Ping - From the Apocalypse (12 page)

Chapter
Twenty-One

Accusing Fingers

(July 17th, Year One, PA)

Jack stirred his boiling oatmeal on top of the gas barbecue glaring at the wisps of steam writhing up the walls of the pot and then dissolving into the air like lost souls. The atmosphere had been thick with humidity for days and now a roll of thunder drew his attention out to sea. Gazing at the approaching black sky he thought he could feel the electricity coursing through his veins as a fork of lightning cracked over the water.

He grabbed from
the ledge of the barbeque grill his machete, whacked the blade into a coconut and split it open. Staring for a moment at the heavy weapon still in his hand, he finally walked with it into the beach house, placed it at the bottom of a kitchen drawer, and returned to the veranda. Just as he sat down the encumbered clouds released torrents of rain that plunged into the ocean.

The
storm was quickly headed to shore. Jack rose and put a lid on his pot of cereal as the storm surged across the sand towards him driven by unruly gusts which pushed the patio chairs across the veranda; the pot was knocked from the edge of barbeque and splattering hot oatmeal spilt over Jack’s feet.

On his first day in prison — after having changed his plea to guilty — as Jack had shuffled down the cold, austere corridor with his hands cuffed, his feet shackled, and his body clad in bright-orange prison scrubs, all he had thought about was the trial.

Jack's parents
while on the stand each in turn had spoken of their son's immoral past, evading his gaze in apparent shame. Jack had bitterly noted that when, for the remainder of the proceedings neither of them were anywhere to be seen, the prosecutor had pounced on their absence, using it against him throughout the rest of the disturbing trial.

“Unless they knew of his guilt, wouldn't any parent want to be
here to support their son in court?” he had asked the jury. He had posed the same question to Jack, whose response was to say with a detached shrug, hanging his head, “They were never there for me. It’s typical.”

Sketching the defendant's character for the jury
as sullen and cold with a history of violence in his youth, the prosecutor expressed the improbability that Jack possessed any compassion for his patients. “As we have well learned, this is an immoral man with a seedy past who couldn't stay out of trouble in his early years — not even before he reached high school; he was a drug pusher, a thief, and an assaultive bully,” the lawyer reminded the jury.

“
The correctional institutions our defendant attended in his youth guided him to an academic path which eventually led to a medical degree. But please keep in mind – Jack's innate character is sociopathic.”

The
seasoned attorney paused for a moment to view the jurors, taking the time to look each one of them in the eye, measuring their reactions and allowing his words to take root.

“Sociopathic in his abnormal lack of empathy
, his ability to mask it, and the sadistic pleasure he draws from the suffering he inflicts upon those most vulnerable. We can be certain that his intentions regarding his extensive education were to satisfy those twisted and heinous cravings. They alone were his motivation for becoming a doctor — a profession that calls for compassion and a deep inner desire to promote, maintain, and restore human health — not to destroy it.”

He
had turned to the members of the courtroom, and paced from one end of the room to the other, rubbing his chin pensively. Then he’d gazed at Jack who had remained detached, finally lowering his head. The lawyer had accused with outrageous anger projected from his booming voice.

“
He knew what he was, and what he needed, early on in his life and he coldly planned a way to satisfy those perverse yearnings. It was those evil impulses that fueled his ability to achieve such lofty goals. As a doctor he performed in an arena where he could prey upon the most frail and vulnerable of all victims. And let us not forget that Jack is borderline genius.”

The prosecutor pointed an accusing finger at
Jack, looked into the wary eyes of the jurors and lowered his voice to reveal his disgust. “He used his mental agility to take advantage, and he acted out his depraved fantasies in the most brutal, heartless, and barbaric of ways.”

Jack
had heard those condemning words although it might have appeared that he wasn’t listening. He’d stared at his hands and then squeezed them into fists.

“The evidence is presented here before you members of the jury, sickening and despicable as it is. The images do not lie. What you see in these photos is an innocent child's remains.”

The jury and the members of the court became noticeably uncomfortable, gasping and groaning in protest, squirming in their seats.

“It's ugly,
I know,” the prosecutor said compassionately, “but there it is in graphic detail. A four-and-a-half year old boy.” He turned his head to the jury once more. “But he was old enough to identify Jack. Just barely. Had he not been viciously murdered in the middle of the night, had he survived the sexual torture, this child could have explained to us why he was taken from his hospital bed when there was nobody around to protect him; and he could have told us what had been done to his fragile, cancer-ridden body.”

The lawyer pointed one more time at
Jack who was now gazing at the image on the screen ahead of him. “But he was clever our Jack; and he knew how to destroy the forensic evidence. He removed his own DNA from the child's lifeless body. And please keep in mind that we know for certain that he was the last person to be seen with the child.”

Jack's reaction to the graphic photographs projected on a large screen for all to see was astonishing to all present at the trial.
Forced to view the blatant violence, he was pushed over the edge and subsequently confessed. At that, his horrified girlfriend stumbled to her feet and dashed out of the courtroom.

