The Seeing Eye Man

By Monty Page

When a medical implant manufacturer discovers a problem with a certain metal formula last used several years ago, those in command think their only recourse is to abduct the last remaining host.

But little did they know that Neville Ingle, a middle management shop worker, was no longer that normal person theyd been watching and stalking. Nevilles newfound capabilities from the deteriorating plates in his head give him powers supernatural heroes only dream of.

With only the lights from the Suburban now on, Bob could detect a blue glow around the choppers skin and landing skid as it got within a few yards of Neville. In horror he watched a blue spark jump the remaining distance to his dad, knocking him to his knees as he took the charge full force. Bob shouted, Dad!, but it was drowned out by the noise of the chopper. Then he saw his dad turn his face upward toward the chopper hovering overhead, raise his arms toward it then absorb another ball of blue fire. This discharge lasted longer, dimming the panel lights of the bird then the ever-flashing strobe at the nose. With one last pull Neville sucked all the power from the machine.

Follow along with Neville Ingle on his whirlwind ride of sex, violence and adventure in The Seeing Eye Man. Find out how an accident in his youth lands him in the middle of an intrigue that delivers him into the innermost regions of the US Government.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Sep 28, 2005
• ISBN: 9781463495190

Monty Page

Monty Page and his wife Judi live in Coos Bay, Oregon in a house they built themselves. Monty has written several novel length and short stories and hopes to continue publishing them as time allows. The Basket has been published online and Fool’s Gold may be out next year. Monty is also working on a continuation of Neville’s adventures as he continues his odyssey.

Book preview

Part One

The Seeing Eye Man

1

Miles Johnson ran the series of tests once more. First, the short burst from the Laser beam, which pierced a small hole through the thin metal sample coupon. Next, the attachment of thin wire filaments to each end of the coupon followed by immersion into a liquid solution of several types of weak acid, dextrose, water, and cows blood. Miles thumbed through the Wall Street Journal while he waited for the fifteen-minute test.

He was sure the results would come up the same as they had the last hundred times, even with the different setting on the electrical current that simulated a human body’s natural electrical field. Tests had also shown that a cow’s blood was no different than that of a human, at least for this test. And, it was a lot less expensive and easier to get. Except for the smell, the trip to the slaughterhouse was enjoyable. Maybe someday they will come up with a similar method of disposing of humans who have served their purpose and usefulness. This house still used a well-placed sledgehammer blow to disable the huge animals; a technique he would like to see used on some of his colleagues.

They had dubbed this test the Accelerated Biocompatibility test, which, with the addition of a few new acids and the introduction of electricity and a Laser burst, took months or even years off the old testing methods.

The coupon specimen had the same resulting appearance as the others, a dull brown surface as before, with more reaction around the Laser hole.

Once Miles ran the tests on the coupon, he would present the facts as he saw them. Specifically, that the implant prosthesis used for a brief period thirty five years ago would, under the right conditions and duration, deteriorate and react with a body’s chemistry causing an electrolysis condition incompatible with the human body.

The Vice President of operations looked over the report again, thinking to himself that this was one problem that he could handle himself without bringing the President of the company into it. He needed to make a good impression on the board of directors if he was ever going to go any higher up the chain. He looked over the top of his half glasses, and asked, There’s no doubt about this?

No, sir; I personally ran the tests over a hundred times with similar results. Miles felt uncomfortable in the plush office, even more so feeling the jealous, glaring presence of the VP’s aide.

You’ve run the tests with the other prosthesis material we produce?

Yes sir, and the results are all negative. The 316 LVM stainless steel, the Titanium alloys, the Chromium cobalts, and the Platinum, all turn out negative. The different polymer plastics have had the most tests to purify the blends; these all turned out negative.

Okay, Johnson, good work. Give yourself a couple of days off. That’s all for now.

As Miles left, the Vice President looked at the man standing before him. He was Jack West, his personal aide, confidant, enforcer. They’d been together for a lot of years.

What about this, Jack? Have we tracked these all down yet?

Yes. As you know, these weren’t used except for a short period of time before improvements were made, and this specific alloy was discontinued. We knew of about a dozen men that had different implants of this material. Our man in the field tracked them down one at a time. Eleven of the twelve have succumbed of natural causes. The last is under surveillance as we speak.

Why hasn’t this prosthesis broken down in his body yet?

