Serial Killer Z:Infection

by Philip Harris

  I forced a smile. My hands were sweating, and my stomach had resumed its churning. The only thing preventing me from running from the room was the fact that no one had actually accused me of being a killer. Not yet, anyway.

  Doctor Hart’s eyes flicked down the front page, and she hissed. “Ouch.”

  Hunter was getting closer to the finale of his speech. I pretended that I was listening even as I tried to sneak another glance at the front page.

  “Here you go then,” Hart said.

  She handed me the newspaper, and I looked down at the headline.

  * * *

  HORROR LAB EXPOSED

  * * *

  It was the Daily Sun. That was Spencer’s newspaper. I skimmed over the text, but I wasn’t really taking it in. The story took up the entire front page and was littered with words like “murder,” “lies,” and “cover-up.”

  Perhaps my killing had been relegated to page two? I peeled the paper open. There was more on the killer lab and details of a car accident involving two street racers, but no sign of a body being uncovered.

  Someone nudged my shoulder. When I turned, Alexei Kozlov, another researcher, was holding his hand out toward me. He raised his eyebrows.

  “Sorry,” I said.

  I felt some small measure of relief as I gave Kozlov the newspaper. The Sun wasn’t a big paper, but murder was their stock in trade. If anyone was going to report the lurid details of a potential serial killer, it would be them.

  Relief bubbled up inside me.

  Then I remembered the video.

  I caught sight of Owen. He was watching me with his eyes narrowed.

  The paper had reached the front of the room. Hunter took it and held it aloft, shaking it like an old-school preacher with a Bible.

  “We’re doing important work here. Everyone in this company—from the janitors to the researchers to Doctor Owen and myself—is working to make the world a better place.

  “I have a vision… We have a vision. A world where brain injuries are no longer a death sentence, where the body can heal itself without the clumsy interventions of so-called modern medicine.

  “Generations to come will talk about the work we did here as being as important as Marie Curie’s work on radioactivity or Sir Alexander Fleming’s discovery of penicillin. If I may use an old cliché, we’re a well-oiled machine, and I know, I can feel, that a breakthrough is within our grasp. But…”

  He shook the newspaper again.

  “But… we cannot allow ourselves to be distracted by those who don’t understand how crucial our work is. The world is filled with narrow-minded individuals who expect us to fail. Some, for their own petty reasons, want us to fail.”

  Hunter looked up at the paper. I half expected it to burst into flames under the intensity of his gaze. When he looked back down again, his eyes were burning with anger.

  “This man, Spencer, has accused us of being unethical, killers, even monsters. History will show us to be visionaries.”

  He let his gaze pass slowly across the room, looking at each person in turn.

  When he’d finished making eye contact with everyone in the room, he gestured toward Owen. “Doctor Owen is concerned. He feels that there may be someone within this group that is… sympathetic to Mr. Spencer’s cause. Someone who is willing to sacrifice mankind’s brighter future over some misguided moral crusade.”

  Hunter paused to look around the room again. His eyes fixed on me for a few seconds. I forced myself not to look away before he did.

  “I think Doctor Owen is wrong. I think everyone in this room is loyal to Hunter Neurologics.”

  He placed the newspaper down on the desk behind him, then adjusted its position with the tips of his fingers.

  “But rest assured, ladies and gentlemen, if Doctor Owen’s fears turn out to be well founded, the company’s response will be swift. I’m sure I don’t need to remind you of the nondisclosure and intellectual property agreements you signed when you joined the company. The penalties in those documents are quite extensive.”

  I’d spent some time studying that section of the contract, and he was right. I was quite sure there wasn’t a single person in the room that had the financial resources to pay the damages laid out in their employment document. I glanced around at my coworkers. Surely, none of them would be stupid enough to risk their livelihood like that.

  Owen was watching me again. I wondered if he’d seen me talking to Spencer. What if he’d been in the lobby when Spencer had accosted me? I could be in trouble.

