by Scott Britz
“That’s all very ingenious,” said Cricket. “But how in the name of God did the Methuselah Vector get spliced into a herpes simplex gene?”
Waggoner fell to staring at his feet.
“I think I know.” Hank had sat down at the computer console at the back of the office and was typing in some commands. “You know about redundant targeting?”
“That’s your theory, isn’t it? The one that got you into trouble with Charles?”
Hank nodded. “As Wig explained, the Methuselah Vector is designed to insert itself into a unique DNA sequence. But in nature, there’s always a little wiggle room. The sequence match doesn’t have to be exact. Even a sixty-five percent match will work under the right conditions. This means that not all of the excess caterpillars will get chopped up. A few of them may wind up being inserted at secondary sites.”
“You tried to prove this, didn’t you?”
“Yes, and I failed. Charles did his homework well. The target on chromosome six really is unique. In the entire human DNA sequence there’s nothing else that comes close to it. But . . .”
Cricket, engrossed in the printouts on the desktop, was slow to notice that Hank’s voice had trailed off. When she looked up, she saw that Hank had turned away from the computer and was staring directly at her. “Both Charles and I overlooked something,” he said once he had her attention. “The possibility of another genome entering the picture.”
“Nonhuman?” asked Freiberg.
“Viral,” said Cricket, gathering the meaning of Hank’s stare. “None of us is one hundred percent human, genetically speaking. We all carry bits of viral DNA—some floating around harmlessly, some spliced into our chromosomes. DNA mixing and trading goes both ways. Plenty of viruses carry genes that they stole eons ago from hosts they infected. Sometimes, they even return them in mutated form to an infected cell, leading to certain kinds of cancer. Herpes is one of those viruses that likes to stick around. So, if someone had had a herpes infection before he got the Methuselah Vector—”
“—there could be billions of viral particles available as alternative targets,” Hank finished. “Even one random collison and fusion event could create a chimera—a new viral species combining herpes and the Methuselah Vector.”
Waggoner looked as if he had inhaled a cherry pit. “What you’re talking about isn’t possible,” he protested. “The cellular DNases destroy all the excess Vector. We tested and proved that.”
“Were any of those tests done on cells infected with herpes?” asked Cricket.
“Of course not.”
“In fact, all the laboratory tests you and Dr. Gifford performed—whether on animals or on cells in culture—were always done under scrupulous infection control. Isn’t that right?”
“It would have been negligent to do otherwise.”
“Then you really don’t know what would happen in a herpes-infected cell, do you?”
Waggoner hung his head like a puppy just swatted with a newspaper. “No, not specifically.”
“Okay, look at this,” announced Hank, wheeling his chair out of the way of the computer screen. “I’ve just run a sequence check of the herpes simplex genome. And what do you know? There’s a stretch in which fourteen out of nineteen base pairs match up with the insertin target sequence. Almost a seventy-four percent homology. That’s an excellent site for redundant targeting.”
Cricket peered at the rows of G’s, C’s, A’s, and T’s on the screen. “And where is it?”
“Capsid open reading frame of the long unique region. Exactly where our Nemesis splice starts.”
Waggoner nervously crumpled the sheaf of papers on the desk. “That can’t be right.”
“There’s more.” Hank turned back to the computer. “I’ve also run a few random sequence checks against other viruses. Right off the bat, I’ve come up with six matches in the range of fifty to seventy percent. Coxsackie virus, measles virus, parainfluenza virus. If I ran this program all night, I could probably come up with a bunch more. Not to mention the ninety-nine percent of viruses whose sequences are completely unknown.”
Freiberg’s jaw dropped. “Good God!”
Hank rapped the computer screen with his knuckles. “Thanks to insertin, it looks like our Methuselah Vector is a regular little factory for bastard viruses.”
Cricket studied Waggoner’s drawings on the whiteboard. “Look what’s being inserted—the Cell Gate. It’s creating superviruses. Devastatingly lethal viruses that can infect every cell in the body.”
