Guinea Pig (3 page)

Chapter Three.

The banging on the wall woke Will from sleep far too early. The clock said eight o'clock but his body told him it was still the middle of the night. Probably because he hadn't managed to sleep peacefully until a few hours before. And before that the events of the day had kept him on edge as at any moment he kept expecting the ground to open up beneath him and swallow him whole. So instead of answering his flatmate Will grabbed a pillow and covered his head with it. His flatmate would go away in time.

“
Get up you ass!”

He wasn't going away. In fact Mark seemed determined to annoy him even more as he yelled at him from the lounge and thumped on the wall even harder than before. He was prone to doing that, and Will knew from long experience that he was relentless. But why this morning? Usually he annoyed him because there was something he had to do. The shopping or to drive someone to college and so on. This time though Will couldn't think of anything that was particularly pressing. After all, he'd been expecting to be in the clinic now. He'd been expecting to have five free days with no distractions. He'd cleared his schedule for it. And it wasn't as if he had a girlfriend to distract him any more.

“What?!” He yelled at the wall knowing his flatmate would hear him and hopefully stop banging. And maybe then he could go back to sleep.

“Visitors!”

“Crap!”

Visitors? He didn't need visitors just then. He didn't want them. And he didn't normally have them either. If he wanted to be with his friends he went to their flats. It was easier that way. But he guessed that he had to see them whoever they were. Either that or Mark would start banging down the wall again. He wasn't a quiet person.

“Coming!”

Will rolled out of bed and crawled to his feet, something he had to do because the bed was so old and battered that the folding legs had failed and in desperation he'd cut them off. It was better than having them collapse on him in the middle of the night as they sometimes had. But it also meant his bed was only about eight inches off the ground, which meant in turn that it was a long way to have to go to climb to his feet. Especially when he was injured and bandaged up like a mummy.

The strange thing was that as he braced himself for the pain – his shoulder and especially his ribs had started hurting like a bastard during the previous afternoon – it didn't come. In fact they felt almost normal. Maybe he hadn't been as badly injured as he'd thought. Though he was still bandaged up so tightly that he could barely move – or breathe. In fact the emergency doctors had initially wanted to keep him in the hospital overnight. The only reason they hadn't was because there were so many others more badly injured than him. So they'd given him a few stitches, taped him up, supplied him with a script for painkillers and antibiotics, and told him to go see his family doctor.

Still, the fact that it didn't hurt was a good thing he decided as he struggled into a robe and then went out to meet his visitors. After everything that had happened it was a very good thing.

In the sitting room – in a modern American home it would have been called the great room but nothing about their flat was great – he discovered he had a pair of police officers visiting him, and that didn't seem like such a good thing. In fact the sight the sight of them briefly made him nervous – as if he had done something wrong.

“Officers?” He had two police officers standing there in their blues, guns holstered to their sides, and hats on. He wondered if it was important that they had their hats on. His mother had always said it was bad luck to wear a hat inside a house.

“Mr. Simons.” The woman greeted him and from the fact that she was the one to speak he guessed she was the one in charge.

“Yes?”

“We're here to ask you about yesterday.”

That Will had fairly much worked out for himself. Why else would they be there? The only thing he didn't understand was why the police were interviewing him. Surely it was some sort of emergency thing, not a crime? Someone had mentioned sink holes the previous day. So surely it should have been the fire service if it was anyone? Or FEMA maybe. Someone had mentioned them the previous day as well. The news had said they were around, doing something. But locked up as he had been in a waiting room with dozens of other injured people, many of them worse off than him, he hadn't paid it a lot of attention.

“Go for it.”

“You were an in-patient at the Fairview Institute and Clinic?”

“Nearly. I was about to become one, but I hadn't been admitted. I was taking part in a drug trial. I was still in one of the downstairs clinic rooms receiving the drug. But they barely got half way through the procedure before everything fell apart. I never got to my room.”

Which reminded him: His computer and his clothes had all been at the clinic waiting for him. He supposed they were now buried somewhere at the bottom of the Earth.

“What room were you in? And who was with you?”

The moment she asked the question he understood what they were doing and why it was the police who were in his flat talking to him. This wasn't a criminal investigation. They weren't looking for wrong doing. It was a census. They wanted to know how many had got out and how many had died. Morbidity and mortality. It was all about the numbers, which made sense. After all there was no one left to rescue any more. There were no criminals to round up. There were only the reports to write.

“317. I was there doing a test, and there was Doctor Millen and a nurse and a technician there with us. I don't know their names. But the nurse was in her twenties, swarthy skin and with long dark hair and quite pretty. The technician was probably in his thirties, a white guy with a pony tail. All I really saw of him was his back. But we all made it out of the room. After that in the corridor I don't know. We were running and things were falling and then the lights went out and there was an explosion and things got confused. But they were ahead of me.”

