The Hunger

by Ryan Casey

  Just not today.

  A bleep emitted from her computer. She turned around and sighed, heading back towards it. The sound of a new email. Might as well get started on her email responses while she was here. Finish her emails, then head home.

  Home. Lonely studio apartment. Nothing but the television for company.

  At least she felt like she was being productive just by being at work. At least she was giving off the aura that she was busy. That she really did have things to do, and that was why she was such a loner.

  She plonked herself back down in her chair and clicked open the email. She didn’t read the subjects, usually, but this one caught her eye. It looked different to the rest. More informal. And it was from an internal email address she didn’t recognise.

  From: appleton.s@labs.tcorps.com

  To: carter.d@tcorps.com

  [URGENT] Please read. Something you’ll want to know.

  29 January 2014 0658

  Dear Mrs. Carter,

  Before you delete this email, or tell me to contact my direct superiors, or do anything else, I want you to know that I reached out to you directly because I truly believe in the importance of what I have found.

  From 11 November 2013, I have been conducting private research into potential cures for HIV. I have adhered to the TCorps procedure for the most part but there have been times where I hold my hands up and admit I have done things such as a.) use a live animal for my own private research, b.) use chemicals in my private lab that are restricted to the communal area.

  Again, before you report me or do anything on the matter, I want you to know that three days ago, on 26 January, I made a breakthrough in my research. After injecting a rat with a tweaked variant of the human immunodeficiency virus specifically targeted at the rat’s anatomical system, the virus fast mutated to the human equivalent of Stage IV—or acquired immunodeficiency syndrome (AIDS). The rat had a matter of days, or maybe even just hours, to survive.

  A few days earlier, I found a chemical formula that I believed would counter the progression of this acquired immunodeficiency syndrome. In the long run, I had plans for the solution, if it could be transferred and applied to the human system, to counter the rate and speed of Stage IV HIV progression by creating CD4 imitation cells (CD4 cells are responsible for a healthy immune system).

  Later that evening—or it might have been day, I am not so good in the confines of TCorps with keeping track—after trying the formula on my test rat, I returned to my lab around an hour (ish) later to find something truly staggering. The rat, which had previously grown lethargic and weak, had eaten all of its food, had drunk all its water, and was exercising on its wheel.

  My first reaction was that the animal must have been in a state of delirium, affected mentally by the chemicals I had injected into its system. However, I ran a test on the rat’s immune system, and the CD4 count had risen from 150 cells/mm³ to a staggering 3,000 cells/mm³. The typical normal CD4 range for a healthy human is between 500 cells/mm³ and 1,000 cells/mm³. The rat was not only cured—it is healthier than it has ever been in its life.

  Three days on, and there are no signs of wearing off. The opposite, in fact. On day two, the CD4 count per mm³ was up to 3,014. Just this morning, I tested again, and the count is 3,027. I do not know when this will stop rising, but the rat seems healthy, happy and most importantly, cured.

  I do not yet know what this means for humans. I do not know whether we have a potential cure for HIV on our hands. And I apologise for running this experiment in private, but I had my own interests at heart (don’t we all?). I would, however, be keen to meet you directly to discuss these results.

  I hope you see the importance of them. This is exciting—truly exciting. I have never seen anything like it before, and I can only dream of what it might mean for TCorps—what it might mean for humanity—if we actually have something akin to a cure on our hands.

  Please, be in touch.

  Sarah Appleton,

  Laboratory Chemist.

  Donna scrolled up and down the email a few times. Read a few of the trickier-to-grasp sections, then read them again and again.

  Sarah Appleton—a laboratory chemist—claimed she might just have found a cure for AIDS.

  Donna smirked. There’s a new one.

  She opened up the reply section and started typing. She’d tell Sarah what she told all of the jumped-up labcoats who believed they’d found the cures to cancer, the fucking supposed time-travel devices. They were to pass the information on to their direct superiors, the Chief Laboratory Chemists. If the chiefs found it interesting enough, they’d be in touch with their superiors, until eventually it came to her office with a stamped seal of approval. The entire anthill of TCorps signed and approved anything before she got a sniff.

  As she was writing, she thought about Sarah’s words. There was something of a desperation to them. The first paragraph begging for Donna’s attention, for one. And then there were the repeated apologies—the up-front, matter-of-fact way in which she spoke about her breach of duty. Abducting lab rats, using them in private premises. Although Donna knew damn well this happened, usually the jumped-up little labcoats were busy trying to cover up their sins with fancy language.

  Not Sarah. Sarah had been honest from the start. She’d told Donna how wrong she’d been, then she’d given her the information.

  Donna looked at the stacks of files and folders on her desk. She looked at the down-turned photograph of her son, Paul. She thought back to Mr. Belmont’s conversation, the threatening look in his eyes when he all but told her that they might have to consider cutting corners at TCorps.

  An HIV cure. If it really did work, that wouldn’t just be a lifesaver, it would be a job securer. If she could take the credit for this, then who knows? Maybe she’d be next in line to the throne. She’d be commended. Knighted, even. A visit to Buckingham Palace—all of it was in her sights.

