CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
The Reverend Billy Graham once said, “Through perseverance the snail reached the ark.” As Agent Andrews listened to an irrelevant underling voice his opinion, he reminisced on his crawl through the years, determined to expose Broumgard. Hundreds of fantasies involved courtroom battles, where he would win the hearts and minds of a nation with rational debate. A favorite action scenario involved Alex Cutler snatching a hostage in a chokehold and aiming a pistol at their head. While being broadcast live, Agent Andrews would disarm the man with moves learned in training, and shoot Alex with his own firearm as the psychotic billionaire reached for a backup weapon.
Heading the LOC looked to become a brilliant career move. In a show of support and unity, the powers that be offered him an office on the fifth floor of the Federal building in Los Angeles. His title granted him authority equal to Deputy Director, John Willis. This meant almost a hundred agents at his disposal.
The first day of reaming Alex Cutler’s snarky attorney and watching Alex squirm had been so mercurial that within twenty minutes, Andrews had excused himself from the room and casually strolled to the bathroom. Once alone, he’d swung his arms spastically as if fighting off spirits, while grunting his elation.
When he returned to the meeting, he felt like a saint holding a flaming sword. This day brought equal satisfaction.
Beginning tomorrow, his legal team would search out precedent for seizing both the hardware and software that allowed Mr. Cutler to access the Lobby from his home.
“Given a favorable judge, that seems our best chance.” By the trailing tone of the underlying, Andrews knew he had finished. Whatever he said involved his own ego. From this day forward, words mattered little. They had an objective, actions would rule.
“Thank you, Domorsky.” Andrew said.
The man looked around, “My name is Wright, Allen Wright.”
Andrews frowned.
Before starting his final address, a woman spoke: “Domorky went home hours ago.”
“Does it matter?” Andrew said. “No. Now focus. We stand on the front line of America’s defense. The Lobby has distorted all of our values. It has supplanted American pastimes with induced delirium. Education and healthy socializing have almost vanished in a matter of years. You men, and women, are the Nameless Special Forces. Our mission is the most vital—” The elevator doors dinged with a new arrival.
Being almost nine at night, with the floor vacant except those Andrews asked to stay late, he surged with indignation; almost choked with disgust that some fat janitor had interrupted his flow. He cleared his throat. Search for his last words.
The Man in Gray stepped off the elevator.
Shorter than anyone in authority should be, his eyes were locked on Andrew's as if he'd been watching from the inside of the elevator, which obviously he hadn’t. Andrews ran a finger inside the neck of his shirt.
“Who’s that?” An agent asked another.
“Some spook,” said the woman who previously mentioned Domorsky’s departure.
“He's no one,” Andrews blurted. “Our mission is vital. People are Spellbound. They need liberators and we are that source. Let's get to it.” He frowned at his ending: much shorter and lacking his intended panache. With swiveling heads all around the table, he expedited their dismissal by shooing them out with both arms.
Andrews dropped into the nearest chair; checked on the interloper; who continued to stare. Andrews looked away. Little shit trying to intimidate me; doesn't work.
“Agent Andrews,” the last man to exit said.
“What, dammit.”
“I was just... Have a good night, Sir.”
“Brown nosing will get you nowhere with me, agent Wright.”
“Okay then.” Agent Wright pivoted on a heel and trailed the herd to the elevator.
Andrews felt the short man still staring, but he didn't take the bait by looking up, he daydreamed about how special it would feel to seize Alex Cutler's property. Regardless of orders, Andrew’s would explore the highly-touted, patent-protected macrostorage servers that preserved the Lobby. He had to see the hardware, examine the software.
Being a member of the federal government, he didn't understand why they couldn't take the dangerous components by force. What happened if his legal team failed to compile the necessary arguments? Or if one lone judge overruled them in court? Would they just allow Broumgard to keep destroying the world?
Personally, he’d continue to fight. With clear evidence pointing to the Lobby’s evil, he’d eventually destroy the machine.
He heard the small man’s soft padding steps bring him near Andrews.
