Herculanium (31 page)

“This has been happening all morning, Claire,” she told her neighbor over the phone. “The fog’s barely lifted, and these helicopters have been hovering over our area ever since.”

With the most current shock wave slowly subsiding, Melinda took one look out the window and then quickly ran outside to her front porch. A formation of black helicopters had just passed overhead and was slowly disappearing beyond the hills. She knew it was only a matter of time before this same group would either return to complete a full orbit, or be joined by others in their search.

“Do you see them, Claire?” she asked? “That sound they make is just horrible. They’re flying too low, I think. I thought they had regulations for stuff like that over coastal airspace. Are they over your house yet?”

Melinda adjusted her bathrobe and slowly walked back to her door, taking care to observe the other neighbors and spectators also milling about.

“I don’t know what they’re looking for,” she continued. “I already put the television on ‘mute.’ I got tired of listening to all the explanations. First it was a satellite, then they changed their minds and said it was a capsized ship. A lot of callers on the radio are claiming it’s either a downed UFO or a fishing boat/submarine collision.

“Whatever it is, it’s blocking traffic from Santa Rosa to Sebastopol to here. I don’t even think they’re letting reporters in.”

She inhaled slowly as she listened to her friend speak, trying to take in the fresh sea breeze that welcomed the locals every morning. The fog was slowly burning off, leaving a majestic cloud-streaked sky stretching from horizon to horizon. She loved this community for its small-town charm and detachment from big-city life and bustle. Standing outside her door, all she could see were military jeeps driving by, spewing exhaust while dismissing her world as peripheral street signs on the way to their mission.

“I gotta go, dear,” she said. “It’s getting a little too busy outside, if you know what I mean. Let me know if anything comes up. I’ll just be inside the house cleaning. Take care. See you.”

Melinda entered the house and immediately clicked off the television. She could almost picture that large battleship anchored offshore, the one the news said was assigned to assist in the recovery mission. She could see its menacing silhouette against their ocean background, directing traffic and operations by remote. She couldn’t help but feel intimidated by whatever else was hidden from their view, covert operations that no one was privy to. There was very little her community could do but wait for the military to finish its business and leave.

She carried a tray of ceramic drinking cups from the living room table and brought them to the sink, rinsing each one before neatly arranging them inside the dishwasher. She had already folded her makeshift igloo of fresh laundry into square piles of linen and blankets, all ready for the closet again.

Melinda drew her curtains closed with a single forceful swipe, instantly bathing the living room with lace-textured soft sunlight filtering in from outside. Despite the presence of the military, Bodega Bay life continued to move on. She returned to the table and resumed reading her unfinished chapter. Now that the helicopter convoy had completely passed overhead, it should be a while before she gets interrupted again.

With a gentle breeze billowing the curtains like a sail, Melinda lost herself again in another world.

Preston gently arched his neck, sculpting the soft pillow to its most comfortable shape. He took a deep breath and sighed, again willing himself to become one with his environment. There were no soldiers or bodyguards today, instructing him where to stand, nor autograph hounds trailing him for the merest gesture of instant memorabilia. He couldn’t smell the seat tapestry of a tour bus, nor feel the rumble inside the fuselage of an airplane. There also weren’t any vendors harassing him to buy food and trinkets that he didn’t really need.

He was alone in his own quiet room, sealed off from and oblivious to the world outside. Touring the past few months had taken more out of him than he realized, and any moment of isolated silence was a welcome luxury and therapy. Jayna had decided to give him a few days’ rest before concluding his tour, which was supposed to culminate at an awards show in which he was to be the guest of honor.

Since arriving from the airport to his room, he had slept for nearly a full day. The scent and texture of soft linen felt heavenly against his travel-worn body. When he wasn’t asleep, he sat awake in bed and just enjoyed the solitude, planning what to do next when his tour was over. He had meant to look up his wife and family, along with other friends and descendants who might take him in. “Home is where the heart is,” he was always told. As a time traveler, “home” meant distant relatives he hadn’t even met yet. Earlier in the tour, Jayna had promised to take him to a nearby Hall of Records to look for names and connections. With the tour quickly winding down, his new, more personal, mission could begin. He wanted to find his Dad’s grave, and start from there. Hopefully, Mom and Erica were next to him, too.

Preston heard a noise and immediately sat up, glaring across the room. He instinctively reached beside his bed for his favorite baseball bat, but that was in a different room in a different century.

The doorknob continued to twist and quiver, rattling in the darkness like an alarm clock.

Preston lifted his blanket and slowly edged himself off the bed, making his steps as light as possible. He crouched just beyond the arc of the door, intentionally keeping the lights off for an effective ambush.

“Who the hell locked this door?” said a muffled voice from the behind the wood. With a fervent jostling and a pronounced “click,” the door swung open. A column of light immediately striped the room from door to wall.

“That’s better,” said the intruder. “Come on in, everybody. Let me just get the…”

Preston leapt forward like a panther, grabbing the man by the waist and dragging him down to the floor in a wrenching takedown. He immediately mounted him, driving his knees deep into the prowler’s armpits before clawing his throat and cocking his own arm to punch downward.

