Predominance (5 page)

Afraid I'd lose control again, I began to put some distance between us. I stumbled backwards until my back was against one of the enormous pine trees that surrounded the field. “Why is this happening to me?” I asked, frightened, and confused, my hands trembling with the lingering anger.

Sarah's brows knitted with pity. “Because they lied to you, Victor.” She sighed and sat down on a log next to the fire again. “They lied to us all.”

My brow creased with suspicion. “Who are 'they'?”

Sarah met my stare just long enough show me the contempt that filled her eyes as she uttered the words, “R.C. Labs.”

Adding the word Labs to the acronym that had been haunting me from the moment I saw it was enough to trigger the flash of memories that brought me back to the very first day I was introduced to the term. And just like that, names, people, places, and even feelings began to re-emerge from oblivion.

R.C. Labs

THICK, DARK DRAPES
hung on every window of my cluttered apartment in Weehawken. My relentless sensitivity to light had forced me to turn the place into a mausoleum, into which not a shred of sunlight was allowed to enter. Buried under my thick covers, I laid in bed, suffering through another agonizing day, barely able to open my eyes. My headache had gotten so bad that morning that I'd even decided to turn off the phone to completely disconnect myself from the rest of the world.

Not that it mattered. There was no one out there for me anyway. For the past few weeks my only nourishment, besides instant cup-a-soups, had been painkillers and antidepressants. Dr. White prescribed them. He said that depression was bound to occur, given my condition. He always tried to make sense of things. But for me, everything was making less and less sense every day.

I was finally dozing off when I heard a knock on my door. Crap. “Who is it?” I shouted from bed, ready to tell whoever it was to get lost.

“FedEx, sir,” a voice announced. “I have a package for Victor Bellator.”

I reluctantly got out of bed—in which I had been hibernating for the past few days—and opened the door without undoing the chain. I can't imagine how I must've looked. I hadn't taken a shower or shaved in days, and I couldn't remember the last time I'd changed my clothes. But given the circumstances, I really couldn't care less.

“Good morning, Mr. Bellator,” the FedEx guy greeted me.

“Good morning, Jimmy,” I answered, squinty-eyed.

I knew this guy. He'd begun to deliver packages to this building about the same time I moved in. Most of the times he came knocking on my door were because he had a package from some hospital that wanted to take my case.

“Damn, Mr. Bellator. You look like crap!”

“Thanks, Jimmy,” I answered apathetically. “You have something for me?”

“Yeah! It looks like another hospital letter.”

I undid the chain and opened the door to sign for it. The letter was inside a thick manila envelope emblazoned with the initials R.C. It seemed different from any of the hospital letters that I'd gotten before; plainer, heavier.

“Well, have a nice day, Mr. B—”

“Yeah, yeah…” I didn't mean to close the door in his face, but I wasn't in the mood for chitchat. I was miserable. All I wanted to do was sleep, which was the only time I was free of my pain, both physical and emotional.

I was on my way back to hibernation when I got curious about this letter, so I went ahead and opened it. The strange letter contained information from a neural engineering research facility called R.C. Labs, short for Reserata Cerebrum, which is Latin for “Unlocked Brain”—or so they claimed. I have to admit, the letter caught my attention; not only for their unique name, but because I couldn't recall pleading my case to this facility. Matter of fact, I'd never heard of them before.

But unlike the hundreds of responses I'd received in the past, this one was different. The alleged research facility was said to be a state-of-the-art treatment center for rare brain injuries such as mine. Their latest procedure, according to the letter, had shown promising results for patients with my particular condition. The letter also explained that such treatment was in its experimental trial stage, and that the only way that I could take advantage of it—at no cost to me, I might add—was if I
volunteered as an experimental test subject. The letter ended on a phone number that I needed to call, should I decide to accept their offer.

The simplicity of the letter only triggered my skepticism. Though it sounded good on paper, I knew it had to be too good to be true. So I walked into the kitchen, tired and annoyed, and shoved the letter in my overfilled garbage can. Without taking a second look, I turned around and lumbered back into my cluttered bedroom. I was ready to crawl back into bed when something among the trash on my bedroom floor suddenly bit my foot. “What the...” I cursed, hopping on one leg. Whatever it was, it must've been alive, I figured. So I crouched over and looked for the little critter that had bit me.

