Ejecta

by William C. Dietz

  Except that there was something strange about the lettering. It was as if McCracken hadn’t been in full control of his pen. Or had been battling his body the way that a person with Parkinson’s disease might.

  “Sara, this what you’RE looking for. Believe it or not I PUurchased it on e-bay! It had binn displayed in a private museum for the last SIXTY-years or so…. Although the mummy’s provenance is questionable, the seller believes it smuggled out of Egypt in 1931, and is probably more no than 3 or 4-hundred years old. How and WHY the poor woman came to bee preserved in this fashion is anyone’s guess. But, for our purposes, it hardly matters. Affectionately, Mac.

  Devlin felt as if McCracken was standing there beside her. She even turned to look over her shoulder. But the professor wasn’t there. Not in a form she could see anyway.

  So Devlin turned her attention back to the desiccated corpse. The woman’s body was so small that if Devlin hadn’t known better she would have assumed it was that of a teenager. And, judging from the way the mummy’s knees were drawn up into the fetal position, it looked as though the Egyptian had died of natural causes. Or been killed in an accident and buried for an extended period of time before being exhumed. A natural mummy in other words. Preserved by circumstances rather than intent. Not that the mechanism mattered much.

  So, what did matter Devlin wondered? A work light hung suspended over the table so the scientist turned it on. The additional illumination showed that the dead woman was laying on her right side and part of her fragile clothing had been cut away. And not delicately either. Because, judging from the shreds of brown cloth that still remained her clothing had been ripped open to expose the upper portion of her back.

  And there, running the length of her upper spinal column, was an ugly incision. Which, when Devlin went to part the woman’s parchment-like skin, revealed a fist-sized mass of tissue similar to the one that McCracken had on his back. Except this growth was smaller. As if it had been terminated at an earlier stage before being fossilized.

  The implications were obvious. To Devlin at least. Who understood what McCracken was trying to tell her. He wasn't the first person to be infected by whatever the thing was. There had been others.

  ***

  Devlin awoke feeling tired. Which wasn’t surprising since she’d been up until 3:00 AM combing the basement for more clues. But without success. Because if McCracken had left other materials for her to find they were well hidden. So she was standing in the kitchen drinking hot tea when the doorbell rang.

  Devlin was still clad in the same set of sloppy sweats that she’d gone to bed in. Rather than open the door she bent over to peer through the peephole instead. What she saw was a man walking towards the FedEx truck parked in the street.

  Confident that she wouldn’t be seen Devlin opened the door long enough to grab the envelope and bring it inside. The package served to remind Devlin of her responsibilities as McCracken’s executor. One of which was to send letters announcing the professor’s death to his friends, business contacts, and distant relatives. Something that should be done soon.

  But, as she was about to enter the study and begin working on the list, Devlin realized that the envelope was addressed to her. And from someone she had never heard of before. A Professor George Pappas who, judging from the return address, was a resident of Athens. Not Athens, Georgia. But Athens, Greece.

  Being more than a little intrigued Devlin carried the package over to the desk, plucked a pair of scissors out of the same mug that held pencils and pens, and cut the envelope open. What she found was a note attached to a second envelope. Although the message had been written in a cramped cursive the scientist was still able to decipher it. “Dear Ms. Devlin… Mac sent this package to me, along with instructions to send it to you, on today’s date. Please give him my best. George.”

  Having read the message once, and having found it hard to believe, Devlin read it again. But the words were the same the second time around. As with the last note, the one McCracken left pinned to the Egyptian mummy, the printing looked forced. It was as if Mac had been ill or extremely stressed when he penned her name. Why? The scientist wondered. Why didn’t you call me? You had my number.

  But there was no answer. So Devlin cut the second envelope open. A single sheet of paper was inside. It had clearly been composed on a computer and printed down. But, as with the mummy note, it was rife with mistakes. Even more than before—as if McCracken's ability to communicate was steadily deteriorating.

