by Dan Wells
Lyle stared at her, his mouth moving uselessly as he tried to consider what to say. How did my chance to seem sympathetic go so horribly wrong?
“I just want to go home,” said Susan, putting her head back down.
“Yes,” said Lyle quickly. “Go home. That’s exactly what you should do.”
“I can’t,” she growled, facedown on the desk. “I don’t have any sick days left.”
“I won’t tell anyone,” said Lyle. “I’ll count it as a full day, and you can go home and rest and come back whenever you feel better.”
Susan rolled her head to the side looking up at him suspiciously. “Seriously?”
“Seriously. This is a lab, for crying out loud—I can’t have a sick person in here anyway. Here—we’ll make it official.” He pushed his chair back to his desk, rooted around among the papers, and held one up in triumph. “I need a supply run—one bottle each of every hand lotion you can find. Use the company card, but don’t go until you feel better; I don’t have to start this test until May anyway, and it’s the perfect excuse for being out of the office.” He shrugged. “Just get better.”
“Are you sure?”
“Go,” he said, holding out the paper and nodding. “If you’re not better by Monday just give me a call.”
Susan stood up and wiped her nose on the cuff of her sweatshirt. “Thanks, Lyle.” She smiled feebly. “I’ll call you on Monday.” She took the paper and walked to the door, then stopped, turned, and looked back. “You’re really sweet.”
She left, and Lyle tried very hard to keep his heart rate down.
This is childish, he told himself. I’m being childish and stupid. Where am I, in junior high? I’m an adult. I shouldn’t be mooning over girls like some kind of sick puppy—I should be ignoring them or, if I like them, I should be asking them out. I should be asking her out. There is no earthly reason why I shouldn’t just ask Susan out on a date, like two adults …
… who work together, in a direct managerial situation, and who graduated high school more than a full decade apart. For all I know she wasn’t even born when I graduated high school.
Lyle turned to his computer, clicking the mouse idly through a series of spreadsheets, not paying any attention to them. I think she’s just too tense. I can’t date her, maybe, but I could give her a quick neck rub some time, right? Nothing serious, just something to ease the tension. I could use that spa lotion we put out a few years ago—the coconut stuff. That would b—
Lyle froze: mid-word, mid-thought, mid-action.
Susan had used 14G.
He could see it clearly in his mind: he’d left the test to call Jon Ford, stayed to research something, and when Susan came back from the test she was rubbing her hands and saying “great lotion, by the way.” She’d used it. Two of the test subjects were experiencing completely random, unrelated results—sickness and weight loss—and now Susan was sick, as well. And she wasn’t losing weight, but she was gaining it. No one was reporting these results because they made no sense individually—they couldn’t possibly be connected to each other or to the lotion—but seen together they formed a pattern. A senseless, meaningless, inexplicable pattern, maybe, but a pattern nonetheless.
What other results had gone unreported?
Lyle opened his filing cabinet and ticked through the folder until he found what he wanted: the liability waivers for all 128 test subjects, complete with their full contact info. He started at the beginning, with formula 5A—the first one he’d done human testing for—and started calling.
Two hours later he’d called twenty-one women, asking the same questions and getting the same general answers: they felt fine, they didn’t like being asked about their weight, and the test was so long ago they couldn’t recall any kind of poor reactions to the lotion. On the positive side, most of them said they remembered liking it. Lyle sighed and put the phone back in the cradle, grimacing and stretching his arms above his head. Maybe I need to start at the other end, he thought. Talk to the recent subjects who can still remember their results. But if the results are so innocuous you can’t remember them, isn’t that just as telling?
Lyle stared at the stack of papers—there were still 107 names to go. He braced himself for the task, knowing he had to just dive in and do it. He reached for the stack when suddenly the phone rang, startling him. The ID screen said it was the receptionist. He picked it up.
“Hello?”
“Hi, Dr. Fontanelle, I have a William England on the phone for you.”
Lyle cocked his head, holding the phone against his shoulder, and reached for the papers. That’s one of the 14G subjects. “Sure, put him through.”
“I warn you, he sounds pretty angry.”
