by Mark Leslie
Previous to the headlights on Scott’s car blinking on and off twice briefly, the man in the gray sports coat had simply looked like he’d happened to be standing there, perhaps having a cigarette before either heading back inside to the Medieval Times building or getting into his car.
But when the lights on Scott’s car blinked as Scott unlocked it, the blond man swung his head around quickly, obviously looking to see who had triggered it.
Damn, Scott thought. He’s one of them.
When the man turned and spotted Scott, he froze in place, his body became stiff and then he lifted a single arm into the arm and pointed, in that Donald Sutherland Invasion of the Body Snatchers manner Scott had become used to.
A fresh chill ran down Scott’s spine.
Because of the wind blowing across the bridge Scott couldn’t hear what the blond man said as his lips moved, but he didn’t need to hear the words to know exactly what the man was uttering.
You won’t get away! You cannot evade us!
Chapter Twenty
Two Weeks Ago
Nanotechnology? Nanomedicine? Nanorobotics?
And all of it somehow related to the operating room Scott’s father had died in.
It didn’t make sense.
Or, at least, it didn’t seem to make sense.
Scott started at the computer screen, trying to figure out what, exactly, he’d been looking at.
Scott had spent some time, when he’d initially been exploring investing his father’s death, looking at every single person who had been on the chart for being in the operating room during the shift that his father had died, but, often finding nothing of value, had left them aside after a cursory glimpse into his life
Tracking the surgeon himself, Dr. Citino, had revealed the mysterious death which ended up consuming most of Scott’s focus. And so, after that, he had pretty much abandoned looking at everyone else who had been there.
After all, Citino had been the one in charge and had also been the one who, like Scott’s father, had died under mysterious circumstances.
So there’d had to be something further there.
Scott started exploring the hospital itself, looking for any sort of connection the hospital might have with Ottawa, and he’d been following as many trails as he could. But it wasn’t until he started looking further into some of the other staff in the operating room that he found an intriguing yet small connection between Citino and the anesthesiologist, a Dr. Mike Nottoff.
Nottoff had been a research assistant at the Ottawa school where Citino had TA’d.
Deep digging revealed that the two could have possibly met, because Nottoff had taken a course in which Citino had been one of the two team leaders. So, while the records of which TA headed which half of the class, there was at least a fifty-fifty chance that the two of them had met more than once.
It was worth Scott pursuing Nottoff a bit deeper.
He’d found an intriguing series of articles that Nottoff had been a key researcher in.
Several of them had to do with nanotechnology.
In one, research was being done on an area that had been worked on by a team of researchers from Australia and the US, of a nanorobots – the engineering and design of designing devices constructed of molecular components in the scale of a nanometer – searching out and identifying certain proteins and delivering targeted drug delivery.
In another, Nottoff had been a principle investigator in a series of “suicide switch” nanotherapeutic examinations targeting cancer cells – the goal was modeled on the body’s own immune system, where white blood cells patrol the bloodstream, and, when detecting specific cells in distress, are able to bind to them and transmit specific signals allowing them to self-destruct.
Scott became fascinated with the detailed research that Nottoff had been a part of, and followed a series of his published papers, despite the challenge he had of properly being able to understand much about it.
Although, when he extrapolated the nanotechnology techniques, particularly the ones in which the nanorobotic device was programmed to seek out particular types of cells and target specific actions on them, it was similar to the manner by which hacking a computer program in order to seek out particular user actions or subroutines might trigger a particular pre-programmed hacked response.
The concepts behind nanotechnology and its use in medicine intrigued Scott.
And Nottoff, who had been a key researcher into that technology, had written or been a key player in the development of no less than half a dozen similar research projects while he was in Ottawa. When he left Ottawa, Nottoff spent a year at University of Alberta’s NINT (National Institute for Nanotechnology) before making his way to Laurentian as an anesthesiologist.
It appeared that he had been involved in some sort of research project involving use of nanomedicine in both relaxing and calming techniques as well as in anesthesia. Nottoff had been particularly concerned with producing an anesthetic that would produce no side-effects, such as the nausea or vomiting that was a common result in as many as thirty percent of patients. Nottoff had a single reprimand on his record for engaging in research that involved testing in lab animals that had not been approved by CCAC, the Canadian Council on Animal Care. It was six months after that in which he transferred over to Laurentian.
Scott sat in front of the computer for a long time, considering what he had been looking at.
Had Nottoff used some sort of experimental nanotechnology on Lionel Desmond?
Had it been some sort of experimental anesthetic nanotechnology? Had it been the use of the cancer-cell targeting nanorobots Scott had read about?
In either case, something had gone horribly wrong.
And Scott needed to find out.
He needed to learn more about Nottoff and where, exactly he was now.
He needed to speak with him.
And get to the bottom of this.
Chapter Twenty-One
Today
Not another one!
Scott quickly considered his options. Based on what he understood about these people, there was a telepathic link between them. This meant that Herb, the security guard and any of the others in the Digi-Life building would know exactly where Scott was.