  “Sara, FIrst let me aplogiz fro all the wierdness, but its very difficult to communicaTe. as you know by now I have beeen infected by a parasite, which, neer as I can tell, oprates in a fashion similar to Sacculina carcini, in that iT is gradualy taking control of my body. It isnnt sentient, not in way we are, but it controls myy urges. And, when I try to do somthing outside scope of what it wants, it clamp down on me. Or, put another Way I don’t think it knows what I’m writing, but sees writIng as a waste of time. I trieD to call you, but it wouldn’t let me speak, you hang up. Afraiid when they find my body messages to you Destroyy, so send this. examine mummy. Compare to my autopsy. hundreds if not thousands of them on planet!!! Work hypothesis: aliens? EJECTA? Find, kiLL. Pray for meee, Mac.

  The last three words, coming as they did from a professed agnostic, brought tears to Devlin’s eyes. Now, as she reread the letter, a partial picture began to emerge. Somewhere, somehow, Mac had become infected. Subsequent to that event the invading organism had taken up residence on the professor’s upper back where it could exercise partial control over his body.

  In the meantime Mac fought back the only way he could. By trying to learn more about the parasite and ultimately taking his own life in an effort to keep the creature contained. And that Devlin knew was the key. Because all living organisms share the same overriding desire. Which is to reproduce. So the first task was to go over the last few years of McCracken’s life and determine how he'd been infected. A task, which ironically enough, he had trained her to do. The work began.

  ***

  Though reasonably clean, the room had an institutional quality, and the air smelled of human feces. The TV sat high on a shelf. It droned incessantly even though the man it belonged to was currently asleep. But Arthur Gormley, who was partitioned off from the other patient by a salmon colored curtain, had learned to tune out the noise. The world, which had once been so big and fascinating, had been reduced to what he could see through four panes of glass. Not that the 72-year old ex-Air Force officer, Boeing engineer, and father of three wasn’t grateful for what he had. No, the window was a blessing, even if his vision had started to fade.

  Gormley’s thoughts were interrupted by a loud knock and the sound of Leva’s voice coming from somewhere behind him. It was eternally cheerful, even when the Hispanic woman had very little to be happy about, which was most of the time. “You have a visitor!” Leva chirped enthusiastically, as she bent over to speak into the engineer’s right ear.

  Leva had a tendency to speak loudly, not because Gormley had a hearing loss, but because most of the other residents were at least partially deaf. “Her name is Sara Devlin,” the caretaker said, “and she came all the way from Seattle to see you.” Then, having done her duty, and with five other patients to care for, the scrub-clad care-giver disappeared.

  Gormley turned the wheelchair to the right. The woman was pretty and he liked pretty women. But couldn’t place her. “Devlin?” he croaked. “I don’t know anyone named Devlin…. Are you a doctor?”

  ***

  “Yes,” Devlin answered honestly. “But not a medical doctor. I’m a parasitologist.”

  Gormley had wisps of white hair, glassy eyes, and sunken cheeks. He was little more than a shadow of the man who had led soldiers into battle and traveled the world. “Pleased to meet you,” the old man replied politely. “You came to the right place…. We’re all parasites here... Living off of others as we wait to die.”

  “Not true,” Devlin lied. “You work
ed and made a contribution. Now it's your turn to rest. May I ask you some questions?”

  “That depends,” Gormley countered cautiously. “What’s the subject?”

  “You were at Seattle-Tacoma International airport about a year ago when, according to news stories at that time, a man exploded.”

  The engineer’s eyes narrowed. “Yeah, I’ll talk, but it’s going to cost you.”

  Devlin’s eyebrows rose. “Really? How much?”

  “Wrong question,” the old man answered brusquely. “I’m not looking for money—what I want is a ride out into the courtyard. And a Grande mocha. No whip—extra hot. There’s a Starbucks about a block away.”

  Devlin laughed. “You’re on….. I’ll be back in fifteen minutes.”

  “I’ll be here,” Gormley said grimly. “I’ll be here.”

