The Forever Man: A Near-Future Thriller

by Pierre Ouellette

  It’s two women, two well-dressed, well-coiffed women, blubbering and terrified. When the Surgeon opens the driver’s door, he smells the booze. Some things never change. The driver’s a rejuve, an expensive one. His expert eye calculates her at about thirty-five/sixty. Not a lot of value there, but better than nothing. They’ll take her just in case they miss the primary target. He looks past her to the other woman, who appears to be about a forty-five/seventy. No value at all. They’ll just put her to sleep right where she sits.

  “It’s all right now,” he purrs to the sniffling Betty. “I’m a physician. We’ll have you out of there in no time. Just relax.”

  He strides to the front of the ambulance, where the paramedic is climbing out of the driver’s side. “We’re going to need to pull forward so we can get the back doors open,” he informs her. Just then, The Colonel appears, coming down the driveway on shaky legs. A big hole in the outer fabric of his vest exposes the point of impact.

  “Jesus! What happened?”

  The Colonel ignores the question. “Pull forward. I need to get in,” he commands.

  The Surgeon nods to the paramedic, who moves the vehicle forward, disengaging it from the sedan. The ambulance has a big industrial-strength bumper and has sustained almost no damage. The Surgeon follows the Colonel to the rear and watches as he enters and then exits with a large backpack.

  “We’re moving to the contingency plan,” he informs the Surgeon. “Go ahead and leave. Once I’ve secured the product, I’ll contact you.”

  “How long do you think it’ll take?” the Surgeon asks.

  “Don’t know,” the departing Colonel says. “It all depends on how good he is.”

  Chapter 19

  The Ballad of Bobby Ota

  Lane stands on the slope of a hill covered with low-slung forest and islands of dry, yellow grass. Overhead, the clouds have blotted out the last traces of blue and carry the gray promise of rain. About thirty feet in front of him is the security fence that defines the outer perimeter of Pinecrest. Barbed curls of razor wire top its thick steel mesh as it snakes along the slope.

  But the most formidable barrier of all is the hole scooped underneath the fence, a curved cavity maybe a yard deep and just as wide. The product of digging by a dog, a special kind of dog.

  Sure enough, Lane spots three large mastiff-like canines loping along the outer edge of the fence. Enhanced. A few extra genes make them extraordinarily bright and extremely dangerous. Even from sixty feet away, he can see it in their eyes. He removes the pistol from his jacket, clicks off the safety, and backs into the bush before they spot him. Fortunately, he’s upwind from them and they haven’t caught his scent.

  While he waits for them to depart, he speculates on the origin of the shooter outside his house. Crampton comes to mind. Maybe the Institute did a little probing of its own and he was exposed. And what about Autumn? She was connected to Mount Tabor, and so was Johnny, who tried to make a deal with the Green people to blow the lid off the place. Lane sighs. It’s all speculation on his part, nothing more.

  The dogs have disappeared from sight, so he bolts up and runs to the hole in the fence. A brief bout of crawling puts him through. The dogs will eventually detect the scent of his escape and report it to Pinecrest’s security apparatus. But by then, he’ll be long gone. Besides, the security people aren’t the real problem.

  The real problem is the man who came up the driveway, weapon in hand. If he’s hardcore military, Lane’s bullet into his armored vest is nothing more than a setback. The final assault is yet to come.

  The Colonel hears the ambulance depart as he clears the last room of Lane’s house. The open back door suggests that the product has fled on foot into the woods. So be it. The assault will now become the hunt. He quickly moves to the dining room table, where he deposits the backpack and extracts the components of a portable .50-caliber sniper rifle. With practiced hands, he assembles the bolt-action weapon, screwing on the barrel and flash suppressor.

  He reaches back into the pack and pulls out a 3 x 9 scope with its big 70 mm objective that gathers maximum illumination. After fitting it to the rifle, he puts the weapon down and extracts a plastic box with a single switch and a power indicator light. The light winks on as he activates the device. He plugs in a slender wire that leads to what appear to be two thimbles the diameter of pencil erasers. He puts the box in the backpack with the wire trailing out, and then shoulders the pack, pulling the straps taut.

