by Tara Ellis
I don’t know what I would have done if Chris and I hadn’t run into each other early on during The Shining. He has been my rock and a voice of reason. Even now, I am encouraged to press on in this because I know he is there, waiting for me to bring him some good news. I can’t let him down.
Something brushes up against my leg, and looking down I recognize the large orange cat that had mocked Baxter when we were here last. I sit back down in the recliner and he jumps up into my lap, already purring. There is something about the simple gesture of petting a cat that relaxes me, so I am grateful for the company.
He and I are just really getting to know each other when the professor returns and my new friend quickly abandons me for the more spacious lap of his owner.
“She’s resting now,” he explains, searching out the sweet spots behind the cat’s ears.
“How often does it happen?”
“Sometimes only once a day, other times four or five. It’ll be gone in an hour or two. Is this a common problem?”
“Most people only have amnesia, but about ten percent suffer from headaches. A lot of them are in the hospital so Susan isn’t as bad. There’s also some neurological stuff and even some people went crazy. Chris’s Mom has hardly any emotions,” I explain.
Nodding, he rubs at his chin. “Not surprising, given how the virus works. Did his mom have an addiction problem?”
“Yes,” I answer, impressed.
“You see, we call this a virus because we simply do not have anything else to compare it to, but it is much more complex. It works to multiply and attach its chromosomes much the same way but then it becomes incredibly intricate. I think that it actually creates new neural pathways and corrects or shuts down those that are damaged. It probably, in essence, re-programmed her brain to work more efficiently, but when it repaired the part of her brain damaged from the drugs, it eliminated the strong emotions that are attached to addiction. Fascinating, fascinating…”
I don’t know if I would call it fascinating, but I guess it made sense. “How do you know so much?”
Eyebrows raised, Professor Hassan looks at me. “Well child, you know I am a geneticist. I was chosen for this role by the Khufu Bast. This scientific field has blossomed during my lifetime and it was the opportunity we needed to try and get an edge on what we suspected was coming. Early on in life I had a knack for science. Though I taught for years before completing my PhD, I have been working in virology, or the study of viruses, for over twenty years. When the Holocene virus was released, I was prepared to isolate and try and map it. Little did we know what an impossible task that would be.”
I remember parts of what he said to me the night we were on the run, but since all of this is basically foreign to me, I struggle to grasp what it means. “You said that this virus has hundreds of pieces of DNA in it, compared to our normal ones that only have a few. Is that why it’s so hard to figure out?”
“Yes, yes!” he confirms, happy that I appear to be following so far. “I can’t give you a complete lesson on this right now, but that is a large part of the complexity. Before we can understand how it works in the brain, we have to map every bit of information. This will take years to complete and even then we probably won’t understand how it all works. Heavens, we don’t even know how most of our own brains function!”
“So how did this thing get in the meteor shower? How could someone thousands of years ago create this?”
“Those are questions I am not prepared to answer right now,” he says bluntly, his demeanor changing.
“Okay…,” I say cautiously, trying to gauge his mood. I don’t want to push too hard in one direction. “How about the Mudameere then? What are they going to do with it? Isn’t everyone already immune to it now?”
“Ah, the Mudameere.” He seems to have grown restless and, standing, starts to pace the floor in between the couches and fireplace. “They were prepared too. I am ashamed to say, more so than the Khufu Bast. Certainly by now they have progressed nearly as far in their studies as I have.” Chuckling, he stops for a moment and looks at me. “I am not exaggerating when I say that I am perhaps the greatest geneticist in the world, Alex. But, this only buys us a little time. Hopefully, it will be enough.”
Intrigued, I just sit silently and let him talk. It seems to be the best approach. “The reason we have to create a new flu vaccine every year is because even with a simple virus, one single mutation makes a completely different organism. Now, take into consideration the tens of thousands more possible points of mutations the Holocene specimen has and you can start to see why it wouldn’t take a great scientist to force a mutation. ”
I think I get it, and find myself also on my feet. “So you mean that all these guys have to do is change just part of one of those DNA strands and they have a new virus that they can release?” I ask, exasperated.
“Exactly! But not only that. If they manage to map any of it as I have done, they could go even further and change some of the characteristics of the infection. Say…make people even more intelligent. Although, that certainly wouldn’t be to their benefit. Maybe more strength or something…” he is pacing again and beginning to mumble.
“Professor,” I say, a little louder than necessary. I get his attention and he focuses on me. “Why?”
“Hmm? Oh, yes. Of course, of course. You don’t even know why. I’m sorry, Alex. So absent-minded of me.” He walks from the room towards the kitchen and so I follow him. I am not about to let this conversation end here.
As he begins to move about, setting a kettle on the stove and retrieving cups and sugar, I sit on one of the tall bar stools at the counter. “It’s always about power,” he finally continues. “Money, status and greed. I told you before that Mudameere is Arabic for destroyer. They have been working towards destroying the Khufu Bast and all we stand for. To manipulate and take advantage of the Holocene Virus. To benefit themselves and everyone who is a part of their organization. To create a new World-Order.”
