Dead Market

by Gary Starta

  A powerful premonition gripped James at the exact moment he cradled his mother’s photograph in his arms. Desperate sobs burst from him, the kind he hadn’t experienced since a young boy. He clutched the photo wishing his mother could make things all right, to cure him of his hunger for flesh. That’s all he wished for that day. He certainly didn’t want to lose his hunger for money, power or women. They were all natural cravings probably unwittingly passed onto him via some genetic makeup his parents possessed. His mother and father had made him a gangster no matter how much they protested. Nature not nurture compelled him to rise to the top rung of a very dirty, very contemptible and sometimes very bloody ladder. And when James realized he could pinpoint the exact location of his mom by grasping a photo of her in his hand, he realized she might provide him the ticket to regain his rotten to the core genetic disposition. James reasoned he was never a bad man, just a man predisposed to carry out his original genetic instructions. The problem was simple. Someone had hijacked his internal makeup and turned him into someone else’s son. The real crime would be to continue this quest, to live like a zombie or droid and remain susceptible to another man’s wishes. He would end the charade one way or the other. He hoped to punish the hijacker before he went, however.

  When James contacted his mother via satellite connection, he realized he possessed a gift to thwart his hijacker. She confirmed her location, the same supermarket they had shopped in together when he was a boy. He had been unwittingly given the ability to track another being via visual stimulation. He supposed tactile element was involved. He recalled a movie called Dead Zone in which tactile touch gave a man the ability to see the future or the past. Maybe he would acquire those abilities in time. Right now, he could see the present. Remote viewing supposedly existed. It was the closest, scientific reason James could assign to his gift. An Internet search confirmed soldiers had been trained during World War II to see where their enemy hid.

  What an idiot! I have a means to expose you. James joked, you probably didn’t „see" this coming.

  A photograph of the extortionist would be paramount to exacting revenge. With one photo, he could shred and tear his extortionist to ribbons, perhaps expose him in the process to understand his genetic disposition and the motivation to inflict him so unnaturally. I’ll turn you into the freak you made me become. I’ll make you understand the ramifications. I’ll let you live awhile to experience the pain. James fantasized a moment longer before returning his mother’s photo to its hiding place, in the back of a dresser drawer. You exposed my weakness. I’ll expose yours…

  It wouldn’t be easy to procure. But he had never given up on anything. He had smuggled stolen jewels through seaports, supplied crack to hundreds of junkies, hijacked thousands of cars and converted them to valuable parts via chop shops. He had done all of this without experiencing a single day of jail time or paying one dollar in county fines. How hard could it be to acquire a photograph?

  He had believed allowing Lorelei to escape would have solved his problem by now. An incident which resulted in the deaths of two cops might have shined a light on the problem. But that was over a week ago. Not a single follow up graced the newspapers. If Lorelei had killed the cops, it had been covered up. The original story even intimated the attacker had been killed. So, if Lorelei was dead, he had no other hope of exposing the disease. Not a single person cared that somebody had invented a means to reanimate a person for the purpose of becoming their puppet. Probably because it was too freaking unbelievable, no doubt; because of this, he had to give credit to his extortionist. He could weed money from an army of zombie junkies. All eager to retain some semblance of their former selves, none would be able to resist promise of a treatment, no matter the price. He couldn’t be the only victim here. In time, the man’s greed to enlist more zombie junkies would possibly expose the conspiracy. The government would squash the bastard, most likely because he wasn’t sharing any pieces of his pie. Possibly, the government would make the treatments legal, something one could buy in a drugstore. This way, the Feds would see a piece of the action. Yet a lot of time might need to pass for this to happen. James reasoned time was too valuable a resource. He would take a direct approach. He could take out the bastard now by convincing Mr. No Name that giving him a photo was the right thing to do. A delivery would arrive in the hour.

  Mr. No Name stood his ground, in the foyer of his mansion, armed with a rifle.

  James baited by the man’s arrogance, delivered a verbal jab.

