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Five Days of Eternity

Five Days of Eternity

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Five Days of Eternity

Length:
356 pages
4 hours
Released:
Mar 28, 2010
ISBN:
9781452384603
Format:
Book

Description

An excellent work . . . weaves an enthralling thriller within a humanistic fabric . . . a roller coaster ride with numerous twists and turns . . . a clever well-paced story with vivid description and eloquent styling. The invention that could save mankind from deadly viruses such as AIDS could also destroy the soul and lives of its creator and beneficiaries. The symbolic snake/dragon unraveled from biting its own tail is a search for fundamental aspirations of the human spirit . . . highly recommended.

Power, greed, murder, good versus evil, love, suspense . . . it has it all . . .a thought-provoking look at mankind’s future as scientific research progresses towards a cure for many diseases and conditions. Reminded me of Robin Cook or Dean Koontz’s books; an all round page turner with a fascinating peak into biochemistry and microbiology that was both straight up and riveting. It had the edge of your seat thing of Five Years After and the swift relentless pace of Restrictions but with romance, fun, mystery and intrigue. An absolutely phenomenal read and begs for a sequel.

Released:
Mar 28, 2010
ISBN:
9781452384603
Format:
Book

About the author

E A St Amant is the author of How to Increase the Volume of the Sea Without Water, Dancing in the Costa Rican Rain and Stealing Flowers.


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Five Days of Eternity - E A (Edward) St Amant

Five Days of Eternity

Five Days of Eternity

Edward A St Amant

Published by E A St Amant at Smashwords.com

Smashwords Edition 2017

Verses and poems within by author.

Web and Cover design. Edward Oliver Zucca

Web Developed by: Adam D’Alessandro

Pressed by eimpressions Toronto

Copyrighted by E A St Amant May 2006

Author Contact: ted@eastamant.com

E A St Amant.com Publishers

www.eastamant.com

All rights reserved. No part of this novel may be reproduced or utilized in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, emailing, ebooking, by voice recordings, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the author, publisher or their agents. Five Days of Eternity ISBN-13: 978-0-9780118-5-7; Digital ISBN: 978-1-4523-8460-3. Thanks to the many people who did editorial work on this project and offered their many suggestions, including S Dalrymple, L Murray, T R St Amant, Deborah Cooke and Lisa D’Alessandro. Also thanks to Lisa’s friends at the U of T research labs for their kind assistance on the lab scenes and the theoretical science behind the serum. This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblances whatsoever to any real actual events or locales in persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. Cover Symbol: Ourborus, the Dragon that eats its own tale symbolizes the endless cycle of eternity.

By Edward A St Amant

How to Increase the Volume of the Sea Without Water

Dancing in the Costa Rican Rain

Stealing Flowers

Spiritual Apathy

Restrictions

Black Sand

Book of Mirrors

Perfect Zen

Five Years After

Five Hundred Years Without Faith

Fog Walker

Murder at Summerset

This Is Not a Reflection of You

The Theory of Black Holes (Collected Poems)

The Circle Cluster, Book I, The Great Betrayer,

The Circle Cluster, Book II, The Soul Slayer,

The Circle Cluster, Book III, The Heart Harrower,

The Circle Cluster, Book IV, The Aristes,

The Circle Cluster, Book V, CentreRule,

The Circle Cluster, Book VI, The Beginning One

Non Fiction

Atheism, Scepticism and Philosophy

Articles in Dissident Philosophy

The New Ancein Regime

By E O Zucca and E A St Amant

Molecular Structures of Jade

Instant Sober

Eternity

Eternity is lost in the stark belief of our death,

As the night presses down on our steadily fading breath.

The hush of animation is often long and pathetic,

And the bliss never comes with its futile anesthetic.

Discern the thrill in our voice, that whispering, buzzing land,

The dream date thought you were simply boring out of hand,

And made love with the recent daydream of events.

You caught the shout in your throat like quick-dry cement.

Eternity is the old movie, slowly slipping away from truth,

Laughing that there was ever such a thing as eternal youth,

Resolutely smothering the hope that freedom might not die,

Ripping the ramparts of liberty when we are too old to fly.

You wake to a songbird and the pain of the lonely cynic.

Crowded streets of ambrosial need steer you to the clinic.

Even the old dirty car is a palace compared to a coffin,

A thousand polished wine bottles drive you there too often.

Eternity listens for laughter ever closer to the door,

Dickers for contentment like a spendthrift in a dollar store.

There’s no shelter to protect the myth of immortal souls.

They’re simply jewels encrusted on an infinite roof of holes.

There’s a talisman of values in the arbor countryside,

And they say that there, no righteous person ever died.

We flush with the first ideas of the vacant lots they’ve sold.

The people who first bought them, you can bet were truly old.

