The Cygnus Virus

by Terry Zakreski

  He wipes his mouth.

  Nathan winces.

  “Near as I can tell, they’re some sort of church sect that are of the belief that a cloth passed down from the ancients is actually the burial cloth Yeshua was wrapped in after he was crucified. Have you heard of it?”

  “Well, yes, actually, wasn’t that some kind of cloth that they say bore Yeshua’s image?”

  “Yes.”

  Andron takes another sip of his drink. To Andron, proper alcohol dosing requires aiming for that sweet spot between stupor and the beginnings of a hangover.

  “Wait a minute, didn’t some scientists prove that it was fake?”

  “Sort of. First, a bit of background. The Cloth enjoyed relative obscurity for centuries until the advent of photography when it was discovered that a negative print of the image embedded in the Cloth bore a striking resemblance to a man they believe to be Yeshua.”

  “Yes, I remember seeing something about that on TV.”

  Andron takes another sip. He’s listing slightly to the stupor side.

  “And not just the picture of a man, the negative image contained details about the crucifixion missing in popular depictions. For instance, the location of the nail wounds on the hands. Most artists paint the nails as penetrating the palms of the hands. However, it’s questionable whether such a technique would be sufficient to support the weight of a man’s body.”

  Andron nods and drinks.

  “The image on the Cloth, by contrast, has them through the wrists where the bones would be able to support the body’s mass without tearing through flesh. It’s details like that that fueled the Cloth’s popularity and lead to the founding of the Defendant, the Church of the Holy Cloth.”

  “I see, they think they have a photo of the Man himself, but, like I said, wasn’t it proven to be a hoax?”

  “Well, initially. Fibers of the Cloth were sent away for carbon dating and it was determined that the fibers from the Cloth dated from the Middle Ages, prompting the researchers to declare it all to be a medieval forgery.”

  “Wait a minute, if it was a fake from the Middle Ages, why use a negative image, centuries before film was invented?”

  “That’s what kept the research going. About five years ago, they went over the area from where the sample was taken and determined that it may have been contaminated by fire damage dating back a few hundred years, and that may have skewed the carbon dating process.”

  Nathan leans back in his chair.

  “So it seems that the Cloth is once again back in play as the genuine article.”

  “Fantastic, so how did old man Soberlik get tangled up in all this?”

  “Well, back before the carbon dating thing, in the ‘90s, the church was running late night infomercials. Mr. Soberlik must have watched one and was duped into making an offering of the land on which our client wishes to build his empire.”

  “I see. That’s good. So it’s just about money. So, find out about what they might want. Our client wasn’t very happy about what happened today.”

  Nathan averts his eyes from his boss’s narrowing gaze as if rebuked. Truth is, however, Andron is peering through a thickening curtain of rum.

  “I’ll see what I can do, but they’ll likely be aiming high.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “Well, this is where it gets dicey. They’ve made a recent discovery concerning the Cloth that has the Church excited and ramping up its resources.”

  “Such as?”

  “They’ve discovered a preserved sample of blood.”

  “So?”

  “So they want to try and clone whoever’s blood it is and thereby bring about the Second Coming.”

  “Christos.”

  Nathan smiles.

  “Precisely.”

  Chapter 5:

  The Turning of the Third KEE

  The Third Key Energy Event is a girl.

  This is the primary KEE.

  He meets her by chance. But we all know there’s no such thing. Their atoms and trajectories were aimed squarely at the other. It’s math and probability. It’s eternal recurrence. It’s fate and destiny.

  He’s studying at a prestigious law school in Toronta on one of the few scholarships awarded to students from his region.

  She’s a folk singer.

  He’s handsome and proud. Pride that he shares with his privileged classmates who fashion themselves as revolutionaries on the pointed end of social change.

  Of course they all wind up reactionaries and BMW socialists. In the real world of overhead and billable hours, only the moneyed and powerful can afford lawyers with Hugo Boss suits and ironic ponytails.

  They meet at the Apollo, a favored retreat for the pseudo intelligentsia. Andron uses the atmosphere as a study aid to plow through the dollops of drivel they are force feeding him at school.

  And he’s there for the alcohol and the instinct to be with others.

  This is where their trajectories and atoms intersect.

  He looks up from his books.

  He always looks up from his books.

  And there she is, on stage, gently tuning her guitar. Andron pretends to read while his mind bursts with recognition and his heart tightens like her strings.

  She sees him, too.

  She always sees him, too.

  She opens with Lola by by the Kinks. Goes hard on the opening riff on her acoustic guitar strings. Then she does Gypsy by Fleetwood Mac and ends with a folksy update of Sing Nightingale Sing. Through it all, Andron has the illusion that she’s singing to to him. Only it isn’t an illusion. She is singing to him. It’s as though the crowd vanished and she’s singing to him alone.

  When the crowd reappears, they’re all smiling and applauding hard.

  To her precision ear, it was an impressive performance, but not quite there. She did not hit her perfect note yet — her one elusive perfect note.

  Andron looks down into his drink for inspiration, takes a few swallows for courage, and wants to find her and introduce himself. At least, that’s what he wants to do, but his innate shyness, indecision and uncertainty stall him. Once again.

