F.R.I.G.H.T. – A short Story for you entertainment:

F.R.I.G.H.T.

Foster sneered at the novel in front of him. ‘Writers! Shoot the bloody lot if I had my way.’ He leered at the scientist perched on the corner of his desk. ‘Who told him?’

The scientist inclined her head.

‘Not you, was it?’

She bridled, crossed pretty legs sharply. ‘Would I have brought it to your attention if I had?’

‘Could be covering yourself.’

‘By drawing attention to myself?’ She stood, leaned over him and shook blonde tresses. ‘Foster, you’re a prat. All the secret service is moronic, but you’re the moron of morons. That why they put you in charge?’

Bartlett, looming in the corner, moved enough to remind her of his menace. Foster smiled as she quailed. ‘Double bluff. You won’t know about such things, but I’ve seen it all.’

‘Only when it’s in your line of sight, like that book I just placed before you.’

‘Have to be an internal investigation.’ His eyes investigated the gaps in her lab coat and she squirmed.

‘I realise it’s beyond the wit of someone with the reasoning powers of an artichoke, Foster, but anyone with more than a dozen brain cells could work out the obvious answer.’

He waited.

‘I’ll spell it out. Ask the writer where he got the information, distorted as it is by imagination, to write his tedious work of fiction.’

‘Bound to come up with a name straight away, of course.’

‘With your powers of persuasion:’ she indicated Bartlett. ‘It shouldn’t be too difficult.’

‘He might be less willing than you expect. I’ll still have to probe the team in depth, especially you, my dear, as leader.’

‘Writers are hardly noted for their courage, Foster. A white-hot needle under a fingernail, a lighted match applied to a delicate part of the anatomy…’

‘Please. We’re not monsters.’

She glanced at Bartlett before she dared defiance. ‘Enforced immobility, coupled with exposure and threat: not monsters?’

Foreknowledge was a powerful tool in his armoury of persuasion, and he had made his methods well known. Bartlett took a half pace toward her at his almost imperceptible nod. She paled and moved away, frowning with fear at Foster’s ghastly smile. But he let her go. She could wait.

‘When I need to investigate you, I know where you are.’

She understood and left quickly.

He made calls laced with menace, sent Bartlett on an errand. Twenty minutes later, Foster’s flat screen monitor displayed the most recent television interview with the writer.

The man was desperate for publicity. He had begun the story, he claimed, couched in the terms of a novel but subsequent press interest had forced him to reconsider and admit his work of fiction was based on fact.

When the interviewer asked him how he had come by his information, Garth Gainford, for that was his chosen nom de plume, coyly hinted he knew someone high in Government research circles.

Foster combined fact, suspicion, conjecture, and desire to conclude that the scientist must be the source. She, after all, had developed the stuff and led the team in refining it to its current level of insidious perfection.

‘So, Garth, who gave you a Fright?’ Asked the interviewer.

‘Victoria, you know I couldn’t possibly place my source in danger. But she knows what she’s talking about.’

‘A woman, then?’

‘Naturally, I’m not persuaded by the other gender.’

The writer’s clumsy attempt at seduction irked Foster. The interviewer was married and respectable.

‘Tell me how you came up with the term, “Fright”, Garth.’

He smiled indulgently, leant forward and touched her knee. ‘Simple acronym, Victoria, derived from “Fear Releasing and Inducing Global Hyperactivity Therapy,”.’

Foster snorted; the real acronym was, ‘FeaR Instilling Great Horror Treatment’, which was accurate, if clumsy.

‘The Government seem reluctant to comment on your work of faction, Garth.’

‘Indeed, they do.’

Foster snarled. The bastard had put them in an impossible position. If they denied it absolutely, the press would naturally believe it was true. Should they admit to it, the furore could bring down the political leaders as well as the scientific community. No, they were stuck with ambiguity: ‘No comment.’

‘In your novel, “Injection of Fear”, you describe the effects of the drug in detail. Could you give our viewers a taste, Garth?’

Foster watched the writer warm to his task. ‘Enjoy it while you can, you bastard. It won’t last.’

‘Certainly. The drug is best administered in food or drink. Clear, odourless and almost tasteless, it’s easily disguised. It can be injected, hence the title, of course. But injection is dangerous: requires the victim to be restrained and can be fatal. It’s undetectable by normal forensic tests, so finding evidence will be nigh on impossible.’

‘You bet your complacent arse it will, Gainford.’

‘And what does it do?’

