Free The Immortalist by Scott Britz

participating university medical centers. At precisely noon on Friday, on the Lower Plaza of Rockefeller Center in New York City, we will draw at random one hundred names out of the Lottery pool, and those lucky people will each receive one injection of the Methuselah Vector, on the spot.”
    The crowd erupted once again. Even with the microphone, Gifford had to shout to be heard. “Mr. Niedermann here has the details for you,” he proclaimed, as Niedermann waved a stack of blue handout sheets. “I hope to see you in New York.” With the throng converging on Niedermann, Gifford hastened off the field toward Weiszacker House.
    Rounding the corner of the bleachers, he stopped abruptly as he saw Cricket in his path. “I’m so glad you were able to stay,” he said with a cracking voice. “I really wanted you to see this.”
    Cricket kissed him on the cheek. His skin had a salty taste, the taste of tears. “It’s remarkable, Charles. Daddy would have been so proud.”
    â€œDo you think so?”
    Cricket nodded. “Thank you for remembering him.”
    â€œHe deserves the credit. Damn, it seems so strange not to have had him here for this.” Gifford cocked his head and grinned. “But we have you . Do you have to go? There’s a select little banquet in a few hours. I’d love to have you there.” His eyes pleaded with her.
    â€œOkay, Charles,” she said, surprised by her acquiescence. I owe it to Daddy .
    â€œGood, good. Yolanda, could you come with me? I need you.”
    Yolanda nodded demurely and blushed. Silently, she followed him toward the mansion, dragging Bonnie and Chuck by the hands as she struggled to keep up with Gifford’s long, rapid strides.
    Cricket watched them go. Had she not just witnessed a miracle—the dawn of a new era for mankind, as Hank had touted it? She was surrounded by euphoria. Yet, something inside her held back. She felt the same faceless apprehension she had had that morning driving up to the gate of Acadia Springs. What was wrong? Were the little shield-shaped pills wearing off? Was it envy at seeing Charles Gifford reap the field that her father had sown? Or was it just her ingrained habit of looking every gift horse in the mouth? She didn’t know. She couldn’t trust her feelings these days.
    She hadn’t told Gifford what she really thought.She wanted him to enjoy—and deserve—the triumph she had seen. But what if it was too good to be true? You’re moving too fast on this, Charles is what she should have said . It’s got to be more complicated than you know. When the whole world tells you you’re right, double- check your math.
    She sighed and tried to shake it off. The Methuselah Vector was Charles’s problem. Hers was Emmy. That’s what mattered—the blond-haired, blue-jeaned girl walking just in front of her—beautiful and fragile like a rose, and just as full of thorns. Cricket wasn’t going to let anything distract her from what she had come to do.
    She would put in an appearance at the banquet, and then that would be it. Tomorrow, she and Emmy would be in Atlanta. Tomorrow they would begin the long, hard work of making peace.
    Tomorrow.
    She felt the hairs on her forearms stand on end, as though lightning were about to strike from the cloudless sky.

Seven

    YOLANDA SMILED AS SHE TUCKED BONNIE into bed for her afternoon nap. The curly haired little girl was restless, fidgeting with her legs under the covers of the unfamiliar bed. “Be good, Bumblebee,” the young mother said, bending down to kiss her daughter on the cheek. “Go to sleep, and I’ll come back for you in an hour.”
    Chuck junior was Bonnie’s opposite. That boy could fall asleep before his head touched the pillow. Looking at his curly blond locks, Yolanda was amazed how much he looked like his father. She prayed at mass and sometimes at night, too, that he would