Dead Market

by Gary Starta

  “My,” Katz added, “you two sure have different complexions. Mr. Finch is more tanned, yet you Ms. Lindquist, for someone who lives in the sunshine state, are quite pale in comparison.”

  “Well, that’s genetics for you,” Lorelei answered. “Sometimes design trumps environmental factors. I get this from my mom. Always white as a sheet, even after hours on the beach.”

  “Well, you say hello to your mom for me. And assure her, I will do everything in my power to stop yet another new, needless drug from hitting the streets and more importantly, the medicine cabinets. Uh, tell me, Mr. Finch. Did your undercover friend mention what this pill is designed to treat?”

  “Uh, violence, I think.”

  “Hmm. So it’s an antidepressant, most likely.”

  Finch’s eyes shifted to Lorelei, filled with desperation.

  “Yes, Mr. Congressman. It’s something like that. That’s why I believe you’re right about it being an experimental drug.”

  “Well, someone at some company is probably going to be mighty sore their pill is out there. You know these companies also spend a great deal of money ensuring confidentiality. It’s often called IP for Intellectual Property. Some of these concerns involve copyright of course. The very fact that this pill is colored blue might indicate it belongs to a specific manufacturer. I have to wonder if someone at their own company might be sabotaging their efforts by releasing it on the street. Now, the pharmaceutical company probably isn’t concerned kids in Florida are being poisoned with their drug; they’re most likely concerned about a competitor stealing their IP. And I’m wondering when knowledge of this pill sees the light of day, what rats might be forced into the light of the day to protect it.”

  “So, I guess this advocate group of concerned mothers really has a lot of pull?” Lorelei asked.

  “Not really, young lady; because of their limitations, I’m going to take it the floor. I’ll introduce your pill tomorrow when I speak on Capitol Hill.”

  “That sounds intriguing,” Finch commented.

  It also sounded quite intriguing to the man paid by a leading pharmaceutical company to protect its investment. He heard the trio’s conversation quite clearly. Unbeknown to Congressman Katz, his walls literally had „ears. "

  Chapter 16

  Pharmacure Inc., also known as „Big Pharma" to Grayson Medical, literally hovered over the research firm via skyscraper. The parent company occupied five floors above Grayson, keeping watch on the Maryland based firm which created its arsenal of pills, all designed to hook the American populace into dependency, and if possible, give them new ailments from the many side effects of pharmaceutical addiction.

  Despite its proximity to Grayson, Big Pharma was unable to keep an eye on Karl Brinkhaus, however, the brilliantly mad geneticist responsible for creating a disease dubbed as: Life: Two or L2 for short.

  Although under contract to Grayson and Pharmacure for his invention, Brinkhaus opted to take leave shortly after the drug trials in Guatemala. Big Pharma forced to honor Brinkhaus" rights as a contracted employee, begrudgingly agreed, reminding the self-proclaimed „human engineer" that any public disclosure of L2 was strictly prohibited. Pharmacure had no clue Brinkhaus had violated confidentiality agreements by infecting crime lord James Amado with L2 within days.

  Oblivious to Brinkhaus" new agenda, Big Pharma could only hope that the leave would give the geneticist the rest required to fix the L2 kink, namely the disease’s penchant for producing surges of violent behavior and a proclivity for human flesh. Yet Big Pharma would not wait forever. The big money invested in the creation of the disease still paled in comparison to the funding earmarked for the production and distribution of a little blue capsule they hoped would become the bestselling pharmaceutical of all time. Pharmacure needed to cash in on its investments before the next quarter so said financial analysts. Therefore, the pill tentatively named Luxate would undoubtedly find its way into American homes; first, as an idea via television, and then in substance, via pharmacy.

  L2, now in the hands of much less talented geneticists, was still far from fixed, much less perfected. Grayson dedicated Claude Roy and Tommy Chu to the project. But dedication had produced little result in the past month. In truth, Roy and Chu allotted much of their energy and time to the production of a new cutting edge obesity pill.

