"Refugees of the Group Mind"
"Refugees of the Group Mind"
7/13/1981
I.
He walked to forget. For half his life, since he was barely out of his teens, Gitano had been wandering without a destination, putting one foot in front of the other to keep his mind distant while his body moved.
On an July morning already too warm for comfort, he strode steadily past Forsythe Park with its playground and a tiny zoo with the most prominent specimen a black bear. Gitano wore sturdy hiking shoes, jeans and a dark blue flannel shirt with a well-worn denim jacket over it. A nearly empty knapsack strapped to his back held some socks, a plain white T-shirt, scissors and comb, a washcloth and towel. In his pockets were a folding knife, handkerchief, two cigarette lighters and eleven dollar in singles. No wallet, no ID, no keys. All he owned in the world, this was more than he usually possessed.
Gitano walked on, seemingly tireless as ever. He was not remarkable looking. An inch under six feet tall, wiry, he had a thick black hair and a short beard. His most striking feature was the mismatched nature of his hands. The left was long-fingered and artistic, the right was broad and sinewy with thick nails that curled like claws. Once people noticed those hands, they could not help staring.
As he headed up the gentle incline of the street, Gitano began to remember a little about this city. Kingston, first capital of New York State, for some reason was a nexus for Midnight War activity. Many eerie and unexplainable events had taken place here that the general public never heard about. Some of the old buildings of cobble stone had been built by the Dutch and were said to be haunted for three hundred years. In his foggy memory, he realized he had not been in Kingston for years. Why? Who could say? Certainly he didn't know.
Wrapped in his timeless limbo of thought, the wanderer observed the neat, impeccably maintained houses with their lawns manicured as if about to be inspected. One of the better neighborhoods. Here were doctors, lawyers, minor politicians. And here he hoped to find Garrison Nebel before it was too late.
Traffic was sparse. He crossed over onto Plymouth Avenue, read the numbers on the houses and located number 92. This was a one-story white frame building like a shingled roof and a tiny round garden encircled by black stones. He had forgotten Nebel's number long ago, or he would have phoned as he had passed the Trailways station.
A short path of flat shale stones led from the sidewalk to the front door. As soon as he set a foot on the first stone, the insolid attenae of his senses screamed a warning. Gitano's dark eyes narrowed. He held up his brutal right hand, gnarled fingers clenching and unclenching in readiness as he stepped up and pressed the doorbell.
No answer came. He tried again, glanced up and down the street but saw no one watching. The feeling of imminent danger was overwhelming. Gitano pressed his right hand against the door and the lock snapped cleanly even though he had not applied any pressure. The wanderer moved quickly inside, closing the door behind him, his right hand swinging from side to side as if it were a weapon in itself.
Gitano stalked through unoccuopied rooms, not calling Nebel's name, tense and jumpy. No one was here. The double bed was neatly made, the kitchen was tidy. there were no signs of any violence nor of Nebel having left hurriedly or against his will. Reluctantly, the wander lowered his shoulders and stood frowning in the living room while he thought.
He had only one other possible lead to follow. A year earlier, Nebel had given him an address and phone number where he might possibly be reached in a crisis. The number was long forgotten but the address had stuck in his mind because it was unusual. 7766 Browning Terrace. Not only did Gitano have more gaps in his memories than actual memories, he wasn't even aware of it. Any time his thoughts tried to dig into past, his mind recoiled violently.
Back outside, he took off at a trot just shy of breaking into a full run. Yes. He remembered Browning Terrace, only a few blocks away from Nebel's house. Here was a four story brick apartment building, with its own parking area. The ground floor apartments had small front yards no more than five feet to a side, the top floor apartments each boasted a standing platform outside the sliding windows. These were barely wide enough to qualify as balconies.
Inside the lobby was a bank of name tags next to white buttons. What the hell was the name again? Gilliard, yes. He pressed the button next to GILLIARD, M/DEWITT, J and a buzzer sounded as the inner door unlocked. From a speaker atop the tags came a young woman's voice, "Finally! Come on up."
Gitano swung open the inner door and rushed up the staircase beyond with such frantic haste that he was unaware of a hand catching that door before it could close and lock again.
II.
When Gitano knocked on the door to 2B, it opened immediately and a tall young woman nearly embraced him before catching herself. "Oh! You're not Garrison."
"No, I'm looking for him. You're Michelle, right? He spoke highly of you."
