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The Rosenberg Factor (standard:Suspense, 8209 words)
Author: Stephen-Carver ByrdAdded: Oct 07 2002Views/Reads: 2514/1602Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
A lone traveler makes a startling discovery in a rural Georgia town.
 



THE ROSENBERG FACTOR 

“A lone traveler makes a startling discovery in a rural Georgia town” 

By: Stephen Bryan (HurricaneWarning) 

* * * * * * Prologue* * * * * * 

The slim, gray headed gentleman glanced casually in the direction of the
couch. “Would you feel more comfortable lying down?” 

“I'm fine,” Jake replied, softly patting the arms of the wingback chair
sitting directly across from the doctor's spacious walnut desk. 

Doctor Roberts rolled out a light smile then pulled a cigar from his
desk. “Can you believe I gave up these damn things more than twenty 
years ago? Yet I still feel the urge to dangle one around every now and 
then? Now, Mr. Brockton just how may I help you today?” 

“I came to you because I heard you were one of the best psychiatrists in
America,” Jake complimented. “I need to tell someone my story. It's a 
story of something incredible that happened to me recently, yet 
something that was also very horrifying. I was hoping you could 
possibly shed some light on it.” 

“I see,” said Dr. Roberts, looking down at Jake's thirty-minute
appointment schedule. “So you don't actually have a problem in itself, 
it's just that you need to get something off your chest. If that‘s the 
case then that's what I'm here for.” 

“No, it's much more than getting something off my chest,” Jake
corrected. “Actually it's something that's stuck in my mind like a 
sharp dagger, growing deeper and deeper with each day that passes. I 
must have an answer doctor. I must have some help. I can‘t go on 
without knowing the truth.” 

Dr. Roberts rubbed his hands together, then firmly pulled a small
notepad close to his body, ready for serious notes. “Ok Mr. Brockton; 
please tell me about this incredible story of yours.” 

* * * * * *Part 1* * * * * * 

As Jake Brockton's restored 1964 Ford Mustang sped down interstate I-95,
he fumbled in frustration with the radio dial. Every signal in this 
part of the world had an indisputable likeness. Sunday morning in rural 
Georgia, and the variety of music was hopelessly limited. For the most 
part it was either hayseed country/western or screaming Southern 
Baptist preachers. He thought of the large collection of ‘80s music 
he'd left sitting on the dinning room table, then cursed under his 
breath. His finger punched a small red button on the radio and all the 
annoyance went refreshingly quiet. 

For the next several miles he drove in total silence listening only to
the monotonous whine of the engine and the outside air ripping at the 
windshield. He checked his watch, almost ten. Seven hours out of 
Washington and his stomach was churning desperately for something other 
than coffee and cheese crackers. A rural overpass blazed overhead and 
quickly Jake checked the county road number then reached for the road 
map. His exit would be roughly twenty-five miles further south; State 
Road 576, a sixty-mile stretch of shortcut that ran directly to I-75. 
From there, it would be clear sailing into Atlanta. 

As his car entered onto the exit ramp, he lightly let off the
accelerator and the beautifully restored red and white Mustang began 
losing speed. State road 576 was a miserable contrast to the smooth 
dynamics of the super interstate and he tried to dismiss the upcoming 
chore of evading potholes for the next sixty miles. An ancient road 
sign swirled past. 

Glenville 7 miles 

As he entered into the little town, state road 576 had been temporarily
changed to Maple Ave. and he could clearly see why. The huge maple 
trees that lined the street were overwhelming in in their ardent 
splendor. Laces of large silver moss hung gracefully from every branch 


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