He couldn’t run back down the bridge that crossed over top of the Gardiner Expressway and East-West train tracks and into the Liberty Village neighborhood.
They’d know, through the blond man in the gray sports coat, exactly what way he was running, and could head him off.
So Scott ran toward the man who was still standing there, his arm raised, his finger pointed at Scott, decreasing the distance between them from about fifty yards to a mere thirty.
And when he got to the end of the bridge, he darted left, into the Exhibition Place grounds on the opposite side of the road of where the parking lot was and picked up his speed.
Scott ran across the field and the empty plaza of buildings to his left that he had only ever seen active and open during the Canadian National Exhibition, which took place the last couple weeks of August each year. August was still a month away, but already a fleet of metal barricades, all stacked in neat rows, filled half of the park and adjacent parking lot. It took a long time to set up for the annual event that seemed to be the indication that the end of summer was upon the city of Toronto.
As he reached the next parking lot inside the Exhibition grounds, near where the adjacent Gardiner Expressway to the left began rising up out of the ground and became an overhead highway, he chanced a look over his shoulders.
The man in the gray sports coat was running after him. He was still at least one hundred yards away. Despite being winded from already running, Scott had been able to increase the distance between them, which was good. Because Scott had to start slowing down – he couldn’t keep the pace. There was stitch in his side, and the flesh wound on the side of his leg where the bullet had grazed him didn’t help matters. It was beginning to ache again. So far there h
adn’t been a significant amount of blood loss, but Scott knew that continuing to hoof it at top speed everywhere wasn’t going to help.
He need to get somewhere that he could sit down, rest, check his leg out, and get his head back on straight.
Running and crawling and falling and smashing through windows, constantly on the run and evading the slowly growing horde that was after him was getting to be a bit too much.
To his left, on the other side of the Gardiner Expressway, he could hear, and see, the Eastbound GO train slowing down to pull into the station. It would stop for a couple of minutes and then head deeper into Toronto, bound for Union Station.
Scott tried to calculate how much further he had to run in order to make it to the platform and board the train. He glanced back, seeing the man in the gray sports coat still behind him. Not having gained any ground, but not having lost any either.
He was far enough way that if Scott just made it to the train before the doors closed, the man would not likely make it on himself. And Scott could get away.
He pressed on, doing his best to increase his speed, despite the stitch in his side, despite the throbbing in his leg.
As the Gardiner continued to rise to the full elevation that it maintained on its meandering stroll through downtown Toronto, Scott could clearly see the GO train as it slowed and eventually stopped on its arrival to Exhibition station.
Gray Suit was one hundred yards behind Scott and Scott still had to run at least that far to get to the walkway that led to the station.
As he ran through the third parking lot, this one smelling of a strange combination of horse manure and urine – likely both equine and human – he spotted a few parked police cars that were empty. He wondered if he might be able to find a police officer and enlist help, but figured that there wouldn’t be enough time to explain himself before Gray Suit arrived.
And, given the manner by which grey suit and the others at Digi-Life were telekinetically connected, there was a good chance they’d be able to come up with a convincing and consistent story that could put any of Scott’s bizarre claims spiraling into nothing.
No, he simply couldn’t risk it.
The police cars were parked there anyway, as were a few horse trailers attached to Toronto police logo’d trucks. This was a holding or parking area for them, and not an active place that officers were hanging out in anyway.
He raced passed the final section of parking lot and reached the Exhibition station ticket booth area and the gate that led underneath the tracks – that same gate he had raced madly up three years earlier when he’d spotted his father from across the tracks.
He hadn’t made it in time that morning.
But he couldn’t let that happen today.
Over the track-side speaker system, Scott could hear the following announcement.
“Doors will now be closing. Please stand clear of the yellow platform lines.”
“No!” he yelled, and pushed even harder, racing down the sidewalk toward the train platform.
There were a few people scattered about. As he ran, Scott was struck with the sudden notion that perhaps this was a big mistake. Perhaps everybody here was turned and would be able to easily overpower him. Perhaps going towards any crowd was a huge mistake.
But his legs carried him forward; and as he raced past a few people who had left the train, getting off at Exhibition, they looked at him with slightly bemused stares. Being public transit riders, they likely sympathized with the poor guy who was likely about to miss his train. They’d been there, they’d all had days like that where they were just a few seconds from catching their train or their bus.
So they seemed, to Scott, perfectly normal. Not at all one of the pod-people who were after him.
That was a good sign.
He was a few yards from the nearest doorway onto the train when the latest announcement blasted.
“Doors are closing. Please stand clear. Doors are now closing.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
Twenty Years Earlier
Scott found out that the redhead’s name had been Jessica.
He learned that the reason he hadn’t seen her before was because she wasn’t from the same university. She had attended Concordia and was in town visiting a friend who went to Mohawk.
Jessica had been a friend of a woman named Charlene.
Charlene approached Scott in the library one afternoon about three days later.
