The Cicada Prophecy: A Medical Thriller - Science Fiction Technothriller

by J. R. McLeay

  As she rubbed her painful, swollen fingers and strained to lift herself out of bed, she shuffled to the washroom where she relieved herself once again, only two hours after her last mid-sleep interruption. When she was finished, she flushed the toilet and moved to the sink to wash her hands. Looking up groggily at the mirror above the basin, she could barely make out her own image. Reaching for the reading glasses she’d left at the side of the commode, she awkwardly placed them over the bridge of her nose and looked up.

  Immediately, she took a step back and shrieked in horror. The image in front of her was one she no longer recognized—it was that of an old and haggard woman. Scarcely believing her eyes, she tentatively stepped forward to take a closer look. As she moved to within inches of the mirror, she gasped as she observed the telltale signs of advanced aging: the once taught and plump skin on her youthful face was now sallow and lined with deep ridges and wrinkles running from the edge of her graying hairline to the hanging folds on her neck.

  Staring abjectly at the sickly stranger in the glass, Tian saw a lone tear slowly streaming down her cheek. For she knew at this moment, that her life’s work had been hopelessly sabotaged, and that suddenly, everything had changed.

  48

  By the first week of December, a panic had begun to sweep across the globe as millions of adolescents wearing the adult patch were seeing irrefutable evidence that something had gone horribly wrong with the plan to return them to normal stasis. Hospitals around the world were inundated with shocked and terrified adolescents presenting a variety of symptoms associated with rapid aging—from arthritis to osteoporosis, hypertension, cataracts, and cancers of the reproductive organs. Even more distressing for the victims were the obvious outward signs that their bodies were swiftly declining: deepening wrinkles, proliferating age spots, and rapidly graying hair. For many, this rude awakening represented a blunt reminder of an immutable fact of life they’d long since discounted: their own mortality.

  No one had expected this kind of reaction to the adult patch, least of all the previously happy and complacent juveniles. Although most of the newly configured patch users had come to terms with the fact that they would no longer return to their previous juvenile state, they had grudgingly accepted the probability that they would still live the long healthy lives of normal adults. But the surprising turn of events of the last week had quickly transformed their attitude. No longer docile adolescents looking to their nominal juvenile masters for treatment and care, they were now angry and volatile young adults, increasingly frustrated with the perplexed responses and unclear diagnoses provided by their junior caretakers.

  In the last couple of days, bands of furious adolescents had begun to assemble outside the U.N. building on First Avenue and at Endogen headquarters in New Jersey looking for answers—and for someone to blame. With the crowds growing increasingly agitated and aggressive by the hour, large regiments of police in riot gear had been dispatched to each location to try to keep the protestors at bay. But by Monday morning, the situation was getting out of control, as swarms of outraged adolescents converged on the two institutions symbolizing their fall.

  At One Endogen Place, on the normally quiet grounds of Endogen headquarters in suburban New Jersey, Roland Jamieson looked down upon the assembled mass of protestors swarming outside the main entrance gate to the executive tower from the relative safety of his office on the twentieth floor. Even from his lofty perspective, he could hear the crowd’s angry chants through the thick double pane windows and see the slogans scrawled on their waving placards.

  “Murderers!” they shouted.

  “Endogen must pay!” others screamed.

  Their brightly painted banners, hand-scrawled in bold colors on makeshift cardboard panels, looked to Jamieson like fallen autumn leaves shifting on a moving tide as it crashed against the rocky shoreline—rising and ebbing against the countervailing force of riot police valiantly trying to push it back.

  “Criminal negligence!” read one of the waving posters.

  “String up the CEO!” said another.

  As Jamieson watched the angry crowd vigorously pumping their placards and pressing toward the front doors, another aquatic metaphor came to mind: that of the annual spawning ritual of the sockeye salmon. The adult salmon, similarly pumped up on hormones, were also singularly focused on reaching their target destination—in their case, to release and fertilize eggs at their spawning ground for the next generation. The mad tapestry of colored banners amongst the surging crowd reminded Jamieson of the telltale spotted orange and red colors of dying salmon.