  Twenty-minutes later the two of them were sitting outside in the wan winter sunlight sipping their quickly cooling drinks. Devlin, who was still trying to adjust to the northwest winter, sat with her jacket zipped up around her neck. But Gormley swore he could feel the sun’s warmth on his skin—in spite of the fact that his breath frosted the air in front of him. “So,” Gormley said, “you want to hear about the exploding man.”

  “Yes,” Devlin agreed. “I do.”

  “Why?”

  “Because a friend of mine was present when the incident took place. He came down with a rare disease later on and I’m trying to figure out why. So I googled his name hoping to come up with some clues. There were a lot of hits, because of the text books he wrote, but the exploding man episode stood out. So I went looking for witnesses. You are the only one I could find.”

  “No,” Gormley replied, “I’m the only one who agreed to talk to you…. The rest of the witnesses clammed up. And no wonder since the whole thing was labeled a hoax.”

  “It looks like I’m busted,” Devlin conceded agreeably. “So, was it a hoax?”

  “Well,” Gormley answered, “that was BMS. Meaning before my stroke. Back when I still qualified as a human being. I went to Sea-Tac to catch a plane to LA. And I was sitting in the departure area next to one of the N-gates when the hunchback walked in.”

  Devlin felt her pulse start to quicken. “A hunchback? Are you sure?”

  “Sure, I’m sure,” Gormley answered defensively. “Hell, I guess I know a hunchback when I see one! What difference does it make?”

  “Maybe none,” Devlin answered cautiously. “I don’t mean to offend you, but there are plenty of people who have a kyphosis, or curvature of the spine. Is that what you mean by the word ‘hunchback?’”

  “Hell no,” the engineer countered. “This guy was a hunchback. He had a bump under his raincoat—and it was very noticeable.”

  “Okay,” Devlin said. “The hunchback entered the area…. Then what?”

  Gormley savored the last mouthful of mocha. His daughter brought him one each Sunday. So there wouldn’t be any more of them until then. “He seemed kind of agitated. Like he was on speed or something. And he kept pacing back and forth.”

  “Anything else?”

  “Yeah, his clothes were dirty. And he didn’t have any luggage. Not even a magazine.”

  Devlin considered what she’d heard. The old man’s account was consistent with what he'd told authorities at the time. The hunchback had eventually been identified as one Harvey S. Podry. A Vietnam war vet, alcoholic, and frequently homeless man. It seemed Podry had purchased a ticket for San Diego using a wad of small bills.

  Even after the investigation was closed no one had been able to figure out where the money had come from, why Podry had been in such a hurry to reach San Diego, or what he hoped to accomplish there. Devlin nodded. “So, what happened then?”

  “He started to scream,” the engineer replied emotionlessly. “Then he brought his hands up over his ears, his head exploded, and his brains flew all over the place! None of that stuff hit me, thank god. I was too far away. But some of the other passengers were covered with blood.”

  Devlin knew Gormley was correct because she had seen pictures of the aftermath. Not on a media website. But on a personal site. One dedicated to military role playing games, crudely animated porno clips, and exploding people.

  And, as luck would have it, there had been a photo of a blood drenched Professor McCracken on the site. A picture taken using a cell phone. He'd been kneeling next to Podry’s headless corpse. After a long investigation the incident had been classified as an act of domestic terrorism. Even though nobody could explain how or why a bomb had been implanted in Podry's brain. “Was there anything else?”

  “Nope,” the engineer replied curtly. “I’m getting cold. Please take me in.”

  So Devlin took Gormley in, positioned him in front of the window, and asked if there was anything she could do for him. The old man smiled. “Nope. But thanks for coming by…. Your visit made this day different from all the others. And that’s a blessing.”

  Devlin left after that. She noticed that the sun had disappeared behind some clouds as she steered the Scout down Bridgeport toward Highway 16. The trip to Seattle would take at least an hour and it would be dark by the time she arrived home. Johnny Cash was singing about a ring of fire when Highway 16 came together with I-5. Devlin was thinking about airborne pathogens—and Arthur Gormley was looking forward to the nothingness of sleep.

