Long Tale Press

CHAPTER ONE—Subtraction

Killing her… Herschel Hatton powered the barbells over his head, elbows locked. …was just… He counted to three; the orange and blue weights barely wavered…too easy_. He eased the weights downward, contacting the supports with a metallic clanking sound. Lying horizontal on the weight bench, he fixed his eyes on his mirrored image on the ceiling. He exhaled forcefully. His muscles burned with pain--and his ego with pride.

Feeling the eyes of the other patrons of the Mount Zion Hotel’s gymnasium, Herschel smiled inwardly. It was that way wherever and whenever he worked out: jealousy from the men, admiration from the women. Most satisfying of all, however, were the looks from the men.

A moment later, in the middle of another set of repetitions, he spied something. With arms locked-- a hundred kilos over his head--a spot of blood! There--on his left thumbnail! His chest heaved in a moment of panic. With his strength suddenly eluding him, the weights dropped precipitously fast onto the two tripod supports below. The massive cylinders slammed into the supports with a resounding CLANK! He felt the piercing glances from the gawking spectators. Shock, perhaps even delight, filled their eyes.

His mind raced. He stared upward, silently seething, cursing the man with blond hair and lightly tanned skin starring down at him from the mirrored ceiling._ Damn! Were you careless? Did you wipe up all the blood, incinerate the gloves? Did you follow the plan to perfection? Of course you did. But if it was too easy, maybe you missed something!_

Breathing hard, Herschel tried to steady his thoughts. Carefully, slowly, he refocused stealthily on his thumbnail. It’s only a spot. Somehow it must have dropped onto my hand when I took off the gloves. Now it’s dried. That’s all. I just missed it when I washed up. No need to panic, ol’ boy. A little soap and water’ll wash it off. She lives, I mean lived, alone. I’ve left no clues, no prints, no DNA trail. She was dumb enough to not have any surveillance equipment, in the middle of Jerusalem of all places. Guess she didn’t see me comin’.

With his momentary panic erased, he sighed deeply, easing the tension in his massive neck muscles. Below his broad, slightly flat nose, his lips slowly curled into a confident self-congratulatory smile. To prove the matter was over, Herschel heaved the barbells over his head once more, held them for a full five seconds, and eased them down. He slid nonchalantly underneath the suspended barbells and down the sweat-soaked bench. While grabbing a towel, he wiped his forehead and stared through the sunlit windows. The spectacular, unique vista of Jerusalem lay before him. Ancient stone architecture mixed in a haphazard array with modern glass and steel in this city that had seen its share of bloodshed across the millennia. Guess I’m just the latest soldier to spill some blood in God’s name. For a moment he reflected on the last few days, especially the past twenty-four hours.

One of the sixteen members of the Alpha Group, Browning Watts was now known as Herschel Hatton. In 1998 he was chosen by the brilliant and controversial scientist, Mitchell Hilliard, to become part of a secretive experiment to extend biological longevity. Now, in 2059, over thirty years after Hilliard’s mysterious disappearance and death, the sixteen were on their own. In a world of more than ten billion people, endemic political and ethnic chaos, and extreme environmental degradation, the Alpha Group had managed to remain completely clandestine. Only shadowy wisps of its existence occasionally surfaced. Not even dedicated reporters could penetrate and confirm what Hilliard had done. None of the sixteen dared expose themselves to the world, each firmly believing what Mitchell Hilliard told them: that their survival depended on total subterfuge. Exposing the experiment to the prying eyes of the world would destabilize Earth’s already fragile political, ethnic, and environmental systems.

Each Alpha Group member had been free to discover the power of living for centuries; to contribute or detract from the growth of humanity; to be selfish or unselfish with this profound gift; to cope with challenges that no other set of humans had ever endured. Browning, aka Herschel, had channeled this immense power residing in his brain and body to promote a radicalized version of Christianity. The organization was called Gideon’s Army, a group intent on bringing God’s Kingdom to Earth by any means necessary.

He had come to Jerusalem on a tourist visa, ostensibly to visit archeological sites. Herschel’s real mission, however, was as simple and straightforward as it was bloodthirsty and devious: to kill his old Alpha Group colleague, Wakely Karris.

After months of painstaking research, his Gideon’s Army associates had finally found a location for Wakely. That left thirteen other mysterious people to track down, apart from his lone friend in the Alpha Group, Keith Skyler.

There were many enemies the Army was bent on eliminating: liberal religious leaders, atheistic scientists, and the Church of Abraham. Anyone else would call it terrorism, but the Army called it “liberating mankind from evildoers.”

In his decade of serving the Lord, he had killed often. A Gideon’s Army operation was always stealthy, swift, and brutal. But this mission was a bit different. Herschel’s biggest dilemma was not whether to kill a friend, but whether he should make a statement while doing so. Should it be trademark Army style or just an anonymous elimination? After several days of casing Wakely’s neighborhood, jobsite and her humble apartment in a hilly suburb west of Jerusalem, he was convinced his old friend Anastasia deserved something special. Yet he still couldn’t decide what it should be.

