The Freezer (Genesis Endeavor Book 1) Read online

  The Freezer

  by David A. Kersten

  Copyright©2014 David A. Kersten

  All Rights Reserved

  Table of Contents

  Dramatis Personae

  Start Reading

  About the Author

  Acknowledgments

  Part One

  Darkness became light. He didn’t comprehend it, it just was. Perhaps it hadn’t been darkness, but rather a lack of anything at all. There was no understanding, no comprehension, no ability to ponder, and nothing but acknowledgement that where once there was nothing, now there was something. This went on for what could have been an eternity.

  At some point, this acknowledgement of existence expanded, coalescing into thought. It started with one thought: where. This turned into other basic thoughts like why, how, what, and when. Slowly at first, then steadily building to a torrential pace, the questions flooded this newfound existence. Where am I? Who am I? Why am I here? Why can’t I feel, or see, or smell? Did something bad happen? Am I dead? Is this heaven? Is this hell? One after another the questions poured into his mind, increasing in complexity but none with any answers.

  Each question didn’t bring anxiety or stress, nor did it bring answers. Instead of the flood filling his mind, it created an expanse of emptiness that grew with each new question. As that emptiness grew, a vague sense of time began to form, just enough to bring a sense of urgency.

  There was something there, just out of reach, perhaps a memory, but it was a phantom, a shadow, eluding his mental grasp, slipping away each time he tried to grab hold. He struggled to grab hold, hoping to fill the emptiness with something, anything other than another question.

  He chased it for what could have been another eternity before the futility of the pursuit dawned on him and he gave up. The shadows were elusive, but the light was constant. His attention focused on the light, he reached toward it.

  Chapter 1

  Consciousness trickled into his mind, quickly at first, then rebounding softly to a place where dreams and reality were intermingled in a confusing mix of emotion, images, and even scents. The smell of her hair was replaced by the smell of warm, dry dust, the warmth of her presence by the chill of emptiness. The image of her face faded into the recesses of his memory, replaced by a soft pink glow. The tranquility of this memory was replaced with the cold knot of loss just below his heart. The reality of waking securely in his mind, he cracked open an eye.

  Sunlight seared his retina, chasing away the last of the dream and snapping him to the present. He shut his eyes tightly and rolled over, his hand swinging up reflexively to ward off whatever had assaulted his eyes. Tentatively he opened them again to reveal his bedroom. The first rays of sunlight were peeking through the wood blinds, illuminating the dust swirling in the air from his attack and drawing lines of gold across the bed and up the opposite wall of the bedroom.

  It was absolute now – he was in his bed, alone, and it was morning. The knot of anxiety eased as the memory of his dream faded, but it didn’t go away completely. Part of him wasn’t ready to start his day, and a part was simply unwilling. He lay there for another minute, searching his mind for a reason to just roll over and go back to sleep, but the bed, and his life, felt as empty as any excuse he could come up with. Worse, it was Monday.

  The beginning of another week should hold the promise and potential of an unwritten life, but it was an empty promise these days. The bitterness of knowing the week would be filled with emptiness and loneliness created despair from optimism.

  With a sigh, he threw the covers back, rolled off the bed, and planted his feet on the floor. The cold wood made him wince and hesitate once more. The bed might feel cold but it kept his feet warm. Scouting the floor with his toes, he searched for his slippers. He was as unsuccessful at locating them as he was at coming up with an excuse to stay in bed.

  With resignation, he planted his bare feet on the cold floor and with a slight grimace, stood up. This wasn’t a graceful move. Knees popped and his back groaned in protest, causing him to pause on his journey from horizontal to vertical. He spread his arms wide in an attempt to stretch his back, which nearly sat him back down as a sudden sharp pain caught him off guard. Another night of sleeping on it wrong, he thought to himself with a frown before making his way down the hall. There had been quite a few nights like that lately.

  His morning ritual began in the kitchen with opening the electric percolator, pouring in a healthy scoop of coffee grounds, and filling it with water. Next was the bathroom, where he splashed cold water on his face in an effort to chase away the last remnants of sleep then ran the hot water to shave.

