Opening Shots

Opening Shots

A. J. Payler

Copyright © 2022 by A. J. Payler

All rights reserved. The moral right of the author has been asserted. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Cover image elements: jirkaejc, VadimVasenin, Damon Lam

The Killing Song cover photograph: © Dusan Kostic/Dollar Photo Club

World of Heroes cover image © rudall30

Lost In the Red cover image © kevron2001

Terror Next Door cover images by duha127 (Andrey Bayda) & barbaliss (Elena Barbakova)

Contents

Introduction

The Killing Song

Prologue

1. Book One

Buy The Killing Song

WORLD OF HEROES: The Untold Secret Origin of the New Fighters

1. Episode One: From Out Of Oblivion

2. Episode Two: Heroes Assembled

Buy World of Heroes: The Untold Secret Origin of the New Fighters

Lost In the Red

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Buy Lost In the Red

Terror Next Door

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Buy Terror Next Door

About the Author

Also by A. J. Payler

Introduction

Hey, you—come here and listen up.

I can tell from the look of your face, you've been looking for something, something you’ve been lacking for a long, long time.

Well, friend, I've got what you need right here—and best of all? The first hit is always free... but you just might get hooked.

What we have assembled here between these covers is a collection of the opening chapters of four novels: The Killing Song, World of Heroes: The Untold Secret Origin of the New Fighters, Lost In the Red, and Terror Next Door.

These are four very different books, and it’s likely some readers may find one or two more to their liking than the others. Within the pages of Opening Shots, each of the four books is represented by roughly a quarter to a third of each book’s total length, more or less representing the first act of each book—far more than the typical few paltry pages allowed in the overwhelming majority of previews.

I know I personally often read much deeper than the first few pages when perusing the pages of a volume that has caught my eye on the shelves of a bookstore—and who has money to waste on books that don’t deliver on their promises these days?

It’s my feeling that this substantial chunk provides a far better idea of both the content and style of each book as well as the author’s overall intent, in the process providing curious readers more than ample opportunity to determine whether or not they will be sufficiently intrigued to make it to the end of a book prior to purchase. And no matter the result, it’s my opinion any reader will come away from this compendium with a deeper idea of the breadth of my writing.

If you’d like to be kept informed when new books are released, get free stories, and be the first to know about new, upcoming projects, be sure to sign up for my mailing list at http://ajpayler.com.

Without further ado, turn the page and dig right in—and thanks for reading!

—A. J. Payler

Prologue

MONDAY, OCTOBER 16, 1995, 2:05 AM BETHLEHEM, INDIANA

Carl’s breath beat hot in his chest, his heart a tight glowing coal, his lungs burning despite the fresh moonlight air rushing past his face. He scrambled gracelessly across an untended field, lurching awkwardly as obstacles leapt into his path. A discarded piece of wood could easily mean a sprained ankle, an unluckily placed rabbit hole a broken leg.

Muststayalertcan’tmissanything.

The unfamiliarity of the field and the nighttime stillness deranged his senses beyond any reasonable frame of mind. For a moment Carl would think he was safe—that no one was chasing him, that the only sounds besides the rushing wind were his own footsteps and breathing—then within the same second he was just as certain someone was directly behind him, hand inches from his shoulder, shotgun muzzle aimed at his back. Had he been running for seconds, minutes, hours? It was impossible to know.

Finally, Carl dared to slow minutely and shoot a quick glance over his shoulder: no one. All was quiet.

Deciding to risk a more exhaustive look, he braked to a slow trot twenty yards shy of the treeline and dove behind a fallen tree trunk. In the distance, the chittering static buzz of locusts filled the air in a swell. As it died down, Carl could faintly distinguish an eighteen-wheeler passing on the highway.

Damn, he thought. Probably could have flagged that one down. During the twenty years Carl had been in law enforcement, Americans had become significantly more skittish about picking up hitchhikers, and not having his badge to wave as reassurance would make it that much harder. Then again, who the hell trusts cops either, anymore?

Carl couldn’t help smirking bitterly to himself—a mistake, he immediately realized, as his freshly split lip twinged with pain. He winced at the coppery taste on his tongue, but managed to keep from making even the slightest sound. As he’d landed, Carl had automatically modulated his breathing the way he’d been taught at Quantico Academy; even considering the nocturnal quietude of the surroundings, it would be all but impossible for anyone to hear him. He’d also started counting seconds as soon as he hit the ground, attempting to reassert some objective timeframe: one paranoia, two paranoia, three paranoia…

Sixty paranoia. One minute.

