Hmmm….

I want you to think about something.

First, allow me a moment to preface. I am not “conspiracy theory” guy. I’ve never been one to talk about the government, the illuminati, or aliens. I believe Oswald shot JFK and I’m pretty sure Area 51 is bullshit. I don’t believe in black helicopters or MIB’s, and I don’t think the US orchestrated 9/11.

I am a realist though, and I understand that a certain amount of corruption and control exists behind the scenes. Maybe I am “conspiracy theory” guy, just a much more subdued version of him. I do think the worlds governments are all corrupt, lying, self-serving greed mongers. I do believe that gas prices are controlled by the whims of massively lucrative partnerships between entities that would otherwise spend their time dropping bombs on each other. I believe advertising is bullshit, contests, lottery, sports and game shows are rigged, and the agencies that are out there to regulate these systems along the shiny, green lines of corporate America are completely on the take, for the most part. And we know for a fact that the US government can wiretap anything it wants, and that elite hackers can, in all practicality, access and tamper with anything. I think most of the people I would call friends would agree that none of the above is actually all that unrealistic. Hell, most of it is probable.

…ok, ok…and I think the Kennedy’s killed Marilyn Monroe. Moving on…

There are two things that have come to light recently that, in my opinion, pose a connection that is moderately unnerving at least, potentially terrifying at most. One of them came on the scene very recently, to not much fanfare, and passed by with little actual media coverage. The other one has been around for a few years now, and is massive in scope both currently and potentially.

First, I am talking about Watson, the IBM supercomputer that recently annihilated two geniuses on Jeopardy! I don’t know how many of you reading this actually followed the story or saw that thing in action. Watson is a room of insanely capable servers, powering 1500 Tb of data. It is designed exclusively to interpret English text and facilitate a response to any question posed, within nanoseconds. Watson processes human voice into text and analyzes it for connections to anything and everything that is stored in its brain. It then fires the words it just “read” out into its own data pool. Trillions of calculations are made in a nearly undetectable period of time and Watson, using the interpreted text as search terms, spits out an answer to almost anything.

Watson laid waste to the most decorated champions in Jeopardy! history. I watched it, it wasn’t even close. Over two days, the thing answered 9 out of every ten questions, got two wrong total, and showed off the most amazing advancement in computing of perhaps the last ten years.

IBM wants Watson to hit the field of medicine. Imagine, explaining your symptoms to a computer that searched every word of medical research in all of existence to diagnose you, treat you, and make you well. If it is correct to the 99th percentile when asked about any subject it stores, it would use 99% of doctors opinions, studies and writings to provide, at least statistically, the best answer. The applications Watson could have for education, training and any aspect of data referencing that could ever be conceived are virtually limitless.

The other thing I want to discuss has 500 million users. 50% of them use every day. 700 billion minutes spent per week. 900 million objects interacted with every month, with the average user being directly linked to 80 of them. Average user creates 90 pieces of content per month. Over 30 billion items are shared every month. 25 million applications are stored every day. 70 percent of its users are outside the US. 250 million websites interact with it, with over ten thousand adding to that number every day. Businesses in 190 countries build with it. And over 200 million users interact with it every single day, from their phone.

Yep. Facebook. If I’ve still got your attention, hunker down for a minute. I’ll try to be quick.

Go back and read those numbers again. Seriously…read them again. Did you know how big it was? Did you really know? And those stats come directly from Facebook and not some third party. They post them on the site itself. Honestly, I read these stats for the first time as I wrote this, and I had no idea. Those figures are unquestionably remarkable. Save the Internet, Facebook is the single largest entity of data, ever. As of the most recent publication of information quoted from Jeff Rothschild, the VP of IT at Facebook, the thing operates on 30000 servers, and processes 25 Tb of data daily.

25 Tb is the equivalent of 1000 times the amount of all mail delivered daily by the USPS. Its ridiculous.

And its ridiculously secretive. Those quotes about the data storage and servers come from 2009. They are the most recent ones readily available. Really. Google it. You won’t find anything more recent. Which means its fucking way bigger than that now. Why is that piece of information guarded? Kinda creepy when you think about it. Just like its kinda creepy how you have to click through 18 menus, file an online request, jump through seven hoops and kill a fire-breathing turtle in order to permanently disable a Facebook account…but I digress.

Now think about the world around you. Right now. Egypt probably set off a chain reaction of revolts that won’t stop until the entire Mid-East is in flames. That’s a bit dramatic sure, but we all know what the internal struggles and generations of unrest in those countries make their people capable of. I mean, people attack tanks with rocks, for shit’s sake. They can be an angry bunch even without focusing on how stifling and oppressive their own leaders are. Libya, Yemen. People already saying Saudi Arabia is next. Sure, this may all fizzle and end quietly. In a few weeks or months, everything might be back to relative normalcy in that region. Maybe.

Would you bet on it?

America will end up tied into that shit somehow. And on the heels of a war that pissed off much of the country. And in the middle of a recession. Unions are having rights taken away and they’re uber-pissed. People, in general, are getting more and more cranky. What if, among another bloody, endless war and $7 a gallon gas, Americans finally get mad. Motivated, even. I don’t mean riots and anarchy, just enough unrest to get the government spooked. If they ever needed to, they could reach into the very lives of each and every person they want. It would certainly allow for a substantial amount of knowledge about how to monitor and manipulate a society. Well, anyone in the society that uses Facebook, anyway.

If technology like Watson were fed all of the exponentially growing data that pulses through Facebooks veins, one would have access to a instantly searchable database of everything that was ever said, liked, linked, posted, commented on or created within that community. Every single connection of every single user would be processed in nanoseconds and could create an answer to virtually any question…about anyone. And we know plenty about Facebook’s iron clad privacy, right? Yeah…how’s that been working out?

Maybe it is meaningless. Maybe its already happening. Maybe the ability doesn’t really amount to a whole lot of power the US Government doesn’t already have. Still, if you’re not at least a little unsettled by this idea, I ask you to do one thing.

Go read those numbers again.

440

The paperclips slid into the lock with ease. A flick of her muddy, rain-soaked fingertips and Casey was through the back door of Paul’s Goods, the only party store in her little town of Musk Lake, population 441, soon to be 440.

Eyes raw from days of tears, she slipped her teenage frame between the moonlight licked shadows of the stockroom. The beauty of this worthless speck of America was illustrated sharply by the lack of security in Paul’s. No need, when everyone knew everyone and their secrets. Casey wanted to make her secret known. Surely it wasn’t known to the toothless wonders her Mother called friends. To the alcoholics her Stepfather called family. Thing was, there probably hadn’t been a single question yet. Casey ached for a friend, just one. One person to miss her and know something was wrong.

She clunked her way through the shop, carelessly knocking a wine bottle off of a crate. She froze, suspended by the sight of the cheap blush, plummeting silently into the tile. Teeth clenched anticipating the shattering glass, Casey gasped when it didn’t break, but bounced against the floor with a “ting.” She chuckled, noting it as the only thing around her that hadn’t broken lately.

Glasses. Home. Spirit. The screen door of their weathered farmhouse as her stepfather threw her through it.

That was last week. Last year, she thought. Time for a new one...

What kind of a store closed on New Year’s Eve, anyway? The kind that didn’t have security, of course. Musk Lake shut down completely around the holidays. Poor rednecks closing up shop to be home and do what? Ride around the balmy Alabama nights in their pickups, getting smashed and going home to add to the ever growing, ever depressing populous? Casey cursed her mother for birthing her in this armpit they called a life. Cursed her father for dying in a senseless war. She had no curses for her stepfather though. Swearing on his name was too…polite.

She moved with a sway, intoxicated on impossibly empty sadness, and found herself behind the counter, where Paul had made countless sales. Her hand found the revolver that she knew he kept under the register. Casey was intimidated by its weight, but comforted in the decision she had made. She would love to use one of his guns, but he changed the locks after disposing of her and she had to improvise. There were six bullets. One for the back door handle. Five for him.

Headlights splashed through the storefront. Panicked, Casey sprinted for the back, gun tucked into her sweater. She skidded to a stop at the coolers, almost forgetting to pick up the other thing she came for. The requested straw that broke the father-like camel’s back.

