by Gary Starta
Burnham’s attempt to stave off the woman’s next punch failed, he pressed his head harder and harder against the window. A tinkle of glass interrupted the woman’s tirade. She slowed the car to a stop. Eyes wide, exasperated, she threw her body across his. Burnham bared his teeth in a growl. Blood trickled from the side of his head that had broken the window.
“I’ll show you to damage my ride…” She opened the door and pushed Burnham onto the grassy meridian. The badge followed his exit. It landed on his chest. “Get out, you heathen imposter! Get back to your crime, your drugs…”
Burnham growled again. Part of him realized the woman had indeed saved him-from killing her. Another second and he would have bitten her neck as she reached across him. He was sure of it.
He had little time to call after the woman. She had already shut the door and zoomed away. At least he thought she did…
Headlights came straight for him. He jumped. Somehow, he cleared the car. It whizzed by underneath him. A dust volcano plumed about him when he landed. She had tried to kill him.
In her murderous haste, the driver had veered her car in the wrong direction. He could see by her taillights. Burnham cupped his hands around his mouth and yelled. “You’re going in the wrong direction!”
Another set of lights soon illuminated the roadway. They were high beams from a large truck. A horn honked right before the truck crashed head on into the driver’s car. A brief dance ensued before the truck flung the car away. It rolled a few times. Burnham fell to the ground and sobbed with his head in his hands. He did not mean to take the driver off her path. He continued to sob until the hunger gripped him. On his knees, he cursed and plucked divots of grass from the ground until the hunger subsided. He knew the both drivers were dead. He knew they were meals on wheels. He also knew he would not spread his disease, not even if he had already been forsaken by his God and thrown from his path to salvation. He continued to sob, running in a haphazard zigzag, somehow wending his way through the night back to Ybor City.
Chapter 6
Meandering through the night, his path was not only hindered by faulty memory but a powerful concoction of guilt, paranoia and panic. Despite the trepidation, he felt from every passing beam of light, the former living being known as Derek Burnham managed to wend his way back to the crime scene, to the point of his passing, a place in Ybor City he would now call ground zero.
Answers… He lured himself here, promising the return would be worth each stabbing pain in his bare feet or the danger of being spotted by some passerby. Or worse, to be recognized by one of his own…a police officer. The weight of the badge in his hand helped him stumble through the dark to his destination. To the line now drawn, which separated his former self from the current, from the vice officer to God knows what. The confliction gnawed at him. He feared being spotted by a cop because for all he knew they thought he was dead. Or did they? Were they looking for him? Another part of him took comfort in the organization. The uniforms, the badges, the order… Wishful thinking… Do you really believe they will make it alright again?
If they couldn’t, he would have to. He would investigate the crime scene and find the perpetrator. Something not only killed Robert Comiskey but had also managed to take away most of his character as well. How would he ever be able to find peace with himself for shooting Comiskey? The reasons were valid enough. To protect Dr. Gonzalez, to protect himself from further attack. Not to mention, for all intents and purposes, Comiskey had already been pronounced dead. No matter how valid the reasons sounded in his mind though, a conscience still abhorred his action which included his recent bout with the religious lady. She had met a violent demise through contact with him. With whatever he was now.
To maintain his last vestige of sanity, he took comfort in the fact he still had a conscience. If he had truly become a monster, wouldn’t guilt and remorse have been eradicated?
Not more than 24 hours earlier, he would have agreed to every statement the religious lady had made. Drug users epitomized the complete failure of willpower and morals. The only barrier that kept Burnham from complete contempt regarding users was the sharks that fed them. The piranhas he hunted as a vice officer. Dealers were largely responsible for the junkies and the addicts. So the question remained: had he been unwittingly dealt some kind of drug? Had the bite from Comiskey infected him and turned him into what he hated? He lived the nightmare enduring the wrath of the religious lady. Experiencing firsthand what it felt like to be the object of his disgust.
Nevertheless, it had to have been some kind of trick. His character could not have been transformed in a mere blink. He may have appeared as an addled drug user to the religious lady but inside he was himself. He still functioned as his former self in most respects. The urge to return to the crime scene and the compulsion to find answers were a calling to him.
Despite his logic, he could not ignore the hunger inside him. So, who was he kidding? He had charged several addicts with that very accusation on several occasions. They had claimed to have come clean. But they weren’t. The medical community theorized they would be never be cleansed. The compulsion would always reside in them. What could he do to curb his compulsion? If he couldn’t come clean, what steps could he take to ensure nobody else would be victimized by his transformation?
He would have to feed it like an addict might take methadone. He couldn’t deny the hunger. He would address it. Face it. He heard similar discourse spoken in some rehab center at one time over the years.
He needed food. Preferably meat, but a requisite for bloodiness was paramount. Whatever kind of food provided this nourishment had to be procured.
