Separation

by J. S. Frankel

  Overton snapped his fingers. Immediately, the lights came on to reveal worry replacing confusion on his face. He called one of the agents over. “Get me the laptop,” he commanded.

  As soon as the man brought it over, he opened it up. “You’ll want to see this. This is bad.”

  It showed a series of attacks carried out in Manhattan. Cafes, restaurants, businesses... all of them had been attacked by aberrations of humanity. A young blonde reporter stood outside a bookstore wearing a frightened expression. Scores of bodies littered the sidewalk. Dozens of ambulances and paramedics also dotted the scene, taking care of the survivors. There weren’t many.

  “There are more bodies inside,” the reporter uttered in a hushed voice. “We’ve heard reports of other atrocities being committed around the city, and the police are actively searching for the assailants...”

  The words of the now-dead clone came back to him. I don’t have to stop you. I just have to slow you down. “Good luck in finding them,” said Harry, heartsick at the carnage. “They’re probably dead by now. Allenby engineered them to die fast.”

  As if by magic, the mutated figure of the mad scientist appeared in the video. The reporter stated, “We received this from a madman not more than thirty minutes ago.”

  The resounding voice of Allenby rang out, evil dripping from every word. “If you are watching this, then know that these attacks were just a warm-up. They were a test to see how your police fared against us. From the carnage around you, it is obvious your police did not fare well at all. So far, I have limited my attacks to Manhattan, but I have the capability and more importantly, the will, to extend my reach to other cities if I so desire.”

  He paused to let his threat sink in before delivering his ultimatum. “If you do not want others to die, then arrest Harry Goldman. Otherwise, I promise you there will be more.”

  Overton had been hovering around the laptop as if anxious to shut it off, and once the video ended, he closed the laptop’s lid. “They’re going to come for you.”

  Harry’s mind whirled. “I have to find Anastasia. She’s pregnant, and that psycho has her. Please,” he begged, “help me to find her.”

  Every fiber of his being cried out for revenge while his thoughts focused on his wife and he prayed she wouldn’t be hurt. Overton hesitated, and finally nodded. “Once we get to Manhattan, I’ll speak to the Chief of Police. That’s the only thing I can do.”

  “What about Jason and Maze, have they found anything?”

  “They’re still working on it.”

  Patience, he was asking for patience, and Harry was just about out of it, but he had to wait and find out where this maniac was hiding out. Soon, they reached their destination and found the Chief of Police, Matthew Tolliver, waiting for them outside police headquarters, flanked by six other policemen.

  “Stop right there,” he ordered. A stern looking individual with a permanent scowl on a weathered and lined middle-aged face, Tolliver did not look like the bargaining type and his next few words proved it. “Goldman, I’m going to have to place you under arrest.”

  It figured, but Harry asked the obvious question of, “What for?”

  Tolliver’s face tightened. “If it isn’t clear, then I’ll make it transparent for you. I’m arresting you for posing a security threat and endangering the peace. I might also add you were warned not to participate in any transgenic experiments—”

  “I haven’t.”

  “Oh no?” The scowl on the chief’s face intensified threefold. “Can I assume you saw the video?”

  “I did.”

  “Then if you saw it, you know what Allenby’s been turned into, so if that isn’t your doing, then whose is it?”

  In a flash of cold reality, Harry knew that he was partially to blame, although it had always been Allenby’s choice to begin with. “Sir,” he answered, striving for internal calm, “I had no idea he would use that research. He’s also a bio-genetic researcher, and he got his ideas from foreign powers. His company—I mean his ex-company—set up a lot of chambers all over the world and he’s been cloning people and...”

  His words trailed off when he found Tolliver staring at him with a look of disbelief. “I assume you have proof of that.”

  “I, uh, no, I don’t have any hard proof...”

  At that point, Harry clammed up so as not to sound totally demented. Apparently, Tolliver hadn’t been following the international news reports. On the other hand, the foreign governments hadn’t released much information, and it was doubtful they would. No airing of their dirty laundry would be given out.

