Halfway Heroes

by Dustin Martin

  Chapter 43—A Death in the Family

  Heather never did mention to Mark anything about the burn. He caught a glance from her sometimes, but nothing beyond that. He was careful to wear long-sleeved shirts until his burn healed. Finster commented on his lengthy attire during training, but Mark brushed him off, saying that the gym was chilly. Other than that, no suspicions were aroused.

  December passed, and the holidays came and went. Connie was unable to make it home, but she did wish Mark a Merry Christmas and Happy New Year. He exchanged some small gifts with Heather and Finster. An emerald scarf for Heather, who gave him a shirt, and classic rock CDs for Finster, who bought him some new training gear.

  As January rolled around, Leonard grew weaker. When Mark tagged along one day at the request of Rooke, he once again confined himself to Leonard’s room as Rooke worked. The old man wasn’t in a mood to speak that day, so Mark chatted off and on about small, meaningless things to pass the time.

  “Got a lot of homework piling up,” Mark said, tapping his knees and looking around. “Should’ve brought it with me. My tutor is pretty brutal.” Leonard didn’t respond. Mark looked toward the door. He had skipped lunch and was feeling peckish. So, after excusing himself, he went downstairs to the kitchen and made a sandwich. He brought his food and a bag of chips with him upstairs. Leonard appeared to be asleep, the ventilator pumping his air regularly.

  Mark chewed thoughtfully on his sandwich, his mind turning to Heather and Finster. Particularly Heather. She had been a great help to him through his transition and troubled times. Most recently, she had kept mum about his burn. Thinking of the consequences if she had spilled his secret troubled him no end. But she hadn’t said a word. To Mark, she was amazing, criminal or not.

  He believed he had finally found two really good friends in his coworkers, albeit one more so than the other. There had been some bumpy spots in his journey to where he was now, but things were better in many ways. Although there always would be the looming shadows of what his job entailed as well as the problems with his employer’s associates.

  Then his thoughts bounced to his mother. He hadn’t heard from her since last month. Mark finished his sandwich and picked up the phone next to Leonard’s bed. He won’t mind if I make a quick call, Mark thought. He dialed his mother’s cell phone, but she didn’t answer. He left a short message giving Leonard’s phone number, in case she called back soon.

  Oh well. He looked down at Leonard, sleeping peacefully, his head buried in his fluffy pillow. Mark looked at the EKG machine next to the bed. The heart rate suddenly spiked. Mark frowned. That couldn’t possibly be right. It must be malfunctioning. Leonard awoke, gasping. His mouth opened and closed like a fish. Horrified, Mark raced to the door and called out for Rooke. But as soon as he started moving, Leonard stopped and closed his eyes. The EKG flatlined, a shrill constant beeping filling the house.

  Responding to the signal, Rooke and the nurse rushed in. They pushed Mark away. The nurse threw Mark the phone. “Call 911! Hurry!” She brought out a defibrillator from beneath the bed. As it charged, she removed Leonard’s shirt and some of the equipment attached to him. She started to compress his chest and breathe into his mouth.

  Rooke was a wreck, shaking his father. “No, Dad! Don’t you do this! Don’t you do this!” His face was red and his teeth appeared ready to snap, they were clamped so tightly. He turned to Mark, who held the phone, dumbfounded, unable to dial. “What are you waiting for, you waste of space?” When Mark didn’t answer, he snatched the phone. “Give me that!” Rooke could barely speak. He sputtered out phrases to the operator as he broke down over his father.

  “Rooke... Leonard Rooke... Yes, he’s dying! Hurry!” Rooke said. He felt around his father’s neck, checking for a pulse.

  The nurse continued her CPR, intermittently trying the defibrillator. At one point, Rooke sent Mark from the room. “Go do something useful and wait for the ambulance outside!”

  Mark ran to a downstairs phone. He quickly called Heather, explaining the situation. Then he waited outside as Rooke had instructed. When the ambulance came, Mark led the paramedics to the bedroom. Leonard was loaded onto a gurney. Mark caught a glimpse of Leonard before he was shoved aside. Rooke and the nurse rode along in the ambulance, leaving Mark alone at the house.

