The Immortal Harvest (6 page)

The TDI also had other functions, one of which helped to prevent his body from synchronising with this world. He knew enough to know that each Universe resonated with its own frequency. He did not want to be out of synch with his own Universe.

He shuddered at the thought as he spied a cracked mirror on the wall opposite. As he looked into it he felt a sudden sense of revulsion as he took in the pock marked, unshaven face. The blood shot eyes and nicotine stained teeth. Most noticeably was the scar.

He brought his hand up to his face and traced the jagged line from the bottom of his right eye near his nose, across his cheek to the bottom of his right ear. It had faded significantly over the past year or so.

He could have had it removed, they could have made him perfect again, but what was the point? The scar solidified his hate.

The physical and emotional pain still blazed within him. He pulled his hand away from his face and threw himself back behind his rifle. He shuffled into position and checked his retinal time display. He took a deep breath and calmed his thoughts.

Five more minutes!

The dark grey clouds hung in suspense and bled rain onto the city streets and buildings.

One such building was the downtown diner situated in the inner city. It’s exterior walls smeared with the years of layers of graffiti being applied and ruthlessly erased or covered up by miscreants who carried out the original deed and then correcting their misdemeanours by performing their community service. It was a perpetual vicious cycle.

The windows were practically opaque from road grime and the relentless pounding of the acidic rain that blew in under the awning.

The interior was commonplace. The main counter littered with used condiments and serviette dispensers.

The dining room was filled with abused and neglected tables and chairs, the former covered by stained and tattered rags that were supposed to add to the overall ambience and atmosphere that was thick with the various obligatory aromas of burnt toast and cheap coffee.

Today the diner was almost vacant of patrons. The exception was a small group tucked into the corner of the diner in a misguided attempt to obtain privacy.

One member of the group, Senator Trent Baker slowly seethed as he drummed his fingers on the greasy diner’s tabletop, taking his eyes off the steady trickle of water that ran down the smeared glass to glare at the two people sitting opposite.

They had introduced themselves as Susan Smythe and Albert Dacquiri from an obscure organisation called ‘Mundus Nova’.

Having reached back into the dim memories of his grade school years he vaguely recalled that the words meant ‘new world’ in Latin.

But what kind of new world
, he thought as he stared into the faces of the strangers.

He had written down their names during the telephone conversation leading up to the meeting and had requested a background check on them and their organisation before agreeing to a face to face. There were too many loonies running around with agendas.

He had no data on them, the Secret Service could not find anything, and it was like they did not exist. He had his gut instinct though, and in the first few seconds of the meeting he felt as if there was something a little ‘off’ about them.

He was under the impression the meeting was under the guise of a donation to support his work with the homeless. That impression was also destroyed within the first two minutes.

He used his index finger to push his glasses back on his nose as he studied the meticulously dressed woman.

He observed Susan Smythe’s careful grooming, the smart cut business suit. He noticed the way she sat upright as if she were teetering on the edge of an abyss and if her spine snapped she would tumble into it.

He suspected that she might have a Latino heritage. Her skin was a light coffee colour that added credence to his suspicions.

He couldn’t help but notice her close-set deep blue eyes. They framed a small pointed nose which perched above perfectly painted lips. He also noticed that on the rare occasion she smiled, she had perfect gleaming white teeth.

Together with her tight, pulled back black hair he could tell she had the typical perfectly symmetrical features of good genetics.

He noticed the sharp contrast between the two.

Dacquiri was in his early fifties but looked at least a decade older. He sat slightly slouched as if his backbone was struggling to hold him upright.

The man had a toothpick in the corner of his mouth that he played with constantly. His tongue nervously shuffled the pointed stick from one side of his mouth to the other.

He could tell the man suffered from a genetic deficiency by the way his greasy hair slunk in strands on his slightly balding scalp, barely distracting the casual observer from the hideousness of his visage and his bulbous physique.

The man’s skin was grey and had that recently deceased look about it. His teeth were discoloured and crooked.

Baker had a hard time hiding his obvious contempt for the two. He leant forward and caught the faint whiff of the strange mix of Chanel Number 5 from the woman and bad body odour from the slob.

He took a sip from his coffee and slammed the cup on the table as he struggled to maintain his composure as he spoke.

“Let me get this straight. You want me to sign off on your organisation’s ridiculous plans for demolishing the homes of two hundred low income families, to allow you to build your corporate Headquarters. Are you two out of your freaking minds?

Your Organisation has picked the wrong Senator. Surely you would know that I have been actively trying to pass the Philanthropy Bill through the Senate for the past two years that will protect those homes.

Furthermore, I intend to personally to lobby to purchase as many of those ‘rats nest of derelict buildings’ you so eloquently call them and provide them free to anyone in need of a home.

I am both offended that you would even think that I would entertain the idea and pissed off that you have dragged me to this meeting under false pretences. You are wasting my time.

“Now if you’ll excuse me I have more important issues that need my attention.”

With a burst of adrenalin spurred on by his rage, Baker stood and pushed back on his chair as he made to leave.

He strode angrily past Smythe and Dacquiri and as he struggled to don his jacket and retrieve his umbrella from his brief case, he heard the silky smooth voice of the woman.

“Mundus Nova is not used to refusals Senator Baker. It would be wise for you to reconsider.”

Baker could see the unemotional look on the woman’s face as she spoke and then noticed the edges of her lips curl up slightly as if she was concealing some hidden knowledge.

His anger swelled as he strode out of the door of the diner into the cold drizzling rain. He did not turn around as he replied.

“If that is a threat Ms Smythe, you should know that I have a great deal of power at my disposal. I can summon the full force of any number of agencies who are ready and willing to take to task any organisation that could be perceived as a threat to national security. Have a think about that.”

