HOME | DD

Description
Chapter Three

      The street was bathed in orange light cast off by the setting sun; street lamps lining the block just flicking on, casting their bluish hue into the still dusk air. A warm wind blows briefly, scattering leaves across the front lawn of 625 Lake Street, the dull clapping of wooden shutters floats lazily in the welcome breeze. A house, just like every other occupying the 600 block of Lake, stands vacant; its mold covered windows, cracks spreading like spider webs gracing its upper stories staring out over the street like a lifeless pair of eyes. Only a brief movement from deep within the depths behind one of the decrepit building's second story windows betrays any presence of life at all.
      A scattering of books, old science publications and write-ups, thrillers, and best sellers lay on a coffee table amidst the remnants of a late night binge. A paper cup lay on   its side, cold coffee forming a puddle spreading across a dusty flood plane towards the center of the table, coursing its way past forgotten boxes of Chinese take out, snubbed cigarettes, and plastic condiments, forming miniature eddies as the liquid flows around a gnarled hand.
      Somewhere off in the distance, comes the sharp ringing of a small bell, echoing through the empty halls of the house. A rat, which had been chewing on the corner of an old romance novel leaps off the coffee table, startled by the sudden noise, scattering left over boxes of Chinese food as it darts across the room, ducking into a small hole along a floorboard. The ringing continues, taking on an increasingly insistent tone, and is joined by a wet swishing sound as the gnarled hand slides across the table sending small waves of cold coffee splashing to the rotting wooden floor. The hand reaches the edge of the dark stretch of wood and pauses; a grunt of disapproval as a dark figure, clad in tattered flannel jacket, face thrown into shadow by a dark mop of nappy hair scans the room, a weary look, born through years of living out on the streets crossing the figure's stolid features.
      The ringing stops, and a moment of stasis settles over the room, before a loud banging begins, the sound of a heavy fist thudding against the decaying wooden door gracing the building's entryway.
      "Shut up!" A gruff voice emanates from the shadowy figure, shaking the last remnants of sleep out of his head. A pause as the figure steals another glance about the room, taking in the thick air, ripe with the smell of mold and years of accumulated cigarette smoke. A closet door lay half open in a corner of the room, all but one of its hinges broken off. Old clothes lay scattered along the floor, a cracked leather suitcase lay open at the foot of the coffee table; a comb had carefully been plucked from it and lay at its side, along with various other treasures; an old wallet brimming with old black and white pictures of some unknown family, an assortment of papers, and some antique coins. A creak sounds as the figure stands, a light indentation left on a mildew covered couch where the figure had been dozing for the last several hours. An explosive cough sounds as the figure buries his face into a jacket sleeve, sending a flurry of dust dancing across a beam of fading sunlight cutting its way through the grime of the room's solitary window. The figure looks up towards the source of the light, hair falling back to reveal the features of a tired young man, no more than his mid-twenties. His brown eyes narrowing as he peers out through the filthy glass at the outlines of the street below. The banging on the front door continues.
      "Shut up man! I'm coming!" The man turns on his heel, hitching up an old pair of blue jeans, which had been threatening to fall down at any moment, and stomps out of the room, leaving clean footprints in the thick layers of dust.
Scrambling down a collapsing set of stairs two at a time, the man reaches the front door and stops, letting his hand rest on the brass door handle.
      "What've you got for me" the man lowers his voice, watching the wavy silhouette of a bulky figure standing on the other side of the door's frosted glass window.
      "Three dead kittens, and a bottle of scotch" The figure on the other side of the window shifts as if resting his weight on the other foot, and continues in a low grumble "and a bullet for your mother if you don't let me in"
      Satisfied that the man had properly identified himself, the young man proceeds to let him in. Four simultaneous clicks could be heard as various locks were undone and the door opened. Framing the doorway was a muscular and compact man of about 30, balding with a carefully trimmed goatee, cloudy grey eyes, wearing a dirty pair of khaki cargo pants, a black under shirt, and a large black coat. A smile breaks his features as he looks up at the man who had opened the door. "Well it's about time my friend" he grabs the man's hand in a crushing handshake as he steps into the house.  "The name is Erickson."
      "Zinn."
      "Zinn" The man smiled, "You did not forget our meeting I hope?"
      "You are not un-expected. I understand, Mathews sent you here?" Zinn pulls his hand away and turns to walk towards the living room, motioning with his hand for the man to follow,
      "Yes, and we'll get to the subject of Mathews' business soon enough my friend, but first I have something to show you" They had stepped into the living room, a large space covered in old furniture, lit by several grimy windows filtering in the dull blue post-dusk light which was growing dimmer by the minute. Zinn had pulled the sheets off two armchairs set on either side of a large oak coffee table and was in the process of flicking on a few light switches. A few bright flashes and soft pops could be heard as the bulbs in several cobweb riddled wall sconces burned out; the remaining bulbs bathing the room in a soft yellow light.