  Shortly after, Heather and Finster arrived. Mark clambered into the car and they sped toward the hospital. Finster broke every rule of the road, zipping past red lights and cutting off any and all cars. When they arrived, Heather and Mark hopped out. They raced inside and approached the front desk.

  “Can I help you?” the nurse behind the desk asked politely.

  “Leonard Rooke,” Heather said. “Should’ve come in a little while ago.” The nurse tapped in the information on his computer. Heather hammered the desk impatiently as the nurse searched for the name.

  “Let’s see, Leonard Rooke. First floor, Room 14,” he said, gesturing in the direction of the room. “Fourteen is at the end on the right.”

  Heather and Mark dashed down the hall. They screeched to a halt at number fourteen. Rooke stood outside the room, his face pressed to a viewing window. Inside the room, several paramedics, doctors, and nurses were rushing around, using any means necessary to bring Leonard back to life, while one doctor constantly applied CPR. The old man lay on a table, not responding to the resuscitative techniques.

  “Is he alive?” Mark asked.

  “They found a pulse in the ambulance briefly,” Rooke said. “I think they almost had him.” He pounded the window anxiously. “You can do it, Dad. Come on. We’re here for you. I know you can beat this.”

  One of the nurses exited from the hustle and bustle, meeting the onlookers in the hall. She removed her latex gloves and gazed sympathetically at Rooke. He tore his face away from the window, expectantly waiting for the diagnosis. “We’re doing our best, sir,” she said. “But it’s not going well so far.”

  He returned to the window, seemingly trying to push through it as he leaned against it. One of the doctors raised and shook his head. The nurse nodded, checked her watch, and muttered to herself. “Fourteen thirty-three.”

  Rooke ran into the room. Heather followed, but Mark stood in the doorway. Rooke snatched one of the syringes and assorted medicine bottles laid out next to the equipment. He filled the syringe and jammed it into Leonard’s arm. Then he grabbed one of the defibrillators and charged it. “Don’t do this, Dad!” He fought off a couple of paramedics. When the defibrillator pads were charged, he shocked the body. It jumped and fell back down, lifeless. “No, Dad!” Again, he held the hospital employees at bay. Again, he jolted the body. Leonard didn’t spring back to life.

  He abandoned the defibrillator and pounded Leonard’s chest. His brutal CPR was ended when the paramedics finally overpowered him. Rooke cursed them, threatening them all. “Sir, he’s dead!” one of the doctors said.

  “No! Let me go! I’ll have your jobs! I’ll have your heads!” He struggled against their hold. “Let me go! Leave me alone and let me go! I can bring him back! Dad! Dad!”

  Heather cupped Rooke’s face and kissed him on the mouth. Mark’s jaw dropped. But he caught on when he saw stray, wispy trails sliding out from between their lip lock. Heather pulled away and said, “Calm down.” Rooke was sedated for the moment. He hung his head, completely exhausted.

  The paramedics dragged Rooke away. He continued to mumble for Leonard. Heather and Mark escorted them to the waiting room. Finster was already there, wringing his hands. He looked at Rooke and then turned to Heather for confirmation. She nodded, sighing, and helped Rooke into a chair. Finster sat down heavily. Mark had never seen him look so stunned.

  Hours ticked by at a snail’s pace. Mark couldn’t process what he’d just witnessed. In the blink of an eye, Leonard had died, right in front of him. Whatever he was feeling, he knew that Rooke was experiencing it to the umpteenth degree.

  Heather’s effect eventually wore off, but Rooke was silent. Once he t
ried to leave and find his father, but Finster restrained him. Soon, Rooke gave up and sat with the others in the waiting room. For hours he simply stared into space, as if expecting something to happen.

  A doctor stole Rooke away in the evening. When he returned around midnight, he was walking alongside a gurney that carried a black body bag. “I’m going home,” he announced to everyone. He met each of their gazes and left without a further word.

  That was the last Mark saw of Rooke for a week.