Looking up brought a start. The Man in Gray waited at the end of the abandoned aisle like a serial killer—well out of the range Andrews expected from the sounds of the footfalls.
Had he imagined hearing steps at his six? Was he experiencing a psychosomatic effect, some mind trick used to scare? He hadn’t slept much, which it explained it sufficiently.
Besides, who just stands like that, glaring at someone.
Andrews rose to his full six one and stared back.
The Man in Gray had introduced himself as Mr. Johnson on their first meeting.
After dismissing the room with a few words, he shared frightening information about the Lobby and its soul-trapping capabilities.
Specifically, how the Japanese had identify the soul-shifting effect a few days after Roy Guillen’s passing and jumped into the business of selling “death trips” to the ultra-wealthy of Japan, with intentions of expanding that opportunity across the world.
The idea chilled Andrews. When had society fallen so low?
He detested the Man in Gray’s visits, but valued his information. And why the Man in Gray? Andrews was certain the man wore other colors, surely his undergarments were black, some white. He assumed the moniker stemmed from arriving in the same pressed gray suit each time. Nevertheless, the guy operated outside the governmental fraternity, yet held immense clout; an extreme annoyance.
The head of CRYPTLOG, Kathleen Sousa herself, vouched for the man’s ultimate authority.
The Man in Gray moved toward him.
Preferring to avoid the handshake, Andrews said, “Let’s head into my office,” and hurried inside.
He busied himself by opening a folder next to his tablet. A thirty-two year old man from Tennessee had been experiencing double-vision ever since his last trip to the Lobby, two years ago.
He marveled at what a little press could do. In six days, the LOC equaled its last six years in complaints of long-term detriments associated with Lobby visits.
Rather than hear the door shut, he sensed the air pressure in the room thicken.
The Man in Gray stood beside the closed door. His arms hung loosely at his sides, his body stiff as if sprayed with starch, his gaze honed on Andrews.
The man’s height confounded Andrews. Five-two? At that stature, with a receding hairline and small ears, how could he be a man of mystic authority? His arms, chest, and quads bulged, proving he wasted time at the gym rather than at work or study, who anointed this man-child?
He did possess a strangely powerful walk; the kind of strut that turned heads, hushed a room.
Without having to ask, Andrews knew the man previously served in the military. No better avenue existed for getting scooped up by one of the many clandestine governmental agencies. Join, test out of the water, get scrutinized without knowing it, and if you please someone important, an invite manifests. Andrews pinned him as Air Force. The Man in Gray carried himself with their smugness. Closing the folder, he greeted his guest. “Mr. Johnson.”
“We will be urging a military presence at all Atriums to keep zealots from entering.”
Andrews ignored the lack of greeting, focused on the words. He knew local law enforcement, along with six-man teams of federal agents denied entrance to anyone besides maintenance workers and the occasional IT guys. Since the agents mostly sat around playing with their smartphones, he didn’t understand the need to bolster those numbers.
“Within the next few hours, two problematic revelations will be released to the public. A major one is underway at the Cutler home as we speak.”
Andrews pressed all ten fingers on the table, wondering if Alex would truly be stupid enough to press his luck.
As the silence dragged on, Andrews grew embarrassed by his child-like enthusiasm to hear about Mr. Cutler’s problems, and relaxed.
The Man in Gray continued, “The other occurred in London twenty minutes ago. A janitor disguised his wife as an employee. Together, they managed to sneak their children inside. The husband logged his wife and children into the Lobby and then injected each with a hundred fifty cc mixture of motor oil, anti-freeze, and other homemade poisons.”
Andrews’ mouth dropped open.
“The husband then sat in his own chair, and with seconds remaining, chugged his green punch.”
Andrews repressed his bile by closing his eyes. “A father murdered his entire family?” Pressing his palms against his eyes, he asked, “When did these things happen?”
“They are happening now. The events at the Cutler home will hit your desk within the hour, the media shortly thereafter. It will be hectic, I advise a power nap.”
