Project Bizarre: The Odd Circumstances That Brought Together Two Strangers to Begin a Lifetime of Adventures

By Rick Topple

When a media tycoon, with the help of a pharmaceutical conglomerate, secretly develops a new advertising technology that threatens to become weaponized against the world's population, two young men are forced to step in to try to stop it. They're definitely not your typical hero material, but sometimes the best results come from the least expected sources.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Tellwell Talent
• Release date: Aug 20, 2023
• ISBN: 9780228876212

Rick Topple

Rick Topple is an author for both adult and teens alike. His first dive into the writing world brings us the story that started it all: PROJECT BIZARRE, uniquely spun speculative fiction that joins significant Canadian historical events with the author's own real-life experiences and non-stop adventure around every turn. Whether it be his entrance to the Canadian Air Force, scuba-diving for lost property, motorcycle racing or flying helicopters, there will be no end to the adventures that Topple continues to search for and write about.As a retired English and history teacher, Topple had become fully aware that the topic of Canadian history was a tough item to sell to his teenage clients. This book series aims to make some of that history inspiring again as it brings forth events from a rich Canadian past that tend to befall the nebulous world of the forgotten.Expect the unexpected in this first installment of the Corbin Ryerson Adventure Series as it depicts the fate of two random strangers being intertwined beyond anything they could've imagined. Answering the call for high-flying fun and told from a uniquely Canadian perspective, this series promises to deliver nonstop, page-turning action. If adventure had its own bible, this first book would be its Genesis.

Book preview

PROLOGUE 1

April 23, 1963: McGill University, Montreal Quebec

Cynthia Hetherington and the psychiatrist leading the experiment she was assisting with as part of her doctoral studies in biopsychology stood in front of an armored two-way mirror, observing a person—a man—who was part of a clinical trial and known only by his identification number. The subject sat at a small table completing 3D puzzles of varying difficulty. He was one of nine other human experiments in the super-secluded underground chamber overwhelmingly funded by the American CIA’s covertly illegal satellite test sites codenamed MKUltra, and he was oblivious to the eyes watching from beyond the mirror. His accommodations for the past two weeks had been inside this brilliantly neon-lighted, environmentally-controlled cube, one of ten modular, sterile, padded units where he, along with nine other unwilling participants, were receiving experimental serums of the doctor’s design.

Adding to the futuristic semblance of the cubes were arrays of lights and a multitude of electronic sensors that ran down each wall, sporting their own arrays of colorful, blinking lights. The intent of the university’s research was to fulfill the CIA’s goal of manipulating and controlling the human mind into receiving or divulging information for the purposes of interrogation related to the ongoing fears surrounding the Cold War with Russia.

A long but subtle sigh escaped Hetherington’s lips. For the third time today, she found herself hastily trying to dry an expanding smudge on her notes before it wrecked them.

Not much longer, now, Cynthia, came the calming voice of the tall man standing next to her, her supervisor, Doctor Owen Tameron. His gleaming white lab coat seemed to shine amidst the dim and dreary sub-basement surroundings. He looked up at the dampness of the vaulted, brickwork ceiling and then down at her clipboard, noting the smudges. Funny how they always seem to find the paper, huh? he remarked.

"What’s funny is how I am always the one holding the clipboard when we do our rounds, doctor," she whispered, a respectful jest.

"Well, you are my research assistant, he pointed out. Of course, if you don’t want your name included as co-author when I publish this paper, I can update those documents myself He winked down at her. Clean up those numbers on the design before they smudge too much, though. And anything you re-write because of the water damage must have your initials next to it, okay?"

Cynthia nodded. She was about to wrap up her doctoral studies and was happy that Dr. Tameron had taken her on as his assistant, even if the study was being conducted in this dungeon-like place. In the humidity she blew a strand of damp hair off her forehead and in doing so looked up to the environmental processor above the cell they were observing. One of the lights was blinking awkwardly. She was about to point it out to Dr. Tameron, but another errant drop of water stole her attention away by landing smack-dab in the middle of her clipboard. She stifled a curse and patted the ink bloom with the sleeve of her lab coat. She said to Dr. Tameron, How about we move the experiments to a lab above ground? This place can’t be good for the lungs … and I want to live long enough to read my name on the publication.

It’s perfectly fine for our test subjects, Cynthia, said Dr. Tameron. The environmental processors in every cell are operating perfectly, or they’d be coughing their guts out from prolonged exposure to this dampness. There shouldn’t be any risk of adverse affect or cross-contamination. As for us, however, he said, smiling tiredly, hopefully we won’t have to subject ourselves to this dungeon much longer. I see case LS-31 is surpassing expectations. He’s gone four days in a row, and his vitals have remained normal. This could be an encouraging breakthrough—the one we’ve been waiting for.

Yes, agreed Cynthia. I have a feeling the third round of trials using this serum will yield similar results.

Let’s be careful not to count our chickens before they’ve hatched, though, said Dr. Tameron. Now is not the time to rest on our laurels, he warned pragmatically. "I have reservations about any of our serums being the end-all solution we’re hoping for. He stared pensively at the test subject. The young man was now reclining comfortably within the test chamber, satisfied with the swift completion of all his tests. Then he said to Cynthia, We’re tampering with nature on an unprecedented level … and for what—military might? An injection to counteract what we’ve created won’t be enough. I fear the long-term effects will come back to haunt our children and grandchildren many years from now."

Well, his assistant whispered reassuringly, I think congratulations for developing this compound are still in order, Doctor Tameron. You will be a pillar of the medical community for decades to come.

Thank you, said Dr. Tameron, and then the two of them moved down the dank, subterranean hallway they were in to observe the next subject, who was housed in an identical cell. Cynthia flipped over a few pages on her clipboard to review her notes. LS-33 is not doing so well, she said with a frown. With serum 422-C, she made it to the highest level of the transmission, but sensors recorded a drastic imbalance in cranial temperature which overworked the thalamus and hypothalamus glands. It seemed to make her crazy. She snapped her own back after repeated run-ins with the window of her enclosure.