He strode to the curb and cursed as he remembered that he had recently cancelled the limousine service.

His son, who was currently estranged from him, had reminded him once that it would be hypocritical for a Senator to display outward signs of wealth whilst trying to highlight the plight of the homeless.

For that reason he had also refused any form of personal protection or luxuries like chauffeured Limousines.

He hailed a taxi and stood shivering slightly. The drizzling rain was near freezing.

Winter was fast approaching and he knew that the coming colder months would mean that there would be more deaths on the streets. This thought added impetus to his cause.

He pulled his Tablet PC from his pocket and made a mental note of the address of his next appointment as he climbed into the back seat of the taxi.

He ignored the tattered seats and the pervasive reek of nicotine and cheap cologne as he smiled at the driver and gave him the address.

The taxi pulled out sharply into the bustling night time traffic and, as he stared out through the filthy window, he thought of the strange individuals back at the diner.

Notwithstanding the veiled threat, he still had that odd feeling gnawing at him in the pit of his stomach. Smythe, Dacquiri and the rest of that Organisation were up to something.

He closed his eyes and sat back in the taxi as he breathed in deeply. He made a mental note to himself to contact the Homeland Security Office to put Mundus Nova under the spotlight.

He smiled as he relaxed slightly and thought of the scrutiny that could be undertaken in the name of National Security.

Since
nine eleven
, the concepts of privacy and human rights were gone – George Dubbya junior had seen to that.

After being jostled and thrown around for what seemed to be an hour, the Senator felt the taxi decelerate as it pulled up at the curb of a dilapidated apartment block.

He alighted from the cab and clutched his briefcase tightly to him as he thrust a fist full of twenties through the driver’s window.

“Here you go driver, this should cover the fare.”

He waited as the driver carefully counted the notes and then heard him mumble something that sounded like a thankyou as he sped off.

He watched the red tail light lights disappear up the deserted alleyway and then turned and looked up at the squalid monstrosity that stood before him.

He was oblivious to the small red dot that punctuated the back of his head, and, as he took a step towards the grime covered doorway at the front of the building, he was unaware that it would be his last.

He did not see the flash, nor hear the resounding crack, nor feel the bullet that penetrated his skull. The execution was flawless. Senator Trent Baker was dead before he hit the ground.

“Hey Blondie! Hows about ya get your arse over here and pour me another coffee. I’m an old man ya know and I’m getting older by the minute!”

“Yeah, yeah, give us a sec will ya Burt,” Sylvan said as she attended to one of the other patrons of The Greasy Dog Diner.

After taking a couple of weeks to settle into living with Crystal, Silvan had decided that she needed to go out and earn a living to help Crystal out with some of the bills.

She had had some experience bussing tables and applied to Jerry Sanders, the owner of the diner.

She had cleaned herself up as best she could, complete with make-up and a plastered smile and squirmed her way through the interview.

The rape by her Mother’s boyfriend was still fresh in her mind. After that horrendous ordeal she thought it would take a long time before she could trust men again.

As she cleaned the crumbs and ketchup splotches from one of the tables, she remembered how she had to fight the urge to lower her gaze as she sat opposite Jerry as she slowly but confidently answered his questions.

She could feel her face flush slightly when she remembered how she felt when she noticed him staring at her cleavage during the interview.

She needed the job, so she ignored it and self consciously folded her arms in front of her in an attempt to cover any flesh that may have been visible.

The Greasy Dog Diner was a popular place for Crystal and her
fellow associates
as she liked to call them. Sylvan was fortunate that Crystal knew that Jerry was looking for another waitress. Crystal had encouraged her to apply for the job.

If it had not been for Crystal, Sylvan knew that she could have quite easily succumbed to depression.

She had felt numb for a least a week after moving in with Crystal.

She had been in autopilot, responding to Justen’s needs and then falling back into a vicious cycle of sleeping, crying and then sleeping again.

As she poured Burt’s coffee she glanced up at the clock that was used to cover the crack in the plaster on the wall behind the cash register.

She smiled when she realised that she only had an hour and then she would be on her way home to her son.

She had managed to convince Jerry to allow her to only work the hours that Justen would be in school. It was a good arrangement.

Every morning she would make breakfast for Justen and then send him off to school.

After she had safely seen him catch the bus for school, she would hurriedly dress and then catch her bus from the front of their building and make the three block journey to the diner.

After her shift she would catch the opposite bus and manage to make it back to Crystal’s apartment before Justen arrived home from school. So far it had been a perfect arrangement.

She remembered back to the first night that she had met Crystal. She could not shake the horrible feeling she had felt when Justen had told her that he had been
hiding from a bad man.

She had tried desperately to find out more from Justen. She wanted to know who the bad man was and what he had done. To her chagrin, Justen had refused to say any more and when pressed for answers he would just become withdrawn and would try to change the subject or his asthma would flare up and it would then be a race against time to alleviate his breathing.

One night after suffering a nightmare, Justen cuddled up close to her in the bed and after a long silent pause he told her about the man with the scar who had fired a gun out the window.

She had considered going to the Police with the information but was dissuaded by Crystal.

Understandably, she was adamant that the Police would not be motivated to listen to a runaway, who was living with a
business woman of questionable integrity,
and a bastard child.

Sylvan delivered several more orders and had just finished wiping up three more tables when she noticed that the clock hands had not changed since the last time she had glanced at them. She peered at the television that was bolted in the cage and hanging from the ceiling at the far end of the diner.

The news story on the TV was the same one that had been running for the last couple of weeks about some big wig Senator who had been gunned down in their neighbourhood. She ignored the story and instead focussed on the time that was registered at the bottom left of the screen.