No money meant searching for scraps. Dumpster diving... Vice officer Derek Burnham and his badge plunged into the smelly, degrading humility of desperation. And with the promise of stench broiled to olfactory perfection by the coming dawn, Burnham waded and surfaced through six receptacles before finding one single item of use. It wasn’t food but a means to an end. He found a pair of sandals. They were about a size too big. Nevertheless, they served to humanize Burnham. He now had an outfit albeit a strange one. A loose fitting white smock, pants and open-toed footwear would not confuse him with a hipster but might allow him to blend in as a homeless man. Now he might barter. Possibly beg if he had to. The hunger called him, once more…
He scratched his face. He hoped the beard stubble would hide his facial wounds, not to mention his protruding veins. He swore he felt them pulse on his fingertips. He couldn’t afford to lose more time.
He begged and found aid with his third try. He tried to believe the charitable man gave him money because he saw within him. On the outside, he resembled a beggar, a simple man, perhaps even a religious zealot. He looked the part with the sandals, the smock and beard growth. The conversation with the religious woman made him think of Jesus. A simple man on the outside…
He caught his reflection in a store window on his way to a fast food joint.
Blasphemy… He heard the religious lady shout it at him. From somewhere…How could he equate himself with the son of god or at the very least a superior being? Yet, he had been able to dodge a car by leaping possibly ten feet into the air. He made his way back to Ybor City on no sleep and little food. He had benefited from his transformation in ways he could not fathom. He certainly couldn’t be some vanilla junkie.
The hunger was another matter. Not a benefit by any stretch of the imagination. His handful of dollar bills and change provided a supersized meal, one with rare, pink meat and the promise of blood. It would have to satisfy the craving…for now.
It would never completely satisfy the craving… He again heard the rhetoric in his head. Some speaker addressing a roomful of addicts, telling them salvation could only be found in their minds. They would have to accept their fate. Accept what they could not change.
Fearing further exposure, Burnham slinked back to an alleyway to devour his meal
. He thought hunger had conspired to make him feel faint. Or was it the hint of blood he savored on his tongue? Either way, he welcomed it. If he dozed off, he would not be a threat to anyone for the time being.
His eyelids flittered, blinded by a blazing blue light.
When he came to, he heard voices speaking. They were right next to him.
Startled he jumped to his feet. Neck craned in either direction he found no one in the vicinity. Are the voices in my head?
Further inspection forced him to exit the alleyway. The conversation he heard could not be from within. The two men spoke of desire. A very dirty duet he had come to know and despise working as a vice cop. One wanted his fix. The other wanted his payment.
He walked on. The voices rose in volume as he navigated the littered streets of Ybor City. He felt a certain comfort in the pursuit. Officer Derek Burnham was back on an investigation.
***
Toxicology tests proved fruitless, leaving Dr. Gonzalez no closer to explaining the possible presence of drugs in Robert Chomsky’s system. He had hoped the screening would find the drug tetrodotoxin. Then he could explain why he had mistakenly pronounced Comiskey dead at the crime scene. Subjects suffering from tetrodotoxin poisoning sometimes recover completely. Yes. A stretch…but what else can I find to convince the chief she’s wrong…?
Comiskey believed a medically based explanation might still convince Chief Palmieri she needed to conduct a full investigation. She had swept the matter under the rug, leaving Chomsky’s killer to run free, risking the further spread of a possible contagion. That’s the ticket. Evidence of a contagion would force the chief’s hand. Finding evidence became paramount. Yet the initial toxicology report would not cooperate. There were no traces of drugs in Comiskey. That didn’t mean there hadn’t been. Still, what kind of drug could pass along bizarre mental behavior from person to person? Gonzalez reasoned he would answer that question later. He needed to find a drug first. Maybe there were other places to find it.
The body could have been so compromised by blood loss that any toxin might not be detectable. If he could locate Burnham, either his body or possibly the reanimated version of Burnham, he still might be able to find the cause. And without a reasonable theory, the hope of the Tampa Bay PD recanting their story was minimal. Every officer had been briefed by Palmieri to lie, to simplify the story. Two officers were killed by a crazed addict in a bad section of town. No one came back to life. No one infected to crave blood and flesh. No one bit anybody.
This conundrum continued to play out in Gonzalez’s mind as he perused blood work. If the tetrodotoxin-like drug was the cause for the near-death state, then what would explain the following bizarre behavior? Comiskey woke to feed. And something bit him to feed as well. Maybe there was another drug involved. But what drug could induce a near comatose state and then awaken its victim?
The scantly lit autopsy room provided an appropriate atmosphere for Gonzalez’s mindset. There might not be any other reported cases to document such a medical phenomenon, if one truly existed. Would the chief dare expose Chomsky’s bizarre awakening and behavior on what would appear a convoluted deduction, one more fit for documentation on the Syfy Channel than on CNN?
Probably not… Yet maybe there could be another cause.
A high white cell count in Chomsky’s blood seemed to indicate his body had been fighting something. An infection, or possibly a virus…?
If so, could that intrusion prove the presence of a disease?
Mad cow…?
Gonzalez did have some brain tissue he could test.
He recalled a seminar he attended on CJD, a human neurological disorder that could trigger mad cow disease brought upon by infectious proteins known as prions.
Prion diseases are characterized by loss of coordination, dementia, paralysis and eventually death.
