Tuesday, September 14, 2010
Dark Moon Sample
Below is a sample from Dark Moon, available soon from Mundanis Press.
It was 12 below zero outside on the Fahrenheit side of the thermometer. Phil didn’t bother checking the other side. As a doctor, he was familiar with all that metric nonsense the Canadians used. He knew that normal body temperature was 37 degrees Celsius; he understood cubic centimeters, liters, milliliters, and numerous other measurements, but as an American, he related better to Fahrenheit. Anyway, it was damned cold, and that was what counted.
At least a foot of snow had piled up against the cabin during the night, but it had melted off the roof of the greenhouse and the plants were cozy with their kerosene heat, music, grow lights and what little sunlight there was these days. Another man might have been frustrated, but Phil had waited, knowing that eventually he would have enough of the flowers to produce the treatment. That time had come. He had tested it on the last full moon and it had worked exactly as predicted in Strange’s journal. Now he had enough for the next lunar cycle and even enough of the plants growing to produce a dose each month with an occasional extra dose to keep for emergencies.
It was time to go get his wife. He just couldn’t wait any longer. He had packed the few belongings he needed into the pickup last night and had rigged up an automatic watering and feeding system for the plants. He had connected two 55-gallon drums of kerosene to the heater in the greenhouse and had done the same with fuel for the generator. The greenhouse should be self-sustaining for several weeks, plenty of time for him to drive to New Orleans, pickup Zena and return.
She would be surprised to see him. He had been afraid to send any more emails for fear the police would somehow monitor them. Certainly he was not dumb enough to name a time and place for them to find him. The police would be sure to have the house on Chartres Street under surveillance, so he couldn’t go there. A past email of Zena’s had mentioned that Nat was coming for a visit they were going to take a trip on the riverboat. He would catch up with Zena there.
Gathering up Strange’s notebooks, he put them into the old trunk he’d found in the closet. They should be dry and safe there until his return. Then he thought better of it and thumbed through them until he found the last one. He carried it to the front of the house where he sat at the little table by the window and opened the notebook to the last entry made by Strange.
“September 12.” Phil had read the entry so many times that he knew it by heart. There was nothing exciting there, just a few lines describing the condition of the plants. The raccoon had decimated his greenhouse early in the summer, but he had made repairs and the plants were abundant again after being replanted. They were growing nicely. Strange was satisfied that he would soon be able to produce enough of the serum for both himself and the person he had infected in June. He expected that person to contact him soon.
Phil withdrew a ballpoint pen from his shirt pocket and began to write in the blank pages after Strange’s final notation:
“February 19: I am the person infected by Alan Strange last summer. When I arrived here a few months ago, I found the place in a shambles. The greenhouse had been burned to the ground and there was a charred body in the ruins. The body was headless. Since Strange has not shown up, I assumed the body to be his. I found the head but it was burned beyond recognition. I performed the best post mortem I could and found that Strange had been murdered; perhaps ‘executed’ is a better word. If you have read the preceding volumes of this journal, it will be hard to believe that Strange is actually dead. And if you are infected with the virus like I am, you will need to know how he was killed. You may have to protect yourself against it someday. It seems he was beheaded and then the body was burned. I believe he could have survived the fire alone, but not the beheading. I buried the remains and rebuilt the greenhouse as described elsewhere in this journal. If you are reading this, you are probably infected with the longevity virus. Be assured that these volumes do contain everything you need to know in order to produce a treatment that completely counteracts the adverse affects of the virus. As long as you faithfully inject at least three cc’s of this preparation into your bloodstream no more than 30 minutes before the full moon rises, you will be safe from the rages that cause you to harm others. The timing is critical. Once in the body, the preparation is activated by the rays of the full moon. If it is injected more than 30 minutes prior to being activated by those rays, the preparation will be broken down by bodily processes and excreted before it has time to be activated. In other words, if you inject it too soon, it will not work and, of course, if you wait too long, you will be overcome by rage and unable to inject yourself.