“317? On the ground floor right in the middle of the building?” The woman seemed surprised for some reason.

“Yes.”

“Then you're very lucky to be alive. That was right in the middle of the sink hole. Most of those who survived were in the reception area or near the outer edges of the building.”

That Will could understand. There had been a lot of people running to make it to safety, and that corridor had seemed endless in his memories. Especially after the lights had failed. But he didn't want to think about that. Every time his thoughts went back there he kept seeing the people falling in that corridor as they ran. The people desperately clinging to the side of the crater before they slid to their deaths. The people he had failed.

“Do you know how many were hurt or killed?”

The news reports the previous night and even through to the early hours of the morning, had been unclear. Most openly admitted that they didn't know, but had given estimates that ranged widely  from anywhere between twenty to two hundred. Even larger numbers were thought to have been injured. The problem was that the officials didn't actually know how many had survived let alone how many had been in the building at the time. Which he assumed was why the police were speaking with him.

“No.” She shook her head and her colleague looked away. He guessed from that that the number of dead and injured was closer to the higher end of the estimates.

“The hospital report says you were injured?”

“The explosion knocked me around a bit and I might have cracked a few ribs.” Not that they felt particularly broken just then. “And somewhere along the way a piece of pipe lodged itself in my shoulder. But it was really minor compared to others.” He patted the thick bandage around his shoulder underneath his robe while the other officer made a note.

“It really was a sink hole?” He asked because he still couldn't believe that. Not after seeing that massive crater simply swallowing up an entire building. Sink holes from what little he knew, simply weren't that big or that fast. This had been more like a giant maw simply opening up and swallowing everything in one bite.

“That's what they're saying.”

But by her tone Will guessed that she didn't quite believe it either. It just seemed too incredible. Things like that just didn't happen. On the other hand there was no other explanation for the huge crater that had opened up. The crater which reporters in helicopters were flying over constantly and streaming non-stop videos of on the telly. The crater which experts were supposedly explaining, but which from their answers was really leaving everyone scratching their heads. A crater so deep that its bottom was actually lost in shadow. The mouth of hell someone in the hospital had called it and that seemed like a good description to him. Maybe not a scientific one though.

“Is there a way to contact the other survivors?”

He knew he needed to contact Doctor Millen. If nothing else he needed for him to check that the treatment had gone well. And though it seemed callous, he needed his ten thousand dollars. Actually it was callous but in the end he was a poor broke student. Ten grand was a lot of money. It would guarantee that he could get through to the end of his course.

“FEMA has set up a base of operations just beside the crater. They will have the details of those they've managed to contact and how to reach them.”

“Thanks.”

But even as he said it he wondered if that was really the sort of information he should be thanking her for. It wasn't good news after all, it was bad. The fact that they had to set up such a centre was terrible. And the thought that he might have to go there was worse. He didn't want to go back there. He didn't want to go anywhere near that crater ever again. He might have no chance of avoiding it in his dreams, but in real life he saw no reason why he couldn't.

“Oh and there was one other person I saw. Not in the room, but in the corridor. An elderly lady with long white hair. Quite thin build. We were running and trying to get to the doors at the end of the corridor that led to the atrium when the explosion hit us, and we were separated.”

Will didn't really know why he mentioned her, when he knew nothing about her, but she seemed important somehow, and he wanted to know she'd made it out all right and hadn't been swallowed up by that massive grave. Naturally he didn't mention the fact that he was almost sure it was her that had hit him in the back and thrown him clear of the building at the end. That part didn't make any sense to him at all.

“I don't know anything about her at all, but if you have some photos of the survivors I'm sure I'd recognise her.”

The woman nodded and the man busily scribbled away in his notebook as if what he'd said could be important. But he knew that something that sketchy couldn't possibly be so. Not for their grim task. But maybe they could find her. Though whether alive or dead he didn't know. The only thing he did know was that it mattered to him. He didn't know how or why. But he knew she mattered.

Chapter Four.

Reginald Millen was in the hospital and feeling remarkably good about life. He hadn't been earlier. When he'd first woken up in the hospital after thirty six hours of unconsciousness and then been told of what had happened, he'd known a terrible sense of despair. Everything had been lost. Years of hard work, study, misappropriation of funds and even outright theft had been wasted. Buried in the ground along with his subject. Mary's death had in the end been for nothing.

Darkness had possessed him for a while after that. The feeling that not only had he lost everything, his wife, his work and his dream, but that it had been stolen from him. And so he'd lain in his hospital bed along with so many others, feeling sorry for himself. Wondering if he should run or just give himself up. In the end it didn't really matter which.

