by B.M. Hodges
*****
Again he woke on the couch the next morning and Andy still hadn’t come home.
Now he was worried. It’s been two days. Should I call the police? Maybe he’d pulled a triple shift. Could he still be at work? Tomas spent the next few hours searching online for a phone number to Vitura Pharmaceuticals. He found a few numbers with the right area code, but when he called, all he got was an automated answering service.
Tomas jumped in the shower, pulled on a pair of wrinkled cargo pants and his favorite Canucks hockey jersey. He had a couple twenties in his pocket, so he decided to call a cab to his father’s workplace down on Sorrento Valley Road. He walked down to the clubhouse to make it easier for the driver to pick him up, munching on a cold slice of pepperoni pie.
The cab driver was friendly and talkative. But Tomas didn’t hear a thing the driver said. His mind was on his father. As they drove into the cul-de-sac in front of the iron gate, Tomas recalled his father saying the company was an ‘enigmatic and powerful beast.’
He had an uneasy feeling as he watched the cab pull away.
Tomas turned to the gate and looked for an intercom or a guard to let him in. The entire place looked deserted and the slope of the road made it impossible to see twenty yards of the road beyond the gate. So he took a step back and began waving and shouting at the cameras on the poles above. After ten minutes, he gave up.
Faced with a long walk back to the apartment, Tomas sat on the curb to try to think of a new plan. Just as he was about to get up and leave, he heard the hum of an electric motor behind the gate. He turned and pressed his face against the iron bars. The hum got closer, then a golf cart came zipping up the hill towards the fence. Tomas made out the uniform of a security guard and aviator sunglasses so he called out, “Dad!”
However, when the cart pulled up he realized it was a much younger man in that khaki uniform.
“This is private property! No trespassing! Get away from the gate or we’ll notify the authorities!” the guard barked, expecting to frighten the young man off with the threat of police action.
“I’m looking for Andy Overstreet. He works here as a security guard. He’s my father. Do you know if he’s here?” Tomas asked.
“Andy?” The guard looked surprised, “Sure, I know Andy. He’s my boss. Hell, I didn’t know he had a son. Look,” the guard paused, it was evident the grimace that appeared on his face that he was conflicted about how to respond, “something’s happened. Wait here.”
The golf cart zipped back down the hill and Tomas was worried.
Five minutes later the guard was back. He raised his security badge towards the cameras above. There was a click and the gates opened just enough for Tomas to squeeze through.
As the golf cart zipped down the hillside, Tomas got his first glimpse of Vitura Pharmaceuticals and he was unimpressed. The buildings were reminiscent of fascist architecture: symmetrical and simple, with no ornateness whatsoever. The buildings were four windowless gray cubes, each about the size of Tomas’ high school auditorium. They were lumped together in a square pattern. There were covered walkways between the cubes but absolutely no vegetation near the buildings for aesthetics, shade or otherwise. In the exact center of each of the two front buildings there was one set of double doors painted a darker gray, again with no windows. The parking lot surrounding the compound was empty except for several non-descript cargo vans, the occasional white shipping container and a couple forklifts. Encircling the parking lot were clumps of eucalyptus trees planted close for shade and to limit the view of the compound from the outside.
The guard climbed off the golf cart and Tomas followed. They walked up to the double doors of the first building and the guard flashed his badge toward the doors. There was a click and the doors slid open revealing a spectacular circular foyer in stark contrast to the dull exterior. Granite floors and balsa wood panels lined the walls. A crystal chandelier in the form of stalactites - or giant teeth - hung from the entire ceiling. The guard motioned him to enter, then turned back to his cart and sped off.
An androgynous receptionist in a slick charcoal suit with a bleach blonde flat top came strolling up, hard soled two-tones clacking on the floor like a woman’s stilettos. He stuck out a gloved hand and said, “How do you do. Mr. Overstreet? Please come with me. We’ve contacted Mr. Bertrand. He was on his way to Los Angeles, but when he heard that Andy Overstreet’s son was knocking at the door, he turned back and will arrive post-haste. I’ve been instructed to make you as comfortable as possible.” He turned and Tomas followed him through an alcove opposite the front door and down a long corridor. The corridor was dimly lit. However, as they walked down the hall, the lights noticeably brightened around them, then faded behind. It was very sci-fi. Tomas would have been distracted by the gaudy display if it weren’t for the gnawing concern for his father.
