The Prognostication Read online

The moment when he’d have to jump.

  Seth lifted his fleece’s sleeves up to his elbows with his teeth. Next he used his chin to hit the release button by his left clavicle which activated raised razors along the undersides of both of his arms. These blades would be useful when landing his fateful jump onto an otherwise slippery moving target. With the use of a multitude of pointed carbon steel teeth, gecko skin fingerless gloves, and his extreme traction tactical boots, Seth could stick the landing.

  The other train grew so close a heat wave whipped through the agent’s hair full blast. The headlights of the lead car of the oncoming subway were about to pass the caboose that Seth was situated on.

  Now or never.

  Seth raised his upper body halfway up; his hat got ripped off by the current of air that lived in between the space along the top of the tunnel and the subway roof. Seth Markov’s chest muscles bulged as his arms spread out like a runner ready to launch off the blocks to the shot of a pistol.

  Things began to sway and go blurry in the crux of things.

  Agent Markov’s leg muscles quivered right before he went airborne.

  And then in the twinkling of an eye he joined the airstream that flowed over the two moving trains. His body cut through it like a gymnast twisting and turning. Gravity ultimately decided the warrior’s fate.

  All things that go up come down.

  --

  Sector 3, New Babylon

  Mass pandemonium spread across the city with the same haste of an abrupt storm rolling in out at sea.

  Certain pockets of urban New Babylon were already deciding on what could be done; others were just waking up to the reality of E.T. in the skies; however more people than not were too scared to do anything.

  And then there was Esmeralda, Damion Westover’s mother.

  …

  The sky was falling.

  So many people in the apartment building wanted to get down to the ground floor all at once that a massive elevator waiting list instantly occurred. Scores of people didn’t care what floor they were on, though—stalling for another moment for help to come just wasn’t even an option, therefore the fire escape stairways would be the way to go since an elevator wouldn’t be arriving anytime soon.

  Esmeralda chose to wait for an elevator. She became more petrified as the seconds evaporated.

  Despite being in better shape than most women her age, she had unfortunately arrived at the time in life where she needed to start taking supplements for osteoporosis. Seventy-nine floors to ground zero using the stairs would have been way too long of an adventure to go on for the Covergirl model in her early fifties.

  In the midst of the hysteria she felt a gentle vibration in the clutch she literally went everywhere with. Her talent manager had texted asking if things were okay. Right then after she had just read the text another one…and a half dozen more from personal acquaintances started dropping in her mailbox like it was her birthday.

  Esmeralda let her arm holding the phone go slack and drop down to her side as if it had been yanked there by an external force. She exhaled. The burden of today caused her a great deal of stress. Another thought came to the forefront though ahead of all the others: what about Damion?

  What about my boy?!

  Yes, he had left a mark on her soul the other day at Westover Estates. It had hurt something fierce. Yet she was his mother. No amount of pain he may have dished her way over the years could possibly trump the maternal feelings as a nurturer she would always hold for him.

  A sermon on undying love could be written based off of how Esmeralda felt for her son now.

  As she sat on the cool tile floor of the lobby, waiting for the next elevator to come available, she thought of her next action move.

  A man in his forties leaned up against the same wall Esmeralda did. His obsequious smile, balding mess of hair, the vibes he gave off…all unwelcome by her.

  He started off by saying, “What beautiful hair you have!”

  Esmeralda pulled out her phone, pretending to be busy.

  The man’s gaze dropped down to the model’s hands, looking for a band. When he didn’t see one, he grew even bolder.

  “They must take lotsa pictures of you. Big blown up photographs in nice frames.”

  Esmeralda pulled out some gum from her purse and chewed it loudly.

  The stranger revealed a crooked toothy grin in response to her most recent gesture.

  “No talk?”

  Another person who had been stealthily observing the course of the interaction from a distance now decided to chime in and act as the referee. It was another man, but a much kinder-looking one. His face communicated compassion and sympathy—not wanton lust or any other immoral failure of the heart.

  “I’m sorry you’ve had to deal with this scumbag,” he said as he glowered at the man who still didn’t appear ready to give up the act.

  Esmeralda normally resisted the attention males gave her. This man, however, was the exception. Good Samaritans in New Babylon were rare. Very.

  “I’m Esmerelda,” she weakly said while looking up into the ruggedly handsome face of the nice neighbor.

  The man who had intervened took up a spot on the floor across from her. But before he did he bent over slightly and reached out to gently shake the model’s hand, saying, “I’m Joshua. So nice to meet you.”

  She had to look away to hide how she was feeling. When the smile was well enough under her control her head swiveled back to face Joshua.

  “Likewise,” she said at last.

  Joshua asked, “Is there anything else I can do for you?”

  Esmeralda suddenly felt self-conscious. She currently struggled with all the nervous energy of being around someone that made her antennae go up. Joshua had just rescued her from an uncouth dude who didn’t respect women anymore than he respected himself. Now this same knight came around a second time, seeing what more he could do.

