all signed documents and, when possible, DNA obtained from hair samples, water glasses, and the like.
All data associated with identification was meticulously processed, resulting in a covert profile created for each participant.
JOSEPH GLANCED AT ONE of the monitors.
“Okay, call out. Transdermal?”
“Moisture sensors for all seats are green. Timed release protocols are good.”
“Subliminal dialog?”
“Yeah, we’re going with “No earthly possessions”, “Give all that you have”, and “Earthly treasures are unworthy”. Those seemed to work well last time, so we’re trying them again.”
“Okay. Heart rates?”
“Good and steady.”
“Eye flutter?”
“Number 8 is still a little erratic but is settling quickly. Good to go.”
“Okay.”
After reviewing a few of the other conditions, Joseph tapped his micro ear bud. “Simon. Kiemann. We’re ready.”
“Understood.”
Joseph looked over at the other technician, “Start the suggestive dialog and record all responses.”
Bump-pah...bump-pah...bump-pah...
“There can be no false disciples.”
Bump-pah...bump-pah...bump-pah...
“Bare your soul, your wealth, your identity.”
Bump-pah...bump-pah...bump-pah...
“What is your full name?”
Bump-pah...bump-pah...bump-pah...
“What is your social security number?”
Bump-pah...bump-pah...bump-pah...
“When is your birthday?”
Bump-pah...bump-pah...bump-pah...
“What bank do you use?’
Bump-pah...bump-pah...bump-pah...
“What is your bank account login name?”
Bump-pah...bump-pah...bump-pah...
“What is your bank account password?”
Bump-pah...bump-pah...bump-pah...
Joseph turned to one of the technicians, “Check Number 4’s bank information. What kind of money does she have?”
With a flutter of keyboard clicks, the technician responded, “Four hundred seventy thousand pounds in a savings account, and roughly fifty-five thousand in a checking. Jackpot, man.”
They continued retrieving information until the responses became inconsistent or unintelligible. Sometimes that happened with certain people, with prolonged exposure. Despite the technology, the overall collection process was still a fine art.
“Okay, let’s wrap it up.”
“Simon. Kiemann.Be ready. We’ve flushed the transdermal sites and we’ll soon be bringing them out with the closing salutations.”
Bump-pah...bump-pah...bump-pah...
“You remember no questions.”
Bump-pah...bump-pah...bump-pah...
“The meditation was wonderful!”
Bump-pah...bump-pah...bump-pah...
“You may wake refreshed and happy!”
Bump-pah...bump-pah...bump-pah...
“You may wake refreshed and happy!”
The heartbeat sound slowly diminished until silent as the light in the room gradually increased back to normal.
Awakened, the people stirred and removed their masks as they focused on the lone figure standing in the center of the stage. Father Soone exclaimed to them, with outreached arms.
“Wasn’t that a glorious meditation? I must commend you all for your wonderful participation!”
Nods and murmurs of approval filled the room. A sense of happiness was present amongst the group.
“Let us proceed with our first lesson. Brother Simon, please help these fine people prepare for the classrooms.”
They slowly rose from their seats and made their way to the side aisles. As they followed Simon back to the corridor, all were smiling and exchanging pleasantries, anxious to begin their journey with Father Soone.
Hovering behind the technicians, Joseph marveled at the data collected; the critical personal information, the banking accounts, and their balances. He could easily envision the creation of false accounts, the subtle transfers and missed funds.
Kiemann entered the room and turned to Joseph. “Well?”
Joseph smiled.
The contributions to Father Soone’s sanctuary would be significant. Significant indeed.
End
Greg Bennett
Greg Bennett is a Regulatory Compliance manager who lives with his wife in western Missouri, USA. When he isn’t slaving away at his engineering day job, he enjoys playing golf, cycling and being an aspiring writer, influenced by his longtime love of ‘B-movie’ science fiction and horror.
He brings an ‘Average Joe’ style to his writing; one that places ordinary people in extraordinary situations.
Focusing on drabble, flash and short-story work; several of his efforts have been published in various well-received anthologies, some of which have been for notable charitable causes such as the Wounded Warrior Project.
The Cult of Kayako
Kevin S. Hall
Detective Hiro looked mournfully at the young woman’s twisted body. The way her legs were broken and arms behind her body, which itself was broken and bloody, and the long, black hair covering her face, was a sorry sight in the alleyway, on this dark and rain-sodden night.
Most of the police and forensics had dusted for prints, cornered off the area and interviewed witnesses, and there were only a handful left now—the blinking lights of the police cars distracting, unlike Hiro’s almost KITT-like red beam on the front of his dark grey Mercedes.
“Okay, brush the hair aside—carefully. Let’s see this poor girl’s face.”
Lieutenant Baskin gingerly took a white-gloved hand and pulled back the girl’s hair—and gasped in terror, staggering back. He was sweating and shivering, even though it was cold, and he had a brown jacket over his blue suit and tie. He clutched his short brown hair and rubbed at his brown stubble.
“I... It can’t be...” he murmured.
Hiro had never known Baskin to be afraid of anything up until now, so, as well as being annoyed and curious, he peered over the body. The girl’s mouth was open wide—o