Mutant

by Peter Clement

  The New York Herald,

  Sunday Edition, July 30, 2000

  Authorities still have no definitive plan on how to deal with acres and acres of corn contaminated with the RNA of Ebola virus throughout the South and Midwest. “This is no hoax,” declared one official. “Ground-up meal from these plants has been fed to laboratory monkeys, and every animal tested so far fell ill with the disease, 90 percent of them dying within 10 days.”

  Initial plans to burn the affected crops were put on hold as agricultural specialists consulted with European scientists who’d participated in “burn offs” of soya crops last year after they had been unintentionally infiltrated by genetically modified strains of the plant. “Our worry is that fragments of the corn stalks may escape being incinerated and end up carried for miles by the smoke.” No one can say for sure if such a spread of debris would be dangerous, and experts on both sides of the Atlantic continue to study the matter.

  But time is of concern. While humans can be prevented from eating the isolated produce, it’s impossible to keep small animals and insects out of the affected areas. If one of these invaders turns out to be the unknown host for Ebola virus, then the organism will have a permanent foothold in America.

  Another expert who insisted on remaining anonymous says that even the measures taken to prevent humans from unintentionally ingesting the contaminated product aren’t foolproof. There are rumors that while most of the first crop already harvested was marketed for replanting as feed corn, several shipments inexplicably ended up being sold to the food giant’s own flour mills, which in turn supply the corporation’s retail division, the well-known Biofeed Grocery Chain. Officials for the company refused to comment further, but confirmed that a nationwide recall of all their corn-meal products is in effect. So far no confirmed cases of Ebola have been reported, but emergency rooms across the land are being overwhelmed as anyone who experiences even the slightest stomach upset from any cause is now running to see a doctor. The drain on medical resources is preventing many hospitals from dealing with their usual caseloads.

  “While there is no treatment for the disease, early implementation of supportive measures, such as rehydration with intravenous solutions, can increase the chances of survival,” said a spokesperson for the CDC in Atlanta. “We are also working on an experimental vaccine against the deadly virus which looks promising with primates. Unfortunately, much work still needs to be done in refining it, and human trials are years away.”

  On the economic front, repercussions in the agriculture sector show no signs of letting up. Prices for meat and poultry from the North have soared as Americans continue to boycott produce from the South for fear the animals and birds have accidentally been given the mutated feed, despite assurances from state officials that they have successfully tracked down and isolated all the crops that had been tampered with . . .

  Richard grimaced and threw down the newspapers, then leaned back in his beach chair. Looking out at the sparkling ocean, he heard Kathleen Sullivan stir as she drowsed at his side, then felt her take his hand and give it a reassuring squeeze.

  “Try and relax, Richard,” she said. “It’s not our fight for the moment.”

  He entwined his fingers with hers, and swept the shoreline with his eyes until he spotted Chet and Lisa frolicking with Boogie boards in the surf. At least I’ve been able to put my own little world back together, he thought.

  They were spending the rest of the summer north of Portsmouth, Maine, having rented a beach house there after they got out of quarantine. Greg Stanton had insisted they needed the time off, and for a parting gift handed Richard a formal clearance to resume his duties as chief of emergency at New York City Hospital in September. Martha, once she had them properly installed, gently insisted on taking a well-earned cruise to Europe, leaving the two of them and the children to play house alone. As for his worries about Chet, it took Lisa about ten minutes to win him over, and the two had been practically inseparable ever since. She sometimes even included him when one of her many boyfriends came to visit and invited her for a drive or to the movies in a nearby town. “You’re my birth control, in case they get any wrong ideas,” she said at dinner one night, making his youthful face blush.

  Chet picked himself up from where a big wave had deposited him on the sand, glanced across the blond dunes to where Steele and Kathleen sat, and gave them a big grin before charging back through the ruffled water. In that instant, as the sunlight bounced off the glittering surface and danced across his son’s face, Richard could have sworn he saw a pair of familiar dark eyes flashing their approval.

  Author’s Note

  In the year 2000 I set out to create a speculative “what if” tale about genetic weapons and how they could be used for an attack on America, beginning in New York City, followed by a second wave spreading to the country’s heartland. When Mutant was published in July 2001, though categorized as a medical thriller, some sites on the Internet listed it as science fiction.

  Since September 11th, the resonance of what I wrote has changed.

  The high-tech aspect of the assault remains speculative and “what if.” Horrible as the real events were and continue to be, they are not the result of anything high tech. But the perpetrators I imagined in my work of fiction have been singled out as the villains behind our current tragedy. Given their repeated threat to use weapons of mass destruction, Mutant may disturb readers beyond what is the usual purview of mystery and thriller genre.

  Some may question such a story at a time when fear is high and the country is so on edge. I offer it not to frighten further, but to caution.

  I also hope Mutant will provide a doctor’s take on such calamities, that it will illuminate why I think we will prevail against whatever the forces of ignorance and hatred throw against us. As a physician, I’ve had the privilege of spending twenty-eight years implementing the power of science and medicine. Of course I’ve witnessed occasional misuses of that power, and as a writer I must plead guilty for focusing on such lapses. But in reality the benefits overwhelm the mistakes, and for the most part we heed the lessons of where we go wrong. After a lifetime in the medical field, I have great faith and empathy for the people who work on the front lines of our profession, both in research and clinical settings.