A nap? No chance. His next question might cost him credibility, but he had to know. “One hundred percent, if someone dies while in the Lobby, they stay there?”
The Man in Gray cocked his head to one side and stepped closer. “It was verified a week ago. That’s why I briefed you.” He moved one of the seatbacks to displace the object dividing them. “You have been given a position of importance, Mr. Andrews. I hope you have the stamina to persevere, and the faith to adhere to a communal plan. I was told I could delegate high priority tasks to you.”
“You can, absolutely.” Although it’s Agent Andrews.
“Your responsibility is to harass Mr. Cutler; keep his feet to the fire, remove the Lobby from society. I’ll make sure the world sees it as the destructive element it has always been, and learn to hate its memory.”
Andrews like the thought, but by those standards, he’d be doing the important stuff. Hence, he should be giving the orders.
Andrews checked his watch. Less than two hours to prepare, for now, he mulled over how chaos within the Cutler’s and a family slaughtered in London helped, and concluded those events helped tremendously.
The short man glided to the dominant window that faced the office. Despite an empty floor, he twisted the hanging rod, closing the blinds. Once sealed, he went to the light switch and dimmed the lights.
Sensing danger, Andrews moved his hand under the right split of his suit jacket, near his sidearm.
“Dim lighting helps with the nerves,” The Man in Gray motioned to the chair before Andrews. “Sit. I have things of vital importance to share. The correct frame of mind allows for optimal retention.”
The Man in Gray stayed at the light switch until Andrews obliged.
He didn’t believe sitting and turning down the lights effected mental function. That stuff might be necessary for weak-minded peons, not him. Still, he obeyed.
From the new angle, most of the man’s body vanished behind a cushioned chair, making it appear a bodiless head addressed him.
“Everything thus far is but a pittance to the turmoil approaching this nation, and humanity itself.”
Stature forgotten, Andrews leaned forward, wondering what could be more serious than a machine that caused a man to kill his family and ate souls?
“How strong is your faith, Mr. Andrews?”
He preferred Agent Andrews, but he kept quiet, considered the question. He attended church regularly, missing at most two Sundays a year; read the Bible every night after he flossed; and knew deep in his gut that he epitomized the ideal disciple for his Lord and Savior. “I have no doubts that the bible lays out the pathway to salvation.”
"You have quirks, but I trust you are a devout and true believer. That's why I'm here." He stepped from behind the chair. "You sit before one of the few men throughout antiquity who can assure you, there is a God. A force, with the characteristics of a sentient being exists. He initiated the universe. And though He loves everything, we are his most engaging creations."
The man stood like a robot from the nineteen fifties—block shaped and inanimate—but his words rattled Andrews more than a six-foot-five bodybuilder shaking him for owing the local Don.
"I can also assure you we've known the soul exists for over fifty years. We're close to being able to gauge the strength of its presence in a person, and the positive and negative effects of its leaning. Broumgard all but made public the existence of a soul the day of the Lobby's launch, but no one noticed. In essence, this machine and current events have done something very rare in my life: they surprised me. This equipment steals souls, Mr. Andrews. Souls mainly destined for a desolate Hell of insanity, confusion, and regret, but now that majority is evading their deserved punishment for choosing a life of apathy and cowardice. Much more disconcerting is that this machine is muffling the rewards earned by those few who follow their instincts into action, forgive those who ask, and contribute to more than their own offspring." Making firm eye contact, he continued "You do understand what I'm saying?"
"Of course. Men of action. I know the type."
"There is a God and His plan to reward or punish an individual's use of free will is being circumvented. Another truth for you to absorb is an intricate plan of this malevolence can only be initiated by His nemesis."
Andrews almost blurted, "Alex Cutler." Instead, as full comprehension registered, he narrowed his eyes and nodded.
"Never forget that fact. You will need ample fuel for the upcoming battle." The Man in Gray softened his tone and continued, “I’m sure you've heard it rumored that we monitor global chatter. We do it for a multitude of reasons, mainly to predict or influence voting habits. That endeavor has been a science in this country since the early sixties and worked in all elections, save one. We have thwarted future antagonists from attaining their destined positions for decades. We now send them down a path that leads to prison or death. And with people of exceptional charisma weeded out, the country keeps the proper ‘follow the lesser hierarchy,’ and decency reigns."
