The Spiral Effect

Copyright © 2013 James Gilmartin

All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights
under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be
reproduced, stored in, or introduced into a retrieval system, or
transmitted, in any form, or by any means (Electronic, mechanical,
recording, photocopying or otherwise) without the prior written
consent of the copyright owner of this book.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places,
and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are
used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any
resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons,
living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Cover background: 2008 by gerard79

Used with Permission

http://www.sxc.hu/photo/1043922

A hundred individual voices filter into my
mind.

Snap—pop—flare.

Synapses and brainwaves ignite and break
Einstein’s speed of light. In the land of thoughts, time holds no
meaning or measurement. Multi-tasking takes on an unimagined
definition. One part of my consciousness copies memories, another
snaps shots of current thoughts, a third carefully transfers and
catalogues them into my own mind, and my third eye—well, it watches
in disbelief as the world falls apart.

“Help!”

“God save us!”

“Why—why!”

A hundred individual souls, the most I can
see simultaneously. Some go about their normal routine, many use it
as an excuse for debauchery, while others simply try to
survive.

Janine Spangler, thirty-eight, cradles her
dead husband Mike. Blood, brain tissue, and skull fragments stain
the floor and wall as a gun hangs limply in his hand. As much as
I’d like, I can’t raise him back from the dead. If he had any
glimmer of life left, then there would be some hope. The best I can
do is soothe Janine’s frantic mind and remove that small kernel of
desperation to grab the gun and use the other bullet to join her
husband.

Not ten miles away, Jason Ledbetter,
thirty-three year old assistant from the CDC, stares at
three-thousand dead bodies, piled atop each other like crumpled
sheets of discarded paper. Disease ridden bodies where loose skin
hangs in folded, wrinkled rolls, the illusion that these poor souls
had gone decades beyond the average life expectancy, when in fact
most were between twenty and forty-five. He nearly pukes inside his
hazmat suit, a futile precaution, but no point in telling him that.
Instead, I drop a seed of optimism in his subconscious.
A cure
is in the works. Hold out.

Private Donald Templeton’s rifle trembles in
his hand as Sacramento’s remaining thousand inhabitants, eyes
glowing blue and red, swarm the gates surrounding what’s left of
the hospital. Terror swarms around him and the other two remaining
soldiers left to guard the hospital.

—They’ll consume us.

—Not enough ammo.

—Shit shit shit shit shit.

The three doctors aren’t fairing any better
inside. Three of the six patients are near death and one of the
doctors is hiding that she has recently developed symptoms. Hope
must take precedence over fact because the cold truth will only
stir more panic and death. Takes nothing to calm the soldiers,
doctors, and patients—ease their mind from the worries of death and
the unknown—soothe the pain tearing their bodies apart. The crowd
of a thousand, however—

Push—A hundred at once—Copy, copy—paste,
paste—soothe and ease—

Primal instinct grapples against change more
than rational thought. It cages the conscious mind, the logical
decision, the human identity, and snarls, barring sharp fangs to
discourage escape. Like any animal, it only needs a firm, gentle
hand.

Push.

One hundred—two hundred. The back of the
stampeding mob loses its momentum and stands in a stupor.

Three hundred—four hundred—they’ve broken
down the gates.

Push.

Five hundred.

Copy, copy—paste, paste—soothe and ease—

Six hundred.

Copy, copy—paste, paste—soothe and ease—

They storm past the three euphoric
guards.

Copy, copy—paste, paste—soothe and ease—

Seven hundred.

They’ve broken in.

Damn the memories and information—push push
p—

Find the Cause.

Find the Source.

Find the Beginning.

I blacked out again. Pushed myself too hard.
Need to—wait, what was I doing? What was I—think—prod—poke. Ah,
there we go. Sacramento.

Find the Cause.

Find the Source.

Find the Beginning.

The mob. Did I stop them? Two hundred were
left and…and…I tried to stop them at the same time. Two hundred at
once. That’s why I blacked out. But…

Find the Cause.

Find the Source.

Find the Beginning.

…did I stop them?

Fi—

I haven’t forgotten. Find the cause, the
source, I know—I always know. Don’t need reminding every five
seconds. Like a bothersome alarm with my thoughts as the
snooze.

But it’s the agenda. All that matters.

I know.

Then get on it.

I will.

Shh.

Need to be more careful. Cautious. Blacking
out is too big a risk, especially with other memories and thoughts
locked away for storage. None have ever escaped, thank the Lord;
but each blackout only increases the odds.

The way my mind goes into dual mode every
time I wake from a blackout is more bothersome. Becoming like a
sophisticated schizophrenic who converses and argues with himself.
I need to be more careful about pushing myself too hard. But it was
worth it. I succeeded and stopped the remaining mob. For the time
being, those 1012 people calmly and patiently work together in the
hopes of finding a cure. I hope I haven’t simply delayed the
inevitable.

