“How did you end up here?”
“In the chaos, our van and six others got separated from the rest of the convoy that was headed for Austin, Texas. I do not know what happened to the others, but I have heard that recent satellite images confirmed Austin is gone. We drove around aimlessly until we heard the broadcast from the Gulfport Christian Radio Station. It was the only signal on the air, so we decided to take a chance. And here we are,” the doctor concluded, with a theatrical wave of his hand.
“And ever since, you’ve been producing strain 15b.”
“Cladoxpan, yes. It is the most stable strain we have developed so far.”
“And it’s a liquid,” I ventured.
“Not exactly. Cladoxpan is simply the by-product of a genetically modified fungus grown in a water base.” Dr. Ballarini’s voice swelled with pride. “That is my contribution. I devised a way to produce that by-product cheaply and easily by means of a protein modification. It used to take five days to make fifty milliliters of Cladoxpan. Now we can make fifty liters in an hour.”
“How did you manage that?” I asked, amazed.
“Follow me.” He hurried out of the laboratory. I looked at my watch. Time was flying by, but I was so close to getting some Cladoxpan that it was worth the risk.
The doctor led me to the basement, where the bank vault had once been. The armored doors had been removed. Stainless steel vats lined the huge room like giant sarcophagi.
“They rescued those vats from a bourbon distillery. Not very orthodox, of course, but they work like a charm.”
“How does your method work?”
“The truth is, with the right conditions of humidity and temperature, you could make Cladoxpan in a plastic bucket. At 37 degrees Celsius, the strain produces Cladoxpan.”
I looked into one of the vats and nearly shouted in surprise. At the bottom, submerged in hundreds of gallons of water, was a white bulbous thing the size of a brain, covered with nodules and branches. It looked extraterrestrial. From time to time, it secreted a whitish liquid. When the liquid came into contact with water, it transformed into a dense, milky substance that rose to the surface.
“That’s a strain of 15b submerged in a solution of water and glucose,” Dr. Ballarini boasted. “A vat that size can generate enough Cladoxpan to treat fifty people for decades. Best of all, if you break off a piece and place it into another vat, it will grow to the same size in just three months. It is self-replicating like the bacilli in buttermilk or kefir.”
“So, you could manufacture it anywhere.” The implications of this discovery were huge. With Cladoxpan, TSJ was a nonthreatening infection, like a chronic cold. Of course, if you stopped taking it, you were toast.
“That’s right,” Dr. Ballarini conceded.
“It should be distributed worldwide immediately, Doctor.”
“No! Not till we’ve developed a final version and have a patent. I will not allow anyone else to get credit for my research.”
“Doctor, that world no longer exists!” I pleaded. But nothing I said over the next ten minutes changed Ballarini’s mind. He was a genius, but he’d turned his back on reality. For him, the world began and ended with the four walls of his lab.
“Well, at least let me take a few liters of Cladoxpan.” I had to get out of there. I heard an explosion in the distance. Something told me trouble was brewing.
“What do you want it for?” Dr. Ballarini asked. “You are not infected with TSJ.”
I groaned. It was like talking to a wall. Just then someone entered the lab.
“Freeze, scumbag. Move an inch and I’ll pump you full of lead.” The voice was right behind me. I was fucked, really fucked. I turned around slowly.
“Hello, Grapes,” I replied, courteously, not taking my eyes off the Aryan leader and the two Green Guards, all armed with M16s.
“Porca putanna, figlio di troia, ma che cazzo vuoi?” Dr. Ballarini sputtered. Gone was the congenial scientist. He changed so fast, he must’ve been mentally unstable. The idea that someone else might take credit for his work had sent him over the edge.
“You dumb shit. You shouldn’t have come here, especially after security cameras recorded you breaking into a safe in an office you had no business being in.” Malachi Grapes flashed a sinister smile.
He was enjoying himself. He reminded me of a school bully who had cornered his victim and was deciding how to make him suffer. He’d probably played that part many times in his life.
