Dead of Night

CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE

GREEN GATES 55-PLUS COMMUNITY

“Wait,” said Trout as he leapt to his feet. “What? Homer Gibbon is alive?”

Tears rolled down Dr. Volker’s face as he nodded. He pulled a handkerchief and pressed it against his eyes. His body trembled with quiet sobs.

Goat sat in open-mouthed shock.

“No, no, no, goddamn it,” Trout shouted as he strode over to the doctor, looming above him with balled fists. “You fucking tell me what you mean? How the hell did Homer Gibbon speak to you on the goddamn phone? He’s dead! I saw him die. I saw you pump that shit into his veins and I saw the machines flatline. I watched you execute him, for Christ’s sake.”

When Volker only shook his head, Trout snarled, “You gave him that stuff, didn’t you? Didn’t you?”

“Yes.” Volker’s voice was tiny.

Goat whispered, “Oh … holy mother of shit…”

“Are you saying that Gibbon is free?” Trout demanded.

“Free?” echoed Volker. “No…”

Trout started to relax, but then the doctor added, “It’s much, much worse than his being free.”

With a snarl, Trout grabbed Volker, hauled him halfway out of the chair and did a fast pat-down to find the pistol he knew Volker carried. It was a heavy nine millimeter, and he tore the pocket open to retrieve it and flung the doctor back down. Volker made a swipe for the pistol, but Trout slapped his hand away and retreated a step. He stared down at Volker with contempt.

“So the plan was to dump this shit in our laps and then eat your gun? You fucking coward.”

“No,” Volker protested, “I told you … I called my handler. The authorities already know about this. They are taking care of it.”

“Taking care of it? Really? A serial killer infected with — Christ, what do I even call this thing? A zombie parasite? — is free in my home town and you think a call to your bosses and a confession to a couple of reporters is enough to balance the scales here?”

“No, I…”

Goat leaned forward. “Doc … if this gets out, if Gibbon is out there among people … what’s the risk of infection?”

“I thought I made that clear.”

Trout racked the slide and put the barrel against Volker’s kneecap. “Make it clearer.”

Volker’s eyes flared with terror. “Please … the parasites were reengineered for survival and proliferation. Outside of a containment unit such as a coffin, they will drive the host to find and infect other hosts.”

“Why?” demanded Goat. “Why would you engineer it to do that?”

“Understand,” said the doctor, mopping tears from his cheeks, “when the Lucifer research was active, it was intended as a bioweapon. Something that could be introduced into an enemy population — a military base or some isolated encampment — and then we would sit back and let the parasites do their work. It would spread through host aggression, and the vastly accelerated life cycle would make each newly infected person a disease vector within minutes. Then military in protective suits could clean up the infected with flame units and acquire the physical assets.”

Trout narrowed his eyes. “What do you mean by ‘host aggression’?”

Volker’s hands gripped the arms of the chair so fiercely that the doctor’s fingernails tore scratches in the fabric. “This is a serum transfer pathogen,” he said in a ghostly voice. “It lives in any body fluid. Blood and sputum would be rife with newly hatched larvae. The logic inherent in parasites would cause the host to transfer the larvae through the most efficient possible means. Spitting into the eyes, nose, or mouth of a target host would work well. The parasites would be absorbed through the mucus membranes. But the most efficient and direct way to guarantee infection would be to forcibly introduce the parasites directly into the bloodstream.”

“‘Forcibly,’” echoed Goat.

Volker nodded. “Through a bite.”

Trout backed away like he’d been slapped. “Goat … oh, shit!”

“What?” asked Goat.

“This morning … at the mortuary. The cops were there…” He pointed the gun at Volker. “What time did you talk to Gibbon?”

Volker flinched. “Half an hour ago.”

“Fuck. So the cops were there putting that sick son of a bitch in cuffs.”

“No,” admitted Volker. “Gibbon had already … left … the mortuary.”

“Whoa,” cut in Goat. “What’s that supposed to mean? That pause. What happened at the mortuary? What did Gibbon tell you?”

Volker sniffed and clutched his handkerchief in one bony fist. “He told me that he … woke up … at the mortuary in Stebbins.”

Woke up. The two words hung in the air, throbbing with ugly meaning.

“What about the mortician? Lee Hartnup?” asked Trout, lowering the gun.

Volker shook his head. “I don’t know.”

“What do you know? What did Gibbon say?”

“He … thanked me.” Saying it seemed to cause physical pain for the doctor. He winced and touched his chest. “God help me…”

“Thanked you?” Trout felt the moment slipping away from him. “Thanked you for what? I thought this was supposed to be a punishment. Are you telling me that this was something else? Are you saying you helped this asshole escape?”

“No! God in heaven … no. I injected Gibbon with Lucifer 113 because I wanted him to suffer. I wanted him in his coffin screaming in torment as the parasites kept him alive just so they could feed on him. He deserved it. They all deserve it.”

“Then why did he thank you?”

“Because he thinks I helped him escape,” cried Volker. “That maniac thinks that we had some sort of agreement, that all of this is part of some plan I had to free him. He said that he knew it back when he first came to me in the infirmary.”

“Why would he think that?” asked Goat suspiciously.

Volker shook his head, but he said, “Once, months ago, when I was briefly alone with the prisoner, I made some kind of veiled threat to him. I said something like … ‘After you go, you won’t be gone. You’ll be with us forever. You’ll know forever.’ Something like that. It was a threat. I wanted him to fear what would happen to him when the execution day finally arrived. I didn’t want him to have a single night’s peaceful sleep.”

“But he didn’t take it that way?” said Trout as he sat back down. He nodded to himself. “Yeah, I can see it. Twisted mind like his.”

Volker gave another shake of his head. “On the phone … I told him the truth. I told him everything that I had planned to do to him. I told him that it was still going to consume him. I told him that he was still going to be punished for what he did.”

“How did he react,” asked Trout.

“Gibbon laughed at me. Then he said that he would be coming for me. A hollow threat … he has no idea where I live. And, I suspect, he doesn’t have your resources for finding out.”

Trout sneered. “But you were going to shoot yourself anyway. Just in case?”

The doctor said nothing.

Goat was shaking his head “Homer Gibbon never died? He’s alive…?”

Volker cleared his throat. “In a manner of speaking. Homer Gibbon did die. He was clinically and legally dead.”

“But it was a dodge,” suggested Goat.

“No. He was dead. His body was dead. His mind was…” Volker shrugged. “Even in Project Lucifer we had no word for it. ‘Elsewhere’ is as good as anything.”

“But what about oxygen starvation?” demanded Goat. “That destroys brain cells, right?”