One-twenty paranoia. Two minutes.

Three hundred paranoia. Five minutes. Still not a sound.

Tentatively, Carl raised his head above the log and surveyed his surroundings, taking special care to note anything that might indicate the glint of moonlight reflecting off a metal gun barrel or glass scope.

Nothing.

Carl counted off another five minutes, during which he heard only wind, insects, his pulse pounding in his ears, and his own measured breaths. As he hit six hundred, he gingerly rose to his feet and stepped toward the road—but the moment his foot touched the ground, a high-powered flashlight beam blinded him and he knew the game was over.

I was wondering how long you were going to lie there in the dirt looking the wrong way, guy. Considered shooting you in the back just to end the suspense, but I was enjoying myself too much. The look on your face might have been worth it, though.

The flashlight snapped off with a click. As the stars cleared from his vision, Carl saw a rifle barrel pointed directly at his chest. The gun’s handler leaned against a trunk at the edge of the treeline, as casually as if waiting for a bus. He clipped the flashlight to his belt, placed a cigarette between his lips, lit it, and grinned. Plus, I was dying for a smoke.

Without taking his eyes from Carl or moving the end of the barrel as much as a millimeter, the man reached his free hand around the side of the tree and tossed a shovel at Carl’s feet. It landed with a loud clang; despite his training, Carl flinched. The man inhaled deeply on his cigarette and dipped the gun barrel down toward the shovel.

Pick it up, he instructed, smoke curling from his nostrils. Carl remained motionless; the man smiled. Go on, pick it up. Don’t go getting any ideas about trying to whack me with it though. Trust me, you’d regret it.

Carl believed him. He still didn’t move.

The man sighed. Look, this is getting tiresome. I’m a busy guy, I have better things to do than stand around in a field playing hide and seek with you. No matter what, this is going to end the same way, and I’d prefer it be earlier than later.

He took a drag from his cigarette.

So here’s the deal, Carl—and yes, I know your name is Carl Bailey. You and I both know who sent me after you and that he’s not going to let you leave knowing what you know. We’re clear on those facts, yes?

Carl nodded.

Okay. Here’s something else that I know and you don’t know that I know: Carl F. Bailey lives at 1300 Ironwood Drive, Morgantown, West Virginia, with his wife Kristen and his two daughters Margaux, ten, and Natalie, eight. It’s a modest two-bedroom house in a decent part of town with several years left on the mortgage, but all in all a nice place for a couple of cute little blond girls to grow up. Or not, as the case may be.

Carl’s posture stiffened, his neck suddenly aching. The man took another drag, and for the first time since Kristen first told him she was pregnant, Carl wished he had a cigarette too.

The man continued: So, yeah, while I’ll admit there is a remote possibility that you could somehow crack me one with that shovel, disarm me, get to the road, flag down a ride, find a pay phone…jeez, this really is starting to sound like a stretch, isn’t it? The point is, sure, you could theoretically get away from me, though it’s fairly fucking unlikely. You’d have to have, like, super ninja skills or some other comic-book bullshit going for you, but it could happen.

Another drag from the cigarette.

But here’s the kicker: if you don’t do exactly as I say, if I suspect you’re even thinking about trying any of that hero cop bullshit on me, I don’t make a certain phone call in one hour. And if I don’t make that call, neither those cute little blond girls nor their mother will get any older than they are today.

Another drag.

You know I have the resources to make this happen. And if you’ve learned anything about this place and me while you’ve been here, you should know perfectly well I’m not bluffing. But hell, even if I was, what are you going to do either way?

Another drag.

So please give me some credit, Carl. I assume you’ve been able to learn enough during the course of your investigation to know what I’m saying is true. I also hope you’ve figured out by now that I am not the kind of man who likes to fuck around and waste his time.

Another drag.

So Carl, do me, yourself, and your family a favor and pick up the goddamned shovel.

Carl’s shoulders slumped in resignation. He thought of beautiful Kristen, of sweet Margaux, of little Natalie, and for some reason, of the downstairs fireplace he was supposed to have cleaned out last time he was at home. Kristen hated doing the job and Carl had promised to do it as soon as he had a chance, but he hadn’t gotten around to it before being sent back out on assignment. It would have to be done before the fireplace was lit that winter, though. He hoped Kristen would remember to check.