“I’m no fool.” Grapes slurred his words as if he was high. “I knew there was something fishy about you. The ship captain reported that you questioned his methods. We’ve had you under surveillance the whole time, you idiot.”
“Look, Grapes, this isn’t what it looks like. It’s all a misunderstanding. You’re right. We don’t fit in here. So why don’t you let us go?” I edged toward the door, but two Aryans blocked the way. Unless I could distract them, I didn’t stand a chance.
Dr. Ballarini looked at me, dumbfounded. A minute before, the scientist was convinced I was one of Greene’s employees. Then, Grapes showed up, claiming I was a spy and a traitor. His face turned several shades of purple when he realized he’d been tricked. With a roar, Dr. Ballarini pounced on me, his fists flying. The doctor may have been a scientific genius, but he had no idea how to fight. I easily deflected his blow and shoved him into Grapes. They fell in a jumble of arms and legs, amid grunts of pain.
That was the moment I’d been waiting for. While all eyes were focused on Grapes, I feinted to the right to dodge the nearest Green Guard. The Aryan flung out his arm to intercept me, but I dove for a hole in the wall.
If I’d been a superhero, the guard would’ve missed me by a hair. An ingenious plan perfectly executed. But in real life, there are no superheroes.
The other guard tackled me like a pro football player. At one hundred seventy-five pounds, I was no match for that three-hundred-pound pissed-off Aryan who grabbed me around the knees and dragged me five feet till we crashed into one of the vats. When my head hit the vat, a white light and a searing pain blotted everything out for a moment.
I tried to stand up, but Malachi Grapes walked over with a perverse look of satisfaction on his face and kicked me in the head. He growled, “I’ve wanted to do that ever since we met, smart-ass. I never liked lawyers.” I saw swirling colors for a few seconds, then darkness swallowed the light and I passed out.
28
What could be worse than being immortal?
and still having to behave by the rules?
—Rameau, Platée
When I came to, I felt a sticky substance on my face. I thought for a moment they’d poured Cladoxpan on my head, but when a drop fell in my mouth, I detected the coppery taste of blood. My blood.
I had a good-sized gash on my head, one of my teeth was loose, and I could barely open my right eye. They’d worked me over good.
I was sitting in a chair in Greene’s office, all alone. Judging by the light coming in the window, the sun was setting. I had to get out of this mess or I wouldn’t make it home in time. An air conditioner hummed nearby. My hands were cuffed behind my back, so I couldn’t stand up without dragging the chair. I moved my wrists and heard the clink of a chain. Shackles. I’m sure I had the Aryans to thank for that.
I sat there for a while, struggling to think of something positive. At least someone had taken off my tie. My new suit was ruined, blood soaked, and ripped in several places. As if that mattered.
The door flew open and Reverend Greene strode into the room, followed by Malachi Grapes and a deeply worried Mrs. Compton. The Aryan seemed very pleased with himself and shot me a mocking look. The reverend’s face was more gaunt than usual. His cheeks were a flurry of tics. The broken veins covering his nose made him look like a drunk, and his eyes had an opaque veil over them, as though he had cataracts.
“He
llo, Reverend,” I greeted him, trying to sound mocking. “What’s the matter? You look horrible. You should take better care of yourself—like me.”
“Shut up, asshole!” Grapes backhanded me and then pulled up a chair.
“Reverend, I swear I didn’t know. I thought . . .” Mrs. Compton wrung her hands.
“Calm down, Mrs. Compton,” said the reverend in a kindly voice. “You did what you thought best. Fortunately, the Lord is always watching over us and we apprehended this servant of Satan in time. Now, please take down what I say.”
With a sigh of relief, Mrs. Compton stationed herself behind a stenographic machine in the corner to take notes. Greene sat down and let out a cavernous cough.
He leaned across the table. On one side was a bottle filled with a milky fluid; on the other was his Bible. “Know what this is?” he asked, pointing to the bottle.
“I’m guessing it’s your piss,” I replied. “Or maybe the Green Guard took up a collection. Maybe they got together and—”
Grapes’s punch took me by surprise and hurt like hell, but I flashed a bloody smile, as if it were the most normal thing in the world.