“That’s fine, put him through.” The phone clicked, went dead, then clicked again. He could hear breathing. “Hello, Mr. England, how are you today?”
“I’m very upset,” said the man; his voice was curt and angry. “Is this the guy who did the testing?”
“Yes,” said Lyle. “My name is Lyle Fontanelle.” He found William England’s form and laid it out in front of him: thirty-eight years old; an address on Long Island. “What seems to be the problem?”
“I know I filled out a waiver when I came in for your little test,” he said, “but that waiver is completely void if you fail to give us full disclosure on the product you’re testing, and I want you to know I have every intention of suing you if I am not fully recompensed.”
“Why? Just tell me what’s happened.”
“As if you didn’t know. You told us we were testing a hydrating lotion—a moisturizer—and then you slipped us a skin-bleaching crème. That’s completely unacceptable! I am very proud of my heritage and my color, and I do not look lightly at this at all—”
“Wait,” said Lyle, “a skin-bleaching crème? Did the lotion bleach your skin?”
“Don’t pretend you didn’t know about this,” said the man on the phone. “You were running the test—even if you gave me a skin bleacher by accident, you’re still liable for it. Your whole company is.”
Lyle searched frantically on the form before him, finally finding the skin type information: William England had marked “Asian.” “Wait, Mr. England, you’re Asian?”
“Of course I’m Asian.”
“I just … I remember we had a man with Asian skin in the test, I just didn’t connect it with your name.”
“I am not interested in your racist assumptions about my name, Mr. Fontanelle. I want to know what you’re going to do about this. My face is white—I’m practically Caucasian!”
“How white?” asked Lyle, reaching for a pen.
“What does it matter how white? Just fix it!”
“But there’s a lot of range in Caucasian skin,” said Lyle. “Are we talking white-white, or tan, or kind of pinkish? What is it?”
“Kind of … average color, I guess. Just … white.”
Lyle scribbled notes furiously. “When did this start?”
“A week or two ago, I guess. Pretty soon after the test.”
“Is that the only change?”
“Change?”
“Have you had any other symptoms? Flu, weight loss, weight gain … anything else?”
“Why, is there a problem? Should I see a doctor?”
“There’s no problem,” said Lyle quickly. “Listen, I want you to call me if you notice anything else strange, okay? Anything at all.”
“Oh, I’m calling all right, I’m calling a lawyer.”
“There’s no need for that, I’m just … I just want to know what you experience so I can tell you if it’s our lotion or not. I’ll go through every record we have, every sample bottle on our shelves, and figure out exactly what happened. Okay? But I need you to call me if anything changes.”
William England sighed. “Okay. But I wasn’t kidding about the lawyer—if you can’t give me a good answer, and soon, I will go public and I will sue.”
“Just a few days, Mr. England,
that’s all it should take.”
“Fine,” said the man, and hung up. Lyle dropped the phone in the cradle and whistled. This made no sense—everyone in the most recent test was reacting, but they were all reacting differently. There was no trend; no way of knowing where the reactions were going, or where they might be coming from.
I need more information, thought Lyle. If any of the earlier tests had reacted this strongly, I would have heard about it; I need to start with 14G. The men. Is there something about men specifically? But no—Susan was sick, too. Everyone who touched that batch of lotion.…
Lyle froze. I touched that lotion. I touched it in the plant, and again here in the office. I used it a few times. Am I going to get sick, as well?
Am I going to die, like Jon Ford?
Lyle turned to the next sheet of paper: a man named Tony Hicks. I have to call them all.
He picked up the phone and dialed.
9
Friday, April 27
Ibis headquarters, Manhattan
231 DAYS TO THE END OF THE WORLD
“Congratulations!”
Ira Brady, the CEO of Ibis Cosmetics, raised the lotion bottle in a mock toast. It was a small plastic cylinder about four inches tall, maybe an inch in diameter. The white sticker on the side said “14G,” carefully written in thin black marker. “Thanks to this product, Ibis is set to create a new future for the cosmetics industry!”
The executives cheered. Ira had ordered steaks, and the beer was flowing freely. Ronald smiled in the back of the room, just happy to be included.