The theory seemed to fit. A theory Chief Palmieri could not ignore. She would be obligated to stop the spread of the disease by finding Patient Zero. The Center for Disease Control (CDC) would be notified. The problem with prion diseases are they incurable. They could only be treated. Stopping its spread would be imperative. By God, she could not ignore this!
In a fever pitch, Gonzalez surfed the Internet. He found a plausible basis for an explanation. The New Guinea Papuan tribes were indeed cannibals. By consuming flesh, they exposed themselves to prion diseases. As to why they originally sought flesh as a meal could be debatable. But the simplest explanation might be best. Hunger… The tribes needed protein. They needed protein for survival. Perhaps, destitute people in Ybor City had resorted to such means.
In any event, Gonzalez would run with his theory. And he would literally have to run fast. Each passing hour or day might produce new victims and worse, new carriers.
The test, conformation-dependent immunoassay, would identify prions in human brain tissue. And it was far faster than any standard immunological detection method known. Thank God for small miracles.
Gonzalez began testing immediately. His initial euphoria soon wore away though because the presence of a prion disease would be far more catastrophic than any virus. It would be worse than just a high death rate. Especially one likened to mad cow. It might mean people were stalking each other for flesh, and if that were the case, perhaps the cannibals were closer to us than originally thought.
Chapter 7
Migrating cannibals haunted Dr. Gonzalez’s dreams for three consecutive nights. They showed up in dance clubs, sipping pina coladas, waiting for their prey to slip up. In the most absurd part of the dreams the cannibals pounced upon victims who had fallen on the dance floor after swaying to some hokey song from the 70"s, perhaps too inebriated from rum and cola to remain corporeal. The cannibals dug right into their prey that squirmed on their backs like some kind of worms. Some of victims still managed to keep time to the music while teeth sank into their necks. Others resembled rodents or flies. The cannibals took stick like objects to their heads. Pounding upon them to either soften their meal or perhaps acting out some last vestige of human mercy.
By the third night, the dreams changed shape. The cannibals no longer wore primal fashions or used paint upon their face. Their faces were a grisly conglomeration of vessels and veins, Gonzalez could see right through their clear faces as if they were made of plastic. They wore modern day clothing; some in jeans and denim shirts, others in suits and ties, women in runway attire. These weren’t barbarians from an island village. They were Jill and Harry from next door, or maybe Alessandro who pranced upon a red carpet on the way to winning an Emmy. These were victims with faces. They were living in the country Dr. Gonzalez called his home.
The nightmares frightened the doctor because he saw them as premonitions, yet they recharged him. Gonzalez vowed he would prevent this conversion from happening.
He hoped to deliver a „one two punch" argument to Tampa Police Chief Palmieri.
Convinced step one was completed, he would meet with Forensic Anthropologist Sheri McDonald today to ascertain if physical evidence proved Officer Derek Burnham might have indeed walked away from the crash.
Step one had proved the possibility of prion disease because Gonzalez had found evidence of conversion in Robert Chomsky’s cells. When prion disease is present, proteins are found to have been converted to abnormal shapes. In humans, misfolded proteins can contribute to neurological diseases like Alzheimer’s or Parkinson’s. In animals, bovine spongiform encephalopathy can result. Gonzalez reasoned maybe some new disease had cropped up because protein structures had been altered.
Gonzalez didn’t care about placing his findings in a medical journal. He only cared to arm himself with a tangible possibility that some kind of outbreak might have been unleashed in Ybor City four days ago. Convincing Palmieri of that threat and its consequences would be the key to finding Patient Zero. She had to be made aware of the consequences. Namely, the spread of a fatal inf
ection had to outweigh protecting the public from what read like a zombie story. Perhaps he couldn’t explain Chomsky’s rise from death, but the prion disease could sure account for his bizarre behavior. Gonzalez convinced himself of this argument while he shaved. The story doesn’t sound that crazy…
Gonzalez arrived confident. Dressed in a suit he walked with purpose through Dr. McDonald’s swinging lab doors.
He smiled at her. “I take it today is show and tell.”
McDonald’s eyes glimmered but she didn’t laugh at his joke.
“I do have proof for your friends, Dr. Gonzalez. I can safely say that both EMT"s died in the crash, and neither made it out of the vehicle. It is still undetermined if they died of trauma or from smoke inhalation. The remnants of skeletal remains were too small to identify bone damage.” She pointed to a slide on a computer screen.
Gonzalez hesitated to ask about Burnham just yet. He had absolute certainty the anthropologist would find it preposterous to consider a man pronounced dead might have walked from the crash. He asked a softer question first. “So, how can you be sure it’s the two drivers? I didn’t think direct DNA matching could be done from such small samples.”
“Correct, doctor. With no trace of body tissue, I resorted to mitochondrial DNA proofing.” Gonzalez familiar with the testing realized the profiling would require DNA samples from relatives, namely their mothers. The DNA obtained from the bone remnants could not provide a direct match to the victim, but could be matched exclusively to their maternal line. McDonald didn’t miss a beat.