“God, don’t hurt me, don’t hurt me!” screamed the man in a panic, flailing his arms to protect his face. “Take whatever you want, just don’t hurt me!”

“Who the hell are you? What the fuck are you doing in my apartment?” Preston himself was in a panic, and couldn’t stop his eyes from tearing up.

“I swear, I didn’t know this exhibit was being used. No one from the office told me. This was supposed to be an open exhibit. We have tours scheduled all week.”

Preston could tell this poor soul was already expecting to die. “If you’re lying to me, man, I’m going to rip something that you’re going to miss.”

“Please don’t hurt me,” pleaded the crumpled form. “I have a family and a sick mother to take care of.”

Preston released his grip from the man’s throat and got up on one knee. He was about to help him up when the lights suddenly came on. They both winced from the glare.

“Someone’s mugging the tour guide!” said the lead tourist, pointing in alarm while holding the light switch.

Preston immediately stood up and walked towards this new person, leaving the initial intruder sprawled on the floor. “Who are you people? What the hell are you doing in my house?”

The tourist quickly backed away towards the living room, frustrating Preston at the thought of giving another chase. But as he entered the room to try to cut her off from the front door, he immediately stopped and assumed a fighting stance. He quickly scanned the room for anything that he could use as a weapon, something to throw or club somebody with.

Armed with small pamphlets and oversized headphones, twenty intruders stood in his living room with him.

“Oh, shit,” said Preston under his breath.

He was the first to crack the seeming eternity of silence between them. With the odds stacked against him, he knew he needed to bluff if he hoped to survive. Where the hell was Jayna when he needed her?

“I don’t want any trouble,” he said, staring each individual in the eye. “If you leave now, I’m not going to kick your ass. I mean your asses.”

“I think he killed the tour guide,” said the initial tourist, hiding behind several men. “He broke his neck.” The crowd quickly became agitated. Preston clenched his fists and stood ready for anything.

“He didn’t kill anybody,” said tour guide, rubbing his throat as he emerged from the bedroom. Preston wheeled around and cocked his hand higher.

“Whoah, easy there, Mr. Jones,” he said, raising his arms up as a sign of non-aggression. “Yes, I know who you are. I didn’t get a chance to recognize you, what with you ambushing me in the dark and sitting on my chest.”

Preston alternated his gaze between the tour guide and the crowd behind him, puzzled.

“My name is Aaron Miller, the head curator for this wing. On behalf of myself and my group, I would like to apologize for interrupting your sleep. We didn’t realize you had returned.”

Preston hesitantly dropped his guard. “I repeat, what the hell are you guys doing here?”

“In your absence, we’ve been giving tours of your living quarters to the public. It was something we incorporated in our dailies for the past few months. The administrators felt that having a celebrity of your stature would boost our touring stature. Sure enough, they did.”

Preston looked at the group itself, whose members looked ridiculous with oversized headsets wrapped over and around their heads. “Who are these guys supposed to be?”

“They’re
supposed
to be touring,” said Miller. “And we’re supposed to be leaving. Our apologies again, Mr. Jones. I will let the administrators know not to have you disturbed again.”

Preston nodded in acknowledgement and watched as the large group exited the front door. Miller, the last person in line, abruptly turned around and posed a question.

“Mr. Jones, a few of our members were wondering if it would be possible to get your autograph?”

Preston smiled. “You guys break into my house, and scare the living crap out of me. Now you want my autograph, too? Fuck. Off.”

Miller nodded and looked away, walking through the door in seeming shame.

“Since when do people give tours to military housing, anyway?” yelled Preston in the guide’s direction. “You better tell your superiors this shit better not happen again.”

“But Mr. Jones,” said Miller, “this is not base housing. This is a museu…”

Preston slammed the door shut before the tour guide could complete his answer. Propping a chair beneath the doorknob so that no one else could get in, even with a key, he went back to his bedroom and fell asleep.

* * *

“You had no right to conduct an investigation without consulting me, Dr. Schaeffer,” admonished Dr. Bentley. “I was well-aware of the status of my patient and was proceeding at a pace that I thought best suited his wellness and schedule.” He stared at his office door, making sure it was completely shut. This conversation was going to remain private and uninterrupted.

“You know damn well the Administration requested it,” responded his colleague. “If you hadn’t been so remiss of your duties, none of this would’ve happened.” Dr. Schaeffer was stoic in Bentley’s guest chair, trying his best not to be intimidated by his supervisor.

“I had everything perfectly under control. I don’t need babying from them, nor you.”

“It’s called ‘returning phone calls.’ It’s called ‘responsibility.’ It’s called ‘reporting findings’ when you see something unusual and potentially dangerous.”

Bentley stood from his chair and leaned menacingly forward. “Don’t you dare lecture me. I helped get you this post. Now I’m really starting to regret that decision.”

“You saw the results, Julius. You saw his biopsy. It was plain as day that he had the Varicella virus swimming in his bloodstream.”

