by Dan Mills
To some, death is only the next step in the evolution of life. To others it's a disease that lays dormant in you body until, inevitably, it awakens and robs you of life. This is a story of a man who believed in the latter. A greedy, sixty year old man of high status and immeasurable wealth. His name is Miles Duncan, C.E.O. of a well-established computer software firm. He'd amassed several billion dollars throughout his miserly existence and had no close relatives to leave it to. Miles couldn't stomach the thought of donating his fortune to any of the parasitic charities that constantly harassed him for a handout. It was his and his alone.
One day Miles was perusing a recent copy of the "Investment Insider" when a strange advertisement caught his eye. It was near the back of the magazine, printed in bright red letters.
'Invest In Your Life and Cheat The Horrors of Death,' it read. Below the bold heading there was a small picture of an Australian Aborigine painted up like a witch doctor. The ad went on to say that the "Shaman", Charley One-tooth, could protect you from the Grim Reaper!
Miles shook his head and let out a low, disgusted sigh. He couldn't understand why a reputable magazine like the "Insider" would print such trash in its publication. Anything to make a buck, he supposed. Well, he certainly wouldn't be renewing his subscription.
That night Miles Duncan had a nightmare. A nightmare unlike anything he'd experienced since childhood. A horrific demon slowly materialized and crouched over him, as he lay paralyzed on the ground. It began beckoning to Miles with its withered, talon tipped fingers and grinned as if it knew a purely evil secret. Miles felt a wrenching tug deep inside his chest as the fiend continued with its mysterious hand gestures. Miles wanted to scream, but nothing would come out. His heart began to pound to a murderous beat as the demon drew closer and let out a low, constricted laugh. It suddenly became clear to Miles that this grotesque creature was preying on his very soul.
Miles shot straight up in bed, drenched in a cold sweat, clutching at his chest. It took several minutes for the pain to subside. Mile lunged for the cordless phone on the nightstand next to the bed, only to knock it from its cradle and onto the floor. Retrieving the phone, he immediately called his personal physician.
The clock radio sitting on the good doctor's nightstand read 3:30am when the phone rang. Doctor Saul Philman woke with a start, fumbling for his glasses so he could read the numbers on the clock.
"Yes! Mr. Duncan, is that you?"
"Who else would it be, you retarded quack! I'm having a cardiac arrest for Christ's sake and you're asking stupid questions! Get your over paid ass down here as quickly as you can! I think I'm dying," Miles gasped.
Miles' foul attitude and demeaning accusations didn't seem to faze Dr. Philman in the least. Or the fact that he'd gone to bed only three hours earlier. He was being paid a kings ransom to be at Miles Duncan's beckon call at any time of the day or night.
Dr. Philman threw his clothes on over his pajamas and grabbed his medical bag. He occupied a guesthouse attached to the main residence, so he was only minutes away. He ran down the dark halls with reckless abandon. He found Miles sprawled across his bed, chalky faced and breathing in short, shallow breaths.
The doctor examined Miles and concluded that there wasn't anything seriously wrong with him, but he suggested that he go to the hospital as soon as possible for a more complete checkup.
Miles excused the doctor with a peevish wave of the hand and told him to get out. Miles was convinced that his time was short. No amount of reassurance from the doctor could make him think otherwise.
After he clamed down, Miles felt a little better, but the demon's image still haunted his mind. It seemed too real. He wasn't about to try to go back to sleep and give the frightening apparition another chance to steal his soul. So he got up and took a long, soothing shower, hoping to chase the graven image from his mind.
Miles went to his office early so he could check on a new line of software that was being developed. He sat down at his desk and started to make a phone call to the resource and development department, when he spotted the current issue of "Investment Insider." It was sitting upside down, next to the computer, where he'd thrown it the day before. He stopped dialing the phone and picked up the magazine.
A cynical smile formed on his face as he began to call the "Insider's" senior editor instead. Why not, he thought, it might do his heart some good to grill this guy about the ridiculous advertisement in the back of the magazine.
After going through the proper channels and dropping his name for effect, Miles was connected with John Pickworth, senior editor of the "Investment Insider."
The conversation started with the usual chitchat about investment possibilities and the best stock options. Then Miles dropped the bomb. He asked if John was familiar with the dubious ad, claiming to be the fountain of immortality, in the back of his current magazine.