Dr. Tameron looked down at Cynthia’s documentation. Well, he said, "the duration of her exposure to the frequency certainly corresponds with the reaction. It’s a shame she’s in such rough shape, but at least we obtained baseline results for the new frequencies. Find another subject and use the same serum but lower the amplitude by 50 percent. If there are no signs of cerebral recovery by tomorrow, then schedule her for processing. If there are some positive changes, we can explore lobotomising the affected areas of her brain so she has some quality of life when she leaves here. Make sure she’s as comfortable as possible—though she probably can’t feel anything now anyway."

He looked away with a shake of his head, down the row of reinforced steel and glass cells, and suddenly seemed to age about 15 years. Most of the cells contained a single occupant in one stage or another of adverse reaction to what had been tested on them. Some were bloody from clawing and beating their heads against sound-proof walls in their efforts to escape. Others sat in their own bodily waste, rocking back and forth, completely detached from the reality of their confinement. One young man lay in the middle of the floor, apparently no longer alive. He said, Somehow, I doubt my name will ever be spoken in praise, dear colleague. You would be wise to forget this place when we are done here, and to forget me. And pray for these poor souls we’ve sent to hell.

For a tenured professor and scientist, I wouldn’t have taken you for a man of faith, Doctor Tameron, replied Cynthia.

I fear I will have to answer to a greater power for the destruction I’ve caused here he whispered. There are always painful sacrifices made for the furtherance of research, but this research completely disregards all that is human. I’m trying not to question how such a group of individuals, those financing this experiment, can wield such a monumental influence. Their need for monetary gain has unleashed supreme forces that will ultimately destroy our species. He paused to stare off through the walls, his shoulders slumped, and then realized he was beginning to talk to himself. Cynthia asked, Are you alright?"

Yes, of course, he said, straightening up. Then he smiled disarmingly and said, Well, I suppose I should file today’s reports. I think I’ll head topside for a breath of fresh air.

Yes, it’s about that time, isn’t it? she asked, adding, I’ve noticed you haven’t used the connecting tunnels lately. Are you sure it’s a good idea to be seen … considering … well, you know …

Worry not, Cynthia, worry not, he replied. "Most of the youngsters up there don’t know who I am anymore, and even if one of them somehow connects me to these… these bizarre abominations I’ve created, well, they’ll never know what really happened down here once the evidence is gone."

Let’s hope so, she said, flipping a few papers on her clipboard. So, I’ll see you at eight o’clock tonight to oversee the administering of the serums?

"Of course! But make sure the coffee machine is on this time, will you," Tameron admonished Cynthia as he walked to the coatrack on the far wall and traded his lab coat for more professor-like attire, reminding Cynthia of a scene from the 1941 movie, Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde as he switched personas. Then, with briefcase in hand, the doctor-turned-professor made his way through a small, well-provisioned laboratory and exited through some heavy-steel doors that could only be described as bomb shelter sturdy. Emerging into the bright, sunny open space outside after climbing four short flights of damp, dimly lit stairs leading from the bowels of Montreal’s McGill University felt like a rebirth, but it brought with it the usual pricks of guilt Dr. Tameron felt at leaving behind the unfortunate souls trapped below in their damp tombs. He rubbed his eyes against the piercing sunlight and pulled the brim of his fedora low to both shade his vision and obscure his face as much as he could. That horrible place had almost been his home for the past few months, and he was starting to feel no better than the walking dead he was paid so highly to test. In contrast, his office, which was very much separate from his secretive research lab, was located across a picturesque courtyard criss-crossed with paved pathways that ran to various buildings. The paths led past manicured lawns, colorful flower gardens and, at this time of year, budding trees. Students and professors alike could be seen sitting on stone park benches or lounging on the lush grass. It was Heaven compared to where he had just been.

The walk to his office was brief, but he took his time and let the sun’s warmth began to melt away his uneasiness about the secret lab. Around him were smiling faces and jubilant conversation, inspired by the beautiful late spring day.

As he approached the courtyard at the centre of the campus, he spotted a lone occupant of the park bench positioned directly across from his office building. For a week now this same individual had been sitting on the same bench at the same time, seemingly absorbing the contents of his daily newspaper. As the doctor walked by him, a flash of eye contact occurred before the stranger quickly hid his face behind by the newspaper he was holding. Excuse me, but could I trouble you for the time? asked Dr. Tameron. My watch seems to have stopped working.

The stranger simply turned over his wrist without letting go of the newspaper’s edge and, without any form of greeting, said, It’s three thirty-seven. Then he flipped his wrist back over, making it abundantly clear he did not want to chat.

Much appreciated, the doctor said, and then he resumed his trek. But as he climbed the cement stairs leading up to the building’s entrance, a puzzling thought crossed his mind.

Why was he reading last week’s newspaper? And was that a Vostok on his wrist? A Russian-made timepiece typically worn by their military personnel; certainly not by a Canadian student.

When he arrived at his office, he encountered the familiar face of his secretary, Sheila Davidson, sitting outside it at her desk, typing with near superhuman speed. She looked up, her kind face framed by an abundance of salt and pepper, shoulder-length hair, and said, Good afternoon, Doctor Tameron. You have no messages …

He interrupted. Have we had any visitors today? he asked. Anyone out of the ordinary?

No. No one has come by that I know of, Doctor, she replied.

No odd phone calls, either? he pressed.

Not unless they called while I was to the ladies’ room, she told him, which, by the way, was only once the entire damned day. Other than that, I’ve been here typing your strange reports. She feigned a rigid smile. Are you expecting some Russian spies to infiltrate the campus, Doctor?

Funny, Mrs. Davidson, he said, but one can never be too diligent. He smiled thinly and opened the door to his inner sanctum. I’ll be catching up on data filing this afternoon, he said. I’d appreciate it if you could hold any calls until I am finished. Thank you.

Without waiting for her response, Tameron closed the door behind him and quickly walked to the back of the office where a safe was embedded in the wall near his large and impeccably organized desk. He knelt and hurriedly spun the first of two combination knobs, consternation crinkling his face as he fought the urge to look over his shoulder.