“Can I have some money to go get a soda?”

“Get out.”

Tears weighing heavy, she grabbed a bottle of Orange Crush and slithered out the back door, ready to reduce the population to 440.

Rapture of the Deep, Chapter 7

Tina sat, nerves going haywire, in front of her brother for the first time in what felt like eons. The door into the room closed behind her just after she sat, bringing the finality of the meeting home in a harsh thud. She peered into the cell at her brother, caged in something right out of Silence of the Lambs. Brother and sister, separated by mere inches of glass, but still miles apart.

Charlie did not stir. He rested on a typical hospital bed on the right of his eight by twelve space. His hair, due for a wash, clung in oily strands to the pillow supporting his head. There was nothing surrounding him other than a small chair and desk, a urinal built into the wall, and a small concrete bench on the opposite side of the bed. Tina was about to speak before realizing that the bench had a hole cut in it.

My God. Is that where he…

It was a medieval toilet. Tina simultaneously wondered how it got this bad, and felt pity for the orderly that had to clean that thing.

“Charlie.”

For a heart stopping moment, there was nothing. Charlie’s doctors had warned her that it might be difficult to communicate, even for her. They said he had become more withdrawn with each passing day. Tina waited for a few seconds that felt like an eternity, knowing that if he didn’t respond to her, she would burst into tears. Then he spoke.

“Morning, sis.” There was no inflection, no flavor to his words. It sounded like Charlie, but still not quite right. Like he had lent his voice to a GPS program. Tina felt cold.

“Good morning.” She took a deep, calming breath. “How are you feeling today.”

“Same way I feel every day. Like I want to leave.” Dry. Flat. No emotion.

“I hear you. This place doesn’t seem the most accommodating.” She tried to move past the deflection and couldn’t. “I mean, how do you feel, health wise?

“Crazy.” He sat up and his eyes met hers. Tina felt frozen. This was already not going well, and the prickly feeling across her flesh was all too eager to point that out. His face was pale to say the least. And Tina thought it looked like he hadn’t been taking care of his teeth. “That’s what you expect me to say, right?”

Tina tried to calm herself and slow her thundering heartbeat. “I don’t know, Charlie. I didn’t really know what to expect.”

He laughed softly and swung his feet off of the bed to sit up, never taking his eyes off of her. Tina felt like she was talking to some random crazy person. A man that had robbed, stolen, killed some family, perhaps. Certainly not her little brother. The look in his eyes was enough to tell her that person might very well be gone.

He might not react well, Tina, You have to understand that.

“So what brings you here, good sister? Come to see the sideshow?” He cackled softly, several voices operating the laughter.

“You. You bring me here, Charlie. I’m worried about you.”

Quickly enraged, her brother spat. “Now! NOW YOU COME?” His eyes flamed wildly. “Where have you been since we left the project? Since Sigsbee?” His words trailed back into a near whisper.

He has been acting increasingly unstable. When he acts at all, that is.

Tina fought the urge to recoil. To leap out of her chair and run from the visitors’ area. “Don’t do this. You know I care about you. Its been hard for me too, you know. After what happened…”

“Dad would have been proud of you.” The words were hollow, dark.

“What? What do you…”

“The way you took care of me.” He laughed again. louder this time, a bellowing belly laugh that shook her chest. “Oh, sis. You really handed out a Daddy-style lickin’ on me, I’ll tell you that.”

“Charlie…” Tina dropped her head into her hands and sighed. “Its not like you left me with any choice.”

“You had a choice.” This went unheard. Tina continued.

“The way you were, Charlie. There was no stopping you.”

“You had a choice, sis.” Tina heard this time and stopped speaking. “You could have done things differently. But enough of that. I want to hear about you.” He stood from his bed and threw his arms out in a staggering pirouette. He swayed left and right, pointing aimlessly around the cell. “This is all there is to tell about my life lately. How is Tina doing?”

“I really think we should talk about….”

Charlie growled. “We’ll talk about whatever I want to talk about.”

Sharp pain sliced into Tina’s head. With it came a lightning quick series of images. They were gone almost before she could process them, although she knew them just the same.

Her eyes winced shut and then opened to find Charlie leaning against the glass of his cell. “Tell me about you, sis. Did the grant money from Powell make it worth it?”

She stood defiantly from her seat. “You’re being unfair.” She was nearly shouting. Tears welled hot and heavy in her flushed eyes. “I came here because I care about you, Charlie. I want to see you better, maybe see you leave this place. Its not right for you to attack me.”

His shoulders slumped. His head dropped. “Know what?” He raised his head and peered at her through greasy strands of wavy hair. “You’re right.” Charlie clapped his hands together and became wide-eyed. “No more bullshit outta me. Scout’s honor!”

“I just want to know more, Charlie. More about….about what went on….”

He plopped back seated onto his bed. His voice came in a whimper. “It hurts, sis. It hurts when I talk about it. They make it hurt so, so much.”

The tears finally came, streaking with accelerated gravity down Tina’s face. “You have to let me help you, Charlie. They’re not going to even try with you much longer.” She fought back a sob and took a deep breath, exhaling loudly. “They’re ready to give up if I can’t get you to stop.”

He chuckled. It was a dark sound. “Stop what?”

His laughs echoed off the walls, through her head. “You’re affecting everyone here, Charlie. Whatever happened, whatever got into you, its getting into the people here, too. They’re not going to keep you here much longer.”

Charlie began to laugh again. The sound was not his, not even a sound of one person. Horrified, Tina stiffened against her body’s will to bolt for the door.

“Charlie, they’re going to lock you away. Lock you away in a black room with no light until you die. You have to talk to me.”

Charlie sat quiet for some time before speaking.

Rapture of the Deep, Chapter 6

Asleep under clouds of alcohol vapor, Charlie found himself floating in the land of a dream more vivid than anything he had ever experienced. He stood dressed in only swim trunks on the rocky shore of Torch Lake at the summer home where he spent so much time as a child. Sunset bloodied skies caressed the liquid horizon, meeting in a warm contrast of metallic orange and shimmering blue. He skipped rocks, although today the exercise seemed futile. Charlie was patient though, and never felt failure when a stone neglected to hop correctly; the shore provided him with an endless supply of eroded ammunition. He would grab a new rock, fire it sidearm at the surface of the crystalline water and watch as it plunked into the darkening blues below. Stone after stone did this, yet Charlie never grew frustrated. As an adult, he could skip almost any rock. But today, no matter how many tricks and flicks of his wrist, he could not get them to hop. Throw after twisting throw, each rock would take flight at the perfect angle, yet plunge like a dart into the water never to be seen again.

He could hear his father in the house. Lieutenant Sebastian Breslin had been drinking all day, and he was storming around the home, cursing his son’s name. His bellows sounded much closer than he knew them to be, at least a hundred yards from the shoreline to the back porch. Still, through the audible rage, Charlie could hear Tina inside, pleading with their Dad not to do this.

Don’t. Please. Not today. Don’t.

Words that he himself had given up on at all too early an age. God bless his sister though, she was always looking out for him. Tina would try to play to her father’s love in an effort to save Charlie from another fistful of discipline. Charlie knew better. The words were hollow when Sebastian had been at the sauce for too long. The blows would come, no matter what Tina had to say.

Charlie always knew things could have been different, had his mother been alive.

He continued his fruitless skipping efforts as the setting sun crested under the horizon line and set the sea ablaze. Streaks of red forced their way across the soft waves of the surface. Charlie lobbed his last rock up and down in his right hand, knowing that time was short. Dad would come out back soon, demanding that he go inside. Charlie would of course refuse, and his father would come for him. Tina would scream for her brother’s mercy, but Lieutenant Breslin knew of none. A lifetime of punishment would never be enough for his only son.

Times in this very yard that started with a game of catch and ended in trickles of blood-laced tears.

Times back at home in Georgia, when Charlie would walk three miles out of his way home from school just to minimize his “family” time.

And the times where his father would come looking for him.

The sun dipped below the water, and Charlie felt the air turn thin. Harsh winds picked up and needled his bare chest and legs with frosty fingers. The lake itself seemed to be turning winter, and Charlie quickly found himself shivering from the unnatural speed of relentlessly increasing cold. Biting air produced gooseflesh that crawled up past his neck and into his scalp. Even his eyebrows seemed to stand on end. As cold as he had become, Charlie had no intention of turning back to the home.

