by A. R. Wise
Oliver did as he was told.
“How old do you think I am?”
“I…” Oliver stammered. “I honestly don’t know.”
“I’m ninety-three.”
Oliver was surprised, and couldn’t help but scowl in disbelief.
“Yes, that’s right.” Vess was amused by Oliver’s reaction. “Ninety-three.” He raised his arms out to the side to present himself. “I don’t look that bad for being so old, do I?”
“Ninety-three?” asked Oliver in surprise. “How is that possible? I wouldn’t have guessed you were more than seventy.”
“Seventy?” asked Vess as if offended. “Do I look that old?” He glanced at his hands, which weren’t as wrinkled as a man of seventy would have. Then he poked at his cheek, which drooped. “I guess my skin’s been pulled down a bit, and my joints are suffering more and more by the day, but you can thank gravity for that.”
Oliver didn’t say anything, but just continued to gape at the man. He couldn’t fathom that Vess was as old as he claimed.
Vess sensed Oliver’s disbelief. “Hard to believe, I know, but it’s the truth. I was forty when I took part in the first CORD experiment. No one’s certain what happened that day, and despite my best efforts I can only remember bits and pieces of it, but the experiment stopped the aging process in me. I was the subject of an awful lot of studies over the years, but it was only recently that they’ve come even close to figuring out what got triggered inside of me that day. Apparently, my body started producing an excess amount of an enzyme called telomerase, which is how cellular structures can prevent themselves from dying.”
“That’s incredible,” said Oliver.
“Yes, it is, and we’ve never been able to recreate what happened that day. And if you don’t do as I say, then we won’t be able to recreate it today either.”
“Ninety-three?” asked Oliver again in awe.
Vess laughed and nodded. “Yes. For most of the time I looked like any other forty year old, but my skin eventually gave in to gravity, and the cartilage in my joints continued to wear away. There’s no getting around that part of aging. But beneath this drooping exterior is the mind and spirit of a forty-year-old, I assure you.”
“Did you make it to heaven?” asked Oliver with reverence, like a former atheist that had suddenly found God.
“I don’t know,” said Vess. “I can remember everything leading up to the moment we turned the machine on, but then there was a span of time that’s lost to me. The next thing I remember is waking up as the machine was powering down. I’ve spent my entire life trying to recreate what happened that day, and I’m not going to put up with anyone standing in my way.”
“I’ll do what I can to help,” said Oliver. “I can have the curtain taken down, but there’s nothing I can do about the stopgap. The CORD won’t work without it. It’s designed to prevent radiation from leaking. They even made us use an external power supply for it in case the battery fails.”
“Do whatever you need to,” said Vess. “When we set sail tomorrow, I want this room to be as close to perfect as you can get it. Understand?”
“Yes sir,” said Oliver. “I’ll do what I can.”
Branson
March 13th, 2012
4:20 AM
Charles Dunbar awoke with the knowledge that a child by the name of Ben Harper was in the room next to him, and that Ben was in danger. A group of people had forced their way into the room, and were planning on hurting the helpless child.
Charles leapt from his bed, convinced that he was the only one that could save Ben. He put his ear to the wall and listened to the commotion next door, and was certain he was right. He could hear a slew of people yelling in the next room, but also heard the gentle scratching of Ben’s fingers against the wall between them.
“You sons of bitches!” Charles was about to run out of his room, but then he went back to the kitchen to find a knife. He was in only a pair of boxer shorts and a t-shirt, but there wasn’t time to get dressed. He rifled through the drawers of the small kitchen before settling on a dull steak knife. It would have to do.
On his way back out, he walked along the side of his bed to reach the wall that separated him from Ben. He put his hand on the wall and said, “Don’t worry buddy, I’m on my way.”
It was chilly out, and the hair on his arms stood tall as the wind struck him once he opened the door. For a moment, he considered how crazy the situation was, but he didn’t give himself time to debate. He knew that Ben’s life was in danger.