  The idea that Owen would make a good choice for my next subject sprang unbidden into my mind. The shadow latched on to the idea. If there was anyone who deserved my attention, it was him. He’d risen quickly through the ranks to become Hunter’s right-hand man, primarily thanks to his skill at undermining those around him. I’d be doing the company a favor if I removed him from play. The thought of him strapped to a table, my scalpel slicing through his flesh, sent a tiny shiver of excitement down my spine.

  I’d have to deal with the situation with the video first, though. But how? The memory card had been delivered by hand, in an unmarked envelope, and it was a generic brand that could be bought in any of a dozen stores.

  All I had to go on was the video itself, and I was the only person incriminated by its contents. There might be some information attached to the file, but I doubted my pursuer would be stupid enough to include their personal details in the data.

  Maybe they’d left something behind at the house?

  As a rule, I avoided returning to the site of a kill. It would be tempting fate. But in this particular case I didn’t really have a choice. It was my best chance for finding some sort of lead on whoever had created the video.

  With my course of action determined, the churning in my stomach eased a little.

  Hunter was winding down. He asked if anyone had any questions. Those who’d been at the company more than a couple of weeks knew the question was rhetorical, and the room stayed silent.

  “Good. Now, I’ll hand you over to Doctor Owen, and he’ll fill you in on today’s work.”

  Owen stepped forward. The obsequious look he gave Hunter made me feel ill.

  “Thank you, Doctor Hunter.” He paused and tried the same look-around-the-room trick that Hunter used so well. It had no noticeable effect.

  “Today is going to be a busy day. Our latest formulation, designation Alpha 289, is ready to go, and we have a new test subject on the way. He’s been in a coma for three weeks and was officially declared dead two days ago.

  “His family finally agreed to discontinue life support this morning. We’re expecting the ambulance to arrive very soon. When it does, we’ll have a very small window of opportunity. I expect everyone to play their roles perfectly. Any questions?”

  Again, nobody spoke up. I’d lost count of the number of tests we’d run, and no doubt we could all perform our particular tasks in our sleep.

  “Good. In that case, let’s get those stations prepped. I expect everyone to be ready to go in seven minutes.”

  Chapter 4

  289

  I was in the main lab with the rest of the core team when a tinny voice announced from the overhead speakers that the ambulance had arrived. The tension in the room rose a couple of notches.

  Owen straightened his back as though he was preparing for an inspection. “Ready, people.”

  Three minutes later, two orderlies wheeled the patient in. It was an Asian man, and he was younger than I’d expected—in his mid-twenties by the look of it. His head was shaved, and there was a ragged scar running diagonally across it. The breathing tube in his mouth would have come with him from the hospital, but he was wired up to one of HNR’s custom monitoring stations.

  There were two rectangular plastic pods on either side of his head that would give us real-time imaging of his brain. A biochemical sensor inserted into his arm measured blood oxygen and a host of other parameters. Six rubber disks attached to his chest
monitored his heart and lungs. The sensors were all connected to a large white box that hung beneath the gurney and contained enough computing power to run a small country. The masses of data would be captured in real time and stored so that the team could spend days poring over every detail of the test. At the gurney’s head, an LCD screen showed the man’s vitals and a countdown that read 09:46 when he was first wheeled into the room.

  The orderlies passed the gurney off to Doctor Hart and Doctor Kozlov, then retreated from the room. There was a metallic click as Hart locked the gurney’s wheels into place, turning it into an operating table. Kozlov adjusted its height until Hunter told him to stop.

  Two more researchers stood in the observation room—Akimoto and Gleeson. They watched the proceedings through a large plate-glass window. Akimoto leaned forward and pressed a button on a control desk in front of him.

  A voice crackled through the overhead speakers. “We’re set here, Doctor. Everything looking good.”

  I took up position at the foot of the table and looked down at the man. The sight of him laid out in front of me conjured vivid images of my own subjects. The shadow reminded me again that video or no video, I would need to kill soon, or it would be forced to take matters into its own hands.