"That's nice to hear. But I don't know where he is. I haven't heard from him in three days and we had reservations at La Rive tonight." With long straight brown hair and even features, she was pleasant but not exceptional looking. Michelle Gilliard was wearing a maroon sweatshirt two sizes larger than she needed over what seemed to be a black leotard. She had dancer's legs. "Who are you?"
"I'm called Gitano," the wanderer said. "I used to know Garrison a few years ago, I helped him with a few of his first books."
She tilted her head and regarded him quizzically. "Hmm. That was before I met him. I'm so worried, it's not like him to drop out of sight like this. He hasn't answerered his phone and he hasn't called me like he usually does. But I haven't called the police to report him missing, I don't think they'd take me seriously."
"I'm going to search for him," Gitano said. "Do you know..."
"Adrian!" boomed a deep voice behind him, and a strong hand slapped hard between his shoulder blades to shove him up against Michelle. They both stumbled, nearly falling, and in that moment, three men crowded into the apartment and closed the door.
Wheeling to face them, Gitano raised a right hand which had nearly doubled in size to show thick gnarled fingers and nails long as talons. Black hair seemed more like fur on its back. But he never got the chance to attack. Even though the air was still in that apartment, what felt like hurricane winds smashed against him to drive him back against his will... winds not physical but only perceived.
The mind effect. He recalled it now. Yes, that was what had ruined his life, had driven him to roam aimlessly for a decade. The coercion of the Group Mind. Remembering that, he recognized Prime.
Standing in front of two big bruisers was a prim older man in an impeccable white suit and tie, complete with vest and polished dress shoes. He stood with hands clasped behind him, a deeply lined face impassive and only the deep light brown eyes alive and active. "We knew you had returned, Adrian," he announced in a flat monotone.
"Prime, you bastard! I prayed to never see you again," Gitano snarled, still striving to advance against the invisible force pushing him back. "What have you done to Garrison Nebel?"
The man called Prime did not visibly react. He stood as still as any mannequin, only a slight movement of his chest showing that he breathed. "Nebel lives and is well. He is not far from here. We will bring you to him, if you wish."
"Like I can believe you." The mind effect slacked off. Gitano stumbled but caught himself as the pressure vanished. "But what choice do I have? All right. I'll go with you."
Michelle had been watching and listening with first outrage and then determination on her face. "I'm going with you as well, whoever you are. Garrison means the world to me. I want to see for myself that he's okay."
"What? Michelle, these are not mortal Men," Gitano snapped at her. "They represent a danger like nothing you have ever dreamed could exist. You need to stay here."
"Like. Hell."
Prime finally moved, unclasping his hands and turning his body slightly to one side so Gitano could get past him. "Come with us." The two bigger men shared much of Prime's stoic presence, there was no fidgeting or shifting of weight with them. Their air of menace came from their imposing size and from the cold flat stares they fixed on Gitano and Michelle.
Two of the brutes preceded Gitano and Michelle from the apartment and Prime and the third man behind them, allowing the girl to snatch up a small shoulder bag and to lock the door before leaving. They went down the stairs and out into the parking lot where a new dark Chevy panel van gleamed in the summer sunlight. The windows were lightly tinted, but it bore no identifying logos or airbrushed details.
Once the two prisoners were settled in the rear compatment with two of the Group Mind watching them, Prime took the front passenger seat and allowed the remaining thug to drive, turning left on Linderman Avenue and heading out of town. They were silent for so long that finally Michelle broke the silence.
"You better start explaining some of this, my friend."
Gitano gave her a sad resigned look. "You must have read some of his books and discussed the Midnight War with him."
"Midnight War...? THAT stuff? It's fun in a goofy science fiction sort of way, but that's all it is."
"If only that were true," Gitano responded. "No such luck. Garrison wasn't writing fiction. For someone who isn't even thirty yet, he's become a leading expert on the most obscure Midnight War history and lore."
"Feh," she scoffed. "Come on. All that fluff about Seven Races with Trolls and skull-faced men and men with rattlesnake fangs? Or the so-called adjacent realms all around us that you can only reach by magic? I mean, pull the other leg." But the bleak expression on Gitano's face wiped the scorn from her voice. "You're serious? You are!"
The wanderer gazed from their bench to where the two Group Mind goons were kneeling against the van wall, watching, ready to intervene if ordered. Gitano exhaled and lowered his head. "You'll find out, Michelle, I only hope you don't regret your decision to come with me."
III.
The van had rolled along a remote side road twenty miles from town, with houses isolated by large empty fields and untouched forest. Ahead stood a red house two stories high, with a separate garage whose open doors revealed a pick-up truck and a white Lincoln sedan. As they came to a halt near that garage, a dozen people marched toward them from various directions.
