Race

TWO

Between his thumb and index finger, Armand Dempiers held a small tablet. It was oval and smooth, and resembled an over-the-counter medication. But it was not. It was far more dangerous than anything available in the drugstores.

He returned the tablet to a tray and slid it into the dryer-oven. As he moved away, the door behind him flew open.

“Joey, what do you want?” Armand said.

“Is it ready?” Joey looked too young to shave.

It would never be ready, Armand wanted to say. Not if he had anything to do with it. “A few more minutes.”

He moved across the windowless room, no bigger than a two-car garage, passed a large motorized ventilator and slumped on to a chair behind a battered steel desk.

He shoved a stack of books and note-filled binders aside and rested his head on his palms. Through his fingers he caught sight of a picture frame with gold borders hidden underneath the pile of material.

He squinted at the photo inside the frame. Four smiling faces looked up at him. Three children and one…he stopped. One, a man he no longer knew. The man’s smile was, perhaps, the widest. He seemed healthy and full of life.

Through the cracked glass he saw his own reflection. The man looking back at him was weak and exhausted.

How did his life end up like this?

He caught the three smiling faces again and he couldn’t help but smile himself. His children brought him immense joy. His smile drained when he thought of the person who had taken the photo: his ex-wife.

He was glad she was not in the picture. How he hated her. It was her fault-all of it. She wanted to take the kids from Toronto to Vancouver. How could she expect him to see them over the weekends when they were that far away?

He closed his eyes. This was a mistake. A mistake he no longer wanted to be part of.

What was he thinking, creating this drug? Was it that it would bring instant relief to whoever used it? Or was it that it would make him instantly rich?

This was supposed to be for his children. Once he was rich, he would give them everything they’d ever want. He’d buy a house so that they wouldn’t have to move to Vancouver.

So, what was wrong with providing relief and profiting from it? He wanted to shout. Nothing. Except when the user has no choice but to want more, and more, and more…

This was Bantam’s fault, as well. He’d worked for Bantam Pharmaceuticals Limited for over fourteen years, giving them the best years of his life. He’d been working on a painkiller that would irrevocably change the drug industry. But, just as he had discovered a revolutionary instantly absorbing version, Bantam had cold feet. It was dangerous, they said; it had potential for something sinister. It wasn’t finished, Armand retorted, there were tests that still had to be done. Give me more time, he begged. They didn’t. They shut his project, and when he protested, they fired him.

He stole the designs and was here, working for them in completing his masterpiece…except, he had realized, his creation could one day cause so much misery that could even affect his children. So now he…

"Armand, it has to be ready by now," he heard Joey say.

Armand shut his eyes tight; deep lines etched his pale skin. His wiry fingers moved in a circular motion around his temples, trying to alleviate the pain in his head.

After tonight he would do what he should have done months ago. Call the police and give himself up. He would confess. Surely, they would be lenient; after all, he would save them a great deal of trouble.

"I think it's ready," Joey said.

Armand lifted his head, rubbed his eyes, and took a deep breath. For now, he had to continue this charade. He had to show the kid-a chemistry student whose job was to watch over him-that the drug they had been laboring over for the last three weeks was capable of doing what it boasted: providing such intense relief, the body couldn’t help but crave more.

He went over and pulled out the tray he had been examining not two minutes ago. Two dozen, identical, yellow tablets lined perfectly across the tray in rows.

Joey rubbed his hands. "We have it. I know we do."

"Armand will never have it," said a female voice from behind.

They both turned.

She stood near the door with one hand on her hip. Her auburn hair flowed down her back. Her lips were parted slightly, revealing glossed teeth. Her emerald eyes bore into Armand.

“We have it, Ms. Zee," Joey said, moving his hand through his shaggy hair. "Don't we?" He turned to Armand.

Armand didn't meet his eyes.

“Armand never had it," Ms. Zee said. "And he never will."

“But…" Joey started. "We've been working…"

The look on Ms. Zee’s face was both menacing and disappointing. “Joey, get out!”

When the door had closed behind him, "Kong!" she commanded.

A massive figure emerged behind her. Veins throbbed from the side of his shaved head. His black t-shirt was ready to tear from the bulging muscles. His neck was the size of a tree trunk and his chest the width of the door.

The tray in Armand's hand shook; a few tablets fell. "Ms. Zee, I will have it. I just need a little more time."

She shook her head. "No."

Kong moved toward him.

Armand lifted the tray over his head-tablets scattered to the floor-and threw it at Kong.

A loud metal thud reverberated as the tray hit Kong on the forehead. Kong stumbled back, jerked his head and clenched his jaw. His nostrils flared.

Armand grabbed a binder and a book and threw them at Kong.

Kong was ready. He flicked them aside with his massive hands as if they were nothing. He charged.

Armand moved backward, slipped on the tablets, and fell sideways. His head hit the edge of the desk with a loud crack. His body slumped to the floor awkwardly, his right arm underneath him, his left turned upward, his legs spread apart, and his neck twisted to one side.

Bone protruded from the side of his neck, revealing a lump underneath the skin. His chest was still. His eyes, empty and hollow, stared up at the ceiling.

Armand Dempiers was dead.