by Beth Hersant
He retreated from the room of the damned to a place where there still lived some hope. The next animal housing area contained the rhesus macaques. The facilities here weren’t any better, but at least the animals were healthy … for now.
Pickman had devised a series of potential cures for full-blown neurological rabies and he’d managed to hollow out the virus itself and turn it into a vehicle that would deliver the treatment directly to the brain. He’d named the resulting combination “Compound 606” after Paul Ehrlich’s magic bullet cure for syphilis. His newly recombined, bullet-shaped virus would be his gift to the world.
However it had not been smooth sailing. The first protocol, Compound 606.1, had no effect whatsoever. 606.2 caused fatal grand mal seizures in the second batch of monkeys; 606.3 sent the animals into a coma from which they never awoke, and on it went. But now there was a real sense that they had turned a corner, that they were on the cusp of success. Compound 606.25 had taken a long, long time to engineer — but every attempt, every failure had rewarded Pickman with new insight and understanding. This, he assured Travis, was the one. This would save the unsavable.
But before this miracle could occur, they had to inoculate the latest batch of macaques with the rabies virus. Inoculate. That was such a benign word for the procedure. They would anaesthetize the monkeys with chloroform, strap them down and trepan a hole in their skulls. Then they would take infected brainstem tissue from one of the poor bastards yowling in the next room and place it directly onto the healthy monkey’s dura mater — the connective tissue that covers its brain. Inoculation? Try execution. They were deliberately infecting the animals with a highly virulent, quick-to-incubate, form of a fatal disease. In just over a week, the monkeys would be raging.
The thought made him nauseous. He had performed the procedure 384 times before and it had never been easy. But this time it was worse. During the first twenty-four rounds of testing, the animals came and went so quickly. But Compound 606.25 had been a long time in development. And every day he’d fed and looked after this latest batch. He’d been amazed at how diverse their personalities were, how intelligent they were, and how affectionate. He had come to know them, to care about them, and yes, to name them. Pickman was right: he was a fucking idiot.
There were eight cages in the room to house two occupants each (although three monkeys had died already). The first was injured in a fight with his cagemate when Travis had accidentally put two dominant males in together. That one had to be euthanized. The second, a small big-eyed creature, had tried to escape from his pen. He wriggled through a narrow gap in the door and sliced himself up on a sharp bit of exposed metal on the door frame. He’d gotten halfway through, got stuck and remained there, bleeding and distressed, for hours. The shock killed him. The third had sickened a few days ago and died. Travis didn’t know what the actual cause was. That left thirteen test subjects for Compound 606.25.
He’d named them after characters in Mad Magazine, issue #488. Its tag line read: “MONKEYS! MONKEYS! MONKEYS!” and in it they claimed that, due to a decline in standards, they had replaced their entire editorial staff with monkeys who obviously could do a better job. These provided the monikers for this latest batch of animals and so they had names like Mister Jingles, T. Worthington Snoots and Baron von Whoopsie. That issue of the magazine had been dedicated to “the late, great J. Fred Muggs, the first monkey contributor to MAD (issue #38, March 1958) who bravely paved the way for those of us who humbly follow in his paw-steps. EEK! EEK!” Travis walked over and stood in front of Muggs’s cage.
“Hey buddy,” he said softly.
The macaque came immediately to him and grabbed his finger with tiny simian paws. He barred his teeth at the human — a look not of aggression, but of submission. You know how a dog will roll over and show you his belly? Well, a toothy display is the monkey version of that. Next he cooed at Travis.
“I know you’re hungry,” he said. “But you’re nil by mouth before the procedure. I’ll bring you some nice apple slices when you wake up though.”
He backed up from the cage and spoke to the room in general. “I’m sorry about this, guys. We’re going to make you sick for a while. But we’re going to fix you. It’ll work this time, I know it.”
He’d procrastinated as long as he could. It was time to pick the first animal. He looked again at J. Fred Muggs — he couldn’t take him first. He just couldn’t. Bumble McDaniels in cage 8 was a short-tempered little bastard; he could go first. Knowing that this monkey bites, he put on a pair of thick gauntlets and removed the animal from his cage. Even though he disliked McDaniels, Travis still hesitated, quailing at what he was about to participate in. He looked at a picture he’d Blu-Tacked to the wall. It was the photo of Rachel that Pickman had handed him on the night of his overdose. He’d hung it there so that he could keep reminding himself why this was necessary, why he had to carry on. It is, Travis reminded himself, the Utilitarian Approach to medical ethics. The right course of action is the one that maximizes the amount of overall benefit or happiness for the greatest number of people. Hence, it is acceptable to sacrifice animals to preserve human lives. He shaved a small bald batch on the squirming monkey’s head and carried him to the operating theater.