Freiberg nodded gravely. “With no natural immunity or resistance.”
“And no limit to the possibilities of creation,” added Hank. “Once the Methuselah Vector gets out into the real world, all kinds of random interactions will take place. Herpes, measles, the common cold—who knows? Supervirus after supervirus. Waves upon waves of epidemics. Like a Hydra’s head—cut off one, and two grow in its place. Nemesis would be just the beginning.”
Freiberg looked pale. “Waves after waves,” he intoned, “until there’s no one left to get sick.”
Cricket looked into each man’s eyes in turn. “We’ve got to quarantine the Methuselah Vector immediately.” But Gifford’s state of mind worried her. When she had confronted him over Hannibal, he had seemed anxious, hostile, even irrational. He wasn’t the Charles Gifford she knew. That man would never have kept back evidence that might save Emmy’s life. “Back to Nemesis. Wig, can you prepare a test to screen the population here at Acadia Springs?”
“As long as nobody touches anything in my lab. But I think we need to show these findings to the G-man and Jack Niedermann first. We could be wrong about Methuselah.”
“No. Leave Charles to me.” Cricket turned to Freiberg. “Erich, can you get a list of everyone who lives or works on campus?”
“Certainly.”
Suddenly the desk phone rang. Cricket picked it up. “Doctor, this is Jean in Bay Two. Emmy’s heart rate is up to one hundred ten beats a minute. Do you want me to stop the dobutamine?”
“I’ll be there in a second.” Cricket put her hand over the receiver and looked gravely at Hank. “Back to the workbench, gentlemen! We’ve got to figure out a way to beat Nemesis. A vaccine, a treatment, a cure. And most of all, we have to keep it from spreading.”
Waggoner grunted as he scooped up the photos and the half-crumpled sequencing printouts from the desk. “I don’t like this. The G-man won’t like it,” he mumbled as he shuffled out the door.
“I do have one lingering question,” said Freiberg, after Waggoner had left. “This is a human virus, isn’t it? But Emmy got it through a dog.”
“Through Hannibal, actually.”
Freiberg raised an eyebrow.
Cricket nodded. “I asked Charles to bring him here, but he refused. I think he’s hiding something from us.”
“All the more reason to find him.”
“I’m going to do just that,” Hank declared. “Somebody in Weiszacker House must know something. That dog is as big as a horse and has a bark like a foghorn. He’s hard to hide.”
“Let me go with you,” said Freiberg.
“No,” said Hank. “You need to get those DNA sequencers running. I can handle this.”
Something wild and angry in Hank’s eyes gave Cricket pause. “Please, Hank. Take Erich with you.”
“I said I could handle it.”
“Well, at least take this.” Freiberg fished a key ring out of his pocket and removed a worn-looking bronze key. “Your passport to Weiszacker House. Actually, the master key. One of the perks of being on the institute board.”
Hank snatched the key. As he disappeared into the security corridor, Cricket gave Freiberg a worried look. “Do you think he’ll be all right?”
“Don’t worry. Hank’s smart. He’ll be discreet. He knows how much is at stake.”
�
�But Charles might—” Cricket raised her wrist to wipe her eye, then realized that the phone was still in her hand. “Jean? Are you still there?”
“Yes, Doctor. The dobutamine—”
“What did you say her heart rate was?”
“One hundred ten.”
“That’s too high.”
“I know it is. Do you want me to stop the dobutamine?”
Dobutamine kept Emmy’s heart beating. It was probably the only thing keeping her alive. “No. Don’t do anything. I’ll be there in a second.” Cricket dropped the phone in the cradle. “Got to go.”
Thirteen
THUMP! THUMP! THUMP! SHIRTLESS, HIS BACK glistening with sweat, Gifford ran the treadmill in the exercise room of Weiszacker House—a brightly lit, mirrored collection of Nautilus machines, free weights, and punching bags—his stainless-steel shrine to physical perfection. Each time his feet came down, the machine shook as if it were about to tear itself apart.
