Programmed Cell Death: a Sci-fi Revenge Thriller

BEGIN TRIAL

Transmortification Process 3.0

PROJECT LEAD: XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Patient A /

Experimental Subject: XXXXXXXXXXX

D.O.B.: 10-31-82. 23:29.

Weight: 2671 g / 5 lbs 14 oz APGAR: 07

Mother: XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Father: XXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Patient B /

Control Subject: XXXXXXXXXXXXXX

D.O.B.: 10-31-82. 23:16.

Weight: 3855 g / 8 lbs 8 oz APGAR: 10

Mother: XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Father: XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

22:13: Trial explained. Mothers opposed.

22:45: Parents of A shown XXXXXXXXXXXXXX

23:00: Father of B accepts XXXXXXXXXXXXX

23:53: All forms signed.

23:57: DNA samples obtained.

CONFESSION

MINNEAPOLIS POLICE DEPARTMENT

Case Number: 20-1101-0127G

Subject: Garcia, Arturo J.

Confession

It’s not like I planned any of this. Not even close. I hit him on the head and shoved him off a roof. That’s about it.

PART ONE

ONCOGENESIS

Onset

CLIFFSIDE WELLNESS CENTER

Patient: Baker, Adam

Initial Session

A B: Where do I start? I’m up to my ears in this whole cancer project thing. Total pain in the ass. They’ve got me running interference with the media and the ethics people so the eggheads can try to get some work done. Doesn’t leave much time for the campaign.

Dr. M: You must be under a lot of stress.

A B: No kidding. And by the way, let me tell you up front that this whole therapy thing is pretty much unacceptable in my family. Seeing a shrink--no offense--taking happy pills… I’ve been conditioned against all of it. Not that I don’t believe it works. Call it a religious objection. But let’s not kid ourselves--it’s not like I’m about to go take the Sacrament of Confession any time soon, right? So here I am.

Dr. M: So here we are.

A B: Right. It started back in October, right before we announced the project. My flight to Chicago went off without a hitch as always, and I picked up my rental and headed for Lakeview. I got stuck in traffic. I remember the sun on my dashboard…

Adam Baker, a dark-haired white man in a black suit, was running late for a meeting on the eve of a major research conference at the Lakeview Cancer Institute. Drumming on the steering wheel of his shiny black rental car, he drilled financial and oncological terms in a desperate attempt to keep his thoughts off of Maria. Carcinogenesis. Termination of funds.

Traffic was bumper-to-bumper on the freeway into Chicago. He signaled right and worked his way to the nearest exit, raising a polite hand to the driver of the pickup truck he was cutting off. The ramp led him up to a street that ran parallel to the freeway. Traffic up here was just as bad. The light at the end of the block turned yellow. The cars in front of him sped up. Adam took his foot off the gas and let the car roll to a stop. First in line at the red.

Straight ahead, glass-shelled skyscrapers cast down the afternoon sun at odd angles. The car’s dashboard was hot. Adam put the windows down. On the right a strip of dead grass and bare trees lined a run-down transitional zone between the suburbs and downtown. On his left Adam could see down into the clogged freeway.

He caught himself imagining his fingers in Maria’s hair. Ethics committees. Shareholder accountability.

The silver grille of the pickup filled the rear-view. He pushed the mirror out of alignment to avoid the laser eyes of the woman driving the truck. Pedestrians in the crosswalk pointed at something far away, on the other side of the freeway.

Her skin was so soft. His heart was pounding. Cell division. Random genetic mutations. Metastasis.

There was something, past the freeway, beyond the train yard... There, near the river, under a stand of drought-withered pines. Thick brown fur rippled over layers of fat and muscle, glowing golden in sheets of reflected sunlight. It was looking at him. He shook his head, looked again. Despite the distance, the bear was looking right at him.

Muscle memory sent his fingers to the center console, reaching for the cigarette box he knew wasn’t there. His shoulders fell, lips moving automatically in unfulfilled anticipation. The bear was on the move. It made short work of a rusted chain-link fence, then bounded across the train yard, somehow knocking whole boxcars out of its way. A line of perspiration formed on Adam’s forehead. He pulled at his tie. Long-term liabilities. Apoptosis. Programmed cell death.

