Pipe Dreams (25 page)

CHAPTER 44

L
ewis took another sip of
warm whiskey and cursed the flunky who had failed to refill the ice trays. The waiting was excruciating and he had never been a patient man. All his years of work were about to culminate in the ultimate payoff and he was anxious for the final stages to begin, but the preparations took time.

On the floors beneath him, the new test specimens were being sorted into groups. They would undergo a series of evaluations including blood tests, urine samples, and other examinations to determine their respective health prior to the controlled release of Priscilla 279. For this last step, the diversity of the specimens was important, but only in regard to
age, sex, and ethnicity. Lewis had already finished his research on the ill and Priscilla 279 had performed as expected under stress. It could combat a heightened immune system and survive. Now, he needed healthy people to breathe the airborne version. He wanted to see if the virus mutated and, if it did, to observe the effects. The clinical environment wasn’t ideal and there was not much time to study multiple generations, but he would be able to determine if the airborne version would consistently turn off the appropriate genetic markers.

Priscilla 279 would change the world forever. When the final tests were complete, two species of man would inhabit the earth. One would be dominant, acting as lord and protector of the other. While the designers didn
’t think of their minions as slaves, in reality they were. By mutating their genetic code, Lewis would render them incapable of free will. He and the others would be masters of this new breed, but unlike any other time in human history, the slaves would not object.

He strode to the window that overlooked the yard. The sun was setting and the yard was empty. Only the sentries who protected the Farm were visible in the dusk. He swore. The girl he had requested had not
arrived.

Lewis finished his whiskey, poured himself another from the half
-empty bottle on his desk, and paced. Just as he was getting ready to call down to the guards, the elevator dinged and the doors opened. One of his mercenaries pushed a teenaged girl into the room.

“Would you like me to wait, Sir?” he asked.

“It’s about fucking time!  No, I don’t want you to wait!  I’ll send for you when I’m done,” Lewis replied. The mercenary nodded and stepped back into the elevator.

Lewis appraised the girl. Her long, stringy hair was still wet from the hosing she had received. The few dry wisps were the color of dirt. Still, her naked arms were firm and her mouth was full. She would do. He stroked the bare skin on her shoulder. The girl flinched and stepped away. Lewis laughed. The smell of fear was an aphrodisiac, as were tears, but he didn
’t like those coming prematurely. He preferred to tease them out. They were his reward and often more satisfying than the mere physical climax. Before they fell, he wanted anger, resistance, and fight. The women he took should experience their complete lack of power. He could only achieve that if he goaded them and they failed to defend themselves effectively. This was an art he had mastered.

He took another step toward the girl and grabbed her neck. As anticipated, she struggled against him. She even had the nerve to slap his face. The impact of her hand against the raw wounds made him cry out in momentary agony. Then, the pain acted as a stimulant. He curled his fist into a ball and punched the side of her head. The blow caused her to stumble and fall. She picked herself up slowly. He stepped in front of her as she turned to the elevator. “No, no, little girl. It
’s not going to be that easy,” he said.

The girl pivoted, scouting the room for another exit. There was one, but it was locked. She ran for it and he let her go, reveling in the movement of her body as she sprinted across the floor. When she turned the knob and pushed against the door to no avail, a sob broke from her. Too soon, Lewis thought. He closed the distance between them and grabbed both of her arms. She twisted against him, using all of her strength to shake free of his grasp.

By now her screaming was distracting. Pushing her against the door, he pressed his mouth onto hers, muting her shrieks. She tried to bring her knee up between his legs, but he was ready for that. He slammed his body against hers, wedging her in place. Then he grabbed the neck of her thin tank top and ripped it open. The sound of the fabric tearing was intoxicating. Her tears began to fall.

Lewis couldn
’t wait any longer. He threw the girl to the floor and climbed on top of her. She was face down. He used one hand to hold her head against the ugly, beige carpet. He used the other to pull down the elastic waist of her sweat pants. She bucked against him, her hands clawing the carpet fibers. He savored every failed effort to dislodge him. In seconds, she would be his.

