by D. S. Murphy
I entered the empty hall and navigated my way to Mr. Peters’ office. I had no idea where he was, but his office would be the best place to start. I knocked on the door twice, but no one answered. I opened the door and poked my head in first, then closed the door behind me. His office was messier than the first time. Papers littered his desk. I sifted through them and saw an open planner. My eyes scanned the page until I found his scheduled location.
PHYLIA TESTING – SUBLEVEL, 0008
I assumed 0008 indicated a floor and room number. I made my way to the door, but turned around and opened the desk drawer and grabbed my mother’s file. There had to be information about her involvement with Zamonta. If Tamara and my dad refused to tell me the truth, I’d just find out on my own. I tucked the file under my arm and ran out the door. A woman approached from the end of the hall, but her eyes were glued to her phone. I darted the other way before she could see me. I took the stairs to avoid running into anyone else.
When I got to the lowest level there were no signs to direct me, so I made a few wrong turns. The hallway ended in a set of massive double doors. They were locked, so I turned around to retrace my steps. But then I heard the click of a door and saw a green light—the door had just unlocked by itself. I shivered. I felt like a sheep being driven towards the slaughterhouse. But I wasn’t ready to give up. Besides, what’s the worst that could happen? I’d get arrested for trespassing?
The numbers 0008 appeared on a small, almost unnoticeable panel on the other side of the doors. At least I was in the right place. Enormous metal containers filled the room. Electrical boards lined the walls and wires dipped into the containers. I walked further and noticed that the room had two more levels, one below and one above, all connected by ladders and metal bridges over the vats. It looked like an M.C. Escher illustration. I moved to take a closer look, but my heart jumped when someone grabbed me from behind. I looked up at a tall, bulky guard.
“What are you doing in here?” he growled.
I swallowed, unsure of what to say. “I… I just…”
The guard tightened his grip on my arm. “Answer the question,” he said roughly.
“Roger,” a voice called out from above. “It’s fine. I’ll handle it.”
My eyes flicked up and there he was. Kyle Peters descended the metal staircase from the floor above us. He weaved through the metal containers until he stood about a dozen paces from us.
“You can let her go now,” he said, his eyes meeting mine. The guard dropped my arm and took a step back.
Mr. Peters gave me a warm smile, but it missed the mark. He looked like he was trying to be casual, but it was obvious he was just humoring me. “Alicia,” he said. “To what do I owe this visit?” I glanced at the guard nervously. I’d wanted a private audience with Mr. Peters. He saw my glance and nodded at the guard. Roger grunted and left us alone.
“You must be here for a reason,” Kyle said, raising an eyebrow. “Or else you wouldn’t have broken into this building.” His smile disappeared when he saw the folder under my arm.
“Ah. Of course. This is about Clara.”
“What do you know about my mom?” I asked, my voice wavering.
“As you can tell by that folder you’re holding, she worked for me. We got very close. You’re probably wondering what really happened to her?”
I held my breath. This wasn’t what I came for, but I nodded anyway.
“In that case, let me start at the beginning. I was first interested in Laurel, Lauraceae, because of its high concentations of essential oils, some of which are valued for spices and perfumes. Laurel has components of toxic sap and irritant tissues that repel or poison herbivorous parasitic organisms. So I thought I could make a more natural pesticide, or perhaps splice the genes so that fruits and vegetables could self-produce some of these essential oils. I collected samples from all over the world, but couldn’t find what I was looking for. Then I saw a news story one day; a team of archaelogists in Greece found plant residue, deep inside an ancient cave that once housed the oracle at Delphi. They didn’t know what it was, but the article speculated that the plant may have been what caused the high priestess to fall into trance-like states before spouting prophecy.”
My jaw nearly fell open with surprise. He knew about the visions?
“It’s fascinating, actually. Carved into the rock near the entrance were the two phrases, know thyself and nothing in excess. The Oracle then descended into the adyton—Greek for ‘inaccessible’ —and mounted her tripod seat, holding laurel leaves and a dish of Kassotis spring water into which she gazed.”
