Guinea Pig

by Curtis, Greg

  Then there was the glowing. That was beyond strange. The biopsy of his skin had revealed that he had some sort of fluorescent pigment in his skin that reacted to heat. Specifically body heat. No one had ever seen anything like it before.

  At the cellular level things were stranger. His blood was wrong. There were far too many red and white blood cells. The first was obviously to help him exchange oxygen better. The second had no discernible purpose as far as he could tell, unless he was fighting an infection. And it was always possible that his body was busy rejecting itself. Whatever the reason, his blood was thicker than it should be. Too thick. He actually needed two hearts to pump it around his body.

  Every cell contained too many mitochondria and ribosomes. That he thought had to be about energy. About giving the angel the energy he needed to fly. But it could also just be a mistake. Almost everything within him could be a mistake. He'd known that the instant he'd seen his chromosomes under the microscope.

  The DNA was wrong. Badly wrong. He still had twenty three pairs of chromosomes like any man. But they were the wrong lengths. The pairs were mismatched. It was because the insertions had worked but not every chromosome in every cell had accepted them all. So where one chromosome in a pair had accepted more of the insertions than the other they didn't match.

  There was a term for that. For a creature built from the genetics of two different creatures. A mosaic. But Mr. Simons was a mosaic on a level never before seen. He wasn't a mixture of cells of two different creatures. Instead every cell was a mixture of two different genomes. In fact every chromosome pair was such a mix. That was something he'd never considered when he'd set about his plan. But he should have. With over a hundred different insertions and the genetic material not replicating properly in vitro, it should have been obvious that it would happen.

  But he'd somehow managed to ignore that. He'd simply assumed that the new DNA would simply replace the old as it had in every other trial.

  Of course in every other trial there had been only one insertion and one gene involved. The differences between chromosomes were microscopic. And if there had been any problems he'd imagined somehow that the body's own chromosomal repair mechanisms would put things to right. But they couldn't. The damage was too great, and the simple fact of the matter was that they simply weren't designed to deal with the new genetic material. He finally understood why the angelic DNA hadn't replicated in the lab as it should. The process was designed to replicate human DNA. Just as human cells were designed to replicate human DNA.

  Now though, as little by little Mr. Simon's body changed, those changes were in turn allowing the angelic DNA to be repaired and replicate in his body. And as that happened the angel would start to take over. The transformation was continuing. More than that it was speeding up. There was a reason Mr. Simons was starving. His body needed vast amounts of energy to replace the human cells.

  Samples had been taken of course. The scientists were anxious to study every aspect of the transformation. But he had destroyed all of them before they'd been able to leave the room. That was his official purpose here. Nothing of Will Simons' genetics was to leave the room. He feared that included Mr. Simons himself. When he died, assuming he died, the entire hospital would be sterilised with fire. That was the official plan.

  But Reginald suspected that Mr. Simons might not live long enough to die naturally. Los Angeles had suffered four major catastrophes, the sink hole, the ice storm, the lava bombs and the lightning. And all of them were due to his existence. When a fifth hit Reginald feared someone would give the order and the patient would be killed. Whatever it took to stop it. That was wrong. It was murder. And it would all be his fault.

  “We should do a biopsy.”

  Doctor Adams piped up unexpectedly, disturbing him as he pretended to study the scans but really just wallowed in his guilt and shame.

  “Of his lungs?” Reginald was shocked. A skin biopsy was one thing but a deep organ tissue biopsy in a derelict hospital with cracked walls and broken pipes, and running on generators was something else. Especially when they couldn't use drugs. No anaesthetics. Not even antibiotics. They had no idea how he'd react to them. Not when his biochemistry was so strange and his physiology messed up. “That could kill him.”

  “But think of what we could learn! New compounds to treat lung infections. To improve oxygen uptake for those who've lost lung function. We could help millions. It's an acceptable risk.”

  The doctor's words suddenly filled Reginald with alarm. An acceptable risk? That was something you talked about when you were balancing odds. Trying a risky surgery to save a life. But he wasn't talking about trying to save his life. Not even to help him with his pain. He was talking about endangering someone else's life for knowledge. The very same crime he had committed.

  “Not for William Simons.”

  “He's dead anyway.” Doctor Adams said it as if it was nothing. A man was slowly dying in confusion and pain in the next room and it was nothing to him.

  “He's not dead and he doesn't have to die suffering. And you're talking about a surgical procedure without anaesthetic. Without antibiotics. And in a hospital that's barely even worthy of the title. There's nothing sterile here.”

  “I'm talking about knowledge. The advancement of science. You more than anyone should understand that. You created this thing.”

  Reginald wished the doctor hadn't said that. Every time he looked at William Simons he remembered anew that it was all his fault. The guilt was terrible. But he couldn't give in to it. Not yet. He had a duty. But Doctor Adams didn't understand any of that. To him this was all science.

