The Immortality Trap

By Monica Lee Rotter

Sixty-year-old Soviet Scientist Lyudmila Alekseyeva, while working on a drug to speed healing, discovers the Fountain of Youth in 1978. She steals the drug from her lab and transforms into a gorgeous, irreverent co-ed of twenty. The Politburo wants her formula so they can stay in power forever, and they want her dead.
Escaping to America, she hides at the base of the Rocky Mountains. Fifty-seven years later, in 2035, her husband tragically dies, and she returns to find a world in chaos.
The Russian oligarchs, as immortal as she, have not given up the chase. With over a century of knowledge to draw from, she must help her rural community survive while concealing her secret and living in mortal fear the FSB will find her.
Inspired by James Gunn's "The Immortals" and William Forstchen's mega hit "One Second After," this is a thriller with action, adventure, and romance based on genuine science. Readers of John Ringo will enjoy this book.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Monica Lee Rotter
• Release date: Aug 20, 2021
• ISBN: 9781737192626

Monica Lee Rotter

I cut my baby teeth on Heinlein and Asimov and now my library contains nearly 900 science fiction novels. You might say I'm addicted and you'd be right.  Among my favorite authors are David Weber, John Ringo, Patricia Briggs and Linnea Sinclair.  "They" say the best way to learn to write is to read, so I guess I have that covered, but it still takes years of study and practice. My college degrees are in biology, plant breeding, and population genetics, and my hobbies include gardening and the Senior Olympics. Seven years ago, I bought my own Pacific Northwest forest and the first thing my husband installed was a solar powered well. Now we are slowly turning it into an off-grid survivalist hideaway.

Book preview

THE

IMMORTALITY

TRAP

Monica Lee Rotter

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

THE IMMORTALITY TRAP

Revised First Edition

Copyright ©2021 by Monica Lee Rotter

[e-mail]

www.MonicaLeeRotter.com

Published by Plasma Press

Cover design by Naturist Studios

All rights reserved.

ISBN: 978-1-7371926-2-6

Contents

The Beginning

The Theft

Discovered

The Docks

The Journey - Part I

The Journey - Part II

The Politburo

Hiding

The Right Tool

Joining Society

The Event

Found

Quint

On the Road

Angelica

Farmers Market

Reporting

The Speech

Town Meeting

The Holster

Charley

Ambushed

The Mercenary

The Target

Killing

The Protector

The Trial

The Verdict

Lovers

The Raiders

Arming Up

The Assault

The Miracle

God’s Instrument

The Proposal

FEMA

The Refugee

The Volunteer

Is She Dead?

Annexation

Standing Tall

Revealing Her Secret

Second Try

Enough Is Enough

The Beginning

June 1978, Vladivostok, Russia, USSR

In front of Lyudmila stood an ivy-covered cement building with all the charm of a brick. The heavy metal door gave way to her firm tug, and she burst into the olive hallways of the ugliest building on campus. Despite its depressing paint job, her spirits were high.

A staircase loomed over her and she gazed at the distant landing two stories above. Her body ached to race up the steps two at a time, experiencing the glorious rush of exertion and the wonderful flood of endorphins that followed. But in two months, she would reluctantly turn sixty. She needed to act her age or they would discover her ruse. So, instead, she trudged laboriously upward, hanging on the handrail, and disguising the truth. The truth that she possessed the legs and stamina of a young woman in her prime. 

Lyudmila studied her camouflage in the lavatory mirror. She hid her youthful figure by wearing a thick sweatshirt under plain professional clothing. Gray hair dye covered her flowing blonde tresses, and a few light strokes of an eyebrow pencil duplicated the shadowy lines of her once-aged skin. Certain she would pass inspection, she left.

She visited the closet where everyone hung their white lab coats, arranged by rank. The second from the left was hers, and she shrugged into the plain, featureless garment. The first one belonged to the lab director, Professor Vladimir.

Daria had already arrived, and shallow Petri dishes lined the opposite side of Lyudmila’s lab bench. Over a Bunsen burner, an Erlenmeyer flask bubbled with her specially designed cell culture medium for in vitro cancer studies.

Hey, Lyudmila. How’s the romance novel coming? Did you write any new steamy parts over the weekend?

I spent Saturday night doing research at Constantine’s. Saw you there with the girls and a pitcher.

Huh. I didn’t see you. You should come over and I’ll introduce you to everyone. What were you researching?

I tried out pickup lines on every stud at the bar to see what worked. For my book, of course.

I wish I had seen that. I hope you own a vibrator.

