I will record my experiences in this diary once the deed has been done.
I must go now.
I can hear them stirring.
Newspaper article, dated 7th June 2017
MISSING BOY FOUND IN HOUSE OF HORRORS
Clive Barton, missing since Monday, was discovered by police officers upon entering the residence of the Johnson family yesterday afternoon. The twelve year old is reported to have sustained life changing injuries, but is expected to make a full recovery. DCI Turton, looking visibly shaken, made a statement to the effect that three bodies were found in the cellar of the large house along with Clive Barton. Turton refused to be drawn on speculation that the bodies were those of Mr. Randolph Johnson and his wife Emily, and their eleven-year-old son Charles.
Charles Johnson was in the news only recently when he was arrested for killing and dissecting a neighbor’s pet cats. He is said to have been a highly intelligent and precocious child, who regarded himself above his years.
DCI Turton would say no more, except to admit that the crime scene within the Johnson house had shaken him like no other in his career.
THE ASCENSION OF HENRY PORTER
Thomas S. Flowers
Henry didn’t want to live forever. He just didn’t want to die. He didn’t want to extinguish into nothingness. He didn’t want to return to star dust, as those sentimental cosmologists would like to imagine, until he was ready. He didn’t want his essence returning to the Garden, the celestial bounty of stars and planets and gamma bursts blooming into radioactive flowers, and, depending on how you define it, life. But not living forever was furthest from his mind as he sat across from his oncologist, Doctor Edward Petraeus.
“So… you’re saying—“
“The tumor is malignant, Henry.”
“Are you sure… sure it’s malignant?”
“Yes.”
“Can it be removed?”
“Unfortunately we are beyond surgery. Cardiac tumors are rare and extremely difficult to operate on. The risk, I’m afraid, outweighs any benefit.”
“Any benefit, are you fucking kidding me right now? How about my life, that feels like kinda of a big benefit to me.”
“Calm down, Henry. I understand this is a lot to take in—“
“No,” Henry slammed his fist on Petraeus’s desk, “this isn’t a lot, this is everything. My life… my fucking worthless miserable life. I want you to operate, I want you to try. I’ll pay whatever it takes.”
“Money is not the issue, Henry. The tumor is inoperable.”
“Nothing is inoperable…”
Doctor Petraeus fumbled with a drawer on his desk. He produced some pamphlets and laid them out for Henry to see. Sky blue leaflets pictured with people hugging or grieving in some way, others with some woman or man looking meditatively at the sun. “We have specially trained counselors on staff that can help you, Henry. They can help walk you through the process of—“
“I don’t want some psychobabble about how to cope. I don’t want to cope. I don’t want to die… are you listening to me, Doctor Petraeus? I do not want to die. This cannot be the end for me.”
“No one wants to die, Henry.”
“Some do. Some can probably accept death, but not me. I… haven’t even lived yet. I’m too young. This isn’t right.”
Doctor Petraeus leaned back, shifting in his expensive-looking leather armchair. He folded his hands in front of him, arms on his armrests, making a diamond with his fingers. His expression fixed on some point beyond Henry. Eyes darting as if reading some invisible book.
Henry sat quietly watching him, too afraid to say anything that could risk some sort of miraculous thought or revelation that just might save his life. He sat and watched, his leg thumping the floor.
Petraeus sat forward, resting his hands on his desk. He glanced at his closed office door and then back at Henry. “What I’m about to suggest cannot leave this room, do you understand? If you mention anything of what I’m about to say to anyone, I will deny everything. Many of my peers, too many I’m afraid, have serious doubts regarding the legitimacy of this particular practice. But still… embryos are routinely preserved only to be rejuvenated to be used in viable pregnancies. Human bodies have survived cooling temperatures that stop the heart and brain during surgery. How can we be so brash as to not believe our technology, our medical possibilities will not continue to improve? Nanotechnology. Regeneration on a cellular level. Who’s to say a man cannot live forever?”
