Project 137

by Seth Augenstein

  “So, Doc,” he said, picking up the coffee cup, the steam rising over his face. “Now that we’re in this together, what do you think is going on? Do you think this shooter was also the guy who pumped the germs into the apartment complex?”

  I cracked an energy stick and snorted it. With a rush, my brain seemed to vault back into action.

  “We’re not friends, O’Keefe,” I said, rubbing my nose. “We’re not in anything together.”

  “Come on, Doc,” the reporter said. “May I call you Joe?”

  “No.”

  “Fine, fine. This is all off the record, between business partners.”

  “In answer to your question, I don’t know yet,” I said. “Could be one rogue sociopath. We have them every few months. But I’ve never even heard of an overnight die-off like this before. Other patients at Saint Almachius are perfectly healthy. It makes no sense.”

  O’Keefe reached across the table and smacked my arm.

  “That’s why you need the power of the press!” he said. “Like the old-time watchdog role, the way it used to be! I’ll see what’s in these files, I’ll ask around and see what we can dig up.”

  Sipping the coffee, O’Keefe stared off toward the TV, puckering his lips. He scratched at the dossier on the seat next to him, nodding.

  “Let’s agree—going forward we’ll work together to figure it all out,” the reporter said.

  “I’m not your friend, O’Keefe. We’re working along parallel lines, nothing more,” I said. “And that’s because I have no other choice.”

  “That’s the spirit,” O’Keefe said, reaching across and smacking my arm again. He rose from his seat, tucking the dossier under his arm. “Desperate men make the best investigators. You go talk to that maniac locked up in the hospital. In the meantime, I’ll get to work on these pages. We’ll talk in a day or two.”

  O’Keefe tapped the documents, flipped on his cap, and stepped toward the door.

  But he turned and stooped with a graceless lurch near my ear. He wheezed hot breath down my neck.

  “And just so you know: a source tells me the cops are looking at you as a suspect,” O’Keefe said. “So watch your step, my friend.”

  GUATEMALAN SABBATICAL

  U.S.A., 2087

  The form was amorphous, throbbing, as Abbud waved the wand over Mary’s womb. The white ultrasound mass floated in and out of view. Mary squeezed my hand as our child took shape, vanished, then reappeared on the screen. My heart leapt with each new ripple before my eyes.

  But it appeared strange. It looked unreal, somehow. I had seen a million of these images, but my unborn child looked different, for some reason. I rubbed my eyes.

  “All healthy and normal,” Abbud said, nodding and smiling. “A little bit on the big side for the first trimester. But still normal.”

  Mary smiled and nodded, rubbing her abdomen dreamily.

  “Boy or girl?” she said.

  “Well now,” Abbud said. “I could tell you, but both of you would have to sign the standard waiver—”

  “Let’s just be surprised,” I said.

  “But why keep it a secret?” Mary said, sitting up a bit, knocking the sonogram off-kilter so the screen went black. “I’d rather be able to plan ahead. Start painting the bedroom pink or blue. Things like that.”

  “I’d like to have a little old-fashioned mystery along the way,” I said. “Let’s at least wait until we talk this over at home. It’s something we can’t unhear.”

  She rolled her eyes, then looked at Abbud and nodded.

  “Maybe the next appointment,” she said. “I’ll work on him.”

  “You’re the boss,” Abbud said, nodding. He readjusted the wand, so the bulbous, pulsating fetus again came into view. He nodded. “Everything looks good. But just one thing—keep in mind that this pregnancy may not be typical in some respects, considering Mary’s exposure to the agents in the Middle East during her time in the Marines. There may be some vomiting of blood, and nausea, and other side effects.”

  “Vomiting blood?” I asked, my head starting to spin.

  “Yes, Joe,” said Abbud. “But as you know, Joe, nothing is definite in medicine.”

