New Birth

by Orrin Jason Bradford

  Flip stuck his head in the bucket of mountain spring water and blew bubbles through his nose. "Ahhh, it's good to be alive," he said as he shook his head, spraying beads of waters from his wet hair. They made a random pattern on the window and dusty slats of the front porch.

  Madame Sarrah called from the cabin. "Your eggs will be ready soon. I take it you slept well last night." She stuck her head out from the screen door.

  ''I'll say. Sorry about conking out like that. I guess the last week or so has taken more out of me than I thought. I barely remember lying in front of the fire. I still don't see how you lifted me into bed by yourself."

  "The strange workings of the occult," she answered with a laugh. "Did you come here simply to rest, or to learn about your destiny?"

  "A little of both, I guess." He took the towel she offered him and dried his hair. "I've had the rest, so I guess after breakfast, I'll take that look at my destiny."

  They ate the eggs and bacon on the porch but returned inside when it came time for the séance. Sarrah drew the curtains closed and shut the door so that only the barest of light slipped in. She then removed the crystal ball from the table and pulled out a leather bag from the cabinet.

  "What is that?" Flip asked as he sat in the chair across from her.

  ''A unique tool for looking at your future," Madame Sarrah replied, as she loosened the thong and scattered the contents onto the table. "They are bones from an old and knowledgeable rabbit. I don't use them often, but their magic is potent."

  "White magic or black?" Flip asked, a slight smile twitching at the corners of his mouth.

  "Whichever is needed to be called forth, Flip. Magic is like the rest of the Universe—neither good nor bad. It just is what it is. The rest is all our interpretation."

  She instructed Flip to mix the bones in his hands for as long as he felt like it, and then, to toss them on the table. She would read his fortune from the patterns they made.

  He did as he was instructed, warming them in his hands for several minutes, and then slowly shaking them. As he did so, a slight itch began to grow in his crotch, finally becoming so annoying he was forced to throw the bones so that he could scratch the irritation.

  Sarrah watched him and smiled. She then studied the bones for several minutes, groaning and occasionally mumbling at what she saw.

  "The past awaits to ambush you in your future, Flip. You must be careful not to try to recapture that which is behind you. That road leads only to further pain and suffering."

  Flip figured that must mean the Harem. Not to worry, he thought. I'm not likely to try anything foolish like that.

  "Great and mysterious powers will come from you, on whichever path you take. But there is a danger with most of your choices." Madame Sarrah continued to peer at the bones, slowly rising from her chair and circling the table, continuing to look at the pattern of bones.

  "Oh, this is not good Flip. There is much danger for you down this pathway. Jealousy and hatred await you in the form of a woman—a twisted woman." Beads of sweat popped out on Sarrah's face as she strained to read the message in the skeletal remains of the rabbit. "I cannot read this. Something is blocking it. A powerful force from the future is interfering with the transmission. I cannot tell what the danger is, but I would suggest you follow through with your plan to take a trip." She fell back in her chair, exhausted from the reading. "That is all there is."

  "How did you...never mind. Could you tell? Is Jamaica okay?"

  "Jamaica's too hot this time of the year, but I'm your fortune teller, not your travel agent. You want to go to Jamaica? Go. I don't care, and I don't think your future cares either."

  "Great. I'll head out today. And don't worry about that trouble waiting in my past. I've no intention of returning to it—none whatsoever."

  Chickowski sat in his chair behind a cluttered desk in his lab. His assistants had departed for the day, leaving him with the quiet humming of the equipment around him. He sat with his wallet resting in his lap from which he had taken a yellowed and crumpled business card.

  He sat staring at the card, studying the phone number scribbled on the back. He'd had the name for ten years, but had never called it. He wondered why he had kept it so long. Surely, it would be disconnected by now. No one kept the same number that long anymore—certainly not someone like the mysterious little man who had given his number out to an embittered and frustrated scientist.

