Divisions - James Gerard (english love story books TXT) 📗

briefly entertained the reason for continuing the veil of secrecy, but quickly realized it did not matter and simply took a seat.

 

Without much of anything to do except to consider what was to be witnessed, he passed the hours by committing to memory the events that had occurred from that night he first met Jeffrey.  Over and over Paul replayed the visualizations of what had been seen and the subject matter of the conversations that had been spoken.  His desire was to at least mentally document everything with the hope that the maniacal undertaking could be exposed to the world. That is, he wondered, if they would take the risk of that happening even though their plan was sure to fail.

 

The door opened.  A young man said, “It’s time Doctor Hatford.”

 

“And who might you be?”

 

“If you must know,” the young man scoffed, “I’m one of Jeffrey’s great grandsons.  Now let’s go.”

 

The young man led him to the end of the hallway opposite the elevator’s position.  Paul wondered if they were about to enter one of the last rooms on either side of the hallway, but before he could consider it further the young man tapped the wall with a device and a cleverly hidden door swung open to the hallway.  Having been there just hours ago, Paul instantly recognized the location by its dim lighting and the coolness of its feel.

 

Midway down the hallway, the young man stopped and opened yet another door with the device.  Just as Paul stepped in his eyes beheld yet another cleverly disguised room, one in which optical illusions had once again been used to hide it vacuous space.

 

Immediately, he took notice of the two dozen tables serving as platforms for the empty shells of youthful bodies strapped down on them, and the bodies of aged men paired head to head with their respective counterpart.   And while all the faces were covered with a mask holding what seemed to be thousands of fine electrical wire, wires that were connected directly from old to new and new to old, Paul knew that Jeffrey and Augustine were amongst them.

 

Not knowing where to stand, Paul walked up to a young man manning a panel.

 

“Remember,” the young man whispered, “the button.”

 

Paul walked to side of the panel and took a good look at the young man.  “Troy, do you know what you are about to do your great grandfather and these other men?”

 

“Yes Doctor, I do.”

 

Paul was confused.  Based on the very fact that Jeffrey himself had made him aware that the button would be there, he considered that Jeffrey’s view on what was about to occur was divided.  That in some way Jeffrey had given him an opportunity to put a stop to the transformation.  The decision was further complicated by Troy’s matter of fact response and reminder.  He could not be certain as to whether it was an acknowledgement of administering death by pressing it or granting them eternity by leaving it untouched.

 

His eyes focused on the corner of the panel.  He reached out a hand and ran a finger underneath the edge and felt the button.  But it simply did not make sense, he concluded, believing it were a way to assure that the transformation was a failure.  Then again, he thought, what if I have it all wrong?  What if they already know that the transformation will be a success?

 

Without notice Troy activated the panel.  The room came alive with the buzz of electrical activity.  He looked to Paul and counted “three, two….”

 

Just as Troy was about to flip a switch, Paul yanked his hand away.

 

The room erupted with torturous screaming.

 

Paul gasped in horror and stepped backwards.

 

A young man panicked and raced up to the panel screaming “reverse it.”

 

“I can’t,” Troy shouted back.  “It’s too late.”

 

Paul watched helplessly as a host of men and women went running to the tables with hypodermic needles in hand.  Within seconds the screaming stopped.

 

Troy turned to Paul.  “Get back to the office and wait.”

 

Unprepared for the shocking scene, Paul stood there stunned.

 

“Doctor Hatford,” screamed Troy, “get out now.”

 

Paul rushed for the exit and from the hallway slammed the door shut.  Gasping for breath, he stumbled over to the office door and made a quick entrance.  The sound of the torturous screams kept replaying in the mind.

 

“Doctor Hatford, are you feeling well?” a voice was heard asking.

 

Paul turned around to see a young boy sitting in a chair.  “Who are you?”

 

“You do not remember me Doctor Hatford—why I am Jeffrey McKay.”

 

Paul looked at the young man closely.  The shock of what he had just seen and heard waned.  With calmness returning he stepped to the boy and said, “I know you…you are the young man I met yesterday at the park.  You are one of Jeffrey’s great grandsons.”

 

“No Doctor, I am Jeffrey.”

 

“Oh my god you succeeded in setting out what you intended to do.  But that is….”

 

“Impossible?  No Doctor Hatford; far from impossible.  Thanks to you my life has now been extended for another lifetime.”

 

“But….”

 

The door flew open.  Augustine rushed in.  He looked to Jeffrey, “Why you evil bastard.  I knew I should have never trusted you.”

 

The young boy smiled.  “Why Augustine,” he responded, “you dare to mention trust?”

 

“Clever,” Augustine countered, “you know they are as good as dead.  How wicked can you be?”

 

“Wicked?”  Why I might ask you the same question.”

 

“What is going on here?” Paul asked in confusion.

 

“Is it not clear Doctor?  Augustine lives and breathes.  He substituted some poor soul to take his place just in the event our process failed.”

 

“No Doctor,” replied Augustine, “do not be fooled by him.”  He turned to Jeffrey.   “How convenient, you seem to be the only one that has survived.”

 

“Only one you say?  Are you forgetting to count yourself?”

