Zulu retreated from the room with a deferential nod when the President-Elect nodded acknowledgement to him. Before long it was just the newly elected 44th President of the United States and me, if you didn’t count the half-dozen Secret Service Agents standing in vigilant pairs at discrete distances in the room.
He crossed his legs after he sat in a seat directly across from me. There was nothing but about a couple of feet of empty space between me and the next president. It was a very surreal moment.
He was the first to break the silence. “Thank you for coming to see me on such short notice, Rusty, I hope that you don’t mind if I address you by your first name.”
I nodded, finding it hard to find my tongue. “Not at all. It’s my pleasure to see you, Sir. I’m very surprised that you would even know who I am.”
He grinned as he clasped his hands over his knee. “Your friend there,” he nodded towards where Zulu had gone, “has been instrumental in bringing me up to speed on some of the less than savory activities of the current administration. He made sure that I had access to several classified databases that contained quite a lot of information. He asked to pay particular attention to one particular dossier simply titled the Omega File. As you might imagine, you and your family and associates are the primary subjects in that dossier. I must say that reading your file has opened my eyes to a number of things that I had never considered to even be possible before.”
I swallowed. “I’m almost afraid to ask what’s in that file, Sir.”
He gave the briefest of nods. “It was not pleasant reading, Rusty, but I am better prepared for having done so. I have also had a chance to read through much of your blog. I think I have a pretty good handle on who you are and what you have been through over the past few years.”
“So, what I can do you for you, Mr. President?”
His expression became more serious. “Rusty, I asked you here so that I could judge for myself how much of what I read was the truth. If I am to be the best President that I can be, I will need to have as much information about the dangers this country faces and to know as much I possibly can about the people and resources that I can call upon to help me face those dangers…”
“Sir, you have my full support. I…”
He raised a hand from his knee to stop me. “I appreciate your support, Rusty, but please let me finish. I can see now that there is so much more to this job that any one person can possibly anticipate. The revelations from your file and the others that I have read have been extremely disturbing.” He shifted uncomfortably in his seat before continuing. “As much as I want my administration to be open and transparent, I can see that there are a great number of areas where I will need people that I can trust to act with professionalism, honest, respect and dignity to resolve crises and problems far away from the public eye. I am going to need people who can act independent of direct governmental oversight, but to do so while acting in the best interests of the American people, perhaps even in humanity’s best interests. I know from reading your file that you were targeted by Drake Kampmann and his team on the Omega Project long before they tricked you into participating in that sham of a program. I also know that you were assassinated so that you would have little choice in taking part in the real Omega Project.”
It was my turn to shift uncomfortably in my seat. I nodded as he continued to speak.
“I would like to ask you to serve with me to protect this nation and its people from the forces and enemies that threaten it. Will you serve with me?”
I was shocked. To actually be asked to help out rather than be tricked and manipulated into it was something completely new to me. “Sir, I would be honored to serve with you. How exactly can I be of service?”
“I have asked…Zulu…,” he hesitated with using that name, clearly uncomfortable with using Zulu’s handle rather than his very well known name, “to join my administration publicly as one of my Senior Advisors, but his real role will be that of a Secretary of Supernatural Affairs, a sort of shadow cabinet level position that will be in charge of dealing with these issues and crises as they arise. I would like you to report directly to him when he calls upon you for assistance. He will have a direct line of communication with me whenever he needs it. I will be issue the appropriate orders to ensure that you and your companions, if they also agree to serve with me, have all the resources and authorities that are needed to act when called upon to do so.”
“Absolutely, Sir. I will be glad to serve under you. I’m sure that everyone who came with me will also agree, but I will let each them speak for themselves. Sir, I do have one question.”
“Only one question, Rusty? From what I have read, you usually have more than that. Go ahead.”
I smiled, he had read my blog! “Yes, what about my blog? Can I write about this, or should I treat this meeting as classified?”
He smiled and shook his head. “I actually want you to continue to write about these events, including this conversation with me, on your blog. One day, all of this...strangeness…that you have been involved in will come out in the open. Some day, the American people will be ready to face the truth about the world, or worlds, that they live in. Until that day, your blog may be seen as pure fiction by those who simply cannot accept these truths, but it will be there for any who are truly ready to see things as they to see it for themselves. You have my blessings to continue writing as you see fit. From what I have seen, you have been quite diligent in protecting information that has needed to be protected. But the truth is in there for those ready to see it.”
“Sir, I do know that some of my enemies have found this blog. Are you sure that you want me to let them know that you are aware of them as well?”
His smile was radiant. “It is especially important for those enemies to know that you have my full support. Zulu will see to it that we take all reasonable precautions against the infiltration of these enemies.” He stood up, signaling that this conversation was coming to a close. “I will need to speak with each of your comrades as well. Thank you for agreeing to serve. It means everything.”
I stood up as well, extending my hand to him.
He took my hand in his and gave me a firm shake. I could feel a certain kind of strength within him that had only been hinted at in his campaign for the job. “Oh, and Rusty, one of my first assignments to you is to continue the search for your daughter Alexa and her mother. I would very much like to meet with each of them.”
I couldn’t help the tears from streaming down my face. “I will be glad to make that happen, Sir.”
With that I turned to see Zulu had reappeared. He motioned for me to follow him out. I wiped the blood red tears from my cheek as I left…
Showing posts with label Omega Project. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Omega Project. Show all posts
Sunday, November 16, 2008
Monday, February 19, 2007
The Zombie King Revealed
In frigid night air, I crunched through the snow in the backyard of the Coop once more. I was alone, or at least as alone as a person with the partial memories and consciousnesses of hundreds of people inside him ever could be.
I brushed the snow off of the stone bench and had a seat just outside of the small stone circle that had served so many times as a makeshift transit point. I reached with my right hand to pull out the chain that held Drake’s ring. I needed to know more about the man we called El Diablito and Drake was the only person I knew who would have the knowledge I needed. The problem is, he had been giving me the silent treatment since I stopped honoring our deal. I hadn’t let him post any of his stories in quite some time.
I took the necklace off and held the ring in my left hand. Perhaps it was time to try a new approach.
“Alright Drake, I need to talk.”
No response.
“Look, I’m sorry I haven’t been able to give you the time I promised before, but I really need some information about El Diablito.”
Still nothing.
“Would you stop being such a baby about this? I’ll start posting your story again in March.”
The bastard was being really stubborn now.
“OK, OK, I’ll talk to Naomi about letting you meet Alexa.”
Now I felt some stirrings of interest inside the cursed ring.
“But I’m not going to do that unless you start answering some damn questions.”
“What do you want to know about him, Bones?”
“Finally! I need to know who the Hell this guy is and how he came to be so damn strong! How did you meet this guy?”
His droll voice chuckled inside my head. “I have a lot of respect for that little man, Bones. He has made himself into perhaps the most powerful Caster of his generation.”
“So he wasn’t always this strong?”
“No.”
“Then how did he get so strong? We’ve recovered an artifact of his, a Soulscope, from his old shop in Hialeah. Does that have something to do with who he is now?”
“Very good, Bones. I’m almost impressed. When I met Dr. Juergen Klimm for the first time it was in Munich, Germany sometime in 1936 or 1937. He was a psychoanalyst by training, but a Caster of some small talent. Perhaps more importantly than all, he was an inventor who was trying desperately to mix his magickal talents with his mechanical and technological devices. He felt that magick and technology should not be exclusive of each other.”
“What did he do for the Nazis?”
Drake chuckled again. “Well, his is not my tale to tell. But I will say that he developed this Soulscope that you have mentioned, as well as several other devices. He used those devices to further the interests of the Third Reich by helping to eradicate doubt and fear in the minds of certain cadres of soldiers and guards, and by helping to subdue the Casters among the populations that the Germans were working to eradicate. His devices became quite instrumental in the operation of the concentration camps, where he spent a great deal of his time. He earned several nicknames in his time there. My favorite was ‘The Zombie King’. He was called that because when he finished with his victims, they were docile creatures, empty shells of their former selves.
“By using those tools of his, he was able to pacify those folks while at the same time he was stealing the talents and knowledge of his victims, making himself more and more powerful.”
“He sounds like an evil mother fucker.”
“I see that you have yet to learn any manners, Bones. Dr. Klimm did not see himself as evil, of course. Most humans cannot conceive of themselves as evil, even when they are committing the worst of atrocities. There is always a higher purpose that their actions serve, at least in their own minds. Dr. Klimm was no different. He definitely believed in the Third Reich and the concept of the Aryan Race as superior. But he also believed that in some small way that he was helping even his victims.”
“How could he think that even as he stole their powers, pieces of their soul?”
“He knew that the people in those camps were going to be exterminated, but he felt that some of their essence should live on, in him, if no one else. Just think, Bones, he did much the same thing that you have come to do with the power over the Shadow that you acquired from the creature you called Ma Grendel. You taking the memories of Dr. Bernstein was very similar to what did with the tools he created. You and Dr. Klimm…oh excuse me, El Diablito, are very much kindred spirits. How does that make you feel now?”
“Like I might have to renege some more on that deal if you keep it up. So how did he escape from Germany and how did you two come to work together again?”
“By the end of the war, we had gone our separate ways. I joined forces with the Americans, eventually going there to continue my own work. Dr. Klimm ended up fleeing to Argentina and working his way up the South American continent to Haiti and Cuba as he continued to develop his tools and his powers. By the time I was ready to start the Omega Project, I had learned of a powerful little man in Hialeah who was now known by the name of El Diablito and who claimed to have some expertise in creating zombies. The rest, as they say, is history.”
“It seems like you are leaving out enough facts to fill a library.”
“Like I said, Bones, his story is not mine to tell. I have given you all that I care to at this point. You will have to make good on your many empty promises before I offer you any further assistance. Don’t get yourself destroyed before you live up to your obligations.”
I let go of the ring itself, letting it dangle from the chain, ending our conversation.
The nerve of that prick!
I brushed the snow off of the stone bench and had a seat just outside of the small stone circle that had served so many times as a makeshift transit point. I reached with my right hand to pull out the chain that held Drake’s ring. I needed to know more about the man we called El Diablito and Drake was the only person I knew who would have the knowledge I needed. The problem is, he had been giving me the silent treatment since I stopped honoring our deal. I hadn’t let him post any of his stories in quite some time.
I took the necklace off and held the ring in my left hand. Perhaps it was time to try a new approach.
“Alright Drake, I need to talk.”
No response.
“Look, I’m sorry I haven’t been able to give you the time I promised before, but I really need some information about El Diablito.”
Still nothing.
“Would you stop being such a baby about this? I’ll start posting your story again in March.”
The bastard was being really stubborn now.
“OK, OK, I’ll talk to Naomi about letting you meet Alexa.”
Now I felt some stirrings of interest inside the cursed ring.
“But I’m not going to do that unless you start answering some damn questions.”
“What do you want to know about him, Bones?”
“Finally! I need to know who the Hell this guy is and how he came to be so damn strong! How did you meet this guy?”
His droll voice chuckled inside my head. “I have a lot of respect for that little man, Bones. He has made himself into perhaps the most powerful Caster of his generation.”
“So he wasn’t always this strong?”
“No.”
“Then how did he get so strong? We’ve recovered an artifact of his, a Soulscope, from his old shop in Hialeah. Does that have something to do with who he is now?”
“Very good, Bones. I’m almost impressed. When I met Dr. Juergen Klimm for the first time it was in Munich, Germany sometime in 1936 or 1937. He was a psychoanalyst by training, but a Caster of some small talent. Perhaps more importantly than all, he was an inventor who was trying desperately to mix his magickal talents with his mechanical and technological devices. He felt that magick and technology should not be exclusive of each other.”
“What did he do for the Nazis?”
Drake chuckled again. “Well, his is not my tale to tell. But I will say that he developed this Soulscope that you have mentioned, as well as several other devices. He used those devices to further the interests of the Third Reich by helping to eradicate doubt and fear in the minds of certain cadres of soldiers and guards, and by helping to subdue the Casters among the populations that the Germans were working to eradicate. His devices became quite instrumental in the operation of the concentration camps, where he spent a great deal of his time. He earned several nicknames in his time there. My favorite was ‘The Zombie King’. He was called that because when he finished with his victims, they were docile creatures, empty shells of their former selves.
“By using those tools of his, he was able to pacify those folks while at the same time he was stealing the talents and knowledge of his victims, making himself more and more powerful.”
“He sounds like an evil mother fucker.”
“I see that you have yet to learn any manners, Bones. Dr. Klimm did not see himself as evil, of course. Most humans cannot conceive of themselves as evil, even when they are committing the worst of atrocities. There is always a higher purpose that their actions serve, at least in their own minds. Dr. Klimm was no different. He definitely believed in the Third Reich and the concept of the Aryan Race as superior. But he also believed that in some small way that he was helping even his victims.”
“How could he think that even as he stole their powers, pieces of their soul?”
“He knew that the people in those camps were going to be exterminated, but he felt that some of their essence should live on, in him, if no one else. Just think, Bones, he did much the same thing that you have come to do with the power over the Shadow that you acquired from the creature you called Ma Grendel. You taking the memories of Dr. Bernstein was very similar to what did with the tools he created. You and Dr. Klimm…oh excuse me, El Diablito, are very much kindred spirits. How does that make you feel now?”
“Like I might have to renege some more on that deal if you keep it up. So how did he escape from Germany and how did you two come to work together again?”
