JUNIOR preview

book preview of JUNIOR


 


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JUNIOR 


Michael
Michaelson, ‘Junior’, is a twentieth-century cigarette salesman selected as
a guinea pig for his billionaire boss’ experiments in immortality. Given the
option of a fully funded eternity or an immediate, painful death, he has little
choice.

 

Now,
two hundred years on, Junior is reassessing his future.

 

Gigantic
artworks, pop stars, mutant babies and apocalyptic plagues all lead Junior to
the conclusion that eternity comes at a price, and if humanity is going to live
forever, more than one man will have to pay.

In Store Price: $26.00 

Online Price:   $25.00

ISBN:978-1-921240-84-3




Format: A5 Paperback

Number of pages:
217


Genre: Fiction

 

Author:
Howard Kimber

Imprint: Poseidon

Publisher: Poseidon Books
Date Published:  2007

Language: English

HOME PAGE

AUTHOR
BIOGRAPHY

 

Howard Kimber
was born in
Melbourne
in 1964. Holidays and sojourns aside, he has lived there ever since. He has
worked in pretty much every job under the sun – from percussionist to
journalist, toilet cleaner to television presenter – but has now settled into
the dual roles of writer and house husband.

 

When not at
the keyboard, he is caring for Lucy and Zara, a worthwhile job at any time.

I

 

 

I’m alone on the porch for maybe two hours, just rocking quietly.
Maybe two hours. Maybe two minutes. You know what they say about dreams – a
lifetime in a second.

Let’s call it
two hours. Two hours of looking over an unending pasture of green, green grass.
Two hours of listening to the whispers and giggles of a million unseen insects.
Talking about me, I imagine.

Two hours of
waiting.

Two hours. Not
a long time in the scheme of things no matter what distortions are in place, but
it had been years. The last time this happened, he at least sent somebody to
tell me he wasn’t coming, but now there was no-one. Just me and a hum and a
warm breeze carrying those little bug murmurings through the green, green grass
and up onto the veranda.

I stopped my
chair from rocking and looked over my shoulder at the screen door. It was
closed, as always, held silent by a tiny brass ‘hook ‘n’ hole’ small
enough to look like it came from a third grader’s lunch box. Big enough to do
the job.

I stood up. I
hadn’t stood on this veranda for years. Many years. Or maybe just a second.

I walked to the
door.

“Hey,” I
offered to the screen and to the grass and to a million backstabbing bugs.

“Hey?”

The insects
shut up. All the way to the horizon they stopped their secret murmurings,
probably looking at me from their hidey holes, wondering what stupid thing I was
going to do next. ‘Hey, everyone, knock it off! Check out what he’s doing
now!’

The breeze had
changed too. It was still there, but it wasn’t so warm and friendly anymore.
It was all those damn cicadas and crickets and centipedes, holding their breath,
turning it colder, leaving the softest of chills to wrap round my neck.

I’m just
standing at the door, staring at it, losing and finding and losing focus again
in the fine screen mesh. I don’t turn around because I know the grass is gone.
I know the bugs are gone. The chair, the veranda, and now even the wind – all
gone. Right out to the horizon that was never there to begin with.

“Hey!” I
offered once more as I lifted the little latch from its burrow. No-one answered.
Who would?

I pulled at the
door. It stuck for a moment, jammed by its own poor workmanship, then it jerked
open at me.

There was
nothing.

Just black.

 

II

Page
Four

 

 

The blackest thing is always the blood. It’s jet black, that’s just
the way it comes up. Black and seeping. Even in a frozen moment, a stationary
two seconds, it seeps like the edge of this universe as it crawls where it
doesn’t belong. A black hole sucking the life out of linoleum, or terracotta,
or a fine oak desk, screwing itself further away, searching for God knows what,
getting more and more useless with every millimetre it moves from the body. The
blood is always the blackest thing, and there is almost always blood, but not on
page four.

On page four
the darkness is in the pupils of the wild staring eyes, two ebony pinpricks
devoid of life, of light, of moisture enough to send a glimmer of reflection
back out to the camera lens. Even the instant of brightness bursting from my
father’s hand-held flash gun is swallowed by those thirsty balls of
nothingness. If he needed a guide in the darkroom, something to fill the
right-hand end of his grey scale, then this poor bastard’s eyes would do the
job just fine. A perfect reading. One hundred percent.