“Charles!” His father called for him from the back porch. Charlie realized he was now standing on the shore as he was then, a child. He felt a rush of years spent going through each and every day trying to avoid anything that would set his father off. Outside the cabin in this arctic dream, little Charlie knew there was nothing he could do. Responding to his father’s calls and returning to the house would not curtail what was to come. He learned long ago that nothing made the good Lieutenant pull his punches.

“Charlie! Get in the house!” The sun was gone now, replaced by a purplish twilight, perfectly accompanying the freezing air. A faint, misting rain began to fall. Charlie’s breathing picked up, forcing clouds of exhaled condensation out of his lungs. Long trails of puffy breath-clouds raced away from him and out to sea. They did not dissipate though. Charlie’s breaths remained suspended in the air, floating a few feet above the water, which had begun to churn. Aquatic plants along the shore swayed with the wind, and appeared to be growing. The grass under his feet joined those plants. He could feel it thickening and rising between his toes.

“Chaarrrlllieeeee!! NOW!” Waves fought back and fourth, breaking in all directions. The night winds were increasing to a howl of chilling, furious razors, cutting Charlie to the bone with unforgiving cold. He stood fixed though, his body quickly graduating from shiver to tremble to full blown shakes. His bare feet felt frozen to the grass, blades of which were crawling up over his toes and tying themselves to his ankles. His breathing picked up, and his exhaled haze was collecting and expanding over the water, growing into a nearly opaque mist. Charlie was terrified and oh so cold, but he would not turn. He couldn’t. Refusing to face his father was the last act of defiance he had to hold on to. No matter what he did, he always demanded that Charlie look at him. Now, in the icy glare of an impossible winter storm front, Charlie still would not turn.

“That son of a bitch can come and get me.”

The lake responded, sending a crash of waves up and over the shoreline. The water hit Charlie’s legs and he thought the cold would stop his heart. The rain picked up speed and size, slicking his body with what felt like ice. The wetness in the grass made him suddenly aware of the blades that had snaked up and over his ankles. Weeds now streaked up his calves. The shore itself held him locked in place. He heard his father roar again, and knew he was now much closer.

“Charlie! Look at me when I’m talking to you!” Little Charlie had had enough. He snapped aware and decided that this time, he would run. Yet, he tried to pick his feet up and could not. Looking down, it was as if he wore socks made of grass. He was fastened by flora and fauna to this very place, and again paralyzed with fear. He couldn’t even turn around if he wanted to.

Another wave crested, this one much larger than the one before it. Charlie closed his eyes against the wall of icy water as is slammed into his body. He stood against it just enough and did not fall back. His eyes opened to a horizon of pure black. White cap waves wrestled violently throughout the water. The rain fell in buckets, nearly drowning out his father’s screams as it pounded the surface of the once calm lake. Charlie put his head down, and awaited his father or hypothermia, whichever would set in first.

“CHARLIE!!”

The water before him erupted in a rush of cold, frothy liquid. Out of it came his father, screaming his name. Dad had changed though. He was much taller. He was much louder.

And he was covered in a black, viscous fluid that seemed to drip from his skin without falling off. Oily fingers lashed out at him in thin tendrils of darkness. Faces sat perched on the end of the inky threads. Laughing. Scowling. Crying.

Charlie woke up, howling in terror.

Rapture of the Deep, Chapter 5

For an aimless nomad of the sea, the three-hundred square feet worth of studio apartment in South Padre was not only the right place to live, but it often felt as if it were the only place. Steps away from the beach and seemingly always facing the sun, Charlie’s leased space overlooking the western Gulf coast was a projection of his very soul. If this property was perfect for someone, it was him. Shangri-La, perched upon eroding land. Faced by an orange eye. Toes of sand licked by warm waves.

Charlie was attempting to clean when the phone rang. He had accumulated quite the piles of not-quite-but-almost-garbage over the last few weeks of joblessness. Stacks of magazines slipped off of tables on either side of a couch that was covered in dirty swimwear. Take-out boxes of all ethnicities adorned the counters of the kitchenette like a sculpted field of cardboard and styrofoam. His surfboard was propped up against the always open bathroom door, another pair of swim trunks hanging from its rudders. As fragmented and messy as his nightmarishly over-priced space was, Charlie failed to see the correlation to his actual state of mind. Failing to see correlations was just who he was.

He saw that it was Tina and answered quickly, excited to irritate his sister right off the bat. Even today, he never stopped being the thorn in one’s side that is the younger brother.

“Sup, pizza?” He chuckled. His big sister hadn’t had an acne problem in over ten years, but Charlie made damned sure the nickname stuck, if for nothing else other than her hatred for it. Hatred that was evident upon her volley of his greeting.

“You sure know how to make a girl want to hang up the phone.”

“So I’ve been told.” He shook a wrinkled cigarette out of a crumpled pack on the kitchen table. “Its how I win the ladies over. What’s happening’?”

“Not much.” Her voice came through crystal clear, despite the lack of signal strength for most in the area. One of the perks of being on the government’s cell network. “Just got back from a meeting with Doctor Harris at Powell.” Charlie could hear road noise in the background, per usual. Tina was always on the move.

“Yeah?” He lit his cigarette and tossed the lighter back onto the table amid a quickly accumulating pile of past due notices. A fleeting thought to get around to paying them was quashed by indifference. “That’s big time, sis. What’s on the docket for you?”

There was a pause. Charlie could already sense she needed to ask him something. She always spaced out when she needed a favor from him.

“Well, there’s a project they want me to start on. A big project.” Tina stopped to sneeze before carrying on. “Something that’s going to put me out to sea again for at least a month.”

Charlie strode out onto his tiny patio that overlooked the beach. He didn’t bother closing the door. Never had to when the weather was always as perfect as it was in Padre. “What’s the scoop? You just finished a run on the New York, right?”

“Nevada. But yeah, it looks like I won’t even have time to get my feet dry.” More sniffles. Tina must have been coming down with something. “This one’s big, Charlie.”

She paused again, and he cracked a smile. Here it comes, he thought.

“I need a diver. Someone with experience. Someone that I can trust.”

“Why the Hell you callin’ me?” Charlie could hear the smile on his sun-baked face and was sure she could too.

“Fuck off, you know why I’m calling you. You have the experience they need. And I’d like to think I could trust you on this one. Its a really good opportunity for me and maybe you too. The pay’s good Charlie. Dad’s money has to be running dry soon.”

Funny, he thought. Hearing “dad” and “dry” in the same sentence.

“I get by.” He took a prolonged drag, exhaled, and leaned against the railing of the patio. Silently and sarcastically, he thanked his sister for putting thoughts of his dwindling fortune in his head. “What’s the job?”

He listened while she explained the research project over the Sigsbee. Tina would skate over the surface of the specifics, but not plunge into explicit detail. Charlie thought it to be a combination of her own apprehension and nerves at asking him this favor. He also knew that she held little respect for his intellect. Tina was always the bookworm, and through life he accepted that. Fact was, Charlie hid a fierce intelligence, and would likely understand even the most complex of quandaries before most. Especially with the topic at hand. He was an informational sponge when it came to the sea.

He let Tina vent her knowledge for a few more seconds before butting in. “Wait, wait…sis? I got ya. I follow. No need to show off.” Tina hushed, and Charlie could almost feel her roll her eyes. “The folks at Powell have to know those BP idiots don’t know what the Hell they’re looking at. Why all the espionage?”

“I don’t know, Charlie.” Tina was inflecting her words, slower and more forcefully. She was losing her patience. “They want us to figure it out. You take the samples, I study them with a lab partner. This isn’t a complicated question. Do you….”

“I’ll bite, sis. I’m with you. It sounds like fun.” Charlie flicked the butt of his smoke and watched it helicopter through the air until it skipped off of the sand below. “Let’s skim some oil. When do we start?”

“I’ll pick you up tomorrow, a little before noon.”

Looks like the cleaning will have to wait, he thought. I’ll have to get my drinking in tonight.

“I’ll be here with bells on.”

