“How did you manage that?” I asked, amazed.
“Follow me.” He hurried out of the laboratory. I looked at my watch. Time was flying by, but I was so close to getting some Cladoxpan that it was worth the risk.
The doctor led me to the basement, where the bank vault had once been. The armored doors had been removed. Stainless steel vats lined the huge room like giant sarcophagi.
“They rescued those vats from a bourbon distillery. Not very orthodox, of course, but they work like a charm.”
“How does your method work?”
“The truth is, with the right conditions of humidity and temperature, you could make Cladoxpan in a plastic bucket. At 37 degrees Celsius, the strain produces Cladoxpan.”
I looked into one of the vats and nearly shouted in surprise. At the bottom, submerged in hundreds of gallons of water, was a white bulbous thing the size of a brain, covered with nodules and branches. It looked extraterrestrial. From time to time, it secreted a whitish liquid. When the liquid came into contact with water, it transformed into a dense, milky substance that rose to the surface.
“That’s a strain of 15b submerged in a solution of water and glucose,” Dr. Ballarini boasted. “A vat that size can generate enough Cladoxpan to treat fifty people for decades. Best of all, if you break off a piece and place it into another vat, it will grow to the same size in just three months. It is self-replicating like the bacilli in buttermilk or kefir.”
“So, you could manufacture it anywhere.” The implications of this discovery were huge. With Cladoxpan, TSJ was a nonthreatening infection, like a chronic cold. Of course, if you stopped taking it, you were toast.
“That’s right,” Dr. Ballarini conceded.
“It should be distributed worldwide immediately, Doctor.”
“No! Not till we’ve developed a final version and have a patent. I will not allow anyone else to get credit for my research.”
“Doctor, that world no longer exists!” I pleaded. But nothing I said over the next ten minutes changed Ballarini’s mind. He was a genius, but he’d turned his back on reality. For him, the world began and ended with the four walls of his lab.
“Well, at least let me take a few liters of Cladoxpan.” I had to get out of there. I heard an explosion in the distance. Something told me trouble was brewing.
“What do you want it for?” Dr. Ballarini asked. “You are not infected with TSJ.”
I groaned. It was like talking to a wall. Just then someone entered the lab.
“Freeze, scumbag. Move an inch and I’ll pump you full of lead.” The voice was right behind me. I was fucked, really fucked. I turned around slowly.
“Hello, Grapes,” I replied, courteously, not taking my eyes off the Aryan leader and the two Green Guards, all armed with M16s.
“Porca putanna, figlio di troia, ma che cazzo vuoi?” Dr. Ballarini sputtered. Gone was the congenial scientist. He changed so fast, he must’ve been mentally unstable. The idea that someone else might take credit for his work had sent him over the edge.
“You dumb shit. You shouldn’t have come here, especially after security cameras recorded you breaking into a safe in an office you had no business being in.” Malachi Grapes flashed a sinister smile.
He was enjoying himself. He reminded me of a school bully who had cornered his victim and was deciding how to make him suffer. He’d probably played that part many times in his life.
“I’m no fool.” Grapes slurred his words as if he was high. “I knew there was something fishy about you. The ship captain reported that you questioned his methods. We’ve had you under surveillance the whole time, you idiot.”
“Look, Grapes, this isn’t what it looks like. It’s all a misunderstanding. You’re right. We don’t fit in here. So why don’t you let us go?” I edged toward the door, but two Aryans blocked the way. Unless I could distract them, I didn’t stand a chance.
Dr. Ballarini looked at me, dumbfounded. A minute before, the scientist was convinced I was one of Greene’s employees. Then, Grapes showed up, claiming I was a spy and a traitor. His face turned several shades of purple when he realized he’d been tricked. With a roar, Dr. Ballarini pounced on me, his fists flying. The doctor may have been a scientific genius, but he had no idea how to fight. I easily deflected his blow and shoved him into Grapes. They fell in a jumble of arms and legs, amid grunts of pain.
That was the moment I’d been waiting for. While all eyes were focused on Grapes, I feinted to the right to dodge the nearest Green Guard. The Aryan flung out his arm to intercept me, but I dove for a hole in the wall.
If I’d been a superhero, the guard would’ve missed me by a hair. An ingenious plan perfectly executed. But in real life, there are no superheroes.
The other guard tackled me like a pro football player. At one hundred seventy-five pounds, I was no match for that three-hundred-pound pissed-off Aryan who grabbed me around the knees and dragged me five feet till we crashed into one of the vats. When my head hit the vat, a white light and a searing pain blotted everything out for a moment.
I tried to stand up, but Malachi Grapes walked over with a perverse look of satisfaction on his face and kicked me in the head. He growled, “I’ve wanted to do that ever since we met, smart-ass. I never liked lawyers.” I saw swirling colors for a few seconds, then darkness swallowed the light and I passed out.
28
What could be worse than being immortal? and still having to behave by the rules?
When I came to, I felt a sticky substance on my face. I thought for a moment they’d poured Cladoxpan on my head, but when a drop fell in my mouth, I detected the coppery taste of blood. My blood.
I had a good-sized gash on my head, one of my teeth was loose, and I could barely open my right eye. They’d worked me over good.
I was sitting in a chair in Greene’s office, all alone. Judging by the light coming in the window, the sun was setting. I had to get out of this mess or I wouldn’t make it home in time. An air conditioner hummed nearby. My hands were cuffed behind my back, so I couldn’t stand up without dragging the chair. I moved my wrists and heard the clink of a chain. Shackles. I’m sure I had the Aryans to thank for that.
I sat there for a while, struggling to think of something positive. At least someone had taken off my tie. My new suit was ruined, blood soaked, and ripped in several places. As if that mattered.
The door flew open and Reverend Greene strode into the room, followed by Malachi Grapes and a deeply worried Mrs. Compton. The Aryan seemed very pleased with himself and shot me a mocking look. The reverend’s face was more gaunt than usual. His cheeks were a flurry of tics. The broken veins covering his nose made him look like a drunk, and his eyes had an opaque veil over them, as though he had cataracts.
“Hello, Reverend,” I greeted him, trying to sound mocking. “What’s the matter? You look horrible. You should take better care of yourself—like me.”
“Shut up, asshole!” Grapes backhanded me and then pulled up a chair.
“Reverend, I swear I didn’t know. I thought…” Mrs. Compton wrung her hands.
“Calm down, Mrs. Compton,” said the reverend in a kindly voice. “You did what you thought best. Fortunately, the Lord is always watching over us and we apprehended this servant of Satan in time. Now, please take down what I say.”
With a sigh of relief, Mrs. Compton stationed herself behind a stenographic machine in the corner to take notes. Greene sat down and let out a cavernous cough.
He leaned across the table. On one side was a bottle filled with a milky fluid; on the other was his Bible. “Know what this is?” he asked, pointing to the bottle.