The one thing I learned from my time with Dr. Connors is that she was rarely wrong. She wasn’t always right, but she was rarely wrong. Without her I would have been dead or worse. If she said stay put and wait, then I’d do it. I didn’t understand why she didn’t want me to take my dose of meds, but I there was really only one logical conclusion: on the meds I was Dr. Jekyll and she wanted Mr. Hyde. Skipping doses came with problems though. I started to have issues with the body twitches after a few hours without my dose. I had separate meds just for the twitches, but they barely worked. Just like old times, pills to come up, pills to come down. It was like being on coke, and popping Percocet to finally fall asleep, but there really wasn’t any good times to be had in the deal. It was familiar territory, but I wasn’t really happy to be home.

The other problem was dealing with the urge. My head swam with thoughts, emotions. Mostly negative. What if Dr. Connors was fucking me over? What if BIMPT were on their way and she sold me out? I had to protect myself. I should leave. I should stay. I should find her myself. I should just go out on street and solve this the old-fashioned way. I tried to breathe, to meditate, to fight through the negativity and hatred.

When I thought everything was finally better, after I finished my meditation, I looked down in my hands and I saw the gun Dr. Connors had told me about.

That’s the thing about this Samskara shit. I can only control what I can control. Sometimes, I just lose moments in time. What happens in that space, what I do in that time, I just have to hope that when I figure out where I am again it’s not something I can’t live down. Again.

I was pacing in the dark in the main room of the apartment when I heard the burner phone ring. I hopped behind a couch and leveled my pistol at the door. Why the door? Why not. It was mostly nerves and paranoia. It seemed like the right idea so I went with it. Worst case the call was BIMPT. Or maybe that wasn’t the worst case. I had no idea what the worst case was actually. I just answered the phone.

I heard Dr. Connors’ voice. “John, it’s me. Some men are coming to help you. Don’t shoot them. John, listen to my voice. They are going to help us. I…I encountered a number of problems but I am racing towards you. Tell me if you are ok.”

I settled a bit. “Yea, I’m ok. Who are your friends?”

“The man in charge is Peter and his men are Vasily, Ivan, Ruslan and Tapa. They are going to help us. This is Plan B. It’s go-time.” Dr. Connors said.

Something felt off. “Care to explain a bit further? I am feeling a bit trigger happy over here. Some random dudes wasn’t really what I expected. This is starting to feel a bit kidnap-py? Like maybe you aren’t being totally honest with me?”

She sighed. “I’m burnt. I got what I needed from BIMPT, made a dash for the exit, maced a security guard and ran through the gate, and then drove my car through the security barrier at high speed. I called Peter and sent him to you. I have everything we need, but I am quite sure they know that. They know we have you. They know we have all the information we need to indict the company for…many things frankly. Crimes Against Humanity at a minimum. My guess is short of a nuclear bomb there is little we are going to be able to do to prevent what will amount to all-out war between us and them. This might come across as hyperbole, you might think I am being facetious, but quite frankly, I anticipate without a battalion of M1 tanks escorting us, it is unlikely that we will get more than a few miles away from our current position before encountering very heavy resistance. BIMPT has an internal private military security division. These guys aren’t soldiers, they are far scarier. My friends have paid Peter an exorbitant rate to prevent them from killing us. It’s now or never John. I won’t force you to do anything, but if we don’t leave immediately, I am guessing this is it. I know you are nervous. I know you haven’t had your meds. I know I should’ve told you about this, but trust me, we are going to need help to get where we are going. BIMPT has us figured out. The situation has changed. Drastically. They aren’t going to continue to play around with the situation. John…you aren’t going to like this but they got everything. They had your DNA from the blood when you cut your hand at BIMPT. They have all my findings. We lost. They won. It’s over. But listen, we are going to get you to CDC so we can fight this. This was pre-arranged weeks ago. Some people there can help you. I have friends, friend who want to help, and they are paying Peter and his men to help us get to the CDC. But we can’t take you unless you I know you are in control. Are you in control? Can you help us do this? I know this is a lot of information, but things are moving fast now. Can you let me know if you are ready to leave?” Dr. Connors was clearly nervous. “Peter and his crew should be arriving any minute.”