Henry inched toward the edge of his chair. Licking his lips. “What are you saying, Doctor? Is there some kind of procedure, some kind of cure?”
Petraeus shook his head. “Not a cure, at least not yet.”
Henry frowned. “I’m not following—“
Petraeus seemed to move closer, leaning forward on his desk, nearly whispering. “Have you ever heard of a company called Alcove?”
His flight into McCarran International Airport had little to no turbulence. Nothing really to complain about. If anything, it was the crowds moving to and fro various terminals, suits and pajamas, large cowboy hats and sports teams ball caps, families, and lovers, running to catch outbound flights, luggage rolling precariously behind them, coffee cups in hand or half-eaten sandwiches. Henry’s only worry at the moment was getting to Hertz before they ran out of sports utility vehicles, which was suggested to complete the final leg of his journey to Alcove.
Henry had never been to Las Vegas before and he didn’t plan on staying. With his condition progressing, time was of the essence. Rushing past the luggage claims area, he turned toward the Hertz customer service desk and was surprised to find not a single person in line.
Coming up to the vaulted desk, he set his Texas driver’s license in front of the clerk. A tall blonde man with shoulder length wavy hair, slightly tanned skin and rose colored lipstick smiled up at him from his monitor. “Welcome to Hertz, how can I help you, sir?”
“I called ahead for an SUV. Henry Porter.”
“Okay, Mr. Porter.” The clerk typed away on his keyboard, long red nails clicking rapidly, half-smiling, biting his lower lip as he worked. “You’re in luck. We have a Jeep Cherokee available for rent. One-hundred and twenty dollars per day.”
Henry fished for his wallet. “No problem.”
“Excellent, sir. Would you like to add the forty dollars refuel coverage, that way you don’t have to worry about topping off the tank?”
“No, thanks.”
“Not a problem. How many days are you booking the car for?”
Henry gazed at the clerk, not really looking at the lipstick man, but beyond. He hadn’t really thought about how long it would take. Or if Alcove would even accept him into their program. He had an appointment, nothing else.
“Umm…” he moaned.
“How long will you be staying in Vegas?”
“I’m not sure.”
The clerk sucked in his lips. “Not sure? Don’t you have a returning flight home?”
Henry shook his head.
The clerk’s mouth fell agape, he looked as if he was going to say something, but stopped and started again. “Let’s go ahead and assume three days. If you need to keep the car for longer, just call our office here at the airport during the day.” He handed Henry a business card. “Ask for Larry. I work all week.”
Henry took the card and read the font. “Larry McKinley. Sales Associate.”
“And single.”
“Huh?” Henry looked up from the card.
Larry winked and resumed entering Henry’s information.
Maybe in another life, such flirtations would have conjured some sort of reciprocation. Touching his hand. Biting his lip. Leaving his hotel information. Plans for drinks or more. But time was running short. Within a few minutes he was done and Henry was out the door, keys in hand, heading towards the parking garage. Outside, the roar of jet engines torn open the otherwise sunny cloudless sky. Traffic leaving the drop-off sections whipped by, yellow cab
taxis mostly, kicking at his tight khaki slacks and fitted navy blue GUESS polka dot button up short sleeved shirt in a gust of wind. This was his favorite outfit, mostly because it brought attention to his abs and his biceps and thighs, all those muscles he’d spent his entire life tearing apart and growing. And for what? Short term pleasure of some boy toy from Houston’s hottest gay club, RIPCORD, and now… with death so close… all that work, all that posturing felt so utterly useless.
Across the pedestrian walkway, Henry’s Jeep was parked in the Hertz section, right next to Enterprise. Tossing his solitary small suitcase in the front passenger seat, he climbed in and ignited the engine. Donning a pair of oval thick framed sunglasses, he started toward the exit.