  ***

  After meeting with Arthur Gormley, Devlin lost a full day to her duties as McCracken’s executor, and the need to take care of her own affairs. That included changing her address at the post office, buying some auto insurance, and getting a much-needed haircut.

  But that didn’t mean Devlin wasn’t thinking about the parasite problem, because she was, and on the second day she awoke ready to do battle. Her hypothesis was that, like Sacculina, it was the parasite’s microbial form which spread out to infect new hosts. Except that rather than swim through the ocean the way Sacculina larvae did, these parasites could disseminate themselves via an aerosol blood-mist that potential hosts took deep into their lungs. From there the microscopic parasites were able to migrate through the circulatory system to their preferred location over the spinal column.

  Or it was possible that the microscopic form of the parasite “rained” out of the blood misted air. After falling onto whatever happened to be around it waited for a potential host to make contact with it. Later, having been absorbed through the pores of the skin, the parasite would enter the target’s circulatory system and navigate to the upper spine.

  Had the original extraterrestrial hosts been humanoid? No, Devlin doubted that. But she thought it likely that they had been oxygen breathing vertebrates on a world not too different from Earth. And that would line up with the word “EJECTA” which McCracken had included in the mummy note.

  Devlin knew that the common definition of ejecta is debris thrown out of a crater following an impact by an extraterrestrial object. Or material discharged by a volcano. But there were scientists who believed that material thrown up into space from Mars had been carried to Earth, possibly bringing microscopic forms of life with it. And if that could happen, then what about a transference from an even more distant planet?

  If she was going to try and convince authorities that microscopic organisms had arrived on Earth from another planet, she was going to need an air tight theory plus samples from the autopsy. So as Devlin made breakfast she plotted her strategy. The key, or so it seemed to her, was to find out how the exploding man had been infected.

  Such were Devlin’s thoughts as the sound of sirens drew her attention to the tiny television set sitting across the kitchen table from her. She saw a wide shot of a building on fire, a fire engine, and a medic unit arriving in the background. A twenty-something reporter turned to look over his shoulder as the camera zoomed past him. “Nobody knows how the fire at the Hayley Medical Lab started,” the journalist explained, “only that the entire structure was engulfed within a matter of minutes. Worse yet is the possibility
that two employees were trapped inside. Unfortunately, and in spite of repeated efforts to enter the building, the fire fighters were driven back by the flames.”

  As with any such facility, Devlin knew that the lab must have other employees. But while the fire department continued to put water on the flames Devlin felt a sudden queasiness in the pit of her stomach. Had Dr. Yano been inside? Along with Charles? She made numerous phone calls in an attempt to find out. But the authorities weren’t sure if people had been in the building when the fire started and wouldn’t be certain for hours yet.

  Finally, having nothing else to do, Devlin went to work trying to trace Harvey S. Podry. A potentially time consuming task but one that ultimately proved to be less daunting than expected. Because even though he'd been homeless during his final years, Podry had been in contact with his Vietnam war buddies from time-to-time, and Devlin found information about the vet on no less than three different websites. And in one entry Podry provided an address where old friends could contact him: “…Care of Lieutenant Jack Palmer, 75th Ranger Regiment, who agreed to put me up for awhile, till I get back on my feet.”

  When Devlin googled Jack Palmer she learned that the ex-Ranger had been awarded the Silver Star in conjunction with a long range patrol in Tinh Phoc Province. Later, after receiving an honorable discharge, Palmer had been a mid-level safety manager for the Arizona Department of Transportation.

  Then, according to an obit published in the San Pedro Valley News-Sun, Palmer had lost his life to a house fire. The article said that the elder Palmer was survived by a wife and a son named Alex. Who, according to the newspaper, had completed two tours in Afghanistan.

  But of more interest, to Devlin at any rate, was Jack Palmer’s hobby. According to the article, the ex-Ranger owned an extensive collection of meteorites. Which, if her hypothesis was true, could have carried the microscopic form of the parasite to Earth. Plus, if Podry spent time with Jack Palmer, that would explain how the infection took place.