Flashing in cadence across his windshield, the highway lights lulled his thoughts into dogmas of revolution. According to Kasper, the Order would easily be able to overthrow regimes, if only civilians did not see representatives as power objects, casting their lot into the abyss of liars, charlatans and capitalist monsters. Monarchs, presidents and prime ministers held the fate of the people, when such a thing should be an abomination, reckoned Kasper. Unfortunately, there was no other way to govern successfully, but to deceive and sow fear on one’s own people. He found it regrettable that the world population would never be free. That even thinking about alternatives to a single, world dominating entity was becoming ludicrous.
Turning away from the Gent-Brugge Canal, he shortly after passed Assebroek Cemetery, where both his parents were buried. On the radio, the female broadcaster announced that it was just past 11pm and Kasper felt a sense of relief he had not felt in a long time. He likened the sensation to the glee of waking up late for school and realizing that it was Saturday — and it was.
“Thank God, I can sleep a bit later tomorrow,” he smiled.
Life had been hectic since he took on the new project directed by that academic equivalent of a cuckoo, Dr. Zelda Bessler. She was managing a top-secret program only a few members of the Order knew of, excluding the architect of the original formulas, Dr. Kasper Jacobs himself.
As a pacifist genius, he always shrugged it off that she took all the credit for his work under the mantle of cooperation and teamwork ‘for the good of the Order’, as she put it. But lately he had begun to feel more and more resentment toward his colleagues for the exclusion from their ranks, especially considering that those tangible theories he came up with would be worth a lot of money in any other institution. Money he could have all to himself. Instead, he had to be content with receiving but a fraction of the value while the Order’s highest bidding pets enjoyed preference in the salary department. And they all lived comfortably off his hypotheses and his hard work.
When he stopped in front of his apartment in the secure complex off the cul-de-sac, Kasper felt sick. For so long he had been avoiding the antipathy inside him in the name of his research, but tonight’s re-acquaintance with Tuft reinforced the hostility all over again. It was such an unpleasant topic to stain his mind with, but it refused to be repressed all the time.
Up the stairs he skipped, to the landing of granite slabs that led to the front door of his detached apartment. The main house lights were on, but he always moved quietly as not to disturb the landlord. Compared to his colleagues, Kasper Jacobs led an astonishingly reclusive and modest life. Save for those who stole his work and profited, his less intrusive associates made quite a decent living as well. By average standards, Dr. Jacobs was comfortable, but by no means wealthy.
The door creaked open, and the smell of cinnamon wafted into his nostrils, stopping him in his tracks in the dark. Kasper smiled and switched on the light, affirming the secret delivery by his landlord’s mother.
“Karen, you spoil me rotten,” he said to the empty kitchen as he went straight for the baking tray full of raisin buns. Briskly he scooped up two of the soft breads and stuffed them into his mouth as fast as he could chew. He sat down at the computer and logged in, swallowing clumps of delicious raisin bread.
Kasper checked his e-mails, after which he proceeded to check the latest news on Nerd Porn, the underground science website he was a member of. Suddenly, Kasper felt better after the shitty evening as he saw the familiar logo, utilizing symbols from chemical equations to produce the lettering of the website name.
Something caught his eye under the ‘Latest’ tab. He leaned forward to make sure that he was reading correctly. “You goddamn moron,” he whispered at the picture of David Purdue with the thread subject line:
‘Dave Purdue found the Dire Serpent!’
“You fucking idiot,” Kasper gasped. “If he puts this equation into practice, we are all fucked.”
7
The Day After
When Sam woke up, he wished he never possessed a brain. Accustomed to hangovers, he knew the consequences of his birthday bash, but this was a special kind of hell smoldering inside his skull. He stumbled into the hallway, every footfall pounding against the inside of his eye sockets.
“Oh, God, just kill me,” he mumbled as he painfully wiped his eyes, dressed in only his bathrobe. Under the soles of his feet, the floor felt like an ice hockey rink, while the cold swiftness of the wind under his door warned of another chilly day on the other side. The television was still on, but Nina was absent and his cat, Bruichladdich, elected to choose this inconvenient moment to begin whining for food.
“Bruich, my head,” Sam complained, holding his brow. He sauntered into the kitchen for some heavy black coffee and two Anadins, as was the rule of thumb during his hardcore newspaper days. The fact that it was weekend made no difference to Sam. Whether with his job as investigative journalist, his stint as author or going on excursions with Dave Purdue, Sam never had a weekend, a holiday or a day. Every day was the same as the previous to him, and he counted his days by deadlines and engagements in his diary.
After satisfying the large ginger feline with a tin of fishy mush, Sam tried not to gag. The awful smell of dead fish was not the best odor to suffer, considering his condition. He promptly alleviated the misery with hot coffee in the living room. Nina had left a note:
Hope you have mouthwash and a strong stomach. I DVR’d you something interesting about a ghost train on Global News this morning. Too good to miss. Got to head back to Oban for the lecture at the college. Hope you survive the Irish Flu this morning. Godspeed!
“Ha-ha, very funny,” he groaned, popping the Anadins with a mouthful of coffee. Satisfied, Bruich appeared form the kitchen. He took his place on the free chair and started happily cleaning himself. Sam resented his cat’s casual happiness, not to mention the complete absence of discomfort Bruich enjoyed. “Oh, sod off,” Sam said.
He was curious about Nina’s news recording, but he did not think that her warning of a strong stomach was welcome. Not with this hangover. In a quick tug-of-war, his curiosity beat his sickness and he turned on the recorded piece she had referred to. Outside, the wind brought more rain, so Sam had to turn up the volume of the television.
On the excerpt, a journalist reported on the mysterious deaths of two youths in the town of Maladzyechna, near Minsk, in Belarus. The woman, dressed in a thick overcoat, stood on a decrepit platform of what looked like an old train station. She warned audiences on graphic scenes before the camera switched to the smeared remains on the rusted old tracks.
“What the fuck?” Sam mouthed as he frowned, trying to make sense of the incident.
“The young men were apparently crossing the railroad tracks here,” the reporter pointed to the plastic covered red mess just below the platform edge. “According to the statement of the only surviving party, whose identity is still being withheld by the authorities, his two friends were run over… by a ghost train.”
“I would think so,” Sam mumbled, reaching for a bag of crisps Nina had neglected to finish. He did not believe in superstitions and ghosts much, but what initiated his acceptance of the turn of phrase, was that the tracks were clearly dysfunctional. Looking past the obvious gore and tragedy, as he was trained to do, Sam noticed that sections of the track was missing. Other shots of the camera showed the severe corrosion of the rails, which would make it impossible for any train to run along them.