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Authors: Jeremy C. Shipp
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down to business, shall we? I want the security code to the Garden stronghold.”
“I don’t have it,” I say.
He hurts me in a way that I won’t trouble you with. It appears the old rules are over. It doesn’t matter how loud I yell anymore.
“I know you have it,” he says. “My men saw you enter the cave on your own. However, due to the fact that the keypad is located in an alcove, my men were unable to observe the code themselves. What is it?”
“I really don’t know.”
It happens again.
“Please, Mr. Johnson,” he says. “Save yourself the trouble and give me the code. Everyone breaks eventually.”
“I’d break if I could, but I don’t have the code.” And I add, fast, “They were controlling me somehow. When I was asleep. I saw the forest, but it was different from reality. I didn’t see the code.”
“This all sounds highly unlikely.” Onto the table, he sets the object he was using on me. Blood drips off his fingertips. “But I’ll give you the benefit of the doubt. I’ll be right back.”
He turns, and his hair rises as a black tsunami.
When he returns, a woman follows, maybe ten years older than me, bald and scarred and dressed in the same fatigues as the Sergeant.
“Do what she says,” Weis tells me and points at me with a thick finger an inch from my nose.
I nod.
“You’ll have to leave, Sir,” the woman says. “There’s no way he’s gonna relax with you here, after what you done.”
The Sergeant sighs. “Very well.” And he’s gone.
Now she scoots a crate under my feet, and I’m not hanging anymore. Just standing, leaning back against the wood. I want to rub my wrists, but I can’t quite reach.
She sits on the table, so close to the sharp bloody instrument that I’m afraid she’s going to cut herself. But she doesn’t. “I know you’re uncomfortable and all, but you gotta try to relax. Breathe in through your nose, out through your mouth, nice and slow. That’s it.”
I do what she says. I’ll do anything she says, as long as she keeps the Sergeant away.
“Close your eyes, son,” she says. “Imagine your toes disappearing. Now your ankles’re disappearing. Now your knees. Your thighs. Your waist. Your flesh is vanishing. All that’s left is a white light that doesn’t feel shit. Now your hands are going, your arms, your chest, your neck. Once your head goes, you won’t feel any pain at all anymore. You’ll be a ghost. When I count to three, your head’s gonna disappear. One. Two. Three.”
By the time I open my eyes again, the Sergeant stands before me beside the woman.
“That’ll be all,” he says.
The woman salutes and leaves.
“It appears you were telling the truth, Mr. Johnson,” he says. “You didn’t know the code. I must admit, I’m quite impressed how far the Garden’s technological capabilities have advanced since our last exchange.”
At this point my anger overpowers my fear. “Why didn’t you hypnotize me first?”
“A valid question,” he says. “I’ll give you a valid answer. This is an army of desperate people, serving even more desperate people, Mr. Johnson. Our resources are limited. This means that efficiency isn’t a matter pride or honor, but survival. There are various methods to create and maintain an effective army. These include classical and operant conditioning, role modeling, brutalization, and desensitization. I desensitize and brutalize my men when they first join me. I abuse them, both verbally and physically. I tear down their individuality until they’re sheep. Sheep, Mr. Johnson, can be more dangerous than any wolf, when lead by a Ram who embodies, to his sheep, death and destruction. As for operant conditioning, this is a stimulus-response technique. By the time I’m finished with my men, all I have to say is kill, and they kill. There’s no forethought on their part. No moral dilemma. They kill neither to stop the enemy nor to defend themselves. They kill because I tell them to.
“I don’t have it,” I say.
He hurts me in a way that I won’t trouble you with. It appears the old rules are over. It doesn’t matter how loud I yell anymore.
“I know you have it,” he says. “My men saw you enter the cave on your own. However, due to the fact that the keypad is located in an alcove, my men were unable to observe the code themselves. What is it?”
“I really don’t know.”
It happens again.
“Please, Mr. Johnson,” he says. “Save yourself the trouble and give me the code. Everyone breaks eventually.”
“I’d break if I could, but I don’t have the code.” And I add, fast, “They were controlling me somehow. When I was asleep. I saw the forest, but it was different from reality. I didn’t see the code.”
“This all sounds highly unlikely.” Onto the table, he sets the object he was using on me. Blood drips off his fingertips. “But I’ll give you the benefit of the doubt. I’ll be right back.”
He turns, and his hair rises as a black tsunami.
When he returns, a woman follows, maybe ten years older than me, bald and scarred and dressed in the same fatigues as the Sergeant.
“Do what she says,” Weis tells me and points at me with a thick finger an inch from my nose.
I nod.
“You’ll have to leave, Sir,” the woman says. “There’s no way he’s gonna relax with you here, after what you done.”
The Sergeant sighs. “Very well.” And he’s gone.
Now she scoots a crate under my feet, and I’m not hanging anymore. Just standing, leaning back against the wood. I want to rub my wrists, but I can’t quite reach.
She sits on the table, so close to the sharp bloody instrument that I’m afraid she’s going to cut herself. But she doesn’t. “I know you’re uncomfortable and all, but you gotta try to relax. Breathe in through your nose, out through your mouth, nice and slow. That’s it.”
I do what she says. I’ll do anything she says, as long as she keeps the Sergeant away.
“Close your eyes, son,” she says. “Imagine your toes disappearing. Now your ankles’re disappearing. Now your knees. Your thighs. Your waist. Your flesh is vanishing. All that’s left is a white light that doesn’t feel shit. Now your hands are going, your arms, your chest, your neck. Once your head goes, you won’t feel any pain at all anymore. You’ll be a ghost. When I count to three, your head’s gonna disappear. One. Two. Three.”
By the time I open my eyes again, the Sergeant stands before me beside the woman.
“That’ll be all,” he says.
The woman salutes and leaves.
“It appears you were telling the truth, Mr. Johnson,” he says. “You didn’t know the code. I must admit, I’m quite impressed how far the Garden’s technological capabilities have advanced since our last exchange.”
At this point my anger overpowers my fear. “Why didn’t you hypnotize me first?”
“A valid question,” he says. “I’ll give you a valid answer. This is an army of desperate people, serving even more desperate people, Mr. Johnson. Our resources are limited. This means that efficiency isn’t a matter pride or honor, but survival. There are various methods to create and maintain an effective army. These include classical and operant conditioning, role modeling, brutalization, and desensitization. I desensitize and brutalize my men when they first join me. I abuse them, both verbally and physically. I tear down their individuality until they’re sheep. Sheep, Mr. Johnson, can be more dangerous than any wolf, when lead by a Ram who embodies, to his sheep, death and destruction. As for operant conditioning, this is a stimulus-response technique. By the time I’m finished with my men, all I have to say is kill, and they kill. There’s no forethought on their part. No moral dilemma. They kill neither to stop the enemy nor to defend themselves. They kill because I tell them to.
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