The Darwin Variant

by Kenneth Johnson

  Timothy Green: Something you will really like. (TG looks right into body cam) Turn that thing off, Brice, and I’ll tell you all about it.

  (Camera jostles slightly; flashlight beam momentarily swings across plastic bag. Several objects inside about the size of lemons. But red. Somewhat resemble, but much too large to actually be, strawberries.)

  Body Cam Deactivated 01:51:47

  Dash Cam Deactivated via remote: 01:51:58

  Courtesy Carroll Co. GA Sheriff, FBI

  Dr. Susan Perry. . .

  Two days later I was startled when an alarm blared loudly at the CDC. Red lights pulsated. I ran down the hallway, encountering Hutch, who shouted over the earsplitting whoop. “Is this a drill?!”

  “No! BSL-4! Prashant’s working in there!”

  “Jesus . . . ,” he muttered as we ran down the stairs, then reached the laboratory floor and the thick window looking into the highest security biosafety level four laboratory. The CDC’s director, Ernest Levering, was already outside it with others who were greatly distressed, looking helplessly through the window.

  “What happened?!” Hutch shouted.

  “They were working with the NZT nerve toxin,” Levering said urgently, “Prashant’s suit failed!”

  My blood turned to ice water. “Oh my God. He’ll be dead in sixty seconds!” I looked in desperately through the double-thick glass and saw bantamweight Prashant, wearing a bulky blue isolation suit, lying on the floor, and convulsing violently, as though being electrocuted. Another laboratorian in an isolation suit was bending over him.

  Hutch strained to see as he asked Levering, “Who’s in there with him?”

  “Lauren.”

  Hutch and I both drew a breath, our eyes met sharply.

  As excruciating as it was for us to witness Prashant’s tortured thrashing, I knew that inside the laboratory, his death agonies were beyond imagining. Like liquid fire scalding through his veins. My dear, loveable friend had bloody foam oozing from his thin mouth as he convulsed ever more violently. Even through the fogged visor of his helmet, I could tell he was staring out in wild-eyed terror at Lauren, who bent low over him, safe inside her iso suit. She held his shoulders as though trying to provide supportive human contact until the end.

  If I’d had a closer vantage point at the time, I’d likely have seen that the last image Prashant had in his life was not at all empathetic. The expression on Dr. Lauren Fletcher’s face would have been cold and impassive. With a darkness in her eyes.

  10

  CONVERSION

  Eric Tenzer. . .

  I was mesmerized by the yellow daisy in my hand, studying its colors, textures, its cheerful yellow starburst blossom fully absorbing the rays from the warm autumn sun. It was one of many we’d planted that was now thriving in the small garden outside our Ashton High faculty lounge. I held its delicate stem lightly between my thumb and forefinger, admiring its beauty, its life, and Dylan Thomas immediately came to mind: “The force that through the green fuse drives the flower / Drives my green age . . .”

  Which prompted me to think about my own relatively “green age.” I was only thirty-five and concerned, with good reason, about how much longer I might have, when I heard the grating, cynical female voice, “Investigating the Bellis compositae?” I knew it was Shelly Navarro, the science teacher. She eased her stocky frame down onto a wooden bench nearby as she lit an e-cigarette.

  I smiled. “I prefer to think of it as a daisy.”

  Shelly Navarro. . .

  I exhaled my first long drag and added, “The Latin. Genus, family.”

  “Of course.” Tenzer offered me his friendly smile. “The word daisy comes from Latin, too,” he said. “Originally solis oculus—sun’s eye. Then the Old English made it daeg eage. Which literally means ‘day’s eye.’” He pondered the little flower. “One that’s looking at us.”

  “Well,” I chortled cynically, trying to cover my annoyance at being one-upped, “I’d rather be looking back at ’em, than pushing ’em up, huh?”

  That phrase seemed to make Tenzer feel slightly uncomfortable. He drew a breath, still looking at the flower, spoke very quietly, “Yeah.”

  I didn’t know what deeper meaning his tone was suggesting, or as Tenzer might have put it, what “nuance of hidden troubles it betrayed.” And frankly I really didn’t care. I was preoccupied with my own annoyances. I took another long puff from my e-cig and looked dryly toward the school building. “Actually, there’s a hell of a lot of things I’d rather be doing.”

  Tenzer glanced at me. “Like . . . ?”

  I flicked an ash, though there wasn’t one, of course. “Planned to be working with big pharma somewhere. Instead of”—I scanned the area disdainfully—“here.” Then I looked at him with mild astonishment. “But you actually like teaching, don’t you?”

