They had introduced themselves as Susan Smythe and Albert Dacquiri from an obscure organisation called ‘Mundus Nova’.
Having reached back into the dim memories of his grade school years he vaguely recalled that the words meant ‘new world’ in Latin.
But what kind of new world, he thought as he stared into the faces of the strangers.
He had written down their names during the telephone conversation leading up to the meeting and had requested a background check on them and their organisation before agreeing to a face to face. There were too many loonies running around with agendas.
He had no data on them, the Secret Service could not find anything, and it was like they did not exist. He had his gut instinct though, and in the first few seconds of the meeting he felt as if there was something a little ‘off’ about them.
He was under the impression the meeting was under the guise of a donation to support his work with the homeless. That impression was also destroyed within the first two minutes.
He used his index finger to push his glasses back on his nose as he studied the meticulously dressed woman.
He observed Susan Smythe’s careful grooming, the smart cut business suit. He noticed the way she sat upright as if she were teetering on the edge of an abyss and if her spine snapped she would tumble into it.
He suspected that she might have a Latino heritage. Her skin was a light coffee colour that added credence to his suspicions.
He couldn’t help but notice her close-set deep blue eyes. They framed a small pointed nose which perched above perfectly painted lips. He also noticed that on the rare occasion she smiled, she had perfect gleaming white teeth.
Together with her tight, pulled back black hair he could tell she had the typical perfectly symmetrical features of good genetics.
He noticed the sharp contrast between the two.
Dacquiri was in his early fifties but looked at least a decade older. He sat slightly slouched as if his backbone was struggling to hold him upright.
The man had a toothpick in the corner of his mouth that he played with constantly. His tongue nervously shuffled the pointed stick from one side of his mouth to the other.
He could tell the man suffered from a genetic deficiency by the way his greasy hair slunk in strands on his slightly balding scalp, barely distracting the casual observer from the hideousness of his visage and his bulbous physique.
The man’s skin was grey and had that recently deceased look about it. His teeth were discoloured and crooked.
Baker had a hard time hiding his obvious contempt for the two. He leant forward and caught the faint whiff of the strange mix of Chanel Number 5 from the woman and bad body odour from the slob.
He took a sip from his coffee and slammed the cup on the table as he struggled to maintain his composure as he spoke.
“Let me get this straight. You want me to sign off on your organisation’s ridiculous plans for demolishing the homes of two hundred low income families, to allow you to build your corporate Headquarters. Are you two out of your freaking minds?
Your Organisation has picked the wrong Senator. Surely you would know that I have been actively trying to pass the Philanthropy Bill through the Senate for the past two years that will protect those homes.
Furthermore, I intend to personally to lobby to purchase as many of those ‘rats nest of derelict buildings’ you so eloquently call them and provide them free to anyone in need of a home.
I am both offended that you would even think that I would entertain the idea and pissed off that you have dragged me to this meeting under false pretences. You are wasting my time.
“Now if you’ll excuse me I have more important issues that need my attention.”
With a burst of adrenalin spurred on by his rage, Baker stood and pushed back on his chair as he made to leave.
He strode angrily past Smythe and Dacquiri and as he struggled to don his jacket and retrieve his umbrella from his brief case, he heard the silky smooth voice of the woman.
“Mundus Nova is not used to refusals Senator Baker. It would be wise for you to reconsider.”
Baker could see the unemotional look on the woman’s face as she spoke and then noticed the edges of her lips curl up slightly as if she was concealing some hidden knowledge.
His anger swelled as he strode out of the door of the diner into the cold drizzling rain. He did not turn around as he replied.
“If that is a threat Ms Smythe, you should know that I have a great deal of power at my disposal. I can summon the full force of any number of agencies who are ready and willing to take to task any organisation that could be perceived as a threat to national security. Have a think about that.”
He strode to the curb and cursed as he remembered that he had recently cancelled the limousine service.
His son, who was currently estranged from him, had reminded him once that it would be hypocritical for a Senator to display outward signs of wealth whilst trying to highlight the plight of the homeless.
For that reason he had also refused any form of personal protection or luxuries like chauffeured Limousines.
He hailed a taxi and stood shivering slightly. The drizzling rain was near freezing.
Winter was fast approaching and he knew that the coming colder months would mean that there would be more deaths on the streets. This thought added impetus to his cause.
He pulled his Tablet PC from his pocket and made a mental note of the address of his next appointment as he climbed into the back seat of the taxi.
He ignored the tattered seats and the pervasive reek of nicotine and cheap cologne as he smiled at the driver and gave him the address.
The taxi pulled out sharply into the bustling night time traffic and, as he stared out through the filthy window, he thought of the strange individuals back at the diner.
Notwithstanding the veiled threat, he still had that odd feeling gnawing at him in the pit of his stomach. Smythe, Dacquiri and the rest of that Organisation were up to something.