Adam rolled up the windows and told his phone to call 911, stepped on the gas when the light turned green, then jammed on the brakes just as fast, because there was nowhere to go. Empty vehicles blocked the intersection, doors left open. People crowded the sidewalk, aiming their phones at the bear.

911, whats your emergency? asked a tiny voice. Adam noticed the phone in his hand.

Yes, I’d like to report a bear.

It descended the concrete bank on the opposite side of the freeway, then leapt through ten lanes of traffic. An eruption of horns drowned out the crunch of metal on metal. Adam saw a flash of teeth.

Excuse me? said the voice in the phone.

The bear appeared at the top of the nearest bank of the freeway, then climbed onto the railing. Green and yellow vines snaked up the slope and wrapped around the rail. The bear dropped onto the sidewalk. A fire hydrant shot up into the air on a blast of water, and a young jack pine grew there spontaneously. The crowd backed away, but kept filming.

Umm, I’d like to report a bear. It just crossed I-94 near Goose Island. Traffic is stopped.

Is this some kind of prank? This line is for emergencies only.

Adam blinked and sighed. No, this is not a prank. There’s a real bear here, and it’s uncomfortably close to my car, and I’m probably going to have to sit here and watch it eat some of these morons who won’t stop shoving their phones in its face.

I wonder how it got there.

You—you wonder how it got there? How about sending the DNR and an ambulance? Waste any more time and you might as well call the coroner.

Sir, calm down, please. I’m dispatching the authorities now. Please stay on the line.

Hold on, something’s happening.

A large form moved past Adam’s window. It was the angry woman from the pickup truck. She was short and round, and she walked with purpose. She had curly red hair and a twelve-gauge side-by-side.

Holy shit, she has a gun, Adam whispered.

What? Who has a gun? said the tiny voice.

Adam ended the call.

Ignoring everything else, the bear approached the front of Adam’s car and reared up on its hind legs, front paws up in the air, massive claws shining in the sun. It balanced there for a moment, then slammed down hard on the hood of the rental. The whole car tilted forward. Adam shrank into his seat.

The short, round woman from the truck now struck a powerful stance at the front-left corner of the car, leveling her shotgun. The bear looked from the woman to Adam, and seemed to make up its mind. It climbed onto the car’s hood, which caved under the weight of the thing. It stared directly into Adam’s eyes.

A spectator suddenly found her conscience: Stop! Don’t kill it! she shouted. Her cry for amnesty drew the bear’s focus. It looked back over its shoulder, contemplating the woman, with her shining golden hair and heaving chest—and her boyfriend, who was cowering behind her, frozen and pale. The bear snapped out a short, sharp growl in their direction, then shook its massive head like a dog. Some of the people in the crowd stepped backward and found themselves up against the railing. Others produced handguns.

Claws screeched on glass as the bear walked its front paws up to the top of Adam’s windshield. There was a loud low pop, like a frozen lake in the spring thaw. A long diagonal line appeared. Fractals radiated through the glass. The windshield popped out of its frame and fell into the car. To get a clear shot, the woman with the gun sidestepped to a position next to the driver-side door, next to Adam as he cowered under laminated glass. Before she could fire, the bear thrust its face into the car, snapping for Adam’s head, but it was blocked by the spider-webbed safety glass.

The peanut gallery on the sidewalk experienced a change of heart. Animal-rights-based objections withdrawn, spectators begged for deliverance from the horrible scene. The armed among them took aim. Double-barrel shotgun to her shoulder, the orange-haired woman pulled both triggers. There was a deafening boom, followed by absolute silence, and a pair of butterflies emerged from the shotgun’s twin barrels. They pinwheeled through the air and landed side by side on the tip of the bear’s nose. The bear sneezed into the car, spraying honey on the broken windshield. The woman cracked the shotgun’s breech and loaded two fresh rounds. The bear turned to face the gun and belted out a roar, its hot rancid breath spilling forth. The mob on the sidewalk opened fire, and soon the air above the street was swarming with bees, which turned on the crowd. Confused and angrier than ever, the bear raised its snout and began to cough out wispy tendrils of color. The colors floated up toward the sky, and the bear’s hind legs began to fade. The bear coughed confetti into the air, and more of its body disappeared, as if the bear was throwing itself up from the inside. A cloud of multicolored smoke issued from its gaping nostrils. A moment later, it was gone.

The orange-haired woman opened Adam’s car door. He crawled out and stood up.

