Light Play: Book One of The Light Play Trilogy

by N. D. Hansen-Hill

  At that, Rick grew agitated. Something else had just occurred to him. He was angry with himself for not considering it before.

  Simon, seeing it, asked, “More?” Sticking his pen back in Rick's hand, he told him, “But after this, that's enough, okay? It's making me tired just watching you.”

  Rick tried, but he was having trouble forming the letters. All he could manage was conta. He dropped the pen on the bed. “Finish it later, Rick,” Simon urged. There was a catch in his voice Simon couldn't quite conceal.

  But as Richard Lockmann drifted back into unconsciousness, it was the confusion in Jason's face that lingered in his mind.

  * * * *

  “You just missed talking to him,” Simon told Cole, when he joined them in the corridor.

  “He was talking?” Cole repeated, enthusiastically. “That must be a good sign.”

  Jason let the comment slide. It wouldn't hurt to have one of them thinking optimistically, anyway.

  “Sort of,” Simon confirmed. “He mouthed a few things, and managed to jot down a couple of notes.”

  “Can I go in?” Cole poked his head through the door. The curtains were drawn around Rick's bed.

  Jason shook his head. “Not now. Blaisden's with him.” Jason had been tired before all this had happened. Now, he was just plain exhausted. “What do you say we go back to your place, Cole, and have something to eat?”

  Cole hesitated, unwilling to let Rick feel they'd abandoned him. “Won't Rick feel bad?”

  “He's out again, Cole,” Simon told him. “He probably won't know whether we're there or not.”

  Jason was desperate to get away. It was the first time someone he cared about had been sick since he'd started studying medicine, and all the knowledge he'd worked so hard to get was now telling him all the things that could go wrong—and how few options they had. “We'll only be gone a couple of hours. Besides, he asked you to translate this for me.” Jason wriggled the slip of paper in front of Cole's face, only to yank it away when Cole reached for it. “The penalty is you'll have to feed me.” He glanced at Simon. “Correction—us.” He sighed. “Seriously, Cole, I'm starving. It's been a helluva day, and you're the only one I know with food.” Jace had burnt up the last of his money on one of the flower arrangements sitting next to Rick's bed. “It's either that, or I'm going to have to chomp down on those daisies I bought for Rick.”

  * * * *

  "Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck!" The whispered litany ran between his lips like some kind of hopeless prayer, as Sy Morgan tried to squeeze his man-sized form into a kid-sized corner. Nothing in his life had prepared him for this. Not even the paranoia-inspired dreams of the most hack-and-die horror film could match the gut-biting, shit-yourself reality.

  Reality? For a quivering moment he wondered; wanting it to be just one more episode of the macabre nightmare unfolding on his daily viewing. The daily viewing that included Sacchara's impending nervous breakdown, Vizar's escalating dictatorship, and Caroline Denaro's disintegration. Sy Morgan didn't want to believe there was any more reality to this dramatic little scene, than to others he'd already witnessed and dismissed.

  It was the way he'd always kept his sanity. Don't believe in anything you see, and don't let anything you see affect the things you do believe in. It had always worked for him before.

  Until now. Until what was left of Caroline Denaro had sought him out, and bared her teeth to rip out his soul. Forced him into a corner before tearing him apart.

  No! Ghosts can't hurt you. His mama had told him that, years before. And Caro Denaro might not exactly be a ghost, but she had about as little substance as one.

  “You can't hurt me!” The words came out shrilly, which robbed them of some of their power. But, just hearing himself fight back gave him the strength to stand up, and refuse to yield to her encroaching substance.

  He looked around, suddenly realising that he was in the observation room, above Denaro's isolation chamber. Why had she brought him here? To stir some pity? To beg for help? Sy had heard her ask often enough before, to those who were far better equipped to accede to her demands. “It won't do you any good...” he started to say.

  He never finished. Suddenly, Denaro was there, before him, and as fleshed out as he'd ever seen her. He watched with a kind of lurid fascination, as one of her hands thickened and swelled, and her face took on an intensity that glittered in her transparent eyes. Then, with a speed and strength he never expected, she gave him a shove.

