by J.P Jackson
*
The corridor was cavernous, with exposed rock, dim lights overhead and the buzzing of a generator in the background. Lanza said nothing despite Taylor's attempts to engage him. His skin was pale and feverish, and he staggered as if drunk.
"Man you can barely stand," Taylor said, concerned.
Lanza coughed up a puddle of black blood into his palm as Taylor propped him up.
"What can I do, Karl? What do you need?"
"Hamilton," he said, popping a few Demerol into his mouth. "The time machine is the last thing I'll ever do. Make it a good thing."
Lanza used Taylor as a crutch as they tried to catch up to Wertz. "I'll try Karl. I'll try."
Taylor felt Lanza's chest and failing heartbeat, deciding then that he would rather die in the jump room than walk an hour in Lanza's shoes.
A soldier guarded an old-fashioned looking elevator at the end of the corridor. He saluted Wertz upon his arrival then screeched across an iron gate to the elevator. Taylor and Lanza entered first, Cox came at their heels but found her path blocked by the general's arm.
"You're not invited," he said, plain faced and unapologetic. "There's been a recent development. The board are going in a new direction."
Cox baulked, flicking off his hand. "I'm in charge you fool! Step aside!"
She tried to force her way past Wertz but he snatched her by the shoulders, throwing her down and out without effort.
"You were the face of the Corporation," he informed her, his hand on the butt of his gun, "not the brains. Try that again and I'll put a hole through yours. It's over. You're done."
Taylor and Lanza glanced at each other inside the elevator, expressions ranging between shock and satisfaction. It was nice to see the hand pulled from the puppet, but the method left a bad taste.
The young soldier helped Cox to her feet then escorted her down the corridor.
"I'm the president!" she cried, beside herself. "I have my own plane! I have nuclear launch codes for Gods sake! You can't do this!"
Wertz pulled the gate to seal the elevator. "Your launch codes," he yelled at her, "were the combination to the White House pantry."
Cox scored her nails down the soldier's face and shrieked like a wounded cat. She ran for the elevator, entwining her fingers into the closed gate.
"Don't do this," she begged and snivelled. "Do you know who I am? What will I do if I'm not in charge?"
"That's the thing," Wertz added - "you've never been in charge. Get a handle on her soldier!"
The soldier dabbed the blood from his face and throttled Cox from behind. He unceremoniously dragged her away from the elevator, losing her heels, dignity, and consciousness.
Taylor lowered his eyes from the pitiful scene. The woman's entire existence was an illusion, and she was the last to know.
"33rd floor," Wertz stated, bending to an intercom panel. Underneath, an inch long needle extended out of the panel.
"Authorised sample required," an officious voice replied.
Wertz squirmed as he pressed his thumb into the needle. The bloody needle then receded into the panel. "Sample approved. Sterilization complete."
The elevator sank with the sound of groaning steel and old gears. Lanza put his back in the corner, gazing wearily off into the distance while Taylor once again scrutinized the straight cut at the back of Wertz's neck.
"This is quite the privilege," Wertz said, locking his hands behind him. "Few are granted access to the 33rd floor."
Taylor snickered. "After the short shrift you gave Cox, it seems privileges are removed when one is no longer useful. When will our usefulness expire?" he asked, breathing down Wertz's neck. "How long until you are surplus to requirements?"
Taylor flinched as a gust of steam blew in through the gate. He wafted his hand at the cloud and when it cleared, his insides tightened at the sight of Wertz staring directly at him. There was nothing behind the general's dark eyes, no thought Taylor could decipher.
"It's going to be me that kills you,” he whispered, cold and robot like. “I want you to know that."
Eyeballing Wertz, and with a flurry of butterflies in his stomach, Taylor straightened his back and broadened his shoulders. "You talkin' to me or chewin' on a brick? Either way...you're gonna lose your teeth."
The elevator shunted to a halt and Wertz pulled the gate aside.
"Don't touch anything," he warned, drawing his weapon. "I mean it."
The 33rd floor was a burrowing cave, cramped with a sense of lingering timelessness. Torches rippled over jagged walls and musty air irritated the back of the throat. Taylor felt a malevolent presence as he assisted Lanza out of the elevator. He couldn't hear or see that evil, but the feeling was as strong as the rock around him.
