Fatal Moon

by L. E. Perry

  Carl took a deep breath, counting silently. "Where am I losing it?" Carl was looking directly at Jordan when Jordan looked up, and he saw Jordan's hands shake slightly out of the corner of his eye.

  "Everywhere," came the quiet answer.

  Carl sat for a moment, then got up to check his weight. "One sixty-two." Jordan wrote the number down as Carl went back to the machine, leaned over and lifted the dumbbell again. As he started the mesmerizing motion of flex, down, flex, down, he spoke quietly. "Take the data and run it through the computer. It's just a couple of pounds, it could be a normal fluctuation, but we can't risk it. Alter my diet." He knew the weight loss graph like the back of his hand, and this marked the new loss as part of a true curve. His weight would continue to come off at a steadily increasing pace unless he could find a way to stop it.

  Jordan set the chart down on the seat. "Christ, Carl," he swore, "you're taking more protein than is wise already, the maximum in carbohydrates for what you're burning... we should add more carbs on your transformation days, but you won't take them then. Adding them mid-month will just increase your fat level. Muscle takes time, and you've lost more than you can replace in a couple of weeks."

  That scared Carl; after plotting the new weight graph today, he wasn’t sure he had a couple of weeks. "My body's handling the protein," he objected. "As you witnessed, I'm not human anymore. I want you to reconsider my plan." Carl pulled out the calipers and measured the skin under his arm. He held the calipers up to the measuring gauge. "See, my fat level hasn't changed. It's protein I'm losing, in the form of muscle tissue."

  "But you're losing it on the three nights you change!" Jordan exploded.

  "Oh no, Jordan, that's not all and you know it. It simply goes faster then. I'm losing it constantly again. I need more than what I'm getting. Look at me," he added fiercely. "Look at my face!"

  Jordan stared at him. Carl wondered how much longer Jordan could ignore the evidence in Carl's cheekbones. It stared him in the face every morning when he shaved, and had begun to think he should stop shaving, or risk taking skin off as well. It was no longer just his jawline that he had to be careful with. It was his chin, the hollows of his cheeks that he’d had a hard time reaching over the past few days, and his cheekbones themselves, standing out like tombstones. Always robust and healthy, Carl now saw the form of a desperately skinny man in the mirror. Soon enough, it would be a wraith.

  Jordan finally answered, "Let's start with the extra carbs. If we add everything at once and get results, we won't know what did it."

  Carl fought to keep his fear at bay. "On the other hand, we don't have forever," he argued. "If we add it all and there's an effect, we know it's one of the three or some combination, and we can narrow it down from there. I hired you to tell me what to do, and I'll do it, but I'm asking you to widen our options." Carl carefully considered what Jordan was saying, despite his own feelings. Jordan's size and abrasive personality made it easy for a person to disregard his intelligence, to that person's peril.

  "Dammit, Carl," Jordan swore, tossing the clipboard onto the weight bench, clearly annoyed. "You don't know what will happen to this curse thing if you jack up your steroids, and too much protein can damage your brain."

  "Brilliant deduction," Carl answered pointedly, picking up the chart as his heart drummed against his ribcage. "And just how much protein do you think it would take to hurt me? I couldn't eat that much if you held me down and force fed me. In case you hadn't noticed, my body does odd things with protein, like grow a full coat of shaggy gray fur every twenty-eight days. The protein's got to be replaced." Carl would have given his right arm to know what was going through Jordan's head right now.

  "Too late for your damn brain anyway," Jordan muttered, yanking the clipboard from Carl's grasp and walking away. Carl grabbed the curl-bar off the floor and started lifting again, his pulse throbbing in his ears. He counted out his second set, paused for a few moments, then went into his third. He realized he hadn't taken a blood sample yet, the warden having interrupted his usual routine. Cursing, he rose and strode down the hall to the lab.

  * * *

  Carl was pressing a cotton ball to his finger when he heard the phone ring. A moment later Jordan's voice came over the intercom. "It's a woman. Says her name is Jean."

  Carl went cold. His mind fought between finding an excuse not to take the call, and running to grab the receiver and hear her voice again. Closing his eyes, he took a deep breath and walked over to the phone.