But things had changed at lunch time when the nurse had arrived. Lunch had been poor and he had no idea at all why they'd served him jelly and ice cream as well as a sandwich. It didn't seem particularly healthy. And when she'd taken his pulse and checked his blood pressure he'd been less than impressed with her technique. As a doctor he could have done a better job of it himself. But then she had provided him with a miracle and he would forgive her anything for that. She'd turned on the telly and his world had suddenly become light again.

He had almost immediately been treated to the sight of William Simons on the telly as he was being treated by the paramedics. He was only in the background of course as the reporter told her sorry tale, and it was a rerun meaning that Mr. Simons was likely nowhere near the clinic's remains any more, but it was him. He was alive. All his work had been saved!

All those years in the lab perfecting his virus! Building it from the ground up! Building a virus that could carry vast amounts of DNA and which could be inserted perfectly. A virus that could find and penetrate any cell in the human body. A virus that could initiate the replication cycle so that whatever it delivered was saved. After that of course there had been yet more years spent seeking and finally obtaining the very special genetic material he needed. Then he had worked day and night analysing it, sequencing it, working out where to cut it and where it would be pasted. There was a reason he was pale. So many days and nights in the lab toiling away didn't allow for a man to get a tan.

But it didn't matter any more. His work was saved. His project would continue. And all because Mr. Simons had survived. Ever since seeing that report he'd been smiling. Cheerful as he hadn't been in many years. At times he'd almost thought about bursting into song and annoying his fellow patients in the ward. But after surviving a near catastrophe he had a right to feel good he thought. The cracked ribs and concussion were a small price to pay for that.

It was amazing that his patient had survived – so many hadn't. In fact it was as close to a miracle as anything he could imagine. Maybe it was a sign that he was destined to do this work? But even if he had died – and he understood that it had been a close thing – Mr. Simons' survival meant that everything he had strived for all these years would continue. It was done. The material was in him, busy replicating. And the process would continue. There was no undoing it.

Reginald didn't know where Mr. Simons was. The man’s personal details were somewhere in the clinic’s computers which in turn were somewhere in the bowels of the Earth. But the records were backed up and in time when he got out of the hospital he would be able to access them from his laptop. He would find his home address. Where his patient lived however, was for the moment far less important than the fact that he lived.

It was a miracle! Proof he thought that he was doing what he was supposed to. Years of work had so very nearly been undone by an almost unbelievable freak of nature.

But not quite. Mr. Simons was alive and the glorious work continued.

Of course he was disturbed when the reporters kept talking about acts of God. That phrase chilled him for obvious reasons. But every time he heard it he remembered anew that the disaster wasn't an act of God. It couldn't be. He was doing God's work after all. He was bringing light into the world! If the sink hole was an act of anyone if was that of the devil. But most likely it was just incredibly bad luck. Sink holes happened. No doubt the people who'd done the geological report before the Fairview Institute had been built needed to be kicked. They should have known that this could happen.

For the moment though he just had to get out of the hospital and back to his quarters – assuming it hadn't gone down with the clinic – and start work. Mr. Simons had to be watched over. Monitored closely just in case there were any problems. Studied intently since this was the most important research ever undertaken. And when the time was right and he could be revealed to the world, protected from those who would not accept him. All he needed was for the doctors to come and discharge him so that he could begin.

“Mr. Millen?”

“Doctor Millen.” Reginald automatically corrected the woman even before he looked up at her. Maybe it was vanity but he had worked hard for his medical degrees and his doctorate. But then he saw her and instantly forgot about his titles. Instead he thought about jail cells.

Black suit, black tie, white shirt, black trousers and shoes – that was troubling. Especially when a woman wore the outfit. But it wasn't nearly as troubling as the ID she was holding up in front of him. A badge of some sort and an identity card in a black wallet. Government agent. Everything about her said she was with one branch or other of the government, and whichever one it was he knew it was bad.

“Sorry, Doctor.” But she wasn't really. He knew that. “I'm here to talk about some of the accounting irregularities that seem to have plagued your project.”

“Accounting irregularities?”

Reginald knew a sudden feeling of dread. But he didn't let it control him. Every instinct was telling him to play innocent. It was his best chance. But he also knew that he was in trouble. How could they have found out about the misappropriated funds so quickly? He'd thought he would have had at least a few more weeks.

“Yes.” She smiled at him and he felt distinctly threatened. “Funds that seem to have periodically been diverted, equipment that's gone missing, unauthorised purchases of media and most recently the booking of an entire clinic suite and staff and patient care for no reason that we can ascertain. That's ten thousand dollars give or take. In one day.”

“Well I'm sure it's all just some sort of accounting mix up.” It was actually. But he was the one who'd mixed it up. Deliberately.

