Ultraviolet Gene book 1: The Lost Children

by Eliza Bohnen

Ultraviolet Gene: Book I

  The Lost Children

  Eliza Bohnen

  Also available in print

  Text and cover illustration copyright 2013 Eliza Bohnen

  All rights reserved

  References in this book to copyrighted works are believed by the author to fall under fair use, and are used only to lend realism to the narrative. All characters who appear in the text are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. Caution: slippery when wet.

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  The author would like to acknowledge

  everyone whom she hounded relentlessly to read this manuscript in its various states of completion

  Even if all she could think of to say at the time was "thank you" over and over, her gratitude goes to great depths

  Ultraviolet Gene: Book I

  The Lost Children

  Eliza Bohnen

  September 7, 1986

  Six o’clock was fast approaching, but Dr. Adam Cooper still had tests to grade. His was a tricky life, what with new responsibilities thanks to that Ph.D. he’d managed to procure in spite of his blooming family life; his wife had not wanted to delay child-rearing any longer and so his daughter had come along two and a half years prior and his son a year ago today.

  Normally he didn’t mind sitting in his office after hours, the radio set to just loud enough that outside noises didn’t distract him, marking up exams and research papers with red ink, but what with today being his son’s first birthday, he knew he’d be letting the whole family down if he didn’t make it home by seven.

  He checked his stack of tests – six to go. At first he'd graded one question at a time across all of the tests, and then decided that was too dull, so after finishing the third round he switched to grading the last two questions on each individual test, and he at least felt like he was going faster. Now was no time to lose momentum. As long as this was finished, the rest of his work could wait until tomorrow.

  A knock on his office door startled him from his focus. Dr. Cooper shut the test papers inside a manila folder and then got up to answer the door.

  "Dr. Cooper?"

  "Can I help you?" Dr. Cooper asked. Outside his door was someone he vaguely recognized as a student of his – a freshman, he thought, pudgy with thick glasses and a thin, messy growth of hair sprouting from his chin that even the most generous could not call a beard.

  "I had some questions about some of your research," said the kid.

  "My office hours are posted on the door," Dr. Cooper said. "I’m afraid I’m not available right…"

  "It’s about your article on telepathy," the student said, quickly, and Dr. Cooper raised his eyebrows.

  Research into heightened mental states was all theoretical, and while it had always been Dr. Cooper’s pet favorite topic, he didn’t – and couldn’t afford to – spend much of his time on it. He had published an article in a psychiatric journal on the topic back in graduate school, but it didn't go into the details of the powers a psychic person might have, instead discussing how psychologists and other mental health professionals might deal with such disorders if they came up.

  Privately, Dr. Cooper did not like the idea of telepathy, or telekinesis, or teleportation or any of the other ones being classified as "disorders," though he had to admit they had the potential to bring harm to the user, or others. As a younger man, Dr. Cooper had once written to Stephen King, asking about research he might have done when writing Carrie, but he’d received no response. Nowadays he felt silly remembering it.

  "Well," Dr. Cooper said, fumbling for the words. "If you’d like to make an appointment with me, I’d be happy to…"

  "I came by your office and saw the light on," the boy said. "If I could just have a few minutes, I’d like to ask you some questions." His voice was strong for someone who looked so meek, and Dr. Cooper wondered what he was doing here at this time; most Sunday nights he wasn’t in his office.

  Dr. Cooper pointed to a clipboard by the door. "If you’d like to put your name down, you can reserve a meeting with me sometime during the week. For now," he continued, and his voice was firm, "I’ll have to ask you to…"

  The phone rang.

  "Excuse me," Dr. Cooper said, and shut the door above the protests of the boy. He picked up the receiver, hoping it wasn’t Ann – he wasn’t late, not yet.

  "Dr. Cooper’s office," he said.

  "Cooper," said the voice on the other end of the line. The speaker’s English accent helped tip Dr. Cooper off to the identity of its owner – they’d attended university together in England, what seemed like ages ago. The timing was curious – Ashby was the one friend with whom he’d had serious discussions about what they’d called "supernatural abilities" at the time.

  "Ashby," Dr. Cooper said. "This is a surprise. What time is it there?"

  "Late," Ashby said. "That, or early. It really doesn’t matter."

  "What’s this about?" Dr. Cooper asked. Now the time was really getting away from him, and he still hadn’t finished those tests. He’d have to bring them home.

  "An incident," Ashby said, "in Mexico. It happened in Nogales, on the border with Arizona. I caught wind of it at work – an eight-year-old girl is displaying strong symptoms. I can pull some strings and have us both there within twenty-four hours."

  Dr. Cooper hesitated, words stuck in his throat. It was the sort of chance he’d always dreamed of, and hearing from his old friend out of the blue suggested it was a good lead – Ashby didn’t make phone calls for nothing. But he didn’t feel good or excited about the call, only conflicted. It was the sort of thing he’d dreamed about ten years ago, when he was single and living in small apartments and working his way through school, and not when he had a house and a wife and two small children at home, waiting for him.

  And it was an unsettling coincidence, the way the student had approached him about the very subject just before the phone call.