  She looked back at her keyboard. The fantasy drifted away. The truth was, it was just a fantasy, nothing more. Suppose she did agree to Sarah’s proposal—what then? The pair of them jump the procedure of the entire TCorps industry and start testing something that, quite frankly, might be a duff, or even worse, could be dangerous? No. She couldn’t do that. She was more professional than that.

  She started typing again, her tender fingers sticking to the greasy keys.

  Dear Sarah,

  Thank you for your email.

  Your progress sounds fascinating. Unfortunately, you are going to have to report to your superiors with any experiments you have conducted, following the necessary TCorps procedures.

  Please note that you will have to outline all of the term-breaching procedures you have told to me to this superior, and they will discuss the next step.

  Sorry I cannot be of more help, and good luck with your project.

  Donna Carter,

  Chief Executive.

  She hovered her finger over the mouse button. She understood why Sarah had contacted her. Fuck—she wanted a piece of the credit. She knew that the second she handed over her formula to those above her, she would be anonymous. Forgotten.

  And sure, curing HIV/AIDS was a decent feat in itself. But being known as the person who cured HIV/AIDS? Well, that was something different altogether.

  But shit. Probably just another jumped-up labcoat. No evidence to prove it, not yet.

  There was a chance that in two or three months, this project might just land on Donna’s desk for her to sign and approve.

  Then again, it was more likely that she’d never hear any more of it.

  She hit “send” and closed down her emails.

  She knew she’d done the right thing, but she couldn’t help avoid the sinking feeling inside her, as she looked out of the window at the sprawling shadow of TCorps over the fields, fields growing lighter and lighter in the rising sun.

  5.

  A day in the life of Jonny Ainsthwaite—or Jonny Ainsthwaite Since HIV Diagnosis—went
something like this: Alarm clock goes off early, snooze button hit, alarm goes off again, snooze button hit again, alarm cancelled before it has the chance to wake him up completely, laze around until he felt moderately hungry, go get some breakfast, back to room, click around on Internet, laze around some more, wake up for dinner, eat dinner, browse Internet some more, laze around some more, more Internet, set alarm for morning with good intentions… alarm clock goes off early.

  A day in the life of Jonny Ainsthwaite.

  But something disturbed him the following morning. He knew it couldn’t be Mum, because she was working until this afternoon at the sorting office. He knew it wasn’t Dad—he left early for his commute back down to London, or wherever it was he went off to. Who knew?

  There was a knock at the door. Then another. And then another.

  Usually, Jonny would just ignore the knock. It’d be the postman, nine times out of ten. They’d knock once… then knock twice… and then—

  But no. This person kept on knocking. Knocking and knocking and knocking. He sat upright in his bed. His room was as gloomy as ever, the dark blinds keeping out the light. Who would be knocking at his door at this time? Jehovahs? Possibly.

  He got out of bed and opened his bedroom door. His eyes took a moment to adjust to the light as he crept down his staircase. He could see a silhouette behind the patterned glass of the front door. A silhouette that looked familiar, somewhat. A silhouette he could’ve sworn he’d seen before.

  He gulped. He gripped hold of the door handle. Whoever it was, they weren’t giving up. They weren’t giving up for anything. They were knocking until this door was answered, Jonny knew that much now.

  He lowered the gold metal handle of the door and pulled the door open.

  “Hello, mate! Long time no see.”

  Jonny stared for a few moments. He wasn’t sure how long exactly it had been since he’d last seen Brad, but it had been a while, considering they used to hang out almost every night of the week. And yet, here he was at his doorstep, grinning away. Freckles protruded from his cheeks. He’d forgotten the freckles, completely. Damp-looking, spiked ginger hair. Longer than it was when he’d last seen him? Shorter?

  “How you doing, Jonny boy?” Brad asked. He poked his head into the doorway and looked around. “You keeping busy, or—”

  “Yeah,” Jonny said, scratching the back of his neck. “I, erm. Yeah. Keeping busy. The music. It’s going well.”

  Brad’s smile widened. He stared at Jonny with his bright blue eyes. “Good. Pleased about that, mate. And how’s the, er… you know.”

  Jonny did know. “Well, it’s still HIV, if that’s what you’re wondering.”

  “Right, right,” Brad said. His cheeks flushed, and he nodded rapidly. “Just checking you’re keeping okay. It’s been ages. I’ve missed you, bro. We all have.”

  Another few moments of silence. Jonny could see Brad looking at him—looking at his hair, judging. Looking at his gaunt face and the dark shadows under his eyes, and judging. His best mate—his best mate who used to fucking idolise him—judging.

  “Well, I just popped by because I was on my way to the bank. Just wondered if you’d got my text about Friday? Anita’s having a big bash. Getting all the old team back together. And it… well, it wouldn’t be the same without you, Jon.”

  Jonny nodded. He forced a smile. The cool air from the street outside blew against his face. Wow. How long had it been since he felt actual air? Over a week? When had he last left the house?