  “Hey Mr. No Name, I’d like to see you walk into my home without the aid of your little friend. Do you think I’d still buy your suitcase of pills without your male enhancement?”

  “I think you would,” Brendan McKean answered. “I think you’d do anything to retain your scumbag persona.”

  “Strong words coming from a middleman. Does your boss permit you to talk to your customers in such a derogatory manner?”

  McKean gripped his rifle tighter, stifling a desire to answer, realizing James was baiting him to learn even the slightest fact about his extortionist, the bastard human engineer, Karl Brinkhaus. I don’t like the man, but I like you a lot less…

  “So, I don’t see you dropping your gun. Dare to test that theory?”

  “Not today.” McKean dropped his eyes to the suitcase in James’s hands. “Just slide it along the floor as usual.”

  “I imagine it must bug the crap out of you to know you are sustaining me. It must be hard for ex-cop to live with that knowledge.”

  McKean’s face whitened.

  “Ah, I hit a nerve. Your face almost looks as pale as mine, but not quite. Want to know how I knew?”

  McKean waved his rifle. “I just want the money.”

  James continued, undaunted. “I can smell you. You know this condition gives me other abilities. Some of them are quite remarkable.”

  “Hey, I’m just the middleman as you say. I don’t give a rat’s ass about your condition.”

  “I think if I were to give my condition to others, you might care a whole lot. What if I told you there were others out there right now, spreading the gift?”

  “I think you’re bluffing. You know very well how I gave you the condition.”

  “Yes, via dart. Quite painful and also quite impersonal, I might add. I have found a means to give the gift in a more intimate manner.”

  “I wouldn’t advise that. You’ll just give me more customers.”

  “Ah, so you’re not denying the disease can be spread without injection.”

  “You’re playing with fire, James. Fire has a way of burning your ass.”

  “I don’t believe your cop rationale. I think you’re scared shit or at least bothered by the possibility. If you want me to stop, I will. Just give me a photo of your boss. You don’t even have to give up his name. It wouldn’t be like you’re ratting him out or anything. I know how an ex-cop who steals money for a living values morals. Besides, I’m just looking at a picture. Doesn’t a condemned man have a right to see his accuser, the bastard who judged me to be a deserving candidate for his punishment?”

  James slid the suitcase to McKean who reciprocated by sliding a similar attaché to him.

  “I see by your silence that you’ll take the matter under advisement. But don’t take too long to think about it. If I don’t find a way to stop your boss, I’ll employ others means to make light of the situation. Remember, I still have a network. A lot of people work for me and those people are very good at finding people you care about.”

  “I’m single. Don’t have family.”

  “Ah, but you do. Already did the research. You divorced your wife. She took custody of your only daughter. See, I already know your name, it wasn’t hard to find. But since you weren’t polite enough to give it to me yourself, I won’t use it. Besides, I prefer Mr. No Name. It fits you because you’re no one important, just some hired lackey.”

&
nbsp; McKean smiled. “I think you just want me to put a bullet into you, end your pain. Well, I won’t. You’re going to suffer for what you’ve done.”

  “In time, you might see fit to put a bullet into me. Not to end my pain, but yours…”

  McKean nodded to his consorts to exit. He followed them out the door without another word.

  James opened the attaché to inspect his pills. His mind consumed him more than the promise of another treatment. Go ahead, Mr. No Name. Ignore my request. But if you do, I’ll soon find a way to infect someone a lot of important people care about. Maybe someone who loves them will risk telling what sounds like a tall tale, all in the hope of keeping the loved one’s original design. After all, there are plenty of people out there and plenty of photographs to help me find them.

  Chapter 10

  Stefan Nowak patted his mentor Dr. Karl Brinkhaus on the shoulder as he perused the sleeping, caged animal.

  “I’m sure our slumbering feline will appreciate his new design, the first kitty to truly experience all of its nine lives.”