A click signaled that he could open the door, and the usually reserved doctor let out a sigh of relief. There on the floor of the safe was a stack of thick file folders in the precise position and order he had left them in. He ran his fingers along the upper inside lip of the safe’s opening until they touched the smooth edges of a 14-karat-gold Waltham pocket watch he had put there. It was a security system of sorts; he’d installed a lever system that would pull the watch’s crown out when the door of the safe was opened, effectively telling him the exact moment the safe had been opened.

He was confident in the ability of the precision-built timepiece to keep near-perfect time … but when he examined it, he felt his confidence in those with whom he worked shrivel up inside him. It had stopped some four hours earlier.

He quickly rooted around in his coat pocket to retrieve a ring of numerous and variously sized keys. Identifying the required one, he inserted it into the obscure locking mechanism of a metal filing cabinet inside the safe’s floor. When he saw all the files apparently present, as well as a large manila envelope, he sighed with relief once more. Then he gathered them all, including the envelope, and took everything over to his desk. Page by page, he began flipping through the stack, taking specific notes, schematics, and sketched designs out and placing them aside as he went. When he was satisfied that he’d removed the documents he wanted, he opened his briefcase and did the same with other papers he had in there. Finally, he put the pile into a thick document pouch.

Next, he stooped to open a hidden compartment on the side of his desk, which contained another large manila envelope, this one heavy with photographs. He tugged it from the tight confines of the compartment and then, after some consideration as to what to do with it, put the packet of photos into the nearly empty trash can beside him, and the envelope with his selected documents into the hidden slot instead. Then he took the remaining documents that were sitting on his desk, tapped the thick collection into an organized stack, and added them to the trash can. It was then that he noticed a stray photograph of an earlier experiment in his subterranean lab lying next to the garbage. In his haste to retrieve the photos from their hiding spot, it must have fallen out. He paled; though he had been the one who had taken most of the pictures, the photo before him managed to shake him to his very core; even as an objective scientist, he still had difficulty grasping the consequences the image in his hand revealed. His heart began thumping hard as he continued to stare at the blank and ghostly serene face of a young man with the top of his head surgically removed to enable his once active gray matter to be extracted. Remorse and apprehension about his recent discoveries weighed him down into his chair as he thought about the false pretenses under which these patients had entered his domain, only to become test subjects. Their hopes of finding a cure for their various forms of psychosis were all in vain. Their search for comfort, for themselves and for the sakes of their families, was to be destroyed by lies.

A knock came at his door. He froze briefly, guiltily, looking at the door as if hoping he could lock it with his mind. He stood up and straightened his necktie. Yes, what is it? he called.

Sheila Davidson peered though the doorway. Doctor, I have several documents that require your signature when you’re ready- she said. She stopped short at perceiving his deer-in-the-headlights expression. Are you okay? she asked.

I’m fine, thank you, Sheila, he said. Come in, come in. Then, to Sheila’s great surprise, he proceeded to pull the trash bag out of his garbage can, and he plopped it down on his desk. Then, after rooting through one drawer, he pulled out a roll of surgical tape. Sheila’s eyes went wide as he proceeded to wrap tape around the twisted top of the bag, securely sealing the contents inside.

Um, Sir… what are you doing there? his secretary asked with a look of true puzzlement.

"Sheila … you’ve been with me here for a long time. I know I can trust you, but you need to be crystal clear with me when I ask you—has there been anyone else in this office today?"

No, Doctor, Sheila replied, concerned. No one. Except for when I put your mail on your desk this morning, your office door has been closed all day, and I have been at my own desk since I got in, typing and taking calls.

But you said you had a bathroom break.

Well, yes, of course, Doctor. I don’t have a steel bladder. And if you really must know, I was only away from my desk for about five minutes—and certainly less than ten.

Dr. Tameron looked around the room, staring at each of the window frames imagining someone coming through them before continuing. Okay, Sheila, he said. Now I have a rather unorthodox request of you. I need to get some documents safely out of this building. I fear that someone has been looking in my confidential files—and I want them taken to a more secure location. He held up the medium-sized black garbage bag with the white tape wrapping and looked her directly in the eye. No one must see this information, Sheila—not yet at least.

The typically reserved secretary looked at her employer with growing concern. I was just about to ask if I could leave a bit early, today, Doctor. Do you want me to take it with me?

Yes. I need you to leave immediately and take it when you go, he said. I fear this building is being watched—we all are. If there are plans for the theft of my research, then I need to move it immediately. What I’d like you to do is take this bag, as well as a few small bags of office garbage, and throw all of them in the large dumpster at the corner of this building. The garbage truck won’t come to empty the bins until next week, so I can get it in a day or two. If you think you’re being watched then simply return and I’ll find another way to remove it. I know I can trust you with this very important task.

Yes, Sir, I will handle it immediately, she said. Then she did an about-face and left to dutifully carry out his instructions. As soon as she left, he closed the hidden compartment of his desk and distributed the remaining folders both in the safe’s secured file cabinet and on top of it. Whoever you bastards are you won’t get what you think you are from these … he mumbled to himself. Resetting the pocket watch to the time of his own perfectly working wristwatch and placing it back in its cradle, he secured the handle on the door of the safe. Finally, feeling confident that his findings—the truly significant revelations of his scientific endeavours—would be kept safe, he sat back in his chair, fingers tented in front of his lips, as his heart rate slowed to a normal pace. He let out a long sigh. Bizarre indeed, he thought.

PROLOGUE 2

August 25, 1998: North Star Credit Union, Kingston, Ontario

Police officer Larry Jamison looked down at the piece of paper in his hand and sighed at the size of the hydro bill was had to pay. At this rate no one is going to be able to afford to live in this country! I ain’t paid enough for the shit I gotta put up with as a cop as it is, he thought. He was standing in the long wait line at his local bank, and its slow progression was almost as frustrating as the knowledge that he was just scraping by on his policeman’s salary.

Jamison had been on day patrol since Friday and hadn’t had the time to do his banking. Now it was Tuesday, the beginning of his weekend, which is why the spent officer was finally taking care of personal matters.

