by Steve Alten
Racks of cages, all encoded with numbers that began with BS-MGH.
Bull Shark—Mouse Growth Hormone. These were my peeps—the little rodents that had given me the courage to inject myself . . . to venture alone down a road less traveled.
They were dead. Every last one of them.
And from the look of their mutated carcasses, they had died painfully.
Rachel Solomon had told me to use my mind to control the fear . . . mind over matter. My mind was in free fall, manifesting negative energy so palpable that I could taste its acidic breath in my throat.
Oh, no . . .
Exiting the lab, I sprinted down the empty corridor and entered the closest bathroom I could find. Standing before a mirror, I turned my head from side to side, my body shaking uncontrollably.
Appearing along either side of my neck were five gill slits. They were sealed shut, but they were there—six-inch long, vein-thin purple-colored folds of death.
I opened my mouth—and it got worse. A membrane, covered in a gook-like saliva was lodged in my throat—cutting off my airway.
And suddenly I couldn’t breathe!
Fleeing the bathroom, I ran down the corridor for help . . . unable to speak, unable to gasp. I felt my lungs collapsing. I felt like I was drowning in air . . . literally like a fish out of water!
My muscles were lead by the time I found my way into the observation area. The room was spinning as I dragged myself up the circular stairwell to the catwalk bordering the open top of the five-thousand-gallon shark aquarium—an aquarium Joe had not yet begun to refill.
Staggering forward, I blacked out . . . flopping face-first into the medical tank.
25
A speck of consciousness, I drifted beneath a surface awash in moonlight and became one with the sea. It flowed through my mouth and I could breathe. It filled my nostrils and I tasted its soul. Down my throat and out my neck and the burn of my near asphyxiation became a distant memory.
Open wide and breathe.
Open wide and breathe.
So soothing. So simple. The sea cooed in my brain and reverberated in my bones, and Kwan Wilson disappeared.
Ahhhhhh . . .
And then the moonlight became lights and the oasis of calm was shattered with an avalanche of sound as I was violently dragged from my womb back into the world of chaos.
“His gills appear to be functioning.”
“Mr. Roig, use the dental wedge to pry open his mouth. Anya, shine your light down his throat. Li-ling, get a shot of the esophageal membrane.”
“Hurry up, he’s getting cranky!”
“Got it.”
“Li-ling, put the hose in his mouth so he can breathe.”
“He’s fighting it.”
“Mr. Wilson, I need you to remain calm. Mr. Wilson—”
“I can’t hold him up much longer, Doc!”
“Anya, you try.”
“Kwan, it’s Anya. Look at me, Kwan. Let the hose drain down your throat so you can breathe. Breathe, Kwan. Breathe and stay calm; we’re going to help you.”
Blue eyes . . . so familiar. Pulling me out of the void and into her azure sea.
“Good, that’s good. Now listen carefully, but stay calm. You can’t speak because there’s a membrane sealing off your esophagus. Your lungs are intact, but they’ve collapsed. To inflate them, you need to collapse the membrane located deep inside your throat. I want you to focus on that membrane—you can feel it below your Adam’s apple. When you’re ready, we’re going to remove the hose. I’m going to count to three to allow your gills to flush your throat; then you’re going to collapse that membrane by inhaling a deep, lung-inflating breath. Nod if you can understand.”
I must have nodded, because she smiled.
“Good, Kwan, very good. Are you ready to breathe air again? Okay, I’m removing the hose . . . nice and easy, and we count one . . . two . . . three and breathe! Big deep breath!”
I opened my mouth and sucked in a massive gulp of air which lodged in my throat and sent me into a state of panic.
Anya grabbed my face in both her hands and her eyes held mine. “Kwan, the membrane acts like a muscle. Take another short breath and swallow it open.”
There was a part of me ready to fight the two men anchoring my arms in theirs—to submerge back into that container of sea, but I knew Anya couldn’t follow. And so I gulped another bite of air and imagined my throat yawning open—and the air passed through my esophagus into my chest.