Andrews always wondered why there hadn't been any political or philosophical leaders in opposition to the government's increasing control since the barrage of assassinations and suspicious deaths throughout the sixties. But he couldn't believe the government exerted the described level of control. If they did, why were so many imbeciles allowed to succeed, or even live?
"This machine is evil,” the Man in Gray said." And the chatter around the world is troubling. Each hour, more people are discussing whether the Lobby can store your consciousness forever. With the upcoming news coverage, those numbers will explode. Despite our efficiency, my side lacks the manpower to contain what's coming." Surprisingly, he shifted his weight. "People will want to get inside of those machines to die. And when humans identify a true want, we are the most inventive creatures to ever exist.
“My end has begun a soft campaign, reaching out to other true believers. I will forge a powerful front. Yours, as well as various other factions, will be vital to our victory."
Andrews' mouth dried. The current conversation solidified his life-long conviction that staying the course would lead to a role of importance.
"I need a copy of that list of those who will help," Andrews said, "and a greater role in combating this evil."
"You need to do as you’re told, nothing more. Boot up your computer."
No please? Andrews was head of the LOC, not this little person’s lackey. He looked down at the device, wanting very much to continue this briefing, but he deserved a proper level of respect.
A mild disorientation settled as he depressed the power button and listened to the start up noises. Then he accepted, a power greater than the Man in Gray sought his help in the battle for all of mankind. God, Himself.
The screen lit up with the normal blue. When it completed the cycle, it flickered once, and a tan backdrop replaced his normal series of icons. One icon, shaped like a manila folder stood alone, labeled, “The Beast.”
“Open that file, but withhold from perusing it at this time.”
I’ll peruse whatever I want, thought Andrews. He double-clicked the icon, opened an electronic dossier. He’d poured over thousands similar to this. The exception being this one had twice the number of thumbnails dotting its side. The Header: Sung Yi, age sixty-one; Tao Buddhist, born in Xiang, China, immigrated to Nara, Japan in Nineteen eighty-nine. Upon finishing the information on the main page, he glanced at his visitor, hoping he’d noticed his perusing, of the front page.
As if unconcerned, the Man in Gray continued, “Sung Yi’s teachings rapidly digressed from fundamental Taoism in the late eighties, which seemed to decrease his audience, but attract loyal followers. In the mid-nineties, he became the first ordained monk to stream his Buddhist nonsense over the internet in a podcast. Still, no big deal. A couple hundred eclectic weirdos.
“What now makes this demure kook a threat to this nation is his viral explosion over the past week. Considering all of the internet sensations of the past, there’s never been growth like this. His introductory video on the seventh plane of existence has received over five hundred million views in the past six days.”
Andrews frowned. He enjoyed going on the internet to watch recorded Presidential inaugurations—so he considered himself a Youtube expert. He had never heard of Sung Yi, or a seventh plane of existence. “I’m sorry, seven planes of existence? Isn’t science still working on proving the forth?”
“You’re talking about dimensions, and we’ve identified over forty, but that’s irrelevant. Planes of existence are methods of classifying reincarnation. Buddhists believe when a person dies, they immediately return to life in another form. Particle physics say they are correct about physical matter returning to life—in about five hundred years—but they are woefully incorrect when thinking the spirit participates in that journey, God might recycle, but the soul moves on.”
Andrews knew judgment awaited each man. Who didn’t.
“Many Buddhists believe that when you die, you return on one of six planes of existence. As ridiculous as it sounds, they figure you’re either: plant life, an insect, an animal, a sea creature, human, or you appear on the sixth plane as a demigod.
“Enlightened Buddhists consider this recycling of life to be a cruel and unjust existence. For even if they live kind enough lives to reach demigod status, they would still experience suffering and loss, and after thousands of years, death; at which point they reincarnate again on one of the six planes, continuing the cycle.