“I am leaving today to reunite with my wife and bring her back here with me. I will then produce enough of the preparation to last several months. Once I have a ready supply, I will seek out a genetics laboratory where I can work to modify the virus and eliminate its side effects all together. Then I will no longer have to use the preparation and it will be safe to pass on the virus to others whom I wish to live by my side. Endless longevity is a lonely existence when you are the only one who has it. Anyway, I believe the greenhouse will be able to carry on without me until my return. I should be gone only a few weeks, but should something happen to the greenhouse while I am gone I have placed a leather pouch filled with wolfsbane seeds in the trunk with these journals. That way, I will be able to plant a new crop if need be. Should I not return and you stumble across these journals, you also will be able to produce the preparation. It is not difficult, but it is time consuming. There is an underground cell behind the house where you can safely stay during the full moon. I tell you from experience that it will hold you no matter how madly you try to escape. But do not fear, the door will open automatically so that you can leave when the sun rises.
“There is nothing more that I can do for you. Alan Strange has already written all you need to know. I hope that I return as planned, find the plants flourishing, and do not require the seeds I have placed here. I hope that I am the last person who will ever need to read these journals. Philo Jones, MD”
Phil closed the notebook and put it back in the trunk with the others. He took one last look around. He assured himself that the doors to the cabin, cellar, and greenhouse were secured. Finally, he walked to the old Ford truck, opened the fertilizer box into which he had packed his belongings and made sure the vial of antiviral preparation was there and not leaking. He taped the box shut again with duct tape, climbed into the cab, closed the door and turned the starter. The old truck came instantly to life, running noiselessly. He stepped on the clutch pedal, eased it into first gear and headed for the border.
Security measures had been stiffened since the last terrorist attack, but the borders still leaked like a sieve. According to his new Canadian driving license, he was now Alan Strange. Since the pickup was registered to Strange, Phil believed taking Strange’s identity would be a good cover. After all, the authorities were looking for Dr. Jones back in the States, not Alan Strange. He had trimmed the bleached hair from his face and head, and looked just like the picture on his new ID. He doubted the border guards would give him a second thought. And he was right. In less than an hour he had crossed over into New York State and was headed south. However, as he passed through the border checkpoint, he looked up at the cameras that had been installed on the American side. His image was captured by the cameras and fed to the facial recognition computers.
It was 12 below zero outside on the Fahrenheit side of the thermometer. Phil didn’t bother checking the other side. As a doctor, he was familiar with all that metric nonsense the Canadians used. He knew that normal body temperature was 37 degrees Celsius; he understood cubic centimeters, liters, milliliters, and numerous other measurements, but as an American, he related better to Fahrenheit. Anyway, it was damned cold, and that was what counted.
At least a foot of snow had piled up against the cabin during the night, but it had melted off the roof of the greenhouse and the plants were cozy with their kerosene heat, music, grow lights and what little sunlight there was these days. Another man might have been frustrated, but Phil had waited, knowing that eventually he would have enough of the flowers to produce the treatment. That time had come. He had tested it on the last full moon and it had worked exactly as predicted in Strange’s journal. Now he had enough for the next lunar cycle and even enough of the plants growing to produce a dose each month with an occasional extra dose to keep for emergencies.
It was time to go get his wife. He just couldn’t wait any longer. He had packed the few belongings he needed into the pickup last night and had rigged up an automatic watering and feeding system for the plants. He had connected two 55-gallon drums of kerosene to the heater in the greenhouse and had done the same with fuel for the generator. The greenhouse should be self-sustaining for several weeks, plenty of time for him to drive to New Orleans, pickup Zena and return.
She would be surprised to see him. He had been afraid to send any more emails for fear the police would somehow monitor them. Certainly he was not dumb enough to name a time and place for them to find him. The police would be sure to have the house on Chartres Street under surveillance, so he couldn’t go there. A past email of Zena’s had mentioned that Nat was coming for a visit they were going to take a trip on the riverboat. He would catch up with Zena there.
Gathering up Strange’s notebooks, he put them into the old trunk he’d found in the closet. They should be dry and safe there until his return. Then he thought better of it and thumbed through them until he found the last one. He carried it to the front of the house where he sat at the little table by the window and opened the notebook to the last entry made by Strange.
