in bed awake all night, she felt the need for some sort of protection. So, after agonizing over the decision for an hour, she had opened her bedroom door and crept down the dark hallway to the kitchen. Every time she turned a corner, she held her breath and felt her muscles tighten. Every time she passed an open doorway, or a darkened nook where something could leap out at her, she felt her legs wobble from fear.

  It had been only fifty steps from her bedroom to the kitchen — three turns around blind corners — but it had taken her ten heart-stopping minutes.

  She had grabbed a knife from the block but couldn’t bear to turn around and make her way back down that dark hallway again. And so, she pulled over a stool and sat in the corner of the kitchen, a knife clutched in her hand as she dared not blink.

  That was eight hours ago.

  She only moved so that she could brew a pot of coffee. As long as Riley stayed awake, the woman didn’t appear. When the urge to pee became too overwhelming, instead of walking around blind corners to reach the bathroom, she took a thermos off the counter and used that.

  And there she sat ever since, even as her father woke up, mumbled some excuses about having to go to work, and then hurriedly left.

  Riley knew she had to sleep.

  She had had almost twelve hours to think about and analyze the situation. Despite the fogginess of her brain at this point, there could only be one conclusion — the woman wasn’t real.

  Right?

  No one else saw her.

  No one else even saw evidence of her existence.

  The woman must be in Riley’s head. She had to be some manifestation of the stress and anguish Riley felt over her mom’s sudden death. Right?

  Maybe the screaming woman represented unresolved tension between her and her mother. They had never really discussed the divorce. Her mom was the one who packed up and left. Her mom was the one who started the custody battle. Her mom was the one who broke the family. Riley tried to be the good daughter throughout it all, but maybe she harbored deep subconscious resentment toward her mother.

  Maybe that was it.

  The woman with the black hair represented her relationship with her mother.

  Right?

  A psychologist would probably say the exact same thing. Every psychologist she had ever seen on TV seemed to believe that most people’s issues were related to unresolved relationships with their parents.

  To Riley, this was the only logical explanation. But knowing that she had experienced a psychological break from reality wasn’t much comfort. As much as she tried to will that logic into her senses, she still couldn’t bring herself to close her eyes in this house.

  The woman might come back.

  “Fuck this place,” she said aloud, hoping perhaps demon-woman would hear her.

  She set down her coffee mug and gripped the knife in her sweatshirt pocket, fully ready to pull it out and slash at any demon bitches that jumped out.

  One cautious step at a time, she made her way across the kitchen. She peeked through the dining room and then walked over into the living room. She looked down the hall.

  Nothing there.

  Then she unlocked the front door.

  Her hand hesitated as it clutched the latch. She just knew that this was when that fucking bitch would jump out at her. She’d open the door and the woman would be there, screaming into her face and scraping off her skin. The door had a peephole, but Riley knew from countless horror movies that looking through that tiny fisheye of glass would yield its own terrifying visions.

  Just like ripping off a bandage, Riley had to get it over with quickly.

  She pulled the knife from her pocket.

  She took a deep breath.

  She pushed down on the latch and ripped open the door.

  Sunlight flooded into the room, temporarily blinding Riley and making her blink. Fearing the ghost would pop out of the sunspots that danced in her eyes, she waved the knife at the brightness, waiting for her vision to adjust. And when it finally did…

  Nothing.

  There was no woman. Just a beautiful, spring morning.

  Riley allowed herself a breath.

  She stepped outside, slammed the door behind her, and jogged off down the driveway.

  Fuck this house.

  CHAPTER 12

  Joe led Mr. Aguirre into the Control Room.

  Two work stations faced a large screen that displayed the security feeds of each and every Antenna. Charts and graphs of each Antenna’s bio-readouts, updating in real time, accompanied the dozen live feeds.

  The two men working at the terminals in front of the display screen looked up as Joe and Aguirre stepped in.
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  “You remember Chuck, our control operator,” Joe said, pointing to an overweight fifty-year-old man in a Hawaiian shirt. He was the kind of guy who seemed to have been at his job longer than the building for it actually existed. It bred a sense of comfort and familiarity in him that was a bit obnoxious, but still, Joe couldn’t imagine some younger recruit doing the job.