The members of the Group Mind had little else in common other than their election to the consciousness. They were an assortment of races and ages, equally divided between male and female. It was the way they moved in unison to line up without a word that gave their assembly such eerie undertones.
The old man called Prime walked over to stand in front of the line-up, watching Gitano and Michelle climb down from the van. "You have not yet decided to rejoin the consciousness, Adrian."
"What's this Adrian business?" the wanderer asked.
"We agree you are not ready to have your mental blocks removed. Michelle, you have done your part as agreed. After today, you will be rewarded by the humbling of one for whom you bear a grudge."
"And what the hell does THAT mean?" demanded Gitano. "Michelle, you're Garrison's girlfriend. What is he talking about when he says you've 'done your part?'"
"Beats me. I just want to see that Garrison's all right with my own eyes."
Something in her voice gave her away, some hesitation made her words ring false. Gitano let it slide for the moment. "Obviously you weirdos have some sort of religious cult going on here. I don't care about that, let me talk to Garrison if he's actually here."
"Follow this one," said Prime. Without any signal being given, the members of the Group Mind dispersed and went about their tasks. Some were clearing up the area, two had the hood up on the Lincoln and were doing maintenance, others disappeared into the woods beyond the limits of the property.
Heading for the back door of the red house, the spokesman for the Group Mind did not look back to see if the outsiders were following. He paused before entering as if listening to a voice only he could hear.
More apprehensive than ever, Gitano entertained a panicky desire to flee, to take off at a run into the trees and run until he dropped exhausted. No. He had been running for the past ten years, he realized, and yet here he was back where he had started. He needed resolution.
In the unremarkable living room, with its couch, coffee table and televison, Prime pointed at a closed door. "Your unaffiliated minds will express emotions for several minutes," Prime told them with perhaps the faintest undertone of disdain in his voice. "We will allow you to work through that." Without further explanation, the old man moved on toward the stairs and ascended out of sight.
Left to their own volition, Gitano and Michelle glanced uncertainly at each other. Then the wanderer took a breath and opened the door to look in on a bedroom with travel posters still on the wall from the previous occupants. Stretched out on the four-poster bed, a damp cloth over his eyes, lay Garrison Nebel.
IV.
Nebel was a tall, lanky man with long arms and legs. His light brown hair was cut so short his head might as well have been shaved. Dressed in simple black slacks and an olive-green polo shirt, his long body was in repose with arms down at his sides, breathing slow and deep. Over his eyes was a damp washcloth.
"Oh my God! There you are!" cried Michelle, rushing over to embrace his prone form. Nebel was slow to react. Only after a full ten seconds passed did his arms rise to rest on her shoulders. He sat up, the cloth falling from his face.
When his eyes opened, the pupils were revealed to be opaque white.
"What did they DO to you?" she gasped. "Oh, honey."
"It's okay, Michelle," he said in his deep bass. "It'll be for the best. Who else is here? Is that...Gitano?"
"You can still see a little?" the wanderer asked, drawing closer.
"No. Not at all. But other doors are opening. It's hard to explain." Nebel sat up fully, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed.
"I never meant for anything like this to happen," Michelle said, still holding on to him.
Gitano scowled, "What? What did you mean to happen?"
"Nothing. I'm confused. I'm upset. Don't give me a hard time."
"Let it go, Gitano. I'm starting to understand everything now." Nebel leaned forward, covering his face with his hands. "The Group Mind has created something they couldn't have predicted."
"Will you PLEASE explain what's going on?" she begged. "Who are these horrible people? Why did they blind you? I don't understand any of this."
"The Group Mind is a collective consciousness of three hundred people, all over the Northeast. Once you join, you lose your individual personality, it gets submerged in the union. Those people out there are phyically working and breathing, but the individuals they once were are gone forever. Think of them as a colony of ants with no personal egos or awareness. Their bodies are controlled by the collective."
"That's the scariest thing I've ever heard," she breathed.
"And yet you were working for them."
"Now I get it," Gitano broke in. "This Group Mind was looking for Garrison. Michelle, you told them where he was. Why? Why would you do that?"
The young woman rose to her feet. Her face froze into a cold mask and she stepped back away from everyone. "All right. We might as well get it out into the open. You've been neglecting me for weeks, Garrison. I know you're tired of seeing me. A girl can tell. I deserve better."
"Yes. Sadly true," he said. "I put off breaking up with you when I should have been honest and gotten it over with. But I didn't want to hurt you."