  "If you ever come up with a project that is too large for your available funding, give me a call. I might be able to help," the man had said with only the slightest tinge of an accent.

  "What do you mean?" Chickowski asked. ''I'm always looking for more funding."

  "Sure, I know that. That's not exactly what I mean." The little man stepped closer to Chickowski. "You'll know the type of project I'm referring to. It'll be one so large that you'll need more than what the USA can provide, not only in funding but in...let’s say, flexibility. You know, being able to do whatever is necessary to find the answer."

  The thought had scared Chickowski at the time, and it still did, ten years later. But the man had been right, Chickowski did know the type of project that he was referring to, and Adam's Template was it. Chickowski picked up the phone and began to punch in the number. After all, the stranger never actually said it had to be his project, did he?

  Part Three

  Harvesting the Fruit

  Disappearance

  The infirmary room had lost some of the homey atmosphere with the placement of the desk against one wall. Chunk Robinson had finally relinquished Franklin's office back to him, moving down to the infirmary, where he had confiscated one of the rooms as his command center.

  "This is where the action is going to be, so it's where I'm going to be." It was apparent to Lionel that the likelihood of getting rid of Chunk soon was slim to none.

  Elsewhere in the vast research facility, it was business as usual. Only those people directly connected to Lionel's research were aware of the human experiment taking place. Most of them were unaware that Chunk came from the FDA. His presence just went unexplained, and, as much as possible, he stayed to himself to avoid difficult questions.

  Lionel wasn't sure he liked the new arrangements. True, it gave Franklin his office to hide in, but it didn't provide Lionel much privacy. He, too, spent most of his time in the infirmary wing, often going straight there instead of his lab. The Template experiment had been placed on hold until more information could be gleaned from the human guinea pigs. That was okay with Lionel, who had acquired new respect bordering on fear for the small beaker of blue liquid.

  Not long after Chunk's move, another change took place. The temporary receptionist, which had taken over for Denise, was replaced. One morning Lionel and the rest of the Bio-Vita employees were amazed to find a uniformed security guard, complete with a malicious handgun strapped to his waist sitting behind the desk. When Lionel next saw Franklin, he asked about the new addition and was not surprised to find it had been Chunk's idea. Considering all that had happened of late, perhaps it wasn't a bad one either. Still, the handgun made Lionel nervous.

  After visiting for a short time with Denise, Lionel walked down the hall to Chunk's office. He found the large black man peering over some papers.

  “The six women have all been found and are on their way in. The only thing left to do to contain this outbreak is to find your friend. Do you have any ideas where else to look for him?" Chunk dropped the papers on his desk and leaned back in his chair.

  Lionel sat on the corner of the bed that remained in the room and shook his head. "I'm afraid I'm all tapped out as well. I've called all the friends Flip and I share with no luck. He has simply disappeared."

  Chunk stood up and paced between the desk and the bed. "Well then, I’ll have no other choice. I have to call in some help on this one. For all we know, this rabbit friend of yours might have screwed another dozen women by now."

  "What do you mean, 'call in some help'?"
/>   "Actually, I've already done it. The FBI is now on the case."

  "But they won't start looking for someone simply because he's missing. No law has been broken, certainly no federal one."

  "There are ways around that."

  Lionel watched Chunk as he walked back and forth in the small room, beginning to feel like he was watching a tennis match. "That's what you said about holding Rachael, which, by the way, is going to get worse with six more. How do you plan to hold all these citizens against their will?"

  Chunk chuckled, obviously pleased with himself. "They are all being held for questioning, and the FBI will look for Flip because he's wanted for questioning also."

  "Questioning what?" Lionel asked a note of irritation creeping into his voice.

  Chunk stopped at the end of his pacing aisle and looked out the window. Without turning to Lionel, he answered. "Wanted for conspiracy against the United States government."

  "Conspiracy?" Lionel exclaimed leaping off the bed. "What in the world are you talking about?"

