Guinea Pig

by Curtis, Greg

  “Elijah? Isn't that an odd name for one of the orthodox church?” Despite everything else Will was suddenly curious. Elijah was old testament. A Jewish name. And it seemed very out of place.

  “It's the name I was given by my parents and I quite like it.” Was he upset? Will didn't know. But he did know he didn't want to upset him.

  “I'm sorry Pastor. I didn't mean to give offence. I'm Will Simons and I came because I need to speak with one of your parishioners.”

  Was that the correct word he wondered? Did the Orthodox faith have parishes and parishioners? Or were they just their flock? Their congregation? “I was hoping you could either point me in his direction or get a message to him. If he's still alive.”

  “Who?”

  “Doctor Millen.” Will was embarrassed to realise that he didn't even know his first name. Only that it began with an R. That was what his name tag had shown. Doctor R. Millen. Maybe he should have paid more attention to the paperwork they'd sent him when he'd volunteered for the trial. There had been copious amounts of it after all. But in the end he had only seen one thing, and that was the ten thousand dollars. There was a lesson for him in that, much as he hated to admit it.

  “Reginald? He's alive. He was here only a few days ago. Or maybe even the day before that. Then again it might have been before the ice storm. But I haven't seen him since. He didn't say much. Just came to pray. He said he felt the need after having survived the sink hole that claimed his work and killed so many of his colleagues.”

  “Amen Pastor. It was pretty scary.”

  Will could agree with that. But for the action of someone who had knocked him through the window he might not have survived it himself. It had been very close. And he still couldn't shake the strange idea that it had been the little old lady who had saved him, no matter how crazy that seemed.

  “You know about that? You were there?” The pastor looked at him quizzically.

  “Oh yeah. Doctor Millen was treating me when it happened. When the floor just suddenly up and moved. It was like nothing I'd ever seen before.”

  And though it probably wasn't expected or even asked for Will suddenly found himself telling the pastor his story of that day. Letting it pour forth. Everything from the experiment to the crater forming in front of him as he stood outside. It was the first time he'd really told anyone the complete story. His flatmates knew a little. The police knew a little more. His family knew nothing at all because they were back in England and he hadn't wanted to worry them. Besides, they hadn't known he'd been at the Fairview Institute, and if they ever found out they'd want to know why. Of course they knew about the ice storm and ever since then they'd probably been terrified, but there wasn't a lot he could do to ease their fear until telecommunications were restored. Until then some emails through his flatmate had to be their connection.

  “You've survived two disasters in less than a week. You should give thanks.”

  The pastor was staring at him slightly oddly. As if he was looking at some sort of freak. It made Will a little uncomfortable. Especially when he was feeling a little bit like one anyway.

  “I have been. But I've also been caught in two disasters in less than a week as well. Maybe I should be wondering if someone up there is trying to kill me?”

  And that was the other side of the coin. The dark thought that too often came to trouble him in his quiet moments. But what were the chances that he should be in two disasters in such a short time? Or that his dreams should keep whispering to him of more and worse coming?

  “And what could you have done that would deserve such attention?”

  “I have no idea.”

  Which was the simple truth. But it didn't mean he was wrong. Not that he was going to tell the pastor that. The last thing he needed was for the man to think he was crazy. So he changed the topic before things became awkward and asked what he could tell him about the doctor's location.

  “Well I don't have an address for Reginald. Just his old house. But he doesn't live there anymore. After his wife died he found it too hard. Too many painful memories. So I understand that he rents it out. He was living in the clinic where you were. There are several apartments attached to it for the attending doctors. But that's presumably gone too. If he returns though I can give him a message.”

  And that Will realised, was probably the best he could hope for. It was actually probably better than he had any right to expect. “Can you tell him please to contact me urgently. It's about the trial. Something's gone wrong.”

  “Wrong?”

  Will showed him his arm even as he hunted for pen and paper to write down his contact details. If any of them were still working. “I used to have hair a week or so ago. And not just on my arms. My legs, the rest of my body. But it's all fallen out. Even the stuff where everyone is supposed to have hair.” He whispered the last uncomfortably. Somehow he didn't want to have to spell out the intimate details to a priest. It wouldn't have felt right.

  “Oh!” The pastor smiled suddenly, finding a little humour in it. And in truth maybe it was a little funny – just not to him. “Still, that doesn't seem so bad.”

  “I know. And if that was all it was I wouldn't really care that much. But the hair's not the problem Pastor. It was a DNA trial. They were putting genes in me to protect me from diseases. There weren't supposed to be any side effects. It would either work or it wouldn't. But now if the genes are de-furring me – if that's even a word – what else are they going to do? Even the stubble on my face is thinner than it used to be.”

