Project Pallid

by Christopher Hoskins

  Immediately, CrossPoint Pharmaceuticals labeled her dad’s work as Project Pallid, and additional resources were provided in the push for human trials.

  From there, the documents showed increasing influence from CrossPoint Pharmaceuticals—Mr. Laverdier’s research had captured their interest, and they became his primary benefactor. Proposals, replies, findings, and assertions were exchanged more fervently between her dad and the company—all chronologically sequenced in the paperwork before us. And, as work on Project Pallid intensified, her dad’s role in its success became more and more consequential.

  Catee pointed out that the dates of the correspondences overlapped with her mom’s terminal diagnosis. My heart broke at the reminder and, not surprisingly, Mr. Laverdier’s work on Project Pallid accelerated.

  The dates and hours logged became almost obsessive. His notes became more copious and regular, and the exchanges between him and CrossPoint Pharmaceuticals intensified, while the objectives of the two grew more and more bipolar.

  Mr. Laverdier’s accelerated work showed remarkable progress and was moved to human trials within months, but his results there were varied and unpredictable. There was evidence of no reaction at all in some test subjects. In others, he found results comparable to those of pre-existing treatments. And then there were some findings that were remarkable in an entirely unexpected way. Those were the results that caught the attention of National Defense, and then the paperwork became even more convoluted.

  Though only select tests showed promising, human results, those few became the core of the government’s concentration. In “successful” trials, test subjects not only showed complete recovery from their cancerous infections, their increased white blood cell count, and the immeasurable strength within those, was of almost superhuman proportions. This unexpected outcome prompted National Defense to recruit and re-label her dad’s work for development of what they termed, Soldier W.

  National Defense ordered Catee’s dad to harness the power of the white-blood-cell-dominated body. Provided with new direction, he was instructed to refine his work to produce more combative test subjects. The government wanted hosts who were so driven by “white blood cell instinct” that anything beyond it would be regarded like a virus. And, like foreign particles, outside “invaders” were threats to be annihilated. National Defense had recruited his work to develop a military-grade, killing machine.

  In later pages, Catee’s dad rejected the proposal, arguing that it contradicted the original objectives of his work—the preservation of life—and that he would only stay the course.

  His argument was shut down.

  And thinking solely of his dying wife, he fought back.

  But his concerns fell on deaf ears. The government responded that his role was not one of decision-making: it was to follow orders, even if that meant a rerouting of courses.

  Still, Mr. Laverdier’s work continued, unaffected and unaltered from its original objective. The paperwork that he submitted to his superiors reflected only cancer-related benefits of his research, and their vehement demands went unacknowledged and unexplored.

  The back and forth, tug-of-war continued and, as the brains behind the work, the government couldn’t afford to let him go—not until they brought his replacement up to speed. And with his dying wife at home, Mr. Laverdier stayed the course for as long as possible.

  But eventually, the union between worker and machine reached its precipice and he was relieved of his duties—replaced with someone more agreeable, no doubt—before he was able to achieve reliable results in human trials. His research was seized, his lab taken, and with a contingency of silence, Mr. Laverdier was reassigned to Madison and to a cushy position as Head of Medicine at Madison General—a hole-in-the-wall place where his knowledge and work could be swept under a suburbial rug.

  Catee’s mom passed away that same week.

  And with the fuel behind his inexhaustible work cut short, he accepted without pushback. He’d lost his fight with them, and he’d lost his battle for the life of Catee’s mom.

  “Woahhhh.” I filled the office with a heavy exhale, still cross-legged on the floor, and with the full story of Mr. Laverdier spread before me.

  Catee gave no response. Her look was total, glazed-over bewilderment at the shock of our discovery. It was understandable. Anyone else would’ve reacted the same.

  I put my hand to her thigh and gave it a light squeeze to retrieve her from the recesses of her mind.

  “Catee?” I asked.

  She looked dazedly my way.

  “Are you okay?”

