Dead Market

by Gary Starta

  James’s double dissipated along with any hope of changing Brendan McKean’s mind.

  James, on his knees and trembling, realized he had lost his link to the extortionist in a wink of an eye. What’s more he had received the last shipment of drugs which corralled the monster from within.

  Still unleashed, the angry monster waved fists at invisible enemies, spitting out orders to his flunkies. Demanding they clean up every trace of Brendan McKean – Mr. No Name – from his foyer and deposit the remains in the sea. After all, the sea was a place where ordinary men in the age group of Brendan McKean usually enjoyed their golden years from the vantage point of a chaise lounge on a sandy white beach. But Brendan McKean had never lived like an ordinary man despite his human limitations.

  ***

  Geneticist/human engineer Karl Brinkhaus never perceived himself as a boss. Yet if Amado James were witness to the scientist’s life, the crime lord might agree they were similarly detached regarding superior and subordinate relationships. James surmised the man extorting him to be a learned man. And by James’s definition, a learned man was weak, wimpy and submissive.

  Yet Karl Brinkhaus, although not a crime boss, did coolly detach himself from forming bonds with colleagues. He begrudgingly shared details with his former employees at Grayson Medical, did not believe kindness had any value in a working relationship and treated his underlings – namely the one named Stefan Nowak – with less regard than his favorite cat, Waldemar. He had even literally “made” Nowak a soldier in his tiny army by injecting him with the L2 disease. Maybe not so weak after all…

  Life: Two… Brinkhaus caught himself daydreaming about the engineered condition on a daily basis. I’ve given humans a rebirth, a second chance…

  Sometimes Brinkhaus mumbled his self-aggrandizing sentiments aloud for Nowak to hear. The loyal assistant, the man who hoped to step into Bronchus’s shoes one day, however did not equate his bout with L2 as a second chance. He felt debilitated. The sporadic bouts of anger he quelled with blue pills distracted him. But through it all, Stefan Nowak never attempted to harm his maker. His good behavior earned him a parole of sorts, allowing him to roam Bronchus’s makeshift laboratory without supervision or restraints – by day.

  At night, he willingly surrendered his freedom to the same cage Brinkhaus had used to infect his prized cat with L2. And in time, when Brinkhaus felt Nowak harbored no desire to exact revenge, the geneticist slept in an upholstered chair in an unlocked room. His snoring and the chair’s frequent squeaking often kept Nowak awake. Waldemar, his cohort, the animal who also unwittingly and involuntarily had been subjected to death and rebirth via L2, usually joined him, squeezing his pudgy body through the cage’s iron rods.

  In the mornings, Nowak never felt weak or spent by lack of rest. He surmised his disease afforded him expendable energy. So it was with great certainty that he witnessed a bizarre nocturnal incident involving Waldemar.

  He recalled petting the cat on that particular night. Mulling over how Brinkhaus suffered over his inability to correct the disease – in essence – to the correct genetic coding which made victims violent and hungry for flesh. Hoping the self-proclaimed human engineer might fix this problem so he might no longer need the little blue pills. He did his best to refrain from thinking about the limited supply of the drug. If Brinkhaus could not find a way to correct the problem, Nowak would have to accept a cold fact: that he would finally succumb to his hunger. He might attack Brinkhaus – not because the man had furtively injected him with L2 – but because the man would simply be recognized as a meal. Despite Bronchus’s claims to making progress, Nowak couldn’t be sure if the doctor’s dialogue wasn’t purely crafted to keep him submissive and hopeful. That doubt grew as Nowak spied Brinkhaus „baby talking" to his precious Waldemar. When Brinkhaus made this kind of conversation with Waldemar, he called the cat “Waldo” and cradled him in his arms as if he were an infant. He heard Brinkhaus tell Waldo that L2 not only promised a long life but the advent of precious gifts. What this exactly translated to was something Nowak could only liken to baby talk, the appeasing drivel parents often squirted upon their children to keep them docile and more importantly – dry eyed.