Carl picked up the shovel.

The man nodded.

Good.

The man dropped his cigarette butt on the ground, ground it out, and lit another.

Now dig.

Book One

FRIDAY, MARCH 22, 1996, 8:05 AM BETHLEHEM, INDIANA

Zach Coleman rubbed his eyes, attempting to dispel the stars flooding them. As his vision cleared and the moon face of the preternaturally perky human resources assistant came back into focus, she rotated the camera in her hands and placed it a half-inch from Zach’s nose. He jolted backwards, nearly hitting his head on the wall.

There you go! Isn’t that a nice picture?

Zach didn’t really care what the photo on his new company ID would look like, but he obliged her and squinted at the camera’s tiny display. It didn’t look like a nice picture to him, although his mother probably wouldn’t have agreed: his tie appeared to be choking him, he had used so much hair gel his head looked lacquered, and his attempt at a charming grin had come out more of a forced grimace.

He stifled a sigh and simply nodded. Sure, that’s good.

All righty then, we’ll get that laminated right up for you. It’ll only take a few minutes—it’s digital, you know. In the meantime, I bet you can’t wait to see where you’ll be working.

She pivoted on her heel and trotted from the room like a hypercaffeinated wind-up doll. Trailing behind, Zach just managed to catch up with her as she arrived at a beige cubicle distinguished only by a computer, a telephone, and a desk upon which sat a thick manila folder and two pens.

She snatched up the folder and wheeled around to face Zach, shoving sheaves of paper into his hands quicker than he could accept them. Okay then. This here is your company orientation packet, with your employee manual, company style guide, 401K plan, non-disclosure agreement, zero-tolerance sexual harassment and drug abuse policies, background check authorization, computer usage policy, direct deposit authorization, W4 and other tax forms, and insurance information including medical, vision, and dental.

Zach held what he estimated to be two hundred sheets of paper. She swooped up a pen off the desk and handed it to him. Here you go. Just get those filled out as soon as you can, and I’ll be right back with your brand spanking new ID card.

Before Zach could mumble a half-hearted Thanks for your help, she had already wheeled around, exited the cubicle, executed a sharp ninety-degree right turn, and trotted away down the hall.

As her steps receded, the hum of fluorescent lighting, the whir of computer fans, and the hiss of the ventilation system filled Zach’s ears. While she’d been talking he hadn’t noticed it at all, but suddenly it seemed deafening. He winced and sank into the uncomfortable office chair, his stack of papers in his lap.

Is she gone? A face decorated with a number of piercings loomed over the cubicle wall, grinning down at Zach.

Um, yeah, I think so. Zach swallowed hard, his mouth suddenly dry. I, umm, I…

A lanky arm extended downward. Pleased to meet you. They call me Dan—good thing it’s my name.

Zach shook Dan’s hand once and released it. Um, Zach Coleman. I’m, uh, new here, I guess.

Dan folded his arms atop the partition and set his chin on his forearm. Yeah, I kind of figured. So what brings you to the cube fields of ÉtoileTech?

I guess I’m supposed to be an assistant technical writer? Honestly, all I know is what was in the job description.

Dan cleared his throat and cocked his head at Zach. Let me guess: you were hired around a month ago, right?

Zach cocked his head, mirroring Dan. Yeah…

I remember Roger mentioning you a while back. Here’s the deal: Jason, the guy you were hired to be an assistant to? He was let go some time ago. From what I could gather, management basically just figured they could get by with one senior tech writer rather than two. So, they let Jason go and decided Roger would take over Jason’s responsibilities. Then Roger decided if they were going to double his responsibilities and not give him any more money for it, they might as well go ahead and bring you on. That way, he can farm out more work to the junior tech writers, meaning me and you.

Okay. So where’s Roger’s office?

Dan pointed to his right. Right over there. He’s not in it though. Hasn’t been for about six days.

Don’t tell me they fired the only remaining senior writer?

No, actually he’s in the hospital recovering from triple-bypass surgery. He had some kind of stomach pain out of the blue and then the next day they’re cracking open his ribcage. Pretty gnarly, huh?

Yeesh. Zach felt nauseous.

Yeah, I know. I really gotta quit smoking before that shit catches up with me.