  “Okay?” she responded.

  “Okay? Are you okay?”

  “I don’t know, Damian.”

  “What do you need? What can I do?” I asked, knowing that nothing would ease the burden of our discovery.

  “Nothing. Don’t worry about it. I can deal with it,” she said.

  “Catee, I want to help you. What can I do? What do we do now?”

  “What do you mean, what do we do now? Nothing, Damian. We don’t do anything.” Her words bordered on anger.

  “Just think of what we know, Catee. Think of the cover-up going on here.”

  “Cover-up? What cover-up?” she asked, perplexed.

  “Your dad. You guys being moved here. Just think of what he knows. Think of what he can—”

  “What? Now you’re faulting him for being smart?” Her words were accusatory—like I was under-valuing her familial devotion to him, or like I was misjudging the integrity of his work.

  “That’s not what I’m saying at all, Catee. I’m just saying that we need to keep an eye on him—even if he is your father. There’s something not right going on. Can’t you see it? The way he acts? The way he treats you? The way he’s gone, eighteen hours a day? It sounds just like before … like, when your mom was sick. He’s working on something. He’s up to something. Maybe you’ve been too close for too long to even notice it anymore … ”

  Her look hardened to become primevally protective of her dad and his actions. “I get all this, Damian,” she gestured to the stack of paperwork, then outstretched her arms to address the room and house. “I get it. Trust me. I know why I’m here now. I know what happened. But I don’t know what it has to do with anything now. It’s over. Done. We’re here now, and it’s a fresh start. I don’t know why you’re trying to read into something that isn’t there to begin with.” Her words rang of self-protective denial.

  “Your dad’s up to something, Catee.” I spoke resolutely and without waver.

  She looked to me, then back to the stacked paperwork.

  And my heart broke as she conceded the undeniable truth that had been staring her in the face all along.

  May 10th: Day 9

  My first instinct is to run, but where do I go? To him? Away from him? My entire body tenses and readies to spring itself from the cot in search of safety, but I close my eyes and concentrate on silent, methodic breathing instead. I’ve got to stay calm.

  “DAM—I—AN …” each grating syllable is forced from his mouth, and although the pitch might be different—metallic and shrill—it’s unmistakably my dad. He's still using my name.

  But his words lose all familiarity and turn to desperate cries and enraged screams as pale hands bang and claw at the floorboards between us.

  The pounding stops and his eye—once a mischievous, sparkling blue, now turned empty and white—drags along the crack. Instinct says that’s how you look for something, but its careless mistreatment across the splintered floor tells me that it’s lost all functionality.

  The heavy breathing—the scenting—continues, and the pickled crap on the floor’s a total waste. He knows I’m down here.

  With a THUD, he leaps from four, to two feet. His footpads connect hard with the ground, and there’s a quick scramble across it to the pantry’s hidden door.

  Silence.

  And then the door moves. Barely, but it moves.

  My breathing stops
.

  The thump of my heart bangs in my ears.

  And the door moves again. This time, pulled far enough up that the morning light outlines its perimeter at the top of the steep stairs.

  The light comes and goes as it’s lifted again and again, and it comes down harder and harder in its frame with each tug—banging closed before its pulled back up.

  My wooden jam strains against the handle and threatens to snap at any second.

  I planned for something like this before, but never imagined it’d be my dad on the other side. And as quickly and quietly as possible, I get up and move to the far wall. I’d practiced squeezing behind the shelves already, so I know I can do it—even if it’s a tight squeeze, holding my breath.

  I shimmy along, about four feet in and midway down its length, and I’m mostly concealed from sight, but sight has little to do with anything anymore. I can see small pieces of the basement between the rows of contents that line the shelves, and I freeze. I wait.

  Entirely on autopilot until now, the gravity of it all hits me and I can’t stop myself from crying. Tears roll down my cheeks, and I have to bite my lip to stifle the inevitable sobbing that follows. Is this finally my time? My turn to suffer like everyone else? Like my dad? From my dad? And I worry that it’ll hurt. That it won’t be quick. That I’ll suffer.