He felt alone, exhausted. He couldn’t even remember when he had last spent a night in bed. Was it a week ago Monday? Or Saturday before that? Earlier that day he had felt a strange disconnectedness while staring out a window and he had come to with a snap, not knowing how long he had stood there.
He looked at the heart-rate monitor on the treadmill. Seventy beats per minute. Maximum speed and maximum incline, and still his heart rate barely stirred. That was proof—his body was in the peak of health. It was his mind that was off-kilter. Between the Methuselah Vector rollout and this mysterious virus that seemed to have a predilection for the young and beautiful, the stress had become unbearable. It seemed the whole world was arrayed against him, demanding the impossible.
He tried to analyze his situation like a scientist. But his thoughts flitted about chaotically, emotionally. One minute he was bursting with rage; another, next to tears. Ghastly images bombarded him.
Yolanda lying on the autopsy table, her once-lovely face disfigured, bloated, more like an animal than a human being.
Emmy, her apple-red cheeks and lips frosted over with the likeness of death.
Hannibal’s blood spattered over his laboratory walls and floor.
Hannibal. Now there was a riddle he just couldn’t get a handle on. The ELISA test proved that he carried the human form of herpes virus. Perhaps in passing through his body it had mutated into something more virulent. But where did he get it? From one of the labs? Gifford never took Hannibal into Rensselaer. Maybe he had picked up something out of the trash, or from a rat or mouse that had escaped the building.
If Hannibal were still alive, he could have run more tests. But Niedermann had scotched that. That fucking cocksucker. Gifford’s feet began hitting the treadmill like sledgehammers, as if he were trampling Niedermann into the ground. He had no right. The thought of continuing to work with him, or even seeing his face again, filled him with revulsion. But . . . the Lottery. Until then, he was a necessary evil.
Cricket was another story. If Gifford hadn’t seen the proof of her disloyalty himself, he could never have believed she could turn against him. After all the years he had known her! There seemed to be no one left to trust.
Six months ago, even a week ago, he would have been the first to heed Cricket’s warning. He had never wanted there to be even the slightest shadow over the Vector. But with Monday’s announcement, the project had passed the point of no return. Expectations were stratospheric. The Lottery couldn’t be canceled, or even postponed, without scandal. A loss of nerve would send the whole project back to the drawing board. After the press finished mauling it to bits, the FDA would be drawn in. They would take a magnifying glass to every data point of every experiment, force him to redo work he had already validated with infinite care. Fear and politics would govern the process, not scientific logic. It could set back the timetable by years.
And that would be a tragedy for mankind.
He knew for certain that the Methuselah Vector worked. The incredible stamina of his own heart and muscles told him so. Every imaginable test proved it was safe, as safe as aspirin. The time for questioning was over. It was time to act.
The belt of the treadmill abruptly stopped. Carried forward by momentum, Gifford slammed into the console and had to grab one of the handles to keep from falling. Startled, he looked about and saw Hank glowering at him, holding the end of the safety cable in his hand.
“What the hell are you doing?” Gifford shouted. “You could have killed me like that.”
“Where’s Hannibal?”
Gifford’s nostrils flared. “What do you want with him?”
“I’ve checked all over the house. He’s like your shadow. But he’s vanished. Why is that?”
“Never you mind, Hank.”
Hank flung the cable to the ground. “He gave Emmy what she has.”
“Look, I know how you must feel about Emmy—”
“How I must feel? Jesus!” Hank’s hands shot up in the air. “You have no fucking idea how I feel. You talk to me like you have ice water in your veins. Emmy’s dying. Her mother doesn’t think she’ll last the night.”
Dying. Yolanda’s face flashed through Gifford’s mind. Her eyelids yellow and swollen shut. Her lips purple, cracked, and bleeding. “No, that’s not possible,” he muttered. “It can’t be.”
“If she dies . . . If I find out that you had anything to do with it—so help me God—”
“Hannibal’s not the answer. Emmy has a herpesvirus infection. Don’t let Hannibal distract you. There isn’t time.”
“Where is he?”
