Thor's Hammer

by Dan Yaeger

  I surmised over that week of captivity in the Rock that Penfould was predictable and moody at the same time. The Doc was like a bad poker-player with a poor hand. “I think this is all he has; he is out of shtick”, I thought as I walked in regarding him, as if in slow motion, seeing him meet my gaze and look away weakly. I could see his mouth was dry with nerves and he was unsure of how I would respond as he cycled his lips, trying to get some moisture to his mouth. “Yes! This is it; he has nothing else.” I concluded to myself.

  Samatha turned on her trophy wife persona again, smiling sweetly and saying “Thank you good doctor”. The pleasantry made Penfould more comfortable and genuinely smile; a little more at ease. In retrospect I think she knew I was going to do something, that I had a plan. She had held faith in me.

  Rob shackled the two of us “guests” to our seats rather than the table. He had made the first of many mistakes as a jailer. Again, it was as if they knew I would do something and the barriers were removed. I was still suffering from the wounds sustained in the battle at the Waystation but I was making it look a little worse than it was. Just a few days before, I was doing the opposite. That epic fight with Xavier, Siro, Price and the death squad at the Waystation was fading as did my injuries from it. It was assumed I was still significantly injured and both Rob and Penfould leaned on this as an assurance of some safety over dinner. Another bad choice or perhaps Rob too was leaving me breadcrumbs to follow.

  “Sit down, sit down,” Penfould ordered. “Enjoy those chairs, they are antique. French-made I believe, from the De Gaul era.” Penfould, as usual, had no idea what he was talking about and felt he had to keep talking to maintain control. I noted that and the fact my jailer had made a mistake in one assessment. The flimsy wood of the chair was no antique hardwood; the weight as I lifted it to pull my seat in told me it was pine of some sort. I had made it easy for Rob to shackle me to the chair so he would stick to that option. If it had been Elsom with his two-point shackling method, I wouldn’t have been able to pull my plan off.

  The time in the cells with Barlow had actually been curative and I felt strong. I was nervous but it was game time: “That chair will splinter just fine,” I thought. “Game on!” I was almost about to act then I realised the cure was an oversight in my plan. “If Angela doesn’t have a cure, my liberating everyone could mean their death and mine,” upon that conundrum, a platter of food was served.

  And what a platter of dinner it was! Just like the variety of people sitting and serving. Leon was the evening’s chef and we marvelled at the silver-service platter of Indian and Mediterranean food. Leon whisked his way in with the flair of a Parisian waiter. The first of 6 courses were brought out. I was in for a long night with the Doctor or he was in for a long night because of me. I had to know if a cure was close before I could hatch my plan. In the meantime, I would eat and grow strong and endure whatever the Doc would throw my way.

  The repast Leon had brought out was actually very impressive for life after the Great Change. Where all the ingredients had been found, hunted or scrounged did show the organisation of the Rock; its only good side other than the search for a cure. But even that search for a cure was a farce, a bit like its tyrant ruler. The meal was exclusive, only a few exclusive guests partook, while the women of the Pen sipped on water-thin soup.

  In the third wing of the facility, someone was forgotten and was working through without food. Angela had imaging devices a tablet computer, samples, test-tubes and dishes everywhere. She used a syringe to drop a clear fluid into a Petri dish, one of many in a row. The Rock didn’t get her down and she held hope and a commitment to the cure.

  She viewed some visualisations of her data and waited. She then took a swab from an older sample for examination under a microscope. The microscope was wireless connected to the tablet and a small holographic projector. There was an excitement; ignoring hunger, ignoring herself and her need for water, Angela worked on. She was seen by the Doc as nothing more than a sexy nurse, to be disrespected and groomed as a whore. To him, she was someone to dress up as a sexy nurse with garters and lipstick for his edification. Angela reluctantly wore the attire but did so to placate a man she had diagnosed as insane; in her humble opinion. She was so much more than the Doc’s sleazy opinion; Angela would change the world and help people to survive and carry on. There could be no greater purpose for humanity and yet the Doc could not have shown her more disrespect or disregard. But she worked on, in spite of where she was, what she had to work with and what she had been through.