As if reading his mind, the receptionist said sympathetically, “Real sorry about your father. Mr. Bertrand will answer all your questions. Here we are.” He held up his badge and a door slid open on the right, “Can I get you something to drink? Tea or something cold, perhaps?”
“Uh, tea,” Tomas replied, afraid to ask what he meant about being sorry about Andy.
The conference room was nearly as stunning as the foyer. It was a standard meeting room with an oblong table made of a crystalline substance positioned in the center with twelve high-back leather chairs. The walls were made entirely from what looked to be oleophbic-coated glass. When the receptionist pulled off a glove and pressed his palm against the surface, the entire room turned into a live scene from a nearby beach, complete with the sounds of the surf, the sun high over head and surfers in the distance waiting for the perfect wave. It was as if they were sitting on the Torrey Pines shore facing the Pacific.
The receptionist saw the look of wonder on Tomas’ face, smiled and said, “Trust me. This is much more soothing than the local news or a football game. But I could change the channel to a normal television screen if the viewer is too much for you. Some people can’t take the shift in perspective for very long.”
“No, this is fine,” Tomas said as he slipped into one of the supple leather chairs.
The receptionist brought his tea then left him with his thoughts. What happened to my father? What is this place? Was he okay? Why did this have to happen when I just got here? Should I call Mom or Jan? Tomas took out his mobile phone, but there wasn’t a signal. He’d felt a couple of loose pills in his pocket when he reached inside for his phone. He brought them out and swallowed them dry, forgetting the cup of tea in front of him.
A pair of lovers walked hand in hand across the beach in front of the conference table, holding their sandals, laughing and enjoying the ocean breeze.
The pills kicked in.
After dozing for an hour to the sounds of the surf, Tomas heard voices in the hallway. The ocean scene disappeared, the lights brightened overhead and the door slid open behind him. An impeccably dressed gentleman entered the room. Trailing him was a middle-aged woman in a lab coat carrying a tablet, her black hair streaked with white.
Tomas stood and held out his hand and was about to say, ‘Hello,’ but they looked straight ahead, ignoring him as though he were invisible. They walked around to the other side of the conference table and sat next to each other.
Tomas sat back down, wondering how to react.
The woman leaned over and pointed at the tablet display. The man nodded and whispered something in her ear. Then he brushed his hand across hers and Tomas noticed the woman stiffening and then cautiously pulling away.
Anger began to well up inside Tomas.
Where is Andy?
He cleared his throat, “Excuse me.”
The woman held up a finger to silence him. They sat there consulting the tablet and murmuring inaudibly.
Frustrated, Tomas slammed his open palms on the table and yelled, “Hey!”
The tablet nearly bounced out of the lady’s hand.
“Rude? This is ridiculous. Where’s my father?” Tomas growled, the pills only making his anger and his overreaction easier for him to accept.
The woman glanced at her companion, got a nod of approval, and then replied mechanically, “Your father is dead.”
Tomas could feel the blood drain from his face. He swooned back into his chair, feeling the room swirl around him.
“Son, if you would be so kind as to give us a moment, we’ll answer all your questions. We must complete this teleconference with the board first.” The man said in a soothing voice, pointing to his ear. Tomas hadn’t noticed that both were wearing translucent earpieces, which would account for the odd disjointed conversation between them.
So Andy was dead.
Tomas had avoided visiting his father for so long. All those missed chances to catch up and build a true father and son relationship. His guilt was overwhelming. Tomas put his head in his hands and began to sob.
He felt a hand on his shoulder. It was the woman in the lab coat. She seemed genuinely sympathetic. She took Tomas in her arms and consoled him in a motherly embrace while the man with the South African accent finished his private teleconference.
Once Tomas began to calm, the woman slipped away and sat back down.