  Sweat pooled in my palm as I held Mary’s hand. As I watched the squirming image, I saw—or thought I could see—vestiges of a life to come. The outline of my own chin, Mary’s cheeks, what appeared to be relatively big hands the child could only have inherited from his or her father. But it changed and mutated, like a psychedelic dream. It looked like paint smeared by a brush on an easel. I stared and it changed back and forth, first becoming my human son who was just ready to burst into this life—then transforming to a softer-shaped daughter, a blob of cells, a primordial monster. Every time I was unsure of what I was looking at—a hand, or a foot, or a head—I stared all the harder to reassure myself there was a human being in that image before me. But then I’d blink and squint, unconvinced. Why was the kid so big? Both Mary and I had been born premature, and underweight. Was Abbud giving us the whole prognosis? Did he even know what was going on? How could bloody vomit be normal? I closed my eyes and breathed hard.

  As the sweat pooled in my hand, the pulse in my thumb—the princeps-pollicis artery—throbbed hard. Then the same rhythm boomed in my temples, the superficial-temporal vessel. I withdrew my hand from Mary’s and rubbed my head. The pain amplified tenfold, in a single moment. I almost screamed, but my mouth made no sound.

  “Honey, what’s wrong?” she said, laying a hand on my shoulder.

  “Migraine,” I said. I stood from the stool. The room wheeled around me.

  “Overcome with seeing your child for the first time,” Abbud said, nodding, his form blurry and distorted. “The realization you’re going to be a parent takes over, and it can be overwhelming. I’ve seen it hundreds of times.”

  “Or it’s too many of those damned energy sticks, Joe,” said Mary, grabbing my arm.

  Abbud stood and walked me toward the door. Everything around me was a maelstrom of light and color.

  “Go back to your office—the rest of the check-up is just a formality,” the obstetrician said, patting my back. “You already know the important things. Your baby is healthy, even if it’s a little big. Everything is coming along.”

  I heard all this as a far-off echo. The pain seared through my head, a build-up like a complex symphony. I hadn’t had a migraine in years, and it was worse than ever before. But this was important to Mary, so I swallowed and closed my eyes, and tried to stop the spins.

  “But what about the nutritional supplements? We have…to know what…those are,” I said, stopping at the threshold, fighting through the pain.

  “Honey, don’t worry,” Mary said, wiping down her greased belly. “I’ve been reading up on everything, and Dr. Abbud and I have been going over all the fine print. This is only going to make the baby healthier. Just go sit down in your office and get a glass of water. I’ll be up after we’re finished.”

  Nausea crashed over me in waves as I turned and stumbled down the hall. I made it to the end near the elevator. I stopped and braced myself against the wall. Dozens of stingers attacked my skull, a pain that widened, then sharpened. I went through the door and ambled up the stairs as fast as I could, then down the hallway. The motorized ceiling cameras whirred, tracking me. I rushed into my office, swiped the Atman across the front of the drug cabinet, fumbling the codeine bottle on the lowest shelf. But just as I shook the pills out, I gasped once and closed my eyes. A vision of the drowning river, of my nightmare, washed over me—and then vanished.

  The pain vanished. It disappeared with the vision, as quickly as it had come. I didn’t move for a moment, waiting for the spikes to stab pierce my brain again. But nothing happened. I waited a moment. Nothing. So I shook the tablets back into the bottle, and set it back in the cabinet, which I locked.

  What was happening to me? Rocking back in my seat, I kept my eyes shut and breathed. It was absolutely baffling—the violent queasiness
had passed so quickly. I had never read about anything like it in any of the medical records before, let alone experienced something like it myself. But still I waited. I rubbed my temples to calm myself, put everything back at ease. Was I getting the mystery sickness that killed the Cruzen boy—or the plague that had killed Rothenberg? I snapped an energy stick, snorted deeply, and allowed the silence to envelop me.

  It didn’t last. Footsteps echoed down the hall, coming closer to me. I took a deep breath. There was a knock at the door.

  “What do you want?” I snapped.

  There was a beep, a click, and then Betty Bathory walked in, her scrubs rustling between her thighs.

  “Joe.”

  “What is it, Betty?” I said.

  “Seeing your unborn child for the first time too much for you?” she said, laughing. “Just think of all the afterbirth and fluids to come. The steaming diapers in your future.”

