He stared at the cracked ceiling. The paint had long since peeled off, leaving a flaked gray surface mottled by mildew stains and various gouges and pits. The room was small, having been divided from a larger room some years earlier to facilitate the growing population of the building. The new wall contrasted sharply with the originals, which abutted it. Even with a poster of some tropical island covering the graffiti, the exposed plywood wall looked grossly out of place next to the faded beauty of the original wallpaper, although the maroon flowers were nearly obscured behind years of filth and sun damage. The rug, once an exquisite floor covering, had worn down into the hardwood beneath, creating an undulating patchwork of shag and splinters. The single window looked out over what was once a large park. A shantytown had grown up in the streets around it and the available land had been cleared for growing food. The film of soot and dust had nearly obscured the view, but he doubted that window washers would ever scale the walls again: uptown perhaps, where the rich still could afford such a service, but not here where the forgotten roamed. He stared up at the cracked ceiling.
It had been one of the most exclusive hotels in the city around the turn of the century. Catering to princes and dignitaries, the hotel boasted the best rooms and finest cuisine in the city. It wasn't exclusive anymore…in fact it catered to just about anyone, which was why he was here. The poor, sick, and unnoticed now crowded its halls and rooms. The little money he had left secured him a "private room"…and the guarantee that he would be left alone. He had checked in, paying one of the half dozen "floor lords" for the "luxury suite" he now lay in. The sheets were almost white, with very few holes, and apparently the proprietor still maintained some pride in his service. He stared at the cracked ceiling.
Twenty-five days…the prognosis was grim. He was letting himself slip away. The protein patch stuck to his side maintained his nourishment, and allowed him to forgo eating, which he now abhorred. A part of him felt cheated, and he thought of his own father's final days…the resignation of will, and the comfortable anticipation of death that followed. Now at 29, he was dying, and the rage of the injustice being dealt him was the only hindrance keeping him from accepting his fate.
Worst of all however was the irony of the situation. It was the hardest thing to swallow. In the months leading up to his affliction, he had led a happy and affluent life. He had a large home that made his current abode look like a kind of joke that people couldn't maintain because they felt sorry for the victim. The house was now gone…the police claimed arson, but didn't investigate. After the scandal, no one would help him, and yet he had helped so many.
By twenty-six, he had tackled the most deadly disease of the 21st century. He had developed an inhibitor for Cradon F, a debilitating disease that attacked higher brain functions and motor control. After three years in the lab, he had produced wet-ware that when fused to the cerebral cortex realigned the neural pathways to return motor function, and circumvented damaged brain tissue restoring full health. Thousands of victims, thought beyond help, had gotten out of bed, less than three hours after being infused with the cure. His own brother, Arthur, had gone home to his wife and children the same day.
Instantly, he had become famous, his home filled with awards and citations. He was awarded honorary degrees from nearly two dozen universities; Cambridge University gave him an honorary tenured position, and an open invitation to lecture at his leisure, and all before his twenty-seventh birthday.
He was not, however, without his detractors. Corporations dealing in medical supply, research, and treatment of Craden F went bankrupt in a matter of weeks. Meditech Labs went under four days before Christmas, putting 20,000 employees, and their families out of work. The 45 acre complex was "torched" a week later, as former employees rioted in response to the layoff.
Multinational Corporations with diversified interests suffered less, but profits went down none-the-less. Branches researching treatments for Cradon closed down, causing massive layoffs and firings. Through all, he was oblivious to the financial damage he was causing. He was getting richer minute by minute, and enjoying his newfound fame.
But right under his nose entities began to conspire against him. Susan Falcourt, a former employee and friend of his wife hired a private investigator to tail him. She sold six months of information to the Newsnet 7 for an undisclosed amount of credit. Nothing ever hit the net. The information was snatched up by the World Health Organization less than three hours after its transfer to Newsnet.
Suddenly, like a summer storm, detractors began appearing in high profile positions to discredit him. At first, he dismissed the accusations as jealousy and misinformation, hoping that the issues would disappear. As the weeks passed, amidst mounting pressure from friends, he was forced to respond to allegations ranging from marital infidelity to credit fraud. None of the charges were valid, but the mere fact that they were being run across the news and nets was enough for some of his oldest allies to begin distancing themselves from him.