I wasn’t ready. I wasn’t even close. I was shit-your-pants terrified. I knew what I had to say though. “I am ready.”

“Good.”

There was a knock at the door. “Someone is here,” I said.

“That’s them. Go open the door. I will be there soon,” she said. “Bye John.”

“Bye Dr. Cooper.”

I marched over top the door. “Uhh…who is it.”

“Peter. Cooper sent me. Open it,”

“Ok. I’m opening it,” I said. I shoved the pistol I had procured from Dr. Cooper’s wall safe in the back of my waistband before I stood up. It clanked against a large chef’s knife. When had I put that there? I moved the knife the to the side and tucked the pistol beside it. No one needed to know about that I guess. Since I was feeling a bit more clear, I did a little shake to figure out if any other weapons were rattling around me. In the grips of paranoia, I couldn’t even trust myself it turned out.

Despite what Dr. Connors said, I wanted answers from Peter and crew before I was going anywhere. “Mind explaining to me why we need an escort…” I noticed that Peter and his group of buddies were pulling assault rifles out of duffel bags they had carried in on their backs. “An armed escort at that, to a publicly available building through the middle of a major American city? This seems a bit on the militaristic side of things? I mean, I am not saying we take the #9 bus, but is this really necessary?”

Peter didn’t say much it seemed, and his friends said even less. Peter gave me a nod. “Ya.”

I pointed at the cadre of sternly faced Russian mercenary types, “What about those guys? Care to introduce me?”

“You only need to speak to me. They work for me. I work for Cooper. You work for no one. You just do what you are told.” Peter and his crew were hard men. They all had scars and it appeared they either rarely or never shaved. They were burly and tall and none of them smiled ever. Their hair was short and their faces were grim. I had to assume they were some sort of mercenary outfit although how the fuck Russian mercenaries ended up in Atlanta made no sense to me.

Peter walked over to me and put his hands on my shoulders. “I understand your trepidation but it’s this or nothing. Where and how and when and these sorts of questions… we just don’t have time right now. Now or never. I’m leaving in two minutes with or without you. Your choice.”

I sighed. “Let’s go then.”

Peter was clearly in charge. It was probably possible to interrupt him, but I doubt it happened very often. “We take two cars. I’ll stay with this criminal shitbag. Rest of you go with Cooper when she gets here, which should be any second. After that, just get downtown. Drive fast. Stay as close as you can to me. No guns unless you have to. Everyone understand?”

Criminal shitbag? Seemed a bit unnecessary. Even still I nodded. The rest of the crew remained motionless. I just assumed that their compliance was implicit.

Peter answered his phone and walked a few paces away. After a few affirmatory grunts and monosyllabic confirmatory phrases, he hung up. “Cooper is downstairs. We’re meeting her there. Let’s go.”

As a group we all moved to the elevator. Peter pushed the “down” button. It didn’t respond.

“It’s a bit tricky. You gotta rock it a bit,” I said. Peter rocked the elevator button but it was unresponsive.

Peter’s ears perked up. “Security room! Now.” I heard what he was hearing a second later. A humming in the background.

Peter grabbed me by the shoulder and shoved me towards the panic room before throwing me in. I felt my hand slipping to the pistol but I couldn’t reach it before I fell into the room.

Behind me, before the door slammed shut, I heard the glass break throughout the room as bullets shredded the windows that made up most of the walls. A helicopter was outside the penthouse apartment and appeared to be shooting a mixture of high-powered rounds and ziplines into our apartment that were swiftly being occupied by men in black uniforms with very large guns. Peter began screaming in Russian at his men. The chopping of the helicopter blades was met by the characteristic chopping of an AK-47 as Peter and his men fought back. My hands started twitching. I could feel the violence outside. It was begging me to come.

After a few minutes, all the shooting stopped. On the intercom I heard Peter’s voice. “They’ll be coming back. This first bunch was just a probe. Got a problem though, the elevator is fucked. Stairs is suicide mission. We have a new plan. We’ll zipline across the roof to a new building. We will continue now. We gotta go. Fast.”

I tried to yell but it didn’t work. I saw an intercom button and hit the panic room intercom below a video console showing me the apartment itself. The intercom connected my voice to the apartment. “How will we catch up with Dr. Cooper?” I asked.