  Angela looked into the microscope and then the screen and in greater detail at the microbiological forms in the hologram. She needed to check again. “We could lose someone if I get this wrong,” She thought to herself. In that moment, she decided she would test the cure on herself. She felt there was nothing left to lose and she was in her god’s hands.

  Angela had indeed lost much; the love of her life, her family in Italy and much of the youthful innocence and high hopes for the world. Her trip to Australia had left her in a rural area and an almost immediate secession in communications back to her family and culture when the Great Change occurred. Despite all of that, she still held faith in her god. She believed in the soothing idea that there was a higher power looking over her and all would be well again. Her bible, replete with tales of catastrophe, faith and healing, was on the table. Ironically, her bible sat next to the science apparatus that would ultimately produce a cure.

  Angela’s fast, practiced and procedural activity continued. She had administered her own infected blood type A, so as not to clot with Jesse’s AB+ blood-type, into the test tubes. It was methodically introduced by a dropper.

  The combined blood sat in test tubes only for a moment; she wasn’t sure how long she had and got to viewing the combination as soon as she could. Her last attempt did not yield any results as she suspected Jesse’s blood contained virulent antibodies that destroyed the Divine virus before she could see any reaction. In that first set of samples, she had been surprised to find no trace of the Divine Virus at all. She had drained so much of Jesse’s blood to accommodate for the failed attempts. But she did not fail for long.

  Using three methods of visualisation of a microscope smear, a 3D holograph projected from a test tube and a computer analysis and rendering, Angela wanted to see the cure in action. Angela was watching a little war, all the visualisations providing a lively view of the reaction until there was no more. “It can’t be?!”

  The computer isolated the antibody; more like a hammer than the classic Y-shape. It reminded Angela a bit of a necklace her boyfriend had worn: a Thor’s Hammer. She had been in love with a handsome Danish nurse who had been a victim of the cataclysm like so many others. She still kept the keepsake to remember him. She touched the little metal trinket in her pocket; a Thor’s Hammer. Like lightning had struck by the hand of Thor himself, Angela came alive with an explosion of enthusiasm and excitement. “Thor’s Hammer! We stop the virus today!” Angela shouted with a voice of triumph.

  She recited a biblical verse, in Italian, checking her work again and again. Reciting the verse as she did so, interspersed with “Please God! Please God!” She was stunned and jumped up, smiling; elated and victorious.

  While Angela leaned on the Bible and religion, Mark 6:13 would have been more appropriate for what was to come. That night, Angela would lose all faith and all belief that there could be a god. From believer to faithless in one night; the night of the cure.

  Meanwhile, Jesse was still at Penfould’s table for dinner. He was observing the conversation that centred on the progress of the cure, trying to understand if it was time to strike.

  Angela’s work was being brought up; we were all interested. Everyone was eager for news. Rob asked Penfould how it was going but he was too arrogant and too lazy; “that’s process work”, “boring lab work” for people he didn’t care about. When Sam asked him again, a little later, he obliquely replied “Really just simple lab work.” I coul
d see he was scared of the cure. We all knew what it meant; freedom from the Doc, the Rock and Divine itself. But the Doc, as usual, was not true to himself and he was careless. Angela was more talented than he thought. When I was wounded and being cared for in that clinic bed, Angela had told me her life story. Her work in India and Africa, while on exchange, had demanded she could isolate pathogens and antigens and develop cures for the most virulent of diseases. As the Doc ignorantly belittled Angela, dismissing her skills a nurse and medical professional, the table felt it all in poor form.

  I could see Rob knew the Doc had no interest in the cure; I could see it written all over the young man’s hardened, tanned face as he scratched his bald head nervously. I could tell there was something different in him. The Rock was truly cracking. Where there isn’t care there is clumsiness and where there is clumsiness things get broken. The Doc had been clumsy and it was all about to come crashing down; he would be broken, the Rock would be broken.