“By the end of the war, we had gone our separate ways. I joined forces with the Americans, eventually going there to continue my own work. Dr. Klimm ended up fleeing to Argentina and working his way up the South American continent to Haiti and Cuba as he continued to develop his tools and his powers. By the time I was ready to start the Omega Project, I had learned of a powerful little man in Hialeah who was now known by the name of El Diablito and who claimed to have some expertise in creating zombies. The rest, as they say, is history.”
“It seems like you are leaving out enough facts to fill a library.”
“Like I said, Bones, his story is not mine to tell. I have given you all that I care to at this point. You will have to make good on your many empty promises before I offer you any further assistance. Don’t get yourself destroyed before you live up to your obligations.”
I let go of the ring itself, letting it dangle from the chain, ending our conversation.
The nerve of that prick!
Sunday, November 05, 2006
Chilled to the Bone
“I’m sorry, Rusty, but Dick Arnold has found some very strong backers within the administration. I’m afraid that there is nothing that we can hang an investigation on at this time.” I could hear the strain in Zulu’s voice even over the phone.
“OK, so I can’t use any Bureau resources, but you aren’t saying that I can’t look into things on my own are you?”
He sighed and took a moment before answering. “Your time is your own to do with as you please, when you are not otherwise on assignment…”
“Good. I’ll keep the Bureau out of this until I come up with something substantial.”
“Rusty…”
“It’s OK. I’m getting pretty damn good at keeping things separate when they need to be, I’ll be careful.”
“Rusty, you need to listen for a moment. This has gone higher than I would have thought possible. I tried everything I could do to get Arnold indicted as part of the cleanup of the Omega Project. But this Arnold has allies at the highest level of this administration. They worked behind the scenes to quash all of my efforts. The firm that represented him is chock full of former prosecutors and Justice Department policy makers, many of them from my former staff. Instead of getting indicted, Arnold has come out of this affair looking like a hero. I don’t know that you are going to be able to bring the Bureau in on this case at any point, especially if you result to any extra-legal means of gathering that evidence.”
“Well, I do know that he is back in business and that he needs to be stopped. Have you seen that damn commercial, that Bone Financial commercial?”
He sighed again. “Yes. It’s playing in every major media market in the country. I am hearing that there are offices scheduled to open in each of those markets within the next 90 days.”
“There’s something really fishy with this whole Bone Financial business. I know that prick, El Diablito, is involved in this as well. I don’t understand how they claim to be making any money at this whole post-mortem mortgage thing, do you?”
Zulu cleared his throat before he spoke. “I’ve seen some of the documents that they filed with the SEC, but I can’t claim to truly understand how this whole scheme works.”
“Can you at least tell me what you do understand?”
“Yes. I’ll e-mail you a summary of the key points of their various products and the spin they place on them in the SEC filings. The information is publicly available, so there is no concern in sharing it with you. Before I hang up though, I want to make it very clear to you, Rusty, that you need and your friends need to be exceptionally careful with any investigation that you engage in. Dick Arnold knows about you and I’m sure that he is taking precautions against any intervention that may attempt. Arnold may well have suspicions about me now. I’m quite sure that Arnold has the money and connections to employ agents of his own who will prove to be formidable adversaries. You will not have the backing or the support of the Bureau, so be careful. I will not be able to bail you or your friends out of any jams. Do you understand?”
“I do. Don’t worry, Boss, we can handle ourselves just fine. Oh, before I go, I do want to give you a heads up about something as well.”
“Oh?”
“You’ve read our report on Drake’s demise, right?”
He paused again. “Yes.”
“Well, I’ve had the task of hearing his damn story, and I can tell you that we’re going to be hearing from his father, Dracaar, sooner rather than later. I’m going to send you a message about some artifacts that are being held in various museums around the world. You might want to see that some extra security is quietly put in place at these places. I don’t know if we’ll be able to prevent them from being taken at some point, but we’re going to need to know when this stuff starts disappearing. That will be among the first signs that Dracaar is getting his bearings and is starting to make his move.”
“I see. I’ll be waiting for that report then. Good night, Rusty.”
“Take care.”
I closed the phone carefully. It was so thin that I had to be very gentle with it. I had already gone through two previous models in recent months. I slipped the phone into the pocket in which I normally kept it and zipped the pocket closed.
I stood up and walked back to the kitchen door of old farm house in Salem Township, a rural area on the edge of Metro Detroit’s suburbs, which I had purchased a few months back. I opened the door and stepped out into the night air.
The moon was full and bright, its shine bathed the wooded landscape in soft white light. Looking towards the west, I noted a storm brewing as a mass of clouds that obscured the stars crawled inexorably closer.
Winter was coming.
The question was, as always, how long and hard would this winter be?
“OK, so I can’t use any Bureau resources, but you aren’t saying that I can’t look into things on my own are you?”
He sighed and took a moment before answering. “Your time is your own to do with as you please, when you are not otherwise on assignment…”
“Good. I’ll keep the Bureau out of this until I come up with something substantial.”
“Rusty…”
“It’s OK. I’m getting pretty damn good at keeping things separate when they need to be, I’ll be careful.”
“Rusty, you need to listen for a moment. This has gone higher than I would have thought possible. I tried everything I could do to get Arnold indicted as part of the cleanup of the Omega Project. But this Arnold has allies at the highest level of this administration. They worked behind the scenes to quash all of my efforts. The firm that represented him is chock full of former prosecutors and Justice Department policy makers, many of them from my former staff. Instead of getting indicted, Arnold has come out of this affair looking like a hero. I don’t know that you are going to be able to bring the Bureau in on this case at any point, especially if you result to any extra-legal means of gathering that evidence.”
“Well, I do know that he is back in business and that he needs to be stopped. Have you seen that damn commercial, that Bone Financial commercial?”
He sighed again. “Yes. It’s playing in every major media market in the country. I am hearing that there are offices scheduled to open in each of those markets within the next 90 days.”
“There’s something really fishy with this whole Bone Financial business. I know that prick, El Diablito, is involved in this as well. I don’t understand how they claim to be making any money at this whole post-mortem mortgage thing, do you?”
Zulu cleared his throat before he spoke. “I’ve seen some of the documents that they filed with the SEC, but I can’t claim to truly understand how this whole scheme works.”
“Can you at least tell me what you do understand?”
“Yes. I’ll e-mail you a summary of the key points of their various products and the spin they place on them in the SEC filings. The information is publicly available, so there is no concern in sharing it with you. Before I hang up though, I want to make it very clear to you, Rusty, that you need and your friends need to be exceptionally careful with any investigation that you engage in. Dick Arnold knows about you and I’m sure that he is taking precautions against any intervention that may attempt. Arnold may well have suspicions about me now. I’m quite sure that Arnold has the money and connections to employ agents of his own who will prove to be formidable adversaries. You will not have the backing or the support of the Bureau, so be careful. I will not be able to bail you or your friends out of any jams. Do you understand?”
“I do. Don’t worry, Boss, we can handle ourselves just fine. Oh, before I go, I do want to give you a heads up about something as well.”
“Oh?”
“You’ve read our report on Drake’s demise, right?”
He paused again. “Yes.”
“Well, I’ve had the task of hearing his damn story, and I can tell you that we’re going to be hearing from his father, Dracaar, sooner rather than later. I’m going to send you a message about some artifacts that are being held in various museums around the world. You might want to see that some extra security is quietly put in place at these places. I don’t know if we’ll be able to prevent them from being taken at some point, but we’re going to need to know when this stuff starts disappearing. That will be among the first signs that Dracaar is getting his bearings and is starting to make his move.”
“I see. I’ll be waiting for that report then. Good night, Rusty.”
“Take care.”
I closed the phone carefully. It was so thin that I had to be very gentle with it. I had already gone through two previous models in recent months. I slipped the phone into the pocket in which I normally kept it and zipped the pocket closed.
I stood up and walked back to the kitchen door of old farm house in Salem Township, a rural area on the edge of Metro Detroit’s suburbs, which I had purchased a few months back. I opened the door and stepped out into the night air.
The moon was full and bright, its shine bathed the wooded landscape in soft white light. Looking towards the west, I noted a storm brewing as a mass of clouds that obscured the stars crawled inexorably closer.
Winter was coming.
The question was, as always, how long and hard would this winter be?
Sunday, February 20, 2005
Beyond the Veil, Part 1
I can remember a number of times when I was alive where I thought to myself, "If only I didn't need to sleep every night, imagine how much I could get done." Well, let me just say that there is both truth and falsehood in that thought.
I no longer need sleep, biologically anyway, but I do find myself taking some time nearly every evening to meditate and allow my spirit/mind time to process and catch up with the increased input and demands it is under with a nearly 24 hour a day operation. I am still learning various coping mechanisms to my new existence.
This blog is one such coping mechanism. I started this blog with the idea of helping both myself and my former team mates who had not yet faced the transition that I had. Now though, I find myself using it as a tool to help me come to terms with what has happened, and in at least one case recently, to steel myself to do what needed to be done.
I have found out exactly how important this entire process is in these last few days by actually failing to find the time to make my entries. I have been less focused, more anxious, and even depressed when I have failed to at least make some sort of entry. I don't know how many of you are out there reading this, but just imagining that there are living, breathing people reading my entries has helped me to carry on. This is especially true since I learned from John Red Bear how to let go of my Chakra, should I choose to do so. I taught that skill to Greg and was rewarded by watching him pass from the prison that we had chosen for ourselves. Seeing him pass on to the next world was a revelation, knowing that I too could take that path if I chose to.
But I have a mission now. Drake saw me in the lab when Greg took his final trip away from the Chakra that was going to make him a zombie like me. He may not have been able to see into the spiritworld and know exactly what happened, but he was astute enough to see that something strange and powerful had happened. The bastard seemed to KNOW that Greg's body would never be animated in the same way that mind has been, and ended the process that day, telling the lab staff to place the body in storage and to clean up the equipment.
The bastard didn't say shit to me all week until Friday.
That was quite a surprise however, I reported for work on Friday and found the office closed. I had worked late the previous night helping the Lab Geeks disassemble some of the larger pieces of equipment into more storable components, but I had no clue that they would actually be closing down the whole office.
When I showed up on Friday, the door was locked and the reception area seemed empty. My keycard didn't work on the door, so I 'unlocked' the door in a more traditional way, by putting my fist through the glass and turning the handle from the inside.
As it had appeared from the outside, the reception area was totally cleaned out. I made my way back past the interview rooms towards the Lab, only to find that I had to 'unlock' another door. Again, the lab was cleaned out. All of the equipment was gone, all of the files were gone, the only things left were some generic cleaning supplies and a few broken tubes and vials.
I went back to that conference room that Drake liked so much. This door was slightly ajar, so I stepped into the dimly lit room.
This room was unchanged. The prick was sitting right there at his table, as if nothing out of the ordinary was happening. There was only one other chair at the table, the one near my end that I had chosen before, in defiance of him.
"What the Hell is going on?"
He smiled, as usual and motioned for me to have a seat.
I sat down, but was ready to spring up in case things got nasty.
"My time here is over," he started, "and if you are wise, you will find that it is time for you to join me and end this charade."
"What do you mean?"
"Officer Smith," for the first time since I had died, he used my previous identity, "I have great plans for you, and others like you who choose to find immortality, who choose to become more than human!"
"What are you smoking? I didn't choose this...this existence. When you approached me for this damn project, I didn't think I even had a soul. I figured you were some weird quack with more money than brains. If I knew now, what I knew then, I would've never gotten mixed up with your crazy plans."
"But you do know better now, and yet you have chosen to stay. Why not leave, like you taught your friend to do?"
That brought me up short. I remained silent, staring into his vacant, black eyes.
"I think you remain here because you are afraid to move on. Even now, you doubt that you would be able to move on to that next phase. You fear death, as well you should!"
"I can you one thing, you bastard, I sure as Hell don't fear you anymore, and nothing you can say will make me join you in wherever it is you are and your cohorts are going. But, I will find you, wherever you go, and I will put an end to these fucking experiments you are conducting, if its the last thing I do!" With that I got up and was moving towards him. I had finally gathered up my resolve to extract a little revenge on his scrawny ass.
He smiled that bloodless smile of his, reached into his pocket and pulled out what looked like a small remote control device. He showed it to me with tantalizing slowness. I lunged towards his hand, not knowing what the heck that thing could do, only to find myself falling and unable to catch myself when he pressed one of the buttons on the device.
I lay on the floor, still able to hear and see what was going on, but unable to move even so much as a finger.
"Tsk, tsk," I heard in the ear that was pointed towards the ceiling, "you didn't think I would allow one of my creations to have the ability to bring me harm, do you? I know you can hear me and that you cannot respond. This device has totally paralyzed all of your movement functions, so you wil have to listen to what I have to say now.
"I know your type, boy. I have been around far longer than you can imagine. You have been useful. I have the evidence I need to show those who finance my work what can be done with the proper resources. It is time to begin the next phase of my work. I fear though that you will not be of further use to me. It is time for you to make your final journey beyond the veil. When I press this second button, the device that houses your spirit will dissolve and you will have no choice but to begin that journey you fear so much."
I tried again to move, but was unable to do so. I then shifted my attention to moving into the spirit world. I was feeling a lot pressure to do something though, so I was unable to immediately focus as I needed to.