"Well, I wanted to hurt YOU!" she snapped. "Prime contacted me one day out of nowhere. He spun a whole complicated story about how you had swindled him out of thousands of dollars on a publishing contract. He only wanted to find you so he could have his lawyers settle things. Maybe I could give him your address. I thought, sure, why not? You could stand a little payback."
Nebel responded without anger, only a deep melancholy. "How little any of us know the human heart, Michelle. I only hope we live long enough to understand. Gitano, Prime will be back to check on us soon. Be ready for action."
"Really? Great! I'm starting to remember how much I hated this Group Mind."
"With good reason, my friend." Nebel was facing the door as it opened. "My gralic perception is growing clearer each minute. I will never see with my eyes again, but the teachings of Tel Shai tell us there are other ways."
The man called Prime entered, but for the first time that day, he showed uncertainty, even confusion. "We felt your individual mind stir, Garrison. You are not ready yet for assimilation."
"You're starting to have doubts, aren't you?" Nebel said with a faint smile.
"We can be patient until you accept assimilation. Our goal is to not only increase in numbers but to include bodies which have exceptional skills. We sense that in you... as we saw that potential in Adrian Harmon ten years ago."
Hearing the name he had buried deep in his mind triggered a flood of memories in Gitano. The fog lifted with a snap. He remembered being barely out of his teens when a different Prime had approached him and Ruth. Ruth. With her name came the clear vivid image of that hopeful little face, the thoughtful eyes and the quick smile. He remembered how Ruth had not been able to be assimilated into the collective consciousness as many other people also were incompatible. The Group Mind had decided she knew too much about them to remain alive.
Once again, he saw two of the Group Mind seize her without warning and heave her over the railing of the Mid-Hudson Bridge. It had been a bitter cold night with heavy snow, and Gitano saw again in his mind's eye that traumatic sight of her flailing body surrounded by white flakes as she fell. Her death was ruled a suicide for lack of other evidence.
That was what he had been running from all this time! That was why his thoughts never allowed themselves to return to the past. The flood of pain and regret roared through him almost unbearably. Then it turned to anger. Lunging forward, he clamped his right hand around Prime's throat and used his gralic power more fully than he ever had before. Skin seared and crackled under that deadly touch, neck bones splintered and Gitano threw the corpse to one side with loathing.
V.
"Run for the garage," Nebel urged him. "Killing this one won't stop the Group Mind."
"What about me? Take me with you," Michelle pleaded.
With Gitano already sprinting from the bedroom, Nebel followed with replying to her. Michelle Gilliard stood indecisive for a beat too long and was left behind.
Outside, eleven bodies of the Group Mind were marching stolidly to form a line. Gitano raced headlong at them, leaping up off the ground to slam the nearest man into the others, knocking several down. His right hand had swollen into a monstrous paw twice its normal size. When he swatted left and right with it, bodies dropped with hearts shocked into full arrest.
Overlooked for the moment, Garrison Nebel sensed rather than saw the outline of the white van. He climbed up into the driver's seat, found the keys were in the ignition and started it up. A blind man at the wheel, the van backed up over two more of the Group Mind with apalling crunches.
"Get in! Gitano, get in!" he shouted.
"Go! Go, I'm not leaving," yelled the wanderer in response. He was surrounded by seven of the Group Mind, circling him in lockstep, faces still impassive.
Nebel never knew if he made the right decision in complying. It was what Gitano wanted, but still he often thought he should have stayed and fought even if it meant dying with the wanderer. Even though Nebel could not literally see, his new perception gave him enough awareness of his environment that he steered the van out onto the road without incident. He would abandon the vehicle once he had put some distance behind him.
After the first few seconds of Gitano's onslaught, the Group Mind asserted itself. Six flesh and blood brains united into one powerful consciousness, the collective intelligence exerted its full power into a stunning telepathic bolt. Gitano reeled and nearly fell. He clutched at his head, screamed and lurched away. Coherent thought fell away and was lost. The wanderer raced off into the woods, the survivors of the Group Mind not pursuing.
Running until he had to catch his breath, Gitano dropped panting against a tree near the edge of a back road. His heart pounded alarmingly. He waited until he felt back to normal, then shakily got to his feet. What had been going on today? Probably nothing much. One day was like any other day to him. Stepping up onto the road, he chose to go right without any reason. His knapsack was still strapped to his back, he had a few dollars to grab a sandwich or something when he eventually came to a store. Time to get going again. Gitano walked to forget.
