Machine Man: Genesis

By W.L. Smith

Imagine . . . a new lease on life?
New York City , the near future: John Smith is a simple, 46-year-old artist who is lives a semi-reclusive existence in NYC. Stricken with cancer, Smiths undergoes a dramatic change when he falls prey to a covert, cutting-edge government project.

Now, with his body suddenly cancer-free but his mind in chaos, John Smith sets out to find the answers to the questions about his new life. But when he falls in love with a beautiful young woman, his search for the truth takes an unusual twist. Suddenly willing to accept things as they are, Smith tries to put his past behind him and live a simple and normal existence.

On his trail, however, is an evil, sadistic U.S. government whose sights are set on global domination, and those plans require the involvement of Smith as well as his new found extraordinary abilities.

The greatest sci-fi novels in existence are actually blunt social commentaries in sleek clothing, and W.L. Smiths debut novel is no different.

In a stunning debut offering, W.L. Smith pens a tale that mirrors the qualities of the greatest sci-fi novels in existence: an intricate storyline laden with compelling characters, brisk momentum, and a scathing commentary on human society.

A powerful fable about human societys dark future, and the essence of human life, MACHINE MAN: GENESIS, is one explosive, thought-provoking thriller; one that could soon find its way to the movie theaters in the near future.

You can order a copy of MACHINE MAN: GENESIS
at this online bookstore:

Xlibris.com

ISBN13 (TP) : 978-1-4257-9758-4
ISBN13 (HB) : 978-1-4257-9768-3

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Dec 11, 2007
• ISBN: 9781477178959

Book preview

I

Recollection…

The putrid stench of the hotel room drifted into his nostrils like an unwelcome and pungent vagrant. Although sickening, the filthy room was much better than the sudden downpour and the bitter cold outside. It was shelter, and it was dry.

John’s acute sense of smell told him the foul odor was the common mixture of toxic mold and mildew, stale beer, rotting food, vomit, and urine—common items normally associated with most two-dollar-a-night hotels.

Artistically and creatively heaped in the corner of the room was an assorted collection of liquor and beer bottles. A mosaic-like minefield of broken glass littered the room’s floor. The remains of the archaic carpet were violently shredded and stained—the original colors were unknown. Several used hypodermic needles lie strewn about the room like a festering spike pit. Noxious black mold and rusty water blotches partially covered the ceiling and the walls like so many Rorschach inkblots. The gruesome place mirrored a scene from the abyss depicted in Dante’s Inferno. John believed that even the most enterprising prostitute or desperate drug addict would steer clear of this place.

The electricity to the twisted and filthy ceiling fan didn’t function when he tried the wall switch—dashing hope of refreshing and cleansing ventilation. Not at all surprised by the lack of basic maintenance, John returned to inspect the decrepit bath where he had illegally entered the condemnable structure.

He discovered the water to the sink did function, much to his surprise; but it spewed out thirty seconds of rust, dirt, and slime before becoming even close to clear. The water was undrinkable. The condition of the bathroom was indescribable. Permanently etched into the ancient cast iron bathtub was a dull green and rusty ring. The toilet hadn’t been flushed for…

John immediately left the room. There was no reason to enter that room again, ever. John added the bathroom’s scent to his previously compiled list.

John quickly returned to the primary room and surveyed the balance of the septic cell. Finding a tiny glint of humor, he made a small mental note to himself to break in again sometime and clean. Although John had nothing to laugh at, at that moment, he did allow himself to chuckle at the dreadfully insane thought. He assumed that he didn’t have to worry about the multitude of toxic germs and harmful bacteria. He was sure any deadly microorganisms would have all committed suicide by being condemned to visit here long. If he stayed here much longer, he would need serious therapy also.

Walking over to the entrance to the room, John inspected the old corroded deadbolt on the door, along with a rusty sliding chain latch. Both were broken, but John secured the entry the best he could. He knew the piece-of-shit door would never prevent any determined person from entering. However, the flimsy door did hold the weather at bay, for now.