But after clearing the floor a bit, I discovered that the bug had been no other than my dad's old lighter. What's it doing on the floor? I pondered. I always kept it on top of my nightstand. But today it was on the floor, opened, positioned almost strategically to make me stumble upon it, as if set purposely to stop me from shrouding my head under the covers. I sat on the floor in misery, contemplating this piece of metal that held so many memories, a promise that I was going to leave unfulfilled; and I sobbed, powerless over my painful and impending death.

As I twiddled with it between my fingers, a tiny shaft of sunlight sneaked in through a window somehow, striking the surface of the lighter. A forceful glare shone upon my face then, making me shut my eyes and flinch away in pain. For some reason, I ended up facing the kitchen. The first thing I saw when I opened my eyes again was that letter, sticking out of the trash can like an uncanny apparition.

I slid my eyes back to the lighter with an irrational suspicion, wondering. Was this just a coincidence, or was it Dad, trying to tell me something? After all, it was his lighter. Or maybe I was just losing my mind; I didn't know. But whatever it was, it compelled me to give life one final shot.

***

When I called the number on the letter, I expected to be greeted by one of those annoying menu options that tell you what number to press according to your particular query. But to my surprise, the phone was answered by a gentleman who not only knew who I was, but identified himself as my personal recruiter. He said his name was Mr. Smith, and that he already had my paperwork ready—whatever that meant. All I needed to do was sign the consent to become a test subject in this medical trial, and I'd be given the information needed to begin my treatment.

I thought he'd give me an appointment to have all this done. But instead he asked me to pick a place where we could meet at my earliest convenience. And though all of this was as vague and unusual as it could possibly get, I agreed to meet with him the following morning. The truth is that I was intrigued by the mystery of who these people really were—and more importantly, about the procedure that just might save my life.

Morning arrived faster than I expected, and with it came a brand new hope that I might live. After an overdue shave, shower, and change, I shielded my eyes behind a pair of extra-dark sunglasses and headed down to the little bistro in the corner—that's where I'd decided to meet the mysterious Mr. Smith. When I got there, the place was practically empty. The only people there were a couple of servers and an older gentleman in one of the booths by the window, wearing mirrored sunglasses. I wasn't sure if this was the man I was supposed to meet, but if he was, then something was definitely out of place. He wore what appeared to be a black cashmere suit, and his matching leather briefcase looked just as expensive. This guy didn't look like a hospital worker at all—an investment banker maybe, but definitely not your average middle-class employee.

I approached him slowly, thinking I was mistaken. “Excuse me? Mr. Smith?”

“Yes,” he confirmed, getting up to shake my hand. “Mr. Bellator, I presume. Please, have a seat. Would you like something to drink?”

“No, thanks—and please, call me Victor.” I took off my shades and sat at the table, blinking in the harsh light.

He opened his briefcase on the table and pulled out a thick file that practically screamed contract. “All right, Victor. I'm just going to need your signature on this consent form, and also here and here and…”

“Whoa! Wait a second!” I interrupted. “Don't you think I should know what I'm getting myself into before I sign anything? I mean, you haven't told me anything about your organization or this procedure. All I have so far is this letter with your phone number on it. And now… this. I'm sorry, but I just don't see the need for secrecy. This is my life we're talking about—right?”

He forced a smile to his lips and set his pen down on the table. “Very well,” he said smoothly. “What do you think you need to know?”

I chuckled in disbelief. “Well, for starters, what's with the 'need to know' restriction? I thought this was a hospital consultation, not an interview to join the CIA.” I waited for him to laugh at my snide comment, but he didn't—which made the next few seconds of silence really awkward. “Well?” I pressed.

He considered for a long moment before he began. “Well, here's the thing. R.C. Labs operates under the auspices of a much larger biotech corporation, which conducts classified research on, um…” He backpedaled. “…well, various fields in bioengineering—hence the restriction on the information we're allowed to divulge.” He continued, “What I can tell you is that we've been in business for over 25 years, and that we hold the highest success rate in our field. Now, Victor, believe me when I tell you that R.C. Labs is about to take neuro-enhancement to a whole new level.” He sounded, now, like he was trying to sell me something.