“I didn’t come here for a history lesson,” I said.
“What’s the connection, you ask?” Peters continued, ignoring me. “I’d come across the Oracle at Delphi a few times in my research, because the laurel was sacred to Apollo. The high priestess was usually depicted holding laurel leaves. Since the first operation of the oracle of Delphi Temple, it was believed that the God lived within a laurel, his holy plant, and gave oracles for the future with the rustling of the leaves.”
Mr. Peters took a few steps forward. He was taller than I remembered, and his dark suit contrasted with the white plaster and steel containers behind him.
“Now I’m a scientist—I didn’t believe any of the prophecy stuff at first. But I thought to myself, here I am looking for laurel, what is the likelihood that the plant matter they found in the adyton was some special breed of the laurel plant? What if a younger strain of the plant was more potent? Zamonta gives me basically a carte blanche for my research, so I flew to Greece and made them an offer they couldn’t refuse for a bit of their plant matter. In our lab we resurrected it from extinction. I found a mediocre pesticide, but it was the other properties of the plant that captivated me. The relationship between certain plants and the human brain is nothing less than astounding. Did you know, for example, that the active chemicals in the poppy plant are attuned to the human brain in ways that defy all attempts at logic?”
“What does any of this have to do with my mother?” I interrupted. Mr. Peters’ words washed over me like rain, dampering the fire in my belly. I’d come here to confront him, to make him understand what was at risk. At least he hadn’t thrown me out right away.
“I’m getting there, I promise,” Kyle said, before launching back into his lecture. “The discovery of endorphins began in 1971 in research laboratories at Stanford University and the Johns Hopkins School of Medicine, where researchers exposed pieces of brain tissue from experimental mammals to morphine. They found that the morphine bound to receptors on the membranes of certain nerve cells, particularly in the neurons that transmit pain. Why, the investigators wondered, would an animal’s brain contain receptors for a chemical made by a poppy? Could a mammal’s body manufacture its own opiates? The opiate receptor, then, would normally bind the body’s own opiates, the endorphins, but would also be able to bind the chemically similar compounds made by the poppy. In the last four decades, researchers identified several types of endorphins in the human brain, and associated their release with situations involving pain relief, such as acupuncture and analgesia to mother and child during childbirth.”
“At Zamonta, we focus mostly on food production, but I couldn’t overlook a potential new source for a pain medication. After all, I had the only living version of this particular plant. If a new drug was developed, it could literally be worth billions of dollars. After a year of testing, we were ready for human trials, so I ran an ad in the paper, offering cash for human subjects.”
“No… No way.”
“Some of the subjects felt euphoria, even bliss. As a pain reliever, it seemed to work on everyone except your mother. She came back raving about the end of the world. She told me that humanity had been wiped out by a plague. The cities were empty. Survivors fought over supplies. I believed her, but what was I supposed to do? How could you prevent a virus, a disease, without studying it? She couldn’t bring back samples. I was fighting blind. All I
could do was make the human race stronger. That’s when I stopped trying to make produce more resistant, and focused on my efforts on human beings instead.”
I gasped as the realization hit me.
“The modifieds… You created them. On purpose.”
“Well, not exactly. You know how it goes. Fix one thing, and another thing breaks. Your mother would check in on the future and see whether my research had taken effect and saved the human race. One day she came back and said she’d seen a different future. The plague didn’t destroy humanity. Something in my calculations was off. The rapid genetic mutation I’d introduced through the food source was off. I’d created monsters, she said.”
“What happened to my mother?” I asked, dreading the response. The room was warm and low on oxygen. I could feel sweat prickling on my brow.
“She came here one night, demanding that I stop my research. Babbling about zombies and the apocalypse. She called me Dr. Frankenstein and threatened to expose the research we were doing. She also refused to continue working with me. She left me no choice, really.”