  “Shut it, Betty. I can’t deal with this now.”

  She sat down in the guest’s chair. Her grin contracted into a small smile.

  “I’m just messing with you, Joe. How is Mary?” she asked.

  “She’s already the perfect mom,” I said. “It’s like she’s possessed by some exotic Third-World fertility goddess. She’s doing all this research, she’s doing exercises and calculating her nutrition. She’s got her head straight, too. That former Marine is going to make one excellent mother. It’s incredible.”

  Betty’s eyes narrowed at me.

  “But also disconcerting,” she said.

  “Not disconcerting—just a bit overwhelming,” I said. I shook my head, and folded my hands on the desk, like I was about to pray. “Betty, I haven’t told anybody else this. But I’ve got to tell somebody, or I’ll go crazy.”

  “What, Joe?” She leaned forward, an eager look on her face.

  “Mary and I always talked about having kids,” I said. “But it had been so long, I thought it would never happen. I just got done paying off one mortgage, and I wanted to build up a nest egg—just in case. We have all the money we’ll ever need, but it’s all caught up in things I can’t touch for a little while. So there’s no cash. I had a plan. It was all going perfect. And then she got pregnant. The miracle happened, and I’m not ready for it.”

  “So this is a roundabout way of saying you’re in a financial hole,” Betty said.

  “Not a hole, exactly,” I said. I opened my mouth to say more, but I couldn’t.

  “But the finances are not good,” she said.

  “Yes. That’s a better way of putting it.”

  “Is this just a we-might-have-to-cut-back-on-eating-out kind of thing, or is it a we-might-not-have-food-on-the-table-at-all problem?”

  A pause. I rubbed my eyes.

  “Food might generally be a challenge,” I said.

  She sighed, rubbing at her own eyes.

  “Damn, Joe. Does Mary know?” she said.

  “Not really.”

  She sighed.

  “You know you have to pay the birth tax,” she said.

  “I know. I’ll figure something out,” I said.

  “Are the baby’s health costs covered, at least?” she said.

  “Yes. But only because everything’s covered under this new vitamins study. Mary’s been reading the fine print on that, checking everything out. But if we weren’t part of the program, we’d be delivering the kid at home on the couch with blankets and kitchenware.”

  “That’s good. But I would read that fine print yourself—not that I don’t trust Mary,” Betty said. “With things like this, it’s always good to have a second pair of eyes checking everything out. And you’re a doctor. She’s just a jarhead, no offense meant to her.”

  “She’s more than just a jarhead, Betty. But I will. I haven’t had the time. You know how it is lately around here. Maybe I’ll check with Abbud now. Mary might still be there.”

  “That’ll have to wait, Joe,” she said. “Because the psycho wants to see you.”

  “Kranklein?”

  “No, not that psycho,” she said, chuckling. “The janitor. Lamalade. He’s been asking for you ever since my shift started. He’s got a wild look in those googly eyes of his.”

  I rose from my chair and tugged at my collar.

  “I wanted to talk with him anyway,” I said.

  She came over, slapped my hands away, and straightened my tie. She was close. Her sweet perfume rose to my nose.

  “So go give him the third degree before the cops come back,” she said, holding up her hands. “They’ve been relentless ever since he got here. Especially your friend Zo.”

  I opened my eyes. She looked up, and our eyes met. We looked at each others’ lips, and a quick thought, and memory, were exchanged. But we glanced quickly away, and I stepped aside.

  “I’m going. Just start on the rounds. Check on MacGruder, especially.”

  “Why MacGruder?” she asked.

  “I’m just…worried,” I said. “I couldn’t say why. So just keep up on him. And tell him I’ll be by later, if I can.”

  “Aye aye, Doc,” the nurse said, giving me a mock-salute. “And don’t worry about Mary—I’ll make sure she gets home in one piece.”

  I turned to go, but she grabbed my arm.

  “And I won’t say anything about the money,” she said. “But you have to tell her. The sooner the better.”

  “I know,” I said, turning away from her.

