The Forever Man - Book 1: Pulse

Black…

  And then a pinprick of light.

  Smell of wood smoke.

  Sound of flames.

  He blinked.

  More light.

  He sat up.

  Alive!

  The room swam into focus. Stone walls. Tall mullioned windows. A fireplace, with fire. And standing at the end of the bed a young woman. Pale skin, deep red hair. Hint of a smile. Before he could say anything she turned and left the room at a fast walk.

  On a small table next to the bed he saw a glass of water. He picked it up, two handed, and took a sip. It tasted like fine wine. Heady. Invigorating.

  Alive!

  The girl walked back into the room followed by an older man. Hogan recognized him. The man who had stood above the gate. The man who had turned the outsiders away.

  He pulled up a chair and sat down next to Hogan, the girl stood next to him. ‘Greetings, young man,’ he said. ‘How are you feeling?’

  ‘I’m alive.’

  The man chuckled. ‘It would appear so.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘Lucky, I suppose.’

  Hogan shook his head. ‘No one’s that lucky. I was dead for sure.’

  ‘Obviously not.’

  Hogan started to talk again but the older man flashed him a look and then glanced at the girl. Later, the look said. Not now.

  ‘Can I get you something to eat, sir?’ The girl asked.

  Hogan nodded. ‘That would be much appreciated. How long have I been out?’

  ‘Not long. Only the one night,’ answered the man as the girl set off to get Hogan some sustenance. ‘After your…altercation with the crowd, they dispersed and we opened the gates and dragged you in.’

  ‘So then, where am I?’ Asked the marine.

  ‘You are a guest at Biggleswich Independent coeducational boarding school, set in the grounds of the fortified Abbey of Lilysworth.’

  The girl reappeared with a tray. On it was a bowl of porridge, a glass of milk and small bowl of sugar.

  ‘Just a snack,’ said the girl. ‘It’s almost dinner time, you can have a proper meal then.’

  Hogan thanked her and tucked in. It had been years since he had last tasted porridge and it was exactly as he remembered it. Hot, stodgy and sugary. He took a sip of the milk. It tasted odd. Not off, just weird. The older man noticed his expression.

  ‘It’s goats milk,’ he said. ‘We have a few goats on campus. Apparently it’s very good for you.’

  Hogan shrugged and downed the rest of it and burped mightily. The girl hid a smile behind her hand.

  ‘Are you up for a walk?’ Asked the older man.

  Hogan nodded, flung back the bedclothes and swung his legs over the side of the bed. Only then did he notice that he was totally naked except for the bandage around his neck and shoulder. The girl gave a squeak and rushed from the room, her long copper hair streaming behind her like a cape of virtue.

  The older man chuckled. ‘Your kit is there,’ he pointed at a chair in the corner of the room. Hogan’s camos were neatly pressed and folded. His helmet, combat armor and weapons lay on the floor next to the chair.

  The marine stood up, walked over and got dressed. He left the armor, battle gear and weapons where they were, except for the pistol that he tucked into his belt.

  The older man stood up and held out his hand. ‘My name is Jonathan Holt. Most call me, Professor or Prof. I’m easy with all or any.’

  Hogan shook the Professor’s hand.

  ‘Marine Master gunnery sergeant Nathaniel Hogan, American Embassy. Pleased to meet you, Prof.’

  Hogan followed the Prof through the tall stone corridors of the school. As they walked the older man gave him the run down.

  Although the school was situated in buildings that were in excess of five hundred years old, it was a model of the modern private school or, as the English called it, a public school. The Prof explained that they were the leading charitable school in the country and, as such, had a broad range of students who were chosen from the best and brightest as opposed to the ones with the wealthiest parents.

  Unlike the usual English public school, Biggleswich promoted freethinking and a more modern approach to discipline. Scholars were entrusted with their own vegetable allotments on which they grew beans, potatoes and other sundry vegetables. Some ran chickens. The Professor had a small herd of six goats. All produce was harvested by the scholars and handed to the kitchens. The scholars were then paid in privileges, television time, gaming.

  Academic achievement also gained privileges as well as accolades such as special items of clothing, different neckties, scarves and badges. In the center of the school was a well with a non-working electric pump. There was, however, an ancient hand pump that was capable of drawing water up and into a small water tower.

  The Prof explained that, as it was school holidays, there were very few scholars at the school. The only ones there were the older students who had stayed on for a few days in order to cram for their forthcoming exams. Now, of course, there was no way that they could leave.

  Thirty scholars. Twelve girls and eighteen boys. There were also eight staff that lived on the premises. The Professor, the school nurse, the caretaker and five other teachers.

  The Prof also showed Hogan the school armory. Ten 22 target rifles and six air rifles. As well as the weapons, they had a full case of 22LR ammunition. Five thousand five hundred rounds.

  They were, to all intents and purposes, a completely self-sustaining community.

  ‘Very impressive, Prof,’ said Hogan. ‘I’ll tell you something for nothing, though. Those people who tried to get in here are going to come back. If not them then someone else. And next time they won’t take no for an answer. You don’t know what it’s like out there. It’s the nine circles of hell.’

  ‘We have a high wall. A dry moat.’

  Hogan shook his head. ‘Not good enough. Ladders negate walls. Your gate is a weak point. A good volley of Molotovs and you’d be hard pressed.’

  ‘Well then, master sergeant,’ replied the Prof. ‘Help us.’

  Hogan nodded and they walked for a while in silence. He felt for a pack of cigarettes and was pleased to find them still in his trouser pocket. He took them out, opened, took his Zippo from the half empty pack and offered. The Prof shook his head.

