by JJ Pike
Alice shook her head. “When you hear the whole story you’ll agree. Trust me.”
Professor Baxter was at the nurses’ station, flipping through her file.
“How’s our patient?”
Baxter smiled. “Good news on that front, too.”
Alice felt her heart leap in her chest. “There is?”
“We’re draping her in synthetic skin.”
The joy drained out of Alice just as fast as it had filled her. “I don’t like the sound of that.”
“Hear me out. It’s a new-ish protocol, still in clinical trials, but with enough data coming from those trials that we don’t think we’re gambling too much. We’re going to use fish skin.”
“Fish skin?”
“It’s been used on burn victims for the last couple of years.”
“Doesn’t the body reject it? I mean, white blood cells finding a foreign object and all that good stuff?”
“It’s sterilized. Totally safe. It coats the burn and allows the skin to heal underneath it.”
“Fish skin?”
“It was developed in Brazil where pig and human tissue—traditionally used to transfer collagen to the victim’s skin—weren’t readily available.”
“Why aren’t we going the traditional route?”
“I’m getting there,” said Baxter. “Traditional applications of human or pig tissue need to be changed frequently. As you know, we have a special challenge with needing people not to touch Angelina, to say nothing of minimizing the amount of pain she’s in. Tilapia skin doesn’t just have more numbers-1 and -3 collagen proteins in it, which are required if the skin is to recover from these burns. There’s also a property we don’t yet understand that aids in pain reduction. So fewer gauze changes, fewer people touching Angelina, but also less pain for her. It’s what we in the trade call a win-win-win.”
“I’ll say,” said Stephen.
“May I see her?” Alice needed to see the kid who against all odds was still clinging to life.
“We’ve set her up in a suite with a large window so her parents and visitors can see her, but not as many people go in and out of that room. Van Karpel, as you might imagine, insists that we do all we can to reduce the number of pollutants that might enter the room.”
The three of them zig-zagged through a maze of corridors before arriving at the designated window.
The girl lay on a slab, her entire body draped in Tilapia skins. It was an unreal sight, more science-fiction than real-life-hospital, but real for all that.
“She looks so small,” said Alice.
“She’s a fighter,” said Baxter. “She’s been through hell but she’s still in there, refusing to die.”
“What’s the prognosis?”
Baxter shrugged. “You know how doctors are. They won’t answer that straight up at the best of times, but in this case I think they genuinely don’t know. She’s burning from the inside out. Have we stopped that burn? I hope so, but I can’t tell you that every shred of plastic or nylon or polyester has been removed from her dermis. As long as MELT has something to feast on, it will feast.”
The image of a microscopic troll chowing down on its prey leapt into Alice’s mind. She shoved it away. Surely by now the plastic was consumed? The end was in sight. She’d be allowed to heal, though that was going to be a long, long road.
Alice pulled Christine into a hug. “Thank you. You’ve been amazing.”
The Professor returned the unexpectedly warm gesture. “Right back at you.”
“Call me if anything changes?” Alice held her thumb and pinkie up to her ear in the gesture for “call me.”
Baxter nodded.
“Oh,” Alice laughed. “I threw away my phone. Call Stephen.” She turned to her silent admirer. “That’s okay by you?”
“Whatever you say, boss.” His smile was infectious.
The three of them said their goodbyes, grinning and laughing. Alice was cautiously optimistic. There was a solution in sight. They were winning.
In no time, Alice and Stephen were seated in a low-lit restaurant with a discrete, but attentive waitress who was at Stephen’s elbow each time he twitched.
“I take it they know you here?”
Stephen shrugged. “I eat out a lot. Prerogative of the bachelor, I guess.”
“What do you recommend?” There were no prices on the menu, so she knew everything had to cost an arm and a leg. She couldn’t think about that, though. She’d made her way through a major crisis on nothing but three energy drinks and a couple of Tic-Tacs. She deserved a decent meal.
“The Beef Wellington is outrageously good,” he said.
Her mouth watered. “Midge wouldn’t approve of the foie gras.”
“The chef has anticipated your kind-hearted daughter in this matter. They have replaced the foie gras with duxelles, so no goose was force fed for your pleasure.”
“Duxelles?” said Alice. “That’s the mushroom thingy, right?”
Stephen laughed, but it was a kind laugh. “Correct, it’s the mushroom thingy.”
Alice slapped the menu shut. “Fine.”
The waitress was back at Stephen’s side.
“Beef Wellington,” he said. “With the Saint Emilion.”
“Châteaux Ausone?” said the waitress.
Stephen nodded.
Alice didn’t want to embarrass him by being the rude date—though she wasn’t his date, this definitely wasn’t a date, no matter what the flowers and candles and heavy linen and ornate silverware signaled—by saying she couldn’t drink.