And now I was suffocating.
“Breathe again! Deep breaths! You need to inflate your lungs enough to be able to engage your intercostal muscles and diaphragm.”
My mouth became a bellows, inflating my chest with short bursts of air until I could inhale and exhale. . . inhale and exhale.
The blue eyes teared up. “Good, Kwan. Very good. Can you speak?”
I cleared my throat and collected a load of phlegm, which I turned and spit into Joe Botchin’s face. “Let . . . me . . . go, asshole.”
The vice grips on my arms eased.
We were standing in the medical pool, waist-deep in water. Anya put her arm around me and we climbed out onto the catwalk.
Dr. Becker sat me down, then peered into each of my eyes using a retinoscope. “Get him downstairs to BSL-2, I need to check his corneas. Joe, I want the main tank cleaned and filled in an hour or I’ll feed you and Mr. Roig to Taurus.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
The dead rats I had seen in Lab 4 were the first test subjects that had been administered mouse growth hormone as part of stem cell protocol. The MGH injections had established a temporary equilibrium between the shark mutations and the rodent’s DNA, but the patients had still died when their respiratory systems had evolved gills, collapsing their lungs in the process.
Dr. Becker explained that, like human lungs, gills consist of a dense network of thin-walled blood vessels that are conducive for gas exchange. As water flows through the gills, oxygen is extracted from the water molecule and enters the bloodstream while carbon dioxide is expelled from the bloodstream back into the water.
Becker told me that evolution had endowed mammals with an epiglottis—a flap that seals the trachea in order to prevent food and liquids from entering our lungs when we eat. In the same way the shark mutation had generated an esophageal membrane to prevent seawater from entering the rat’s esophagus and drowning the host. Composed of an elastic cartilage, the membrane moved into place when the gills were engaged.
Dr. Becker explained to me that the rats in Lab 4 had suffocated because they weren’t in water when their metamorphosis had occurred. Once she realized this, she had the next group of rodents placed in five-foot-long glass tanks that offered a dry island habitat surrounded by water.
Of course, it would have been nice if she had mentioned her findings to me before I had nearly suffocated.
I followed Dr. Becker and Anya inside Lab 3, my expression no doubt incredulous as I gazed at racks of these multihabitat aquariums. Hairless rats were swimming underwater like rodent-fish, breathing through their gills and paddling with webbed paws. Occasionally a rat would climb out of the water to eat, at which time it would regurgitate a mouthful of mucus—an act that reopened its esophagus and inflated its lungs.
“This is sick. Look at that one—it’s swimming like an otter.”
“Yes, Mr. Wilson. They adapt quickly.”
Anya seemed distracted, but I didn’t care. I needed to know what my own limitations were. “Dr. Becker, are these saltwater or freshwater tanks?”
“Both. Bull sharks can live in freshwater and saltwater, so can rat-fish . . . shark-rats—whatever we eventually call them.”
“What do you call me?”
Anya turned to me, squeezing my hand. “There are things you need to know . . . things I need to tel
l you.”
“Tell him later,” said Dr. Becker. “Right now I need to look at his eyes before they revert. Put him on the keratometer.”
Anya led me to a small desk situated between two stools. Mounted to the tabletop was an instrument that resembled a large microscope, except its lens was pointed at eye level. Anya had me sit down and place my chin onto a guide cup while Dr. Becker adjusted the machine to my face, peering through her end of the scope into my right eye.
“What I’m doing, Mr. Wilson, is checking your cornea. Shark and human corneas are surprisingly compatible, which is why we use them in cornea transplants. The difference is the presence of a membrane that protects the shark’s cornea . . . which I can’t see in your eye.”
“Is that good?”
“It’s inconclusive. If you had it during your metamorphic episode and you already reverted, it means your ability to use your amphibious features is hyperkinetic. If your cornea failed to generate the membrane, it may mean you’re hypokinetic—slow to adapt. The only way we’ll know for sure is to let you spend some time in the observation tank.”