  Brinkhaus allowed a small, sadistic smirk to penetrate the dank, stale atmosphere of his makeshift lab, the third story of a vacant office building currently being leased by a friend of a friend. The broker had been paid quite extravagantly to keep the rest of the building vacant for Brinkhaus and his assistant. The limitations of this pseudo lab annoyed Brinkhaus, preventing him from sharing in his young assistant’s enthusiasm. Nowak’s fervor, coupled with his desire to emulate and become a human engineer like Brinkhaus, also stuck some thorns in the middle-aged scientist’s side from time to time. Nowak simply wasn’t capable of such genius. But Brinkhaus reminded himself of necessary evils. He couldn’t work totally independent.

  At least Brinkhaus was no longer surrounded by the manufactured intellectuals he called „toads" since leaving the medical research firm which had previously funded his work. After the drug trial failed, the pharmaceutical giant Pharmacure grew tentative about unleashing a zombie like virus upon the masses, replete with its violent side effects. Brinkhaus subsequently resigned from the research firm without explanation. He didn’t care if his colleagues believed he had abandoned his dream or not. They were certainly not in his league as scholars or people. They were just toads who digested and regurgitated the fundamental knowledge required to earn doctorate degrees. They spit out what was required, utilizing sufficiently large bank accounts to do so; virtually paying for title and status without a clue as to how to break ground in their fields. Geneticists shouldn’t just map the mind, but they should also be able to redesign it. These toads weren’t capable of such eugenic mastery simply, Brinkhaus imagined, because they were not born nor bred with a natural aptitude.

  He had been given this gift by his granddad, the Nazi war criminal, Maximilian Brinkhaus, who was finally captured and tried for his genetic experiments in the waning years of his life. He died in his early eighties, withering away in a jail cell, a man whose zenith of his career existed for only a handful of years before his escape to Cuba, where he traded notoriety for obscurity. His later relocation to the states did allow young Karl Brinkhaus, his grandson, to pick up the baton. However, Karl’s father, Wolfgang, resisted his predisposed potential for genius, deploring his father’s work, disowning Maximilian as a dad and encouraging his son to do the same.

  Karl hated his father for such betrayal to the family. He believed it to be quite fitting that Wolfgang changed his name, prior to his illegal acquisition of citizenship in Canada. At least the Brinkhaus name would not be besmirched by such cowardice. Karl Brinkhaus would live and die like his granddad, a man whose thirst for knowledge gave him the pride and courage to accept punishment for his war crimes without remorse. That well of power surged through Bronchus’s veins. He would not squander it. And although Nowak often reminded him of the toads back at the medical research firm, the young man did aspire to greatness. And in time, Nowak would serve his agenda quite well.

  Brinkhaus, eyes locked on his beloved cat Waldemar, which he called Waldo for short, believed the greatness which eluded his grandfather was certainly attainable in the 21st century thanks to a little human frailty called greed. If the Nazi experiments had been totally financially driven, granddad would have witnessed the birth of a new race of people via eugenics. Maximillian’s first attempts arguably fell short; but as with most inventors; progress is never attained without paying some dues. Karl Brinkhaus had paid his most recently when infected civilians awakened violent and carnal in the jungles of Guatemala. But with refinement, the manufacture of a brain disease, which could unlock the mind’s hidden potential, would no doubt become a whole lot more valuable than a few lost lives. He believed Pharmacure would soon be back on board with the completion of such refinement. By inhibiting the diseases" ability to awaken a dormant protein responsible for switching on the cannibalistic behavior, the potential candidate would awaken not only without the hunger, but with a renewed commitment to their evolvement because they would be given a new gift, immortality. Their new brains would now can sustain their cells, to retard old age, to fight infections, to rid themselves of any carcinogenic threats. The only obstacle between them and a grave would be irreparable damage imposed by a violent environment. A gun, or perhaps a knife; any instrument capable of seriously damaging a vital organ or the very software responsible for their immortality: the brain. But in time, the redesigned minds would not be predisposed to unleash such barbaric harm to their fellow beings. A slight side effect of the disease, the lightening of skin pigmentation would be the biggest drawback, one that could be treated by habit forming pills. And that drawback, that potential to hook an unsuspecting populace to pill dependency, would be the bait Brinkhaus would use to bring Pharmacure back on his side.

