Deadly Genes td-117

by Warren Murphy

  Phone lines became tangled from eleven o'clock until the wee hours of the night as viewers called friends and relatives to warn them in case they hadn't heard the latest terrifying news. Police stations all across eastern Massachusetts were flooded with unconfirmed BBQ sightings.

  Assurances from BostonBio that the animals were perfectly harmless were ignored. And rightly so. The death toll was now up to ten, including one of the crazed geneticists who had actually worked on the insane project. At the moment, there were more human casualties than there were BBQs. Under the circumstances, no one in their right mind would believe BostonBio.

  HETA had grown silent on the location of the remaining animals in its possession. BostonBio had retrieved only one. For all anyone knew, the other seven could be God-knew-where eating God-only-knew-whom. And there was nothing anyone could do about it.

  With Curt Tulle dead, the authorities didn't even know whom in the HETA movement to arrest. But even if they'd thrown a net over the entire animal-rights group, it would still take years of court fighting, plea bargaining and actual prison sentences to get them to reveal the location of the creatures. In the meantime, Boston's citizenry hunkered down behind locked doors, fearful to even step outside lest they be attacked and consumed by one of the marauding beasts.

  Nationally, the BBQ story had been backburnered the previous evening. But the latest developments would bring more notoriety. The deaths at HETA and the one confirmed at-large BBQ would doubtless be the lead story on all four networks the next day.

  Already, the national press was circling. Nightline was devoting its entire program to coverage of the panic in Boston. A representative of the show had contacted BostonBio in order to get Dr. Judith White on the program. The genetics firm had bluntly informed the show that Dr. White was on indefinite suspension.

  The premier geneticist of her generation had gone from brilliant genius to embarrassing outcast in just over forty-eight hours.

  Flouting her suspension, Judith was sitting in her darkened lab hours after the murders at HETA HQ.

  The bluish light from the flickering television screen bathed the room in uncertain shadows. Her eyes were at half-mast as she watched her name being dragged through the mud by troglodytes who couldn't even begin to grasp her genius.

  On a rational level, Judith understood why BostonBio had suspended her. They had considerations separate from hers to deal with. Most of them legal. But on a visceral level, she hated every last one of the gutless imbeciles who was allowing this televised crucifixion to continue. It was not only bad for BostonBio and Judith White, but it was also bad for the world.

  They'd hung her out to dry.

  Management had decided that the best defense under the circumstances was to say nothing. The opposition had roared into the vacuum left by the company's absence. Without even token resistance from BostonBio, the media were having a field day.

  In the wake of Curt Tulle's death, HETA sent in emissaries from its national offices to man the Boston franchise. Judith was watching some of them on the lab TV.

  Three actresses from the The Olden Girls were among those who had been flown in. The feeblewitted women from the popular 1980s sitcom sat behind the temporary head of Boston BETA as he addressed reporters.

  "Curt Tulle is a martyr to animals and all living things everywhere!" the man screamed. For some reason, he felt compelled to shout every statement. "I only hope that I can live up to his great standards!"

  "Are you the permanent head of Boston HETA?" asked one of the reporters. Unlike the press at the previous news conference, this woman was a network correspondent.

  "I am part of an interim ruling council! Since arriving earlier this evening, I have been ably assisted by Ms. and Mr. Janner, who have been more than helpful at this moment of great crisis!" He indicated a pair of figures standing at the rear of the crowd behind the podium.

  Huey fidgeted uncomfortably. Mona glared defiantly at the home viewing audience.

  "Will your group surrender the remaining BBQs?"

  At the question, Mona's and Huey's eyes grew as wide as pie plates. They were visibly relieved an instant later to find that it hadn't been directed at them.

  "This is a plot!" the national HETA man yelled, ignoring the question entirely. His arms flapped crazily. "The government-in league with the fiends at BostonBio-have made it their mission to wipe out HETA! For without HETA, there will be no opposition to them, and without opposition, dear friends, they will be able to come into your homes and take your pets for their horrible experiments! That is their ultimate goal! The animal Holocaust has begun!"

