Seven Deadly Tales of Terror Read Online Free Page B

you, John, I’m not attempting to elicit a humorous reaction.”
    John flinched but did not retreat as Mike approached him and pressed the gun into his right hand, forcing him to curl his fingers around the grip of the pistol. Once the gun was securely within John’s grip, Mike moved back several steps, glanced briefly at the smart watch strapped around his hairy wrist, and shifted his gaze back to John.
    His tone was stern and devoid of even the slightest trace of mirth as he said, “Put the gun in your mouth, John.”
    John glanced at the gun. He tried willing his fingers to uncurl and allow the ugly weapon to fall to the floor. Instead the gun came to his mouth. Then it went inside his mouth and in another moment the sight was wedged painfully against his soft palette. He trembled and whimpered and longed to yank the gun away, but he just stood there, powerless, no longer in control of his own actions.
    Mike’s expression remained mostly emotionless, but there was a small hint of smug satisfaction at the corners of his mouth. “You’re probably wondering how this is happening. And you’re probably wondering why you’re best friend since childhood is compelling you to do this.”
    John could not nod. He just whimpered some more. His bladder loosened and a flood of piss stained the crotch of his briefs.
    Mike’s nose crinkled slightly in distaste. “The answer is simple. I’m not your best friend. In fact, before I walked through your front door a few minutes ago, you’d never met me before. Everything you know about our history together is a fiction. It is an elaborate tale woven into the code of the implant in your neck, which was not put there by little green men. Since you’re about to die and take the secret to your grave, there’s no harm in telling you that it’s an experimental mind control device developed by rogue elements of your own government, for whom I work, albeit in a necessarily secret capacity.” Now he smiled again, more broadly than before. “Your tax dollars at work.”
    John couldn’t believe any of this. It was crazy. He’d shared so much of his life with this guy, countless things that were an integral part of the fabric of his existence. No way could those things all be products of computer code.
    Mike sighed. “You don’t believe me.”
    John managed to mutter the word “no”, though it was muffled by the barrel of the gun.
    “Device,” Mike said, his tone turning more precise as he pitched his voice louder. “Cycle red, directive one, wipe.”
    The moment the word “wipe” was spoken, John knew he was staring at a stranger. Everything the man had said was true. The truth about his life came back in an instant. He was a lonely, broken-down alcoholic. He had no friends. None that were still alive, anyway.
    Tears spilled down his face.
    His heart thudded painfully in his chest.
    Mike cleared his throat, straightened his tie, and said, “I’ll take the device with me when I leave. The angle of the shot about to split your head wide open should erase any evidence of its insertion. The gun is registered in your name. Yes, I know you’ve never owned a gun before. We’ve arranged everything, all the paperwork and the suicide note you were compelled to write before device insertion last night.”
    “Please,” John managed, the tears spilling faster and hotter down his face. “Don’t.”
    Mike ignored this plea and said, “Your country thanks you for your service and your contribution to our ongoing mind control studies.”
    John screamed. He glared at his hand, tried again to regain control over his body and pull out the gun.
    To no avail.
    “Device,” Mike said, again speaking in that loud, clear tone. “End program.”
    John’s forefinger began to squeeze the trigger.
    He managed one last muffled scream.
    The last thing he saw before the bullet blew out the back of his head were the unforgiving, soulless eyes of the stranger, which were faultlessly observant and