Spliced

by Jon McGoran

  “Don’t know anything about it. Sorry.”

  “That’s okay,” I said quickly. I had one last chance to find Del after all, and there was no time to lose.

  As I headed for the door, Nina turned from her table and called out, “It’s good to see you, Jimi. I miss you.”

  I smiled at her. “You too.” Then a thought occurred to me. “Hey, Nina,” I said.

  She turned again.

  “Do you ever see Leo Byron?”

  She smiled sadly and shook her head. “Not in years.”

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  Guzman’s clinic was two miles from the Levline stop, just before Perkins Park. I ran the whole way. I wasn’t wearing my running shoes, but I was in a hurry and I needed to clear my head.

  The joy I felt at moving dissipated when the strip mall with Guzman’s clinic came into view. The crime scene tape was still on the front door.

  I realized it was ridiculous, but I had kind of hoped the place would be open, that Guzman would be back in business already, with cheerful but broken chimeras lined up to be fixed. And Del would be lying peacefully in that hyperbaric bed, already turned back into his old self.

  Instead, the place looked deserted.

  To be sure, I walked around to the alley, but the back door was still taped as well. The fire escape was down, just as Rex and I had left it.

  I looked around to make sure I was alone. Then I grabbed the ladder and started climbing. I crawled in through the same partially open window as before. Daylight now illuminated the dirty and cluttered office. I hurried through the doorway to the loft. The hyperbaric bed was swaying slightly in the breeze from the open window. But that was the only movement.

  I hurried down the metal steps to the first floor and checked the waiting area, even the basement. Nothing. I returned to the main room and looked up at the hyperbaric bed, the last place I’d seen Del.

  Frustration and sadness and anger boiled up in me, and I clenched my fists and let out a long, loud scream. It echoed through the empty building, maybe through the whole empty neighborhood. When I was done, I felt a tiny bit better, but all that had really changed was that Del was gone that much longer and was that much less likely to ever come back, or even to survive.

  I climbed back up the stairs to the upper-level office. The desk was piled with papers. I flicked through them, a meaningless jumble of receipts, menus, magazines. The more I looked, the less any of it meant. I could feel the frustration building again, and this time a scream was not going to relieve it. I was on the verge of throwing it all out the window when I noticed a white envelope with a blue bar across the top and bold white letters that said JURY SUMMONS.

  I didn’t see Guzman as the type to comply with something like that, but he had received it nonetheless. It was addressed to him at 2702 Lorber Street, just south of Silver Garden.

  I had his home address.

  THIRTY-NINE

  As I ran back to the Levline, I reminded myself not to get too excited. It was Sunday afternoon. Del had been spliced Friday morning. The splice was a done deal, and at this point, all I could hope for was that Guzman knew where Del was—and that Del was getting the medical care he needed.

  Sitting on the Levline train, I fidgeted all the way to Silver Garden, then got off and ran some more.

  I was approaching Broad Street, halfway to Dr. Guzman’s, when I first suspected something was up.

  Broad Street had become totally revitalized over the years and was one of the busiest streets in the city, with mile after mile of stores and businesses, and relentless traffic of cars, buses, pedestrians, and even drones buzzing overhead. But the side streets were residential, and it seemed odd that they were so congested too.

  As I got closer, I could see that even though the traffic lights were changing, the cars waiting to cross Broad Street weren’t moving. They weren’t even honking. Then I realized no cars were driving along it, either.

  Instead, there were people on foot. Thousands of them. Some were marching and more were lining the sidewalk. Some were clapping and singing, others looked on in horror.

  A girl my age had her hand over her mouth as tears silently streamed down her face. I was about to ask her what was going on when I noticed that the marchers and most of the people cheering and clapping were wearing H4H buttons and T-shirts. I realized we were in front of Church of the Eternal Truth, the mega church where Stan Grainger spent all his time. H4H central.