Rapture of the Deep, Chapter 4

This was Tina’s third time going to the Powell Center, and it felt no less majestic than it had before. For professionals in her field, Powell was an ivory tower of scholastic knowledge. It was a research center by which the entire field of marine and molecular biology was measured. Their staff was the standard, their curriculum the measuring stick. If you were a professor in the field and had ever spent time at Powell, the job offers practically kicked your front door in. If you were in R&D and had credentials from them to back you up, your papers would most certainly publish themselves. The industry power that this place wielded was the marine research equivalent to an atom bomb.

There had been some redecorating since the last time Tina had walked into the lobby. The place was quite nice before, but new grants had been spent to craft an exquisite facility. Marble stairs with glass rails climbed up to an immense round foyer. The US Government seal rested in the center of the floor, silent and commanding, bathed in a waterfall of sun from a vaulted skylight. Glass partitions filled with rainbows of colored sand directed people off into multiple directions. Directory signs were etched into the same glass and painted with a brushed gold gloss to make them stand out against the canyon like the colors of a hundred different sea beds behind them.

The registration desk stood imposingly at the north side of the entryway. Two women that might as well have been supermodels sat behind it, elevated on a platform to easily look down upon those that checked in as guests. Tina strode past them, already directed by Dr Harris to head straight in. He would be waiting. Somewhere on the top floor he was expecting her, and Tina felt strangely calm. Even through all of her accomplishments as a researcher, she typically found herself nervous even when meeting professionals much less decorated than he was. Today though, Tina felt at home. Ready, with no apprehension to claim the project that awaited her.

A short walk and a long elevator ride later, and Tina was greeted by Dr Harris’s private secretary. She sat behind a mammoth desk in a small annex to the Doctor’s office. Tina clicked a subtle clear of her throat and the woman perked up upon seeing her.

“Ooh, Ms. Breslin! Dr. Harris said to see that you were allowed straight in! So good to see you again!”

The comment struck her as odd, until memory from her days at the Sanford Naval Academy snuck up and pinched her into realization.

“Cassie, right?” Tina felt a quizzical look on her face that she instantly wanted back. Was it rude not to remember someone you went to school with?

“That’s me! Well, I go by Sandra now. How are you? Its been ages.”

Her bubbly giggle tone reminded Tina quickly why she didn’t remember her outright. Cassie was a flake. Tina had no room in her life for girls like her back then and most certainly didn’t have time for them now.

“Going great.” She forced a smile and hoped it didn’t look too fake. “Happy to be here, I can tell you that.”

“I’ll bet.” Cassie / Sandra smiled again, and Tina figured she could count about three brain cells for every tooth she saw. “I won’t hold you up, we can catch up later. Dr. Harris will have my behind in a sling if I delay you from seeing him. Go on in!” She winked. Tina hated people that winked. “You look great, by the way.”

“Thanks.” She feigned interest again and headed swiftly past Sandra’s desk toward the door to the Doctor’s office.

There wasn’t much of a greeting. Tina entered and found herself surprised by how minimal the office was. The monstrous double doors that parted to allow her entry were more impressive than the entire room ahead.

“Good afternoon, Ms. Breslin. Please have a seat.”

Tina moved through the empty space of the office and sat softly into a deceptively comfortable wooden chair directly in front of Dr. Harris’s desk. The room was flanked by two huge saltwater aquariums, illuminated by piercing blue lights that shone clearly even in the daylight pouring through the windows behind where the doctor sat.

“I see that based upon your summary, you have a pretty thorough understanding of the surface of this project.” Dr. Harris pushed the intensity of his eyes directly into hers. Tina felt a shade uncomfortable. The tone of the information seemed overly serious. It felt somehow dreadful.

“Yes, Doctor.” She crossed her hands on her lap and tried to regain the relaxation she felt when entering the building. “It’s quite remarkable.”

“Certainly.” Dr. Harris swiped his hand across the black glass top of his desk which promptly came alive into a brilliant display of files and documents. The whole thing was a built-in touch screen computer. He swiftly tapped a photo file and images of the oil plumes fell into a slideshow. He got right to business. “Here is VN-30, the smaller plume. Our tests show it is actually tethered to a feed from VN-31, the deeper, larger plume. 31 is actually fissuring toward the surface, but for some reason it is collecting here.” Another swipe of his liver-spotted hand brought up a full screen image of NAVSAT pictures of each plume, side by side. Depth and pressure information was typed in the upper right corner of each image.

Tina leaned over the screen for a closer look. “Have there been samples taken? Are we sure of the origin of this oil?”

Dr. Harris swiped the photos away and tapped another file that brought up information on oil from the Deepwater Horizon well. “Our tests show it matches the oil from the BP well, but tests from their scientists revealed some conflicting information.” He swiped back between chemical blueprints of the confirmed oil and the new VN plumes. “You can see that our tests indicate a virtually identical molecular structure to the pre-dispersant oil from the original spill.” He swiped to a new blueprint of the oil dispersant. “The Corexit spiked oil shown here has a significantly different map.”

Tina looked at the changes in chemical consistency. This was information she had already known from her first trips into the Gulf, as well as her most recent time aboard the USS Nevada. She had an idea of where the doctor was headed.

“May I?” Tina gestured toward the desktop screen. Dr. Harris nodded and sat back slightly. His eyes never left her. Tina swiped the images away and reopened the original chemical blueprint, quickly bringing up the files from BP alongside it. “Are they suggesting that this isn’t their oil? We can clearly see the properties of Corexit dispersant use in both maps.”

“Not quite, Ms. Breslin.” Dr. Harris didn’t offer another word. There was a conclusion to be drawn here, and Tina could see he would allow her to decipher it on her own.

She minimized the current photos and brought up the original BP documents. She scanned through them with the ease of a speed-reader, looking for the line she thought might provide the question du jour. Scrolling through several pages of corporate rhetoric, she stopped on a page near the end and double tapped it to fill the screen.

“They show a chemical map consistent with the Navy’s study, except for the base ingredients of the oil. It shows as a….synthetic?” She sat back and thought for a few seconds and understood what Dr. Harris was looking for.

“The BP teams say Corexit collided with the VN plumes and created a new kind of oil altogether?”

“Correct, my dear.” Dr. Harris cleared the screen and opened a new document which analyzed the differences in structure. They were minute, but they were there. Tina began to look them over before realizing that the amount of information would require more time to study.

Seemingly reading her mind, Dr. Harris spoke. “You’ll be provided all of the documents you see here before we get you out to sea.” He slid his chair away from the desk and stood up, craning his neck. Tina could hear the crackling of muscle and tendon in his shoulders. The man had decades of stress built up in his body. “Ms. Breslin, we selected you because we need samples of marine life that have contacted the VN plumes. The only way we can know for sure what has happened to this particular patch of oil is to test it from the cells of plankton at the sea floor. The life at the hydrothermal vents will be the only biological sample that won’t be clouded by other plumes and previously dispersed BP oil. The infected creatures will require full genetic mapping for us to yield the results we need. We need to know if…”

Tina cut the doctor off, unintentionally. Her mind was already working at a unconscious level. “If the VN plumes are a hybrid oil that cannot be dispersed. And if they are, are there more?”

“And what can be done to collect it before it settles into the vent field at the bottom of the Sigsbee.”

Tina sat back in her chair. If the oil was allowed to collect at the sea floor, covering a base of hydrothermal vents, the ocean would, in theory, become a toxic propellant. The super-heated, sulfur rich water would drive the oil outward and expand it, creating a natural oil well that would be impossible to cap.

“One other thing, Ms. Breslin.” Dr. Harris slowly fetched the back of his leather office throne and leaned on it. “The plumes are growing.”

Tina glared upward. “I beg your pardon?”

“By ten percent a week since discovery.”

How could that be? Tina was stumped. How does oil…reproduce?

“You choose a research partner and a diver. We will compensate anyone you choose. I will have the full scope of the project E-Mailed to you by the time you arrive back at Pensacola. You will not be monitored any more than a daily report pulled electronically by my staff. Your vessel will be fully equipped for surface and deep dive sampling, complete with manned and unmanned ROV’s. Full NAVSAT satellite technology. A laboratory built specifically for this project. State of the art everything will be at your disposal.”

