Predominance

by H. I. Defaz

  Everyone turned to Dr. Walker now.

  “You are all here because you share something in common,” Dr. Walker began. “The consequences of the injuries you've sustained should have killed you years ago—and yet they haven't. The circumstances that caused each of your particular brain injuries vary from case to case; however, all of you share the same final diagnosis.”

  He pulled down a projection screen and walked to the back of the room. Internal images of the human brain, along with text information, began to display at the command of his remote control. “You all suffer from an inexplicable intracranial pressure, or ICP—which according to most studies should produce a massive stroke in any patient in question. It is impossible under this diagnosis, however, to determine an exact timeline for this final outcome. Meanwhile, patients with ICP are prone to developing other conditions such as seizures, tremors, mood swings, sensitivity to light—and of course, excruciating headaches.” A new slide flashed on the screen with every statement he made.

  “How about telling us something we don't know, Doc?” Barbara said curtly.

  Dr. Walker pulled a condescending smile, ignoring Barbara's comment, and continued. “After years of intense research, however, my team and I have finally discovered the source of the once-inexplicable ICPs—and that, ladies and gentlemen, is why you've been brought here to R.C. Labs.” The silence in the room was now profound—dumbfounded looks were exchanged around the table. “An incredible breakthrough was made a few years ago,” Dr. Walker continued, “in which we discovered that certain types of brain injuries lead to the awakening of dormant brain cells in certain patients. These brain cells, however, lack the ability to generate an action potential—in other words, they can't fire.”

  “Why not?” I asked, intrigued.

  “Well… they never have before,” Dr. Walker carried on with his explanation. “But that doesn't mean they're not trying. This conflict is producing an excessive amount of cranial pressure—and you already know what that leads to.”

  “All right,” Damian said. “So, you've found the source of the problem. What's the solution?”

  “We help them fire,” Dr. Walker answered simply.

  “How…?” Yvette asked, her brows creased with wonder.

  “I've developed a serum,” Dr. Walker explained. “It's called RC-1000. Once injected into the patient's bloodstream, it reaches the brain in a matter of seconds. From there, we monitor the attachment and penetration of the half-awakened cells by the serum. That helps us pinpoint their exact location. They will then be kindled by a predetermine amount of radiation, which in turn will generate enough action potential for them to fire.”

  “I'm sorry, but what does that mean?” young Billie asked, scratching his head.

  Tom smiled and patted Billie's back. “It means, a cure, son—a cure!” Billie and Yvette began to smile and celebrate with Tom, while Damian, Barbara, and I remained serious and skeptical. Dr. Walker scrutinized everybody's faces.

  “I'm sorry,” Damian said suddenly, shaking his head. “I don't mean to rain on anybody's parade, but we haven't heard the downside of the procedure yet—and I'm sure it has one.”

  “Yeah, man. What's the catch?” Barbara sneered.

  Dr. Walker addressed Damian and ignored Barbara. “I'm sorry, but I don't understand exactly what you mean.”

  Damian twined his fingers and rested his elbows on the table. “I'm no doctor, but I do understand that every cell in the brain has a function, even if we don't know what that function is. What are the consequences of awaking these dormant cells that have never fired before? Aren't they dormant for a reason?”

  “We believe these cells have some sort of… regenerative properties. Once awakened, they might enhance your ability to heal, that's all.”

  “You believe…?” Damian repeated with a quizzical look on his face.

  Dr. Walker forced a smile that soon disappeared. “I was under the impression that you ladies and gentlemen understood that this is an experimental trial. We don't have all the answers yet, because there are no precedents. Hence the reason you're here. And though the results are promising, I have to remind you that there are no guarantees.”

  “So we are going to be the first ones to try this serum?” I asked.