“Say,” she said, strolling up to where he sat at a cubicle working on algebra problems in a notebook. “Aren’t you the head Wilson grind dancer from last Saturday’s party?” Scott didn’t even realize the sexy hot tall blonde had even been talking to him until she placed a hand on his left shoulder. Hot women simply never spoke to him at all, never mind talk about any sort of party. He had only, after all, ever been to one – that Halloween one.
And, though his room-mates high-fived and fist-bumped him and began to give him the nickname Scotty Grind, Scott knew that would be the last party he would ever attend.
He remembered musing that if this had been some sort of teen movie, he would have latched on to that nickname, become a central figure in the popular scene on campus and demonstrated the underlying message to the movie that being yourself was the coolest thing a person could be. Perhaps he’d grow cocky and change his behavior and attitude, treat the other nerds with disrespect until he one day fell from grace then had to redeem himself both in the eyes of his previous nerdy peers as well as the new cool friends he had made. He would explain that he had fallen trap to being someone or something people wanted him to be, rather than who he was born to be, who he naturally was; that he’d let the popularity and glamour taint his behavior, making him a cruel and mean person, turning his back on those other quiet and socially unskilled losers whom he had walked among most of his life. This would be a speech given in the cafeteria or in a central square of the school and, upon delivering it, everyone would stand quietly while he slipped away to go bury his nose in a book again. Then someone would begin that slow clap which would eventually inspire others to join in – and soon the entire school would be applauding his bravery, the extreme insight he had been able to help them see. And within minutes, the group would hoist him on their soldiers, and this nerd would again become the most popular student in the school – not because of some “cool” thing he’d done at a party, but because he demonstrated that it was cool to be himself. And there would be a montage of cool kids and jocks shaking hands with and laughing with the nerdy kids. Of the hottest girls in the school flirting with the Poindexters. The world would became a better place where everybody appreciated everyone else, begin to roll credits.
This wasn’t, of course, a movie.
It was real life.
Scott knew that the nickname would likely last a few weeks, and whenever one of his room-mates used the nickname or mentioned how awesome he’d made the party, Scott simply grinned and slunk back into whatever solo activity he’d been involved with – usually playing a game or working on some sort of program on his computer -- and the whole thing continued to make him uncomfortable.
And now this gorgeous blonde woman, someone who, just last week, would have walked past him and not even taken a second look at Scott even if his hair were on fire, was standing beside him and looking down at him.
Her hand, soft and warm, sent a strange series of tingles through his shoulder and into his chest. It was so exciting that Scott thought he was having either a stroke or a heart-attack.
“Uh,” Scott managed to say. “Yeah.”
“That was one of the most amazing parties I have ever been to,” the blonde woman said. “And everyone knows that you’re the guy who started it all; I mean, Wilson was doing his funky chicken thing, but it wasn’t until you jumped in and starting grooving with him that it turned into a thing for everyone.”
“Uhuh,” Scott said, feeling his throat going dry.
“You turned it into the Wilson Grind Dance; an
d the party into the Grind Party. Everyone’s talking about it.”
“The Wilson Grind Dance,” Scott repeated the words slowly, and he realized that he sounded like a Neanderthal or some sort of Wildman, like Tarzan, who’d been living among the wolves or the apes, slowly learning the language that other humans spoke by carefully repeating phrases and sentences.
“I knew that was you, sugar,” the woman said, and the hand on Scott’s shoulder slid down to rest on the back of his shoulder blade. “And I just had to say thank you.”
“Yeah,” Scott said.
“My name’s Charlene,” she said.
Scott nodded.
“I know your name is Scott. Or Scotty.” She giggled. “Scotty Grind. That’s what everyone is calling you these days.”
“Hmm,” Scott mumbled.
“You’re not very talkative, are you, Scotty?”
Scott slowly shook his head back and forth. He looked at Charlene’s silky blonde hair, at the regal curve of her nose, at the deep blue gorgeous eyes and quickly glanced away. She was hot, absolutely gorgeous. Women like Charlene simply never even looked at guys like Scott. This was bizarre and uncomfortable and he had absolutely no idea what to do.
“That’s okay,” Charlene purred. “You’re not known for being a talker. You’re known for your moves.”
“My . . .” Scott managed to say, really slowly “. . . moves.”
“Anyways,” Charlene said, taking her hand off of Scott’s shoulder. “The redhead you were dancing with is a friend of mine. Her name is Jessica. She doesn’t go to McMaster. She’s from Queens. But we’re besties. I just came to tell you that she has the hots for you.
Scott blinked at her. “She does?”
“She hasn’t said that, but I can tell. She was my best friend all through high school, and we’re still tight – we talk and email almost every day. So I can tell. She hasn’t said a single thing about you, and she normally doesn’t shut up about guys – except for the ones she really has it in for, you know. She gets all nervous and stuff – kind of the way you’re acting right now. She pulls her cards up to her chest and doesn’t let anyone in; not even me.
