Carlie Simmons (Book 4): The Gathering Darkness

The Gathering
Darkness

Volume 4 in the Carlie Simmons
Post-Apocalyptic Series

Copyright

Copyright
September 2015 by JT Sawyer

No
part of this book may be transmitted in any form whether electronic, recording,
mechanical, photocopying, or otherwise, without written permission of the
publisher.

This
is a work of fiction and the characters and events portrayed in this book are
fictitious. Any similarity to actual persons, living or dead, businesses,
incidents, or events is entirely coincidental and not intended by the author.

Cast of Characters

Carlie Simmons

Shane Colter

Eliza Huntington

Jared Sweinhart

Matias
Guerra

Amy Hadden

Sergeant
Major Ron Duncan

Pavel
Dimitrikov

Sec-Def
Conrad Lavine

Lt. Colonel
Ryan Mitchell

Prologue

Two Weeks before the Global
Pandemic

Wilkins Maximum Security
Military Prison, Walla Walla, Washington

Where does evil come from? Does it
originate from the trauma of a scarred childhood or does it stem from a genetic
predisposition towards sociopathic tendencies from faulty hardwiring in the
brain?
These were the questions drifting through Doctor Dillon McCarthy’s mental
landscape as he walked into the lobby of the three-story administrative
building where the warden was located. Wilkins Military Prison housed five hundred
and seventy prisoners who were incarcerated for acts of high treason or war crimes
and McCarthy had just been assigned as the new psychotherapist who would
conduct weekly interviews with the most nefarious criminals. His routine
psychological evaluations at the penitentiary were deemed essential by the
Armed Services Mental Health Committee. He had taken the job two months ago to
pay off his considerable debts as a new grad and to spend time near his parents
who had retired in nearby Yakima.

McCarthy tried to contain his enthusiasm as
he poured over the case file in his hands while walking to the elevator beyond
the security desk. The latest prisoner arrival had garnered much attention from
both staff and inmates alike and McCarthy was excited to get the first crack at
the mysterious Lieutenant Colonel Ryan Mitchell. “The Butcher of Kandahar” is
what the media called him and his trial had reaped great attention. Mitchell
claimed he was innocent, of course—that the notorious interrogation program
that was exposed abroad was something he had no part in, despite damning evidence
to the contrary. Mitchell later alleged the army had farmed him out to an
unspecified covert agency for his expertise in enhanced interrogation methods
and then tossed him to the wolves when an undercover journalist got wind of
Mitchell plying his tradecraft at a remote base in Afghanistan. The various
three-letter government agencies denied any knowledge and several commanding
generals were in the spotlight until evidence appeared fully implicating
Mitchell as a rogue officer bent on his own demented brand of warfare.

The elevator doors parted and McCarthy
strode down the brightly lit hallway to the warden’s office, barely noticing
the other staff walking by as he read through the detailed patient history
while his lips formed a faint smile.
A chance to get a crack at a real
sociopath—an actual interrogator like one of those villains in the movies—this
should provide me with plenty of research material for submitting a paper to
the
International Journal of Psychiatric Research
. A fast track to
scientific publication beyond what my fellow grads are doing now.

McCarthy did the customary handshake with
Warden Jason Kolb and, instead of sitting in his office, the man motioned
McCarthy to stand at the large window overlooking the main entrance gate. A
pair of ravens flew by, cawing at the inmates exercising in the yard below.

“Things have changed slightly since we
spoke a few days ago,” Kolb said, folding his arms over his paunchy midsection.
“The arrival of Ryan Mitchell caused quite a stir amongst the prisoners and my
men.” He chewed his lower lip for a second. “There was an altercation last
night
—
he injured two of my guards and killed an inmate. He’s now got a
permanent home in solitary so head there after you make your usual rounds.”

McCarthy flitted his fingers nervously on
the shoulder strap of his briefcase. “Good grief, are your men alright?”