"I can almost sense your struggle," he said, still close to my ear, "I can tell that you are not ready for that final passage. That is why you need me. With my help, you need not face that journey for a very long time. Join with me, you've seen what can be done. We have so much more to do and discover together.
"I will now active your speech center so tha tyou may respond to me. Will you join me, or must I discard you as I have the others before you who have failed me?"
I could 'feel' the speech center being activated. Still working on my concetration to move into the spirit world, I rasped out, "Never asshole. If you let me up, I'll send your ass on a journey!"
"Ah yes, that's what I thought you would say. Very well, you have given me everything I truly needed from you anyway..."
I interrupted him one last time, "I will hunt you down and finish you, you bastard!"
"I think not. Your time here and now is ended. I am sorry you've brought me to this point."
With that, he pressed the button that would have, should have, ended my second life, such as it is...
(continued tomorrow)
I no longer need sleep, biologically anyway, but I do find myself taking some time nearly every evening to meditate and allow my spirit/mind time to process and catch up with the increased input and demands it is under with a nearly 24 hour a day operation. I am still learning various coping mechanisms to my new existence.
This blog is one such coping mechanism. I started this blog with the idea of helping both myself and my former team mates who had not yet faced the transition that I had. Now though, I find myself using it as a tool to help me come to terms with what has happened, and in at least one case recently, to steel myself to do what needed to be done.
I have found out exactly how important this entire process is in these last few days by actually failing to find the time to make my entries. I have been less focused, more anxious, and even depressed when I have failed to at least make some sort of entry. I don't know how many of you are out there reading this, but just imagining that there are living, breathing people reading my entries has helped me to carry on. This is especially true since I learned from John Red Bear how to let go of my Chakra, should I choose to do so. I taught that skill to Greg and was rewarded by watching him pass from the prison that we had chosen for ourselves. Seeing him pass on to the next world was a revelation, knowing that I too could take that path if I chose to.
But I have a mission now. Drake saw me in the lab when Greg took his final trip away from the Chakra that was going to make him a zombie like me. He may not have been able to see into the spiritworld and know exactly what happened, but he was astute enough to see that something strange and powerful had happened. The bastard seemed to KNOW that Greg's body would never be animated in the same way that mind has been, and ended the process that day, telling the lab staff to place the body in storage and to clean up the equipment.
The bastard didn't say shit to me all week until Friday.
That was quite a surprise however, I reported for work on Friday and found the office closed. I had worked late the previous night helping the Lab Geeks disassemble some of the larger pieces of equipment into more storable components, but I had no clue that they would actually be closing down the whole office.
When I showed up on Friday, the door was locked and the reception area seemed empty. My keycard didn't work on the door, so I 'unlocked' the door in a more traditional way, by putting my fist through the glass and turning the handle from the inside.
As it had appeared from the outside, the reception area was totally cleaned out. I made my way back past the interview rooms towards the Lab, only to find that I had to 'unlock' another door. Again, the lab was cleaned out. All of the equipment was gone, all of the files were gone, the only things left were some generic cleaning supplies and a few broken tubes and vials.
I went back to that conference room that Drake liked so much. This door was slightly ajar, so I stepped into the dimly lit room.
This room was unchanged. The prick was sitting right there at his table, as if nothing out of the ordinary was happening. There was only one other chair at the table, the one near my end that I had chosen before, in defiance of him.
"What the Hell is going on?"
He smiled, as usual and motioned for me to have a seat.
I sat down, but was ready to spring up in case things got nasty.
"My time here is over," he started, "and if you are wise, you will find that it is time for you to join me and end this charade."
"What do you mean?"
"Officer Smith," for the first time since I had died, he used my previous identity, "I have great plans for you, and others like you who choose to find immortality, who choose to become more than human!"
"What are you smoking? I didn't choose this...this existence. When you approached me for this damn project, I didn't think I even had a soul. I figured you were some weird quack with more money than brains. If I knew now, what I knew then, I would've never gotten mixed up with your crazy plans."
"But you do know better now, and yet you have chosen to stay. Why not leave, like you taught your friend to do?"
That brought me up short. I remained silent, staring into his vacant, black eyes.
"I think you remain here because you are afraid to move on. Even now, you doubt that you would be able to move on to that next phase. You fear death, as well you should!"
"I can you one thing, you bastard, I sure as Hell don't fear you anymore, and nothing you can say will make me join you in wherever it is you are and your cohorts are going. But, I will find you, wherever you go, and I will put an end to these fucking experiments you are conducting, if its the last thing I do!" With that I got up and was moving towards him. I had finally gathered up my resolve to extract a little revenge on his scrawny ass.
He smiled that bloodless smile of his, reached into his pocket and pulled out what looked like a small remote control device. He showed it to me with tantalizing slowness. I lunged towards his hand, not knowing what the heck that thing could do, only to find myself falling and unable to catch myself when he pressed one of the buttons on the device.
I lay on the floor, still able to hear and see what was going on, but unable to move even so much as a finger.
"Tsk, tsk," I heard in the ear that was pointed towards the ceiling, "you didn't think I would allow one of my creations to have the ability to bring me harm, do you? I know you can hear me and that you cannot respond. This device has totally paralyzed all of your movement functions, so you wil have to listen to what I have to say now.
"I know your type, boy. I have been around far longer than you can imagine. You have been useful. I have the evidence I need to show those who finance my work what can be done with the proper resources. It is time to begin the next phase of my work. I fear though that you will not be of further use to me. It is time for you to make your final journey beyond the veil. When I press this second button, the device that houses your spirit will dissolve and you will have no choice but to begin that journey you fear so much."
I tried again to move, but was unable to do so. I then shifted my attention to moving into the spirit world. I was feeling a lot pressure to do something though, so I was unable to immediately focus as I needed to.
"I can almost sense your struggle," he said, still close to my ear, "I can tell that you are not ready for that final passage. That is why you need me. With my help, you need not face that journey for a very long time. Join with me, you've seen what can be done. We have so much more to do and discover together.
"I will now active your speech center so tha tyou may respond to me. Will you join me, or must I discard you as I have the others before you who have failed me?"
I could 'feel' the speech center being activated. Still working on my concetration to move into the spirit world, I rasped out, "Never asshole. If you let me up, I'll send your ass on a journey!"
"Ah yes, that's what I thought you would say. Very well, you have given me everything I truly needed from you anyway..."
I interrupted him one last time, "I will hunt you down and finish you, you bastard!"
"I think not. Your time here and now is ended. I am sorry you've brought me to this point."
With that, he pressed the button that would have, should have, ended my second life, such as it is...
(continued tomorrow)
Tuesday, February 01, 2005
Suspicions
It took me awhile to collect myself after yesterdays news that another member of my original team had passed away. After the initial training, there were eight of us. Only six of chose to go forward after our individual meetings with Drake, referenced below in the posts labeled 'The Conversation'.
I was not the first of that final six to be killed. I was the third. The first two, Jerry Roberts and Brian Alderson, passed before me, but for reasons that have never been fully disclosed to me, never reached the stage of being successfully brought back in the same way I was. I believe that Jerry was too badly damaged in the explosion that killed him, he had served in his departments Bomb Disposal Unit. Brian was killed in an off-duty robbery, where the perp appeared to be going after his badge and weapon.
After me, three others were left. Once they learned that my transformation had been successful, they each contacted me e-mail and phone, seeking to find out what the process actually was. I think they each wanted to confirm that this process actually worked. One of my main reasons for starting and maintaining this blog was to give them an inside scoop as to what it was like to be dead and be brought back, I think that was just as important as maintaining my own sanity.
So it came as a pretty big blow to learn that another one of us had fallen. It almost seems like we are cursed, not that I would have believed that to even be a possibility before my own recent experiences with magick. I had a deep suspicion, however, as to which of my three remaining buddies had fallen.
About a week ago, I had gotten a very brief e-mail from Greg Tasker, perhaps my best friend of the remaining three. He had sent me a note indicating that he was considering quitting the program, since his marriage and his relationship with his children was suffering big time with all of the requirements and added stresses of staying in the program. I called him that night, but had to leave a message, since he wasn't picking up his home phone or his cell. I finally got ahold of him on Saturday, he was despondent, saying that his wife Ellen had been suspecting him of having an affair and had left with his two young sons to join her parents over a hundred miles from his home. He had decided that he needed to quit the program, and was going to draft his resignation letter on Monday, after his shift. He had wanted to consult his union attorney on the language he wanted to use, so that there would be no confusion or possible entanglements.
So, after I returned from office, and after I had posted here about what had happened, I did a quick Google search, using his name. Sure enough, he had been killed while reponding to a Party Store robbery. Apparently he was the first officer on scene, and was not aware of a third assailant outside the store when he was exiting his car. According to the news reports about the incident, an outside camera caught the shooting, the third assailant came up from behind him and used a small caliber bullet behind his ear from very close range. Strange thing is, the next officers to respond were able to nab the two knuckleheads as they were coming out of the store, but Greg's killer was nowhere to be found. Allegedly, the two in the store claim they had been approached by the third guy to do the robbery, with the third guy offering to stand as a lookout for the cops. When they heard the shooting, they panicked and hid in the store. By the time they gathered what wits they had, they were surrounded by responding cars from all over the town. Strange. Not that the two mopes in the store got caught, that happens all the time, but things just aren't adding up.
Four out of six dead within four years. That's some pretty strange shit. This appears to be more than mere coincidence of all of us working in a fairly dangerous profession. All cops know that they risk serious injury or death everytime they leave the for work, but they are trained to manage such risks. The six of us were all GOOD cops. I had to do some more digging, so I Googled for stories on the passing of each of who had died (yes, including myself).
My quick search yielded some interesting results. Jerry (the first to go) died three months (late April of 2001) after his meeting with Drake. There was never a claim of responsibility made by any group for the bomb itself, and the crime remains unsolved to this day. He was the only one of the four of us who was single with no dependents.
The next one to get killed, Brian, in the middle of a rather bitter divorce from his wife when he got killed in June of 2002. Again, his killing is unsolved, despite his department throwing all of its resources into tracking down his killer. His badge and weapon have yet to be found.
I was killed on Halloween of 2003. Again, I was recently divorced, although I had felt that I was to blame for the break-up of my marriage, I am beginning to have my doubts there too, but my marriage and what happened in it will be left for another day.
Now Greg too had marital problems, which he blamed at least in part on this program, and just as he was about to tender his resignation and fight for his marriage, he dies in another currently unsolved shooting.
I am seeing some patterns here that I don't like at all.
I was prepared to confront Drake with some of these suspicions this morning at the time he indicated, however, I received a call at 8AM today informing me that he was attending to other matters, and that our meeting was to be postponed until Thursday afternoon. Since he was not going to be around, I was asked to stay home until then, since there was apparently some concern as to my 'anger problems'. Fine by me. That gives me time to do some more research, its about time I applied some of my investigative skills to the patterns I am seeing in these deaths.
It is going to be an interesting meeting on Thursday.
I was not the first of that final six to be killed. I was the third. The first two, Jerry Roberts and Brian Alderson, passed before me, but for reasons that have never been fully disclosed to me, never reached the stage of being successfully brought back in the same way I was. I believe that Jerry was too badly damaged in the explosion that killed him, he had served in his departments Bomb Disposal Unit. Brian was killed in an off-duty robbery, where the perp appeared to be going after his badge and weapon.
After me, three others were left. Once they learned that my transformation had been successful, they each contacted me e-mail and phone, seeking to find out what the process actually was. I think they each wanted to confirm that this process actually worked. One of my main reasons for starting and maintaining this blog was to give them an inside scoop as to what it was like to be dead and be brought back, I think that was just as important as maintaining my own sanity.
So it came as a pretty big blow to learn that another one of us had fallen. It almost seems like we are cursed, not that I would have believed that to even be a possibility before my own recent experiences with magick. I had a deep suspicion, however, as to which of my three remaining buddies had fallen.
About a week ago, I had gotten a very brief e-mail from Greg Tasker, perhaps my best friend of the remaining three. He had sent me a note indicating that he was considering quitting the program, since his marriage and his relationship with his children was suffering big time with all of the requirements and added stresses of staying in the program. I called him that night, but had to leave a message, since he wasn't picking up his home phone or his cell. I finally got ahold of him on Saturday, he was despondent, saying that his wife Ellen had been suspecting him of having an affair and had left with his two young sons to join her parents over a hundred miles from his home. He had decided that he needed to quit the program, and was going to draft his resignation letter on Monday, after his shift. He had wanted to consult his union attorney on the language he wanted to use, so that there would be no confusion or possible entanglements.
So, after I returned from office, and after I had posted here about what had happened, I did a quick Google search, using his name. Sure enough, he had been killed while reponding to a Party Store robbery. Apparently he was the first officer on scene, and was not aware of a third assailant outside the store when he was exiting his car. According to the news reports about the incident, an outside camera caught the shooting, the third assailant came up from behind him and used a small caliber bullet behind his ear from very close range. Strange thing is, the next officers to respond were able to nab the two knuckleheads as they were coming out of the store, but Greg's killer was nowhere to be found. Allegedly, the two in the store claim they had been approached by the third guy to do the robbery, with the third guy offering to stand as a lookout for the cops. When they heard the shooting, they panicked and hid in the store. By the time they gathered what wits they had, they were surrounded by responding cars from all over the town. Strange. Not that the two mopes in the store got caught, that happens all the time, but things just aren't adding up.