3/7/1972 - Rev 10/21/2021
7/13/1981
I.
He walked to forget. For half his life, since he was barely out of his teens, Gitano had been wandering without a destination, putting one foot in front of the other to keep his mind distant while his body moved.
On an July morning already too warm for comfort, he strode steadily past Forsythe Park with its playground and a tiny zoo with the most prominent specimen a black bear. Gitano wore sturdy hiking shoes, jeans and a dark blue flannel shirt with a well-worn denim jacket over it. A nearly empty knapsack strapped to his back held some socks, a plain white T-shirt, scissors and comb, a washcloth and towel. In his pockets were a folding knife, handkerchief, two cigarette lighters and eleven dollar in singles. No wallet, no ID, no keys. All he owned in the world, this was more than he usually possessed.
Gitano walked on, seemingly tireless as ever. He was not remarkable looking. An inch under six feet tall, wiry, he had a thick black hair and a short beard. His most striking feature was the mismatched nature of his hands. The left was long-fingered and artistic, the right was broad and sinewy with thick nails that curled like claws. Once people noticed those hands, they could not help staring.
As he headed up the gentle incline of the street, Gitano began to remember a little about this city. Kingston, first capital of New York State, for some reason was a nexus for Midnight War activity. Many eerie and unexplainable events had taken place here that the general public never heard about. Some of the old buildings of cobble stone had been built by the Dutch and were said to be haunted for three hundred years. In his foggy memory, he realized he had not been in Kingston for years. Why? Who could say? Certainly he didn't know.
Wrapped in his timeless limbo of thought, the wanderer observed the neat, impeccably maintained houses with their lawns manicured as if about to be inspected. One of the better neighborhoods. Here were doctors, lawyers, minor politicians. And here he hoped to find Garrison Nebel before it was too late.
Traffic was sparse. He crossed over onto Plymouth Avenue, read the numbers on the houses and located number 92. This was a one-story white frame building like a shingled roof and a tiny round garden encircled by black stones. He had forgotten Nebel's number long ago, or he would have phoned as he had passed the Trailways station.
A short path of flat shale stones led from the sidewalk to the front door. As soon as he set a foot on the first stone, the insolid attenae of his senses screamed a warning. Gitano's dark eyes narrowed. He held up his brutal right hand, gnarled fingers clenching and unclenching in readiness as he stepped up and pressed the doorbell.
No answer came. He tried again, glanced up and down the street but saw no one watching. The feeling of imminent danger was overwhelming. Gitano pressed his right hand against the door and the lock snapped cleanly even though he had not applied any pressure. The wanderer moved quickly inside, closing the door behind him, his right hand swinging from side to side as if it were a weapon in itself.
Gitano stalked through unoccuopied rooms, not calling Nebel's name, tense and jumpy. No one was here. The double bed was neatly made, the kitchen was tidy. there were no signs of any violence nor of Nebel having left hurriedly or against his will. Reluctantly, the wander lowered his shoulders and stood frowning in the living room while he thought.
He had only one other possible lead to follow. A year earlier, Nebel had given him an address and phone number where he might possibly be reached in a crisis. The number was long forgotten but the address had stuck in his mind because it was unusual. 7766 Browning Terrace. Not only did Gitano have more gaps in his memories than actual memories, he wasn't even aware of it. Any time his thoughts tried to dig into past, his mind recoiled violently.
Back outside, he took off at a trot just shy of breaking into a full run. Yes. He remembered Browning Terrace, only a few blocks away from Nebel's house. Here was a four story brick apartment building, with its own parking area. The ground floor apartments had small front yards no more than five feet to a side, the top floor apartments each boasted a standing platform outside the sliding windows. These were barely wide enough to qualify as balconies.
Inside the lobby was a bank of name tags next to white buttons. What the hell was the name again? Gilliard, yes. He pressed the button next to GILLIARD, M/DEWITT, J and a buzzer sounded as the inner door unlocked. From a speaker atop the tags came a young woman's voice, "Finally! Come on up."
Gitano swung open the inner door and rushed up the staircase beyond with such frantic haste that he was unaware of a hand catching that door before it could close and lock again.
II.
When Gitano knocked on the door to 2B, it opened immediately and a tall young woman nearly embraced him before catching herself. "Oh! You're not Garrison."
"No, I'm looking for him. You're Michelle, right? He spoke highly of you."
