Project Blackwater (Pt. II)
It's time to wake up. So, wake up.
Jack emerges from his first dive into Blackwater. Before his second session, he notices something strange about Elysium.
To explore other subjects of the Blackwater project:
Jack blinked. He was lying on his back, the “life vest” removed. Around him, blinding fluorescent lights shone. He felt groggy, disoriented.
As he sat up, the exam table paper crinkling, Jack realized he wasn’t alone. A male nurse was rapidly typing something onto a holographic notepad. He was rather short and bald; a far cry from Jenny.
“Oh good, you’re awake, Mr. Beenz,” he said. His voice was nasally, bored. “We took out your IV already.”
Jack squinted. Beenz?
It felt as though he’d napped too long. Then, he glanced down at the medical band on his wrist.
FRANK E. BEENZ - PATIENT 10001.
Oh, right.
“How long was I under?” he asked.
“Six hours.”
“Only six?” It felt shorter than even that. “Wasn’t it supposed to be longer?”
“Yeah.”
Clearing his throat, Jack peered around the nurse to see the other rooms. Subjects filled them now.
“Guess you’re busy,” he said.
The nurse didn’t respond, continuing his task.
As Jack waited for him to finish, he tried to recall his last moment in the Undertow.
He was in an elevator. Something was talking to him and music was playing. It hit him. He was trying to descend to the next floor, but the elevator was recalled. Jack cursed internally. There wasn’t a chance to set up communication with Sari and Byron.
“You pulled me back up,” stated Jack.
The nurse finished typing and fully faced Jack. “We don’t let you go in too deep on your first dive.”
“No? What would happen…?” Jack trailed off and read the name printed on the man’s scrubs. “Ernie?”
“Nothing that you didn’t sign a waiver for.” Ernie pushed a glass of water in Jack’s hands. “Drink. Once you’re settled, I’ll give you a proper tour of our facilities. Then, I’ll leave you in the cafeteria to eat.”
Ernie placed a light blue patient uniform on the end of the bed and a pair of slip on white shoes on the floor. “These are for you. When you’re dressed, see me in the hall.”
Jack peered down at the sneakers. They met criteria for a psych ward or prison: no laces, no bands, no belts.
Moments later he was struggling to keep up with Ernie. The man was short-legged but fast. He took him through the submersion rooms and passed an optical scanner. Jack took note.
Down a winding hallway; left, then left again, right, straight ahead. They came to a pair of double doors. Once more, Ernie lowered his face to the scanner to pass. It blinked green.
The building opened up, the medical facade falling away into a high-tech oasis. Volunteer subjects wearing the same light blue uniform as Jack were walking to and fro. Massive fruit trees—pomegranate, fig, and apple—lined crystal windows that arched upwards hundreds of feet. Sunlight poured in, immediately shaking off the strange daze of the Undertow.
“It’s artificial sunlight,” said Ernie.
Jack’s exhaled slowly. “Wow,” he breathed. It seemed so real. Passing beneath the large windows, he could feel the gentle warmth of the “sun” on his skin.
The government provided UV ray lamps after the war, when dust and ash weighed thick over North America. Those, however, barely provided enough vitamin D to be healthy.
“It’s 3AM,” Ernie revealed, “but since we keep weird hours, we try our best to make sure that the environment you wake up to is healthy.”
They continued, Ernie waving his hands toward various rooms as they moved. “When you’re not under, you have complete access to the rec room, gym, pool, library, et cetera. Most subjects aren’t sleepy after submersion, so we try to keep you guys occupied. There used to be a theater, but screens don’t bode well with patients post-submersion.”
They paused before another large set of doors; propped open to reveal a cafeteria. In the corner, two workers were peering up at a leak in the ceiling. They stood in white jumpsuits with their hands on their hips.
“Don’t know where it’s coming from,” said one.
“This is the cafeteria,” Ernie said, drawing Jack’s attention away from the maintenance men. “It’s open 24/7. There’s a buffet and there’s a chef who will make you any sort of omelette you’d like.”
“He just does omelettes?”
“Yes.”