      "Take a seat" Zinn motioned at an armchair, before turning to a withered glass fronted cabinet containing glass bottles of various size and shape, waving his hand as he brushed some cobwebs away from its front. "So what is this amazing thing you are about to show me?" He pauses to stare at his guest who had helped himself to his own seat and was sitting, one leg propped over the other, an expectant look on his face.
      "I see you will be selecting a drink" the man named Erickson leaned forward, goatee bristling, "My friend, I implore you to select something special as we will be toasting quite merrily tonight"
      With a crack, Zinn broke open the door of the cabinet and reached in, selecting a medium sized bottle filled with a rich golden liquid; its darkened label bore rich Russian script adorning a red flag depicting a yellow sickle and hammer crossed over each other.          "Cold War, 1976. This was distributed to the Soviets for special occasions." Zinn reached back into the cabinet and withdrew a shot glass, which he brought over to the coffee table, setting them down with a clink. "Drink up"
Erickson's face broke into surprise "But I can not toast to just myself my friend!"
      "I don't drink" Zinn sat himself down in the adjacent armchair, gazing warily at the darkness falling outside the house, barely visible through the dirty windows.
Erickson settled back into the armchair, a small smile forming on his face "Well perhaps you will toast to this my friend; what if I were to tell you, I could make you 200 million dollars richer? Hm?"
      "And just how, I ask, may you do that?" Zinn had heard his share of wild stories before. Of plots and schemes guaranteeing large amounts of instant cash flow, each one more grandiose than the last, and all, just as morose; and this Erickson seemed to be setting himself up for quite a winner.
      Erickson's smile only grew wider as he began to grow more animated. The bottle of vodka and lone shot glass lay forgotten on the table. He suddenly thrust his hand into a pocket of his cargo pants and Zinn thought for a moment whether he was going to pull a gun; he discreetly slid his hand into the pocket of his jacket feeling the comforting shape of his own piece, a Heckler and Koch USP 40, just in case. With a flash, Erickson pulled his hand out of his pocket; the younger man felt his arm tense slightly as he anticipated drawing his weapon, but when Erickson held out his hand, it held nothing but a small black object; completely harmless. "You can take your finger off that trigger my friend, I'm sure you would not like to startle yourself and put a hole in the pocket of that lovely jacket, hm?" Erickson nodded at him, smiling. Then he reached over and tapped at a large lump in his own coat "and we wouldn't want to put on a show would we?"
      Zinn released his grip on the weapon and slowly drew his arm out of his pocket; leaning back into his armchair, pitching a tent with his fingers as he fixed his eyes on his guest. "And just how is that little black square going to make me $200 million dollars?"
      "Ah, now we are having a conversation!" Erickson clapped his hands together and settled back in his chair, "I will take great care to explain this to you my friend, because I will only explain this to you once." Erickson paused, glancing about the room before starting "I am a man of many customers. I have come to you because you possess many talents that I do not; talents which I believe may be put to good use with the information I am about to give you." The man once again paused at this point, as if desiring a certain effect. "My friend, I understand you are ah, a sort of match maker, am I correct?"
      "That would be the correct assumption, yes" If Zinn thought Erickson was crazy, he didn't show it.
      At this Erickson paused, nodding his head, before leaning forward, as if letting him in on a secret,  "I have in my possession, the instructions for creating any living thing you may wish to create. Things, which may go beyond anything you could even imagine, and all I need you to do my friend, is help me to distribute them to all the right people. Do this for me, and you will be a rich man."
      "You have instructions, for making ah, living things?" Zinn held back a smile. This strange man in his living room was proving himself to be a real piece of work.
      "That is precisely correct" Erickson bowed his head as he spoke.
      "So you're some sort of Doctor fucking Frankenstein?"
      A grin from Erickson, "I guess you could say that, yes"
      "And it's all right there on that little black thing of yours?" Zinn nodded at the black object in Erickson's hand.
      "That's right" Erickson reached out, placing the black square on the coffee table for Zinn's inspection.
