The Darwin Variant

by Kenneth Johnson

It was coming from the chapel. I eased up to the side door and peered in. I saw Pastor Middleton, who I’d always thought was too young and handsome to be a minister. He was lying facedown in front of the altar in a pool of sunlight streaming down through a stained glass window. He was laughing and sorta squirming peculiarly.

  “I can hear thy voice within me, heavenly father!” He was rambling. “I can feel thy divine hand opening doors within my unworthy brain. Let it be so, that I might better serve thee!”

  I ran out of the church, hyperventilating now, near total panic. I clutched when I heard someone shout, “Katie!”

  Darren was rushing toward me across the green grass of the town square, past the Civil War cannon. I ran to meet him. He stumbled and fell near one of the wooden benches just as I got to him. “Darren?! Oh my God, listen. We’ve gotta—”

  I suddenly froze. He had raised his face toward me. He was laughing. But tears were streaming, too. I was confused, scared. “Darren? What is it? What’s wrong?”

  “Oh God! Katie!” He was trembling, frightened, but with this strange smile flickering across his face. “My mom made this peanut butter sandwich. She used some preserves she bought at church and—”

  “Oh no!” My blood chilled. “Your mom’s got it now?!”

  “Me! I ate it!”

  I stared at him, petrified. I saw that he was getting even more light-headed. “I didn’t know, Katie! I didn’t mean to!” His tears spilled out. “I tried to throw up, but I couldn’t! I—” A wave of emotion passed through him; he laughed. “But you should feel it, Katie! God! It’s the most wonderful—” His faced twisted from a bizarre smile to an expression of complete agony. Like that classic Greek mask of comedy warping into tragedy. Darren cried out, “Katie! Help me! I’m scared! I don’t want this!”

  I grabbed him and held him tight. His body was quaking with emotion.

  “I don’t want to be mean like them!” A weird laugh bubbled out of him. “Oh God! I can feel it in me!” He pushed me away. “Run.”

  “Darren, no, I can’t leave you like—”

  “Run, Katie!” He was crying desperately now. “Don’t let ’em get you, too!”

  “Darren—”

  He shouted at me—part shriek, part laugh. All frightening. “RUUUNNN!”

  Terrified, I ran to my bike and pedaled away. I had a last quick glimpse of Darren. My best friend in the world looked simultaneously heartbroken and elated, crazed.

  My house was dead silent. I entered the living room real tensely, listening, hearing nothing except my heart pounding. I peeked in the kitchen. Mom was asleep on the floor with a strangely gleeful expression on her face. Madison was resting her sweet head on Mom’s leg. The pooch looked up at me with sad, confused eyes.

  “Shhh. It’s okay, Maddy.” I carefully opened Mom’s purse and took out all the bills and her Visa card. Then I slipped quietly into the laundry room and stuffed a couple of T-shirts from a laundry basket into my backpack.

  I came back into the kitchen really stressed. I looked at my sleeping mother and turned to leave. But I couldn’t. I turned back and knelt down beside her. I leaned closer, really cautious, weighing the danger, and gave her a soft kiss on the cheek. Her breathing remained steady and even. I whispered, barely audible, “I love you, Momma.”

  Then I stood up and headed out—but stopped, had a thought. I went back to the kitchen. Picked up the jar of preserves off the counter. I carefully closed the lid tight and pushed the jar down into my backpack. Then I looked toward Mom a final time, whispering to Maddy, “Take care of her, Mad.”

  Then I hurriedly left my home.

  Moments later I was on one of the nearby residential streets, pedaling my bike like crazy, when I saw Tim Green’s car approaching. Through the reflections swirling across his windshield, our eyes met. He must’ve sensed instantly that something was off about my look and how fast I was pedaling. As he passed, I glanced back and saw him watching me in his rearview mirror.

  Then I heard tires squealing and looked back again. Tim was wheeling the car in a tight U-turn. My heart leaped. “Shit!” I knew he was coming after me. And that I couldn’t possibly outrun him.

  I swerved my bike off the road, bumping painfully over uneven ground down through a patch of woods. My front tire slid on a root, twisting sharply, threatening disaster. I barely recovered and kept on dodging among the trees at breakneck speed.