Jamieson discretely elbowed the holster on his hip. The .40 caliber Springfield subcompact pistol tucked under his sweater always felt like it needed to be adjusted on his belt, as though his responsibilities made it heavier. Even though it was compact, it never felt natural to wear it. If it weren’t for the limitless stories his fellow officers shared about the times that they wished they’d had their concealed pieces on them, he would gladly have kept it at home. So, it was peer pressure more than anything else that made the young officer wear it.

He looked at his watch impatiently. The line had finally dwindled down to just one customer in the queue ahead of him. He tried to distract himself from the wait by profiling the man before him. He was elderly, slightly hunched, with haphazard, unnaturally grayish-white hair sprouting from under a checker-print trilby hat that belonged in a museum. Probably a toupee, Jamieson thought.

The rest of the man’s clothing was dated and wrinkled but clean, indicating a lifestyle of either frugality or poverty. He hobbled forward with the help of a well-used walking cane in one hand; in his other hand he carried a large briefcase. Jamieson supposed him to be a store owner of some sort, perhaps making a deposit. He checked out the man’s hands. There was no wedding band on his finger, though he noted the smoothness of skin. His hands looked younger than his body.

Bank staff were dutifully engaged helping similarly aged customers; clearly this is what was taking so long. He huffed a quiet sigh as he looked at the man in front of him. This old fart will probably take a week just to get up to the counter, he mused.

His thoughts were interrupted by an amiable female voice, Can I serve who’s next, please? called the middle-aged lady behind to the right. The elderly man ahead of Jamieson shuffled up to her station, leaned his cane against the counter, and instead of putting the briefcase on the floor, placed it on the counter at an oblique angle to the teller. Then they began speaking in the typically hushed tones of a public banking encounter.

Jamieson began envisioning the rest of his so-called weekend, his fatigued brain subconsciously monitoring the clicking of the bank tellers’ computer keyboards. His mind snapped back to reality when he saw the teller laying out crisp, new, $100 bills in front of the elder gentleman. Five thousand dollars, old man? Hope you’re using some of that money to buy new clothes!

Truthfully, he was a little jealous at how this fellow was withdrawing the cash equivalent of almost three of his own paycheques, and that was before all the damned taxes were taken out. Then the teller proceeded to count out even more money, this time in 50- and 20-dollar bills. In total, she doled out $6,000, as she and the gentleman conversed amicably like age-old friends.

When the money counting was complete, the old man rested his hand on the briefcase handle for a moment as he and the teller whispered congenialities. He found it odd that the teller seemed to regard the aged man before her with increasingly blatant ardor and affection. As she packed the stack of bills into a brown envelope she stared, captivated, into his eyes, as if she was meeting the Hollywood actor of her dreams. Then, with their business concluded, the decrepit elder bid her farewell and made his way to the exit. No one in the still-long bank lineup paid any heed to him, other than those at the front who, like Jamieson, harboured a veiled contempt for the man’s apparent wealth but respectfully wished him no ill-will.

Without waiting for an invitation, Jamieson walked up to the same teller the old man had transacted with. She smiled and greeted him. Well, hello again! she said.

Jamieson smirked at the flattering salutation. He had not been served by her for months and couldn’t imagine that she would remember him. He didn’t remember her that clearly. He looked down at her nametag. Hello to you, Janine, he said. It has been a while.

Was there something you forgot? Janine asked.

Jamieson was caught off guard, and then he became aware of her lack of eye-contact. Excuse me? he asked.

She didn’t respond; instead, she stood frozen behind the counter. Jamieson was compelled to ask, Is everything okay, Ma’am?

She blinked at him as though waking from a dream, her eyes darting back and forth until they finally locked onto his. Still, she said nothing, causing Jamieson to ask once more, Is everything okay?

Janine’s face transitioned from confusion to a look of abject horror followed by a low moan that emanated from deep in her throat as her eyes grew wider and wider. The guttural sounds escalated to a wail and then into feverish yelling as she began clawing at her clothes, ripping her own blouse open. She scratched frantically at herself, her fingernails drawing long, blood-oozing trenches down her neck as her hysterical screams became even louder. Then she pulled at her hair with almost superhuman strength, removing chunks of skin, hair follicles sticking between her fingers. Finally, she began digging her fingers into her own face, clawing away her own eyelids, as through removing a mask. When her hands came away from her face, they revealed two fully exposed orbs clouded with blood and opaque fluids that seeped from the now useless, punctured organs and around the sockets.

Jamieson was frozen in shock, as were the rest of the bank’s patrons, at the sight of her inexplicable self-mutilations. He didn’t know whether to run away as fast as possible or pull out his sidearm and put her out of her misery. Willing his police training to kick in; he held up his palm and began stuttering instructions. Ma’am, he said, I need you to … to calm down, now … I’m a police officer!

She didn’t. Her screams suddenly intensified beyond what Jamieson thought was humanly possible, and then she slammed into the counter as though trying to barge through it. The sudden movement galvanized Jamieson into action. He backed away another half-step and barked a sideways order to anyone nearby, Somebody call 9-1-1, now!

Two stalls down, another bank teller, Cindy Gautreau, heard the police officer’s command and, despite her obvious shock, she responded. She fumbled slowly backwards, unable to take her eyes from the horrific sight of her colleague, until she bumped up against the wall behind her. Then she slid a trembling hand up to the fire alarm handle and pulled it. The alarm didn’t sound off immediately but the glass rod inside the levering mechanism made an audible crunching sound that seemed to grab the monster’s attention. She turned toward Cindy, obviously no longer able to use her sense of sight to navigate. The alarm’s bell finally went off, startling the bloody, half-naked woman who used to be Janine. She paused eerily, and then turned to face Cindy, the screaming reduced to a guttural snarl. Cindy let out a blood-curdling scream which only helped the blind attacker target her. The nightmarish monstrosity jumped through the air with superhuman ability and tackled her to the ground.

Cindy didn’t have a chance. Janine began clawing, gouging, and biting her. A sickening gargle emerged from Cindy’s throat as it was ripped from her neck in shreds. Her defensive flailing reduced to a spasmic twitch until her convulsions became still. Janine lost interested in her unmoving prey and jumped up to face the wall, breathing heavily as she waited for another noise to fixate upon. Jamieson unwittingly gave it to her with the sound of his voice.

