Sharkman

by Steve Alten

  “Sit down and shut up.” She walked around the desk, a medical bag in her hand. “Listen carefully,” she said, preparing a syringe to draw blood, “you’re not going on The Today Show; you’re not going to say anything. When those reporters ask you about your internship at ANGEL, and eventually they will, you’ll tell them it was a data entry position, but you left after two days because the trips to Miami were too hard on you. When they ask you about the nature of our work, you’ll say you have no idea. Make a fist.”

  I clenched my left hand, allowing her to swab my forearm with rubbing alcohol. “I don’t understand. If I tell everyone that it was your stem cells that repaired my . . . ouch!”

  She stuck me with a needle, filling the first of a dozen plastic vials with my blood. “You’re still not getting this, are you, Mr. Wilson? Besides being extraordinarily dangerous, what you did can’t possibly be repeated. It lacked methodology, oversight, quantified doses, proper testing, and data collection—in short, it was worthless. You also violated FDA and IRB testing protocols, jeopardizing years of hard work and research, and very possibly the hopes of tens of thousands of people suffering from spinal injuries—not to mention millions of cancer patients. All because you were too impatient to wait until we officially began human trials. It was a selfish act that may very well result in your own death.”

  “What do you mean? I feel fine.”

  “Sure you do. You went from being a paraplegic to a world-class athlete in a week . . . and this is fine? Whatever concoction of chemicals you injected into your bloodstream has caused your DNA to destabilize and mutate.”

  “Mutate?” My heart started beating rapidly. “You mean, like those rats with the gills?”

  “I don’t want to say until I analyze your blood. But you clearly overdosed on the stem cells. What else did you take?”

  “Human growth hormone. Three injections. I was also in a hyperbaric chamber prior to the first pouch. Doc, please—”

  “Keep your head, control your thoughts. Stress can alter your pH, rendering you more acidic. Mutations prefer an acidic environment. We’ll start you on an IV as soon as we get back to the lab, something that will raise your alkalinity.”

  “I’m not going to the lab. I have to go to class. I’m trying out for the basketball team.”

  “Out of the question. Your father would have my head on a stake.”

  “My father? What’s he got to do with this?”

  Dr. Becker hesitated. “Your father assists us with procuring funds. I happened to mention to him that you were interning at the lab—”

  “And he canceled the gig.”

  “It was for safety reasons. He was afraid you might be tempted to try something dangerous, and he was right.”

  I shook with rage. “My father doesn’t give a damn about me. I haven’t seen or spoken to him since I was in the hospital.” Tears welled in my eyes, blurring my vision. “And just so we’re clear, the only reason the Admiral canceled my internship was because he was afraid your treatment might actually work, undoing my penance for killing my mom.”

  Dr. Becker looked at me strangely. I don’t know what I was expecting . . . compassion, empathy—maybe a tissue. What I wasn’t expecting was for this short, wiry scientist to suddenly grab a fistful of my hair from the back of my head in order to draw me nearer so she could stare directly into my eyes, the tips of our noses maybe an inch away.

  “What . . . are you doing?”

  “Your eyes . . . they just changed.” Still gripping my hair, she dragged me over to the desk and grabbed the lamp with her free hand, shining it in my face. “I can’t tell if your pupils hyperdilated or your irises just turned black. Now I can’t tell anything; they’re reflecting so much light I can’t see them. How’s your vision?”

  “Everything’s sort of green.”

  Releasing my hair, she reached around to my right eye with her thumb and index finger, intent on prying the lid open wider.

  What happened next happened so fast that I never processed it. One second, Dr. Becker was reaching out to examine my eye—the next, she was lying on the floor behind the principal’s desk, her strawberry-blonde hair splayed across her face.

  “Doc, are you okay?” She winced as I picked her up and carried her to Lockhart’s sofa. “What happened?”

  “You don’t know?”

  “No.”