Eternity is a city, whose streets are the very fields

Of the eternal garden with their houses never sealed:

Just a little casket of paradise in which time will yield,

Against the dreadful oblivion, the truth which it can never wield.

ToC

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty One

Chapter Twenty Two

Chapter One

8:00 p.m., Wednesday, September 18

Greenbol, Illinois

Day One

Dried mud and stone covered the broken cement floor; candles burned against the darkness, and their flames wavered in the ruined and nearly demolished building. Huckleweed and wild ivy stuck out from the shadows and gripped the walls. Not a piece of furniture or original construction within survived—it was total destruction, half-hidden with grime. Eeriness seeped through into the murky flickering candlelight, invading the circle the man paced.

A pale adolescent shivered naked on the floor in the middle of the circle, and he stared at her with some disgust. Her clammy skin glistened dully under the wavering light, sullied with the bruises and scrapes he had caused. He would have liked to see her bright green eyes, even if terrified, or especially if terrified, but of necessity she was blindfolded. She represented the beauty in life that he would never possess with anything except brute force. Besides, he hated women, but that meant nothing now. Her destiny and his were fused into eternity with this brutal union, even though the violence had nothing to do with living forever. Or did it? He wasn’t so sure any longer.

She had no idea who he was. He was a molester, a rapist, a killer, but he didn’t worry about labels. He knew that they would pass through her mind for now, but later she would deem it a blessing, and consider him her hero. He stole what youth would never voluntarily give, especially to a middle age wretch like himself—he had no illusions, but he paid for what millions would kill for: an endless party of good health, vigor, and lust for life. Even he couldn’t have that. As far as he could tell, the serum stopped the aging process from the time of its inoculation. It would not make him younger, but only would make him desire the things of youth, almost more than he could bear.

He knew Alana already had an instinct for her power: young, beautiful teenagers were all cock-teasers. She would figure it out. After he had given her the serum, she would feel her instinct turn green with life-force and evolving power as it raced through her veins, just as he had when he had taken it. She had just turned seventeen years old, and was near perfect; already his flabby body had aged well past its prime. He knew Alana was a good girl as well, not just with that chiseled classic youth and silky skin, but with American gregariousness and kindness. He had followed her for weeks. She deserved this gift as much as any virgin in Greenbol, especially after what he had put her through tonight, but that was nothing; that was sex; that was his way of loving the world. A silk gag muffled her sobs, and duct tape kept it fastened, but the sound still riled him. It was torture, but also torturous joy; he had pleasured her, and he thought she had enjoyed it. Besides, he had always loved women, and wanted to nurture them. He was a good man, and though this crime was an ample offense, it paled in comparison to his payment. How do you measure crime if you cut off a person’s finger, but give them an extra arm? He was a man of some impulses, but also of great complexity; coarse, but with impeccable taste; driven to desperate acts, but not to altogether abandon morality.

His blood raced through his veins, a mindless, ancestral urge, and he curled his stubby fingers until his knuckles became white. His movements flowed with a lethal, almost kinetic energy—and then he noticed her again.

Stop your sobbing! His voice was ferocious. Its frightful outburst filled the cavernous structure with echoes of a dimension filled with possession, demons, and spiritual carnage. He had a mouthpiece tucked up around his teeth for vocal disguise, and especially to hide his accent. It made his voice seem unnatural, even satanic or guttural. For a moment, not a single sound was heard throughout the surroundings. He could hear only her heavy, weeping breaths.

He endured life now entirely alone, free of any social restraint. Well, he had always been alone, but now he was willfully, dreadfully, completely alone. Before, he had been alone by constraint. He had been mediocre, dull, and plain, Nobody except Beck had wanted his friendship, and Beck, only out of pity. Pity! What a horrible, bankrupt human invention. Presently he was alone because he had crossed over to the other side. He didn’t need love or friendship. He was his own man, like a new eternal super being, one who walked the tightrope between goodness and iniquity, making his own bargains with his own devils as he traveled. He had long been dead to the sensual world; now he lived life totally renewed and took what he wanted from the fruit of the tree. Those old Teutonic philosophers like Nietzsche were wrong all along: it wasn’t spiritual, it was chemical. The serum proved it—Beck proved it. It was all genes and spleens—even Einstein was an old Teutonic fool! Relativity was nothing against the serum.

He allowed himself to be filled with her renewed sobs and imagined the pleasure of killing her, but no, never again would he walk where that path led. If he went that route, he knew he would destroy himself on excess, even though his blood screamed for sadistic satisfaction. Blood rites offered a certain cathartic element for the human psyche, but he realized that purely animalistic acts were stupid, even vulgar.