Sir, the material was one of the first stainless steel blends and actually worked quite well at first. Somehow during the heat treatment of the material the grains modify to an extent that changes the cross section, forming an actual shell around a central core. When, or I should say if, this shell is penetrated by body acids, the inner core would be exposed, causing a corrosive action.

You mean it could actually start to rust?

Yes sir. Even stainless steel will corrode to a certain extent, or with unlike metals exposed to an acid blend which is present to some degree in the body, a simple electrical battery could form.

What would this do to the host?

Particles of the material would be carried away by the body fluid and deposited in certain areas. One such place would be the reproductive organs in a man, probably causing him to become sterile.

What is the age of the remaining subject?

This one is in his middle fifties.

What would be the effects of the electrical build up?

As you know, simple cells produce only about a volt and a half which would be hardly noticeable. But this material is layered, almost in a laminated pattern, which resembles the plates in a storage battery. We have no idea what is taking place. We don’t think a single plate would be noticed.

Then why do you think it’s a problem?

Sir, with a single plate, it wouldn’t be, but this host has two. What makes it worse is that the plates are on different sides of his brain; one front, one rear. We have no idea how much current they will generate, or what effect this might have on his brain.

The VP squinted, thinking about all the others who had made bad decisions in similar situations, costing the company millions of dollars in settlements. We can’t stand the publicity of another failed prosthesis, Jack. First the heart valves that disintegrated; then the birth control device that displaced itself; we don’t need any more bad publicity.

What do you propose?

We can do any number of things, Jack. We could bring him in for testing, to see what is taking place inside his body. We could also trade out the old implants for new ones. Either of these at great expense, I might add. We could just wait and take our chances that nothing will happen and he dies. But that might take years. Or,….we could see that this host dies of natural causes.

Jack looked at his boss, thinking that he knew what he meant, but wanting a more precise explanation. Just what do you mean by natural causes?"

You know, years ago things were different, Jack. People died of mysterious illnesses we knew nothing about. Now we think nothing of it to pick up a newspaper and see where someone was killed in an auto accident. Or, a bad fall taking a blow to the fragile part of the head. There should be any number of ways this subject might die that would be overlooked as nothing more than an unfortunate accident. Do you get my point?

Yes, I think I do. Should we take the time to run some tests on him first?

If he will agree to it, fine. We should learn all we can from him. If he shows resistance to the idea of the tests, or if later tests prove positive to a deterioration of the prosthesis, then…..?

Jack West’s mind was racing with the possibilities of the challenge that lay ahead. His instructions had been spelled out as clear as any before ever had. They were also documented on tape with the aide of the small, voice-activated recorder inside his jacket pocket. He knew that once contact was made with the subject, the exercise would have to be carried out to the end, and this was what filled Jack’s mind as he anticipated all the possible twists and turns along the way. The instructions also left room for any number of alternative solutions. This was one he’d handle the way he wanted.

2

Neville Ingle went over the meeting in his head as he walked the short distance down the corridor to his office. It hadn’t gone as smoothly as he’d wanted, but it was over and they’d accepted the overtime arrangement as presented. Now all he had to do was make sure his shop workers produced on time. Over the years he’d developed a certain quality that let him ask the impossible and get almost that in return. The impossible still was impossible, but getting the men to overachieve to the point of nearing that of impossibility let them see that they could produce beyond their normal capacities. The trick was not to require this kind of production on a regular basis. This was where others had failed. No one likes to be pushed regularly and will revolt when they are. Now, once again, Neville would have to ask the men to respond and do it in such a way that they not only would do it, but also enjoy the results when they were done. Balance was everything…balancing a challenge with a possible reward.

The office was sparsely decorated with functional objects instead of decorative furnishings, much like the company’s business philosophy. The no bullshit approach. A plain indoor-outdoor carpet covered the floor and two potted plants helped soften the otherwise stark surroundings.

Neville approached his desk with a sigh of relief and reached for the pink phone message note stuck to one of the only clean spots available. As his fingers touched the desk’s edge, a loud snap and sharp jolt of static jumped into his finger and Neville reacted with a loud damn as he jumped back.

A sarcastic chuckle came from the direction of Jim Snelling, the company’s purchasing agent. I keep telling you, someone is trying to talk to you. You must have really done something to piss the Man off. Jim shook his head and went back to whatever he’d been doing as Neville said, It must be these shoes or something; seems like everything I touch lately zaps me.