Tina stood up. Her nerves were again calm. There was a task to consume them, and an interesting one at that. She was all in, and there was a lot of work to do. “Thank you, Dr. Harris.”

“May I make a suggestion, Ms. Breslin?”

“Of course. Anything.”

“You know a particularly experienced diver that I believe may be out of work at this time. I think he would be an excellent fit for this project. Despite your…differences. There will be no personality curve, and the two of you should be able to hit the ground running.”

There it was. The catch. “Certainly, Dr. Harris.”

Rapture of the Deep, Chapter 3

To say that Tina was happy to be starting her last day aboard her floating work-tomb was the understatement of the year. She was happy to hop aboard this project when it was offered to her, but in just the first few days at sea, she realized this was more of an exercise in busy work than her already mundane days surveying marine life for disease. Not the most exciting work, she knew. But Tina would give anything to have the last two months back and return to staring at bacteria in jellyfish.

She flipped on the lights to her chaotically organized office aboard the USS Nevada aircraft carrier. The current naval officers resented her for a lot of reasons, not the least of which was her rare privilege of having a work space that was separate from her quarters. Tina remembered putting up a fight when Commander Stevens had insisted that she be given her own private area for work. She knew it would only do more to alienate her from the crew, and she would much prefer to avoid any extra grief. It wasn’t enough that she was the daughter of one of the most decorated naval Commanders in the last twenty years. It also wasn’t enough that she had been a navy brat her whole life, and had parleyed that into a career as a Marine Biologist specializing in water-born viruses. Sure, she did the work, attended the classes, earned the degrees, blah blah blah. But Tina knew how everyone really felt, even if they were nice to her face.

So she initially refused this office, but Stevens insisted, nearly ordered her to take it. She still shook her head every morning when she came in, cursing him in the back of her mind. Even after sixty days at sea, (59 and one morning to be exact) she was still unhappy that once again, she was singled out as special.

Tina switched on the surge protectors and moved to the coffee pot as the computers, sonar, radar and NAVSAT all whirred to life. She filled the pot and added her usual seven scoops of grounds into the transparent filter before flipping the pot to brew, adding the sounds of percolating liquid to the morning symphony of work ritual. That same ritual, as it were, was being performed for the last time before her two month duty was over.

Looking back, Tina wasn’t sure she had completed anything really worthwhile during her time on the Nevada. She was sheltered from the day to day of the Navy boys. Drills, exercises and routines rivaled only the monotony of the sea itself. Her assignment had been to study the effects of oil on the surface sea life. It wasn’t that Tina disliked the work, but it felt as if she were one of a million researchers studying the same damned thing. Ever since the Deepwater Horizon blew and sent millions of gallons of oil erupting into the gulf, there were so many workers studying effects on wildlife that she had practically tuned out the day she came aboard. As special as she was treated, she was sure called to this “project” for some rather petty work that could have been done by a hundred other scientists. Sure, the pay was fantastic, (Tina actually owed a bit of a morbid thank you to British Petroleum) but she wasn’t exactly what one would call comfortable with just collecting a check.

Moving out of the narrow kitchenette, she softly slid into her chair, swiveling in behind the keyboard and mouse that she had stared at for what felt like forever. Each day was the same. Download the data from the night diving teams. Run a spreadsheet to enter the depths and toxicity of the recordings. E-Mail the findings back to the Powell Center for Marine Research in Miami. Start a new process of crunching the findings into numbers. Percentage of oil found in the fish. Percentage of dispersant chemicals found in the water. Percentage of dispersants found in the oil that was found in the fish. Lather. Rinse. Repeat.

On this morning though, the sixtieth morning on the Nevada and the first day she’d eventually see dry land, Tina would have her routine broken by the first work task she would attempt to complete. She opened her Outlook account and saw an E-Mail from the director of operations at the Powell Center. Dr. Roland Harris was someone that was respected throughout the marine research field, and not exactly the type of person she was expecting correspondence from. In fact, Tina was held silent and frozen when she saw his name above the subject line.

To: tbreslin@usnavy.gov
From: rharris21@powellresearch.com
CC: commstevens@usnavy.gov
Re: Sigsbee Abyssal Plain Research

Attachments: plume.doc.sigsbee.sp/%21/%51%21

Good morning, Ms. Breslin. I trust that the staff aboard the Nevada has been taking good care of you. I am certain that Commander Stevens will regret to lose someone of your caliber as a member of his staff; however, we have a new project that seems to be calling for your attention.

Recently, our deep water diving teams have detected quite the anomaly in the Sigsbee Deep, of which I’m sure you are familiar as the deepest part of the Gulf of Mexico. What we have discovered is truly unprecedented, and I feel requires your expertise.

Our teams have discovered a new plume of oil. Well, two actually. There is a plume that is currently resting approx. 390 meters deep that measures 1/8km by 1km. It is directly over the Sansbee and our teams seem to think it is not moving with the current. Obviously, this is quite uncharacteristic in comparison to the plumes we have studied thus far. Bizarre as that may be, that is not our prime interest.

There is a second plume of oil we have detected that is much larger. 16km by 19km according to our early tests via ROV. This plume of oil is located approx. 3100m deep, a mere 1300m above the floor of the abyssal plain. This plume also appears to be somehow suspended and unaffected by deep currents.

You will see all the additional data in the attached file, including coordinates and NAVSAT imagery. The deepest plume, named VN-31, is also stationed directly above the most recently discovered field of hydrothermal vents along the Gulf’s floor. At these high temperatures and mineral volatility, VN-31 has no business sticking to the coordinates that it has.

Please review the attachment and draft a summary of potential effects and send it to me no later than 1300 today. I have arranged for transportation from the base in Pensacola directly to our offices in Miami. I look forward to speaking with you.

Dr. Roland Harris
Director of Operations
Powell Center for Marine Research
305-771-1313 O
305-513-0583 C
305-771-1319 F
rharris21@powellresearch.com
www.powellmarinedev.com

Suddenly, Tina felt there would not be much work done today in regard to oil soaked fish

Rapture of the Deep, Chapter 2

Charlie Breslin woke up late with the relentlessly drilling reminder of the previous nights drinks. His swim trunks were still gritty from the dried saltwater courtesy of a midnight solo dip in the warm, massaging waters of a June Gulf of Mexico. He remembered diving in for a swim before going to bed, but currently felt more like he had taken a dive into a vat of vodka.

Charlie crawled out of the forward V bunk and slugged his way through the cabin, quickly walking up the three pygmy steps and through the smallish door onto the deck of his cruiser class vessel, The Deep Thought. He had dropped anchor just outside of Black Bay, south of Padre Island, and spent the night alone. Well, not completely alone. Charlie had a jumbled mind to keep him company. And his usual cure for that jumbled mind was a night alone, anchored at sea, with a full bottle and some ice. The evidence of such companionship was still on the table out here. A small chair pulled up to it, almost aiming at the empty bottle of top shelf vodka and empty rocks glass next to an ice bucket.

It was just past ten and the sun was already blazing. Charlie felt the misty heat of the Gulf wrap itself around him, caressing him and already easing the alcohol-induced discomfort. The piercing sunlight first made his head scream with pain before subsiding almost at once. In his thirty-six years of practically living on the water, Charlie had come to understand that there was no better cure for a blistering hangover than the soft, moist breaths of ocean air and the velvety warmth of the sea itself. Hell, there was really no better cure for anything than being out in the humid yet relaxing outdoor sauna of the summer sea. He glanced up and around at the twin meeting blues of cloudless sky and shimmering sea, separated by the razor thin horizon line before hopping up onto the starboard edge of the deck. He rolled his neck, took in a lazy breath and dove with subconscious grace into the salty nectar of the tropics.

It was the cure. It was detox. It was free. Charlie let his body plunge and fan to a stop before allowing himself to float in suspension. The slip currents that glided just under the surface gently pulled and tugged, and Charlie could feel all his aches and woozies diffuse through his skin and out into the endless liquid. His lungs kept him buoyant though, and Charlie could quickly feel himself rising as the water…

The Truth. Charlie thought. It’s always been the Truth.

…allowed him to surface.