Stephen reached across the table. Alice withdrew her hand. He plucked a piece of bread from the bowl and dipped it in the fragrant olive oil. She felt like an idiot. “It’s not all about you Alice Everlee. The man does have a life,” she thought.
“Tell me your story,” he said. “Tell me why the concrete is your crowning achievement.”
“The chef sends his compliments, Dr. McKan. The amuse-bouche.” The waitress placed a small platter in front of Alice first, then Stephen. “Langoustine with a mandarin reduction. Enjoy.”
Everything was presented with such ease and grace, as if this was normal operating procedure, but Alice knew this wasn’t a place that offered an amuse-bouche. Starters, yes, but not something free that was tailor-made to heighten their senses and make the main course even more delicious. She had a little pang of sadness that he would waste all of this on her. How to tell him that pasta with pesto in front of the TV with Bill would have been a million times more to her taste than the world’s most expensive lobster?
She drew her napkin over her lap. No need to be ungracious. He was being kind. And tonight was a night to celebrate. Tonight the nightmare was over.
“K&P created a plastic-eating enzyme named MELT.” She took a tiny forkful of langoustine. The flavors exploded on her tongue. It was delectable. Delicate, but fragrant. She nodded at Stephen. “I see the bachelor life has its perks.”
He didn’t look up. “I’d give it up in a heartbeat,” he said.
Alice looked away. “MELT was set—perhaps even will, once we get this sorted out—set to revolutionize waste management. We could take all plastics, reduce them to their component parts, and safely dispose of them.”
“That seems to have gone awry.”
“Well, somehow, somewhere along the line a batch was contaminated. Or at least that’s my theory. We have an enzyme and an accelerant and it morphed.”
“Mutated?” said Stephen.
“I am not a fan of that term. It’s loose and baggy and makes people panic.”
“But it’s what you think.”
What did she think? Did she believe, as Professor Baxter did, that someone had deliberately tampered with the production? Or was it something more benign? Had they fiddled with the enzyme’s DNA, fed it an accelerant that gave it a mandate they hadn’t expected, and then BLAM the whole thing went kablooey? She shrugged. “The jury is still out. But the good thing is, we know how to
control it. We starve it of plastic. As long as it has plastic to work on, it’s going to keep going. It’s like a parasite that way…”
“Not a parasite,” said Stephen. “A parasite keeps the host alive, establishes a symbiotic relationship. This compound doesn’t sound like it has anything like the sophistication of a parasite. It sounds insatiable.”
Alice smiled. It was good to be around a big brain again. She missed these kinds of discussions, being on the marketing side of the firm. “I was speaking a bit freely. You will pardon me; it’s been a long day.”
The wine arrived. The presentation—the pouring, the tasting, the nod—was like a delicate dance between knowing partners. It made her happy. He had a good life. She was glad of it. She smiled up at the sommelier. “Just a little for me, please.”
He poured two fingers of the ruby red liquid into her glass.
“We shouldn’t skip right to the red, I know,” said Stephen, “but if I remember correctly you’re not a fan of white wine.”
“So, we have this enzyme…” She ignored his attentions. She had nothing to offer him in that department and giving him any hope would be cruel. “…And it eats through the flooring, then the floor, then the pipes and wiring and BOOM, suddenly we’re looking at a major disaster.”
“Fran showed me some pictures.”
“And then there are the humans.” She put her fork down. “Anything that’s made of plastic or a plastic derivative is food to MELT. So, it’s been hopping from person to person via their clothes.”
Stephen shook his head. “I’m not sure about that…” His phone buzzed. “It’s Fran. She says, ‘Tell Alice to get here NOW!!!!!!!!!’” He held the phone up so she could see the message herself.
Alice scrambled to her feet, searching for her bag. Then she realized she didn’t have a bag. She’d come out with just the clothes she stood up in.
Stephen'’s phone buzzed again. “They’re planning a controlled demolition. Positioning explosives as I type.”
Alice let out a shuddering breath. “Give me patience. People really don’t know how to listen. They’re going to make things worse.” She ran for the door. Realizing she’d abandoned her friend, she turned. “Sorry,” she shouted. “It’s a disaster waiting to happen. I’ve got to stop them.”
Chapter Eighteen
“Get ten boxes and set them up on the table,” said Sean. “We’re going to make care packages.”
Bill wiped his feet and hung up his coat. “What now? What did I miss?”
He’d been out with the horses. Aggie had done a good job of turning them out and keeping them exercised, but it calmed him to see them to bed. Midge had gone directly to Pippylongleg’s pen to read her a goodnight story. Life hadn’t changed that much. All would be well.
“Midge made a great start getting all the plastic-wrapped food out of the pantry,” said Sean. “I figured we should gift the stuff we can’t repackage.”