  "Hello?"

  "Carl! Are you okay?" she sounded upset.

  "I... I'm fine. What's wrong, Jean?" He pictured her soft pink lips as she spoke to him, and pressed his cheek into the receiver.

  "What's wrong? Carl, I've... it's been months. I thought this... this thing you're going through, whatever it is... I thought it would go away after a while. I know what you said last time we talked, but I didn't believe it. I just wanted to... to call–"

  "Jean, it's over–" Carl choked for a moment, then went on. He felt his heart hammering against his ribs. "Just forget about us. I was wrong about us ever spending a lifetime together. I'm not who you think I am." He latched onto the truth. He had always shared the truth with her, even when it cut deep. He ached to tell her everything, to share every part of himself with her. He wanted to caress her hair, and feel the gentle weight of her arms resting around his shoulders.

  There was silence for a moment. "I think you're wrong, Carl. I think whatever happened to you – this amnesia thing – it scared you. I don't know why you won't let me be with you, help you through it. I... I haven't stopped loving you." Her strength of character came across the phones lines, just as beautiful as she had ever been. “I know you’re scared, Carl. I want to be there with you. It scares me, too, but we can make it through this, whatever this is. You’ll figure it out, or your father will. And if you don’t,” she paused, “I want to be there anyway. I want to spend whatever time there is… with you.”

  Carl closed his eyes as he felt the sudden lurch in his chest. She knew him too well. He swallowed hard, then opened his eyes to stare at the wall as he spoke through the tightness in his throat. "No. I don't love you anymore. I was just playing a game, Jean. And I got tired of being with you. I don't ever want to see you again, or talk to you. I've got other things to do with my life. Other people to see." He practically had to grit his teeth to get the last sentence out, but it was imperative that his voice didn't break now.

  Tears welled up in his eyes as she answered. "But… that's not you… " her voice trailed away, as if unsure. She was beginning to believe his lies, and it was like a dagger-lined vice crushing his chest.

  He prayed one last time to think of a way to let her go without hurting her, but nothing came to him, and he lowered the receiver slowly into the cradle until he heard it click into place. He set his elbows on the counter and ran his fingers through his hair, gripping his head as the grief shook his frame.

  He tried to get his mind back on the greater problems in his life, but they all melted together. What if Diana had the same color hair as Jean? Or eyes? Would he see Jean wherever he turned, and say something foolish? He reviewed the scene mentally several times, then gave up. He was in perfect condition to make a complete fool of himself. He breathed heavily, wiping the wetness from the angles of his sharp face, then went upstairs to take a shower. He felt filthy.

  Chapter 7 – Finding Answers

  Carl sat down at the computer in the den. Tropical fish swam lazily across the monitor. He tapped the keyboard once, then reached for the mouse as the screensaver disappeared, revealing a list of selectable files. An arrow sped across the screen as he moved the mouse to the left, and he selected several of the files in succession. Four graphs appeared across the top of the screen labeled, "weight,” "health - subjective,” "blood pressure,” "food intake, by type”.

  Carl chewed his bottom lip as he stared at the data. He selected another file, and a diary pa
ge appeared, filling the entire screen. He scanned the words rapidly, clicking the ‘Page Down’ button on the keyboard every few seconds, then finally pressed his forehead into the heels of his hands. "God – these bloody variables. There are too many of them. How do I separate the blasted data?" He looked up, hands still cupped to his face, then minimized the diary to fit on the lower half of the screen. He pressed another button and a menu screen popped up. His hands went to the keyboard, and he typed in several commands in quick succession. The five graphs disappeared from the top of the page and coalesced in a larger window centered on the screen, each graph's line showing up as a different color on a single grid. He chewed his lip again as he stared at the data on the screen, then selected another file. A picture showing a photographic image of cells of various types moving slowly to the right opened as Carl considered the details.

  "I need more images," Carl muttered, then pulled up a communications program and set it to receive and record data before standing up to go to the lab.