He sets a tea cup and several choices of tea in front of me and I stare at them. There is something about all of this that does not add up. “Mr. Jones,” I finally say, looking up at him.
“Who?”
“Mr. Jones. He and his wife owned the local grocery store. They were friends of ours. I killed him.” Professor Hassan looks at me, steaming kettle in mid air.
“Excuse me?”
“He was a Shiner,” I explain. “We were in the pyramid and he followed me in. He was going to kill me. I didn’t have a choice.”
“Ah,” he exhales, pouring the hot water into our cups. “Terrible, terrible.”
“Yes. It was. But the thing is, he said something to me before he attacked me. Things that don’t really make sense.”
Again, the professor pauses, his spoon that was clinking against the china becoming silent. “What kind of things?”
“I’ll never forget it,” I tell him, carefully watching his reaction. “He said that it was what the world needed, that it was a time of renewal and union and that once we were ready, they will come back. Who is going to come back, Professor?”
Sighing, he comes around the counter to sit next to me, the tea forgotten. “Alex, there are things about our past…our heritage that have been long buried and lost. Most of the documentation has been destroyed, leaving us with stories passed on through the generations. I hesitate to share those with you because I am, myself, unsure what is true. We are talking about things that happened thousands of years ago. So I wonder, if it really even matters?”
“It matters to me.”
Sighing even louder, he toys with his beard in concentration. “Have you ever heard of the Nephilim?” I shake my head. “The Anunnaki?”
“Please don’t tell me you believe in ancient space aliens?” I say, recognizing the name from several conspiracy theories and once again the rabbit hole begins to loom.
“I wish it were that simple,” he answers. “In Genesis, the Nephilim are referred to as both
the sons of God and fallen Angels. A superior race who would sometimes take human wives. Interestingly enough, in another ancient text during the same era, a Sumerian account called ‘The Epic of Gilgamesh’, similar references are made. Both speak of a great flood. These are completely separate documents of something that actually occurred. It also refers to gods that appeared, called the Anunnaki, a name that means ‘those of royal blood’ or ‘princely offspring’. The contrasts between this mythical pagan account and the Bible are most interesting. It would suggest that perhaps there were, in fact, what appeared to them to be supernatural, god-like beings interacting with humans.”
“What does that have to do with any of this?”
“Well, that is where things get hazy, Alex. We aren’t sure where the Nephilim really came from, but they were technologically advanced. Much more so than we are even today. They are the ones who created the Holocene virus. They are also the ones who created the anti-virus. We believe it was a kind of civil war with humankind stuck in the middle. They were viewed as gods because of their technology. At the time it appeared to be supernatural.”
I struggle to accept this and also keep the present situation in mind. “So are the Nephilim returning? Is that why the virus came when it did? Are the Mudameere part of that?”
Shaking his head, Professor Hassan seems to remember his tea and walks back around to sip slowly at it. Mine is cooling between my clammy hands. “I don’t know, child. Mr. Jones’s comment is the first confirmation I have heard of, that this could even be a possibility. I have always believed my role to be that of understanding the threat of the virus and doing what I could to avert it. As much as I would like to believe in my important status within the Khufu Bast, there are things that I have not been told. There are many truths that are protected. What I do know, however,” he says with renewed vigor, setting down his empty cup, “is how to manipulate DNA! Come. I have something for you.”
Trying to keep up with his chain of thoughts, I almost fall off the stool to chase after him as he shuffles quickly down the hallway. At the end, we turn to the right, and at the back of the house, come to a formidable wooden door with several locks. He is working on the third and last one as I come up behind him.
Looking over his shoulder at me, he grins. “Welcome to my lab,” he says, swinging the door wide. At the bottom of dark stairs, I can see a dim blue light. As the professor descends eagerly into the darkness, I hesitate for a moment, foot poised over the first step. Taking a deep breath, I reach once again for the medallion at my neck and then follow.
THREE
Professor Hassan’s lab is amazing. Looking around, rather than the mad scientist’s lair I expected, I see a high-tech marvel of machinery. An open space that has to span the entire floor of the house above us is filled with three long rows of equipment. The room feels air conditioned, and the over-head lights emit a soft blue light. The floor is painted white, the counter tops are white and the walls are white. Next to me, the professor is putting white booties over his shoes, a white surgical cap on his head and soft white gloves on his hands. He finishes the look with a surgical mask and then turns to me expectantly.
As he holds his hand out with my own goodies, I wonder how it can be so quiet in here. I stumble to my left as I try to put on the right bootie and come to rest against an invisible wall. Confused, I finally realize that the entryway is encased in a small, plexiglas enclosure.
“It’s a controlled environment,” the professor explains happily. “The Khufu Bast spared no expense in funding it. It took almost a year to get everything finished properly, but it was ready in plenty of time. Come on,” he urges, as I set the mask in place over my nose and mouth. He opens the clear inner-door and I wonder how I didn’t notice it before.
“What is all of this?” I ask as I look around, my voice slightly muffled.