“This is a bottle of Cladoxpan,” Greene said, quietly. “What you tried to steal.”
I didn’t answer and just looked at him in silence. I had no idea where this was going.
“It is a blessing from the Lord. If you get infected with the poison of the Undead, it keeps you from losing your life. If you’re healthy and drink even just a little, it’s extremely toxic and you die in terrible pain. Two sides of the same coin.”
That bottle made me very uncomfortable. You think you’re ready to face death, but when the grim reaper comes, your whole being screams to live, if only for five more minutes.
“I wish I could redeem your soul, but you’re beyond salvation. So, first things first.”
With a trembling hand, Reverend Greene opened the bottle and poured a generous amount in a plastic cup. He placed it in the middle of the table, clasped his hands, and whispered a prayer. I clenched my jaws. My entire body tensed. If they tried to make me drink that toxic stuff, they’d have to break all my teeth.
The reverend ended his prayer with a loud “Amen,” rose from his chair, glass in hand, stared into my eyes, and then drank the serum down in one gulp.
I was stunned. I thought that crazy old man had decided to speed up his meeting with his Maker, but then, in a flash, I understood everything. The tremors in the reverend’s hands quieted. He recovered his natural skin tone and his veins shrank. The malevolent, mad fire in his eyes, veiled by a white film moments before, flared up.
I gasped. “You’re . . . infected! You have TSJ!”
“The lawyer’s no dummy, Reverend.” Grapes seemed to find it all very entertaining.
“Dr. Ballarini is a genius and a good person, but he goes absolutely crazy when he moves beyond the realm of science.” The reverend mopped his forehead. “He’s so obsessed with his work on Cladoxpan, he’s not aware of its interesting side effect.”
“Side effect?” I asked in a shaky voice.
“Cladoxpan slows down not only TSJ, but all the degeneration in the human body. Only our Lord knows why. Your hair doesn’t fall out, your skin doesn’t age, you don’t get wrinkles . . .”
“It makes you immortal?” I asked, shocked.
“Of course not, you stupid fool!” the reverend sputtered. “Only our Lord Jesus Christ can grant us eternal life. Even if you take Cladoxpan, you die a natural death.” He paused, overcome with emotion. “You just age slower. Tests on rats and humans prove that.” He leaned forward, his face glowing. “For the first time since the Flood, God has given us a way to achieve the longevity of the patriarchs! To live as long as Enoch, Lamech, and Methuselah! For a thousand years, if need be! It’s a gift from God to me, His Prophet! I willingly accepted getting infected! I take Cladoxpan so I can preach His word for centuries and lead humanity in the Second Renaissance!”
“You’re out of your mind, Greene.” I shook my head in disgust. “Completely out of your mind. Wait till the helots find out you’re just like them, except for the color of your skin. The faithful of Gulfport will turn their backs on you in disgust.”
“No helot lives more than two years,” the reverend said in a fever pitch. “The young and old are eliminated quickly, out of Christian charity. The rest don’t last long out on reconnaissance. If they do, they’re exterminated, like the wicked of Sodom. We save only those who have the mark of the Lamb, the Elohim: the pure, white Angels of God!”
I stared at Greene. His eyes were ablaze, the flame sweeping away his sanity and his soul. A powerful, dark force boiled inside him.
In the corner of the room, Mrs. Compton gasped, and then covered her mouth. Her face was deathly pale. She struggled to her feet and gazed wide-eyed at the Reverend. “Oh, God. This can’t be true. Reverend, tell me it isn’t true. You can’t be—”
Greene waved a tired hand at Grapes. He’d forgotten she was there. The Aryan calmly stood, drew his gun, and shot Mrs. Compton three times. The first bullet pierced her lung and propelled the woman’s bulk against the wall. The second and third shots entered her heart and eye. Mrs. Compton fell in a heap on the Persian rug. Blood streamed out of her wounds, staining the carpet with strange designs.
“That foolish woman should’ve known I don’t tolerate people making their own decisions,” Greene muttered. “I’ve put up with her for too long. Reverend this, Reverend that. She took her role too seriously. The Lord speaks through my mouth and His word is law. Everyone else is expendable.”
