by Gary Starta
So, let’s not uncork the champagne just yet.”
“In any event, Waldo is now gifted.”
“That he is. You know some might say I’ve treated Waldo cruelly. And perhaps the majority of people for some illogical reason will care more about the ethical treatment of animals than humans. But it’s really quite unequivocal. No doubt, both species benefit immensely from the disease. True, they die; but they come back with the ability to truly derive all the pleasures life has to give them. In our current form, we cannot truly share the zest for life a reanimate has because of our immortality. Once our lifespan becomes more infinite, humans will benefit from sharing in many more experiences than they are now afforded, whether those experiences culminate in more relationships or more crafts, society will be richer for it. Violence against humankind will wane once a lifetime becomes more valuable. No one will want to risk an early departure when a normal lifespan could easily run the course of centuries rather than decades.
“But what irks me is the innate human greed, the need for financial compensation despite the promise of enriched lifetimes. The pharmaceutical companies might find a way to negate the benefits of my disease if they weren’t getting a piece of the pie. Because of this absolute, I must play their game. Give them a benefit. Let them sell a zillion little blue pills to a society which is trained to believe every disease is harmful. When the fact is, disease is the recipe for change, our evolvement, a needed transition if the human species is to continue to survive.”
Nowak shook his head. “The government would never let allow the populace to believe in such dogma.”
“Quite astute, Nowak; they never would. That’s why I must implore you to keep their secret. Once the disease is unleashed on the populace, its origin must be traced to the jungles of Guatemala. No one is to ever know we manufactured it because the mass populace is not educated enough to believe this is for their own good.”
Nowak nodded, absently shuffling his feet closer and closer to the cage.
“Here, kitty…” Brinkhaus now positioned behind his assistant, spoke.
“Mr. Novak, I want you to know I appreciate your dedication and belief in my work. Most would not be so trusting, especially after witnessing the video footage of the trials in Guatemala.”
“I believe Waldo will not harm me. His instincts probably tell him he will enjoy a long life now. I’m sure he’s very appreciative.”
I hope you’ll feel the same way…
Brinkhaus scratched his chin, his eyes darting between Waldo and Nowak.
“Mr. Nowak, do you think Mr. James spread his gift to any more potential candidates? Could there possibly be some others out there I haven’t accounted for? “
Nowak tapped his fingers on the cage’s grating. Waldo responded by rubbing his body against the enclosure. “I don’t think so. As long as James keeps his hunger appeased with the pills…”
“Yes, it would seem he has not shared the gift. I suppose Mr. McKean would have notified me if he had stopped paying for deliveries. But that leaves me in a bit of a quandary.”
“How so, doctor? You can still test the serum on James. And if you don’t trust McKean to administer it, I would gladly assist.”
“I just don’t see Mr. James as a fitting potential for my gift.”
“I see. Do you want me to infect a more suited potential?”
“Your loyalty knows no boundaries, Mr. Nowak. Thanks, but no thanks. It’s just that Mr. James is the same type of defective genotype that I would want to avoid infecting. But I know the corporation’s greed and they will never let me pick and choose who becomes superman and who doesn’t. I guess I’ll just have to accept that mongrels will become full breeds, so to speak.”
“But nobody knows what is stored in Mr. James’s intron DNA. One could argue with respect that James is indeed defective because he has not realized his full potential.”
“Your argument has merit. Once introns become microRNA, they can regulate the expression of genes. So perhaps, Mr. James and his kind might enjoy some beneficial abilities. But that’s all theoretical, right now. Even I can’t claim to give these gifts, at least without giving the potentials the next phase of the disease.”
Nowak nodded his head, still enraptured by the newly designed Waldo.
Good. He believes me. I already know the original form of the disease has not only reanimated our subject but given him abilities, no matter how derelict he may be. What Brinkhaus had not shared with Nowak was proof of this. McKean had reported to Brinkhaus that James described he was in possession of some kind of psychic ability. I wonder what other abilities might arise…in other potentials…?
Now Bronchus’s mind raced so much he could not resist the urge to play God once more. Reaching into his lab coat, he extracted a needle, one filled with original serum that had brought about the cannibalistic behavior in James. McKean had reported that he had trapped James in a large cage after infecting him. A full day had nearly elapsed before McKean could attempt contact with James and feed him the blue pills which temporarily curbed his hunger. McKean’s tactics had encouraged Brinkhaus to purchase a similar cage. The testing of Waldo was really only a ruse, one manufactured to require the use of a cage so Nowak would never suspect its" true purpose. Brinkhaus already knew he had refined his serum, the testing of Waldo only confirmation of that fact. Now that Brinkhaus was reasonably sure he could reanimate individuals without awakening the cannibalistic hunger which existed in cave men, in effect leaving the coding which had become dormant in its „off" position, he would actively seek more selective and desirable candidates for immortality. He certainly wasn’t about to launch one of humankind’s biggest evolutionary steps with someone he equated with as a toad.
Enraptured by thought, Nowak remained back turned to Brinkhaus as the human engineer approached in slow, shuffling steps.