Hey, that’s just rude. Are you making a crack about my age? I’ll have you know I hooked two of them.

And what did you do with two fish?

I took them home, of course. Got some exciting notes, too. It was the first time I’ve ever been with two guys at once.

Now I know you’re lying.

You think I’ve been with two guys before?

No! I think you’re just making this all up.

They cried when I kicked them out of the apartment in the morning, she said with all the seriousness she could muster.

Were they gay?

From directly behind Lyudmila, Professor Vladimir’s voice boomed, and she nearly jumped out of her skin as he called for a staff meeting.

God! Can’t he just send a memo for once?

Daria chuckled and turned off her Bunsen burner. That’s what you get for lying to me—the wrath of the gods.

You believe Professor Vladimir is a god?

Around here? Definitely.

A crowd gathered by the doorway and Lyudmila fairly bounced down the hallway, following them to the utilitarian conference room. She suspected there was a surprise in store. Maybe human trials of her formula were about to begin. Sitting in the second row, she perched at expectant attention.

Daria plopped in the seat next to hers. Think this is your day, do you?

Lyudmila crossed her fingers and fidgeted with the ends of her hair. Today could be the first step toward winning a Nobel Prize, if her research proved correct. And she was living proof the formula worked.

Professor Vladimir advanced to the podium, and four square men in black suits arrayed themselves behind him. They could only be KGB agents.

Lyudmila slumped in her chair, making her six-foot frame as small as possible. From the first day she had stepped over the line, her guilty conscience expected him to catch her. How long could a sixty-year-old woman hide her twenty-year-old body? Not long enough, apparently. Daria glanced at her with a puzzled expression.

With his elegant leather briefcase planted firmly on the floor next to the podium, the director of the lab ran one hand through his short, blond hair before taking in the audience. He resembled and acted like a decadent American surfer dude, not a stately, honored academic. A fresh spring livened his step. His posture was no longer hunched over from fifty years of slaving at a lab bench. With an unlined, golden tanned face and sharp jawline, he shouted his newfound youth for all to see.

No one accused him of stealing her research. No one forbade him to experiment on himself! But what he paraded, he had denied her. Liability, you know, was his excuse, but apparently that didn’t apply to him.

When she gave the blood of a young mouse to an older one, replacing every drop, the older mouse not only healed faster, but it also grew younger. Professor Vladimir speculated special molecules called peptides in the blood caused the effect. However, she was the one who had done the research. She had discovered which ones worked and in what quantities. She synthesized the powders and mixed them together in the correct ratios. Everything he flaunted flowed from her research.

After glancing nervously over his shoulder at the man to his left, the professor cleared his throat and proceeded to the purpose of the meeting. "The government raised the classification of our project to Top Secret. The Politburo is moving us to a secure facility in Amursk, one with high walls, armed guards and dog patrols."

Again, he looked over his shoulder at the man and she suddenly understood—it was fear in his eyes. He spoke slowly, weighing every word. Each of you must pass a top-level security clearance. You will live in a high-security apartment building which will house you and your household. Your belongings and your families will soon join you, but until then, the KGB will monitor and protect them.

The crowd buzzed at the unexpected announcement. Someone on Lyudmila’s right raised his voice over the din. My wife has a job here in the city! I’d rather stay and find other work. The room became silent as everyone’s eyes fell on the professor.

The dark-suited man to his left expanded on the professor’s words. We will move your households to the facility at Amursk where we can protect them from contact with anyone in the outside world. The guards will not permit phone calls or mail to or from people not already inside the compound. Because of the top-secret nature of your knowledge, staying in Vladivostok is not an option.

Daria gasped. They are going to imprison us!

The Theft

As Lyudmila approached sixty, many of the indignities of old age overtook her: swollen joints, wrinkles and frailty. She dreaded ever turning seventy. In fact, she hated the entire idea. Her research promised she need never be old again. The procedure had worked on the professor and making her wait rankled. She ached to parade up and down the aisles, showing off her trim, shapely, and yes, stunning body. So she hadn’t waited.

One day, she opened her notebook to record the day’s yield of peptides. While writing the quantities down in her neat script, she kicked herself for being so dense. Only she knew the numbers before she wrote them in the book! What if she recorded smaller amounts and kept the difference for herself?

She unlocked the thick door of an ancient refrigerator and set the vials inside. The idea both excited and frightened her. Sleep came hard that night as the audacious plan dominated Lyudmila’s thoughts, turning them in circle after circle.