Garth sat back in his chair, far too relaxed for someone about to describe something so horrific and terrifying. ‘Depending on the victim, the effects begin with mild tension and ill-defined anxiety. Fear of something specific can be induced by exposing the victim to an object or an idea at the time the drug’s administered. So, you might feed it into a town’s water supply and then show images of books. Hey presto, the whole town develops a phobia of books. Think of such a weapon in the wrong hands.’

‘I hesitate to suggest this, Garth, but aren’t you in danger from the Government agency responsible for developing this drug?’

Foster nodded agreement at Victoria.

‘How do you mean, Victoria?’

‘Suppose they find a way of giving the drug to you, giving you a Fright, so to speak?’

Garth’s expression betrayed, for a fraction of a second, that this danger had not occurred to him. ‘Oh, I don’t think that’s likely. I mean, this is Britain, Victoria. We just don’t do things that way.’

Foster choked: was it possible the man was such a moron? He obviously wasn’t bright enough to have invented the idea, anyway.

‘So, Garth, Fright’s out there in the real world, waiting for its first victims. How should people respond to this threat?’

‘Make themselves familiar with the facts. And the best way they can do that is to read “Injection of Fear”.’

Victoria turned to the camera. ‘I’ve read Garth Gainford’s book, “Injection of Fear,” and I can thoroughly recommend it.’

Foster turned the recording off and sat back to think for a very short spell.

He and Bartlett found the sixth floor flat with ease. Foster’s knock was soft, civilised. Bartlett remained a discrete ogre behind him: silent, as required.

‘Good evening, Mr Gainford. Like a word.’

Gainford knew the men in dark suits were not benign and tried to close the door. Bartlett thrust the writer to the far side of the room and swung the door back on its hinges. He closed the door behind them and ensured it was locked.

‘We represent HMG. A small organisation you won’t know. No names: no identity cards. We are who we are and you’re subject to our needs.’

Foster nodded in two directions in turn and Bartlett propelled Gainford into his upright carver and stood behind him. One at a time, as Foster put one gloved finger to his lips and then began to talk again, Bartlett taped the writer’s arms securely to the chair.

‘We prefer not to gag those who are about to help us. Make any inappropriate noise, Gainford, and my colleague will demonstrate his agonising method of ensuring silence. Understand?’

Gainford nodded vigorously.

‘Splendid.’ Foster examined the windows, noting they opened easily and were wide enough to admit a body. The fall to the paving slabs was fifty to sixty feet. Adequate.

Behind Gainford, Bartlett cracked his knuckles in a manner suggestive of breaking bones.

Foster smiled unpleasantly as the writer blanched. ‘Won’t waste valuable time, Gainford. Reply to my questions using your normal voice. Too soft and my colleague may think you’re trying to conceal something. Too loud and he may believe you’re trying to get help. Okay?’

‘Right. Right, what do you want, Mr…?

‘Who told you about Fright?’ He watched Gainford relax and was surprised by the man’s acting ability.

‘Is that what this is all about? I knew I’d caused a bit of a flurry around Whitehall, but it’s all just hype for the book, gentlemen. There’s no basis in fact for it. Entirely the workings of my febrile imagination. I know I’ve been a bit of a thorn in the sides of our political masters, but no real harm done, eh? Always wanted a best seller and this one’s taken off like a rocket. Zoom!’

Foster nodded. ‘I see.’

Bartlett swung his arms wide and brought his leather-clad palms together very swiftly, with Gainford’s head in between. For a while, Foster was silent, knowing the writer would be temporarily deaf. The man certainly seemed dazed and perplexed.

‘I’ve no time for half-truths and lies. I require truth. Whole truth. Nothing but truth. Comprendi?’

Gainford nodded. ‘I thought I’d told you the truth. What do you want to know?’

The writer disappointed Foster by succumbing to fear so readily. Foster enjoyed a challenge, looked forward to peeling away defences and using his persuasive arts. Gainford was a pushover.

‘Name the person who told you about Fright.’

‘No one told me about it. How could they? It doesn’t exist. I made it up. Surely you don’t think…’

Gainford knew it was coming this time, seeing Foster’s brief nod. He tried to dodge the blow but succeeded only in causing Bartlett’s palms to slap the back of his head and his fingers to sting his ears. Foster considered; there would be pain and slight disorientation this time, but no deafness. He continued questioning.

‘You came across as an intelligent buffoon in your interview with Victoria. I’m a plain man. I deal with reality. The reality here, Gainford, is that I know the difference between truth and fabrication and you don’t. Who gave you the information?’

Gainford opened his mouth and closed it again for a moment’s thought. Foster conveyed encouragement.