“So, what a Buddhist strives for is Nirvana—an inner peace that leads to an enlightenment; an understanding of the cosmos, that once attained, enables them to cheat Gaea’s recycling plan, and allows them to become nothing. In short, Buddhists strive to end themselves.” The Man in Gray inhaled deeply, and slowly exhaled, as if bothered by the entire premise.
Andrews stared at the photo of the Asian monk on his computer. He had a wrinkly face beneath either a bald or shaved head. He wore a yellow robe with a brown sash wrapped around him. A half-smile frozen beneath dark beady eyes that sparkled with what Andrews perceived as violence.
Everything he heard seeped in. Dying, only to pop back as something new; believing in eternal life, and then trying to escape it. The absurdity almost made him chuckle. Then a question formed. Why had five hundred million people watched a video created by him? More importantly, how did this man play into the recent activities?
As if reading his mind, again, the Man in Gray continued, “For the last twenty years, Mr. Yi has been preaching to a very limited audience about a seventh plane of existence—one promised by Gaea to end the suffering of her people. He hypothesized that her heart breaks each time one of her children reaches Nirvana and ceases to exist. He claimed to have been granted a vision, showing how she would soon provide the world with an alternative to nihilistic enlightenment.
“Can you guess the subject matter of his seventh plane of existence videos?”
Andrews closed his eyes as his heart rate slowed, the blood in his veins became pudding, “The Lobby fulfilling those prophecies.”
“Exactly. At this point his argument is but a novelty, a scandalous topic to discuss following a few drinks. After these two stories leak, the seventh plane of existence will become an exploratory curiosity, validated to greater degrees with each forthcoming suicide.”
The word itself chafed Andrews’ core. He wasn’t as convinced as the Man in Gray that more suicides would follow. No greater insult existed against the Almighty than to throw away his gift of life. Anytime Andrews heard about an incident prior to the Lobby madness, he thought of how weak and pathetic the person must have been. The only comfort came from knowing they were burning in a pit of hellfire for their blasphemy. “Perhaps a good PR campaign and tight security will prevent further deaths.”
“Please, you need to listen, follow advice, nothing more.”
“Maybe you’ll learn I could be more valuable than even you?”
The Man in Gray allowed seconds to pass. Time in which he did little more than blink. “Tight security will be ineffective. Security personnel will comprise some of the validators, and our soil is not the greatest problem. Japan has reached out to South Korean diplomats for support to explore a practice of dying to live as a method to govern. Much of that part of the world is fervent over this Mr. Yi. Those nations will continue to unite. The wound this media exposure causes will fester. People will turn this machine into a symbol of immortality; reached through sacrilege.”
Andrews felt his sidearm tug at his hip. He’d never fired his weapon in the line of duty. He wasn’t one of those guys who spent his weekends at the gun range or stockpiled an arsenal at his house. But at that moment, hearing this latest atrocity, his gun whispered to him. He thought of all the people with underdeveloped brains in the world, and how they would become enthralled by this evil siren. A fiery rage filled him, along with an urge to find Alex Cutler and shoot him dead; to force Adisah Boomul to kneel in front of him and then remove his head with a machete.
Pushing aside his honorable thoughts, he made eye contact with the Man in Gray. “I pray you have a plan to prevent all of this?”
He nodded. “We do, but you must be forewarned, it’s going to get messy before it gets clean. And that, Agent Andrews, is the question I have come to ask you. It’s the reason I flew out here today. I need to know if you are willing to get your hands dirty in the defense of the American way of life, against an adversary powered by a dark evil?”
Agent Andrews returned his gaze to the beady eyes on his computer screen. He thought of Adisah Boomul and Alex Cutler and the riches they had amassed by living sinful. He’d need a bigger role, more respect, but he had also pledged to honor the chain of command. Locking eyes with the Man of Smoke, and using layers of sincerity, he nodded.
“The only question I have, Mr. Johnson: can you locate other men half as loyal and dedicated as myself?”
“That’s affirmative.”