From the moment he ‘bumped’ into her at midday at a café next to a park in the Old City, Anastasia’s trust in Herschel was complete. Herschel was strategically seated at an outdoor table. Anastasia, on her lunch break, had sat nearby at her usual table. She had programmed her meal into the embedded table computer, looked up and spotted him. Herschel, apparently intent on reading his handheld computer, had feigned a completely believable look of surprise and pleasure. They were after all two of just sixteen specially chosen people to carry out Mitchell Hilliard’s longevity experiment. Even after a communication cutoff of nearly thirty years, this bond was instantaneous.

Over lunch Anastasia, who now went by the name of Wakely Karris, told him about her activities of the last three decades. She married then divorced, and had no children. She converted to Islam. A law degree followed. Boredom with that led to an extended trip around the world and eventually to a spiritual crisis. A friend introduced Wakely to the Church of Abraham (CHOFA), an exciting new religious faith inspired in the 2030s by the powerful visions of Mars astronaut Winifred Bakila. The past three years Wakely helped run a CHOFA mission in Jerusalem that helped women escape from the international sex-slave trade.

Millions of people had joined CHOFA since Winifred Bakila asserted in 2038 that she had been visited by a super technological being from the Andromeda Galaxy. This highly advanced entity, proclaimed Bakila, had regularly visited the Earth via a space-time phenomenon called a wormhole. The initial visit was with the patriarch Abraham in 1889 BC, and culminated with his visit to Bakila, who had changed her name to Sister Sarah. Father Abraham, as the entity was called, helped Sister Sarah form the tenets of the Church of Abraham: selfless devotion, equality of all religions, and radical pacifism.

CHOFA’s message of peace and reconciliation in a world growing more violent resonated profoundly with those disillusioned by mainstream religions. Many thousands of CHOFA members had been sent into the midst of wars and altered the political destiny of nations with the blood they shed for radical pacifism. Thousands had died to proclaim Father Abraham’s message that total adherence to non-violence was necessary for the human race to survive.

Wakely’s commitment to CHOFA was as unwavering as Herschel’s own radical faith. Yet she represented everything he was passionately against. Hoping to hide his disdain for her contemptible beliefs, Herschel concentrated on how the woman in front of him didn’t look one day past thirty. And he bit his lip until it nearly bled.

“Please call me Annie like you used to.” Wakely’s long, brown hair flowed down nearly to her waist while her green eyes sparkled with anticipation of what her old friend Browning Watts would say. “So what’s my old friend been up to?” she said leaning forward, elbows on the edge of the tiny table. A tiny wisp of a warm midday breeze danced through her hair.

“I go by Herschel now,” he replied flatly, a hint of irritation in his voice. He forced a fake smile back at her and methodically picked his way through his well-rehearsed lies. “Well, I currently live in Miami…No. I haven’t seen or heard from any Alpha Group member in many years… I have no particular religious affiliation… It’s an absolute miracle I ran into you here… I work out a lot; can you tell? … The investments Hilliard set me up with paid off handsomely. I’m a woodworker and a sculptor. In between, well, I guess I travel a lot.”

Wakely’s dormant fondness for Browning instantly resurfaced. Staring into his blue eyes, Wakely tried to avoid looking downward at his well-chiseled body. Expelling her breath, she closed her eyes momentarily and vowed to maintain her pledge of celibacy. Dismissing a vague discomfort about his shallowness, she continued. “Well, for me, I couldn’t help but keep up with several of”—she glanced briefly around, observing the other lunch patrons—“you know, our other, um, colleagues.”

“Really?” His face lit up. Careful, don’t be too eager, ol’ boy.

“Sure have. It’s been fun to share in the lives of some pretty special people, you know?”

“Um, yeah, that makes sense. But I still can’t believe you’ve kept up with them all these years later, Annie.”

“In fact, I spoke with Marisol just last night. She’s the social one of the bunch, if you recall. Hey! Maybe you’d like to call her? I’m sure she’d love to hear from you.”

“Um,” he fumbled, “I...ah…maybe later.” His pulse quickened and he nervously cleared his throat. God! Am I coming across as an asshole?

“Well, I’m sure she’d love to talk with you, Herschel, new name and all. You know what? The least I could do is to give you Marisol’s contact address, and the others’ too.” After a brief glance around her, she said quietly, “You remember the codes of communication?”

“Burned into my brain,” he said and smiled back. The protocols for public and private intra-communication between members of the Alpha Group had always concealed their status from the prying eyes of the world. It had also kept them safe—at least until now.

Like a lamb to slaughter. “But don’t go to any trouble for me,” he replied, fighting hard to keep the smile from turning into a victorious grin.