“Son, my name is Karl Bertrand and this is Dr. Greer. I’m in charge of the San Diego biological research and development division of Vitura Pharmaceuticals and my lovely companion is our senior scientist in residence.” He took a deep breath, “Let me begin by saying that I knew your father well. I worked with him for years. He was a good man. Courageous. And his death was not in vain.” He swiveled around and tapped out a code on the wall, “However, before we discuss the circumstances of your father’s unfortunate death, I think it’s best to show you his heroism first.”
The room went dark and a screen made from light appeared as though floating above the center of the conference table, suspended in the air between Tomas and the two Vitura representatives, a logo with Vitura Pharma turned slowly on the display.
The screen went blank, and then there was Andy walking down a hallway, his aviator glasses hanging from his lapel. He was fishing out a cigarette from a crumpled soft pack pulled out of his shirt pocket. At the bottom right of the screen the date and time read the day before yesterday at 3:23 am. He almost made it to the exit when, suddenly, the hallways lights began to flash yellow in an emergency fashion. Andy dropped his cigarettes, turned and ran down the hall shouting silently.
The camera changed to another view inside a large antechamber that dipped towards the center. And in the center was a sealed glass laboratory complete with its own system of air locks. Inside the glass laboratory, three scientists in powder blue bio-safety positive-pressure suits were milling around a large malfunctioning device spraying a fine greenish mist into the air.
Andy could be seen bursting through the doors and leaping down the stairs of the auditorium style room towards the enclosed laboratory.
Inside, the three scientists were fading out of view as the green mist enveloped the clean room.
Andy ran to a control panel against one of the walls. He flashed his badge against the panel and punched in a code.
The mist began to clear as vents in the clean room floor began to suck out the contaminant. Then there was a flash as the camera overloaded for a second as an explosion of flames began to incinerate everything inside the glass laboratory, including the three scientists.
The heat must have been tremendous as Andy had to back away to the far corner of the room and shield his eyes while the interior of the clean room was sanitized by fire.
When it was over, there was nothing left in the container but steel tables and instruments, a lumpy mess where the spewing device previously stood, ash and bones.
The screen split in two and Tomas watched as several more guards appeared in the hallway outside the main room locking the thick metal and hardened glass doors; locking his father inside. They remained behind the door, looking through the windows watching as Andy took stock of what he’d done.
There must have been a ring or a buzz because Andy looked towards the control panel, walked over, picked up a receiver and began speaking to one of the men outside holding another receiver he’d pulled from a concealed panel in the wall.
Andy began shouting and cursing into the receiver. He threw it down and ran to a first aid closet against the opposite wall next to a rack of powder blue pressure suits. Tomas watched as Andy pulled out an indecently large syringe from a plastic case and inject himself in the neck. Then he slumped down beside the rack of bio suits, his head falling slack against his chest. He slunk to the ground, lying there unconscious.
The screen vanished the way it had appeared.
Mr. Bertrand and Dr. Greer patiently waited for Tomas to collect himself.
Tomas took out a pizza napkin he’d stuffed in there earlier and dabbed at his eyes.
“Your father is a hero,” Dr. Greer started.
“What your father did was stop a potential biological disaster that could have wiped out the entire population of California and the adjoining western states,” Mr. Bertrand added.
Tomas didn’t understand what they were talking about. The video he witnessed and what they were saying only confused him. It was if they thought he had prior knowledge that wasn’t there. “He killed those men. How does that make him a hero? I don’t understand.”
Mr. Bertrand smiled empathetically, “Perhaps we need to slow things down.” He pressed an unseen button and Tomas waited while the receptionist came in with his tea service, topping Tomas’ empty cup and pouring two more for Mr. Bertrand and Dr. Greer.
Bertrand sipped his tea for a moment then said, “What do you know about Vitura Pharmaceuticals, Tomas?”
Tomas let out a deep breath and after a long pause said, “Nada.”
“But surely your dad talked about his work. Everyone needs to blow off steam after a long day. Surely you discussed Vitura over dinner on occasion?”
Was this guy interrogating me? Shouldn’t I be asking the questions?
“Look, Mister, I came to San Diego two days ago and my father drove me by the front of gate then dropped me off to go to work. That was the last I heard from him. I looked for a telephone number on the web, saw your global website and watched a couple clips about genetically modified wheat and a potential cure for malaria. When my father didn’t come home for two days, I took a cab here to find him. Like I said, I know n-o-t-h-i-n-g.”