  "I..." Dr. Cooper said. "I'm afraid I can't get away from work."

  "Adam. This could be our only chance. The strings I've pulled to get this information could have severe consequences, but I did it because I remembered you, I remembered the passion we used to have."

  "Don," said Dr. Cooper. "Ten years ago I was free to be passionate, but I can't. I'm married now, with two kids. It's the younger one's birthday. I have to go home. I want to go home." Psychic powers and incidents were of great interest, but today they could not compare with the doctor's desire to see his one-year-old son tear apart a chocolate cake with his bare hands.

  Ashby didn't respond right away. "Fine," he said, and the line clicked.

  Dr. Cooper regarded the receiver in his hand for a few moments. If only that call had come a decade earlier, perhaps he could have pursued his research and then lived his family life.

  But then again, everyone always said those things were constantly at odds, and every day it grew truer and truer for him.

  Dr. Cooper packed his ungraded exams into his briefcase, locked his filing cabinets, and exited his office and locked that door, too. He glanced at the clipboard of appointments – the student who'd visited hadn't written his name down. He didn't recall the boy's name; his lower-level classes were lectures with hundreds of students, and he only ever got to know the ones who went on to take more advanced instruction from him.

  Dr. Cooper walked down the darken
ed hallway, resolving to put it all out of his mind. It was his son's first birthday, and that was more important.

  March 17, 2000

  Honolulu, Hawaii

  The digital clock on the dashboard of Ron's truck clicked from 11:58 to 11:59 am a microsecond before the SUV ran its red light and smashed into the driver's side of the little pickup.

  Matty felt a sharp pain in his side and then nothing – they were spinning and spinning and spinning. Car horns were going off all around them, but his world was silent. He choked on his breath as his shoulder bones separated from the rest of his skeleton, as his arm shattered into a million pieces, as a piece of hot, twisted metal slid into his side like a knife into a cake. He had several slow, agonizing seconds to contemplate his fate. He blinked several times, but his eyes would not focus.

  "Ron? Ron!" That was Jeff, in the passenger's seat. Matty vaguely remembered Ron's neck swaying back and forth as they spun, going too far in either direction, and knew that meant the worst. Ron uttered no response. "Matty!" Jeff cried.

  Matty groaned and shut his eyes.

  "Matty!" Jeff said. "Oh god, open your eyes!"

  His voice was growing farther and farther away, though, and Matty knew there was no way he could survive until an ambulance arrived and took him to the hospital. He tried to open his mouth to speak, but only a weak cough came out.

  Just like that, huh, he thought, just before he disappeared.

  * * *

  Santa Barbara, California

 

  A pulse echoed within Ellie's head, just once – enough to make her look up and check her watch. It was 1:59, which meant lunch ended in four minutes. That was the downside; the upside was that there would only be two classes remaining in her day and then she could go home. It was Friday, and that meant two days of glorious freedom, away from people, safe in her room.

  Her CD player whirred as it prepared to change tracks. Ellie's gaze flickered about the yard. She was situated on a set of bleachers on the outskirts of the school’s athletic fields. The P.E. classes were in the gym, playing basketball and volleyball, and so the field was deserted. There wasn’t a single monitor in sight, which meant she could listen to music without having her electronics taken away.

  Her stomach turned, suddenly, when she saw movement. There was Alexis Haberman and a couple of her cronies, moving out towards the field from in between a few of the buildings, laughing amongst themselves. Alexis and Ellie had been enemies since the sixth grade, and the animosity had all been on Alexis's part. An older cousin had once told Ellie that later – like once you were out of middle school and high school – people finally stopped giving a shit about whether you were different from them. Ellie, now mostly through eighth grade, was not looking forward to another four years of this if that was true.

  Ellie was sitting on the top seat of the bleachers, which usually felt safer to her, further away from everyone else, but as Alexis scaled the aluminum steps one by one, Ellie found herself losing her advantage. She turned down her CD player; if the other girls overheard the music she was listening to they'd only mock her further.

  "What do you want?" Ellie asked. She meant to sound threatening, but she could hear her voice shaking. With one hand she moved a few scraggly blond hairs from her face and tucked them behind one ear.

  "What are you listening to?" Alexis asked.

  "Fuck off," Ellie muttered. She'd been through this before. She didn't care to explain the Pat Benatar, because it was apparently forbidden to listen to anything not minted in the past two years, and she didn't care to explain the Morning Musume, because anything not in English was right out.

  Alexis sneered. "What's your problem, anyway? I was just asking."

  "Is it more of that Chinese music?" one of Alexis's friends asked. Ellie didn't recall the girl's name and was sure they'd never actually spoken.

  "Japanese," Ellie corrected. Not that she didn't listen to Chinese music either, but she remembered exactly what Alexis had mocked her for last time.

  "That’s the same thing," said the girl. Ellie was friendly with Linda Chan, a Chinese immigrant, who would have been very interested to hear that assertion. Linda had more of a backbone than Ellie, and wouldn’t have stood for it.

  So it's like "Ching chong, ching chong, right?" said Alexis.