Wertz kept his distance as the men walked through a stifling path. Five arched shelves were cut between the torches, each shelf containing an artifact of some kind. The first shelf displayed a glass cylinder of hard shelled seeds.
"Sunflowers," Lanza confirmed, through teeth grinding chills.
"Don't stop," Wertz growled, ushering them toward a medieval wooden door at the end of the corridor.
The second shelf contained a flail: agricultural sticks used to separate grains from their husks. No explanations were offered by Wertz and none were asked for. Taylor assumed the general was as much in the dark about their significance as they were.
The third shelf presented an eye-catching silver amulet, with a pair of wings engraved on it's face.
Perched on the fourth shelf was a foot high stone carving of a humanoid figure with avian features. Dressed in ceremonial robes, this intricately painted creature had a keen eye and a proud air about him. Finally, the fifth shelf presented a sharp canine, some 15 inches long.
"Nutters," Taylor said, rubbing at another migraine.
Again, Wertz ordered the pair not to touch, and not to dawdle.
The thick door opened from the inside, revealing a gentleman’s den bathed in light from hanging candelabras. There was a library stacked with books and papers, screens playing sports and a bar with every man’s poison.
"Seriously?" Taylor whispered, his eyes drawn to the shiny liquor bottles.
Cigar smoke hung in the air, besuited men in their dozens occupied leather chesterfields, laughed over cards or debated before a burning fireplace. The old door was propped open by an immaculately dressed butler, balancing a tray of drinks in one hand.
"Scotch, sir?" He offered Taylor a glass. "I believe Macallan is your preferred? Neat sir, as you like it."
Taylor suddenly found himself caught in a spell. He accepted the drink without question, swirled the golden malt then raised the glass to admire the legs. The legs were visible streaks down the side of the glass; the longer the legs the higher the alcohol's quality. Needless to say, a 40 year old scotch had a lot of legs on show.
Lanza accepted an iced tea while General Wertz pressed his back against the door, never moving beyond the threshold.
"This way," said the butler, guiding Taylor and Lanza towards a set of four hand-crafted, blood coloured chairs grouped around an antique table. "Please make yourself comfortable," he concluded, attending to other patrons.
Taylor dug his nose into his glass to whiff the scent of heather and old oak. Lanza took a sip from his tea but his trembling hand caused the ice to clink against the glass. "It's fine," Taylor whispered, setting the tea onto the table.
They sat and moments later, an elderly couple arrived to occupy the opposite seats. The female was thin skinned and skeletal, her silver hair draped wet over her face as if just out of a shower. Her partner was bald and swollen, 300 plus pounds of rolling fat with eyes bulging like golf balls. They were dressed in silky bathrobes with nothing underneath. The old man crossed his legs and Taylor squirmed at his exposed, cellulite ridden thigh. He also noticed the man's bare toes, crooked yellow nails and the dirty soles of his feet.
The old man downed a snifter of brandy then offer
ed the men a cigar.
"Cohibas?"
Taylor snatched both and crammed them into his chest pocket. The fat man grinned.
"My wife and I have met many great men in our time. Karl Lanza and Hamilton Taylor stand head and shoulders above them all."
His English was awkward, with hints of Dutch. The wife wore a permanent scowl. Taylor figured she was either getting the measure of them or had already made her mind up.
"Hamilton," Lanza said, wiping his wet nose into his shirt cuff, "these are our generous benefactors. They made building the machine possible."
"They help themselves, Karl. Self entitled scum who wrote a blank cheque to help tighten their grip on the world. Fuck 'em."
Taylor took a drink and the old man appeared to take no offence, if anything, Taylor's insolence tickled him.
"R.C. Christian," he said, through a snicker. "My wife and I belong to a group of internationalists called The Pride, many of whom are here with us now."
Taylor looked past the old man to the nondescript figures moving back and forth. They paid him no attention, and he was glad not to have it.
"We come from distinguished families from all over the world, Dr. Taylor. You are in the company of brilliant minds who respect intelligence." He gazed almost lustfully at Taylor's forehead. "You are with men who appreciate brains."
Taylor rubbed a chill from his neck as Christian raised his empty brandy glass. A handsome bare-chested adolescent arrived to serve him. The kid topped up the glass with caramel coloured brandy while Christian brushed a hand over the boy's genitals. The boy's numb expression didn't change, nor did Mrs. Christian's crooked grin.