Mr. Pickworth assured him that he was and that he stood behind its claim one hundred percent!
Miles was speechless. He couldn't understand the editor's matter-of-fact attitude toward the ad. He asked him how the leading investment magazine in the nation could print such drivel and expect to be taken seriously.
John chuckled lightheartedly and said he'd like to meet with Miles for lunch, so that they could discuss it in private.
At first Miles was puzzled. This hadn't worked out as he'd planned. He only thought for a moment about the invitation, before accepting. It might be fun to watch the editor squirm under a more intense scrutiny. After all, what did he have to lose?
They were to meet at noon at one of the more exclusive restaurants in the down town area. John Pickworth arrived first and ordered a drink while he waited for Miles to show up. Both men were well known figures in the community, so there would be no difficulty in recognizing one another.
Miles Duncan seated himself a couple of minutes later and ordered a glass of white wine. After the waiter left, Miles looked into John's eyes with a cold, humorless stare. He told the editor that he wanted to know what the joke was about. The ad in his magazine was so far fetched that if he weren't careful, people would start looking elsewhere for investment information.
John just sat back with a smug, tight-lipped grin. He finally leaned forward and began to explain. On one of his globe trotting adventures, he'd heard about an interesting old man that lived in the outback of Australia. The elderly gent was supposed to be an Aboriginal shaman and claimed to be 247 years of age.
Miles smiled and reached for his wineglass to wash down the load of shit he'd just been fed. John could tell what Miles was thinking and smiled back with an expression of unshakable confidence. He explained that at first he was skeptical too. He figured the old geezer had been out in the sun too long and it fried his brain.
But after John met the shaman, there was something about him that made the editor wonder if he wasn't telling the truth. Something about his eyes, they seemed to pull at your very soul.
Miles quit smiling and went a little pale as he subconsciously brought his right hand up and placed it over his heart.
John Pickworth went on to describe how the old man went through a series of odd rituals to create a personal map for him. A map of his 'death spots'. Miles stopped him at this point and asked him what the hell he was talking about.
The editor laughed quietly and explained the concept of the 'death spot'. He said that when some one passes away, they die on a certain designated spot. But, if the spot could be avoided, this person would remain healthy and dramatically slow down the aging process. He went on to point out that 'death spots' were generally four feet in diameter and with a map they were relatively simple to avoid.
He'd heard enough. Miles dropped a twenty-dollar bill on the table for his drink and stood up to leave. He told John that he'd been subjected to a lot of slick con jobs in his life, but this one topped them all. John reached over and caught Miles by the sleeve. He pleaded with the billionaire to hear him out.
Miles stared at the editor for a moment and almost told him where he could stick his death spot map. He felt that John was wasting his time and as everyone knows, time is money.
The magazine editor began talking rapidly, asking Miles to explain why some people survive catastrophic events and others don't. How a person could jump from an airplane with a faulty parachute and come away with nothing more than a few broken bones, or how an entire platoon could be wiped out only to have one of the troopers escape without a scratch.
Miles sat back down and began to twirl the empty wineglass between his thumb and forefinger. He hated to admit it, but his curiosity was getting the better of him.
About that time the waiter showed up and took their lunch order. After the waiter left, Miles leaned across the table with a fiendish grin and asked if John was willing to test his immorality.
John wasn't sure how to react at first. He said that he had no fear of death itself, but he didn't relish the idea of succumbing to the crippling effects of a high fall or a painful and messy bloodletting.
But then he told Miles that there might be another way. He told Miles to meet him at his apartment later that night, at 8:00pm.
The food came and they ate in silence. Miles fought with mixed feelings of doubt and excitement. What if this was the answer he'd been looking for? A way to keep his fortune and never worry about dying again.
That night Miles went to the Excelsior Hotel at 7:45. He introduced himself to the doorman, who said to go right up to the 50 th floor, as Mr. Pickworth was expecting him. Miles Duncan entered the elevator and it started upward at a tremendous rate. A few moments later, the elevator opened on the 50 th floor and John Pickworth greeted Miles at the door. He handed Miles a glass of white wine and invited him inside. Miles accepted the wine and shook hands with the editor.