“Let’s just say one of them doesn’t have
much of an ear left to enjoy music with and the other one is on crutches. As
for the dead prisoner,” he paused, giving McCarthy a sideways glance, “I figure
you were gonna ask about that next for your little documentation book,” Kolb
said with a hint of sarcasm. “He died almost instantly of a collapsed airway
after Mitchell speared the guy with his fingers on the right side of his
trachea, at least that’s what the video footage and resulting coroner’s examination
indicated.” The warden leaned forward, resting his pudgy hands on the
windowsill. “That’s kinda bizarre for prison attacks
—
most involve
scuffles with fists or the more serious ones where the guy gets shanked with an
improvised weapon. I can’t recall ever hearing of a move like that being used.
He’s a squirrely motherfucker, that one.”

McCarthy realized how tight his chest was
and forced himself to exhale. The cases he dealt with here were so much more
fascinating than the ones his university professors had ever alluded to. He
glanced out the window at the guard towers in each of the nearby corners of the
prison; the men atop them striding purposefully with their rifles made him feel
more at ease.

The warden looked over at McCarthy as he
fought to erase the tension lines on his face with a stilted grin. The budding clinician
in him was more intrigued than ever, wanting to compare the convict in person
with the monster on paper. It was also somewhat of a personal challenge to see
if he could outwit someone evidently skilled in psychology but lacking any
formal degree
. Mitchell had to have a side of him that could be plumbed for
information—something from his childhood beyond what was documented in his
files. Something that could unravel him.

“Look, Doc, I know you’re no stranger to
working with nutjobs here but this guy is from another world
—
like a
netherworld. I mean, you’ve read his file and know what he’s done to people,”
said Kolb, shaking his head. “He seems like a regular fella on the outside
until you’re three minutes into the conversation with him and find he’s been
yanking your chain without you knowing you’re getting it yanked. Even when he
asks for a piece of paper for his artwork, you wonder if he’s straight up or
playing some fucking chess game with your head.”

“Good thing he didn’t go into politics
then,” McCarthy said, trying to lighten the mood. He cleared his throat and
then looked at his watch. “I better start my evals before the day slips by.”

“Very well. I’ll have the usual guard
escort you around.” The two men shook hands and McCarthy was soon on his way to
the lower detention level. After conducting interviews with his normal roster
of patients during the morning, he was taken to the solitary confinement wing
on the sub-level, accessible only by elevator and then gaining entry through
two security checkpoints with multiple sentries. The balding guard opened the
wrought-iron gate on the containment area that led to twelve solitary
confinement cells on the left, and then he motioned with his riot baton to walk
to the last cell. Each unit was twelve feet wide by twenty feet deep and
comprised of three-inch-thick floor-to-ceiling shatterproof glass with ventilation
holes at the top and bottom. To the right of each cell was a narrow steel
entrance door which had a sliding metal drawer to pass food and small items.

As McCarthy strode by each prisoner, he
anxiously shifted his eyes into the chambers, averting them if one of the men
met his inquisitive glance. Upon arriving at the last cell, he turned and
stared into the well-lit room. Lt. Colonel Ryan Mitchell sat nonchalantly upon
his bunk facing the glass with one leg raised up and his left hand lazily extended
off the knee. The white sleeves on his jumpsuit were rolled up past his meaty forearms.
His inch-high black hair stood on end as if it were an electric outlet for the
inner fury brewing beneath the surface. The room was sparse, with only a bed
that was bolted to the floor, a sink, toilet, desk, and chair. A few articles
of clothing and toiletries were arranged on the end of the metal desk along
with a small stack of blank paper.

“Hello, I’m Doctor Dillon McCarthy, I’m
the new psychologist.” He lowered his leather shoulder bag to the floor and
grabbed the chair against the back wall opposite the glass constraint of the
prison cell. “Mind if I sit?”

Mitchell flicked his fingers up in
response. “’Dillon–now that’s a good Irish name.” The man slowly studied
McCarthy from top to bottom like a used-car dealer assessing a new prospect on
the lot. “The real issue though is whether you’re Protestant or Catholic. I
gotta know who I’m talking to as your religious affiliations may affect how I
respond to you
—
you see, I’m Irish too.”

“I was raised Cath…” McCarthy was cut off
before he could finish as Mitchell raised his hand up, palm out. “Just funning
you, son. I don’t have much of that in here as you might imagine. “The Almighty
don’t give a shit how we supplicate him anyway, right
—
just as long as we
pay our dues.”

On the wall were a dozen exquisitely
sketched drawings of the Hong Kong skyline on crinkled 8x11 pieces of paper. “Impressive
artwork. Is that a place you’ve been to?” said McCarthy, sitting down and
removing his notebook.