He circled her, waiting for his sexual momentum to return. His eyes flitted from the flickering light to her svelte form. Soon, she renewed the volume of her moans, and this time he listened with desire. A fantastic animal control overcame him, as though he could have cannibalized her with his angry phallus. His rejuvenated blood flowed through him with relentless oppression, his carnal appetite returned.

Beck! he whispered in his hateful voice. She shuddered and struggled with her binds. He sensed that she must think him some psychotic monster, but no, Beck’s serum had driven him to this state. He had her wrists tied with twine and duct tape, and bound to a dog leash anchored two feet into the broken cement floor. The twine had cut into her skin, and the way she squirmed reminded him of Carol Doyle, the one he had killed. Carol had Alana’s figure and fairness, although she had auburn hair, not blond, and a fuller figure, maybe, but also that curved, thin visual perfection. A thrill stole through him as he recalled her death, but also shame. Carol Doyle’s blood had been the red of the brightest setting sun.

Savagery.

Again his terrible voice curled out in the gloomy structure and echoed back in whispered gothic mania. He leaned over and touched Alana’s breasts, squeezing the nipples; the dreadful impulse dominated him again. He lay on top of her and moved in pleasure over her. The candlelight cast horrendous shadows, like mutated predator spirits at a feast of human souls. Then the hate flowed out of him. When he had finished, he rose, and without a rush, calmly dressed in his expensive grey suit and tie, dashing some Escape for Men over his face and behind his ears. He watched her body tremble; she made a gagging sound like she might vomit. The low glow of candles reduced the repugnance of his act and the filthy surroundings where he had committed them. From his pants pocket he withdrew a small, glossy leather case that contained a sterile needle and syringe. With familiarity, he filled it, emptying a small medical vial, and injected the fluid roughly into her right arm.

For some moments, she thrashed and moaned. When she settled down, he untied her hands. Put on your clothes, he said. If you want to live, don’t touch your blindfold.

He had attacked her from behind and used ether to subdue her. As he had with the others, he had studied her habits carefully. Now, she fumbled while she dressed. He could still smell her. He leaned over and snatched up her panties, handing them to her. Just this simple act aroused his desire again, even though he had achieved multiple orgasms—maybe as many as eight. Though this struck him as miraculous, he hadn’t been able yet to achieve any lasting satisfaction. This also angered him, and scared him too.

She stood, and without the benefit of sight, tried to make sense of her torn clothes. He squeezed her neck in the crook of his arm.

Do you know what I’ve done for you? he whispered in his desperate, bleak voice. You have no idea how your life will change now. You’ll live forever and ever. It’s you and I, together, for eternity. He lowered his voice even more. From this day on, I own your soul—you’re my blossom.

She shuddered, and he released her. After she dressed, he taped her hands behind her back. Don’t be afraid, he mocked. You may not believe this, but you’ll be home soon. I’m not going to kill you, nor bother you again. Some time in the future, you’ll search for me to thank me. Until then, I’ll be waiting.

He guided her through ruined doors and out into the cool September night. The fresh air hit him in a wave, and he watched while she breathed it in through her small, splendid nose. Together they walked some two hundred steps, then he tied her with thick rope to a tree.

You are safe now, he whispered in his horrible disguised voice. Then with a slow deliberate pace, he walked away without glancing back.

Not far from where Alana was tied, Eslan Copeland locked up the back door to City Bank at Cosborn Mall, quickly looking up at the bright moon with a suppressed yawn. The air was cool, especially compared against the hot, stuffy bank. He pulled up the collar on his leather high school jacket, then glanced back and, by routine, double-checked the lock. He lobbed several garbage bags into the open bin near the door.

One, two, three, he whispered to himself. His voice was soft, clear and cheerful. He came out of the parking lot and passed a laneway. A clip was ingrained in his gait, but it was not annoying to the eye. He rambled onto Gilbert Street, singing a song to himself that was playing on his mp3, but his singing was low, and his shuffle not unlike other young boys his age. When he worked on school nights, he had to unwind fast. His first class started at nine o’clock, barring any early morning basketball practice that would get him up earlier, and this week he had practice every morning. He liked basketball and skinny, fine-looking high school girls, especially the ones that came out to watch basketball.

He saw no one about, and only heard the barking of a dog from somewhere in the neighborhood. He and his older brother Neil had wanted a dog, but their father forbade it: You’ve got no time to look after it properly. And Dad was right—they didn’t. Between soccer, hockey, baseball, and working, there was no time left in most days. He hurried south and soon reached the corner of Gilbert and Point, glancing up at the large white mansion where Sally Stewart lived. Her bedroom windows had the curtains drawn, which was too bad. She was mighty fine to catch a look at, especially in her nightie.