The body lies
on a cold and naked concrete floor, all bent and twisted like a figure from one
of those pocket-book war comics, spastically caught mid-flight after stepping on
a landmine. There was nothing quick about this ending though. At least two or
three days of pain are written over the dead man’s face. That’s two or three
days in real time. No dreaming here.

Those dry black
and white marbles of eyes are the only thing that jumped forwards from a body
where everything else has been sucked back, and sucked back hard. His skin is
pulled onto the bones so tight he could be a papier-mâché skeleton at a
child’s science fair. His elbows and knees are dried-up spit balls, his lips
swallowed by his own howling mouth, his patchy stubble like a mass of tiny
tumbleweeds unable to find water. Given up to the wind. Dead.

He is
mummified.

Someone has
kept him conscious while every organ failed, while every drop of moisture was
wrung out, until this brittle, dried-up museum piece is all that remains. And
then they had tidied up the room and left.

Stranger things
have happened.

 

The shrivelled
carcass, wearing a white hospital gown so crisp and clean that it would do my
father well at the left-hand end, lies within arms’ reach of the shiny legs of
a steel gurney. In the background are more sparkling benches and shelving units,
empty except for various cables that were plugged into machines and monitors not
long before, and, in the middle of one carefully coiled-up lead, a shiny apple
with one bite taken out of it.

My father told
me about that apple and the chaos it caused throughout the police force. It
looked like such a prime piece of evidence, sitting there with some homicidal
maniac’s teeth marks and saliva just crying out to be analysed. No-one noticed
it at the time, but when the photograph was developed there it sat in beautiful
black and white, crispier and shinier than possible in real life.

For the next
three days, anyone in the force who wasn’t already working on an urgent case,
was sent to the Melbourne Municipal Tip to scrabble through on their hands and
knees until the apple was found. At first they thought it was going to be like
looking for the proverbial needle in a haystack, but it soon turned into finding
a needle in a needle stack. Some four hundred and seventy-three Granny Smiths
and Pink Ladies and Royal Galas were found in that dump in three days of
searching. And that was just the apples with one bite taken out.

Then forensics
had to analyse them; running all sorts of tests, cross referring the bite marks
and spit samples for matches with the dental records of any criminals not
currently locked up. Then the investigating department gets that information
back and starts to track the possible biters down, grills them for alibis, their
whereabouts, all that stuff that police seem to do.

Weeks pass by.
Man hours, resources, government dollars are all being chewed up. Anyone in the
city who took a bite from an apple in the past few weeks – and that’s a lot
of people – is starting to feel guilty and ready to confess to anything from
first degree murder to wilfully wasting food, when the policewoman who put the
apple there in the first place finally comes forward. Apparently she’d lost
her appetite when she saw the dried-up core of a body and left the room in a
hurry to launch her breakfast onto the footpath outside.

And why was
Constable Wendy Jones eating an apple to begin with? Because her backside was
the size of a family car and she’d finally decided to diet right, desperate to
fit into the uniform she wore on the day she left the training college. And why
had she put on so much weight in the past four and a half years? Because her
husband had left her and taken the kids with him, saying that she had become too
aggressive and ‘unladylike’ since joining the force, and besides, he
didn’t think it was safe to have guns in the house with the children there.

Something
ironic? Wendy Jones was so traumatised by seeing the horrific, mummified body
that she couldn’t eat anything for nearly three weeks and lost ten kilos quick
smart, so by the time she came forward as the owner of the apple she was looking
trim, taut and terrific.

The double
whammy? After confessing that it was her apple, she got fired from the force,
got depressed, and holed up in her empty house, eating nothing but take-away and
ice-cream for the next four months, putting the ten kilos straight back on and
another thirteen to boot.

But wait,
there’s more! As soon as she took her oversized arse back out on the street to
look for a new job she was recognised and ridiculed by pretty much everyone she
waddled past.

Then she gets
so depressed again that she goes straight home and blows off the back of her
skull with her estranged husband’s old hunting rifle. The one he used to keep
in the wardrobe in the kids’ room!

And all of this
is in beautiful black and white just three pages later.

But that’s in
the future. We’re still in an abandoned makeshift laboratory with the drained
body of one very poor lab rat. And it’s empty. And it’s clean. And it will
be for another two seconds until my father’s work is done.

One cat and
dog, two cat and dog.

Police will
flood into the frame. There will be three or four officers in white coats,
dusting for fingerprints, scouring the floor for hairs or threads from old
cardigans. At least another half a dozen detectives will be shuffling around
from one sterile bench top to another, then back to the bag of bones on the
floor. And Wendy Jones will be out the front, throwing up on the footpath.