Standing by the door, John could hear everything in and around the decrepit hellhole. Even the heavy rain could not stifle the ambient sounds of the nearby inhabitants. Unwillingly, he overheard the resonance of a couple low rent patrons down the corridor. They were apparently having a hot time in the cold town tonight. The squeals of torment and/or ecstasy came from three or four doors down. He forcefully shut out the sounds he didn’t need to hear, and quelled the concocted images that almost formed in his mind. He then heard part of a conversation between two young gang bangers saying, Someone better pays Jimmie before he starts poppin’ caps. John could only presuppose that ‘Jimmie’ was most likely the local bad boy in this hood.

John had been in a few life threatening situations and a number of unsavory places in the past, but this place reeked and ranked high on his top ten list. Here and now was the last place and time he really wanted to be.

The day had started well, but miserably progressed to deadly and dreadful in a very, very short period of time. The weather had gotten extremely inhospitable to all life forms. It was cold, grey, dark, and dreary. The rain was painfully frigid and penetrating. Big, fat, freezing raindrops, the size of quarters, soaked to the skin in seconds, and then the frozen chill traveled straight to the bone.

Unfortunately, since he needed some place to stay and hide, and this pit had been the handiest, so John attempted to make the best of the horrible situation. However, pacing around the room like a caged animal and peering through the nasty ass window curtains frequently only made him more nervous and anxious. The fetid room had virtually no usable furnishings. A primordial and worthless recliner sat in another corner of the small gangrenous room. When John approached it, the urine soaked cushions set him quickly back a step. There was a busted up king size bed in the center, against one wall. The mattress was surprisingly ‘urine-free’ but the bed was set upon broken concrete blocks and it looked as though it had gotten plenty of use throughout the millennium. While debating whether it would be in his best interest to sit, he continued to pace.

The day’s upsetting events were still a massive tangle in his confused brain. Much like a fishing line backlash, it was exceedingly frustrating. He clenched his teeth and tried to focus his thoughts and concentrate. He knew to undo this substantial clusterfuck, John needed to let the fishing line out carefully and slowly, untwisting and removing the grisly snags and then, slowly draw the line back in. However, he nervously continued to carve a path in the floor, fishing had never been his forte.

Having hidden here for nearly an hour, John still hadn’t gotten used to the horrible stench. He hadn’t planned for the smell to go away, but he had thought he would become acclimatized to it. Managing to keep the contents that were in his stomach down would have to suffice, but vomiting may have made him feel better if he could have, he thought. Yet the minor nausea he experienced wasn’t going to fully cooperate, and his body refused to yield up what little nutrients it contained.

In the past, John’s problem, sounded strange to the few people he shared it with, but keeping food down had been quite a trick for him at times. He had always been without doubt a very simple and undemanding person; however, he had an acute physical problem. It was a little known complication and could be wearisome during rare times of stress. In simple terms John was a super taster. It is when the particular individual tastes things much more immeasurably than an ordinary person does. Many people believed this is a minor inconvenience. To John it was a small nuisance for the better part of his life. However, today was different.

The problem was the sense of taste, walked hand in hand with the olfactory. So the odors that assailed him now, were a thousand times stronger. Regrettably, John’s taste and smell were not his only heightened senses at the present. Each and every one of his senses was functioning in overdrive, and it was quickly getting the best of him. He felt as if everything was spinning frantically out of control.

John needed to relax and let logic start dictating his thoughts again. To breathe slow and deeply bringing everything under his control, and deal with the problems at hand. Although again, this only brought up another serious problem he has dealt with in his life-indecision and self-doubt.