  I circled back around and into an alley behind our small-town city hall. I locked the bike to a pipe, peeked out to check the street and that Tim or Brice weren’t around, then ran across into our one-room Greyhound station. It was empty. My legs were like Jell-O from all the exertion as I rushed up to the ticket window. The agent seemed annoyed at being interrupted in the midst of her crossword.

  I pulled some cash from my backpack. “Atlanta, please,” I panted, still out of breath, my mouth totally dry. “One way.”

  The agent glanced up over her half-glasses. Seemed like she noticed the sweat on my face. I looked back, studying her. Was there a gleam in her eyes? I wasn’t sure if the woman was one of Them or if paranoia was getting the better of me. I tried to act nonchalant as I waited. I wiped the dampness from beneath my long ringlets on the back of my neck. When the ticket agent walked out of sight for a moment, I totally clenched up, but then she returned with some change and a ticket, speaking in a bored voice, “One-way Atlanta. ’Bout to finish boardin’ right now. You best get on out there.”

  I peered out the station’s back door to where the bus was revving up. I scanned for Tim or anyone else who might try to stop me. Saw no one suspicious, so I hurried toward the bus.

  Then I saw Steph walking across the street. She stopped dead when she spotted me.

  I stood completely breathless as we stared at each other. Steph seemed as frozen as me. I sensed that she was considering her options. Finally, Steph sighed, gave me a faint, sad smile, looked away, and walked on. I hurried up to the bus and was about to climb on when a hand came down on my shoulder! I jumped out of my skin and spun around ready to fight or run.

  Mr. Tenzer, the English teacher, said, “Oh. Sorry. Didn’t mean to startle you.”

  I had reached my stress limit. I could feel hot tears threatening right behind my eyes. It was a major effort to force a smile. “S’okay, Mr. Tenzer.” I stepped quickly up into the bus, but glanced back and saw he was watching me with curiosity. His face looked different than usual. Paler, maybe? That worried me.

  I hurried up the aisle of the bus, which was fairly full from its earlier small-town stops. I swung into a seat toward the back and scrunched down, trying to disappear. Through the heads in front of me, I saw Mr. Tenzer approaching with a calm smile. “I’m really sorry, Katie.”

  I just nodded, afraid to speak for fear of tears spilling out.

  “You going alone?” When I nodded, he indicated the seat beside me. “Mind if I . . . ?”

  I nodded again. Then turned away. I looked at the window. It was not one of the emergency exits. If he was one of them, I was trapped. I tried to keep watch out the window to see who might be coming after me, but then I thought of Darren, and my vision suddenly got blurry. I rubbed the tears away, angrily trying to make them stop.

  Mr. Tenzer offered a Kleenex. I took it without glancing at him, but I nodded thanks. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw him smile gently and pull a paperback out of the inside pocket of his windbreaker.

  “You can borrow my Walt Whitman, too, if you want. Kleenex and Leaves of Grass. Always good for trips.” I nodded again, still keeping my eyes downcast. He absolutely understood, said, “Right. Shut up, Eric. Sorry, Kate.”

  The bus rumbled to life. The driver closed the door. I heard a hiss of compressed air as he released the brake, slipped the beast into gear, and pulled out—just as I caught sight of Tim’s car driving slowly by. I gasped and ducked down lower in the seat. Mr. Tenzer couldn’t help but notice. I think he frowned with curiosity, but he smoothed the moment for me, saying, “More
comfortable, huh?”

  I forced a slight smile, appreciating him. Then I peeked carefully out. Mr. Tenzer pretended to be reading his poetry but had to be aware of my odd behavior.

  The bus wheezed along Ashton’s main street, slowly headed toward the edge of town. Trying to carefully watch for trouble, I was reeling from the avalanche of frightening circumstances that had swept down on me. And from the unsettling fact that I was running away from the only home I’d ever known. I watched the hometown where I had grown up and been so happy, passing by before my eyes.

  “Think you’re losing something there,” Mr. Tenzer said. The jar of preserves was slipping out of my backpack. He caught it. He turned the jar around in his hands. “Oooh, homemade strawberry preserves. Looks great. Wish I could eat ’em.”

  “No, you don’t!” I blurted, inadvertently. “I mean, they’re not very good.”

  “Well, I couldn’t anyway.” He handed the jar back to me. “I’m allergic to strawberries. I get hives so big I attract bees.”

  He smiled, but I wasn’t sure I believed him. How could I be sure? He must’ve seen my extreme tension because he tried to lighten my mood, saying, “Your dad still living in Atlanta?”