  Judith White stared at the laboratory television, eyes level, face unreadable.

  A reporter asked one of the women from The Olden Girls what she thought of the BBQ situation. The woman had also played the lustful host of a cooking show on the old 1970s The Sherry Taylor Hoore Show.

  "I like kitties," said the elderly woman, her dull eyes wetly earnest.

  Judith slammed her palm so savagely against the television the plastic chassis cracked. The TV winked off.

  Her lip curled, revealing perfect white teeth.

  The black box from her desk lay open on the table next to her. She had already filled one of the syringes with the brown gelatinous fluid from one of the vials that rested on the foam interior of the box.

  She gathered up the syringe. With a lunge more appropriate to a game of darts than an injection, she jammed the needle into a pulsing blue vein in her arm.

  With her thumb, she pressed the plunger down, forcing the brown liquid from the syringe. It oozed soothingly into her bloodstream.

  Even as she felt the liquid enter her and mix with her warmly flowing blood, she knew it would be the last.

  Judith shuddered wildly. The sensation was like that of hands of solid ice gripping her spine. Her back arched at the frigid sensation.

  The liquid coursed through her. The last.

  Her head spun. As before, but not like before. Far away, but not too far.

  Light... spinning. The last.

  The BBQs were the most important thing now. Important to her. And to the world.

  Her final injection. She was there.

  A jolt. Snapped back to reality. The icy hands flew from her spine. Her head cleared. The effect was not as it had been all the other times.

  And there was something else.... "Dr. White?"

  The voice came from behind her. She turned slowly, a smile curling the edges of her red lips. One of her geneticists stood at the mouth of the corridor that linked the two separate laboratories. Alone.

  "I'm surprised you're here, Dr. White." His return smile was uncertain.

  "Just finishing something up," she purred. She slipped down from the table on which she'd been perched. One hand snapped closed the lid of her special black box.

  "I-that is to say, we heard. All of us. We think it's terribly unfair what they're doing to you." The scientist frowned somberly.

  Judith's hand slipped across the smooth surface of the black case. One finger caressed the interlocking double-B BostonBio logo. Her eyes rose to meet those of the young man. They locked.

  "Bullshit." Judith grinned.

  The geneticist shifted uncomfortably. He hadn't expected to see his boss here so late. In fact, like most of his co-workers, he had prayed she would never return to her post at BostonBio.

  "I...um..." the man mumbled.

  "Shut up," Judith cooed. Her smile never wavered.

  She slid around the table, revealing long, flawlessly tanned legs. Slowly, Dr. White sashayed over to the man. As she walked, her short skirt wrinkled up around her thighs.

  The young scientist gulped, trying not to stare. "Um...there are two of them," he stammered. As he spoke, he looked at her ample chest. His own words seemed to startle him. Quickly, he jerked a thumb over his shoulder. "Two BCWs, I mean. Two. In there."

  Judith kept walking. "Mm-hmm." She nodded.

  "It's just, I thought there was on
ly the one. At least, there was only one earlier today."

  "Now there are two," Judith agreed. "One plus one."

  She was beside him. He jumped when her hand reached out to him. But this had nothing to do with Dr. Judith White's notorious vicious streak. Her warm palm gently traced the contours of his cheek. He shivered at her touch.

  "Dr. White, this ...uh...probably isn't a good idea."

  "Of course it is," she replied in a hoarse whisper. Her face came in close to his, sliding cheek-to-cheek. Beside his face, warm lips brushed softly against his ear. He felt a gentle tug of perfectly polished enamel as her teeth pulled lightly at his earlobe.

  "Have you eaten yet?" Judith asked breathily. In spite of himself, the geneticist closed his eyes, surrendering to the seduction. Dr. White was an insufferable bitch, but she was also the most gorgeous female of the species he had ever encountered. But her non sequitur food question puzzled him back to reality.

  "What?" he asked. "Yes. Yes, I have." She was still nibbling on his ear. He closed his eyes, trying to recapture the mood of a moment before.

  "It's been a few hours for me," she exhaled hotly. Her breath tickled the soft hairs around his ear. "I'm hungry again."

