CHAPTER 1
Doctor Dion put his forearms on the railing, leaned over the edge of the ship, and stared out at the ocean. For the past half an hour, he’d been contemplating the idea eating human flesh—or, more specifically, what it might feel like to be forced to eat another human being. That metal taste of blood came to mind, the feel of warm intestines in between the fingers and teeth. And to do it with no control over one’s self, he thought—what a way to go.
He was dressed in his usual uniform: a white lab coat that extended down to his knees, a black nylon V-neck, black military boots, and dress slacks to match. The rising sun glistened on his glasses as the wind blew gently through his thinning, gray hair. He was an older man, but well built—strong, and forthcoming. At six foot seven inches tall, and with shoulders like an ox, he towered over most in his scientist profession like a shark among minnows.
He inhaled a lung full of salty air then let it out with a sigh. It was an unusually cold day for the tropics, he thought, perfect for a funeral.
There was an island, not too far away that the ship perpetually orbited around—a lush bit of jungle real estate that he had inherited from his father. In the center of the island stood an age-old volcano that was dormant, and barren of any vegetation, but decorated instead with massive, jagged boulders that reached up and outward like sharp fingers grasping for the trees and beaches that circled around the base of the mountain. It was a strange little island, full of caves and hot springs, but it was his, and he meant to do something terrible with it.
Secured tightly in his left fist was a handful of his daughter’s ashes, and in his right fist, his wife’s.
Thoughtfully, he opened his left hand and watched the wind take his daughter up and away, fluttering out to sea. The ashes swirled into beautiful shapes, (or so he found them to be beautiful) and collected on the surface of the water. Jaw-like waves engulfed the shadowy figure, brutally splashed her up against the side of the ship, then swallowed her whole. When she was gone, he let a respectful moment pass, closing his eyes and tuning in to all the sounds around him—birds, waves, the ship’s engines, the distant sound of beating helicopter blades.
After the moment, he looked down at his right hand. His wife’s lungs and heart—her liver, brain, stomach—and all the little physical bits that once made her up now sat as a pile of dust sifting through the cracks of his fingers. He tilted his head back and opened his hand over his face, letting her brush over him as the breeze took her to join their daughter.
And either on the wind, or in his mind, (he could not tell) there was a familiar voice, a whisper in his ear. “Kill them,” it said. “Kill them all.”
He closed his lids again and let the whites of his eyes burn, but tears did not come—nor did any words to his lips, for there was nothing to say, only things to do.
He opened his eyes again. The distant mechanical beating sound was getting louder by the second. A helicopter had appeared on the horizon, and was headed his way.
“Doctor?” said a soft voice from behind him. “Mr. Ullman will be here in five minutes.”
Doctor Dion turned on his heel to find his lead assistant. “Thank you, Smith,” he said, dusting off his hands, and walking passed the man towards a door.
Doctor Smith was dressed in the same lab coat, V-neck uniform, and had an unusually young looking face for his old age. He was much shorter than his boss—thinner too—with jet-black hair and a copper tan, (thanks to his Italian mother).
When the chopper landed on the back of the boat, the Doctor and his assistant doctor were waiting.
Mr. Ullman, a scruffy looking man with a round belly, carefully put his feet out onto the landing pad. He was dressed in a suit that was slightly too tight for him, carrying a briefcase that was apparently a little too heavy for his liking. He walked stiffly towards the two men, with casual pretense, sweating profusely.
“I trust your flight was smooth?” said Doctor Dion, over the sound of the slowing chopper blades.
Ullman tried to keep his tie from flapping up in his face. “Yes. Fine. Smooth as six hours over the Atlantic on a plastic seat could be, I guess.”
They shook hands.
“It’s been a while,” said Ullman. “Haven’t done any business with the likes of you since before the war, I believe.”
Dion forced a smile. “I trust you know my lead assistant?”
“Ah, yes,” said Ullman, shaking Smith’s hand. “Doctor Eric Smith, I am very familiar with your work. Mostly charitable ventures, if am correct? That is before you got mixed up with this fellow, eh?” He chuckled. “Let me tell yah, that anti-fungal concoction you lathered up for the people of Libya during the war really saved me and one of my associates from a nasty anal rash that was going ‘round while we were—“
“Shall we go to my office?” said Dion, motioning his hand toward the door.
“Oh, yes. Please. Lead the way,” said Ullman, changing hands with the briefcase, and walking towards a door. “And I must say, this is a beautiful ship. Russian built, I assume?”
Doctor Dion turned on his heel, and followed his guest. “Yes. 1944.4 Kirov,” he said, flatly.
“Ah, yes,” said Ullman. “Very strong steel.” He kicked a wall twice with the toe of his brown leather dress shoe. “I hear rumors that the latest Kirov models have diving rooms, equipped with miniature submarines? Am I lucky enough to be standing on such a vessel? Forgive me, diving is my passion.”
“Yes, we have mini sub,” said Smith. “But very few people know about it. We like to keep that a secret.”
“Ah, we are just full of secrets on this ship, aren’t we?” said Ullman, stopping at a door with a smirk on his face.