“No problem.” She quickly accessed her dataport, the nanocomputer seated behind her left ear. “I’ll just send you the info to your dataport.” She glanced up. “Oh, I guess I won’t.” How had she missed the absence of the tiny raised areas below his eyes that would have indicated implanted monitor glasses? And there were also no telltale signs of a miniscule dataport built neatly into the bone behind his ear.

“Naw, don’t use much computer gadgetry, ‘cept for my handheld. And I certainly don’t go for that crap implanted in your skull.” This was another well-rehearsed lie: he was very well-versed in computer technology. Then he noticed her dataport tucked in behind her left ear. Shit!

She grinned. “You don’t know what you’re missing out on, Brown-Herschel. Quick and painless surgery--then hands-free gadgetry forever. I’ll go purchase a minidisk at the store next door for you, Mr. Dinosaur, since our systems are incompatible. I’ve even got some video pods of our friends too.”

She mopped up the last piece of hard bread with olive oil and then paid the bill on the table computer port. Moments later the minidisk had been downloaded into his handheld. He slipped the small computer back into his shirt pocket. Did she just give me solid leads on four others? I’ll be damned! He mumbled a hasty “Thanks.”

Securely buttoning his shirt pocket, Herschel began walking slowly down the crowded cobblestone street. It felt as if he had a million euros in his pocket. Anastasia/Wakely slipped her hand around his waist. He stiffened briefly, taken aback by the warmth of her hand and the gentleness of her spirit. Then he relaxed, focusing on exactly how his day would end; her warm hand would soon be cold and lifeless.

She cheerily gabbed away while they strolled down an ancient patchwork sidewalk. The early-afternoon sun danced on her hair. “Let’s see. Marisol’s in India, William’s in Germany, Kasai’s in South Africa, and…oh, yeah, Skip. He’s in England now. He’s the only one I’ve seen personally lately; I only see the others on video pods. Skip’s a CHOFA member too. He goes by Nathaniel Kristopher. I just call him Nate.”

“Ya don’t say.” My, my, the power of my wit and charm. He relaxed even further, placing his right arm easily around his smaller companion’s waist. Whatever odious thing Hilliard implanted into us, he must have doubled my dose of luck.

They walked on in silence for several moments, mulling through personal thoughts: hers about a hopeful future, his about putting a quick end to her future.

A life of killing had taught him to think quickly. “Hey, if I decide to visit them, don’t tell ‘em I’m coming, okay?”

“Sure, no problem.”

“It’ll be a surprise, won’t it, Annie?” He grinned slyly, turned his head towards her and winked. The last surprise they’ll ever know.

She stopped to observe young students--Jewish , Muslim, Christian, and Church of Abraham—in a small, gated schoolyard across the street. “Look at those kids playing together. They’re our hope for the future,” she commented aloud, momentarily mesmerized at seeing Father Abraham’s plan in motion. Her happiness continued unabated as she turned her attention back to Herschel. “You are such a kidder! Remember how you used to break up those boring group therapy sessions with Hilliard in the early days of the experiment?”

“Yeah.” The mention of Hilliard’s name never failed to provoke a sullen, seething anger.

“I remember one prank you and Skip pulled. Hilliard had egg on his face--literally! I think if he could’ve tossed you both out of the experiment at that moment, he would’ve done it. But he got over it.”

“Uh-huh, I remember,” replied Herschel, futilely fighting back a frown. “I don’t dwell on those early days a lot, I guess. It was a different world then. We--I, was so naïve about life, about the experiment.” Finally she glanced over at him. “Sounds like you do think a lot about it.”

Damn, am I that transparent? “Well, maybe I do. All I know is that Hilliard was such a sunuva,” he bit his lip and grunted, “…gun.”

“Yeah, pure genius,” replied a smiling Wakely, “Each and every day I get to occupy this Earth, my physical well-being is living testament to his genius. Don’t ya think that’s just---just so incredible?”

Herschel cleared his throat. “Hilliard certainly didn’t understand all the implications of extended life.”

“Well, of course, he couldn’t have,” replied Wakely matter-of-factly. “That’s why he set up the experiment. I still miss him so much. That government manhunt for him was just ridiculous. Such bogus, trumped up charges.”

“Well,” replied Herschel, trying to sound as philosophical as possible, “Mitchell Hilliard was a rebel from the time they threw him off the Human Genome Project. Rebels live lives of risk and danger. I’ll bet he really did steal Genome Project research just like the government said. The name Mitchell Hilliard is about as demonized as you can get.” As it should be.

“But we know he was a great man,” said Wakely, half-protesting, and a bit unsure how to read his latest comment. “Extending biological life is the right thing to do. It’s just unfortunate that we can’t proclaim it to the world. But maybe someday,” her voice unconsciously lowered, “when our species has matured and there’s no overpopulation concerns, humanity can handle it.”

