by Grant, Mira
I kept staring into her eyes, almost afraid to move, and waited for the sound of someone coming to rescue me.
Time stretched and slipped away, becoming something defined by three sounds: Beverly’s barking, the slap of skin against glass, and the drumbeat hammering of my own heart. I didn’t move. Beverly was starting to sound hoarse, but she wasn’t letting that stop her. As long as Mr. Carson was at the window, she was going to keep on barking at him. I wondered how much she understood about the sleeping sickness. What sort of scent did the infected give off, if a dog could detect it at a distance? She’d known when her original owner first started getting sick. She’d known when Mr. Carson and the others came up to the fence. They had to smell sick somehow.
I suddenly flashed on Marya talking about Tumbleweeds, her store cat, and how he’d been standoffish with the customers for the first time in his pampered life. What was it she’d said? “He even hissed at a poor woman yesterday.” I had to wonder whether that poor woman had joined the ranks of the sleepwalkers shortly after being rejected by the normally good-natured feline. If animals could detect the early signs of the infection, they might be the best way of avoiding it.
Assuming that all animals could detect the early signs of the infection, whatever those signs were. Assuming that the infection was passed person to person, and that it could be avoided. Assuming a whole lot of things, most of which probably weren’t safe to assume, not with the limited information available to me.
I was still staring at the woman when Beverly stopped barking and started to growl. I whipped around before I fully realized that I was going to move. The slapping against the glass behind me got more insistent, but it was competing with a somewhat more pressing sound: someone was knocking on the front door.
“Miss Mitchell?” shouted an unfamiliar male voice. “Are you all right? If you are unable to come to the door, we will enter to confirm your condition. We will be making entry on the count of ten. One…”
I took a deep breath and walked toward the door, fighting the urge to run. “I’m here,” I called, once I was close enough that I was sure they’d be able to hear me. I stole a glance at Beverly. She was still standing on the couch, legs locked into rigid lines. Mr. Carson wasn’t outside the window anymore. Instead, three men in SymboGen security uniforms were standing there, each of them holding a shock baton. The head of a fourth man was just barely visible above the window frame.
Beverly turned toward the sound of my voice, and her growling stopped, for a moment. Then she started growling again as she jumped off the couch and ran to stand guard over the back door. The couch cushions were irreparably stained with mud and grass. Somehow, I didn’t think Mom was going to be all that upset, considering what Beverly had been defending me from. Even if I still wasn’t sure exactly what that was.
“Miss Mitchell, is it safe for you to open the door? If, for some reason, it is not safe, we will make our own way inside.”
Translation: they would knock down the door. “Just a second,” I said, and began undoing the locks.
I opened the door to find a man in full SymboGen security gear standing on the porch, with two more guards behind him. There were three large black vans parked in front of the house, their rear doors standing open.
“Miss Mitchell,” said the man. He nodded his head respectfully, his eyes skittering away from my face as he began to scan the house behind me. Beverly’s barking caught his attention. “Is your dog agitated by the intruders?”
“There’s a woman on the back porch,” I said. “Beverly’s barking at her. There were two more—”
“We have already restrained them,” said the man. He looked over his shoulder, making a series of complex gestures with his right hand. The two men nodded and went trotting away, heading for the side of the house. “The third intruder will be removed shortly. May I enter?”
Feeling a little foolish standing there in my bathrobe and bare feet, I nodded and stepped to the side. “Please. I don’t think they managed to get inside at all, but I’ll feel a lot more secure once I’m sure.”
“That’s why we’re here, Miss Mitchell,” said the man, and stepped past me, into the house. “May my men enter? I will remain with you while they secure the property.”
“Okay.” I stepped farther to the side, making sure there was a clear path into the house. Beverly was still barking. I slipped my hands into the pockets of my robe and just stood there, feeling awkward and exposed.
A second man in SymboGen security gear appeared, nodded to me, and walked past me into the house. I stayed where I was, swaying slightly on my feet.
The sound of the glass door sliding open was barely audible under the sound of Beverly’s maddened barking. The sound of the electric prod hitting the woman on the other side was much easier to hear. I closed my eyes, trying to ignore the way the sound made my stomach turn over. I couldn’t help remembering Chave, and how quickly she’d gone from a person to a target. I didn’t know the woman in my backyard nearly that well.
Beverly stopped barking. For a moment, there was only silence. The sound of footsteps alerted me to the return of the second man to have entered the house. I opened my eyes, turning to face him.
“The intruder from your yard is being removed now,” he said calmly. His baton was back at his belt. That made me feel a little better.
“Hold this position,” said the first man. To me, he said, “Please wait here while I check your doors and windows.”
“I’m not going anywhere,” I murmured. I might as well not have said anything. He was already gone, walking deeper into the house with his shoulders locked in an almost military line. Beverly trotted over to sit down beside me, pressing her shoulders against my leg. I bent enough to stroke her ears. “Good dog, Beverly. You’re a good dog.”
She looked up at me with worshipful brown eyes, her tail thumping once against the floor. In her world, everything was right. She had protected her human from the bad things outside, and now she was being called a good dog and having her ears petted. I wished it could be that simple for me.