Peter came over the intercom, “You let me worry about that.”

The apartment was shredded. The windows were destroyed and a sharp breeze was moving through the space. Half a dozen dead bodies in black now adorned the floors staining everything in blood. The couch where I set and watched horror stories about myself was now occupied by a man full of holes, bleeding heavily. Zip lines, many of which now lay slack on the floor had been shot into the walls so men could fly in from a helicopter. Peter and his men were rounding things up and preparing some sort of escape plan, while two of them watched the windows, rifles drawn.

I was hyperventilating or close to it. My hand went over my chest.

My burner rang again. Dr. Cooper.

"Dr. Cooper, where the fuck did you find these guys.”

“John, you are alive, thank God. They are a mixed bag. Former US military. Former Chechan military. Some friends found them through some back channels. Extremely back channels. They have been paid a small fortune. I was told they are loyal to a fault to their employers. It’s a part of their reputation and how they command their fees.” She was shaking as she said it. “It seems like they are worth every penny thus far, although I have to admit, I am a bit concerned for our prospects.” She paused a second. “I want you to take something. If you look inside the panic room there is a wall safe on the back wall. The passcode is the same as before. If you open the safe you will find a vial containing 200mg of immediate release amphetamine.”

“Are you serious?” I asked.

"Quite so in fact. I can’t promise that I am correct on what will happen, but for a long time I have surmised that part of the reason you are so unique is your prior addiction status. I have hypothesized that if you were to re-engage in your prior drug addiction, it would magnify the effects of the Samskara on your brain. While we use a very low dose of stimulant to manage your symptoms, if you were to take a supra-pharmacological dose, what one might take if they were looking to get high, I would guess that it would liberate a great deal of dopamine and that your condition would be dramatically magnified. Probably uncontrollably so. For someone of your ilk, I am guessing that dose would have to be very high. That pill bottle includes 200mg of immediate release amphetamine, I don’t know how much you used to take, but I am guessing that will be more than sufficient.”

I liberated the bottle from its hiding spot and then tossed the pill bottle in my hand. “This is a bad idea.”

“I don’t think you understand John. Take the pills. Take them now. You can’t ever get caught. You can’t ever let them take you. I don’t know if this will kill you or not. But I am guessing if you ever get to the point where it’s you or them, and you doubt that you can do what needs to be done, this might help.”

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“Doc…er, Megan, you certainly know a lot about Engrams and Thor and Samskara and dopamine and all this other shit. But you don’t seem to know anything about drug addicts. What if I get us all killed?”

“There is a line forming for that. It seems like you have some competition. Take the pills. Then try to remember who the bad guys are.” I couldn’t see her, but she said it with a smile.

I popped the bottle cap and thought about swallowing both of the pills. Then I got smart, shit, if this was my last high, might as well have fun. I took the butt of the pistol in my back pocket and crushed the pills against the wall inside a random piece of paper in my pocket. A few seconds later, I had a powder that I immediately sniffed hard and fast. I felt it immediately. A feeling I hadn’t had in over a month. My heart started racing. My nerves sped up. I felt all those things I had felt in those months where it was just me and drugs.

And it felt fucking great.

Peter rang through on the intercom again. “Come out now. Time to move. Vasily established a zip line from the interloper’s mistake. We’ll zip to the new building. This is a better plan anyway.”

“John, who was that?” Dr. Cooper sounded concerned.

“Peter.”

I heard Dr. Cooper’s voice tremble. “John don’t toy me with me.”

“Uhh, what?”

Megan was audibly shaken. “No. No, no no. Shit. No. Peter speaks with an incredibly heavy accent. You could hear it from a mile away. He is barely understandable. That guy spoke perfect English. What does he look like?”

“Uhh, big. Mean. Brown hair.” A pause. A longer pause. A full-on pregnant pause. Oh no…

“Don’t leave the panic room. I don’t know who that is. That isn’t Peter. Don’t let them know that you heard this. Just make up an excuse. I am coming.”

