Panacea

by Brad Murray

  The dream always began innocently enough. She was young and spry and could run with such ease and such vitality. That part was pleasant at least. Her weary bones and crippled legs had long forgotten what it was like to be so free. But the dream would always devolve into the jolting sound of bombs, the metallic scent of blood, and the wretched sense of death. It was the same every time.

  The harshness of the Irish accent punctured the dark stillness of her bedroom, battering all remnants of sleep from her head. But she was thankful for it.

  “Aye, sorry to wake ya, Miss,” said the voice.

  “It is quite alright,” said Letta, switching on the lamp on the hotel nightstand. “What news of Dr. Minkowski?”

  “Tough fuckin’ nut, that one,” she said. “Fuckin’ plonker near bled out ‘fore he spilt his guts.”

  Letta scoffed, the uncouth vulgarity grating her brain. “Language, please!”

  “Sorry mum.”

  The Sisters were virtually indistinguishable from each other, not that Letta really cared which of the two she was speaking with. They were repulsive creatures; sycophants who would do her bidding because it was the natural order of things. They were a most unpleasant but effective duo; useful instruments of the highest order whom she and Lars had used on dozens of occasions before.

  “Now then, to the point of your call. Minkowski?”

  “Aye, right Mum. We ‘ad to bust the plonker’s face up right good. Got ‘im tied up at Prosser Place ‘ere in St. Louis. ‘ad to take the bald bastard out ‘is home.”

  “Has he confirmed his association with the Order?”

  “Aye Mum. One of ‘is black-clad dickheads came to ‘is house a lookin’ fer ‘im. We got ‘er tied up right alongside of ‘im. ‘Blondie’ we call ‘er. ‘Bout scalped Sis’s head with a bullet, she did. But we belted the ‘lil brasser somethin’ brutal.”

  “Do you believe the Order can track their location? How do you know you weren’t followed to Prosser Place? How can you be sure –“

  “Easy Mum. We’re not wankers! Me and Sis are professionals, mind ye. We checked ‘em both and cleaned ‘em right proper. Left all their electronics and what ‘ave ye behind at Minkowski’s fer Brumeux to find.”

  “And what of the viruses? Did you learn anything of the Order’s involvement?”

  “Aye. Minkowski didn’t talk ‘bout the viruses til we was ‘bout to splash Blondie’s brains against the wall. Says the Order found some wanker kid whose blood can stop the viruses. Called ‘im a – what was it – pana – peniscila –“

  “Panacea?” asked Letta.

  “That’s it! Right Mum! Sounds like a cockamamie bit o’ shite if’n ye ask me.”

  “What else did he say?”

  “Said ‘his name is Porter. Lives near Springfield, Mizzurruh. Said they been usin’ ‘is blood fer years and the little dickbrain doesn’t even know it.”

  The door to Letta’s suite inched open. Her brother entered cautiously at first, appearing concerned. Lars’ countenance relaxed as he realized his sister was merely talking into her cellphone. He slowly ambled to an antique mahogany chair adjacent to Letta’s bed and sat quiet, listening to her conversation intently.

  “This Porter character – the Order holds him in their possession?” said Letta.

  “Not accordin’ to Minkowski,” replied the Sister. “Said they have no reason to hold ‘im, and he won’t run because he doesn’t know anythin’. Says the stupid gowl lives at ‘is farm and comes and goes as he pleases like any other common plonker.”

  “I can’t imagine the Order doesn’t have him under constant surveillance at his home. Perhaps Minkowski will be able to lure this Porter character to St. Louis and into our hands. If Minkowski is lying, well, he’ll regret doing so. But if he’s telling the truth, this could be the solution to all the aggravation Brumeux has caused.”

  “I’m certain Dr. Dickhead will be most happy to help, once we give ‘im the proper incentive,” purred the Sister.

  “Lars and I will depart Spain immediately,” said Letta, exchanging a serious glance with her brother. She covered the phone with her palm and, to Lars, whispered, “Prepare our things, we leave at once.”