  ‘I’m a pipe man myself,’ he said. ‘Won’t be that for much longer though. Not much baccy here, I’m afraid.’

  The marine lit up. Drew. Exhaled.

  ‘Professor Jonathan Holt,’ he said in a thoughtful voice.

  ‘At your service, good man.’

  ‘Why is that name so familiar?’

  The Prof shrugged.

  Hogan took another greedy hit of nicotine and then stared at the glowing tip of his cigarette for a while. ‘Didn’t you win the Nobel Prize? Genetics? Biology or something?’

  ‘Guilty as charged,’ admitted the Professor. ‘2016. Nobel Prize for Physiology or Medicine.’

  ‘Didn’t you cure cancer?’

  The Professor laughed. ‘No, sergeant. We still have no sure-fire cancer killer. I merely helped pave the way to many of the cures that we use today. I discovered that the FoxO gene, present in vast quantities in the common Hydra, was what we now call, the longevity gene. However, people with a surplus of this gene sometimes lived longer but, more often than not it caused their cells to reproduce at a rate that was far too rapid, causing tumors and, ultimately, cancer. I developed a serum that helps to control the FoxO gene. Oddly enough, I wasn’t looking to cure cancer; I was looking for the fountain of youth. Still, all’s well etcetera.’

  Hogan raised an eyebrow. ‘Cool.’

  ‘Yes,’ agreed the Prof. ‘Exceptionally cool. Which brings me to your condition, sergeant. Your, shall we say, miraculous recovery. I have a small laboratory here. Unfortunately much of it has been rendered useless by the current circumstances but I can still do a great amount of research. I wonder if, after dinner, we might spend some time t
here. I’d like to take a blood sample, some tissue samples and other general readings.’

  ‘Sure thing, Prof,’ said Hogan. ‘But first some chow. I’m still starving.’

  The Professor laughed and then led the way to the dining hall.

  Over dinner Hogan fielded many questions about the outside. It was generally agreed by all that the pulse was a natural, or perhaps super-natural, occurrence and the marine was impressed by the maturity and stoicism shown by the scholars, many of whom were only sixteen years old. Food consisted of potatoes, eggs, green vegetables and a little goat’s milk. Bland but filling and nutritionally well balanced.

  The girl with the copper hair sat at the next table, chatting to her friends. Hogan couldn’t stop himself looking at her. She was tall and self-possessed, her movements confident and economic. Eyes a clear hazel flecked with green. Every now and then she would catch Hogan’s glance and smile shyly.

  The Prof noticed the marine’s interest.

  ‘That’s Maggie,’ he said. ‘Maggie Turner. Final year scholar. Her parents live in London. Used to…might still. Lovely lass.’

  ‘Yes,’ agreed Hogan. ‘Very.’

  Hogan and the Prof helped carry the crockery back to the kitchen and then the marine followed the academic to his laboratory. It was dark now and the Prof illuminated the way with a gas lantern, its small white flame remarkably powerful due to a polished reflector at the back and a large magnifying lens attached to the front.

  The laboratory was more of a study than a hospital room. Wood paneled walls, leather chairs, a single stainless steel table with washbowl ran the length of the room, pushed up against the wall. On the one side of it stood a huge standard optical microscope.

  ‘I wonder if you wouldn’t mind rolling up your sleeve, right arm, Sergeant?’

  Hogan rolled up his sleeve to expose his arm while the Prof rummaged around in a drawer and came out with a needle and small syringe in aseptic packaging. The marine held out his arm and the Prof didn’t even bother with a tourniquet, as Hogan’s median cubital vein stood out on his arm like a steel cable. He drew a full syringe and Hogan pressed his thumb over the site after the needle had withdrawn. Next the Prof asked Hogan to open his mouth and he swabbed the inside of his cheek with a q-tip that he placed into a sterile bag. Finally he opened a single pack, large scalpel blade and took a scraping off Hogan’s forearm.

  ‘What now?’ The marine asked.

  ‘Now,’ answered the Professor. ‘I spend a few hours doing my thing. You, good sir, are free to do whatever you want.’

  Hogan spent the next couple of hours wandering around the grounds. It was dark but there was a full moon so he had more than enough light to see by. He noted points where the forest was close to the walls, he noted weaknesses in the construction and he figured on how he would take the place if he needed to.

  After that he went to bed and slept well, deep and dreamless.

  The next morning he rose early and stood next to his open window, trousers on but still shirtless, while he smoked a cigarette. Behind hm someone knocked on the door and then walked in. It was the Professor.

  ‘Good day, marine.’

  ‘Back at you, Prof. What gives?’

  The Professor walked straight up to Hogan and stood close. ‘Do you mind if I take a look under your bandage, good fellow? Should be about time to change the dressing anyway.’

  ‘Sure,’ acquiesced Hogan.

  The Professor unclipped the safety pin that held the dressing tight and nimbly unwound it. As he got below the first few layers the fabric was crusty with dried blood. He finally pulled the last length off with a flourish. A Vegas magician. The big reveal.

  ‘Aha!’ He shouted.

  Hogan flinched.

  ‘What? What’s wrong?’

  ‘Nothing,’ said the Professor. ‘Everything. Buggered if I know.’

  Hogan stared down at the wound in his neck and shoulder. But it was not there. His skin as smooth and unblemished as a supermodel.

  ‘What the hell?’ He managed.

  ‘Yes,’ agreed the Professor. ‘Very what the hell indeed.’

  Chapter 11