by Bill Myers
“Eric! Eric, where are you, son?” The men from the van were down below, looking for him. “Eric!”
Across the ravine, maybe a quarter of a mile away, he saw a light. Maybe a farmhouse, maybe a cabin, he couldn’t tell. But he knew there were people there. Good people. He wasn’t sure how he knew, he just knew.
“Eric!”
Mustering what strength he had, Eric rose to a squatting position. The throbbing in his head grew worse and he wanted to cry, but he couldn’t. Instead, he slowly stood up and quietly made his way through the woods toward the light.
CHAPTER 17
KATHERINE POURED THE LAST of the tubes onto the pile in the elevator. A handful tumbled off, rattling and clinking as they rolled into the hall. She bent over, scooped them up, and tossed them back onto the pile. When she rose, she caught Coleman staring at her. But it was more than a stare. She’d seen that look a thousand times from a thousand different men. It made her feel self-conscious, belittled, and angry. Normally she would have called him on it. But since she no longer knew whom she was dealing with and since they were in such a hurry, she did her best to ignore it. They had one more job after this. Destroying the lab animals. She didn’t want to jeopardize their mission with a confrontation now.
As a reward for her restraint, he flashed her a lascivious grin. “Nice. Very nice.”
Knowing he wasn’t referring to the pile of Eppendorf tubes, she shot him a glare. His grin only broadened. She turned away.
He changed the subject. “All right,” he said, kneeling by the gym bag and pulling out the large box of soap flakes, “move that cute little rear of yours down the hall and start closing the lab doors.”
His tone was demanding, condescending, and enough to push Katherine past the point of better judgment. “Why?” she challenged.
There was that smile again. He tore open the box of soap flakes and began sprinkling it over the pile of tubes, pushing and kicking the top layers aside so the flakes would filter down. “The labs here are equipped with automatic Halon fire extinguishers.”
“What?”
“Fluorocarbon. They use it instead of water. It puts out the fire by replacing the oxygen. Regular water would short out and destroy all the expensive lab equipment. If you close those doors, we’ll have enough oxygen for our weenie roast out here. If you don’t, who knows.”
“What about these?” She pointed to the overhead sprinklers above them in the hall.
“Just water. That’s why everything’s going in the elevator. No sprinklers in there.”
“And the soap?” Her anger was giving way to curiosity.
“Poor man’s napalm. Turns the fire into liquid jelly so it sticks to the tubes and doesn’t run off.”
She watched as he reached for the can of gasoline and began pouring it over the pile. “Get going,” he ordered, “we got lots to do.”
Still not fond of taking orders, but knowing it was for the best, Katherine turned and headed down the hall. Even then she could feel his eyes watching her. Angrily, she shut each of the eight doors. When she returned, he had finished pouring most but not all of the five gallons of gas onto the pile. He screwed the lid back onto the gas can.
“What about the rest of it?” she asked.
He grinned. “We save the rest to toast the lab animals downstairs.”
She shuddered at the thought — and could tell that he enjoyed it.
He reached into the gym bag, pulled out a packet of matches, and lit one. Without hesitation, he tossed it onto the tubes. The pile ignited with a whoosh. Hot air slapped against Katherine’s face, and she took a half-step back.
Coleman turned and started for the stairs. “Come on.” But Katherine remained, watching the flames melt the soap into a thick, burning goo that stuck to the tubes and dripped further into the pile, cooking all that they touched. What a waste. What an incredible waste. Things could have been so different. So much good could have been accomplished if this had landed in the right hands.
Then again, with the type of money they were talking about, what type of hands would be right — or could remain so?
The overhead sprinklers kicked on. Water rained down, soaking her shirt, running down her neck. The cold made her shiver, but she continued standing, watching.
She gave a start when Coleman grabbed her arm. “Come on!” he yelled over the hiss of the sprinklers. “Let’s go!”