Four out of six dead within four years. That's some pretty strange shit. This appears to be more than mere coincidence of all of us working in a fairly dangerous profession. All cops know that they risk serious injury or death everytime they leave the for work, but they are trained to manage such risks. The six of us were all GOOD cops. I had to do some more digging, so I Googled for stories on the passing of each of who had died (yes, including myself).
My quick search yielded some interesting results. Jerry (the first to go) died three months (late April of 2001) after his meeting with Drake. There was never a claim of responsibility made by any group for the bomb itself, and the crime remains unsolved to this day. He was the only one of the four of us who was single with no dependents.
The next one to get killed, Brian, in the middle of a rather bitter divorce from his wife when he got killed in June of 2002. Again, his killing is unsolved, despite his department throwing all of its resources into tracking down his killer. His badge and weapon have yet to be found.
I was killed on Halloween of 2003. Again, I was recently divorced, although I had felt that I was to blame for the break-up of my marriage, I am beginning to have my doubts there too, but my marriage and what happened in it will be left for another day.
Now Greg too had marital problems, which he blamed at least in part on this program, and just as he was about to tender his resignation and fight for his marriage, he dies in another currently unsolved shooting.
I am seeing some patterns here that I don't like at all.
I was prepared to confront Drake with some of these suspicions this morning at the time he indicated, however, I received a call at 8AM today informing me that he was attending to other matters, and that our meeting was to be postponed until Thursday afternoon. Since he was not going to be around, I was asked to stay home until then, since there was apparently some concern as to my 'anger problems'. Fine by me. That gives me time to do some more research, its about time I applied some of my investigative skills to the patterns I am seeing in these deaths.
It is going to be an interesting meeting on Thursday.
Monday, January 31, 2005
New Assignments
It was a very interesting day at the office today.
First of all, I had to report to the NecroLab (as I call it) to show the Lab Geeks that I have familiarized myself with the new equipment they installed on my body after the Rocky Mountain grenade incident. I apparently satisfied them with my movements and response times, since I was given a release to return to duty. The Head Geek, Dr. Daniel Bernstein--the complete package of Geekdom, from the pencil case in his dressshirt pocket, to the rat-like mannerisms, mussed up hair, and the semi-distracted look whenever he is talking to you--wanted to see about installing some additional 'hardware'.
Basically, they wanted to install weaponry on my body like I am some sort of fricking combat machine. Apparently my success in the mountain raid, and in the incident with the armored car, convinced the bastard Kampmann and his little buddy Dr. Bernstein, that I would make one Hell of a Terminator-type killer. They had these strange little contraptions they wanted to 'install' on my arms with all sorts of wires and other assorted crap that would have given me an 'integrated firing system' and would have allowed me to target with my eyes.
My response to this was rather simple. I found out that I am exactly strong enough to wrap a little mini-gun around the neck of that smug little prick Bernstein! You should have seen the look on his face when I broke the first of the pair of guns in half, and then again when he tried to stop me on the second one--I took that one and wrapped it around his neck! All six of his assistants were trying to pull us apart, which they failed to do, until I was satisfied as his face went from a ghost white of fear, to a satisfying purplish hue.
I wasn't quiet either as I was doing this, but I don't think I said a single word that would be publishable here--I try to write the way I speak normally, but this incident went beyond the pale of what I am comfortable repeating here.
I did however state a new credo of mine, one that I didn't know that I had at the time. I have determined that I will not, under any circumstance, use a firearm. The risk of causing dire injury or death to innocent bystanders or even the risk of killing a suspected perpetrator who may be innocent is just too great. I will NOT end anyone else's life the way mine was ended. I made the decision right there and then, that I would not carry a firearm of any sort, especially not one linked to my nervous system in any way, but that I would stick to non-lethal force when I got into confrontations.
I am not exactly sure why this choice became so clear to me in that instant when Bernstein was beaming with such pride and obvious glee at what I would now be able to do, but it just became clear in that moment of rage and perhaps fear at the thought of what they were trying to make me into. Maybe I watched too many cartoons of superheroes when I was young, or perhaps it was the fact that I had seen and loved such movies as Robo-Cop and the Terminator series, but I just could not allow those last shreds of humanity that I do have left become lost inside this killing machine they wanted to make me into.
As his assistants were trying to untangle their gun contraption from his neck, I left the NecroLab and went looking for Drake.
I found the bastard in the hallway, flanked by a couple of what were probably meant to be impressive looking Goons with Guns (GWG's), heading towards the lab. He stopped dead when he saw me. I pointed towards a nearby interview room and followed him inside. Wisely the GWG's stayed outside.
We had it out pretty damn good in that room. The walls were shaking as I thundered my outrage at his ass. One of the GWG's made the mistake of peeking his head in the room, but quickly closed the door when he saw the newly disconnected telepnhone headed his way. Drake kept to his normal voice, showing no emotion, other than that smugness of his, but he tried to convince me of the error of my ways, and of how important it is that I continue to participate in 'The Program' so they can fully assess what my capabilities are. I came as close as I have yet to seeing exactly how badly he needs air to breathe, but restrained myself in the end.
Eventually, I calmed down enough to point out that I had more than fulfilled any requirement of his amoral, and probably illegal, program, and that I wanted to be reassigned and be treated as a real agent.
He narrowed his beady eyes at that, and said merely, "I see. Well I am very disappointed in you. But if that is the way you feel, I'll see what I can find for you. Luckily, another one of your previous team members appears to be now available for his next step."
I stood there stunned into silence and reflection at what he had just said, and with the way he had just said it as he turned on his heel calmly and walked out. As he closed the door behind him, he looked back and said, "You can go home for now Agent Bones, report to me tomorrow at 9 AM, and I will let you where you will be reassigned to. You have provided extremely valuable information and insight."
With that he left. I felt hollow and empty as I realized another one of my former team mates had been killed.
I also wondered how much of a surprise it was to Drake that another test subject just became available.
First of all, I had to report to the NecroLab (as I call it) to show the Lab Geeks that I have familiarized myself with the new equipment they installed on my body after the Rocky Mountain grenade incident. I apparently satisfied them with my movements and response times, since I was given a release to return to duty. The Head Geek, Dr. Daniel Bernstein--the complete package of Geekdom, from the pencil case in his dressshirt pocket, to the rat-like mannerisms, mussed up hair, and the semi-distracted look whenever he is talking to you--wanted to see about installing some additional 'hardware'.
Basically, they wanted to install weaponry on my body like I am some sort of fricking combat machine. Apparently my success in the mountain raid, and in the incident with the armored car, convinced the bastard Kampmann and his little buddy Dr. Bernstein, that I would make one Hell of a Terminator-type killer. They had these strange little contraptions they wanted to 'install' on my arms with all sorts of wires and other assorted crap that would have given me an 'integrated firing system' and would have allowed me to target with my eyes.
My response to this was rather simple. I found out that I am exactly strong enough to wrap a little mini-gun around the neck of that smug little prick Bernstein! You should have seen the look on his face when I broke the first of the pair of guns in half, and then again when he tried to stop me on the second one--I took that one and wrapped it around his neck! All six of his assistants were trying to pull us apart, which they failed to do, until I was satisfied as his face went from a ghost white of fear, to a satisfying purplish hue.
I wasn't quiet either as I was doing this, but I don't think I said a single word that would be publishable here--I try to write the way I speak normally, but this incident went beyond the pale of what I am comfortable repeating here.
I did however state a new credo of mine, one that I didn't know that I had at the time. I have determined that I will not, under any circumstance, use a firearm. The risk of causing dire injury or death to innocent bystanders or even the risk of killing a suspected perpetrator who may be innocent is just too great. I will NOT end anyone else's life the way mine was ended. I made the decision right there and then, that I would not carry a firearm of any sort, especially not one linked to my nervous system in any way, but that I would stick to non-lethal force when I got into confrontations.
I am not exactly sure why this choice became so clear to me in that instant when Bernstein was beaming with such pride and obvious glee at what I would now be able to do, but it just became clear in that moment of rage and perhaps fear at the thought of what they were trying to make me into. Maybe I watched too many cartoons of superheroes when I was young, or perhaps it was the fact that I had seen and loved such movies as Robo-Cop and the Terminator series, but I just could not allow those last shreds of humanity that I do have left become lost inside this killing machine they wanted to make me into.
As his assistants were trying to untangle their gun contraption from his neck, I left the NecroLab and went looking for Drake.
I found the bastard in the hallway, flanked by a couple of what were probably meant to be impressive looking Goons with Guns (GWG's), heading towards the lab. He stopped dead when he saw me. I pointed towards a nearby interview room and followed him inside. Wisely the GWG's stayed outside.
We had it out pretty damn good in that room. The walls were shaking as I thundered my outrage at his ass. One of the GWG's made the mistake of peeking his head in the room, but quickly closed the door when he saw the newly disconnected telepnhone headed his way. Drake kept to his normal voice, showing no emotion, other than that smugness of his, but he tried to convince me of the error of my ways, and of how important it is that I continue to participate in 'The Program' so they can fully assess what my capabilities are. I came as close as I have yet to seeing exactly how badly he needs air to breathe, but restrained myself in the end.
Eventually, I calmed down enough to point out that I had more than fulfilled any requirement of his amoral, and probably illegal, program, and that I wanted to be reassigned and be treated as a real agent.
He narrowed his beady eyes at that, and said merely, "I see. Well I am very disappointed in you. But if that is the way you feel, I'll see what I can find for you. Luckily, another one of your previous team members appears to be now available for his next step."
I stood there stunned into silence and reflection at what he had just said, and with the way he had just said it as he turned on his heel calmly and walked out. As he closed the door behind him, he looked back and said, "You can go home for now Agent Bones, report to me tomorrow at 9 AM, and I will let you where you will be reassigned to. You have provided extremely valuable information and insight."
With that he left. I felt hollow and empty as I realized another one of my former team mates had been killed.
I also wondered how much of a surprise it was to Drake that another test subject just became available.
Sunday, January 30, 2005
The Conversation-Epilogue
Once I reached the decision to play along with the Director and take the money he was offering, the rest of that meeting was fairly unremarkable in the content of our conversation. It was, however, very revealing in terms of the documents I was given to review and in some cases sign.
The first revelation came when he gave me a thick memo to review that discussed the training regimen that we had participated in up to that moment, including all of the nutrient supplements that we had been given. These supplements were apparently designed to make certain chemical changes in our bone structures as well as our muscle and nervous systems. I had noticed that over the course of the previous year or two, that I had gained about 20 pounds. Strangely though, my clothes seemed to fit, with only slight adjustments needed in a couple of my smaller suit coats and dress shirts. My shoulders were bigger and my muscles did seem denser. I noticed that the regimen would become noticeably stricter in the coming months, which didn't sit well with me at all.
The next surprise came when he presented me with a schedule, showing the tentative dates for me to make certain trips to a location in Hialeah, Florida, a small suburb of Miami in Dade County that is home to perhaps the largest proportion of non-native born people in the United States, mostly Cuban ex-pats. When I questioned him on the reason for that location, the Director just smiled that evil grin of his and said that one of the experts needed for the spiritual preparations lived there and that he didn't like to travel much.
(I can tell you, that THAT guy was even scarier than Drake...even if he did appear to be a spry little old man more likely to be doting on grandchildren at first. He earned his nick-name, El Diablito-the Little Devil, when he put on his magickal personna. He wasn't Hispanic, but he did have an almost imperceptible accent when he got excited. He ran a small, rather specialized shop in a warehouse district of Hialeah that sold magickal supplies and implements catering to Santeria and Voudoun practictioners in the area. I don't know what the name of the store is now, since he has since sold it and moved away, but when he owned it, it was called NextWorld, Inc.)
Finally, the Driector presented all sorts of forms that appeared to be the actual contract, only it was about twenty pages long with extremely small type. The legalese on this form could choke a lawyer, be I read through the entire thing, making his ass wait while I asked questions to clarify points. He smiled with each answer and that little glow in his eyes growing just a little brighter as I flipped each page after initialling off on it.
Turns out that the deal seemed awfully good when I read it, and who knows, how can I really complain when here I am, over a year after I was killed, telling you all about it?
Well, we'll answer that question together over time as I grow into this new existence and share with you my experiences. So far the results are mixed at best.
I think that just about wraps up this crucial conversation with Drake. This was my first hint at the darkness that lies beneath that cold, evil smile of his, but it wasn't until fairly recently that I have really soured on the bastard, seeing him for the evil little prick that he is. Somehow, I wouldn't put it past him to have had a hand in my death....but if he did, he has hidden it well.
I can tell you, however, that I will never stop looking into what happened that night, and if I find out that he, or anyone else in this program had a hand in that, they had better watch out!
The first revelation came when he gave me a thick memo to review that discussed the training regimen that we had participated in up to that moment, including all of the nutrient supplements that we had been given. These supplements were apparently designed to make certain chemical changes in our bone structures as well as our muscle and nervous systems. I had noticed that over the course of the previous year or two, that I had gained about 20 pounds. Strangely though, my clothes seemed to fit, with only slight adjustments needed in a couple of my smaller suit coats and dress shirts. My shoulders were bigger and my muscles did seem denser. I noticed that the regimen would become noticeably stricter in the coming months, which didn't sit well with me at all.