So if no senior tech writers are here, who am I supposed to report to?

Dan shrugged. Beats me, man. Nobody’s told me shit.

Well then, do you have any idea what I’m supposed to work on?

You got me. I guess you have this stack of crap for Krissie, but after that? Not a clue.

Zach scratched the base of his neck. Uh…

Look Zach, don’t sweat it. This is a pretty small company, so trust me when I tell you no one really gives a shit except the guys at the very top and maybe the kiss-ass HR and PR people, because it could all fall apart tomorrow. The engineer geeks are all off in the lab where no one ever sees them, but I’ll bet ninety percent of them are just jerking around most of the day too. So here’s what I recommend: get cracking on that paperwork before Krissie gets back with your ID card, get your company email account set up, and unless you find specific instructions in there telling you what else to do—which I highly doubt—just dick around until lunch.

Um, okay. Thanks, Dan. Zach idly flipped through the pages in his lap, trying to bring the conversation to a close.

All right, well, good to meet you, dude. Welcome aboard and all that good shit. I’ll be right on the other side of this thing, so just yell or bang on the partition if you need anything. I might not hear you right away since I’m wearing these headphones ninety-nine percent of the time I’m here, but just keep a-knocking. I’ll catch on sooner or later.

Okay Dan, thanks again. I appreciate it. And uh, if there’s anything I can do to help you out, let me know.

Dan’s look told Zach he considered that an extremely remote possibility at best. Uh, will do, man. Will do. Talk to you later. Dan replaced his headphones over his multiply-pierced ears and sank from Zach’s field of vision. In other circumstances, Zach would have found the tinny leakage from Dan’s overloud headphones annoying, but compared to the inhuman background fluorescent buzz it was almost comforting.

And here we go. Isn’t that just spiffy? Startled, Zach whipped around in his chair to find Krissie holding his new ID card. He examined it rotely: somehow, his picture looked even less comfortable wedged in beneath the ÉtoileTech logo. Also, his name had been misspelled ‘Zack’ with a ‘k’.

Um, looks great. Thanks.

All righty then, Zach. Did you get those papers filled out for me?

Zach looked down at the stack. The first page was still on top, and he had only gotten as far as filling out his name.

Um, not quite yet.

Krissie’s eyes flashed with annoyance, but her plastered-on smile didn’t falter.

Well, if you could finish those up when you have a chance I’d surely appreciate it.

Again, before Zach had a chance to respond she had already pivoted on her heels and trotted away. Zach sighed and turned back to the stack of paperwork. Somehow, it looked about twice as thick.

Hours later, Zach stared at the floor as the last chord of the song faded, biting his lip and pondering whether he should bother trying to express himself. Before he’d arrived at a decision, Darien took it out of his hands.

So what do you think, Zach?

Zach swallowed hard. I think you barely played anything. Did you even listen to the demo?

Sure I did. I just figured I’d give you lots of space to do your thing.

Zach snatched the printed chord sheet from the top of Darien’s amplifier. Look, just admit you didn’t bother to put in any effort. I’m not stupid.

Hey man, I work during the week, okay? For me, playing music is supposed to be a relaxing thing.

Really, you’re so busy that you can’t even find a half hour to bother to learn how the songs go? That’s crap. Zach stuffed his guitar cable into his gig bag. I’m done with this horseshit. Have fun playing your big debut next week without a singer or second guitar.

What’s your fucking problem, man?

Behind his kit, Bradley set his drumsticks aside. Hey, guys, let’s not blow this out of proportion. Let’s chill out, have another beer, and talk this through.

Darien glared at him. Whose side are you on, anyway?

I’m not trying to pick sides here, Darien. But…I mean, look, Zach, I’ll admit that wasn’t a great start, but it was the first time we ever played that one. It’ll get better. What’s the big deal?

Without looking up, Zach stuck his distortion pedal into his bag and zipped it closed. Look, guys, it’s nothing personal, really it’s not, but I’ve been feeling like this band is a waste of time for me. It’s been, what, three months now of twice-a-week practices? When one of you doesn’t cancel at the last minute, that is. And every single time, the whole first hour goes to waste while this guy over here fumbles through shit he should’ve had down weeks ago. I mean, shit, you’ve got the demos, you have chord sheets, what more could you need? It’s just…super fucking lame.