She pulled away angrily. But instead of releasing her, he grabbed her other shoulder, turning her around. She opened her mouth to shout at him, but stopped. There was that grin again. Only now it had twisted into an obvious leer.
“Let me go,” she demanded.
His grip tightened, and his gaze dropped from her eyes to her wet, clinging blouse.
She tried to pull away, but he held tight, looking into her eyes again. Water streamed down his face as his leer broadened, growing more frightening.
She forced herself to sound calm and cold. “I said, let me —”
He pulled her toward him.
“What are you —”
She felt his hand on the back of her head, shoving her mouth toward his. Her resistance was no match for his strength. His mouth covered hers. She tried to turn away, but his grip tightened, preventing it. He pushed harder, his mouth demanding and animal-like.
With a sharp twist, she pulled her head back for a moment and glared at him with venom. But his eyes were mocking, spiteful. The Coleman she had known, the one she had been so deeply drawn to, was not behind those eyes. This was someone else — the old Coleman.
She felt his hand reaching, pulling at her soaked blouse. She tried to raise her own hands to stop him, but she couldn’t. They were pinned. “Come on, babe,” he said, “you know you want —”
She spat at him.
He stopped and blinked, stunned. For a moment she thought the other Coleman, her Coleman, was returning — until he swung his arm back, clearly intending to smash his hand across her face.
It was the wet floor that saved her. He slipped as he swung, spoiling his aim. She turned and nearly broke away, but not quite. He grabbed her shoulder from behind.
This time she remembered her training. She clenched her left hand over her right fist and sent her elbow flying backwards as hard as she could. It met its mark, catching him in the stomach. He gasped and let go.
She started to run, slipped, and then he had her again. She tried to break free, but suddenly she felt herself lifted off the ground and shoved face-first against the unyielding wall. Her instincts protected her nose — she turned her head as she saw the wall coming — but her cheekbone hit hard. She fought to retain consciousness as Coleman held her upright, her toes barely touching the ground.
“I like a woman with spirit,” he growled, moving closer until his breath was hot in her face.
Tears streamed down her face. She hated herself for them, but couldn’t stop. “Coleman, please —”
Suddenly she heard another voice shouting over the sprinklers: “Well, well, well. What do we have here?”
Coleman spun around. Katherine turned, her vision just clear enough to make out the form of a man. Murkoski emerged from the stairwell.
“A little domestic spat?”
Taking advantage of Coleman’s distraction and using the wall as support, Katherine slid several feet away from him. She reached up and touched the wetness on her cheek. At first she thought it was water, but water wouldn’t be that warm. Then she looked at her fingers and saw the blood.
Murkoski stepped toward her, the sprinklers soaking his sports coat, his hair, making him look like a drowned rat. With a mocking flourish, he handed her a handkerchief. She batted it away. Murkoski chuckled, shrugged, and stuffed it back into his pocket. “You should have that looked at. I’m afraid you’ll wind up with a rather unpleasant scar.”
“What do you want?” Coleman seethed.
Murkoski flipped his wet hair out of his eyes. “The question is, what do you want?”
; As an answer Coleman broke into a wry grin and stepped aside so Murkoski could have a full view of the fire burning in the elevator. “We had a long talk with Dr. O’Brien.”
“I see. And you think that’s all of it?”
Coleman said nothing.
Murkoski shook his head. “You are ignorant, aren’t you?”
Katherine glanced nervously at Coleman. She could tell he was straining not to attack.
“You don’t think we have that genetic information recorded?” Murkoski asked.
Coleman’s voice was low and quiet. “We’ve destroyed all the computer files, erased all the backups in the safe.”
Murkoski registered a trace of surprise, but held his ground. “What about the gene sequencers?”
Coleman hesitated, then looked at Katherine.
“We emptied them,” she said, barely hearing herself over the spray of the sprinklers.
“And their memory?” Murkoski asked, unable to contain his mockery.
She stood a moment. A dull, sick feeling began to spread through her body. She’d completely overlooked the independent computers, the ones reading the genes and temporarily storing their data.