The next surprise came when he presented me with a schedule, showing the tentative dates for me to make certain trips to a location in Hialeah, Florida, a small suburb of Miami in Dade County that is home to perhaps the largest proportion of non-native born people in the United States, mostly Cuban ex-pats. When I questioned him on the reason for that location, the Director just smiled that evil grin of his and said that one of the experts needed for the spiritual preparations lived there and that he didn't like to travel much.
(I can tell you, that THAT guy was even scarier than Drake...even if he did appear to be a spry little old man more likely to be doting on grandchildren at first. He earned his nick-name, El Diablito-the Little Devil, when he put on his magickal personna. He wasn't Hispanic, but he did have an almost imperceptible accent when he got excited. He ran a small, rather specialized shop in a warehouse district of Hialeah that sold magickal supplies and implements catering to Santeria and Voudoun practictioners in the area. I don't know what the name of the store is now, since he has since sold it and moved away, but when he owned it, it was called NextWorld, Inc.)
Finally, the Driector presented all sorts of forms that appeared to be the actual contract, only it was about twenty pages long with extremely small type. The legalese on this form could choke a lawyer, be I read through the entire thing, making his ass wait while I asked questions to clarify points. He smiled with each answer and that little glow in his eyes growing just a little brighter as I flipped each page after initialling off on it.
Turns out that the deal seemed awfully good when I read it, and who knows, how can I really complain when here I am, over a year after I was killed, telling you all about it?
Well, we'll answer that question together over time as I grow into this new existence and share with you my experiences. So far the results are mixed at best.
I think that just about wraps up this crucial conversation with Drake. This was my first hint at the darkness that lies beneath that cold, evil smile of his, but it wasn't until fairly recently that I have really soured on the bastard, seeing him for the evil little prick that he is. Somehow, I wouldn't put it past him to have had a hand in my death....but if he did, he has hidden it well.
I can tell you, however, that I will never stop looking into what happened that night, and if I find out that he, or anyone else in this program had a hand in that, they had better watch out!
The Conversation-Part 2
I sat there stunned for a moment, trying to comprehend how a high ranking official of the fricking FBI could be sitting there trying to talk me into taking part in some sort of impossible, asinine experiment that seemed to be part science fiction, part fantasy. I just couldn’t wrap my mind around the concepts this dude was talking about.
“I...I...just don’t see how you can expect me to take this shit seriously,” I stammered. “I mean, you did just say magick, didn’t you?”
The bastard leaned forward, his black, beady eyes seemed to glow for a second with an infernal glare (not that I believed in such things, mind you). “Yes. Yes, I did mention magick. Matter of fact, the particular kind of magick that makes this all possible is actually called Necromancy....”
“Jeezus Christ...” I blurted out, “This is sounding more and more like some very bad B-movie.” I was starting to get up to put an end this whole interview.
“Officer Smith, sit down and hear me out. I happen to know how badly you need your bonus this year, but if you leave this interview before I release you, your participation in this program will be terminated, as will your scheduled bonus payments.”
That caught me off guard. I did need that damn money, badly. My wife’s car was on its last legs, and she was looking wistfully at a minivan that cost damn near $20,000. I slipped back down in the chair, and decided to hear the man out.
“Yes, I thought that might jolt you back to reality. I understand that the things we have talked about today are outside of your normal experience, but you will come to understand enough of what I speak of today to realize that there is a whole world of secrets that once revealed, will truly change how you see things.
“The information I am about to reveal to you is highly classified, and will not be discussed outside of this room at any time, with any person not similarly authorized to receive such information, including your wife, or any other members of your family. Failure to follow this admonition will lead to some very serious consequences, do you understand, Officer Smith?”
I nodded, wondering who the Hell would believe me if I started discussing Necromancy, magick, and any of the rest of this shit. “I understand, sir.”
“Good.” With that, he whipped out a typed memorandum and placed it in front of me so fast that it would make a Vegas blackjack dealer proud. “Then I will need you to look over this memorandum and sign it there at the bottom. This merely spells out some of your responsibilities regarding the information you are about to receive, and the rather dire consequences for failing to take the proper safeguards with it.”
I scanned through the document, saw that he was indeed very serious. It pretty much spelled out that the entire content of this meeting was considered Secret, and that serious jail time and hefty fines were involved for any unauthorized disclosure. (Of course, you might wonder why I am writing about this now, since this information is still considered Secret--I will discuss that later. You may rest assured that I am in no danger from this disclosure--I cannot, however, vouch for you, Gentle Reader, so read on at your own discretion.)
After taking the moment offered to read through the document, I signed it and handed it back to him, only to see it snatched from my hand and shuffled back into my file faster than I could blink. Something about this dude just wasn’t right. From this moment on, I decided to pay more attention to this guys’ mannerisms and see if maybe he was a product of his own experiments.
He looked back up at me, smiled in his unnerving way, and continued, “This government, and probably the former Soviet Union as well, stumbled upon some rather amazing, and very secretive, research that had been conducted by the Third Reich at the end of World War II. That research included a number of test subjects and a number of practitioners of certain, let’s just call them, ‘Dark Arts’. At first no one could believe that the Germans had actually made any efforts in this direction, but it quickly became evident that not only had they tried their hand at some things, they had actually made some remarkable progress.
“Once that realization set in, it became a sort of scramble through the ruins of the Third Reich to collect evidence, test subjects, and the few practitioners that could still be located using the SS files that had been recovered in the last days of the war. It is believed that a number of practitioners escaped in the chaos at the end of the war before their importance became known. A number of those individuals fled Europe to South America and other remote regions of the world, but a good number of them were captured and secretly transported to London and Washington D.C. for further study by the American and British governments.”
“Wait a minute sir, are you telling me that the Nazi’s were working on this stuff first, and that the US and the Brits actually continued their work?”
That damn smile again. “Yes, Officer Smith, the US and British governments did continue with some of, but not all of, the experiments that the Nazi’s started. But as you will find out in time, if you continue in this program, the things they were working on were just too important to ignore. Of course these governments went about their studies in a more humane manner than the Nazi’s did, using mostly volunteers.”
“Mostly volunteers?” I asked.
“Yes, of course. The original captives from Germany wouldn’t be considered volunteers, at first, but after they were debriefed and their participation and talents were reviewed, most of them were allowed the choice to continue or not in their research.”
“But not all of them, eh?”
His eyes seemed to light up again at this point. “No, not all of them were given the choice. In any event, some of that research has been developed to the point now that we have the ability to preserve the spirit of a person who has been specially prepared ahead of time. We also believe that we can now tie that specially preserved spirit back into a body that has also been prepared for the procedure, allowing that person to live again, in a limited manner.”
“So let me get this straight.” I just had to interrupt. “You are saying that you can hold a person’s soul after they die, and that you now think you can use that soul to re-animate their body? Pardon me, but this sounds like an attempt to make a real Frankenstein. What the Hell happens to this soul if your plan doesn’t work?”
“Yes, we can and have been able to preserve the souls of particular volunteers. We have not succeeded in re-animating any bodies with these souls just yet, but we have been able to communicate with those individuals and released those who wished to be released. As strange as it sounds, we have tried the Frankenstein approach of building a body out of parts, but that has not succeeded. Our research seems to show that the soul needs to have a tangible connection to the body it animates. In our previous attempts, this just hasn’t been possible, for various reasons. This is where you and your fellow teammates come in.”
I sat there stunned, struck by the irony of having played D&D throughout my youth, having grown out of such fantasies by the time I was eighteen, and now being briefed by a senior government official on their intent to raise me from the dead!
“Look,” I said, “I don’t have any intention of dying anytime soon. So if this plan of your involves that kind of volunteering, you can shove it, and your damn money, up your cold, stiff ass!”
He raised a hand to calm me down. “I understand your concerns. We do not have any intention of causing your untimely demise. But, as I have just mentioned, it appears that we must prepare both the spirit and the body of any candidates. You and I both know that being a police officer is a very dangerous line of work. Every officer lost in the line of duty is a tremendous loss to our nation and a tragedy. What we are offering you is the opportunity to be the beneficiary of an extremely valuable life insurance policy. If something were to happen to you in the line of duty or otherwise, this project would allow us to save the spirit you really don’t believe that you have in the first place and bring you back from the dead. If you choose to continue with this program, and you live to a ripe old age and retire from police work, you will have the option of quitting at any time, and you will continue to receive these payments, tax-free, for the time you remain in the program.
“However, if something dire does happen, and you are killed or die in some unfortunate accident later this year, or the year after that, or any time while you are still in the program, you will have a second opportunity at life to be there again for your family. That is what this program is all about!”
I didn’t believe much of what this guy was saying, but the idea of being able to collect an extra pay check and never really have to work all that hard for it again appealed to me.
“So, sir, you are saying that I could continue in the program, collect these bonuses each year, and then quit the program anytime I wanted to? Will you put that in writing?”
“Yes, that is exactly what I am saying. Yes, there are contracts that you will be able to review here in this office for as long as you like before signing. If you agree to partake in this program past today, your participation will remain strictly voluntary. As long as you participate as directed by myself and the other managers in this program, you will continue to receive inflation adjusted, tax-free payments that will help you and your family take care of the little extras that make life enjoyable.
“And really, what do you have to lose? I can see that you really believe that this can actually work, and you even doubt the existence of your own soul. You have no faith that prohibits any of this, and if it doesn’t work, as you suspect it won’t, you will have lost nothing and gained a little extra renumeration for your time. You are a very reasonable man, Officer Smith. I am sure that you can see the benefits of your further participation, and just imagine your surprise if the worst happens and we are actually called upon to show you that this works, and you wake up to a new life with a chance to set things right again!”
I had to agree with his logic. Besides, I seriously doubted that anything like this could ever actually work.What harm could come if I just played along, took the money they were obviously willing to give away, and went about watching my ass so I didn’t have to find out if they could actually do it?
Well, I surely learned the answers to most of those questions. Too bad I had to learn the hard damn way!
Next, I will provide more detail on the processes that I had to undertake in order to continue participating in the program.
“I...I...just don’t see how you can expect me to take this shit seriously,” I stammered. “I mean, you did just say magick, didn’t you?”
The bastard leaned forward, his black, beady eyes seemed to glow for a second with an infernal glare (not that I believed in such things, mind you). “Yes. Yes, I did mention magick. Matter of fact, the particular kind of magick that makes this all possible is actually called Necromancy....”
“Jeezus Christ...” I blurted out, “This is sounding more and more like some very bad B-movie.” I was starting to get up to put an end this whole interview.
“Officer Smith, sit down and hear me out. I happen to know how badly you need your bonus this year, but if you leave this interview before I release you, your participation in this program will be terminated, as will your scheduled bonus payments.”
That caught me off guard. I did need that damn money, badly. My wife’s car was on its last legs, and she was looking wistfully at a minivan that cost damn near $20,000. I slipped back down in the chair, and decided to hear the man out.
“Yes, I thought that might jolt you back to reality. I understand that the things we have talked about today are outside of your normal experience, but you will come to understand enough of what I speak of today to realize that there is a whole world of secrets that once revealed, will truly change how you see things.
“The information I am about to reveal to you is highly classified, and will not be discussed outside of this room at any time, with any person not similarly authorized to receive such information, including your wife, or any other members of your family. Failure to follow this admonition will lead to some very serious consequences, do you understand, Officer Smith?”
I nodded, wondering who the Hell would believe me if I started discussing Necromancy, magick, and any of the rest of this shit. “I understand, sir.”
“Good.” With that, he whipped out a typed memorandum and placed it in front of me so fast that it would make a Vegas blackjack dealer proud. “Then I will need you to look over this memorandum and sign it there at the bottom. This merely spells out some of your responsibilities regarding the information you are about to receive, and the rather dire consequences for failing to take the proper safeguards with it.”
I scanned through the document, saw that he was indeed very serious. It pretty much spelled out that the entire content of this meeting was considered Secret, and that serious jail time and hefty fines were involved for any unauthorized disclosure. (Of course, you might wonder why I am writing about this now, since this information is still considered Secret--I will discuss that later. You may rest assured that I am in no danger from this disclosure--I cannot, however, vouch for you, Gentle Reader, so read on at your own discretion.)
After taking the moment offered to read through the document, I signed it and handed it back to him, only to see it snatched from my hand and shuffled back into my file faster than I could blink. Something about this dude just wasn’t right. From this moment on, I decided to pay more attention to this guys’ mannerisms and see if maybe he was a product of his own experiments.
He looked back up at me, smiled in his unnerving way, and continued, “This government, and probably the former Soviet Union as well, stumbled upon some rather amazing, and very secretive, research that had been conducted by the Third Reich at the end of World War II. That research included a number of test subjects and a number of practitioners of certain, let’s just call them, ‘Dark Arts’. At first no one could believe that the Germans had actually made any efforts in this direction, but it quickly became evident that not only had they tried their hand at some things, they had actually made some remarkable progress.
“Once that realization set in, it became a sort of scramble through the ruins of the Third Reich to collect evidence, test subjects, and the few practitioners that could still be located using the SS files that had been recovered in the last days of the war. It is believed that a number of practitioners escaped in the chaos at the end of the war before their importance became known. A number of those individuals fled Europe to South America and other remote regions of the world, but a good number of them were captured and secretly transported to London and Washington D.C. for further study by the American and British governments.”
“Wait a minute sir, are you telling me that the Nazi’s were working on this stuff first, and that the US and the Brits actually continued their work?”