  Okay, so I won’t cry, even if you tell me the cold heart truth… Stroking the back of Waldemar on that particular evening, Nowak recalled the one-sided conversation in his head. He would never dare speak these words aloud to Brinkhaus because to Nowak, the man wasn’t simply pompous but a true architect of the human genome. He had a right to be arrogant, a pass to be overbearing, possibly even a license to denigrate those in his presence. But despite it all, Nowak had to admit he harbored resentment. He was changed but still himself – somehow, in some shape or form. And those feelings made him doubt there would an advent of gifts. Until that night, when he absently looked up from stroking Waldemar’s back to see the feline’s exact duplicate perched on a nearby countertop. After seconds passed, it dawned on Nowak that the cat he held was the copycat; the original paraded about countertops like a runway model.

  This is amazing… Nowak hoped his reaction was only in thought and not spoken. He couldn’t be sure. But he was a witness to something spectacular. L2 did indeed bestow the gifts Brinkhaus alluded to. He believed in Bronchus’s work again. But his resentment, that small nagging, petty remnant of his humanity prevented him from sharing his discovery. He never told Brinkhaus of Waldemar’s astral projection. If indeed it was even that. As he recalled, Waldemar had been fully awake. By definition, astral projection is only thought capable when the subject is asleep. He is then able to project his body into the waking world. But for all he knew, Waldemar’s double hadn’t been a mere projection – but a living, tangible body. He had held it in his arms for science sake!

  The observation instilled a new will into Nowak. If he could overlook his anger, his desire for carnal consumption, he might even agree with Brinkhaus – that he had been a rebirth. A second chance… A means to wade through the rising flood of human despair with a glint in one’s eye, because, despite life’s despair, one now had abilities to transcend the murky waters into a new paradise. One day he might find a gift bestowed upon him…

  Today, Brinkhaus acted no less arrogant or self-important. If Nowak didn’t know better, the man was downright pissed. Nowak submersed his resentment in a pool of hope, calming his voice, nearly mimicking Bronchus’s baby talk to ask him what was wrong.

  “I tell you what’s wrong. Brendan McKean hasn’t reported to me in days. I can only hope he’s keeping his bargain.”

  Brinkhaus, if asked, would freely admit he had no concern for Amado James. He didn’t care if the man was devoid of pills or not. He didn’t care if the man wandered the streets of Ybor City in search of a not so happy meal. He did care about receiving more money. He was close to revamping L2 into what he would soon call its second phase. But close is a term only a loser would use when he resigns himself to failure. Brinkhaus came from great German stock. He was no loser. No son of a loser. He was genetically crafted in a purebred fashion. So his father abandoned the promise of godhood. It was a deliberate choice, abandoning science willingly. His father could have been alongside him, sharing in the wonders of engineering the human core. But only a loser would continue to wallow in such concern. Karl Brinkhaus emerged from pity simply by conjuring up a memory of granddad. Yes, Maximillan would have made great breakthrough if Nazi Germany was financially motivated. Money is the key to godhood. Pharmacure proved it, doling out millions to fund his research all for the sake of selling little pills. Ah, the ruthlessness of capitalism; the failure to see beyond one’s sparkly, glass house. Self-absorption is quite the motivational tool. Because of their greed, I will reinvent humanity. Brinkhaus believed the funding he earned by extorting Amado James would soon make godhood possible because he would be a god, crafting the design of humans to fit his definition – not some deity regulated to existence in a decrepit, worn out book.

 
As Brinkhaus realized he would soon rid L2 of its quirks, the geneticist grew despondent about his choice of candidates. He sure as hell wouldn’t bring Amado James into the next phase. Vermin would always be vermin. Rewriting the script of vermin would only result in a more capable rat. He pictured Amado James scurrying about Ybor City, his clawed feet producing ticking sounds on the historic city’s cobbled streets. So who else would make a candidate?

  As far as Brinkhaus knew, Stefan Nowak would have to be his test subject – again.

