conversation.
He couldn’t quite get his head around it.
Although he had believed, all along, that his encounter with the creature had led to his miraculous recovery, within his own mind Mitts had promised himself that he would never share this inkling with anyone else.
But Heinmein had seen through him so easily.
Finally, Mitts replied, “Yes . . . ‘a change’ . . . and”—Mitts thought about it for a moment, and then decided there was no reason to leave any information out—“visions, strange dreams, these . . . just these hills . . . these dark-purple hills.”
When Mitts glanced back at Heinmein, he was surprised to see his mouth latched open.
As if he was in shock.
“Did you see them too?” Mitts asked.
Heinmein, clearly stunned, shook his head. “No, I have seen nothing of that.”
Mitts turned back to the creature, lying on the drawer.
He could feel Heinmein’s scrutinising gaze.
Like a heat lamp.
“All my life I have had trouble with walking”—Heinmein slapped his affected leg—“but soon after I brought this creature in here, as soon as I began the procedures, trying to determine what it was, where it came from, I too noticed a change in me.”
Heinmein stepped away from the opened drawer which bore the body of the creature. “Do you not believe that I have a—how should I say?—rather youthful look about me now?”
Mitts had to admit that he had noticed a change.
Heinmein was shaking his head, as if out of disbelief. “Never in my life would I have believed it unless I had seen it for myself.” He nodded to Mitts. “And you—you must feel somewhat similar, no? This is like a realm of magic, and mystery, something which could not exist—which should not exist.”
Mitts, though, felt his mind shifting gears.
Turning its attention to more practical matters.
“What does it mean?” Mitts asked. “Where did this come from?”
Heinmein continued to shake his head.
His smile became so wide that apprehension gripped him.
Mitts glanced down.
Saw that Heinmein, from somewhere— somehow —had grabbed hold of a gun.
He held it pointed at him.
Mitts glanced back up.
Took in the maniacal look in Heinmein’s eye.
The arched eyebrows.
He had waited so long for his human specimen.
Now he had his chance.
“Stop!” Mitts called out.
But it was too late.
Out of darkness, a bullet bit him.
Sam America could feel the winds gathering up their skirts, preparing to loop their arms and trot all the way down along the coast.
Pummelling all in their path.
Leaving nothing but desolation.
Despair.
Testing fortitude.
While he walked, he kicked at the stones. Sent them skittering down toward the tide—the tide which continued to slosh in; a long-suffering, terminal patient drawing its last breaths; only able to breathe with the aid of a ventilator.
The stony shore was a foreboding place for Sam America . . . for the last hero on the face of Planet Earth.
But he held himself still—he held himself tall—and, within his mind, he heard the constant reminder of just what he fought for.
Of all there was to gain.
Because mankind—the world —wasn’t a lost cause.
Not yet.
Not quite yet.
THE HUMAN SPECIMEN
M itts came to his senses , struggling to reach the battery-powered pack at the back of his suit.
He was trembling.
All over.
He was losing blood quickly.
He could feel blood dampening his suit.
Trickling down his spine.
Down the backs of his legs.
The coppery smell of blood— its bitter taste —filled his airways.
His mind had got away from him.
It was almost as if it’d been a dream.
Or as if, for the past few minutes—had they been hours?—his brain and body had become divided.
His mind operating on another plane . . . that superhero figure again; that Sam America . . . while his body . . . his body had . . .
Finally, Mitts managed to reach the battery-powered pack.
He flipped the
He couldn’t quite get his head around it.
Although he had believed, all along, that his encounter with the creature had led to his miraculous recovery, within his own mind Mitts had promised himself that he would never share this inkling with anyone else.
But Heinmein had seen through him so easily.
Finally, Mitts replied, “Yes . . . ‘a change’ . . . and”—Mitts thought about it for a moment, and then decided there was no reason to leave any information out—“visions, strange dreams, these . . . just these hills . . . these dark-purple hills.”
When Mitts glanced back at Heinmein, he was surprised to see his mouth latched open.
As if he was in shock.
“Did you see them too?” Mitts asked.
Heinmein, clearly stunned, shook his head. “No, I have seen nothing of that.”
Mitts turned back to the creature, lying on the drawer.
He could feel Heinmein’s scrutinising gaze.
Like a heat lamp.
“All my life I have had trouble with walking”—Heinmein slapped his affected leg—“but soon after I brought this creature in here, as soon as I began the procedures, trying to determine what it was, where it came from, I too noticed a change in me.”
Heinmein stepped away from the opened drawer which bore the body of the creature. “Do you not believe that I have a—how should I say?—rather youthful look about me now?”
Mitts had to admit that he had noticed a change.
Heinmein was shaking his head, as if out of disbelief. “Never in my life would I have believed it unless I had seen it for myself.” He nodded to Mitts. “And you—you must feel somewhat similar, no? This is like a realm of magic, and mystery, something which could not exist—which should not exist.”
Mitts, though, felt his mind shifting gears.
Turning its attention to more practical matters.
“What does it mean?” Mitts asked. “Where did this come from?”
Heinmein continued to shake his head.
His smile became so wide that apprehension gripped him.
Mitts glanced down.
Saw that Heinmein, from somewhere— somehow —had grabbed hold of a gun.
He held it pointed at him.
Mitts glanced back up.
Took in the maniacal look in Heinmein’s eye.
The arched eyebrows.
He had waited so long for his human specimen.
Now he had his chance.
“Stop!” Mitts called out.
But it was too late.
Out of darkness, a bullet bit him.
Sam America could feel the winds gathering up their skirts, preparing to loop their arms and trot all the way down along the coast.
Pummelling all in their path.
Leaving nothing but desolation.
Despair.
Testing fortitude.
While he walked, he kicked at the stones. Sent them skittering down toward the tide—the tide which continued to slosh in; a long-suffering, terminal patient drawing its last breaths; only able to breathe with the aid of a ventilator.
The stony shore was a foreboding place for Sam America . . . for the last hero on the face of Planet Earth.
But he held himself still—he held himself tall—and, within his mind, he heard the constant reminder of just what he fought for.
Of all there was to gain.
Because mankind—the world —wasn’t a lost cause.
Not yet.
Not quite yet.
THE HUMAN SPECIMEN
M itts came to his senses , struggling to reach the battery-powered pack at the back of his suit.
He was trembling.
All over.
He was losing blood quickly.
He could feel blood dampening his suit.
Trickling down his spine.
Down the backs of his legs.
The coppery smell of blood— its bitter taste —filled his airways.
His mind had got away from him.
It was almost as if it’d been a dream.
Or as if, for the past few minutes—had they been hours?—his brain and body had become divided.
His mind operating on another plane . . . that superhero figure again; that Sam America . . . while his body . . . his body had . . .
Finally, Mitts managed to reach the battery-powered pack.
He flipped the
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