How About Some More Sci Fi

Is it Good Writing or is it Dribble?  You be the Judge...


THE WAITING ROOM
Jack Bragen
I parked the Toyota after much difficulty finding a parking space in the downtown area.  We (Sally and I) had to walk quite a distance from the opposite side of a giant parking garage.  Sally could barely manage a moderate pace and wheezed heavily because of her two packs a day habit.  Despite the difficulty keeping up, Sally was holding up very well—especially considering the amount of pain she must have been in from a botched root canal. 
     We finally arrived at an ornate, double door marked 300.  When I reached for the door handle the door automatically opened.  The waiting room was giant, with numerous plastic chairs; on them sat miserable people.  A woman whose face was purplish and badly swollen sat in her chair and wept while trying to talk to someone on her cell phone.  An un-showered teen whose hair was stuck to his forehead, and who already appeared toothless, sat and leafed through a sticky-paged National Geographic.  The room was packed with people in various types of dental disrepair.  The harsh brilliance of the fluorescent lighting was an assault on my retinas.  The air in the room was hot, odorous and humid. 
     The receptionist’s counter was on the opposite end from us and was encased in thick, apparently bullet proof glass.  From behind the glass a perfect-looking, Caucasian, female receptionist glared at us. 
     I walked up to near the receptionist’s glass and saw a small metallic intercom device.  I pressed a button.  “Excuse me, madam,” I said.  “I was told over the phone that you handle dental emergencies.” 
     The receptionist scowled and said, “Sir, you’re supposed to take a number and be seated.  Can’t you read?  Look at the sign.” 
     I looked to my right and discovered a dispenser for the paper numbers.  I reached for it and realized that it must have been empty; the little pieces of paper with the numbers weren’t coming out of it.  I turned back to the receptionist who was putting on some cosmetics.  “Excuse me…”
     She shook her head and said, “I’m on break, I can’t help you, sir.  Please don’t interrupt my break.” 
     I turned back to Sally, thinking it was time to ditch this place.  I realized that she was sitting in a chair and was doubled-over and sobbing with pain.  She needed to be seen.  I had no choice but to put up with the bullshit of this dentist.  I turned back to the receptionist’s glass and was doubtless visibly angry.  The receptionist then reached under her counter, and I heard a buzz from behind a door that was marked “security.” 
     That’s when things got really twisted…

##

I had been abducted for no apparent reason.  I was tied down to a dental chair.  Two burly guards had manhandled and overpowered me and had put me into the chair.  The dentist’s bright lighting was directed straight at my eyes, and I had to keep them shut.  I still saw the bright red of the dentist’s light getting through my eyelids.  I did not bother to protest; clearly, these people weren’t playing by the rules. 
     I felt a pinch in my shoulder of someone injecting something.  These people really weren’t playing by the rules. 
     But why me?  Was I dealing with some unknown enemy I had made from my past in the secret service?  Couldn’t be, I thought.  Ex employee’s identities are very well protected.  Were they planning to kill me?  No, because if so, they wouldn’t be wasting this amount of time on me. 
     “This one could make an excellent drone,” someone said, as I began to drift. 
     Hang on, it’s going to get rough; I braced myself. 
     Another voice said, “It behaved like a cop.  This one might be good for some action.” 
     Headphones were put on me and so was a visual device that fitted over my face.  With what mental defenses I could muster protecting parts of my mind, I watched and listened.  This was despite the apparent mind control serum that had been injected in my shoulder. The serum apparently made me woozy and at the same time, gave my senses hypersensitivity. 
     According to the mind control media, I was expected to be loyal to a “Baba Squire Wilson.”  A picture of him was displayed through my eyepieces and loomed hugely in my visual field.  He had long white hair in a pony tail, bad teeth, a gray beard, glasses, he wore an immaculate white outfit—and he sat in a wheelchair.  A deep, resonating voice repeated, “This is your master, obey him to all ends of the earth.  Obey every command. Obey to the death…Through obedience to the Master comes all hope, comes salvation…” The audio track abruptly paused.  
     “Who is there who knows your whereabouts?” a voice pierced through from outside my headphones. 
     “Why do you want to know?” I asked.  “Am I going to disappear?”
     “No.  If the programming goes right, you will be changed into a part of something far bigger and far better than anything you know.” 
     I realized that my captor’s voice was monotone and that he spoke and had mannerisms like a heavily sedated psych patient. I guessed that he was brainwashed and controlled by someone higher in the chain of command.    
     “All right, then.  There is no-one other than the patient who I came in with to your dental clinic,” I said.  I was feigning cooperation so that they would believe their brainwashing was working.  (In fact, my whole office knew where I was taking my client, and I had jokingly said to a coworker, “If I don’t come back, call in the FBI.”) 
     I was glad now that I had once worked closely with an obscure but great hypnotist, and had learned from him exactly how to buffer my mind against most mind control techniques.
     The brainwashing attempt continued for what seemed like hours.  I wasn’t given anything to eat or drink, and I wasn’t given a break to get any rest.  It was starting to get to me.  I was becoming highly irritated.  Squire Wilson’s name and the fact that he was a super hero began to permeate the corners of my consciousness.  And then, there was nothing…
      I found myself looking at an all, completely black visual field and listening to a complete absence of sound.  My thirst and parched throat were dominant sensations.  I cried out, so I thought, although could not hear my own voice.  I shouted, “Squire Wilson is supreme!”  I repeated this over and over, with anger at first, and then with despair. 
     The mask and earplugs were lifted from my head, and the brightness and sounds were an assault on my fatigued psyche.  I turned my head with effort—my neck hurt—and looked at my surroundings.  I appeared to be tied down to a plywood table.  I assumed I was in the backroom of the supposed dentist’s office, albeit my surroundings resembled warehouse space.  A man sat quietly on a stool next to me.  I noticed that he had a moustache and longish hair, both of which were out of style for men.  I looked for his tattoos and saw none.   He also wore a muscle shirt of the kind that was no longer popular.  I wanted to make some joke about him being out of touch, and realized that this man was my tormentor. 
     “Not to worry—we’ll reset you and release you in a few more minutes.  You’ll be back at your job tomorrow and will have no idea that something happened,” said the man.  “We’re not as cruel as you think,” he said. 
     “When can I see Father Squire?” I asked.  “I need to see him.” 
     “You can see Mr. Squire as soon as your mission is completed,” replied the man.  “For now you will be dormant.” 