  The geneticist had closed his eyes, his head tipped invitingly to one side.

  "Mmm. We can get something after," he moaned.

  Judith's teeth chewed farther up his ear. She was beyond the lobe now, encompassing almost the entire ear.

  "Maybe a little something to tide me over," she hissed.

  Teeth became fangs. With a savage bite, she clamped firmly onto the young man's ear. A jerk of her face wrenched the ear from the side of his head.

  Shock suppressed the urge to flee. Stunned, the scientist pulled away, falling to his knees. A frantic hand clamped the side of his head.

  He found to his horror that his auditory canal was open wide to air. Blood poured across the gaping hole. The sticky liquid coursed around his shaking fingers.

  Fear. Shock. He wheeled to Judith White.

  He saw his ear for the last time. It was balanced on the tip of her tongue like a single red-tinged potato chip. She smiled as she flipped the clump of skin and cartilage back into her bloodred mouth. A few quick chews followed by a solitary gulp, and the ear was gone forever.

  "I bet you can really hear my stomach rumbling now," she said with a broad grin. Blood filled the spaces between her flawless teeth. His blood.

  He was too frightened to speak. Too scared to scream.

  And as the young geneticist's eyes pleaded for mercy, Judith White padded forward. To feed.

  Chapter 14

  Remo stood alone, a silent sentry at the front window of his Quincy condominium.

  The street beyond was eerily calm. Night shadows skulked near curb and corner.

  Few cars traveled the roadways so late on a normal night. This night there were far fewer than usual. The BBQs. Fear of the beasts had rippled out from Boston into the outlying communities.

  Of course, the odds were astronomical against anyone encountering one of the creatures, even if all of the remaining animals were at large. But that didn't matter to the population of Boston and its suburbs.

  Even Remo wasn't immune to believing that he might actually spy one of them. In his case, however, it wasn't fear, but hope. He wanted more than anything to corral the BBQs and return them to BostonBio.

  The BBQ project was on the verge of collapse, yet its original goal-to feed the starving worldwas noble. If the project was at all salvageable, Remo would do whatever he could to help.

  And so he waited. Staring out at the dark and empty street. Half-expecting to see a herd of wild BBQs thunder past his home, yet knowing full well that he would not.

  There seemed to be one silver lining in the events of late.

  The noises had started filtering down from upstairs an hour ago. No more were they hushed, one-sided conversations. These were packing sounds. Whatever business Chiun had been up to, it appeared to be coming to an end. He was putting away his candles and incense.

  After standing alone for what seemed like an eternity, Remo finally heard the door to Chiun's room sigh gently open. He didn't hear a footfall on the stairs, nor did he expect to. Only when he detected the familiar rhythmic heartbeat did Remo turn.

  The Master of Sinanju sat angelically on the floor in the center of the living room, as if he'd been there since the floorboards were nailed in place. He wore a brilliant sapphire kimono, adorned with swirling purple peacocks. The flowing robes were arranged around his bony knees.

  The wizened Korean seemed as old and wise as Time itself. His ancient skull was covered with a sheet of skin like thin, seared parchment. Twin tufts of yellowing-to-white hair sprouted out above each shell-like ear. A thread of beard adorned his chin. Youthful hazel eyes regarded Remo from amid knots of wrinkled lids.

  Remo's smile was thin but genuine. "Welcome back to the land of the living, Little Father," he said.

  "Thank you, my son," Chiun replied. "You managed to keep your screaking and clumping within acceptable limits during the weeks of my spiritual journey. You are to be commended." He tipped his head in an informal bow.

  That Chiun should emerge from hiding in such a good mood was cause for concern to Remo. He pushed thoughts of their recent trip to Hollywood from his troubled mind.

  "I have a problem," Remo said, returning the bow. When he lifted his head, he saw that Chiun was no longer looking his way.

  The old man was craning his neck in birdlike curiosity as his gaze moved from one corner of the room to the next. When he looked back to his pupil, a confused shadow had settled over his bright eyes.

  "Where is my gift?" he asked with simple innocence.