The problem began just before he had been discharged from the Marine Corps. Ill-fated incidents in his final months of service had terribly scarred his reasoning abilities. Afterward, he began to over-analyze every situation that had crossed his path. Soon second-guessing everything and self-doubt had lowered his self-esteem to a point he became a recluse. A loner, cutting himself off from the world. Even most of his very few best friends became strangers to John. Up until recently, John had been plagued by this problem.

During the past year, so many things had gotten far better for John, but now he was reverting to his old ways of thinking. Now every thought that crossed his troubled mind caused him a tremendous amount of stress, lending power to his self-doubt and consequently creating a state of panic or paralysis. Being a loner this problem had actually been a godsend. When he was working on his art, it allowed the best of his ability to come shining through, however, normal and everyday life, it was a curse at best. Over-analyzing every situation and never making up his mind or never drawing any concrete conclusions—left him with a great sense of incompetence. Because of this, hundreds of wondrous and fantastic opportunities had slipped away. Due to his inability to trust his instincts John’s life had swept by him, and he had been oblivious to it all.

By no means was John helpless. He could still easily make many decisions readily and effectively. Yet everyday past mistakes haunted him and the ghosts of former events nipped at his heels. In part, this problem was due to his excellent memory.

John had an unusual and uncanny ability to recall everything. He could remember everything, even the smallest details about anything he had said, heard, saw, or experienced. His mind was a steel trap of information. Again this only added to his problems. John’s recollection of his serious mistakes only compounded greater obstacles to overcome. He thought he had successfully left that all behind him, but today it returned with a vengeance.

Standing in the center of the room, he began to shake uncontrollably while remembering the past. Shutting his eyes tightly, he tried to relax and calm himself. He was in trouble and knew there was no time for criticizing himself. His faults and shortcomings would remain but thinking about them served no useful purpose now and it only increased his anxiety. John tried again to concentrate and put these ineffective thoughts out of his mind.

However, something strange and disturbing was going on now. It had been physically and mentally altering John for the past couple of months and he finally realized it. He couldn’t determine if this change was for the better or worse although the past year had been a wonderful change. His life was normal, simple, and full of light. He had no longer been completely alone and was truly feeling alive. Now, the sensitive nature of his semi-secluded world and the unnatural order of things increasingly twisted his reasoning and forced him to question everything he knew and understood.

It was still terribly hard to concentrate. He couldn’t keep his mind off his appalling surroundings or thoughts of the past. The one bright spot he thought was that at least this rat-infested roach motel would be the last place they will search for him. He hoped he wasn’t wrong.

Lay low for another hour and then get the hell out of here John thought to himself.

John thought about his pursuers. He figured he had lost them in the chase since no one has come knocking. So far, so good, and he put that thought aside. He had made some headway, he thought. So he collected a few of his remaining coherent thoughts to formulate a way to get out of this mess. He knew that if he couldn’t resolve this dilemma, he would have to run and hide again, forever. That idea was just something he wouldn’t do.

Hiding was something John used to do well and do often. He had been hiding from the world for the past twenty years in his own twisted way. There was no reason to consider he couldn’t continue hiding himself among the crowds. The city was great for that. However, that was out of the equation since his life had changed.

Turning himself into the local authorities was another thought that struck him. No, he couldn’t do that. If he did, they would win. John wasn’t going to let them win again.

Angrily he thought, If they do come, whoever they might be, should I run, or should I fight.

John could fight and fight well. He had no reservations about cracking skulls when it came to his freedom and survival. John expected them to bust in at any instant, and he would stand and fight to the death. Quickly, the flames of his anger burned in his mind and he gladly fanned it. This anger seemed to help him clear his mind. He let it grow.

John looked about the vile room for the fastest path of escape and an acceptable weapon to wield. There were only two ways in or out and neither route was very good. As for some suitable deterrent, all he desired was a simple chair or table leg, a clothing closet pole, or just anything he could swing. However the room was empty, save for the garbage, bottles, shattered glass, and the few pieces of filthy and useless furniture. Eventually, finding nothing suitable as an impressive form of defense, and debating for a moment, he gave up the futile search. His anger continued to grow and he fed it with continuing his thoughts of hate. He knew now they were forcing him to think like a fugitive And that thought hit a serious nerve.