##

The gentleman was good to his word concerning my imminent release.  However, he was unaware that I was familiar with hypnosis and could program myself to have recall of the strange events that took place.  Even though the reset had included a small electroshock to the frontal lobes, I had been able to store the memory of events in an extra cache that I had previously installed in my consciousness.  It was part of my military training that was intended to make me resistant to torture.  I had been an information courier in the Secret Service in my twenties and had been forced to retire upon having a minor medical issue. 
     The issue at hand was now bigger than the welfare of the retarded girl who I cared for at my current job.  I had discovered a brainwashing cult, one that used evil and abusive tactics to control people and that might also be a threat to national security.  They had to be stopped.  Without speaking, I used a scanner to locate listening and watching devices in my apartment.  I found five of them, although I couldn’t be certain that they were related to the case at hand.  Without a word, I flushed them down the toilet.  And then I got on the phone with my old supervisor at Secret Service, Gibb Gray. 
     “This guy is organized,” I said.  “I wouldn’t put it past him to conceal evidence and feed the head agent with a line of bullshit to make us feel ridiculous.  And he’s got a lot of people, nasty people.  It needs at least thirty trained agents with weapons for the raid,” I said. 
     “What kind of equipment are we looking for?” said the voice of my old supervisor through my secure cell phone. 
     “He’s got audiovisual headsets, temporal brain stimulators, and exotic mind control drugs.  He also has torture equipment and ropes for tying people down.  And he has tables.  He appears to be using homemade plywood tables that have been fitted with wheels.” 
     “I assume you were intended to be a sleeper cell.  In that case, were there any specific instructions as to who to kill or what to sabotage?” 
     “I was supposedly set up to receive and obey the instructions that would at some point be given.” I paused.  “I’m pretty certain that there was no suspicion that their hypnosis wasn’t working on me.  I faked them out very well,” I said. 
     “Assuming you’re telling me the truth, we’re bound to find something suspicious.  OK, you’ve got your thirty men.  Have your suspects shipped to area 29.  And bring all the evidence to me.”  The connection ended with a hasty click. 
     It was one of those things in which I was expected to fill in the specific blanks.  My supervisors weren’t in the business of holding my hand while I worked.  It was up to me to set up the operation. 