“No!” The suddenness of Anya’s objection ruffled my already shot nerves. “Kwan needs to know everything before you use him as your guinea pig . . . fish.”
“What’s she talking about, Doc?”
“What Anya is saying is that, among rats, the mutation isn’t limited to their respiratory system. The longer the test subject remains in the water, the greater their metamorphosis. Turns out our injected rodents seem to prefer their new environment.”
“Good for them. As long as my lungs inflate when I need them to I don’t mind being able to breathe underwater using my neck.”
Anya turned to Dr. Becker, her turquoise eyes insistent.
The scientist sighed. “Show him.”
They were in BSL-2, which was on night habitat. Anya handed me a pair of night vision goggles, then led me to the rows of tanks.
The rats in these aquariums had been the first test subjects exposed to water—their mutations, therefore, the most advanced. In place of their hairless skin was a thick, grayish-brown shark hide. Their arms and legs were still in place, but the limbs were weak and atrophied. Compensation came from the rodents’ tails, which had thickened and were being used to propel the creatures through the water like a crocodile. On some of the rats, a calcium deposit had formed midspine—perhaps a precursor for some kind of dorsal fin.
There were other more subtle anatomical changes, but overall nothing startling . . . yet.
Anya reached into a large terrarium filled with white mice and extracted one of the squirming little guys by its tail. “The rats used to eat a specially formulated diet of rodent chow. The shark-rats prefer their meals with a pulse.”
Selecting an aquarium, she unceremoniously tossed the mouse in the water.
The mouse doggy-paddled its way toward the floating plastic island located at the far end of the tank.
The shark-rat immediately homed in on its prey, circling below its churning legs. Just as it was about to strike, Anya scooped the little guy up in a goldfish net and deposited him on the island.
I breathed a sigh of relief.
“Keep watching,” Anya said. “The mutations have developed shark-like senses that allow them to feel vibrations in the water. The rat can hear the mouse’s heart beating through the plastic island.”
As I watched in horror, the shark-rat circled twice, then propelled itself out of the water onto the island and grabbed the mouse along the scruff of the neck in one sickening, blood-squirting bite.
It did not feed on dry land. Instead, the mutant slid backward into the water, dragging its twitching meal underwater where it shook it until it mercifully drowned.
“A little depraved, but impressive.”
Anya turned on me like I had been the one who fed the creature its meal. “Don’t you get it? The mutated species’ physiology is determined by its environment, but the rats clearly prefer the water—directly defying their instincts as land mammals. This new behavioral pattern indicates the shark DNA is far more dominant. Behavioral patterns are also directly linked to one’s personality. These once docile, warm-blooded lab rats have become cold-blooded predators—and the same thing may happen to you.”
26
Dr. Becker lived on the third floor of the building that housed ANGEL. She had a full kitchen, den, three bathrooms, a library, and six bedrooms—not including the master suite.
It was after four in the morning by the time Anya, Li-ling, and I made our way up the private stairwell to the guest quarters. Any hope of spending the night with the beautiful Ms. Patel was dashed the moment I saw my room.
“A hospital bed? For real?”
Her response was cut off by Nadja Kamrowski, who entered pushing an IV stand. “The accommodations on this floor were intended for cancer patients. If there is a problem, Joe Botchin has a sofa bed in his trailer.”
“No thanks. What’s in the IV?”
“Human growth hormone, vitamins, and something to allow you to rest. Get in bed. I need to start your drip and hook you up to a heart monitor.”
Kamrowski’s left eye was squinting more than usual, and the last thing I wanted her doing was jabbing my vein with a needle. I glanced at Anya, who came to my rescue. “Get some rest, Dr. K., I can handle it.”
I removed my shirt and climbed into bed, awaiting the IV.
Anya closed the door, then surprised me by removing her own shirt.