Ira continued. “Our … let’s call him a subcontractor … dropped off the information late last night. We have the full specs and formula, including all of their lab results, and this sample of the lotion. I’ve been through all of it, along with Dr. Decker, and I assure you: it’s every bit as valuable as we anticipated.”
The executives erupted in cheers again, and one of them cried out: “Pass it around!”
Ira smiled and tossed the sample bottle to the man. “There you go, Gordon—everybody feel free to try it. Now, normally we’d have to do months of safety testing on a product like this, especially something with an experimental ingredient, but in this case our dear friends at NewYew were kind enough to cover all of that time and expense for us.” The room erupted in a round of applause and laughter, and Ira had to shout to make himself heard. “If we move quickly on marketing and legal, we can have this on the shelves in just four months, and beat NewYew out of … oh, a couple of billion dollars.”
The man on Ronald’s right handed him the bottle of lotion, slightly slimy from so many sampling hands. Ronald passed it along; he’d already tried it, and the bottle was running low. Better to give everyone else a chance. I want everyone in this room to understand exactly what I helped them get.
Ronald’s phone buzzed, vibrating in its belt holster, and he wiped his hands carefully on a napkin. It was a new phone, the best his latest Ibis check could buy, and there was no sense getting steak sauce all over it. He pulled out the phone and yelped in terror.
“It’s NewYew!”
The noise abated slightly as some of the executives stopped talking to look at him. Ronald stood up, holding the phone above his head. “Mr. Brady, it’s NewYew! They’re calling me!”
The room fell silent, suddenly tense.
“Answer it,” Ira hissed. Ronald held it up to his ear, but Ira shook his head. “On speakerphone.”
Ronald nodded, fiddled with the buttons, and set the phone on the table. Nobody breathed. “Hello?”
“Hi,” said a man on the other end, “this is Lyle Fontanelle from NewYew, am I speaking with Ronald Lynch?”
Ronald swallowed, looking at the others in the room. “Yeah, this is Ronald.”
“Excellent, how are you, Mr. Lynch?”
“I’m good. How are you?”
“I’m great, thank you,” said Lyle. “I’m sorry to bother you, but I’m calling to follow up on the product test you participated in a few weeks ago. Have you experienced any oddities or complications with your health since that test?”
“Oddities?” Ronald looked around the room again, shrugging nervously. “I’m not sure what you mean.”
“Increased appetite or thirst; unexplained weight loss or weight gain; flu symptoms such as vomiting or diarrhea or intense abdominal pain. Dermatological effects such as skin bleaching, or a discoloration of the skin or hair. Deformation of bone or muscle mass—”
“Wait,” said Ronald, “are you serious?” The other men in the room were frowning as the list went on; Ira was giving the phone a look that could shatter stone. “Is any of that stuff likely?” asked Ronald.
Lyle sighed. “No, I’d actually say it’s unlikely, but…” He paused. “Let’s just say I’m concerned.”
“Concerned!” said Ronald. “What do you mean, concerned?”
“We have reason to believe that the product you tested is causing … unexplained biological phenomena,” said Lyle.
The other men in the room were now frantically cleaning their hands, wiping them off on napkins and suit coats and whatever they could reach.
“Mr. Lynch,” said Lyle, “are you there?”
Ronald found his voice. “I’m … fine,” he said. “N-no side effects.”
“That’s great to hear,” said Lyle. “Honestly. I don’t mean to scare you, but if anything develops, I need you to call me immediately. Can you do that?”
“Um…” Ronald’s head was thick and foggy. “Yeah. I can call you.”
“Thank you for your time, and good luck.” The phone hung up, and the room erupted in angry, terrified shouts.
“Bloody hell!” shouted Decker. “Every one of us touched that stuff! What’s going to happen?”
“I don’t know!” cried Ronald.
“Be quiet,” said Ira. The men were still frantic, and Ira shouted again with shocking authority. “Be quiet!”
The room went quiet.
“Whatever happens,” said Ira evenly, “you report it to me directly. You don’t talk to anybody else—not your wife, not your doctor, and definitely not NewYew. Is that clear?”