  The banging of the door hasn’t stopped. It’s become more vicious. More angry. More determined.

  He’s not leaving.

  He’s coming for me.

  The sounds he’s making—ground-up mixtures of mechanical syllables—are entirely unintelligible and interlaced with screechy, scraping wails.

  My face is entirely tear-soaked. My clothes are just as wet and cling to my sweat-soaked body. My whimpering is uncontrollable, and I remember my knife.

  With a crane and contort, I’m able to twist enough to look through some pasta boxes to see it where I left it: on the crate by my bed. “Shit!” I hiss.

  I consider going back for it—the bangs and shrieks from above demand it—but I can only wriggle about a foot down the wall before the cracking of wood and the soul-shattering creak of hinges stops me dead.

  A trajectory of morning light shoots down the shaft and into the basement. It illuminates the dust filled air and sets its puddles aglow in an ominous, white light.

  My crying stops. My breathing stops. My heart stops.

  And my ears listen for his next move.

  In one step, two steps, and a leap to the gravel floor, he tackles the staircase in record time.

  I can see him now, and I almost scream, but he doesn’t see me.

  More like an animal than a person, he sniffs the ground. Nostrils flared, he breathes deeply—the ground, the air, the ground, the air—and he’s a dog on a scent.

  With a single leap, he springs to my bed and frantically claws at its sheets, shredding them away until the air is filled with their settling pieces. He scrambles from it, knocks over my bedside crate, and scatters my things to the ground.

  And then I can’t see him and can only hear as he continues his frantic search around the outside of the room. There’s the squish and splash of his feet through puddles and pickled piles of produce. There’s the shatter of glass as he knocks over and crunches glass jars under his feet.

  I catch another glimpse of him as he bangs into the shelves that conceal me, and I almost throw up from terror and disgust. And then he’s back at the bottom of the stairs.

  A series of prayers and promises cycle through my head. I just want him to go away. I don’t want to see him again. I just want to close the door, find a better lock, and erase the jarring image of him from my mind.

  But he doesn’t go.

  He turns back around and with another smell—one I hear but don’t see—he comes straight toward my hiding spot. With a swoop of his arm, he clears out the shelf above and sends its contents down on my head.

  I can’t stifle the scream anymore when he does it again and this time, I’m looking out at him—or what used to be him—through an empty shelf.

  His lips are almost entirely gone. His tongue flashes in and out between what remain of snarled teeth, and it’s entirely white and coated in thick mucous. His nose is partially gone, his ears and hair are entirely missing, and his eyes are two bulging cue balls: shining, white, and unemotional. The skin of his partially hunched body would be almost translucent, if not for the spatterings of dried blood and grime that coat it in parts.

  “Dad,” I choke out a desperate plea. “Dad, it’s me, Dad. Dad … !”

  His head turns to face me directly and a horrible clicking echoes from his throat. His arms shoot through the shelf and his hands grab my shirt and hair.

  “Dad!” I grab his hand and struggle to pry his fingers from my hair, but before I can, it snaps back and tears a clump free that makes me scream out in pain.

  In a blur of wild arms, he clears out the shelves around me and exposes me entirely, taking away the only plan I had.

  “STOP! DAD! IT’S ME! DAMIAN!” My desperate screams fall on absent ears. “DAD!” I yell, and wriggle along the wall to avoid him. He follows, clearing shelves as he goes, crashing and smashing everything between him and me until there’s only the two of us, separated by a hulled-out barrier.

  “DON’T YOU REMEMBER ME?! IT’S ME! YOUR SON!! PLEASE STOP! DAD!! STOP!!!”