  While he’s working up the nerve to do something besides force a stupid half-grin on his face, he loses her. She and her guitar have walked off the stage and are nowhere to be seen.

  He spins around to see if he can catch her walking out the door or in the crowd. But she isn’t there. So he turns back, defeated, and stares into the blackness of his rum and coke. When he looks up, she is sitting across from him.

  Andron forces another idiot grin. That’s all his blown mental circuitry can manage. She separates a cigarette from its pack, brings it to her lips, lights it with her lighter and inhales. She looks Andron over and asks,

  “What is your name?”

  “What?”

  “Your name. You do have one, I hope, dear boy.”

  She flashes a bright smile.

  “Oh sorry, I’m…I’m Andron.”

  “Hello I’m Andron, I’m Astrid.”

  She reaches across to offer him her hand, which Andron takes. Her skin has the familiar feel of an old friend.

  She glances at his books.

  “What are you studying, Andron?”

  “At the moment, only you. Light years away from that, I study law at McCaddin. A necessary evil. My God, you’re an amazing singer.”

  She smiles.

  “Thank you, a lawyer, wow, impressive.”

  “Well, a lawyer in the making perhaps. It was something, me getting here and all. A lot of hard work, so to speak.”

  In those days so to speak was a catchphrase with which Andron and his classmates punctuated their conversations.

  “But having done that work, after having so-called arrived, and seeing the end in sight, I wonder if I made the right choice?”

  Andron has no idea why he’s sputtering on like this. The link between brain and mouth is in a state of disrepair.

  She puffs on her cigarette.

/>   “Oh, don’t worry, you are where you are meant to be and on your way to where you are going.”

  “Well, if that means being here with you, then cheers to that.”

  Andron salutes her with his drink and feels as though his brain is coming back online.

  She doesn’t reply.

  “So how long have you been performing?”

  “Oh, who the fuck cares, Andy, really, or whatever your name is? Let’s just go, okay? Or are you going to sit there all night reading?”

  She snubs out her cigarette and tugs him by the arm.

  “No, but I should do something with my books.”

  She flashes her Mediterranean eyes at him, scoops up his books, marches over to the bartender, speaks a few words and hands them over.

  “There, taken care of. They’ll be here for you tomorrow, schoolboy.”

  She’s leading him out into the night. Goddess in raven curls and a jean jacket. Ruby lips. Curves. Black skirt. She’s the ocean and he’s the sky perched on her horizon. A horizon with a cute bottom, that wiggles and smiles. She’s got a tattoo on her ankle. When Andron asks her about it, she says it’s him.

  She smells of rare mountain flowers and forbidden spices. It’s useless to mention the brand. It wouldn’t smell the same on anyone else.

  They go to a party with a few of her musician friends. These are the real revolutionaries, not the pretenders he’s going to school with. They get high. She and Andron move together effortlessly. Andron says things. Interesting things. He says so to speak a lot. They start saying it, too. He’s a hit with her friends. They welcome him into their fold. He never would have pulled that off on his own.

  Around her, he’s twice the man he was.

  In the cab, he’s half.

  He tries to be smooth, but his flushed face and sweaty palms give him away. She gets in and presses her body against his. He can see her knees. He can feel her arms through her jean jacket. He tries not to smell her and turn redder. She exposes her neck to him. She kisses him as soon as he turns to her. She puts her tongue in his mouth. He kisses her back. He puts a hand on the inside of her knee. She opens her legs slightly, grabs it and moves it all the way, so he can feel her hot wet panties.

  Ocean girl. Mediterranean girl.

  They land on her landing with a thud. Their shoes make too much noise on the stairs, her neighbors will complain. Loud young people in love.

  She takes him by the hand and pulls him through her door.

  He has things stored from what happens on the other side. In case he’s ever in prison and needs memories to survive.

  The way she took him in her mouth just past the door. The way he concentrated on her kitchen appliances to avoid looking down. The way she looked up at him when he did and he was lost to her forever.

  The way she took him to her room and showed him things. Things that he thought he knew, but about which he knew nothing. The way she called him schoolboy. The way she closed her thighs on his ears and he could hear the ocean. Her heart-shaped clef tattoo above her hips. They way it looked with sweat. The way she bit her lip. The way she grabbed him with the folds of her skin. The tiger position. The arch of her back. The way she pushed back. The red finger marks on her hips.

  The way he sucked in every ounce of air he could. The way it smelled of mountain flowers, spices, sweat, salt, and the ocean. The way he wanted to crawl up inside her. The way he was out of his mind, crazy with desire, driving into her.

  The way she screamed.

  The way he held her in his arms and pointed out the constellations through her balcony window. The one he said was them screwing. He said it meant that they were supposed to be together. Because it was written right up there, in the fucking stars.

  The way she made him coffee in the morning. The way her robe barely covered her bottom. The way she kissed him on her tiptoes before he left.

  The way he walked out her door a man.

  The way he felt more alive than ever.

  The way all day, he could still smell her.

  It’s almost been a year. Almost a year, with no minute the same.

  It’s time to buy the ring, fellah.