“Don’t tell me you’ve already forgotten the features of our expensive gene sequencers,” he pretended to scold.
Coleman turned to Katherine. “Which labs are they in?”
Before she could answer, Murkoski motioned grandly to the building. “Why, throughout the entire wing, of course.”
“You’re lying!” Katherine shouted over the sound of the sprinklers. “O’Brien said everything was limited to the third floor!”
“Yes, well, Dr. O’Brien has been a bit out of the loop lately.”
Coleman turned to Katherine. “Can you knock them out?”
She looked at him helplessly.
“If they’re computers, can you knock them out?” he repeated impatiently.
She opened her mouth to answer, but Murkoski cut her off. “Don’t be stupid. She doesn’t have the know-how. Even if she did, you don’t have the time. I told the police if we didn’t come out in five minutes to come in shooting.”
Coleman stared at him. It was obvious he was trying to determine whether Murkoski was bluffing. But whatever discerning ability Coleman had possessed appeared to be gone by now.
“And if you ask me,” Murkoski continued, “I think those rednecks out in the parking lot would enjoy a little action, don’t you?”
Without missing a beat Coleman turned to Katherine. “Check out the sequencers. I’ll go down and start killing the lab animals.”
Katherine nodded, and they both started for the stairs.
“Killing — that’s what you do best, isn’t it?” Murkoski called.
Coleman stopped.
Murkoski seemed to revel in the moment. Standing there with water pouring over him, taunting and baiting like a school-yard bully. “Just like old times, isn’t it, Mr. Coleman? That emotional rush of taking another life. All that control. It’s the ultimate power trip, isn’t it?”
Coleman’s breathing slowed as he focused on Murkoski. Katherine had seen this before. She knew what was coming.
“But then, what can we expect? After all, you’re just a product of your chemicals, aren’t you? This is how you’re programmed. You have no other choice. Once a monster, always a monster.”
Coleman’s body tensed. Katherine reached out and touched his arm. He didn’t respond.
“But you see, there’s one lab animal you won’t be able to kill. One you can’t.”
Coleman’s voice was barely audible over the sprinklers. “Which one is that?”
“You.”
Katherine caught her breath.
Murkoski grinned at his little surprise. “You don’t think there are remnants of that gene in your blood? You don’t think there will always be a remnant that somebody can pull from you to start all of this all over again?”
Doubt and confusion crossed Coleman’s face.
“He’s lying,” Katherine ventured.
“Am I? Everything’s been thought out, Mr. Coleman, down to the most minute detail. You see, that’s the difference between you and me. I’m at the top of the evolutionary chain. I’m a thinker. In fact, I come from a long line of thinkers. You, on the other hand …” His lips curled into a cold smile. “Well, as I’ve said, we’re all products of our genes, no matter how primitive our parentage may be.”
Coleman lunged. Katherine screamed as he threw Murkoski into a choke hold, his eyes wild, his face filled with exhilaration.
“Coleman, don’t!” She yanked at his arm, but his grip was immovable. “Coleman!”
Murkoski gasped for breath. “That’s right,” he coughed, water streaming down his face. “Go ahead, prove my point. You’re only —” Coleman tightened his grip, choking off the words.
“Coleman!” Katherine cried. “You’re killing him! Coleman!” She leaned into his face and shouted. “You’re better than this! Stop it!”
“You heard what he said,” Coleman sneered. “I’m no more than —”
“You don’t have to do this!”
Murkoski kicked and struggled, his eyes bulging grotesquely, as Coleman tightened his grip.
“Listen to me!” she shouted. “Listen to me! He’s wrong! You’re more than a bunch of genes!”
Coleman shook his head. “It’s too late.”
“You’re a man, not a chemistry set — you’ve got a will, you’ve got faith.”
The last phrase touched something — in his eyes she saw a fleeting spark. It disappeared as quickly as it had appeared, but she had seen it, and she knew she had found the key. She pressed in.