  In addition, there was no hard evidence save what the FBI possessed—and considering they were trying to bypass a virus, no way could he provide anything now. “I didn’t know his plan,” he finally said. “But Allenby’s got my wife and I have to get her back. Please, let me try to find her.”

  Tolliver’s face resembled a stone mask. “Not happening. Come with me.”

  “She’s my wife!”

  “I don’t care.”

  Those three words summed it all up. He looked at the man’s eyes, which held nothing but contempt, and a quick look at the audience revealed indecision in the eyes of some, hatred along with scorn in the eyes of others.

  As for the other onlookers’ expressions, they were simply blank... and perhaps they, along with the undecided, were the most dangerous of all. However, this was no time for a philosophy lesson. Seconds counted. Harry snarled and started forward, but Tolliver reached for his sidearm. “Don’t make me do this...”

  His voice trailed off when Overton whipped out his own pistol and cocked it, placing the barrel against Tolliver’s head. “If you don’t let Harry go, I’m going to shoot you,” he warned. “Remember, I’ve got jurisdiction in this matter. You don’t, so I’m going to suggest to my friend that he escape now and that you order your men to stand down. Sound good to you?”

  Immediately, the other officers took out their pistols and got ready to fire. Tolliver’s fingers hovered around his holster, but in that moment between going for the gusto and staying alive, it seemed as though he chose the latter. His body sagged ever so slightly and he took his hand away.

  “Stand down,” he ordered his men, and they dropped their arms. To Overton, he said in a voice of pure rage, “You are going to regret this. I guarantee you.”

  Overton jerked his head to the side. “Get going, Harry. See you later.”

  With no other choice than to escape, Harry took to the alleyways and rooftops, clambering up and around fences and jumping where needed. Dusk was falling fast and darkness was his ally.

  Friends and allies were few and far between, and where could he go... ?

  “Hey,” he muttered as an idea came to him, “it’s worth a shot.”

  Skirting the open streets and keeping well out of sight of patrols by the law as well as by self-appointed guardian angels, Harry stole in and out of alleyways and backyards. He’d thought of using the sewer system, but the smell was enough to knock him cold. No, he’d take his chances on the surface.

  Minutes later, though, he came to regret not going underground. He rounded a corner and saw ten men standing around with clubs and tire irons in their hands. “Oh crap,” he whispered.

  “It’s him,” one of them cried and pointed. “Get him!”

  The mob charged and Harry did the only thing possible. He fought. Using his fists, feet and elbows, he blocked, kicked and lashed out whenever possible. While he received a number of blows to his back and legs, he knew he couldn’t go down. If he did, then he wasn’t going to get up again. He did, however, keep his claws sheathed. This was a matter of disable, not kill.

  Minutes later, fight over, he stood over the unconscious forms of the mini-mob, breathing heavily and sweating like a racehorse after a hard workout. His body ached and he noticed blood dripping from a dozen wounds... he’d live. The sound of sirens split the air along with more shouts of “It’s him!”

  Oh wonderful, m
ore of them! Now the police are tracking me...

  With the thought of flight in mind and not fighting, he looked around frantically for an avenue of escape. Dashing into an alleyway, he spotted a manhole, hesitated, and then tugged the cover off. The stink immediately assailed him. “Sewers, it’s always sewers...”

  After climbing in and replacing the cover, he dropped down to the ledge and skirted his way along the walls. The sewer was dimly lit by a ghostly greenish-yellow light, and rats, cockroaches and other denizens of this particular subterranean world scurried out of his way.

  Stopping periodically to listen, he heard no voices approaching and no other sounds save his footsteps. For now, it seemed as though safety lay in going where no one else wanted to, but sooner or later, the police would come.

  Trusting his instincts, he ventured further along the slimy concrete with the smell of rushing water as his guide. The smell of the sewage got stronger, as did his desire to leave, but there were those mobs to consider, and now that he was a fugitive...