  “I do, Shelly. I love it. Particularly lately. Some of my senior kids suddenly blossomed!”

  I glanced at him with surprise. “Actually, some of mine, too. Weird as hell. Jumped into advanced work. I figured they had to be cheating somehow, but I’ve isolated them in ways they couldn’t get around. They just seem smarter all of a sudden.” I shook my head, puzzling over it again. “I don’t get it.”

  Tenzer grinned. “Ever thought that maybe it’s ’cause you’re a good teacher, Shelly?”

  I looked at him with an arched eyebrow and my expression of oh puh-leeze. Then I took another unfulfilling hit on my e-cigarette.

  Katie McLane. . .

  I was at our kitchen table, making my homework about the rise of Vladimir Putin more palatable by taking a mouse bite of oatmeal-raisin cookie each time I wrote an answer. A news anchorwoman droned on the TV in the background, something like, “At the State Capitol today, the governor’s new plans to streamline state government were received with less confrontation than usual from his normally hard-line opponents.” She went on about how both political parties seemed to have “mellowed slightly and become less engaged in their classical partisan bickering.” It was only way later that I realized it had been a distant early warning.

  I was distracted when Lisa came in. Her attitude toward me still had that new, chilly sorta edge. Like she was keeping me at arm’s length, and all of a sudden was just soooo much more mature than me. Steph followed her in like a puppy dog, wearing a thrift-store skirt I hadn’t seen before. I always felt sorry she didn’t have many clothes.

  Steph was softly pleading, “Lisa, please. I’ve got to win the science fair. Your dad can afford to send you to college, but I need that scholarship.”

  “So? Win,” said Lisa, snagging a can of Coke from the fridge. “You had your share of strawberries.”

  That grabbed my attention, but I looked quickly back at my homework so they wouldn’t think I was listening. I’d been wondering if “strawberries” was code for some new drug.

  “But you’re still better in the orals,” Steph went on with gentle sincerity. “Couldn’t you hold back just a little?”

  Lisa turned away from Steph, but I caught the dark flash of her cynical smile. “Okay, Steph. No problem.”

  Steph sensed the lie. “Look, Lisa, I’m sorry, but there’s just no way I can let you win.”

  As I watched Steph leave quietly, it seemed like she was feeling sad about Lisa, but also pondering how she could be sure to win. Lisa stared coldly after Steph, then turned toward her room, but caught me gazing at her. She gave me this really challenging glare like a blast of arctic air. “What?”

  I shrugged, returned to my social studies. I could feel Lisa’s eyes really boring into me for a moment, then she left the room. I peeked up, chewing my lip and frowning. Then our mom came in as frazzled as ever, searching through papers on the counter. “Have you seen my price list?”

  “It was on the kitchen counter,” I said, but my thoughts were elsewhere. “Mom, there’s something weird about Lisa.”

  Mom shuffled papers with increasing frustration. “Where is the damn thing?”

/>   “She’s not like she used to be, Mom.”

  She was pulling out drawers now. “Right: her grades have improved, so I’m not asking questions. Dammit, where is it?”

  “No, Mom, it’s more than that, it’s—”

  “Katie, please! I’ve got a customer on hold. Do you think it’s easy for me to keep everything together since”—I knew what was coming, and I silently mimed the words as she spoke them—“your father ran off with that bimbo?!” Mom found the paper behind the toaster oven and grabbed the kitchen phone. “Hello? Mr. Blake, sorry. Okay, a half-page, two days . . .”

  As she went giving her sales pitch, I turned off my tablet, and sighed to our big black-and-white pooch, “Come on, Madison.” Our friendly Bernese followed me out, as sad eyed as I felt.

  Dr. Susan Perry. . .

  I was frustrated, but trying to remain polite as I spoke on my office phone, “Lauren, all I requested was info on what other areas were cordoned off after the comet.”

  Upstairs, Lauren was on the other end of the line in her corner office. I could not see it at the time, but security camera archives later verified that CDC’s director, Dr. Ernest Levering, looking officious as ever, was seated across from Lauren. Wearing his half-moon reading glasses, he studied the file of a farm where one of the comet fragments had hit. Lauren’s tone was friendly on the phone, but I detected the clear air of superiority that she’d enjoyed casually projecting more than ever in the last couple of months. “Don’t know what to tell you, hon. It hasn’t come through here yet.”

  “But it shouldn’t be taking this long,” I said with annoyance.

  “Oopsie,” Lilly said from where she sat in her corner, frowning down at her iPad. “S-Susie?”

