Terminus o-2

by Adam Baker

  We locked the gate after they left, and listened to the sound of distant gunfire as they fought their way back up Lafayette to the chopper.

  We were now stranded. Those of us left behind knew there was virtually no hope of rescue.

  Ekks showed me the decree. Thick note paper. The presidential seal. An unrecognisable signature. Permission to apply ‘extraordinary therapeutic measures’ in our search for a cure.

  ‘You must choose,’ Ekks told me. ‘You must make the selection. One of the prisoners must be sacrificed. You will decide which of them is the ideal experimental subject, the healthiest physical specimen. That is your burden. You must decide who will die.’

  We had four captives. Very few medical records. No prison files.

  Wade. Judging by his tattoos and blond mullet, he was some kind of biker. He was from Texas. I have no idea how he came to be imprisoned in New York.

  Lupe, aka Lucretia, aka Esperansa Guadalupe Villaseñor. She refused to divulge any background information, but her short, violent life was etched in her skin. A map of Honduras on her shoulder. Dead gang brethren inscribed on each bicep. Guns, knives and hypodermics down each forearm.

  Marcus Means, aka Sicknote. His skull had been drilled and his thalamus wired with iridium electrodes. A failed attempt to control psychotic episodes using high-frequency electrical impulses. He was lost in nightmares. We had exhausted our supply of anti-schizoid meds and had to quiet his screams with regular doses of Valium. He spent most of each day curled in a foetal ball, staring into space.

  Knox. The fourth prisoner. African American. Bright. Articulate. Cooperative.

  Time to choose.

  I immediately eliminated Means from consideration. His profound mental illness and subsequent brain surgery made him an unsuitable test subject.

  Wade was in good physical shape. He was lucid, apparently mentally unimpaired. However, his arms showed signs of long-term intravenous drug use: scaring and collapsed veins. Again, the neurological implications of this drug habit removed him from consideration. A dependence on heroin or methamphetamine would render him an atypical test subject.

  Knox and Lupe. Both fit. Both young.

  One of them would have to die.

  The prisoners were held on the station platform. We had no cells, no containment facilities. Moxon, the orderly charged with guarding the convicts, had drawn chalk squares on the ticket hall floor. The prisoners were confined within the chalk squares. They could sit, lie or pace within the boundaries of their imaginary cell. They could eat from paper plates. They could urinate and defecate in a plastic bucket. They could wash from a basin. But if they stepped beyond the chalk, they would be shot.

  I spoke to Lupe first.

  I sat cross-legged on the ticket hall floor. She knelt and faced me, the chalk perimeter of her cell between us. She drew a blanket around her shoulders like a shawl.

  I’m not sure why Lupe had been sent to Bellevue for psych evaluation. The patient files we rescued from the hospital contained basic medical information. Dosage charts and X-rays. We had no charge sheets or prison documentation. Moxon told me tattoo tears were an emblem of gang-sanctioned assassination. Each tear represented a kill.

  I asked Lupe if she was hungry or thirsty. She held out cuffed hands and demanded to be released. I asked if she were cold, if she would like an extra blanket. She looked me in the eye and told me, calm and clear, that I was attempting to use a series of token kindnesses to make myself feel better about holding people captive while the world went to hell, and maybe I should fuck myself.

  I shifted position so I could talk to Knox. He sat by the entrance of his cell.

  The doorway to each cell was designated by a series of chalk dashes. When the prisoners were escorted to and from their imaginary cells, they were expected to use this demarcated entrance.

  Knox sat hugging his knees. He hummed old Motown hits. I gave him a stick of gum.

  I liked him. He had been arrested on an assault charge. He told a convoluted story involving mistaken identity and police racism. He was adamant the case should never have seen trial.

  He had been transported to Bellevue for treatment to a hip injury following a minor fracas at Sing Sing. A poker game that ended in scattered cards, shoves and recriminations. The prison infirmary had been damaged by a burst water pipe, so he had been sent outside the walls for examination.