“What did you do to her?” I asked, clenching my fists.
“It was easy, actually. One day she didn’t wake up. We labelled it an accidental overdose due to an extreme sensitivity to the phylia. Tragic but unavoidable. I’ve been testing blind since then. I can’t see which of my experients work. But now that you’re here we can fine-tune things, and ensure the survival of the human race. We can make them faster. Stronger. Smarter. Able to survive whatever is coming.” His eyes shone, almost feverish with excitement.
My hand shook with anger. He’d just admitted to murdering my mother, and offered me a job in the same breath.
“I’ve seen what your food does to people. I’ve seen what it will do to the future. I can’t let that happen. I won’t.”
His brows rose. “Is that right?” he asked, almost amused.
“Yes. I don’t know where you went wrong, or where you will go wrong, but you’re about to kill billions of innocent people.”
“Don’t you see,” Peters interrupted, “it’s no use. Humanity is doomed no matter what. With the plague, no one survives. The modifieds are glorious creatures. Strong, resilient. They just need a little fine-tuning. With your help, we can get it right this time.”
“It won’t work,” I said. “You’ll destroy civilization. In just a few months, we’re on the brink of extinction. You have to stop.”
“Your mother tried to stop me as well, you know. It didn’t work out so well for her.”
His expression stayed the same, despite his threat.
“You killed my mother,” I snarled. “Do you really think I’ll agree to help you?”
His lips twitched when I asked the last question.
“Oh, I think so, with the right motivation. Why don’t we ask your friend?”
I blinked, confused. “My friend?”
“Come on out, kid. I know you’re here.”
There was nothing, for a long silent moment. Then, movement to the left, and a figure emerged.
Eric. My eyes bulged.
“What the hell—?” I started.
“I followed you,” he said, looking at the ground. “I was worried. Thought you were going off to smoke alone again. So it’s all true, then?” Eric asked, glaring at Mr. Peters. “Everything on the news, what Tamara has been saying. This bastard is going to destroy the world.” Eric took a menacing step forward.
“Careful son,” Mr. Peters said, whipping a small pistol out from behind his back. “You’re tresspassing on private property. I’d be within rights to shoot you. Roger would take the blame, but he’d get off with a slap on the wrist. And of course a ludicrous Christmas bonus.”
Eric raised his hands at the sight of the gun.
“I should call the cops and let your parents deal with you, but I’m willing to let you two go if you promise not to talk about this insane theory of yours.”
“That’s it?” I asked.
“Well, and you come work for me. Think about it. Unlimited phylia. Riches beyond your wildest dreams. All that and you’d actually be helping us improve the world.”
“I’m not trying to improve the world,” I said. “I like it just the way it is. And I will never stop trying to warn people about you,” I said, pointing my finger at him. “I won’t let anyone die because of your selfishness.” The blood running through me sizzled with energy.
His eyes narrowed with annoyance. Then he smiled suddenly.
“Funny choice of words,” he said with a sigh. “I tried to be nice. You only have yourself to blame for this.”
Then he pointed the gun and pulled the trigger.
***
Time slowed down as I was wrapped in pink fire. A loud bang echoed in the room, and I focused in on the bullet. I could see it moving closer to us, but I was too slow to stop it. There was a puncturing sound and then Eric let out a gasp. He turned to look at me, with wide eyes, then sunk to his knees as blood pumped out of his chest.
“No!” I screamed, reaching for him. I caught him just before his head hit the ground and cradled him in my lap. I placed my palm over the wound in his chest, trying to stop the blood. He looked up at me and his eyes focused on my face. He smiled, and his lips moved. I leaned closer to hear him whisper.
“It’s always been you,” he said. A single tear rolled down his cheek and fell on the back of my blood-stained hand. Then his limbs relaxed, and I knew he was gone. My vision blurred with the familiar pink haze, but this time, I welcomed it. I stood up to face Mr. Peters, and a flood of fury coursed through my body. Every inch of me burned with an energy that begged to be released. I stared into his murderous eyes. He did not deserve mercy. My sister was right. He had to die.