  The mirror reflected a man who was at once both familiar and a stranger. His short dark hair was graying above his ears. The wrinkles between his eyes and around his lips certainly didn’t help. He had been frowning a lot more lately, and it showed. Dark circles under his eyes betrayed his inability to get a solid night’s sleep.

  He examined the image in the glass as if trying to decide if it was a reflection or some kind of window to another room where another man stared back at him thinking the same things. The strong jaw, blue eyes, and slender (if slightly crooked) nose, were all features that hadn’t changed much in the last two decades. The thin scar running from the corner of his right brow down the side of his face, where a series of smaller scars peppered his cheek and neck – compliments of a mortar round that had landed a little too close during his first tour in Korea – was a feature he had gotten used to over the years and felt familiar enough. The crooked nose brought back the memory of a fight at the age of fourteen. He decided, despite the signs of age, the man in the mirror was indeed himself.

  Jenny used to say he was ruggedly handsome. He didn’t exactly know what that meant, but he never seemed to have problems attracting women when he was younger. Younger. He wet a comb in the running water and ran it through his hair, frowning as the comb passed too easily through a thin spot on the top of his head. I’ll be forty before long, he thought with a sigh. Scratching at his day old whiskers, he splashed the now hot water on his face and shaved.

  For over twenty years, Jack would start each day with some pushups and sit ups, followed by a five mile run. He still ran occasionally, mostly out of habit and sometimes just to try to run away from the pain that lingered, but the rest of the exercises seemed pointless anymore. His interest in remaining fit was fleeting at best. The lack of exercise occasionally showed itself when he was buttoning his pants, but a lack of appetite and a job that didn’t allow him to sit very often kept him pretty much within ten pounds of one-ninety.

  After dressing, he made his way back to the kitchen, poured a hot cup of coffee and unplugged the percolator. The thought of his appointment this morning put a knot in his stomach just below the knot of anxiety in his chest, and the normally comforting beverage wasn’t helping. After a few sips, he looked at his watch and poured the remaining coffee in the sink. If there was one thing he retained from all those years in the military, it was his dedication to being on time.

  The beautiful, sunny morning was lost on him as he speculated on the upcoming appointment. With a grunt, he bent down to open the garage door. Most mornings he would pause at this point to admire the car sitting in the garage, maybe even brushing an imaginary speck of dust off the gleaming red paint. Today it was just a mode of transportation to get him to somewhere he didn’t really want to go. Without hesitation, he slid behind the wheel.

  A moment to get settled in the seat, two quick pumps of the gas pedal, and a quick flick of the key was all it took to get the well-tuned small block engine to fire to life. The deep rumble of the exhaust was a normally
pleasing sound that, once again, went unnoticed. Pausing to let the engine warm up, he rested his forehead on the steering wheel and let his mind wander to the prior day’s events.

  * * *

  A small transistor radio was playing something new from the Beatles, the music rattling like tin from the small speaker. Jack didn’t care much for the ‘hippie rock-n-roll’ but it was the only station the small radio would reliably pick up in the garage. He only knew the artists playing because the younger folk he worked around all had transistor radios either strapped to their equipment or hanging from a strap on their belt, and if they weren’t talking about the girls they dated, they talked about the music. The only reason it played was to keep a rhythm going as he worked. With a sigh he rubbed the last of the dry wax off the cherry red paint. The August sun was out in full force promising another hot day, but it was early yet, only eleven a.m., and he was parked under the shade of a large tree. Despite the cool temperature and a nice breeze, he was still sweating. This kind of work wasn’t all that strenuous, but there was a dull throbbing in his back, just above his belt. Stepping back from the car, he reached both arms out wide and with a groan arched his back to stretch. Not too many weeks past he could have waxed his car three times in a row without any pain at all. Either he was getting old or it was time to step up the morning exercises again.