Bradley coughed. Well look, Zach, I’m sorry if we’re not professional enough for you, but we were pretty clear from the start this was just supposed to be a hobby-type thing.

Hobby or not, I thought at the very least by the time we played a show maybe everyone in the band would know the material.

The drummer and bass player exchanged looks. Dude, it’s a Monday night at Friendly’s. There’s barely going to be anyone there anyway. What did you think was going to happen?

Oh, I know what would have happened: we’d have embarrassed ourselves stupid by showing up with a band where the fucking guitar player doesn’t know how half the songs go.

All right, you asshole, that’s enough. Darien stepped forward and jabbed a finger at Zach. Who do you think you are?

Who am I? I’m the guy who spent my time learning your songs and coming up with complementary parts, and I expect the same from you. Otherwise what’s the fucking point of playing in a band?

Um…to have fun?

Yeah, well, you go and have a ball. Tell Myrna I’m sorry I’ll be missing her set. Zach slung his guitar over his shoulder. And while you’re at it, tell her I’m sorry her husband is a useless dickwad.

Oh that’s it, motherfucker! Darien swung his guitar at Zach. Zach deflected it and flung his mostly-empty beer bottle in retaliation, missing Darien’s head by a foot. The bottle thumped against the wall and tumbled to the floor, spilling remnants of backwash onto the already-stained carpet.

Bradley rose from behind his drum kit. Hey, hey, calm the fuck down right fucking now. This is still my house, you motherfuckers.

No wonder you can’t play for shit, Darien: it’s a guitar, not a baseball bat.

Oh, fuck you. You’re so out of the band, it’s not even funny.

You think you’re kicking me out? You dumb asshole, where have you been for the past ten minutes?

Guys, come on, cut the crap. Zach, if you’re going to go, just go.

Fine, I will. He snatched up his gig bag and pushed through the door without looking back. Sorry about the mess.

As he stepped out onto Bradley’s porch, the cool evening air brushed Zach’s cheeks and he felt his exasperation ebbing. Relieved but empty, he shoved his equipment into his car and sank into the driver’s seat. With his first day at a new job behind him and the burden of the band’s inaugural performance lifted from his shoulders, he’d hoped his mind would be more at ease. Instead, he clutched the wheel in a death grip, his knuckles white the entire six miles to Jess’s place.

On arrival, Zach yelped with pleasure at the rare sight of a free parking spot directly across from Jess’s house. Finally, something goes right today! Despite the chill in the air, her front door hung open, the rumble of hip-hop music and the aroma of marijuana smoke emanating from within. Mounting the steps, Zach stepped tentatively over the threshold and cleared his throat. Yo! Anyone home?

Back here, a muffled voice muttered. He proceeded through the living area to the back bedroom, where Jess lay supine, eyes closed and music blaring.

She cracked a single eyelid just enough to confirm her visitor’s identity. Running low again so soon, Coleman?

Seems like I’m running low on everything these days. Money, patience, time.

She grimaced with reddened eyes. I can’t help you with any of those, Coleman. Do you want some weed or don’t you?

Of course I do.

The usual, I presume?

Of course.

Rolling her eyes, she pulled a metal box from beneath her bed. Christ, you know you’re just going to be back here bugging me again next week. Look, I’ve even got an extra half-ounce on hand—I’ll knock ten bucks off the usual price. You get more weed, you save money, and I don’t have to see your face again until March blows away.

Sorry, Jess. I’d love to, really I would, but I just don’t have the scratch.

No chance of that new band you joined getting signed any time soon?

Don’t think so. If it did, I wouldn’t have quit. Which reminds me, forget about that gig Monday I told you about.

Wasn’t planning on going anyway. What about that private investigation business you started up awhile back? Wasn’t that supposed to be the ‘ultimate day job,’ in your words?

He waved his hand dismissively. Every month the internet gets bigger and I get fewer calls. Haven’t had a paying client in longer than I can think of. At this rate, I might as well be working at a press clipping agency. I already had to take a day job out at ÉtoileTech. If things keep up this way I might not even bother to renew my license next year.

He handed Jess a trio of folded twenty-dollar bills; Jess handed him a rolled baggie. She pocketed the money and peered at Zach from beneath lidded eyes. Look, Coleman, if you’re really that short of cash, I might have a little job for you. Strictly off the books and under the table in every way. In fact, don’t even tell anyone I made you this offer, whether you turn it down or not.