John was never a bad or evil person. He served his country with distinction and faithfully abided the law. John was not a criminal and he despised the thought of being made into a person who looks for weapons or escape routes wherever they go. He felt the bitterness building, clearing his mind as it did.

John had been a normal person trying to eek out a decent living in semi-secluded isolation, pay his taxes on time, and live a simple life. Now, hiding like a common thug was one thing he shouldn’t have to do and the anger grew. He had done nothing wrong and they should leave him alone in peace.

Let me pay his taxes!

He clenched his fists and looked about quickly. The blood rushed to his skin-burning him and making him blind with rage.

He lashed out and struck the wall. The crash of his knuckles on the wall made a thunderous noise and set a shockwave throughout the building. He knew that was a stupid thing and hoped no one would take notice, but venting the anger felt good. Perhaps the patrons would believe it had been a thunder burst from the storm outside. Fortuitously, he had hit a good solid stud. It cracked in half but his arm hadn’t penetrated into the next room. He withdrew his hand and looked at his broken limb. The blood had already stopped flowing and new skin was forming over the area of impact. There was no pain. Within seconds, his hand was like new—even better. The rage cleared his mind and he felt better.

He understood, the more he thought about it and maintained the anger, the more it actually helped to calm him. His pulse was slightly elevated but his mind was clear. He breathed slow and deep. He was still very angry but now the anger was controlled and not controlling him. He had felt similar to when he last saw the fanatical German doctor. The doctor was the source of this mess. The doctor was also responsible for John’s death. John remembered the German doctor who had murdered him. Murdered him!

John had been killed and then was he was ‘born again.’ Maybe that was an inappropriate term, but it did fit the situation, he thought. It wasn’t the typical ‘born again’ in the evangelical sense of the term, yet John had been killed and shortly there after, resurrected, or re-animated. John thought the term re-animated sounded a little more appropriate. He presumed it was safe to say resurrected now that J.C. no longer held the franchise rights on life after death, but he still didn’t want to tread on that particular ground.

What evil plot did these people have in mind when they crossed the line? John thought. Traversing into the afterlife and going where only the Supreme Being should go is not something to be trifled with. John didn’t know if the powers above had anything to do with his present state and condition, but someday that question may be answered. For now his only desire was to get out of this God forsaken place and get home—where he belonged.

Angry, yet calmed John lay down on the bed and the dust flew up about him. He was feeling better and the stench of the room no longer bothered him. John stared at the broken ceiling fan as the dust settled. He pulled out the pack of cigarettes and lighter from his t-shirt pocket. Lighting a cigarette and holding it up, he considered that this little vice was the fundamental cause for his present dilemma. All the screwed up events that had culminated today started from with these stupid things. He had quit smoking a hundred times or more, but he repeatedly picked them back up. His self-control was nonexistent when it came to smoking, but today was going to be different. John vowed he would quit after just one more. Sure, he thought, right after this one.

As he lay on the filthy bed, his rage slowly subsided but he remained collected. He was still somewhat annoyed and troubled with his circumstances, but he believed that by quieting the tension and anxiety, it would serve him better.

He relaxed and thought about home. That’s all he wanted—to go home. He wanted to end this dreadful nightmare and get into a warm and snug bed with the woman he loved. That was his present goal and he wouldn’t stop until he achieved it. He focused his attention on the ceiling fan more intently and began recalling the past events.

It was odd how he remembered things, John thought. How everything he did recall could only be based on his own perspective. Memories are never perfect because they’re always bias or jaded. However, John’s memories were different and unusual. He could virtually see them, looking from a third person perspective. They were clear and crisp to him unlike ever before. He could literally walk into them.