He walked over to the room beside his, and thought about what the best way to handle the group inside was. Charles wasn’t sure how he knew about the people in the room, or why he was certain they had weapons, but it was an infallible truth. He raised his hand to knock, but then paused and wondered to himself if he’d taken a sleeping pill. A few years back he’d been prescribed a sleep aid, but had reacted poorly to it. His wife found him sleeping on the kitchen floor one night, and he had no recollection of how he’d gotten there.
Charles shook his head, confident that this wasn’t the result of a bad reaction to any medication. Ben Harper was in the bathroom in this room, terrified and hoping that Charles would save him. Charles had never been more certain of anything in his life.
He knocked on the door, and waited with the knife behind his back. He was sure they had weapons, so he needed them to open the door without any expectation of being attacked. His heart was thudding, and he felt the knife’s handle grow slick in his sweating palms. He smiled at the peephole as he swallowed hard, nervous and jittery.
A black woman opened the door. She looked to be in her early to mid-thirties, with dreadlocks and wearing several necklaces made of wooden beads. She smiled and said, “I’m sorry for the noise.”
She didn’t have a gun, so Charles decided this was his best chance to attack. He needed to surprise the group and get to Ben.
“I’m not going to let you hurt Ben!”
Charles charged at the stranger, knocking her back as he plunged his knife deep into her belly. She gasped and tried to fight back, but Charles easily pushed her toward the bed inside. A thin, white woman with bobbed black hair was also in the room, and she screamed out, “What are you doing?” Charles pushed past her, still gripping the handle of the steak knife that was now inside the black woman’s gut. He forced the woman to the bed, and she fell backward while trying to claw at him. He tugged at the knife, desperate to pull it free, but it was slick and the serrated edge caused it to stick inside of her.
One of the large men in the room cursed as he grabbed Charles’ shoulders and started to pull him back. Charles struck the man’s ample gut with his elbow, causing him to exhale, but not retreat. The bushy haired, bearded man with the glasses was intent on stopping Charles, and wrapped his arm around his neck. Charles gasped as the big man squeezed, and then he finally released the knife as he tried to get his fingers beneath the fat man’s arm.
“Hold him still,” said one of the other two men in the room.
“I’m trying,” said the fat one as Charles thrashed in an attempt to get free.
Charles saw the second man standing in front of him. He had a shaved head, and there was a tattoo of a snake near his ear. The man clenched Charles’ shirt, and then reached back to strike him. Before Charles could react, the man hit him hard enough to knock him out.
“Aw fuck,” said Jacker. “You hit him so hard he bashed the back of his head into my lip.” He dropped the unconscious attacker and the stranger slumped to the floor. Then he put his hand over his bleeding lip as he winced.
“He stabbed Rosemary,” said Paul, unconcerned with Jacker’s minor injury.
“What?” asked Jacker. “Holy shit. I didn’t even realize. Oh fuck.”
“No!” Alma shouted in reaction to something Michael had done.
Paul and Jacker looked over at her, uncertain what had happened. They saw that Alma had grabbed the pistol off the dresser, and Paul realized th
at Michael had tried to get to it during the commotion.
“You stay there,” said Alma as she pointed the gun at her father.
Rosemary was on her back, on the bed, with her hands gripping the knife that was lodged in her stomach. She was breathing hard, and groaning in pain as she cried. Michael was on the other side of the bed with a wicked grin as he looked at his daughter. Paul wasn’t certain what to deal with first, so he tapped Jacker’s arm and then pointed at Rosemary. “Help her. Wrap the wound, but don’t pull the knife out.”
“Oh fuck, dude. No,” said Jacker. “I’m not…” He was blinking rapidly and shaking his head. “I’m not good with blood.”
Paul slapped his friend and then snapped his fingers in front of his face. “Get over it. She needs your help.”
