Herb Hefner’s eyes are bloodshot. They have trouble focusing. His face flushes as his eyes narrow on the camera.
Hefner: Good morning, Cynthia.
Anderson: Good morning, or afternoon, Herb.
Hefner: What time is it?
Anderson: 4 o’clock.
Hefner: (grunts and shrugs)
Anderson: What do you dream about when you are in a trance?
Hefner: Trance? (chuckles and shakes head.) Um … well, I don’t really dream about anything, Cynthia. It’s not about trying to dream. It’s about trying not to do or be anything.
Anderson: Sort of like nirvana?
Hefner: Perhaps.
Hefner rolls over, lifts a canteen and takes a long drink.
Anderson: I’ve been meaning to ask you about the pictures.
Hefner: What pictures?
Anderson: Those on that board.
Hefner stares at pictures, at first like he doesn’t seem to recognize them.
Hefner: Oh, those. Those are the pictures that make me want to go into a trance.
Anderson: Why is that? Who are they?
Hefner: Some of them I don’t know. That one (points to a picture of a girl around five years old), she was my daughter. She ...
Hefner sits straight up, looks away from camera. He strokes his beard, then stands up and walks past the camera. The camera shifts as Anderson stands up to follow, but Hefner motions for her to stay. She sits down, the camera focuses on the pictures. After two and a half minutes, Hefner returns and sits down. His eyes are dazed, his pupils dilated.
Anderson: So, you were telling me about the pictures.
Hefner: Yes, I know.
Hefner is holding plastic cup of “Mean Green.” He takes a drink, his eyes close and his head dips.
Anderson: And, there he goes. Off into another trance. That stuff is pretty potent.
The camera drops down, and just before it shuts off, Anderson says “Find out what happened to the girl.”
Second clip—walking through the shanty town of tents. There are a wide variety of occupants, some who look like they’ve been in the settlement for months like Hefner, and some whose hair and clothes seem to indicate they either just arrived or come and go. Drug use is frequently documented throughout the footage. They seem to primarily use various types of hallucinogens, depressants and “Mean Green,” which is believed to be a hallucinogen.
Men wearing kilts are of particular interest. They seem to be the only policing force in the settlement, and are also the only ones who carry weapons such as knives and poorly constructed spears. There is at least one of these men near Hefner at all times.
Anderson: They call you a “Lion.” Why is that? Is it a position of power?
Hefner: It is a position of authority, but I don’t think I have any real power. There are a group of us who are meant to interpret and enforce the will of the Prophet.
Anderson: And that prophet is Jim Jacobs?
Hefner: Correct.
A young woman with a severed left hand walks up to Hefner and kisses him on the cheek. He hands her something which is small and obscured from the camera. The woman leaves.
Anderson: So, what is your role as a “Lion?”
Hefner: I am the cook of the complex. I provide for the followers’ spiritual and nutritional needs.
Anderson: And by spiritual needs, are you referring to illegal substances?
Hefner grins at the camera.
Anderson: So, I’ve heard some of the people here referred to as workers, some as dustmites; what’s the difference?
Hefner: There are those who have been trained and educated, they are workers and contribute to our society. We are working to be self-sufficient until the Prophet returns. There are those who wish to learn, and those are dustmites. They do many of the simpler, more subservient chores. They must prove that they can be trusted. There are also those who are protected; they are allowed to enter our society, but will not be fed, will not be clothed, will not be allowed to work. Some are invited to become dustmites and, perhaps, one day workers.
Anderson: Why would you protect someone if they aren’t working?
Hefner doesn’t respond.
Anderson: Can a worker eventually become a Lion?
Hefner: We will not be here long enough for that to happen.
They continue walking through the shanty town until they arrive at a large tent that is about eight feet tall, by far the biggest in the town.
Anderson: I’ve seen the police on the outskirts of the compound, do you think they are going to raid you?
Hefner: I’m not sure—if they do, then we will deal with it, but it is in their best interest not to interfere with what we are doing?
Anderson: Why is that?
Hefner: We are here for the benefit of humanity. They have nothing to fear from us.
Anderson: I’ve heard that they suspect the followers had something to do with an assault in the woods nearby.
Hefner glares at the camera, but doesn’t answer. He walks to the opening of the tent.
Hefner: Come out please!
Hefner’s tone is pleasant, he seems relaxed. A young, Caucasian male with chin-length brown hair and medium build and height walks out of the tent while finishing a Snickers bar.
Male: Hello, Herb, what can I do for you?
Hefner: We’ve heard interesting things about you recently.
The man smiles and shrugs.
Hefner: We know you are not a cop, but know you are working for someone. Who?
Male: (laughs) Are you serious?
Hefner smiles, pats the man on the shoulder. The man flinches slightly and looks again at the camera.
Male: I’m not working for anyone, man.
Hefner: We know you are not who you say you are.
Male: I don’t get it—are you saying I’m undercover or something?
Hefner: Aren’t you?
Male: No! Who told you I am?
Hefner: It doesn’t matter.
Male: It does, ’cause I’m not. I’m a fucking college student, man. I’m not a narc!