That damn smile again. “Yes, Officer Smith, the US and British governments did continue with some of, but not all of, the experiments that the Nazi’s started. But as you will find out in time, if you continue in this program, the things they were working on were just too important to ignore. Of course these governments went about their studies in a more humane manner than the Nazi’s did, using mostly volunteers.”
“Mostly volunteers?” I asked.
“Yes, of course. The original captives from Germany wouldn’t be considered volunteers, at first, but after they were debriefed and their participation and talents were reviewed, most of them were allowed the choice to continue or not in their research.”
“But not all of them, eh?”
His eyes seemed to light up again at this point. “No, not all of them were given the choice. In any event, some of that research has been developed to the point now that we have the ability to preserve the spirit of a person who has been specially prepared ahead of time. We also believe that we can now tie that specially preserved spirit back into a body that has also been prepared for the procedure, allowing that person to live again, in a limited manner.”
“So let me get this straight.” I just had to interrupt. “You are saying that you can hold a person’s soul after they die, and that you now think you can use that soul to re-animate their body? Pardon me, but this sounds like an attempt to make a real Frankenstein. What the Hell happens to this soul if your plan doesn’t work?”
“Yes, we can and have been able to preserve the souls of particular volunteers. We have not succeeded in re-animating any bodies with these souls just yet, but we have been able to communicate with those individuals and released those who wished to be released. As strange as it sounds, we have tried the Frankenstein approach of building a body out of parts, but that has not succeeded. Our research seems to show that the soul needs to have a tangible connection to the body it animates. In our previous attempts, this just hasn’t been possible, for various reasons. This is where you and your fellow teammates come in.”
I sat there stunned, struck by the irony of having played D&D throughout my youth, having grown out of such fantasies by the time I was eighteen, and now being briefed by a senior government official on their intent to raise me from the dead!
“Look,” I said, “I don’t have any intention of dying anytime soon. So if this plan of your involves that kind of volunteering, you can shove it, and your damn money, up your cold, stiff ass!”
He raised a hand to calm me down. “I understand your concerns. We do not have any intention of causing your untimely demise. But, as I have just mentioned, it appears that we must prepare both the spirit and the body of any candidates. You and I both know that being a police officer is a very dangerous line of work. Every officer lost in the line of duty is a tremendous loss to our nation and a tragedy. What we are offering you is the opportunity to be the beneficiary of an extremely valuable life insurance policy. If something were to happen to you in the line of duty or otherwise, this project would allow us to save the spirit you really don’t believe that you have in the first place and bring you back from the dead. If you choose to continue with this program, and you live to a ripe old age and retire from police work, you will have the option of quitting at any time, and you will continue to receive these payments, tax-free, for the time you remain in the program.
“However, if something dire does happen, and you are killed or die in some unfortunate accident later this year, or the year after that, or any time while you are still in the program, you will have a second opportunity at life to be there again for your family. That is what this program is all about!”
I didn’t believe much of what this guy was saying, but the idea of being able to collect an extra pay check and never really have to work all that hard for it again appealed to me.
“So, sir, you are saying that I could continue in the program, collect these bonuses each year, and then quit the program anytime I wanted to? Will you put that in writing?”
“Yes, that is exactly what I am saying. Yes, there are contracts that you will be able to review here in this office for as long as you like before signing. If you agree to partake in this program past today, your participation will remain strictly voluntary. As long as you participate as directed by myself and the other managers in this program, you will continue to receive inflation adjusted, tax-free payments that will help you and your family take care of the little extras that make life enjoyable.
“And really, what do you have to lose? I can see that you really believe that this can actually work, and you even doubt the existence of your own soul. You have no faith that prohibits any of this, and if it doesn’t work, as you suspect it won’t, you will have lost nothing and gained a little extra renumeration for your time. You are a very reasonable man, Officer Smith. I am sure that you can see the benefits of your further participation, and just imagine your surprise if the worst happens and we are actually called upon to show you that this works, and you wake up to a new life with a chance to set things right again!”
I had to agree with his logic. Besides, I seriously doubted that anything like this could ever actually work.What harm could come if I just played along, took the money they were obviously willing to give away, and went about watching my ass so I didn’t have to find out if they could actually do it?
Well, I surely learned the answers to most of those questions. Too bad I had to learn the hard damn way!
Next, I will provide more detail on the processes that I had to undertake in order to continue participating in the program.
Tuesday, January 25, 2005
The Conversation-Part 1
The Director was seated at the head of the conference table with a rather thick looking file laying open in front of him. I could glimpse enough of the file as I approached to see that it was mine.
He nodded almost imperceptibly to a chair to his right, so I sat down without further ado. I was nervous and a little anxious, and I know that bastard was enjoying every moment of it, even if he didn’t show it.
I tried to get comfortable as he resumed examining the contents of the file, flipping from one page to the next as if I weren’t sitting right there next to him.
After about a minute of unnerving silence, I cleared my throat and sat up, determined not to be intimidated, in case he was trying to test me in some way.
“I see that you have passed all of the required tests,” he started without notice, “and that you have not had any trouble meeting the requirements of the program up to now. So tell me, is this what you expected?”
I was a little shocked that he actually asked me a question, but I was cautious, “Sir, to be honest, I think the program has been pretty well run, but I’m not sure I understand everything up to this point.”
His eyes seemed to light up at this, “So Officer Smith, what is it that you don’t understand about the program?”
“Well, sir, to be honest, I can’t understand why you have chosen us in the way that you did. I know that I am damn good cop, and so are my fellow team members, but when all is said and done, we are all still local cops, we’re not federal agents. Heck many of the guys don’t even have a college degree, and I know that most of your FBI agents have master’s degrees. So why do you want a bunch of locals, even high-speed locals, running a special response unit of the FBI?”
He let my words trail off for a moment before answering in that slow, deliberate manner that I now find so annoying, “That, Officer Smith, is perhaps the best question I have heard from anyone on the team. The answers to that question, are in large part the reason for these meetings and for this evaluation.
“I have received permission from my superiors,” he said with a sneer at that last word, “to move on to the next phase of this program. You and your remaining team members have gone as far as you can in this program with the knowledge that you have been given. It is now my turn to share some additional goals of this program with you, and it is time for you to make a choice as to whether to continue forward past this point.”
I shifted in my seat, sat up a little straighter, waiting for him to continue.
“Everyone on the team was recruited on the basis of several criteria. The first of which, is that you had to be a person who professed no particular faith in any religion. The second of which was that you had to be good officers, between the ages of 30 and 50 years old, Third, you had to be willing and able to complete the rather rigorous training program we had in mind.
“You have met all of these requirements, and done very well indeed. But the next step requires a further commitment to a rather radical idea. One that you may, or may not be prepared to accept and embrace.”
My curiousity was aroused now, “What is this idea, sir?”
“I am prepared to offer you an opportunity to become immortal.”
“Say again, sir, ...immortal...what exactly do you mean by that?”
“If you accept this agreement, and sign the contracts and consent forms that I have for you here, you will have an opportunity to become immortal. By that, I mean that your consciousness will be able to continue to exist past your natural death, and that you will have an unprecedented opportunity to interact with, and continue to take an active role in, this world as you now know it. Your soul, if you will accept the religious term for it for a moment, will be preseved and contained within a vessel that will allow this agency to give you a new, or enhanced body, to operate with.”
“Hold on,” I interrupted, “is this some sort of sick joke? You did select us because we didn’t believe in any of this stuff, didn’t you? What do you mean by preserving my soul? I don’t even accept the fact that I have a soul...”
He held up a very bony looking hand, silencing me for the moment, “Yes, yes, I understand your shock and even your disbelief. But I can assure you that you do indeed have a soul, of sorts, and that we now have the means to quantify that and to actually contain that spirit within a special device.
“The reason that only men of no professed faith were selected for this project, is that you and others like you would have no pre-conceived objection to undertaking this project. Since you have not yet been concerned with your soul and where it would, or wouldn’t go after your death, it was felt that you and the other team members selected would be more open to the possibilities of this project.”
“Now,” I spoke up again, “wait a minute.. Are you saying that you picked me because I was some sort of heathen who is consigned to Hell because I don’t believe in any of that shit in the first place?”
“Well, that is a very crass, and blunt way of putting it, but yes, that was part of the decision process on who got selected for this program.”
“Well, I’ll be damned...”
“Precisely. Since you have no vested interest in any afterlife beyond this world, why face that possibility when you don’t have to?”
I was pretty stunned at this point, but I wasn’t quite speechless yet, “OK, I’ll play along with this crap for a moment,” I was quickly losing any respect I had for the man at this point. “Why the Hell would the Federal Government want to get involved with my spiritual immortality, and what does that have to do with this program. I thought we were about stopping religious terrorists and protecting this country!”
“Yes, well, to be honest, the government’s interest in your spirit is puely practical. The government has seen a potential use for intelligent, creative beings who have no fear of being injured or of getting killed in the face of highly dangerous missions. But this is not something that the government can allow just anyone to attempt. We feel that it should be limited to men of strong principles and proven character. Additionally, if your spirit can kept from passing to the next world, whatever that may be, when you die and kept available for use in a new body, then all of the expenses the government has gone to train and educate highly skilled officers can be made to pay off for generations to come.
“Think of it, man, all of the knowledge, the skills you have attained up to now as an officer of the law, can be preserved in a body that will not hunger, tha twill not need to sleep, that will not grow old, that cannot be killed, and that can be repaired if it is injured or damaged. Everything that you have learned up to now, and in the future, will be available to you in a new body that is stronger, faster, more capable than you are now. You could truly become immortal!”
His eyes seemed to be glowing as he spoke, getting more and more intense as his voice grew louder. He appeared almost fanatical in his belief that this project, whatever the Hell it really was, would work.
“You’re talking about making me, and these other guys some sort of robots. Sir, I think you’ve been watching too many movies. Robo-Cop was a movie man, the best damn robots I’ve seen are those stupid furry toys my kids wanted so bad for Christmas. How are you gonna pull this shit off?”
“That’s just it, we are not creating a robot, per se, you won’t be a machine subject to any sort of programming, but a freely thinking person, who happens to be in a body that is modified. This is more than technology run amuck, this is a fusion of magick and technology that will be unprecedented in human history!”
Part 2 to follow tomorrow, time permitting.
He nodded almost imperceptibly to a chair to his right, so I sat down without further ado. I was nervous and a little anxious, and I know that bastard was enjoying every moment of it, even if he didn’t show it.
I tried to get comfortable as he resumed examining the contents of the file, flipping from one page to the next as if I weren’t sitting right there next to him.
After about a minute of unnerving silence, I cleared my throat and sat up, determined not to be intimidated, in case he was trying to test me in some way.
“I see that you have passed all of the required tests,” he started without notice, “and that you have not had any trouble meeting the requirements of the program up to now. So tell me, is this what you expected?”
I was a little shocked that he actually asked me a question, but I was cautious, “Sir, to be honest, I think the program has been pretty well run, but I’m not sure I understand everything up to this point.”
His eyes seemed to light up at this, “So Officer Smith, what is it that you don’t understand about the program?”
“Well, sir, to be honest, I can’t understand why you have chosen us in the way that you did. I know that I am damn good cop, and so are my fellow team members, but when all is said and done, we are all still local cops, we’re not federal agents. Heck many of the guys don’t even have a college degree, and I know that most of your FBI agents have master’s degrees. So why do you want a bunch of locals, even high-speed locals, running a special response unit of the FBI?”
He let my words trail off for a moment before answering in that slow, deliberate manner that I now find so annoying, “That, Officer Smith, is perhaps the best question I have heard from anyone on the team. The answers to that question, are in large part the reason for these meetings and for this evaluation.
“I have received permission from my superiors,” he said with a sneer at that last word, “to move on to the next phase of this program. You and your remaining team members have gone as far as you can in this program with the knowledge that you have been given. It is now my turn to share some additional goals of this program with you, and it is time for you to make a choice as to whether to continue forward past this point.”
I shifted in my seat, sat up a little straighter, waiting for him to continue.
“Everyone on the team was recruited on the basis of several criteria. The first of which, is that you had to be a person who professed no particular faith in any religion. The second of which was that you had to be good officers, between the ages of 30 and 50 years old, Third, you had to be willing and able to complete the rather rigorous training program we had in mind.
“You have met all of these requirements, and done very well indeed. But the next step requires a further commitment to a rather radical idea. One that you may, or may not be prepared to accept and embrace.”
My curiousity was aroused now, “What is this idea, sir?”
“I am prepared to offer you an opportunity to become immortal.”
“Say again, sir, ...immortal...what exactly do you mean by that?”
“If you accept this agreement, and sign the contracts and consent forms that I have for you here, you will have an opportunity to become immortal. By that, I mean that your consciousness will be able to continue to exist past your natural death, and that you will have an unprecedented opportunity to interact with, and continue to take an active role in, this world as you now know it. Your soul, if you will accept the religious term for it for a moment, will be preseved and contained within a vessel that will allow this agency to give you a new, or enhanced body, to operate with.”
“Hold on,” I interrupted, “is this some sort of sick joke? You did select us because we didn’t believe in any of this stuff, didn’t you? What do you mean by preserving my soul? I don’t even accept the fact that I have a soul...”