"You were wonderful last night," the fat man said, before dismissing the boy back to the shadows.
Taylor wanted to spit but couldn't bring himself to waste a single malt. Christian rolled the brandy glass between his palms, bending close to enjoy his guest's discomfort.
"Large brains, yet closed minds. In ancient Greece and Rome the desire to penetrate a handsome youth was considered healthy, masculine. Reform doesn't change desire."
"The Roman Empire burned to the ground," Taylor argued, swallowing. "They all do...in time."
"On the matter of time," Lanza interrupted, a poor attempt at breaking the ice. "Mr. Christian, what are your plans for the machine? As you know, every second counts."
Christian sat back, taking his wife's bony hand. "There is something you men must understand. I am speaking specifically to you Dr. Taylor, as you are the one who needs speaking to. I have been advised by fellow members of The Pride to keep you around as a mind like yours would be an attribute going forward. I have my doubts," he added, brushing one of three chins. "An impulsive and unpredictable man cannot be trusted, nor underestimated. Quite recently I was made aware of your agenda regarding the machine thus I am...at this moment...torn between having you rehabilitated, or plain shot in the head."
The blood drained out of Taylor's face and he felt real fear for the first time, not of dying, but of having his plans changed. He had searched the world for Penelope, and with no leads and no trace, the only place left was time itself. His selfish thought had galvanized him more in the last hour than anything in the past four years.
Only Donald knew of these plans and since his brother would never betray him, Taylor could only assume their conversation had been picked up by surveillance.
"What agenda?" asked Lanza, searching between both men. "What are you not telling me Hamilton?"
Christian chortled, slapping his bare thigh in merriment.
"Dr. Taylor," he giggled, his mouth full of crooked teeth, "believes the unabridged past requires an edit."
"This is not the time, Karl," Taylor seethed, sensing Lanza's objections. "I would've gotten the job done. I will get it done!"
The old lady smiled with sealed lips as her husband placed a cigar between his, wetting the end with saliva. "Our own plans for the machine have yet to be decided."
Instinct caused Lanza to jerk forward, yet his tone remained respectful. "If we do not proceed sir, then the world ends."
"The world as you know it, ends, Professor Lanza. Mother Earth survives. She always does." Christian reached forward to pat Lanza's knee. "Don't worry, we will be perfectly safe. We have 500 years of stockpiled food and water, our art and culture are safe and sound. Everything we need to weather the global storm. When the decades have passed and the time has come...the worthy will emerge to a cleaner, brighter world."
"You want to let 10 billion people die?” Taylor cried, gripping the armrest. “Creepy old bastard, you're off your fuckin' nut!"
"We have yet to arrive at a decision, Dr. Taylor. The use of the machine will be for The Pride to decide. In an hour's time a vote will take place, this vote will decide the fate of the experiment. If we authorize the use of the machine then you will both receive our full support. If not, your families will never want for anything here. Your creative whims will be supported where appropriate, your genius nurtured and cherished. Professor Lanza," he announced, standing with his wife. "As our senior scientist we are delighted to offer you a say in that vote and to lend any final thoughts to our members. Dr. Taylor, pray help yourself to another drink before you return upstairs."
Lanza rose, nodding politely. The last gesture went to Mrs. Christian, who before leaving, opened her mouth to reveal the stub of serrated tissue that used to be her tongue.
Taylor dropped his glass and recoiled. Every hair and bristle on his body stood on end as the cackling hag waggled the stump in her oily mouth.
"What the fuck is wrong with you people?"
The Christians clasped hands and laughed as they returned to their Pride.
Taylor lurched up from his chair, white faced and rattled as he assisted Lanza back to the old wooden door.
"This is too big for us, Hamilton. What can we do?"
Reaching the bar, Taylor bent over the counter and helped himself to a sealed bottle of scotch.
"Their vote changes nothing," he whispered, stuffing the scotch under his arm. "They have the power of time travel and they'll mothball the project until they need it. Karl...I'm going back and I'm going to chop their fucking hands off the world."
"They won't let you go," Lanza spluttered. "They'll kill you first."
"That's why I'm going now. Right...now."
— CHAPTER NINE —