  Uh-oh, Remo thought. He immediately racked his brain.

  It wasn't Chiun's birthday, not that they celebrated it anyway, thanks to Remo. Christmas was three months away, though rarely were gifts exchanged between them on what Chiun considered a pagan celebration of the birth of "that nuisance carpenter." That left the Feast of the Pig and the anniversary of the day they'd met. But the Feast of the Pig was still some time off, and Chiun had never seen the day of their first meeting as something worth rejoicing over. Indeed, for the first ten years of their association, the only way Remo ever knew the date had roiled around yet again was from the appearance of a black armband over the Master of Sinanju's kimono sleeve.

  He came up empty. Remo bit his cheek. "Gift?" he asked guiltily.

  "It is customary after a journey, is it not?" Chiun replied, a creeping tightness to his singsong tone. Remo let the captured air escape from his lungs. "It's customary to give gifts, Little Father. Not get them. Besides, you didn't go anywhere."

  The cloud of Chiun's brow darkened. "You are telling me you got me nothing?" he accused. Remo's eyes darted left and right. He was trapped.

  "Nothing," he blurted, "except that I felt kind of sad without you here to talk to. And now that you're back, I'm sort of happy." His hesitant voice grew stronger. "So I guess that's what I got you. A son's love." He smiled hopefully.

  In spite of himself, a spark of warmth ignited the old man's eyes. An upturned flicker brushed the vellum corners of his thin lips. He forced it away.

  "In lieu of a brass band, I suppose it will have to suffice," Chiun sniffed. "Next time I return from a pilgrimage of self, however, I expect a present with a price tag." He fussed with the hems of his kimono.

  "One Mylar balloon coming up," Remo promised, relieved to have dodged the bullet. "Anyway, a lot of junk's been happening since you pulled your 'Louisa May Alcott does Hollywood' routine."

  Chiun's eyes instantly narrowed. "You have not been listening in on my telephone conversations?" he accused.

  Remo sighed. "No," he said.

  "Good," Chiun responded. "For there were none."

  Remo didn't bother to mention the fact that the last phone bill he'd seen would have choked a horse. "Chiun, I have a problem."

  "That is nothing new
. Speak, O Giver of Cheap Gifts."

  "Smith has given me an assignment. A genetics company has created an artificial animal that can feed the world. But it looks as if the animal is vicious. People have died."

  "All people die," Chiun said, dismissing the last of what his pupil had said. "We know this better than any. As for the rest, I do not understand this nonsense of an artificial animal, yet I know well of many animals deemed vicious."

  "The fact that it might be a killer isn't the only problem," Remo explained. "A couple million and a good PR firm could help BostonBio wiggle out of that. The weird thing for me is the tracks these things leave."

  He explained to Chiun the stark difference between the hoofprints of the BBQ at rest and the paw prints it made following its murderous attacks. Chiun frowned thoughtfully. "A bird walks, yet it flies," he pointed out. "A duck does both, yet also swims."

  "The BBQs don't have wings," Remo said. "And they'd need pontoons to float. They just have big clumsy feet that somehow morph into something delicate when they kill."

  Chiun's frown lifted. "Do you remember, Remo, the riddle of the Sphinx?"

  "Sure," Remo said. "You told me it back when you were dragging me all around the world during the Sinanju Rite of Attainment. The riddle is, whose face does the Sphinx wear? And the answer is the face of the Great Wang."

  Lines of frustrated annoyance creased the old man's parchment skin.

  "Why is it, Remo, that you appear never to listen to a word I say, yet apparently absorb just enough to aggravate me at a later date?"

  Remo offered a confused half smile. "Luck?" he suggested.

  Chiun's gaze was flat. "I refer to the Egyptian riddle. What is it that walks on four legs in the morning, two legs at noon and three legs at night?"

  "Everyone knows that one," Remo replied. "The answer is a man. He walks on four legs in the morning of his life because he's crawling. As an adult, he walks on two feet. And when he's old, he uses a cane. Three legs. But you told me that was a child's riddle."

  "And I was correct. For I am aged by anyone's estimation, would you not agree?" Chiun asked.