Turning east on Sunset Road, Henry floored it onto Interstate-15 heading north. A few miles ahead he passed the famous landmarks of downtown Las Vegas. Postcard pictures of the blue sparkling Shark Reed Aquarium and castle-like Excalibur Hotel and Casino. The MGM sign beckoned not far away from the Bellagio and its Hollywood-era fountain spurting water high into the air. Nearly shielded by palm trees, The Mirage glistened in the sunlight like pearls within a clam. Towering above them all was the Cosmopolitan, a zigzagged silver-looking hotel. It was hard keeping his eyes on the road. All the places he had never been dancing in his peripheral. He wondered, how many of these places would still be around when he woke up… assuming of course that the Alcove would take him.
Within forty minutes, Henry was past the glitz and allure of downtown Las Vegas, past the tourist traps and gambling halls. Another twenty and he was past the Motor Speedway and then soon after, as traffic became exceedingly less and less, with nothing much to look at but the beige desert on the open expanse, he accelerated north by northeast, away from the sand, and higher towards the small mountainous town of Mesquite, Nevada.
About a mile from the Arizona border, within the foothills of the Rocky Mountains, Henry took a left off Interstate-15 and followed an access road, per the instructions printed on his Alcove invitation. Residents and businesses disappeared around him leaving only the rocky terrain to take his mind off his heart, the tumor, death, and the opportunity that awaited him to overcome the inevitable.
For hours, it seemed, he climbed toward nothingness. The bleak mountainous landscape did nothing for his nerves. With one hand on the wheel, Henry consulted the directions on his invitation. He was going the right way. Shouldn’t be much farther, he guessed.
The road before him became narrower. The pavement used and crumbled from neglect. Holes and pits marked the otherwise gray surface. And the incline felt exaggerated. Now he understood why the invitation told him to bring an SUV. On the dashboard, he pushed in the four-wheel drivetrain button, now providing power to all wheel ends, making his ascension that much easier.
Henry dared not another glance away from the road for fear of falling off the edge and plummeting to a premature and most likely excruciating death.
“Fuck,” he muttered, sneering, tightening his grip on the steering wheel. He risked taking one hand away, and quickly flung his oval sunglasses into the passenger seat. Beside him, the world seemed so far below, as if he was slowly ticking up toward the peak of a massive roller coaster ride. The road before him crumbled worse and worse. He thought of his home, his high-rise apartment in downtown Houston and speculated of selling it for something on flatter land, maybe something south towards Galveston, on the coast watching seagulls caw and the rumbling of the ocean bringing in the tide.
Seeing the imaginary beach house relaxed him somewhat. His grip loosened, if only marginally. And finally, in the distance, he could make out a bright structure glimmering in the fading sunlight. The road peaked and smoothed out leading towards this magnificent building made of foggy looking glass. Near the front, among a hedge of blooming cactus, the Alcove signs directed him to a circle driveway.
“End of the line,” Henry whispered, pulling to a stop in front of the building. Soon after, an attendant appeared, dressed in simple black slacks and a black long sleeve button up. Out of instinct and no other apparent reason, he produced his invitation as the man came around to the driver’s side window.
“Please make your way inside. Your things will be brought in.” Without hesitation, the attendant opened his door, ushering Henry out, and jumped into the driver’s seat. He smiled and pulled away.
Henry stood watching the attendant take his SUV back around the circle driveway, and then make a right toward some unseen garage or parking area. He gazed up at the building, unable to see through the foggy glass. Studying the name etched on the door.
Alcove—Making the Impossible Possible.
He took a final breath and walked inside.
Alcove was more than Henry had expected. Not that that was very difficult. He’d only seen a few promotional videos on YouTube, which were outdated by at least ten years. He only really had the name his oncologist, Doctor Edward Petraeus, had provided. And the aged pamphlet he kept in a locked drawer with notes from his own research regarding the experimental institution, or so Henry believed. With the drive through the desert and up the steep mountain, he could only imagine maybe that there’d be some kind of aristocratic castle, crumbling foundation and lightning bolts running along some sort of conductor, humming and buzzing with energy throughout a cobwebbed laboratory. He had expected mad scientists, to be so blunt. Instead, pleasantly, he found an altar of cutting edge technology. Immaculately cleaned floors and glass walls. Holographic displays and tours greeting him as he cautiously walked into the visitor's lounge waiting for the head scientist and CEO of Alcove, Doctor Cheryl Williams, to summon him to her office. The videos divulged much of how and what and even why Alcove was.