Doctor Dion opened a door, and the three of them stepped inside. He led the way up a set of square, spiral stairs, over a number of catwalks, through two tope colored hallways, and up another flight of stairs.
When they reached Dion’s office, Mr. Ullman was breathing hard, which was something he was trying very hard to conceal from his client. He knew that the doctor had little tolerance for weakness.
The office was a long rectangle room, with an expensive looking wooden desk on one side and long mahogany conference table on the other. Doctor Dion took his seat behind his desk; Smith sat on a chair in the corner of the room, and Ullman plopped his thick, tired body into a comfy looking armchair across from Dion with a flat grunt.
“I hope you have some good news for us,” said Dion, putting his elbows on the table, his fingertips together over his lips.
Ullman crossed a leg over a knee, then realized that it was too heavy and let it fall to where it was before. “We…we…excuse me.” He leaned over and coughed into the crook of his elbow. “Forgive me, old friend—seems I’m not as fit as I used to be.” He chuckled then coughed again.
Dion looked at Smith, then back at Ullman, a little apprehensive.
If you encounter this tale on Amazon, note that it's taken without the author's consent. Report it.
Smith smiled slightly, a soft and tender grin that seemed to truly express sympathy.
Ullman found his breath. “Yes,” he said. “Very good news, indeed.” What he said next seemed to run into one long sentence, as if trying to get it all out in one breath. “During this little experiment of yours, I’ll have two British naval cruisers blockading your island in a fifty-mile radius for as long as you need. The airspace over this area will be restricted, and you will have constant satellite surveillance of the island at all times.” He cleared his throat, took a breath, and loosened his tie. “I have an army of five-hundred men, all of them independently contracted for you to use at your disposal. Do your dirty work, if you will. I’ve also acquisitioned two Russian submarines—one of which has nuclear capabilities, not that you’ll ever need to it, of course. And don’t ask me how I pulled that one off, either, I refuse to tell.” He pointed and winked.
Dion glanced at Smith again, then back at Ullman, his face expressionless.
“You, Sir, will be the most protected man in the world,” said Ullman. “Since the war is officially over, all eyes will be averted, making my job extremely easy. There will be no need to fret, Doctor.” A look of sheer confidence washed over his pink face as he began to fan himself with a hand. “Is it hot in here to you? No?” He looked back at Smith, who shrugged, then back at Dion.
Doctor Dion sat back in his chair and let out a breath through his nose. “Do you have the files?”
“Ah, right,” said Ullman, pointing a finger in the air. He leaned over the side of his chair, opened his large briefcase, and thrust his pudgy little hands deep inside. He gathered a stack of thick, manila folders, pulled them out, and slammed them down on the desk. Then, quickly, he organized them into two piles, and pushed the larger stack forward.
“Here are the Twenty-five girls and twenty-five boys we selected for your experiment. All of them—ages seventeen to twenty-one with parents who died for the wrong side in the war. Some of them fit your specific criteria, which I found to be quite peculiar.” He snorted though his nose. “Let me tell you, it took us a long time to locate a young male who had no sense of smell or taste, but we did it.”
“And his son? The man who killed my wife and daughter, his son is in here?” said Dion.
Ullman slapped his fat finger on the top folder. “First one,” he said. “And I know what this boy means to you, so we used him as the focal point for picking the rest of them, the unspecified one. So we picked his girlfriend, some of his enemies, you know, people he might be close to, or hate—I thought it would give your experiment a…let’s say a nice, sentimental touch for the boy.”
Doctor Dion took the top folder off the stack and opened it. A young boy’s school photo was clipped to the upper left hand corner of a medical related document. The boy had a soft, confident grin and wavy brown hair that was brushed lazily over his bright, blue eyes. Dion searched for a name. “Cooper Collins,” he said. “And he looks just like his father.”
“Yes, I’m sure,” said Ullman, uninterested. “And we’ve already set in motion the counterintelligence strategies for when the kidnapping phase begins. We’re going to leave a trail of false breadcrumbs so thick and messy that no one will be able to track down any of these kids. They’ll disappear from society like ghosts. Gone, just like that.” He slapped the desk with his hand.
“Just like that?” said Dion, slightly incredulous, and a little put off by the sweaty hand mark now on his desk. “Well, then I guess I have nothing to worry about?”
Ullman swept his hand through the air and made a “spish” sound with his lips. “Abduction ops like this, they’ve been done plenty of times before,” he said, then shrugged. “Of course, never on this level, but—“
“What do you mean, never on this level?” said Dion.
Ullman smiled. “Look,” he said. “If we can send a whole crew of men to Mars in secret, we can kidnap and torture a handful of kids without anyone becoming the wiser. It’s not a problem. Not if you’re actually good for what you’re promising to pay me, anyway.”
Dion’s eyes tightened. “You should know that money will not be an issue, and it never will be.”
“I know that!” said Ullman, a little too quickly. “I know who you are.” He graced the old man with a smile full of teeth, as if a deep dark secret lay hidden behind them.