"That's nice to hear. But I don't know where he is. I haven't heard from him in three days and we had reservations at La Rive tonight." With long straight brown hair and even features, she was pleasant but not exceptional looking. Michelle Gilliard was wearing a maroon sweatshirt two sizes larger than she needed over what seemed to be a black leotard. She had dancer's legs. "Who are you?"
"I'm called Gitano," the wanderer said. "I used to know Garrison a few years ago, I helped him with a few of his first books."
She tilted her head and regarded him quizzically. "Hmm. That was before I met him. I'm so worried, it's not like him to drop out of sight like this. He hasn't answerered his phone and he hasn't called me like he usually does. But I haven't called the police to report him missing, I don't think they'd take me seriously."
"I'm going to search for him," Gitano said. "Do you know..."
"Adrian!" boomed a deep voice behind him, and a strong hand slapped hard between his shoulder blades to shove him up against Michelle. They both stumbled, nearly falling, and in that moment, three men crowded into the apartment and closed the door.
Wheeling to face them, Gitano raised a right hand which had nearly doubled in size to show thick gnarled fingers and nails long as talons. Black hair seemed more like fur on its back. But he never got the chance to attack. Even though the air was still in that apartment, what felt like hurricane winds smashed against him to drive him back against his will... winds not physical but only perceived.
The mind effect. He recalled it now. Yes, that was what had ruined his life, had driven him to roam aimlessly for a decade. The coercion of the Group Mind. Remembering that, he recognized Prime.
Standing in front of two big bruisers was a prim older man in an impeccable white suit and tie, complete with vest and polished dress shoes. He stood with hands clasped behind him, a deeply lined face impassive and only the deep light brown eyes alive and active. "We knew you had returned, Adrian," he announced in a flat monotone.
"Prime, you bastard! I prayed to never see you again," Gitano snarled, still striving to advance against the invisible force pushing him back. "What have you done to Garrison Nebel?"
The man called Prime did not visibly react. He stood as still as any mannequin, only a slight movement of his chest showing that he breathed. "Nebel lives and is well. He is not far from here. We will bring you to him, if you wish."
"Like I can believe you." The mind effect slacked off. Gitano stumbled but caught himself as the pressure vanished. "But what choice do I have? All right. I'll go with you."
Michelle had been watching and listening with first outrage and then determination on her face. "I'm going with you as well, whoever you are. Garrison means the world to me. I want to see for myself that he's okay."
"What? Michelle, these are not mortal Men," Gitano snapped at her. "They represent a danger like nothing you have ever dreamed could exist. You need to stay here."
"Like. Hell."
Prime finally moved, unclasping his hands and turning his body slightly to one side so Gitano could get past him. "Come with us." The two bigger men shared much of Prime's stoic presence, there was no fidgeting or shifting of weight with them. Their air of menace came from their imposing size and from the cold flat stares they fixed on Gitano and Michelle.
Two of the brutes preceded Gitano and Michelle from the apartment and Prime and the third man behind them, allowing the girl to snatch up a small shoulder bag and to lock the door before leaving. They went down the stairs and out into the parking lot where a new dark Chevy panel van gleamed in the summer sunlight. The windows were lightly tinted, but it bore no identifying logos or airbrushed details.
Once the two prisoners were settled in the rear compatment with two of the Group Mind watching them, Prime took the front passenger seat and allowed the remaining thug to drive, turning left on Linderman Avenue and heading out of town. They were silent for so long that finally Michelle broke the silence.
"You better start explaining some of this, my friend."
Gitano gave her a sad resigned look. "You must have read some of his books and discussed the Midnight War with him."
"Midnight War...? THAT stuff? It's fun in a goofy science fiction sort of way, but that's all it is."
"If only that were true," Gitano responded. "No such luck. Garrison wasn't writing fiction. For someone who isn't even thirty yet, he's become a leading expert on the most obscure Midnight War history and lore."
"Feh," she scoffed. "Come on. All that fluff about Seven Races with Trolls and skull-faced men and men with rattlesnake fangs? Or the so-called adjacent realms all around us that you can only reach by magic? I mean, pull the other leg." But the bleak expression on Gitano's face wiped the scorn from her voice. "You're serious? You are!"
The wanderer gazed from their bench to where the two Group Mind goons were kneeling against the van wall, watching, ready to intervene if ordered. Gitano exhaled and lowered his head. "You'll find out, Michelle, I only hope you don't regret your decision to come with me."
III.
The van had rolled along a remote side road twenty miles from town, with houses isolated by large empty fields and untouched forest. Ahead stood a red house two stories high, with a separate garage whose open doors revealed a pick-up truck and a white Lincoln sedan. As they came to a halt near that garage, a dozen people marched toward them from various directions.