  Leon had delivered another course of Indian delights like I had not seen. There were samosas, meats, breads, dips and sauces. Penfould was no gentlemen: “I would say grace but that would mean this fine food would go cold. Don’t wait! Ha! Not even for god!” Penfould’s clumsy, cloddish, fat hands dipped and mucked and soiled what had been a perfect and good platter, in just a moment. Penfould had gotten curry sauces and some tandoori or other red powder all over himself. His fat, now dirtier than ever hands with yellowed fingernails, plucked at his smoking jacket. “Rob, bring me my pipe, squire!” Rob brought the pipe and lit it for him. Rob could not look anyone in the eye and looked tense, increasing in anger. Penfould’s round, bloated face and fat lips smirked a smile that was cartoon-like in nature. “Oh yes,” he continued. “Dress me with my napkin.” The order was to Sam who had just unfolded her own napkin and, with some poise and grace was about to begin her meal.

  She knew servitude to the Doc was more important than her own meal. She didn’t want the tantrum from the fat man-child and rose to the order. Rob dutifully unshackled her to tuck the napkin into the collar of Dr Penfould. She moved to sit down as soon as she could, knowing he would ask for something wrong or take liberties next. The Doc’s hands were en-route to touch Sam’s rear but Jesse spoke to the group and saved her from the feel-up. “Is this similar to the local feed; where you’re from?” Jesse asked frankly, coolly.

  “I’m sorry?!” Penfould diverted his hands back to clumsily gesture with great drama. Jesse looked the Doc in the eyes, with a steely gaze, and said “You heard me.” The Doc froze and felt fear and a lack of control. Jesse was in control for a moment.

  “No, no.” His lips puckered with distaste. “I am an internationalist, not from India or Asia.” The room was silent for a moment, though it felt like a thunderbolt had struck the room. I was back.

  He was probably right to some degree, being an internationalise, but I couldn’t help putting salt into the wound. I had to buy some time for my plan to take effect.

  “But your name is Kian which is Chinese or Vietnamese?” I said coolly and without arrogance. “You must have some connection to Asia, even if distanced by a couple of generations? You look at least part Asian to me.” He glared at me, gathering himself again. He took the “out” I had given him. He was still angry.

  “My good man, I am not Asian. I was schooled in the quality care of the Singaporean private school tradition and went to Oxford on exchange.” Penfould’s private memoirs would later reveal to me that he had been at a conference once in Oxford but had never studied or practiced there. Like most of his fantasies, Penfould struck me as someone who embellished some truths, made other things up from scratch but denied his true self. He would not admit he was a kid from the suburbs, forced to study hard, grew up in a Vietnamese restaurant and lived through the highs and lows of mediocre Australia like everyone else at those times before the Great Change. I was little different to him. On reflection and after reading those private memoirs, he had only ever been barely adequate as a Doctor, cheating on a few exams and “acquiring” the work and knowledge of others to get by. The Doc had recreated himself after the Great Change, the devastating zombie apocalypse event, and it was his time to be powerful and in control. The promise of the cure, holding it over people was his only hand and it had been played, played and overplayed. It was over, I wanted it over, the people of the Rock wanted it over.

  But it wasn’t yet over and the dinner would continue. I had done Sam a favour, taking the unwanted attention off her. She nodded at me in a single gesture of thanks when she could; the Doc consumed by his greedy table-manners. I too wanted some food but had manners; “Sam: after you.” I said, gesturing with my shackled wrists. She politely nodded and went for a samosa and some bread that had not been touched by the clumsy devil at the head of the table. That devil slurped and slopped, eating with his hands and not caring about anyone else. It was as if what he could not achieve with his physique, looks or charisma, would be achieved by devouring food and indulging in things with animal gusto. He was making a statement that he was and would always be the boss-hog. I have never been prudish but his lack of manners and awful eating habits were disgusting; unnecessary. This was strange for a supposed “gentleman” but I figured it was his way of asserting masculinity. It dawned on me that this was also a comfort in eating as much as anything else; eating Asian food, even if not from where he was descended, reminded him of his home and family.

