Excerpt: The Will of Alistair Webb

Introduction

Alistair Webb was dying.
An honest business man, he was extremely humble, and left behind a legacy of goodwill and helpfulness, especially in the medical field, where he contributed and funded many great discoveries of the time. He always attributed his discoveries to others, but he still was uplifted and praised, even on his deathbed.
Especially so.
Alistair was not proud of his worldwide fame. Instead, he used it to fuel himself to strive for greater heights; an all-around genius. He knew Aristotle and Cicero by heart, considered them to be great companions on rainy days by the fireplace. As his health declined, he could be found sitting in that red wingchair that his wife so despised, propping a thick volume on his lap and smiling contentedly at every word from a philosopher’s mouth. Jesus could be found preaching in his hands after he came home from work, and was kept on the mantle near the small wooden clock which had been past generation through generation down as a heirloom. Ghandi rested on his nightstand, and Martin Luther King sharing his wisdom next to him. On his bookshelf Buddha sat at a respectful distance away from a copy of the Koran and the Bible, in both New King James and New International versions, of course. He was proud of his heritage, proudly narrating his grandfather’s life in England, his uncle’s life in Italy, and his other uncle’s life in Ireland. He loved every member of his family, and they all loved him; not for his magnificent fortune, but for his gentle and solid-gold heart.
Sitting there, skin sunk into his paling, now-bony cheeks, he still smiled, retelling tales of his shared discoveries, ignorant of his ravaging illness that threatened to take him away without even a single goodbye. He had been a man who, just by his very smile, could walk into any room and brighten it for hours, even with his own presence being there for a few moments. It had always been like that, bleeding and rubbing off on others. His pleasant crows-feet by his eyes could make even the cold-hearted wish to help their community all the time. Some even proclaimed him to be an angel from heaven, although he politely refused the claim. But even his hearty laugh, that could brighten a whole room with its chime, would fade away, only to be remembered on many documentaries.
One rainy morning, Alistair called his aging wife to his bedside, and as she entered the room, came upon the sight of him sleeping. Not wishing to disturb him, she sat down next to him, and reached her hand out and grasped his own. It was slightly colder than hers, and as she felt for a pulse, realized that he had passed away peacefully. A simple funeral was held a week later, with mourners coming from all corners of the globe to honor a man who had indirectly saved millions from cancers. Those who had known him spoke of his endless kindness to anyone from any walk of life, about people who had shown up on his doorstep in search of hope and gotten more than they dreamed of. Tears were shed, and memories shared, and after everyone had gone, a mist began to fall upon all the red, pink and white roses piled neatly atop his simple casket. The roses seemed to glow amidst the slight moisture, as if his life had even touched the flora of this world, each moment spent admiring the flowers along the sidewalks adding up to this small point in time, where the plants gave back some of their beauty to him.
The smallest acts of kindness can do so much.
And the world was about to realize the staggering implications of that statement.

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Chapter 4
The News Shocks The World

Skipping about a hundred and twenty five years ahead, we now come upon a sober scene in London.
This morning, the fog is thicker than it has ever been. The sky is dark, darker than it had been in a very long time. Children woke up sobbing, adults feeling grief, but not knowing why. No dreams, good or bad, came to anyone within five hundred miles of where Alistair dwelled. Some would call it supernatural, others luck.
But something wasn’t right.
Mothers, holding children close, turned on their televisions or radios, to listen to the saddening news coming from the bleak station, crisp and crystal clear.
“…this morning, the world-renowned and acclaimed Alistair Webb, billionaire, inventor and genius, passed on. A funeral will be held in London’s streets, details coming soon. He is succeeded by a mourning family that consists of a wife, and no heirs to the fortune…”
By then, the people close to Alistair were sobbing uncontrollably, some shakily dialing relatives and friends, so they could share the news that everyone now knew. Those with transplanted organs invented and carefully cultivated by Alistair clutched where the organs were buried beneath their skin, and breathed a deep sigh.
But one man, one sinister, vile man, rejoiced.
A peal of sinister laughter rang from the blackened building where Peter Braxley still worked, an old man older still than Alistair, and he reared his head back, glad that he could once again take the penultimate control from his nemesis’ fingers. Although nearly all of his organs were replaced by the biomechanical ones invented by Alistair Webb, he would not let anyone know that. That was his deep secret that no one would figure out. He could live for a hundred more years, finalizing his hold on the earth, eradicating sinful joy from the mourning multitudes. The move was his. And he could move his pawn into a perfect checkmate.
“Alistair, you’ve met your match,” he whispered as he got out his black book of truth, and started to pen his horrible plan into existence.