  The Colonel grasps the protruding wire and carefully inspects the two thimble-like devices, which are held in a small, flexible plastic frame. At close range, he can see that most of their surface is actually a screen of fine mesh. He braces himself for what comes next. It will take all his discipline to withstand the initial shock. He inserts the thimbles into his nostrils while slipping a retaining band over his head to keep them in place.

  The twin nasal amps pour an almost unbearable cascade of odors into his brain. He has entered a dog’s world, where smell jumps forward in the priority of the senses and takes its place right alongside eyesight. He closes his eyes and grips the edge of the table while he struggles to become acclimated. The micromechanical structures embedded in the mesh of the nasal devices is sampling airborne molecules, then increasing their impact by several orders of magnitude inside his nose.

  He can now smell Lane Anslow. After several minutes, he releases his grip on the table and walks to the bathroom, where he finds a clothes hamper. In fact, he could smell him even in the middle of the living room. Now, as he opens the hamper lid, the product’s signature scent leaps out, shoots up his nostrils.

  Time to go hunting.

  Once the ambulance has cleared the gate at Pinecrest, the Surgeon drives to a preselected site that ensures privacy. He pulls into the parking lot of the withered remains of an old strip mall. Faded signs advertise pizza, new nails, video rentals, submarine sandwiches, pet supplies, and much more. Boarded windows and drifting refuse suggest otherwise.

  First things first. He establishes a heavily encrypted and compressed link with the contracting party. A grainy video shows the man’s face, which appears Indian.

  “Are we done?” Khan asks.

  “Not quite,” the Surgeon says. “We’re moving to a contingency operation, but I don’t expect any further delays.”

  “It will be more than just an economic calamity for you if you fail to deliver. I hope you understand that.”

  “I do, and I can assure you that we will deliver, even though it’s now a Phase Two project. I’ll stake my reputation on it.”

  “You’ll be staking a lot more than that,” the man calmly tells him. “If I don’t get what was promised, you’ll become product instead of producer. Is that clear?”

  “Completely,” the Surgeon says. In spite of himself, he thinks of the organ donors with the fluttering eyelids, the subjects who dreamed as they were excavated. But more than fear, he feels resentment. His professional competence is being called into question. He remembers the time that the contracting party was a militia leader from a rural area in Alabama. The man had taken one look at the Surgeon’s gleaming ambulance and started laughing. Seems it reminded him of the mobile butchering operations that used to cruise through the countryside to carve up deer and cattle. The Surgeon was instantly steeped in profound anger. It took five years, but he eventually arranged to have the man designated as product and personally performed the procedure.

  “I’ll expect a report later this evening,” Khan says, and then the image fractures into random pixels as the decryption processing ends.

  The Surgeon sighs. Oh well, at least he can console himself with the accidental acquisition in the back. He looks at his watch. They’d better get started.

  When Betty awakens, she is staring at the ceiling of what must be the ambulance they hit. A grid of big lights looms overhead, all extinguished as they await their call to action. Through a fog of alcohol and sedation, she gradually becomes aware of the restra
ints on her arms and legs, and feels a surge of panic. But then a young female paramedic comes into view and advises her that the buckles are just to keep her from tossing about when the vehicle goes around turns. Betty is reassured by the woman’s impeccable bedside manner, and by the glittering array of medical technology that lines the walls. She wants to know where Anita is, but the paramedic explains that the most important thing right now is to get Betty’s medical history. Betty cooperates as best she can under the circumstances.

  There are quite a few questions regarding previous transplants, of which Betty has had many.

  ***

  Lane pauses on a wooded slope and looks out at the rolling woodland and fields. He’s lost his bearings. By now, he should be hearing traffic noise from the freeway. His short-term strategy is simple. He needs to contact Rachel Heinz, and to do that, he needs to make an anonymous call. His handheld is out of the question. The GPS data will instantly locate him. His best bet is to get to a commercial area off the freeway, steal someone’s handheld, and then make the call.