  He mopped at the sweat that beaded on his forehead like water on his freshly waxed paint. The pain subsided as he took a final deep breath then took a moment to admire the car. The 1965 Ford Mustang was the only thing he had really treated himself to since the accident. When he saw one sitting at the local Ford dealership, he impulsively pulled his 1958 four door Chevrolet, a gift he bought Jenny after the honeymoon, into the lot. After fifteen minutes of discussion with the salesman, he special ordered the car in cherry red with the race tuned V8 and three speed Cruise-o-Matic transmission. It took almost two months to arrive. To Jack, the car was a work of art; from the red paint to the white vinyl bucket seats. Every Sunday at ten a.m. he washed and waxed it in the driveway, unless it was raining or snowing, in which case he used a spray bottle and a cloth diaper to wipe it down in the garage. This was his ritual, his routine, the end result of twenty years of discipline in the army, and the neighbors could probably set their watch to it.

  A sound worked its way into his conscience, interrupting his fascination with the freshly waxed thing of beauty in front of him. Was that the phone ringing? “Who the hell is calling on a Sunday?” he said out loud as he walked to the back door, which entered directly into the kitchen. “I’m coming, I’m coming,” he mumbled impatiently to nobody in particular. He picked the phone up off its cradle and said, “Hello.”

  “Is this Jack Taggart?” A woman’s voice.

  Confusion best described his reaction – it was Sunday, and this didn’t sound like a social call. “Uh, yes it is, how may I help you?”

  “Please hold.” There was a click and some music, like you would hear in an elevator. His heart rate elevated and his mind raced as he tried to figure out why someone’s secretary was calling on a Sunday morning. Military? Vietnam was heating up, and some retirees were being called back to duty. No, it couldn’t be the military calling him, they wouldn’t have hold music. That only left...

  “Jack, sorry to call you on a Sunday. I-” Bill Callun. His Doctor.

  “Hi, Bill, how are you?” Jack interrupted, trying unsuccessfully to feign enthusiasm.

  “Good, Jack, thanks for asking. Say, I got those blood test results and x-rays from your last visit, and,” a small hesitation, “well, can you come in tomorrow morning first thing?” His already upset stomach gurgled, and his dry forehead started beading with sweat again.

  More confusion, this time with a knot of anxiety forming in his chest. “Results? Bill, I... I don’t understand.” A little over two weeks ago, Jack had started suffering some indigestion and spasms in his lower back. Fearing it was maybe a kidney stone, he had gone to visit Bill. The doctor didn’t find blood in his urine, a sure sign of a kidney stone, so he went ahead and gave him a full physical, took some blood and urine for some more tests, and even did a couple x-rays – just as a precaution of course. He was, after all, getting close to forty and it was a good idea to start paying a little closer attention to his health. Until now, he hadn’t heard anything and figured it meant there was no problem. “Why are you calling on a Sunday for Christ’s sake, and what is it you can’t tell me over the phone?” Jack wasn’t a particularly religious man, but he was irritated at the trend of businesses starting to remain open on Sundays. He could understand a grocery store being open on a Sunday afternoon, but certainly doctors weren’t coming in to work on the day of rest.

  “Look I’m sorry Jack, I was out of the office most of last week, and decided to come in to catch up on some work this morning, before hitting the golf course. The test results were waiting on my desk. I... well I didn’t want to wait until tomorrow to call, you know how hard you are to reach at work, and I want to talk to you first thing in the morning about it.” He was hard to reach at work, especially when he was on the job site.

  “Uh... sure, I can be there.” Wait a second... “Bill, why did your secretary call me? Don’t tell me you dragged her in to work on a Sunday just to help you make a couple phone calls.” Jack never missed a detail, and was pretty good at reading between the lines. It had helped him to be a good officer, being able to quickly read a situation, whether on the battlefield or when dealing with the bureaucratic bullshit the army is built on.

  “Uh... I...” Bill stuttered for a moment, then went silent, then tried again. “She uh, knew I was going to come in to work, and um... needed the overtime.” Jack didn’t buy it for a second. There were rumors that Bill was nailing his secretary on the side, but nevertheless it still came as a shock. He was a doctor, and he had so much to lose – Kathy, and the kids... Wow, what an asshole.