No excuses were needed, as right on cue, another plan began to disassemble. I looked at the video camera that allowed me to see the apartment from inside the panic room and saw Vasily making fast the zipline which apparently we would all ride down one by one into the building next door. I didn’t recognize where we were precisely, but I was assuming downtown Atlanta. When I turned on the intercom, it was loud in the apartment though. Too loud. Even for a penthouse apartment with all the windows busted out. The noise was coming from the helicopter that was ascending up into view. I guessed this was probably the same one from before, only with a new strategy themselves. The gunman opened fire and Vasily went to pieces. Whatever he was firing was much larger than what was needed to kill a man and firing at a much higher rate than necessary. Vasily’s body was lifted off the ground from the impact, but enough bullets hit him simultaneously to effectively leave him as Swiss cheese.

I hit the ground. Everything was moving fast for me now. The amphetamine had kicked in. Watching Vasily get airholed a thousand times in a single second had just accelerated things. I wanted to fight. I wanted to participate. I was ready. I wasn’t as ready as Ruslan though. Maybe I was as ready, but I certainly wasn’t as fast. He pulled a long tube out of the black bag that had been on his back, spun and fired. The RPG hit the helicopter in the tail and I watched it spin off into the distance before I heard an explosion and what I assume was a helicopter smashing into a building.

This was bad. A lot of people just got hurt.

I kept my head down. I wanted to pick it up, I wanted to pull the pistol in my back pocket, and fire at whatever was attacking us. I wanted to be a part of the violence. I longed for it. It didn’t last long enough for me though. I kept control instead. Was I better? Was this what she thought would happen?

The burner phone was screaming at me. Apparently Megan was still on the line. “John I just saw a helicopter fall out of the sky. I don’t know if I am going to be able to make it now. There are police everywhere and this is going to make things harder.”

Everything was going to fast now. People were asking too many questions. I couldn’t keep up. Too much input. “Uhhh…hold please.” I said.

I heard Peter yell out, “Who is still alive?” through the intercom.

Ot was an odd way to phrase the question but I told him what I knew from what I could see.

“Everyone…but Vasily.”

“Vasily’s family will receive his share. Not a problem. Zipline is destroyed though and we don’t have another though. New plan. Brunsen, out of the panic room now!”

I grabbed the phone and turned off the intercom. “Megan, he wants me out of the panic room. What do I say?” I was jittery. Nervous. My brain wasn’t working. I couldn’t think of anything. I could feel the violence welling up inside of me. The urge to fight, maim, kill.

Megan was talking to someone else, but I could hear their conversation.

“Sir, I live in the apartment complex, I just want to retrieve some things. Please sir, just let me through,” she plead desperately.

A new voice, gruff, angry. “Tell Mr. Brunsen we said hello.”

Pop pop pop.

I knew the sound. I’d heard it a lot. Small caliber pistol at close range. I screamed for Megan. No one answered. No one was going to answer.

No one was coming.

No one was here to help me.

I was alone.

Again.

No more compassion. No more meditating. No more sadness. No more lies. No more worrying. No more hiding. No more cups of tea. No more pill timers. No more tears.

No more holding back.

Relapse sweet relapse.

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Any addict will tell you, the best part of doing drugs is that first great relapse. There is a lot of trepidation as you dive deeper and deeper in that first big bender. Am I going to OD? Where am I going to live? Why can’t I stop this? You wash that away with drugs or sex or gambling or whatever it is you just can’t stop. The first real relapse removes all those worries. Am I going to OD? Maybe, but who cares! Where am I going to live? Here, there, who cares! Why can’t I stop? Why would I want to stop!

This time I was unfettered by concern for others or even concern for myself. I knew what I was. I was sick. I was a bad person. I did bad things. There weren’t any new lows to be found. I had already been to the bottom and there was no longer a way up. I might as well just sink back below, embrace my new reality, and take my place amongst the icons of American villainy in a fiery blaze of glory. What choice did I have?

I walked over to the panic room door to open it, but before I did, I paused just long enough to see Peter walk over to his crew. I saw Ivan pull out his cell phone. Peter slapped it out of his hand. They yelled at each other in a language I couldn’t understand, but I could tell was closer to Portuguese than Russian. Ivan walked away to grab his phone off the floor and slung what could only be some sort of insult towards his friends. Peter and Ruslan did a lot of pointing and gesturing at one another followed by a truce when Ivan returned shortly. He shouted in whatever they were speaking, then they all stared each other for a bit and Peter said “Yea, let’s do it”. It seemed like the new plan was set. I opened the panic room door and he marched towards me with his soldier-esque walking style. I reached into my back pocket.