  I’m not fool enough to think I am a fine judge of character, that I have a deep insight into human nature. But I sympathised with Knox. The pettiest of criminals. No gang tattoos, no track marks. Not a bad man. Not malicious. Just pathetically weak.

  Knox or Lupe? Who would you choose?

  Lupe deserved to die. Vermin. Irredeemable street trash. A life-long killer. Probably responsible for a dozen deaths, gang rivals shot or knifed in retaliation for near-imperceptible violations of her honour code. Most people would circle her name without hesitation.

  But what is evil? Is murder part of the normal spectrum of human behaviour? Or is it indicative of illness? If Lupe was a psychopath, incap-able of empathy, could that be regarded an actual physical abnormality, rather than simply a mental state? Her anti-social behaviour might be the result of some malformation of the central nervous system. Or it might be the result of post-natal injury. A blow to the head, some form of traumatic encephalopathy. As a doctor, should I regard her as a defective specimen? An imperfect test subject? Was she, on some basic level, less than human?

  I handed Ekks the list knowing, as I did so, I had set the death machine in motion.

  A folded sheet of paper. Four names. Three crossed in red. A big green tick next to KNOX.

  Ekks lay a hand on my shoulder. His solemn, wordless Thank You.

  I condemned an innocent person to death. Played my role with cold, clear deliberation.

  I did the right thing. I did what needed to be done.

  But I’m not the man I used to be. I have become something else. Something ugly. Something broken.

  45

  Tombes slept, back against the wall.

  He swallowed. He choked and convulsed. He woke, and found a thin string of drool hanging from his mouth.

  ‘Christ.’

  He took a bandana from his pocket. He dabbed his chin and shirt. He sipped bottled water and rinsed the taste of vomit from his mouth.

  He ran fingers across his scalp. Sudden fear his hair might be falling out in clumps.

  Sicknote stood by the barricaded door, forehead pressed to the wood panels like he was deep in prayer.

  ‘Told you to keep away from that door.’

  Sicknote smiled and backed off.

  ‘You want to go outside, is that it? Want to commune with those bastards in the hall? Embrace the darkness, all that shit? Happy to oblige. Glad to see the back of you.’

  Sicknote giggled and walked to the back of the plant room. He sat, rocked, and chewed his nails.

  ‘Stay there. Seriously. Stay put. I got too much to worry about. If you’re going to freak out for real, I’ll push you out the door. Won’t hesitate.’

  Lupe sat opposite Tombes.

  ‘It’s all right,’ said Lupe. ‘I’ll keep my eyes on him. He won’t try anything.’

  ‘If he pulls any shit, I got to take steps. I don’t want to hurt the guy. I don’t want to hurt anyone. I get it: he’s nuts. It’s not his fault. But a situation like this, what else can I do?’

  ‘I’ll watch the guy, all right? He’s my responsibility. If there are problems, I’ll deal with it myself.’

  Lupe knelt beside Ekks.

  She examined his signet ring. A silver snake, eating its own tail. She tried to twist the ring from his finger. His hand slowly balled into a fist.

  She studied his face. Silver hair. Wide, Slavic lips.

  She leaned close and listened to breath escape his parted lips.

  She clapped her hands. He didn’t flinch. His eyelids didn’t flutter. His jaw didn’t clench.

  ‘I doubt he is fakin
g,’ said Cloke. ‘Nobody is that good an actor.’

  ‘I wouldn’t put it past this fuck. He’ll wake up when it suits him. Not before. He’ll lie there, listening to us talk, map our minds, figure out which strings to pull.’

  ‘You’re building this guy up into some sort of satanic manipulator.’

  ‘Damn right.’

  Cloke threw the notebook aside. He rubbed his eyes.

  ‘No luck with the code?’ asked Lupe.

  ‘I’m not a cipher expert. I haven’t got the right sort of mind, the right kind of logic. I’ve never won a game of chess in my life.’

  ‘I thought you were a scientist.’

  ‘A very average one. Doomed to be mediocre. Some of my college class were effortlessly accomplished. Not me. I had to study night and day. Everything came hard. That’s why I hate this damned code. A reminder of my limitations. All the times I sat over a textbook, frustrated and helpless, willing the words to make sense. We need to find a geek. Someone with an aptitude for frequency analysis.’