To Miles' surprise, the entire floor was one apartment. He hadn't realized until then just how well off John was. John led him into the enormous living area. A 70mm movie screen covered one wall and a wet bar, large enough to accommodate one of the downtown nightclubs occupied the other end of the room.
Miles confessed that he was suitably impressed. John told him that he did a lot of entertaining and that Miles should attend his next party. Miles said that he would be honored to, if John survived the night.
This brought a quick smile to John's face. He assured Miles that there would be no doubt of his future longevity. He went on to tell how the test would be carried out.
For a while John thought about taking a drug overdose, but it would be too difficult to decide how much it would take to 'kill' him. Then he thought about electrocution, but too little current would have a minimal effect, while too much current would burst his teeth like popcorn and set his hair on fire. So he settled on suffocation.
Miles was immediately skeptical. How would he know if John were truly dead or just acting?
John produced a thick, clear plastic bag and a stethoscope. He told Miles to check his heart after he stopped breathing. If that didn't convince him, he could tape the bottom of the bag around his neck and keep it that way until morning if he chose to.
Miles finally conceded that it should be a sound way of testing the theory of immortality.
John finished his drink and asked if Miles was ready? He hesitated for a second, and then said that he was.
Before John placed the bag over his head, he made Miles promise to remove it before he left the apartment. He didn't want to stay that way until his cleaning lady arrived in the morning to do her chores. She was an elderly lady and he didn't think she would survive the shock.
Miles laughed nervously and agreed to John's final request.
John took a deep breath and pulled the plastic bag over his head and handed Miles a roll of gray duct tape. His hands trembled slightly as he took the tape and wound it tightly around John's neck.
A small cloud of condensation started to form on the inside of the plastic. Within minutes John began to panic. The instinct to survive was strong, even though he knew that no harm would come to him. John's eyes began to bulge from their sockets and the plastic in front of his mouth moved in and out with each labored breath.
Miles jumped onto the squirming editor and gripped both of his wrists, pulling his hands away from the plastic bag. He wasn't about to let John Pickworth back out now. He'd been promised a demonstration on immortality and by God that's just what he was going to get.
John's body convulsed one last time then went limp under Miles' weight. Miles looked closely at John's face through the fogged up bag. John's bulging eyes cast a dull, lifeless stare behind the water-streaked plastic. His damp skin had turned a cadaverous shade of blue.
Miles stood up and went to the bar. He found an open bottle of wine and gulped it down, spilling most of it down the front of his shirt. He looked over at John again. The body lay there like a mannequin.
Then Miles noticed that he was shaking all over. He'd never been involved in a killing before. The experience was both exhilarating and repulsive at the same time.
He finished the bottle of wine and decided to make sure John wasn't playing possum. For all he knew the editor was some sort of breath holding champion or a Yogi who could master his heart rate and respiration.
Miles picked up the stethoscope and place it on John's chest. He listened for a full five minutes. He heard nothing. He touched John's wrist and noticed a dramatic drop in body temperature. Well, he thought, it serves the stupid bastard right! Thinking he was immortal.
Suddenly Miles realized that he could be accused of murder. He frantically tried to remember everything he'd touched in the apartment, so he could wipe off his fingerprints. But what about the doorman? Damn! How could he have been so stupid?
Well, let's see, a doorman couldn't make a hell of a lot of money opening doors and announcing guests. Everyone has a price. It could cost Miles a million or so to buy his silence. Hell that was just pocket change.
Miles' jangled nerves began to settle down. He methodically went through the apartment wiping down everything he'd touched. He was headed for the elevator when he remembered John's request to have the bag removed from his head.
He quickly pulled a penknife from his pocket and carefully cut through the duct tape. He peeled the plastic bag off of John's blue, lifeless head. Miles resisted the urge to vomit and headed for the elevator. He pushed the button with his elbow and waited. Within a minute the doors slid open and Miles started inside. The sound of a loud gasp made the hair on the back of Miles' neck stand on end. He turned his head in time to see John Pickworth slowly sitting up.
A flight bound for Sydney, Australia took off at 8:00 the next morning and Miles was on it. He hadn't been this excited since he'd conducted a hostile take over of Digiton, a rival software company. His perverse dreams of cheating death and retaining his wealth were about to come true.
After the shock wore off of seeing John alive and breathing once more, he was beside himself. The two of them celebrated throughout the night.