The next afternoon, she spilled a little from each vial on her bench before weighing the contents. After placing them in the refrigerator, she returned to the worktable and began brushing the spilled mess onto a piece of paper. Casually, she dumped everything into an envelope, and instead of dropping it into the non-hazardous waste bin, she placed it on her desk. At quitting time, she retrieved her spoils and shoved them in a pocket. To her relief, no one, not even Daria, had noticed the theft.

PROFESSOR VLADIMIR turned to his audience. Each of you must pack your own equipment and supplies. Any tests or syntheses you have in progress, stop working on them and box the instruments. The hard, stern faces of the men discouraged further discussion.

The agent in charge, Vitali Morozov, took over the meeting by pushing the professor away from the podium. Please remain seated. I have assigned each of you a shadow who will oversee your exit from the building and transport to Amursk. One of the other men unlatched the door, and the KGB began filing in like a swarm of black-suited robots fresh off the assembly line.

A man approached her. Are you Lyudmila Alekseyeva?

Doctor Lyudmila Alekseyeva. And you are?

The man’s brow furrowed at the impertinent question. Call me Mr. Pirozhkov. I am your security shadow for the move. Once you have your equipment packed, I will escort you and your things to a waiting van.

Lyudmila bowed her head, hoping to prevent the man from scrutinizing her make-down. At Amursk, they’d require her to take a physical. No disguise could hide the truth, and they would discover her deception, her youth, and her theft. Not trusting her, they’d kill her to guard the secret. Each tick of the clock was her enemy. She had to escape now.

Desperate to find a way out of her predicament, nothing came to mind. Head down, hunched over and moving with the agonizingly slow deliberation of a feeble old woman, she kept working—kept buying more time to come up with something. Anything.

She carried a box containing her microscope to the door, trailed by her personal shadow, and stood waiting. With a sour look, he held the hall door open for her, but didn’t offer to carry the box. At the doorway to the stairs, she stopped again and waited for her shadow. She resisted glaring at him.

Pirozhkov studied her, slumped over and immobile. He frowned. Determined to outwait him, she stood her ground, and he opened the portal to the stairwell, losing the contest. The minor victory cheered her, but failed to alter her situation. Still, it proved she could manipulate the man’s movements!

She lugged the awkward bulk down the all-too-familiar stairs, trailed by Pirozhkov. The exit door had a push-bar, and she backed into it. He led her to a black van, opened the rear, and pointed inside. Her shadow wasn’t a scintillating conversationalist.

The stairs stood before her, and she huffed and puffed, stalled and started as she ascended them on her way back to the laboratory, buying a few additional minutes.

In the next box, she stacked glassware. The awkward container was light, but she feigned struggling with it as if it were at the edge of her strength. Again she waited at the door, and he opened it, surrendering without a test of wills. She proceeded down the steep descent, one burden closer to her ruin. As she slid the carton into the van, Mr. Pirozhkov graced her with five words, Wait here and don’t move.

Suicidally, she nearly told him, Say please. Her shadow’s tone and manner grated on her. But she wanted him bored, daydreaming and not paying attention to her more than ever. She stamped on her rising temper, drew a deep breath, and waited.

He strolled leisurely to a parked black Mercedes and retrieved a pack of cigarettes from the center console. After filling his lungs, he exhaled with an obvious sigh of relief. Now she knew which car he drove. She’d love to spy on him while he tried to explain to his superiors how a little old lady stole his car! All she needed were his keys and a head start.

In the lab, while she boxed a centrifuge, inspiration struck. The only problem was herself. She couldn’t picture herself carrying out such a bold plan.

So, I won’t be Lyudmila. I’ll become Marya Morevna, the warrior princess, and break through the enemy lines. No, I’ll be Mila, the heroine of my story. Brave, ruthless, ready to face mortal danger with panache!

Fear and all good sense fled as she dropped into the role. She became the young, daring Mila, playing the part of a timid elderly researcher escaping a Soviet trap.

In a smaller container, she deposited her critical research notes. With one hand on each side of the huge centrifuge box, Mila let out an audible groan as she strained to hold the awkward shape. Mr. Pirozhkov? This is too heavy for me. Can you take it, please?

He studied the old woman, slumped over, hanging onto the side of her lab bench, but made no move. To encourage him to take the bigger one, she picked up the smaller box. With a sour expression, he ambled over to the centrifuge and hefted the carton. Obviously satisfied he could manage the weight with little effort, he turned toward the door.

Mila quickly whispered to Daria, Stall them. Give me two minutes. Her friend nodded.