“Who knows what doors unused human DNA will unlock? For that matter, we can’t be sure Waldo won’t someday…”
Interrupted by the stabbing pain which had suddenly engulfed his right leg, Stefan Nowak stumbled and fell.
Brinkhaus rushed to his side, cradling his assistant in his arms, preparing him to accept the fact that he would die in mere minutes.
With eyes rolled back in their sockets, Nowak mumbled, “You could have asked me. I’m loyal to your cause…”
As Nowak passed in his arms, Brinkhaus answered his assistant with thoughts only.
Yes, you are now, indubitably in fact. Because once you awaken your hunger will make you dependent upon me and my pills. And then I won’t have to worry about you tipping off the public about the disease’s origin. I’m sorry...I know you look up to me…but one can never be too careful. My own father was a traitor…
Hours later, Stefan Nowak awoke hungry. He was not for hungry for knowledge or academic debate, but carnivorous for flesh and blood. The plate of meat he gnawed upon, the same buffet previously offered to Waldo the cat, tasted better than any meal the reanimate had ever enjoyed as a mortal human.
Eyes wide, teeth bared, Nowak stared quizzically into his maker’s eyes.
I don’t know if you want to talk to me, or want to eat me… Brinkhaus wondered. The scientist, the proud doctor who believed his very blood destined him for greatness, could not possibly know that somehow his test subject had heard his thoughts.
But Nowak was in no position to let on. His mind was too busy clicking through memories, a virtual slide show of his former life, presented to him in roundabout and unintelligible linear arrangement. Disturbing blasts of blue light punctuated each and every recall. Somewhere inside him a voice wondered why he didn’t see this coming. Why he had believed a scientist hungry for glorify would really give a damn about making the world a better place to live in. And when the images finally stopped clicking in Nowak’s head, the angry voice rose.
“You let me out of here. I’m not some
cat in a cage!”
“Ah, but you are Mr. Nowak. You’ve simply traded places in the food chain. But don’t worry, if you’re a good kitty, it will only be temporary.”
And as Nowak’s dilated pupils focused on Waldo the cat, strutting about on a table’s ledge, desperate, bleak emotion overcame him. At that moment, all his knowledge, all his drive to better himself simply revealed itself as a lie. He was no better than the cat sashaying its way to rest upon a pillow. And in that same moment, his cheeks stained by tears, Stefan Nowak definitely did not feel at all gifted.
Chapter 11
Lorelei Lindquist, the living dead mother who unwittingly traded her economic struggle for a carnal addiction watched for arrivals via rooftop.
She and Burnham had nicknamed the nocturnal pedestrians of Ybor City „Arrivals"-because each presented threats to their altered existence. Burnham argued their presence was nothing short of criminal as no law abiding sane individual would roam the area after dark. Lorelei begrudging agreed with Burnham; contemplating in the back of her mind that one of these Arrivals might be the very person she wished to pay back for her alteration: crime lord Amado James.
Lorelei could give a damn about stopping dealers from infecting the populace with their poison. She could find no correlation to the drug addicts who lurked shaded streets for fixes with her present condition despite many late-night arguments with Burnham. He countered their plight was equivalent to theirs. The junkies were addicted to crack like they were dependent upon the blue pills, a pharmaceutical concoction which somehow knocked back the hunger for hours at a time. He related numerous stories of junkies. „Believe me", Burnham had said, „they are the walking dead. Only once they overdose on their addiction, they wouldn’t be awarded a second life. We are the advocates of everyone who has ever been poisoned in this manner. We must stop the suppliers. "
The words echoed in her head. Screw the second life… Lorelei gritted her teeth as he watched from a manufacturing plant’s roof. Super eyes with telephotographic capability to identify the presence of any corporeal vermin only empowered Lorelei so much. So, I have gifted sight. Big deal! What am I supposed to do with it? Become a super cop like Burnham? I don’t give a rat’s ass for justice. It’s too impersonal for me. I only care about my personal vendetta; to take down Amado James for good. When I do, I won’t be playing around on rooftops anymore. I’ll find a way to exist stage left, this time forever…
Lorelei only allowed herself to ponder such desperate machinations when separated from Burnham. She deduced his cop nature might be able to read her every thought. As an officer, he would discourage her renegade fantasy, her suicidal pact, not to mention her reckless disregard for fellow human beings. I only care that my daughter lives free from these vermin…dealers or users…they are all the same: scum of the earth… My best chance of keeping Kassandra safe is to keep her far away from me…
A gut-wrenching pain disturbed her reflection. She squatted, one knee resting on impenetrable, unforgiving solid surface of roof; lips pursed together, she drew long, slow breaths through her nose. Wind scattered her long, curly locks about her face. She could not perceive herself as anything other than a wild animal at this moment. A wild beast that lived among concrete… Wasn’t that the plan after humanity extinguished itself? The wild animals would come to the cities and take over… An alteration in the food chain might put beasts in charge. And that was the reason why she would not continue her existence after revenging her maker. She would not be Amado James. She would not exist as a user. Both were contemptuous states of existence. Burnham, too brainwashed by civic ideals, would never see the way she did. And in this regard, super vision had nothing to do with the kind of perception she employed to judge character.