Miles had procured the details on where to meet with the shaman, but John was a little vague when Miles asked him what the fee would be. John said that the fee varied from one client to the next. He said that after the shaman explores the details of your life, he decides what to charge. Ultimately, John said, the results of his services would be worth any fee. Considering the benefit of eternal life, Miles agreed.
The jet landed in Sydney early the next morning, after a quick layover in Fiji. Miles rented a car and drove north along the Gold Coast to a small town called Wally Cove.
Except for short catnaps onboard the plane, Miles had gone without sleep for 48 hours. The elation of eternal life had all but worn off. He was tired and in need of a long cool shower. When he arrived in Wally Cove, Miles couldn't believe his eyes. The town consisted of a half dozen run down buildings, three of which were pubs. It appeared that there was a wallaby behind every bush, hence the town's name.
Miles checked into the only hotel in town and then set out to find the Aboriginal shaman. John had told him the old geezer's name was Charley Onetooth and he lived beside the local post office. He found the post office and noticed an old Aborigine sitting on the buildings make shift porch. Miles approached him and sized him up with a critical eye. He finally asked if he was Charley Onetooth.
The old man just stared at Miles through watery, bloodshot eyes and slowly shook his head. Miles demanded to know where he could find Charley. The hound dog faced Aborigine pointed a crooked finger toward the far side of the building.
Miles followed the mute directions and found an old, beat up lean-to attached to the north side of the building. He stopped at what looked like a door; it was a piece of plywood set on leather hinges. Miles grasped a curved bone handle, affixed to the right hand side, and jerked the door open.
To Miles' surprise a shriveled up prune of a man poked his head out and squinted at him. The man's face could have very well belonged to someone claiming to be 247 years old. His skin was a mass of intersecting wrinkles. It hung on his skull like raw bread dough. But his eyes were the most shocking features on his face. The irises were a brilliant yellow hue. They were the color of urine stains on the edge of a toilet.
In a raspy, high-pitched voice, he inquired just who Miles was and what he wanted. Miles told him that John Pickworth had advised him to see the shaman and that he was interested in locating his death spots.
This brought a broad smile to Charlie's craggy old face. It drew the skin away from his mouth, revealing a single tooth set in the center of his lower jaw. He held the door open wider and motioned for Miles to step inside.
It took a second for Miles' eyes to adjust to the dimly lit room. The room smelled like the hair of a wet dog and things long dead. Candles were placed erratically about the room and old newspaper articles dating back to the later 1800's were plastered to the walls. It was sweltering and dusty inside the makeshift dwelling.
Charley Onetooth sat behind an old black table covered with animal skulls and various pieces of bone. He instructed Miles to have a seat on a wooden Blazo box.
The old Aborigine stared into Miles' eyes for what seemed like an eternity. Miles was held by a strange force, unable to look away. Then the shaman slowly shut his eyes, lowered his head and began to sway back and forth, while chanting quietly to himself. Miles asked him what was happening but the old man acted as if he didn't hear. Just as Miles was about to get up to leave, the shaman's head snapped upright and his piercing yellow eyes bugged open. He began asking Miles all sorts of personal questions in a strange, deep voice. He wanted to know where, when and what time Miles as born. He wanted to know how many times he'd moved and where. He wanted to know about serious injuries and close calls with death. The interrogation went on for the better part of an hour and a half. Throughout the whole dissertation, the creepy little shaman never blinked his sickly yellow eyes.
When the questions stopped, Charley dropped his head into his leathery hands and told Miles to leave. Miles didn't know what to say. He wanted to know where his death spots were and how soon the old man could point them out.
Charley just groaned and held his face in his hands. He finally croaked that tomorrow he would have the death spots mapped out. He was to come back then.
Miles staggered back to his room and was asleep before he hit the bed. The next thing he knew the sun was coming through the window on the East side of the room. Miles had slept through the night like a dead man, and which made him feel a bit uneasy. He got up and took a long cool shower to calm his nerves. Afterward, he dressed in a fresh suit of clothes and went downstairs to see about getting some breakfast.
After he ate, Miles paid the hotel bill, loaded his luggage into the car and walked over to the post office. He rounded the corner and reached for the lean-to's plywood door. Before he had a chance to open it, Charlie's voice beckoned Miles to come inside, saying he had something to show him.