The job was done. The monkeys were infected and Pickman was whistling to himself as he sterilized the instruments. Aaron really didn’t seem bothered by any of this. Part of it, Travis guessed, was due to his obsessive focus on the goal. But it had to be more than that, surely. He wondered if Aaron’s capacity for pity had been burned out of him by all the trauma he’d endured. Whatever suffering surrounded him at the lab was nothing compared to what he’d already been through. And Travis suspected that the good doctor was hanging on to sanity by retreating again into a world of pure, sterile logic, just as he had done after Mary’s death. But that was a losing game. In the words of G.K. Chesterton: “The madman is not the man who has lost his reason. The madman is the man who has lost everything except his reason.” You can’t deny your nature; you can’t turn yourself into a robot that doesn’t hurt anymore — not without doing yourself real damage (his addiction was case in point). And you could not do what they were doing without feeling something.
The only indication that the work might be getting to Pickman was the growing collection of empty scotch bottles in the dumpster. Aaron already had another one lined up: a bottle of Teacher’s and two empty glasses on the desk. Oh hell, Travis thought. I can’t stay here drinking with him tonight. He had to get away from this lab and so he finished clearing up and beat a hasty retreat to Clarita.
Chapter Four
Abby Normal
“The end cannot justify the means, for the simple and obvious reason that the means employed determine the nature of the ends produced.”
Aldous Huxley
Dr. Frankenstein: Igor, would you mind telling me whose brain I did put in?
Igor: And you won’t be angry?
Dr. Frankenstein: I will NOT be angry.
Igor: Abby… someone.
Dr. Frankenstein: Abby someone. Abby who?
Igor: Abby… Normal.
Gene Wilder and Marty Feldman, Young Frankenstein
J. Fred Muggs began to display symptoms of the rabies virus on day 7 of the post-inoculation period. Travis offered him apple slices (his favorite), but the monkey would not take them. Donning the gauntlets, Montgomery opened the cage and reached for Muggs. Usually the animal would come to him enthusiastically, savoring the affection and contact he got from the man. Today, however, the macaque huddled at the back of his pen and would not come when called. Travis reached for him and Fred’s mouth formed the large, round “O” of a severely pissed-off monkey. He screamed shrilly at Travis and sank his teeth into the gauntlet.
The animal was running a fever and a lumbar puncture revealed that his system was flooded with lyssavirus antibodies. Muggs was infected. Strapped down to th
e operating table, the animal screamed and writhed against the restraints, but Montgomery could not anaesthetize him yet. If he put the monkey under too soon, then Muggs might wake up mid-procedure and that was too horrible to contemplate. And so, while Pickman prepared for the operation that would deliver Compound 606.25 right to the subject’s brain, Travis tried to soothe the animal.
“You are going to be so famous,” he said gently, “just like your namesake.” The monkey stopped screaming. He recognized and loved that voice. He looked at Travis and waited for him to make more sounds that were gentle and friendly and good.
“You know the first J. Fred Muggs was a big TV star back in the 50s and everybody loved him. Children asked for dolls and puppets that looked like him for Christmas. My dad even had this old, beat up board game in the attic: J. Fred Muggs ‘Round the World Game.’ Can you believe it? That monkey was once loved by my old man and I didn’t think he was capable of loving anything. That’s how good Fred was. And you…” he slipped a gloved finger into the monkey’s restrained paw. Muggs squeezed it. “… You are going to be even more loved. You will show the world how people can be saved.”
The monkey, who had been watching Travis out of the corner of his eye, tried to turn his head to look the beloved man full in the face. He couldn’t. The muscles in his neck seized up and the macaque whimpered in pain.
“What’s the matter with your neck?” Travis asked. He let go of Muggs’s paw and was about to examine him when Pickman came in to start the procedure.
All thirteen monkeys had now received the antidote and were sitting in restraint chairs to keep them from scratching at their stitches. Muggs looked particularly bad, sitting in a perspex box, his toes dangling through the bars that comprised the cube’s base. This would allow urine and feces to fall through rather than collect around the animal’s haunches. His bandaged head protruded from a hole at the box’s top and slumped to one side. The unconscious monkey’s tongue lulled out of its mouth.
“Now we wait.” Pickman poured them each a scotch.
“So when will we know for sure?”
“It’s difficult to say. Death from the rabies virus would usually occur within ten days. But that’s variable. We’ll just have to monitor them and see what happens.”
Travis nodded and held his glass out for a top-up of Grant’s. He was not a big whisky fan, however he was pleasantly surprised by the effect it had on him tonight. The first sip had burned his lips, but they tingled a little now. And the liquid smelled dark and warm — a warmth that spread all the way down and calmed his stomach. He could eat, he decided. And he and Pickman threw some frozen pizzas into the oven.
Later on the bottle of Grant’s Blended Scotch was all but gone. The pizzas were burnt, but consumed anyway and the men were drunk. Travis was teaching Aaron a drinking song which, he instructed, you sing to the tune of “Tie Me Kangaroo Down.” Across the courtyard in the lab, Fred’s eyes flickered open. The lights were low, but he could hear the others breathing slowly somewhere nearby and underneath the antiseptic, he could smell them. He could barely move and he hurt. Normally, that combination would send a monkey’s stress levels through the roof, but he was too weak to feel distressed or afraid. His eyelids slipped shut. No, he really couldn’t engage with the full horror of the head wound, the box he was in or how bad he felt. Somewhere in the distance, a man — his favorite man — was singing: “Bestiality’s best, boys, bestiality’s best (shag a wallaby).” The words meant nothing to Muggs, but the high, slightly hysterical tone of the voice made his eyes snap open again. The man was laughing, but he was not happy. The man was distressed. And that fit. It fit with the lab and the box and the pain in his head and the certainty. As the animal finally lapsed back into unconsciousness, he was sure that there was danger here. And something in him was very, very wrong.