  At least the man was loyal and had moral fortitude – despite being a toad. So, the man wasn’t capable of becoming a human engineer. But he did follow his orders. And most importantly, Nowak never resorted to the desires of petty revenge. He had stabbed him with a needle – from behind – for god’s sake. Yet the man harbored no resentment – as far as he could discern. The man was happy with his role in life, satisfied to be a mere assistant. In Bronchus’s summation, his decision to infect Nowak to ensure the man’s loyalty had not only worked but exceeded his expectations. If only he could be satisfied with elevating toads to godhood status…

  The realization continued to haunt Brinkhaus throughout the day, distracting him from his goal to perfect L2. He didn’t want to elevate the masses to godhood. But it was the only way Pharmacure, and its subsidiary, Grayson Medical, would have initially supported his find. They could give a rat’s ass about making humans better. In fact, Pharmacure depended upon humanity to remain weak and frail so it would gladly purchase its prescription drugs. They weren’t privy to the gifts it might bestow upon the afflicted. They couldn’t know. They might have pulled the plug months ago. But now, Brinkhaus could swear he could feel the corporate greed satiate the walls of his Florida makeshift laboratory. They would unleash the disease to sell their pills. They wanted to corner a new market – the dead market – Brinkhaus had called it. It enabled him to sell his idea. Pharmacure would infect the populace thereby producing the need to market a pill to the living dead. And the pill would not only be a treatment, but would symbolize the best-selling prescription drug of all time. Cutting edge enhancements would assure it to be addictive. People would literally swallow the pills whether they worked or not. And Pharmacure would not admit this, but Brinkhaus believed the pills would become the drug of choice among abusers. Users not affected with the disease would experience euphoric highs. Brinkhaus could picture these pigs; they’re tags waggling out of their mouths, their eyes full of unwarranted pride in their pitiful existences. He hated the pill. It would never cure the disease. Any toad would realize this, because a prion-based disease cannot be cured.

  He finally found focus one hour later, caught in the throes of passion – with his work.

  “Come here, Mr. Nowak. I think I’ve found a way to further manipulate the Sup35.” Nowak realized Brinkhaus might have had a revelation. Sup35 was the key behind designing L2. As a yeast protein, it is responsible for how cells interpret coded information. The protein, which allows dormant genetic coding to be read, also acts as a double-edged sword, activating undesirable traits such as a passion for violence. When Sup35 misfolds into a prion form it affects genes in one fell swoop – making it nearly impossible for Brinkhaus to have turned off undesired coding; or manipulate it.

  In what Nowak perceived as a „eureka" moment for Brinkhaus, the assistant wished he could share in his mentor’s jubilation.

  Brinkhaus finally turned toward Nowak after repeated calls. The man, the person he equated as a toad, was bent over at the waist. He was moaning, “Help me, help me.”

  But Brinkhaus did not lift a finger in aid. Instead he scooped up Waldo in his arms and immersed himself in unintelligible baby talk. And as Nowak’s pleas grew louder and more urgent, a perverse smile formed on Bronchus’s face.

  ***

  Burnham wondered if the FBI"s suspicion of ME Gonzalez was indeed warranted. His patrolling suffered. Distracted by the notion that a trusted colleague might have been the person who infected the late Det. Comiskey, Burnham dismissed pursuit of a possible drug dealer.

  He had to give the concern credence. It was possible. If Gonzalez had been the person to infect Comiskey, then it made sense that he would have also infected Congressman Katz. He was in the same places at the right time. As Burnham quickened his stride to rendezvous with Lorelei, another nagging concern tugged at him.

  He wondered why Finch harbored doubts about Lorelei. She had not committed any specific act to give him alarm. She agreed to continue patrolling and not pursue her nemesis and maker, Amado James, without backup. She had even copped to infecting Comiskey. He did believe her responsible for his late cop friend. He had only given about a minute’s consideration to the plausibility that Gonzalez was behind this. There was one thing that bothered him, however. She remained adamant about carrying a loaded pistol on patrol. But like his suspicions about Dr. Gonzalez, they were mostly circumstantial.

  His doubts grew like flames fed kerosene when he finally spied her.