Everybody out, Jamieson screamed, realizing that the maniacal form before him was acutely tuned in to sound. He kept yelling to keep her focussed on him, and him alone.

As people rushed to escape, Janine bumped into the counter again, but this time she managed to get over it, shoving anything not bolted down out of her way as she leaped toward Jamieson like a demon escaping the gates of hell. Jamieson raised an arm to block her, but she was too powerful to deflect, and so they toppled to the floor in a heap. She was inexplicably strong and her movements were a blur of unpredictable slashing and clawing—both against him and herself as well—and her teeth soon found their way deep into the muscle of his forearm.

Jamieson managed to extricate his right arm long enough to pull out his piece and cock the hammer. The shot rang out as he shoved the barrel under her chin and blew off a good portion of the front of her face. The spray of blood nearly blinded him, but the demon’s screaming and chaotic movements continued. The shot had no effect, and so this time he pushed the barrel deep into the fleshy tendrils of her exposed nasal cavity and squeezed the trigger until the body finally stopped moving.

Most of Janine’s head was now gone. Muscles, tendons, brains, and teeth lay plastered on the floor and ceiling around Jamieson, who lay in shock, his left hand still gripping Janine’s torn collar as blood continued to squirt out of her skull. He blinked as the sound of approaching emergency sirens began to dominate his senses. Not for the first time that day he thought, I ain’t paid enough for the shit I gotta put up with as a cop.

Meanwhile, nearly a full block away the old man sauntered along without the assistance of his cane. As he approached a narrow alley, he stopped behind a dumpster to quickly pull the latex mask off his face and head to reveal the face of a man 40 years younger. Using the assistance of a pocket mirror, he pulled a few stray bits of makeup glue off his neck and eye area before donning a pair of sunglasses to hide whatever residue might be left. Then he removed his decrepit old man clothing, tied them into a bundle, and tucked that discretely under an arm. Finally, he slid the cane out of sight within his trousers, untucked his T-shirt and emerged onto the crowded sidewalk as another hustling pedestrian, albeit one with a stiff, unbending leg.

He approached a waiting curbside limousine as wails of emergency vehicles echoing echoed throughout the streets. He got in while speaking through the open portal between the driver and passenger areas, as he extricated the hidden cane. Well, that was easier than I expected.

The man behind the wheel, dressed in an expensive suit befitting of a professional chauffeur, adjusted the rear-view mirror before speaking. A little close to home, don’t you think? he responded gruffly without preamble.

Nockler gave a furtive glance to the front of the car but could only perceive the bottom of his driver’s face in the mirror. "Oh, come on. We’re hours away from anyone truly important. Besides, the law wouldn’t be able to touch us if it came right down to it. He opened up his briefcase and eyed the contents with a little nod as a sense of pride welled up in him. The technology seems to be working perfectly. As far as the short and long-term effects we’ll just have to wait and see what the news reports say tonight."

"The news the chauffeur chortled. You’re joking, right?"

"What… it is the people’s most trusted source of information."

"Yeah, trusted source of something."

You’re right. Get a copy of the bank security footage to my office by morning at the latest. Use the usual methods and make it look plausible. I want to see how if there were any effects. He leaned forward to the front of the car and proceeded to pass the brown envelope of cash through. Here, for keeping me safe, he said with a chuckle.

The driver stole a quick glance over to what was being tapped on his shoulder. "No thanks! I ain’t touching that. I’d advise against you keeping it, either," he stated flatly.

Suit yourself. But what could I possibly do with it? He plopped the contents down onto the plush leather seat beside him. He began pulling layers of fake skin off of his fingers and palms. Balling up the removed latex into little chunks he flicked them one after the other out his partially opened side window as he thought out loud, I suppose I could invest it.

PART 1

Leigh

CHAPTER 1

2:34 p.m., April 8, 1999

Saunders St. Fredericton, New Brunswick

A thin sliver of intensifying light began to bridge two starkly contrasting worlds: one of the weightless, peaceful serenity of sleep and the other a throbbing agony of a five-alarm hangover. As Corbin Ryerson slowly opened his eyes to the late spring sunshine pouring through his loft bedroom windows that sliver intensified to a body wrenching glare.

As he slowly rejoined the world of the living, Ryerson stared up at the vaulted ceiling of his bedroom in the townhouse he shared with his two friends, Hutch and Matthew. Random memories came flooding back from the night before; the ‘Last Class Bash’, held at the local Student Union Bar to celebrate the St. Thomas University graduating class of 1999. It was one for the record books … but so was the resulting alcohol-induced pain around his eyes.

He forced himself to adjust to the sunlight as he reflected upon his time at St. Thomas. The past three-and-a-half years of post-secondary education had seen him develop many acquaintances, both on and off campus. The culmination of these passing friendships concluded with last night’s gathering in which toasts of, To our futures, along with fond, Goodbyes, were exchanged. For Corbin, parting embraces with certain females were interlaced with awkward acknowledgement of ex-relationships along with some fleeting glances of regret at others over not pursuing anything other than one-night-stands.

Seemingly endless beer rounds, shots of every mixed drink on the wall-mounted menu board, and the occasional joint had helped Corbin deal with his general distaste for large social situations, and he retired that night with the phrase, It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, running through his head. The phrase applied because the evening had been fed by an undertone of melancholy as the graduates realised that, as they pursued their respective career paths, they would probably never see each other again. Today is a brand-new day, Corbin muttered to himself as he clenched his eyes shut and massaged his temples. Then he thought, so why does it feel like all the rest?

Despite the jackhammering in his head Corbin was not one to dwell on the past or hold onto regrets. Some events were good, some were bad, but they all added to the collection of experiences that made him who he was and even now, he conceded to himself, pain was one hell of a teacher. The only son of a high-school teacher mother and a marine engineer father, his formative years were consumed with a need to increase his knowledge and broaden his experiences, traits he learned from his parents. However, with busy schedules—and the persistent absence of his seafaring father—he’d had little guidance, and so some of his adventures landed him in hot water, as they were not always legal.