Gainford opened his mouth again. ‘It was a woman, pretty and intelligent. I don’t know her name.’

‘You slept with this singular young woman without knowing her name?’

Gainford gave himself a split second to think. ‘It wasn’t that sort of transaction. She did it out of conscience.’

Foster nodded and Gainford threw his head forward swiftly, but no contact was made. Bartlett understood the difference between a nod as a signal and one indicating agreement.

‘Conscience? An odd motivate for someone capable of developing such a weapon. What did she look like?’

Gainford was into description without hesitation. ‘Blonde, blue eyes, early twenties, petite with a good figure and full red lips …’

Foster might have recognised the stereotypical heroin of the romantic novel had he read any such books, but he saw only the scientist, in spite of the difference in eye colour. ‘Enough! Thank you, Gainford. The bottle.’

Bartlett poured a measure of the writer’s malt. Foster moved out of Gainford’s range of vision and passed Bartlett a small glass vial, which he emptied into the glass. ‘We should join Mr Gainford.’

He poured two more glasses and passed one to Foster. Untaping Gainford’s right wrist, he placed the appropriate glass into his hand.

Foster and Bartlett downed their drinks in one. Gainford knew it would be a mistake to delay and sank his own drink. He shuddered at the unfamiliar, bitter aftertaste.

Bartlett took all three glasses into the kitchen and washed them.

Foster took a small box from his pocket, opened it and flicked a tiny, wriggling creature into Gainford’s lap. The writer frowned and shifted in his seat.

‘An ant: carrying a deadly virus.’

Gainford watched the insect scurrying in his lap and began to struggle in an attempt to dislodge it without actually touching it.

‘They’ve improved the drug since you first heard of it. If the victim’s shown a source of fear at the time he’s given the drug, that fear grows rapidly as the drug circulates. In your case, I’ve chosen infected ants as the trigger.’

‘Infected ants….? You’ve given me Fright?’

‘Of course.’

‘But it doesn’t exist. You can’t… I made it all …’

‘Pointless lying now, Gainford. You’ve just drunk some.’

Gainford was silent as the penny dropped.

‘You’re going to frighten me into silence.’

Foster flipped another ant on Gainford’s lap. ‘You can’t really think the State would let you get away with your treachery.’

The writer slapped at the insect in panic then withdrew the offending hand. ‘You’re going to kill me?’

Foster dropped another ant from the box. ‘We’re using “Fright” to cause you to kill yourself. By the way, it works more quickly than your book says.’

‘I’ll scream my head off!’

‘By all means. Screaming will add to the effect.’

Gainford was clearly about to yell at the top of his voice, but Bartlett’s massive hand sealed the orifice, stifling the cry at source.

‘Not yet, Gainford.’ Foster flicked a couple more ants into Gainford’s lap before signalling to Bartlett to release the remaining tape bindings.

Gainford was pale with terror, his eyes rolling, sweat dripping from his face. Too far gone to think clearly, his horror of the ants crawling on him overwhelmed all other sensations so he could no longer think. Escape was all.

Foster moved to the door and sprinkled more ants on the floor between himself and Gainford, cutting off that escape route. He tossed the open box of insects to Bartlett as he released the writer. ‘Just one bit of info. Any of those little critters touches you and you’re in for an excruciating death.’

Bartlett emptied the ants on and around the writer and opened a window.

They left the flat, closing the door behind them. The stillness was quickly filled by screams of terror. A final scream tailed off into silence.

As neighbours left their flats to investigate the cause of the disturbance, they discovered Bartlett and Foster, ungloved, approaching the writer’s flat. They knocked and rang the bell, but to no avail. Shrugging, they left.

‘You don’t think Gainford might’ve been telling the truth about coincidence and imagination, sir?’ Bartlett asked in the stairwell.

Foster smiled indulgently. ‘Bartlett, I think. That’s why I’m your boss.’

They glanced with appropriate concern through the small crowd on the pavement beneath the open window. The gathered expressions of revulsion, pity and schadenfreude confirmed his death.

Foster considered Bartlett’s shrewd assessment of the coincidence factor and shrugged. He thought about the power of suggestion for a moment and wondered what excuse he could have to broaden the investigation as he intended. But, as the pretty scientist trembled before his desk, he concluded that, in matters of State Security, whatever the outcome, whatever the known facts, the end always justified the means.

Ends

This short story is taken from my anthology of science fiction/fantasy stories published as Ten Tales For Tomorrow. You can find it through your usual supplier here, in digital form, if you want to read the rest.