  "We don't know that this contamination was accidental. You said yourself that Flip snuck in here with inside help. How can we be sure that it wasn't a carefully planned piece of espionage? There are lots of ways to play the scenario. Maybe Flip knew what his old college buddy was up to, but also knew that he couldn't just walk in here and ask you for a couple of ccs for his personal use. So instead, he lined up this 'accident.' But before he did it, he made sure that he had all these lovely ladies ready to go. He knew he wouldn't have much time to get things started."

  "What in God's name are you talking about? What would be the purpose of it?"

  Chunk turned away from the window and started pacing again, forcing Lionel to retreat to the bed. "Oh, that's simple to figure. The purpose is to create a superior race—one governed and controlled by Mr. MacDougal. It wouldn't be the first time in history some megalomaniac had such an idea."

  Lionel shook his head in disbelief. "Chunk, you have a vivid imagination."

  "Maybe so, maybe not. Anyway, the story works well enough to allow us to hold these women and also to call in the FBI. All I want from you is to help me interrogate these women. I want you to find out everything you can about this conspiracy."

  Lionel waited for Chunk to pass the bed before getting up and starting for the door. ''I'll be happy to help question these ladies about Flip's whereabouts, but I'll ask my own questions." Without waiting for an answer, he opened the door and left.

  Lionel kept busy for the next twenty-four hours, with the arrival of the soon-to-be-mothers. Each one arrived in much the same pattern, each swearing lawsuits and demanding to see their attorneys. Lionel was amazed at how similar they all were. They were all strikingly beautiful, well-coiffed, dressed in only the finest of brand name outfits, and all with a vocabulary that would embarrass a sailor. All but one—Bridgette Baisley. Bridgette was the last to arrive, and as far as Lionel could tell, the only one who didn't have a long list of lawyers under contract. She was much quieter than the other women. She also seemed to be overwhelmed by all the commotion and more than a little frightened by the attention she received.

  The most amazing thing to Lionel was that all the women knew each other; did, in fact, appear to be the best of friends. It didn't take long to figure out that such a group of women could be hazardous if allowed to scheme on their own. Lionel was relieved when Chunk segregated each of them into their own private room, keeping them isolated from each other after the initial meeting. The old saying about dividing and conquering fit nicely.

  The interviews followed a similar pattern as well. During the first thirty minutes, Lionel listened to threats of lawsuits and a long list of obscene descriptions about Flip and, surprisingly to Lionel, about himself. When each woman finally wound down a bit, Lionel explained about the contamination and the threat to their health. Visibly shaken by the news, their anger turned to fear. Each became quite cooperative for another thirty minutes until they realized what had happened to them. The anger then returned, and the interview ended as it had begun.

  During the time in which the women cooperated, Lionel learned that two of the women had attempted abortions; both unsuccessfully. All of them reported various forms of contraceptives that had been breached. And two of them denied that they were pregnant, despite the fact that they were beginning to show.

  He also managed to trace down the sequence of Flip's visitations and determined that the last to see him was Liz Young. Of all the women, Liz made Lionel the most nervous, and she seemed to be taking the pregnancy the hardest.

  "You don't understand, Dr. Adams," Liz said between clenched lips. "I'm being considered for a significant promotion. I can't stay here and play house. You've got doctors here. Surely one of them can perform a decent abortion, not like that quack in Chicago."

  "I'm afraid that is not one of your options, Ms. Young. Now, we need to get back to our question. Do you have any idea where Flip was planning to go after he left your place?"

  "I told you, we had a quiet evening at my apartment, during which the bastard got me pregnant, then he left. He didn't say where he was going or when he'd be back. Just a "wham-bam, thank you ma'am" kind of night. Why won't you give me an abortion?" She asked in a whining voice. "You've got to get me outta here. Is it money you want? I can get it. Or would you rather we traded something else?" Liz asked this last question with a sadistic gleam in her eyes.