  “OK Bill, when do you want me to come by?” He said it like he no longer wanted to be on the phone.

  Bill picked up on it, and hastily said, “Can you be here at nine?”

  “I’ll be there.” Short again.

  “Listen Jack, can we keep-” Click. He hung up before the doctor could finish. Bill’s personal problems were none of his concern, and there were other things occupying his mind at the moment. This can’t be good, he thought as he stood there staring at the phone on the wall. The sun had cleared the tree in the back yard and was now hitting the kitchen window full force. He opened a couple windows and the back door. Cool air breezed in and dried the sweat that had beaded back up on his forehead while he stood there pondering the nature of the call.

  Still a bit bewildered, he stumbled to the refrigerator and pulled out a bottle of beer. Looking around for the bottle opener, he realized it was in the garage and headed that way. His stomach gurgled again, and he rubbed it even though he knew it wouldn’t make the nausea go away. The alcohol wouldn’t help either, but at least it could do something about this knot of anxiety. The bottle popped open with a hiss and he tossed the cap into a can he kept next to the bench. He took a swallow, and sat down on a stool.

  Trying to make sense of it, he ran the conversation through his head a few more times. It’s gotta be bad if he won’t tell me on the phone. While he pondered the implications, his thoughts wandered, as they often did, to his wife. If that excavator hadn’t broken down and cost him an afternoon wading through the mountain of forms to get another machine allocated to his crew, he may very well have never even met her. In fact, the more the thought about it, it seemed like everything good that happened in his life came about after some misfortune or other.

  He finished the beer and tossed it in the bin with the other bottles he would return to the grocery store for deposit then set about cleaning the interior of the mustang. Anything to keep his mind off that phone call. He reflected on other unfortunate circumstances that brought the various good fortunes in his life. His first broken nose resulted in his first g
irlfriend. His opportunity to become an officer came from one very inept colonel calling in mortar fire on his position. The list went on and on, if he looked at things in the right light. In fact, the only bad thing that never seemed to bring about good fortune had been his wife and daughter’s passing. In fact, he couldn’t think of a single good thing that had happened in his life since that tragic day. He had to admit though, he hadn’t been very open to enjoying life either, so perhaps he was just using that as an excuse to withdraw from the world and avoid anything that could lead to something good. Regardless, he hoped that whatever the bad news was this time, it would bring about something good in his life. He figured he was due.

  Once the car was spotless, he started the engine and let it warm up. Just before putting the car in gear for his ritualistic post cleaning drive, he changed his mind and shut the engine off again. He had hoped that keeping busy would be a nice distraction, but it was no use. Every thought seemed to either lead back to the conversation with Bill or to his dead wife and daughter, and he couldn’t get away from the feeling that Monday would once again bring bad news.

  Chapter 2

  Jack snapped out of his reverie and looked at the gauges. Everything looked good, so he put the car in reverse and backed out of the driveway. Bill’s office was not far, and morning traffic in the small city of Great Falls, Montana was pretty much nonexistent. He didn’t bother to turn on the radio. They’ll probably just be playing more of that hippie music, he thought as he turned into the parking lot. He pulled up next to the doctor’s car, a 1959 Chevy Bel Air, four door with sea-foam green and white paint. It was very similar to the one he had traded in the year before. There was only one other car in the small lot, a 1963 Dodge Polara that looked like it hadn’t been washed in a month. That was Bill’s secretary. The secretary. “Dammit Bill, what the hell are you thinking” he mumbled to himself. If his own problems weren’t enough, it seemed the rest of the world was going to hell in a hand basket. If the Commies didn’t attack, the hippies would end up turning this country into a socialist mess anyway. Even though he knew from experience that war was not a good thing, he couldn’t help but think that maybe if some of these “new age” hippie type kids got a taste of the real world, they might see how great of a country we have, and stop trying so hard to change it. Pushing the thought from his mind, he opened the door to the small office building.