David Silva - The Disappeared

By the time he made it home, he had begun to feel the effects of the trip. He dropped his suitcase in the entryway and headed for the wet bar in the living room, where he poured himself a Vodka Collins. There was a slight chill in the house, though he preferred it a little on the cool side and didn’t have the energy to bother with the thermostat, which was mounted on the wall at the other end of the hall.

Instead, he collapsed on the couch.

It had been a long haul. Not just the trip and the flight home, but everything that had happened over the past twenty years: the first administration of Genesis, the disappointment when it hadn’t appeared to have had any effect, the follow-up with the children just in case, then the mishap with the AA103. A long journey and Childs still wasn’t sure how far he had come.

D.C. had instructed him to dispose of the AA103 and all his research notes shortly after the comas had started to crop up. If the public ever found out, he had said, all hell would break loose. The entire government would be in danger. Of course, that had been before they discovered the other side effect: that the children had stopped aging. By then, D.C. had already supervised the burning of the notes and the disposal of all ten vials of the drug.

Childs had been devastated. He had naively allowed himself to believe that he had been part of something important, so important that the CIA and the DOD had wanted him on their team. That was the only way he had been able justify what he had done. It had been for the good of the country, for the good of mankind. The end truly would justify the means.

Not all the AA103 had gone down the drain. Childs had not been able to bring himself to dispose of all of it. Shortly after the first child had fallen ill, he had set aside a single vial, replacing it with distilled water. He was perhaps naive, but he wasn’t stupid. He realized that once word got out about what had happened things in Washington would heat up and eventually he would feel the pressure. So he had covered himself.

He took another swipe at his drink.

AA103 .

How close could a man come to uncovering the key to aging and still not quite figure it out? All he had to do was take a look at any of the dozens of sleepers scattered around the country. In ten years, not a single child in the group had grown older. Not a single child. Not a day older. They had all beaten Old Man Time’s ticking clock, and they had done it because of him. And now the only thing that remained between him and history was understanding the connection to the AA103.

How close could a man come?

He gulped down the last of the Vodka Collins and nearly missed setting the glass on the coffee table. There was a quote he had picked up in college, though he couldn’t remember who had said it. It was this: I was never afraid of failure; for I would sooner fail than not be among the greatest.

“Not so me,” Childs said, knowing that the fear of failure had been a harbinger perched upon his shoulder for as long as he could remember. It was always there, always whispering calamities in his ear, rarely letting him sleep the dreamless night, rest the wakeful morning. And it had only become worse since Audrey had died.

“Not so me.”

The phone rang.

It startled him, and Childs barked the shin of his right leg against the coffee table as he sat up. It hurt something awful as he limped into the kitchen and grabbed the receiver off its cradle. “Yeah?”

“You’re back?” Elizabeth said, surprised. Her last name was Tilley. She was in her late-fifties, and she had an extensive background in nursing, which was how Childs had first met her back in the days of the off-campus clinic near Berkeley. They had been together, professionally, ever since. If there was anyone in the world he trusted, it was Elizabeth. She was his adviser, his confidant, the only person who had truly shared his vision all these years.

“Just got in,” he said.

“I left a message on your answering machine.”

“Yeah?”

“Another sleeper woke up today.”

“Jesus.” Childs pulled out the nearest chair and sat down. Earlier, he been willing to succumb to the numbing effects of his drink, but he came fighting back now, suddenly wide awake and clear-headed. It hadn’t been a fluke after all. When the Knight boy had come out of his coma, his eyes a different color, no one had been sure what to make of it. Now, it was beginning to look like another effect of the AA103. “Which one?”

“Cody Breswick.”

“How old was he?”

“According to our records, almost eight.”

“And when did he go under?”

“Two days before the Knight boy.”

“Incredible.”

“You think they might all start coming up?”

“I don’t know. I wish I understood what the hell was going on.” Childs ran a hand across his face. He hadn’t had a chance to shave this morning. He wasn’t one of those guys who had to shave twice a day or otherwise risk walking around with a ragged five o’clock shadow, but the stubble was beginning to irritate him now. He needed to clean up. More than that, he needed a good night’s sleep.

“You monitoring all his vitals?”

“Of course.”

“Anything out of the ordinary?”

“As far as I can tell, he’s as healthy as the day he went under. We’ve already started him on physical therapy and we did a complete blood work up. No surprises so far. The kid’s eating like he’s trying to fill a hollow leg.”

“I can’t believe this,” Childs muttered. He let out a breath that felt cool against the inside of his throat, and wondered if he might be coming down with a cold. Things had been stressful lately. That wasn’t something he liked to admit. He preferred to think that over the years he had learned to roll with the punches when things got to be a little overwhelming. Sometimes, though, you fooled yourself without realizing it. “Okay, I’ll be in first thing in the morning. Is he sleeping now?”

“Like a baby.”

“Good, then first thing in the morning, okay?”

“He’s your patient.”

Teri was asleep by the time Walt arrived home. She had learned, without intending to, how to sleep lightly these past few days. As soon as the front door opened, she was sitting up in bed, the covers already thrown back. Walt came down the hall, whispering her name. If she hadn’t recognized the voice she might very well have jumped him, and someone might have gotten hurt.

“Walt?”

He pushed the bedroom door open. “I didn’t wake you, did I?”

Teri stepped out from behind the door, the Webster’s New World Dictionary in her hand. “Jesus, Walt, you nearly scared me to death.”

“Sorry.”

“You’ll never know how close you came to being sorry.”

She returned the book to the top of the bureau, next to the manila envelope that had come in the mail for her this afternoon. It was addressed to Teri Knight, written in a bold, almost childlike scrawl that slanted downward, left to right. The address under her name, written in that same crayon-like scrawl, had not been her home address. The address had been Walt’s.

Teri had opened the envelope apprehensively, curling back the corner of the flap and peering in as if she were afraid something might leap out at her if she weren’t careful. But it had only been a letter and some newspaper articles. The letter had been written by Richard Boyle, someone she had since come to know better than she had ever intended.

For a moment, now, Teri had two simultaneous debates vying for her attention. The first was whether or not she should tell him about what had happened here last night. The second was whether or not she should show Walt the contents of the envelope. She decided, rightly or wrongly, against both. It was late now. They were both tired. There would be plenty of time to tell him about Richard Boyle, his deeds and his death.