  ‘We had codes in jail,’ said Lupe. ‘We used to scribble them on the inside of cigarette packets. Little pencil marks on the foil. They’d change hands in the yard.’

  ‘Contract killings?’

  ‘No. Little stuff. Drug deals, sports bets, love tokens.’

  Cloke picked up the notebook and thumbed pages.

  ‘I can’t help imagining what it would have been like to be down here, with Ekks, fighting the disease by his side. Dark and desperate hours.’

  ‘You would have died with the rest of them. Blown your brains out in that subway car.’

  ‘I’m a vector specialist. Competent enough in my field. I might have achieved something.’

  ‘You wouldn’t have achieved a damn thing,’ said Lupe. ‘Just an ugly, squalid death.’

  Cloke shrugged. He turned his attention back to the notebook.

  ‘We need some kind of key, is that right?’ said Lupe. ‘Some kind of guide to unlock the text.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘He would have to write it down, yeah? It would be complicated. He couldn’t keep it in his head.’

  ‘Probably.’

  ‘What would it look like?’

  ‘Most likely some kind of grid or number sequence.’

  ‘Maybe he wrote it on his body. Have you checked him for biro marks? Little tattoos?’

  ‘We gave him a thorough examination. There were no marks.’

  ‘But you frisked him, right? You searched his pockets?’

  ‘It didn’t occur to me.’

  Lupe leaned over Ekks and patted him down.

  A dog tag hung round his neck. A tab of stamped metal with a rubber rim. She broke the ball-chain and examined the tag.

  ‘Feels thick.’

  She peeled away the rubber rim. Two tags sandwiched together. A folded scrap of paper the size of a postage stamp between them.

  ‘I’ll be damned,’ murmured Cloke.

  ‘Is this it? The key to the cipher?’

  ‘Almost certainly.’

  ‘Then get to work.’

  Tombes crouched in the corner of the room. He checked his Motorola for charge. The green power light fluttered amber. Low battery.

  ‘Donahue. You there?’

  He held the radio close to his ear.

  ‘Where else would I be?’ Her voice little more than a whisper.

  ‘How you doing?’

  ‘All right, I guess. Going crazy sitting in the dark. I keep hearing noises, like there’s something in the room.’

  ‘What kind of sounds?’

  ‘Breathing. Shuffling. Each time I check, there’s nothing. Mind playing tricks.’

  ‘Feeling okay?’

  ‘Nausea. Got a murderous, fuck-ass headache.’

  ‘Try not to puke. You could be trapped with the stink for hours. That door still holding?’

  ‘They stopped pounding the damn thing a while back. Let me check.’

  Brief pause.

  ‘Yeah. Yeah, she’s good. She’s holding.’

  ‘Don’t make a sound. Relentless sons of bitches. Patient, like sharks circling a boat. They’ve got our scent. Blood in the water.’

  ‘Royal clusterfuck. The whole thing.’

  ‘I can’t talk long. Battery is running low. I’ve got to conserve power. But you stay safe, you hear? The minute you got a problem, sound off. We’ll come running.’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘Take it easy. Try to get some rest, if you can.’

  46

  David Moxon

  Bellevue Dept of Neuroscience

  I kept Knox company the night he died.

  Ekks insisted the condemned man be extended every consideration. At the very least, he should expect the same privileges as a man on death row. He should be told his fate. He should be given a chance to make his peace with himself, his God. He should be given pen and paper, an opportunity to make a final statement.

  I wasn’t present when Knox was told he was to be dissected. I heard about it later.

  They took him from his chalk-outline cell. He was cuffed and led to the train, told it was part of a routine medical examination. He had endured long days without sunlight. They said they were checking for vitamin D deficiency.

  He was isolated in one of the carriages. He was stripped and photographed. They shaved his head. They returned his clothes and chained him to a seat. Then they explained he was marked for death.