  Mutant depicts how two such people, however flawed they are personally, use science, medicine, and courage to mount a response against a massive terror. We’re going to need a lot of their sort, and I assure you, there’s an army of them out there.

  PETER CLEMENT

  References

  The following works were invaluable in the preparation of this story.

  Too Early May Be Too Late and An Orphan in Science: Environmental Risks of Genetically Engineered Vaccines, both by Terje Traavik (Norway: Directorate for Nature Management, 1999), provided commentaries on the research into gene technology and genetically modified organisms of the last decade (including some abstracts of the articles Richard Steele came across on the Internet).

  Molecular Biology of the Cell, Third Ed. by Alberts, B. et al. (New York: Garland, 1994); Virus Ground Zero by Ed Regis (New York: Pocket Books, 1996); and Principles of Molecular Virology, Snd Ed. by Alan J. Cann (San Diego, Calif.: Academic Press, 1997) were all useful reference texts.

  Periodicals that proved helpful included the following:

  Nordlee, J. A. et al. (1996). Identification of a Brazil-nut allergen in transgenic soybeans. New England Journal of Medicine 14: 688–728.

  Schubert, R. et al. (1994). Ingested foreign (phage M13) DNA survives transiently in the gastrointestinal tract and enters the bloodstream of mice. Mol. Gen. Genet. 242: 495–504.

  Schubert, R. et al. (1997). Foreign DNA (M13) ingested by mice reaches peripheral leukocytes, spleen, and liver via intestinal wall mucosa and can be covalently linked to mouse DNA. Proc. Natl. Acad. Sci. USA 94: 961–966.

  Syvanen, M. (1987). Cross-species gene transfer: A major factor in evolution? Trends Genet. 28: 2
37–261.

  ———. (1987). Molecular clocks and evolutionary relationships: Possible distortion due to horizontal gene flow? J. Mol. Evol. 26: 16–23.

  ———. (1994). Horizontal gene transfer: Evidence and possible consequences. Annu. Rev. Genet. 28: 237–261.

  A series of articles in the October 16, 1999, issue of Lancet under the general heading “Genetically Modified Foods: The Scientific Debate Now Begins” (pp. 1314, 1315, 1353, 1354) gave a framework to the back-and-forth arguments encountered by Steele on both sides of the controversy. Proceedings at the United Nations Conference on Biodiversity held in Montreal in January 2000, which stimulated some of the ideas expressed in this novel, involved reports and the various position papers submitted by delegates from Europe, Africa, and Asia who advocated a precautionary principle to regulate the commercialization of gene technology and genetically modified organisms; and the protests against this principle by the so-called Miami group of countries (United States, Canada, Brazil, Australia, and New Zealand). Facts regarding polymerase chain reactions came from the Web site of the Department of Biochemistry at the University of Arizona.

  Don’t miss Peter Clement’s latest novel

  CRITICAL CONDITION

  Available in hardcover from Ballantine Books

  Prologue

  As a doctor, he knew how to wake up.

  Especially when the phone was ringing.

  Except it didn’t sound like a phone. More like the whine of a mosquito, or a dentist’s drill.

  And he couldn’t seem to come out of the sleep that held him.

  In fact he knew he shouldn’t.

  There was pain waiting for him up there. Better he stay in the darkness down here.

  But he was surfacing anyway.

  First he felt his throat hurt. So what’s a sore throat? Two aspirins and call me in the morning stuff. Nothing to worry about.

  The pain burned across his neck and up his face. He swallowed, and felt he’d downed a mouthful of fire. What the hell, he said, but seemed to be speaking flames instead of words, their heat searing a hole out the front of his larynx with a loud hiss.

  His head began to throb. And his arms. They were aching all the way from the shoulders, as if someone had grabbed his hands, yanked them over his head, and was pulling him out of the deep blackness where he wanted to stay.

  He remembered. Waking up in the early gray of dawn and seeing someone by his bed who shouldn’t have been there. He’d been about to shout, when a white explosion went off in his brain. He tried to call out again, alert someone now that there had been an intruder, but the hissing under his chin returned, and the pulling on his arms continued.

  He attempted to run. His feet seemed stuck together. And the noise continued. A high-pitched whir that he definitely knew was out of place.

  Suddenly he was rocketing upward toward the light, unable to stop. His eyes flew open. He was in his shower stall, naked, suspended by his arms from the nozzle above, his ankles taped together. The whine of what sounded like a small electrical motor came from outside the frosted glass door of the cubicle, and he could see a shadowy form approaching.

  He screamed for help, sending another gush of air wheezing out from below his chin. Someone had cut a hole in his trachea.

  The door opened, and in stepped a figure clad in full surgical gear carrying a rotary bone saw. He had no idea who it was. The eyes above the mask were as glitteringly cold as any he’d ever seen. He began to writhe and buck against his restraints as the small spinning disc of steel was brought up to his sternum. His shrieks when its teeth tore through the skin and bit into the underlying ribs made no more sound than the morning breeze that stirred the bathroom window curtains.