  I waved for Lilly to be quiet as I heard Lauren saying, “Just typical bureaucratic bullshit.”

  Lilly was getting aggravated with her iPad. “Something’s wrong.”

  I tried to ignore Lilly as I pressed Lauren, “And I haven’t gotten your report on those hog specimens—”

  “Something’s definitely wr-wrong,” Lilly stuttered fearfully.

  I covered the phone and snapped, “Lilly, please!” Then said to Lauren, “Those specimens from the aggressive farm animals.”

  Lauren sighed, seemingly frustrated herself, “I know. Just backed up, Suse. Prashant’s death and all.” As the memory of her leaning over his convulsing body flashed through my mind, Lauren chided, “Hey. When you’re finally running this office, I’m sure things’ll be more efficient—but look, we had no additional reports like those animals, so there’s probably nothing to worry about.”

  I refused to fold. “I’d still appreciate it if—”

  “Soon as I can, hon. Got to step into a meeting.” She clicked off.

  I slammed my phone down. “Thanks. Hon.”

  Lilly shook her iPad insistently. “Oopsie!”

  I snapped again, “What is the problem!?”

  “S-something’s wrong,” Lilly said, greatly concerned. “The Price Is Right isn’t on.”

  “A first-world crisis,” I grumbled. “Let me see.” I took the iPad, flipped on the sound. Her favorite program that Lilly watched religiously, compulsively, was preempted. A TV reporter was saying, “. . . special press conference where the governor has just praised the legislature for their extremely rare bipartisan effort.”

  “It’s some kind of news conference, Lilly,” I explained. “Maybe The Price Is Right will be on in a—”

  Lilly shook her head. “Supposed to be on at e-eleven.”

  “I know!” It came out childishly harsh. Lilly flinched. I hated myself whenever I caused that. I struggled to regain my composure. “Sorry, sweetie. But today there’s—”

  Hutch entered, interrupting. “I’ve been through all Prashant’s files you gave me. I can’t find anything about Lauren’s new research. Not even as much as he told us before his accident.”

  I stared at him a moment, short-tempered about everything. Then I walked brusquely out past him. “There’s another file cabinet down the hall where he kept backups and hardcopies.”

  CDC Sec Cam 3044 Date: 09/07/20 Time: 11:06:01

  Ofc Lab 3044 S. Perry.

  Transcript Analysis by: ATL PD-Op 20743

  Visual Desc: 3044 >>shows Drs. S. Perry & R.W. Hutcherson exiting office, L. Perry sitting at lab table looking at iPad.<<

  L. Perry: S-something’s definitely wrong.

  >>Custodian J. Hartman steps into doorway. Looks down the hall where S. Perry & R.W. Hutcherson had headed, then he quickly enters, goes to L. Perry.<<

  J. Hartman: Lilly. I need some information. Viroid pathology, specifically—

  L. Perry: (stares at iPad) The Price Is Right sh-should’ve been on six minutes ago.

  J. Hartman: (annoyed) Lilly. Please, focus: viroids. Particularly—

  L. Perry: (adjusts iPad) It’s never late. I don’t—

  J. Hartman: Lilly, dammit, will you listen? Viroids. Anything by Christopher Smith on anomalous protein coating and—

  L. Perry: (shakes head) Something’s wr-wrong.

  >>J. Hartman suddenly grabs L. Perry’s shoulders angrily, shakes her very hard.<<

  J. Hartman: Will you listen to me, you stupid retard!

  >>His violent action knocks pencils off the table. L. Perry is startled, visibly upset & tearful. Hands trembling.<<

  L. Perry: Oopsie!

  >>J. Hartman stops. Also seems startled by his own behavior. He steps back, as though trying to understand his outburst. Appears very embarrassed and uncomfortable.<<

  J. Hartman: I’m . . . I’m sorry. Excuse me, Lilly. I’m sorry.

  >>J. Hartman turns away slowly. Seems introspective, upset. Looks back at L. Perry, who has gotten to hands & knees, carefully picking up pencils. J. Hartman exits office.<<

  L. Perry: (nods) Something’s d-definitely wrong.

  Courtesy ATL PD, FBI

  Dr. Susan Perry. . .

  Moving down the hall and around a corner, I led Hutch to the spot I remembered, but instead of Prashant’s file cabinet, there was merely a dusty outline of where it had been. I was puzzled, annoyed. “It used to be right here.” I saw the director approaching. “Dr. Levering? Do you know what happened to Prashant’s files?”