  “So, do you think America will finally lick its obesity problem?” Chu asked Roy, during an afternoon break.

  “Fat chance,” Roy cracked, rapping his fingers against a coffee mug.

  Roy’s face belied his joke; there was no humor behind his deep brown eyes.

  “What’s the matter, Roy? We’re ahead of schedule.”

  “Yes, but way behind on correcting L2. That’s what the bosses want.”

  “I don’t see the difference. All make Pharmacure money.”

  Roy grimaced at Chugs deduction. “No. You apparently know very little about the L2 disease for someone dedicated to perfecting it.”

  “Ah, enlighten me, dear master.”

  “L2 is prion-based. That means it can’t be cured; only treated. Obesity could be corrected, people could lose their weight. But those inflicted with L2 will never be okay. They’ll be dependent on a treatment, forever. Therefore, Luxate will earn the largest profit ever.”

  “Excuse me, but I’m a little skeptical. So, the disease reanimates its victims. But do you really believe their life expectancy-their second life-will give them immortality? I myself can’t believe Pharmacure’s trust in Brinkhaus; if you ask me, the man is a little more than disturbed and probably should be on meds himself.”

  “Then you don’t know much. L2 is purposely designed to extend lives for the purpose of addiction. Come on, why else would Pharmacure be investing so heavily in it?”

  “You seem to know all the rumors, Roy. But just remember, they’re called rumors for a reason.”

  “This is not some urban legend. I know for the fact the very CEO of Pharmacure has bought people in key government positions to ensure mass infection of the populace.” He began to tick off names, using his fingers to count. “There’s the CDC, FDA, DEA and don’t forget the Secret Service.”

  “Come on, Roy. How do service agents fit into the picture? Aren’t they supposed to be guarding the president?”

  “Who better equipped to protect a secret? Think about it. We’re obligated not to tell anyone, not even our families about this. Secrecy is paramount to the success of the disease. The public cannot know L2 was manufactured. They must believe it randomly made its way to the states from South America.”

  “Okay, so you think Secret Service agents are watching us right now, making sure our mouths stay shut?”

  Roy hushed his voice to a whisper.

  “I think they’ve got bigger fish to monitor, but if I was them, I’d monitor you Chu-24/7.”

  “I don’t think this mass infection will ever happen. We haven’t been able to correct it and that leaves Brinkhaus, our rogue mad scientist responsible. Who is still M.I.A. by the way.”

  “I don’t think our inability to correct L2 will ultimately stop it. As I told you, too much money has been invested.”

  “So reanimated zombie-like men and women will soon walk America’s streets? You’re crazy, Roy, maybe crazier than Brinkhaus.”

  “Brinkhaus single-handedly invented a way to intentionally misfold proteins. How does that equate to mental instability?”

  “Even if he’s not crazy, he’s unleashing a disease that makes people crazy. If we can’t control the subjects" hungers, they’re as good as insane. And how do you suppose their family members will get them to willingly digest a little blue pill when that happens? You know I can envision the commercial now.” Chu rocked back on his chair and raised his hands. “Luxate, the little blue pill acts fast to control carnivorous urges. Luxate can bring your loved ones back to civility. But ask your
doctor because side effects may result…”

  “You laugh, Chu. But that’s exactly how they’ll market it. “They’ll prey upon the families, promise them they’re reanimated loved one can be restored to their former life, keep them eating from a plate and not from someone’s neck.”

  “Well, just remember the test subjects. I saw the tapes. Patient Zero was nothing less than a savage.”

  “Luxate should inhibit the violent urges just like any anti-depressant. It has an MAO inhibitor just like any other anti-depressant.”

  “So, you believe serotonin is going to keep these reanimates in line?”

  “Then give me a better idea. Find a way to correct the problem at its source.”