Ernie checked his watch. “Since you’re last submersion was cut short, we’re going to come and get you in three in a half hours for the next session. You took to the water quite well. Better than most, actually. Go ahead and eat. I’m sure you’re hungry.”
Jack realized he was. His stomach growled. Before food, there were more pressing matters at hand. “I heard a voice while I was down there,” said Jack, “something called Riptide?”
Ernie smiled—perhaps baring his teeth was a more apt description. The very first smile he offered, catching Jack off-guard. It struck Jack as out of character. Perhaps a tell?
“There are a lot of strange things that go on when you’re under,” Ernie said. “Things forgotten can float to the surface. It could be something from a movie you happened to see or a conversation from when you were, like, three years old. I’ll make a note of it.”
Jack had questions, but it was unlikely that Ernie would be answering any of them. It would be safer to ask a fellow patient.
When Jack entered the cafeteria, with exception to the maintenance men, it was mostly empty. Five other subjects were eating quietly, all separated from one another. Fleetwood Mac played quietly over speakers.
Jack ordered a six-egg omelette (with a heap of bacon), poured a boiling cup of black coffee, and took a seat with a contented sigh. The job was odd, but the food seemed great. Jack lifted his fork and cut through the middle, pleased with the gratuitous amount of farmer’s cheddar. Somewhere, Sari was bemoaning the Bureau’s decision. Jack couldn’t wait to gloat when he finally set up comms.
Just as he lifted the fork, a young and pale man took the seat next to him. Jack pointedly looked around at the hundreds of extra seats. “Um, hello?”
“Koen,” the man introduced. He held out a translucent, boney hand. With hesitation, Jack accepted.
Koen did not move away, staring with owlish blue eyes his leg bouncing. “Your name?” he demanded.
“Oh, uh, Frank.”
“Nice, nice. You’re new?”
“Isn’t everyone?”
“No, no. You’re the first of this round but not the first ever. So, how was the first dive?”
Jack’s eyes wandered to his rapidly cooling omelette. “It was fine.”
“What did you see?”
Elysium was drawing from all walks of life, even the unstable. Maybe if Jack ignored Koen, he’d go away.
Though Jack didn’t answer, Koen continued. “You know you can’t trust these guys; the, um, the nurses. Plus, not all these subjects in uniforms are subjects. Elysium sticks security among us so they can hear us talk.” His voice dropped to a whisper, his eyes darting to the other subjects. “Did you notice they aren’t eating? Just staring at their trays?”
Jack saw it was true.
Koen licked his thin lips, pleased he’d grabbed Jack’s attention. “They have to follow us because they don’t want us talking.”
Begrudgingly, Jack took the bait. “What about?”
Koen inched closer. “Something in the dark waters, Frank, something in the dark waters. Powers that be want that sweet, sweet ambrosia.” He jabbed a finger into Jack’s chest. “And we’re the doves to bring it. But you know if you send out some birds, not all of them return? Yeah, they might not. They don’t care about whats down there. They just want their cure. Dr. K’s just rolling over us all to get to Olympus, I guess.”
Jack started eating. The eggs were good, great even, but he couldn’t enjoy them with Koen hovering at his elbow. This was a dead end. Jack couldn’t tell whether Koen was crazy; he’d need to ask someone else.
“How do you know you’re even awake?” Koen suddenly asked.
Jack paused mid-chew. He looked up into Koen’s face, hoping to see a trace of humor. There was none. Koen only stared, wide-eyed.
“Don’t do that to me,” Jack said with a laugh. The sound fell hollow on his ears.
“Something to consider,” quipped Koen.
Jack observed with vague disgust as Koen began to chew his nails. Was the staff aware of Koen’s condition? Did Blackwater cause it or was Koen here to heal it?
“How long have you been here, Koen?” Jack asked.
“Dunno, almost eight weeks,” answered Koen around his fingers. “I’ll go home soon. I don’t know if I can, but they’ll let me.”
“Why’d you volunteer?” Jack quickly regretted his question.
“Money,” Koen said, “Money at first, but I didn’t understand. Now I’ve seen it and it’s starting to leak outta my ears, y’know?” Koen grew agitated. His leg was bouncing faster, fingers drumming on the table. “Have you seen it yet? You’ll know what I mean if you have. Just so loud and it presses into my head like water. Just pulling me down! It’s going to drown me!” He was almost shouting. “Just water everywhere!”