The members of the Group Mind had little else in common other than their election to the consciousness. They were an assortment of races and ages, equally divided between male and female. It was the way they moved in unison to line up without a word that gave their assembly such eerie undertones.
The old man called Prime walked over to stand in front of the line-up, watching Gitano and Michelle climb down from the van. "You have not yet decided to rejoin the consciousness, Adrian."
"What's this Adrian business?" the wanderer asked.
"We agree you are not ready to have your mental blocks removed. Michelle, you have done your part as agreed. After today, you will be rewarded by the humbling of one for whom you bear a grudge."
"And what the hell does THAT mean?" demanded Gitano. "Michelle, you're Garrison's girlfriend. What is he talking about when he says you've 'done your part?'"
"Beats me. I just want to see that Garrison's all right with my own eyes."
Something in her voice gave her away, some hesitation made her words ring false. Gitano let it slide for the moment. "Obviously you weirdos have some sort of religious cult going on here. I don't care about that, let me talk to Garrison if he's actually here."
"Follow this one," said Prime. Without any signal being given, the members of the Group Mind dispersed and went about their tasks. Some were clearing up the area, two had the hood up on the Lincoln and were doing maintenance, others disappeared into the woods beyond the limits of the property.
Heading for the back door of the red house, the spokesman for the Group Mind did not look back to see if the outsiders were following. He paused before entering as if listening to a voice only he could hear.
More apprehensive than ever, Gitano entertained a panicky desire to flee, to take off at a run into the trees and run until he dropped exhausted. No. He had been running for the past ten years, he realized, and yet here he was back where he had started. He needed resolution.
In the unremarkable living room, with its couch, coffee table and televison, Prime pointed at a closed door. "Your unaffiliated minds will express emotions for several minutes," Prime told them with perhaps the faintest undertone of disdain in his voice. "We will allow you to work through that." Without further explanation, the old man moved on toward the stairs and ascended out of sight.
Left to their own volition, Gitano and Michelle glanced uncertainly at each other. Then the wanderer took a breath and opened the door to look in on a bedroom with travel posters still on the wall from the previous occupants. Stretched out on the four-poster bed, a damp cloth over his eyes, lay Garrison Nebel.
IV.
Nebel was a tall, lanky man with long arms and legs. His light brown hair was cut so short his head might as well have been shaved. Dressed in simple black slacks and an olive-green polo shirt, his long body was in repose with arms down at his sides, breathing slow and deep. Over his eyes was a damp washcloth.
"Oh my God! There you are!" cried Michelle, rushing over to embrace his prone form. Nebel was slow to react. Only after a full ten seconds passed did his arms rise to rest on her shoulders. He sat up, the cloth falling from his face.
When his eyes opened, the pupils were revealed to be opaque white.
"What did they DO to you?" she gasped. "Oh, honey."
"It's okay, Michelle," he said in his deep bass. "It'll be for the best. Who else is here? Is that...Gitano?"
"You can still see a little?" the wanderer asked, drawing closer.
"No. Not at all. But other doors are opening. It's hard to explain." Nebel sat up fully, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed.
"I never meant for anything like this to happen," Michelle said, still holding on to him.
Gitano scowled, "What? What did you mean to happen?"
"Nothing. I'm confused. I'm upset. Don't give me a hard time."
"Let it go, Gitano. I'm starting to understand everything now." Nebel leaned forward, covering his face with his hands. "The Group Mind has created something they couldn't have predicted."
"Will you PLEASE explain what's going on?" she begged. "Who are these horrible people? Why did they blind you? I don't understand any of this."
"The Group Mind is a collective consciousness of three hundred people, all over the Northeast. Once you join, you lose your individual personality, it gets submerged in the union. Those people out there are phyically working and breathing, but the individuals they once were are gone forever. Think of them as a colony of ants with no personal egos or awareness. Their bodies are controlled by the collective."
"That's the scariest thing I've ever heard," she breathed.
"And yet you were working for them."
"Now I get it," Gitano broke in. "This Group Mind was looking for Garrison. Michelle, you told them where he was. Why? Why would you do that?"
The young woman rose to her feet. Her face froze into a cold mask and she stepped back away from everyone. "All right. We might as well get it out into the open. You've been neglecting me for weeks, Garrison. I know you're tired of seeing me. A girl can tell. I deserve better."
"Yes. Sadly true," he said. "I put off breaking up with you when I should have been honest and gotten it over with. But I didn't want to hurt you."