Soon, even his close friends stopped calling altogether. The slander became overwhelming. He was forced to sequester himself in his Malibu home for fear he would be attacked on the streets. Charges of unauthorized testing on human patients were raised and warrants were issued. The same day, his wife filed for divorce. An unstoppable avalanche of lies had engulfed his life. Homeland Security arrested him twenty-four hours later.
He was held in custody for three weeks before he was summoned before a senate sub-committee. He was grilled extensively for nine days. One senator went so for as to blame the Craden F syndrome on him. Every charge was false, refuted by recordings he had made secretly from the beginning of his research and development of the inhibitor device. He was quietly acquitted, but the damage had been done. Like a plague victim, no one would touch him.
The arrest and subsequent civil trials had left him friendless and nearly broke. He was forced to liquidate all his assets. His house went on the market, but before it sold, it burned down in a mysterious fire. The preliminary indications looked like it was arson, but the police refused to investigate. His name and reputation had gone up in smoke, just like his home.
A week later, he secretly left the country finding his way to Singapore, and set up a small laboratory. He was driven to discover why he had been publicly ruined. The answer, he surmised, must have originated in his cure of Craden F. With very little research, he discovered his assumption was correct.
Two weeks after he began to dissect the Craden F virus, he began to see a pattern in the amino acids and nucleotides. It was a pattern he had overlooked in his original research. The virus was a neural inhibitor, which in itself was not uncommon; many diseases were degenerative. But upon comparing the various diseases that attacked the nervous system and neural pathways, he discovered that with the exception of Craden F, all of the other diseases were gradually degenerative, attacking slowly and indiscriminately. Craden F was the exception . . . it attacked neural pathways rapidly and specifically. He dug further, deep into the genetics of the virus, looking for an answer.
What he found shocked him to the very core of his being. Craden F was not a naturally occurring disease; it was engineered. In his research he had dealt with circumventing damage and strengthening neural pathways to withstand attack, in essence creating a protected system inside the brain. He had not taken a close look at the disease . . . no one had.
But who would listen? He had stumbled onto the biggest conspiracy against humanity in the 21st century. It was a manufactured disease with the power to ravage the planet leaving very few to survive. Africa had been its test site. Nearly 200 million had died in the first five years alone. If his wetware had not been introduced in sub-Saharan Africa, projections had placed the mortality rate near 95%. A land of untapped natural resource and nearly no population at all would be a gold mine for investors. Any world power could walk in and develop without protest. In Europe, Asia and the Americas, Craden F had been less of a threat, but it had been on the rise. Worldwide projections had estimated the disease had infected 1 billion people. Almost half that number died from it. Unchecked it might have ravaged 75 percent of the globe’s population. He had stepped in front of the largest conspiracy in the world and destroyed it, without even knowing what he was doing.
Unfortunately, even though he had the answer, he was still plagued by questions. Who was responsible, and why? Undoubtedly, it would take massive resources and capital to finance an operation of global scale. There were only a handful of governments and corporations that could even think of funding an undertaking of such proportion. So he began researching Craden F and its origins.
He was deep into the research when the news reached him; his brother had been killed in New York City. So he made his way secretly back into the country, crossing under the Rio Grande in a smuggler’s tunnel. He made his way to New York and began digging around to discover answers about his brother’s death. He discovered it had been a message. The killing had been used to lure him back into the states. Someone wanted him back in America.
He used what little money he had left to secure a room at the once grand Ritz Carlton under an assumed name. He knew it wouldn’t be long before someone came to finish him as well. Three days later he was poisoned eating noodles from a street vendor. The toxin worked slowly, and he knew that he couldn’t engineer a cure in time. He would die unnoticed in a small room on the fifth floor of the Ritz; a fitting end. William Newhouse had resigned himself to his fate. He stared at the ceiling. He knew he was going to die.
What he didn’t know was that someone else was looking for him. And unlike the rest of the world, they wanted him to live.
No comments:
Post a Comment