See, I told you. You’d better do some soul searching and find out what it is before it’s too late. You know what they say: Pay me now, or pay me later. Heee’s watching." With a laugh and fingering through his blonde, bushy hair, Jim picked up the phone and made a call to place a steel order for the current job on which they were working. His mind was barely on the barbs he was throwing Neville’s way. But it was his nature to poke fun at everything, and at times it did help to relieve tensions. But at other times it could get on your nerves.

Neville went over the schedule once more to see if there was anything he’d missed, but decided that if there were, he wouldn’t catch it now anyway. He’d been just too close to it for the last few days. Monday morning would make things look different if they were, or the same if they weren’t. Either way he thought it was time to go home and see if he could get rid of his headache before the weekend started to get clear out of hand.

The men were cleaning up and filing out the door as Neville checked the doors and walked through the shop as he did every day after the shift was over. This not only let him make sure the doors were locked, but look at the work being done while no one was around. No matter who you are, you don’t like anyone watching over your shoulder while you’re working. But this was a type of quality control that needed doing.

With everything appearing in order, Neville went back up to the second floor office and made sure everything was turned off and to lock the office doors. As he reached for his desk the snap made him jerk as the static jolted him again. Shit, he said loudly as the headache began to intensify. This is ridiculous. he said as he went out the door.

The Fab Tech shop was on the far side of town from Neville’s house and was normally a fifteen-minute drive home. But with summer approaching, tourist traffic was increasing causing Neville to slow and hit every other traffic light. Every stop made Neville’s head tighten a little as if screwing a vice around it.

City and State fathers had presented several possible plans to route traffic around downtown Coos Bay, but most had met resistance from local merchants. They wanted all the traffic to come through town so some of the tourists would stop. But each year it seemed to get worse. With Coos Bay located along Highway 101 on Oregon’s central coast, it stood right in the north-south traffic pattern. You couldn’t miss it if you tried.

By the time Neville arrived home, the throbbing was localized at the front and rear of his head, being jarred with every footstep as he walked softly through the front door. Neville made a dash for the aspirin bottle ignoring his wife’s greeting as he popped a half dozen into his mouth and washed them down with a hastily drawn glass of lukewarm water.

What’s the matter, honey…is it your head again?

By now, Neville could only nod his acknowledgment toward Martha as he made his way toward the bedroom to collapse across the bed.

The same places? she asked, as she gently fingered the jagged scars just above the hairline. I’ll get a cool cloth.

Martha could imagine she felt the heat from the smooth scars. As she dabbed the wet rag on Neville’s forehead, she rubbed in circular patterns with her free fingers just to one side and above the hollow of his neck. These were the two spots. Only on close inspection were the scars visible, but she felt the raised welts. It had been so long ago since it happened, close to thirty-five years. They were now each in their early fifties, years away physically from their youth, but during some memories it seemed like yesterday.

No more than a minute and a half and Neville’s eyes were closed and she stopped. If this time ran true to form, he would wake in and hour, free of pain and ready for dinner. What worried her was the fact that this was the third session in less than a month.

Neville awoke and spent a normal quiet evening after a light meal. He was never real hungry after a headache, but past experience told him that he must eat something. The handful of aspirin had done their part, but his stomach always paid the price. Antacid tablets were a normal staple in Neville’s pocket and nightstand, especially after one of these bouts.

The next morning Neville woke up feeling refreshed and ready for a Saturday morning working on the old Chevy coupe. This had become part of his weekend routine lately, restoring the old 37. After a quick bowl of Fruitloops and a glance at the sports page, Neville pulled on the dirty coveralls and went through the door off the utility room and into the adjoining garage. A flip of the switch and resulting brilliance of the fluorescent lighting catapulted him into another world of shiny paint and dirty hands. The smell of gasoline and carburetor cleaner always made Neville’s mind wander for a few seconds back to the time of his teen years and the first experiences with cars and engines.

He’d had several years of hands on experience with engines before his first date; many conquered misses and knocks, water and oil leaks.

Neville had always been able to make engines and mechanical things work while some of his friends were chasing girls. He always knew he was more suited to mechanical devices than the vices of the other sex. Nevertheless he’d had a conquest or two along the way, earning a few battle scars along with a few good memories. He’d met Martha during an attempted conquest..one that had neither failed, nor succeeded. They’d just met and that was that. A few years later they each realized that their friendship was more than that; and they got married. No hard battle scars, just a lot of good solid memories.

