The Darwin Variant

by Kenneth Johnson

  That morning the situation worsened: we saw a TV news bulletin recalling the recent death of Prashant Sidana while working with deadly nerve toxin. It had been thought accidental. But an “internal CDC investigation” had just uncovered new evidence that implicated me—my photo appeared onscreen—and the police were now investigating his death as a homicide which I might have premeditated. Lauren appeared on camera with CDC director Levering, who had obviously become one of the Friends, by her side. She said sadly, “This came as a great shock to us. Dr. Perry was a valued member of our team, but recently had begun showing signs of severe paranoia and even mental instability. We counseled her to get treatment, but she grew angry and has gone missing, perhaps taking toxic materials.” The newsman emphasized I was dangerous. Anyone having contact with me should call a special number. I could only be handled safely by CDC’s highly trained hazmat personnel.

  We all sat stunned. Particularly Fernando and Maggie. Stalwart Justinia looked at her cousins, saying, “I can tell you two things for certain: I have known this woman for nine years, and I know that accusation is total bullshit.”

  That was all Fernando and Maggie needed to hear. They would stand by us. Maggie quickly located a partly furnished rental house on Rigby Street in her neighborhood. The owner was one of her cousins. Seemed there were a lot of “cousins” in this tight-knit community. Most were beneficent, and when Maggie made it a cash deal, the owner definitely asked no questions. He never even saw our faces.

  Lilly accepted our new surroundings with her usual stoicism, though she was disappointed there weren’t any books. Justinia promised to bring all Lilly might want from the library. I warned Justinia that she’d need a wheelbarrow.

  Naturally I wanted to go straight to authorities, tell the whole, true story, but we all understood I wouldn’t know who to trust in the local police or FBI. Or even the Atlanta press.

  And even if I found a sympathetic ear, my proof had been destroyed. I just had my word.

  “And mine,” Katie volunteered eagerly. What a great kid. Then she said, “We can show ’em all those amazing plants at the McAlistair farm—”

  “Which the Friends at Ashton may have removed or cut down and plowed over,” Eric cautioned. “We have no idea how many townspeople are infected by now. Most want to keep it secret—and they’re seriously smart.”

  Justinia asked me, “What about that sample of the virus from Dr. Hutcherson?”

  I’d thought of that as proof, but finding a way to demonstrate it still required finding someone who would believe me to begin with.

  We all sat silently. Feeling stumped. Then suddenly Eric laughed. We all looked at him. “You know what I’d do?” He focused on me with all seriousness. “Forget the locals. Call The New York Times.”

  I stared at him. And realized I certainly had nothing to lose.

  I actually managed to reach a journalist there who listened intently to my story, but when he heard that my phone containing the proof had been lost, he politely suggested I call the National Enquirer.

  Undaunted, I tried the Wall Street Journal, then the Daily Beast, CNN, and others, but all treated me like a conspiracy theory nutcase. Finally I realized what was going on: Lauren.

  It was indeed confirmed much later that the renowned, respected Dr. Lauren Fletcher, who’d had very deep involvements with top people at virtually all national news outlets over many years and had become “the voice of the CDC,” told Director Levering to set up an urgent mass conference call—as they’d often done in the past. On that call the two of them alerted the media that some would likely get a call from “sadly disturbed, delusional Dr. Perry.” They should “report it to the CDC, but otherwise dismiss her ravings.”

  I was frustrated beyond measure. Forced to stay underground, living as a fugitive.

  Eric, however, could remain aboveboard and needed to stay in Atlanta for his treatments, so Maggie found him a place on nearby Fort Street. He bravely volunteered to secretly help shelter the runaway, Katie.

  Eric was looking unwell; we knew he had to continue the regimen of trial meds at the CDC.

  Eric Tenzer. . .

  That meant I’d be face-to-face with Hutch, who was now one of them. I’d have to convince him that my only interest was in saving my own life or at least continuing to teach for as long as I was able. I’d have to casually brush off any suggestion that I was in contact with Susan or Katie.