“September 12.” Phil had read the entry so many times that he knew it by heart. There was nothing exciting there, just a few lines describing the condition of the plants. The raccoon had decimated his greenhouse early in the summer, but he had made repairs and the plants were abundant again after being replanted. They were growing nicely. Strange was satisfied that he would soon be able to produce enough of the serum for both himself and the person he had infected in June. He expected that person to contact him soon.
Phil withdrew a ballpoint pen from his shirt pocket and began to write in the blank pages after Strange’s final notation:
“February 19: I am the person infected by Alan Strange last summer. When I arrived here a few months ago, I found the place in a shambles. The greenhouse had been burned to the ground and there was a charred body in the ruins. The body was headless. Since Strange has not shown up, I assumed the body to be his. I found the head but it was burned beyond recognition. I performed the best post mortem I could and found that Strange had been murdered; perhaps ‘executed’ is a better word. If you have read the preceding volumes of this journal, it will be hard to believe that Strange is actually dead. And if you are infected with the virus like I am, you will need to know how he was killed. You may have to protect yourself against it someday. It seems he was beheaded and then the body was burned. I believe he could have survived the fire alone, but not the beheading. I buried the remains and rebuilt the greenhouse as described elsewhere in this journal. If you are reading this, you are probably infected with the longevity virus. Be assured that these volumes do contain everything you need to know in order to produce a treatment that completely counteracts the adverse affects of the virus. As long as you faithfully inject at least three cc’s of this preparation into your bloodstream no more than 30 minutes before the full moon rises, you will be safe from the rages that cause you to harm others. The timing is critical. Once in the body, the preparation is activated by the rays of the full moon. If it is injected more than 30 minutes prior to being activated by those rays, the preparation will be broken down by bodily processes and excreted before it has time to be activated. In other words, if you inject it too soon, it will not work and, of course, if you wait too long, you will be overcome by rage and unable to inject yourself.
“I am leaving today to reunite with my wife and bring her back here with me. I will then produce enough of the preparation to last several months. Once I have a ready supply, I will seek out a genetics laboratory where I can work to modify the virus and eliminate its side effects all together. Then I will no longer have to use the preparation and it will be safe to pass on the virus to others whom I wish to live by my side. Endless longevity is a lonely existence when you are the only one who has it. Anyway, I believe the greenhouse will be able to carry on without me until my return. I should be gone only a few weeks, but should something happen to the greenhouse while I am gone I have placed a leather pouch filled with wolfsbane seeds in the trunk with these journals. That way, I will be able to plant a new crop if need be. Should I not return and you stumble across these journals, you also will be able to produce the preparation. It is not difficult, but it is time consuming. There is an underground cell behind the house where you can safely stay during the full moon. I tell you from experience that it will hold you no matter how madly you try to escape. But do not fear, the door will open automatically so that you can leave when the sun rises.
“There is nothing more that I can do for you. Alan Strange has already written all you need to know. I hope that I return as planned, find the plants flourishing, and do not require the seeds I have placed here. I hope that I am the last person who will ever need to read these journals. Philo Jones, MD”
Phil closed the notebook and put it back in the trunk with the others. He took one last look around. He assured himself that the doors to the cabin, cellar, and greenhouse were secured. Finally, he walked to the old Ford truck, opened the fertilizer box into which he had packed his belongings and made sure the vial of antiviral preparation was there and not leaking. He taped the box shut again with duct tape, climbed into the cab, closed the door and turned the starter. The old truck came instantly to life, running noiselessly. He stepped on the clutch pedal, eased it into first gear and headed for the border.
Security measures had been stiffened since the last terrorist attack, but the borders still leaked like a sieve. According to his new Canadian driving license, he was now Alan Strange. Since the pickup was registered to Strange, Phil believed taking Strange’s identity would be a good cover. After all, the authorities were looking for Dr. Jones back in the States, not Alan Strange. He had trimmed the bleached hair from his face and head, and looked just like the picture on his new ID. He doubted the border guards would give him a second thought. And he was right. In less than an hour he had crossed over into New York State and was headed south. However, as he passed through the border checkpoint, he looked up at the cameras that had been installed on the American side. His image was captured by the cameras and fed to the facial recognition computers.