  Chuck turned and made a face. “Uh-oh. The bosses are watching,” he said. He grinned wide as he threw a pen across the room toward his counterpart at the other desk. “Tariq, quick! Turn off your porn!”

  The pen sailed past Tariq, a guy in his twenties who wore his polo shirts tucked in. He picked up his own pen and threw it back, smacking Chuck in the face. The two laughed.

  Joe let out a deep sigh. “Knock it off, guys.”

  “Yeah, kid,” Chuck said. “HQ’s watching.”

  “Good,” Tariq said as he turned to Joe and Aguirre. “I’d like to report that my workmate is old and enfeebled.”

  “Also, flatulent,” Chuck said, lifting a butt cheek off his seat and preparing to let one rip.

  “Chuck, set a good example for the kid,” Joe said.

  Chuck immediately registered that Joe wasn’t amused. He stood and waddled over to Aguirre. “Sorry, Joe. Good to see you again, Javi.” The two men shook hands.

  “Likewise.”

  “Youngblood there is Tariq,” Chuck said. “He’s our chemical specialist. A little cocky, but he’s really good at what he does. He’s the best of the best… that would work for this shitty salary.”

  Tariq couldn’t help but beam.

  “He doesn’t have a military background, so feel free to smack him around a bit. It helps,” Chuck said.

  Aguirre walked over and shook Tariq’s hand. “Good to meet you, Tariq. Don’t let me interfere. I’m just here to observe a tuning session.”

  “Best show in town,” Chuck said. He sat down at his desk and began punching in commands.

  Joe guided Mr. Aguirre to an elevated platform in the rear of the room. There was a snack table, mini-fridge, and several leather recliners that faced the main screen. It had been designed with all the comforts of a luxury movie theater, a place where any VIPs who visited could observe tuning sessions in comfort. Joe learned, from years of experience, that the more comfortable and catered to a big-wig was, the less he interfered in operations.

  Mr. Aguirre took a seat in one of the reclining leather chairs, kicked back his feet, and immersed himself in his tablet.

  “Who’s our lucky volunteer?” Chuck said.

  “Antenna 201,” Joe said.

  “The best don’t rest, eh?” Chuck said as he punched in some commands. The screen transitioned to a view of Bishop.

  “How many cases has Antenna 201 been used for?” Aguirre asked, glancing up at the big-screen.

  “I’ll need to look that up,” Chuck said as he opened up some files on his monitor. “It’s a lot, though.”

  Joe cleared his throat. “Well, um, when urgent or high-profile intercepts are needed, that’s the Antenna we trust most. Tunes faster. Intercepts are cleaner. There’s more detail. The ratings for Antennas 201 are just better.”

  “Bishop has had seventy-one tunings,” Chuck reported.

  “And the next highest?” Aguirre asked.

  “That would be Ferro at… twenty-three,” Chuck said.

  Joe grimaced. He hadn’t realized those numbers were so out of balance. He glanced over at Aguirre’s face, searching for any hint of disapproval. But Aguirre kept looking at the screen, his mind seeming to digest this information.

  “In your opinion, is Antenna 201 just more powerful than the others?” Aguirre said.

  “It’s a bit of a self-fulfilling cycle,” Joe said. “The more we tune ‘em, the better they become at tuning. The faster and more powerful they get. 201’s our best, so we use her the most. And because we use her the most, she’s now our best.”

  “The rich get richer,” Aguirre said with a nod.

  “I guess you could say that.” Joe kept looking at Aguirre, trying to judge his reaction. “You want a different Antenna? Get their usage rates up?”

  “On the contrary, I’d rather push the boundaries of our current leader here. Let’s see what Antenna 201 can give us.”

  “Bishop it is,” Chuck said as he entered some commands.

  Joe cleared his throat. “Use official identifiers please.”

  “Sorry. Preparing tuning session for Antenna 201. Loading stimulants for Case 10598.”

  On the screens, Joe looked at Bishop.

  She seemed to stare directly into the camera. Her mitted hand, previously lying still at her side, suddenly came alive and began to furiously claw at her face. She opened her mouth and released a howling scream that pierced through the speakers of the Control Room.

  Without interrupting the flow of his work, Chuck flipped the audio off.

  On the screen, Bishop now screamed in silence.