  That was a daunting challenge; I’d never been a very good liar. But Susan pointed out that Hutch also had a very strong personal stake in having the speculative HIV treatment prove successful: the unique med was now Hutch’s baby. If I was among those cured, it’d be a boon for Hutch, too.

  So the next morning I took a deep breath and went to Hutch’s CDC office. To my surprise he seemed very much the same guy, though a bit more energetic. I thought it wise and most natural for me to bring up Susan’s name and express concern about her. Hutch professed what seemed genuine sadness and hoped her situation would resolve positively. But he was entirely focused on shepherding the clinical trial to a successful, lifesaving conclusion. With an enigmatic smile Hutch said, “In the last twenty-four hours I’ve had what might be a breakthrough insight, Eric.” I knew that was probably because his brainpower had been amplified by the comet’s virus. Hutch added, “I’ve further modified the medication. Let’s get you going, man!”

  I took that newest treatment, thanked him, then left the CDC, aware that I was walking a very dangerous tightrope. Yet the first thing I did was find a pay phone and call the throwaway cell Fernando had given to Susan. I knew she and Katie were worried about me.

  Katie McLane. . .

  I don’t know what I would’ve done without Eric, who began homeschooling me around the substitute teaching job his friend in the school district arranged for him.

  But having to stay almost entirely inside was hard for me—and for Susan and Lilly, too—but we had to take care that nobody would recognize us. The only time I’d go out was to hurry through a back alley to their place. We also changed our hair colors. Mine went from honey blonde to muddy brown. Because my ringlets were so distinctive, we decided they ought to go. They’d always kinda annoyed me, but when Susan cut them off, and I saw this brunette pixie in the mirror, I got tears in my eyes. Because, like, where was Katie? I didn’t recognize myself. Then I said, “Well duh, Kate. Isn’t that the idea?” I sucked it up and rubbed my tears away. Still it was weird. I felt a heavy lump inside my chest. Susan gave me a long supportive hug. By the time Maggie bought some brown contact lenses to cover my blue eyes and added some really awful thick-rimmed glasses, I wasn’t sure my own parents would recognize me.

  My parents. God. Thinking about them made tears well up again and the lump in my chest hotter and heavier. I took a breath and determined to shake the feeling off. But I couldn’t quite.

  Eric always understood, bless his heart. One evening about two weeks into my hiding at his place, he seemed very sad, and I was able to return his kindness a little. I encouraged him to tell me what was wrong. He sighed.

  It was an anniversary: that same night three years earlier he had lost the love of his life to the disease he was now fighting. His longtime partner, Jeremy, had suffered chronic, severe pain from fibromyalgia, and he’d become addicted to opioids. While away on a business trip, the pain became excruciating. Jeremy couldn’t get enough prescription meds and resorted to heroin. The needle wasn’t clean. He unknowingly contracted HIV and transmitted it to Eric. Jeremy was heartbroken with guilt. Though many with HIV/AIDS were living successfully, using the standard treatments, thousands did still die. Eric and Jeremy had entered the CDC clinical trial together, but Jeremy succumbed. Eric said his own chances didn’t seem very good, either. But his far greater sadness was losing his beloved husband.

  We sat silently on the couch, holding hands in the growing darkness, leaning on each other.

  Dr. Susan Perry. . .

  By early October, a month into our
sequestration, we could see that living in hiding was weighing heavily on Katie. Meanwhile I had faced the dangerous challenge of determining whom I could trust and had been reaching out with utmost caution to my very closest scientific colleagues. It was extremely tricky: when explaining the surreal situation, I had to emphasize that yes, the Friends might offer them the tantalizing opportunity to have their intelligence exponentially boosted, but their humanity, compassion, and morality would be correspondingly lessened or lost entirely. I impressed upon them that if we didn’t work together—secretly and quickly—to find an antidote to this growing epidemic, then humankind would very likely go into a perilous downward spiral.

  Simone Frederick. . .