  “Your right eye disappeared; it rolled completely back into your skull a millisecond before you clubbed me across the chest with your forearm.”

  I stared at my arm, the syringe still dangling from my vein, dripping blood everywhere.

  She connected an empty vial to the line, then looked into my eyes again. “It’s gone. Your pupils are brown again. That’s incredible.”

  “I don’t understand. What just happened?”

  “You were crying. The saltwater served as a catalyst, causing the cells in your eyes to react.”

  “React how?”

  “I don’t know. It may have been nothing. Let me analyze your blood and—”

  “React like a shark? Is that what you mean?”

  “Kwan, listen to me: Human DNA is composed of approximately twenty-four thousand genes. Of these, only eighteen genes have been found to be unique among humans. Eighteen out of twenty-four thousand. The rest are shared with other species or consist of old genes we picked up on the evolutionary trail. These older genes are what feed mutations. In addition, there are long stretches of noncoding or junk DNA that don’t seem to contribute to the production of proteins, yet may play an essential role in our genetic workings.

  “Injecting stem cells from another species into the human genome is a double-edged sword. The good news is that shark stem cells aggressively attack mutating cancer cells and rapidly effect repairs to other nonmutating cells. The bad news is, the shark stem cells seek out weakness in the genome and convert these old genes into something resembling its own kind. The challenge, therefore, is to allow the stem cells to kill the mutating cancer cells, or in your case to heal your severed spinal cord, while making sure we prevent the stem cells from altering the genetic recipe that makes us human. In essence, you introduced a schizophrenic onto the DNA bus—one that has the ability to convert the other passengers to his particular set of character traits. As long as he allows the human genes to drive the bus, we don’t care who else is on board.”

  “What happened to my eyes?”

  “Have you ever seen a chameleon’s skin change color after it’s been placed on a leaf? For a brief second, your tears elicited a similar change, only it happened even faster—sort of like flipping a light switch. The fact that your eyes reverted back to normal so quickly is a good sign; it means the switch prefers to remain in its natural human Up position. In terms of our metaphor, you hit a speed bump but you’re still driving the bus. What I need to do is to analyze your DNA and introduce protein inhibitors into your bloodstream that will keep these mutating shark stem cells away from the eighteen key human genes.”

  She finished filling the last vial with my blood, retracted the needle, and applied a Band-Aid to my punctured vein. Maybe it was the ease at which I had launched her across the room, or maybe she just realized I was flying too high above the celebrity radar to control, but Dr. Becker suddenly had a change of heart.

  “Tell you what, Kwan, why don’t you go back to class while I run the tests. I’ll prepare an IV, then have Anya deliver it to you tonight at your home. That way you can still try out for the basketball team.”

  “Thank you.”

  I entered Mr. Hock’s science class thirty minutes late—to a round of applause. Embarrassed, I found an empty seat and took out my notebook as iPhones snapped my photo and the girl sitting next to me with the long, dark curled locks of hair squeezed my right quad.

  “Ew, nice. I’m Shaniqua.”

  “Kwan.” I glanced to my le
ft to see Anya staring at me with those penetrating bright blue eyes.

  Mr. Hock banged on his desk for quiet. “Wheelchair or no wheelchair, Mr. Wilson, you seem to have a knack for disrupting my class. We’re on page two-thirty-one, review question six. Mike Tvrdik?”

  “Yes?”

  “Answer the question.”

  “Which question?”

  “God help me . . . Page two-thirty-one, review question six.”

  Stephen Ley nudged my leg, passing me a note. The chicken scratch indicated Ley’s brother wanted me to tell the world that I had bought my “miracle HGH” from the medical practice where he worked. In exchange for the endorsement I’d receive a month’s worth of human growth hormone.

  The bell rang, ending class. I hurried outside to wait for Anya, only to be swarmed by a growing crowd of students.

  “Anya—wait!” I pushed through the wall of bodies, my legs pumping hard to keep up with her. “I missed you.”