  Will carefully didn't tell the pastor that he knew he'd been given the wrong drug. He knew he couldn't. If that had ever got back to Doctor Millen he would have known he had been exposed. That it wasn't just a man concerned about side effects of the drug he'd been licensed to give. If the doctor hadn't run already, the moment he realised that he would likely be facing criminal charges he would. Criminal malpractice sprang to mind.

  “I understand and I'll tell him if I see him.” The pastor accepted his details from him. “But I don't think you have much to worry about. Reginald is a very good man. Dedicated to his patients and his work. Generous to the church and to charity. I'm sure he'll be able to help. And I know that he will try. Even in the middle of this crisis. He has gone out of his way to help us in the past. Especially when we were robbed. He even paid for the private detectives we needed when we couldn't and the police had given up. I suspect they don't consider the theft of holy relics a top priority.”

  “Holy relics?”

  That caught Will's attention. You didn't hear about holy relics being stolen every day. In fact he'd never heard of it. And he was curious. He needed to be curious. Because just then he didn't want to try and put together the two different pictures of the man in his head. The pastor's near saint like version and the mad scientist Will now knew him to be. Better to distract himself. Besides, maybe his good works would turn out to have something to do with his mad scientist work.

  “Yes, a paint brush.”

  “A paint brush?”

  Why would a paint brush be a relic? Will didn't get that. Nor what the theft of a relic could have to do with anything. But he was curious, and after the last few days he needed to distract himself a little bit.

  “It was from the Mileseva Monastery in Serbia and dates back to the early thirteenth century when the monastery was being built. Twelve thirty AD or so.”

  “I … see?” Will shrugged to show his lack of understanding. He still wasn't getting it. Just because something was old didn't make it a holy relic. But then again this was an Eastern Orthodox church. Like Catholics, they had saints. Maybe the brush had been used by one of them?

  “According to legend when the monastery was being built the call went out from the bishops for some of the greatest painters of the day to paint the frescoes. The famous paintings of biblical events that still adorn the walls to this day. No one knows who the artists were. Not for certain. But they are considered some of the most i
mportant Serbian artworks ever painted. And it's said that there's a reason for that.”

  “There is a legend that says that the artists needed inspiration. They wanted to paint scenes that would inspire people for thousands of years. And that one of them, perhaps even the artist who painted the fresco of the Angel in White at the Resurrection, prayed for guidance.”

  “According to the legend, that inspiration was brought to him in the form of an angel who was sent from God to present him with a brush. The brush that was used to paint the greatest of the frescoes.”

  “And that was what was stolen?”

  Of course it was. Will didn't know why he even bothered to ask. What else would the church consider a holy relic? But he didn't see the significance. Not to him anyway. To the church it was important of course, though he still found it hard to consider a paint brush as a holy relic. Not even one given to them by an angel.

  Will also had a hard time connecting the doctor who had apparently deliberately mistreated him with the same man who had paid out of his own pocket to recover a church's holy relics. Even if the theft had upset him greatly it didn't seem like the two things would be done by the same man. Why would a doctor who had a deep love of a church and presumably a belief in God and his holy relics play mad scientist on his patient? Or put the other way around; why would a mad scientist with no cannon of medical ethics, care about a religious artefact or a church? Will had no idea.

  But he did realise that it was good news in one way at least. The Pastor's tale did paint Doctor Millen as a pious man. And a pious man would go to church. There was a good chance he would return. And when the man no longer had a home and the church was the only place he was known to visit, that was important.

  “Yes. Sadly, some vandals broke in and stole whatever they could grab a year or so ago. Fairly much everything from the altar table, including the box containing the relic. The police found the rest of it pretty quickly – there's not a big market for large bronze crucifixes and the like – but not the brush. The chances are that the thieves broke open the case, found the brush inside and just threw it away as worthless.”

  “Reginald though, he wasn't happy with that, and when the church couldn't afford to pay for a private detective he paid for him out of his own pocket.”

  “But he didn't find it?”

  “No.” The pastor shook his head sadly. “The bishops were very upset that we should have lost it. Now they're talking about security systems.”

  Will shrugged. “Well this is L.A.”

  And everyone had some sort of security system. From student flats to shops. So why shouldn't a church have one? At least a camera. Granted maybe churches were supposed to be more trusting, but there were limits.

  “And this Mr. Simons is a church.” Pastor Franks fixed him with a slightly irked stare. And maybe he had a right to do so. Maybe Will was too cynical. Jaded from having lived for nearly seven years in the city. Back home after all, many of the country churches were left open day and night. Or at least they had been when he'd been a child. It was considered that a church was an important part of the community. It should be available to anyone who wanted to worship. Will knew better than to argue with him about it. It was an argument he wasn't going to win.

  “Of course Pastor. I'm sorry.” It was the second time he'd apologised to the man in five minutes, and Will was suddenly worried he might say something else to annoy him. He didn't need that. He needed the pastor to carry a message for him.