Neville’s headache from the night before was just a distant memory on the fringes of his conscious thought. They came often enough that he couldn’t really forget their effect on him and the debilitating results. The one solid good from them was Martha’s steadfast nursing. She always knew the right places to touch and not to touch; when to talk and not to. At this stage of their lives she was as much a part of him as he was of her. Their mood swings were easily picked up by the other and treated with no more than casual imposition. They more or less stayed out of each other’s way when either was having a testy period. They were available to one another to talk things out, but didn’t push or ask too many questions when not wanted.

Neville was just bending to lie onto the wheeled creeper when, while changing his grip on the door handle to let himself down, his hand brushed against his glasses and they fell to the floor, shattering the lenses into several pieces. It took a few seconds for him to realize what had happened and his eyes to try and focus while remembering the old pair in the kitchen junk drawer. He usually wore them while working under the old car, but this time he’d forgotten.

Between his blurred vision and complete knowledge of the garage, Neville managed to stumble his way into the house and rummage through the drawer where he found the old glass case and glasses. A quick wash job and he was able to put them back on to an immediate relief. He hadn’t known it, but his eyes had started to strain, and the old glasses quickly relieved the strain and relaxed the squint…the squint he hadn’t known he was squinting.

Making a mental note to himself to make an appointment with the optometrist, he went back to the garage and spent the rest of the morning with the car. A morning that was entirely free of another thought of his head or squinting eyes.

3

Saturday passed quickly, the old car in the morning, shopping with Martha in the afternoon. It never failed to amaze Neville that the week dragged on so long and the weekend passed so fast. This Saturday was the every two-week marathon grocery shopping session that Martha liked to take. She’d save the coupons from the paper and shop the specials. Hitting four markets took them over three hours and the day still passed quickly.

With their son Bob grown and gone with a family of his own, Neville and Martha had time to develop the hobbies they’d neglected for so many years. Martha had gradually begun to spend more time reviving her fondness for writing poetry and short stories. But for the last eleven months she’d been working on a story that was turning into novel length. It wasn’t so much that she’d sat down intending to write a book length story, it just happened that way. Once the story developed, she started writing each morning and it became a part of her daily routine. Years ago she’d tried to write at different times of the day, but there were always distractions to deal with: solicitors or regular callers during mid day, son Bobby and friends during the evening. Late night left her tired and uninspired.

Martha found that if she got up at six o’clock she could get an hours writing in before Neville was banging around preparing for work, then after he left she could usually grab another forty-five minutes. Weekends were about the same, unless they were going somewhere. It became a simple part of her life, and once she got enough pages for the story, she started thinking it might have a chance for publication. Martha was now on her seventh rewrite and just about ready to send it off.

Neville, on the other hand, had only the old car for a diversion. Oh, there was the usual yard work, but with a postage stamp sized lawn in front and concrete patio in back, there wasn’t much of that to worry about. The house had been painted the summer before and the roof was in good shape yet. So, that left the old Chevy.

When he found the rusted heap at an estate sale, Neville knew that he had to have it. He’d put a small deposit down to hold it until the weekend, and then went home to break the news to Martha. At first she had been, to say the least, underwhelmed at the idea of restoring an almost antique car. But after she saw the sad looking sedan with white chicken stripes down the windshield, she was certain that Neville had indeed lost his mind. Maybe the ordeal of the accident thirty-five years ago was finally taking its due.

After Neville had removed the body and trailered it to the steam cleaner and black painted the sandblasted frame, she began to envision a different machine taking shape. No longer was it a roosting place for chickens. It started to again resemble the object that it may have been those many years ago, a forgotten dream of someone’s first new car, or after that, a youngster’s first car of his own. She noticed that when Neville looked at it, he had a pleased, almost pleasurable look of contentment. The farther along the restoration progressed, the more she accepted it and coexisted with it. She realized before it was too late that now they each had a spot on which to focus excess energy and attention. He accepted hers, and she his. This acceptance came with being together so long.

But lately they’d each noticed a slight wedge starting between them. They hadn’t talked about it or even spent time thinking about it, but way back in the far reaches of their minds, it was there. It was one of those things that wasn’t in conscious thought, yet; for now just a feeling that was there when waking at night out of a sound sleep. Something..

4

The next few weeks passed quickly. Even with the ten hour days the shop was putting in, it would be tight making the scheduled delivery dates set forth in the agreement. It was the Monday of the third week after the overtime started that Neville, Jim Snelling, and their boss and company owner, Dan Byer, met to discuss the job and the delivery schedule. They’d been reviewing the accumulated man-hours against the projected hours, and found that if they did indeed meet the delivery date that they would come in under the projected hours of the original estimate.