  Lars remained fixed in his chair, unmoved by Letta’s authoritarianism. Others would move mountains at his sister’s command, but her commandeering ways had little effect on him. A lifetime of dealing with her overbearing barking had worn his sense of urgency thin. He would await the end of the call, get the lowdown from Letta, and conclude his own opinion on whether or not they would be leaving.

  “We should arrive at Prosser Place by 9am. Please refrain from doing anything stupid until we arrive,” said Letta.

  “Aye Mum. We’ll act like proper hooligans,” scoffed the Sister.

  Letta clicked the end button and sat the phone on the nightstand.

  “Do you recall those outlandish stories of our youth, Lars?” asked Letta. “The stories about the boy who was immune? The boy whose blood would change human history?”

  “Tall tales, of course. Why do you ask?” replied Lars.

  “The Sisters have captured Minkowski. They are holding him at Prosser Place. Minkowski claims the Order has in fact been behind the failed viruses these many years.”

  “Our suspicions have been confirmed then,” said Lars stoically.

  “More than that, Lars. Minkowski admitted the Order discovered a human panacea – a person in whose blood exists a cure-all. Porter is his name. I think they’ve been using his blood to counteract our efforts.”

  Lars exhaled deeply and sat back in his chair. He reached inside his jacket and pulled his pipe from his pocket.

  “Impossible,” he said, chewing on the end of the pipe.

  “Is it? It would explain the futility of our viruses. And there appears to be a direct link to Brumeux and the Order, which aligns with our intuition. Besides, Minkowski only revealed this information under torture. In my mind, this only strengthens the probability of its truth. If he’s lying, he possesses a stronger resolve than one can imagine…I’m sure the Sisters made a bloody mess of him.”

  Lars mulled over Letta’s information, busily chewing on the end of his pipe.

  “Everything is falling into its proper order, dear brother,” continued Letta. “We will fly post haste to St. Louis and extract every detail that Minkowski possesses in his brain about Brumeux and the Order. And if this Porter character is legitimate, we shall either possess him for our own bidding, or we will kill him. Either way, Brumeux and the Order will be a thing of the past; the thorn will have been extracted from our side.”

  “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves, Letta. Brumeux is extremely cunning. Let us not allow our own hubris to be our downfall.”

  “Downfall?” laughed Letta. “You overestimate the Order. They are meek. They are myopic. Their inability to see the bulk of humanity for the scourge it is will always be their fatal flaw.”

  “I agree with you Letta. But let’s not fall into the trap of a rush to judgment. We’re too close to the finish line. Our long journey is nearing completion. Let’s not trip over our own feet when we’re so close.”

  Lars and Letta sat, intently studying each other’s faces. Finally, Lars cracked a smile a fraction of a second before his sister.

  “I’ll call the pilots and tell them to prepare the jet for our arrival. And I’ll fetch Maria as well,” he said grinning. “We have a long flight to prepare for.”

  ***

  By midnight, half a dozen bellmen were loading carts packed full of luggage into the buttery-lit hall. They scurried like pack horses under the whip of Letta’s command.

  “Careful with those, young man! It will be your job if you drop even one of those cases.” Letta chided after the bellman who had the misfortune of being the last one out the door.

  The room had been a flurry of activity, an army of servants at the siblings’ beck and call. But now that the army was off fulfilling its orders, Lars and Letta found themselves alone wi
th Malvado, their personal security guard.

  “Sir. Madam,” he said, addressing Lars and Letta individually. “This trip is really not safe. I won’t be able to coordinate your intentions with Alicante Security until…”

  “Alicante Security have absolutely no bearing in this equation,” quipped Letta. “We are not required to file our plans nor receive permission from the Alicante should we desire to fly away at a moment’s notice.”

  “But Madam,” Malvado started.

  “But nothing –“ Letta replied. “Let me remind you, dear boy, for whom you work. It is Lars and I who remunerate your salary, not the Alicante. And from us you receive direction. The Alicante needn’t know of our every move, and we certainly do not require their permission.”