Three rhesus macaques died within twenty-four hours of inoculation with the cure: Protocol 606.25/test subjects 1, 2 and 10 (otherwise known as Mister Jingles, T. Worthington Snoots, and Captain Zippy). That left Pickman with ten viable subjects to monitor for the cure. They were all fading fast — all except J. Fred Muggs who seemed to be gaining in strength as the days ticked by. The monkey’s temperature had returned to normal. He was eating and drinking. His eyes were bright and aware.
But something had changed. It was subtle at first — Muggs was just a little stand-offish with Montgomery. He would still accept food from the man, but he would not tolerate any physical contact. Travis mentioned this to Pickman, but the doctor shrugged it off.
“We’ve put him through a lot and he doesn’t understand any of it. What you’re seeing is probably the psychological impact of the experiment.”
The following day a small female macaque named Hoops slipped her fingers through the bars of the neighboring pen in a gesture that Muggs was familiar with: she was asking for the leftover bits of fruit that littered the floor of his cage. He held up a slice of brown banana and offered it to her. She reached in as far as she could until the bars on her side prevented her from closing the gap any further. She flashed him a toothy grin to say please. He went to pass her the morsel but then at the last moment jerked it away. His head darted forward instead and he bit her. Hoops screamed and withdrew, but not before J. Fred Muggs had taken two of her fingers. He was feeling very hungry now and looked at the banana in his hand. He threw it aside and ate the fingers instead.
Travis Montgomery was coming unglued. The conditions the animals were kept in were bad enough. The experiments they were subjected to had left him clinging to sanity by his fingernails and now this.
“I mean, what the fuck?” he ranted. “What the hell is happening?”
“Travis, calm down,” Pickman soothed.
“No! I can’t do this anymore, Aaron.”
“But it’s Day 8 and I still have ten subjects alive. We’re so close! Can’t you see?”
“You think you’ve cured them?” Montgomery laughed. “You have nine sick monkeys and a cannibal. Congratu-fucking-lations. I’m done.”
Pickman surveyed him coldly. “Then what the hell did you do any of this for?”
“What?”
“You watched generation after generation of lab animals suffer and die. You’ve helped perform experiments that were tantamount to torture. And now you’re done? Now it’s too much?”
“This has to stop,” Travis whispered and Pickman was surprised to see tears in the man’s eyes.
“But if it stops before we find the cure,” Pickman said quietly, “then you tortured those animals for nothing. All our work will just amount to senseless brutality. How can that possibly make you feel any better? We’ve gone too far. The only thing that will redeem what we’ve done here is to find the cure and let the lives we save atone for our sins.”
“You mean your sins.”
“Our sins, Travis. You were right here with me every step of the way and it is too damn late to walk away with a clear conscience.”
Travis was openly weeping now. Pickman put a fatherly hand on his shoulder. “I know it’s awful. But I’m not a monster and neither are you. We’re trying to save human lives here — just as we’ve done every day since med school, just as I did for you.”
And there it is, Travis thought. It was masterfully done. Remind him of his guilt and offer absolution if we soldier on and reach our goal; appeal to his altruistic side because of course the goal is good and noble and think of all the little Rachels out there who could be saved if Travis tortures another monkey. And then Pickman played his trump card: “I saved your life so don’t you forget that you owe me.” Travis looked at him. Next, he’ll make peace and try to counsel me through this.
He didn’t have to wait long for the olive branch. “Come on, I’ve been working you too hard lately. Let’s get you out of the lab for a bit.”
They drove along the coastal highway and stopped for lunch at a lechoneras on th
e outskirts of town. A good meal of chicharrones de pollo and trifongo and Travis calmed down significantly. And all the while Pickman talked. His logic was unassailable. If they were going to be anything more than a couple of criminally negligent Dr. Mengeles, then they had to continue and actually get a positive result from all of this. And it was worthwhile — Pickman showed him footage (available online) of a small boy in the throes of rabies. The child writhed and struggled on the bed. Finally, he managed to wriggle out of his restraints and then, quick as a shot, he was on his feet. He jumped on the bed to gain some height and then smashed his naked fist through a high window. Another jump and he was up, dragging his body over the jagged glass in order to escape the isolation ward.
Through all this Aaron Pickman was so kind, so understanding, so human that Travis actually started to feel guilty for threatening to bail on him. He said he’d stay and Pickman clapped him warmly on the back and called him a “good man.” Then the doctor, fatherly as ever, slipped Montgomery some extra cash and told him to take the rest of the day off.