      Zinn recognized the small object as a flash drive made by Micron Concepts; an electronics start up out of Silicon Valley. It was a favorite of industrial spies both due to its small size, and the fact that it held up to 10GB worth of data. Zinn had seen quite a few of them pass through his hands, containing everything from classified government documents to pictures of the mayor's last affair. If what Erickson said was true; this one-centimeter by one-centimeter square could be his ticket to an early retirement. Zinn picked up the flash drive, flipping it over in the palm of his hand. "Erickson" Zinn places the drive back on the coffee table "I'm curious to hear how you've arrived at your figures"
      Erickson had been watching Zinn inspect the drive with an eager look on his face as if seeking approval. At the sound of Zinn's question, Erickson snatched the drive from the table. "This" Erickson shook the square in front of Zinn, "This contains the power of God Himself. You have no idea just how much this could be worth to the right people." The smile had disappeared from Erickson's face; he paused to take in a deep breath, "A small nation could get their hands on this. They could use this information to engineer an entire army of super soldiers; stronger, faster, deadlier than anything we've ever seen! "     A wave of hands as Erickson attempted to drive his point home. "To the right foreign power, to the right corporation, $400 million is nothing, compared to what this can bring them, and I intend to offer you half of that."
      Zinn shot a good long stare at the blackness outside the windows before considering his reply. He considered whether Erickson was the real deal; the man, it seemed to Zinn, seemed the brains behind the project, or at least seemed to have a very personal interest in seeing it succeed. For most jobs Zinn had conducted, he had worked with a middleman. The only time he spoke to the head honcho was if something were really serious, or if the head of the operation was a quack job; Erickson, it seemed, teetered somewhere in between the two.
      Zinn glanced at Erickson, who had been watching him intently for the last few moments. "Well?" Erickson shrugged his shoulders, spreading his hands apart in an open gesture, "I could always go to other people who would be more than happy to help me" he brought his hands together with a small clap, folding them up in a ball, which he shook when he spoke, "but I was hoping I could get the best", a large smile. This guy gave Zinn the creeps; it was time to send him on his way.
      "Mr. Erickson", Zinn looked up, making eye contact with this man, a chill running down his spine as the man's steel eyes pierced through him. "I am a busy man, I'm sorry, but I will not have time to consider your project"
      The smile had vanished from Erickson's face, leaving only his intense gaze. This time, when Erickson spoke, the cheery, informal tone had gone from his voice, leaving only a low grumble; each word rolling off his tongue sounding like the growl of some jungle beast, "then perhaps, Mr. Zinn," Erickson rested his hand on the L-shaped lump in his pocket as he spoke, "I can give you a long time to consider things."

Description
Chapter Three

      The street was bathed in orange light cast off by the setting sun; street lamps lining the block just flicking on, casting their bluish hue into the still dusk air. A warm wind blows briefly, scattering leaves across the front lawn of 625 Lake Street, the dull clapping of wooden shutters floats lazily in the welcome breeze. A house, just like every other occupying the 600 block of Lake, stands vacant; its mold covered windows, cracks spreading like spider webs gracing its upper stories staring out over the street like a lifeless pair of eyes. Only a brief movement from deep within the depths behind one of the decrepit building's second story windows betrays any presence of life at all.
      A scattering of books, old science publications and write-ups, thrillers, and best sellers lay on a coffee table amidst the remnants of a late night binge. A paper cup lay on   its side, cold coffee forming a puddle spreading across a dusty flood plane towards the center of the table, coursing its way past forgotten boxes of Chinese take out, snubbed cigarettes, and plastic condiments, forming miniature eddies as the liquid flows around a gnarled hand.
      Somewhere off in the distance, comes the sharp ringing of a small bell, echoing through the empty halls of the house. A rat, which had been chewing on the corner of an old romance novel leaps off the coffee table, startled by the sudden noise, scattering left over boxes of Chinese food as it darts across the room, ducking into a small hole along a floorboard. The ringing continues, taking on an increasingly insistent tone, and is joined by a wet swishing sound as the gnarled hand slides across the table sending small waves of cold coffee splashing to the rotting wooden floor. The hand reaches the edge of the dark stretch of wood and pauses; a grunt of disapproval as a dark figure, clad in tattered flannel jacket, face thrown into shadow by a dark mop of nappy hair scans the room, a weary look, born through years of living out on the streets crossing the figure's stolid features.
      The ringing stops, and a moment of stasis settles over the room, before a loud banging begins, the sound of a heavy fist thudding against the decaying wooden door gracing the building's entryway.