When it was over, the girl laid limp and crying on the floor. He stood, fastened his pants, and smoothed his jacket. Then he poured another drink, sat down, and put his feet on the desk. If she tried to escape, he wouldn
’t stop her, but she didn’t move. He picked up a pen and threw it at her, hoping she would respond. She didn’t. Eventually, he grew bored and radioed the guard to come and get her. Now that the deed was done, her sniveling annoyed him.

After a few minutes, the elevator door opened and the guard stepped into the room. Without saying anything, he threw the girl over his shoulder and exited. Lewis would not see her again. Out of respect, he put his hand inside his waistband and touched his crotch. Then he brought his fingers to his nose and inhaled deeply. She had been a virgin. The strong smell of blood mingled with the juices of her body. He moved his fingers to his mouth and sucked them, tasting iron and salt. Finally, he put his head back, closed his eyes, and sighed – content to wait the short time until the testing could begin.

A few hours later, the radio squawked. The preparations were complete. In an instant, Lewis was fully alert and moving toward the elevator and the second floor labs. In the years prior to the rebellion, he had outfitted them to the best of his ability. They enjoyed high quality equipment, airtight observation rooms, and full biohazard suits that connected to oxygen lines so he and his assistants could work with the specimens without fear of contamination.

He walked the brightly lit corridor between the observation rooms, evaluating the inhabitants. As per his orders, three specimens occupied each of the six small units. Their hunched shoulders, crossed arms, and sunken faces expressed defeat while their wide eyes and shallow breathing spoke fear. Only one occupant demonstrated defiance. As Lewis passed, the man spat on the glass. “Watch that one carefully. I want immediate reports on any behavior
al changes in him after the testing begins,” Lewis told his assistant.

Finally, he gave the go ahead. His assistant pushed a button on the wall and a red light blinked. A short, shrill alarm was the signal to evacuate the observation area so Priscilla 279 could be released. As soon as they cleared the corridor, the ventilation fans were turned off and the airtight door was sealed. The staff reconvened in an adjacent room filled with computers. Monitors showed images of the test subjects in each of the rooms. At Lewis
’ command, his assistant keyed a switch and a green button lit up on the main computer console as the virus went airborne in the test units.

It was anticlimactic
. The subjects on the monitors demonstrated no discernable changes in either physiology or behavior. The effects wouldn’t be measurable on the surface. They would require blood samples and behavioral examinations. The data would be collected over days. Then, the subjects would be introduced to uncontaminated specimens. Tissue samples would determine whether Priscilla 279 behaved as planned. If it did, passing from human to human through the air and attacking each new host with equal vehemence, the virus would be a success.

Lewis was tired. After the long years of waiting, the show had become tedious. He would let his assistants do the dull work and retreat to the luxury of his personal accommodations, the comfort of his bed, and the softness o
f Lucy’s skin under the sheets.

CHAPTER 45

I
t didn’t take long to walk
the short distance from the administration building to the barracks. Vanessa kept her small pack in the locker at the foot of her bunk. During the day, new tents had arrived, along with the sundry equipment necessary to set up a temporary shelter for the refugees, but McGrath had relocated his men instead. The more he provided his guests, the more they would be willing to give in return, though that was not his only motivation. Having heard their stories, and witnessed their tenacity and courage, McGrath wanted to give these people a break. They deserved as much comfort as possible.

Vanessa picked up the pack, sat on the edge of the bed, and extracted her grandfather
’s knife from its worn and supple sheath. The slightly curved blade reflected the light in its mirror finish. Near the spine, intricate engravings covered both sides. The toll of years had darkened the recesses so only their surfaces gleamed silver. The decorative markings did not conceal any clues.