I’m not a soldier. I could easily be reaching for my wallet, my phone, anything. If you see someone walking down the street with their hand in their back pocket, you are thinking pen, not pistol.

Peter was used to people following orders. He saw the door open just as he arrived, and then he turned and started walking back to the rest of the group.

I pulled my previously clanky mystery knife from the back of my waistband and buried it deep in his neck.

Somehow even his neck was hard, like trying to plunge the knife into corded rope. It took me 3 strikes, but I delivered them with gusto. The first was good enough to either paralyze him or stun him and the next two were sufficient to get the knife into his neck. He crumped on the floor in front of me. I saw the three remaining Russian mercenaries chatting amongst themselves. One of them was facing towards me and was just at the point of making some sort of warning to his comrades about shit going badly, but I was already firing my pistol. I caught him in the chest twice. He fell to the ground. I thought it was Tapa. I didn’t care.

In a real fire fight, you search for cover. You get behind something, under something, on top of something, you try to gain an advantage. You try not to die. I didn’t care about dying. I didn’t have that weakness. Ivan and Ruslan’s training kicked in, they hip fired at me but they were trained to fight other trained soldiers, so their primary goal was to take cover. I just fired. Fuck it, right? A bullet caught Ivan in the chest as he dove for cover. I never saw him again. Ruslan was firing at me by this time, and he was a good shot. The first bullet went through the edge of my bicep. I was beyond pain, too much Samskara, too many drugs, too many dead bodies, too much emotional damage. The impact knocked me off balance and I fell back into the panic room entryway. A bullet clipped my ear lobe as I fell, likely meant for my head but a millisecond askew from the first shot.

Ruslan was shouting in whatever language they spoke. No idea what he was saying but he sounded very angry with me. He was letting his emotions get the best of him.

Me? Hell, I was just having fun.

I wasn’t angry. I was exhilarated. I was a Roman gladiator. I was King Shit. I was an apex predator. I was a Great White on Shark Week. I was a Golden God reveling in his salon, soaking in the cheers and the blood and the gun smoke. I drank in the violence like a young bon vivant with a fine glass of wine, inhaling its essence deep into my lungs and then sighing a breath of sweet relief as I exhaled my own special brand of decay and death.

I kept firing, not even really aiming at him, I just hadn’t stopped pulling the trigger. I am guessing Ruslan heard the gun go click as I heard a savage yaulp followed by a bear-like man charging me, desperately seeking to choke the life from me. He wanted revenge. This was personal. I leapt and slammed the door shut button on the panic room, but Ruslan was fast. The door closed quickly, but not quickly enough. The electronic actuators closed on his arm and squealed at their extra load. I heard him yelp in pain. Fortunately for me, the panic room functioned the same as the old elevator in my apartment. Anything that got stuck in the door was staying there, likely forever. I am sure that was the intention in this situation, although in my previous case it was more the fault of a sadistic device and a drunken asshole for a landlord.

Ruslan grunted and shoved his assault rifle barrel through the door with his other arm. Without any sort of armament, I used my last remaining resource. I bit into his fingers as hard I could. The pain was enough to jar him, and I ripped at the assault rifle by the foregrip. He got a few rounds off hoping to ricochet something into me. I bit harder and harder until I felt myself crunching the actual bone. Liquid was running down the back of my calf. He’d probably hit me at some point, or at least grazed me, but it hardly mattered. I was busy. The pain took hold for him and I took hold of his rifle. I had learned my lesson though, and kept the barrel away from his hand. I fired up in the crack of the door at his arm. I held the trigger down until the arm was left slack, detached from the man by a hail of 7.62x39mm. I pressed the “door open” button on the panic room and grabbed Peter’s discarded rifle off the floor. Peter was still trying to crawl, able to move, all but paralyzed from the neck down. I fired into the back of his head.

Bang.

“She was my friend.”

Bang.

“You miserable fuck.”

