The Methuselah Gene (23 page)

“India?
 
How about Iowa livestock.
 
Most of the corn goes to feed them.
 
Hogs, chickens.”

“Hogs,” I repeated, before swapping roles.
 
“That's interesting, because, you know, there's any number of ways to produce drugs.
 
In one method human genes are inserted into bacterial cells, and the genetically altered bacteria then produce substances almost identical to what human cells produce.
 
After a substance is isolated and purified, it's given to patients whose own bodies can't produce enough of it naturally.”

“From bacteria?”

“That's right.”

“Yuck.
 
But what's that got to do with hogs?”

“I'm getting to that.
 
So anyway, substances like
erytropoietin
can be produced by bacteria, which is used to stimulate red blood cells.
 
Or tissue
plasminogen
activator, a protein that dissolves blood clots.
 
You've heard of
interferons
?
 
They're made from monoclonal antibodies, and can be used to fight diseases like cancer, or to boost the immune system.
 
Of course the sources for drugs can be anything, not just bacteria or molds grown in
petri
dishes.
 
There are thousands of plants, minerals, and animals used in pharmacology.
 
Antibiotics,
cardiotonics
, analgesics—the list of sources for these things is endless.”

“You mean, like, maybe . . . oh, I don't know, hogs?”

“Bingo.
 
In fact, when I first heard Iowa was the state possibly linked to the theft of the virus I was engineering, a red flag went up.
 
But I wasn't sure why.”

“And now you are, Einstein?”

“Well, hogs have always been big with researchers.
 
Not as big as monkeys and mice, mind you, but the hog is top dog with many scientists, particularly organ transplant researchers.”

“Really . . .”

“Oh, absolutely.
 
Insulin can be derived from the pancreas of hogs, and
thyroxine
from its thyroid gland.
 
The hormone
cortisol
, the stuff that's used to treat arthritis?
 
It can be extracted from the adrenal glands of cows and sheep, too.
 
Although the new science is producing these things synthetically with fewer side effects, and cheaper too.”

“So you think, what . . . that your virus is being tested on hogs here too?”

“Hogs could be used to develop the virus into a drug for humans.
 
That's really the way you would do it, if you were a scientist and not a terrorist.
 
And if your theory is right about the source being localized to the area around the hog farms, maybe the virus isn't being tested on people here at all, and the fact that some have symptoms is a mistake they're trying to correct.”

“With what's in the water tower, you mean?”

“Seems more likely than that terrorists are here, considering the black helicopter.”

“But whoever they are,” she wondered, “why would they need a helicopter at all?”

“Good question.
 
Unless it's to hunt me down before I expose them.
 
Before they have a chance to clean up the mess they made.”

The sun had cleared the horizon, and its bright light felt warm against my face as we came to the top of the hill within a hundred yards of the water tower.
 
Julie looked skyward as though expecting to be intercepted any moment by a black Cobra with a mounted mini-gun.
 
I could imagine other women who would be cursing and accusing me by this point, with obvious justification.
 
But whatever her real name was, she appeared to be stronger than that, having adopted survival as a way of life.
 
Regarding what lay to the west of the hill, she indicated more corn, wheat, soybeans, hogs, and a few scattered rednecks and country bumpkins living in farmhouses.
 
Hopefully, though, one of those solid patriotic citizens also had an unmonitored and working telephone.

As we both stood watch, taking a breather, she seemed to read my mind.
 
“Who do you plan to call?” she asked.
 
“And what would you say?”

I shrugged and checked my leg bandage.
 
“Well, I could call the FBI, ask them about the traffic there in DC, follow that with banter about starvation in Delhi, then maybe segue into all our various theories, including one about either the CIA or Al
Queda
secretly testing an experimental virus on the residents here.”

Julie laughed at this, albeit nervously.
 
“I think you'd be talking to a dial tone before you reached the end of that sentence.”

“I think you're right.”
 
I hooked a thumb toward the water tower, partly visible amid the trees to our left.
 
“By the way, my camera is up there, and it has some photos that show evidence of tampering.
 
Be nice to have a sample of residue, too, maybe soak a spare bandage in the stuff for later testing.”

“You want me to do it?” she suggested.
 
“While you wait here?”

With cavalier disregard for danger, she started walking toward the tower.

“No, wait!
 
There might be—”

“What?
 
I don't see anyone over there, do you?”

She paused long enough for me to slip the revolver out of her backpack.
 
Then I reluctantly followed her.
 
In the changing angles we could see through the trees that there was no one around.
 
No sound could be heard either except our feet tramping among the rocks and fallen leaves.
 
Although the area did seem deserted, I approached with apprehension, remembering my close encounter in every muscle and limb.
 
Squinting toward the top of the tower, I felt a foreboding rise inside me like trapped gas percolating through seaweed, but I rejected the images that attempted to reach my conscious mind.
 
Finally closer, the hulking thing loomed above us in the morning light like the underbelly of a dinosaur.
 