  Another smell entered his nostrils... the smell of smoke. Someone had thrown a gas bomb down the hole. It had to be the police. They were trying to smoke him out, and if they did, chances were they had orders to shoot to kill.

  Voices called out, “The mutant’s down here, sir! Go after him!”

  Tolliver had decided to send his minions after all. Coughing and half-blinded, Harry took off and plunged headfirst into the slime, swimming for his life. He ducked underwater just long enough to make some headway, and then surfaced again to breathe in a gulp of putrid smelling air.

  Eventually, the gas faded, and he breathed somewhat more normally. How far had he gotten? He didn’t know. His wounds stung from the chemicals in the water. Wearily, he pulled himself out of the water and lay back on the ledge, regaining his breath. The desire for sleep came, but if he slept now, the police would come.

  Chances had to be taken, so he went up the nearest exit, pushed-slid the manhole cover off, and poked his head out. Clear, the coast was clear.

  Emerging once more on dry land, he reconnoitered the area and got his bearings. Shelter... he needed to find shelter, and soon. Creeping along the backstreets as quietly as possible, his nose and ears alert for any potential danger, he recognized certain houses and landmarks. He’d been there before, roughly six months earlier.

  “I’m close,” he muttered, and soldiered on until he came to a tidy little house in a residential neighborhood. Although it was late, he had no choice in the matter. After glancing around to make sure no one was watching him, he rang the doorbell, heard the chime echo, and rang it again. “Josephine, it’s me,” he whispered.

  The owner of the house was an elderly widow named Josephine Hutch. He’d met her once before when he and Anastasia were being chased by a mob, and she’d provided shelter and food, all because she trusted them. Trust was something that had to be earned and couldn’t be bought, and he’d always been grateful.

  Shifting restlessly, he glanced up at the moon. Judging from its position in the sky, it had to be around midnight, and he hated waking anyone at this hour. Naturally, no one answered at first, and then the sounds of shuffling feet indicated someone was on their way. A voice asked from behind the door, “Who is it? If you’re here to rob me, I don’t have anything of value to take.”

  “It’s me,” Harry responded, about to pass out on his feet. If the sight of him didn’t give away his location, his smell would.

  The door opened and the elderly but unlined face of Josephine appeared. She stared sightlessly and asked, “Who are you?”

  “A friend,” he decided to reply. Josephine had mentioned having cataracts when she’d saved him and Anastasia once before from a mob. Now, she’d gone completely blind.

  The old lady cocked her head to one side and a wise smile appeared. “I know that voice. Come in, Harry.”

  His host was a most gracious one. Way past her eighties, small and slight, Josephine shuffled around in her kitchen, getting tea ready and expertly slicing bread and placing cutlery and plates on the table, all the while clucking over her guest and asking questions in a mild-mannered way, as if strangers appeared every night of the week asking for a place to stay. In spite of her age and handicap, she knew exactly where to go and what to do.

  “It’s in the touch and in my memory,” she said, her voice calm, her movements measured and careful. With a quick turn to the refrigerator, she pulled out the butter, went over to the drawer to spider her fingers over the cutlery, and came out with a butter knife.

  It was a great surprise to him to find out she didn’t use a walking cane or own a seeing-eye dog. “I don’t need either of them,” she declared. “I don’t go out much, but I learned that when you can’t see, you have to listen harder and feel your way around more gently. You compensate and get used to it.”

  With a deft move, she coated the knife with a film of butter and slathered it on the bread. Task done, she handed the plate to Harry, who gratefully accepted and ate quickly. After eating, he felt a little more strength flow through his system.

  “When did your sight go?” he asked.

  Her answer didn’t sound bitter at all, although she did utter a mournful sigh. “Around four months ago, I guess. I always knew I’d go blind, but thought I’d have a little more time. We always wish for more time, but never seem to have enough.”

  Simple words and simply spoken, they carried a great deal of resonance. “I get by, you should know that. One of my children lives nearby and he’s been a great help to me. And I thank you for the money you sent. It’s a great comfort, although I don’t really need it.”