  Chapter 1

  Two Weeks Earlier Wednesday, June 13, 6:45 A.M.

  She felt the sound more than heard it.

  It came from deep within her brain, and in the first few seconds seemed to have no more significance than the tiny popping noise a congested sinus makes when it clears, or the slight creak that even a healthy neck can produce after the muscles and tendons have stiffened from being too long in one position.

  So Kathleen Sullivan ignored it, automatically relegating the minute sensation to the background trivia of everyday life, deeming it part of approaching forty, unimportant, therefore not to be heeded, and resumed making love to Richard Steele, whom she sat astride watching his eyes glitter in the gray traces of morning light that had begun to creep into her still darkened bedroom.

  God, she loved him. Their sex seemed always such a celebration of how they matched each other in life.

  Then the pain hit her at the base of her skull with the force of a two-by-four. “Oh, my God!” she screamed, clasping the back of her head and freezing.

  She felt him initially increase his movements, then slow when she failed to respond, his flushed, smiling features growing puzzled.

  A swirl of dizziness sent her reeling to the right as if she’d been slapped. She toppled off him. Nausea overwhelmed her, and vomit arced out of her mouth as if shot from a hose. She flopped down, half on and half off his chest. Blackness came quickly, but it took longer before she lost sensation enough to stop feeling the pain entirely.

  And she could still hear.

  “Kathleen! Kathleen, what’s the matter?” he cried from somewhere far off.

  Someone’s prying open my skull from the inside, she tried to tell him just before the pressure squeezed all consciousness out of her.

  The pain, like roots, ate deep into her sleep, and tendrils of harsh light ripped her out of the merciful dark. She tried to scream, but no sound came. She could see racks of bottles, bags of fluid, and coils of plastic tubing lining the walls of whatever little room they were in, yet everything looked wrong, as if outlined in double. She blinked to clear her vision; it made no difference. She couldn’t shift her eyes from side to side, but she could look up and down. She tried to move her hands, but not even her fingers would budge. Had they tied her to the bed?

  Someone loomed over her and placed a black mask on her face, then pumped air into her mouth and down her throat.

  “Her breathing’s labored,” she heard Richard say from a place beyond her line of sight. “Step on it!”

  “We’re a minute from the door, Doc!”

  She felt the room sway hard to the left, and realized they were in an ambulance. Probably on the way to Richard’s ER. But why couldn’t she look at him? Move anything? God, what had happened to her?

  “It’s okay, Kathleen,” she heard him say. “We’ve got you. Just relax and let us help you breathe.”

  Volleys of air forced their way past the base of her tongue and down into her larynx. Each one felt big as a tennis ball and filled her with the urge to gag, but her pharynx stayed flaccid, refusing to respond. She wanted to shake off the mask and gasp for breath, yet couldn’t.

  “If you can hear me Kathleen, we’ve called ahead to the hospital, and the Chief of Neurosurgery is waiting for us. You’ve suffered some kind of stroke, probably hemorrhagic from the way it’s affected your eyes, but you’ll make it okay, Kathleen. Count on it!” His voice trembled and broke, leaving her wondering if he’d sobbed. Squeeze after squeeze of air went down her throat. “Hyper-ventilating you like this blows off carbon dioxide and constricts arteries in the brain,” Richard continued, his words coming in fragments as if they were catching on something sharp. “That’ll slow the bleeding.”

  With a squeal of brakes the vehicle lurched to a stop. Instantly she heard the doors at her feet snap open and felt the cool morning air flow into the vehicle. Only then did she realize she was nude under a blanket.

  The attendant went on ventilating her and a half dozen men and women in white clustered around to help lift out the stretcher. “Where’s Tony Hamlin?” she heard Richard ask.

  “In resus, ready and waiting with his neurosurgical team,” someone answered as they raced into the ER and down a corridor, the sweep of the ceiling past her vert
ical stare adding to her dizziness. She could feel Richard’s hands against her face as he took over holding the mask tightly in place around her mouth and nose. By straining her eyes upward she could see him. His expression grim, he snapped off orders to his staff as he ran. Even when he glanced down at her and tried to smile it was a miserable attempt to reassure her.

  My God, she thought, the poor man. He thinks I’m going to die, just like his wife.

  They wheeled her into a vacuous cool chamber filled with a dozen people in green gowns, masks, and surgical gloves. Everyone grabbed a part of her and worked on it as if she were a racecar at a pit stop. While IVs went in her arms, a tube was shoved down her throat, and what looked liked tiny spigots were stuck into her wrists. Once more she felt she had to gag, but not even a cough or sound of any kind emerged. She lay as motionless as a corpse, yet aware.

  “We’ve got her stable, Richard. Why don’t you let us take it now?” said a man with long white hair standing by her head.

  “Right, of course, Tony,” she heard her lover reply, his voice more strained and uncertain than ever.

  No, don’t leave me alone, she wanted to cry out.