  No doubt, the relatives or loved ones of the newly diseased would pay any amount of money to keep Jimmy or Anne Marie looking like the person they once knew. And now with their new gift of immortality, drug companies would revel in their creation because a true „dead market" had been created. The users would be hooked for life, sustaining medical giants like Pharmacure for generations. Jimmy and Anne Marie would not only live long but live well thanks to cosmetic, pharmaceutical enhancements. And people thought Americans were already hopelessly hooked on prescriptions drugs…

  “I’m going to give them their dead market,” Brinkhaus said, finally acknowledging his partner’s encouragement. “I’m going to get Pharmacure back on board.”

  “Think of the cutting-edge tools that kind of backing will procure.”

  “Dream high, Mr. Nowak. Dream high.” Brinkhaus spoke as if in trance, not enveloped in the monetary spider webs Nowak apparently lusted after, but by a sincere desire to bring his most beloved company back to life.

  “Ah, did you see that, Dr. Brinkhaus? I think he just stirred.”

  “Not a surprise, Mr. Nowak. Did you think I’d let my dear Waldo suffer or succumb to permanent extinction?”

  “No. Certainly not…it’s just so exciting.”

  “The proof is in the pudding, or should I say the meat?”

  As Waldo stirred in his six by six-foot caged pen, Brinkhaus shifted his focus from the cat to a pile of meat stacked generously on a plate, not more than a foot away from the test subject.

  Brinkhaus mumbled a favorite quote from Friedrich Nietzsche, the 19th century German philosopher.

  “There are a thousand paths that have never yet been trodden…”

  “Mr. Brinkhaus…were you speaking to me…?”

  “Sorry, Mr. Nowak, I was just thinking aloud. You know I truly believe the human mind is the greatest architecture. It’s more important than the erection of buildings or roads because I posit the greatest pathways exist within us, ready to be unleashed, ready to be explored. My work will allow humanity to traverse those thousand pathways…”

  Wando’s stirring interrupted Brinkhaus. The cat’s eyes were open
and his nostrils sniffed the air.

  “He’s on time, Mr. Nowak. I extrapolated Waldo would return to us three hours after ingesting the serum.”

  “Yes, Waldo. Come back to me…renewed…reinvented…”

  Waldo meowed, working his way to his feet, continually sniffing the environment around him.

  “And now the moment of truth…” Brinkhaus made the announcement as he slid off his seat, inching his body closer to the cage in small, shuffling steps, eyes wide and large with wonder. In the background, Nowak traded glances with his mentor and the subject, equally intrigued with both of their reactions.

  Waldo sniffed the meat. He shifted his head from left to right, still very much catlike. Finding no other predators were in the vicinity-perhaps more from habit than need-Waldo licked the offerings. He stepped back an inch and pawed the air about the dish.

  Brinkhaus clapped his hands. “In cat speak, Wando’s telling us he’s not voracious. He’s attempting to bury his dinner so not to invite unwanted guests.”

  Nowak gripped the doctor’s right hand. “I knew you would be successful.”

  “Not so fast.” Brinkhaus released his hand from Nowak’s, replacing it on his assistant’s shoulder, while his eyes remained locked onto Wando’s. “I do believe my feline friend has reanimated without the nasty carnivorous hunger. But we cannot base success on an animal test subject. They cannot think like us. Therefore, since Waldo is handicapped by the shortcoming of his animal brain, he probably won’t be susceptible to the gifts I have tried to bestow upon him. In other words, I don’t believe there is hidden coding or biological software hidden in his brain to endow him with improved eyesight or better hearing for example.