Zionus
herbivorus
.

As we neared the ladder Julie asked, “What's that smell?”

“What smell?”
 
I was staring at the irregular striations in the dirt, where the ground seemed to have been raked.
 
I sniffed the air, but smelled nothing unusual.
 
“A woman's sense of smell,” I observed, “is better than a man's.
 
Or mine, anyway.”

“Smells like paint to me.”

“Paint?”
 
I looked up at the curving body of the water tower, and saw a patch of smooth gray up there against the rougher rusty surface, near where the rungs ended.
 
I half imagined I heard a faint humming or gurgling sound, too, coming from inside the thing.
 
I put my ear against one of the metal supports to confirm it.
 
“They're covering their tracks,” I concluded.
 
“Probably sanded and painted the access cover on top, once they retrieved my camera and binoculars.
 
Now they're filling the tank back to the level it was years ago.
 
Probably claim it's all a public service.”

“Who?”

Who . . .
 
I felt the word reverberate in my mind.
 
My growing current of unease electrified the word as though a switch had just been thrown and a mechanical owl had just come to life from the coppery static.
 
“Maybe it's Maybelline,” I said, fighting the feeling.

She smiled.
 
“Will you stop that?”

“Sorry.”

“And that too.”

I considered Julie's own situation.
 
“You know,” I said, “even if whoever did this disappears, it means you're relocating again.
 
The connections you've made to friends here, broken.”

“I haven't made many real friends,” she confessed, “in case you haven't noticed.”

I nodded, slowly.
 
“Join the club.”

We were motionless and silent for a time, like two contestants on The Price Is Right just asked the cost of a bottle of Nyquil.
 
Then Julie picked up a stone and hurled it at the water tank's underbelly.
 
In frustration, it appeared at first.
 
But when the rock stuck with a metallic thump, not a hollow thrumming echo, I saw that she meant it as a test.
 
Then she turned to me to express a hope even she didn't seem to believe.
 
“What if,” she said, “we're wrong about all of this?
 
What if some hunter shot you by mistake, and those folks in town are just spreading some kind of rare flu bug?”

“Not a Satan bug, you mean?
 
And those G-Men or X-Men who burst into your house were only dispatched to help Cody search of a guy who lied about his name, and possibly his age?”

Julie fell silent again, studying my face for a moment before asking, “How old are you, by the way?”

“Does it matter?”

“If we escape to get married and live happily ever after, it does,” she said.
 
“In Montana, of course.”

I played along.
 
“Of course, Montana is a given.
 
That's where all us nut cases go to escape.
 
But still, why would my age matter?”

“Well, three kids would be hard for an old man to keep up with.”

“Not four?” I asked.
 
“Two boys and two girls?”

She picked up another rock, and idly juggled it between her two hands.
 
I looked beyond her at the base of the water tower, and noticed something missing.
 
I limped past her, and she dropped the rock to follow me.
 
“What's wrong now?”

I came to the support on the fall side of the tower, and looked up.
 
The bleeder valve I'd seen the day before was gone.
 
The area appeared to have been patched and sanded.
 
“There was a hose here,” I said.
 
I traced an imaginary line by pointing from the belly of the tower down to the ground, then down the ridge on the other side, into the trees below.
 
“A hose that went along the ground to somewhere down there.”

“Down there?”

Julie followed me as I struggled down the somewhat steeper angle into the woods below us.
 
Then I suddenly slipped and landed on my ass amid the leaves, yelping in pain from my wounded leg.

She helped me up.
 
“You wait here, I'll go see.
 
Okay, old man?”

I held onto a sapling and watched her until she disappeared into the thick foliage.
 
Soon I could only hear her shuffling through the leaves and branches.
 
Then there was silence.

“Julie?” I called, momentarily.

No answer.
 
Several minutes passed.

“Julie!”

“I'm here,” came her distant voice.

After what seemed like an eternity, she returned, pulling herself up the slope by holding onto the ends of swaying branches.
 
Here she reminded me again of Madeline Stowe, returning—no doubt it would seem—to her wounded co-star Michael Keaton, having just escaped being scalped.
 
Only thing out of place for that image was her Lands' End backpack and Nike cross-trainers.
 
Finally catching her breath, she joined me.

“Well?” I asked.

“Funny thing,” she replied, still panting.
 
“There's like a level area a-ways down . . . a clearing . . . looks like some kind of . . . of grove there.”

“Grove?”

“You know . . . like with pecan or pear trees.
 
Some pretty hearty trees, too.
 
There's even a fence around it.”

“How high?”

“Six, seven feet, topped by barbed wire.”

“No, I mean the trees.”

“Maybe thirty feet, some of them.
 
Big green branches.
 
Why?”

I stared at her, dumbfounded, for a moment.
 
Then I said, “Was there fruit on the trees?”

“No, not that I could see, but then I couldn't get inside.
 
The gate was locked.”