  At this, his screams resume, and I have to cover my ears to keep my eardrums from exploding. It’s an impossible sound. It’s nothing like my dad anymore. This isn’t my dad anymore. And it isn’t going away until I’m dead. And my only option is to get out, get up the stairs, and to lock the door before he gets to it—to trap him down here, instead. The quick flash of what might be waiting for me up there isn’t so scary anymore.

  He’s given up clawing through the shelf, and he’s latched onto its frame. He’s pulling and tugging it now—testing the limits of the old screws that hold it to the wall. I hear one spring free, bounce across it, and land on the ground. Then another. And there’s more room to move as my hiding space grows wider and wider.

  By the time I can turn sideways, I’m moving forward and making my run, but he’s just as reactive and reaches its end before me.

  I double back, turning and running for the other side as he enters my planned exit. I hear him hit the wall, and the flurry of limbs as he closes the divide.

  I make it out the other side, but I’ll never make it to the stairs. I’ll never make it up. I’ll never make it out.

  But I make it halfway when his leap catches me by the ankle, mid-basement, and crashes me down on my tossed-around things.

  My hand lands on my pocketknife as he climbs over my crumpled-up body, and I’ve got just enough time and strength to roll over and plunge its blade, hilt-deep, into his gleaming, bloodthirsty eye.

  February 12th:

  I suspected something was wrong when Catee didn’t come to school that Thursday. Aside from her one-day suspension, she’d never missed a day before. And to do so on that particular one—the day after we broke into her dad’s office—was especially alarming.

  Suspicion turned to knowing when Catee didn’t return any of my texts or calls. The same thing happened Friday, too. It wasn’t like her. She would have never ignored me. And by lunchtime, I just couldn’t take it any more. I had to know why she wasn’t responding. I needed to know that she was okay.

  Instead of heading to the lunchroom, I took advantage of the hall monitor’s distractedness with another student and slipped out the side door to the back parking lot. From there, I ducked by windows and wove between cars until I hit the tree line and moved into its protective recesses. Catee’s place was only a couple blocks from school, and if done right, I could get answers and be back by the start of afternoon block. I’d hardly be missed at all.

  On the street and out of eyeshot of the building, I relaxed a little, but only briefly. The anxiety of my escape became replaced with a new one—what was I planning to do when I got to Catee
’s house? How would I get answers and go unnoticed? Was I just going to knock on the door and ask her dad if she was home? Hey, Mr. Laverdier. Remember me? You kicked me out a few months ago … You “asked” me to give your daughter some space ...… Well, I was just wondering if we could both ditch school and hang out in her room today? Is that all right? Fat chance.

  Sure enough, when I rounded the final block and her house came into view, his car was sitting there in the driveway. I figured he’d be home—finally taking a few days off to hold her hostage or whatever—and I took added discretion to go undetected.

  I moved up Mrs. Arnold’s driveway, instead of their own. Her car was gone, and the house seemed dead; plus, her backyard was directly connected with Catee’s. I hugged vinyl siding and slinked to the house’s corner. From there, I could observe the windows of Catee’s place and I looked for her, or her dad, but saw neither. I waited, looked, waited, and looked again, before I collected enough bearings to dart forward and flatten against it.

  Inching along, I moved to her window and stretched to give it a couple light taps. I hoped she’d heard me, but that I was quiet enough to go undetected by Mr. Laverdier, wherever he might be.

  Without response, I tapped again, this time louder, more adamantly. Still, no response. And I repeated a third time, growing more worried about whatever horrific fate could’ve befallen her—hoping against all odds that she was okay and that she was just sick in bed, maybe even sleeping.

  Undaunted, I reached up with both hands, grabbed the windowsill, and was just about to hoist myself up for a look inside, when the window slid upward. But even if I were tall enough to see over its ledge, the solar glare would’ve obscured my ability to see anyone inside. I had to swallow my heart down from my throat. I was at a crossroad with two choices: I could hold my ground and wait for whoever it was—her or her dad—to provide me with some closure, or I could run back to school like a coward, even more perplexed than when I escaped.