“Forget about him.” Gifford reached for a towel from the linen stand, but jerked back as Hank advanced toward him with clenched fists.
Gifford was in no shape for a fight. The sudden deceleration from the treadmill had left him dizzy. And there was something else, too. He was shaking—his hands, his knees, his whole body. A cold, hollow feeling welled up inside him. A sudden hunger. Unexplainable dread.
“Calm down, Hank.” Helpless and confused, Gifford took refuge in a lie. “It’s true, he wasn’t eating well. I’ve got someone watching him.”
“Who?”
“The, uh . . . the vet. Doc Wilber.”
“Wilber? He’s in Ellsworth, isn’t he?”
“Don’t bother Dr. Wilber now. It’s late. His office closed hours ago.”
“Do you think I’m stupid? I’ve got news for you. I’m going to find that dog. I don’t care what hour of the day or night.”
“No! I forbid it.”
Hank spun around and headed for the door. He had only just touched the knob when Gifford felt his legs give out, and he fell with a thud to the floor. Hank, with a skeptical look on his face, turned back slowly and knelt at his side.
“What is it, Charles? You need a doctor?”
“No, it’s low blood sugar. Just get me some Gatorade from that little fridge there.” Gifford grabbed the frame of the treadmill and hauled himself up into a sitting position while Hank fetched a bottle. As soon as it was in Gifford’s hands, he tore off the cap and began chugging the murky green liquid. “I could use something to eat,” he said, taking a breath between gulps. With a shaky hand, he pointed to a small keypad beside the door. “Call Mr. Thieu. Punch twelve and then the green button.”
Hank punched the code. No answer.
“Hit it again,” said Gifford. “Twelve—that’s his room number.”
Again, no answer.
“Could it be his day off?” said Gifford groggily. “What day is this, anyway? Wednesday? Thursday? He’s never off except on Sunday.”
“It’s the middle of the night. He’s asleep.”
“Then let’s go to his room.” Gifford groaned as he climbed to his feet. His step had a wobble, but he was too proud to accept the offer of an arm as Hank followed him up the steep service staircase. Mr. Thieu’s room was in the northwest
corner, just above the kitchen.
A knock went unanswered. Gifford tried the door, found it unlocked, and pushed it open. It swung with a creak. The room was dark, with window shades blocking the pale orange glow of the campus lights outside. Gifford was immediately struck by a strange odor—a sweet smell like rotting fruit or nail polish.
He opened the door wider. By the night-light of the hallway he was able to make out a clump of blankets and sheets dangling from the foot of the bed. The floor was littered with Kleenex and plastic cups. But Mr. Thieu was nowhere in sight.
Then—a soft gurgling sound out of the darkness. As Hank waited in the doorway, Gifford edged toward the open bathroom door. The fruity smell grew stronger with every step.
Something moved inside the bathroom. Gifford groped for the light switch.
The light came on.
“Hank, get back!” Gifford cried.
THURSDAY
One Day to Lottery Day
ONe
CRICKET CLOSED HER EYES AS SHE sat back in the big leather office chair, but she was too worried to sleep. Emmy’s pale and purple-splotched face haunted her. Now, on top of that, was the waking nightmare she had just witnessed.
Nemesis had claimed another victim.
An hour ago, a pair of security staff dressed in white biosafety suits had shattered the early-morning quiet as they came through the entrance to the BSL-4 lab, wheeling in a stretcher bearing the nearly lifeless form of Mr. Thieu. He had all the familiar stigmata of Nemesis—the swollen lips and eyelids, the chalk-white skin disfigured by hemorrhage, the fever, the sweet nail-polish breath.
He no longer had a pulse when he arrived in Bay 3. For twenty minutes, Cricket and Jean took turns giving him chest compressions, while Wilma, a nurse assigned to night duty, forced oxygen into his lungs with a football-shaped ventilation bag. In the end, blood instead of air started gurgling up the ventilation tube with each compression. Mr. Thieu’s chest became as soft as a waterlogged sponge. Nothing more could be done.