“Life without parole,” declared the weary judge. This was not good enough for the
grieving parents who wept at the verdict. Jack had glanced back at them, certain by the father’s unforgettable glare that it had taken all of the man’s strength of will not to throw himself at Jack and pummel him to death. But at least there had been some sense of closure for the parents — the monster had been stopped and justice would be done in the name of their lost son.

Jack had been
incarcerated in the most secure facility in the country — ADX Florence in the state of Colorado — known as the Alcatraz of the Rockies, a prison in which the most violent of offenders were locked up under supermax conditions, in twenty-three hour confinement and with few amenities. If Jack had slipped up just once, he would have been sent to the ultra-secure section, to twenty-four hour solitary confinement, where human contact was rare, and the opportunity to earn better conditions through good behaviour practically nil.

Flanked by two guards and his assigne
d correctional officer, Jack had been directed into a stainless steel elevator. He’d kept his head down, obeying the abrupt orders barked at him as the tight group moved to the upper corridor, their hasty steps reverberating around them. It had seemed a lengthy walk, around a bend to the right, several units along, and past many inmates who’d immediately perked up at the sight of a new prisoner.

Jack
had been a short, entertaining and irresistible source of distraction from their boring miserable routines and they had relished the opportunity to spew insults and laugh at him — even enjoying the repercussions as the guards bashed the steel bars.

When the
ir destination had been reached, Jack had scanned the bleak, windowless cell consisting of a toilet, sink, and mattress and ingested the stale sweat and urine that had lingered in the stagnant air as the steel doors opened. The shackles were removed in silence as he’d assumed he was not worthy of conversation nor would he ever be again. Watching the exiting guards, the door slammed behind them and he had finally been left alone.

Forming
his hands into fists, the muscles in his forearms flexed and hardened, the veins running across them bulging, his mind had burned red-hot with fury. In that cramped cage he’d thought would take his freedom until his final days, Jack had felt as small as his father had always intended.

The image of those eyes and the flash he
’d seen in them whenever he had passed his father would not leave. It had stayed with him in his cell; he’d felt the silent words passing between them, the same as they had a thousand times before. For five years whenever Jack had turned those years of secrecy over in his mind, his jaw had clenched with rage.

***

“Why are you stopping?” Sarah asked, automatically steadying Snowy's cage in the back seat.

“Sh
hh… give me a minute.”

Kate
closed her eyes searching for that familiar feeling.

“Oh man, it's gone now. I could have sworn there was
someone trying to connect. But now I'm not sure if it was just me, it was so… fleeting and almost –”

“What?”

“Never mind. It was nothing.”

“
Well, maybe you've found someone,” Sarah suggested. “That's what's been happening with me. A twinge of something here and there when I least expect it. When I try to grab on, it's gone.”

“Wish whoever it is would try harder. I guess he doesn't realize
what he’s doing.”

“I'm sure that's what the problem is.”

“Time will tell,” Kate muttered. Still feeling confused and unusually anxious about it, she sped up along the interstate heading west. They were wearing new clothes from Costco and she glanced at both of their long legs which were dappled with light-pink scars.

The sky had cleared
from the morning storm and a few drops of water rolled off the windshield as she accelerated. Fairly often they passed a vehicle stopped on the side of the road, or a transport truck halted in the middle of a lane. Sometimes bodies were strewn around them – a family disintegrating into the pavement like road-kill. Luckily they had managed to get around the serious obstructions. She wondered how long it would take before the bodies were reduced to bones.

“I hope that downpour doused the for
est fire,” Kate said. “No more handsome fire-fighters to fly their planes and dump whatever chemicals they used to extinguish the flames. What are we going to do without them?”

“Maybe no firemen, but the planes a
re there, fuelled up and ready to go! We’ll learn to fly them ourselves. Can you imagine?” she laughed.

“Now that's a scary thought
,” Kate said, gazing at her sister.

Sarah
angled the mirror on the sun-visor to frame her reflection and spread some bright red lipstick around her mouth and Kate couldn’t help but scoff. “What on earth are you bothering with that for? Are you expecting company?”

“You never know who we could run into,” Sarah
teased, examining the dark circles beneath her eyes. No — it's just for me. Make-up was how I made a living don’t forget. Making performers look just right is quite an art you know.”

“
Well, I think we both look pretty good au naturel,” Kate sighed. “I wonder what my baby will look like.”

“
I hope she looks like mom,” Sarah said, flipping the mirror shut.

“Maybe it will,” Kate pondered absently.
As she sped closer to their destination, she glanced at her sister from time to time, studying her and thinking deeply about their separate lives. Sarah seemed to be scouring the dense forest on either side of the highway.

“Oh look
Kate – a fawn! Crossing the road up there. Be careful.”

“Poor thing, I wonder where the mother is—”

Kate suddenly slammed on the brakes. Both she and Sarah were struck by the same thing at once — the boy’s pleas which were stronger than ever. He needed them to hurry and find him and it was evident to both of them that if they didn’t rescue him soon, it was going to be too late.