  “Yes,” Dr. Walker answered curtly, seeming almost offended by our skepticism. “Now, I want all of you to understand this: Although you have been carefully selected for this procedure, up until this point you can still turn it down and walk away. If you decide to stay, however, you must do so with the understanding that my instructions are to be followed diligently and without question.” His eyes circled the table with a stern look. “If you are willing to accept these terms, I can schedule your procedures for as soon as tomorrow. If you're not, I urge you to speak now. Either way, I need a head count.” He stood at the long end of the table with his hands behind his back and waited.

  “I just want to get better,” Billie said forcefully, staring blankly at the table. “I'm staying.”

  Tom patted Billie on the back again and turned to Dr. Walker. “I'm in.”

  Barbara let out a long, put-upon sigh and answered, “Sure, man… whatever!”

  “I'm in, Doctor.” Yvette said confidently.

  Damian met Dr. Walker's stern gaze and considered for a moment. “Very well, then. Count me in.”

  “Victor?” Dr. Walker called.

  I couldn't help but smile tentatively. “Well, I didn't travel thirty-five hundred miles just to turn back, now did I? So I guess I'm staying, too.”

  And just like that, we all made the irrevocably decision to put our lives in the hands of Dr. Walker… and R.C. Labs.

  Chapter Five

  Blast from the Past

  THAT NIGHT, I lay on my fluffy, too-comfortable bed at R.C. Labs, thinking about how Dr. Walker's miracle cure might represent a new beginning for me—a new chapter in my life, one without pain, misery, or isolation, or doctors feeding me pills that didn't work. I believed that I'd found a way to fulfill my promise. I should have been happy. But the stress of it all—and something niggling at the back of my mind—kept me awake, staring at the annoyingly white ceiling.

  The more I fought the feeling, the more distraught I got. I felt as if that stupid white ceiling were collapsing on me, along with the four walls that surrounded me. Soon, my distress triggered the familiar, dreadful headache, and I was brought back to my feet again. I looked for my pain medication and took it—but it wasn't enough. I needed to get out of that room or go insane. So I decided to take a walk and let the fresh air help me clear my head—after all, I was in the middle of a forest. What better air to breathe than that? But my plans were defeated as soon as I reached the lobby, where I was intercepted by two armed security guards.

  “I'm sorry, sir, but nobody's allowed outside the facility at this time,” one of the guards informed me, a smug tone in his voice. “Dr. Walker's orders.”

  His attitude triggered one of my nasty mood-swings. “What?” I demanded angrily.

  “I'm sorry, sir, but it's for your own protection,” he insisted with an arrogant grin. Dr. Walker's words flashed into mind then, reminding me that it wasn't in my best interest to break any of his rules—at least not with them watching.

  “I'm sure it is,” I conceded sarcastically, and stalked back to the elevators.

  Back in my room, I tried to calm myself down—although I ended up punching a hole on one of the walls instead. Once they took over, those foul mood-swings were very difficult to control, and sometimes they made me do things that weren't in my character to condone. That's why I hated them so much. They turned me into a very nasty person—if only for a few minutes.

  Once my tantrum was over, I decided to open the window to at least let in some fresh air. I was leaning out and taking a deep breath, trying to reorganize my thoughts, when a strange rustling sound caught my attention. I looked over to my left and noticed a huge pine tree gracing the wall next to my window. Its bra
nches were so close together that they might as well have been a ladder. I smiled at the tempting invitation.

  You see, I have this problem. If you tell me I shouldn't do something, I just might listen to you. But if you tell me that I can't, then you can bet your ass I will find a way to do it. And that's exactly how I felt when I saw that tree and thought about what the guard had said to me. I decided to fight my acrophobia—to trust the invitation of this nature-made ladder, and take the walk I had initially wanted.

  After an awkward descent, from which I emerged scratched and battered, I found myself in the meadow, looking for that perfect mixture of green, yellow, and purple I'd seen when I first arrived. But the opulent moonlight shining upon the field had replaced these colors with various shades of gray, which created a somber beauty for the eye of the beholder—a beauty I'll never be able to forget.

  Lost in my own thoughts, I began walking towards a light at the end of the meadow, when my attention was caught by the soft whisper of a half-familiar voice. “Stop! That's their security booth. You don't want to go there.”