  “He's a man not a thing!”

  “So? He doesn't look very human to me.” The doctor stared at him as if he'd said something stupid. “And anyway if the damned priests are right I'm talking about saving the world. He is going to die. He has to die. Why not learn something from his death?”

  “You're talking about torture. Medical malpractice and potentially murder.” And why did he even need to say it he wondered? The man should know that. He was a doctor after all. Wasn't he?

  “It's no different to what you did – or had you forgotten?” It hurt, but Reginald knew he deserved it. He shouldn't be upset about the truth.

  “I hadn't forgotten, and I will pay for my crimes. But when I made my mistakes I never imagined I would cause such suffering. I was blind and stupid. You know your biopsy will cause him harm.”

  “But I also know one thing more. It will work.” The doctor's voice abruptly lowered until it almost sounded like he was threatening him. “I'm not a bungling incompetent like you.”

  “Restrain him.”

  Doctor Adam spoke to someone behind Reginald and immediately he turned around, starting to panic. It was just in time to see a rifle butt streaking for his face. A moment later he wasn't quite sure what was happening at all. All he knew was pain as his face exploded. And then darkness.

  Screaming was what woke him up. The sound of a man screaming in pain, and instantly Reginald knew what was happening. Doctor Adams was doing his biopsy, and at a guess a lot more besides. Meanwhile he was lying on the floor of the observation room staring at the ceiling tiles.

  Reginald struggled to his feet, something that seemed more difficult than normal for some reason, and then rushed for the double doors as best he could. Bursting through them though he almost stopped dead in horror. As bad as he'd feared it would be it was actually worse. It looked like something out of a horror movie.

  Doctor Adams was bent over the table drilling into Mr. Simons with what looked like a domestic electric drill. He was doing his biopsy, and not even with a needle. Apparently he'd decided that he needed a bigger sample. And it wasn't just a lung sample he was taking. There were at least half a dozen holes in the patient, as by the looks of things he'd started biopsying bone and muscle. Taking samples of anything he could.

  Meanwhile Will Simons was covered in blood, writhing in his chains and screaming in a
gony as he was being tortured, and no one was doing anything to stop the nightmare. The technician was lying face down on the floor while a soldier had a gun pointed at the back of his head. The nurse was doing the same, crying while another soldier had a gun to her head. The pastor and another doctor were lying on the floor unconscious. And two more soldiers were guarding the doors, keeping the technicians from the pre-op room from coming in.

  “Stop!” Reginald screamed and ran toward the doctor, and he at least managed to make him turn around and stop what he was doing. For about a second. Then someone grabbed him from behind, spun him around and threw him into a concrete wall so quickly that he didn't even have time to put his hands out in front of him.

  He hit it brutally hard, taking the impact on his face and breaking his nose. And then as he reeled backwards in shock and pain, crying out in agony as he tried to understand what was happening he was spun around again, just in time to see another rifle butt streaking for his face.

  After that he didn't know much at all.

  Chapter Twenty Three.

  “Doctor.”

  Reginald came around to the feel of a woman slapping his cheek. He heard her calling him. It was the nurse. He didn't know her name but he recognised her blurry face hovering in the air above him when he opened his eyes.

  “What happened?” The memories were flooding back as he lay there, and he could taste blood in his mouth from being hit, but somehow he couldn't quite bring himself to believe that it had really happened. That someone could do such a thing to another human being was shocking. That it should be a doctor just made it worse.

  “They left.” She was crying he thought. It was hard to be sure through his blurred vision. But she sounded like she'd been sobbing. “They took their samples. Dozens of them, packed them in a steel briefcase and they left. And then they locked the door behind them. We're trapped in here.”

  She was frightened he realised, and probably with good reason. But that could not be his first concern. Not after what he'd seen. “And Mr. Simons – how is he?” In the end he was a doctor. He'd forgotten that for a time, but now he had to be one again.

  “Bad. He's not really doing a lot, but he's still breathing.”

  “Oh God!”

  The news was terrible but he found it hard to concentrate given his own injuries. In particular he as fighting to keep himself from throwing up. Something was wrong with him. But he had a duty to his patient and that had to come first. “Help me up!”

  Somehow the nurse managed to drag him to his feet and then helped him over to his patient. But when she got him there she rushed back to the technician who was still lying on the floor, not moving a lot. From the blood loss it was apparent that someone had hit him hard. But he was being tended to and Reginald could only deal with one patient at a time.

  William Simons was a mess. The doctor had drilled at least a dozen holes into him, taking samples of every tissue he could get. And he'd done it crudely, with absolutely no concern for the patient's life or comfort. His only concern had been to take as much as possible as quickly as he could. He hadn't even tried to staunch the blood flow let alone repair the damage. There was blood everywhere, covering his body and running down the sides of the makeshift bed, even pooling on the floor. There was blood in his urine bag, telling him that there was probably kidney damage – and he only had one kidney.