He closed his eyes and sat back in the taxi as he breathed in deeply. He made a mental note to himself to contact the Homeland Security Office to put Mundus Nova under the spotlight.
He smiled as he relaxed slightly and thought of the scrutiny that could be undertaken in the name of National Security.
Since nine eleven, the concepts of privacy and human rights were gone – George Dubbya junior had seen to that.
After being jostled and thrown around for what seemed to be an hour, the Senator felt the taxi decelerate as it pulled up at the curb of a dilapidated apartment block.
He alighted from the cab and clutched his briefcase tightly to him as he thrust a fist full of twenties through the driver’s window.
“Here you go driver, this should cover the fare.”
He waited as the driver carefully counted the notes and then heard him mumble something that sounded like a thankyou as he sped off.
He watched the red tail light lights disappear up the deserted alleyway and then turned and looked up at the squalid monstrosity that stood before him.
He was oblivious to the small red dot that punctuated the back of his head, and, as he took a step towards the grime covered doorway at the front of the building, he was unaware that it would be his last.
He did not see the flash, nor hear the resounding crack, nor feel the bullet that penetrated his skull. The execution was flawless. Senator Trent Baker was dead before he hit the ground.
Five
“Hey Blondie! Hows about ya get your arse over here and pour me another coffee. I’m an old man ya know and I’m getting older by the minute!”
“Yeah, yeah, give us a sec will ya Burt,” Sylvan said as she attended to one of the other patrons of The Greasy Dog Diner.
After taking a couple of weeks to settle into living with Crystal, Silvan had decided that she needed to go out and earn a living to help Crystal out with some of the bills.
She had had some experience bussing t
ables and applied to Jerry Sanders, the owner of the diner.
She had cleaned herself up as best she could, complete with make-up and a plastered smile and squirmed her way through the interview.
The rape by her Mother’s boyfriend was still fresh in her mind. After that horrendous ordeal she thought it would take a long time before she could trust men again.
As she cleaned the crumbs and ketchup splotches from one of the tables, she remembered how she had to fight the urge to lower her gaze as she sat opposite Jerry as she slowly but confidently answered his questions.
She could feel her face flush slightly when she remembered how she felt when she noticed him staring at her cleavage during the interview.
She needed the job, so she ignored it and self consciously folded her arms in front of her in an attempt to cover any flesh that may have been visible.
The Greasy Dog Diner was a popular place for Crystal and her fellow associates as she liked to call them. Sylvan was fortunate that Crystal knew that Jerry was looking for another waitress. Crystal had encouraged her to apply for the job.
If it had not been for Crystal, Sylvan knew that she could have quite easily succumbed to depression.
She had felt numb for a least a week after moving in with Crystal.
She had been in autopilot, responding to Justen’s needs and then falling back into a vicious cycle of sleeping, crying and then sleeping again.
As she poured Burt’s coffee she glanced up at the clock that was used to cover the crack in the plaster on the wall behind the cash register.
She smiled when she realised that she only had an hour and then she would be on her way home to her son.
She had managed to convince Jerry to allow her to only work the hours that Justen would be in school. It was a good arrangement.
Every morning she would make breakfast for Justen and then send him off to school.
After she had safely seen him catch the bus for school, she would hurriedly dress and then catch her bus from the front of their building and make the three block journey to the diner.
After her shift she would catch the opposite bus and manage to make it back to Crystal’s apartment before Justen arrived home from school. So far it had been a perfect arrangement.
She remembered back to the first night that she had met Crystal. She could not shake the horrible feeling she had felt when Justen had told her that he had been hiding from a bad man.
She had tried desperately to find out more from Justen. She wanted to know who the bad man was and what he had done. To her chagrin, Justen had refused to say any more and when pressed for answers he would just become withdrawn and would try to change the subject or his asthma would flare up and it would then be a race against time to alleviate his breathing.
One night after suffering a nightmare, Justen cuddled up close to her in the bed and after a long silent pause he told her about the man with the scar who had fired a gun out the window.
She had considered going to the Police with the information but was dissuaded by Crystal.
Understandably, she was adamant that the Police would not be motivated to listen to a runaway, who was living with a business woman of questionable integrity, and a bastard child.
Sylvan delivered several more orders and had just finished wiping up three more tables when she noticed that the clock hands had not changed since the last time she had glanced at them. She peered at the television that was bolted in the cage and hanging from the ceiling at the far end of the diner.
The news story on the TV was the same one that had been running for the last couple of weeks about some big wig Senator who had been gunned down in their neighbourhood. She ignored the story and instead focussed on the time that was registered at the bottom left of the screen.
“Crap! Jerry, I’ve got to go, I’m going to miss my bus!” she yelled as she tugged at her apron and threw it unceremoniously at the basket behind the counter.
She grabbed her hand bag and then dashed for the door.