He broke, gracefully treading, and took in a mammoth breath, before exhaling forcefully and opening his stinging eyes. Charlie felt the oppressively humid air fight the forces of his breathing as he kept afloat. Wet hair, due for a cut, clung in thick and half curled ropes over his shoulders before dipping into the ocean. He let the water be his therapy, same as he had done countless times. As a child. As a SEAL. As a diver. Charlie had always lived in harmony with nature’s greatest force. It had given him a career on more than one occasion. Had kept the money relatively stable and always gave him something to do.

Now though, Charlie again found himself among the ranks of the unemployed. It wasn’t like he had wanted his life to bounce in and out of stable work, but it had just the same. Charlie had problems with expectation and stability when it came to making a living. He would love the ideas and day to day of any new gig. He looked forward to jumping in wholeheartedly, and got himself up for new challenges and experience. Good old Charlie always embraced the new aspects of his life when they came along.

Then, things would grow stale. He would get bored. He would feel inadequate. Everything always sounded great going in, but it was only a matter of time before he would feel…stuck. Inevitably, that would be when things would unravel. Charlie was completely aware that it was he who was guilty of pulling the first thread to unwind his life. That awareness though, had no way of stopping him. Work. Relationships. Family. All of them pulled apart by his own boredom and feelings of always wanting to do more with his life, without the discipline or drive to put any grander plans into motion.

The one constant, the only absolute in a life that some would call self-destructive, Charlie had always wanted nothing more than to be involved with the water. Swam in school his entire life before going into the Navy. After his service time, he had been a professional dive instructor, off and on through the most recent chapters of his life. He’d move into a new position or start a new business with the family trust, (the only thing worth a shit that his father had ever given him) only to burn it down and start all over.

The water though, was love. It was life.

You’re part fish. His sister would always say. You have to be, to want to be in the water that much.

It was always where he found himself, good or bad. Right up until this very moment, where he treaded in the gulf, awaiting the next opportunity, eyes looking at the theater of memories under their lids.

Rapture of the Deep, Chapter 1

Tina Breslin was led not so forcefully through the entrance of Lichtenwell Hospital. She found herself free of thought and expectation as the doors swished to a soft but convincing close behind her. Security escorted her past the registration desk where nurses silently swayed from one neatly trimmed pile of documents to another. Their eyes darted up to Tina’s face, then to her Level 4 Clearance badge and quickly back to their work. Just seeing where the guest was going was enough for them to not ask any questions.

Soft but penetrating florescent lights gave way to unforgiving white walls and cold off-white tile floors. Tina couldn’t help but notice the fine potching that was neatly embossed throughout the wallpaper that added a blemished character to the starkness of the empty color. She considered that no one should be surrounded like this. It was such a plain, yet deeply maddening color when in this high of a dose. White, bouncing off of white, reflecting off of even more white. Here was a facility designed to rehabilitate the mentally ill, and Tina thought that she herself had lost a few bits of sanity just upon entering. Although she was fairly certain there was other, more legitimate cause.

She continued with her personal Lichtenwell security down a pair of short corridors to an elevator. They passed other orderlies and doctors who seemed to barely notice that there was someone new walking around with a maximum security clearance. It almost seemed as if this was not an uncommon occurrence for the staff at Lichtenwell. Had she paid more attention, Tina would have noticed that everyone saw her badge, and chose to ignore it. Walking past over two or three dozen other employees, she saw not one other Level 4 clearance.

Away from the lobby and registration area, the halls began to vary slightly, with wood trim and whispering orange torch sconces delicately slicing through the vanilla theme. The elevator was ornately decorated with mirror tile and etched glass. Tina let her eyes trail over the markings and counted repeats in pattern. It was an easy way to shut her mind out. Count the buttons on the door panel. (19 total) Count the tiles on the floor. (only 12, they were large) The eyelets on the shoes of the large security guard that was saying something to himself. (four on each side of each sharply polished shoe) The stitches of her purse handle, buttons on her jacket, etc.

As the elevator opened on the fourth floor, the security guard (Tina vaguely remembered him saying his name was Bill) was speaking again and gesturing in some fashion. She wondered if he was always carrying on conversations and physical instruction with himself when reality slapped into her and she concluded that he was directing her to exit the elevator.

“I’m sorry.” She sheepishly stepped past Bill’s beckoning hand. “I’m a bit…”

“No worries, Ma’am. The first trip is very difficult for everyone.” He stepped off behind her and pulled a keycard to swipe through the next security door. “I was asking if you needed a minute?”

She shook her head. “No, I’ll be fine. I’m just having second thoughts about seeing him like this, but I have to know…several things.” She winced quickly against the silky warmth of fresh tears, trying to cram them back into their ducts like toothpaste into a tube. “I have…to….” and trailed off.

Bill nodded a sympathetic nod and slipped the card through the ATM-like reader. A red light next to the door handle went out briefly, then turned green. In what seemed like an instant, they were at the last checkpoint. The max security registration desk.

Tina’s mind began to race through the process. A cold woman with 30-years-of-cigarettes-voice took her ID and filled out a specific information card to file. No one could enter this level without one of these cards. The woman began to ask her some questions that only Tina would understand. “Do you have any containers of water or any other liquid with you? If so they must be discarded before seeing the patient. The patient cannot have access to any water whatsoever. There are no sinks or toilets in the patient meeting area. There are no liquids permitted beyond this desk.” Then she moved on to more generic, non patient-specific rules.

No recording devices, no cameras, you must leave your cell phone at the desk, oh its already in your car? Good. We’d hate to have it ringing and disturbing the patients. Besides, for all we know, there’d be some kind of way that your brother would see it, hear it, Hell sense it and somehow make a mental connection to water, and we can’t have that. No, that wouldn’t be good at all. When Charlie starts thinking about water, he has problems. We all have problems.

Tina’s thoughts continued at light speed as she was led to the interview desks that sat outside her brother’s cell. He was never permitted to leave the cell unless he was tranquilized for the trip. Tina remembered that from her meeting with Dr. Leroy at Lichtenwell one week ago. Prior consultation with a Level 4 patient’s acting counselor was a requirement before any visitation was to take place. The doctor explained to Tina that the first meeting with Charlie might be less than revealing and would perhaps not be very productive, as the staff was forced to keep him under a constant state of semi-sedation while wirelessly monitoring brain wave activity.

Make sure you don’t say “wave.”

As she rounded the last corner of the hall and saw her brother for the first time in over three months, Tina’s speeding thoughts came to a screeching halt on a portion of her previous consultation with Dr. Leroy.

“Ms. Breslin. I have to make you aware of something. The situation with Charlie is becoming…complicated.”

“How so, Doctor?” I know he’s really sick.”

“Yes, Ms. Breslin, but keeping him anywhere near other patients or even staff members is becoming increasingly difficult. The drug and therapy regimens are beginning to lose their effect.”

“Are you saying he’s becoming violent? Charlie’s never been…”

“No, no he’s not becoming violent. Far from it, Tina. In fact, Charlie is quite possibly the most withdrawn and passive patient we have on Level 4.”

“So, what is it, Doctor? Is he abusive? Threatening?”

“Tina.” The doctor took her hand at this point. “You know about the hallucinations. Charlie sees terrible things that we think are a result of his multiple exposures to nitrogen narcosis and improper decompression. You know that. That‘s why he‘s under our care here at Lichtenwell.”

Tina remembered shaking, ever so slightly at this point. The Doctor looked gravely concerned, frightened actually, and it scared her to the deepest core of her heart.

“The problem is, those of us around him. The nurses, security, other patients.” Dr. Leroy took a deep breath. “Tina, I don’t know how to say this because I still can’t believe it. I wouldn’t believe it if it weren’t happening to me, too.” He released her hand and sat back in his chair, stiff as a corpse.

“Those awful things he sees? We’re all starting to see them too.”

Remembered Remains

He awoke in the midst of a soft alarm, sounding off in the distance. The noise slowly grew, matching the pace of his rising consciousness. Light from the world around him squeezed its way through the blur of tears and got him blinking one of his eyes. The other seemed to fight him at first, but it eventually opened to a painful slit. He noticed the alarm was closer when the pounding in his head hastened the waking process. His face felt hot and wet. His jaw was slack and felt stuck to something. There was a foul odor in the air, like melted plastic or scorched hair.