 

Augustine pulled out a pistol from behind.  “Unfortunately Doctor Hatford, you have conspired with the wrong man, for Jeffrey is evil through and through.”

 

“Really Augustine, you plan to resort to violence?  You see his deception Doctor Hatford?”

 

“I don’t….”

 

“Shut up!” shouted Augustine.  “I am afraid you too Doctor must be eliminated.”

 

Just then Jeffrey sprung at Augustine and knocked the gun from his hand.

 

As the two wrestled for the pistol, Paul stood back unable to physically restrain either of them, but as they grappled for control he lunged towards the gun and managed to take hold of it before either one could notice.

 

“Stop this nonsense,” Paul commanded as a shot was fired into the ceiling.

 

“Shoot him,” shouted Augustine.

 

“Doctor Hatford,” Jeffrey cried, “is it not obvious who the villain is in all this.  Now, I do suggest that you kill him.”

 

“Me,” laughed Augustine.  “Isn’t it clear Doctor that Jeffrey arranged his transformation well before the others, and only after the success he sabotaged the system to assure the others would be eliminated?  He’s the true villain Doctor; shoot him.”

 

“But Doctor, why did Augustine choose to forego the initial transformation.  Why is he standing before us?  The answer to that is in what you just witnessed—he is the one that desired to rid the others in a plot that would leave him the ultimate seat of power.”

 

“Stop it!” Paul shouted.  “Jeffrey, who are you?”

 

“He’s Lucifer himself,” Augustine answered.  He took a step towards Paul.

 

Paul aimed the pistol at him.  “Stop.”

 

The aim shifted to Jeffrey as he too took a step forward.  “Both of you stop.”

 

Augustine took another step, “Yes he is.  Now shoot him Doctor.”

 

The aim of the pistol shifted back to Augustine, “I’m warning you to stop.”

 

“Shoot him Doctor,” shouted Jeffrey.

 

The gun suddenly went off.  Augustine fell to the floor.

 

Jeffrey went flying out the door.

 

Paul rushed to his side but the blood was gushing out from the chest wound.

 

A group of young men came rushing in led by Troy.

 

“I did not….”

 

“It is too late,” said Troy.  “No pulse.  Mister Florentine is dead.”

 

“What have I done?” cried Paul.

The Aging of a Youth

 Never having lived the experience of being arrested, handcuffed, placed in the back of a patrol car, ushered through a back door of a police station, and led through a maze of hallways only to be left isolated, Paul found that there was nothing to do but bear the pangs of anxiety until the questioning began.   In the meantime, he found himself trapped.  He was sitting alone in the locked room.  A low humming buzz from the high intensity lights shimmering off the white walls and metallic table and chairs emitted vibrations through the stale air and enflamed the anxiety.

 

In the absence of those that would soon enter and begin the interrogation, images played over and over again in the mind.  Frame by frame, the series of the events popped up.  He desperately hoped they would understand that it was just an accident.  He had no intention of shooting directly at either Jeffrey or Augustine and did not have it in him to callously take the life of another.  But torturous voices screamed in the mind while throwing out blazing accusation.  They shouted at his very soul over the decision to pick up the pistol in the first place.

 

“How could you?” the voices screamed.

 

“No, you don’t understand,” Paul pleaded.

 

 “How could you take the life of an innocent man?” they shouted with piercing judgments.

 

“I didn’t mean to,” he cried.

 

“How could you have picked up the pistol,” they yelled.

 

“I…I was afraid….”

 

“Liar,” rang out in unison.

 

 The gory scene was persistent in pestering the mind.  The image of the pistol loosely gripped in the hand was clear.  Then the aim shifting back and forth between Jeffrey and Augustine came into the thoughts.  The plea to stop was heard just the booming death shot went straight into the heart.  The image of the dead body gushing out blood cried out from the grave.  But the memory of pulling the trigger was missing.  Yet, the trigger was pulled.  Begging for it to be just a dream, to wake up from the nightmare, Paul moaned and groaned knowing all too well that this was not a dream.     

 

He shot up straight throwing the eyes to the crack of the opening door.  The voice of a man shouted something at someone down the hallway.  The man, well-dressed in coat and tie and slacks, identifying himself as the lead detective in the case, then strolled into the room.   He sat in the chair between the locked door and Paul.  His eyes were focused on a sheet of paper he set on the table.

 

Paul’s hands twitched and his body fidgeted around the chair as the detective sat silently and still.   He took the silence to mean a serious contemplation of the facts that spelled out murder.

 

As the minutes passed, Paul became transfixed on the wall mounted camera peering at him from just above the locked door.   A sense that someone was watching was nerve wracking.  It was if they were seeking a confession through the nervous twitching of hands and eyes and legs and torso.  Or how they were looking for indications of guilt through the elevated or decreased level of animated movements depending on the directness or implied accusations that would be thrown at him.  Through the camera's eye, they would find out the truthfulness of his version of the events that led to the death was overwhelming.

 

“You want to tell me what happened,” the detective said to Paul.

 

Breaking off the gaze at the lens of the camera, Paul uttered, “I…I don’t know.  I