Mila preceded Pirozhkov out of the lab, wrestled the exit to the stairway open, and blocked it from closing with her foot. This put him first descending the steep metal steps, right where she wanted him. With the door swinging shut behind her, she followed her dark-clad shadow down the enclosed stairs as their lonely footsteps echoed up and down the well. When they reached the second flight, she steeled herself for the task. Three strides brought her close on his heels.

I can do this! Deliberately faking a stumble, she shoved him forward with her box. The shadow took a quick step down, trying to regain his balance. Mila continued pushing from behind and her shadow catapulted headfirst down the steps into a wall on the next landing. A sickening double crunch sounded as the centrifuge and his head hit the cement.

Mila rushed after him, still bearing the box of notebooks. He didn’t move, and a grin spread across her face as she pulled the car keys from his pants pocket. The door to the parking lot gave way when she backed into the bar and, holding her head high, she crossed the blacktop and slid into the Mercedes’ driver’s seat. She slammed the transmission into gear.

Discovered

P irozhkov is dead! Everyone turned and stared at the man who had burst through the door.

Daria stared in disbelief. Lyudmila kill someone? Never. Damn her. She left me here.

MILA DROVE, STEPPING on the horror rising from Lyudmila at taking the man’s life. She didn’t have time for this. He’d been leading her to her own execution, and she had defended herself. What was she supposed to do? Say My bad. Kill me?

She stopped in front of her apartment building. It was a dangerous move, but she needed her money stash to escape the KGB. None of her neighbors were in sight as she stepped out of the government car and hurried up the steps to the entryway.

The exertion of sprinting up both flights of stairs to the apartment lightened her mood as she felt the power of her body. She stopped outside her third-story flat, still carrying the box of notes, and entered her modest home. She switched out of her white lab coat and dark-colored working clothes and into worn, tan slacks, an old Beatles tee shirt and a brown leather jacket. The roll of money under her mattress slid into a pocket and a scarf made her gray-dyed hair invisible.

She stuffed the note binders into a duffel bag along with extra changes of clothing. Hefting the weight over her shoulder, she dashed from her flat and descended the stairs two at a time. At the bottom, the front door stood before her, and she peeked out the dirty window. The car remained where she had parked it, in plain sight. But two men in blue uniforms examined the interior by peering through the car’s windows.

The police officers drew their guns and closed in on her building. Mila raced down the hallway to the rear entrance. With a quick wrench on the door handle, she careened into the alley. In her reckless hurry to escape, she slipped on something slimy in the alley, landed gracelessly on her butt, and slid through the thick muck. Oh shit! I hope not! Undeterred, she scrambled to her feet and sprinted for the street.

There she is!

Damn.

She darted across the avenue and focused on the community center on the corner. A noisy crowd assaulted her ears as she rushed through the doors and gazed around the entry. Resisting Lyudmila’s panic, Mila raced up the stairs two at a time, and found herself in a paint-chipped hallway with one working light. She slammed through the door of the ladies’ room at the far end.

Mila tossed the mucky clothes into an empty stall and dragged the top layer of clothing from her duffel. The black tee shirt slid smoothly over her head, and she jammed herself into the tight blue jeans by jumping up and down while holding both sides.

An old woman stared back when she checked her image in the mirror. That will never do. With a wet paper towel and a little soap, she rubbed the make-up off. Better. A bright scarf covered her gray hair and, with the transformation complete, she left. After rapidly descending the staircase, Mila sauntered out the front door.

Now dressed as a young woman, she ambled down the sidewalk without a visible care in the world. As she approached the police officers observing the building’s exit, her heart rate picked up. While changing, she had planned for this eventuality. To keep their eyes off her face, she added a wiggle to her hips, showing off her exquisitely rounded bottom beneath the skin-tight fabric. Head held high, she sashayed past the young officers, who ogled the vivacious young woman. With daring, she smiled at them.

Mila continued at a steady pace when she wanted to run. Five blocks from her apartment building, she turned east.

SIR, THE POLICE CHASED her into a building and surrounded it. But she never came out. They checked the building, and found her clothing in a lavatory stall, but no sign of her.

Morozov turned to Professor Vladimir. Where would she go?

The professor swallowed nervously. When he told Lyudmila she couldn’t use the formula, he knew she wouldn’t obey. But her research could win him a Nobel Prize, so he couldn’t just fire her. He had watched her grow younger, although she hid it well behind makeup.

I think you are looking for the wrong woman. Look for a tall blonde in her early twenties.

Explain.

You’re not cleared to know why. Just believe.