  The cameras tracked me, with their whirring gears, as I walked down the hallway.

  Again there were no guards outside Lamalade’s door. The chances of an escape in his weakened condition were not good, and apparently the authorities weren’t worried about retribution from the victims’ families. Lamalade sat up in bed, reading on the Atman in his wrist, some tiny spectacles perched on his nose. The mask was gone. The big wart on his nose was clear to see. He looked like a ghoul. When he saw me walk into the room, he smiled and snatched the glasses off his face.

  “Dr. Barnes, to what do I owe this honor?” he said.

  “You asked for me.”

  “Did I? I guess I did. Man, I’ve been so out of it ever since I came down with this bug that’s been going around. It’s all been a blur, man.”

  “By bug you mean bubonic plague. From your own biological-weapons attack,” I said, pulling a chair to the bedside.

  “I wouldn’t say ‘attack.’ And for most people it’s just a passing thing. It’s not like we live in Dark Ages Europe or something. Antibiotics kill infections, people get better.”

  I sat down, leaned forward, elbows on knees.

  “That’s rich. Twelve dead, five more on the verge. You’re smarter than the average psychotic, Sam,” I said, shaking my head. “But you never gave me a straight answer. Why kill these people at the talent show? Why infect an entire apartment complex?”

  “‘Talent show’—that’s funny, doc. Let me see if I can give you the ‘straight answer’ you’re looking for,” Lamalade said, folding his hands across his lap. “First off—have you seen this so-called ‘talent show’? ‘How Low Can You Go’?”

  “I’ve heard of it, but I don’t really watch TV.”

  “I knew I liked you, Doc—I knew you were a sensible man,” Lamalade said. “‘How Low Can You Go.’ It’s right there in the name. It features people taking dares from the audience, the more outrageous the better. People eat insects, fight wild animals, disfigure themselves, and perform live sex acts on strangers for a chance to win sums of money. I saw a father inject his nine-year-old daughter with heroin—he won a couple thousand bucks for that. And that lowlife who bit poisonous snakes—he was a real winner.”

  “You’re saying you punished people who liked a TV show. Innocent fans of a TV show.”

  “Not really. I’m punishing the culture itself.”

  “Bullshit. You murdering innocent people does nothing to the culture.”

  “Not necessarily. But if someone has to go on a killing spree, why not pick the place
with the lowest common denominator?”

  I held out my hands.

  “What do you mean, ‘if someone has to go on a killing spree?’” I said. “Did someone put you up to this, Sam?”

  But the younger man said nothing. Scratching my brow, I shook my head. I felt so tired—so incredibly tired, speaking with this unhinged patient I had to keep alive, yet who valued no life in any way.

  “You’re talking to a doctor, Sam,” I said. “My whole existence is about saving lives. In my world, you’re just one little human tumor in the midst of an otherwise functioning society. And even still, I’d like to save your life.”

  Lamalade laughed. His rail-thin frame lifted higher in the bed, like he was ready to jump out of his leg restraints onto the floor, perhaps even spar with me.

  “Listen to yourself, man,” Lamalade said. “Your self-righteous platitudes just make my point. These people who died in the last few days, weeks, whatever—what did they do to help the human condition? You’d say everyone’s innocent, everyone has a right to live, blah blah blah. But you don’t see any of these people doing anything to better the world. People starve in Africa, terrorists bomb every city in the Middle East. These sleazes watch clips of it all on TV and make jokes. A few blocks down from this depraved ‘talent show,’ people are living on the Newark streets, unable to feed their children, and these social parasites do nothing. They zip past on their way to an audition for a show called ‘How Low Can You Go,’ where they compete to debase themselves for a few crumbs more. These people were not innocent. Most of them were probably Mister Smith voters. They were all guilty as hell. And they deserved punishment.”

  I stood, walking slowly toward the window, my steps slow as I carefully worked through the words of this killer. I worked through a spot diagnosis from my memories of psychology. Lamalade was not insane, necessarily—but perhaps he was a psychopath. I had to tread lightly in this conversation, because he was no fool.