  * * *

  Carl whispered to himself as he turned the lab computer on, then pulled a microscope from a cupboard and set it up. Reaching into a large drawer below the computer, he lifted the computer's "eyes" from it and screwed the lens gently onto the larger optical tube on the microscope. He then slid a cheap slide of paramecium under the lens. Using the optic lens on the side, he checked the focus, then turned to the keyboard and tapped out several commands. This projected the paramecium on the specimen plate onto the monitor. Satisfied, Carl pulled the slide out and put it back in a drawer, then pulled out a strip of rubber tubing and a hypodermic syringe.

  "Father's going to think me a junkie the next time I visit, all these holes in my arm," he muttered to himself, then stood up abruptly. "Only crazy people talk to themselves," he said as he switched on some music on his computer. His shoulders dropped as he turned around. "Much better. Now I can talk to the music." Pulling his sleeve back, he reached for the tubing, wrapped it deftly around his arm, and pulled it tight. By the time he had the hypodermic in his hand, his vein on his arm had risen like something undead. He pressed the needle into it, filled the syringe halfway, released the rubber strip, and withdrew the needle. Then, he grabbed a cotton ball to press tightly against the tiny wound.

  Reaching into the drawer again, Carl pulled out several dishes in succession, each marked with a different label. Carl had been testing his blood for everything he could think of, every time he withdrew any to look at. With great care, he injected a single droplet of blood onto each, then set them under a Plexiglas cover on the counter.

  Carl placed a drop of blood onto the final slide, then placed the slide under the microscope, then turned to watch the computer screen, watching for the quasi-amoeboid yellow cells that had invaded his body. They were like nothing he'd ever studied, moving slowly across the screen as he moved the plate under the microscope. He tapped out a command to record the images, then stared at the lifeless cells. Leaning forward, he studied the cell structure again. He was positive that he saw a tear in the cell wall, an indication of damage. The innards were jumbled rather than orderly. Every cell in the world had certain parts in common, and though he'd never seen anything quite like this, he was sure that what he was seeing was a dead cell. Many dead cells. Nothing but dead yellow cells, populating his bloodstream and causing him to lose weight. Were they taking the energy his body needed to survive, then expiring and being passed out of his system somehow? Urine and fecal samples had come up blank. How else could they be leaving his body? Were they parasitic or symbiotic? The cells seemed to operate parasitically, killing him slowly, but Carl had to question that hypothesis considering that his health had improved slightly right after he was infected. The creatures appeared to be unsuccessfully symbiotic, dying, and taking him with them.

  Carl set the mechanical slide controls to automatic and the microscope continued maneuvering the slide slowly across the viewing area with the record feature on, and walked away. He wanted desperately to send an anonymous sample to his father again, but he didn't dare. The first and only test his father had time to complete was DNA, since Carl specifically asked him to test this first. When Carl asked the team to check for variations and cross-contamination in the DNA, they found nothing at first. But, several weeks later, after Jordan had witnessed his transformation, Carl called back to have the lab check for the addition of wolf DNA in the sample. At that point, it was identified and confirmed: wolf and human. Wolf and human DNA. In his blood. Carl then retained a PI who removed the sample from his father’s lab and destroyed all the records. Carl wanted them out of his father's hands on the off chance his father could somehow identify the human portion as fifty percent identical to his own DNA. Was he being a fool or not? He only suspected his father's reaction, but so far that had been enough to deter him.

  Chapter 8 – Fetching Diana

  Jordan sat down at the den computer where he had just entered the new data on the spreadsheet. It came out to a solid twelve-pound loss from three days ago, size loss nearly equal everywhere. Carl had been running the data for over nine months now. The initial loss curve stopped plummeting when Jordan was hired on, but it soon showed a second steady decline, and the rate of it was increasing. The catabolic wasting of muscle was draining Carl's body, more so this cycle than ever before. He pressed his head against the computer and thought for a moment. In high school, he had known more about physiology than Carl did, with his independent research on building muscle mass, but the tables were turned now. Jordan wasn't sure he knew what he was doing anymore. What if Carl died, and it was Jordan's fault? He couldn't ignore it much longer. Carl's clothes, once a fashionably good fit, were now hanging on him like sacks. Jordan put his hands to his head and massaged the furrow of his brow as he evaluated the information. He closed the weight file window and opened the diet file – the full, unabridged one. He'd just about decided on an extra-carb/extra-protein diet. If Carl wanted steroids, he could set it up himself.

