The World Beneath

Chapter 23

Dr. Dubois crutched into the room. The lab’s blinds were half open, and stripes of sunlight overlay the clean countertops and polished equipment. All the chemicals had been returned to their glass-fronted cabinets, every bit of glassware clean and put away where it belonged, because his assistants had known he was coming. He ran a tight ship.

He drew in a deep breath of air that smelled of formalin and disinfectant. It took him back years, to his days as a lab assistant first exploring the mysteries of biology, fascinated by how most of our lives were determined by forces too small to be seen by the naked eye.

Because he had ordered everyone out, the lab was empty. He relished the solitude and the order. Too much of his life these days was taken up with people and meetings and paperwork. He was a victim of his own success.

He so rarely got a chance to do hands-on work anymore. Usually, his assistants handled such work for him, but this specimen he needed to see for himself.

The sample case lay on the matte-black countertop, cardboard box still sealed on all sides with tape. It had been hand-delivered to the lab that morning. He slit the tape and pulled out a Styrofoam box. It had been well packed. Dr. Dubois lifted the Styrofoam lid and removed a simple glass jar surrounded on all sides by cooling gel packs. Per his instructions, it had not been frozen. Inside the jar, pinkish-beige tissue quivered like a lump of jelly.

He held the glass container to the light. Some decomposition had occurred, but the sample looked better preserved than he’d dared hope. It must have been taken shortly after death and quickly packed away. What he sought could survive a long time, even at room temperature. A full brain would have been better, but he had more than enough tissue for what he needed. He set the jar carefully on the countertop.

He drew a brand new scalpel from a drawer, unwrapped it, and placed it next to the jar. The sharp steel blade gleamed in a shaft of sunlight. Long ago, he’d had his own set of scalpels, regularly sterilized, but in today’s throwaway culture, it was easier to buy single-use ones. This refined piece of equipment might make only one cut before being discarded.

Next he pulled a box of glass slides and cover slips from a nearby drawer. They, too, would only see a single use. He located a pair of reusable tweezers and put them next to the scalpel. His tools were all in place.

Although it wasn’t strictly necessary, he put on a pair of latex gloves and a face mask that heated up with the first breath. It felt like dressing up for Halloween. He smiled — nasty tricks or clever treats, there were some of each to be found in this special sample.

The jar proved difficult to open, and he remembered again the small man’s deceptive strength. Eventually, the lid budged. A quick turn, and he had free access to the ruthlessly gathered sample.

He dipped a gloved hand into the glass container and pulled out a clot. The tissue felt cool and soft through his glove, like aspic straight from the refrigerator. On one edge sat a darker mass, perhaps a cyst.

He set the sample down on the counter and picked up the scalpel. With controlled, deft movements, he sliced the potential cyst into thin samples and placed the first one on a slide with tweezers. Tenderly, he placed the cover slip on top, as if tucking in a baby.

Trying to control his rising excitement, he took a deep breath, studying the new slide that he held flat between his gloved thumb and forefinger. It contained a sample that he’d never thought he would see.

He clipped the slide under the microscope’s lens and focused the eyepiece. As the slide came into sharp relief, he stopped breathing. There it was. Even at this magnification, he could see the sample teeming with parasites — parasites he had put there.

He stared down at the swirling mass.

The last troublesome link to the 500 series was severed. Subject 523 had come back to him. The doctor was safe.

He dropped the slide into the biohazard bin along with the scalpel. The tweezers he put into a bin destined for the autoclave. The tissue in the jar itself he carried to the incinerator in the far corner. It reminded him of the one in which Dr. Johansson had lost her life and reminded him that he had to replace her. No rest for the weary.

Minutes later, the lab was clean — tissue disposed of, box packed away for recycling, countertop sterilized. It was as if he’d never worked in here at all.

The last obstacle to tomorrow’s larger-scale testing had been removed. He opened the refrigerator to take out the samples stored there. When he opened the door, light reflected off a row of stoppered glass tubes. The contents didn’t need to be refrigerated, but this was the most convenient place to store them.

That was the genius of it — the parasite was so hardy that it was easy to store and transport. Simple, too, to administer. The test tubes in front of him contained enough material to infect a thousand soldiers. And, best of all, the parasite was common enough that twenty-five percent of the population of the United States already carried it; other countries had high incidences of it as well. An autopsy of anyone infected with his strain might find the parasite, but they would dismiss it. The parasite was so common as to be beyond suspicion.

He picked up a test tube and held the cool glass up to the light. Over many years, he had refined the sample stored there. He had tested it on rats, on primates, and on humans. There had been many failures that he tried not to think of, but successes, too.

That the parasite changed the behavior of its host had been documented before Dr. Dubois was born. The microscopic creature changed its host to suit its own needs — causing rats to run to cats to be devoured, or humans to behave with increased recklessness and promiscuity. Fine-tuning the parasite to suit the military’s needs had taken years. But he had succeeded.

It was hard to believe that it had started with a simple cat, that each one of these creatures had passed through a cat’s gut and out the other end. He had truly mined gold from shit.

He studied the gleaming tube, imagining the creatures teeming within. He had built them to make soldiers do his bidding. And they had.

Only a few more minutes of his lunchtime laboratory ban remained. He swung a metal briefcase onto the counter next to the refrigerator. Specially manufactured foam lined the inside. The foam contained divots the size and shape of the stoppered test tubes. They wouldn’t clink, they wouldn’t rattle, and they wouldn’t break, even if the case were dropped. One by one, he pressed the precious glass containers into their manufactured shell.

Tomorrow morning he would take a train to Manhattan. He’d hand-deliver the case to Agent Marks of the CIA, and the trials would start by the end of the week.

In a few days, a thousand men would be infected.