  There was a huge electronic sign out front. It usually made some obscure reference to scripture, but sometimes it condemned homosexuals, immigrants, or other groups. This time it said PROTECT OUR GENETIC HERITAGE—SUPPORT THE GENETIC HERITAGE ACT!

  Under the billboard, workers were adjusting microphones and cords on a temporary stage. Next to the stage, at the center of a thick knot of men in suits, was a tanned, handsome, and now familiar face, with straight white teeth and a shiny trademark WellPlant. Howard Wells, yet again. His entourage had grown since the march a few days ago, and each of their faces was embedded with a WellPlant.

  Right behind Wells, a small man with thinning blond hair was tapping one finger against his lips as he scanned the crowd, like he was counting the people. I wondered if the lip-tapping was some sort of WellPlant thing.

  In front of the stage was a line of men holding banners, and there was Stan Grainger, holding the same banner as before. The little guy counting the crowd gave Stan a dirty look and motioned for him to hold the banner higher.

  I saw another familiar face up front, Officer Cantrell, holding a sign that read ALTERED IS NOT EQUAL.

  As Wells took the stage, the cheers were deafening. He waved and pointed at people and held his hands over his head, working the crowd into an even bigger frenzy, then patted the air in front of him to calm them, as if he hadn’t just riled them up.

  He stepped up to the podium with a warm smile. “The human genome is the most amazing and miraculous creation God has placed on Earth,” he said. “It is our heritage as humans, and together, we are going to preserve it.”

  The crowd roared, and the last few marchers hurried to make sure they didn’t miss a word. One of Wells’s entourage dragged a goat onto the stage, and Wells reached over without looking and grabbed the goat’s tether.

  “This is a very special goat,” he said, ruffling the animal’s neck in a fond, absentminded way. “It has been genetically modified to grow organs that can be transplanted into young people in need, saving human lives. Now, I have nothing against scientists engineering these goats with human genes for something like that. I think that’s great. But I don’t want to let this goat vote, do you?”

  The crowd roared, “No!”

  “I don’t want to let him drive a car, or own a gun, or be president of these United States, do you?”

  Again, the crowd roared, “No!”

  Wells smiled and patted the goat on the head, handing the tether back to his helper. “Of course not,” he said, lowering his voice and bringing the crowd down with him. “And I’m sure no one else is saying that, either. That goat is obviously not human. But what is? The point is, you have to draw the line somewhere, right?”

  “Yeah!” said the crowd, slightly more subdued.

  He nodded. “Of course. And what I’m saying—what we’re saying—is that the natural place to draw the line is the place it’s naturally drawn. The place God has already drawn the line. Human is human. And goat is goat. But something in between? Well, I don’t know what it is, to be honest. But it’s not a person, is it?”

  “No!”

  Wells continued, his voice rising. “No, it’s not. And I am very pleased to tell you that our governor agrees with us on that.”

  The crowd swelled with cheers and applause.

  “And I’m even more pleased to report that today, he has proven it. The governor just announced that he has signed the Genetic Heritage Act into law in the great state of Pennsylvania.”

  FORTY

  The Genetic Heritage Act
had become law. Chimeras were no longer legally people. And the frantic urge I had to get to Dr. Guzman’s exploded into overdrive as this new threat sank in. But there were thousands of people between me and where I needed to go.

  Wells left the stage and got in a limousine, his motorcade disappearing up Broad Street with a police escort. The crowd parted to let him go by, mostly cheering and waving to him, but a few people cursed him or flipped him off. A half a sandwich sailed through the air in a gentle trajectory that ended with a splat on the limousine’s back window. Immediately, the crowd surged toward the source of that trajectory.

  Another speaker took the stage, a dull voice reading a statement about how people could help get a national Genetic Heritage law passed. The crowd was probably with him on that, but they weren’t paying attention.

  I could feel a ragged energy, like the crowd had become a mob.

