by Gary Starta
“And our guest…?”
“Still out,” Lorelei answered, standing with arms folded.
“Good. It’ll give me preparation time.” Finch emptied the bags to reveal the contents; tubs upon tubs of chicken livers.
Lorelei’s face contorted with disgust.
“Hey, Burnham – are you with us?” Finch asked, pretending to be oblivious to Lorelei’s contorted stares.
“Barely,” a moan emanated off the couch.
“Do you remember how my Mum fed her little Plump-kin?”
“Ah, Plump-kin…” Finch could detect a smile in his friend’s voice.
“So, you remember. The pudgy white cat, she was Mum’s little darling.”
Lorelei winced. “I thought you would be your Mum’s little darling, Finch.”
Finch ignored her and began doling liver into a pan.
Burnham resumed his stroll down memory lane. “Ah, Plump-kin, she was so friendly; always purring…”
Finch finished his thought. “…always eating. Especially, chicken livers, couldn’t get enough.”
Lorelei tapped her foot. “Earth to Finch… What the hell are you guys getting at?”
Finch lit a small blue flame and fetched a ladle off a rack.
“It’s about making the savage beast purr, my love. I recalled how Burnham told me he survived on bloody meat during his reanimation. It curbed his hunger. Now, I really don’t want a lot of bloody slabs of cow hanging about my apartment. So, I’m proposing, the next best thing: chicken livers. They come replete with blood and they’re organs. So, they should curb the hunger – in all of you.” He paused to point a ladle.
“Great. You’re feeding us cat food, Finch” Lorelei interjected.
“I can’t have pets in the building. So, don’t flatter yourself that you’re my pet. I think you should consider this an experience. I’m sure this is considered a delicacy in some part of the world.”
“Give it a chance,” Burnham said to Lorelei. “It will help us deal with our guest.”
“And,” Finch said to Burnham, “it also will help us deal with you. I believe your kind isn’t supposed to ingest pharmaceutical rubbish. I think your body is in revolt. And because it is, I think it affected your abilities. That’s why,” he focused his attention towards Lorelei, “I’m going to believe you had nothing to do with our latest incident.”
Lorelei muttered something indiscernible.
“Now as for our friend in chains; I think the livers are our best chance at diplomacy.”
“So what, Finch, Lorelei charged, “Are you saying we should abandon the meds? You just told me we need James for his pill supply.”
“That I did. No, we shouldn’t give up on the pills. But I think we can meter our smaller doses by using the livers. I’ll crush some of the blue nasty into the food. And voila, we might just make a thug purr.”
Finch cut the flame on the boiled livers about forty-five minutes later.
As he doled a serving onto a plate, a sudden clank of chains demanded everyone’s attention.
Lorelei raced to the guest room, followed by Burnham.
The guest had awakened violent as expected. A hook on the ceiling began to give in response. Plaster plumed downward in Lorelei’s direction. She coughed and waved at the dust storm in futility.
The man refocused his attention from escape to Burnham in seconds, repositioning his body to a sitting position.
“You,” he said to Burnham, “you’re the freak that broke my wrist. Shit…” His eyes widened. “You fucking bit me.” He attempted to paw at his neck wound but the chains would not allow it.
“You fucking freak. You turned me…” His voice hushed to a whimper. “You made me into one of you.”
Lorelei challenged him with a growl. As she bent over the bed, her hair toggled this way and that, pendulum style, obscuring and revealing the anger in her face. Her ice blue eyes locked with the guests.
Burnham scrambled to throw his arms about her waist.
“Don’t…don’t antagonize him further…”
“What do you mean,” the guest answered. “What did you intend on doing with me?” He rattled his chains and growled.
Lorelei answered despite Burnham’s protest.
“For now, you’re a bargaining chip – a hostage.”
The man smiled. “Ah, so you know my boss, do you?”
“Yes,” Lorelei answered. “And I wonder if you refer to him as a freak as well. I bet he wouldn’t like knowing you do.”