  As he watched the crowd converge in a tighter pack and slowly begin to penetrate the line of police in riot gear, he could see the determined adolescents begin to stream through the barricade of clear plexiglass shields, like packs of single-minded salmon breaching the downstream current of a narrowed river pass. It was now obvious that, like their highly evolved eukaryotic cousins, this cohort would not be barred from their ultimate purpose.

  Jamieson looked on in an oddly detached manner for a few more seconds, then quietly turned and calmly walked past his frightened secretary, who had also been listening to the alarming developments outside. Without saying a word, he made his way to the nearest exit in the hallway, where he briskly ascended a flight of stairs and opened a heavy steel door leading to the roof. Waiting on a raised helipad on the flat roof deck was a sleek executive helicopter with slowly turning rotor blades, painted in rich blue Endogen colors and emblazoned with a large yellow “e” logo on the side door.

  Nodding to the pilot, Jamieson climbed in as the rotors rapidly spun up to full speed, then the copter lifted off and banked steeply away from the angry, chanting crowd below.

  49

  On Monday afternoon, Joe Morgan called an emergency meeting with Rick and Jennifer to discuss the latest developments with the rapid aging situation. If he thought he had a logistical and medical nightmare on his hands two weeks ago when the defective juvenile patch was first identified, this turn of events concerning the adult patch was far more serious. His emergency room had been overrun with angry and frightened adolescents demanding instant treatment, many of whom were threatening doctors and nurses who didn’t attend to them immediately. Instead of the relatively docile group of individuals who had previously submitted peacefully to treatment from their juvenile caretakers, the new group was a hostile band of aggressively aging adolescents, desperately seeking a cure. But this time there was little hope for salvation or a return to health. Everyone knew that the obvious and extreme signs of accelerated aging signaled something far more ominous, and that they were rapidly running out of options.

  In an effort to manage the volatile situation, Joe had tried to step up hospital security with local police reinforcements, but he was told they were too busy dealing with other protests and random acts of violence around the city. It was now obvious to Joe that the only way he or anyone else could hope to put a stop to the rapidly deteriorating situation was to discover the cause of the rapid aging problem, and hope that a cure could be found quickly. At Rick and Jennifer’s request, he had authorized genetic tests on the latest batch of patients, and today he was looking forward to their findings. When the two doctors presented themselves at his door at the appointed hour, he motioned for them to come in.

  “I didn’t think this situation could get any worse,” he began, “but we’re now in the midst of a bigger crisis than I ever imagined. And it’s no longer primarily a logistical problem; it’s become an out-of-control epidemic. I’ve literally got people breaking down our doors demanding to be treated and cured. I was hoping one or both of you might have some answers for me.”

  “I’m afraid it’s even more serious than we previously thought, Joe,” Rick replied with a grim expression. “The tests have come back, and they don’t look good.”

  “What did the DNA profile show?”

  What had once taken decades and hundreds of millions of dollars to accomplish—a compl
ete genetic map of the human genome—could now be completed using state-of-the-art technology in mere hours. Advanced electron microscopes, using beams of electrons instead of traditional lenses and normal wavelengths of light, were capable of magnifying culture specimens collected from patients up to one million times, and could actually see individual atoms. Using special enzymes harvested from common bacteria to cut and segment the deoxyribonucleic acid compounds found within every living human cell, advanced computers sequenced the complex strings of material into a personalized ‘map’ of six billion letters, which could then be compared to the normal chromosomal patterns of healthy individuals.

  “We’ve isolated a mutation in the LMNA gene which produces the lamin-a protein,” Rick answered.

  “What does that mean?” Joe replied, not nearly as well versed in the science of human genetics or molecular biology as Rick.

  “Unfortunately, this protein is an essential chemical that provides the structural scaffolding to hold the nucleus of every cell together. It’s the same kind of mutation observed in patients with Hutchinson-Gilford Progeria syndrome.”