Bertrand and Dr. Greer looked at each other in satisfaction and Bertrand murmured to her, “See, I knew Andy was a company man.”
Mr. Bertrand turned back to Tomas, “Then let me fill you in on some details. It will put your father’s death in perspective. Vitura Pharmaceuticals is a global conglomerate that strives to be on the cutting edge of biological ‘enhancements’, if you will. Our research and development facilities are located in eighteen countries and are second to none in advanced bio-nanotech and genetic research. From heartier strains of wheat, as you saw in our propaganda material, to eradication of virulent disease, Vitura strives to make the world a better place through the manipulation of god given hereditary traits so often taken for granted.” He sipped more of his tea, “However, some of our research is … controversial. We therefore strive to maintain a small informational footprint in the media and public at large. This is why you may have not heard of us prior to your arrival in San Diego.
“Two nights ago, our technicians were recalibrating an aerosol dispersal unit. What you saw in that laboratory was a malfunctioning canister of a genetically engineered bio-agent developed at Vitura called IHS. IHS is a chimeric virus engineered from Zaire ebola, rabies and influenza and given super powers, if you will. It is highly contagious through human-to-human contact. It has a fatalit
y rate of 100%. There is no treatment or cure. When the contagion is deployed, the aggressive strain infects a host body then seeks other hosts. It provokes an autonomic response in its victims, an urging if you will, to spread the virus.
“Our IHS research is in the final stages and for the last two months, Vitura’s San Diego campus has been working day and night to fulfill an order for a military organization that shall go unnamed at this time. IHS is our crown jewel, an achievement twenty-five years ahead of its time. No other genetic research facility has come close to its magnificence.”
A chill crept into his core as Tomas listened to the frank, matter-of-fact way this man was speaking about manipulating genetic abominations. To him, this man sounded like a megalomaniacal opportunist sowing the seeds of world destruction. Was he actually boasting about creating a biological weapon that turns people into human dispersal units?
Dr. Greer sensed that Tomas was growing agitated as he listened to Mr. Bertrand. She leaned forward and gently interrupted, turning the conversation back to his father. “IHS, while not an airborne contagion, if released into the general public has the potential to devastate the world’s population. For obvious reasons, we haven’t been able to conduct human trials; our research with primates has given rise to emergency protocols that may seem harsh to an outsider. When Andy died, he was following Vitura protocols to the letter. He knew exactly what he was doing in those final minutes. You see, all employees at Vitura are vetted through rigorous background checks, testing, and in-house conditioning. This company is on the cutting edge and its research is dangerous. But we don’t hide this hazardous side from our employees. From the CEO to the janitors and security guards, every one of them knows the risks of working at Vitura as well as the rewards. Your father was no exception. Andy Overstreet’s quick actions saved potentially millions of lives.”
“So what killed him then? Was it that syringe he stuck in his neck?” Tomas asked.
“Dear,” Dr. Greer explained, “when your father decontaminated the clean room, the aerosol spray ignited inside. That minor explosion you saw on the screen before the flames wasn’t supposed to occur. There was too great a chance that the pressure on the container may have been too much, causing a release of the bio-agent into the main chamber. Your father did the only thing he could do that would raise the odds of his survival. He injected himself with a cocktail of drugs intended to induce a form of hibernation, slowing the heart and, more importantly, respiration. Unfortunately, the hibernating solution has a three to five percent fatality rate and your father was one of those fatalities.” She pause to let him absorb the information, then said in a sincere tone, “I’m so sorry, Tomas. But you must understand that if your father hadn’t followed protocol, purging the contaminant and administering the required injection, it is possible that the world would already be a very different place.”
The two of them consulted for a moment and then Bertrand taped his ear piece and said, “There’s no point dragging this out. Bring him in.”
Two men with solemn expressions entered the conference room, one ceremonially carrying a large crystal cylindrical container similar in design to the chandelier in the hallway, the other a stack of files. The man with the container came up next to Tomas, whispered, “My condolences,” set the container on the table and left quietly. The other man sat next to Dr. Greer and quietly began sifting through the paperwork.