If we keep to the current weekly hours and meet the delivery, we should do quite well on this job, Dan said. Dan had started the company from scratch many years ago and was nearing retirement age.

Neville said, These guys have really been pulling together on this one, Dan. I haven’t seen this kind of teamwork for a long time.

If everything keeps going this way, there’s no reason we shouldn’t share the good fortune with them. It goes without saying that without the direction by you and Jim that things wouldn’t have gone as well. Good job, both of you. Pulling his large frame up to a standing position he looked at Jim, then Neville, who in turn thanked their boss. As they got up to leave, Dan said as an afterthought, Two more weeks and this one will be history.

The next two weeks passed almost as fast as the first two had, with only minor problems cropping up along the way. The job had been completed in record time and everyone was happy. So happy, that the next Monday Dan Byer had passed out bonus checks to everyone. This, combined with the fact that the upcoming project would move at a much more relaxed pace, put everyone in a good mood. Getting back to normal hours was a relief to all.

Neville checked his calendar for the week and found that the next day was the eye appointment he’d made. This was the first he’d thought about it since the day he broke the good pair of glasses; the day after the last headache. He hadn’t thought about any of it until now. The only constant since then had been the static. Every time he reached for the desk he got zapped. He even tried to put a ground strip from there to the steel frame of the building, but it only got worse, not better. He tried different shoes, and that helped..a little. Shoes with leather soles were the best, but they were also the most slick. This was not a good combination around a constricted shop environment. So it was back to rubber soles and more static.

That evening Neville was in the garage leaning over the fender of the Chevy installing a rebuilt carburetor when he noticed something a little odd. From the position he was leaning, his eyes sighted just below the top rim of his glasses, occasionally looking over the top. At first he hadn’t realized it, but his vision didn’t change much while looking over the top. If anyone had seen him moving his head up, then down, then back again, they would’ve thought him crazy. But he repeated this process several times before he came to the conclusion that the very top of the variable lenses were of no value. There must not have been any correction on the top part of the glasses. That had to be it. He shouldn’t be able to see as well over them as through them unless they didn’t magnify on the top part. That was it. Besides, the optometrist would check them tomorrow, and he would know for sure. Neville put his attention back on the float setting of the carburetor and then finished putting it back together, forgetting about his glasses. On the way into the house, he got zapped on the doorknob. What a way to end a good day, he said, going on in to bed.

5

The waiting room was crowded as always, but Neville had managed to find a seat and an old copy of Sports Illustrated that he was reading when the nurse called his name. She looked more like a bouncer than a nurse, and may have been guilty of partaking in the anabolic steroids he was reading about. It looked like they had her only for one reason: to keep order in the waiting room. Neville didn’t see her again until the way out, again leading someone into the torture room.

That was the way Neville felt about the machine that puffed the blast of air into each eye, like it must have been developed at Dachau or Auschwitz by real sadists. The nurse told him that it just measures internal pressure or some such thing, but he knew better. The other thing was the drops to dilate the eyes. Was this really necessary? They assured him it was to get a good look inside. Sure, and there was a tooth fairy.

The next step was the wait in a darkened room. Neville thought they darkened it so you couldn’t read the magazine you might have brought in with you. But finally the doctor came in.

Good morning, Mr. Ingle, the doctor said.

Neville said a polite good morning..and was quickly cut off by,

Do you have any complaints today?

Well, now that you mention it, that torture line out there isn’t one of my favorite things to do.

I meant complaints about your eyes, the doctor said coldly.

No, not really. I broke my glasses the other day and have been wearing my old set..thought that I should have them checked before buying a new pair.

Good idea. You know, that torture line performs a half dozen individual tests before you come in here to me. We could prescribe lenses from the preliminary tests, but I need to see what’s going on inside your eyes.

Neville squirmed a little as the doctor read his chart. The doctor must be a little testy today, he thought. The stock market must be down.

Are you having any specific problems?

Just the occasional headache, Neville replied.

Are you taking any medication?

Nothing regular, just aspirin or ibuprofen when I have one.

Okay, put your chin on the rest and look at the dot of light in the corner.

Neville did as he was told, first one eye then the other, then both together. Next was the piercing bright light in each eye. He could almost feel the heat as the doctor invaded the depths of his sight. His eyes were tearing when the doctor finished.

After a few Hums and Aa..hums, the doctor