Doctor Dion’s face darkened. “And my identity is extremely—”
“Don’t worry, Doctor, your identity is just as protected as this strange little project will be. You just keep on keeping on, and let me take care of the rest.”
Doctor Dion studied Ullman’s neck rolls with slight disgust, then looked back down at the picture of the boy. He touched the photo, silently making circles around the boy’s face with a finger. “The blood of the children for the sins of the fathers,” he whispered to himself.
Ullman’s left eyebrow rose. He turned to look at Smith, who smiled kindly, then turned back to Dion. He cleared his throat, preparing to speak again.
“Right then,” said Ullman, moving the discussion along, “Now, you’ve also requested that we find you one influential man from each of the nine cities that were—obliterated, shall we say—by the United States, that lost either a wife or a daughter or both,” he said, pushing the other stack forward. “Beijing, Pyongyang, Kabul, Moscow, Damascus, Jerusalem, Tripoli, Hanoi—” he took a breath, “—and of course our home, our wonderful, beautiful London…God save the Queen, and the city, or what’s left of it.” He quickly frowned. “It wasn’t hard to do, really. There are plenty of rich chums out there that are just as pissed off as you are—who are extremely willing to invest their time and fortunes in a perfectly good revenge scheme, especially one as…poetic as this,” he said.
Doctor Dion studied Ullman for a moment then opened one of the folders. His eyes glanced over the file, and up to a picture of a tall Chinese man who had a dragon tattoo down the left side of his face. He scanned the information next to the photo and read the name. “Mr. Sham Tao,” he said, then closed the folder and looked up. “And they are fully aware of the secrecy surrounding this project?”
“Oh, yes,” said Ullman, licking his lips. “And to be honest, when you told me you didn’t want any women on board, I thought you were just a good old fashioned sexist. But after reading the details of your experiment—” His eyes opened up wide. “Well, let’s just say I’m glad I’m not one of those poor, young girls.” He pointed with his eyes to the large stack of files. “Drug induced cannibalism…my, my. What will we think up next?” His face scrunched up, cringing. Then it became obvious that wanted to say something else. Suddenly, he looked a little nervous. “Speaking of drug induced behavior, I…If I may ask, was it really your device—shall we call it—that the Americans used to destroy those nine cites? The device that causes people to hallucinate—‘Mind Gas,’ I think it was called. That was your creation, was it not? It is not a secret that the weapon of choice that won the war was not nuclear, but in fact something else, something much more sinister and personal. Though, I have only heard rumors of its origin, of course.”
The look on Doctor Dion’s face was stone cold. A moment of silence passed so thick that it seemed to cloud the room. “I was involved in ‘Mind Gas’ project, yes.”
“And that’s the reason that boy’s father killed your family, to get his hands on that chemical weapon, wasn’t it?” he eyed a picture of Dion’s wife and daughter that stood erect on the corner of the desk.
Doctor Dion’s fingernails could be heard scratching the upholstery of his leather arm chair.
Ullman looked back and forth between Dion and Smith, realizing that he’d just hit a sore spot. “Forgive me, old friend,” said Ullman, realizing he had stuck a cord. “It is a very bad habit. My ex-wife used to say I’d make for a better detective than a husband any day. I do not mean put my nose where—“
“No need to apologize,” said Doctor Dion. He clapped an open file shut, and slapped it back on the stack a little firmer than necessary. “It is in the past, and the past is why we are here.”
There was another space of pure, unpleasant awkwardness, which Ullman broke by leaning forward, putting his hands in the air, apparently preparing to illustrate his next thought. “Now, I must ask. And I don’t mean anything by it, Doctor, don’t misunderstand—it is simply protocol—but I have to know. I have to have absolute surety from your lips that this new venture is something that you are totally and irreversibly prepared to do.”
“They didn’t just kill my family, Mr. Ullman,” said Dion, raising his chin, “but hundreds of thousands of other families from nine respected countries.”
“Yes, yes, I know. But that’s war, Doctor. We just happened to be on the losing si—”
“I could be wrong, but it sounds almost as if you’re trying to talk me out of this, Ullman?” blared Dion.
“No! No. Of course not. I’ve just…we’ve just never seen anything this radical attempted before, that’s all. This is bringing the concept of revenge up to a whole new level, Doctor—redefining the word ‘vendetta’ in my opinion.” He chuckled nervously.
“My dear friend,” said Dion, smiling through his teeth. “I appreciate your concerns, but I don’t much care for your opinions. You are not a consultant. I’m paying you a small fortune to maintain the security of this venture, not counsel me on the details.”
Mr. Ullman smiled, and sat back in his chair. For a moment he seemed to deflate like balloon. “Right you are,” he said. “Well then.” He stood up, slowly—with effort—letting out a short moan. Doctor Smith stood up quickly after him, respectfully. “Shall we start the tour of your ship laboratories, then?” said Ullman. “I’m just dying to see what twisted surprises you have in store for us all.” There was a hint of sarcasm that quickly slipped away.
Dion stood up, cordially, and forced another smile. He walked around his desk and over to the door. “Right this way,” he said.