Hefner: I think you work for the CIA.
Male: What? Are you fucking kidding me, man? That’s insane.
Hefner: We know they are watching us.
Male: No one is watching this place. The CIA doesn’t care what’s going on here. They certainly wouldn’t fucking hire me. I smoke so much goddamn pot, I can hardly remember my own damn name.
Hefner laughs and pats the man on the back.
Hefner: Then how do you explain the evidence we have?
Male: What evidence?
Hefner: We have testimony.
Male: God, I don’t know. They’re lying, I’ll tell you that for sure. They probably want my tent, I know someone tried to steal it the other day.
Hefner: Is that so?
Male: Yeah, man. Look, I’m not with the fucking CIA or any other organization. I don’t know what people been telling you, but you’re welcome to come into my tent and look around at anything I have. You can have some guy hang with me, make sure I’m not talking to people. There’s no black helicopters or special ops guys hanging around the forest. This place is just getting a little paranoid and someone is just getting carried away.
Hefner: Perhaps, you’re right.
Male: Yeah, man.
Hefner: Take this as my apology.
Hefner reaches into a small pouch hanging from his shoulder.
Male: No, no, man, I appreciate it, but I can’t take any of that right now. I still got some of that shit in my system from yesterday.
Hefner: This is different, you’ll like it.
The male looks back at his tent, and then around him. The camera pans to show that three men in kilts have surrounded the tent and are holding out knives.
Hefner: Please, my brother. This won’t take much time. You need this.
Male (beginning to cry): I’m not a narc, man. I don’t work for anybody, I’m just a college student.
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Hefner: That is fine, but I’d still like you to take this.
The man opens his mouth and Herb places a white tablet on his tongue.
Hefner: Now swallow, my brother. Do you need water?
Male: What will this do?
Hefner: Swallow, please.
The man swallows, Herb motions for him to open his mouth. The man does, Hefner checks under the man’s tongue to ensure the pill was swallowed.
Hefner: Thank you, my brother. Now you will be given the honor to sacrifice yourself in order to calm the anomaly and bless this world with another day of peace.
The man holds his left hand away from Hefner.
Male: No! No, I didn’t agree to that!
Hefner: It is fine, my brother. You will not feel anything.
Male: What did I swallow?
Hefner: It no longer matters, but it will be much more pleasant than what others had wanted to do to you. Now, prepare yourself for sacrifice. Your brothers will assist you.
Male (to the camera): No, help me! Please!
Hefner walks away from the man, and the camera follows. The men in kilts grab the man’s arms and legs. The man screams as he is carried away.
Hefner: (voice barely audible over the screams) I look forward to my own sacrifice, but for now I have to remain with the compound.
Anderson: (shouting over the noise) What happens at the sacrifice?
Hefner: Release. (watches the man carried into the forest, then continues.) You allow yourself, or part of yourself, to be consumed, and the beasts remain pacified for another day. There is a crossing to another world that threatens us, and that is why we must finish the Prophet’s work.
Anderson: Is that why so many women had their left hands cut off?
Hefner: Correct.
Anderson: Why the left hand?
Hefner: Because it is unclean and not the dominant hand. It is necessary enough to satisfy the beasts, but not so necessary you cannot survive without it.
Anderson: And what about that man? What part of him will you sacrifice?
Hefner doesn’t answer.
Anderson: Is he going to die?
No answer.
Anderson: So you really think he is from the CIA?
Hefner: There is no way of knowing for sure, but we are too close to take any chances. Plus, we needed a sacrifice, and he was of no other particular use to us anyway.
Anderson: Can we film the sacrifice?
Hefner: Are you prepared to sacrifice yourself?
Anderson does not answer. Hefner stops, turns and looks into the camera.
Hefner: Perhaps it would be good for the world to have seen how we saved their world. If you agree to stay with us until after the Prophet’s return, then I will allow you to film.
Anderson: I’ll have to talk to …
Hefner: No, no talking to anyone. You stay and watch, or you remain on the outside as you are now.
Ira
Sasha Redmore is a self-purported participant in government-funded remote viewing programs from 1990 to 1994. She has since offered her assistance to law enforcement agencies. Those agencies will neither deny nor confirm her reports. Redmore assembled the following account after a series of visions she had about Ira NAME WITHELD. The first was during his stay at a medical facility within Dallas, the next at a wooded area near Norman where the attack is believed to have happened and the last vision was after touching the bloodied clothes the victim was wearing at the time of the attack. None of the remote viewings were done with the family’s knowledge or permission.
Vision one: Dallas hospital
A warm cherry sky swirled like a whirlpool as planes flew backward through the clouds. The sunlight burned bright as it raced across the sky, dipped below the horizon and emerged again on the other side of the world just seconds later.
Ira appeared as a young man with a Dallas Mavericks headband over his black hair. He sprinted down the court, dribbling the basketball out ahead of him. Dim blurs in the shape of humans joined him in the game. Grass grew, wilted, was paved over and then more grass reclaimed the court. The sun zoomed across the sky around and around as the game continued undeterred.