  All he has to do is survive long enough to pull it off. He takes out his pistol and stares at it. After the encounter in the driveway, the clip holds six rounds. He moves on. There’s nothing left but to follow the eastward vector of the gathering clouds and hope for the best.

  The Colonel stops at the crest of a hill and crouches to rest. He smells rain in the air. It won’t be long before it condenses into actual drops and descends from the huddle of gray clouds that scuds over the hilltops. He wants to smoke, but knows that it’s a horrifying experience when you’re wearing the nasal amps. The product’s smell is increasing in magnitude as he follows the scent. He’s gaining on Anslow.

  He unslings the sniper weapon, rests it carefully against a tree, and then removes his pack and extracts a box of shells. He pulls out a single round, kisses it for good luck—a habit he picked up back in Africa—and chambers it. This particular species of bullet dates back nearly to the invention of smokeless powder. Over the years, its performance has been improved to where a 600-grain slug can achieve a velocity of nearly 3,000 feet per second, and impact its target with devastating energy. Powdered bone. Jellied flesh. Vaporized blood.

  The Colonel chuckles to himself as he puts his gear back on. The Surgeon’s loss is his gain. In Phase Two, all that’s required is a single organ as proof of the target’s identity. It doesn’t even have to be in serviceable condition. All you have to do is kill the target, bag up a testicle, and it’s all good. A much simpler proposition from a medical standpoint, and a far more interesting one from a hunting perspective.

  As he starts down the slope, he puts a little extra spring in his step. It’s good to be working again.

  ***

  With maybe a half hour of light left, Lane spots the column of smoke rising from the far side of a wooded hill just opposite him. He can just make out the occasional trace of a small footpath, which winds along the base of a hill beside a small streambed that has yet to carry the new rain. The trail draws a ragged line of beige through the dry grass as it conforms to the gentle meandering of the stream. His arms and shoulders are thoroughly soaked through the thin material of his light jacket. Fortunately, the air remains warm and modulates the effect of the water’s chill. Still, he feels that instinctive longing for shelter.

  He silently follows the path, and when he rounds the last bend in the trail, he comes upon a tiny valley where a tributary stream joins the one he’s been following. And there among the stunted oaks, he spots the lean-to. A large section of green corrugated plastic roofing has been propped up at a modest angle by wooden posts secured to ropes and pegs. Sheets of plastic tarp droop from the sides and are held in place by big stones that put a noticeable droop in the pitch of the roof. The front has been left open to the elements and reveals a floor composed of plywood sheets all warped and curled by the cumulative dampness.

  “Get your hands up! Right now!”

  The command comes from off to his left. A male voice with a rich vein of fear. Lane complies. A man of medium height emerges from the bushes lining the trail ahead. He aims an old .22-caliber rifle at Lane and stares out from beneath a heavy brow that hides the color of his eyes. A thick mat of wet hair merges into a patchy beard marked by pale areas of exfoliation.

  “What the hell ya doin’ here?” the bearded man demands.

  “A good question,” Lane responds. As he does so, he races through a subliminal assessment of the situation and sees a solution. During his hurried exit from his house, he instinctively grabbed his old jacket, and it holds the key to a civilized outcome. “I’m a policeman.”

  “You don’t look like no cop to me.”

  “I’m a detective, not a uniformed patrolman. I’m out here looking for somebody.”

  “Lookin’ for who?”

  “For a fugitive,” Lane improvises. “He’s armed and dangerous. My name’s Anslow. Lieutenant Detective Lane Anslow, Portland Police Department, and I’ve got a badge and ID to prove it.”

  “Where?”

  “It’s in my jacket pocket.”

  The man brings the barrel to bear directly on Lane’s face and steadies his aim. “Take it out and throw it over here.”

  “No problem.” Lane slowly reaches in his pocket, pulls out his ID with the attached badge, and gently tosses it near the man’s feet.

  The man keeps the rifle trained on Lane while he scoops up the ID and scans it. He visibly relaxes and relief floods his face. He lowers his weapon. “I guess you’re okay.”