  Carl strode in, hair wet, in jeans, shirt, and socks, a sweatshirt in his hand. "On your toes, Jordan. She'll be arriving soon. I've decided to have you go down to pick her up. You should probably buy the groceries first."

  Jordan looked at his watch, feeling his jaws tighten. He tried to speak nonchalantly. "You should have told me earlier. If I leave now, I'll get to the station right before the train arrives. I'll have to get her, then the groceries."

  "No. You can't be getting groceries while Diana sits in the car. Even if her presence is inconvenient, she will be treated as a guest until we find a way to send her back home. I'll open a tab for her at the station, she can have a cocktail and something to eat while you're gathering groceries." Carl pulled the sweatshirt on over his head.

  Jordan suspected Carl's calmness was an act, there had to be a reason Carl was backing out of his obligation. Regardless, being late was a pet peeve of Jordan's, and he had no desire to pick up Diana and make a bunch of excuses. "What if she doesn't want a drink?" he growled, slamming the wireless mouse against the wall and standing up to face Carl, his broad shoulders thrown back. "Maybe she doesn’t drink. Why didn't you just come in here a little earlier? I thought you were going, or I'd have left eons ago. Months ago. Why in hell did God give you blond hair when you could have had a brain instead?" Jordan leaned over the computer, banged a few keys to save the data and strode toward the door.

  Carl finished pulling the sweatshirt on, stood up straight and looked the short distance down at Jordan as only Carl had the guts to do. "Are you going like that?" Carl asked, folding his arms and leaning against the doorjamb.

  Jordan looked down at himself. "Like what?"

  Carl waved a hand at Jordan's clothes. "Like ratty T-shirt and faded jeans."

  "Don't have much choice on short notice, boss," Jordan answered, staring coldly into Carl's steady blue eyes. “My only good pair of jeans is in the laundry, and I don't wear silk. I'll get a newer T-shirt." Jordan turned to brush past Carl. />
  Jordan felt Carl grab his sleeve, and seethed with rage and frustration, but refused to turn.

  "What in the hell are you doing with all that money?" Carl released Jordan's shirt a moment later, and Jordan brushed it flat, his face a storm. Carl continued in the same tone of voice, striding through the doorway. "Dammit, let me get you something of mine. I may have an oversized sweater that'll fit, but the pants..."

  Jordan hissed, "What is your problem? Who needs fashion up on the side of a mountain where you never see anyone?" Carl showed no intentions of responding. "Fine. Get me a shirt, if you can find one big enough," he growled, "and let me go do your job for you. Lazy-ass prima donna." As Carl's steps sounded up the stairs, Jordan grabbed the upright bar of a weight machine, pressed his head against it and squeezed it until his knuckles turned white, regretting his hostility. Carl’s size, right now, was Jordan’s fault, if it was anyone’s. He wished he was back in his tiny closet in California, seeing women on the weekends, writing a letter to his mother in his spare time. He barely got a chance to call anymore. Maybe Carl would just die of this thing.

  Shocked, he opened his eyes and thought for a moment about Carl dying. He let go of the bar, stood up straight, and dismissed the notion. It was a comforting thought only when he was angry, and it shook him that he thought of it at all. In high school, Carl had had a reputation for diplomacy that Jordan had seen only traces of since the unexpected visit in California. It might be that Carl had changed, but it was more likely the stress that made him unpredictable and short-tempered.

  Carl came back with a large polo shirt an aunt had given him. It was much too big for Carl even when he was healthy, but it would be tight on Jordan. Jordan stripped out of his T-shirt to show a broad, wedge-shaped mass of pure muscle fiber, his back crossed with scars that became visible as he turned slightly and started walking toward the laundry room. He almost expected Carl to ask again about the scars, but it seemed his earlier tightlipped silence had made the message clear: don't ask.