  “I understand Madam. But it is your safety I am charged with. And it is because of your safety that I am obligated to report this change in location to the Alicante. I’m sure you understand that people of your prominence cannot set out on your own in the United States, especially when the Order is involved.”

  “We appreciate your concern and your diligence to your duty,” said Lars, placing his hand on Malvado’s back. “But there are larger issues at play here that require us to be….outside of the Alicante’s radar, so to speak.”

  “Besides,” said Letta, “we are simply flying to St. Louis, where we will proceed directly to Prosser Place. I’m certain you realize that Prosser is Alicante-controlled domain, and therefore quite safe. And if anything should happen, we will have you, our most trusted Malvado, at our side. It is no more dangerous than being here in Spain right now.”

  Malvado frowned and rubbed his tanned, square chin.

  “I don’t like it from a security standpoint,” said Malvado. “I’ve had no opportunity to coordinate advance teams to ensure the scene is controlled.”

  “Fear not, Malvado,” said Letta. “The Sisters are there now, awaiting our arrival.”

  Malvado puts his hands on hips and groaned. He lifted his head to the ceiling in an exasperated sigh and said, “The Sisters. Great. Now I know this is a terrible idea.”

  18

  Yesterday - May 28, 2011

  He was forty-six years old. But he could easily pass for sixty. He was once tall, tanned and athletic - full of life and exuberance. But those days were a distant memory; his past so far behind him it no longer felt like his own. The face staring back at him in the dim reflection of his faux metal knife was barely recognizable. Time had crudely mutated his forehead into a labyrinth of deep creases. And the dark bands under his eyes suitably illustrated the sadness that engulfed him. The present day version of himself was far from athletic. He had an aching back, his knees cracked when he walked, and all the dark hair that had once flowed in a thick mane had been supplanted by streaks of grey. His body was breaking down, aging prematurely; the after effects of a broken heart. His long, unkempt beard had fallen victim as well, first grey then white.

  That is, until it was shaven off completely yesterday. He rubbed his smooth, foreign-feeling chin; it felt so…peculiar. He had grown accustomed to the beard, appreciated it as a companion. It was as much a part of who he was as the blue jumpsuit he had worn every day for the past twelve years.

  He had been in this dank, grey concrete box for longer than he cared to think about; the place they called the Outpost. He’d been here so long he’d nearly forgotten his name; having not heard it uttered in years. Here, he was prisoner “Zulu.” His hopes of ever seeing the outside of these prison walls had been all but quelled; slowly, over a protracted length of time, like a campfire doused by a gentle autumn drizzle.

  Drop by drop; day by day.

  The only thing that kept him going was a promise. A promise from a man he couldn’t trust. He knew in his heart that any words from Brumeux were worthless, and that believing in them was nothing more than a fool’s errand. But still, it was something. He had to believe Brumeux. The promise represented a shred of hope, a tiny sliver of encouragement that faded further away with each passing day. It was something to cling to, something that could keep the demons at bay and out of his mind. He could sometimes feel the demons’ calls beckoning him, knocking at the door of his consciousness; begging for him to let them in. He could easily just let go and let them consume what remained of his sanity but, for now, the promise was motivation enough to keep his mind’s door locked from intruduers. Thus far hope had won out over the demons in his mind. But admittedly, he often felt as if he was being slowly lowered into a deep well, and that the blue sky above him was shrinking. One day, there would be nothing but blackness and hope would be gone. He feared that day was coming soon.

  A favorite pastime of Zulu’s was art. He spent a considerable amount of time in his cell sketching, drawing, and painting. Before prison, he would have considered the idea of sketching laughable - a child’s pursuit. But through time it had come to mean as much to him as anything. At first, when he starting doodling in his cell as a means to pass the time, he was terrible. His “art” could have been confused for a ten-year-old’s, something a parent politely hangs up on their refrigerator door for their kid. But, as Zulu found, practice makes perfect.

  Or at least pretty damned good.

  He drew from memory; pictures of faces he once knew, sketches of places he once visited. People and corners of the globe that once meant something in his former life. His pictures stretched across the span of the walls of his eight by ten foot chamber, nearly from floor to ceiling. Over time, and as his skill level increased, Zulu would replace pictures with a substitute of higher quality. Now, as he lay in his bed scrutinizing his sketches, his work could be confused with that of a professional artist.