  I tried to push my way through, hoping to slip across Broad Street. But the wall of H4Hers was dense, and unmoving. A couple of them scowled at me, and I realized I was wearing the chimera pin Ruth had given me. I reached up to take it off, but then I thought to hell with these people. They were wrong, and I shouldn’t be afraid to say it. I still had doubts about the whole chimera thing, and I was devastated that my best friend had become one, but H4H wasn’t about protecting people from bad choices or saving them from dangerous splices. It was about legalizing discrimination, and capitalizing on hatred and fear, to attract new H4H members and to further Wells’s political ambitions.

  Looking around at them, I realized that, deep down, they probably didn’t even care about chimeras. They probably didn’t know any. They might dress up their motivations in Howard Wells’s fancy words, but really, they just needed someone to hate. Someone different.

  That’s what this was about.

  I pushed in again but bumped into a wall of flannel. A mean-looking face turned and glared down at me. His eyes locked on my pin and his face got even meaner.

  “Nice button,” he said. “So I guess you think goats should be able to vote and own guns?”

  For a moment I thought he was having a psychotic episode, then I realized he was referencing Wells’s speech.

  A guy standing next to him, dressed identically but three-fourths the size, said, “If mixies aren’t people anymore, what does that make mixie-lovers?”

  I looked up at the pair of them, feeling rage and hatred boiling up inside me. I wanted to tell them to go to hell, that they were the ones who were subhuman, not the chimeras. Luckily, in addition to the rage and the hatred, I was smart enough to also feel fear.

  I ran. I put all my anger and hatred into my feet, and I took off. They sprinted after me for twenty yards or so, enough to boost my adrenaline. Then they stopped, laughing and shouting that I’d better run, shouting all the awful things they would do to me if they caught me.

  As I made my way out of the Broad Street district and entered Silver Garden, the sky turned a dark gray, and the vibe felt even more dangerous. The area was more run-down, but that wasn’t all of it. It was also filled with people, many still wearing their H4H T-shirts and hats. I realized a lot of them weren’t just drunk on righteous victory; more and more, there seemed to be alcohol involved as well.

  When I reached Guzman’s block, I slowed reluctantly. A dozen men were hanging out across from his house.

  A couple of them looked over at me and I slowed even more. They were drinking and laughing too much and too loud. I was three doors away from Guzman’s house when I saw someone else approaching from the opposite direction.

  She was small and frail and very, very pretty. She was a chimera, some kind of feline, with large gray-green eyes and a spray of spots from her forehead into her hairline. She looked at the men, then at me, then at Guzman’s house. She slowed too, but she didn’t stop.

  A few of the men noticed her, then they all turned to look. She glanced at me again. Then she locked her eyes on Guzman’s house and walked toward it.

  A couple of the men stepped out into the street, blocking her way. I could suddenly see things turning very bad very fast. I thought about running up to the door and banging on it, slipping inside as soon as it opened. But as the men began to encircle the girl, I knew I couldn’t leave her there.

  The largest of them said something to her and she stepped back, bumping into the guy behind her. The rest of them laughed, and I saw she was crying. The circle was three-quarters closed.

  “Hey!” I called out. They stopped and turned to look at me. “What are you guys doing?”

  The biggest one let out a harsh laugh. “I beg your pardon?”

  “You’re grown men,” I said. “Stop messing with her!”

  They watched as I stepped into the street. A few of them stepped toward me.

  “She’s a mixie,” he said, as if that explained it.

  “A cute mixie,” said one of the others, earning him some laughs and backslaps.

  “Yeah,” said a third. “There’s no law against it.”

  “So?” I said. I was trying to keep them turned to face me, moving so the gap in their circle would be behind her. So she could escape. “What are you guys, perverts?”

  “Who the hell are you?” said the big one.

  They were all still looking at me, but they were now positioned exactly as I’d hoped.

  I caught her eye, then looked deliberately past her, at the open space behind her. She was confused at first, but then she glanced behind her. I gave her a tiny nod.