I thought you were going to kill me, he said, the way you were glaring at me before.

Oh, that? No, I’m just late for an important meeting.

Me too.

You might want to put on a different suit. She brushed flecks of glass from his lapel.

Right. I will. Umm, thanks for saving me.

Don’t mention it. I, umm, I don’t know what to say. I have no idea what just happened.

Me neither. I’m Adam Baker.

Cathy Peterson. Pleased to meet you. They shook hands. Her strong grip reassured him. This kind of thing happen to you often? she asked.

All the time.

The Fight

CEDAR CREEK POLICE DEPARTMENT

Case #19-1017-0032G

Subject: Garcia, Arturo Javier

St. Luke’s Family Hospital

Surveillance transcript

I’m afraid he’s still sleeping, Officer.

I understand that, but I need to see what we’re dealing with here. I suppose you gals have him all cleaned up… Jesus.

He needed thirty-seven sutures. He may want to elect for scar-reduction procedures, if he can scrape together the money, that is--on top of everything else.

Broken bones?

Nine in total. The nose of course, plus three fingers, a metacarpal, three ribs, and the right clavicle. And the poor fellow doesn’t have insurance.

That’s a damn shame. Has he said anything? AJ, can you hear me?

I wouldn’t expect too much just yet, Steven. All we’ve gotten out of him so far was some babbling in the night. Nothing coherent. He was crying for his mother.

Poor kid. You know him?

Everybody knows him. He carries my groceries. Such a nice young man.

We’ve had him down at the station once or twice. Never anything serious. Never anything like this.

Did you catch whoever did this to him?

Well, yes. But I’m not fully at liberty to discuss the particulars, as they say. Do me a favor, will you Margie? Give us a call when he wakes up, and I’ll come right back. Need to get his side of the story.

AJ and Carl were at Old Bill’s drinking beer and tequila and arguing about zombies. Carl thought they only ate brains. AJ was incredulous. Zombies eat everything, he said. They tear you apart and eat your whole body clean down to the bones. They don’t rampage either. They stumble.

Carl swore fast zombies were scarier. He made a whooshing motion with his hand and knocked his own beer off the bar, straight into AJ’s lap. AJ looked up from his soaking wet crotch just in time to see Tommy Erickson and the Steinholtz twins walk in. The cowboys. The leader was skinny, but the other two were huge, and they all wore cowboy boots, and shiny belt buckles, and they had handkerchiefs tied around their necks. The cowboys had never made it out of Cedar Creek. Everything was still high school to them.

Tommy locked eyes with AJ, then tipped his hat to Bill Mischler, the owner of the establishment. AJ couldn’t stop himself from laughing out loud.

Well look here, boys, Tommy said. We got a live one over here. Hey, Billy—this Mexican kid giving you trouble?

AJ was born and raised in Minnesota.

No, Tommy. He’s fine. Now don’t start anything in my bar tonight, hear me?

Carl suggested that maybe the cowboys ought to mosey on down the road to another bar. He could make himself look tough, sometimes.

Tommy took it in stride. Shut up, Carl, he said. You shut your mouth right now. Then he zeroed in on the wet spot on AJ’s jeans. Look, boys—Pedro here pissed his pants! He pissed his fucking pants. What’s the matter, little boy? You crying about your dear departed sister again?

That was it. AJ stood up too fast, knocking over his stool in the process. Fuck you, Tommy, he said. Silence filled the room. The jukebox’s CD-changer whirred. The song AJ had picked half an hour before came on with guitars screaming. It was hair metal from the ’80s.

Tommy’s friends stood barring the door, looking like a pair of wood ticks with their arms crossed over their chests. Tommy clucked like a chicken, strutting with his chin stuck out and his shoulders back. He flapped his arms, then pretended like he was going to draw pistols. He twitched his fingers, about to draw and fire. The whole scene made AJ want to laugh even more. Old Bill must have been relieved to see they didn’t actually have revolvers strapped to their hips. But on second thought, they probably were packing something. Seemed like everybody but AJ had a carry permit.

Tommy leaned in close. You listen here, AJ Garcia, and you listen good. He spit on AJ’s face as he talked. Nobody laughs at me. Nobody. Certainly not no goddamn illegal. You keep your mouth shut and consider yourself lucky your sweet sister Maria ain’t here no more. Or else I’d make you watch.

