Between Two Minds: Awakening Page 13

  Journal Entry #3

  I was in the scary building. I was with someone who I both trusted and feared. A giant man. Who was he? We were meeting some other men. A transaction? An exchange? Of what? Maybe I don’t want to know, but I felt like I already did. It scared me.

  I never wrote another entry because Tony said I should give it a rest. But after rereading what I had wrote, a named popped into my head.

  Charlie.

  Why did I suddenly think of that name? Who was he? Was he the man in my dream? I felt like Tony was holding something back, and my mind began to wander. I thought about what could have happened to me during my migration. Maybe they got the wires crossed when they migrated my mind! Maybe they did migrate someone else’s mind along with mine! Who knows what the hell it could be? I had to go to Tony and ask him point-blank what he knew about my situation.

  I awkwardly lifted myself from the bed and down into my wheelchair and rolled myself as fast as I could around corners and past others in the hallways. I finally made it to Tony’s office and stormed in while he was with another patient.

  “What do you know about my dreams?! What do you know about Charlie?!”

  “Ryan, calm down. We’re not scheduled to meet for a couple days. I’ll need you to come back then.”

  “No, dammit. We need to talk right now!”

  “Kate, I’m sorry. Could you please excuse us? Maybe we can pick this up at lunchtime. I will let you know.”

  “Sure, Tony.” Kate wheeled around me and gave me the stink eye on her way out.

  I slammed the door behind her.

  “Now, Ryan, what are you going on about?”

  “I’m still having strange dreams, and they’re getting worse. I’m seeing through the eyes of someone else. Living his life. And today, in physical therapy, I took my first steps. Hell, I walked a lot of steps, and I jumped, and even ran around the technicians. But then a voice popped in my head, and it said, ‘Who the hell is Ryan?’ Now, what the hell do you make of that? Is someone else in my brain with me?!”

  Tony sighed. “Ryan. Listen to yourself.”

  “What, dammit?”

  “You’re questioning your identity. You’re asking about someone named Charlie. Voices, Ryan?”

  “What are you getting at?”

  “Look, I think it’s great that you had a productive—very productive—session of PT. And you should be happy about that. Instead, you’re in here yelling and getting emotional. You’re being blinded by the anomalies of your migration rather than the successes. This is exactly what we talked about before!”

  “Anomalies? These are more than just anomalies. Hell, they seem like more than just dreams, too. And they’re affecting me even when I try to ignore them. Now, if you have any idea what’s going on, you need to tell me!”

  “Okay, Ryan. Just calm down.” Tony looked around, then lowered his voice. “There was something that I didn’t mention before. I thought you were already scared enough, and I didn’t want to make that worse.”

  “Just tell me already!”

  “Have you heard about the first failed mind migration with a human?”

  “Yes, everyone has heard the stories. Amanda Robinson, right?”

  “Yes, but I’m sure a lot of what you heard was embellished from years of passing the story on. People made up a lot of things, like there was trouble during the freezing process or that there was a computer glitch.”

  “Yeah, something like that.”

  “Well, I worked with the people on that project. In fact, there were no issues during the migration. By all accounts, it was a success. Her mind was fully transferred into a new, fully functional brain. She even seemed to make it out of what we now call the ‘catch-22 period’ and was able to speak about it afterward. It wasn’t long after that, that she complained of having bad dreams…terrible dreams. Then she complained of voices. Voices that made her question her identity. Just like you, she thought there was another mind in her brain taking over.”

  “Well, what was it?”

  “The theory was that her mind wasn’t sufficiently prepped to handle the rigors of migration. Back then, there wasn’t nearly as much pre- and post-migration therapy like we have had for the last ten years. Like the support we’ve been giving you.” Tony inhaled and looked out the window. “Eventually, Amanda was consumed by the idea that she was a different person. She began calling herself ‘Jessica.’ Jessica had no idea who Amanda was or what a mind migration was.”

  The more Tony talked, the more my anger turned into fear.

  “The theory was never proven, but it seems pretty sound. Even minds in their native brains can experience multiple personality disorders, or worse, schizophrenia. Eventually, Amanda’s host brain had a meltdown and she never recovered. She developed full-blown dementia and remained in a vegetative state for the rest of her life.”

  “Tony, am I going crazy? Am I going to be like Amanda?”

  “I highly doubt it. I’ve had a few migrators cross my path with similar symptoms. You seem keenly aware of the fact that the dreams are a danger to your overall recovery. That’s a great sign. But I can’t stress this to you enough, Ryan, you just need to give your mind time to reprocess everything. You need to give the dreams, thoughts, and memories a chance to be filed away where they belong. Otherwise…” He flinched and looked away.

  “Otherwise, what?”

  He turned back to me. “They could become canon to your mind, Ryan. A sort of pseudo reality for you. And if that happens, it could be a really bad thing. So, we really need to refocus your mind sooner rather than later. Remember to stay positive!”

  While it wasn’t the answer I was looking for, it made sense to me. Almost instantaneously, I began to feel some relief.

  “Okay, Tony. You’re saying I should stay the course? I should just let the dreams come and go?”