  “And hey,” Brad said, punching Jonny on his arm. “Don’t want them thinking you’re a werewolf or a vampire or something. All cooped up in there on your own. Come out, mate. It only has to be for a quick drink. It’ll be good for you.”

  “When… When is it again?” Jonny asked.

  “Friday,” Brad said, right away. “Friday at 9. Anita’s place.”

  Jonny had heard Brad the first time when he’d said Friday. He supposed he was actually asking “When is Friday?” as he’d lost track of the days. It was Tuesday, he thought. Tuesday…

  Or was it Wednesday? He’d check later.

  Jonny looked back inside his house. It seemed strange, the smells of the outdoors drifting inside. Like he was allowing some unknown force into his stronghold. He wasn’t sure he liked it.

  “Jon?”

  Jonny turned back around. Brad was still at his door, frowning and staring at him.

  “You are okay, aren’t you?”

  Jonny nodded. “I will be. As okay as I can be.”

  More silence. More staring at one another.

  “Well, let me know about Friday, yeah? You should come, though. It’ll be good fun. All looking forward to seeing you.” He moved away from the wall at the side of the front door and started to walk down the driveway.

  “I’ll think about it and let you know,” Jonny said. He smiled at Brad.

  “You do that,” Brad said.

  And then he was around the corner and he was gone.

  Jonny closed his front door. The moment he did, he felt the silence around him. The deafening silence of the walls, the mugginess of the radiators and the ringing in his ears and throat from having actually spoken to somebody from the outside world.

  “I’ll think about it,” he’d said.

  He’d seen it in Brad’s eyes.

  He knew as well as Jonny did that Jonny wouldn’t be going to that party on Friday.

  6.

  Sarah Appleton sat waiting for a reply from Donna Carter, one of the chief executives at TCorps. There was no way she was heading home to Harry and resting with this on her mind, no matter whether it took Donna five minutes or five days to get back to her.

  She had the answer. The answer to HIV/AIDS. She really believed she had it, right here.

  She refreshed her web browser as she sat in the computer chair in the office area of her lab. On the desk to her right, she heard squeaking. The squeaking of an exercise wheel spinning round and round and round.

  Faster and faster and faster.

  3,027 CD4 cells/mm³. More than three times the normal average of a human. And growing, by the minute.

  She stared at the rat. It ran and ran and ran, its healthy pink tail dangling from behind it.

  It had been running at full pace for the best part of an hour now.

  A bleep emitted from her computer. She jumped, nearly sending a file flying, then checked her screen.

  A standard lab report from Dr. Wilson, her superior. Fuck. False alarm. Nothing but a false alarm.

  She rose to her feet. She realised how dizzy she was as she did—realised the groaning emptiness at the pit of her stomach. She hadn’t realised up until this point just how hungry she was. She was feasting on a diet of adrenaline and chemistry. Pure, genius chemistry, right in front of her.

  She leaned down on the table and stared at the rat, running around in its cage. She’d fed it again last night with small biscuits, and again, it had eaten all of its food. No wonder it was full of energy—a lot of food for a creature so small. She watched its red wheel go round and round and round. Her eyes started to droop. Her arms weakened.

  Round and round and…

  A bleep from her computer.

  She jumped up again. Shit. She’d so nearly dozed off. She really did have to get back and get some sleep soon. Harry wouldn’t be totally impressed—he never was impressed when she got home exhausted at a random point in the day—but he’d have to deal with that. She’d found something. Something that could make her rich. Something that could sort her life out, forever.

  She just had to make sure she got the credit for it.

  She sat down in her chair and opened up the email.

  Her stomach did a somersault.

  A new email from Donna Carter.

  She clicked the email right away, her heart racing and chest filled with tension. She hoped what she’d said was enough. She hoped it had rung true with Donna. She hoped the chief executive saw potential in her.

>   As she read the email, line by line, the adrenaline and bottled-up anticipation inside her body diminished by the word.

  Dear Sarah,

  Thank you for your email.

  Your progress sounds fascinating. Unfortunately, you are going to have to report to your superiors with any experiments you have conducted, following the necessary TCorps procedures.

  Please note that you will have to outline all of the term-breaching procedures you have told to me to this superior, and they will discuss the next step.

  Sorry I cannot be of more help, and good luck with your project.

  Donna Carter,

  Chief Executive.

  “Good luck with your project.”

  That was that. The nail in the coffin. The encouraging “Oh, well done, you! Now keep at it!” pat on the back. Patronising bitch. Patronising, frumpy, middle-aged cow.

  She leaned back in her chair. The grey plastic dug into her back. She had to report her discovery to her superior, Dr. Wilson. Dr. Frigging Wilson. If she did have a legitimate discovery on her hands, he’d be the one to make sure he took the credit for it. Besides, he’d probably get her sacked in the process for running a “side project” and breaching her duties. Everyone had their own little side projects—creating the perfect coffee, constantly hot tea, etcetera etcetera. Those were okay, really, as long as they were kept on the low.

  But what Sarah had done. All the things she’d done, and all the rules she’d broken… She wouldn’t survive this. No way.

  She typed out a few words in a reply email.