“The crystal vase is an urn that holds the remains of your father,” Mr. Bertrand said in a matter of fact tone. “Once we were able to enter the main laboratory where your father passed, we immediately took his remains to the onsite crematorium and disposed of them in accordance with bio-hazard protocols. We had to take every precaution to avoid an outbreak. I assure you that we took great care to respect and dignify the process. But please understand that the potential for contamination weighed far greater on the scales than the need for a proper funeral and burial. Though, he did have one request for the disposition of his remains: that his ashes be scattered at Sunset Cliffs off Point Loma. The request was for Vitura to carry out the directive. But I think, considering that he now has family present, that it should be done by you.”
Tomas stared at the crystal urn. He could make out through the translucent material a dark spot in the center that must have been his father’s ashes.
Mr. Bertrand stood, straightened his jacket, squeezed Dr. Greer’s shoulder and said, “While I am sensitive to your situation, you must understand that I’m a busy man. You will have to excuse me. Mr. Louis has some formalities for your attention having to do with the no-fault settlement and the assets in your father’s retirement account and his company life insurance policy.”
Without a handshake or farewell, Mr. Bertrand marched out the door.
Dr. Greer looked as though she wanted to say something but clamped her mouth shut and followed.
Mr. Louis took his cue, “I trust that you know you are Andy Overstreet’s sole beneficiary. Part of my job as in-house counsel is to advise and assist Vitura employees with estate planning issues.” He picked up a postcard-sized paper and slid it across the table towards Tomas, “This is Mr. Overstreet’s death certificate. As you can see, the cause of death is stated as a heart attack which is technically true as his heart seized the moment he injected the dose of hibernating serum. It was signed off by the county coroner and everything is in order with the state.”
The attorney paused to let Tomas take it in, then continued, “If you look on the bright side, Vitura’s no nonsense approach to decedent’s affairs saves families the bother of planning a funeral or deal with time consuming probate courts, allowing them time to grieve. Now, before you start to think about filing a wrongful death suit, please examine Mr. Overstreet’s employment contract,” he pushed across a document of at least thirty pages, “which specifically accounts for just such company accidents. Make no mistake: if you decide to sue, we will come after you, your family and all your assets. We are relentless and we will ruin you.”
At this point Tomas had withdrawn far into himself.
The Vitura attorney kept talking and passing paper after paper across the desk, which Tomas picked up and pretended to read. But all he could see was the lump of ash inside the urn at the periphery of his vision.
“And here,” he slid another document across the table, “is your generous settlement agreement. You will see in clause 14b, that upon signing this agreement you are bound to keep everything you know and have heard about Vitura Pharmaceuticals confidential, including your conversation with Mr. Bertrand, all aspects of said settlement, your father’s employment and cause of death and the amount of compensation you will be walking away with today, including but not excluding your father’s retirement accounts and life insurance.”
Finally, Mr. Louis was finished. He summoned an impartial notary and two unnamed employees into the conference room to act as witnesses and Tomas put his gnarled signature on somewhere in the ball park of forty documents.
Once everything was signed and stamped, copied and scanned into an unseen database with Mr. Louis’ scanning wand, Tomas was handed a sealed envelope with one check inside to ‘make things easier,’
Mr. Louis advised in his lawyerly voice, “Don’t lose that. You’ll be hard pressed to get this company to issue another.”
Tomas took the envelope and shoved in his pants pocket, “Can I go now?” he asked.
“Certainly,” Mr. Louis replied and fished out Andy’s oversized key ring from his trousers, “I’ve taken the liberty of having my clerks load your father’s personal items into his car, which you will find towards the rear of the lot. May I offer a bit of advice, Mr. Overstreet?” he asked, using Tomas’ surname in an official manner. “Take some time to grieve then find a competent estate attorney to handle your affairs. There are plenty of sharks ready to take advantage of a beneficiary of a windfall.”
And with that, the receptionist came strolling in and led Tomas, crystal urn in hand, back out t
hrough the front doors, closing them behind him with a big plastic smile.
Chapter 3: Filial Burden