“Did you know that the government's spent over ten million dollars on your project?” She smiled some more, and he suddenly worried that she was going to ask for it back. There was of course nothing like that left in the accounts. In fact he wasn't sure there was even a hundred thousand left.

“And they're going to get good value for their money. The project is well in hand, the patients are all doing well, and the results are very promising. We're at the start of something huge, and in six more months I'm confident the results will more than justify the expense.”

“And in six more months how many more hundreds of thousands or millions of dollars’ worth of time and resources will have mysteriously been wasted?” She didn't seem to be buying his story, even though it was true – mostly.

“The government is just not that dumb Doctor Millen. Despite what you may think. And forensic accountancy is as much a science as is physics these days. For example when we come across missing money and strange patterns of spending, we can usually tell what's happening. Whether someone's misappropriating funds for their own gain. If they're trying to cover up some sort of financial disaster. Whether there's extortion or blackmail involved. And in this case the patterns of irregular spending seen here are indicative of only one type of fraud.” Unexpectedly she leaned in a little more closely to study him.

“Are you running a secret project Doctor Millen?”

“What! No!”

Panicked Reginald almost squeaked out his denial at her. And all the time he was wondering how she could possibly know. And how many more people now knew, including it would seem the other patients in the ward with him who were all looking on with interest.

“Good. Because the penalties are the same you know. It doesn't matter why you steal the money – it's still theft. And we are talking jail.”

Jail! It had always been a possibility Reginald knew. In fact he'd almost expected it. But not now. Not when he was on the verge of achieving everything. That was just too cruel. And worse than that she knew! Or rather, she guessed. But either way it was a disaster. He couldn't go to jail and he couldn't let the government get their hands on Mr. Simons.

Fortunately, as he suddenly realised, he had a perfect get out of jail card to play. Or at least one that would keep her and her kind at bay for a while.

“Well there is no theft agent, and good luck trying to prove any of it when my lab, the clinic and all the notes and records are buried under countless tons of dirt.”

“Not all of them Doctor. Everything you do is backed up. You should know that. And we can access whatever we need. That includes your personal files as soon as we have a warrant.”

His personal files? Reginald blanched a little at that. There were no records on the main databases that could link directly back to his project or Mr. Simons. But if they could access his own personal files they would find it all.

He needed to get out of here and fast because he didn’t have a lot of time. How long did it take to get a warrant anyway? A couple of hours perhaps. He needed to get to a computer and start deleting everything he could!

“My personal files include confidential patient records. You might want to tell your lawyers that, Agent.” It was a desperate gamble, but at the least it would slow them down – he hoped. But it wouldn't stop them. But if it gave him a few extra hours then maybe that would be enough.

“I'm sure that won't be too much of a problem Doctor. But nice try.” She didn't believe him or she just didn't care. He suspected it was both.

“Now, shall we say nine o'clock.”

“Nine o'clock?” He didn't understand.

“Tomorrow morning, here in the hospital. We can arrange a private room for the formal interview. And you can of course have your lawyer present as we go over the charges. In fact I'd recommend it. Unless of course you want to save us the trouble and just confess now.” She smiled sweetly at him and he knew it was the same smile a shark wore just before it bit your arm off.

Reginald spluttered for a bit after that, trying to think of something to say and not having anything. The agent took that as a victory he gathered as she said goodbye and turned on her heels to leave. And it probably was a victory. By this time tomorrow he could already be in a cell awaiting trial. And that couldn't happen.

He had to run. He knew that even as he knew it would probably also be a mistake. The agent would be watching him. If he ran it would almost be considered an admission of guilt. But if he didn't run the government would have Mr. Simons and he would be in jail. So he had to run. He had to erase every computer file he had that could link back to Mr. Simons or incriminate him. And then he had to vanish, at least for a while. After all if he got caught he might lead them to his patient, even inadvertently. But if he stayed away for a bit – long enough for the government to stop chasing him – then that would give Mr. Simons the time he needed.

Leaving him alone seemed like a risk. But in the end the technology he'd developed was safe. And monitoring him was a luxury that could hand Mr. Simons straight over to the hands of the government. If they had him before he was ready everything could be lost. They would try to exploit him. Try to uncover the technology inside him. And worst of all try to steal the genetic material he had gifted him with. There could be no trail back to him.

Immediately after the agent had left Reginald checked out the bedside table by him, hoping that his clothes would be in it. They were. After that it was a quick matter of dressing and leaving while the other patients looked on curiously. They surely guessed what he was doing, though he doubted they would do anything about it.

But as he dressed Reginald did suddenly wonder about one thing. The agent. Wasn't she a bit old to be an agent? With that long white hair streaming down her back?