Patent Approved

Patent Approved

A Story by Ace St. Jean
"

We don't need him anymore, Doctor.

"

PATENT APPROVED 


Blood ran to the floor. Bits of flesh occupied it as well--it splattered upon the cold hard tile and the white wooden cabinets.

The figure ran--Gene collapsed. Within the moment of Gene's demise, the figure collapsed, only from an entirely different purpose: he was shot.

Additional blood began to flow from Gene's body. The blood reflected the figure through the window, which, like the tile floor itself, was newly polished. The figure fell, for he was shot, shot by another figure, who emerged from the trees grasping a pistol, next to the third figure, who clutched a notebook. The figure with a notebook scribbled in the same minute as the action, something down, before he and his pistol wielding partner entered the house--it must be told that he had written his note in the quick of time, for the ink had smudged, before he stuffed it away into his interior suit pocket.

"Gene!" Shouted the man, who grasped the pistol, now in a holster, who wore all black like his partner, who continued with his speech: "Get up!"

Gene, who wore all white, failed to respond.

"Now, Gene, now!"

He continued to fail, like before and like to follow.

"Lockhart!" Cried the man to his partner. "Fetch him up."

"Yes, Wilhelm, sir." He replied with a tinge of fear, for his voice shook, shook like his hand, and the pen placed to his cheek, where a small amount of ink was now upon it.

"Flip him up."

"Who, sir?" Responded the man whose pen was to his cheek, again, with fear.

"The Doctor--the Failed Man--you..." He paused; he decided to stop, for he would not utter the word to follow.

"Yes, sir."

 

And so Gene was flipped, without query, and without question, by Lockhart.

Blood sent itself towards the ceiling--the wall--the empty cabinet, empty like the house itself.

"Gene!" Shouted Wilhelm, "Up, now!"

"But, sir--he cannot--"

"Silence Lockhart! He's merely troubled." Lockhart paused, before continuing: "Sir, he's--he's."

"What!?" Shouted Wilhelm. "Hurry up!"

"He's dead."

"No, he ain't." Wilhelm paused: "Get up Gene, or I'll shoot you!"

"But, but--" Gene whispered, "I can't."

"Sure you can." Uttered Wilhelm, only to be interrupted by Lockhart: "Sir, he, he--needs help."

"Then fetch the kit, you idiot." Replied Wilhelm, with a stinging tone of anger.

 

And so the kit was fetched, fetched from the car of pearl white, which rested beside the body of the shot figure, which several flies had begun to consume, filling their tiny bellies, they gulped the flesh of Alpha, who clutched a knife in his cold hands--a knife that, like the interior of the house, was pasted with dripping blood. 

 

In and out--out and in, the wound was closed; and within a moment, the blood halted. 

 

Gene sat upon a chair, a chair of white, a white which molded into his coat, a coat stained (most likely permanently) with blood.

     Wilhelm and Lockhart sat in two opposing chairs, while Gene breathed in and out, prior to him speaking:

"I failed." 

 

 

A paper was placed; a life was changed.

 

The hand of Doctor Gene began to unfold the paper with a speckle of nervousness, for the hand shook, slightly, nothing to major, and nothing to prevent the paper from being unfolded within a longer amount of time.

 

"Gene." Whispered a voice-a man's voice, which, like the hand connected to it, shook, as it continued: "Be careful."

The voice was Gene, who whispered to himself as he continued to unfold the paper. And after several moments of waiting, with two pairs of eyes closely examining the scene and a single whispering voice echoing through, the paper was opened.

Looking up, with puzzlement upon his face, Gene spoke:

"Illinois?"

"Yes, Gene--Illinois." Said Wilhelm, who sat at the opposing end of the table.

"Western side--near, um, what was it again? Wilhelm?" Said Lockhart.

"Iowa, Lockhart, it's near Iowa." Said Wilhelm. "A small settlement, nothing you cannot handle, Gene." Wilhelm then reached for another paper on the table. "And Gene?"

"Yes, Mr. Wilhelm?"

"Your flight departs in two hours."

"Flight? I thought that ended due to the outbreak."

"Well there comes a time when safety and security must be sacrificed."

"Very, well, Mr. Wilhelm."

"Now, Doctor Gene, don't fail again . . ."

 

Empty--the very state the structure was in, for the current moment.

Cars were scattered. Bodies lay upon the asphalt, almost in the state of melting from the heat.

A car could be seen entering the scene, before stopping. The care was white, like the attire of the man who emerged from it--white was the lab coat, and white was the sun.