  “We already know the source, Roy. The disease radically affects the pituitary gland during reanimation. The subject comes back with elevated levels of monoamines. Since they’re responsible for transferring messages from one nerve cell to another it’s imperative they are oxidized. Some are neutralized by the pharmaceutical. But that’s after the fact. How can we remedy this at the time of reanimation? We know it’s the reason why the subject awakens with his violence, with his hunger. So, I don’t see how Luxate could ever ensure that all these signals don’t get crossed. The problem is too diffuse for such a simple cure.”

  “That’s one part of the problem, I agree. If we’re going to correct the problem at the source we need to minimize the impact upon the pituitary anterior and posterior lobes as well. That’s where undesired hormonal reactions emanate. Food preference can be altered; even hunger, pain and aggression can be affected because of hormonal release. The problem with L2 is the messages it sends to the brain, but I guess that’s the price for longevity.”

  “That’s too much of a price and you know it.”

  “Not really. There are more advantages to L2 than just long life. Brinkhaus alluded to them as special abilities.”

  “And you believed that?”

  “Because of your doubt, he discontinued his association with us. We could have learned from him.”

  “He looked at us like we were small children, and treated us no better than animals.”

  “Maybe if you contracted L2 you would no longer be a scared little jack rabbit, Chu.”

  “What you’re proposing-what Brinkhaus proposed-is not even fringe science. It’s science fiction.”

  “Well, it’s not something Pharmacure cares about one way or another. They only want to infect people to hook them on pills. Obviously, they don’t want to better humanity because there might be less sick people. The problem with you is that you fall into corporate line too easily.”

  “And you Roy, you are too willing to play the conspiracy nut.”

  “Why don’t you believe humans can grow? We have the capability. Our brains are still unchartered. You don’t know what talents, what gifts it might hold. If misfolded proteins allow the brain to reinterpret genetic coding so we live longer, then it stands to reason there are other codes just waiting to be read. Maybe we’ll all become psychically gifted. Maybe we’ll be able to move objects with our thoughts. And just maybe, you’ll finally be able to see the logic in this.”

  “Supposed what you say is true. Are we truly meant to possess these gifts? You seem to think these abilities will improve us. They might also create a lot more problems.”

  “This could be positive evidence for intelligence design. And if it is, you might not have to worry about insulting any God with our newfound abilities. This is evolution.”

  “If you really believe that, then these changes would be necessitated by environment. What change in our environment would make telepathy necessary?”

  “I can’t explain everything, Chu. But there are definite changes occurring in our environment.”

  “And we’ll need these abilities to survive?” Chu laughed. “I’m not a fan of Darwin, excuse me.”

  “Maybe Brinkhaus sees something we don’t; something that precedes Darwin or even the super human predicted by Nietzsche. The idea of a neurogenetic circuit or seventh brain has been around a long time. When the nervous system begins to receive signals from individual neurons, there is a mutation. The Hindu’s believed these mutations to be responsible for immortality, reincarnation and psychic ability.”

  “I am familiar with this. But crazed hippies thought they could trigger this seventh brain with LSD. How can I take these theories seriously?”

  “In a few words, histone-folded proteins or transcriptional regulation…simply put…gene expression. Brinkhaus has found a way to tap into unread codes without the help of any hippies or mind altering drugs. Jesus, if he would just come back and teach us how we wouldn’t need to work for Grayson or Pharmacure anymore; we could rewrite humankind with that power.”

  “Is delusional behavior a side effect?”

  “I don’t know, Chu. But if Brinkhaus ever returns, just keep your mouth shut and learn.”

  Engaged in their argument, Chu and Roy were oblivious to the entrance of Grayson"s Research Director, Adela Tarkington.

  She dropped an envelope onto the break table, startling Roy to Chugs delight.

  “We have a requisition to fill, gentlemen. It’s high priority.”

  Roy opened the envelope and leafed through the requisition.

  “This is for the serum. But we’re not ready. You know this, Director.”

  “I also know Pharmacure has ordered our complete cooperation. We will have the serum ready for our client within the hour. Understood?”

  “But Director Tarkington, this requisition says nothing about the pills. Wouldn’t this client need the pills to combat the hormonal imbalance?”