A POLICE CAR DROVE past her. She watched it stop three blocks down in the middle of the street and she could see an officer talking on the radio. It made a U-turn and started back towards her. She walked sedately to an alley and sprinted ahead. Sirens blared behind her.

Turning the corner, she plastered herself against the wall, and the car burst from the alley. The brakes screeched and a uniformed man stepped out of the car door, gun drawn. She raised her hands.

Mila walked toward the lone officer with her outstretched arms, squeezing the sides of her breasts. In her best bedroom voice she said, invitingly, I won’t make trouble, officer. You can cuff me any time you want.

Unable to hold the gun and cuff her, he returned the gun to his holster. Mila didn’t hesitate, and lunged. Grabbing his shirt, she brought her knee up with brutal force. When he gasped and leaned forward, she slammed her knee into his face. Grabbing his head with her left hand, she pushed it with all the force of her body into the front windshield frame. The man dropped unconscious.

The engine was still running, so she jumped in the police car and drove away with the light still flashing.

The first oncoming police car she passed flipped around and came after her with lights and siren blaring. Mila floored it.

They were gaining on her. She made a hard right turn. The other car had just cleared the corner when her car launched from the cliff.

The Docks

Mila had jumped from her car seconds after she turned the corner and rolled behind a shed. Scraped and bruised, she rose from the ground. The side of her head hurt and she could feel the swelling begin.

As she plodded down the sidewalk, tired and sore, Mila soon found herself in front of a bus depot with no recollection of arriving. Four police officers scanned people entering and exiting the station. One held a photo.

Mila approached the officers as she had earlier by strutting, swaying, and smiling. But when she drew abreast of them, she realized the swelling on her cheek would draw their attention more than her undulating bottom. Lyudmila’s panic seeped through, gaining the upper hand, and she picked up her pace, trying to slip past them unnoticed. But her hurry only created unwanted attention, and they turned toward her. Lyudmila fled into the heavy traffic and froze in terror in front of an oncoming bus. Mila wrestled control back just in time to jump safely to the curb. I can’t let her have control, or Lyudmila will do something even more stupid.

As she strolled past the windows of pawnshops and second-hand stores, she focused on the reflection of the bus station. Two blue-jacketed men followed her.

At the next corner, she plunged down the side street, and the cops’ footsteps sounded on the pavement, turning from a fast walk into a sprint as they chased after her. She dared not continue toward the docks. Even if she escaped, the police cars would beat her there should they guess her destination.

Adrenaline or not, Mila tired fast. Unable to run farther without resting, she turned into an alley. A dumpster sat near the rear exit of the Iron Wok restaurant, and she ducked behind it, wedging herself against the wall. With a little persuasion, the high stack of slimy trash cascaded down on top of her as she slid to the gravel. A foul odor assaulted her nose, and she gasped for air. She laid behind the blue container, shivering in her cold, wet clothes, waiting.

Some heroine I am, hiding in a smelly pile of garbage.

The two police officers entered the alley, and the duo’s black polished shoes came to a halt less than a meter from her concealment.

A crackle of static came from a hand-held radio. What’s your status? the dispatcher asked.

More hissing, then one police officer replied. She doesn’t match the picture we have, but a woman crossed the street and ran when she spotted us. We followed, but we’ve lost her.

After they left, Mila crawled on hands and knees over the black garbage bags. A puff of sickeningly foul odor exhaled from each one, gagging her. No one would ever dine at this restaurant if they smelled what came out the back.

AS THE EASTERN SKY grew lighter and the red clouds threatened sunrise, Mila topped a steep hill and stood viewing her destination, the docks, in the near distance. The steep slope of the rise aided her weary muscles as she barreled down the hill. Finally, she had reached the pier, if in one battered piece.

With hands braced against her thighs and a heaving chest, she gasped for air, desperate to catch her breath. She brushed her fingers over the pockets of her faded blue jeans and closed her eyes with intense relief. The roll of money was safe. She pushed aside her fatigue.

With head held high, she placed one soiled shoe before the other and sauntered across the dock, daring anyone to dispute her right to be there.

A sailor pushed a hand truck toward the nearest fishing boat, and with a sure stride, she moved behind him. The moment she placed a foot on the gangplank, Mila heard sirens behind her, growing louder. Dread filled Lyudmila, and her fear rose, threatening to unseat Mila as she glanced over her shoulder. A police car approached. And it had friends!

Mila wrenched back control and kept climbing the steep incline. Losing her grip in the last few meters would doom them.

To avoid drawing unwelcome attention from the police, she slowed her stride, exaggerated the sway of her hips, and pasted a knowing smile