Nightmare Academy (36 page)

The audience members groaned with dismay at every scene.

“No, no, be encouraged,” said Bingham. “It's all data, useful in future research. For example . . .”

The technician cued another recording, and there, on the big screen, was a video of Elijah and Alex having their terrible fight, and a few instant replays of Elijah finally decking Alex with a high kick. The audience loved that.

“You'll notice how even a reasonable person can be reduced to brute force when truth and reason are no longer available.”

“Ahh,” said the audience, feeling better.

“But this is why we brought them here. Let's face it: Children of this type will always be our greatest challenge. They're difficult to deceive, they can't be programmed, they don't believe something if it isn't true, they don't put their own comfort before their sense of right and wrong, and worst of all, they actually think things through. As we have seen, discussion groups and consensus conditioning couldn't undermine this mentality, nor could peer pressure, nor could intimidation and fear. However . . .”

Bingham came closer to Elisha, eyeing her as if she were a rat in an experiment. “We have both of them in place for the final phase, and we're ready.”

“But . . . ,” Stern asked, jotting on his clipboard. “How do we factor in the fact that they—”

“Are undercover investigators?” Bingham asked. The audience rustled and murmured with alarm, but Bingham held up his hand. “It only sweetens the pie. That call she made will actually be to our advantage, bringing all the birds into one snare, so to speak.” He leaned on a control panel, looking gleefully at the young lady in the chair. “And judging from the condition of her brother . . .” He chuckled reassuringly. “In just a matter of hours, neither of them will be anything to worry about.”

Bingham came closer to Elisha,
eyeing her as if she were a rat in
an experiment.

14

THE MIND MAZE

N
ORTH IDAHO WAS VERY SCENIC , but very frustrating if you wanted to get anywhere in a hurry—such as the tiny town of Stony Bend, deep in the St. Joe National Forest. The highway followed the St. Joe River, which meant it wandered, wiggled, and wound for mile after mile, with hills, curves, and blind corners that could not be driven too briskly if you wanted to arrive at all. Nate drove, Sarah slept, and then they traded, and finally, just before night turned to gray morning, they pulled into the town—what there was of it.

Stony Bend was still asleep. The local cafe was closed and dark. A few of the small, metal-roofed houses had porch lights on, but that was all. Some logging trucks were parked along the highway, loaded but going nowhere at the moment.

“Let's try that all-night gas station,” said Nate, still waking up.

Sarah pulled in next to the pumps. “I'll fill the tank, if you want to go inside.”

It was a typical quick-stop, a place to buy gas and a little bit of everything else. A ponderous woman was sitting behind the counter amid the beef jerky and chewing tobacco, smoking a cigarette and listening to a country music station.

“Good morning,” said Nate.

“Hi there,” she replied, crushing out her cigarette.

“I wonder if you could help me . . .”

Sarah used her credit card and started pumping the gas, watching Nate conversing with the big woman inside. The woman was listening, but now she was shaking her head, looking like she didn't know anything. Nate and Sarah had seen that response a lot since arriving in Idaho.

A pickup truck pulled in on the other side of the pumps, between Sarah and the store. Sarah had to move a little to one side to see how Nate was doing. He must have asked directions. The woman was pointing up the highway, scratching her head, reaching for a pen . . .

The driver of the pickup started pumping gas into his truck, leaning against the side of his truck, his eyes staring into the distance at nothing in particular. Sarah glanced at him—and moved quickly behind the pumping station, turning her back, stroking her forehead to conceal her face.
Hang on, girl. Don't freak out. Steady. Steady.

Carefully, discretely, she edged around the pumping station just enough to catch a good look at the man's face. He was still staring off into the distance, waiting for his tank to fill. He was a little man with a round head and thin, black hair.

The clerk from the Dartmoor Hotel.

Get out here, Nate. Come on, get out here.

Even though her tank wasn't full, she hung up the nozzle, screwed on the gas cap, and jumped into the car, ready and waiting behind the wheel.

Clunk!
The little man's tank was full. He hung up the nozzle and climbed into his cab.

Nate!

The pickup pulled out of the station. Nate was walking back, looking at some scribbled notes and looking around.

Sarah put the heel of her hand to the car horn and left it there. That got his attention. She gestured at him madly, and he ran.

Mr. Bingham turned toward the big screens. “The Maze.”

All four screens combined to form one huge image, that of a tiny figure stumbling, staggering, arms covering his head, surrounded by a mad swirling of shapes, surfaces, colors, sounds, swept and tossed like a particle of lint in a cosmic washing machine.

Elisha bolted to her feet. “Elijah!”

The thin tech with the ponytail stepped in, gently touching her shoulder. “Please. Sit down. It'll be all right.”

Elisha sat, her eyes glued to the big screens. Her brother fell, got up again, turned several circles, clamped his hands over his ears. “Stop it! STOP IT! What are you doing to him?”

Bingham nodded to a technician, who went to work at his console.

The horrible bedlam subsided. The colors faded. The noise quieted down. Elijah was now in a white fog, with nothing visible around him. He was standing still, dazed, staring, half-conscious—like Alvin Rogers.

Bingham began explaining to his audience, “This is a continuation of a previous experiment. As you recall, a breach in the system allowed our last subject to escape—most unfortunate!—but that problem was quickly contained, and now we have a replacement volunteer. The question before us: Can the human psyche really function in the absence of truth? How far can the mind go when nothing, nothing at all, can be known for certain?”

He looked at Elisha, checking her over, and then nodded to the techs sitting at all those consoles.

Lights came on around Elisha, making her jump.

Suddenly, she saw herself on the big screen, sitting in the same chair, except . . . she looked great. She was wearing a white blouse, a clean pair of jeans, some cool western jewelry, and a pair of boots beyond a Springfield budget. Her face was clean, her hair was neat, and she wasn't sitting in a strange little green alcove surrounded by lights—she was sitting quite comfortably in the family room of a huge log home. There was a large, stone fireplace behind her, soft living room furniture around her, a deep, wool rug on the floor. There was a weird, white fog in the room, but it was quickly dissolving away.

“. . . The question before us: Can
the human psyche really function
in the absence of truth?. . .”