  “My god,” Joe replied, recognizing the disease that afflicted some young children, causing irreversible rapid aging soon after birth.

  “And the cell cultures,” he asked, referring to the other test the doctors had ordered,”—do they corroborate your findings?”

  “Unfortunately, yes,” Jennifer interjected, pushing two electron micrographs across the desk toward Joe. “In this EM you can see more than fifty percent of the adolescent’s nuclear membranes are misshapen—compared to less than one percent in the corresponding picture of a healthy juvenile. I’m afraid it’s true; somehow the defective patch—or the adult patch—stimulated a mutation of this gene which provides the building blocks for healthy and normal cell regeneration.”

  “What percentage of the new adult patch wearers have presented with this condition?” Joe asked, hoping the mutation was simply an aberration limited to just a few victims.

  “All of them,” Rick replied.

  “Jeezus,” Joe exclaimed, finally recognizing the full scale of the disaster. He knew full well that if this condition weren’t corrected, it effectively meant a near-term death sentence for more than three hundred million people across the globe.

  “What can we do?” he asked.

  “Unfortunately, nothing at the present time,” Rick stated flatly. “After decades of trying, scientists still haven’t found a way to reverse the genetic damage in Progeria patients, and I fear this will be a similar situation. Plus, in this case, we’ve got even less time to find a cure. With Progeria victims, the normal lifespan is about thirteen years, but this group of adolescents appears to be aging ten times as fast. I think their lives will be measured in months, or maybe even weeks, at this pace.”

  “We’ll never be able to provide adequate care for this many affected people with our existing facilities,” Joe protested. “What do you propose we do?!”

  Rick and Jennifer looked at each other, already knowing the answer.

  “We can only provide palliative care now,” Jennifer responded. “At this point, it’s probably the morgue and funeral homes that should be concerned with overwhelming demand for their services. We can provide pain medication of course, but many of these individuals may be better off being cared for at home or in hospice, since there is very little we can do for them now.”

  “Nothing?! Joe implored, still not ready to believe his world-renowned hospital was helpless to treat so many critically ill patients. “We’re not even going to try finding a cure?”

  “I’ve sent samples down to the National Institutes of Health in Bethesda,” Rick replied, “where the best clinical minds in the country will be working on this. But I wouldn’t hold out much hope. Much as cancer does, this bug has now burrowed deep into the genetic infrastructure of every adolescent, and taken root in virtually every cell in their bodies. Unfortunately, some kind of lethal biochemical signal seems to have been triggered, and there now appears to be no way of stopping it. We may have fooled a little too much with mother nature, and now she’s bent on removing this damaged cohort from the population.”

  “What are the implications of this for the GLI?” Joe asked, suddenly thinking once again of his own health. “Do you think the rest of the juvenile population is at risk?!”

  “That remains to be seen,” Rick suggested. “Maybe this is just a freak reaction to certain individuals being pulled out of juvenile stasis, and their genetic clock is catching up for lost time. I’ve got a meeting with the Secretary-General and Director-General of the WHO later today, and we’ll have to make some tough decisions—but it likely won’t amount to much more than a new advisory for those already affected. We can only hope the rest of humanity will be spared the capricious judgment of a force greater than us.”

  As Rick stood to leave, Jennifer peered over at him sadly, knowing he was heading into an even more uncomfortable meeting, where he would come face-to-face with the personal consequences of this horrible disease with his terminally ill friend and colleague, Tian Yin.

  Six hours later, in the dimming light of the late autumn afternoon, Rick walked south along the East River waterfront after his meeting with Tian Yin and Sanjeet Singh, trying to clear his head. As he feared, the meeting at U.N. headquarters had been awkward and uncomfortable. Tian had not accepted the news about the genetic mutation and his prognosis well, but even more disconcerting was how much worse Tian looked. Rick had steeled himself for how she might appear, but he was completely unprepared for what he saw. Since the Lincoln Center event ten days ago, she seemed to have aged many years, and perhaps even more disturbing for Rick, she appeared to have given up all hope, now seemingly going through the motions in her duties at the U.N., resigned to her grim fate.