At a Hallowe’en party last year, she had let him feel her up, and at one point, kissed him, and from that time on, she had never talked to him again. It was her shameful drunken secret or something—he didn’t really understand it all that well. He recalled her vividly though. Her breasts were outstanding—even if he didn’t actually see them, they felt great. As for her reaction after the fact, it had made him feel quite low, but like his stepmother had said, You can’t make a girl like you.

He walked another block and noticed something swaying in the shadows of a slender maple tree down a path to his left. At first, he paid no attention to it and walked faster. Then, he heard a moan, followed by a loud muffled sob. It sounded like a girl. Don’t panic, he told himself. He peered more intently and saw that, indeed, it was a girl. He stepped forward, his heart racing as he focused on the movement. The moans escalated, and he could make out a young teenage girl in the moonlight. He got ready to make a dash for it, to run away—the Copelands mind their own!—but at the same time he edged closer. At a distance of about eight feet away, he recognized a fellow high school student, Alana Cole. He rushed over.

God! What happened? Alana? It’s Eslan Copeland.

He thought he could hear a moan of recognition, but maybe not. Her eyes were alive with fear, excitement . . . or something else.

Rope held her to the tree, tape bound her hands, and a gag muffled her moans. Her ripped and torn clothes clung to her so that she was half-naked. He untaped her hands, and at once she ripped off the gag with a gasp of pain. She inhaled several deep breaths and then quietly sobbed. She was bleeding in many places, but he couldn’t see exactly where: blood stains and dirt covered her legs and dress. With another gasp of pain, she peeled off the blindfold.

Eslan, she gasped. It’s you! She grabbed him by the neck, jerked him closer, and embraced him, but the tree still held her. It’s you, she repeated softly. Thank goodness.

Then she collapsed into his arms, half slumped against the ropes. He pushed her weight forward, pressed close against her body, and reached for the knot behind her, but he couldn’t manage. She seemed to be unconscious, but suddenly, she bit the back of his neck and he jumped back. She laughed, an adolescent giggle, then she slumped freely against the ropes again, her face nearly hitting the ground. He shivered and rubbed the bite-mark on his neck—she had nearly broken the skin. He untied the knot at the back of the tree and gently lowered her. He held her in his arms and saw that her spoiled clothes no longer covered her well at all. She had no bra, and several buttons had popped. He could see her breasts, and swallowed, memorizing and looking away in modesty all at once. Her blood now spread to his clothes, as though they became a sponge. He glanced south and saw the backyard of her home. He had done some work on the Cole family’s backyard deck with his father and older brother, Neil.

I can manage it, he whispered as though to convince himself, and picked her up in one effort.

He hugged her body close, and although he could tell that she didn’t weigh much, his back throbbed by the time he reached her doorstep. With difficulty, he rang the doorbell, and at once, the Cole family rushed forward, all four of them. Her mother’s name he remembered was Nora; her graying hair was pinned up, and she was dressed in green slacks and a blouse with a dull floral print.

Oh my goodness, she said. She took Alana from him, then lay her on a nearby couch.

Although they had never been introduced, Eslan knew the family by sight. Alana’s older sister, Beth, ran to a closet for a blanket. She was built squarely and he knew that by reputation at high school, she was a gifted student but prone to wisecracks. The boys all avoided her and ridiculed her behind her back, but he understood from Neil that she was some sort of math-wiz.

What happened? Alana’s father said, his voice trembling. Come in—come in. He had said it with a voice laced with calamity. Call Bill on his cell, he added. Eslan knew his name as well: Tom and his son Bill. Alana’s dad was a trim man for his age, but with a small potbelly. To Eslan, he seemed a decent sort. He remembered that his dad had said nothing bad about Tom after they had finished work on the Coles’ house, and the Coles had paid up without complaint. Tom wore faded jeans and wore his thin, graying hair swept to the side to hide a bald spot. His face held almost naïve panic, but that was understandable, and he coaxed his wife along with a kind of childish plea.

Nora had rushed to the kitchen to get a warm wet cloth. Eslan stretched and rubbed his back, then he peeked around. Family memorabilia cluttered the side-units, piano top, and coffee tables, and the hanging pictures contained photographs of family members, dozens of them. Unlike his family’s home, he could see no large plants nor any prominent paintings, but a new couch and a matching sofa-chair sat against the longest wall. A large glass-enclosed cabinet overflowed with tiny glazed ballerinas, cherubic angels, and other figurines. Eslan was pretty indifferent to this sort of thing, but his dad had told him that when you live with a woman, you have to put up with it.

Some photographs of Alana on the walls and furniture were earlier ones, with her blond hair down to her shoulders, not cut boyishly short like now. Her older sister had also worn her hair long and curly at one point, not short as it was now. He reached over and picked up a picture of Alana. This one was of her with short hair, as now, and she wore a tight white top. He could see that she was pretty indeed, but a sad smile and puzzled innocent eyes made her mysterious too. The family had gathered around her,

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