Chapter Twenty-Three

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Today

Doors are closing. Please stand clear.”

“Ahhhh!” Scott yelled, punching his legs down harder and faster than he had ever done before, still a dozen feet from the train as the doors began to close. The flashback to that morning when he’d raced down the platform, seeing his father inside the train as the doors closed just seconds before he got to the train, haunted him.

Not today, he thought, and leapt from the platform and toward the narrowing space between the doors that were closing in from each side.

His right shoulder slammed against the door on the one side and he half-stumbled, half-fell into the train car on his left as the doors sealed shut behind him.

“Geeziz, mister,” a young white male with thick beaded dreadlocks who couldn’t be more than twenty, had been sitting in the bench seat perpendicular to the doors with his bicycle propped in front of him. “I’ve never seen anybody so desperate to catch a train. You almost killed yourself getting on.”

Scott shook his head, slowly gathered himself to his feet.

“If I missed this train,” Scott said looking out the opposite window and spotting Herb and the security guard racing down the platform, “my boss would kill me.”

The young man nodded, seeming to be in agreement with Scott; not realizing, of course, that Scott was speaking in the literal sense.

And with that he walked past the young man and headed up the stairs to the mid-level section. Each GO train was divided into a lower section and upper section with two mid-level sections at the front and back of each train, a combination of a landing area with a small section of seats between them.  It was on these levels where the doors allowing passengers to pass between train cars were.

As Scott reached the mid-level landing area, he saw Herb standing on the platform and glaring at him. There was a scowl of anger on his face, but still that strange glazed look that had come over him not much more than half an hour earlier.  He looked out the opposite window and saw the man in the gray sports coat standing half a dozen yards away on the train platform, glaring at Scott through the window with the same angry look, with that subtle glaze, that Herb had.

As the train pulled away from the station, Scott settled down into a seat in the mid-level section and put his head back for a minute, trying desperately to catch his breath.

He gave himself a minute before pulling off his backpack and pulling out his laptop.

He flipped the top of the laptop open and then dug into the backpack for the hotspot USB stick and stuck it into the side. He waited for the network to pop up then keyed in the passcode allowing him to connect to the cellular network.  Within a few seconds he was back online.

His computer was still on the web browser showing Mike Nottoff’s research into anaesthetic practice to achieve a death meditative state; the process was, essentially, using nanotechnology to produce the same extreme slowing of the heart rate and circular systems that would simulate clinical death while the body lived in in a manner that was not discernable.  It was similar to a Tibetan Buddhism practice known as “Death Meditation” where the body can exist in a state that mimics death, preserving the body’s skin, organs, and central nervous system.

Could that be what they did with Dad, in order to fake his death?

That certainly made sense.

And there was, as Scott and Mr. Prescott had speculated, some deeper reason as to why it would become necessary to fake Lionel Desmond’s death.

Something Scott must have tapped into so deep that someone out there wanted him dead.

He must have been on to something; something so secret, something so powerful, that he had to be stopped.

He was looking at this page when Herb called him into his office.

But, for someone to hack into the air ventilation system of the Digi-Life offices, it couldn’t have been just because Scott had discovered this. Someone must have been tracking his research, understanding that he was getting ever closer to the bottom of this; and they’d gone in, some time before today, to set the trap that was launched when Herb first pulled out that gun.

Scott sat staring at the screen, trying to figure out what to do next, where to turn.

He kept thinking back to his conversation at that café with Mr. Prescott.

The man, the first and only mentor Scott had ever had, was a beacon of reason and perhaps the only person Scott figured he could trust.

It was time to call Mr. Prescott.

Scott clicked on the Skype icon on his computer.  He could use Skype’s phone function to make a call to Prescott and enlist his help in this bizarre mess he found himself at the center of.

The little yellow Contact button indicated a numeral one on an unclicked tab of the left nav bar of Scott’s Skype program.  He tapped it.

It was Gary.

Thirty seconds ago Gary had keyed in the words:  Are you online?

The little pencil icon was dancing below those words, indicating that Gary was typing something else

Where are you?  Appeared on the screen on the next line.

I stepped out, Scott typed.

What the hell is going on? Can we chat?

The electronic ring-tone indicating that Gary was attempting a video call to Scott sounded.

Scott stared at it, wondering what he should do.

Since Gary couldn’t reach through the screen and strangle Scott, he figured he should see what was going on.

“Scott? What the hell happened? Where are you?” Gary was sitting at his desk in the office in his little sanctum sanatorium on the second floor.  “The last thing I remember, we were standing in the kitchen and I was wondering what the hell you seemed so worried about. Then it’s black. I have no idea what happened. I woke up with a massive headache laying on the floor in the nurse’s station just a few minutes ago. All I can remember is chatting with you in the kitchen. But when I woke up, you were nowhere to be found.

“Scott – what the hell is going on? What happened to me? Where the hell are you?”

Gary seemed genuinely confused. Scott wasn’t sure what to say to him.

“Scott. Answer me, buddy. I’m scared.”

“I’m not sure what’s going on, Gary.” Scott said quietly. “But you need to get out of the building. But before you leave your desk area, hold your breath, man. Hold your breath and get the hell outside as quickly as you can.”

“What the hell?”

“Just do it, Gary. I don’t have time to explain. I’ve got another call I need to make. Just hold your breath and get out. If you can, avoid every single person you spot, stay as far away from them as possible. Try not to let anybody stop you. Just get out of the building as quickly as you can.”

Scott pressed the hang-up icon on Skype and then toggled over to a browser where he’d stored Dr. Prescott’s number.

He had to call the man, try to figure out his next move.

He found the number and then toggled back to Skype and keyed the number in to the digital numeric pad there.

It began to ring.

And ring.

And ring once more.

Then it went to voice mail.

“Mr. Prescott. Tim. It’s Scott Desmond. I need you to contact me. My mobile phone is dead, so I’m not sure how you can reach me, other than Skype.” He proceeded to leave his Skype dial-in number for Mr. Prescott, then hung up.

The little yellow icon indicated that Gary was texting Scott again.

Then a second numeral popped up.

Someone else was trying to reach him.

Scott clicked on the button. Saw it was a new contact request – this time from Mr. Prescott – it was combined with an incoming video call.

Scott accepted the video call and Prescott’s face appeared on the screen.

Scott knew, immediately, that there was something wrong. He could see it in the glazed look on his old teacher’s face.

“Don’t say it, don’t say it,” Scott whispered under his breath.

But, as he fully expected, he knew. It was too late. They had gotten to Prescott. They had infected him as well.

“You won’t get away!” Prescott said. “You cannot evade us!”

Scott tilted his head back, closing his eyes. And, just as he did, he noticed three train ticket checkers wandering down the lower section, checking for people’s tickets.

Damn, he thought, realizing he didn’t have a ticket.  Although, what would be the worst thing that could happen?  They’d toss him off the train once they arrived at the next stop, which was Union, which was where Scott had planned on getting off at anyway.

He sat and watched them make their way through the crowd. There were three ticket cops. Two of them were questioning people and asking to see their tickets or proof of purchase, and the third one, a short female with straight long hair tied into a pony tail, was making her way down the aisle when she looked up at Scott.

She made eye contact with him and then started walking toward him quickly, ignoring all the other passengers who were sitting in the rows she passed, some of them holding out their proof of purchase.

But she was oblivious to their gestures.

She was purposefully stalking her way toward Scott.

And she had that vacant, haunted glazed look on her face.

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