  “Yes, please. And I’m also going to increase your medication by twenty percent. I think that will help you relax some more.”

  “Thanks. And, Tony?”

  “Yes?”

  “Sorry for barging into your office.”

  “You know what, Ryan? Don’t even worry about it. That’s why we’re here. That said, you may want to apologize to Kate for interrupting her session.”

  “Will do. Thanks.” I closed Tony’s door behind me.

  Just as my eyes adjusted to the bright light of the hallway, the voice from before responded in my head.

  I don’t care what he says. I want this to be over.

  Chapter 11:

  Too Weak Notice

  “I don’t care what he says. I want this to be over.”

  I was deep in thought as I removed the license plate from the big black Cadillac. For obvious reasons, every job was completed using a different car and every car had to be prepped to make sure it couldn’t be traced back to anyone important. The Padre preferred that we handle the prepping ourselves, instead of the vendor, just to make sure nothing was missed. He also preferred big, old, black Cadillacs because they reminded him of the good ol’ days.

  I finished swapping out the license plate, then filed down the VINs. Next, I installed the untraceable net connector as well as a police monitor and a decoy switch on the vehicle’s stock GPS. When the car was running, it would relay coordinates from an identical car across town. That car wasn’t doing anything particularly interesting to the gang in blue. Finally, I put my trusty 9mm into the glove compartment and slammed it shut.

  Starting the car, I performed the standard diagnostics on the mechanics and electronics of the car, including what I had installed. Moonlighting as a grease monkey in the marines had come in handy in a lot of ways, but it was especially useful when doing quick assessments on older cars. I popped the hood, and after a quick visual inspection, I was satisfied. I made my way back to the driver’s seat to double-ch
eck the gauges and switches, and revved the engine hard a few times. Listening carefully for any signs of distress, everything seemed kosher to me, so I cut the engine.

  I, on the other hand, was beginning to get anxious. Even if the job went off without a hitch, talking to the Padre about quitting made that particular night different. My nerves forced me to wrestle the pack of menthols from my shirt pocket. I blew into the opening for a better view.

  Two left.

  I thought I had better make them count since it was going to be a long and unpredictable night. The addictive itch made sure sweat was running down my brow, but I would live. I sent a message over the net to my contact, confirming the transportation was ready, and quietly waited for a reply.

  As the minutes ticked by, I began thinking about what I would say to the Padre. I could have made something up about my health, and said I wasn’t fit to do the job anymore. Then I thought I could tell him I wanted to go back into the military, so I needed to distance myself from our line of work. I was never a great liar, though, so I didn’t feel great about either of those approaches.

  The more I thought about it, the more I felt telling the truth was my only option. At least mostly the truth. I would tell him that things were bad at home and I needed to take care of my family. I was certain that would be enough for him to let me go. What I hoped he didn’t care about was that I had seen the product—the highest-end product we offered. It was bound to happen given my proximity to it on jobs, so I couldn’t imagine the Padre would care all that much. It made quitting that much more important to me, but it also made the fallout of quitting that much more of an unknown.

  In thinking about the outcome of the night, I started to go down a really dark path when my netphone buzzed with the go-ahead signal. I started the car and put it in drive, clicked open the garage door, and slowly wheeled onto the main road while rolling the windows down. I loved the cool, muggy night since it gave me the slightest bit of relief from the stress of the job. The smell of the city quickly filled my nose, and I figured that it was as good a time as any to have one of the two smokes. I crammed my hand into my shirt pocket and grabbed one. Then, in one motion, I placed it in my mouth, lit it, and puffed hard several times.

  “Ahhhhhhhhhhhh!” The sound escaped my mouth as I blew smoke out of the window, and so did quite a bit of fear.

  The city was unusually dead that night, and I hoped that it would stay that way until the job was done. After about twenty minutes of driving, I pulled into an alleyway, pulled off to the side, and placed the car in park. Turning off the headlights, I pulled out my netphone and sent a message to my contact. Then I popped the trunk. After a brief moment, three dark figures appeared from the shadows and darted behind the car. The car rocked up and down as the thud of something heavy hit the trunk. The rocking continued after they slammed the trunk shut with a thud, and as fast as they had appeared, the figures were gone. I waited the standard five minutes and sent another message to my contact. Then I waited some more.

  The Padre was a measured man, so I imagined he wouldn’t put up much of a fight to me being done. He might even give me the old speech about my potential and say he’s sad to see me go. Maybe he’d send me off with some hush money.

  Ha! Who am I kidding?

  He was probably going to be pissed and might even throw fit. And if that happened, I didn’t have many options. I had a strong feeling that, to the Padre, the only thing worse than quitting would be cowardly backing out of quitting after the fact. He wouldn’t respect me ever again, so there would be no turning back once I initiated the conversation.

  Another message buzzed on my netphone with two sets of coordinates. The alley lit up as I turned on my lights, and I made my way back to the main street. The burning smell from my menthol filter reminded me to flick it out the window. I had about a thirty-minute drive to figure out how to bring up the topic to the Padre.

  Should I do it before the job? Will that put him in a bad mood up front? Should I wait until after? Will he feel like I lied to him the whole night?