And still, he had more questions than answers.
“We provide a service, Mr. Porter, that so very few have ever attempted to provide. A door, a pathway, no, a ticket into a brave new world.” The short brunette CEO spoke with a bit of elegance in her tone, her hair flowing with curls around the shoulders of her white lab coat, underneath she wore a business suit and skirt matching her dark hazel eyes that seemed to pierce his every thought, eyes filled with a sense of anticipation and power. Her petite nose and sharp cheekbones drew his wandering gaze to her naturally red lips. To Henry, she looked very much like a young Jane “Poni” Adams (an actress who played Nina in House of Dracula) if not for her crooked posture bent slightly forward due to her deformity, a wide hump that protruded at the base of her shoulder blades and upper back, giving her a definitive hunch.
“What exactly is this process, Doctor Williams?” Henry forced himself to focus on her and not to become distracted by the movement of the facility. Strangers in white lab coats and full aqua colored coveralls, moving about on some unknown task, seen clearly through the glass walls of her vaulted office that overlooked the facility.
Doctor Williams waved him off. “Please, call me Cheryl. Everyone around here does, as well as our clients.” She stood and shuffled to the front of her desk, sitting on the edge, looking intently at Henry. “Tell me, why did you seek Alcove out? What drove you to come here?”
Henry shifted in his seat. His heart thudded in his chest. Instinctively, he rubbed where his heart would be. “Don’t get me wrong. I’m not afraid of dying, Doctor Williams—sorry, Cheryl, I don’t want to live forever… I’m not too much of an egotist to know the world would do just fine without me. I just… I’m not ready, not just yet.”
Doctor Cheryl Williams nodded, seemingly empathic. “As are all who come here. Not to mention those we have on staff. Everyone you see here will at some point benefit from what we do at Alcove.”
“And what exactly is that?”
“A rare miracle few will experience. Death, Mr. Porter, is—“
“Please, call me Henry.”
“Henry, of course. As I was saying, as we understand it, death is nothing more than when the chemical processes within our bodies that give us life become too erratic for normal operations, thus having an
y chance of being restored. Chemical preservation depends heavily upon modern technology and procedures. Consider how one hundred years ago, cardiac arrest was irreversible. Today, by current practices, the brain can be resuscitated within ten minutes before irreversible damage occurs. And I think we can agree, any sort of brain death is death in general, for what are we without our memories, without what makes us-us.”
Doctor Williams stood and shuffled to her large glass wall, looking out at her staff as they moved about from office to office, lab to lab.
Henry glanced at her hump protruding from her coat and quickly looked away. His gaze settling in his palms.
“What we offer here, Henry Porter is a chance to push the pause button on death, to preserve that which makes us-us until technology catches up to our various ailments. To sleep and wake up decades or centuries later when cures and the regeneration of tissue, of organs, of hearts, are as commonplace as arthroscopy or Lasik surgery.” Doctor Williams turned slightly, half smiling as if she already knew the answer: “How does that sound to you?”
He was shown to his room located in the guest quarters at the Alcove facility. Henry believed he was the only one there as he changed into the Alcove-issued garments that felt more like pajamas, synthetic and softer than silk in the same aqua color as the facility logo. He was buttoning his top when he heard laughter through the wall. Curious, he pressed his ear against the foggy glass. A woman, or so he thought, talking excitedly with some unknown person.
“Of course I’m ready—thank you, thank you so much,” the strange woman was nearly singing. Henry easily imagined her bouncing on her bed, clapping as if she’d just be given the best news anyone can be given.
I wonder, Henry thought. She must be here for the procedure, the pause on death, as that hunchback doctor was talking about. Pause on death… what does that even mean?
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