  He knew that she was the one the moment he looked up and his heart flew to her. A natural progression, a repeating set of numbers. Boy meets girl. Boy marries girl. The stars will not be denied their union.

  She wears the bright morning light like a shawl on her naked skin. Her young breasts point at him. Their skin presses together with millions of nerve endings firing in symphony.

  “Say you love me.”

  “I love you.”

  “Say it again.”

  She presses her breast into his mouth.

  “I la yu”

  They create a mutual heat. Were they to reproduce, that would be the heat signature of their child.

  They didn’t know it then, but she’s already pregnant.

  Her arms rest on his shoulders. She’s riding him in a slow burn, surrounding him. Her ocean blue eyes hold him steady, control him, and slow him. His eyes aren’t floating with her, they’re a fixed point on her horizon. He’s throbbing hard inside her. Slowly being rocked. Skin on skin. This is her body. This is him.

  This is alive. Heart beating. Breathing. Eyes widening.

  “Say you love me.”

  “I love you.”

  “Say you love me and fuck me.”

  Her lips smother his answer as they rock together in ecstasy, reach it together and crash back down to the world in each other’s arms.

  They are naked with and for each other. To have and to hold.

  Until.

  Their atoms testify.

  He tells her that he has a meeting with his future firm that morning but will meet her later for lunch. Where? They decide to randomly pick a page from a coupon book. He flips through the pages and she closes her eyes and sticks her finger down. She lands on the Starchild Bar & Grill.

  “Starchild Bar & Grill it is then, one-fifteen.”

  “See you there baby-cakes. Don’t be late and make me wait.”

  “Oh, I’ll be there with my…umm…hair?”

  Andron has no meeting to attend, except with the jeweler.

  He squeezes the box in his pocket, feels the power that it has, and goes off to meet her. He composes his lines on the way.

  Please take this pale remnant of stars and say that you’ll marry me as you are my shining star, my heaven, my everything.

  She’s in the restaurant waiting. She’s picked a spot in the atrium where daylight lights up her face, but is no match for her smile.

  “What are you up to, Andy?”

  Andron takes his seat across her. She can see that he’s working himself up to something.

  “Nothing honey, I’m just hungry, I guess.”

  “Well, for God’s sake then eat. Hopefully that will fix your strange look.”

  The waitress comes around. They order. She puts in for a salad, he for a hamburger.

  They get halfway through their meal.

  “Andy, you still look like the cat that swallowed the canary.”

  “Okay, here goes nothing I guess.”

  Andron shakily fishes out the ring from its box. He breathes. He reaches for her hand and speaks.

  “Please take this pale remnant of stars and say that you’ll marry me as you are my shining star, my heaven, my everything.”

  Her response is so Astrid. She throws the ring back at him. It bounces off his chest and rolls on the restaurant floor.

  “I can’t believe that you think of me this way, or would buy into that bullshit.”

  As she has so many times before, she has him completely bewildered and mesmerized.

  He goes scurrying after the ring and returns from the restaurant floor dumfounded as to what he is to do next, only to find that he’s once again lost to her and her bemused smile. Andron moves to speak, but never gets to say a word.

  There is no easy way of saying what happens next, than to say it.


  What happens next is that a meteorite crashes through the atrium and smashes Astrid square in the head, killing her instantly.

  Though small, the meteorite is made of a heavy iron-nickel alloy. The rock, hurled as it was from the heavens, leaves Andron’s immortal beloved a disfigured bleeding mess.

  Just as he was convinced that she would be with him forever, her head snaps back horribly and she is gone, forever.

  “Astrid?”

  “Oh no…Astrid?”

  He holds her until the paramedics arrive.

  He won’t let go when they do.

  His blood-stained shirt.

  The way everything in him dies.

  He stands out at her funeral like a wart. They are too silent near him and don’t whisper quietly enough away. Her family blames him with their eyes. Where was God? the preacher asks to set up a glib sermon. Yeah, thinks Andron, where was this coward who throws rocks at his daughters, at his babies?

  He thinks it’s safe to go back to school, with his blue sweater, jeans and and backpack stuffed with textbooks. He doesn’t notice the wolf pack until it’s too late and he’s already outside his apartment. Reporters race up to him with microphones and tape recorders thrust out.

  Mr. Varga?

  “Yes?”

  Andron doesn’t know which one in the pack is doing the asking. Meanwhile, the cameras are rolling, flashes going off.

  What was it like to witness the meteorite strike?

  “I really…no comment.”

  Is it true that it happened right after you proposed?

  No reply. Breathing heavy.

  Did she refuse you?

  Quivering lip.

  Did you know she was pregnant?

  His face twists.

  Mr. Varga…?

  He pushes through them wild-eyed and runs.

  Mr. Varga…

  He ties to outrun the sting of what they just said. He sprints past his subway stop and all the way to the next.

  He didn’t know she was pregnant.

  His classes aren’t much better than the funeral. They feign sympathy while keeping their distance in case tragedy is somehow contagious. Hypocrites, they’re well on their way. Andron’s face is pocked with sorrow and shame. His lip quivers off and on all day.