  “I should be on my way.”

  He didn't want to go. Partly because it was peaceful here. And partly because he had the insane or desperate hope that the doctor would miraculously walk in just then. But he had to go. He had a flat to repair, food to cook, flatmates to say farewell to as they were both talking about leaving, and though it was hard to accept, a life to live. The Pastor was right, the loss of his body hair shouldn't stop him trying to live his life. He needed to remember that. And though he was angry with the doctor he needed to remember that anger would not help him. But most of all he had to remember that there were many others in this very city who were much worse off than him.

  He was being selfish. Thinking of himself when he should be thinking of others. Letting his fear rule him. And this was a church, the one place where those sorts of thoughts should not be tolerated. Not even by him.

  Chapter Nine.

  The sound of the kettle whistling as the water in it bubbled away made Will feel happy. At least he could boil water. He had to be happy about little things like that, because there wasn't a lot else to be happy about.

  There was still no electricity and no official word on when it would be returning, so the only means he had of cooking anything was the little camp stove he'd set up on the kitchen counter. The stove immediately beside it was completely useless, as was the fridge behind him. He'd emptied it out the week before as the food in it had turned bad. Naturally the microwave and the dishwasher were also completely useless. In the end the entire kitchen, a large farmhouse style affair, was about as much use as a newspaper was to a blind man. All it could do was store dry goods while he cooked cans of beans on the camp stove.

  His flatmates had both left and he was missing them a little. They had packed up and gone home, and both of them were from out of state. That had been a week ago.

  It was probably for the best that they had gone. He was sure they were safer where they were, and after the ice storm he didn't really know if L.A. was so safe any more. He kept checking the skies every so often just in case. Like everyone else. Still, he sometimes wished he had a friend to talk to. But there was nothing for them in the city any more. The university was closed with no word on when it would re-open. The buses weren't running, the roads were still mostly not fit for driving on and most of the shops were closed. There was no power to cook with or wash clothes. No hot water either. And most of their friends had gone as well. They were better off somewhere else. Still, the flat seemed empty without his flatmates. Too quiet.

  But that wasn’t what was bothering him just then. It wasn't even the changes in his health that were troubling him. And there were more problems. He'd discovered nausea whenever he smelled certain things. He felt sick whenever he smelled meat cooking. Stomach cramps seemed to be plaguing him of late as well and his stomach wouldn't stop gurgling even when it wasn't hurting. He was suffering significant weight loss and there was even a slight change in his skin colour. They were all probably minor things, but in the light of what he already knew, frightening things. But just then even they didn't weigh quite so heavily on his thoughts.

  What was bothering him instead as Will poured the boiling water into the mugs, was that he was making coffee at all. He was sure he shouldn't be. Or at least not two mugs anyway. He only needed one for himself.

  But for some reason Laurel had come over claiming she wanted to check on how he was doing in the aftermath of the storm – and while he should have sent her packing given the pain she had caused him just a month before, instead he was now calmly making coffee for her. Why? Was he stupid? Completely pathetic?

  Where was the anger he should still be feeling? That he had known? She had ripped his heart out barely a month before, dumping him like a load of trash as she took up with her lab partner, and he'd been angry and hurt. Yet suddenly she was back – he didn't know why – and he was making her coffee, just as if she was an old friend who had dropped by. As if he wanted to see her.

  Sometimes it made no sense being a man in the twenty first century. Especially when there was a woman involved. Or maybe it was just being him that made no sense.

  Still, it was probably better than trying to work on his thesis without electricity. Writing with pen and paper simply wasn't something he'd done much of in many years, and his fingers had actually forgotten how over the years of typing. At the same time there was no light, so the evenings were mostly for eating barbecued meals by the light of the fire, and sleeping. There was of course no telly to watch. No compu
ter to play games on. No music to listen to. And perhaps worst of all since the temperature after the ice storm had plummeted and had not recovered for some reason, no heaters. Which was why after Mark and Richard had left, he'd taken to sleeping in the small lounge by the fire. Still, he was better off than many. At least he had a roof over his head and a fire to keep him warm at night. And the little portable camp stove to heat water on was a luxury. Until he ran out of gas.

  “There's no milk.”

  Will called out to her across the island bench letting her know the limits of his hospitality, and maybe trying to summon the hope that she'd be upset and leave him in peace. He wanted that. Both the peace and for her to leave. There was actually some milk. He just couldn't be bothered opening up one of the packets of powdered milk the emergency services people had supplied. After all it didn't really seem to dissolve well in hot water that well and it didn't taste that good either. There was some sort of taste that made it difficult to swallow. A faint stench perhaps that reminded him a little of the bad meat. Not even sugar could cover it up. Besides, after what she'd done she didn't deserve milk.