  Then she remembered why she sat on the floor. One look around at the grossly overcrowded lobby jogged her memory. Joshua had so skillfully taken her mind off the things that were happening out the window that if it hadn’t been for an intermittent, middling thought desperately fighting to get her attention she would have given him the keys to her heart in a matter of time.

  “I have to get outta here,” she blurted--more for herself than for the man sitting across from her.

  “You and a lotta other good people,” he cocked his head in the direction of the assembly that had gathered. “Where you headed? Do you have a place to go?”

  Esmeralda’s eyes grew small and shy. “I…I dunno,” she said to her toes.

  The kind stranger reached out and took hold of her hand not holding the cell phone. Esmeralda wanted to resist, but she couldn’t. The warmth of good intentions and trust flowed through Joshua’s fingertips until it reached its end destination: Esmeralda's heart.

  “I don’t know where I’m going either,” he said.

  Of course he would say that. “Well let’s get lost together then,” Esmeralda facetiously joked.

  Joshua studied her before saying in a measured voice, “C’mon. Are you gonna be straight with me?”

  The Covergirl’s eyebrows went up with surprise. “Straight? You don’t even know me, and you think a little handshake and kind hello entitles you to know about all my dealings in life?”

  “I’m sorry I intruded,” Josh said withdrawing.

  No! Why did I do that!

  The middle-aged woman instantly regretted her edginess towards the attractive gentleman.

  Just as he turned his shoulder to her and started to go, she said quickly, “I’m trying to find my son.”

  Joshua halted, turning. “Excuse me?”

  “Can you help me?”

  Those were the words he never dreamt would come out of the bright red lips belonging to the woman of high fashion.

  At last the elevator chime dinged.

  Esmerelda had never seen people move so fast in all her life exce
pt for Black Friday or something. Residents were getting trampled under the stampede. Just when Esmeralda thought she was gonna miss it Joshua pulled her in close to his chest while simultaneously thrusting himself through the narrowing gap of the closing doors.

  Going down.

  --

  Mr. E’s, Berlin

  The door to the barber shop clanged open with a jingle. The keeper of the rundown establishment heard it. He didn’t get many customers. He hoped this meant that one of the Israelis had shown up at last.

  The business was more or less a front for his real reason for being in Berlin: transforming associates to do missions for Mossad.

  ...

  Mr. Eldritch had a very interesting backstory. From a very young age his passion for fashion and beauty led him down a predictable career path. Cosmetology school. Two years later he was more than ready to open his own practice up in Berlin. As a creative individual with an entrepreneurial spirit owning his own salon seemed more than logical.

  However Hans Eldritch was a little more sophisticated than that though. Because of how this man’s mind worked? Making people more beautiful merely supported much higher life ambitions. And as a bonus he had fun while doing it. It more importantly paid the bills.

  The circumstances of getting a contract with Mossad to do what he did were questionable, like with any civilian-clandestine agency deal struck.

  Mossad came to him five years ago. More specifically, Tyrone Banks did.

  2036—Better Cuts

  Hans Eldritch ran an efficient business. The overhead couldn’t have been any smaller, too. Just him and another gal.

  It was a Tuesday. Business trickled in here and there, but overall things had been slower than usual. Eldritch thought about going to the upstairs apartment to ruminate until things picked up again. Before he went up though Hans instructed his employee Greta to call him if things got too busy.

  As fate would have it Better Cuts experienced another surge that day. This obligated Eldritch to get the broom out to sweep up the clippings that covered his floor. The extra business put him in a much better mood than he had been in earlier that day. Greta was grateful for this.

  The last customer of the day walked in without much of a hello. His didn’t appear to need a haircut either.

  “Just a touch up,” the African-American communicated as he invited himself up onto one of the barber chairs.

  “What’s your name friend?” Hans asked in English.

  The new arrival shifted in his seat to scope the room before deciding how he wanted to proceed with the haircut. He noticed a few striking paintings on the wood-paneled walls. One in particular made him open up and want to talk to the man holding the scissors.

  The customer wouldn’t give his name.

  Instead the man pointed at the far wall just to the right of the entrance. “Where did that one come from?” he said in a gruff sort of way.

  What his eyes saw: terrified passengers on a small log raft which looked like it could break apart at any moment in a turbulent angry sea that tossed it like a pizza dough being prepared by a chef.

  Hans put his tool down and folded his arms across his chest. He took a couple premeditated steps back to sit on a nearby vanity. The German cupped his right hand under his small chin—his thinking pose.

  “What draws you to that one? That’s a John Decker painting by the way.”

  But the stranger avoided the question with, “I’d like half an inch taken off the top.”

  Hans became more annoyed than ever. Why couldn’t this guy even acknowledge any of his direct questions? Who did he think he was? Lothar Kirsch? So the barber played by the same rules as his customer.

  Greta watched as her boss move in with a number three razor aiming to take off more than the requested half inch.

  The aloof man sitting there with an unreadable face turned just in time to see the blade nearly shear more than its fair share.