“ ‘If anyone is in Christ, he is a new person.’ Remember? ‘Old things have passed away.’ Remember that? Do you remember?”
He looked at her. The spark behind his eyes remained a fraction longer this time. There was understanding, a common ground. She had him.
“Let him go. Coleman, let him go.”
He shook his head. “I can’t.”
“Of course you can! You don’t have to do this. ‘Old things have passed away.’ ”
“I’ve tried. All night I’ve been trying.”
“Then maybe you should stop.”
Surprise and confusion filled his eyes.
“Stop trying. Stop trying to do it on your own.”
He scowled.
“Those are your own words — don’t you remember? Stop putting your trust in you. ‘If any man is in Christ he is a new person.’ ”
Coleman was listening now. Carefully.
“ ‘Old things have passed away, all things are new.’ That’s what you said, remember? Stop trusting in you. Put your trust in him, Coleman. Not you. Him, him, Coleman!”
Coleman closed his eyes. Was he praying? Searching for faith? It didn’t matter. She didn’t care. She didn’t even know if she believed it. She just hoped it would work.
“You can’t do it on your own. You’ve tried. Turn it over!”
Coleman hesitated.
“It doesn’t have to be forever. Just now. Just one moment at a time. Turn it over to him. Now, Coleman. Turn it over!”
Ever so slowly, Coleman released Murkoski. The kid slumped to the floor, coughing and choking, gasping for breath.
Coleman turned and stepped away; Katherine was right at his side. “You did it,” she encouraged. “You did it!”
He shook his head. “Not me,” he whispered. “I would have killed him.” Looking into her eyes, he repeated in quiet amazement, “It wasn’t…me.”
Katherine searched his face, daring to hope that somehow he was right.
“That’s it?” Murkoski said, coughing and struggling to stand in the deepening water. “You beat it one time and you think you’ve got it conquered? You think you’ve changed? You’ll never change, Coleman. You’re chemicals. Chemicals!”
Coleman refused to turn around. Katherine remained at his side, watching him.
“You’ll
always be this way! You can’t keep fighting it, not forever. You’ll always be —”
An unearthly shriek echoed through the room. All three spun to see a baboon flying through the rain directly at Murkoski. It hit him in the chest, sending him splashing onto the floor. The animal went straight for the man’s throat, tearing, clawing, screeching. Murkoski screamed as he fought and kicked, but his cries bubbled and choked in his own blood.
Quickly, Coleman pulled the guard’s gun from his pants and tried to take aim. But they were rolling and thrashing too wildly. As soon as he had a bead on the animal, they’d roll or twist and suddenly Murkoski was in the way. Coleman moved in, searching for a clear shot. But there was only a blur of wet fur and clothes and blood and flesh. He dropped the gun into the water and fell to his knees, trying to grab the animal, to pull him off, to save whatever was left of Murkoski.
“Let him alone!”
O’Brien entered from the stairway.
“Stay back!” he shouted at Coleman. “It’s too late — he’ll only kill you too.”
Coleman looked from O’Brien to Murkoski. The kid was no longer fighting. His body lay in the water, still moving and jerking but only from the animal’s ripping and tearing.
“Stay out of his way!” O’Brien warned. “He’s a killer now; he’ll want to keep killing.”
Still on his knees, Coleman reached toward the baboon, one last try. Freddy turned on him, ferocious, shrieking, baring his needlelike fangs, his face covered in blood.
O’Brien slowly knelt in the doorway to the stairs and began to call: “Freddy? Freddy, come here, fellow.”
The shrieks gently subsided as the animal looked first one way, then the other, until his eyes focused on O’Brien.
“Hey, boy.”
Freddy cocked his head. He seemed to recognize the voice. It looked as if he were trying to remember something else, something from long ago.
“Freddy, it’s me. How are you, boy?”
Freddy whimpered faintly.
“It’s me, fellow, remember?” O’Brien stretched his hands out through the rain.