“A very, very small strain. He’s from two centuries ago. Most people in that era contracted chicken pox when they were young and built-up immunity specifically by having it dormant in their bloodstream. They’d developed a vaccine in his century to prevent it from coming back, including in the form of Shingles.”

“A vaccine that we don’t even enforce anymore. Suppose he gets a bloody lip? What if he gets in a car accident and spills his guts all over the pavement? Can you imagine what would happen if this blood-born pathogen became airborne? We eradicated the virus a hundred years ago. He can start a plague and wipe out who knows how many people.”

“You’re overreacting. Modern medicine can purge it from his system.”

“We got rid of it by inoculating people when they were children, and that took dozens of years. This is a fully-grown man we’re talking about. Who knows who he may have already infected?” Dr. Schaeffer lifted his briefcase from the floor and opened it on Bentley’s desk. He retrieved several classified folders and placed them in front of Bentley himself.

“I’ve read the report you’ve compiled,” said Bentley, coolly. “Your—our—team, as usual, was quite thorough. Unfortunately, all of it was inconclusive.”

Dr. Schaeffer was incensed. “That’s a bit of a cavalier attitude. Especially coming from our department head? The mere fact that you found the chicken pox virus in his blood at all gives our findings credibility. Not even your opinion can change that.”

Dr. Bentley sat quietly in his chair for a few moments, visibly pensive and under stress. He rubbed his temples vigorously before standing up and walking to his favorite window.

“He doesn’t pose a threat as long as he doesn’t…bleed.”

“He is a walking bomb without a timer,” said Schaeffer, slapping his palm on the desk. “What part of that don’t you understand?”

Dr. Bentley continued to look out the window, blinking his eyes and looking at nothing.

“Julius, why are you protecting him? That is what you’re doing, isn’t it?

“He’s a man out of time, Jim. We plucked him out of the ocean, and we’re now exposing him to a world he’s never seen before. He doesn’t have anything here. The last thing I want is for him to be all of a sudden thrown into quarantine for the rest of his life. He deserves better than that. You can understand that, can’t you?”

“You’re doing this out of pity?” Dr. Schaeffer threw his hands up in the air. “The great Dr. Julius Enoch Bentley, doing something out of pity. Now I’ve seen everything!”

“Who else knows about the results? Has anyone seen the report you’ve compiled?”

“If you’re asking if Administration has seen it yet, the answer is ‘no.’ Different people have seen bits and pieces; the techies who scanned the room and clothes, different nurses. But no one’s pieced it all together. Yet.”

“Do me a favor, Jim…”

“I won’t cover this up for you, Julius. Friendship aside, this is about ethics and duty.”

“I’m not asking for you to cover it up, damn it! A week; give me a week to figure this out. Let me come up with alternatives for my patient.”

“I will not participate in a conspiracy or anything subversive; not when it comes to my job, or our patients.”

“No conspiracy here. I am just asking for a brief Stay of Execution. Give me a chance to plan alternatives for Preston Jones. Give him a chance to live.”

Dr. Schaeffer removed his glasses and rubbed his eyes in gentle circles. “I think your oath has soured, doctor.”

“I’m trying to preserve a man’s dignity, yet you question my integrity.”

“I’m talking about the greater good. Besides, you’re not in any position to debate me on this, or on anything else, right now.”

Dr. Bentley smiled beneath his grim countenance. He knew his friend well enough to notice some capitulation in his voice.

“Administration will get its report in a week. You have that amount of time to do whatever it is you’re going to do.” Dr. Schaeffer packed the reports back into his briefcase. “No tricks, Bentley. If I so much as sense you giving me the runaround, you’ll be back to square one, literally.”

Dr. Bentley stared at his colleague as he left his office, knowing full well his threat was not a bluff. He wasn’t used to be on the receiving end of a dressing down from a lower-ranking worker. There was little time to savor his short-term victory, however. Suppressing the results from the beginning meant Preston Jones’ blood and tissue samples had been subject to various experiments already. He shuddered to think what had already been created, and what was yet to come.

Despite the one-week reprieve, he couldn’t help but wonder how many options a man with a literal plague swimming in veins truly had.

* * *

It had been a long time since Preston felt like celebrating. From the moment he woke up at the hospital, to the last horrifying sporting event he watched, his life seemed to be on a trackless rollercoaster, riding on peaks and valleys of drama and disappointment. With one destiny concluding tonight and an uncertain future looming tomorrow, he was determined to seize the moment and milk it for all it was worth.

He held his martini glass with poise, trying to imitate actors he watched in classic movies. He looked around the room with an almost royal demeanor: superior, yet understanding, a soldier and a gentleman, a common man’s ruler. The alcoholic buzz coursing through his body kept him smiling at all times, and made him at ease among the lavish preparations dancing around him.

His night began with a ride inside an eighteen-wheeler, double-decker limousine. Complete with a monstrous moon roof, indoor pool and private casino, the jet-black juggernaut was the most luxurious vehicle he had ever seen. It was a premiere party all its own, complete with two revolving spotlights on its anterior and posterior ends. Stretching to nearly half a block in length, it resembled a train cruising the streets, wreaking havoc when turning at intersections.