“You’re both fucking crazy. I don’t know what you are – what we are – but you won’t stand a chance against James. He’ll send a fucking army after you.”
Now Burnham challenged the man. “Oh, yeah; then what’s he waiting for? He’s had weeks to send an army after us.”
The man shook his head. “It’s the girl. You…” He spat in the direction of Lorelei. “He won’t do it because he’s gaga for her. The little zombie bitch.”
Lorelei launched into a punch but was thwarted by Burnham’s bear hug.
Finch appeared at the doorway, just in back of Burnham and Lorelei.
“What’s your name, man? You got one or are do you just respond to whistles?”
The man’s mouth grew frothy. “It’s Sanchez…”
Burnham turned to Finch. We better get some of those livers into him – fast.”
“I was lying,” Sanchez said. Spittle flew from his mouth. “I’m a casualty of war. You’re right. James isn’t going to come. So, what the hell are you going to do with me? Make me your pet?”
Finch scooped some liver onto a wooden spoon in response.
“Here kitty, kitty…”
Chapter 26
Waldo the cat pranced on top of Stefan Nowak’s cage. Nowak shielded his face with shaking hands. The constant movement made him nauseous. So did the flood of blue iridescent strobe lighting. He experienced it most vividly when closing his eyes.
Nowak was in for the night. Put away in his reinforced steel cage so his mentor – his master – Karl Brinkhaus could get a few hours of shuteye. The human engineer was very close to perfecting L2, manufacturing a formula which would deter the disease from affecting the pituitary gland in a manner which produced the hunger.
Brinkhaus expounded upon his discovery in great detail over the past two days. Nowak heard only dribs and drabs of his self-aggrandizing speech. His body and mind were too compromised to focus on detail. For that reason, he needed to overcome his maladies so he might convince Brinkhaus to inject him with this new phase of L2, renamed for the moment as L2.1. It might steer the geneticist from interrogating him further about his recent change. Profuse sweating, body aches and wrenching stomach pain clouded Nowak’s mind. He could not devise a plan under such duress. And he feared he could no longer conceal the change thrust upon him. In the deep recesses of Stefan Nowak’s ever changing brain, he concluded some new ability was taking shape.
Nowak was positive Brinkhaus would capitalize on the new gift in a manner which would further subject him to servitude.
He had been eager to accept Bronchus’s offer to work as his assistant for a small stipend. Meeting the famed geneticist at a symposium, Nowak was the only graduate student in the auditorium to muster courage to speak to the aloof and ever preoccupied man. Brinkhaus responded gruffly at first in Nowak’s question – a blunt one at that – asking the famed geneticist if humankind could rewire its genetic coding in their lifetime. Brinkhaus eventually warmed to the man’s inquiry. He appreciated the student’s wording of the question. Nowak didn’t ask if genetic rewiring could be achieved, he had asked when it would become fact. The question fed Bronchus’s ever growing ego. He made Nowak an offer.
“Why start your career at the bottom in some research firm when you can learn how to redefine your field with me – by your side – gui
ding you every step of the way.”
Nowak found the offer irresistible. He too lived for a career, one which would offer him notoriety in the scientific community.
Brinkhaus sensed his assistant’s motivation, but never reprimanded his apprentice. He came to the sad conclusion Nowak was a mere toad; a man of little talent hell bent on making a name for himself. He found the man’s dream of notoriety repugnant. Brinkhaus was only motivated by leaving a legacy: the means to rewire humankind. The discovery would speak volumes in itself. He needed no accolades. It was already assumed, by Brinkhaus, that his lineage would no doubt make such scientific strides. Making a name was inconsequential. But Brinkhaus accepted Nowak. The man was obedient, a hard worker and cared little for money. The small stipend he paid Nowak was evidence of that. The assistant content on wearing tattered clothing and eating cheap meals never once asked for additional compensation.
Nowak savvy to Bronchus’s interest in his change blamed poor diet on his perceived illness.