  Ellie tucked her CD player into the pocket of her hoodie and stood up to walk away. Walk away from conflict, that’s what they always said to do – but Alexis grabbed her sleeve. Ellie tensed. Alexis liked to get in close when she bullied, but this was the first time she’d actually made physical contact. And of course there were no monitors around, because Ellie had made certain of that.

  She drew in a deep breath, and found it rattled oddly in her chest. Was it fear that made her feel so strangely? Or that weird pulse in her head, but maybe it was just the herald of a headache that would manifest itself properly in a few hours. Ellie had experienced intermittent headache problems since she was a child, and they’d worsened when she entered puberty. "Let go," she said, trying to keep her voice even.

  "What’s your problem?" Alexis demanded. Now that she was right in her face, Ellie could smell the alcohol on her breath – drinking in the bathroom again. And the school was worried about her listening to music.

  "Your breath, for one," Ellie muttered.

  "You say what I think you said, Shiflett?" Alexis snapped. Ellie looked around desperately for a teacher, or anyone; at this point it’d be worth whatever minor punishment she’d receive for having her CD player with her. No one. Alexis’s friends sniggered. Ellie tried to take a step back, but Alexis only tightened her grip on the sleeve of Ellie’s hoodie. Ellie felt herself about to fall, but she shut her eyes, steeled her resolve, and found her balance. She’d always had an uncanny sense of balance, and if she hadn’t been so hopelessly unathletic otherwise, she might have made a good gymnast.

  "Doesn’t matter," Ellie said. "Let. Go."

  Alexis tugged again, and this time Ellie wasn’t ready for it. One foot and then the other slipped out from underneath her. Her stomach did flips as she fell backwards. Alexis, who was probably eighty pounds soaking wet and would be lucky to stand 5’0", had not let go of Ellie in time, and Ellie was 5’4" and – to put it kindly – of above-average weight.

  The next few moments were a blur, though later when Ellie played them back in her mind she found she could remember it all clearly: her feet came out from under her and her body careened downwards. She expected to hear a crunch, or something – but her head never connected with the bleacher a few rows down. Her heartbeat thudded a slow beat in her ears and blood rushed through her veins, roaring like a river; yet, she did not make contact, did not feel any shock or pain. She had landed, it seemed, with her feet on the second-highest steps, her butt a few rows lower, and her head lower still. Alexis’s friends gave her a glance, but then they ran past her to their friend, who had landed on the ground, gasping in pain.

  Ellie reached one hand towards her head, unsure of why she wasn't in pain.

  There was an inch or so of thin air between her skull and the aluminum bench.

  When she thought about it, she panicked, and then she fell. Her feet, butt, and head all hit bleacher, but because of the mysterious stop – whatever had caused it – she wasn’t hurt.

  She brought her legs in and put her arms behind her and pushed herself to a sitting position before she turned around. Alexis was on her knees, in the grass, one hand over her face. By the looks of it, she’d have a black eye and her nose was gushing blood.

  Alexis screeched in pain, and a moment later a monitor appeared from behind one of the school buildings, off in the distance, and began to approach them.

  Ellie’s stomach got that sinking feeling again. How was it going to look, with Alexis hurt and Ellie fine? She scaled the bleachers and grabbed her backpack, then unzipped it quickly and shoved her CD player inside. She figured she may as well not get in trouble for that, as well.

  *
* *

  London, England

  It was an interesting story, the chain of events that had led Jet to spend most of his time with a quiet, nerdy ten-year-old. Casey was all right, but he was still ten.

  While Jet's parents were at least aware that he had no friends – unlike his older sister, Violet, he had not acclimated to living in England during the school year – he didn't think Casey was someone his parents thought he'd start hanging out with. His father, on one of the rare evenings when he actually made it home for dinner, had mentioned that a co-worker's sister was having computer troubles, and they lived nearby. Jet, a budding computer prodigy, jumped at the chance to walk over and fix it in order to earn a few pounds.

  So he'd gone over one evening after school, and Mrs. Bennett sat him down in front of the computer and begged him to get it running smoothly again. A quick investigation of the programs running on startup and the internet browser history told Jet that Mr. Bennett – at least, he figured it was Mr. Bennett – had quite the pornography habit, but he wasn't planning on divulging that to Mrs. Bennett. Let them work it out for themselves. Instead, he went online and found his favorite spyware removal program, and then made the necessary changes to the registry.

  Sometime during this process, Jet noticed he had company. The kid hadn't made a sound when he walked in, so Jet had no idea how long he'd been in the chair behind the computer desk.

  "Hey," Jet said.

  "Hullo," said the kid.

  They were silent for a few moments.

  "I'm Casey," said the kid.

  "Jet." Jet turned back to the computer and set it to shut down and restart. The screen blinked to black before the BIOS messages popped back up. He wondered if Casey, who must use the computer sometimes, knew about his father's surfing habits.

  "It's probably slow because my dad likes porn," Casey said, with perfect timing, and so nonchalantly that Jet was surprised.

  "I guess," Jet said. "I cleaned it up."

  They sat in silence a few moments longer.