Inevitably having good recollection and the ability to retain and recall even the smallest of mundane details, John’s memory had been transformed beyond human understanding. No matter how insignificant some elements were, his subconscious mind would remember and bring the detail to the front. Therefore, if John had seen or heard it, he remembered it. However, not just remembering it the way he saw it but from every point of view available. He could stop the remembrance in mid thought, shift the camera angle in his minds eye, and see it from a different physical perspective. John’s memory had always been superior; but now, it was spooky. As the pictures produced, they were real, yet surreal in a sense. He closed his eyes and pictured the preceding months which led him here. His mind recreated the world as it was a year ago and John stood in the center. He was watching his own past life in full living color.

It started exactly one year ago, to the day when he decided to call his family physician, Dr. Isaac Saul. Dr. Saul had been his doctor for almost twenty years. John stood within this memory and had a 360-degree view of his small apartment/studio. John’s memory self, now stood observing, directly behind his past self, who lie on an old sofa. The memory self walked around to see the past self’s face. John was a fair-looking middle-aged man. The Marlboro man look had served him in the past. He had attractive well-defined features, strong jaw, and good skin. He had gotten a fair share of invites from interested female company, taking them up but never committing to anything. His salt and pepper hair was a dreadful mess at that moment, but he had cleaned up very well. He had several pounds of inactivity stored up around his mid-section, to which he had vowed to do something about it someday. However today he looked terrible. His skin was milky white and perspiration dotted his forehead. He hadn’t shaved for several days and the visible lines of age and sickness in his face were more pronounced. John had been horribly ill for the past week and a half, doing very little except lounging on his beat-up couch, smoking in excess, and watching the news.

The memory self watched as John lit a cigarette and picked up the phone. The doctor took the call personally and spoke directly to John. He asked if there had been any possibility to schedule a visit ASAP, and the doctor instructed him to come in today. He proposed around 4:30 p.m. that afternoon and he could examine John. The doctor didn’t bother to switch him back over to the receptionist to schedule the appointment and this seemed odd to John. It was the common practice, but Dr. Saul claimed John would be his last patient of the day and there would be no difficulty. His practice was in a twenty-four-hour medical facility so the doctor received prompt evaluations from tests.

John thanked him and further commented on how fortunate he was to have such a great doctor. Waiting another two or three more weeks for an appointment would have sucked, John thought. Hanging up the phone, he clicked on the news, and patiently waited.

It was around 2:45 p.m. so John had very little time to sit and wait. Waiting and lying on his couch, he actively proceeded to feel very poorly. He had no strength or energy and a severe pounding headache. Previously he had turned the air conditioner down to fifty but was still burning up nevertheless. His chest hurt along with several other body parts and he felt as if he would die. John knew he should’ve called sooner, but he was just as brainless and obstinate like so many other men in what they considered imprudent matters of health. Why fix it, when it ain’t broke was his philosophy. He was surely broken now.

It was a few minutes after four when he arrived at the doctor’s office. John had taken a taxi since the doctors office complex was on the other side of the city. He had initially considered riding his motorcycle but a cab seemed the better choice. Precisely at 4:30 p.m., the doctor called him in.

The middle-aged physician gave John a complete physical examine. He drew some blood for John and sent it to the lab to have all the routine tests performed. Everything seemed to be going well and the doctor sent him downstairs to obtain a routine x-ray of his lungs. Dr. Saul knew John was a long time smoker and pressed him at many different times to stop. Of course, John had never listened.

He looked at John and realized he wasn’t doing well and Dr. Saul volunteered to arrange an aide and wheelchair to help him. John rejected the generous offer. He was not an invalid yet, hopefully managing to keep what little pride he had left intact. So Dr. Saul rapidly worked the directive up and sent John off to the third floor. Having to wait several minutes before the hospital x-ray tech could see John he spent his time in observation mode.