Brinkhaus agreed with a nod of his head. Nowak knew without a doubt he had not duped his mentor in the least; but bought some additional time to figure out what he might do with his new gift.
Mere hours passed. They seemed like days to the nauseated, aching Nowak. But the answer came with a voice. Someone was speaking to him via thought. He posited that only another reanimate with the same gift might be able to link with him in this telepathic fashion. He soon dismissed the voice as belonging to Amado James; the man Brinkhaus was extorting. And because Brinkhaus refused Nowak access to all media; Nowak had no inclination other reanimates might have been created. Yet the strange voice confirmed there had to be other reanimates like him out there. The voice was not only a mere whisper; a day dream articulation that might be dismissed as hallucination. This was expression. The voice enhanced with emotion, dripped with pain, regret and desperation.
Nowak wondered long and hard how this might be achieved. He concluded brain waves were responsible. Oscillations of the brain in the form of electric signals were proved reality by the German psychiatrist Hans Berger in 1924. Berger recorded these signals via electroencephalogram (EEG) and found synaptic reactions of the brain could be differentiated upon specific human emotional response.
Nowak was convinced he acted as an EEG system. The words he heard, though at first garbled and weak, were tinged with emotion. It was as if he and his telepathic partner shared one brain. Disconcerting, but wondrous all at the same time; the discovery would bring Brinkhaus great pleasure. Yet Nowak still felt hesitant on sharing his experience let alone the fact that another unidentified reanimate existed.
First, he must figure out who shared consciousness with. It might influence Bronchus’s decision to reconfigure his wiring, to make his hunger go away. For Nowak, this concern was paramount. He did not want Brinkhaus privy to other candidates. He might be left in his current state, gifted by cannibalistic.
Nevertheless, these issues paled in comparison to Nowak’s intrigue. Just who was attempting to talk to him?
***
Sanchez, the street thug reanimate, struggled to shield his head turtle style. A compulsion to disappear into his own body, his own defective shell of a person was failing.
“He’ll need more livers,” Burnham whispered to Finch. The men were busy reinforcing the chains which kept Jose Sanchez imprisoned. The seemingly mundane task elevated Finch’s heartbeat. Burnham stood on a ladder attempting to secure another hook into the ceiling. The ex-cop’s limbs dangled precariously close to their captive, and invited sighs of anxiety to expel from Finch in regular intervals.
“Sssh,” Burnham said, placing a finger over his lips.
“But,” Finch said, “your leg, it’s in bloody reach of” – Finch gaze darted to Sanchez – “you know who.”
“He’s preoccupied, I think,” Burnham responded. “I’ll be done soon.”
That’s what I’m afraid of, Finch thought.
Finch’s mind pictured Sanchez latching onto Burnham’s leg, then gnawing upon it KFC style as in the countless movies he had watched.
But Sanchez did seem preoccupied. Still dangerous, still hungry, still aggravated – yet distanced from them.
It was as if Sanchez had found a means to escape his chains in spirit.
The prisoner mumbled incoherently. Each pause between grumblings was accentuated with movement. But Sanchez was not pining for Burnham’s flesh. He was more concerned about burrowing his head closer to his chest. Yet the chains, Finch observed, thwarted the man’s efforts. Still, he struggled. As he did, Finch could not help but wonder if reinforced chains would matter. And now Burnham was exposing himself in what may be a futile effort.
Finch also thought about the gun. Lorelei – who refused to lay eyes on Sanchez – had ventured out to retrieve it a few hours ago. She confided in Finch she was intentionally distracting herself with any task possible to keep a distance from Sanchez. In her eyes, she had told Finch, the man was an extension of Amado James. Finch didn’t need to question her further. That meant she hungered to eviscerate Sanchez even though she concluded it best to keep the prisoner alive and well as a bargaining chip.
Finch recalled Lorelei’s anger and disappointment. It was not only about her failure to kill James; it was about how he conspired to fail her. But the sabotage had kept James alive. He was their only source to obtain more pills. It pained him to think Lorelei hated him, because a part of him still desired her despite her behavior. No, the gun had to be compromised, whatever the cost.