  No anaesthetic! It must have been agony. Just as it still was. Though he seemed almost unconscious, and was obviously unaware of anything around him, William was still moaning. Crying out in pain.

  “All right I'm going to try and ease your pain and fix some of the damage.” Reginald spoke to his patient even as he found a pair of surgical gloves in a box and pulled them on. Why he spoke to him he didn't know. The man surely couldn't hear him and he couldn't give him consent. But it still felt right to inform him of what he was going to do. As he hadn't done before.

  Then he grabbed a pad to staunch the blood flow as well as some topical anaesthetic and began work. There wasn't much he could do of course. The topical anaesthetic wouldn't help with the pain of the deeper injuries; only an oral or intravenous one would do that. But those might kill him. Just doing what he was doing was taking a risk.

  Similarly he couldn't do any proper surgery to close any arteries that might have been severed or fix any damage. The risk of infection was far too great, and he couldn't do it without a general anaesthetic. So all he could do was to try and take away as much of his pain as possible and close up his wounds to stop some of the bleeding. Then he had to hope that his patient would heal, and if he developed a fever, hope that some oral antibiotics would stop the infection safely.

  So that was what he did. One by one he cleansed the wounds and then covered them with the topical anaesthetic and a surface sterilant, before stitching up the damage he could see. He put a drip into his arm to supply him with saline and glucose, hoping that it would help with the blood loss and stop him going into shock.

  Hours later, when he had finally sewn his last suture and had placed a bandage over the last wound, Reginald wanted to drop. He was exhausted for some reason, and whatever was wrong with his face was hurting him badly. But he had one more thing to do before he could drop. He could see his patient's temperature rising and knew William had an infection. After what had been done to him how could he not? And in Mr. Simon's condition any infection would kill him. So he gave him an oral broad spectrum antibiotic and prayed it wouldn't kill him instead.

  After that he collapsed back into the wall and then slid the rest of the way to the floor and simply let the stress overwhelm him for a bit. It was all he could do.

  Meanwhile the others had got the technician James back up and were busy nursing him, though he looked as white as a sheet. Reginald hoped it was simply due to emotional shock and not blood loss. The pastor was helping as best he could but he looked sick and someone had obviously broken his nose too. He had trails of dried blood running down his face. The nurses had bruises on their faces, and one of them was limping as she tried to do her duty.

  It was like a scene from a war movie he thought. Except that there had been no war. Just a bunch of men with guns and an agenda. It was a stick up.

  And now he knew that sooner or later, this entire nightmare would be replayed somewhere else. And more people would be put through the same pain as William Simons. Maybe many more people. Because in the end there was no way to replicate the genes outside of a human host.

  He had failed. He had failed when he had done this thing to Mr. Simons. Failed in his duty as a doctor and as a human being. Failed his dead wife's memory. Then he had failed to care for his patient. And now, even knowing his many terrible failures he had failed again, and allowed the work to escape so that others could suffer the same fate. And there was nothing he could do about any of it.

  Chapter Twenty Four.

  Twenty four hours later things were quiet in the surgical suite, but far from happy.

  It had been grim in the hospital since the attack. More than grim. People spent their time alternating between disbelief that it had happened and fear that Adams would come back. But they were also trying to deal with their injuries. And in Reginald's case nausea. The simple gut churning reaction to having witnessed something so despicable.

  The image of Adams bent over his patient with a drill was burnt into his mind and he feared it would never leave him. That a man could do something like that to another was appalling. But Adams had. He hadn't flinched. He hadn't shown a single shred of empathy as he relentlessly drilled holes in his victim. The man was beyond cold. And, Reginald thought, there was no way he could be a doctor. He probably wasn't even a scientist. He was something else.

  Meanwhile the soldiers that had helped him, and escaped with him afterwards, had also beaten them – in Reginald's case very badly – and they were all bruised and bloodied. Reginald didn't care about the injuries to his face. They would heal and in any case it was the least he deserved for his cr
imes.

  Ever since then they had kicked the other soldiers out. The bishop had arrived, given a few orders when he'd discovered what had happened, and the soldiers had backed off. No more of their kind would be coming in, and they seemed happy enough with that. Elijah guessed that the soldiers had simply been asked to contain them. And with the hospital in ruins, only one way in or out through the car park, they could do that just as easily from outside. There was no need to patrol the hallways and guard the doors. A few were stationed in the atrium, but even they didn't really have to be there.

  More medical staff were on their way as well. Staff they could trust. There would be no more outsiders dealing with William Simons. No more scientists either. The man was not a lab animal. He only wished he'd understood that before he'd injected him. Before he'd begun this nightmare.

  “How's he doing?”