  Rick had tried to lighten her spirits by mentioning how he and other top researchers would be doing everything in their power to find a cure for the genetic anomaly, but they both knew the prospects were dim for any kind of antidote. By the close of the meeting, the three had simply agreed to put out another Stage Six WHO advisory, and to encourage member-states to provide additional public funding for the expected increased palliative care needs of adolescents over the ensuing weeks. To make matters worse, Rick had already begun to hear rumors from his other contacts at the U.N. that the Security Council had started a preliminary search for a replacement Secretary-General, as they didn’t expect Tian to be useful in her present capacity much longer.

  As he bundled up against the cold December wind sweeping across the river and headed south toward the Williamsburg Bridge on the lower east side, his thoughts turned once again toward Eva. It had been almost a week and a half since she disappeared, and he was growing increasingly concerned for her safety. There had been no further word on her whereabouts, nor any kind of ransom demand from her abductors. His repeated calls to Special Agent Sanchez at the FBI had only gotten delayed messages indicating little progress, but reminding Rick to call if he saw or heard anything new. Rick had no idea where Eva might have been taken, but he was now certain Calvin was involved. Although he knew Calvin would never be foolish enough to take Eva to his Garden of Eden church in the East Village under the watchful eye of the local police and FBI, for some reason Rick turned west and began to make his way toward the little church on 14th Street anyways.

  As he approached the dark cathedral silhouetted against the moonlit sky, he reflexively looked up at the tall steeple topped with its weathervane-like cross, hoping it might somehow point to where Calvin was hiding. Looking through the mist created by his steamy breath condensing in the chilly evening air, he saw the familiar profile of the church’s chimney stack rising above the roofline where he’d previously seen a light shining in Calvin’s rectory window. Although there was no sign of activity anywhere to be seen on or about the property, somehow the sight of the chimney triggered a subconscious memory for Rick. As he stopped and peered pensively at the crumbling
structure, trying to remember what significance it might hold and how it could be connected to Eva’s disappearance, he suddenly remembered something that was missing from his last visit here three weeks ago. That night, when he had stopped by after his nightclub excursion with Jennifer and seen a light in Calvin’s rectory, he’d noticed something else—there had been smoke coming from the chimney, obviously from a fire Calvin had burning in his fireplace on that similarly cold autumn evening.

  Somehow, this image triggered a visceral memory for Rick, and his eyes suddenly widened as he remembered the distinctive scent of the smoke wafting down to street level when he had entered the cab to go uptown. Quickly reaching into his coat pocket for his cell phone, he punched in Agent Sanchez’s number. Suddenly, he knew where Calvin had taken Eva.

  50

  On Tuesday morning, FBI Special Agent Luis Sanchez sifted through the wreckage of overturned office furniture and broken glass on the twentieth floor of the Endogen headquarters building in Somerset, New Jersey. After the police line protecting the main entrance to the executive tower was breached during yesterday’s siege, hordes of angry protestors flowed into the building bent on retaliation and destruction. No artifact or symbol of corporate power was spared, and many of the trapped employees were subsequently terrorized by the frenzied mob. Some of the support staff who remained behind to defend the building after most of the executives escaped through hidden exits had been threatened and physically accosted by incensed adolescents looking for anyone to blame.

  Although the police had quickly responded to the uprising with armed reinforcements and were ultimately able to disperse the crowds using tasers and tear gas, it was not before the rampaging adolescents had vented their anger and frustration on the human and material symbols of their misfortune. Like a neutron bomb, it seemed as though they had gone through the entire building and left nothing unturned. The giant Endogen glass logo hanging in the lobby had been smashed to pieces, and expensive works of art in the corporate boardroom had been pulled down from the walls and shredded until barely recognizable. Roland Jamieson’s office, clearly marked with his Chief Executive Officer title on the outside door and his nameplate on his desk, had been uniquely singled out, with his personal effects smashed and strewn across the floor, and the large picture window overlooking the courtyard shattered.