He held up a very bony looking hand, silencing me for the moment, “Yes, yes, I understand your shock and even your disbelief. But I can assure you that you do indeed have a soul, of sorts, and that we now have the means to quantify that and to actually contain that spirit within a special device.
“The reason that only men of no professed faith were selected for this project, is that you and others like you would have no pre-conceived objection to undertaking this project. Since you have not yet been concerned with your soul and where it would, or wouldn’t go after your death, it was felt that you and the other team members selected would be more open to the possibilities of this project.”
“Now,” I spoke up again, “wait a minute.. Are you saying that you picked me because I was some sort of heathen who is consigned to Hell because I don’t believe in any of that shit in the first place?”
“Well, that is a very crass, and blunt way of putting it, but yes, that was part of the decision process on who got selected for this program.”
“Well, I’ll be damned...”
“Precisely. Since you have no vested interest in any afterlife beyond this world, why face that possibility when you don’t have to?”
I was pretty stunned at this point, but I wasn’t quite speechless yet, “OK, I’ll play along with this crap for a moment,” I was quickly losing any respect I had for the man at this point. “Why the Hell would the Federal Government want to get involved with my spiritual immortality, and what does that have to do with this program. I thought we were about stopping religious terrorists and protecting this country!”
“Yes, well, to be honest, the government’s interest in your spirit is puely practical. The government has seen a potential use for intelligent, creative beings who have no fear of being injured or of getting killed in the face of highly dangerous missions. But this is not something that the government can allow just anyone to attempt. We feel that it should be limited to men of strong principles and proven character. Additionally, if your spirit can kept from passing to the next world, whatever that may be, when you die and kept available for use in a new body, then all of the expenses the government has gone to train and educate highly skilled officers can be made to pay off for generations to come.
“Think of it, man, all of the knowledge, the skills you have attained up to now as an officer of the law, can be preserved in a body that will not hunger, tha twill not need to sleep, that will not grow old, that cannot be killed, and that can be repaired if it is injured or damaged. Everything that you have learned up to now, and in the future, will be available to you in a new body that is stronger, faster, more capable than you are now. You could truly become immortal!”
His eyes seemed to be glowing as he spoke, getting more and more intense as his voice grew louder. He appeared almost fanatical in his belief that this project, whatever the Hell it really was, would work.
“You’re talking about making me, and these other guys some sort of robots. Sir, I think you’ve been watching too many movies. Robo-Cop was a movie man, the best damn robots I’ve seen are those stupid furry toys my kids wanted so bad for Christmas. How are you gonna pull this shit off?”
“That’s just it, we are not creating a robot, per se, you won’t be a machine subject to any sort of programming, but a freely thinking person, who happens to be in a body that is modified. This is more than technology run amuck, this is a fusion of magick and technology that will be unprecedented in human history!”
Part 2 to follow tomorrow, time permitting.
Sunday, January 23, 2005
The Conversation-Prologue
Friday, February 2, 2001.
That was the day of The Conversation, the one meeting that changed my future forever.
All of us had been informed ahead of time, that we would be called in for an evaluation meeting with the Director, Dr. Kampmann as we called him then. It was at this meeting that our future in the program was going to be decided. Our handlers made sure that we understood that the Director was willing to shitcan the entire team and start fresh if he had too, there were no guarantees based on the need for a certain number of candidates going forward. Of course, they also made it clear that if things didn't go well, the bonuses would stop immediately, and there was no chance of getting back on the team if we flubbed up this meeting.
I felt my marriage had become dependent on the extra income from this project, even if the stresses caused by the number of out of town trips seemed to be getting pretty bad. I had ignored my wife's requests for me to drop out of this program and to spend more time at home as just her way of showing she loved me. I figured by bringing home the extra money to buy the new furniture I knew she wanted so badly, or to buy the new car that we needed was my way of showing how much I loved her. Shows how much I understood about love back then.
I was nervous about the upcoming meeting, my relationship with the Director was much more formal and one sided than it is today, I still respected the asshole then.
I arrived early in the morning, having flown in the night before and been put up in a local Holiday Inn for the night. The Director liked to start his meetings promptly at 8AM, and go on through lunch without stopping, until his prey was squirming with hunger and fatigue. He never allowed food in his meeting rooms, and provided only a pitcher of water to drink. A number of the team members liked to see if they could outlast the Director and hold off from taking a drink during any meeting with him, but even though he always kept a glass next to him that was maybe three quarters full, no one could ever remember him actually taking a drink from the thing, so everyone who tried to match him always failed.
Looking back on it with the knowledge I have now of him and what he had done to himself, I completely understand how he could go so long without food or drink. You see, I fully believe that he was his own first experiment. Except that while I am his first subject to have been successfully brought back from the dead, I believe that Drake never died. I am certain that he has made changes to his own biochemistry while he was still alive, sort of like extreme plastic surgery, except I think he replaced his heart, and his whole digestive tract, among other things. I have seen glimpses of him in private moments, and I have seen some of the bizarre equipment he uses to replace his need for food and drink. Most of it involves IV bags with what looks like fresh blood, and some sort of charging device. I guess you could say that he appears to be some sort of living vampire, while I would fit more into the mummy/zombie/Frankenstein category.
The meeting room was in the very back of the rather bland looking office building, and always kept rather dimly lit. The doors to the room were far more solid than anything else in the office, and like the room itself, were completely windowless. There was an intercom near the door, where you pressed this button to speak to whoever was inside. There was no keyhole, or even a card reader to open the door, the Director had a special remoe control for this door, and that was the only known way to lock or unlock the door.
I arrived promptly, and saw Betty, the middle aged receptionist with a beaming smile and a quiet voice, at the front desk. She greeted me with a smile and and a couple of pleasant questions about my family before she picked up the phone and called the Director's office to notify him of my arrival. She looked up from the phone, and motioned for me to head back towards the meeting room as she answered the ringing phone on another line. I have always liked her, and I miss seeing her smile. When I come to that office now, she looks more frightened than happy to see me. I guess I shouldn't be surprised, I have seen how I look in a mirror, and I would have a hard imagining anyone being happy to see me now. I look more like a serial killer on steroids, or maybe a little like Arnold in the Terminator movies after a couple of messy battles...
I remember the walk back to the meeting room seemed to take a lot longer than the two minutes it actually took, and that the hallway seemed even darker and quieter than normal, or maybe that is my mind adding some dramatic flare to the memories of this day. In any event, I made my way back to the meeting room, and pressed the button on intercom, identifying myself to faceless person (or people) beyond the door. "Officer Smith here."
Instead of any answer over the intercom, the door clikced softly, and opened slowly towards me...
That was the day of The Conversation, the one meeting that changed my future forever.
All of us had been informed ahead of time, that we would be called in for an evaluation meeting with the Director, Dr. Kampmann as we called him then. It was at this meeting that our future in the program was going to be decided. Our handlers made sure that we understood that the Director was willing to shitcan the entire team and start fresh if he had too, there were no guarantees based on the need for a certain number of candidates going forward. Of course, they also made it clear that if things didn't go well, the bonuses would stop immediately, and there was no chance of getting back on the team if we flubbed up this meeting.
I felt my marriage had become dependent on the extra income from this project, even if the stresses caused by the number of out of town trips seemed to be getting pretty bad. I had ignored my wife's requests for me to drop out of this program and to spend more time at home as just her way of showing she loved me. I figured by bringing home the extra money to buy the new furniture I knew she wanted so badly, or to buy the new car that we needed was my way of showing how much I loved her. Shows how much I understood about love back then.
I was nervous about the upcoming meeting, my relationship with the Director was much more formal and one sided than it is today, I still respected the asshole then.
I arrived early in the morning, having flown in the night before and been put up in a local Holiday Inn for the night. The Director liked to start his meetings promptly at 8AM, and go on through lunch without stopping, until his prey was squirming with hunger and fatigue. He never allowed food in his meeting rooms, and provided only a pitcher of water to drink. A number of the team members liked to see if they could outlast the Director and hold off from taking a drink during any meeting with him, but even though he always kept a glass next to him that was maybe three quarters full, no one could ever remember him actually taking a drink from the thing, so everyone who tried to match him always failed.
Looking back on it with the knowledge I have now of him and what he had done to himself, I completely understand how he could go so long without food or drink. You see, I fully believe that he was his own first experiment. Except that while I am his first subject to have been successfully brought back from the dead, I believe that Drake never died. I am certain that he has made changes to his own biochemistry while he was still alive, sort of like extreme plastic surgery, except I think he replaced his heart, and his whole digestive tract, among other things. I have seen glimpses of him in private moments, and I have seen some of the bizarre equipment he uses to replace his need for food and drink. Most of it involves IV bags with what looks like fresh blood, and some sort of charging device. I guess you could say that he appears to be some sort of living vampire, while I would fit more into the mummy/zombie/Frankenstein category.
The meeting room was in the very back of the rather bland looking office building, and always kept rather dimly lit. The doors to the room were far more solid than anything else in the office, and like the room itself, were completely windowless. There was an intercom near the door, where you pressed this button to speak to whoever was inside. There was no keyhole, or even a card reader to open the door, the Director had a special remoe control for this door, and that was the only known way to lock or unlock the door.
I arrived promptly, and saw Betty, the middle aged receptionist with a beaming smile and a quiet voice, at the front desk. She greeted me with a smile and and a couple of pleasant questions about my family before she picked up the phone and called the Director's office to notify him of my arrival. She looked up from the phone, and motioned for me to head back towards the meeting room as she answered the ringing phone on another line. I have always liked her, and I miss seeing her smile. When I come to that office now, she looks more frightened than happy to see me. I guess I shouldn't be surprised, I have seen how I look in a mirror, and I would have a hard imagining anyone being happy to see me now. I look more like a serial killer on steroids, or maybe a little like Arnold in the Terminator movies after a couple of messy battles...
I remember the walk back to the meeting room seemed to take a lot longer than the two minutes it actually took, and that the hallway seemed even darker and quieter than normal, or maybe that is my mind adding some dramatic flare to the memories of this day. In any event, I made my way back to the meeting room, and pressed the button on intercom, identifying myself to faceless person (or people) beyond the door. "Officer Smith here."
Instead of any answer over the intercom, the door clikced softly, and opened slowly towards me...
Wednesday, January 12, 2005
In the Beginning...
Sorry for the delay on my posting, I had them remove the skin from my fingers and hands and replace it with these special gloves. Much more supple, much better fine motor control. For the first time, I am able to actually type with my fingers and don’t have to use those damn pencils. Perhaps my posts can be more detailed and longer, as needed.
So, I promised on my last entry to mention more about the Beginning, how I came to be in this unique (I hope) position of being undead.
Drake Kampmann, a powerful man running a secret division of the FBI, had approached my chief in the summer of 1998 looking for good cops with no religious affiliations and a need for cash, and my good buddy the chief had narturally thought of me (thanks Chief). Kampmann had laid the deal out before me, essentially join this open-ended task force with the stated goal of being in a position to respond to religious extremists of any stripe in the United States. The deal looked too good to be true, the department got some badly needed cash, and I was offered a nice lure of up to $25,000 a year extra in my salary, directly from the DOJ. Of course there were ‘additional details’ to be divulged once I was on board...but I lost track of any strings that were mentioned when I heard about the extra money. I was married with two kids approaching college age, and a wife who was always trying to squeeze our pennies to make ends meet. But I am sure many of you have been in a similar position and can appreciate the lure of extra cash for what seemed a nice little assignment.
So what was the price of my soul? Well, up to the date of my death, approximately $125,000.
Hmmm...doesn’t seem like such a great deal anymore.
After signing the contracts and memorandums of understanding offered by Kampmann, I was placed on leave for two weeks by my department and sent the following Monday to Omega Project Headquarters, located in a suburban office complex in Fairfax, Virginia. I had a fairly intensive two week training session on dangers posed by various religious extremist groups and their growing influence in politics both inside and outside of the United States. There were about thirty other officers from all over the country in those sessions, all of them professing to be non-religious in any way.
Through the course of those early sessions, I can recognize now through hindsight, we were being evaluated in by our instructors and by unseen individuals as they watched our responses to the training materials and our post-training debates. We were being secretly vetted to make absolutely sure that we were truly unbelievers in any known faith. One guy admitted to being a pagan, from some group called Wiccans, I think, and he was here because his chief considered him a heathen . But he was the first guy shipped back. Strangely, there weren’t any women in this initial group...probably too smart to fall for the lures that prick Drake was casting.
(BTW-he hates it when I use his first name, which is of course why I keep throwing it out there. He prefers Director Kampmann, to which I say, ‘Blow me, Drake.’-he had me by the balls with his money when I was alive, but now I am his showpiece, proof that his horseshit theories actually can work, but I make sure he pays a hefty price for my cooperation now!)
In all, ten of the first thirty were weeded out in the first training session. Those that got shipped back still got to keep their first little incentive checks, but had to sign all sorts of anti-disclosure agreements, to keep the whole project quiet. Amazing how a little $ can work some magic.
Shit, I was sure going to learn the truth of that, over time.
After that first session, we were given a shit load of reading materials and training videos to watch, all pretty pedestrian crap, but we were told that we would be taking some tests and that the first team chosen would consist of twelve officers, so if we wanted to keep the bonuses flowing, we would have to bone up on material and score well. We were also told to keep our noses clean, and stay the Hell out of trouble, both with our departments and with the real world in general. A single bad shooting, or abuse investigation, or even a DUI charge, and we would be booted, no questions asked or answered.