  I followed the voice to a silhouette leaning against a stately weeping willow tree. “Unless you're trying to get caught, of course,” the voice added.

  I thought I recognized the angelic figure. “Yvette?” She stood barefoot under the tree, a pair of sandals dangling from her hand. Her hair—as black as the night—draped the right side of her face. Thick, well-defined eyebrows and impossibly fleshy red lips stood out in her exquisitely pale complexion, which seemed intensified by the moonlight.

  “Yeah,” she confirmed, tightening her arms around her lithe body—a black leather jacket covered the long, white nightgown she wore underneath. “You know, you're not supposed to be out here.” she accused quietly.

  “Neither are you,” I returned, residues of anger from my mood-swing still lingering in my voice, “But I guess that didn't stop you either.” I added, “What are you doing here, anyway?”

  “Not much; just getting some fresh air, avoiding the guards—oh! And watching you climb down that tree over there,” She snickered. “Which I do not recommend you do ever again. You really sucked at it.”

  Her blunt candor made me laugh. “Yeah, well, I'm not too deft when it comes to heights,” I admitted. “What about you? How did you get down here?”

  “Same way, just a little more gracefully.” She laughed, again. “So? Are you trying to run away, or are you just looking for a way to break your neck?”

  “You're not going to let that one go, are you?” I chuckled, hoping the embarrassment burning on my cheeks wasn't visible in the dark.

  “I'm sorry.” Her apology sounded sincere. “I didn't mean to embarrass you. You just looked kind of grumpy. I thought I should try to make you smile.”

  Her words made me realize that my anger was indeed gone, and that even my headache was fading. “You did,” I admitted, a smile on my face. “Thank you.”

  “You're welcome.” Her pillow lips curved into a triumphant smile of her own, yet her eyes seemed expectant, somehow. “You never answered my question, though.”

  “Huh?”

  “Are you running away?”

  “No!” I laughed, “Goodness, no. I just don't like to be told what to do, that's all. Besides, I thought a little fresh air would help me get rid of my headache. What about you?”

  “Same reason.” She sighed.

  “Headaches?”

  “No. I just don't like to be told what to do.” She gave me a cocky smile and pulled a hip flask out of her inside jacket pocket. She took a big gulp from it and handed it to me. “Care to join me?”

  I smiled as the smoky aroma coming out of the flask brought me back to the last time I shared a drink with my father. After years of living with him, I never needed more than a whiff to identify the smell of a good Scotch.

  “Don't mind if I do,” I answered willingly, reaching out for the flask.

  Her hand suddenly trembled forcefully, as if a shock of electricity had run through her entire body, making her loose her grip on her flask.

  I caught it and held it steady in her hand, as my eyes rose to meet her self-conscious stare. “Are those the tremors you were talking about?” I asked carefully.

  “Yeah,” she answered quickly, embarrassed, pulling free and hiding her hand behind her back, her eyes avoiding me now. Looking at her, I realized how uncomfortable this incident had made her feel, so I quickly changed the subject to something less solemn.

  “So…” I began with a smile. “Isn't a 12-year-old single-malt Scotch just a tad too bold for a little girl like you?”

  She realized I hadn't even sipped from it yet. “How did you…” she trailed off and smiled, “Very impressive. Scotch drinker?”

  “My father was,” I noted, taking a sip from the flask. “Now I kind of have a nose for it.”

  “Hmmm…”

  “You didn't answer my question.” I pressed teasingly.

  “I'm not a little girl anymore, Victor.” Her words held a meaning behind them that I couldn't quite perceive at the moment, though she was clearly expecting me to. “Besides, I discovered that, sometimes, this works better than those stupid pills they prescribe.” She snatched the flask from my hand and took a big gulp from it—way too big.

  “I know,” I agreed, taking the flask back from her hand. I held an authoritative stare and tightened the cap. “But I also know the consequences of its misuse. So do me a favor and don't.”