  She had been late for their rendezvous. He now knew the reason why.

  “Lorelei! Stop it! Get off him,” Burnham cried, still a few hundred yards away. He could hear her with his gifted ears. She was attacking someone…

  By the time he arrived, her victim was wriggling away from her as if a worm freed from a hook. He took notice of his ragged clothes; the man’s pants were shredded and also stained with what he could only perceive as blood.

  He couldn’t see much else in the darkness. His first instinct was blame. He came to understand Finch’s wariness in a blink. This man was not dressed as a drug dealer – or from what he could gather as a plain clothes policeman. He doubted he posed a threat to Lorelei. So why was she attacking him?

  Only a nanosecond of time had passed during Burnham’s internal chatter. Lorelei broke her gaze with the victim and stared disbelievingly at Burnham in that moment. She startled him. He saw blood in her icy blue eyes. Would she pursue him now?

  As he pondered her next action, the man staggered to his feet. But only for a brief moment as headlights suddenly bore down upon him. Lorelei jumped backward out of the street and onto curbing. She was no longer in an arm’s reach of the man.

  Too far away to help him now… He didn’t even have the time himself to make a leap in the man’s defense. Lost in illumination, Burnham could only see a dark silhouette making contact with the car’s front grille. Its impact caused him to wince because the man’s head had taken blunt force trauma.

  The man had fallen rag doll limp after the collision. The car steered away, its driver dousing headlights as he drove.

  Burnham raised his hands to his face.

  “My God, Lorelei! What were you doing?”

  Chapter 22

  Burnham and Lorelei broke their staring contest after a long moment. He fumbled in his pocket for something. Lorelei staggered backward a step, now she reached in her pocket. The cop in Burnham instantly knew what she was digging for. He didn’t have to see. The hazy night conspired with poor illumination to turn Lorelei into not much more than a silhouette. Yet cop instinct told him what he needed to know. She was drawing on him.

  “Are you going to shoot me? I’m digging for Finch’s cell,” Burnham yelled.

  She whisper screamed a response.

  “How should I know? How should I know anything you do?”

  “Put the gun away!” Do it right now, Lorelei!” She holstered it with deliberation.

  “You’ve got nothing to fear from me. But right now, I’m not sure you can tell me the same.” He waved the cell phone toward the body, slumped and bleeding on the pavement. “I’m sure as hell you can’t tell him that… Who was he?”

  “He was an opportunity, Burnham.” She tapped the toe of her right boot on the sidewalk and folded her arms.

  Burnham scanned her eyes. They were less iridescent now, less icy blue than a moment before. So she might be experienc
ing the hunger to some degree, he thought, but wasn’t fully thrown into zombie overdrive. She had the foresight to pull a gun when she thought he was reaching for a weapon. Logically, she was behaving calculated, maybe even premeditated. If so, he had to know who the victim was to her.

  “I asked you a question. Actually, a few questions… So why don’t you answer one?”

  “Is that an order? Should I file a full report? Isn’t that what police do?”

  “Am I stopping you from doing something?” His eyes darted back toward the victim. “Do you want to finish him off or something? I have to tell you I think the car already accomplished that for you.”

  Lorelei cupped a hand to her mouth as if speaking into a mike. “Lorelei to Control Freak Central, over…”

  “You probably killed that man…so drop the attitude.”

  “This man wouldn’t be lying bleeding to death if you hadn’t come along.”

  “Is that right? I saw you manhandling him. His clothes are shredded. I saw what I saw. I’m not judging, just reporting the facts.”

  Lorelei paced a few steps toward the street, eyeing the street both ways for oncoming cars.

  “Lorelei…”

  She continued walking. Finally, she whirled about. “I’m going to try and save him.”

  Burnham scratched the back of his neck, his fingers fiddling with the phone. After a moment, it dawned on him.

  “No! You’re not going to bite him, for God’s sake!”

  “If you’ve got a problem with that, go talk to your God about it. And in case you haven’t noticed, the rules have changed...ALL the rules.”

  “No. Step away from him. You’re not bringing him back – that way.”