Jacker took several deep breaths and nodded before moving to Rosemary’s side. He had to step over the unconscious man on the floor as Paul closed the door and then focused on Michael. Paul walked over to Alma, who was still pointing the pistol at her father. He reached out, expecting her to hand over the gun, but she kept it gripped tightly with both hands. Her knuckles were turning white as she squeezed, and the barrel was wobbling as she pointed it at the man that had caused her so much pain.
“I’ll take the gun, babe,” said Paul, but she didn’t hand it over.
Alma slipped her finger over the trigger, and stared down the quivering barrel. “You piece of shit.”
Michael had his hands up, and his grin had faded. He scowled, and shook his head while saying, “You don’t want to do this, kid.” He looked at Paul, desperate, and said, “Take the gun from her, man. Take the fucking gun from her.”
“Babe, give me the gun,” said Paul as he put his hand over hers.
She jerked her hand away from him and sneered as she aimed. “I kept my mouth shut all these years, you piece of shit.”
“Baby,” said Michael. “Alma, sweetie, come on. Put the gun down.”
“All those things you did…” Alma’s words were accented by a lifetime of pain and anger. Her eyes were wet with tears, and she stared at her father with intense hatred. Her pupils were pinpricks, each focused solely on the man she’d fantasized about kicking out of her life in whatever way she could.
“I never wanted to hurt you, kid. I never wanted to…”
“Alma, give me the gun,” said Paul as Michael pleaded for his daughter’s mercy.
Alma ignored Paul as she focused on her father. She asked, “You never wanted to what? Go ahead and finish. Go ahead and tell them what you did.”
“I never hurt you,” said Michael. “I loved you.”
Alma let out a quick laugh just as a tear fell down her cheek. “Is that right?”
“Alma,” said Paul, “please give me the gun.”
“Don’t kill him,” said Rosemary. Her voice was plagued by her pain, and she spoke through clenched teeth. Jacker was standing over her with his head turned to the side as he breathed in and out quickly. The large man’s face had turned pale, and his brow was dotted with emerging beads of sweat. It was clear that he was fighting off unconsciousness as Rosemary’s wound continued to pump blood. Jacker had taken the cover off one of the pillows and wrapped it around the blade that was stuck in Rosemary’s gut, but the formerly white fabric had become sodden with brilliant red blood.
“Not here,” said Rosemary. Paul noticed that she’d taken off one of her beaded necklaces and was gripping it like a dying Catholic might clutch a rosary. “You can’t kill him here.”
“Why not?” asked Alma, never taking her eyes off the man she was considering murdering.
“You need him.” Rosemary was forced to speak in quick gasps as the pain from her wound gripped her. “Take him with us.”
“I don’t need him.”
“Yes you do,” said Rosemary. “As a sacri…” she groaned in pain as Jacker pulled the pillowcase away to replace it with a new one. He apologized profusely as he slung the bloodied case to the side.
“As a what?” asked Paul of Rosemary. “Why do we need him?”
“As a sacrifice,” said Rosemary.
CHAPTER 13 – Skeletons
Widowsfield
March 14th, 1996
Oliver did his best to alter the room so that it resembled how it had looked 53 years earlier. The lead curtain had been removed, as well as the metal track that it had hung from. He expected to get contacted by angry members of The Accord that had been remotely monitoring the experiment after he took down the cameras, but no emails were sent, and no calls received. Oliver hoped that Vess had spoken directly with The Accord, and that he wasn’t doing this against their wishes.
As he’d warned Vess, the stopgap mechanism that contained the radioactive material couldn’t be moved. Oliver had spoken with their lead engineer, who laughed off the request before explaining that it would be impossible to change without several months of work, and that even if it could be done, he wouldn’t do it. Exposing anyone to those levels of radiation would certainly kill them. Oliver decided not to argue that Vess hadn’t succumbed to radiation poisoning. It wouldn’t have mattered even if he convinced the engineer to do as he requested. They didn’t have time to make the necessary changes.