Chapter
Twenty-Two

Hovering above the Flight-Deck

(July 17th, Year One, PA)

Chris had been on the road too long now, but feeling like he was about to finally discover something that would make everything he’d been through worthwhile, he continued exploring through the town. Up and down the streets, peering onto porches, in through open doors, into vehicles and between the houses — with a vague image of what he felt was waiting to be found.

He
’d been having the distinct sense of being guided by the child in him, strange as that was and could not stop searching in this particular area. He’d been there for two days. Thoughts of moving on only gave him a bad feeling — as if his instincts were screaming for him to stop whenever he attempted to leave.

And now —
as he turned into what would have been not so long ago a quiet gated-community with large opulent homes — his expectation of finding someone was at a peak. It just felt right, somehow. Only the child in him would have been so trusting of his inner gut feelings with such blind faith when there seemed such hopelessness.

Driving slowly down a third side-street his pulse climb
ed and the blonde hairs on his arms rose as he passed a Georgian-style manor with white brick, and a sidewalk that led to red doors at the entranceway.

As he drove past it headed for the next
mansion, something happened to him, and he came to a stop, reversing his yellow Hummer until he was in line with the sidewalk leading to the red doors. The feeling that he was at the right place pulsed through him, yet he didn’t get out of his vehicle just yet.

Something told him his life was about to change profoundly again and h
e paused to reflect on the improbable circumstances that had brought him there, still marvelling at the fact he was alive. That fateful day when all of his troubles had begun would be with him forever:

(January 5
th
)

Chris paused to consciously savour the feeling of weightlessness as he floated above the primary flight and navigation displays, the engine instruments and the abort controls, moving without the slightest of effort – like drifting in water but without its encumbrance or resistance.

He hovered above the flight
-deck control panel for a moment, then being careful to use only the slightest touch to propel himself — he had learned in his early days as a first-time free-floater not to zing himself around like a Ping-Pong ball — he glided down to his work station, hooked his feet around the chair to secure his position, and began summarizing his conclusions from the recorded data he had pulled from a chart on the computer.

A shrimp-sized glob floated into his peripheral vision, and then
drifted in front of his face. His crewmate Tom sailed several inches over to catch it, stretched up his arm, and nudged the escaped liquid back toward his mouth. “Sorry Chris, I lost control of that one.”

“No problem pal,” Chris said, “I know it's early but I wish we had some champagne or something on board right now. I think we deserve at least that, don't you? We need to make some kind of appropriate toast.”

“Given the circumstances — why are you still working?”

“
Well… it ain't over 'til it's over pal, didn’t someone once say that? I want to finish up here. You know me — don’t like leaving things half-done. How's the crew?”

“Firth is still with them, trying to do what he can, but he
says it's not promising. Hey Chris?”

“Yeah buddy?”

“The doc’s sick too. He's keeping it quiet but it's obvious.”

“I suspected as much.”

“How about you?”

“You want the truth? Otherwise, don't ask.”

“Ditto.”

Chris pushed himself away from the control panel and glided to the other side of the capsule. “Quality time, what do you say
, buddy?”

“Yeah, time to crack open some booze.
Where did you stash it Chris?”

“I wish.
Should have thought about that earlier. I can't stop thinking about Jennifer and the boys. What it must be like down there.” He shook his head in shocked disbelief.

Tom
tried to hide a grimace and looked out the window. “Trish was with her family… so that's something,” he groaned.

“Guess so,
” Chris said, finding it impossible to hide the overwhelming pain that had hit him an hour ago. “So fess up bud. Cause it's getting to me now.”

Tom came toward him with a scared look on his face.
“Same symptoms as the crew I’m afraid. Guess it’s got all of us then.”

“Jesus
, it’s been quiet down at mission control for the entire evening – you know what that means; not a good sign. I'm trying to figure it out, how it got us up in space. We've been in quarantine for six weeks, so where did this come from Tom?”

Tom squeezed his brows together, sighed and then coughed.
“The way it hit everyone all at once, had to be calculated I’m thinking, planned for a very long time. An engineered virus — manipulated to wake up years after its release possibly, ensuring it’s a clean sweep. Probably in our water, food – every possible means of delivery. Some off-his-rocker virologist or something like that, I assume — probably a group effort. Suicide for them too, most likely.”

“Yeah,
well if the bastards survive this, I hope they live out the rest of their days in hell.”

“Oh you can rest assured of that. Things won't be pretty in the wake of this. They'll probably kill themselves if they haven't already
… crazy fuckers.”

Chris began to cough and then h
e wiped his brow with his sleeve. “But it's a unique perspective from up here now isn't it? We’re lucky buggers to have seen it. Jeez will you look at that planet Tom? It's been special buddy. Doesn't get much better than this.”

“We were onto a lot of good things Chris. All that research and now —
I’m afraid there isn’t going to be anyone left to benefit from it. Go figure.”