Music wafted through the world, emanating from an unknown source with a constant progression of songs. Ira did not seem to be controlling the music, because he would sometimes pause and listen until he recognized the song. If he did, he would then sing along as he resumed the game.
Once, an entire album played that he didn’t seem to recognize. He sat in the middle of the court and the blurs dimmed. The basketball goals began sprouting limbs and vegetation like trees. Grass grew around him. When he grew bored, he stood and resumed playing. The goals shed their leaves, the grass shrank back into the concrete and the blurs returned.
Ira called for the ball, caught it and began sprinting down the court. He crossed over as a shadow lunged for the ball. He drove to the basket and leapt up above the blurs and dunked. The rim collapsed, cracking and groaning as the entire goal fell over. It hit the ground, crumbled and dissolved. Seconds later, another goal sprouted in its place.
I was afraid Ira would see me, so I didn’t let my spirit move within his dream. Every once in a while, Ira would hear whispers fading in and out around him that also seemed beyond his control. Ira would motion for the blurs to stop, and he listened intently to the whispers. The sun would stop swirling and the blue skies would open to reveal shimmering white. Once the whispers silenced, the blue would whirlpool and reclaim the sky.
The sun dropped below the horizon again. The court dissolved and a downtown scene emerged, as if it had risen from beneath murky water. Tall buildings were all around him as he walked along the sidewalk. Blurs appeared, walking all around him. He tried not to bump into any of them as he strode on to an unspecified destination.
The song changed and the first, charging chords of “What’s the Frequency, Kenneth?” by R.E.M. began (it was the first song I recognized within the dream). Large streams of gray clouds swept up from the horizon and began swirling. A large face took form within the clouds. Ira studied the face. The mouth moved and whispers emerged.
“Marcus?” Ira asked.
The sun broke through the clouds and fixed directly above him. The face dissipated.
Vision Two: The city gives way to other things
Ira was drifting a few feet above the ground, laying back as if floating in water. His hands reached up to a small puff of smoke hanging just above his face. Just below him, cars whizzed by, just inches from his feet. Blurs walked along the sidewalks and the sky was hidden by the towering skyscrapers.
Ira ran his fingers along the smoke. I approached and the smoke seemed to form into a woman’s face. Wind hit the smoke and whooshed it away from Ira. He clutched his head in pain and fell to the pavement below. He doubled over into a fetal position.
The roofs of the skyscrapers began steaming, smoke billowed off them and they were melting. They looked like cement popsicles, wilting beneath the burning sun. A slab from the melting building dropped and slammed down on the street a block away. The blurred people were blown up and away by the impact, moving more like leaves than human bodies. They soon drifted back to the street and continued walking.
A few of the blurs were dissolving slowly, fading into something like static on a TV. The music continued unaffected.
A building cracked and fell over, but it burst into weightless pieces that tumbled out across the street and then dissolved completely. Ira looked up at the sun, which was dimming. It began moving, descending. It appeared smaller, not a sun at all but merely a bright object.
Ira backed away. It was the first time I’d seen him scared of this new world as he watched the bright object soar past the melting buildings. It dropped quickly and approached Ira. I became aware that another presence had entered Ira’s dream. It wasn’t a blur like the others—it had detailed features beneath the bright light, but it was too bright to focus on for more than a second. From its radiance, I cou
ld tell that it belonged to someone who had died.
“Don’t be scared, my child,” a gravely female voice called.
“Who are you?” Ira asked, holding his hand up to shield his eyes from the light.
“I’m your guide, Sugar,” she said. The rich drawl poured over each syllable like syrup. “Your mind’s collapsing, Baby. You’re in a coma and you’ll die soon. I just made the trip myself, I met yo’ family. They were nice, so I came back to lead ya.”
Ira looked away from the figure. The cityscape wilted, and out sprouted a rolling plain with autumn trees and dry, brown grass. Small, isolated rain showers ran along the plains like dogs playing and chasing each other.
“I’m asleep?” Ira asked.
“That’s correct,” the figure answered. “You’ll be crossin’ over to be judged.”
Ira sat down in the grass. His eyes closed and his body lifted into the air. The grass around him shook and then ripped from the ground, it swirled and fluttered around Ira like butterflies. The swarm almost completely obscured Ira, until it suddenly retreated into the sky. Behind Ira, a living room emerged. Ira floated across the carpet, past sofas and softly landed in front of a television. A blur floated above the ground, swimming through the room. The blur brightened and defined; it was Ira’s wife.
“Ira,” a whisper emerged over the music. It was her voice. “Dallas won today, they beat Sacramento 107–98.”
“They are talking to me,” Ira said. “That’s what those whispers have been.”
“That’s right, Child,” the figure said. “They’ve been with you all this time.”
“Can I talk back to them?”
“No, Child, your mind sustained too much damage. You’ll be released from this body soon, though. You’ll see them again one day.”
Ira reached up his hand to his wife’s face and as he touched it, it shimmered like a pool of water. The shimmer expanded to the whole room, which then faded. A vast expanse of folding seats and massive LCD monitors formed; it was a sports arena. He was at a Mavericks game and his parents were sitting beside him, floating just above their chairs. On his other side was his wife, also floating.