Among all this
activity someone has pried open the matchstick man’s hand and removed
something that looked like a small rock. Ignoring the various scientists and
high-ranking officers present, he has taken the object straight to my father,
who was considered somewhat of an ‘egghead’ by the regular police.

“What do you
make of this then, Michael?” he would have said in my distant recreation of
the scene. “Looks like a bug or something in there.”

My father would
have put his camera back in its case, folded up his tripod and slipped it into a
padded bag, and then looked closer at the object the detective was holding.
Recognising it for what it was he would have told the man to stop handling it
with his grubby little fingers and put it in a sealed evidence bag.

“Considering
its scientific nature, and the similarly scientific nature of the equipment that
I imagine was previously here, it may hold some bearing on the case at hand,
don’t you think, Officer MacGilvray?” Or words to that effect.

The policeman
followed my father’s advice, and the object was submitted as evidence.
However, the case was never solved, and after a three-year waiting period my
father applied to take possession of the object from the police warehouse. His
request was granted and he found himself the proud owner of one prehistoric
insect, seemingly a giant mosquito, caught forever in a solid piece of amber.

The insect had
been swallowed alive by the thick, golden goo, its body caught amid death
throes, spastically twisted like the skeletal figure that Officer MacGilvray had
taken it from. One of the creature’s legs had been torn off by the slow
flowing amber, and now sat suspended, just out of the insect’s reach. Its
bulging eyes stared on past the unattainable limb, to the cloudy, sepia-toned
world beyond.

My father used
the amber as a paper weight and instructional tool. He placed it on the large
oak desk in his study at home, right between a small statue of Jesus on the
cross and a sitting, jade Buddha. That was the old man, playing the field. That
was any old man.

He found me in
there one day, looking at the mosquito. “Some people believe,” he said
unannounced, giving me a fair fright, “that it would be possible to take a DNA
sample from something like that bug, and use it to clone the dinosaurs that it
fed from. They think they could just pull out a drop of what lies in its gut,
mix it around in some magical green goo, and presto! A Tyrannosaurus Rex or a
Pterodactyl or a Mayasaurus.”

“Really?”

“Sounds like
magic doesn’t it?” My father paused before moving his hands in a slow
semi-circle, and twiddling his fingers said, “Abracadabra!”

“Wow,” I
said as any kid would. “Maybe you should give this to a scientist.”

“Why son? Do
you think a little more magic would make the world a better place?”

He turned the
block of amber over in his hand, studying it as light passed through in sharp,
golden lines. “We people may be smart enough not to get caught in tree sap
moving at two feet an hour, but that’s about the end of it. You pull this
little fellow’s blood out and start mucking around with it and sure, you may
get yourself some eighty-foot long reptile, but inside him might be the virus
that wiped out the dinosaurs to begin with. That little speck of doomsday may be
sitting inside this mosquito just waiting for someone or something dumb enough
to let it out.”

He placed the
lump of amber back on top of a pile of papers. “Best leave the genie in the
bottle this time, what do you think?”

What did I
think? I was fourteen years old. I thought that there was a bug that was going
to destroy the world and it was living in my father’s study.

That insect
scared me, stuck there in limbo. It was watching the world go by through
orange-tinted glasses, taking it all in.

It had already
seen the dinosaurs die, just lay there, frozen, as they fell down left, right
and centre. It had watched some pitiful little creature crawl out from under a
bush and stand on two legs. Watched hungrily as blood was spilt again and again.
Watched as some poor bastard died a slow and agonising death on the floor of a
makeshift laboratory. Watched a scared little boy grow into a man and then
watched that man walk around a series of rooms for two hundred years straight.

Two hundred
years, and that man is still scared of that little bug in its amber cage, a tiny
warden in a watchtower, keeping note of my every step. I’m scared that one day
that tiny bloodsucker’s going to get out, and it’s going to do what it does
and go straight for a vein, and it’s going to drink and drink while I sleep,
and then it’s going to fly away and destroy the world.

And that
mosquito isn’t going to have a clue what it’s doing. Millions of years of
watching, of taking it all in, of waiting for its chance to get out and make it
right, and it’s all going to come crashing down because he can’t tell red
from green. To him, it’s all black. Black as the edge of the universe. Black
as the blood in my father’s photographs. Black as a refrigerator when the door
is closed and the light goes out.   

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