“Could you please try to call Crystal and ask her to watch Justen for me until I get home,” she yelled almost as an afterthought as she sprinted for the bus stop.
She arrived at the bus terminal a few seconds after her bus had departed. She swore under her breath between gasps for breath and then ran her finger over the faded timetable. She swore again when she realised that the next bus wasn’t due for another hour. To make matters worse, a cold misty rain had begun to fall.
She hunched her shoulders and drew her flimsy tattered cardigan around her as she resigned herself that she would have to walk home.
The sky gradually turned darker and the rain became heavier with each passing step.
She knew that Crystal would look after Justen until she arrived home and the thought gave her some comfort as she plodded through the ever increasing pools of water.
She shivered as she felt the cold water seeping into her shoes. Intermittent flashes of lightning heralded the arrival of a storm. The accompanying thunder crashes pushed some urgency into her step and she sunk into herself as she walked.
The grimy streets made her apprehensive and fearful of every darkened recess and alleyway. She wished that she could become invisible as she hurried past a seedy bar.
The vile stench of stale booze and cigarette smoke clutched at her nostrils as she brushed past a group of clearly inebriated men, cowering together full of false bravado, like a pack of hungry hyenas.
She held her breath and looked away from them. She hoped that she would not draw attention to herself as she could hear that they were clearly involved in some drunken argument about sport.
She ducked under the arm of one of the men who was in the process of poking a smaller member of their group in the chest as if he was punctuating his point with his finger.
She cleared herself from the mob and quickened her pace as she walked further. She heard a shout emanate from the group.
“Hey you – come ’ere!”
She heard the rest of the pack chortle and wolf whistle as she resisted the urge to look back and focused on the street ahead of her.
She scanned the buildings ahead to see if there was a safe haven she could duck into if the moment called for her to escape. She swallowed hard as she realised that apart from those drunken men and herself, there was no one else around.
She contemplated crossing the street, turning around and heading back to the diner but ignored it. She had to get home to Justen and she did not want to go back past the bar and the drunks.
She had begun to break into a run when she suddenly heard an ominous crack. She lost her balance on one side and nearly fell. She had broken off the heel on her left shoe in a crack in the pavement.
She stopped and bent down to pick up the broken heel.
Suddenly, she felt a rough hand enclose around the back of her neck. A bag of some sort was pulled over her head and she suddenly felt herself being thrown forward.
She hit the pavement hard and scraped the palms of her hands as she thrust her arms out in front of her instinctively to protect her face.
“Hey! What the…?” she yelled as she quickly rolled onto her back. She screamed when she felt hands grasp her arms and pull them, dragging her on her back. She thrashed around frantically trying to get her abductors to release their grip.
The rain had now become torrential and it blurred her eyes as she peered into the darkness as she felt the pain of her arms being pulled with force and her head bouncing on the broken concrete and filth.
She could sense that there were multiple attackers. She kicked with her legs, desperately trying to hurt them. She screamed again in terror when more hands grasped both of her legs, and with brute force, wrenched them apart.
She screamed continuously until she felt the sharp sting of the fist of one of the assailants collide with her jaw.
She cried out in pain and then felt the second blow as it smashed her nose. She could taste the blood and gagged as it pooled at the bac
k of her throat. At the same time she felt revulsion as she felt her clothes being torn from her.
The stench of nicotine was nauseating as a wet, greasy hand clamped down on her mouth. She twisted her head and managed to latch onto one of the greasy fingers through the bag. Her action elicited an instant scream of pain from the owner of the hand.
“You fucken bitch! She fucken bit me!
She tensed for the inevitable retaliation. It was swift. The assailant kicked her in the side of the head.
The pain was intense. Tears streamed from her eyes and mixed with the blood and rain.
She thought of her little boy waiting for her at home. The anguish was unbearable.
Mercifully she did not feel the second kick, there was only nothingness.
Six
Justen felt proud as he sat on the school bus and gazed out through the streaky glass at the many people who were hurriedly making their way to do whatever it was that grownups did.
His feeling of pride was primarily caused by the fact that his Mother trusted him to make the journey to and from school by himself. He felt that at the age of six he was pretty much grown up and by allowing him to ride the bus alone, his Mother must have felt the same way.
He lurched forward in his seat as he felt the bus stop at an intersection. He smiled when he saw an old lady being tugged along the street by a large woolly looking dog. The bus pulled away from the intersection and then whack! He felt something hit him in the back of the head.
He looked around the bus and all he could see was the raucous behaviour of thirty children. The noise was deafening and it somehow blended into the grinding and groaning noises made by the dilapidated old bus.
He turned back around and amused himself by tracing the graffiti on the back of the seat in front of him with his finger when – splat!
Something hit the side of his face.
His cheek stung from the impact of a stale sandwich, the evidence of which was resting on the top of his back pack which he had placed by his feet.
The Immortal Harvest Page 5