I was paralyzed with terror. My whole cocky demeanor evaporated with the first bullet out of Grapes’s gun.
“Mrs. Compton was beloved in Gulfport.” Grapes took the spent shells out of his gun and loaded them in a beat-up revolver he’d taken from a bag. He tossed the old gun on the floor next to the secretary’s body. “When people see the tape of you stealing the documents, they’ll think the old lady found out and tried to stop you. You stupid fuck, you shot her as you tried to escape. They’ll be screaming for your balls, my friend.”
Shit. I’m going to die. I was surprised at how clearly I was thinking in the last moments of my life. I felt intense longing for Prit, Lucia, and Lucullus. Suddenly I wished I’d spent more time with my little furry friend that morning. At least I won’t die as one of those shitty monsters. It’ll be fast. I wonder if it’ll hurt.
“OK, let’s dispense justice on this sinful rat.” Greene raised his Bible and read from a page he’d bookmarked. “‘Thus saith the Lord God; I will leave thee upon the land, I will cast thee forth upon the open field and will cause all the fowls of the heaven to remain upon thee and I will fill all the beasts of the whole earth with thee. And I will lay thy flesh upon the mountains.’ Ezekiel 32, 4–5.” He closed the Bible with a thud. “God has spoken through me.”
“What should I do, Reverend?” Grapes asked, obsequious.
“Expel him from Gulfport, as God expelled Adam from Paradise. Abandon him in the middle of the wasteland, with no water, no food, no weapons. Let the Undead, wild animals, and thirst finish him off. Let his death be long, slow, and painful, as penance.”
“Greene, you bastard. You can fuck me over, but I’m glad I’m not one of your kind.” My voice trembled with rage and relief, knowing I wouldn’t die of a gunshot.
“Even in this you’re wrong, you fool.” The reverend came just inches from my face, made a noise in his throat, took aim, and spat a wad of yellow mucus into the wound on my forehead. I felt an overpowering sting as the reverend’s saliva flooded my wound.
“You are now one of those marked by the fire of the Lord.” He brushed my hair from my forehead almost tenderly. “Your death will take longer than you thought.”
He turned away and left the room as Grapes shouted for a couple of Aryan guards.
I was t
oo shocked to resist. A single tear rolled down my cheek. Two years. I’d survived for two years. But TSJ had finally caught up with me. I was infected.
29
When Lucia thought back, she could only recall bits and pieces of what happened, a broken mosaic of details, like a movie missing some reels.
When the siren went off, the helots scattered. Only Alejandra stayed behind, holding Prit’s hand, staring down at him with concern.
“Where’s everyone going?” Prit asked through bruised lips.
“It’s a raid! And you don’t want to get in the Green Guards’ way. Especially if you don’t have any papers.”
“I don’t have papers,” Lucia replied. “Neither does Prit.”
“Me neither,” Alejandra added. “Half these people don’t. Even if we did, that’s no guarantee.”
“What do we do?” Lucia asked, wide-eyed with panic.
“What everyone else is doing. Hide!” The petite girl struggled to hoist Prit to his feet.
There was chaos out on the street. Groups of people were running off, dashing into houses, trying to become invisible. A few stayed put with a stony look on their face. They had their papers in order (that week, a pink-and-purple striped certificate with a photo). In theory, they had nothing to fear. But only in theory. Things changed from one day to the next in Bluefont. Even some of those people joined the fleeing crowd.
“Where’re we going?” Prit said, gasping. With each breath, he winced in pain. His broken ribs were sapping his strength.
“Don’t know.” Alejandra’s voice trembled. “I’ve got a shelter near the fence, but it’s only big enough for one person.”
“Let’s stick Prit there and we’ll find another place to hide!” Lucia proposed.
Alejandra shook her head. “The shape he’s in, it’d take ten minutes to get there. This place is gonna be crawling with Green Guards any minute. We gotta find Gato.”
The Wrath of the Just (Apocalypse Z) Page 16