  “I don’t blame you for being vigilant,” Lane offers diplomatically. “It’s not safe out here, is it?”

  “It ain’t never been safe out here.” The man tosses Lane’s ID back at his feet. A good sign.

  “It’s getting pretty wet,” Lane comments as he picks it up. “You mind if I get a little shelter with you for a while?”

  The man shrugs. “Yeah, I guess that’s okay.”

  Lane moves slowly forward on the trail toward the camp ahead. No sudden moves. “Well, you got my name, but I don’t think I got yours.”

  “Name’s Bobby Ota.”

  As he stands on the wooded slope above the little valley, the Colonel tries to stem his growing irritation. First, there was the rain, which he’d hoped would hold off until after the hunt was over. His coat is waterproof, but unfortunately his rifle is not. The big Winchester has a waterproof stock of carbon fiber but the barrel is fabricated from matte stainless steel, and therefore vulnerable to rust. Normally, he would’ve carefully wound the barrel with a neat spiral of electrician’s tape, but there simply wasn’t time. Bad juju. He has an animistic view of weapons and believes they will be faithful and loyal if you treat them well, but fail you at a critical moment if you abuse them through lax maintenance.

  Then there was the timing. He’d planned on finding a natural blind from which to take his shot, and then waiting for the target to approach, so he could leisurely track the product and take his shot at the most opportune moment. But now he can see a column of wood smoke coming from an encampment hidden on the valley floor. The nasal amps tell him that the product has headed in that direction and will probably seek the security of a larger group.

  A difficult situation, but not impossible.

  As Lane and Bobby approach the camp, a woman watches them warily. She is squatting beside a woodstove whose chimney pierces the roof near the front of the big lean-to. The fire inside casts a peachy glow on her face as a premature darkness sets in, driven by the gathering clouds.

  “That’s my wife, Crystal,” Bobby explains.

  Two children pop out of the dimness at the rear of the windowless structure, a young boy and girl.

  “And that’s Kenny and Sasha.”

  Crystal stands, and the children cluster cautiously at her feet. Sasha instinctively grasps her mother’s pants leg. All are rail thin, and Crystal looks out through hollow eyes and unkempt bangs. “Who’s he?” she asks her husband.

 
Bobby erupts into a yellow grin of big, neglected teeth. “He’s a cop! Can you believe it? He’s a cop. Way out here.”

  They all move into the shelter of the lean-to. A folding table sits in the center of the plywood floor, and is littered with basic kitchen items. Underneath, a row of five-gallon water tanks stands at attention. Farther back are cots and sleeping bags. A ring of weathered aluminum lawn chairs surrounds the stove, and Lane sits down under the watchful eye of Sasha, a diminutive soul with pigtails falling over the collar of an old military field jacket.

  “I’m Lane Anslow,” Lane says to the woman, who manages a cautious but worried smile.

  “Sheena’s back there sleepin’,” Bobby says and points to a lump in a sleeping bag on one of the cots. “She’s not feelin’ too good.”

  Lane feels the edge in Bobby’s voice. “And how old is she?”

  “She’s four,” Crystal volunteers. “She’ll be five in December. We were still in Texas when she came.”

  “In Texas?”

  “Yeah, in Corpus Christi,” Bobby says. “I was workin’ in shipping at Almatax. They had that big plant for those net immersion things. Know what I mean?” Bobby asks.

  “I think so.”

  “Well, we’d just take ’em off the end of the line,” Bobby continues, “put the foam around ’em, and slip a big box over ’em. Then we’d seal it on up and cart it to the truck. No paperwork, no nothin’. Real slick. Those camera brains did all the rest.” He stops, and stares into the fire in the stove, whose door has been left open to provide illumination. “Know what really bugged me the most?”

  “What was that?”

  “Ya block one of them cameras, and the damn thing would say, ‘I am sorry but you are impeding the shipping and packaging process by your current action. Please move to one side.’ ”

  Lane notes how Bobby’s accent shifted into a perfect media intonation when he mimicked the voice of the camera.

  “Yeah, boy. That bugged the hell outta me,” Bobby repeats.