Dead Wrong

by O. J. Anderson

part 2 of 9

Boston, Massachusetts.
Gormont College, Anthropology Building
October 14

Professor Pferkin stares at the telephone, his shaking hand still holding the receiver. He picks it up once again. Glances down at the pile of junk mail lying on his desk. Coupons, deals, special offers. Two catalogues for winter mens’ wear. He dials the local Jiffy Lube.

An unenthusiastic male voice: “Jiffy Lube, may I help you?”

“Sorry, wrong number.” The professor hangs up quickly. There, he thinks. Now, if anyone presses the redial button to find out his last call, they’ll get Jiffy Lube. Smart move. Or, he wonders, am I being paranoid? Nonsense. It’s over. Finished. He has washed his hands of it. Picking up his pipe, he tells himself that he made the right move. Let those men deal with it now. The professionals.

This type of work is definitely not his forte. He is not an investigator. Not a hero. If he said anything they would just laugh. He could be fired. And no one would take in an aging, close to retirement anthropology professor of questionable mental stability these days. That sort fell out of fashion a while back. It’s not a hot department anymore; not sexy like genetics or international business. There are no highly-rated prime time programs with young studs and vixens fighting it out to be the next Marius Barbeau.

And how would he live? He had bills to pay. A retirement to think about. Becoming a pariah in the academic community won’t exactly cover the rent each month. He chuffs at the idea. Good thing he already destroyed all the photographs and documentation. Human-animal hybrids? Chimera? Sea monsters? Mythical creatures for sure. That’s where they belong. Should he throw away his career when he wasn’t even 100% positive of what it was he saw?

And these strange rumors of a mysterious organization working to enslave mankind. The Cabal. The idea that they are experimenting with breeding a hyper-sapien overclass is just beyond preposterous. There’s no proof of their existence. Only weird rumors spread by even weirder people.

Pferkin moves to the window and leans for a look down the sidewalk. No one there. The campus is quiet. Gray sky turning black. He lights his pipe and puts it out of his mind once and for all. He’s having dinner with colleagues in a few hours. At Pagliuca’s. That’s his life; that’s what he’s doing. The sky is not falling.

Then, from behind: “A-hem.”

“Hmm?” Professor Pferkin is startled. He thought he was alone. He turns, but it is only Brian, his long-haired, slightly effeminate research assistant, who, judging by his appearance, lives in chronic poverty. But then, most of the anthro students looked that way. “Brian? I thought you’d gone home.”

The normally doting Brian, almost always brandishing a cup of coffee for the professor, now has a rather stern look on his face. Severe, in fact. He remains silent.

“Brian?” The professor turns away from the window. “What’s wrong?”

Brian takes a deep breath. Says in a soft voice: “You shouldn’t have done that, professor.”

“What? Done what?”

“You know what.” Points to the phone. “That.”

“What are you talking about, boy?”

Brian doesn’t answer. Shakes his head, like he’s disappointed; like he now has to do something he’d rather not. Stepping closer now. “You should have just let it go, professor. Just let it go and walked away. That’s all you had to do.”

The professor’s pipe falls to the floor, tobacco spilling across the hardwood. His mouth agape.

“Did you really think you could stop us? Huh? The World Order is coming professor, whether you or anyone else likes it or not.”

Pferkin struggles for a syllable. “Uh... I... um...”

Brian takes a silenced .22 automatic from inside his threadbare cardigan.

The professor sees the gun. It sends a shock wave throughout his body. This can’t be happening. Not now. I’m not ready! He shouts, “Don’t, Brian. Please! You don’t have to do this!”

“Yes, I do.” He aims for the professor’s heart.

Throwing his hands in the air, Pferkin pleads, “I won’t tell anyone. I swear!”

“I know.” Brian fires the pistol twice.

No one can stop us. No one!

* * *

To be continued...