John glanced about the substantial waiting room. There were a few patients sitting patiently waiting for various tests or test results. One teenager, John gathered, had to be there for a standard drug test. The boys basic attire suggested street rapper, gangster thug, but John could have been wrong. However he seldom was. John was usually a very good ‘stereo-typer.’

John didn’t judge people in a single glance. As an artist, he studied people intently—patterns of their mannerisms, stature, speech, body language, and a great range of human aspects. He attempted to capture and translate those things to his art. John was a world-watcher. It was part of his chosen career path.

His ability to draw general conclusions about the basic character or nature of people, was very astute, and that was the primary reason why he tended to avoid people. He never did stupidity or unawareness well. John tried hard not to judge people but he had little patience for the questions like Hot ’nuff for ya? when it was 101 degrees outside, or Is it raining out? when he walked into a room totally soaked to the skin. John avoided people to steer clear of such questions. If there was a conversation to be had, it had to be of some importance and not just small talk. Perhaps if John could have dealt with the idiocy of many of people he encountered better, he might have had become a police officer or detective. However, after departing from the Marines John had become much too cynical and sarcastic for that profession. In every investigation, everyone involved would have been found guilty of senselessness or ignorance. John had little tolerance for uninformed people but never spoke his mind, alienating almost everyone he met at one point or another. However, he had not always been like that.

Incessantly, John had this little internal bullshit detector. It made his perception a little keener. When he would reflect on people, it was simple for him to determine those things that were in character and out-of-character quite easily. John benefited from studying people, sometimes even their idiotic behavior. John had lost all respect and belief in humanity. Becoming the ultimate pessimist, for John, there were no blue skies anymore, no kindness, or concern, no empathy or compassion, he could see only the greed, the ‘need for green’ which flourished in this world. Being alone for such a long time made John blind to anything but the worst in mankind.

John finally had the x-ray completed and twenty minutes later, he sat in the doctor’s waiting room again, deciphering a Cajun cooking magazine out of boredom, killing time. It was five minutes later; Dr. Saul called him back into the examining room, and asked John to sit down. John had clocked the time and realized all of the doctors’ staff had left for the evening.

Saul was reviewing the x-rays. The doctor sat in an apparent comfortable swivel office chair while John remained standing. Both were silent for several more minutes.

The physician motioned for John to sit and handed him a glass of water. He watched and paused while John finished the glass of water. It had an odd taste, John noted. John never drank city water like so many other New Yorkers. He assumed it was probably the chlorine in the water, but he finished it nevertheless. The doctor took the empty glass, set it down, turned to John, and spoke.

This is very serious news, John and it won’t be easy for you to hear this. He paused and drew a deep breath. You have an advanced stage of lung cancer, but we’ll get an MRI to confirm it. The x-rays are clear and show several moderate size tumors in your lungs. In this advanced stage there aren’t many choices we have at this point, but we can try. The doctor had always been straightforward with John and continued to be.

I am really sorry about this news and frankly, I’m surprised you’re still alive. The years you have been smoking have finally caught up with you. He paused again. The doctor’s demeanor became a little more sympathetic and he continued.

Maybe, if this had been diagnosed a year or so ago, we might’ve had a fighting chance. You know, your last check-up was almost two years ago. But presently we only have a limited amount of time and options. If left untreated, I estimate you may have a few days left to a week before it kills you. I’m sorry, I never want to tell anyone this kind of terrible news, but I have to. We can try to treat it and get you a little more time but within the next few days you will find that the pain will get much worse, probably unbearable. The pain we can consider and make you more comfortable. That’s about all. It’s really the only thing we can treat with effectiveness. He shrugged his shoulders.

Dr. Saul spread his hands out and looked almost sympathetic. Maybe, he paused, "just maybe, we could get you a month or two. That is if we started traditional cancer treatments immediately. However, I can’t and I won’t guarantee anything, and I believe I am being wildly generous with that estimate. The blood work shows the cancer has spread and with some more tests we will learn how far the tumors have