“This has been my world for the past month. What I was preparing for over the past thirty or so years of my life. It doesn’t matter so much what each of these pieces of equipment does or that you understand it, Alex. I do, however, want you to know that it is real and have faith in my ability as a scientist.”
I’ve been following him as he works his way down the middle aisle, towards the other end of the room. I will admit that seeing all of this has shifted my perception of him from mad scientist to genius. My hope is rising that there might actually be some sort of a realistic goal for a brighter future.
We come to a second clear door identical to the first and I realize, that essentially, the lab space is enclosed in a glass box sitting in the basement. We go through it, closing out the soft, steady hum of machinery. We are inside another small entryway in front of a normal door in the outside wall of the foundation. Removing his mask, he unlocks it and motions me inside.
To my relief, it’s just a simple office. There are two large desks on opposite walls. Several file cabinets and an old couch take up the remaining space. A single table in the middle is full of dirty dishes and tea cups, the desks buried under piles of paper. Now this is more suited to the man standing next me.
He shrugs palms up, as he takes in my expression. “What can I say? I have spent a lot of time in here.” He cleans off the couch and motions me to sit next to him. Removing the last of my protective gear, I toss it onto the nearest pile and then settle into the comfortable cushions.
“I lost valuable time by making myself sick, Alex.”
“So the virus worked on you?” I’m a bit surprised and had hoped his bloodline had proven too strong.
“There’s no way of knowing if it would have changed me completely. You released the anti-virus the next day. I had some flu-like symptoms, but they weren’t nearly as severe as what others experienced in the same time frame. I, of course, had injected myself with a pure sample and the blood-borne version is much more virulent and infectious than the airborne.”
“Why even take all the precautions when handling it then?” I ask, gesturing to the gloves and booties he still wears.
“Oh, this isn’t for my protection,” he explains, chuckling. “It’s to protect the purity of my samples and experiments. It doesn’t take much to corrupt a sequence and lose hours of work. It isn’t what you would call a high level lab for containment, but rather a clean lab, or one that just keeps the working samples pure. None of this matters though,” he says, removing the gloves.
“What does matter then, Professor? Why am I down here?”
Leaning forward, he takes a small square envelope from the seat of the nearest desk. “I knew you would be coming.” He holds the paper close to his chest as he speaks. “Inside is the sum of my work. A thumb drive with documents containing all of my research on the Holocene virus. Do you know what anti-viral meds are, Alex?” he asks, simply handing the envelope to me and walking over to the other desk.
Stuffing the envelope in the pocket of my jeans, I think about his question before answering. “My Grandma Fisher said their doctor gave her and Grandpa some anti-viral medication when they first started getting sick. It didn’t work though, obviously.”
“Of course it didn’t. That was for the normal flu. What I have developed though, is an anti-viral for the Holocene virus.”
My heart beat doubles and I try not to get my hopes up. “We already released the anti-virus for the Holocene. What we need is one for whatever the Mudameere create. We don’t even know what they are making!”
“Good, Alex! You are a smart girl, and absolutely correct. Well, almost. What was in those pyramids was not actually an anti-virus. We just don’t have any other word for it. Best as I could tell, it pretty much obliterated the virus. Made it and its entire DNA sequences erupt from the inside out. Have you ever heard of Apoptosis?”
I shake my head.
“It’s a built-in mechanism within our cells. When working correctly, it’s triggered when there is any kind of abnormality and the cell self-destructs. Cancer occurs when this mechanism fails and the abnormal cells are left to reproduce a
t will. This is the closest comparison I can find to the technology that the pyramids released. Obviously, whoever created it had the original virus blue-prints and knew how to trigger it. I, on the other hand, have not a clue, so have had to go a different, more familiar route.”
He’s been digging around in the drawers of the desk while talking and turns to me now, holding a small black jewelry case. “I do know how to make anti-viral meds, and while the Holocene virus is complex, it really doesn’t matter. So long as I isolated enough of it to create a reverse transcription or protease inhibitors, I could effectively start blocking its effects.” I think he can tell by my blank expression that he’s lost me and he closes his eyes.
Taking a deep breath, he opens them again and sits back down next to me. “Think of it this way: In order for a key to work in a lock, it has to fit. If you change any one of the teeth on the key it no longer works. Right?” I nod and he’s encouraged to continue. “Alex, this virus has thousands of teeth but I have been able to isolate and change enough of them that I believe it will prevent it from turning all the way.”
I’m encouraged, but still cautious. “What about all the other parts of it?”
“Anti-viral meds work by blocking important chemical processes that happen within the cells while the virus is multiplying. If you can interrupt enough of it, it can lessen the effects or stop it altogether. Unfortunately, I have found it impossible to stop, but I concentrated on the parts that I think influence the Limbic System of the brain. This is the part of the brain believed to control our emotions, motivation, behavior and memory. If I am right, then it will successfully block the connection to the hive mind. It will keep the person’s own personality, emotions and memories intact.”
“If?” It all sounds too good to be true, and it feels like there should be a ‘but’ in there somewhere.