Bill nodded. “Okay. I’m with you. In theory. Tell me what you’re thinking.”
Sean picked up a granola bar. “Case in point. We could wrap these in aluminum foil, but how long would they last? A month? Two? We’d be better off keeping a small supply but re-packaging the basic ingredients—oats, nuts, raisins, etc.—so we can make our own bars later on down the line.”
“I can roll with that,” said Bill. “Aggie, would you be his second set of eyes? Not that I don’t trust your judgment, Sean…” He stopped himself. It was the case that he didn’t trust the kid’s judgment. He had no basis to trust it. If Sean was going to stay with them for any length of time—though they all might be headed back to the city soon enough—he needed to be on board with their practice of radical truth. “Sorry…”
Aggie laughed. She knew what was coming.
“I don’t know you well enough Sean to trust your judgment. You seem like you have a good heart and I like you a lot, but until I know you better all I can honestly say about you is that you mean well and probably will do good. Should I put my household’s supply in your hands though? No.”
Sean’s mouth hung open. No surprise there. No one who came to stay was used to hearing the unvarnished truth all the time.
“Aggie, on the other hand, I do trust absolutely. So you make the call about what stays and what goes but consult her and if, after some discussion, the two of you don’t agree, her word goes.”
“I understand, Mr. Everlee.” Sean did his usual hands-in-pockets-when-I-feel-uncomfortable move.
“You’ll learn to love it,” said Bill.
“What’s that?” said Sean.
“Hearing only the truth. Eventually you’ll get so you crave it. If you only hear the truth you’re never left wondering. You’re on solid ground. You’ll see.”
Sean looked on with skeptical eyes.
“Petra, could I have a word?” Bill beckoned his eldest into the front room.
“S’up, Dad?”
“I need you to do me a favor.”
“Name it.”
“I need you to go down to Jim and Betsy’s and work on their medical bills.”
“Medical bills?”
“You know how it is. If you haggle—offer cash or agree to give them a lump sum—the hospital will often ‘forgive’ a percentage of the total bill.”
Petra leaned forward in her seat, fire already in her eyes. “How much are we talking about?”
Bill shrugged. “He didn’t give me a number, but he fell and broke his hip.”
“Ow,” said Petra.
“And went to the hospital in an ambulance.”
“Double ow.”
“And he was willing to sell me the Austin for four grand.”
Petra’s eyes flew open. “That’s insane.” She grabbed her jacket and headed for the door. “I’ll see if I can’t get them to wipe the slate clean.”
“Well…” said Bill, “…just do your best.”
Petra nodded.
“Oh, and Petra?”
“Yup?”
“Let Mrs. Betsy do your hair.”
Petra scrunched her face up and took a deep breath. “If they’re that desperate I’ll do it, but you owe me.” The door slammed behind her and Bill was left to think about his “to do” list in peace.
The landscape was so different now that Alice had given him the all clear, but the exercise had taught him how reliant he was on modern conveniences. He didn’t have enough horses for all of them to ride out together or vehicles that didn’t run on gas; nor was their root cellar truly big enough to house all six of them for any length of time; their water was still, basically, city water; and they relied far too heavily on pre-packaged goods. If they were ever going to be seriously ready they needed to overhaul their plan of action. He thought back to all the times Alice had told him that they weren’t prepped. He hadn’t been listening. That was his take away. He hadn’t been listening to his wife. He vowed to do better.
He returned to the kitchen to see Aggie and Sean closing up the boxes. They looked pretty pleased with themselves.
“We’re going to deliver them to a couple of senior centers, tomorrow,” said Aggie.
“Good idea.”
“Though if you think there are any neighbors who could do with a care package, we could do that first.”
Bill turned the thought over. “No, senior centers are better. We don’t want to draw attention to ourselves.”
“There were a couple of things we didn’t toss,” said Aggie. She grinned.
“Oh?” said Bill.
Aggie pulled the bar of chocolate and marshmallows from the bottom of the cupboard. “Something tells me someone had a plan.”
Bill laughed. He’d forgotten he’d stashed those away. “Looks like we’re going to build a fire,” he said.
“Oh, man!” Midge came bouncing down the stairs. “Can we? Because I found that chocolate first, but I didn’t say anything.” She was beaming. It struck him again just how blessed he was. “And I didn’t tell them about the other th
ing either, Daddy.” She used a stage whisper for “other thing.”
“What other thing?” Aggie dove at Midge and pinned her to the floor.
“Can’t say,” said Midge.
“I will tickle it out of you…”
“Money,” said Midge. She hated being tickled. “Daddy gave me money to be nice to Mrs. Betsy.”
“Woah,” said Aggie. “I could get me some of that action.”