If one wanted to characterise Corbin Ryerson, it would be as a ‘sigma male’ or lone wolf. Those let into his private circle of friends knew he was always ready to try something new; always looking into the future. They counted on him to enthusiastically lead the way towards excitement, with zero time wasted on complaints. And if somehow his enthusiasm wasn’t reciprocated, well, no one was ever surprised to see Corbin just go ahead on his own. Such an approach to life, along with his above average height, easy smile, and good looks, gave him a certain charisma.

Philosophically, Corbin perpetually looked for the best in people and always tried to see life events as purposeful and happening for their own reason. Though he never officially studied philosophy, he was intrigued by it and had adopted two convictions early in his life that he used to guide himself:

•No matter whether success is achieved or not, one must learn from the experience.

•You will regret the things in life you didn’t do far more than the things you did.

With a stretch and a yawn, Ryerson’s eyes wandered to the desk beside his bed that doubled as a nightstand. On one corner sat a small, framed picture of him and his parents, taken on a late summer afternoon as they posed in front of a larger-than-life patio chair on an ocean-soaked beach on Prince Edward Island. He smiled at photo of a long-ago time and enjoyed the comfort it brought. It had been two years since his mother had succumbed to cancer and, other than an occasional phone call, it had been just as long since he had seen his father, who had buried himself into his work with the Canadian Coast Guard as a distraction from his grief. He knew his parents would have been proud to attend his graduation ceremony today, though. He imagined his mother would surely have spent the entire lead-up trying to fix his bowtie while his father harassed him about what his next educational plan would be. He could hear the echoes of their voices, saying, An undergraduate degree is only the first step in the pursuit of a proper education. Corbin thought, but when has ‘proper’ ever been exciting?

Corbin willed his body to an upright position and eased his legs over the side of his bed. As his feet touched the carpet, he felt the presence of a different texture under one foot. Looking down he saw the bright red lace of a woman’s thong panties. He abruptly turned around to see if the owner was still in his bed, but there was nobody there. He smiled as more memories of last night’s festivities flooded back. The panties belonged to Erin Clarkson, an attractive blonde-haired, blue-eyed girl, who never ceased to amaze between the sheets and always left her mark on him—generally down his back. A fellow graduate of St. Thomas, Erin and Corbin had an on-again, off-again relationship that was more physical more than emotional, but while he thought she was a great girl, his roommates complained that she was too much of a ‘screamer’.

Ryerson chuckled a bit in anticipation of the grumbling from his roommates he was going to hear when he went down to the kitchen. He grabbed the dainty garment and tossed it in his laundry hamper in the corner of the room, thinking hopefully, maybe she’ll be back for them later.

Then, in preparation for standing up, he leaned over the edge of his bed and took a deep breath to clear the cobwebs from his brain. The actual graduation ceremony would commence soon, so he figured he better get an abundance of coffee into his stomach to set his foggy mind straight. Through slightly blurred eyes, he looked at his alarm clock to check the time. That the red LED numerals were absent from the screen was disturbing; it was a sign there had been a power outage. That can’t be good, he thought. Probably the clock’s plug-wire had been knocked out of the receptacle with the bed thrusting against it all night, he mused. Reaching over to the bedside table, he retrieved his trusty old titanium Timex Expedition wristwatch, a gift from father that, unlike his father, had never let him down.

The dial revealed that it was 2:34 p.m. Crap, he thought, the ceremony started almost two hours ago! With only 180 graduates, he didn’t suppose there was much chance of making it on time, even though ‘R’ for Ryerson was a decent way down the roster. Oh well, he muttered, I don’t’ have much use for all that pomp and circumstance anyway.

Slowly he made his way down the plush, carpeted stairs to the wrap-around kitchen and attached dining area. He was glad to see a half-full pot of coffee still warm in the maker. Then he noticed the machine was plugged into an extension cord. His eyes followed its length as it travelled over the counter and out the adjacent window. It was Matthew’s turn to pay the hydro bill, and judging by the empty bottles, cans, cups, and baggies that once held weed, he’d spent his money elsewhere. Hence the extension-cord. He wondered how long before the neighbours noticed their power was being ‘borrowed’.

In the dining room, Corbin found Hutch sitting at the round table, slumped over his elbows, clutching his closely cropped head between his hands. The posture indicated he was in hangover mode as well. Normally the fastest talking, and most outspoken of the three roomies, could seem at times to have a group discussion all by himself. Today the short, stocky, talkative Hutch was obviously out of sorts and his quick-witted, dry sense of humour seemed throttled back. Good morning, he croaked without looking up. Or is it good afternoon? He managed to raise his head to look at his roommate of two years. You missed a helluva party here last night. How was the last hurrah on campus? I bet we had WAY more topless girls here …

Ryerson shrugged. Meh … drinks were dirt cheap and there was no end to the goodbye kisses, he said. I got a lot of chickies’ phone numbers, so this summer won’t be boring.

Well, I guess I should have gone there instead, sighed Hutch. "Nothing but fuckin’ drama here. One of Matt’s friends found Matt’s blowgun and shot a dart right through another guy’s frigging hand!"

Ryerson looked at his friend with mild concern. No vital organs were hit, I assume?

And no ambulance required, Hutch chuckled. "It was kinda cool, actually. You remember how those darts were, like … just six-inch stainless-steel needles with a rubber plunger at the back, right? Well, most of the dart went right through his palm and then in one side of the plastic drink cup the guy was holding! It hardly bled but he freaked out, obviously, trying to shake the cup loose. You’ll notice the rum and Coke stains all up the wall, and on part of the ceiling over there …"

Hutch pointed, and Ryerson followed with his eyes, noting the brown sticky stains. Nice, he said. Hopefully Matt cleans that up since he’s an accessory to the crime. He still in bed?

Yes, Hutch responded flatly. Anyway, luckily my girlfriend, being the top-grade nursing student that she is, took control of the situation and bandaged up the dude. Then Matt threw the shooter out. There was a little tilt outside the door, but he locked him out quick, before any real punches were thrown or the neighbours could call the fuzz.