Jack cast another look around the room. Everyone was openly watching them. Not good, he thought, it’s a little early to start attracting attention.
Loud enough for others to hear, Jack said, “Look, I’m just trying to eat—”
“Have you ever gone swimming in a lake? A lake or dark water. Like the Atlantic? It’s grey sometimes where I live.”
“Yeah, sure—”
“You know that feeling? One second you’re having fun and the next, you become aware of how little you can see below you? Just your pale legs floating in the void. Just a void. But it isn’t a void, is it? Because there’s something there. It brushes against you. Is it slimy? Scaly? Could be algae, could be your bastard friend pulling a sick joke. But you don’t know. So you get out of the water, right? But these people put you in waters where not even they can see.”
“Mr. De Vries?”
Koen and Jack turned to see two staff-members. One was bald, the other had a steely grey man-bun; both were rather large. The bald one looked apologetically at Jack. “Mr. Beenz wants to have his breakfast in peace.”
“I’m just talking,” hissed Koen.
Man-bun stepped forward and took Koen gently by the arm. “We’ve told you about bothering other subjects. Why don’t you come with me to the music room?”
Koen’s shoulders sagged. “Fine.”
Just as it seemed he’d walk away, Koen lunged toward Jack. He grabbed Jack’s sleeve, whispering into his ear. “Something wicked this way comes.”
Jack recoiled. “Can you get off?”
“It wants what you have—what we have! It will take your face, then your soul, then your life! It will spill into this world!”
With more aggression than he intended, Jack shoved Koen away.
Koen caught himself, then glared. “They’re fools, Frank. They don’t know what they’re doing. Not even Elysium knows how deep these black waters go. Dr. Karasevdas doesn’t even know there’s something there. He’s awoken it! He’s throwing bait into the water!”
“Alright, that’s enough.” The grey-haired staffer forcibly turned Koen toward the door.
Unsettled, Jack’s gaze lingered on Koen as he was half-dragged away.
The bald man remained. “Apologies,” he said, wincing. “Koen hasn’t taken very well to the tests. We’ve found that drug-users tend to have a bad reaction to Blackwater. Unfortunately, we can’t discharge him until we’re sure he’s got a place to go. ”
“Should you be telling me that?” snapped Jack. His mood had soured. Before him sat a tray of cold eggs and lukewarm coffee.
“Probably not,” answered the staffer cooly.
There was a pause. “Anyway, I’m Vic. If you need anything, you can ask the staff here. Most everyone else is very stable.” Vic smiled. “I promise.”
Jack wasn’t so sure.
“I was sent to get you ready for your next submersion,” added Vic, “but you have time.”
“Already?”
“It’s been two and a half hours.”
Jack blinked. Two hours!? How?
“Time blindness is a small side-effect of Blackwater,” explained Vic. “Don’t worry it’ll wear off.” Then, he pointed at the remnants of Jack’s omelette. “The chef will warm that up for you, if you want to finish first.”
Byron heard Sari before he saw her. Metallica was blasting at full volume. As he passed the offices and cubicles, nearing the source of the sound, he saw a dozen or so agents with their noise shields engaged.
He passed Agent Mejia, thin lips pursed as she poured coffee in the break room.
Exit light!
Enter ni-i-ight!
Take my hand!
We’re off to never-never land
The guitar rift took off, vibrating the floors and walls. Byron pushed opened Sari’s office door.
“Sari!” he shouted. “Hey! Sari!”
She didn’t turn; in the dark and hunched over one of her five computer screens with the hood of her FACIB1 sweatshirt pulled up.
Byron flicked on the lights and turned down the volume on her analogue stereo. Sari insisted the sound quality was better on these old machines.
Spinning around, Sari pushed back her hood. “Hey!”
Byron threw his hands up. “Damn, Sari, use the noise cancelling shield! I can hear your music out the front door. And why are you sitting here in the dark?”
“It helps me concentrate.”
“My great-granddad listened to this stuff. This helps you focus?”
“Yes.”
Well, if it worked for Sari… “Maybe I’ll try it sometime.”