Bill was ready to call the cops. Said he wouldn’t have this kind of shit going on in his bar. Said he wanted them out. Told them they could come back tomorrow. He stood there holding his phone, ready to dial.

Tommy turned his head towards the old man, who shrunk back and started shaking right there on the spot. Then Tommy sucker punched AJ square in the gut. AJ doubled over in pain, then managed to stomp on Tommy’s foot. Tommy yelped like a child.

Old Bill yelled, No guns!

The metal band wailed on their guitars.

The Steinholtz brothers came striding forward. Edgar Steinholtz, the slightly bigger one, pulled AJ off the floor, saying, You’re gonna die, you little shit. The other one, Willie, grabbed Carl by the arm. While the goons took AJ and Carl out the back door, Tommy stood up and dusted himself off. He looked Bill Mischler square in the eye, pointed his finger, and said: Don’t you dare call the cops, old man.

Tommy swung hard. AJ was too drunk to react in time, and Tommy hit him square in the face, splitting his cheek open. He fell on his back on the pavement. He rolled to one side and saw the Steinholtz twins standing over Carl.

You think you’re better than me? Tommy said, and he kicked AJ in the stomach. Who the fuck do you think you are? AJ stuck out his tongue. Tommy knelt down to punch him again. AJ rolled over and got up on all fours. The blacktop was cold. His face bled onto his hands. Tommy kicked him in the side and he went rolling. He got to his feet and turned to face his assailant.

Tommy said, You need to get the fuck out of town, AJ. Everybody in Cedar Creek hates your stinking guts.

AJ started shaking all over and laughing like crazy. He charged at Tommy, who took a swing, but AJ ducked low and slammed his shoulder into Tommy’s stomach, tackling him to the ground. Tommy’s henchmen hustled over and yanked AJ up by the armpits. Tommy stood up and hit AJ in the face, ribs, and stomach, again and again.

The Conference

LAKEVIEW CANCER INSTITUTE

Dr. Mikayla Springer

Personal audiolog

10-26-19

October has traditionally been a strong month for Black Americans advancing the state of humanity. In October 1953, Dr. Charles Greene became America’s first Black board-certified neurosurgeon. In October 1964, Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. won the Nobel Peace Prize. In October 1967, the Supreme Court reconvened with its first Black justice, Thurgood Marshall. In October 1993, Toni Morrison won the Nobel Prize in Literature. In 1995, again in October, the Million Man March stormed the National Mall. And one year from now, in October 2020, I will introduce the world to the cure for cancer.

The theoretical groundwork has already been laid. The missing pieces will fall quickly into place--I’m sure of that. I’ve brought some of the greatest minds in medicine here, to Lakeview, and I’m providing them with technology so powerful that it seems to have come from the future.

My hero through all of this has always been a man called Abraham Springer. He was an amazing man, capable of such feats of strength, and bravery… He was a model of perseverance. He never gave up on me, and he never let me give up on myself. He was my mentor. My guiding light. And so much more. Abraham Springer was my father.

And today, this morning, he passed away.

…I saw you just this morning, Daddy. You asked me if I had your train tickets. You haven’t taken the train for years, Daddy. And now, you’re gone. Dead. I can say it. Pancreatic cancer. Dead.

If only I could have done it sooner, Daddy. You always said that saving people didn’t always mean keeping them alive. That’s what you taught me. But is it true? I was going to keep you alive, Daddy. The whole thing, the Project, it was for you. I just needed more time. I just…

No. Stop it. Pull yourself together, Mikayla Springer. The pity party’s over. You are a surgeon, and a scientist, and the director of a world-class facility. It’s time to show them what you’re made of. This is your life’s work, Mikayla. Don’t mess it up.

Adam Baker never overslept. At 5:00 on the morning of the conference, the hotel room’s clock radio blared static and he sat up in bed. He shifted to a cross-legged position and focused on the white noise from the untuned radio as he performed a series of breathing exercises and seated stretches. His mind was clear. No hangover. He rolled his neck forward, then side to side. He brought his shoulders up, then pushed them down. No cigarettes today: that was the goal. Well, maybe just one, before the conference, to settle his nerves. He extended his hands, palms up. Arm circles. Then he got out of bed. Standing on the carpet in his shorts, he bent his elbows and turned his palms