The men nodded.
“We’re going to find out what’s going on,” said Ira. He paused for a moment, his eyes bouncing back and forth as his mind raced through the various ramifications. “We’re going to make ourselves safe, and we’re going to find out what this lotion really does.” He looked at each man in turn, his eyes practically blazing with purpose. “And I promise you, whatever it does, it’s going to do it for us.”
10
Tuesday, May 1
2:02 P.M.
Bellevue Hospital, Manhattan
227 DAYS TO THE END OF THE WORLD
“Mr. Fontanelle?”
Lyle looked up; the man was tall and wide framed, looming over him in the hospital waiting room. He wore a short-cropped beard, dark black, but Lyle could see the telltale silver where the roots were a different color. I wonder if he uses our dye?
“Hi,” said the man, “I’m Dr. Allgood. I understand you’re a friend of Jon Ford’s?”
Lyle stood and shook the doctor’s hand, his fake story practiced and ready to go; he wanted to keep NewYew’s connection to the story secret for as long as possible. “Just an acquaintance, really. I met Jon while working on a paper about flu epidemiology. I was devastated to hear about his death, but I’m a little ashamed to say that the scientist in me was intrigued by the transition from flu to stroke. I was hoping you might be able to let me look at his treatment files.”
Dr. Allgood sighed. “I’d love to—everyone here was completely baffled by his symptoms, and we’d appreciate an outside opinion, but medical records are protected and we can’t just—”
“Oh!” said Lyle, trying to sound like he’d just thought of it. “You need permission, of course. I’ve got it right here.” He held up a clipboard containing Jon Ford’s liability waiver, the NewYew name and logo hidden by the clip at th
e top. If the doctor looked at it closely the ruse would be lost, but Lyle was gambling that he wouldn’t. What nonlawyer had time to study legal forms? “He signed a full release when I first included him in my research.” Lyle held it out for him to take, but Allgood waved it away.
“Leave a copy at the desk on your way out. Come on back to my office and I’ll show you the file.”
Lyle smiled and followed Dr. Allgood through the back halls of the hospital, nervously nodding at the occasional nurse. What if someone recognizes me? What if they link me to NewYew?
What will we do?
“Normally I’d have to make you wait while we try to collect everything,” said Dr. Allgood, “but you’re in luck today: Mr. Ford’s files are sitting on my desk as we speak.”
“You’re still going through them?”
“Like I said,” said the doctor, “it’s a very confusing case, and we still haven’t deciphered exactly what he had. It’s not really our job at this point, but I don’t like not knowing, you know?”
“Exactly.”
They reached Dr. Allgood’s office, a smallish room lined floor to ceiling with books and shelves and filing cabinets. It felt more like a cave than an office, though the desk in the center was relatively clear. “Here you go,” said Allgood, stepping behind the desk and pushing an open folder toward Lyle; it was stacked with an inch or more of multicolored papers and reports.
“Wonderful,” said Lyle. The two men sat down on opposite sides of the desk, and Lyle scanned through the first page of the file: standard admissions information, a description of symptoms, and so on. Jon Ford had been checked in just a few hours before his stroke, nearly comatose, by a friend named Travis Meyer. The symptoms were consistent with a severe flu: fever, intense head and muscle aches, lethargy, and extensive fluid loss through runny nose and diarrhea. Nothing new there. Lyle flipped to a new page, where the admitting physician had jotted down that the fluid loss had left Jon extremely dehydrated and recommended an immediate IV. He turned another page and found the results of a blood test: A+ blood, with a high white cell count, but that was standard for a flu patient. Beyond that it all looked good—good cholesterol, good minerals, good everything. Lyle leaned in closely, examining each line of the printout in detail: iron’s fine, potassium’s fine, red cells are low … wait. His estrogen levels were incredibly high. Lyle frowned at the number on the page. High estrogen in a male subject suggests a much older man, maybe fifties or sixties, but Jon was barely twenty-five. Was he getting old prematurely? Could an antiaging product somehow turn around and literally accelerate aging?