      "Shut up!" A gruff voice emanates from the shadowy figure, shaking the last remnants of sleep out of his head. A pause as the figure steals another glance about the room, taking in the thick air, ripe with the smell of mold and years of accumulated cigarette smoke. A closet door lay half open in a corner of the room, all but one of its hinges broken off. Old clothes lay scattered along the floor, a cracked leather suitcase lay open at the foot of the coffee table; a comb had carefully been plucked from it and lay at its side, along with various other treasures; an old wallet brimming with old black and white pictures of some unknown family, an assortment of papers, and some antique coins. A creak sounds as the figure stands, a light indentation left on a mildew covered couch where the figure had been dozing for the last several hours. An explosive cough sounds as the figure buries his face into a jacket sleeve, sending a flurry of dust dancing across a beam of fading sunlight cutting its way through the grime of the room's solitary window. The figure looks up towards the source of the light, hair falling back to reveal the features of a tired young man, no more than his mid-twenties. His brown eyes narrowing as he peers out through the filthy glass at the outlines of the street below. The banging on the front door continues.
      "Shut up man! I'm coming!" The man turns on his heel, hitching up an old pair of blue jeans, which had been threatening to fall down at any moment, and stomps out of the room, leaving clean footprints in the thick layers of dust.
Scrambling down a collapsing set of stairs two at a time, the man reaches the front door and stops, letting his hand rest on the brass door handle.
      "What've you got for me" the man lowers his voice, watching the wavy silhouette of a bulky figure standing on the other side of the door's frosted glass window.
      "Three dead kittens, and a bottle of scotch" The figure on the other side of the window shifts as if resting his weight on the other foot, and continues in a low grumble "and a bullet for your mother if you don't let me in"
      Satisfied that the man had properly identified himself, the young man proceeds to let him in. Four simultaneous clicks could be heard as various locks were undone and the door opened. Framing the doorway was a muscular and compact man of about 30, balding with a carefully trimmed goatee, cloudy grey eyes, wearing a dirty pair of khaki cargo pants, a black under shirt, and a large black coat. A smile breaks his features as he looks up at the man who had opened the door. "Well it's about time my friend" he grabs the man's hand in a crushing handshake as he steps into the house.  "The name is Erickson."
      "Zinn."
      "Zinn" The man smiled, "You did not forget our meeting I hope?"
      "You are not un-expected. I understand, Mathews sent you here?" Zinn pulls his hand away and turns to walk towards the living room, motioning with his hand for the man to follow,
      "Yes, and we'll get to the subject of Mathews' business soon enough my friend, but first I have something to show you" They had stepped into the living room, a large space covered in old furniture, lit by several grimy windows filtering in the dull blue post-dusk light which was growing dimmer by the minute. Zinn had pulled the sheets off two armchairs set on either side of a large oak coffee table and was in the process of flicking on a few light switches. A few bright flashes and soft pops could be heard as the bulbs in several cobweb riddled wall sconces burned out; the remaining bulbs bathing the room in a soft yellow light.
      "Take a seat" Zinn motioned at an armchair, before turning to a withered glass fronted cabinet containing glass bottles of various size and shape, waving his hand as he brushed some cobwebs away from its front. "So what is this amazing thing you are about to show me?" He pauses to stare at his guest who had helped himself to his own seat and was sitting, one leg propped over the other, an expectant look on his face.
      "I see you will be selecting a drink" the man named Erickson leaned forward, goatee bristling, "My friend, I implore you to select something special as we will be toasting quite merrily tonight"
      With a crack, Zinn broke open the door of the cabinet and reached in, selecting a medium sized bottle filled with a rich golden liquid; its darkened label bore rich Russian script adorning a red flag depicting a yellow sickle and hammer crossed over each other.          "Cold War, 1976. This was distributed to the Soviets for special occasions." Zinn reached back into the cabinet and withdrew a shot glass, which he brought over to the coffee table, setting them down with a clink. "Drink up"
Erickson's face broke into surprise "But I can not toast to just myself my friend!"
      "I don't drink" Zinn sat himself down in the adjacent armchair, gazing warily at the darkness falling outside the house, barely visible through the dirty windows.
Erickson settled back into the armchair, a small smile forming on his face "Well perhaps you will toast to this my friend; what if I were to tell you, I could make you 200 million dollars richer? Hm?"
      "And just how, I ask, may you do that?" Zinn had heard his share of wild stories before. Of plots and schemes guaranteeing large amounts of instant cash flow, each one more grandiose than the last, and all, just as morose; and this Erickson seemed to be setting himself up for quite a winner.
      Erickson's smile only grew wider as he began to grow more animated. The bottle of vodka and lone shot glass lay forgotten on the table. He suddenly thrust his hand into a pocket of his cargo pants and Zinn thought for a moment whether he was going to pull a gun; he discreetly slid his hand into the pocket of his jacket feeling the comforting shape of his own piece, a Heckler and Koch USP 40, just in case. With a flash, Erickson pulled his hand out of his pocket; the younger man felt his arm tense slightly as he anticipated drawing his weapon, but when Erickson held out his hand, it held nothing but a small black object; completely harmless. "You can take your finger off that trigger my friend, I'm sure you would not like to startle yourself and put a hole in the pocket of that lovely jacket, hm?" Erickson nodded at him, smiling. Then he reached over and tapped at a large lump in his own coat "and we wouldn't want to put on a show would we?"