Equally crafted, the polished
, bone handle was almost translucent. Carefully carved notches, spaced for a man’s fingers, made it more a work of art than a tool. On both ends, bands of silver wrapped the bone in a braided pattern that complimented and offset the engravings on the blade. As he took the knife from Vanessa’s outstretched hand, McGrath felt he was touching more than a family’s legacy. He was holding the culmination of history, the fine point where man’s highest and lowest attributes merged into an ideal both aspired to and attainable. The knife embodied man’s need to kill, protect, and create, even as it spoke of beauty, love, and pride. This is what it’s supposed to look like, he thought. This is what everything should be. Reluctantly, he handed the knife back to Vanessa and suggested they return to his office.

“Should I bring the photographs, too?” she asked.

“You brought photographs?” 

“What else was worth taking?”  She swung the pack over one slim shoulder and they returned to McGrath
’s office. Michael was waiting outside the door, his expression serious. As Vanessa approached, he relaxed. He reached for her hand and she took it gratefully.

“Colonel, I would very much appreciate it if you would let Michael join us,” she said.

“Yeah, that’s okay. Come on in, Michael,” McGrath replied. Inside the office, Lieutenant Marino stood. McGrath took a seat behind his desk while Vanessa and Michael occupied the blue upholstered chairs in front of it.

“Why are you interested in my grandfather
’s knife, Colonel?” 

“I
’m not sure, Vanessa. I’m trying to put pieces of a puzzle together. May I see it?”

Vanessa slid it across the desk. McGrath drew his reading lamp closer, angling the bulb over the sheath. He withdrew the knife and held it up in the light, admiring its grace and heft. Why was the knife so important to her family? Was it just a sentimental legacy?  A treasured thing of beauty? After a few minutes, he put the knife down and picked up the sheath.

“Do you mind if I take a look at it?” Michael asked, gesturing to the knife. His eyes shone as McGrath passed him the blade.

“Damn! It
’s somethin’ ain’t it?” Michael said. He held the soft, bone handle and feinted cutting movements in the air. Then he laid the knife blade flat on the palm of his hand, feeling its weight. After a few seconds, he set the knife back on the desk.

“It
’s gorgeous, but it ain’t a weapon, that’s for sure.”

McGrath put down the sheath and stared at Michael. “What do you mean?”

“The balance is wrong. The handle’s not as heavy as it should be for a blade this long. Maybe you could use it once, if you had to, but that’s it. The handle would snap after too much use. This knife’s for looks, not work.”  McGrath snatched it off the desk and balanced it on his own palm. The handle was lighter than it should have been, though not by much.

“You
’re right. This knife’s for show. It’s a work of art, not a functional tool. And, from what I can see, it’s not worth much to my investigation either. There’s nothing here that gives me anything I can use. Sorry for the intrusion, Vanessa. It was worth a try.”  He placed the blade in its sheath and handed it to her.  She took it and was about to put it back in her pack when Michael asked to see it again. Passing it over, she looked at McGrath.

“Do you want to see the photos?”

“I want to see everything, Vanessa,” the colonel replied.

She opened a zippered pocket and extracted a bundle of loose photographs in differing shapes and sizes. Some were in color, others were black and white. McGrath took them when she offered and sorted through them, setting pictures of Vanessa and her friends off to one side. Concentrating on the black and white images of Vanessa
’s parents and grandparents, he flipped through smiling portraits and wedding photos. McGrath did his best to smile and nod at the images. The exercise was a waste of time. Other things needed his attention and Beth, his wife, would be upset with him for missing yet another dinner.

As he neared the back of the stack, he spotted one that made him pause. Seven men wore sweaters with the same university insignia and made goofy faces at the camera, their arms around each other. McGrath would have passed this photo by without a second glance, but the CU emblazoned in huge letters on each of their sweaters was familiar. It stood for
Cornell University, the Alma Mater of both Isaac Cohen and Vanessa’s grandfather, George Kovalic.  

“Tell me about this one, Vanessa,” McGrath said
, placing the faded photograph on the desk and spinning it around for her to see.

“The one on the left is my grandfather. He was an undergrad here. This one is Isaac.”  Vanessa pointed at the image, tapping the man in the middle.

“Who are the rest of them?”

“I don
’t know. The one next to Isaac looks familiar, but I can’t place him.”