Over the next year, we were weeded down to that first team of twelve. I must say, that we were a pretty tight and sharp group. After the team was set, we entered the tactical phase of our training, and received special training sessions with Tactical Ops teams at a secret location in the Arizona desert, which was some pretty high speed shit. it was during this phase though, that things began to change, gradually. We were fed a special diet of supposed high-protein, highly nutritious food that was filled with all sorts of shit I hadn’t heard of, at least since Advanced Chemistry in high school. We were also given these nasty-ass tasting high protein shakes that we were told to drink everyday back in the real world. Let me tell you, these things almost made me quit right there, but the mighty dollar still held me in its sway, and I choked the things down as required.
Now I know that these things were designed to toughen up my bones and to make small, gradual changes in my body chemistry that would make my body more usable when I died. The better prepared the body is for the things they do to it after you die, the better for Drake’s damn Necromancers, as I call them.
Anyway, by the end of 2000, things were heating up. We had passed all of the tactical training, and had even been called into handle a couple of situations before they became big, public messes. Once the new administration was sworn in, there must have been some sort of green light given for the next phase, because that was when Drake called each us into his office for special one day private meetings.
I’ll stop there, since I want to show Drake in all of his glory with my next post on the subject, we’ll see when i can do justice to that. Meanwhile, I would like to offer to answer any questions you might have (within the boundaries that I am constrained by). You can send those questions by e-mail, or post them as comments. I will try to post at least one response to questions with each post I make, if I receive any.
So, I promised on my last entry to mention more about the Beginning, how I came to be in this unique (I hope) position of being undead.
Drake Kampmann, a powerful man running a secret division of the FBI, had approached my chief in the summer of 1998 looking for good cops with no religious affiliations and a need for cash, and my good buddy the chief had narturally thought of me (thanks Chief). Kampmann had laid the deal out before me, essentially join this open-ended task force with the stated goal of being in a position to respond to religious extremists of any stripe in the United States. The deal looked too good to be true, the department got some badly needed cash, and I was offered a nice lure of up to $25,000 a year extra in my salary, directly from the DOJ. Of course there were ‘additional details’ to be divulged once I was on board...but I lost track of any strings that were mentioned when I heard about the extra money. I was married with two kids approaching college age, and a wife who was always trying to squeeze our pennies to make ends meet. But I am sure many of you have been in a similar position and can appreciate the lure of extra cash for what seemed a nice little assignment.
So what was the price of my soul? Well, up to the date of my death, approximately $125,000.
Hmmm...doesn’t seem like such a great deal anymore.
After signing the contracts and memorandums of understanding offered by Kampmann, I was placed on leave for two weeks by my department and sent the following Monday to Omega Project Headquarters, located in a suburban office complex in Fairfax, Virginia. I had a fairly intensive two week training session on dangers posed by various religious extremist groups and their growing influence in politics both inside and outside of the United States. There were about thirty other officers from all over the country in those sessions, all of them professing to be non-religious in any way.
Through the course of those early sessions, I can recognize now through hindsight, we were being evaluated in by our instructors and by unseen individuals as they watched our responses to the training materials and our post-training debates. We were being secretly vetted to make absolutely sure that we were truly unbelievers in any known faith. One guy admitted to being a pagan, from some group called Wiccans, I think, and he was here because his chief considered him a heathen . But he was the first guy shipped back. Strangely, there weren’t any women in this initial group...probably too smart to fall for the lures that prick Drake was casting.
(BTW-he hates it when I use his first name, which is of course why I keep throwing it out there. He prefers Director Kampmann, to which I say, ‘Blow me, Drake.’-he had me by the balls with his money when I was alive, but now I am his showpiece, proof that his horseshit theories actually can work, but I make sure he pays a hefty price for my cooperation now!)
In all, ten of the first thirty were weeded out in the first training session. Those that got shipped back still got to keep their first little incentive checks, but had to sign all sorts of anti-disclosure agreements, to keep the whole project quiet. Amazing how a little $ can work some magic.
Shit, I was sure going to learn the truth of that, over time.
After that first session, we were given a shit load of reading materials and training videos to watch, all pretty pedestrian crap, but we were told that we would be taking some tests and that the first team chosen would consist of twelve officers, so if we wanted to keep the bonuses flowing, we would have to bone up on material and score well. We were also told to keep our noses clean, and stay the Hell out of trouble, both with our departments and with the real world in general. A single bad shooting, or abuse investigation, or even a DUI charge, and we would be booted, no questions asked or answered.
Over the next year, we were weeded down to that first team of twelve. I must say, that we were a pretty tight and sharp group. After the team was set, we entered the tactical phase of our training, and received special training sessions with Tactical Ops teams at a secret location in the Arizona desert, which was some pretty high speed shit. it was during this phase though, that things began to change, gradually. We were fed a special diet of supposed high-protein, highly nutritious food that was filled with all sorts of shit I hadn’t heard of, at least since Advanced Chemistry in high school. We were also given these nasty-ass tasting high protein shakes that we were told to drink everyday back in the real world. Let me tell you, these things almost made me quit right there, but the mighty dollar still held me in its sway, and I choked the things down as required.
Now I know that these things were designed to toughen up my bones and to make small, gradual changes in my body chemistry that would make my body more usable when I died. The better prepared the body is for the things they do to it after you die, the better for Drake’s damn Necromancers, as I call them.
Anyway, by the end of 2000, things were heating up. We had passed all of the tactical training, and had even been called into handle a couple of situations before they became big, public messes. Once the new administration was sworn in, there must have been some sort of green light given for the next phase, because that was when Drake called each us into his office for special one day private meetings.
I’ll stop there, since I want to show Drake in all of his glory with my next post on the subject, we’ll see when i can do justice to that. Meanwhile, I would like to offer to answer any questions you might have (within the boundaries that I am constrained by). You can send those questions by e-mail, or post them as comments. I will try to post at least one response to questions with each post I make, if I receive any.
Sunday, January 09, 2005
Rhythm and Blues
Without the normal human biological needs and urges for things like sleep, food and drink, I am finding it difficult to adopt a rhythm to my existence. I had intended for this blog to help establish such a rhythm, by sitting down each day and recording my observations on the events of that day. However, since that incident involving the armored car robbery that I last wrote about (which was my first law enforcement action since being brought back from the dead other than training actions), I have been in a mental funk, feeling blue, if you will.
When I was a beat cop, I thought I wold have given just about anything to be able to act in times of danger and fear without the sometimes paralyzing rush of adrenaline and the tunnel vision that usually accompanies that feeling. What I wouldn't give now to have any feelings at all!
Enough whining. I doubt any of you are particularly interested in reading my pinings for my lost humanity. Perhaps, however, you are more interested in learning more about how I got this way to begin with. Up until now, I have hinted at how I came to be brought back, but it is time to fill in a few blanks. Bear in mind however, that I don't have all of the facts myself, and some of the story remains classified by my handlers.
Late in summer of 1998, I was approached by my police chief. He took me aside into his office and said "I've got a representative here from the Dept. of Justice. It seems they are looking for good cops willling to take part in a series of special training events and meetings to be part of a special task force. They have asked that the officers nominated have no attachment to any particular religion. So Smitty, you haven't gotten any religion since we last patrolled together have ya?"
"Nah chief, nothin' has changed there, I'm still the same heathen who drank your ass under the table at your promotion party."
"That's what I thought. He's reviewing some of your past reports in the training room, I'll bring him to you when he's ready. Don't try any of your smart ass shit Smitty, this guy is serious, and it could mean a nice little boost to your salary, since the DOJ is kicking in some money for your time."
"Alright Chief, I'll be a good officer and see what he has to say."
Later that day, I was summoned back to the Chief's office. Instead of the Chief sitting at his desk however, a thin guy in a dark gray suit with a very intense look about him was sitting behind the desk. The Chief was standing to his side, and excused himself as I entered. The Suit stood up and extended his rail thin hand. Taking the hand though, I had to keep from gasping in pain and shock at the coldness of his fingers and the sheer strength of his grip.
"Hello officer, my name is Drake Kampmann, and I represent the Department of Justice and am trying to organize a special task force of local, state and federal officers. I would like you to join this team."
"OK, Mr. Kampmann, is it?"
He nodded.
I coughed before proceeding, "Chief mentioned that there might be some extra pay in it for me, and I'd like to know more about that, of course. But more importantly, what is this task force being organized to do, and why do you want people with no religious affiliations?"
"Well, these are good questions, Officer Smith, so let me begin with the purpose of this task force. We are organizing this task force so that it can be assembled on very short notice and deployed to virtually any location in the United States in response to a growing threat by religious fundamentalists of all stripes. The Attorney General wants a strike force of dedicated law enforcement professionals who have no affiliations with any religious denominations so that we can act quickly and decisively against any threat before it grows too dangerous. As to your first point, about the extra monetary compensation, the DOJ is going to kick in up to $25,000 a year to each department who contributes an officer for this strike force to compensate for the lost man hours our training and operations will require, and an additional stipend to be paid directly to each officer who completes all of the training exercises and remains a participant in the program each year."
"Pardon my rudeness, Mr. Kampmann, but you know, how big will this stipend be?"
"Officer Smith, the size of your stipend depends on your level of involvement and whether or not you complete all of the required training, but I will tell you that your stipend could easily exceed the amount paid to your department. The first partial payment will be made once these contracts are finalized. There are some additional details that I will only be able to discuss with you in Washington, should you accept my invitation to join this task force."
Shit, once I heard his mention of the size of the stipend, I didn't hear anyting other than mumbling. I signed the contracts and memorandums he put in front of me without much paying attention to the details. The visions of what an extra $25,000 a year could do for me and my family were just too tempting. They had found a sucker alright, and boy was I to learn that over the next couple of years.
More to come with my next few entries. Now I must take my leave to attend to some surveillance operations.
When I was a beat cop, I thought I wold have given just about anything to be able to act in times of danger and fear without the sometimes paralyzing rush of adrenaline and the tunnel vision that usually accompanies that feeling. What I wouldn't give now to have any feelings at all!
Enough whining. I doubt any of you are particularly interested in reading my pinings for my lost humanity. Perhaps, however, you are more interested in learning more about how I got this way to begin with. Up until now, I have hinted at how I came to be brought back, but it is time to fill in a few blanks. Bear in mind however, that I don't have all of the facts myself, and some of the story remains classified by my handlers.
Late in summer of 1998, I was approached by my police chief. He took me aside into his office and said "I've got a representative here from the Dept. of Justice. It seems they are looking for good cops willling to take part in a series of special training events and meetings to be part of a special task force. They have asked that the officers nominated have no attachment to any particular religion. So Smitty, you haven't gotten any religion since we last patrolled together have ya?"
"Nah chief, nothin' has changed there, I'm still the same heathen who drank your ass under the table at your promotion party."
"That's what I thought. He's reviewing some of your past reports in the training room, I'll bring him to you when he's ready. Don't try any of your smart ass shit Smitty, this guy is serious, and it could mean a nice little boost to your salary, since the DOJ is kicking in some money for your time."
"Alright Chief, I'll be a good officer and see what he has to say."
Later that day, I was summoned back to the Chief's office. Instead of the Chief sitting at his desk however, a thin guy in a dark gray suit with a very intense look about him was sitting behind the desk. The Chief was standing to his side, and excused himself as I entered. The Suit stood up and extended his rail thin hand. Taking the hand though, I had to keep from gasping in pain and shock at the coldness of his fingers and the sheer strength of his grip.
"Hello officer, my name is Drake Kampmann, and I represent the Department of Justice and am trying to organize a special task force of local, state and federal officers. I would like you to join this team."
"OK, Mr. Kampmann, is it?"
He nodded.
I coughed before proceeding, "Chief mentioned that there might be some extra pay in it for me, and I'd like to know more about that, of course. But more importantly, what is this task force being organized to do, and why do you want people with no religious affiliations?"
"Well, these are good questions, Officer Smith, so let me begin with the purpose of this task force. We are organizing this task force so that it can be assembled on very short notice and deployed to virtually any location in the United States in response to a growing threat by religious fundamentalists of all stripes. The Attorney General wants a strike force of dedicated law enforcement professionals who have no affiliations with any religious denominations so that we can act quickly and decisively against any threat before it grows too dangerous. As to your first point, about the extra monetary compensation, the DOJ is going to kick in up to $25,000 a year to each department who contributes an officer for this strike force to compensate for the lost man hours our training and operations will require, and an additional stipend to be paid directly to each officer who completes all of the training exercises and remains a participant in the program each year."
"Pardon my rudeness, Mr. Kampmann, but you know, how big will this stipend be?"
"Officer Smith, the size of your stipend depends on your level of involvement and whether or not you complete all of the required training, but I will tell you that your stipend could easily exceed the amount paid to your department. The first partial payment will be made once these contracts are finalized. There are some additional details that I will only be able to discuss with you in Washington, should you accept my invitation to join this task force."
Shit, once I heard his mention of the size of the stipend, I didn't hear anyting other than mumbling. I signed the contracts and memorandums he put in front of me without much paying attention to the details. The visions of what an extra $25,000 a year could do for me and my family were just too tempting. They had found a sucker alright, and boy was I to learn that over the next couple of years.
More to come with my next few entries. Now I must take my leave to attend to some surveillance operations.
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