Miles jumped at the sound of the old man's voice. His pulse quickened as he opened the door and stepped into the dank, odor filled enclosure. Old Charley sat behind his bone littered table grinning like a jack-o-lantern. In front of him was some sort of rolled up animal skin. Charley looked like he'd put his face in front of a paint filled blender and hit the puree button. There wasn't a place on the shaman's face that wasn't covered with the bright pigment.
Miles was instructed to sit on the wooden crate again, while Charley wrung his knotted, arthritic hands. Then he asked Miles how much eternal life was worth to him?
Miles didn't know what to say. He hesitated and finally asked what Charley meant?
The shaman squinted and picked up the animal skin. He began to unroll it, showing a crude multi-colored map of the five continents of the Earth. Tiny red dots appeared on the map. Again Charley asked Miles what he thought eternal life was worth to him.
Miles stared wide-eyed at the map. Could it be that his future relied on the possession of this piece of tanned animal hide? He told the shaman that he didn't know what to say. Then he said eternal life was worth more than the shaman could ever imagine. He said this without taking his eyes off of the map as Charley scrolled it open.
With a twinkle in his festered eyes, Charley declared it would cost Miles everything. Miles didn't seem to hear at first, he was too absorbed in the map.
Then he came to his senses and asked the shaman what exactly he meant by everything?
The old Aborigine's features seemed to harden. With a husky voice he informed Miles that the price of the map would be his entire fortune.
Miles suddenly went cold. He couldn't believe the audacity of this filthy wretch. Charley Onetooth wouldn't know what to do with half of Miles' fortune, let alone his entire empire.
Miles leered at old Charley and said under his breath that it would be a cold day in hell when he'd give up his hard-earned wealth. He surged across the table and planted a hard left jab to Charlie's rubbery chin. The old man flew from his chair and smashed into the back wall.
The billionaire snatched up the leather map and broke through the plywood door. The sun's intense morning light temporarily blinded Miles. As he ran from the lean-to, Miles thought he was headed back to the hotel until he heard the squealing of tires.
There was no way Jacko Peedy could have stopped in time. The fool ran right out onto the highway and in front of his sheep-filled flatbed truck. He knocked the fool onto the shoulder of the road and his old worn out truck traveled another fifty yards down the road before it slid to a shuttering stop.
It seemed like the entire community of Wally Cove had heard the screaming tires on the blacktop. They ran out to the highway and began to assemble around the injured man.
Miles' head was spinning and he felt like every bone in his body had been broken. He kept moving his mouth but no sound would come out. Finally, he managed to call out for a doctor. Someone in the crowd assured him that Doc Hanson was already on his way.
Jacko suggested that maybe they should move him off of the road. Jacko and three of the town's people began to lift him when a hoarse, hi-pitched voice cautioned otherwise.
Miles looked up to see Charley Onetooth's yellow eyes glaring down at him. Charley worked his toothless mouth into an evil grin and said that Miles shouldn't be moved, in case he'd suffered a spinal injury.
Miles shifted his gaze toward the crude map in his hand. The lower left-hand corner had come unrolled, revealing a dot of red paint. To his horror, it was located on the continent of Australia, on the highway that passed through Wally Cove. Panic and disbelief set in as his body stiffened in an effort to move. He pleaded with the crowd to move him off of the road, but the shaman placed his hand firmly on Miles' chest. Charley announced that it would best to wait for Doc Hanson.
Miles looked up into Charlie's face again but somehow the shaman looked different. A mask of unspeakable horror was slowly transforming the wrinkled face into that of the devil's himself. Sharp, triangular teeth sprouted from the naked gums and Charlie's piercing, yellow eyes now glowed like amber traffic lights.
The demon of Miles' dream suddenly became all too real. He could feel the creature's icy hand, which pinned him to the ground, drawing out his very soul with every beat of his heart.
Miles started screaming to the top of his lungs. He tried with all of his strength to move away from the terrifying specter, but Charley held him down and slowly shook his mutated head. He told Miles that he wasn't going anywhere, ever again.
The last thing Miles heard, before loosing consciousness, was old Charley telling Doc Hanson that he was too late. The Yank was a goner, he said.
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