  It was the hardest push he'd ever had in his life. Sy went sailing backwards and through the window, to land in a shattered showering of glass at the feet of Denaro's discarded body.

  “You can't hurt me....” It came out as a whimper, as Sy curled up in a foetal ball, terrified by both his location, and his adversary. It wasn't until he saw the blood on his arm that he realised he needed to act.

  He pushed himself shakily to his knees, using Denaro's bedding to pull himself to his feet. As he backed up to the wall, he refused to look at the swollen entity on the bed behind him; refused to think about it at all. He leaned against the bed, and glanced at the broken glass, half afraid that Denaro's spook might chase him down here, too. She packed one helluva punch for a ghost.

  Suddenly, a squeaky, squishy sound sent gooseflesh dancing down his arms. The tightening of the skin made his small cuts begin to sting and bleed more fiercely, as the skin contracted and shifted. A hint of warmth hovered just behind him, but the last thing he wanted was to turn and look.

  A warm slathering of moisture spilled across the abraded skin of his arm, and at first he thought one of his cuts was bleeding freely. It wasn't until the fiery stinging sensation hit his nerve endings that he knew something else had happened.

  He twisted; unwilling to face the final horror. For just a moment, that tumorous visage on the bed bore an overlay of Caroline Denaro's spectral entity, before it was sucked into the crevices of her facial structure like fluid down a sewer line, to be replaced by something far more tangible, but also more horrifying: a long, coiling extrusion of what may once have been a human tongue.

  Sy, holding his aching arm against his chest, suddenly knew what had produced that animate warmth along the back of his forearm, and immediately felt again the biting wrench in his innards. He backed away from her, and fled in the direction of the door. His breath was coming in horrified gasps of terror and near-hysteria.

  He turned back once, to make sure he wasn't being followed. It was then he lost the little bit of coherence he had left.

  Caroline Denaro's eyes were drooling slits in the puffy expanse of what used to be a human face. Her head had turned on the pillow, to follow his movements. And her eyes were looking directly at him.

  It was more than Sy could take. The last thing he remembered, was the rough comfort of an isolation suit, brushing against the side of his head as he fell.

  * * * *

  Blaisden nearly stomped out of ICU when he'd finished with Lockmann. He took the elevator to X-ray, and spent an uncomfortable ten minutes trying to make sense of what he was seeing. It wasn't often that he was baffled by something, and he didn't think it was good for his reputation. He began to wish Lockmann had been assigned to someone else. “I've never seen anything like it,” he complained to the technician.

  Jackie Marswell tried to hide her surprise. Blaisden must really be stumped to admit confusion. Especially to someone as lowly as a tech. Blaisden was one of those who'd gone on to specialise, and had mastered the skill of being a perfect bastard. About the only one who could keep him in line was his attorney, who warned him whenever a lawsuit was pending.

  For the first time in years, Blaisden felt like he was out of his league. Lockmann was manifesting disease symptoms he'd never seen before. Could the man have suffered some chemical exposure? Something that wasn't listed on his chart? Back in his office, Blaisden pulled up his notes on the computer, and checked Lockmann's occupation. Plant pathologist. What the hell does that mean? Whatever it was a p
lant pathologist did, Blaisden wondered if he did much of it in a lab. That might mean exposure to chemicals. He made a note to inquire at Entadyne, where the man was employed.

  Could this be a disease complex? But, what combination of viral or bacterial agents could produce the symptoms Lockmann exhibited? Blaisden couldn't quite control a shudder as he remembered the minute, fleshy nubs in the back of his patient's throat. The ones that had swollen up enough for a while to actually block his airway.

  It was five hours since Lockmann had been admitted, and Blaisden didn't feel he knew any more than he had at the beginning. Lockmann had been conscious for only a short time—but the man wasn't able to talk. There was no way Blaisden could interview him personally, to find out more.

  Blaisden picked up the phone and rang Erikah Peasdale. There'd been visitors with Lockmann off and on since he'd arrived. If Peasdale didn't know anything about Richard Lockmann, then it was time for him to contact some people who did.

  * * * *

  “What the hell is that smell?” Simon asked. He and Jason were riding with Cole.