  “Shut up.”

  “Are you mad at me?”

  “Did those muscles make you stupid?”

  “Please don’t be mad.”

  “You think I don’t know what you did? I trusted you, Kwan. I trusted you with a secret and you burned me.” She walked faster, forging her way through a river of students rushing to get to their second period class.

  In two strides I was ahead of her, cutting her off. “Anya, wait.”

  “Kwan, leave me alone.”

  “Fine, but you need to know something. Back in the hospital, you saved my life. I know you don’t trust me, but trust me—I’d be dead right now if it wasn’t for you. You gave me a reason to live, Anya, and I love you for that. I’m serious.”

  It was a ballsy play, but I meant every word of it. Anya’s blue eyes glistened with tears and she would have kissed me right there had a hundred iPhones not been pointing at us. Instead, she leaned in and whispered in my ear, “Fifth period. Meet me backstage in the auditorium.”

  She pushed through the crowd and was gone.

  Time slows when you’re watching the clock, when you’re counting the minutes until that next great epic moment. Anya had become my addiction, and with all addictions there are times when you’re in seventh heaven and times when everything just hurts. You’re either high or low, but you’re always thinking about that next great epic moment, forsaking everything else.

  When fourth period ended, I was the first person out the door. Descending the stairwell two steps at a time, I managed to avoid the convergence of zombies rushing up from the first floor, making it out to the courtyard before the first “Kwan!” registered in my brain. Avoiding teachers and students, I ducked into the auditorium and reveled in its privacy.

  And then I heard the guitar riff.

  I followed the sound, which led me backstage to the music room. Seated on the floor, his guitar resting on his lap was Jesse Gordon.

  It had been two weeks ago since we had jammed together; two weeks since I had injected myself with predatory stem cells and ended up back in the hospital.

  I approached Jesse, who never looked up from playing. It was an old Stones song we had tried together but had stopped because he needed to learn the chords.

  While I was learning to walk again, he had learned the song.

  Recognizing the second verse, I sang, “. . . gonna find my way to heaven ’cause I did my time in hell—wasn’t looking too good but I was feeling real well.”

  We sang the chorus together in a wailing harmony that would have made Keith Richards proud. “After all is said and done, I gotta move—I had my fun. Better walk before they make me run.”

  He stopped playing. “Your voice sounds sick. More confident.”

  “Better lung capacity. Sorry I missed the last practice.”

  “You promised to stay out of the hospital.”

  “Two weeks in bed to walk again . . . I’ll take it.”

  “Have you seen Ley’s Facebook page? He claims his brother cured you with HGH.”

  “You believe that?”

  “I’m smarter than a fifth grader, Kwan. I know it wasn’t the HGH, but it was something with a serious kick, which means you can bet your ass everyone’s gonna want it. Which means you won’t be singing with us anytime soon.”

  “Why not?”

  “Dude, I worked at ANGEL last summer. I didn’t have the kind of access you probably had, but I spent many a long afternoon getting high with the shark wranglers. Do you know who funds Becker’s lab? It’s DARPA, as in the Defense Advanced Research Projects Agency. You seriously think the psychopaths at the DoD are gonna allow you to go on Letterman? And I know Anya has you whipped, but did you ever google her old man?”

  “Yeah? So what?”

  “So what? Dude, the guy worked at the CFR and is a member of the Trilateral Commission. Patel’s New World Order.”

  “Right. And he’s teaching at FAU to do what? Take over Boca? I met Professor Patel, he happens to be a nice guy. So tuck your conspiracy theory string away.”

  “Fine, make me out to be the frenemy. But at least take my advice as a fellow musician. Walk now before they make you run. Disappear before they disappear you.”

  20

  Was I disturbed by Jesse Gordon’s warning? Not really. Jesse had a rep for being paranoid, and Professor Patel was a million miles from being a New World Order fanatic.

  My father, on the other hand . . .