“Try, Vanessa. It
’s important.”

He handed the picture back to her and she studied it, crinkling her brow. After a few minutes, she shook her head. As she leaned forward to place it back on the desk, Michael exclaimed loudly.

“Look!” he said, holding up the knife handle for them to see. He pointed to the tightly woven, silver braids at the top of the handle. One of the strands was indented and a small gap had appeared between it and the strands above it.

“Let me see that,” McGrath commanded, reaching for it. Michael passed it to him, careful to extend the handle instead of the sharp blade. McGrath took it gingerly and brought it close to his face. Then, hardly daring to breathe, he used the point of a pen to further indent the strand. The mechanism released and the top of the handle popped open, revealing a small cavity in the bone.

McGrath looked inside. Then he poked his little finger into the hole. It didn’t fit. He picked up his pen and inserted it into the opening, dragging the tip along the inside wall. “Shit,” he cursed. “I can’t get it.”

“What is it, Colonel?” Vanessa asked.

“There’s something in here. I can’t get it out.”

“May I see?” she asked, leaning forward.

McGrath reluctantly released the knife and Vanessa took it. She held it up and looked at the contents inside the bone. Then she bent down and picked up her pack. From a side pocket, she extracted two bobby pins. She used one of them to pry a small piece of paper away from the side of the opening. Then, gripping the knife with her knees, she used both pins as a makeshift tweezers.

“Careful,” McGrath said. Vanessa was moving at a snail
’s pace, working the paper out of its tight enclosure. After a minute, she held up a tiny scroll, smaller than the circumference of a cigarette, and smiled. McGrath extended his hand, but Vanessa shook her head. “It is my legacy, Colonel. I will look at it first.”

She set the knife down. Then she unrolled the paper and smoothed it flat against the hard surface of the desk. As she worked, another smaller paper was revealed. It had been rolled inside the first. She picked it up, squinting at the tiny letters. The words read, “Together we have fought. Together we may fall. Brothers, we are bound in faith. Remember the gifts.”  The note was signed, GK.

Vanessa studied the text, baffled. “I don’t get it,” she said, handing the slip to McGrath. As he read it, she picked up the other paper, trying to fathom its meaning. Finally, she gave up. McGrath took it from her and brought it under the light. A series of circles were connected by a string of short lines. Inside each circle was a notation so small it wasn’t legible to his naked eye. He opened his desk drawer and fumbled around inside. Extracting a magnifying glass, he held it over the strange markings, trying to make sense of them. Then it hit him. The marks on the paper were a chemical equation. At the bottom, miniscule letters warned, “What was built can also be destroyed.”

“My
god,” McGrath whispered.

“What is it?” Michael asked.

“It’s a formula. A chemical formula.”

“For what?” Vanessa interjected.

“I don’t know, but I’m guessing it’s pretty important. The bigger question is why did it get passed on to you? Your grandfather never fought in a war, did he?” McGrath asked, pondering the message.

“No. He was in school here during World War II. The Holocaust took everything from him and he couldn
’t go home. By the time he got his US citizenship, he was too old to enlist.”

“Then what does he mean
’we have fought together’?”

“I have no idea,” she replied.

McGrath leaned back, crossed his hands behind his head, and stared up at the ceiling. The slips of paper would be thoroughly evaluated. Chemists would be consulted about the formula. All kinds of hypotheses would be bandied about by the intelligence team and none of them might be correct. The key to all of this was right here, sitting across from him. He sat forward. Vanessa had her elbows on the desk. Her chin was in her hands, and her thick hair hung loose around her shoulders. Somewhere, locked inside that beautiful head, were the answers he needed.

Vanessa reached out and picked up the photograph of the young men. McGrath said nothing, not wanting to distract her while she studied their faces. She frowned, then put it back on the desk and pushed it away from her. Finally she spoke. “I
’m not completely certain, and I hope to god I’m wrong, but the man that looked familiar, the one next to Isaac, looks a little like Harry Rose.”