  “When he’s not traveling.” I raised up to look out the back window of the bus. I couldn’t see any cars following. I knew Mr. Tenzer was sorta studying me sideways. He seemed concerned about my distress, maybe suspected I was a runaway. But he decided not to press any further.

  At least not at that moment.

  Dr. Susan Perry. . .

  The front door opened into the small apartment, which was dark because the curtains were drawn. I pocketed my lock picks as Hutch followed me inside, speaking quietly with regard to my skills, “I’m definitely getting a dead bolt.”

  “Much harder,” I said, “but not impossible.”

  Lilly followed in behind us like a baby duck. “It’s almost th-three. Time for my walk.”

  “You’ll take it, honey,” I promised, soothingly. It was always important to ease her concerns about her schedule.

  Lilly looked around. “Isn’t this where Prashant l-lived?”

  “Yes, honey,” I said as Hutch and I began to explore.

  “Okay. If he did have info that could help us,” Hutch said, “where would he keep it?”

  “That’s what I’m trying to figure out.” I was investigating Prashant’s desk.

  Lilly just stood, planted, watching and noticing. “Lots neater than usual. Pencils are neat. Everything’s n-neat. Very nice.”

  I paused, looking at Lilly, who was nodding with approval.

  “You know, Lilly’s right,” I said. “Was Prashant ever this neat?”

  “Nope.” My sister shook her pretty head, emphatically.

  “Somebody’s already searched here?” Hutch looked around, frustrated.

  “Maybe. Doesn’t mean they found anything.” I prodded him. “C’mon, start looking.”

  After an hour we’d found nothing, and Lilly was walking back and forth across the room. “’Course it’s not the s-same as walking through the park.”

  “Soon, Lil,” I said. “Hutch? Over here.” I was holding a framed photo of myself and Prashant, extracting a tiny flash drive taped behind it. With my name on it.

  An hour later, after a quick stop at the park for a short walk with Lilly, Hutch and I were in my office, reading Prashant’s secreted files on my personal laptop. I didn’t want to chance them getting into the CDC system.

  “Look.” Hutch pointed at the screen. “All your field research on those aggressive animals in the comet’s debris field is tied into Lauren’s new project.”

  “Whatever the hell that project is. Scroll down.” He did and new information appeared. “All about Mitchell.”

  “Private black ops. Intelligence,” Hutch said, adding ironically, “Prashant was prescient. And look: BioTeck Industries. Isn’t that—”

  “The chemical company-slash-defense contractor, yes. The ones who turned Chris’s research into a weapon.” I sat back in my chair, staring at the screen and then looking at Hutch. “What are we onto here?”

  Katie McLane. . .

  I’d turned my cell phone off in case someone was trying to trace my location. I was at one of the few battered pay phones left in the bustling Atlanta bus station. I blew out a frustrated puff as I heard the recorded voice on the other end say, “Hi, this is Jason McLane . . .”

  I hung up. Totally unsure where to go. I looked around the terminal. Several people glanced at me in passing. Did some of them have the disturbing look in their eyes, too? Had it reached Atlanta already? Or was I just imagining it? I was frightened. Like the world was closing in on me. Those hot tears were threatening again. I was fighting them down when I heard Mr. Tenzer’s voice.

  “Katie?” He was sitting on a bench distant enough to respect my space. “Can I help?”

  He seemed so friendly, but he definitely looked slightly different: paler than usual. His eyes seemed a little dark and slightly sunken, like my mom’s looked when she didn’t sleep well. But could I trust him? He had sat there with gentle patience, like he’d wait as long as I needed. I sat down facing him, looking him right in the eye and asked, “What’s like the absolute most important thing in the whole world to you?”

  His brow furrowed. He looked—what’s that expression? Nonplussed? He thought for a second. “Well . . . my life, I guess, Katie. Or maybe poetry? What’re you . . . ?”

  I focused on him, real intense. “Swear to me. On your life—that you really are allergic to strawberries.”

  He stared at me, curiously. Then nodded.

  Eric Tenzer. . .

  I’d come to Atlanta for a critical, very personal reason of my own; but when Katie told me her story, I realized that where I was headed for an appointment was coincidentally the best place to take her. Twenty minutes later the two of us walked toward the reception desk in the lobby of the CDC. Katie was extremely nervous, glancing at everybody we passed as she whispered, “She’s a friend of yours?”