  A single word snapped me back to the present.

  “Taylor!”

  It was Owen. His hand was stretched out toward me, and he was scowling. I nodded and turned to a cart Hart had positioned alongside me. Two syringes rested on top of it. I picked up one containing a dark blue fluid and handed it to Owen. He raised it up to the light and flicked the side then passed it on to Hunter.

  Doctor Kozlov tapped a keyboard mounted on the side of the gurney and a multihued image of a brain appeared. Most of it was a bright blue color, but there were a few patches of orange and yellow. The lower right corner was a dark, almost rancid-looking gray.

  The countdown read 08:11.

  Owen leaned forward and grasped the white plastic breathing tube. He watched the countdown, and when it reached 08:00 he slid the tube out. The end was slick with pink fluid. Kozlov took it to the back of the lab.

  Owen tipped the man’s head back and pulled his jaw open. The shadow stirred again.

  Doctor Hunter carefully pushed the syringe up into the roof of the man’s mouth. There was a soft crack. “Injecting marker.”

  He pressed the plunger until all the fluid was gone, then removed the syringe and stepped back. Owen released his grip on the man and joined Hunter. They stood poised above the operating table like vultures in white coats as the marker flowed through the man’s system.

  There was a high-pitched beep. On the display, the man’s heart rate began to climb. Kozlov adjusted a dial. A line of five LEDs lit up green. A few seconds later, fine threads of orange began spreading through the brain on the screen. They swept through it like the roots of a plant. Soon most of the brain was covered with an orange web. The only area it hadn’t invaded was the dark patch.

  The countdown had reached 06:29.

  Owen held out his hand again, and I passed him the second syringe—the one containing the two hundred and eighty-ninth iteration of the serum HNR hoped would repair brain injuries. He checked it then handed it to Hunter before opening the man’s mouth again.

  Hunter looked around the room. “Good luck, everyone.”

  He inserted the needle into the man’s mouth. When the countdown reached 06:00, he pushed the plunger.

  There was nothing anyone could do now but wait. The tiny amount of serum Hunter had just injected into the brain of a dying man had cost several million dollars, even without the years of expensive research it had taken to get to this point. In five minutes, we’d know whether that money had been wasted.

  The colors in the image of the brain shifted and changed slightly, but the dark area remained static. I thought I saw some of the orange threads moving, but when I blinked they were stationary.

  The timer on the screen continued to tick inexorably downward.

  05:00

  04:00

  Hunter stared fixedly at the screen, his lips pressed into a tight line.

  03:00

  02:00

  The monitoring system beeped twice, and Kozlov adjusted the dial again. He gave Hart a look that made it clear he thought this latest batch of serum was going to be as useless as all the others.

  Owen’s face was an almost identical copy of Hunter’s, but there was a desperation in his eyes that intensified as the countdown reached 01:00 and then 0:00.

  The machine beeped four times, and then the room was silent. The tension that had filled the air dissipated almost immediately. It was replaced by an almost palpable sense of defeat. Hunter’s shoulders dropped slightly. We’d failed again.

  Doctor Hunter took a deep breath. “Shut it down.”

  Kozlov reached toward a red switch on the side of the monitoring system, but before he could press it Owen called out, “Wait!”

  He pointed at the screen. A tiny thread of orange had broken through the edge of the dark patch. It spread slowly through the dead area. Another thread broke through, then another. All three sprouted branches creating an interlocking web.

  A smile spread across Hunter’s face. “Lewis, we’ve don—”

  A wave of color swept across the brain, washing away the orange threads. Clusters of yellow and red burst to life then faded to nothing just as quickly. They followed no pattern that I could see, and from the look of confusion on Hunter’s face he had no more idea what was going on than I did.

  And then the man’s body started convulsing. His arms and legs shook and slapped against the metal gurney. His head twitched from side to side. It cracked hard against the sensors at the side of the table, and there was a snap of breaking plastic.