  “That's Stench—”

  “No kidding,” Jason said. “I met him on the way over here.”

  Cole explained. “Rick's cat, you fool. He's the reason I had to run home.”

  “You mean that's going to be waiting for us at your house? If he smells this bad at a distance, I can't wait till I'm close-up.” Simon moved away from a corner of the seat that Stench had obviously claimed as his own. “Maybe we should eat at my house.”

  “No thanks,” Jason said. “I prefer Cole's style of ‘grab and run’. Nothing in your place is quick fix. Unless you want us to eat McDonald's—on you.” He looked hopefully at Simon.

  “Pay-day's not till tomorrow.”

  “Yeah,” Cole sighed. “Me, too. Tomorrow, but I spent it all yesterday.”

  “Me, three. In that case, I don't want to sound ungrateful, but I'd rather eat at Cole's. It'll be faster. I want to get back as soon as I can.” Now that Jason had left, he was feeling guilty.

  Simon didn't say anything. He just nodded. As little as any of them wanted to discuss it, they all knew Rick might not make it through the night. He changed the subject. “You know that company—the one that owns the Mausoleum?”

  “Genetechnic,” Cole supplied. He made a quick corner, and Simon slammed his head against the window on the far side.

  “You okay, Simon?” Jace asked.

  “Sure,” Simon said, mopping up blood from a cut lip. “Let me get my belt back on.” Cole slowed down marginally, until he heard the click, then sped up again.

  “Sorry, Simon,” Cole said. “What about Genetechnic?”

  “I've done a little research on them—my own sources. I know Rick was concerned about this scientist Denaro, but do you know whether he approached them with any questions?”

  Cole's eyes met Simon's in the rear-view mirror. “I don't think so,” he said slowly, “but he has enough information about Denaro's research to close ‘em down. Or at least start an inquiry.”

  “When did this happen?” Jace asked. “Where was I?”

  “Today. This stuff's so scary that Rick and I were talking about calling in some kind of federal agency.”

  Simon's expression was thoughtful. “If that's true, then Rick's pneumonia may well be the least of his concerns.”

  * * * *

  “Just what the hell did you mean by that?” Jason was clearly angry about Simon's enigmatic remark. “I'd say his pneumonia is all Rick, or any of the rest of us, need to be concerned about right now. I don't want to hear any bullshit blather about companies, or research, or anything else.”

  Simon remained tactfully silent until Cole unlocked the door. Then he whispered to Cole, “Feed him, will ya?”

  Cole smiled and headed for the fridge. “Food's coming right up, Jason.”

  After they'd eaten, Jason handed Rick's note to Cole. “Does this mean anything to you?”

  Cole read the three letters Rick had written. “WTV,” he muttered.

  “Does it have anything to do with Genetechnic?” Simon asked.

  Cole nodded. “It's a plant virus,” he told them, and his expression was grim. “Rick thinks Denaro found a way to insert groups of plant genes into animals. Only she made a mistake. Somehow, she mixed a plant virus into the genes.”

  “Hell of a mistake,” Jason remarked. “Was Rick sure about this?”

  “He seemed to know what he was talking about. He recognised the virus because he'd seen it in his own lab.”

  “What does the plant virus do to animals?” Simon was trying to see the significance.

  “Rick thinks it made them sick.” He hesitated. “Not only the rats, but Denaro herself.”

  "Fuckin hell!" Jason swore.

  Simon had paled. “Can Rick document all this?”

  “If Denaro's records are true—yeah.”

  “I don't like it.” Simon stood up and began to pace.

  “What—the plant virus or the misplaced genes?” Cole asked calmly. Unlike the others, he'd had a little time to get used to this.

  “Genetechnic is one ugly muther—philosophically speaking,” Simon told him grimly. “Word is they have their own little army tucked away somewhere. If not, they have enough money to hire one.” He frowned. “How did Rick get this stuff?”

  “He said he ‘found’ it. But I think he had help—” Cole left it hanging, reluctant to go on.

  “What kind of help?” Simon prompted.

  Cole cleared his throat. “I think Denaro showed him where it was.”