  Anya was waiting for me backstage. After making sure we were the only ones around, she led me down a short corridor to a dressing room. Dragging me inside, she locked the door.

  Before I could say a word, she hugged me. It started off like an “I missed you” hug that melted into a slow dance embrace.

  How good did it feel to be standing and hugging this beautiful girl?

  Better than a two-hand jam.

  We rocked together, our legs entwined, and it was as if time no longer existed. At some point she looked up and kissed me. Lips . . . so soft . . . her tongue exploring my mouth, her right hand snaking its way past my left ear until her fingers twirled my hair, massaging the back of my skull—still sore from Dr. Becker’s abuse.

  And then, abruptly, she pried herself free. “Oh God, I can’t do this.”

  Can’t do what? What was she saying? Why was she pouring gasoline on the best moment of my life and apologizing by lighting a match?

  “Anya, what’s wrong?”

  “Li-ling was right. I should have never visited you in the hospital; I don’t know what I was thinking. I’ve been through this . . . I can’t do it again. I worked so hard at the lab . . . at school. I’m not going to jeopardize my future because you had to be so damn impatient.”

  Impatient? She’s the one who asked me to meet her backstage!

  Dumbass. She’s not Americanized. You’re moving too fast for her. Show her your sensitive side. Tell her how you feel before she walks out that door.

  “Anya . . . I love you.”

  “You love me? You love me! You don’t get to love me. Not now, not ever. I’m not going down that path with you. This time I get to choose. This time I get to be the selfish one. So do me a solid and don’t talk to me anymore. Don’t text me. Don’t even look at me. Just live out your life. Live it without me.”

  Pushing past me, she unlocked the door and darted down the hallway.

  I just stood there, dumbfounded, still swooning from our shared embrace and the most amazing kiss of my life . . . and now the sudden sensation of her cold hand as she ripped out my heart and showed it to me like some ancient Mayan priest. I felt like a doe-eyed baby seal that gets lured onto land by the coos of a hunter, only to be clubbed over the head. The seal was dead, but I was in physical pain. My heart actually hurt. My insides felt twisted.

  Had I misread her signals? Was this a head game? A religious thing? Did
my breath stink?

  I could still smell her perfume on my shirt; I could still taste her tongue . . . the impression of her lips on mine. I wanted her so, so badly—what had I done wrong?

  I imagined Jim Morrison laughing at me. Just like his song, I had loved her madly . . . as she walked right out the door.

  The bell rang, announcing the end of fifth period. Lunch was over, and I had been the main course. Mentally wiped out, a physical and emo wreck—there was no way I was going to sixth period trig.

  Anya’s friends with Li-ling. Li-ling has sixth period lunch. Go find her. Let her know you’re confused.

  I turned to face the dressing mirror, a mess. I washed my face in the water fountain, then ran my wet fingers through my hair like a comb. As I straightened my shirt collar, I noticed something in my hand.

  It was a clump of hair.

  Panic-stricken, I reached for the back of my head, my fingers probing the area Anya had caressed—now a bald spot the size of an orange.

  That’s why she stopped herself. She realized the HGH wasn’t strong enough to counteract the mutation.

  “I’m dying.”

  Rachel Solomon was on the phone when I knocked on the window of her open door. She waved me inside, motioning for me to sit.

  I dropped my backpack on the floor and slumped in a chair, waiting for her to finish the call. On her desk was a glass of water. Suspended above the glass by toothpicks was an avocado seed, its lower half under water. Flowing out of the bottom of the seed were roots.

  Rachel hung up the phone. “Pretty impressive, huh? From that tiny seed you scooped out of an avocado last month grows a new tree.” Her hazel eyes swept over my face. “Close the door and tell me what happened.”

  I pushed the door shut, averting her penetrating gaze. “It’s hard to explain. Everything’s happening so fast. My recovery . . . the media.”

  “You didn’t come here to deliver a State of the Union. Something upset you. Speak.”