Pink flames surrounded him as I focused my energy. He looked around in horror and confusion as his body froze. He tried to move, but he was stuck in place. Time stood still for him. The pressure forced blood to spill from his nose. I watched him struggle to get oxygen to his lungs. He looked at me with pleading eyes, begging me to help him, but I felt nothing. I was beyond pity.
I focused on his body, wanting him to be powerless. His eyes became expressionless, then paled. His face sagged and his skin wrinkled and spotted. His body thinned. He was aging right before my eyes. He cried out in a low moan as he shriveled up and flailed around. The gun fell from his gnarled fingers, clattering to the ground. Then his skin blew away like peeling wallpaper, leaving bone and sinew.
I gasped, but the flood of energy continued pouring out of me. I didn’t even know how I was doing it. I couldn’t stop it if I’d tried. Soon Kyle Peters was nothing but a skeleton on the metal grates in front of me, and then even that turned to dust.
28
I cried at Eric’s funeral. Not polite sniffling either. Shoulder-racking sobs that burst out of me. I was so loud it was embarrassing. Even worse, the curious eyes felt like hot brands, scorching my skin with accusations. After the tears dried up, the guilt settled deep into my bones. I crossed my arms and wrapped the black shawl around my shoulders. I’d found it in my mother’s closet. Somehow I thought wrapping myself up in it would protect me. I wished it was raining, like it always was in the movies, so I could hide under a black umbrella. But the sky was almost cheerfully blue, like it was mocking our grief.
The preacher’s words hummed in my mind but I couldn’t pull meaning from the sounds—my own thoughts were too loud. This is what it felt like to be a murderer. This is what it feels like to save the world. If no Kyle Peters, there will be no mods. But I never imagined it would happen this way, and I couldn’t escape the feeling that I’d missed something. If I killed Kyle Peters earlier, would Eric still be alive?
I looked up and locked eyes with Eric’s mother, Mrs. Patton. She was glaring at me with a look that felt like a punch in the gut. It was like she knew – but that was impossible. After what happened with Mr. Peters, I snuck out of Zamonta. I hated leaving Eric’s body behind, but I didn’t know w
hat else to do. I was trespassing, and how could I ever explain what happened to Mr. Peters? I had no idea how I’d even done that; that I was even capable of something like that. It wasn’t until I was home, scrubbing the blood off my hands, that I realized I’d been seen—that security guard, Roger, knew I’d been there. Had he seen Eric as well? Even if he hadn’t, the complex must be riddled with security cameras.
For days, I watched the street through the living room windows, waiting for the sirens. They’d arrest me. They’d lock me up forever, or run tests on me like a lab rat until they figured out all of my secrets. And then, it was on the news. A mentally instable high school student killed Kyle Peters, and was shot and killed in the process. Zamonta issued a press release calling it a terrible tragedy. Without naming Tamara directly, they implied that Eric had been motivated by unfounded apocalyptic rumors he’d seen on TV. The next day, the cameras were back, but this time they swarmed our house like red ants around a piece of meat, shouting questions through the walls.
I put my headphones on and tried to tune them out with music. My brain felt frozen, sluggish. I had trouble staying focused on one thing at a time. I had the feeling I was stuck in a cycle, like a hamster in a wheel, running as fast as it could but still stuck in a cage.
Then it died down. I went to school a few times, but I don’t remember anything. Chrys peppered me with questions but I brushed her off. I didn’t see Brett, which wasn’t a big surprise. His father had just died, after all. I was a stone, a piece of wood, until I saw Eric’s body at the funeral, and then I fell apart completely. I remembered playing legos in his backyard, and seeing who could spit watermelon seeds the farthest. Sometimes my mom would walk us to the park so we could climb the jungle gym. Now they were both dead.