Two more men from SymboGen appeared on the porch, flanking the second man. One of them saluted me. “Miss Mitchell,” he said.
I blinked at him, not sure how I was supposed to respond to the salute. I settled on a weak wave. “Hello,” I said. “Can I get you anything? Um. And also thank you for coming. I didn’t want to call the police, I was afraid someone would get hurt.” Someone had gotten hurt because I called SymboGen. Those electric batons didn’t just tickle. But if I’d called the police, I might have been spreading an infection I still didn’t understand. I couldn’t do that.
“We’re just doing our jobs, ma’am,” said one of the two men.
“I know. I still appreciate it.” Beverly was looking curiously at the two, her ears pricked forward, but she wasn’t growling. I took that as a good sign that they weren’t getting ready to freak out and try to strangle me. “I really didn’t want to spend the whole day locked inside my house, panicking.”
“Speaking of which, your house is clear,” said the man I took as the leader, walking back down the hall to the front room. “They don’t appear to have penetrated the security.”
A dizzying wave of relief washed over me. “Oh, good. Thank you for checking.”
“Miss Mitchell, Dr. Banks would very much appreciate it if you would accompany us back to SymboGen, so that he can see for himself that you’re all right.” The man’s expression didn’t waver. In its own way, it was as dead as the faces on the people who’d been in my yard. “We would be happy to wait while you got ready, and a space has been kept open for you in the van.”
The relief faded, followed by the familiar dread that mention of visiting SymboGen always engendered. This time, it had a darker edge. If I went with them now, how did I know that I would ever be coming back here? No one would know where I was. I could call and leave a message, but that wasn’t enough.
“No, thank you,” I said, through l
ips that felt suddenly numb and leaden. “I’m supposed to be meeting my boyfriend for lunch, and the roundtrip from SymboGen to here would leave only a few minutes for me to talk with Dr. Banks. It would be silly. But if he wants me to come in later this week…”
“Miss Mitchell, it may not be safe for you to remain here alone.”
“I’m not alone. I have Beverly.” I stooped enough to put my hand on the dog’s head. She stayed where she was, her attention going to the man who was trying to convince me to go with them. “I would never have known that there was potential danger outside if it weren’t for her. She’s an excellent guard dog.”
A flicker of displeasure lit in the man’s eyes. “Even so, Dr. Banks won’t like us leaving you here alone.”
“I’m sorry, but I’m not going with you,” I said, unable to keep the edge of anxiety out of my tone. “I called because I needed help. Maybe that gives Dr. Banks the right to ask me to come and see him, but it doesn’t mean he gets to order me. I don’t work for him. I am not a part of SymboGen.”
“Miss Mitchell—”
“I’d like you to leave now, please. I need to put some clothes on.” Beverly, picking up on my tension, stood. I straightened, keeping my hand resting atop her head. “Please,” I repeated.
The man sighed. “All right. But please, if there is any further trouble, don’t hesitate to call. Dr. Banks worries for your safety.”
“I won’t. Hesitate, I mean. I’ll call,” I said. I stayed where I was, trying to take some comfort from the weight of Beverly pressed against my leg, and watched as the man from SymboGen waved the others off the porch. He walked after them. Once he was outside, I stepped forward and closed the door.
I let my hand rest on the doorknob, closing my eyes, and just breathed. No scary dead-eyed people in the yard. No SymboGen security on the lawn. It was just me and my dog, my good, good dog, who deserved an entire steak for the way she’d come to my defense. I would put on some clothes, call Nathan, and—
The doorbell rang. I recoiled from the door, not opening my eyes until I was well clear of the wood. It wasn’t intentional; I just reacted. Beverly barked once, but it was an inquisitive sound, not a panicked one. Whatever was on the porch, it didn’t upset her.
I pressed a hand to my chest, trying to slow the hammering of my heart, and called, “Hello?”
There was no response. The doorbell didn’t ring again. I cautiously approached the door, finally standing on tiptoe to peer through the peephole. There was no one there. Feeling like this was the second stupid thing I’d done in the short time that I’d been out of bed, I dropped back to the flats of my feet and opened the front door. The peephole hadn’t lied; there was no one there.
There was, however, a plain white envelope tucked halfway under the edge of the welcome mat, where the wind couldn’t take it away. I held my bathrobe closed with one hand as I bent to pull the envelope free, and then backed up, nudging Beverly out of the way. Once the door was closed and locked, I turned the envelope over in my hands, looking for some sign to identify who’d left it. There was nothing.
“Beverly, if this explodes, I want you to drag my body to safety,” I said. She looked up at me and wagged her tail. “Good dog,” I said. Beverly sat down.
I opened the envelope.
Inside was an index card printed in an oddly uneven font that smudged when my thumb touched it. The letters were faintly indented, and I realized it had been composed on a typewriter—something I’d only seen in the hospital records department, where some very specific types of paperwork had to be written on carbon paper. It was just one line of text:
The broken doors are open; come and enter and be home.