“I’m also trying to bother Agent Mejia,” added Sari with a conspiratorial whisper.
Byron leaned out into the hall to check for eaves-droppers before engaging the sound-shield. Satisfied they were protected, he crossed the room and took a seat, leaning forward in interest. “What she do?” he asked.
“So, she comes in asking about the case—”
“What?” Byron interjected. “Why? She doesn’t have clearance.”
Sari nodded emphatically. “Exactly! So, she comes in, asks about the case. I’m, like, okay, it’s need-to-know, right?”
“Right.”
“She gets all pissy and asks about why Jack is lead and kinda getting at the psych eval. For the record I didn’t fail, Jack beat me by .4 points.”
“That bitch,” said Byron. He opened Sari’s snack drawer and snatched a bag of Smelly Jellys™ in one smooth motion.
“Yeah! She’s just mad that she’s stuck with another inter-state missing persons case and a bridge-jumper, so she’s trying to stick her big fat nose in my business.”
“Obviously.”
Sari raised an eyebrow. “I know you’re only pretending to be interested to eat my snacks.”
Around a mouth full of the gummies, Byron grinned. “Obviously,” he repeated.
“Whatever,” said Sari. “I already read her case files. Maybe I’ll info-snipe her at her next meeting.”
She chuckled to herself, but the sound petered out into a heavy, stressed sigh.
“What’s wrong?” Byron asked.
Sari’s face pinched with worry. “It’s been three days and we still haven’t heard from Jack.”
He shrugged. “Let’s wait a week and then worry. He’s undercover.”
“You’re telling me he’d miss another opportunity to brag about this job? No. There’s something wrong.”
“You’re jumping at the chance to give him an F, Sari.”
Her jaw dropped. “I am not!”
“You are. When has Jack ever needed help?”
There was a ping. “Look alive,” said Byron. He grabbed another handful of Smelly Jellys™. “There’s Mr. Failure now.”
Jack leaned back from the green locker, admiring his work. It was a bit too big to be portable, but it would have to do. He was back on the second level, surrounded by redwoods, ferns, moss, and rain. The comms were set, its frequencies tapping into the outside world. He tapped the receiver and adjusted the keypad.
J.O.: Hello out there!
He waited, watching the blinking green line.
R.A.: What took so long?
Jack rolled his eyes. No hello, no hi, no how are you.
J.O.: All is well, strange but nothing major to report.
R.A.: ok
J.O.: Only thing is there’s negative side effects for addicts.
R.A.: Seems standard
J.O.: Yeah
R.A.: How’s the dreamscape?
Jack paused, fingers hovering over the keypad. Where to begin?
J.O.: anything on file for something called riptide?
He waited, gnawing on his lip and praying that Sari would explain it away.
After a moment, Sari began to type.
R.A.: Rings a bell, but not sure. Will get back to you.
J.O.: Going to shut down this line and open new one w/ each use.
R.A. Y?
J.O.: Gut
R.A: k
And that was that. Jack slammed the green locker shut and turned. Closing his eyes, Jack whispered to himself. “It’s gone, it’s gone, it’s gone.”
When he looked over his shoulder, the locker had vanished. He released a heavy sigh of relief.
Being back in this place felt eerie. He wasn’t alone, of this Jack was certain. A mist descended over everything, a mist that wasn’t there before. Still, it was better than being up in the lobby. Being there felt strange—like a set that was purposefully arranged topside for him. There was a presence. Maybe it wasn’t the Riptide, but there was definitely someone else here. Another volunteer perhaps? Yet neither Dr. K’s recordings, Jenny, Ernie nor anyone said a thing about sharing a subconscious.
Adjusting the gun on his hip, Jack made his way back to the elevator and pressed level three.
He descended, listening to the tinny elevator music.
The doors opened. Gone was the serene, open expanse of pacific rainforest. Before Jack was a city—sort of. It wasn’t quite right, a blend of a large urban environment, smattered with what looked like houses ripped from the silent streets of suburbia. Jack looked to his left and saw his childhood home; small yellow building cut and pasted here without its lush green lawn or the fencing pines.