  My husband, Clarence, hadn’t said much about the goings on at his chemical/pharma plant, but by late October the subtle changes I’d noticed in local and state government became more obvious. Working for eighteen years in the capitol building as press liaison in Georgia’s Office of Public Information, I’d developed a clear idea of what was “normal.” I’d had ample opportunity to observe the current governor and his staff as well as the state senate and house members and the nine justices on Georgia’s supreme court. Even if I hadn’t always liked every government worker personally, I’d respected each of them as elected officials eager to promote legitimate democracy and inclusiveness.

  Governor Stanton was a good man. Though a fellow Democrat, he had been a tad too populist and right of center for my personal taste, and for that of many people across the state and country. But the governor had basic integrity; he was a white male who was committed to diversity and had good intentions, as did his press secretary and his male Hispanic lieutenant governor who was a moderate Republican. Our secretary of state and attorney general were both very popular black women. The supreme court justices were equally diverse in gender and ethnicity, but just as contentious as ever. The senate majority and minority leaders were usually appropriately, sometimes laughingly, at each other’s throats. Up until that late October.

  That’s when the climate in the capitol chilled unexpectedly. In retrospect, I’d swear that it started with the governor himself. Over a couple of weeks he started sliding toward, and then adopting, intensely “Georgia first” ideas. Some of them were very stern. Some even appeared unethically self-serving. I had no idea why it was happening. Or why the governor’s immediate underlings, usually strongly opinionated, were suddenly following him like lemmings. Why were these people in important leadership positions across the strata of our state and local government, including even our formerly unifying Atlanta police chief, altering their longtime behavior? Why were so many politicians of vastly different stripes suddenly agreeing to adopt and promote so many restrictive, authoritarian measures—like almost doubling the size of the city police force and the Georgia State Patrol?

  Watching and analyzing carefully, I began to think it had something to do with the influence of a strong yet understated presence of someone who seemed to radiate quietly confident power as he moved through the capitol.

  A man named Bradford Howell Mitchell.

  Dr. R.W. Hutcherson. . .

  When I was captured at the Everett chemical plant back on that night in September, they’d texted Lauren at the church about how they should handle me. She texted back to give me the full-blown CAV-A, later telling me she’d always planned to do so eventually. She’d already carefully researched my history and my published articles. She’d assessed my native intellect and personality during a few long private meals. She’d concluded I’d be a powerful asset and ally. She later admitted another factor had been a certain personal attraction. After I was given “the gift,” Lauren often allowed me into her inner circle. I thus had the firsthand, highly educational experience of watching Mitchell work, manipulate, and maneuver. It was downright amazing.

  As a military man, he’d labored hard for his country, but rarely received the full commendation or remuneration he felt entitled to. Worse, he’d been busted from lieutenant colonel back to major, angrily quit the service, and got into the private security black-ops business.

  Then came his accidental exposure to the virus when his security people came across one of the meteorite areas, and he’d eaten an infected plum. With his brainpower enhanced he’d easily navigated the new roads that opened up before him. He analyzed all his options, then astutely resolved to maximize his command and control of the vast gold mine he’d stumbled upon. Taking the virus to Dr. Lauren Fletcher was a masterstroke. He’d researched her and recognized not only her brilliance as a biologist, but also her vaunted ambition and a drive to conquer that mirrored his own. Once self-infected with CAV-A, she was an ideal compatriot.

  She quickly developed the secondary virus, CAV-B, which was the cornerstone of their burgeoning empire. Lauren, in turn, recognized that Mitchell had given her the opportunities to excel and thus achieve her lofty position in the Friends’ hierarchy. So in spite of her heady dominance over others, Lauren was always deferential to Mitchell. He expected no less.

  I learned that ever since childhood, Mitchell had steeped himself in the study of history, warfare, and particularly subversion. With the CAV-A he gained instantaneous connection to absolutely everything he’d ever read, heard, or seen, which was immense. And he never stopped adding to his knowledge. He continually devoured more histories, essays, journals—not just on warfare but also treatises on human psychology, mob mentality, biographies of leaders and dictators both successful and not. He was steeped in everything pertaining to the assumption and most advantageous uses of power.