He found the strength to lift his head and instantly felt sick. Threads of pink, blood-laced drool bridged the space between his mouth and the place it was resting on. Wiping it away he looked down and saw himself through a teary fog, belted in behind a steering wheel. The airbag was sagging out like a wet nylon rag. There was a lot of broken glass in his lap. He realized two things in quick succession.

I’ve been in an accident.

I don’t know who I am.

The man did not recognize the car he was in. He had no concept of time or location. No reason as to why he was here. He did not recall putting on the suit he wore or the tie that hung crookedly off of his neck. He looked into the rearview mirror. In it was a small blue light that blinked with a slow pulse. Also in the mirror was his face, which he was seeing for the first time. His eye was badly bruised and there was a red trickle from his lip, but there was not much blood. The injury hurt much worse than it apparently looked. He was wrinkled. And grey. The man knew he was over forty, maybe over fifty.

He glanced around the inside of his car. The driver’s side window was shattered into little marbles of bluish white that were throughout the front seats. Outside he could see only trees. They were close enough that he knew the car was either on the shoulder or off the road completely. The windshield was littered with spider web cracks. Trying to see the other side was like trying to look through a giant ice cube clouded with patterns of threaded white. Through the cracks, it looked like he had slammed into a tree.

“Sir?”

The man, beginning to feel strength in his neck, looked around the car again. He reached down with an unstable hand and unbuckled his seat belt. It stuck at first and did not retract on its own once opened. He lazily tossed it aside, catching his tie on the clasp. He tried to free the snag, and instead elected to slide the knot down and pull it off completely.

“Sir? Can you hear me?”

That voice. The man stared blankly at his stereo, which didn‘t appear to be on. He wasn’t sure if the woman was outside the car or imaginary. He punched a few buttons on the dash display to see if anything responded. His train of thought was fragmented and he kept forgetting about the fact he was in an accident.

“Sir, this is Laura from OnStar. We have detected a crash. Can you hear me?”

The voice was coming from the stereo after all. The light in the mirror was some kind of indicator. The next thought that came to his mind was the first thing out of his mouth.

“What’s OnStar?” It was no more than a whisper.

“Sir, I did not hear you. Are you hurt? Can you tell me your name?”

“No.” Clearer this time. The lady in the stereo heard him.

“You’re not hurt?”

“No, I can’t tell you my name.” He coughed and felt pain in his ribs. “What’s OnStar?”

“We’re an emergency and directions service. Most rental cars have us. Sir I have already…”

He cut her off. “Rental? I wrecked a rental?”

“Yes, sir. The vehicle you are in is a rental.” He saw the distinct Cadillac logo on the steering wheel, however it meant nothing to him. “Sir, we have already alerted the authorities and EMS, however you are in a remote area and it will be a while before they reach you. I need to know if you are hurt.”

Thoughts started to flow more freely. EMS. Emergency Medical Services? At least I remember something. “No. I don’t think so.” He thought about his bruised eye but figured it was pretty minor. No sense in going over the details of his injuries with some lady on the other end of a radio.

“Good. Can you tell me your name?”

“No. I already told you that.” He rested back on the headrest. “Can’t you guys see who rented the car? My name?”

“I’m sorry sir, but we only know the names of our personal subscribers. We only know the company you rented the car from was Streamline in Chicago, Illinois. Are you sure you’re not hurt?”

He was getting irritated. Surely the first sign of recovery. “Yes, I am sure.”

“Can you feel your legs?”

He moved his knees first, then feet. Tensed the muscles in his thighs. Everything seemed fine. “Yeah.” The man rolled his head slowly from side to side on the headrest. “No neck pain, either.”

“Excellent. Now tell me if….”

The words were lost. Not because his mind drifted again, in fact his thinking was becoming quite clear. Clear enough for him to freeze dead when he saw the ripped duffel bag on the floor of the passenger side. Through that tear he could see something very interesting. He quickly reached down and unzipped the bag to expose its contents.

“Sir? Are you there?”

He did not hear Laura. He did not hear anything except for his pounding heartbeat. And somehow, despite the fact that he didn’t know his name, didn’t know what OnStar was and could not recognize the Cadillac shield embossed into the leather of the steering wheel, the man knew exactly what was inside the duffel bag once he opened it.

“Sir?”

“Where am I now? How long before the pol…..paramedics arrive?”

Laura answered quickly. “You are on US 12 outside of Coldwater, Michigan. I show that EMS is thirty minutes away. Sir, can you…..”

The man reached down and dragged the bag up onto the passenger seat. It was quite heavy, and hefting it off of the floor provided more pain in his back and shoulders. The tear in the fabric below the zipper line widened with a silent rip, spilling some of the bag’s contents onto the floor. His mind was razor sharp with concern. Doubt. Fear.

“…..gas? Sir?”

He just caught the tail end of Laura’s question. He found himself even more disoriented than he had been when he first woke. “What?”

“Can you smell any gas?”

His thoughts slipped away from the duffel bag. He inhaled softly and was surprised that he did not notice the aroma of gasoline until she asked. “Yes. Gas and oil.”

“You need to get out of the car, sir. Right now.”

The man did not waste any time. He was beginning to recall where he had come from and could vaguely remember who he worked for. He couldn’t remember who he was yet, but he had no interest in ever going back to deal with his employers. The idea of being in a rented car while it exploded however, somehow appealed to him even less.

“Sir, do you have a cell phone?”

He was already wrenching on the handle of the driver’s side door when Laura spoke again. He continued right along, pulling and leaning furiously. Even throwing his shoulder into the door was no use. Instead of thinking about another way out, the man was beset with panic and kept flailing his body into the door desperately trying to force it open.

“Fuck! It’s fucking stuck. Shit!”

“Sir! Do not panic. The door may be pinned shut and you could cause a spark.”

Spark.

He froze. Screamed. Laura spoke up again.

“Sir, check the passenger door.”

The man reached painfully over the console and across the duffel bag grasping for the opposite door. His fingertips danced slightly on the surface before he made the last few inches and put a death grip on the handle. It was unlocked and the door swung open with ease. He yelped in relief and started to claw his way over the seat before he heard Laura again.

“Sir, do you have a cell phone? Where is your phone?”

“I do have a phone.” The man looked on the floor before feeling his pants pockets. Quickly, he checked the driver’s side floor, dashboard and glovebox. Opened the console. Rustled through a couple of maps, papers and some change. Checked the visors. He looked over his shoulder and into the back seat. He checked the side pockets on the duffel bag and found his phone. Once it hit his hands he remembered it. Remembered how much he was on it for work and how much work he did with it.

He remembered its connection to the duffel bag full of drugs.

I have to get moving.

“Sir. You can call us and connect to me here. I need you to stay on the phone until he authorities arrive.” Laura suddenly sounded less robotic and decidedly concerned. “Let me know when you are ready for…”

He reached up and hit the “On*” button on the mirror, hanging up on Laura before sliding across the seat and out of his destroyed car. He thought it was time their conversation was over. Time was getting short. He stood out of the car and looked around outside. It was grey, crisp. Maybe fall or early winter, just before the snow. He was off of the road completely and impaled upon a large pine tree. Clear and yellow chips of headlight decorated the grass. The hood of the Cadillac was covered in pine needles and shattered glass. Grey smoke hissed out from under the folded metal and expanded into black before breaking up. It smelled like old charcoal.

He stood on the shoulder of a two lane highway. Seeing the pair of asphalt lanes split by the deliberate double yellow brought some things back. He remembered driving for work and spending plenty of time on the road. He was really no more than a delivery boy. A really expensive one that delivered really important items. Items that made people feel very nice, and made him a lot of money.

A lot of money he would trade in a second to remember details again. Starting with his name.

He checked the time on his phone and tried to remember how long it had been since Laura said “Thirty minutes.” He wasn’t sure, but felt there wasn’t much time regardless. He had to get far enough away from the scene of the accident that the police and paramedics would have no chance of finding him. He knew exactly where he would be going if he were caught and he had no intention of going back there. He’d rather have gotten back in the car and tried to cause some sparks.

He put his phone back into the side pocket before zipping the bag back up. The rip on the side was small enough that he could carry his supply with him. He stopped on this idea and thought for a second.