  Reading and art was an escape; a means to both pass the time and to keep his mind from torturing itself with the memories of his former life. Besides, there was nothing else to do. Brumeux did not permit Zulu and his fellow prisoners to communicate. There was no communication with the outside world. The prisoners ate, slept, exercised, and pissed in their cells. Besides the one minute morning walk to the pod’s shower, they were only allowed outside cell walls for Moving Day, a once per week lap around the prison bay. Moving Day was only permitted for those prisoners who had “exemplified model behavior” during the week.

  Zulu had been at the Outpost for longer than any other prisoner, and by quite a margin too. When he first arrived, Zulu was not kept in the prison bay. He was allowed to sleep in officer’s quarters – guarded, of course. Zulu sensed Brumeux possessed an element of contrition for his being here; he sensed remorse. And because of that, Zulu surmised, he was treated with privilege. He was a prisoner, yes, but he had a private shower, a thick, comfy mattress, and he ate like any esteemed member of the Order.

  All of that changed when he tried to escape about three months after he came to the place.

  Brumeux was furious for his having broken his trust, and he sentenced him down with the Sodomites. He’d been down here ever since; treated just the same as the rest of the prisoners. Zulu caught glimpses of their faces on Moving Day, took note as new prisoners arrived, and felt a combination of hope and resentment when familiar faces were one day inexplicably gone. Uniform had been at the Outpost for many years, though several years short of Zulu’s stay. Uniform’s walking privileges on Moving Day were a rarity, the result of his inability to control his mouth. His voice carried through the corridors, often shouting at the caretakers as they passed. Likewise, when Zulu would stroll past Uniform’s cell on Moving Day, Uniform couldn’t contain himself.

  “What’s wrong Zulu?” he would bark through the slot in his door.

  “What did they get you for? They think me a traitor, but they’re wrong!” he would shout. “The Alicante never got to me!”

  Zulu had no idea what to make of Uniform’s gibberish – likely lost his mind, Zulu thought. But Uniform once dealt out a comment that really stung, and it hadn’t left Zulu thoughts since.

  “Brumeux not keeping his promises to you either?
”

  Zulu did his best to ignore Uniform and the rest of his fellow prisoners. He preferred to keep a low profile, keeping discourse with the guards and caretakers to a minimum. He had seen his share of caretakers through the years. Some mean, some indifferent, all cold and callous. But Jenny Jordan was the caretaker now. She was different. Kind and gentle and intelligent. Over time, he had come to think of her as a daughter, though he kept his affections to himself. He often wondered about her; unable to rationalize how someone so compassionate and wonderful worked for a son-of-a-bitch like Brumeux. Why on earth would Brumeux have someone of such quality in such a piddling role for so long? On many occasions Zulu thought of asking her these sorts of questions, but in the end knew she was forbidden from engaging in personal fraternization with the prisoners. Further, he didn’t want the questions to spoil their pleasant relationship. She was like a breath of fresh air, a glimmering diamond in an otherwise boundless world of mud and muck.

  Zulu rubbed his smooth chin and placed the fake metal knife on the empty tray. Jenny would be coming soon to pick them up on her morning rounds. He stacked the fork and spoon neatly in the center of the tray alongside his empty plastic cup. He liked to have his things orderly and ready for Jenny when she arrived; neat and tidy so she wouldn’t think him a nuisance.

  Right on schedule, Zulu could hear the clomping of footsteps coming from the pod’s corridor. He wiped the sleep from his eyes, patted down his hair, and braced himself for her arrival. As the footsteps approached, he picked up the tray and readied it for the habitual handover through the slot. But to his astonishment, the figure that appeared at the door wasn’t Jenny. Instead, a dark man with narrow eyes and a cleft chin emerged at his cell window. He was decked out in a black security guard uniform with a walkie-talkie radio affixed to his shoulder, and a holstered gun at his side.