“Anya?”
“If you’re going to lose your virginity, Kwan, gift it to someone special.” She climbed in bed with me and we kissed, her tongue flirting with mine. Before I knew it we were naked, and yet everything felt different from my groping encounter in the ocean with Tracy . . . lust and love worlds apart.
I always imagined what my first time would be like. You see stars hooking up in movies and they’re moaning and their eyes are rolling and everything’s choreographed and perfect, and then there’s porn and that’s a whole different animal. I didn’t know if Anya was a virgin, but she sure felt like a virgin. Me? I was clumsy and panting and trying my best to force myself inside her before I totally lost control. She finally climbed on top of me and guided me in and I lasted about seven seconds . . . seven seconds of heaven I never thought I’d ever get to experience after my car accident.
When I was done Anya laid down on top of me, resting her head on my chest. “How was it?”
“Best moment in my life.”
“Mine, too. But now I have to hook up your IV drip and say good night.”
“You can’t stay here with me?”
“Dr. Becker would have a fit. Besides, this bed can barely hold you, and we both need our rest.”
She kissed me; then we climbed out of bed and dressed. I lay back down in my bathing suit, allowing Anya to adhere the EKG leads to my chest. I tried not to wince as she slid the IV needle into my vein.
“Kwan, before I leave I’ll fill the bathtub with water—just in case your gills spasm.”
My heart pounded, my mind suddenly consumed in fear. “Is that something I need to worry about?”
“It’s something we obviously need to prepare for, but worrying does no good. Your mind needs to stay focused so you can remain in control.”
“What happens if I can’t control these changes? What happens if I become psychotic, like those rats? If that happens, will you be there to save me?”
She squeezed my hand. “I’m here for you.”
“That’s not what I meant. If things go bad, I don’t want to end up suffering like those rats with the fangs and nasty dispositions . . . or be an exhibit in Becker’s aquarium of horrors. If the human Kwan disappears, I need to know you’ll put me out of my misery.”
“Kwan—”
“Please, Anya! You have to promise me that if th
ings go too far you’ll end my life.”
Hot tears ran out of her blue eyes and onto my hand. “I promise.”
I couldn’t sleep, my thoughts ping-ponging from Anya to the basketball game to the scene on the beach, and finally to the sudden, frightening gill transformation that had nearly ended my life. The fear refused to allow my mind to shut down, and when I finally drifted off the urge to pee shook me out of my dream.
Damn IV. I must have gone to the bathroom five times over the next three hours, each visit requiring me to unplug my heart monitor and wheel the IV stand to the toilet—my bladder refilling throughout the night as the meds continued draining into my vein.
It wasn’t until daylight that exhaustion finally pulled me under . . .
The surface undulates above me like liquid mercury. Curtains of sunlight dance before me, bleeding into the depths below. I move through this liquid universe and the liquid universe moves through me. I can see it and taste it; I can hear it and inhale its scents, but most of all I can feel it. Everything. From the tiniest flick of a shrimp’s tail to the cry of a twenty-ton whale. The sea is a world of vibration, and my body is a tuning fork.
A moray eel pokes its head out of a hole and I can sense the sand grinding beneath its belly. A school of fish feeds on krill in the distance, and their gnashing jaws become my overture. The harmonics attract an audience—a gray whale and her calf. The pair expels thunderous breaths through the surface—the chuffing of their lungs reverberating along the sides of my body, the beating of their hearts taking residence in my blood.
Kwan . . .
Now, it is the deep that beckons. Driven by primordial instinct, I curl into a steep dive, harboring neither thought nor worry nor fear. Blue becomes olive-green as the darkness closes in around me, my eyes accommodating the swift descent into the abyss.
Kwan . . .
The empty carcass awaits my presence, bobbing upright along the bottom. There is no vibration, no scent. No movement, no pulse. I have been summoned into the void by food which lacks sustenance—a scavengers’ banquet.