“I was just there a few moments ago,
reliving a conversation with a woman I once knew. We were enjoying a bottle of Chardonnay
and laughing about how our own country has gone to hell.” Mitchell continued
casting his gaze at McCarthy, as if searing through his skull into the rear
wall. “Have you been to China?”

“No, I can’t say I have. I prefer to
vacation in Europe.”

“Oh, me as well. Asia, southeast Asia in
particular, is a place that I only used for conducting my business.”

“Yes, I imagine. From all the news reports
about you, business must have been good. Interrogation, wasn’t it?”

“Such an ugly word, don’t you think? Something
a House Senate Committee might use for instance when justifying their actions
abroad while deferring their involvement with a third party. I prefer the term
intentional
debriefing
. After all, people deep down will share their innermost secrets
if you have something of value to offer them, such as freedom from pain,
imagined or otherwise,” Mitchell said.

McCarthy was pressing his pen into the
notebook so hard he caused the ballpoint tip to hang up on the paper. “So you
openly admit to torturing people for information?”

“Ah, it’s the politics of morality and
state-sponsored justice you want to talk about.” Mitchell hadn’t taken his eyes
off of McCarthy once since they began talking. Mitchell leaned forward and
formed his hand into a fist then released it, opening his fingers slowly. “You
went to college for what
—
eight years, ten years? Sitting in coffee shops
as pop music hummed in the periphery while you typed your thesis, occasionally stopping
to comment on a buddy’s Facebook photo and slip a glance at the unobtainable waitress
in her knee-high skirt.” Mitchell looked down at the lines in the palm of his
hand before closing it into a fist again. “It probably never occurred to you during
all those long afternoons enjoying your unsuspecting freedom, that there are guys
like me overseas, peeling some terrorist so we wouldn’t have to suffer through
another 9/11.”

“You’re sentenced to a lifetime in here
because of your crimes and you want to turn this around and cast your guilt
onto others. That’s called
projection
but you probably know that
already.”

Mitchell let out a partial smile while
continuing eye contact with McCarthy. “Either way, the work was rewarding and
it’s a real growth industry I hear. Hell, my slot has probably already been
filled and the personnel files obliterated so it can never go to trial this
time. The American public doesn’t want to know that we excavate people’s
psyches for intel to preserve our precious way of life here in the good old U.S.
of A.,” Mitchell said, tilting his chin up, emitting a protracted yawn.

“Not been sleeping well?”

“Not since I was in the womb but frankly,
it’s the company I keep that makes me weary,” Mitchell said, remaining still.

McCarthy didn’t take it personally. He
knew the man had been testing the waters since he arrived. “So, how long had
you been an interrogator? Your file indicated that you practically wrote the
book on,” he paused to look down at his notes, “the subject of modern
intelligence gathering using non-compliant human assets.”

“A better question is: when was the last
time you saw the ocean? It must be difficult to be away so long and be immersed
in such an exciting high-desert cowtown like Walla Walla,” Mitchell said,
grinding out the last two words with disdain.

McCarthy stopped writing and looked up
from his notebook. “Come again?”

“You have a slight hint of the west coast in
your voice, lad
—
I’d say Santa Cruz. You must have done your share of surfing.
Now that’s an invigorating pastime.”

McCarthy knew the ruse.
He’s trying to
divert attention away from himself by asking questions about my history and
making a connection to convince me that we have common ground.
Besides, his
subtle inflection was from Malibu not the impoverished town of Santa Cruz. “My
California inflection gave me away
—
bravo. You have a good ear, though I
understand that one of the guards you attacked can’t say the same. What
prompted you to assault those men?”

Mitchell gave him an amused look, creaking
out a slight smile. “Ah, Doctor McCarthy, we were doing so fine, you and I. You
had made first contact by a polite introduction and then queried me about my
wellbeing and artwork. You even helped to establish trust by revealing
something about your own history just now, but this rough transition into
formal questioning that you’ve thrust between us has caused me to feel
objectified
—
like you just want to check off the bullet-points in your
notebook, plunk me into a pre-determined Jungian archetype, and be on your way
back home to ponder another night alone, wondering where all the good women
have gone.”