What’s better? They find the stuff on you or in your rental? Either way they know its yours and you are on the run. No sense in the extra weight. You’re kind of busted up in case you didn’t notice. You just hit a tree.

There weren’t a whole lot of options. The cops were maybe fifteen or twenty minutes away and he was in the middle of nowhere. It would be quite obvious to them who he was when they found him here like this. And that meant he had to go back. He had to get away from here immediately.

But then what? By the looks of it he could be hours, Hell days away from civilization. He could almost recall Michigan’s location on a map but certainly had no clue where Coldwater or US-12 were. Once the cops found the car full of drugs without a driver they would spread down the roads and through the woods in search. He would have to follow the road in one direction and hope to get to a town before he was caught.

He pulled his phone back out and tossed the bag back onto the floor. He threw the passenger rear door open and looked into the back seat. There was his briefcase. A briefcase that he remembered had his other cell phone. He remembered suddenly that there was also cash in the briefcase. Exactly $68,211 in cash.

The man pocketed his phone, snatched the briefcase and started off in a hobbled jog. His legs and ribs flashed in pain, significantly worse than it had been already. Despite that, adrenaline flowed free and blocked much of his senses. Slivers of memories were weaving through his mind, slowly revealing the fabric of his life.

He remembered his boss. Thought that he would not fire him for a transgression such as this. No, that type of man would keep him around and ratchet up the level of professional un-comfort forever. Keep him on edge. His boss would enjoy that greatly. He was a sadistic man with a lot of influence and he was unpleasant to work for even when you were doing your job right. That could all be remembered clearly now, but…

I still can’t remember my goddamnned name.

The man continued to stagger away. He turned back to see there was already a fair amount of space between him and the smoking wreck of his car. It was enough to feel safer about a pending explosion, but not enough for him to feel any better about his overall situation. He needed to put a much greater distance between himself and his life. The man remembered specific days and deliveries leading up to today. He remembered that he had just lost his girlfriend and remembered all the cocaine he was doing lately. He thought to the cash in his briefcase and recalled draining his checking and savings accounts. The receipts were with the money. He realized he was trying to get away. That if even had he been healthy, he couldn’t possibly run fast enough. Here he was though and he was certainly going to try.

In the distance, he wasn’t sure what direction, the man heard sirens.

The pain was increasing. The man had to pick up speed and get inside the tree line if he was to get away. Despite the fact that his ribs and legs felt full of broken glass he intended to go as far as his adrenaline could carry him. And the man was so afraid of going back to his life that he felt his adrenaline could carry him to Mars.

The sirens were getting closer. He was certain they were approaching from the way he had come. It put his wrecked car between him and the cops. It bought him some time but it wasn’t enough for him to feel any better about his chances. He was certain that any minute they would catch up with him and his chance of escaping the miserable existence he had crafted would be long gone.

The man staggered along and dragged his aching body off the road. Sliding behind the foliage along the shoulder was harder than he had expected; the ground was soft and mushy and each step into the mud was like walking across a mattress of pain. Arcs of sharp heat sliced through his midsection with each motion. He was able to keep his footing as long as he moved slow. Much slower than he wished, but his body was not in the mood to allow him a choice for much longer. He slipped briefly and dropped his briefcase to grasp a thick branch to steady himself.

The briefcase! Shit!

The man realized that he had been carrying the key to piecing together the details in his blood-streaked right hand since he left the car. He dropped haphazardly in the squishy mass that was the Michigan earth, ignoring the pain and the chill that began to seep into his bones from the newly appearing drizzle. Looking down upon the briefcase he saw the pair of combination-equipped tumblers that stood between him and his gray, misty memories. Thinking for a second, the man turned the dials to triple zeros with trembling fingers and flipped the buttons in opposite directions. He was sure the briefcase would remain locked.

Miraculously the latches popped. With a fragmented squeal of joy he flung the case open and let his eyes scan the contents.

Behind him, the sirens reached their destination and stopped.

The first thing he saw was a picture jetting out of a pen pocket. He removed it to see a beautiful woman that he vaguely recognized. Attached to the picture with a thread of scotch tape was a note. With labored, troubled breaths the man unfolded the note and read…

It’s me or the job, Charlie. I can’t take it anymore. When you’re ready, IF you’re ready…you know where to find me. -L

“L.” Charlie was so fixated on reaching back through his mind to recall the remaining letters of his girlfriend’s name that he didn’t much care for the revelation of his own. Remembering seemed hopeless and he continued to shred the inside of the briefcase striving for another piece of the puzzle. In a pocket to the right of the picture he found a small vial of cocaine. Addiction being what it is, he opened it and snorted the contents without hesitation. He clearly hadn’t forgotten how to do that.

Charlie’s hands fell to a manila envelope that rested atop a pile of miscellaneous papers. Inside the folder was the $68,211 along with two receipts. Atop those receipts his name stood defiantly against the smog of amnesia.

Charles Ray Leyland.

I’m Charlie Leyland. My clients call me C-Lee.

Below the folder was another distinctive piece of paper. It appeared to be a notice to appear in court.

I’m in trouble. Charlie thought. Big fucking trouble. I’d rather die than get caught.

Behind him, a Michigan State police cruiser was approaching. Charlie did not hear it.

He started to frantically claw his way to the bottom of the briefcase. No document was safe as he even tossed the envelope of money aside while he dug deeper. Pens and papers erupted from their bed of stitched leather. He tossed a calculator and another cell phone into the woods. Stacks of addresses and names fluttered around him as he plunged headfirst into the pile, praying for an answer. Not to his memories which were flooding back, but an answer to his current question of how to get away.

“Don’t move, son.”

Shit.

Charlie froze. He suddenly wished there was a gun in the briefcase. At least he could end his life on a newsworthy note rather than be captured and forced to slither back to the place he wished so badly to avoid.

“Let me see your hands.”

He stole a glance over his let shoulder and saw a State Trooper in a pale brown uniform. A quick look over his right showed a younger officer that had flanked him. It was over. Charlie stood slowly, arms elevated.

“I can’t go back. Don’t make me go back.” His body shivered all over. Not from the cold, but from fear.

“Son, we only want to check on you. Is that your car back there?”

He turned to face the officers and noticed they had not drawn weapons on him. Still afraid to answer, he remained quiet.

“I don’t know how you survived, son. I hope you have insurance, that Caddy is shot.”

Charlie chuckled. “Kill me”

The troopers stopped and stared. “What?”

The younger guy spoke. “Why the Hell would we do that?”

Then the elder, “You would have a lot of unhappy customers if we did that, I’m afraid.”

Charlie took a deep breath. “I’m not going with you. You’ll have to kill me ‘cause I’d rather die than go back.”

The older trooper took another step forward and rested his hand upon his holstered pistol. “Why would you say that, Charlie?”

His mind raced from wondering how they knew his name to remembering his wallet in the visor of the Cadillac. They have my ID. Why didn’t I find it first?

“Come with us, son. Let the EMT’s check you out.”

The rest was a foggy as his memory when Charlie awoke. He put up a struggle and was quickly subdued. He remembered tasting mud and plants as his face ended up deep in the muck. As the troopers dragged him back toward the scene of the accident, Charlie remembered everything. His slave driving boss, always expecting more and more from him. No amount of sales were enough. He remembered Laura and her constant pressure to change employment.

It takes you away too much, baby. Can’t you be home more?

He remembered the money he was making. Good money too, more than enough to sustain the rest of his life. But he also remembered the driving, the drugs, the fact that the job had pushed him into an unwanted addiction, just to keep up. He despised his life, his boss and his line of work so much that anything was a better alternative. He remembered that he had drained his bank account and rented this car to just drive until the gas tank was almost empty.

He recalled the needle reaching “E” before stomping on the pedal and piloting the rented CTS directly into a tree in an effort to kill himself. As the Troopers led him back to the scene against his will, he saw them pulling the bag of drugs out of the car.

“All this stuff says Missouri, son. Why are you way the Hell out here?”

Charlie did not answer. They would corral him and take him in for questioning, then therapy. From there, he wasn’t sure where he would end up.

A Pharmaceutical Representative on therapy. Imagine that. Maybe some Xanax was in order.