Bang.

“You had one fucking job.

Bang.

“You ruin everything.”

Bang.

:You fuck up everything.”

Bang.

“You got her killed.”

Bang.

"And Pearl”

Bang.

“The bum.”

Bang.

“The teacher.”

Bang.

“The park.”

Bang.

I realized I wasn’t really firing at Peter anymore. I just didn’t have the balls to point the gun the right way before I pulled the trigger. Every single person who had mattered to me was gone. There weren’t a lot. Hardly any. But they were gone. The others. People that never knew me. People that I might’ve liked. Also gone. Anyone around me. They showed up, then they were gone. Over and over again.

It was my fault.

Peter’s head was skull soup at this point. My own blood fell down my leg but was now covering the front of me as well as every shot sent bits of Peter splattered on my clothes. I probably would’ve fired the entire clip, but something caught my attention. Ruslan’s bag. A long tube.

I’ll be 100% honest here, I fucking dreamed about this day. Betwixt my ever growing self-hatred for ruining everything around me in increasingly horrific patterns and my increasing loss of coherence associated with the almost indescribable compulsions towards sadistic rage welling up inside me, I found one of the few things in life that could jar me from my own personal torture. In fact, there is a whole generation of people out there who have shared this predilection.

I didn’t have a parental figures or a babysitter or a grandma when I was a kid. I had video games and action movies. Some kids probably grow up loving baseball because they got to throw with their dad. My father figures were on the screen, blasting the shit out of everything they could find. So not surprisingly, I think baseball is boring and rocket launchers are fucking awesome. They just are. They go fast and make explosions and blow shit up. That’s inherently pretty awesome. Lots of cool shit shoots rockets too. Tanks. Iron Man. A part of me was sad I was going to die in a luxury apartment complex and noted as the most evil bastard of all time, but another very real part of me felt that at least I was going to die doing something pretty fucking cool.

I scrambled for the bag. Inside was the RPG launcher he had used against the helicopter. Two more rocket powered grenades lay at the bottom of the bag. Ammo. A bulletproof vest. A big-ass fuck off knife. Everything I needed. I loaded the launcher and threw it over my shoulder. I added a new magazine to my recently acquired rifle and began making my way towards the emergency exit staircase, whistling a little tune to myself. Deathtrap or not, there wasn’t another way down at this point so might as well see what we can see. I flung the door open and was surprised to see half a dozen or more guys in black flying up the stairs a few flights below me. BIMPT? Peter’s crew? Who the fuck was Peter anyway? Was he with them? Was he a different group? How many people are trying to kill me now? I guess I’d never know. No matter. I leaned back into the apartment but stuck the barrel of the launcher out the door and fired around where I assumed the most people would be. I braced hard and almost fell on my face expecting a ton of recoil, but it turns out the open back on an RPG is intentional. The force is generated from the rocket itself, and not a contained explosion, hence, minimal recoil! Pretty cool! With that in mind, I loaded the other round and did the same. The sounds reverberated throughout the staircase nearly blowing out my eardrums, but it wouldn’t have mattered because I opened the door to silence. While I had silenced my interlopers, now either impaled by rubble 20 floors below, or reduced to bits and pieces by my RPG launcher, I had also eliminated my last remaining way out. The stairs were destroyed and there was a hole in the side of the build, rays of light now streaming through the small cracks open to the outside. My reaction to this could be classified as something between “NFL touchdown dance” and “child on Christmas.” Internally, I had to quote my hero O’Shea Jackson, “I have to say it was a good day.” I did mentally note that I was forced to use the equivalent of an AK though, so it wasn’t a perfect metaphor. I got to blow a bunch of dudes up with an RPG and I doubt Ice Cube ever did though, so… point Brunsen.

No matter, more would come, one way or another and when they did I would be here. I would be prepared. This was it. The final stand. The last showdown. I loaded everything I could find and I waited.

When the gas canisters came through the now tattered windows, I realized where I went awry. The most important step – don’t get caught – meant that the only thing I couldn’t afford to do was not get in a fight. I was trying as hard as I could to get the gun to my head and pull the trigger as I passed out. The shot went wide though, and I fell into yet another deep and peaceful slumber.