Carrying a large trunk, which had been removed by shaking hands from the car, Gene pushed himself through the sea consisting primarily of bodies, among cars, among flies; the flies feasted upon the bodies, slurping blood and bits of flesh; they subsided, for Gene pushed his way through, this frightened and startled their tiny selves, forcing for them to obey and move. And he stopped, stopped, for another man cut past shaking and limping, prior to entering the structure.

Gene eyed the man, before entering himself into the structure, Bradley International Airport, to be concise and clear of what it was he was entering.

    

A woman stood before Gene, she wore all blue, a uniform clearly to tight, for her figure could clearly be seen. Her face was fair, for it was young, like Gene himself, who was of the age thirty or so.

"Name?" She spoke.

"William Harold Gene, ma'am."

"Hand?" She continued.

"What for?"

"Vein."

"May I inquire as to why this is required?" Said Gene.

She leaned towards Gene and spoke: "I need your blood, please."

 

With a greater amount of fear, Gene forced his quivering hand upon the table.

With a smile, she removed a syringe, a device clear without any tinge of blood, before it was pushed into a visible vein of Gene's.

The blood was pulled slow, without any tinge of haste, or any feeling to continue, only to simply stop, for Gene's hand was now colorless, not a speckle of color occupied it--the limp hand fell from the table, still connected to Gene's body, it swayed, prior to Gene exiting for the terminal at the cue of the Fair-Faced Woman: a basic nod, for this happened quite often.

 

 

A man walked; a man fell; a man lifted a frail body from the floor.

 

His hair fell to the floor; his bones could be seen through his thin skin.

Gene, who had watched the thin (and almost dying) man fall, was also the one who pulled him up, for he lay upon the floor. However, to great pain and bone cracking, only Gene's right hand could be used; and with the aid of his knee, for his left (and dominate) hand continued to sway side to side, he performed the action. The small amount of remaining blood dripped to the white, yet dirty, floor.

The whole ordeal lasted many moments. If the ordeal had never occurred then the red haired man would become one of them--the countless bodies, which were rotting, smelling, and even crawling upon the floor.

"What's your name?" Asked Gene to the man, who then responded:

"James . . . James Smith."

"William, William Gene!"

A hand with flowing blood was held out, and that hand was shook. And two men managed themselves down the terminal, to gate 6B--the only open gate, where the only open plane waited for someone--anyone--to arrive.

 

No one stood at the gate, and no one waited, two men entered the otherwise empty plane--of white with no marking to distinguish it from the other planes--only the engine's mumbling allowed for the plane to not be engulfed by the world of dead silent planes, identical to the living.

 

The plane appeared empty, one would believe such a fact for it could logically be assumed than every other plane in the lot was vacant, of course, the opposite was true. The plane was filled with dead bodies, or some presumably living for there was a fair amount of crawling among them. There were bodies in seats, bodies in the aisle, and bodies on the wings.

There were two seats that were empty, and they were then taken by Gene and James in the moment they were spotted.

They were situated by the window, and Gene had taken the one closest, allowing for him to view the barrage of bodies on the wing, while James viewed the barrage of bodies in the plane's interior, both equally vomit inducing, for both men vomited in the appropriate bag in the small pocket in the suit before them, ironically the flight had not even begun yet.

That was when the woman from earlier appeared.

Gene was quick to begin his staring at her, while James was quick to eye Gene, and then ask her what her business was.

"I am here to ensure that you two handsome gentlemen have a safe...and comfortable flight, from Hartford to Chicago. The flight will be--"

"Just over two and a half hours my dear." Said Gene, "it says it here." And with his words, Gene held up a small booklet reading: Flight 107 Hartford to Chicago.

"Yes, Mr. Gene."

"It's Doctor, if you please, my dear."

"Oh, of course, sorry Doctor Gene--you could always look in the booklet provided to you in the seat before you."

"Yes, yes, it's more efficient that way, my dear, now hurry along--we wouldn't want the flight to be delayed on your accord."

And she left, slightly amused, slightly flattered, and slightly scared of Gene who watched her closely as she disappeared to the front of the plane.

"What was that for?" Asked James Smith, who looked at Gene puzzled and almost fearful of what would happen next.

"That's called my charm, James, it works, to be fair, ninety percent of the time."

"Don't you have a wife?"

"A wife, James? I refuse to sell myself to one person for my life--I prefer freedom in choosing my affairs, rather than the tyrannical to attachment to a single human being."

"Very well, Doctor--I have a wife and a child--"

"What's your child's name, James?"

"Her name is Jessica."

"What a lovely name, perhaps I'll meet her one day."

"Perhaps you will, Doctor, after all she lives with her mother and I in Plantation 107."

"Plantation 107?"

"Yes, Doctor Gene, it's a small town in western Illinois, near the border with Iowa. The management isn't so great, neither is the mayor, you know, he once killed a man."