His mind shouted, NEVER! He began to sweat. “Hey, look. I gotta go,” he gulped, unwrapping her arm from around his body. She stopped walking. “Oh, and here I was ready to show you where I work. How ‘bout coming to my apartment for dinner this evening? You know I make the city’s best falafel. Or I can show you some really cool sights in Old Jerusalem like the Wailing Wall?”

“Well, um, no. I – it’s just that I realized I’ve gotta meet some other friends for one of the, ah, tours on the life of Jesus.”

“That’s a shame,” she replied, disappointment tinging her voice. “I’d hoped we could spend some more time together.”

Slowly, he backed away.

“I’ll see you again before you leave, right?”

“Well…ah…sure. Lunch…tomorrow…same place? Okay?” He sniffed nervously. However he hadn’t distanced himself enough to elude her grasp.

Quickly covering the two meter distance, Wakely threw her spindly arms around his massive body and gave him a peck on the cheek. “That’ll be great! Hey! Gotta get back to work!”

Hesitantly, stiffly, he patted her on the back. As she bounced away from him, he found himself staring after her, totally transfixed, unable to move so much as a muscle until she disappeared around the street corner.

The rest of the afternoon he spent at the Mount Zion Hotel’s bar.

• • • • • * Nightfall found him lingering in the shadows outside her apartment for a long time. Alcohol tinged his breath. She hugged me. She called me friend.

Suddenly his training kicked into his brain. Fool! Get over it! She’s not Annie anymore! You’re not Browning Watts anymore! Follow the plan! Adrenalin flowed into his veins. Fists tightened. He touched the knife concealed inside his shirt. He inhaled deeply. In that moment he shed any life-giving thoughts. Death consumed him. Forcefully he exhaled and reviewed his plan.

He stood in front of the old windowless wooden door, stolen copy of her key card in his hand. A small handmade sign in the middle of the door proclaimed, “Welcome to my friends. May the peace of Father Abraham enter with your presence and leave with you upon our parting. W. Karris”. He shoved a pair of surgical gloves onto his hands. He waved the key in front of the pad. The metal tumblers inside the door clicked open.

A moment later, the large hunting knife sank deeply into Wakely’s chest. Crimson-colored blood spurted out. He pushed her back and simultaneously wrenched the knife out of her chest.

Wakely grabbed for her chest. Her lips moved to form a scream. Wide, probing eyes found her assailant for an instant. Her mouth opened. She tried to ask, “Why?”

But before she could ask, her body twisted and fell forward onto the terrazzo floor. A sickening crack resounded as her head hit the hard, unforgiving slate.

She lay unmoving, face down in a pool of blood. Her right arm, never having quite soothed the fatal wound, was outstretched above her head. Blood trickled out of her mouth.

As if in answer to her silent plea, Herschel stood above her. The knife, still gripped firmly in his right hand, dripped with the blood that had given Wakely Karris eighty-nine years of an extraordinary, remarkable life. “Hilliard’s evil experiment must not survive. You are my first sacrifice!” he snarled defiantly.

He glared at her body. He snapped his eyes shut. “O Lord, I call to you; come quickly to me. Hear my voice when I call to you; may my prayer be set before you like incense, may the lifting up of my hands be like the evening sacrifice. Set a guard over my mouth, O Lord; keep watch over the door of my lips. Let not my heart be drawn to what is evil, to take part in wicked deeds with men who are evildoers; let me not eat of their delicacies.”

Anastasia Mullins, aka Wakely Karris, had given her life for the Church of Abraham. She always knew persecution might find her. Many of her friends in CHOFA had already made the ultimate sacrifice, killed as they placed themselves in harm’s way in numerous conflicts across the globe. Her church, her way of life, her calm and steady commitment helping the unfortunate in the ever-dangerous Middle East--all were lightning rods to attract trouble, perhaps violence, possibly even death. But she could never have imagined that someday she would die at the hands of one of the oldest human beings on Earth, a kindred spirit in the most radical experiment humankind had ever known, and one whom she had considered a friend.

Methodically, Herschel Hatton went to work. He glanced out the window of her tiny apartment. The neighborhood lay in a peaceful, silent slumber. He found some computer mini-files in the bedroom and downloaded as much information as possible onto a disc he pulled from his pocket.

With another glance out the curtain, he was ready to go. Thousands of lights twinkled on the hillsides of the ancient city. He bent over her body. Her blood was already becoming coagulated and stiff. There were sixteen; now there are fifteen. That was too easy. Won’t Skip and Marisol just love my surprise?

Carefully swiping blood off the floor with his index finger, he wrote on the cold, hard floor beside her, “90” and “10”. Placing the hunting knife down at her side, he pulled off his blood-stained gloves and deposited them in a plastic sack.

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