The rest was New York City. Instead of the bustling streets that he remembered, however, it was devoid of a single solitary soul. Jack looked up into the night sky. It rained, pouring in buckets. Water drenched the abandoned trash and rushed through storm drains in filthy rivers. A large monorail passed on one of the upper levels. The ground rumbled and thundered. Holograms turned, flashing neon lights. Most of it didn’t make any sense, just a jumble of letters randomized to fill in the spots of his memory. There was a billboard of a cartoon rabbit. It smiled with buck teeth, pointing down at him with furry finger. Just below the image in large letters: “TUA CULPA, TUA CULPA, TUA CULPA.”
Graffiti lined the apartments pictures of eyes and lines like “WE NEVER SLEEP”, “LET US SLEEP”, and “IN THE DARK WE SLEEP”.
To Jack it looked as though the entire city was frozen in time. When was the first time he’d been here? Many, many years ago certainly.
He continued on.
Another smaller broadway sign showed marching rabbits in military uniform. "BROTHERS IN ARMS” it said. They wore red capes, a detail Jack noted with unease.
He suppressed a shudder and pressed through the empty streets. Nearby, a door opened and closed. Was someone here?
Pausing beneath a flickering streetlamp, Jack peered down an alley. At the very end was a glass window, thickly layered with fog. It was a diner. Yellow light spilled into the street. Jack could see—much to his surprise—people sitting in the booths.
He wiped the rain from his eyes and squinted. The ground rumbled as the metro sped beneath the ground. Jack could hear the moan and cry of the wind in the tunnels, the rhythmic click and clack of the rail. The streetlamp began to flicker with a crystalline tinkling and a buzz.
Suddenly, the hair on the back of his neck stood on end.
“Is it not the light that casts shadows on the wall?”
That same awful frequency, an inhuman voice that vibrated from within his skull. The Riptide.
Jack spun, searching for the source of the voice.
There.
There!
Riptide stood just outside of the shop and streetlights, in the middle of the watery road. Both shadow and form simultaneously, it was difficult to see. The edges rippled, like the dark corner of a still pond. A fear so strong it seemed to compress his body from a source external seized his body.
Jack began to shake. Agony erupted just behind his eyes, worse than any migraine Jack had experienced. His knees buckled slightly.
Like before, images flashed in rapid succession:
A cartoon of superman. A man in a red-eyed rabbit costume peered out from behind the trees. A little boy’s laughed and shouted, “Look, Jack, I can fly!”
Another:
“It was an accident.”
Above, the surface of the lake, obsidian and untouched. He saw Sari sitting on the front porch of a log-cabin. “I told you.”
The rain fell harder. Was it rising to his ankles?
Through the blinding pain, Jack fought to keep his eyes on the figure, the Riptide. It was motionless, watching, waiting for something.
Jack raised the firearm and pulled the trigger.
Click
Jack tried again and again. Click, click, click!
His eyes widened. “Shit.”
Then, Jack did something he never did.
He ran.
Boots splashed through neon puddles, reflections shattered underfoot. The wind whistled in Jack’s ears. Whispers followed him, shreds of horrible memories that caught and tugged at the edges of his mind.
“Take a boy, make him a man, he is still a boy…”
Jack ran until his lungs burned, sprinting through the dark streets until they became suddenly familiar. Jack recognized where he was: another home.
That’s right!
He split months between his parents’ home as a child. After the divorce, his mother moved to the city for a job. His father remained back in Oregon, in the small lake town. They divorced after…
after…
After what?
After the screaming and the crying and drawn shades and twin beds, one empty.
What did I forget?
He thundered up the steps and through the apartment door with its chipped red paint.
Faded peony wallpaper and the ugly brown sofa, the smell of cigarette smoke embedded into every surface, the stack of bills on the coffee table, and the pile of shoes by the front door; it all struck Jack at once. His adolescence was crammed all into the two bedroom apartment. Despite the messiness of it all, the light was warm and the heat was on.
Behind him, the iron steps creaked. It found him. The sound reminded Jack of where he was, why he was there.
Teeth gritted, Jack began to search the room.