  ''I'm only trying to look after your best interest, Ms. Young, and an abortion would be very dangerous. I'll be happy to call your company and explain that you need a leave of absence. I'm sure we can come up with some story..."

  "Listen, jerk-off. You don't get it, do you? My company is not interested in any story. They are interested in having someone with enough balls to do their dirty work. I'm that someone right now, but if I can't fit the bill, they'll simply go out and hire some other hungry soul. And, I'll be out of a job. It's a bitch of a job but it's mine, and I don't want to lose it. Now get off your holier-than-thou attitude and get me out of here. Comprende?"

  Lionel waited for Liz to cool down before continuing, "I can't do that, Ms. Young, but you give my proposal some thought. If you decide you want me to call, I will. That's the best I can offer."

  Liz sat staring at Lionel for close to a minute, tapping her long nails on the desk in front of her. Lionel wondered if she was preparing to attack. He could imagine that she could do considerable damage with those claws of hers before someone could come in and pull her off him. Finally, with a heavy sigh, she broke the stare and started to cry.

  It started as a whimper but grew into racking sobs. Lionel buzzed for a nurse, then, walked around to her and placed his arm around her shoulders. "It'll be alright, Liz." Using her formal name no longer seemed appropriate. "We'll take good care of you here. Your company won't fire you. You're too valuable to them. You'll see."

  Nothing he said helped. The nurse came and led her away. Lionel instructed the nurse to have Dr. Chickowski give her a sedative. He returned to his desk where he sat for several minutes. They had never told him research would be like this. He hadn't signed up to be a therapist. After a few more minutes, he picked up the phone and punched the intercom. "Send in the next one. What's her name?"

  "Good news, Lionel. This is the last one. Her name is Bridgette Baisley."

  The warm sun tried to ply its way between the thin membranes of Flip's eyelids, managing to create a crimson glow upon which his consciousness waxed and waned. A soft whisper made him turn his head to one side, and he opened one lid slightly, but even as he did so, he knew no one would be there. To make his effort not wasted entirely, he reached under the lounge chair for his piña colada and took a long swallow.

  Voices. When you start hearing voices, it means you're ready for the padded cell. But I'm acting perfectly sane, Flip thought. Aren't I? How would I know whether I was acting strangely or not if I'm crazy? Voices. From where were the voices coming?

  They had first sta
rted in Atlanta, when a strong premonition had convinced him not to take a commercial flight, but instead to charter a private plane. The same premonition warned him to cover his tracks. The flight plan had read San Juan, Puerto Rico. He'd landed in Kingston, Jamaica instead, bribing the pilot to fudge his destination on the flight plan. Flip still had no idea from whom he was hiding.

  Three other times the voices came to him. Not actually voices, more like thoughts, but alien thoughts; not of his own creation. But they had to be, he argued. From where else could they have come? Was there any pattern to them? He thought about that for a moment. Yes, there was. Only seconds before, he'd been thinking about Denise. She'd been on his mind the other times too, hadn't she? He couldn't be sure, but he did know he'd been thinking a lot about her, so there might be a connection.

  Flip opened his eyes again, squinting against the bright sun. He sat up and drained his drink. He'd been in Jamaica for almost three weeks now, lying in the sun each day, deepening his tan. Despite the dozens of gorgeous scantily clad women around him, he had hardly so much as nodded at any of them. He'd been burned; scorched far worse than the hot Jamaican sun could ever do, and he was wary.

  But then there was Denise. She hadn't scorched him. In fact, if he was honest with himself, he'd done a pretty lousy number on her. He felt a presence behind him but refused to fall for the bait this time. If he were going crazy, he'd be damned if he'd go willingly.

  "Excuse me, sir, can I get you another drink?" The voice of the barman made Flip jump three inches off the chair.

  "Sorry, sir. I thought you heard me."

  "Oh, I did, not to worry. I always react that way when I'm offered a drink. Yeah, I'll take another, but make it a Crown Royal on the rocks. These island drinks are too sweet for my taste."