  “Who am I? Who are you? The League of Extraordinarily Gross Gentlemen?” I took a step toward them as I said it, and they moved toward me.

  I stepped back now, trying to look scared—which was easy, since I was terrified.

  The entire group came toward me, all smiling the same smug, evil smile, and I heard the rapid tap of tiny footsteps receding.

  “Damn, she got away,” one of them said.

  “Forget her,” said the leader, his eyes locked on me.

  I started to shake. But I reminded myself that they were a bunch of drunk, middle-aged idiots. And I was a runner. As long as I stayed on my feet, I’d be okay.

  I took a quick look around, making sure there was nothing to trip over. I stepped backward once again. Then they came at me for real.

  FORTY-ONE

  I let them stay close the first block or two, so they’d keep chasing me and not go back for the other girl. But I’d been running a lot, and I could feel it in my legs. A cramp right now would be the end of me.

  Halfway back to Broad Street, I spotted more idiots up ahead. I turned right and sprinted to the next block, then ducked around the next corner. Distant sirens seemed to come from every direction, all of them getting closer.

  From my hiding place, I saw my pursuers stumble into the intersection like they were ready to pass out. Half of them doubled over, hands on their knees, trying to catch their breath. One threw up in the gutter.

  They stood there for a minute in the middle of the intersection, laughing and insulting each other. Then they kept on walking toward Broad Street.

  When I was sure they were gone, I took a different route back to Guzman’s house. I paused a block away, nervous and scared, but the street was quiet and empty.

  I went up the three front steps and knocked on the door. There was movement in the dim light inside. But no answer. I knocked again.

  A rumble of thunder joined the sirens, like they were trying to out-ominous each other. I knocked again, harder.

  A voice inside said, “Go away.”

  “I need to see Doctor Guzman,” I said, my voice urgent, even though I was trying to stay quiet.

  “Go away before I call the police.”

  “I’m not going away.” I pounded on the door again.

  The door jerked open six inches. Behind a security chain, an older woman squinted out at me. “Are you one of them mixies?”

  I bristled, but said, “No.”

  “I’m sick of them coming around here,
looking for him. Drawing attention.” Her eyes scanned the street. She was scared, and I didn’t blame her. I was too.

  “Is Guzman here?”

  “He hasn’t lived here in over a year. I don’t know where he lives, so tell those goddamned mixies to stop coming here looking for him, and tell those goddamned H4Hers he ain’t here, either. Now go away, before I call the police.”

  With that, she slammed the door.

  I stood there for a moment, staring at the door. I had no idea what to do next, and turning around would mean confronting that fact.

  I almost jumped out of my skin when a voice behind me called quietly, “Are you looking for the doctor?”

  I spun around and saw two big eyes peering at me from the shadowy gap between the row homes across the street.

  It was the girl the men had been harassing, the chimera.

  She flinched and stepped back when I looked at her. As I crossed the street toward her, she stepped back even farther. But she didn’t run away.

  “I am,” I said.

  “He’s not there?”

  I shook my head.

  “Is he coming back?” She was younger than me. Maybe fifteen.

  “The woman inside said he hasn’t lived there in over a year.”

  She looked down, then back up, her eyes now wet. “They gave me two addresses,” she said.

  “Who did?”

  “My friends. The ones who told me he could change me back. They said he moves a lot.” The skin around her big eyes and her feline nose was pink and raw. Her eyes were slightly red too, although the green irises were crystal clear.

  “You have another address?”

  “7649 Willow Road.”

  “Where’s that?”

  “About a mile. Still in Silver Garden. Do you want to come?”

  She said it hopefully, trying to convince me. She didn’t want to go alone.

  Once again, it was the only lead I had. “Sure.”

  She glanced down the street, fear flashing across her face. Then she looked up at me with a brave smile and nodded. “I’m Claudia,” she said.