If it’s within my power, I don’t think I have that choice. What’s the job?

Well, look: band or no, you still have your equipment, right? You haven’t pawned it all and decided to light out for the coast or anything, have you?

Not yet, anyway. Why?

She handed him a tattered piece of paper. He read aloud: Guitarist needed for rock band. Must have onstage experience, own equipment, reliable transportation, immediate availability. No egos. Contact New Regenesis Nature Conservancy ASAP to set up audition. He turned it over, wondering if he had missed something. I don’t get it.

That’s the job.

He tossed the paper back at her. Why are you so interested in my musical aspirations all of a sudden? I thought you didn’t want whatever-this-is to get too involved.

I’m not, and I don’t. She put a pipe fashioned from of a section of deer horn to her lips, took a massive drag, held it for thirty seconds, exhaled a cloud of smoke and held the pipe out to Zach. All I need you to do is call the number on the flyer—or email, I don’t give a shit—get the audition, go in, then come back and tell me about it.

That’s it? And if I do that you’ll give me….what?

What’s it worth to you?

Zach considered his outlook: with the band off his plate, his day job was the only thing on his schedule for the foreseeable future.

How about you give me that sixty bucks back and we’ll call it even?

Nice try. Tell you what: you get this done before next Friday and I’ll give you your choice of either this sixty bucks or this half-ounce of weed. Whichever you decide will be of more use to you.

If you really want the lowdown on this band that bad, why don’t you borrow a guitar and go check it out yourself? I’ll lend you mine.

Ha fucking ha.

No, really, Jess. It’s obvious you’re not giving me even half the real story. I mean, yeah, I’m desperate, but not desperate enough to jump off the high dive without looking first. He passed the pipe back to her. Half-ounce or no, I’m going to need a little more background.

She shook her head vigorously. Not a chance, guitar boy. Too many people see exactly what they expect to and no more, even when what they don’t see is getting ready to bite them in the ass. I want you going in there with fresh eyes.

Yeah, well, right now I’m not expecting anything, so I can’t very well have any preconceived notions, can I?

And that’s the way I’d like to keep it.

Maybe. But current appearances aside, I like to think I have some standards, Zach said. And I don’t walk into auditions unprepared, even if I’m being sent in under duplicitous circumstances.

Oh, for—it’s not even a real audition, you drama queen. Save the musical pretensions for your solo project.

It’s a real audition to them, isn’t it? Whoever these people are, if they’ve played in a band before they’ll sniff out any wannabes and posers long before it gets to that stage. That’s kind of how the whole audition thing works. If you want me to get through this thing, they have to believe I want it—and right now, I don’t.

Jess sighed long and low, then took a hit from the pipe that burned up the last of the bud and tapped the ashes into a bedside plastic cup. Fine. But once I tell you why I want you to go out there, you have to promise me you’ll still go.

What kind of deal is that? Now I have to know before I’ll agree to anything.

Look, it’s… Jess breathed deeply. I don’t necessarily know anything is going on for sure. That’s why I didn’t want to say anything: if you get out there and you really think everything’s on the up-and-up, then that’s what I want you to report. And as God is my witness, in my heart of hearts I really, truly hope you come back here in a week and tell me exactly that.

Methinks thou dost protest too much.

Maybe. But only because the sinking feeling in my gut keeps getting worse.

So why send me into the heart of the storm?

It’s all I can do. That place is locked up tight three hundred and sixty-four days a year: if you’re not wanted there, you’re not getting in.

What about the other day? Or two, in a leap year?

On the summer solstice they have an open house type of deal. It’s a big sop to the town—a show of friendliness and display of generosity—but you can bet they clean up the place real nice for visitors and keep a close eye on everyone coming in and out of those gates.

Oh, I get it now; no wonder you want them eradicated. Friendliness and generosity? That’s like your kryptonite.

Watch it.

Sorry. But you gotta admit, this all sounds a little paranoid at best. I mean, I never went in much for that hippie gumbo myself, but I thought those New Regenesis folks were just supposed to be harmless kooks?

"That’s part of what raised my suspicions. What kind of people work that hard at making sure others think of them as innocuous eccentrics? Real weirdos think they’re one hundred percent normal and it’s the world that’s crazy, while the truly harmless generally try not to broadcast signals of their vulnerability. But in my experience, a guy who smiles and tells you