  He shrugged. “Maybe he’d finally finished the digitizing and sent it to deep storage. Or Lauren did.” He continued on, leaving me staring at Hutch, then again at the empty space where the file cabinet had been.

  I noticed that prior to turning into another corridor, Levering looked back, eyeing us.

  Darren Green. . .

  My brother, Tim, was in our garage, changing the oil in our car. I was helping him. Then Charley came walking up, saying, “Got your text, Timbo. What’s up?”

  “Not much.” Then Tim looked at me. “Give us a minute, huh, Dare? Maybe grab a soda.” It was clear he wanted me outta there. I nodded. But I didn’t go inside. I went around to where I could peek in through the dusty back window.

  I heard Tim say, with a smile, “I appreciate you standing in for me as QB, Charley.”

  Charley shrugged it off, smiled back. “No sweat. My pleasure.”

  Tim kept smiling when he said, “But I’m gonna quarterback from now on.”

  Charley chuckled. “Hey. You wouldn’t be feeling this way if I hadn’t given you the strawberries. So why don’t you just eat me, huh?” He smiled and winked at Tim.

  “You wish,” Tim kidded, tussling with him. Charley returned the friendly roughhousing. But a poke became a push, then a shove, and in a flash Charley grabbed Tim and rammed him hard over some paint cans. Tim went apeshit. He grabbed a heavy lug wrench, went for Charley. Their fight was violent, ugly. Really vicious and dirty. Lotsa cheap shots, groin punches.

  And Tim was the worst. Tim! Who’d always been an honest, fair guy. Now it was like he had this killer instinct. He smeared a brush full of grease right across Charley’s eyes, blinding him, then kicked his legs out from under him and pushed Charley’s face
down into the catch pan filled with dirty oil. Tim held him under. Like to drown him.

  I was gonna bang on the window to make Tim stop, when he pulled Charley up. Charley was gagging, vomiting. But Tim didn’t quit. He grabbed Charley’s right hand, bent his fingers back so far that Charley screamed.

  Tim was shouting into his ear, “You give, motherfucker?! Huh? Huh!?”

  “Yeah. Yeah! Jesus!” Charley gasped, almost crying. “Leggo man, you’re breaking my fucking fingers!”

  But Tim bent them harder, said with a scary grin, “Maybe I oughta! Huh?”

  “Dumb move, man,” Charley said, breathing hard. “Be pretty hard for me to catch your stupid passes.”

  “I got other receivers.” Tim was still smiling. “And you’d remember who’s in charge, huh?!”

  There was a pause. They both stood there panting, angry, silent.

  And then Tim snapped one of Charley’s fingers.

  Katie McLane. . .

  “Oh my God!” I said, my jaw hanging in disbelief. “Tim broke it?!” Darren had found me crossing through Ashton’s town square where I’d picked up some stamps for my mom. I’d stopped dead, stunned.

  “Yeah,” Darren said. He was still frightened. I could tell his stomach was in a knot, and he was queasy from the violence he’d witnessed. “Tim said just ’cause Charley found the damn strawberries don’t make him the natural quarterback.”

  “What strawberries? What are they talking about? Does that mean drugs or . . . ?”

  “I dunno.” Darren shook his head, totally stumped. “I dunno!”

  Us two fourteen-year-olds stared at each other, trying to figure it all out. It felt so weird. There we were, standing in the middle of this pleasant, green, well-cared-for park that was the small town square of Ashton. Where we’d both grown up. Birds were chirping in the leafy magnolia trees. A few cars moved along the streets around us. People passed, going about their business routinely, unaware of how troubled Darren and I were by the scary changes that were transforming people in our hometown.

  The Documentarian. . .

  One didn’t have to travel more than a mile or so outside of Ashton to get into good, rich Georgia farm country. Granny Wells had lived on a small farm most of her life. Her given name was Gertrude, but everyone had called her Granny for years, because she was the quintessential image of grandmotherhood. She was eighty-two and tiny. Gray haired and bright eyed. Barely five feet tall, she’d always been a featherweight and a cheery soul who was beloved of her grandchildren and her children, all of whom well knew and were able to describe her habits, foibles, humorous snappy comebacks, and generous nature. Their later descriptions and testimony, along with family photos and letters, allow us to present this composite picture of Gertrude Wells. She preferred dresses of thin material with tiny checks and usually had an apron on over them because her hobby had always been cooking. Since George, her husband of fifty-seven years, had gone to his reward, Mrs. Wells had spent considerably more time in the kitchen, preparing treats for her family and friends. It kept her happily busy.