Underneath was a street address in the city of Clayton, about an hour’s drive from San Francisco. I looked at it without saying a word for several minutes, until the text began to twist and slip away from me. That was my cue. I tucked the paper into the pocket of my bathrobe, pulling my phone out as I turned to walk toward my bedroom.
“Dial Nathan,” I said.
It was time to follow the map, whether or not it was going to get us lost.
I had to sacrifice a lot to get to where I ended up. As with so many other things in my life, while I may have regrets, I am not sorry. I made my choices. I knew what they had the potential to cost me. Sometimes I wonder what would have happened if I’d made other decisions, if I’d looked at certain possibilities and said “this is not worth the price.” I’m only human, after all. I’m allowed to have doubts every once in a while.
I will say this, without reservations: the choices I made meant that when the time came for Steven Banks to throw someone under the bus, there was no one else getting dragged along with me. I’m the one whose name went to the FDA when they questioned our research protocols. I’m the one who gets blamed for every irregularity in the research process. But because I made the choices I did, I had no weak spots for them to exploit. I was armor-clad. I got away.
I have regrets. I would have to be a monster not to. But I am not sorry.
—FROM CAN OF WORMS: THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF SHANTI CALE, PHD. AS YET UNPUBLISHED.
I wondered when you were going to reach the falling-out questions. It always seems to wind up here, like this is the true north of every interview’s course. All right, here it is:
Shanti Cale and I parted ways over ethical differences. She was responsible for certain early development phases of the Intestinal Bodyguard™, and she made the decision to cut certain corners that could have resulted in some very bad things happening. Luckily, we were able to catch and solve those issues before they ever made it out of the lab. That was still the beginning of the end for me and Shanti, as a partnership, and as friends. I couldn’t trust her after that. I really view that as the greatest tragedy of my success. Richard’s resignation was heartbreaking, but he’d been having emotional problems for years. We all saw the writing on that wall. Shanti…
I loved her very much, as a friend and as a colleague. I never really believed she’d betray me. I still can’t understand how I could have been so wrong.
—FROM “KING OF THE WORMS,” AN INTERVIEW WITH DR. STEVEN BANKS, CO-FOUNDER OF SYMBOGEN. ORIGINALLY PUBLISHED IN ROLLING STONE, FEBRUARY 2027.
Chapter 11
AUGUST 2027
I was dressed and ready to go when Nathan pulled up in front of the house. Beverly’s dish was full, and there was a note on the refrigerator to keep my parents from getting worried if they got home before I did. I didn’t say anything about Mr. Carson and the others, or about the visit from SymboGen security. I felt funny about that, but if I started going into details, I’d wind up writing everything down, and there wasn’t time. I could explain when we were all together again.
Nathan honked the horn. When I’d called to ask him if we could go, I’d told him not to bother getting out of the car. The sound still made me jump a little, my stomach squeezing like a fist. Were we making the right decision? Should we really be running around with people who used quotes from obscure children’s books in casual conversation, and played cloak-and-dagger games for no good reason?
Did we have a choice?
Nathan honked again. No, we didn’t have a choice. Devi was dead. If we wanted answers, we’d have to take them wherever we could find them.
I locked the door behind me as I left the house, slinging my messenger bag over my shoulder one-handed. I was dressed for a clandestine meeting, in jeans, a dark blue hoodie, and running shoes—in case we found a reason to run—with my hair pulled into a ponytail.
Nathan looked over as I practically threw myself into the passenger seat. He blinked. “Sal? Are you okay?”
“Not really,” I said. “I’ll explain on the drive.”
“Okay.” Nathan reached for the GPS. “What’s the address?”
I read it off for the system. “There’s also another quote that sounds like it’s from that book you were talking about.”
“Don’t Go Out Alone?”
Nathan started the car. He didn’t say a word as he pulled out of the driveway. I slowly lowered the card, blinking at him. He wasn’t looking at me; he was staring at the windshield, where the glowing red printout from the GPS displayed at eye level.
I frowned, not sure what I was supposed to say, or what—if anything—I’d done to upset him. I wasn’t the one who wrote the note. I wasn’t the one quoting the book.
Finally, Nathan sighed, and said, “ ‘Some lies better left untold; some dreams better left unsold. The broken doors are open. Come and enter, and be home. My darling girl, be careful now, and don’t go out alone.’ ” He glanced my way. “It’s from the middle of the book, where the boy and girl who’ve gone out alone together—don’t ask me how that works, I was a kid, I believed it completely—have reached the broken doors, and everything is about to get bad. It’s sort of a welcome. And it’s sort of a warning.”
“I’m a little disturbed that our secret source for secret things is communicating with us via quotes from a children’s book that no one but you has ever heard of,” I said. “It’s weird and I don’t like it.”
“I really expected you to go with ‘secret source for secret secrets’ there, and I don’t like it either, but I don’t see what choice we have,” said Nathan. “She’s the only person who seems to know what’s going on.”
“Yeah.” I studied him sidelong. The dark circles under his eyes didn’t surprise me, but I didn’t like them, either. Not sure what else to say, I asked, “Is someone taking care of Minneapolis? I was worried about her this morning.”