It had been a long night, and Oliver hadn’t gotten more than a couple hours of sleep. He was too excited to slow down, and too nervous to relax. He’d been working for Cada E.I.B. for almost a decade, and had been chosen for this project based on his experience managing other, less important projects for the company. His expertise wasn’t in science, or engineering, or any other skill that would seem to be of importance for this position. Instead, Oliver was chosen based on his ability to follow directions and to manage other people.
The process of securing his job had been a lengthy one. It began with a simple application for a project lead position that was offered to all of the managers in Cada E.I.B. throughout the world. Hundreds applied, and those selected were advanced to the next stage of the hiring process. Oliver and those that advanced were given extensive written and oral tests to determine personality identifiers, and this helped to whittle the group down further. After an interview process, Oliver and a select few other managers were flown to Spain to meet with members of the board, also known as The Accord.
The Accord was made up of acclaimed scientists and scholars. They met quarterly and were presented with project reports and proposals from the various arms of the company. During this process, The Accord decided which projects would be ceased or continued, as well as what new projects would be funded. They also chose the managers for each of the projects, and Oliver was asked to perform an interview with the group to prove he was the right person for the upcoming job. He’d never been more nervous in his life.
Apparently he impressed them, because a month after coming home he was contacted about taking over the Widowsfield project. However, the offer came with a high cost. When they revealed what he would have to do to earn the position, he understood why so many of the previous tests in the interview process had included such personal information. The representative of The Accord explained that Oliver would have to leave his entire life behind if he was going to take on the Widowsfield project. He would never be allowed to communicate with his family again. It was as if he was being placed in a Witness Protection Program. While Oliver didn’t mind leaving most of his life behind, he was given the chance to go visit his family before making any decision.
His final visit home had been predictably disastrous. His mother had been an uncaring, distant woman his entire life. She was petty and vindictive, and never had a nice thing to say about anyone. Her self-worth seemed to come from demeaning others, which she did with aplomb. His father had left years ago, and hadn’t bothered keeping in touch with his children other than hit-or-miss holiday calls. Oliver’s only regret was leaving his little brother, Frank, behind. But Frank had a family of his own, and was doing well for himself. He didn’t need Oliver looking after him anymore. Oliver stayed at Fran
k’s house the final night of his trip, and the brothers shared beers on the porch, recalling the scant good memories of their time under the watch of their domineering mother. When Oliver said goodbye, he knew he would never see Frank again, but he was confident his brother would be fine without him.
After Oliver agreed to take the job as the manager of the Widowsfield Project, The Accord provided him with tickets to Utah for another vacation. He would never go, and was instead sent to Missouri to start work. His family received the unfortunate news that Oliver’s small, two-seat Cessna had crashed in a Utah state park, and that his remains had been savaged by animals before authorities were able to retrieve them.
Oliver watched the news reports about his death, and marveled at the length to which The Accord had gone to make it believable. While the majority of Oliver’s body was reportedly charred or missing, authorities had been able to retrieve enough personal effects to declare him dead.
That had been three years earlier, and since then Oliver worked tirelessly to appease The Accord. Now the result of his labor was at hand, and his heart raced as he continually checked his watch while enduring the excruciatingly long wait until 3:00.
The sound of the door opening startled him, and he looked up in excitement. Vess came in alone and waved down to him as he said, “Hello, Oliver.”
“Hi,” said Oliver before he motioned around the room. “We worked all night to get this place looking as close as possible to how it did in 1943.”
“I see,” said Vess as he began the arduous trip along the catwalk and to the stairs.
“We couldn’t do anything about the stopgap,” said Oliver as he pointed to the orange box that sat beside the CORD. “I asked Jim if he could remove it, but he said it’d take months. He also said that the stopgap is tied to the flow of electricity, to make sure the CORD doesn’t cut out if something happens to its power source. So there’s no getting rid of that thing.”