"Well, I wanted to hurt YOU!" she snapped. "Prime contacted me one day out of nowhere. He spun a whole complicated story about how you had swindled him out of thousands of dollars on a publishing contract. He only wanted to find you so he could have his lawyers settle things. Maybe I could give him your address. I thought, sure, why not? You could stand a little payback."
Nebel responded without anger, only a deep melancholy. "How little any of us know the human heart, Michelle. I only hope we live long enough to understand. Gitano, Prime will be back to check on us soon. Be ready for action."
"Really? Great! I'm starting to remember how much I hated this Group Mind."
"With good reason, my friend." Nebel was facing the door as it opened. "My gralic perception is growing clearer each minute. I will never see with my eyes again, but the teachings of Tel Shai tell us there are other ways."
The man called Prime entered, but for the first time that day, he showed uncertainty, even confusion. "We felt your individual mind stir, Garrison. You are not ready yet for assimilation."
"You're starting to have doubts, aren't you?" Nebel said with a faint smile.
"We can be patient until you accept assimilation. Our goal is to not only increase in numbers but to include bodies which have exceptional skills. We sense that in you... as we saw that potential in Adrian Harmon ten years ago."
Hearing the name he had buried deep in his mind triggered a flood of memories in Gitano. The fog lifted with a snap. He remembered being barely out of his teens when a different Prime had approached him and Ruth. Ruth. With her name came the clear vivid image of that hopeful little face, the thoughtful eyes and the quick smile. He remembered how Ruth had not been able to be assimilated into the collective consciousness as many other people also were incompatible. The Group Mind had decided she knew too much about them to remain alive.
Once again, he saw two of the Group Mind seize her without warning and heave her over the railing of the Mid-Hudson Bridge. It had been a bitter cold night with heavy snow, and Gitano saw again in his mind's eye that traumatic sight of her flailing body surrounded by white flakes as she fell. Her death was ruled a suicide for lack of other evidence.
That was what he had been running from all this time! That was why his thoughts never allowed themselves to return to the past. The flood of pain and regret roared through him almost unbearably. Then it turned to anger. Lunging forward, he clamped his right hand around Prime's throat and used his gralic power more fully than he ever had before. Skin seared and crackled under that deadly touch, neck bones splintered and Gitano threw the corpse to one side with loathing.
V.
"Run for the garage," Nebel urged him. "Killing this one won't stop the Group Mind."
"What about me? Take me with you," Michelle pleaded.
With Gitano already sprinting from the bedroom, Nebel followed with replying to her. Michelle Gilliard stood indecisive for a beat too long and was left behind.
Outside, eleven bodies of the Group Mind were marching stolidly to form a line. Gitano raced headlong at them, leaping up off the ground to slam the nearest man into the others, knocking several down. His right hand had swollen into a monstrous paw twice its normal size. When he swatted left and right with it, bodies dropped with hearts shocked into full arrest.
Overlooked for the moment, Garrison Nebel sensed rather than saw the outline of the white van. He climbed up into the driver's seat, found the keys were in the ignition and started it up. A blind man at the wheel, the van backed up over two more of the Group Mind with apalling crunches.
"Get in! Gitano, get in!" he shouted.
"Go! Go, I'm not leaving," yelled the wanderer in response. He was surrounded by seven of the Group Mind, circling him in lockstep, faces still impassive.
Nebel never knew if he made the right decision in complying. It was what Gitano wanted, but still he often thought he should have stayed and fought even if it meant dying with the wanderer. Even though Nebel could not literally see, his new perception gave him enough awareness of his environment that he steered the van out onto the road without incident. He would abandon the vehicle once he had put some distance behind him.
After the first few seconds of Gitano's onslaught, the Group Mind asserted itself. Six flesh and blood brains united into one powerful consciousness, the collective intelligence exerted its full power into a stunning telepathic bolt. Gitano reeled and nearly fell. He clutched at his head, screamed and lurched away. Coherent thought fell away and was lost. The wanderer raced off into the woods, the survivors of the Group Mind not pursuing.
Running until he had to catch his breath, Gitano dropped panting against a tree near the edge of a back road. His heart pounded alarmingly. He waited until he felt back to normal, then shakily got to his feet. What had been going on today? Probably nothing much. One day was like any other day to him. Stepping up onto the road, he chose to go right without any reason. His knapsack was still strapped to his back, he had a few dollars to grab a sandwich or something when he eventually came to a store. Time to get going again. Gitano walked to forget.
3/7/1972 - Rev 10/21/2021