  He didn’t report to the office at all. A couple of days after Leonard’s death, his secretary tried to drop off some forms at his house, but the place was empty. She said she’d found Rooke at his dad’s home. The place had reeked, she said, like dozens of cats had died in there. Rooke was in Leonard’s room, his arms spread over the unzipped body bag. He was praying over it, softly sobbing and declaring that he’d give anything for his father to return. When he noticed the secretary’s presence, he flung a clock at her, screaming “Leave me alone!” She had left the house, shaken, refusing to go back.

  After a week, Heather had had no word from Rooke, since he’d taken his father’s body home. She gathered Finster and Mark and drove to Leonard’s house. The door was unlocked and the house was as soundless as a tomb. A foul, rancid odor hung heavily in the air. Heather crinkled her nose and pulled her scarf over her face. Finster and Mark clapped their hands over their noses. Shivering, Mark stayed one step behind them. He didn’t like the atmosphere that had taken hold of the place. He sensed an unexpected terror waited for them, lurking around a corner.

  Rooke was in Leonard’s room when the three of them entered. His hands were fanned out protectively over the snow-white corpse in its bag. He was kneeling by the bed and breathing heavily, either asleep or drained. Heather gagged on the rank smell, but ventured into the room, daring to touch his shoulder.

  “Hello, Heather,” he said, startling her. He lifted his head wearily. “I could hear Finster coming from a mile away.”

  “Hey,” Finster said, his voice muffled behind his hand. “How have you been?”

  “Oh, I’ve been contemplating a few things over the past several days.” He gazed out the window. The morning sunlight lit up the cheery, chirping birds on the tree outside the window. “What day is it?”

  “Tuesday,” Heather said. “Why haven’t you called the funeral parlor?”

  “Ah, Tuesday,” he said, nodding sagely. “Tuesday. I meant to call. Should call today. But like I said, I’ve been busy contemplating.” He was transfixed by the window.

  “What have you been contemplating?” Finster asked after Rooke didn’t elaborate further.

  “About my place in this world, my time here, my existence,” he said. He looked at his father. “What I’m meant to do.”

  Mark wanted to leave. He couldn’t explain why, but he wanted to be far from Rooke. Heather seemed to be in agreement, and she backed away from Rooke.

  Finster took her spot. “What are you meant to do, Mr. Rooke?”

  “I’m glad you asked,” Rooke said. He smiled. It was a sickly smile—looking unhinged to Mark. And what did that strange look in his eyes mean? “I don’t think I’m meant to be in the medicine business. After all, I didn’t possess the skill to cure my father. No, no. My talents lie elsewhere. Tell me, my dear Finster, what have I created recently?”

  “Er, the SN91?” Finster said.

  “Yes, yes. And before that, the MD89 was the talk of the world, wasn’t it?” His smile grew. “And the short-lived SM86 virus prior to that, which itself succeeded the AT79, a most enlightening test, despite its limited time out there. You see, all this time, I thought I was destined to follow in my father’s footsteps. Cure diseases like those. I was half right. For although I am exceptionable in the disease-remedy process, it turns out that I’m destined for the former half of that relationship. Yes, sir,” he said, standing up. “Diseases are my specialty. Just call me Sniffles McGee, the Sickly Surgeon, the Corruptor of the Living, Dr. Death. Whatever you prefer.”

  “Are you okay?” Heather asked.

  Rooke spun around. Mark noticed that he had lost weight and was nearly as pale as the corpse. His unshaven face and oily skin screamed of days lacking even basic hygiene. “Never better,” he said, his wide, frantic eyes bouncing in his skull. “I’ve simply realized where my true calling is. Come! This calls for a celebration!”

  Rooke sprang past Mark and down to the kitchen. He talked excitedly as he rummaged through his pantry. “I should thank Whyte when I get the chance. Time and again, I resented the things he made me do. Little did I know that he was pushing me toward my real talent. How do you guys like your eggs?” He cracked open several eggs into a skillet. “Scrambled? Benedict? Sunnyside?”