  I saw him quote offhandedly from Machiavelli’s The Prince, from Sun Tzu’s The Art of War, or from Infantry Attacks, the 1937 book on tank warfare by Field Marshal Rommel, the Desert Fox. Mitchell noted to me with humor how General Patton had been able to defeat Rommel’s seemingly invincible panzer tank division in North Africa simply because Patton had read Rommel’s book.

  Mitchell could also quote poetically from T.E. Lawrence’s Seven Pillars of Wisdom, which gave insights into Lawrence’s brilliance at using the prejudices of one Arabian tribe against another or bending them to unify.

  Mitchell spoke knowingly about specific military strategies, such as those employed by Wellington against Napoleon, or Sir Francis Drake sending eight burning ships into the Calais harbor, forcing the Spanish Armada to cut loose their anchors and sail haphazardly into the Channel, where the long guns of the English fleet decimated them. He could quote and draw insights from Churchill’s private letters to FDR, employ Lincoln’s humorous backwoods storytelling, or intellectually crush someone with the icy calm of a Stalin or a Putin.

  Mitchell could dissect with surgical precision the strategies that won great battles. From the Spartans’ defeat of the Athenians at Syracuse in 413 BC, to the victory of Henry V’s far-outnumbered archers at Agincourt in 1415, to D-day in 1944.

  Mitchell could not only dazzle with his ability to recall and quote such a legion of historical figures, but he took maximum advantage of his new brainpower to cherry-pick and utilize all their various techniques. He never slept more than three or four hours a night, never wasted a spare moment, but studied and absorbed every aspect of covert and subversive warfare both physical and mental.

  Mitchell also had a remarkable ability to assess his audience astutely, whether they were a thousand or an individual, as though he could see right into their heads, and their minds were books easily opened and read, my own included. And Mitchell had that singular, masterful ability, unique among the most successful diplomats, politicians, and snake-oil salesmen, of making whomever he was talking to feel as though they were absolutely the most important group or person in the world to him. At least at that moment.

  While listening to a person one-on-one, Mitchell successfully projected the impression that he was carefully considering every aspect of that person’s thought or idea and sincerely appreciated them sharing it with him, even if it was completely idiotic. There were times I could barely
keep a straight face as we listened to some imbecile had I not been buttressed by Mitchell’s powerfully convincing false sincerity.

  All these abilities, this knowledge, this insight, these talents coming together in an individual with unbridled ambition and driven to unimagined heights by the effect of the virus created a perfect storm of dominating ego. Mitchell was neither insane nor maniacal nor delusional. So convinced was he of his own instincts, based upon the vast treasure trove of knowledge he’d amassed on the subject of successful domination, that once he had made a decision or taken a course of action, he rarely wavered but generally doubled down.

  Like Reverend Abraham Brown, Mitchell was over six feet and had an imposing presence, dominating the rooms he entered. He believed he had an irresistible magnetic aura, his “magnetismus” as he half jokingly referred to it—noting that the Nazi Rommel described Hitler as possessing that attribute—which drew people in to be snared if Mitchell chose. Which he usually did. In Mitchell’s own mind—and with the magnificent assistance of the virus perhaps in truth—Mitchell believed he was simply destined to become everyone’s supreme overlord.

  He might have become as compelling an orator as Cicero, Mark Antony, Hitler, or our own Dr. Brown, but Mitchell preferred to work far more subtly. He felt his strongest suit was to be the man behind the curtain, the puppet master, the power behind the throne, who secretly—and with enjoyment—moved people and events in the pattern of his choosing.

  Mitchell was incredibly shrewd in his overall game plan. He started at the top of each pyramid of power, with the upmost echelons of state and local government, so the ball—the CAV-B virus—would roll easily and unquestioningly downhill, working the tendrils of Mitchell’s control into the existing societal fabric. He was an extreme populist. Many of the elected officials in Georgia had avowed that same sentiment before the comet’s arrival, as had a number of other states and even the nation. Such populist nationalism was also on the rise in Russia, France, Germany, Holland, Austria, and important parts of Asia. But in Mitchell’s opinion their notion of populism was only half-baked and not nearly as strident as the worldview he envisioned. He intended to start arranging things more to his liking and began right here in his home state.