"The mayor killed a man?"

"Yes, yes, he hid the body in the town lake. And you know what? We use that lake to irrigate our crops and for our water."

"Seems like a sensible person to me."

"Sensible? You must be joking, Doctor."

"He kills his opponent and hides him in the lake, genius almost, genius beyond compare. And he's the mayor of his town!"

"I guess so, from your eyes it is sensible to kill a man."

"Do you know who it was he killed, James?"

"His brother."

"Even more sensible, probably to acquire a greater sum of his family's fortune, or better yet, control of his town."

"You must be mad, Doctor! You're--"

"Rationalizing a man's murder, something not even the greatest minds can accomplish."

 

And James Smith was left to ponder that fact, as the plane lifted itself into the sky, as the bodies moaned and groaned as it pulled off the ground, as the world of Hartford became clouds of thick gray.

 

 

It had been around an hour or so into the flight, an hour or so into silence between the two men, when the woman returned.

 

She was wearing the same outfit as her prior appearance, and the appearance before that. She pushed a small cart with several items atop. She stopped beside the two men.

"Would you care for anything gentlemen?"

James looked at Gene, who was puzzled yet excited for the woman, his source of eye candy had returned.

"I'm fine." Said Gene, while James remained silent.

"I wasn't expecting such a quick response." Said the woman.

"Then what were you expecting?" Gene asked staring at the woman's eyes, which looked back at him with an eagerness and a glow.

"I was expecting for you to say 'yes'".

 

Nevertheless, the plane landed. It nearly crashed down on the runway at the small Chicago airport. The flight was complete, but the journey was only midway through.

 

James and Gene stepped off the plane. Gene caught an extra glance at the woman before leaving. Gene was the one who walked first into the airport, which was intimidating to James, for it was alive.

There were bodies everywhere in the terminal, only this time, they were walking, breathing, and living.

 

"Well it appears we are in a more functioning part of the country." Said Gene.

James said nothing in return--he instead watched as the bodies of the terminal transitioned throughout it, lugging bags, and wheeling suitcases, stuffed with their items of wealth.

That was when a man came from the crowd approached James and Gene.

"Well it appears the patent has been approved!" He said.

"I don't follow." Gene responded, examining him from his polished black shoes to his smooth and clean face, and his slicked back hair, gelled perfectly into the rest of him.

"The arrival of the famous Doctor William Harold Gene is like the approval of a patent--long awaited and welcomed greatly."

"Oh, of course, Mister?"

"That's not important, Doctor Gene, not important to the slightest, what is important is that you, and--" He paused, staring at James. "Who's this?"

"This is James Smith." Said Gene, "We flew together on the same flight, he's a bit...quiet."

"It will do, Doctor Gene. Mr. Smith, where are you headed?"

"I am headed to Plantation 107--same as Doctor Gene."

"Very well, I heard the weather was nice over in that part."

"We should be on our way, sir." Said Gene as he began to walk after motioning for James to follow.

"Not...yet, Doctor. You're coming with me."

"Oh really."

"Yes, Doctor. I believe you were informed back in Connecticut that I would meet you."

"I heard no such thing, sir."

"Very well, Doctor Gene, now if you and Mr. Smith would please come with me...that would be appreciated."

 

Upon retrieving his trunk from the baggage claim, and saying farewell to the Fair-Faced Woman, Gene, James, and the man departed Midway Airport, along with countless others they headed down a main road, before reaching a smaller road, which lead them to their destination.

 

The water of the lake reflected the white truck as it approached along the dirt, kicking some of it up, and leaving some of it down. The truck stopped. Gene and James stepped out into the dirt itself.

James immediately walked towards the lake. He looked up at the sun as it shined its rays down upon him and the lake. He walked into the lake, allowing for his shoes to become filled with water, and he began splashing water upon his face, relieving himself of his worries.

 

"Gene." Said the man.

"Yes...sir?" Gene turned from staring at James to seeing the man, with a pistol in hand.

"Kill him." Said the man. Gene walked several steps towards the man; Gene took the pistol, as the man began to speak: "kill him for his death is justified, Doctor. We don't need him anymore." 

 

© 2017 Ace St. Jean


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A very nice story beautifully told :)

Posted 5 Years Ago


I love your writing style! To me, it felt like someone was verbally telling me a story. I loved the descriptions as well!

Posted 5 Years Ago


1 of 1 people found this review constructive.


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Added on July 5, 2017
Last Updated on July 8, 2017

Author

Ace St. Jean
Ace St. Jean

CT



About
Science fiction with bits of drama and horror. That's what I enjoy writing. It may not be all that I post, but it's what i enjoyed writing. more..

Writing
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A Story by Ace St. Jean