The state of the world for three months—I
think it’s been three months—progressively getting worse each day.
But it wasn’t like this at the beginning, and that’s what has me so
confused, on a constant search for the right mind. Years of
telepathic and telekinetic abilities popping up all around the
world, and now the gift is a curse, a plight on human existence.
But why? And why is it killing everyone in the world but me?

God, have you found it fit to spare me, or
am I missing something?

Find the Cause.

Find the Source.

Find the beginning.

The inspiration to my current goal. My
reason for breaking my own privacy laws and entering the mind of
every person I come across.

Found enough thoughts for the day. Time to
organize.

Catalogue and file.

So much easier since I created this office
in my mind. Plush beige carpet, desk, stereo, computer desk, and
chair. The illusion definitely eases the strain and anxiety of
organizing so many memories.

Sit at the desk, play every Sigur Ros album
on a loop, draw up the holographic computer screen, and get to
work.

1014 to enter and date, all in the hopes
that maybe some of them will link up and share a coherent clue to
the cause of all this mess. A combined total of 1, 386, 605
memories. That many minds and I’m not any closer. No one seems to
remember how this started—who was patient zero.

Each person remembers when they first
exhibited signs, first read a thought, moved an object with a
focused flicker of their mind, controlled another person, jumped
bodies, and sadly, when their bodies started falling apart.

But not who had it first.

It still drives me crazy. How can none of
them remember the first person to show signs, or at least the first
one publicly broadcasted to the world? The internet,
television—showed everything the news could offer before this
happened. Where’s the beginning?

The one commonality they all seem to share
is the word spiral. It isn’t much. Doesn’t seem to be anything. But
I keep searching. Catalogue, file, search.

Janine Spangler—
Sacramento
—sub file:
Female
—sub file:
Ages 22-26
—sub file:
Carrier
—sub file:
Memory Type
—sub file:
Movie
.

Glad to see that Janine’s thoughts and
memories took on the form of moving pictures, with dates too. Makes
it much easier to chronicle and organize. The only difficulty will
be sorting through imaginary and real. Those with the movie memory
type always seem to have a vivid imagination. Creative people, but
with difficulty putting thought and ideas in clear and concise
wording.

Janine, like everyone else I’ve come across,
holds over a billion memories. Wonder if she came to the
realization that her brain had stored so much information? That
every moment, thought, song, test, television show, conversation,
movie, and whatever else she experienced, as long as it passed the
short term test, never left. She knew she was telepathic. She read
minds—changed others thoughts—even forced…hmm.

She remembers like a director watching her
performers.

Janine, wearing an airy, yellow and white
summer dress, sits on the chair, sobbing.

Mike, wearing those blue, green, and red
plaid shorts she always hated, and a red polo, paces in front of
her.

The details of the room—floors, walls,
windows—are all a blur. Her focus was completely on the
conversation and Mike.

—Janine, it’s the best option.

—To stay here and die?

—They’re working on a cure.

—Easy for you to believe. You’re not the one
who’s dying. There’s no cure. Never will be a cure. Our only chance
was to leave with Eric and Mindy and you fucked that up.

Mike reaches out to touch her.

—Janine, please.

Janine shrugs away from him.

—Don’t touch me! Don’t ever fucking touch me
again!

Mike shakes for a brief second and then
stiffens. His eyes become blank.

—Yes dear.

Janine wipes a tear and looks at Mike.

—Why are you staring at me like that?

No answer. Just that blank stare.

—Mike!

Blank stare.

—God dammit Mike stop it! Fucking stop
it!

Blank stare.

Janine jumps up and turns away from him,
toward darkened shadows, a memory undefined.

—Fuck! Sometimes I just wish you’d go shoot
yourself in the fucking head!

Poor Mike. Not a victim of his own doubt.
And poor Janine. She really had no idea the force of the thought
she had unconsciously planted. A forced command due to the
frustration and anger she felt over his decision for them to stay.
The moment had continually cycled through her conscious thoughts,
like a terrible nightmare before I found her.

I should check on her soon, before the
calming effects I planted dissipate. I’d hate for her to recycle
that moment, give way to suicidal thoughts again. I’ll have a day
before I need to reconnect with her.

Find the Cause.

Find the Source.

Find the beginning.

Back to work, but Janine, you’re not
forgotten.

Maurice Taylor—
Sacramento
—sub file:
Male
—sub file:
Ages 28-32
—sub file:
Carrier
—sub file:
Memory Type
—sub file:
Pictures
.

Another easy memory type. Still photos,
paintings, comic book panels, sketches, and oils of the man’s life.
Not as in depth and easy to follow as movies, but not difficult to
organize and interpret. Already dated as well. Maurice hasn’t been
an active psychic for very long, so it’s doubtful he knew all that
his brain held. Wouldn’t have mattered though, seems Maurice had a
proclivity for the telekinetic side of the coin. Fancied himself
becoming a superhero. Even drew up sketches for a costume.
Purchased the material as well.