Jeez, good times, remarked Ryerson. Whoever got shot must’ve had a guardian angel looking over him. Lucky no one got hit in the eye. His friends were usually pretty level-headed … but throw in copious amounts of rum and cola, (what the small group of friends referred to as ‘the Maritimer’s drink’) and anything could and would happen, any time and any day or night of the week!

You’re sounding like my mother, Hutch remarked.

Yeah? Well, be glad you have one, Corbin gently retorted. Anyway, with craziness like that happening around here more and more, I’m getting the feeling it might be good to get away from this place now that school is done.

Hutch nodded. They both knew this wasn’t a lifestyle they wanted to continue with but when one started, they all got in on it. Matthew, on the other hand, was a different story. The guy was an absolute computer genius and still drank completely unnatural amounts of alcohol and smoked what appeared to be pounds of weed as well, and it hardly seemed to affect him at all. But to what end? They weren’t rock stars, though their lifestyles seemed to ameliorate the profession, and the money wasn’t exactly flowing in to support such fun but destructive habits. It was almost like he was self-medicating and rum and pot were the prescriptions, though no one knew why.

Ryerson nodded toward the power cable dangling out the window. They cut the power off again, I see …

Yeah, it must’ve been early this morning. I hope the neighbour doesn’t figure out we’re plugged in until we pay the bill, said Hutch. I’ll call the power company once my head is straight.

Why do we trust Matt to pay that bill? Ryerson asked. We gave him the cash a month ahead for shit’s sake.

Maybe he bought dope with it or something, replied Hutch.

Yeah, well thanks to the lack of power to run my alarm clock I missed my graduation ceremony this afternoon.

Whoa, St. Thomas had their graduation …? Hutch’s question trailed off as he pointed straight down with his index finger. Ryerson nodded to the affirmative. And the ceremony was …?

Another nod with a healthy dose of annoyance, Ya …

You slept through the whole …?

Uh huh, Ryerson grunted to affirm everything.

Holy shit, sorry dude, said Hutch. But you probably didn’t feel much like going anyway, did you? He grinned at his friend. "Erin, right? I heard the screams… again."

Ryerson smiled tiredly. Anyone who knew him knew he wasn’t a fan of such ceremonies—especially for an arts diploma. He cleared a spot of empty liquor containers and party refuse and sat down at the table as Hutch shifted the conversation,

So now that school is done, and you said you’re thinking of getting away, tell me … what exactly are you planning to do with your double major in English and History? He smirked with the belief that his question would go unanswered.

Ryerson chuckled, Don’t forget the minor in Social Sciences.

"Oh yeah, the study of religions, wasn’t it? What the hell are you gonna do with that, anyway? Got your sites set on becoming a librarian or minister or something?"

I know it sounds impractical, but it checked off all the boxes for my fascination with history. I wouldn’t be human if I didn’t wonder about why we were put here, and I have a fascination with commonalities of all the different doctrines. I was always intrigued by the weaponization of faith that has led mankind into endless religious wars. And, growing up with constant exposure to Shakespeare, Austen, and Dickens… I couldn’t waste a useless arts degree on anything else, he said facetiously. He took a sip of his coffee, I suppose aeronautical engineering would be more lucrative—at least that’s what my high-school career profiler told me I’d be best suited to. Perhaps I should’ve listened …

Well, good for you for graduating, dude. I’m proud of you … but higher education’s not for me. I’m keeping my Purolator job. It’s been six years now and I think I’ll stick with them and keep getting those regular raises until I retire.

I don’t blame you in the least, man, said Ryerson. Unless you can bribe your way into a government job, or have ties with the snobs in this old, white-money town, then you’re best to stick with a job like that. Keep climbing that corporate ladder, bro. Then, like a judge using his gavel to conclude the sentencing of a defendant he then put his coffee cup down stood up, As for me, I’m gonna go pick up my diploma and transcripts and then rip down to Canadian Forces Base Gagetown and see if they have a need for a handsome, new pilot recruit.

Hutch looked at his roommate for a long second before responding. He knew Ryerson was famous for surprises but this concept was off the charts. Buddy, are you fucking serious? asked Hutch. "The military? You aren’t exactly one to follow rules from what I’ve seen."

I know, Ryerson agreed. Time to grow up a li’l bit, perhaps. My current lifestyle isn’t exactly doing it for me, he said, looking around the kitchen area as he held his hands up with disdain for the disaster around him. I can’t continue living like this. And I know you don’t like it any more than I do.

Hutch nodded in the affirmative as Ryerson continued, I’ll be back after I take care of the air force stuff. Have a joint rolled for me and I’ll help you clean up this nasty pigsty. Deal?

Deal, said Hutch. Then he asked, "You okay to drive? It sounded like you three fell into the house, last night, rather than walked. Who was the other hottie with you, anyway? She had a crazy French accent. Ya’ll ran up to your room pretty quick there, stud."

Corbin had honestly forgotten about the second woman who’d come along for the afterparty. He shook his head with a smirk. One was Erin … that’s all I remember…

I know, said Hutch dryly, the screaming banshee would have kept me awake all night if I wasn’t so drunk.

"Oh ya, Michelle. The other was an acquaintance from school who wanted to hang out after the Last Class Bash. Who could say no to two open-minded ladies like that? But don’t let your imagination run too wild, bud; I kicked Little Red Riding Ho out before the fun really got started. She broke out a bag of coke and wanted to do lines off the other’s ass cheek! Something told me to cut and run, so I had to show her well-trimmed butt to the door. We gotta’ watch out for anyone doing that crap, man. Makes me extra nervous ever since that SWAT team raid on that party you and Matt went to last month. I don’t want to be anywhere near any cokeheads."

Hutch grunted and smiled at the memory. Oh, that was a crazy night. Shit was straight out of the movies, the way they came in through every window and door all at once. No one knew it was a coke-house, otherwise I wouldn’t have gone! Someone at that party must have been a narc. You were lucky to change your mind about going at the last minute, eh? Me and Matt have our names on police files now, and for who knows how long. I’ll probably get searched at every border I try to cross from now on, for fuck’s sake.