  There was no easy answer to the question, so like I had done many times in my life, I would rely on my gut in the moment.

  As I crossed the neighborhood line into the Padre’s westside turf, I remembered that it was known for two things: the Padre’s crew and feral dogs. At night, you couldn’t drive a few blocks without seeing the glowing eyes of a grungy mutt or two trotting through a parkway or attacking someone dumb enough to walk the streets after sunset. Rumor had it that a rival gang dumped dozens of mistreated strays into the area to make it unsafe and, ultimately, make the Padre move. But a more likely explanation was that the dogs were attracted to all of the food scraps people were tossing out after public garbage pickup was discontinued in the area five years before. Either way, the Padre benefited from it. Since the neighborhood was such a mess, the police didn’t bother patrolling it. In fact, in many ways, the feral dogs added to the Padre’s mystique. No one had ever seen or heard of the dogs attacking the Padre. Instead, rumor was that the dogs were loyal to the Padre and he had trained them to attack on his command. I had even heard that he made bodies disappear by chopping them into small pieces and feeding them to the dogs, making them bloodthirsty. Occasionally, I would see a dog on the street with a large bone in its mouth, and it always made me wonder.

  I turned onto Spruce Street and pulled up to the Padre’s apartment building-turned-ghetto mansion. Then I tapped the message button on my netphone.

  Ready when you are.

  But something was stopping me from tapping the Send button after typing the message. My hand was paralyzed. I felt like I was sitting at a crossroad and clicking Send meant going in a direction. I wanted badly to be done, but actually making it happen did more than scare me. It was terrifying. I always felt invincible when running jobs with him, and that would all change the instant I asked to be done. In my head, I quickly ran through the permutations of how to quit without actually confronting him as Sarah had suggested. I could reach out to some old marine contacts who would be discrete in helping me and my family relocate. But the kids were far too sick to travel under regular circumstances, much less trying to secretly move.

  No.

  There was only one way forward. I tapped Send hard, then sighed. I actually felt a bit of relief as I sank into my seat and waited. I pulled the pack of smokes from my pocket and stared menacingly at my last menthol.

  “Better save it for later.”

  The front door to the Padre’s headquarters swung open, the doorway completely filled with his colossal silhouette. He lumbered his way to the back seat with briefcase in hand, opened the door, and plopped down. The shocks of the car cried under the stress of the Padre’s mass, and the right side noticeably sank. Looking in the mirror, I watched him light up his Cuban and blow smoke into the front seat, and I caught another glimpse of his dog skull ring. Then he grunted in discontent. He seemed stressed.

  “Hey, boss! How are you?”

  “Fine, Charlie. Are we on target?”

  “Yes, sir. The net code is A5J3W1H6.”

  I engaged the transmission and began heading toward the exchange point. It was about a twenty-five-minute drive, so I thought it would be a good time to broach the topic of quitting.

  “Hey, Padre.”

  Peering into the rearview, he was fiddling with his netphone, and I wasn’t sure if he’d heard me. I gave him a few seconds but still no response.

  “Hey, Pa—”

  “What!”

  He seemed unusually irritated, so I figured I had better ease into the discussion with some small talk.

  “Is everything all right? The job got moved up with short notice.”

  “You know what? Everything is not all right, Charlie. I try to be a reasonable man. I try to be fair, considering. But I guess in this line of work, you can’t expect honesty. You can’t expect loyalty. You can’
t expect for a damn job to be scheduled and for that damn job to stay on schedule. It would be one thing if there were security concerns. But this is just a case of cold feet turning everyone’s lives upside down. Well, we’ll do this job, and then we’ll be reining in our business partners to make sure this doesn’t happen again!”

  I was a bit taken aback by the tone in his voice. His anger seemed more reactive than usual, and while I knew he was stressed, it seemed like he was trying to hide something else. Either way, I wasn’t going to pry.

  “Oh. Got it, boss. Sounds like a good plan.”

  “Sorry, Charlie. There’s a lot riding on this, and others don’t seem to be taking it so seriously. It’s not like buying a new shirt where a dozen stores have what you need. Our products take months and sometimes years to acquire!”

  He went on as I momentarily forgot about quitting and remembered the product I saw during the Russian job. Slightly disgusted, I knew I had to bring up the topic of quitting.

  “And to top it all off, this damn neighborhood is going to shit faster than I can keep it together. If I had my way, I’d run every one of the poor slobs out of this place.”

  “Sorry to hear all that, boss.”

  “No, Charlie. I’m sorry. How are you?”

  “Not so good, boss. It’s my family.”

  “Oh no. What’s the matter?”

  “Everyone’s sick…well, everyone but me. Both kids are on machines. Little Joey hasn’t woken up in a couple of weeks. Lucy is with it but still struggling. And then there’s Sarah. She’s just not getting any better, and she’s having trouble maintaining the house while I’m out on jobs. So they really need me to be home with them. I feel really bad about it, but I won’t be able to do any more jobs after tonight. I’m really sorry.”

  “Charlie.” The Padre sighed.

  I wasn’t sure if his sigh meant he was disappointed or just processing the moment.