Think, think, think! Hiding was not an option and his sidearm was useless. He tried to recall the touchstone. What was it? Jack spoke aloud. “I am here, here I am… um. There’s a green door…” All the while, his head continued to throb, preventing the words from coming. Through the wash of memories, once more Sari’s voice floated to the top:
All of it’s in your mind. Theoretically, you are always in control.
A recollection crested above his panic. Jack felt his father’s hands over his, sharp chin digging into his shoulder, and the iron trigger digging into the flesh of his index finger. Fresh air filled his lungs.
“See the deer? Keep it in your sights.”
“Okay, dad.”
“I don’t want you to pull or jerk the trigger. Gently squeeze.”
It was silent. Jack opened his eyes, not sure when he’d closed them. He was still in the same apartment. He’d half-hoped that he would be whisked back up a level through reminiscence. Yet while fear remained, the memory filled him with fresh sense of clarity. The steps continued to clang, the Riptide neared.
Jack looked away from the front door and cast his eyes about the living room. He paused.
That wasn’t there before… was it?
A shot gun—the shot gun—was mounted on the wall when it should be in his father’s home. Slowly, Jack reached out and took it down. He turned it and saw the golden engraving along the stock.
John M. Osborne
His father’s name before it was his.
Just then, Jack realized that it had gone nearly silent. The floorboards outside the door creaked. Jack held his breath, straining his ears for footsteps, a sound beyond the drumming fingers of rain on the window. He watched the handle of the front door turn. It caught the lock, the lock held.
Quietly, Jack raised the shotgun and braced it tightly against his shoulder.
The shadow burst through the front door with a terrific crash and splintering of wood. It hesitated on the threshold, just outside of the warm light of his mother’s crystal lamp—the fanciest piece of furniture they owned.
Jack squeezed the trigger.
Bang!
The recoil knocked him slightly off balance and send the shadow-man flying. By its posture, the Riptide was taken aback, shaking his head as if disoriented. It placed a hand on the doorframe to right itself. As it did, Jack saw that the Riptide appeared more solid than before. The outline firmed. Faintly, a man’s face revealed itself.
Jack racked another shot and stepped forward.
Bang!
The shadow hit the opposite wall. It growled with a voice thick with water, “John… Osborne.”
Jack pulled back and released the slide once more. “That’s my name,” he answered. He raised the gun.
“Let… me… in,” it gurgled.
The shadow man flickered in and out of focus, like a bad projection.
A little boy with a cape and a Peter Rabbit t-shit stood where the man was. He smiled. “I’ll jump and you hold the rope,” said the boy, gesturing to the rope around his waist.
Jack stalled. It’s not real. Benji is not real.
The little boy disappeared, replaced once more by the shadow. Before Jack could fire a third time, the shadow man reached forward and slammed the door shut with a strength that shook the entire apartment.
Filled with adrenaline and tasting the proximity of victory, Jack wrenched open the door to follow.
He entered a theater.
Wait. What?
Jack shielded his eyes from the glare of the spotlights. Cheers exploded from an audience just out of sight. Steps approached, smart and shiny shoes clicking on the stage’s freshly waxed floor.
From off to the left, a voice—slick and charming—spoke. “Enter stage right, Jack Osborne! There he stands, in the middle of the floor, shocked by the sudden awareness of hundreds of pairs of eyes reading his every move.”
Jack wheeled, disoriented, shotgun hanging by his side. “Huh? What?”
ABBA blasted over speakers. The audience released another round of cacophonous applause. From out of sight, Jack could see silhouettes of the spectators swaying in time to the beat.
“I LOVE YOU, JACK!” screamed a woman.
“Why, you’re the main character in an online serial, Jack!” said the first voice. “Look up.”
Jack raised his face to see a myriad of words, typing in time to his movement, floating in a dark, starry nothingness. His eyes scanned left to right.
“A man joins him in the light.”
Jack looked away from the words to see a man in a tux. He smiled. “Well, well, well. It has been quite some time since I’ve had a visitor. Welcome, Jack.”
Federal Anomalous Crime Investigation Bureau
These rabbits are strangely terrifying! Amazing buildup of tension.
This is too good. I was not ready for the fourth wall break! I am absolutely captivated by what you are doing here, and I can't wait to join in on the fun.