But now Finch wondered if his tampering had permanently damaged the weapon. He cursed himself. It would sure come in handy in times like these. The gun might encourage Sanchez to keep his zombie hands to himself during feeding time. He would wait to catch Lorelei in a good mood – if that was possible – to inquire about borrowing the 9mm. She might be mellower in an hour when her movie ended. Engaged in front of a TV in the living room, Lorelei had become absorbed in a romantic comedy starring Jennifer Aniston for reasons Finch could not fathom. However, it was a means to an end if it kept Lorelei’s mind occupied; in essence her hands were chained – figuratively, if not literally – as long as she was engrossed in her flick.
Sanchez moaned, “Get out of my head.” Unlike Nowak, he didn’t equate brain sharing with scientific breakthrough.
His constant struggling, the act of moving the chains back and forth alongside his head compromised connectivity.
Each time Sanchez passed the metal by his skull, he noticed the voice became fainter.
He finally positioned the chain in the most effective manner to muffle communication.
“You’ve got to end this.”
Burnham and Finch both turned their attention to him. This time the man wasn’t rambling incoherently. He spoke succinctly.
“I realize what I was…I was inconsequential. The dealing, the stealing…it was all bullshit. I can see this now.”
Sanchez remained still, his arms holding the chains at a fixed angle to his head.
“I don’t know how James…lives...through this. I can’t stand it. And I don’t want revenge. I want…mercy.” Tears flowed down his cheeks.
“Put me down, for good this time. You can be rid of me.”
“We don’t want to bring you further harm, mate,” Finch responded. “But we need a way to contact your boss. So, you’ll comply…?”
“If it means an end to this misery I will. But I don’t know why you want to continue to survive like this.”
Burnham intervened. Worry lines creased his face.
“I think our guest is need of food. Finch, please…”
“Right, livers coming right up,” Finch said to Sanchez, his eyes locked with Burnham.
Outside the door, Burnham reprimanded Finch.
“We don’t want to give this guy any Intel. Don’t volunteer anything, Finch.” In an instant, Burnham’s f
ace lightened. “But I do like your compassion, Finch. It’s something I wish Lorelei could feel.”
***
“You’ve got to stop letting feelings get in our way,” Pharmacure CEO Alan Eichelbaum advised his boss. Frederick Gaines, President of the pharmaceutical giant still had apprehensions about releasing the drug, Luxate, so soon after the Congressman Katz’s death.
“Alan, in the long run, we might benefit by waiting. We’re still at square one. L2 is too unpredictable in its current phase. Studies are not conclusive that Luxate will curb cannibalistic tendencies over a long period. I’m just saying we should allow Brinkhaus some more time to perfect it, that’s all.”
Eichelbaum sipped from his martini glass. “We have waited. Your two weeks has come and gone, should I waste another two in futility? Grayson Medical doesn’t have a clue as to where Brinkhaus is. He’s M.I.A. We might never correct the disease. And the longer we wait, the longer we give our competitors a chance to grab a piece of the pharmaceutical pie. Everyone is aware of how Katz died. Don’t think other firms, other scientists, aren’t scrambling to manufacture a treatment. And don’t forget about the people we hired. What if our government lackeys betray us? They have a bottom line as well. A competitor might pay them more money. They might withhold the disease until another firm readies a treatment. We can’t afford to give anyone time to betray us.”
“But if our pills don’t work in the long run. Then what do we do?”
“The pills will never be a cure anyway. They are a treatment. We’re only going to remain at the top by appearing to create cutting edge medicine. Do you think our investors care if the pills work or not? They only need – and you only need- to have the public believe that they do. That’s our bottom line; that’s our profit margin. Do you want to be in the red or the black this year, Frederick?” Gaines lit a cigar. Smoke wafted through the pricey eatery. But no one would protest because there were no patrons. Gaines had paid the restaurant’s manager to empty it; to convert it into his private office.