  Her eyes widened with surprise to my display of authority, yet her lopsided smile suggested that she'd liked it—and that she was ready to concede to my point. “I'm not a lush, Victor,” she answered, a little defensively. “But if it makes you feel better, I'll promise I'll take it easy.”

  “Good!” I said smugly.

  She laughed.

  “Where did you get this, anyway?” I asked, as I examined the leather-covered silver flask. “It's not an item I'd picture a young lady browsing for in the shopping mall.” I considered for a moment. “Boyfriend's?”

  She snickered. “Very smooth, Mr. Bellator.”

  “Please! Don't... call me that.” I forced a smile. “I hate it when people call me that.”

  “It's your name, isn't?”

  “Yeah, but…” I shook my head. “My father… he was Mr. Bellator. I'm just Victor.”

  “Ooookayyyy…” she drawled, not really understanding my point.

  “So what's the story?” I rekindled the last subject, handing her the now-closed flask.

  She frowned and took it from my hand. “It was my dad's. He left home when I was five. And that's the only thing he left behind, remember?” She waited for me to respond, but I was confounded by her remark. “You probably just forgot… It's okay.” Her gaze dropped to the ground, disappointed.

  “Umm…” I said intelligently, at a loss for words. “I'm sorry, I, uh…”

  She stared in disbelief. “Oh my God, you don't remember me, at all, do you?” Her tone edged towards anger now. “And here I was, thinking we were having a total blast from the past, when you pretending to care was just a way to pick up a total stranger.” She laughed bitterly and went for the cap on the flask again.

  “Whoa, whoa, whoa! Wait a second! First of all, I meant what I said about misusing the Scotch.” I put my hand over hers to stop her from opening the flask again. “And second, I've been in almost complete isolation for the past three years. The last real interaction that I can remember having with the outside world was college. And I don't remember meeting you there—and believe me, I would remember you.” I sighed deeply and couldn't help but smile like an idiot.

  She laughed mischievously, dropping her head to one side. “Are you flirting with me, Victor?” she asked, biting her lower lip in the most seductive way.

  “I'm just saying that, um…” I trailed off, unable to get rid of the stupid grin on my face, my heart jackhammering inside my chest, and somehow found the courage to finish my sentence. “You're the most beautiful
woman I've ever seen in my life.”

  She laughed aloud, relishing the compliment. “Now you're sounding like the Victor I know,” she said, her voice taking on a yearning tone. “You used to say that to me all the time.”

  My eyes popped wider, filled with confusion. “What are you talking about?”

  “Well, in your defense, I didn't look like this ten years ago.” she admitted.

  “What?”

  “But I bet I can still beat you in a staring contest,” she said playfully, walking to me wide-eyed, moonlight shining upon her face. Before I knew it, she engaged her impossible crystalline blue eyes with the very essence of my soul. A strong feeling of déjà vu washed over me as my eyes began to tear from her smoldering gaze. Soon this feeling brought back memories of our past contests, in which the winner was always the same. That's when my guard dropped, my eyes blinked—and I began to wonder if it could possibly be true.

  “Yvee…?” I asked tentatively.

  “No one's called me that since sixth grade.” She shook her head in disbelief.

  I just looked at her, dumbfounded, my mouth hanging open. When I could speak again I stammered, “I-I-I can't believe it. You're Yvette Montgomery—Mrs. Montgomery's little niece?” I phrased it as a question, but I was really trying to convince myself it was true. “Wow!” I exclaimed, appraising her from head to toe. “I mean, wow!”

  “Okay, now it's getting a little awkward,” she noted, folding her arms across her chest and rolling her eyes.

  “I'm sorry,” I apologized. “I'm just...stunned.”

  “Yeah, I can see that.” She gave me a wide smile as she shook her head in disapproval. “Stop staring, Victor. You're embarrassing yourself.” She turned around, laughing, and walked back to the weeping willow. I chuckled, blushing as I watched her sit on the grass, her back against the trunk of the tree. “You want to sit?” she invited.