##

It was one o’clock in the morning and the lighting in the supposed dental facility was shut off.  I was thrilled to be in command position, even if just for this one mission. I received word in my earphone that all entrances and exits were manned by our forces and that the entry force was ready to go in.  I counted down over my radio, “three, two, one, now!” and ten men with a battering ram handily demolished the front door and ran in. 
     I sat in a vehicle across the street, monitored communications of the invasion force and was prepared to give orders, as needed.  A couple of the men had video cameras on their helmets, and I had two screens to watch their transmissions.  What I saw and heard next did more than give me pause. 
     There had been no shooting so far, and no resistance had been offered.  Two of the invasion force stood, guarding a room while the third pointed his helmet camera at something they wanted me to see.  There was a row of strange and grotesque creatures sitting on floor mats with their heads covered by some sort of electronic devices.  A two-by-four wood beam ran above the row of meditating creatures and served to support a harness of wiring that led to the headpieces of the creatures.  The creatures appeared dormant, and had legs that were folded under them.  They were making an audible chant in some unknown language, a chant that through my earpiece made me lightheaded.  In front of the row of creatures, there was a wood cart on which my recent special needs student lay, covered from the neck down by a small blanket.  She appeared to be shivering or convulsing.  There was some electronic device on the cart next to her, and a thin cable from the device went to her left ear.  The young woman’s ear glowed where the cable was attached. 
     I pressed a button on my equipment to record the video.
     “Do you see all of this?” said Agent Smith, who was my second in command.  
     “Tell all the men to leave the building immediately and retake their positions at the entrances, Mr. Smith,” I said.  “Immediately.”  I paused.  One of the screens had gone blank.  “Where’s your video, Agent McKinnon?”  I heard nothing, and then, the second screen went blank.  I hit the transmit button:  “Invasion force, any member, respond.  Urgent.” My palm sweated as I clutched the microphone. 
     The only response I got was a burst of static, and then, the blank the sound of an un-modulated carrier wave.
     I was on the verge of picking up a weapon and running into the building to see what was happening, an act that I knew was foolish, when I saw a white haired man in a wheelchair appear at the front entrance of the building, and he stared straight at me. 
     In response I felt a surge of terror.  I was dealing with some sort of superhuman force, and I realized that I had lost control of the situation.  The only option open to me was to save myself so that, at least, these entities would get reported.
     I started the car, put it in gear, and floored the accelerator.  I barely could control the Hummer as it surged down the street.  I instinctively zigzagged as I headed for a corner.  There was a resounding, deafening explosion to my left and behind.  I skidded around the corner and approached a thoroughfare.  I turned on the standard police radio, and this was something a Secret Service Agent never did, unless they needed extreme embarrassment and possible disciplinary action.  There was no choice. 
     “Secret Service requesting local police as backup,” I said into the mike.  “Emergency.” 
     I headed up the main thoroughfare in the Hummer and attracted the attention of two patrol cars that saw me speeding.  The crippled cult leader was following in his wheelchair, and for gosh sakes, the wheelchair could fly! 
     “Dispatch, please tell your officers to apprehend flying object and to stop pursuing Hummer,” I said.  “Use lethal force as needed,” I said.  I paused, “On authority of the United States Government.” 
     One of the patrol cars began firing bullets at the flying wheelchair, and one of the bullets apparently hit.  The flying wheelchair that carried the gray haired cult leader seemed to have exploded in a giant fireball.  I looked at this in my rearview mirror, and hit the brakes on the Hummer.  I stopped the vehicle and was at a safe distance to observe.  I got my sunglasses from the glove compartment.
     No, it wasn’t an explosion, it was a launch.  An object had emerged from the top of the fireball and was accelerating upward. 
     I heard a tapping sound on my left, and turned to see a police officer who wanted me to roll down my window.  I opened the window and showed my Secret Service Badge to the patrol officer. 
     “You never saw this,” I said. 
     “What did I see?” the officer asked, dumbfounded. 
     “Send all available units to the dental office over there,” I pointed.  “Tell your men that the situation is extremely dangerous.  They are to use extreme caution.” 
     Soon, the area adjacent to the dental office swarmed with unmarked government cars, dozens of them that seemed to all show up at once.  My boss radioed me.  “You’re off the project as of now.  Good job bringing this to our attention.  This is over your head.  Go home and go to sleep, but first take your memory blanking pill,” said my boss.  “The video you took has been uploaded.  Once again, we appreciate your work.” 
     As I left the scene, a tank and a helicopter gunship were arriving on the scene.  It was now none of my concern or business.  I drove away.  I parked the Hummer in the special parking lot that was for secret government vehicles and went into a small building adjacent to the lot.  I had to urinate.  The building had restrooms, a room for coffee breaks, and an elevator that led downward.  My only interest at the moment was the men’s room, and maybe a cup of coffee.  A few minutes later, I got into my car while holding a cup of coffee that was old and nasty tasting but that did the trick.  I went home and took a memory blanking pill.  As I drifted toward sleep, I heard, residual in my head, the annoying words:  “Obey Squire Wilson…”