I rolled my eyes. “Look, I really don't care what your company does for profit, okay? What I was excited about—or rather interested in—was the procedure mentioned in your company's letter. That's what'll save my life, if anything does. Now, can you tell me something about that?”

“I'm afraid that information is above my pay-grade…” His answer made me chuckle bitterly again. “...Dr. Walker, however, will be able to answer all of your questions, once you arrive at our facility in Ketchikan.”

“I'm sorry, where?”

“Ketchikan… Alaska.—If you so choose, of course.” He picked up his pen and held it in front of me. I smiled grimly.

“Let me see if I've got this straight. You want me to sign this consent form, contract, or whatever it is, without knowing anything about your corporation, or the details of the procedure that I would have to undergo. And you want me to travel to your facility in Alaska, where I'm supposed to get my answers from a doctor I've never met before. Is that correct?”

He nodded, seeming oblivious to my sarcastic tone.

“Are you sure? Did I leave anything out?”

“All expenses paid.” He smiled.

I nodded. “Oh yes, well, that's certainly a top selling point. Well, as tempting as everything sounds, Mr. Smith, I'm afraid I'm going to have to pass on your offer.” Solemnly, I said, “I'm sorry we've wasted each other's time. You have yourself a good day now, sir.”

As I slid out of the booth, he donned his mirrored shades and sighed. “It's progressing, isn't it?”

I froze. “What?”

“Your condition. The sensitivity to light, the headaches… the pain. It's getting steadily worse, isn't it? They've been unable to relieve the pressure, I understand?” He locked his gaze to mine, so that I could see my own wide eyes reflected in his sunglasses.

“Look, I understand your skepticism, Victor,” he said soberly. “After all, you've been fighting to get better for the past three years. But what you should really be asking yourself is if this is the opportunity that you've been waiting to come and knock on your door.” In the reflection from his glasses, I saw my eyebrows connect in a defensive frown. “We can help you, Victor. All you have to do is take a leap of faith.” He finished with a warm smile.

Obviously, he was well practiced at this spiel, my cynical side noted. But at that moment, I couldn't help but think that my father's words had been brought back to life by this stranger. Was it coincidence? Was there even such a thing as coincidence? Or, like the lighter incident, was this an otherworldly sign, a signal trying to tell me something? Not that I ever believed in that kind of stuff, but… well, when reality becomes hopeless, I guess we tend to look for hope in the ethereal.

I pondered this as I watch the reflection of my dying self in his mirrored sunglasses. Mr. Smith held his smile as he waited patiently for my answer—as if certain of what it would be. I lowered my eyes as well as my defenses, realizing that I didn't really have anything to lose; not anymore, anyway. All I had left was a promise...and the opportunity to fulfill it. So I lifted my eyes and I found myself saying, “Where do I sign?”    

***

Just a few days later, I found myself packed and on my way to the airport. As the cab sped eastbound through the Lincoln Tunnel, I took advantage of the opportunity to take an extra dose of my painkillers before I had to board the plane at JFK. My headache hadn't bothered me that morning—yet. I was really only after the strong side effect of sedation that the pills would incite in me. And though I'd never normally condone such an action, that morning was different.

You see, I hate flying—a fun addition to my fear of heights—and that morning I was a nervous wreck. After taking the first plane, I had to layover in Seattle and wait for four hours for my connecting flight. Thanks to the lack of direct flights between Ketchikan and New York, I now had to suffer the scourge of two take-offs and two landings in the same day.

I was less than pleased.

Once on the plane, I met this older couple going to the same destination. And though my reasons for visiting the Salmon Capital of the World were less than touristic, I was happy to learn a little more about it. They told me I've chosen the best time of the year to visit. Apparently, Ketchikan was normally a very cool, damp place; but during the springtime, the temperature became mildly comfortable, averaging in the lower to upper 50's, with a little less rainfall than usual. Nevertheless, they warned me not to expect to stay dry for long, since Ketchikan's annual rainfall commonly surpasses 160 inches, given that it's surrounded by the Tongass National Forest—the largest rainforest in North America. In fact, that's one of its biggest attractions.