  “Hold him down!” Owen said.

  Hart and Kozlov grabbed the man’s arms and legs and pressed them against the table. His back arched, and his chest contorted. His head smashed against the sensor again. A cut opened up on the side of his head. Blood so dark it was almost black seeped from the wound. His eyes flicked open. Dark tracks ran across the whites. More of the dark blood pooled at the corners.

  “Three milligrams of midazolam!” Owen said.

  The metal gurney rattled and shook. One of the brakes came loose, and the table rotated a few degrees. The man’s body twisted. Kozlov lost his grip. The man’s arm flung outward, and his elbow caught the doctor in the face.

  Hart leaned over and pinned the man to the gurney. “Go on!”

  Kozlov grabbed a metal tray from a nearby shelf. He fumbled with its contents for a few seconds and then removed a syringe. Kozlov reached for the man. He convulsed again. The needle caught in the soft meat of the man’s arm and was ripped from Kozlov’s grip. It clattered to the floor.

  “Dammit!” Owen said.

  He pushed his way past me and grabbed another dose of sedative.

  Hart struggled with the man as he arched his back again. Bones cracked. He twisted and writhed, almost pulling himself free. His mouth opened, and he let out a wet, gurgling cry, then he fell back against the table and was still.

  Owen stood over him, the syringe of sedative still clutched in his hand.

  Hesitantly, Hart released her grip.

  A trickle of blood seeped from the man’s mouth, nose and ears. It pooled around his head. I felt the shadow wake again and fought to quiet its insistent voice. This was not its time.

  The thick stench of rot filled the air. Kozlov turned away and retched, but Hart stared at the body, seemingly unfazed.

  “What the hell just happened?” Owen said.

  On the LCD, the entire image of the man’s brain had gone dark. There was no more blue and no patches of yellow and orange. It was all just one big mass of dark gray.

  Hart shook her head. “He’s flatlined, but other than that, your guess is as good as mine.”

  “What happened, lady and gentlemen,” said Hunter, “is that we made a breakthrough. A smal
l one, but significant nonetheless.”

  Kozlov wiped his mouth. “Did you not see what just happened?”

  “What I saw was a reaction. The serum triggered neurological activity in the subject.”

  Kozlov grabbed his forehead in disbelief. “The serum made the blood pour out of his face!”

  “Kozlov!” Owen said.

  Hunter raised a hand. “It’s quite all right. Yes, the end result is distressing, but I’m sure once Doctor Kozlov examines the data he will see the potential of this development.”

  Kozlov opened his mouth to say something, then looked at Owen and closed it again.

  “Good, now let’s get the data up to the research team so that they can start on the next iteration. Doctor Hart, get the body downstairs for the postmortem.”

  Hart nodded. “Yes, Doctor.”

  Hunter peeled off his rubber gloves and balled them up. He strode toward the door to the lab. “Let me know as soon as the team has the next version of the serum ready.”

  “Of course, Doctor Hunter,” Owen said.

  Hunter took one last look around the room. “Well done.”

  Then he walked out.

  There was a pause as Hart, Kozlov and I looked at each other.

  “You heard him; get moving,” Owen said, then he followed Hunter, leaving an air of unease behind him.

  Chapter 5

  The House

  The rest of the day was spent on the make-work that comprises most of a typical day for me. While everyone else analyzed the results from the latest test and brainstormed adjustments to the formula, I collated meaningless tables of cross-referenced information, performed manual data cleanup and ran endless database integrity checks. Basically, work that any competent software engineer could have automated.

  It was a waste of my experience. My degree made me as valuable as anyone else in the lab, but I’d been sidelined by Owen shortly after I arrived. I’d spent the next two years doing the research facility equivalent of serving burgers. Some people might have taken it as an insult, but I earned more than enough money to live on—and yet I was invisible to most of the people I worked with. In other words, it was the perfect job for someone with my predilections.