      Zinn released his grip on the weapon and slowly drew his arm out of his pocket; leaning back into his armchair, pitching a tent with his fingers as he fixed his eyes on his guest. "And just how is that little black square going to make me $200 million dollars?"
      "Ah, now we are having a conversation!" Erickson clapped his hands together and settled back in his chair, "I will take great care to explain this to you my friend, because I will only explain this to you once." Erickson paused, glancing about the room before starting "I am a man of many customers. I have come to you because you possess many talents that I do not; talents which I believe may be put to good use with the information I am about to give you." The man once again paused at this point, as if desiring a certain effect. "My friend, I understand you are ah, a sort of match maker, am I correct?"
      "That would be the correct assumption, yes" If Zinn thought Erickson was crazy, he didn't show it.
      At this Erickson paused, nodding his head, before leaning forward, as if letting him in on a secret,  "I have in my possession, the instructions for creating any living thing you may wish to create. Things, which may go beyond anything you could even imagine, and all I need you to do my friend, is help me to distribute them to all the right people. Do this for me, and you will be a rich man."
      "You have instructions, for making ah, living things?" Zinn held back a smile. This strange man in his living room was proving himself to be a real piece of work.
      "That is precisely correct" Erickson bowed his head as he spoke.
      "So you're some sort of Doctor fucking Frankenstein?"
      A grin from Erickson, "I guess you could say that, yes"
      "And it's all right there on that little black thing of yours?" Zinn nodded at the black object in Erickson's hand.
      "That's right" Erickson reached out, placing the black square on the coffee table for Zinn's inspection.
      Zinn recognized the small object as a flash drive made by Micron Concepts; an electronics start up out of Silicon Valley. It was a favorite of industrial spies both due to its small size, and the fact that it held up to 10GB worth of data. Zinn had seen quite a few of them pass through his hands, containing everything from classified government documents to pictures of the mayor's last affair. If what Erickson said was true; this one-centimeter by one-centimeter square could be his ticket to an early retirement. Zinn picked up the flash drive, flipping it over in the palm of his hand. "Erickson" Zinn places the drive back on the coffee table "I'm curious to hear how you've arrived at your figures"
      Erickson had been watching Zinn inspect the drive with an eager look on his face as if seeking approval. At the sound of Zinn's question, Erickson snatched the drive from the table. "This" Erickson shook the square in front of Zinn, "This contains the power of God Himself. You have no idea just how much this could be worth to the right people." The smile had disappeared from Erickson's face; he paused to take in a deep breath, "A small nation could get their hands on this. They could use this information to engineer an entire army of super soldiers; stronger, faster, deadlier than anything we've ever seen! "     A wave of hands as Erickson attempted to drive his point home. "To the right foreign power, to the right corporation, $400 million is nothing, compared to what this can bring them, and I intend to offer you half of that."
      Zinn shot a good long stare at the blackness outside the windows before considering his reply. He considered whether Erickson was the real deal; the man, it seemed to Zinn, seemed the brains behind the project, or at least seemed to have a very personal interest in seeing it succeed. For most jobs Zinn had conducted, he had worked with a middleman. The only time he spoke to the head honcho was if something were really serious, or if the head of the operation was a quack job; Erickson, it seemed, teetered somewhere in between the two.
      Zinn glanced at Erickson, who had been watching him intently for the last few moments. "Well?" Erickson shrugged his shoulders, spreading his hands apart in an open gesture, "I could always go to other people who would be more than happy to help me" he brought his hands together with a small clap, folding them up in a ball, which he shook when he spoke, "but I was hoping I could get the best", a large smile. This guy gave Zinn the creeps; it was time to send him on his way.
      "Mr. Erickson", Zinn looked up, making eye contact with this man, a chill running down his spine as the man's steel eyes pierced through him. "I am a busy man, I'm sorry, but I will not have time to consider your project"
      The smile had vanished from Erickson's face, leaving only his intense gaze. This time, when Erickson spoke, the cheery, informal tone had gone from his voice, leaving only a low grumble; each word rolling off his tongue sounding like the growl of some jungle beast, "then perhaps, Mr. Zinn," Erickson rested his hand on the L-shaped lump in his pocket as he spoke, "I can give you a long time to consider things."