  “You’re not being paid to question, Mr. Roy. You’re also reminded not to disclose any knowledge of this requisition to anyone per your confidentiality agreement.”

  Tarkington exited abruptly as she came.

  “We’ve got work to do, Chu.”

  “Wait a minute. What is someone going to do with this serum? Does it say?”

  “I’m pretty sure it does not. My guess another subject is going to become victim to L2.”

  “But without the pills, this subject is going to be like Patient Zero; a hormonally challenged, cannibalistic zombie.”

  “So, Chu, you still think I’m a paranoid, delusional conspiracy nut?”

  Chapter 17

  Not one of the hotel patrons who passed Secret Service Agent Phillip Conch in the pricey corridors of the Belle Suite Hotel gave a second look. Conch, wearing his best game face, a solemn but polite expression, hoped his body language would evoke association with servitude. It was the crowning touch to his disguise. A light brown bell hop’s uniform, the main course of his camouflage, served him well, he presumed. The patrons, too busy buzzing by him towards their next dinner date or perhaps their next apple martini, laughed and talked amongst themselves regulating the agent to a man of service, one who needed no acknowledgement until it was check in or check out time.

  Conch shrugged his shoulders, admiring the precise fit of the uniform. His girl Maureen threw together the outfit together in mere hours after matching similar attire of the hotel’s employees via website. In his left hand, Conch carried a duffel bag, its contents the only tangible evidence that would give away his disguise, and more importantly, his purpose. Booking a room under an assumed name, Conch gained easy access to the hotel. Conch shook his head in wonder. Congressman Daniel Katz had made it so easy for him. Didn’t the politician assume all Washington offices had ears? The bug fed Conch all the Intel he needed in minutes. Katz even gave his guests, David Finch and Lorelei Lindquist, the name of his hotel.

  Conch gripped the duffel tighter. Its contents contained all the means necessary to solve a dire publicity problem. News of the drug, Luxate, must not be made public. The fact that two concerned citizens knew of its presence did give Conch some pause as well a
s his employer, Pharmacure. Truth be told, Conch thought it had given Big Pharma one hell of a pause. They panicked, giving directives in the most emotionally charged, unprofessional way. His regular employer, the U.S. government would never convey such excitement. So, there was a threat. There was always a threat if one possessed something valuable enough to threaten. But Conch believed the sacrifice of one man would be all that was needed to quell the threat of enlightenment. The agent assured Pharmacure the two civilians were no one of consequence to bother with and that once they returned to their mundane lives in Florida the impending storm would blow over like a weak Miami hurricane.

  It’s in the bag. Conch was sure the serum he carried would not only shut Katz’s mouth about the pills but also give the masses the first taste of the L2 disease. Then, when L2 was unleashed nationwide, pubic panic would be somewhat tempered by the knowledge that a „mysterious disease from South America" had taken grip. People would be upset but would they would be resigned. They had accepted other outbreaks such as swine flu. What else could they do but accept their fate and begin filling scripts for its treatment? Conch admired Pharmacies deceit. It was a great plan. A necessary plan if humans were to survive as a species.

  Pharmacure had filled Conch’s head and his pocket to ensure his belief in L2. They promised a great awakening. The landscape of the human mind would be broadened. And this broadening would be localized enough to give America a big advantage over its enemies as well as its neighbors. The disease would bear fruit in the form of new human skills, once thought to be the fantasy of science fiction novelists. They told Conch the good old" USA would be the first to exclusively benefit, certain the patriotic agent would jump headfirst into their sea of lies. Conch figuratively carried his life preserver, the one thing that symbolized his patriotism, in his bag along with the serum. His black suit and sunglasses, a hero’s uniform, awaited him in his carry-on. It assured him he was doing right for his country, not just his bank account. And Conch believed if Pharmacure could fund patriotism, then democracy and capitalism had certainly been merged into the greatest weapon of freedom ever designed. Once the plan succeeded, Conch would shrink back into his life of normalcy, watching the President’s back in dark clothes and sunglasses. No other thank you would be necessary. He had simply served his country well.