It was weird, but I had a gut feeling the last second, said Corbin. Somebody up there was looking out for me, I suppose, he added, pointing a finger to the heavens. Then he said, Nothing good can come from that stuff, bro. I’ve seen and heard of enough lives ruined by it.

Hey, I don’t do any of that! protested Hutch. I was just there for something to do. I didn’t know I was gonna spend half the night with my hands cuffed behind my back, lying on a living room floor. Then he smiled devilishly and added, "If I wanted that, I’d have called up the girlfriend."

CHAPTER 2

3:45 p.m., April 8, 1999

Saunders Street, Fredericton, New Brunswick

After a quick shower Corbin shaved his boyish beard, arranged his wavy brown hair with his fingers (he’d never owned a brush or comb in his life), pulled on his faded jeans, long-sleeve pullover and Adidas skater shoes, and stepped outside into the bright, welcoming sunshine. Donning this year’s latest model motorcycle helmet, a completely gloss black Shoei with mirrored, seamless visor, he threw off his motorbike’s cover and then smiled in awe as the sun glinted brightly off the paint and fairing of his 2000 Honda CBR 929RR Fireblade. The bike was so sleek that even though it was parked it still seemed to be moving.

The Fireblade was a true work of art, gorgeous in the aerodynamically designed lines that surrounded her powerful engine. This version was a rare blue, white and purple color scheme (with minute red and metallic-gold accents), flush-mounted signal lights, custom stealth-mounted license plate (a continual frustration to the local police) and gold-tinted windscreen mimicking the radar-absorbing coating found on the canopies of many modern-day fighter jets. The machine turned heads on a regular basis. The bike featured an all-new electronic fuel injection system that replaced the less efficient carburetors, custom headers, and a Yoshimura tailpipe tucked up under the single seat (inspired by the Italian Ducati designs).

The bike came to life instantly and settled into a fairly quiet rumble that did nothing to indicate she had a 204-horsepower begging to be unleashed. Ryerson waited for the engine temperature to come up, got on the bike, and with a snap of the wrist he was gone to streak through downtown traffic toward the university. There, he obtained his transcripts of and diploma (Bachelor of Arts) and, after bidding goodbye to the ladies at the registration office, was off to what he hoped would be a completely new, more productive, life. He wanted to push himself to his limits and seek his own identity. His dream was to fly.

Up to this point in his life, he felt that he hadn’t really been doing what he wanted to do. Getting an arts degree was mostly to appease his ailing mother, whose desire was to see him become a teacher like she had been. He dutifully saw the degree through to its completion, but only out of respect to her memory. Now, he was excited about starting a new chapter in his life. As he drove east from the university to the Commonwealth’s largest military base, CFB Gagetown, it felt like he was making a get-away from his old life and excitement at what lay ahead made his adrenaline surge. He twisted the throttle to its maximum and roared east down Route #2, the red speedometer needle jumping beyond the 300 kilometres an hour mark. He kept the throttle wide open, even as he flashed by a police car parked on the side of the highway. They didn’t even bother to give chase.

The drive from Fredericton, which usually took about 20 minutes, took him less than 10 and before he knew it, he was in the military town of Oromocto. At the gate of the military base, the young guard gave him directions to the recruitment office, all the while clearly ogling the Fireblade.

He parked the bike in the only available spot, which was right in front of the recruitment office, and walked purposefully inside and up to the counter. Two slightly aged officers were engaged in quiet conversation when he entered the room. They both perked up when they saw him.

Good afternoon, fellas, Ryerson said.

Welcome to the CFB Gagetown Recruitment Center, Sir, said a slightly portly officer while his co-worker sat down at the other end of the counter and began typing on a computer.

Thanks, Ryerson smiled back. The officer’s steel-framed glasses sat atop a long nose and bushy moustache. He leaned forward to peer down at the ‘civvie’ before him in a grandfatherly way and asked, How may we be of assistance?

With a hopeful smile, Corbin responded, Well, I was hoping you could help me become the air force’s next top pilot.

The recruitment officer immediately stood more erect. He smiled and said, "Well, of course we can, son! This base is proud to have provided more pilots to the Canadian Air Force than any other base in the country. Many apply, but not many make it. You think you’ve got what it takes?"

Ryerson puffed out his chest. I do! he said. And I’d like to continue the tradition and make this base proud!

Come this way then, said the man, pointing to an adjacent office containing two chairs separated by a small desk. We’ve got some paperwork for you to fill out. Mostly, it’s security stuff, and a list of things you’ll need to do before we get started. The pilot recruitment program only takes applicants with a university degree … so do you want to go through our college program? Or are you currently enrolled in a bachelor’s degree program?

Oh, I just graduated from St. Thomas this morning, with a double major in English and History, and minor in Social Sciences. The man looked surprised, and so Corbin said, I, uh … skipped the graduation ceremony to come here to apply. Then he fished around in his pocket and pulled out some papers. Here are my diploma and transcripts, he told the man, unfolding the normally prized diploma, its gold-leaf and black lettering creased like yesterday’s newspaper.

Jeeesus, boy! the man exclaimed. You’ve graduated with a degree already? You look like you could be in high school still! Then he looked down at creased documents and back again into Ryerson’s eyes with disbelief. This is an expensive piece of paper to treat like that, he said.

I know, Ryerson said, "it’s a degree, and I paid a lot of money for it, but all I’ve ever wanted to do was fly. Private flight schools are outside my budget, so I figured this was the quickest way to attain that dream. I just hope this degree is good enough to get my foot in the door. I want some excitement. I heard you can get that in the military."

Laughing slightly the recruitment officer said, You want this pretty bad, don’t ya, kid? Ryerson’s nod left little room for disbelief. Okay, then. Let’s sit down and fill out some forms. You’re going to have to get initial vision, hearing, and physical examinations.

Filling out forms with his personal information and signing declarations was completed in under half an hour. It all seemed too easy, but he felt like he was literally signing his life away to the devil. However, that’s what he was there for. In no time the application process was about to wrap up. "Oh, wait … one more form to sign off on, here,