  Joe watched her howl and claw at herself. The lower portion of the screen showed multiple feeds from other areas of the Facility. Joe glanced at the images of his staff wheeling medical carts and audio/visual equipment down the Level Two corridor. In small teams, they maneuvered their gear into the airlock that led to Bishop’s cell.

  First in were several orderlies. They carried in restraints and a wheelchair. Once inside the airlock, they fastened masks to their faces and then waited for the room to pressurize.

  On one of the video feeds, Joe could see Hannah and her medical team stand in the corridor, waiting for their turn to enter and begin their portion of the process.

  Joe stood. “Excuse me. I’m gonna go down to Level Two and supervise the setup. Water and soda in the fridge over there, if you’re feeling parched. Snacks in the cupboard for any hankerings. Be back soon.”

  “Take your time,” Aguirre said. He wasn’t watching the setup closely; his attention had drifted back toward his tablet.

  Joe walked to the door but paused to glance back at the display.

  On the main screen, the squad of orderlies — all wearing gas-masks — entered Bishop’s cell. Joe stared intently, holding his breath. He watched for any sign of resistance from Bishop. Any fight. Any acknowledgement that she was, in fact, aware of their presence.

  In a coordinated maneuver, the orderlies surrounded her. They firmly grasped her by the arms and legs. She squirmed and swayed, as was her nature. Joe didn’t think that any of her movements appeared threatening.

  They carefully lifted Bishop — she was so small and frail that they were able to pick her off her mattress without straining — and then set her onto the wheelchair. As two of the orderlies held her down, the others went around cinching restraining cuffs tightly around Bishop’s wrists and ankles. Without a single problem, Bishop was soon firmly strapped to the chair. And the way her eyes roamed, muscles twitched, and head bobbed, it was as if she never noticed she was moved at all.

  Joe nodded; everything seemed to be moving smoothly, both in the Control Room and on the monitors. A complete textbook tuning session. He opened the door and walked out.

  ***

  Joe stepped off the elevator and onto Level Two.

  The corridor buzzed with calm, professional activity.

  Technicians and medics moved around each other in a delicate, well-rehearsed dance of duties. Some of the staff gave Joe slight nods of greeting, but mostly, they continued with their tasks as normal.

  As a supervisor, Joe prided himself on his ability to make people calmer at their jobs instead of more anxious. They respected his subtle managerial style. It had taken him years, but he felt he had perfected his leadership charisma. Never authoritarian, but also never too relaxed.

  It was the same strategy as being a good parent. Be warm, but firm. Set sensible rules then communicate and enforce them clearly. Joe had read that in a parenting book when Kate was pregnant with Riley. That was back when they lived in a crappy rental house in the D.C. suburbs.

 
At the time, he worked as an account executive at the company that oversaw the construction of the Facility. He always assumed that the client was government or military, but the paperwork passed through so many opaque levels of approvals that it was impossible to know for sure. In any case, it was at that time that he saw an opportunity to provide his family with a more stable life.

  Joe threw himself into his duties overseeing the construction and staffing of the Facility. He worked long hours and most weekends. He didn’t want his young family to have to follow him from job site to job site all over the world, and so, he let it be known to his superiors that he was angling for a stable, desk job.

  He was determined to impress.

  They gave him a few days off for Riley’s birth, of course, but that was it. He missed most of Riley’s infant months. There was one time, early on, when he came home and Riley began crying because she didn’t recognize this strange man in her house.

  But all the hard work paid off.

  When the doors finally opened and the lights turned on, it was clear to everyone at the Company that nobody knew the Facility from the ground up like Joe Gerhard. Every bolt, every pipe, every hose. When the time came for the final staffing decision, Joe took a big risk. He went straight up to Javier Aguirre during the final inspection and told the man that if he didn’t get the supervisor position, he would start looking elsewhere.

  The higher-ups finally relented.

  Joe received an office, a desk, and a salary that placed his family firmly in the upper-class of their quiet West Virginian community.

  Unfortunately, the work-load never lessened. There was always something to install or some fire to put out. He missed most of Riley’s childhood and never got to test out all the things he learned from those parenting books. But he told himself that all that knowledge had paid off at work. Coordinating an operation like this wasn’t all that different from herding children. Children or not, people were going to be people. They’d be lazy if you let them. They’d be catty if you allowed it. And they’d blame you if they could.