  “So tell me Jesse, you seem awfully interested in my background. But what of yours?” He paused, looked at me with a smirk, taking a moment away from the food and eating like a pig. He puffed on his pipe with expectation.

  “I come from a family of good people.” I replied. “Good?!” He scoffed with a dirty mouth and chin. “Which connections, wealth or poverty? Good is nothing without details.” Penfould asserted himself, sipping some red wine he wasn’t sharing. The Doc looked down for a moment; a slick of greasy mess from his own lips tainting his wine. He winced, almost ignoring Jesse for a moment. The others at the table looked on with genuine interest. “No connections other than the usual friends and social connections. The middle class really. My father was an engineer. My mother worked for the Government. I never wanted for anything and had the love of a great mother and father.” I concluded. “Well you missed out then!” Penfould was entering into one of his condescending monologues again. “The benefits of high-culture, school ties and connections. Masons and martyrs, you really were nothing in society then.” I looked at him and laughed. “I did fine.” My wicked humour came out in a flash. “Better than a repressed boy from an overbearing family who was pressured into a profession like medicine. What did you really want to do? Play virtual games?” The Doc almost choked on his pipe and coughed roughly. While he was momentarily unable to return fire, I continued. “Unlike you, I was born a quick learner and never had to be locked away to study, study, and study for a profession that was chosen for me. My parents were too good for that. Such a person, to have to study under those pressures, would hate his life, wouldn’t you agree?” Penfould went red, beetroot red and coughed and spluttered and spattered all over the table. Sam looked me in the eye and cracked a wicked smirk of her own. She loved what I was doing but looked down.

  “Fuck you!” He yelled across the table, sitting up and wiping his hands on a napkin. He was getting ready for a fight or surgery and I didn’t care which. “I am just saying, Doctor, that I am happy with my background and loved my family. For me, that is all that mattered.” The Doc continued to choke again. Leon ran over to Penfould and hit him on the back to dislodge whatever blocked his airway. Unfortunately, he heaved and was fine again after a swig of his greased red wine.

  I took the moment of pause, to enjoy some food, without his conversation and pig face to look at. That was soon gone. “Jesse Stadler isn’t it? What sort of name is that? Scottish? Hardly regal!” He guffawed and slapped his thigh.

  I responded with some class. “No, you are way off!” I smiled, per
haps smirked smugly, and shook my head at him. “It’s Austrian with some connections to minor nobility in both Austria and Bavaria. But that was so long ago and means little,” Penfould’s sneering moon-face dropped and he was looking humiliated again. “Royalty? Nobility? How so?” he sneered at me and foamed like an agitated crab.

  “It was originally Ritter Von Stadler, which is actually a knight’s title as much as a last name. Again, it means little in reality.” I said frankly and without arrogance, trivialising something that was important to the Doc.

  Penfould grew more and more red and angry but he gestured for me to go on. “My family were soldiers and officers, farmers and hunters, painters and craftspeople, musicians and singers; minor nobles that kept agrarian roots. Proud of being innately versatile, I thank them for that, the versatility, rather than worrying about noble connections,” I continued, taking a sip from my cup.

  I wanted to drive home the message to Penfould, but more importantly, his regime that all the fuss about lords and peasants was completely irrelevant. “My mum’s side are a bit of a mix too. A good mix of Irish, Italian, German and Welsh. They were normal folks, true Aussies. So no, they were not regal; but they will always be great to me.” Penfould’s squinting eyes relaxed a little but then widened when I pushed forward with: “No, not regal; just like you I guess,” looking him square in the eyes. Sam’s smirk widened and Penfould saw her disloyalty as his wide, blood-shot eyes stared daggers at her. He would punish her for that later.

  “I can assure you that I am regal! I was born to rule the likes of you all! You are a crude thug born to work and serve. Peasant!” His temper had flared and it was obvious he couldn’t take being exposed and losing a measuring competition. It was so comical and easy to wind up Doctor Kian Penfould that I was just doing it to amuse myself as much as to move my plan forward.