  Jason snorted in disbelief. His occupation didn't encourage him to dwell too much on life after death. “Ghouls, ghosts and goblins?” Then, Jason relaxed a little. If there was as much supposition in Denaro's notes as there was in Cole's suggestion about where Rick got them, then he didn't think there was anything to worry about.

  “Denaro?” Simon repeated doubtfully.

  Cole knew he'd made a mistake, but he didn't let that sway him. He figured his next words would be enough to re-establish his credibility. “That's not all.” The expressions on Simon's and Jason's faces would have been funny if the situation wasn't so damned serious. “Rick's got a sample of the virus—the one that infected Denaro—hidden in a cupboard at his house.”

  * * * *

  Justin Sacchara glanced up and down the street. It was still early enough in the morning to avoid most of the neighbours, but if he should see one, he could always claim—once again—that he was on company business.

  He took a cautious look through the window into the locked garage. Good. Lockmann was gone again. Sacchara, in a suspicious frame of mind, briefly wondered about the man's dual existence. Then he shrugged it away. Probably a woman, he decided.

  Sacchara had just come from Sy Morgan's office, and was still irritated by Sy's absence. He'd wanted Morgan to begin monitoring the lab in Denaro's house—a task no one else could do for him. This was not an ordinary security scan, and Morgan would know how to handle it discreetly.

  Sacchara had been tempted to play with the system—either to locate Morgan, or home in on Denaro's former residence himself—but the video feeds and display units were too complex, and he had the feeling Daniel Vizar wouldn't tolerate too many more mistakes from him. Vizar wasn't exactly thrilled that Sacchara had run into Lockmann right outside the man's front door.

  No, it had to be Morgan. With this kind of sensitive situation, Sacchara knew he couldn't trust anyone else. There were already too many rumours floating around. Sacchara didn't want to feed any of them with a grain of truth.

  He grimaced—suddenly feeling a little foolish. This Denaro business was beginning to colour everything he did; so much so, in fact, that even a late arrival on Morgan's part began to take on ghoulish overtones. Justin had to face it—not everyone's life was undermined or controlled by what was happening at Genetechnic. Lockmann might not be the only one with a girl friend. Sy Morgan was probably lying in some woman's
arms right now.

  * * * *

  Aaron Solomon yawned and stretched, then glanced carelessly at the read-outs on the monitors by his bed. They were duplicates of the ones in Denaro's isolation chamber. He avoided looking at the screen that showed her face.

  Funny how far medicine can be taken away from direct bodily contact. All his work with Denaro had been distanced by protective garb, electronics, and stainless steel. For just a moment, he spared a thought to how all that medical wizardry might be viewed by his patient, and wondered whether he should have offered her a greater show of sympathy. Maybe, if he'd had more concern about how the grotesque mutation of her body was perceived by what remained of her mind, she would have been a little kinder in those distal wanderings of her rejected soul. A little less malicious, and a lot more approachable.

  He thought about it a moment, twinges of guilt tangled up with the thankfulness he sometimes felt when treating a seriously ill patient. His sympathy was always derived from an odd combination of gratitude and guilt. The gratitude that all the pain and suffering were being experienced by someone else. The guilt stimulated by good health in the shadow of human deterioration.

  This time, however, he had trouble dredging up much in the way of sympathy. Caroline Denaro was at least partially responsible for his own objective stance. There was little he was willing to do for the creature who'd come to hound him—who'd made him question his own sanity.

  At least now—after perusing the computer's records—he knew the truth, but he resented Daniel Vizar and Justin Sacchara all the more for their silence. For failing to tell him what they knew about the woman's out-of-body wanderings. For leaving him to wonder. For letting her eerie proximity become just one more way of keeping control over his curiosity and itchy feet.

  Suddenly, he chuckled. Maybe that wasn't the point at all. Maybe each of the other men was also doing battle with Denaro's spectral image, all the while wondering whether he was the sole recipient of Caroline's ghastly attention.

  Aaron was almost dressed when the nearest machine began to scream shrilly, its alarm making him jump out of the pants’ leg he was slipping over his foot. Almost at once, the sound was echoed by a hollow blipping sound, and a tinny, whining buzz. He sighed with relief. No heroics. If the bitch was slipping away, he could only be happy about it.