  “You helped us before. I wanted to make it up to you.”

  Josephine had been buttering her own slice of bread. She put the knife down and spoke softly. “You did, and here you are again. Where’s that lovely girlfriend of yours?”

  “She’s my wife now, and a really nasty guy captured her.”

  A look of shock came over Josephine’s face. “Why on Earth—?”

  “A lot of reasons,” Harry interrupted and gave her the short version of his saga, finishing off with, “I need your help.”

  The look of shock on her face faded, replaced by one of sympathy. “So now you’ve got mobs chasing you as well as the police,” she said as a tsk-tsk sound came from her. “Then it’s settled. You’re staying here.”

  Offer gratefully accepted. “Thank you, but I need a computer to contact my friends.”

  At this late hour, it was impossible, Josephine told him. “Sleep here tonight. If you say the police are after you, then going outside isn’t safe. Tomorrow morning I’ll call my son. He knows something about computers, or so he says.”

  Sated from the food and weary, Harry nodded, although she couldn’t see it. “Thanks. If it’s okay, I’ll take the sofa.”

  Josephine’s nose wrinkled. “The first thing you’ll do is to take a shower, young man. You smell like a sewer.”

  She would have to remind him, and then taking a whiff of his own body odor, he realized she had a larger tolerance to stinks than he did. “Uh, yeah, I guess I could do that.”

  “Up the stairs and to your right,” she commanded. “Leave your dirty things in the hamper. I’ll have some fresh clothes ready for you when you’re done. Now scoot!”

  Doing as she suggested, he bounded up the stairs and found the shower. The hot water felt good and blasted the stench of the sewers from him.

  After emerging clean and ready, he shook off the excess water, toweled himself dry, and found a pair of pants and a t-shirt waiting on top of the toilet seat. Both were a little large, but he wasn’t in a position to argue.

  Going downstairs, he found his hostess sitting on the couch, and she cocked her head to one side as he approached. “Well, the aroma is a little more pleasant,” she said. “We’ll talk in the morning.”

  With that, she got up and moved without hesitation toward the stairs. On the way, though, she reached out laid her hand, s
till smooth and unlined, on his arm. “I’m sure your wife will be all right. I didn’t see her or you very well before, but I felt the shape of her face, and I heard her voice. She struck me then as a good person, as you did.”

  Speech over, she slowly walked upstairs and Harry took a spot on the nearby couch. He didn’t think he’d be able to sleep, but felt surprised and grateful when it came up to catch him.

  Chapter Twelve: Making A Break for It

  Waking up with a start—he’d had a dream about mob vengeance involving pitchforks, stakes and fire—he sat up, glanced furtively around to make sure he was still in Josephine’s house and not a jail cell, and looked around for his host. “Is anyone here?”

  His voice echoed and then died away. Perhaps she was still asleep. A glance at the clock told him it was eight-fifteen, and the smell of food wafted through the air. Going into the kitchen, he found a plate piled high with eggs and toast on the kitchen table. With it sat a note written in a shaky hand. I’ve gone out to get my son and we’ll be back soon. Don’t worry about me. Eat!

  Well, she’d commanded him to eat, and he did, polishing off the food in less than a minute. Never mind that it was only lukewarm. He was famished, and the eggs sated his appetite.

  A moment later, he sat back and reflected on the dream he’d had during the night. No, it was no dream but a nightmare, and he’d woken up in a sweat. In it, he saw the dead body of his wife, with Allenby standing over her, a look of triumph on his monstrous face. “This is what you’ve made me do...”

  The thought of living without Anastasia was something Harry couldn’t bear. He’d been alone before, but not this way. In loneliness came fear, the fear of the unknown as well as the fear of something bigger he couldn’t fight against. Admitting the truth to no one else save himself, he realized fear, the most crippling of all emotions, had always held him back.

  Small and shy, bookish and nerdy, he’d been the butt of jokes and beat-downs from the first grade until his junior high school days when his genius had finally shone through. Afraid of confrontations, he’d either run or taken it.