  Mark saw Heather and Finster exchange glances, their eyebrows raised. So they’d also noticed how crazed Rooke was acting. Not that it was hard to miss. Unfortunately, Mark discovered that the corpse’s strong smell clung to Rooke’s person, so he kept a firm hold over his nose. “So what do you plan to do now that you’ve found your true calling?” Heather asked, as Finster leaned on the kitchen counter. Mark stayed close to her side. He heard the unease in her voice, knew that she was trying to stay calm.

  “Why, the same thing I’ve been doing,” he said, stirring the eggs around. “Only better. With more enthusiasm.” He grabbed a bowl and threw in eggs, milk, and pancake batter mix. He whipped the mixture with a spoon, spilling drops onto the floor. “I have big plans when I come back. Big plans. And I have you to thank, too, Heather.”

  “Why me?”

  “Because you were right,” he said, setting down the bowl. He clutched her hands in his. “I should be getting involved in my work. Getting my hands dirty. Whoops. Looks like I’ve gotten your hands dirty, too.” He passed her a towel and licked the batter off his fingers. “Now, sit down, sit down. I’ll make us some pancakes and tell you all about my idea for my newest creation.”

  They sat at the dining room table as Rooke prepared breakfast, humming a cheerful tune. Mark met Heather and Finster’s eyes. No one knew what to say.

  “Here we are,” Rooke said, bringing in plates loaded with torn, slightly charred stacks of pancakes and runny eggs. He laid out syrup, sugar, cups, and a pot of coffee. “I know I’m not a great cook, but it’s the best I can do. Dig in. I’ll be right back. Have to call the parlor.”

  Heather poked at her food. Mark smelled his. Nothing was off about the food, except the burnt smell. “I think it’s okay,” Heather said. Yet she didn’t eat.

  Mark took a breath, doused his pancakes with a liberal helping of syrup, and took a bite. The food was actually not too bad, if he ignored the ashy taste. Finster dug into his meal, but Heather didn’t, a preoccupied look on her face.

  When Rooke returned, he seated himself at the head of the table. “Got in touch with them. They’ll be here within the hour. Then we can go to the office.”

  That was one worry eliminated. But there was an air of unease lingering about Rooke. As he ate, he explained to them his new plan. “So, I’ve been reworking the formula for the SN91 and I think I’ve created the most potent version of all. We’ll need to mass-produce a batch and test it. I’ve got a location in mind.”

  “Sounds great,” Heather said. “Look, Bartholomew.” Rooke stopped eating and regarded her. “You need time to mourn—”

  He waved his hand. “I do, yes. His death took me to the pit of despair.” He grimaced and took a deep breath. “But I also need to learn to accept it and move on. He was old, wanted to die long ago. I kept him alive against his will.” He looked at each of them. “I need to crawl out of my despair and head to better days.”

  Rooke finished his breakfast and went upstairs to freshen up. When the doorbell rang, he bounded downstairs, showered, clean cut, and smartly dressed. He and Mark welcomed in the pair of funeral home employees, while Heather and Finster finished their breakfast.

  Rooke led the employees to Leonard’s body while Mark s
tayed by the door. He gazed out at the shiny black hearse. On the side, it read KENTLE FUNERAL HOME, A FAMILY BUSINESS. Soon, the employees hefted the body downstairs. Rooke stopped them at the front door.

  “A moment, please,” he said. He unzipped the body bag and stared at the calm, serene face. Then he closed the bag. “Thank you.”

  Mark couldn’t shake his strange feeling about Rooke’s behavior. The man seemed to be on the precipice of snapping completely. His complete change of countenance from grieving to inspired, holding onto the body for so long, and those wild eyes all suggested that he should be committed. Or at least checked out, he thought. But Mark wrote it off as best as he could. Nothing harmful had happened to far.

  At the office an hour later, Rooke was friendly and courteous to all of his employees. He accepted their heartfelt condolences and sympathies warmly. He hugged his secretary, complimenting her outfit. “No calls, please,” he said, ushering Heather, Finster, and Mark into his office. “Have much to do and little time to do it in.”