When the pain subsided, she reclaimed an upright stance; consciously resisting the urge to physically mimic the beast she felt wrestling inside of her. Don’t worry you bastard…I’ll let you out when the time is right…
She had no doubt James would come for her. Burnham, always the devil’s advocate, always the undersized blanket which kept you from completely feeling snug, not surprisingly resisted her paranoia with argument. He countered James might very well believe her to be too incapacitated to affect any harm. Lorelei believed the snake in James ran to his core. He would never take that chance. That’s what made him a crime lord. He must have discovered she had taken a large supply of pills. There would be no reason for him not to exact the same type of revenge upon her as she wished for him. He had to believe she was still out there.
But her maker would not prowl the streets as an Arrival tonight. She heard the ex-cop before she saw him, skipping from roof to roof on the parallel side street.
Damn him! Lorelei snarled in response to the flicker of an image caught by her super enhanced visual cortex. He was supposed to be napping. Burnham must have woken to their chatter. A dealer must be dealing…but not within my range of sight. Still, I’ve got to try to intervene.
Lorelei cursed as she scampered to the ledge of the building which ran parallel to the street side. I can’t let him get taken out. He has to help me exact revenge…
She had no means to resist the calling. Revenge had plenty of time to gnaw at her and find a home in her brain. She wanted revenge sometimes more than she wanted flesh and blood. In the rare moments when the effects of the pills subsided, and her beastly nature called to feed; she still wanted that revenge. Panicked that Burnham would finally do something stupid, putting himself in physical peril because of his innate need to save vermin; Lorelei listened to the whining rumbling of a large engine approaching.
She resisted the urge to curse the peril she was voluntarily putting herself in as she scampered halfway down a fire escape. Hands gripped about a railing, she swung on it the way an acrobat might swing on a high wire before launching herself into free fall. Revenge tempered her fear as her hands slipped from the railing and she began to fall, catlike and balanced, feet first, her destination: the rooftop of a passing bus.
***
Two men chattered in Spanish on a street corner while Burnham eyed them from a rooftop overlooking an intersection.
The user sniffed a plastic baggie. He would have to act quickly if he was to intervene. He doubted simple shouting would scare the dealer from his payday or the user from his score. Both their addictions were must too strong to respond to verbal taunts.
A palm tree would break his fall. Burnham leapt into it, hands clawing for purchase as he slid down its trunk. The palms rustled in response, a giant green fan come to life. The user flinched before pointing in his direction.
Fantastic, I’ve tipped them off. The user darted down a sidewalk. But the dealer, possibly already on the alert for the mysterious, supernatural drug hunter of Ybor City-at least that’s what Burnham fancied they called him-stood his ground. Burnham paid no heed to the danger he was inviting. The man had to be packing some kind of weapon. Could he sprint across the street before he drew it? Burnham dared to risk the ire of the dealer, realizing only fear would send him scurrying back to the plush home he no doubt enjoyed from distribution.
I failed… Burnham let anger get the best of him in that nanosecond of time; the moment he would either survive or perhaps be permanently eviscerated by a fatal wound all in the name of busting up a drug deal. He charged head on to the target. Frothing anger welled in him at allowing the dealer to complete his transaction; it intermingled with a rage he could not inventory by reason. The hunger had been stirred by simple visual contact. Dealer or not; the man standing now just a few yards away was a meal. Lorelei had warned him about the dangers. She charged he could not expect to follow his police protocol when presented with such a scenario. The pills might not always curb the hunger. Her words echoed in his ears. No guarantees…audacious to believe he held the reigns. Still, he charged on.
Until the man finally withdrew a gun like he had used as an officer, by its size it
was most likely a 9 millimeter. The potential for short range damage was imminent if so. He didn’t have Lorelei’s eyesight to be sure. He randomly jerked his stride to the left and to the right, zigzagging to avoid a straight on blast. The gun would be most inaccurate if fired from a distance. That’s why the dealer probably employed it. He would never risk a long shot to draw attention to himself, Burnham theorized. The dealer would preferably discharge the gun at an intimate distance to minimize attention. To turn the tide, Burnham would have to maximize that distance while simultaneously engaging the man in a cat fight; a staring contest which, in a best-case scenario, might result in no physical contact.
Intimidation might still make this man turn tail and run. If the hunger had been activated, Burnham reasoned the simple sight of his translucent face might be enough to discourage a showdown. Burnham’s war on drugs was based on sheer presence. He did not want to risk harming a dealer under the throe of the hunger. He just wanted to keep them looking over their shoulders. One might call him a terrorist in that his main goal was to keep the dealers from earning a living. Maybe users would seek help once the dealers thinned. Maybe dealers would decide the danger wasn’t worth it… Maybe was a big word right now because the weapon was pointed directly at him.
“Just get out of here,” Burnham yelled.
“You make me leave, you sick freak!” the dealer shouted in thickly accented English, his hand slightly shaking from adrenaline. “Whatever you are, I’m betting a bullet will be enough to shatter that silicone face of yours.”