  Harold Donner, one of the doctors from Bellevue, delivered the news. Knox was to die. He would be deliberately infected, so that Ekks and his team could study the first moments of infection. There would be no anaesthetic, no sedative. Nothing that might interfere with the validity of the results.

  Knox screamed and raged. He thrashed, tried to break his cuffs, tried to break the chain that held him tethered to the seat. He begged. He pleaded. He wept.

  Donner shook his head. He said he was sorry.

  Knox demanded to speak to Ekks. Ekks wouldn’t talk to him. Said he was busy.

  The procedure was scheduled to begin at midnight.

  Knox had twelve hours to prepare himself for death.

  My task?

  To keep him company during the last hours of his life. Talk. Pray. Fulfil any request within my power. Above all, I was to ensure he did not escape or injure himself. When midnight came, the tie-down team would lead him to the adjacent carriage and strap him to the examination table. Then he would face the needle. A sample of the pathogen would be drawn from biological material supplied by NORAD. It would be injected into his arm.

  He sat alone in the carriage. He wore a red prison-issue smock and pants. Bare feet. He was chained to the passenger seat by an ankle shackle. Garbage bags had been taped over the windows so he couldn’t see medical personnel carry surgical equipment across the platform to the improvised operating theatre in the adjacent carriage.

  Knox had been given a bible. A faux leather King James. It sat unopened beside him.

  I set down a tray. His last meal. A couple of luncheon meat sandwiches and a fruit beverage.

  ‘Do you want to pray?’ I asked.

  ‘Fuck you.’

  ‘It might help.’

  ‘Help who? You or me?’

  ‘You’re not a religious man?’

  ‘Look around you. A billion dead. A billion prayers unanswered. If Jesus didn’t break cover to help countless grieving mothers, why the hell would he intercede to save my sorry ass?’

  ‘It might ease your mind. The sound. The old words.’

  ‘God is gone. Packed his bags and left. No forwarding address. Nothing in the sky but infinite dark.’

  ‘I brought a clock.’

  ‘To watch my life tick away? How the hell would that help?’

  ‘Anything you want to talk about? You got a few hours left.’

  ‘Seriously. Fuck you.’

  ‘Any messages you want to pass on? I could help you write a letter.’

  ‘Think I’m stup
id? Think I don’t know how to write my name?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Read a damn sight more books than your cracker ass. Better educated than half the guys in this sewer.’

  ‘I could fetch pen and paper. Got relatives somewhere? We might be able to get a message to them, somehow.’

  ‘What if I said I had kids? A family out there, worrying about their dad? Would you give a crap?’

  ‘Maybe we should just sit a while.’

  ‘I’m chained to the seat. Ain’t got much choice.’

  ‘I can get water. More food, if you need it.’

  ‘Let me ask you something. Ekks. Do you trust him?’

  ‘Barely spoke to the guy. I’m just a turn-key.’

  ‘You’ve known the man, what, a week? And here you are, colluding in murder.’

  ‘He got us out of Bellevue. The handful that stayed behind? Those assholes convinced tanks and planes were coming to the rescue? Long dead.’

  ‘He saved you folks because you were useful.’

  ‘Those doctors and nurses out there have known him for years.’

  ‘Got a mind of your own, don’t you? What do you think of the guy?’

  I shrugged.

  ‘I’m sorry it came down to this.’

  ‘What’s your name?’ asked Knox.

  ‘Moxon. David.’

  ‘They’re going to kill me, Dave. They’re going to kill me and cut me up. Pull out my spine. Crack open my head.’ He tapped his temple. ‘This skull. Right here. They’ll saw it open and scoop out my brain. My brain, dude. Thoughts, memories, emotions. They’re going to take it all away.’

  ‘I’m sorry, man. Sorry you drew the short straw.’

  ‘Do you even know why you’re doing this? Any of you?’

  ‘A cure.’

  ‘They are going to inject me with the virus. They’ll watch me change. Then they’ll set the cameras rolling and dissect me like a frog, do it while I’m still alive. How the hell does that help? Thousands of infected roaming the streets. Why would one more make a difference?’