  “No, just a doctor I met here. But a very good one, Katie. Maybe she can help.” I smiled at the dapper male receptionist who was eyeing the skipper-blue suspenders beneath my jacket. “Hi. Eric Tenzer. Is Dr. Lauren Fletcher in?”

  Katie and I took the elevator upstairs and walked along the cluttered third-floor corridor, checking office numbers, until we finally found the one we’d been sent to. I knocked lightly. “Excuse me?”

  A woman who was facing away turned to me. She was quite attractive with a friendly smile, but not the doctor I knew. I said, “Hi. Eric Tenzer.” She took my hand genially and introduced herself as Dr. Susan Perry. I addressed the outdoorsman-type just behind her, “Dr. Hutcherson?” He nodded, and I said, “I’m a patient of Dr. Fletcher’s, but they told me my case had been passed along to you.”

  “I definitely know your name, Mr. Tenzer. I’m Hutch.”

  “Eric, please.”

  Hutch shook my hand firmly, saying, “I’ve read all your info in the clinical test files, Eric. We deeply appreciate your help. In fact, you’re one of the key subjects for the new HIV/AIDS medication.”

  “So I’m told.” I saw Katie blink with surprise. I smiled a bit wistfully at her. “Hope that doesn’t change our relationship, Kate.”

  “’Course not,” she said immediately, as though it were a given.

  But Hutch was mortified. “Oh God, I’m sorry. I thought you were related. I should never have—”

  “No, no, it’s okay,” I said. “But before we get to me, this is Katie McLane, and she’s got a pretty amazing story for you . . .”

  Dr. Susan Perry. . .

  Close to an hour had passed, the setting sun could be seen through the trees outside the window behind Lilly. She sat to one side of my office, quietly scanning through journals as usual, absorbing endless information that was meaningless to her but a great resource to all us researchers. Katie’d told us what happened in her small hometown. I found m
yself looking at the jar of strawberry preserves sitting on my desk, like it was a ticking time bomb.

  Eric said, “I’d think it was impossible, too, if I hadn’t seen it. In my classroom. On the football field. This huge leap in mental agility, intelligence, coupled with—”

  “An intense, aggressive desire to dominate,” I said, shaking my head as I tried to process it. “Some sort of remarkable transmutation.”

  Eric nodded. “Is that how you’d describe it? Seemed to me sort of like evolution on the fast track.”

  “Well, translating terms for scientific phenomena can be dicey,” I said. “I think Darwin described what he called transmutation in 1859 when he published his Origin of—”

  “Transmutation,” Lilly interjected without looking up from her reading and without stuttering, “archaic term for hyperadaptation or evolution, first appears in Philosophie Zoologique, Lamarck, Jean Baptiste, 1809, part one, chapter eight, paragraph two.”

  Eric and Katie stared at Lilly. Hutch and I were once again amazed by her mental storehouse of knowledge. “Well,” I chuckled, “there you go. The voice of authority. Thanks, Lil.”

  She never looked up. “You’re w-welcome.”

  I said to Eric, “So yes, evolution might be how the general public would describe it.”

  Hutch had been mulling everything, spoke low with fearful amazement, “This gets more unnerving all the time.”

  I nodded to him. “Particularly when you connect it to what we found today about the debris field.” I rotated the jar slowly, looking at the contents, then at the teacher and teenager. “Eric, Katie, it’s important that you not mention this to anyone else. Particularly Lauren Fletcher. We think there’s a possibility that she might be infected herself. With whatever this is.”

  We all pondered that, and what it could mean, for a long moment. Then Hutch picked up the jar like it was radioactive. “I’ll set the protocols. It only happened from ingesting, right, Katie?”

  “Seems like it, yeah,” she confirmed. “Just from eating.”

  “So it’s probably enteric.” Hutch nodded.

  “Transmitted orally,” I translated for Eric and Katie. “That narrows the construct. It also explains how it was likely spread to farm animals through droppings from birds who’d eaten the infected fruit. Those crows that pecked at the migrant child could have gotten it directly into his blood. Get a PCR going, Hutch.” I glanced at our new friends. “That’s polymerase chain reaction. It creates more samples of the virus so we can study it in various growth media. And Hutch, do it in the level four lab. But don’t let Lauren get in there with you.”