  Rooke put in a call to Whyte. He waited patiently, rocking in his chair as the screen connected. Mark sniffed, picking up traces of the corpse lingering in his nostrils. When Whyte appeared, Rooke smiled. “Hello. How are you doing today?”

  “Rooke? Er, I’m very well, thank you,” Whyte said. In the dark, Mark saw traces of his perplexed expression. “I didn’t expect you to be back so soon. I am very sorry to hear about Leonard. He was a great man.”

  “That he was,” Rooke said. “Thank you very much. But let’s get down to business. I have good news. Wonderful news, in fact.”

  “Oh?” Whyte asked. “Do tell.”

  “First, the formula for the strength and invulnerability combination is coming along. I’m nearly finished. Second, I have concocted a faster deadlier form of the SN91. My best work to date. And I wish to test it.”

  “Splendid work,” Whyte said. He smiled, genuinely pleased. “Well, we have several targets picked out.”

  “Actually, I wanted to test it here,” he said. “In Golden Springs.”

  Everyone froze. Mark’s inner alert went into overdrive. Rooke had lost it. I should’ve trusted my gut on this.

  Whyte chuckled. “Bartholomew. Need I remind you that the last test is still fresh in everyone’s mind?”

  “Exactly the reason to test it here,” he said. “Think about it. The police presence is high. The BEP Division is looking for clues here and expecting attacks elsewhere. No one will see an attack happening here again so soon. They’re complacent. They believe they will find these three,” he said, gesturing to Mark and the others, “soon enough, and that nothing else could happen in their city.”

  “And by breaking that belief, you would cripple them,” Whyte finished.

  “Right on the money!” Rooke said, clapping. “People would know they aren’t safe, even when the authorities are on full alert. They would turn to anyone to save them this time. And here at Rooke Pharmaceuticals, we’re the only ones who know how the disease works.”

  “I like it,” Whyte said, stroking his chin. “So how large of a test were you thinking?”

  “City-wide,” Rooke said. “I can put this into production right away. Normally, it would take a month, but I’m going to push all the factories into overtime. So I would say two weeks at most. There would only be one thing I would need from you.”

  “What would that be?”

  “Some of your troops. Can’t hope to deliver all those canisters around the city with just these three,” Rooke said. “Plus the extra muscle will come in handy.”

  “You can make good on this?” Whyte asked.

  Rooke beamed. “I guarantee that people won’t be able to be cured fast enough. They’ll be begging for our help.”

  “It sounds like a plan,” Whyte said. “I’ll send my people over right away. Now, would you mind excusing us for a moment? I’d like to talk to your employees.”

  “Of course, of course,” Rooke said. “I’ll go run the order off to the factories.” He bowed and left the room. Mark wished he could accompany him. He still felt nervous around Rooke, but Whyte—although pleasant at the moment—was terrifying.

  That was when Mark noticed Whyte staring at him. Mark gulped and averted his eyes. Finster glanced at Mark. “Oh. Are you worried about Mark? No need to be, Mr. Whyte. Whatever goes on in this room, he won’t tell.” Heather nodded in agreement. Finster slapped Mark’s back. “You can trust him.”

  “He did prove himself at the bank,” Whyte said. “Very well, I’ll allow him to stay. Now,” he eyed the door and then tapped his temple, “is Rooke stable?”

  “I’m not sure,” Heather said. “At first, we didn’t think so. But he seems alright.”

  “Aside from the occasional moment,” Finster said.

  “It isn’t like him to be volunteering for something like this, where there is a very real risk he could be caught,” Heather said. “You know Rooke. He prefers to be far away from the action. But he did say he had ‘found his calling.’ ” She shook her head.

  Whyte was silent for a moment. Then he said, “He could be up to something. Watch him closely. Be prepared for anything suspicious. If he can deliver on this, great. He could finally become useful instead of a drain on my time and money. I would like this to work out, so I’ll give him a chance.”

  “And if he’s up to something?” Finster asked.

  “Then I will cut all ties with Rooke Pharmaceuticals,” Whyte said.