  “Ah, ah…ah. Half an inch,” the man put Hans in his place. If the barber didn’t listen the customer seemed prepared to grab the hand with the razor.

  “What’s your name, please,” Hans entreated while he withdrew a little.

  Finally the man on the stool seemed moved by something he saw in the hairdresser. Words weren’t necessary. A calling card passed from a brown hand into the soft hands of the business owner.

  He said, “Call me,” before rising from the stool.

  He walked with his back turned until he got to the door where the African-American rotated to face Hans who still wore a nonplused expression.

  “Thanks for the haircut chief.”

  …

  Fast-forward five years into the present. Hans still ran a business called Better Clips. Same spot? Much less foot traffic however.

  What happened

  A far more upscale barber shop opened its doors back in 2039. This direct competition siphoned away even the most loyal customers that religiously did business with Better Clips. As a result the German hairdresser sadly had to let Greta go in order to run his atrophying hole in the wall by himself.

  The next person that walked through the lonely door seldom darkened by customers didn’t look like he wanted a haircut.

  Baruch stood in the waiting area, wearing an impartial expression to his surroundings.

  The place looked deserted to him. Yet a sign in the window saying “Yes, We’re Still Open” faced out towards the busy street running by the establishment.

  “Anybody home?” he called out with his distinct accent.

  The sound of floorboards creaking on the second level may have answered his question. It appeared someone began to move towards the top landing of a staircase that connected the business with the upper-floor living area.

  Baruch quizzically crept towards the back to force the confrontation. All his senses remained on high alert. As an extra precaution the Israeli took out a small concealed weapon and cocked it.

  At the sound of a round being chambered a somewhat young man with red facial hair came out from hiding.

  Hans had his hands behind his head. He hoarsely whispered in German, “Don’t shoot!”

  Baruch could feel the other man’s fear.

  To relieve some of that in order to move on with the real reason why he was in the barber shop to begin with the agent tucked the weapon back into its holster.

  Satisfied he wouldn’t get one to the back of the skull, Hans drew closer, slowly lowering his hands, but keeping them out where they could still be seen in a show of trust.

  Hans was first to talk again. “I speak English.”

  “But I’d prefer German,” Baruch replied with a fairly convincing local accent.

  This answer provoked a tight smile and slight nod of the head from the shop keeper. “I suppose you came to see the renovations upstairs?”

  Baruch understood perfectly. “Show me.”

  The agent was taken up a flight of stairs into what appeared to be an ordinary room with a small twin-sized bed, nightstand, and chair positioned adjacent to a dual-pane window. At face value, a very ordinary room. That couldn’t have been further from the truth though.

  Hans could be seen pulling a cord to an old lamp which actually did what Baruch expected it to. The single light bulb cast its faint glow through a green lampshade. What he couldn’t have anticipated?

  “Do you sleep on the right or left side of the bed?”

  “What?” Baruch asked in surprise.

  “It’s a simple question really. Everyone has a preference.”

  The Mossad agent furrowed his brow because he didn’t enjoy playing these nonsensical games. “The left.”

  Baruch’s answer reflected his single, eligible bachelor status.

  Hans gestured towards the bed. “Why don’t you lie down.”

  “And if I don’t want to?”

  The barber rolled his eyes and sighed. “You people.” He then silently waltzed over towards the bed and committed to the course of action Baruch wouldn’
t.

  “What are you doing?” the Israeli impatiently snapped.

  Hans disappeared.

  Right before Baruch’s very eyes the bed tilted down towards the floor on the left side. A loud groaning noise abated as soon as it started. When all was said and done the small man with the red facial hair no longer laid on the bed. For all practical purposes he had disappeared like some smoke and mirrors trick.

  I’m tired too, Baruch muttered as he hastily made up his mind to do the same thing as the man he presumed to be Mr. E. did.

  The false floor flopped the mattress over to the left once more. A chute spat out the newest arrival into a new scenery that felt completely disassociated from a barber shop environment.

  Baruch rocketed back to his feet, standing big and tall. “What the hell is this?!”

  The agent’s eyes covered the entire space very quickly and thoroughly. He was about to give up when Hans finally emerged from the shadows.

  “You like?” the German asked, appearing to find Baruch’s bewilderment most amusing.

  “Just do your job,” Baruch growled. “I don’t have the time or patience for your clown tricks.”

  Just then the familiar voice of Malach Kemper of the Kidon division at Mossad discreetly trickled into Agent Baruch’s hearing.

  “Speed it up in there. You need to get out, ASAP. Seth hasn’t even left the tunnels yet. There’s a manhunt for him now. Breathe heavy to acknowledge receipt of this.”

  It wasn’t too hard for the agent to comply with the last request. The air seemed devoid of oxygen with more carbon dioxide than anything.

  Hans presently appeared in front of some monitors that came to life. The short man struck up a lively whistle to a tune he apparently made up on the fly. It suited him.

  “I’m pulling down the files,” he explained to an impatient Israeli who hadn’t moved at all.