The Judas Strain

stomach exploded. And still he continued to eat.”

Oh God…

Past the shock, Lisa needed another moment for the significance of his words to strike her. “You watched…where…?”

“Dr. Cummings, you don’t think we were just studying Susan Tunis. To be thorough, we must also understand every facet of the disease. Even this cannibalism. This insatiable hunger bears a striking similarity to Prader-Willi syndrome. Are you familiar with it?”

Numb, Lisa shook her head.

“It’s a hypothalamic dysfunction, triggering an insatiable appetite that can never be quelled. An endless sense of starvation. A rare genetic defect. Many of the afflicted die at a young age of stomach ruptures from gorging.”

Devesh’s cold clinical assessment helped anchor her back inside her body, but her breathing remained heavy.

“Autopsy of one of the psychotic’s brains showed toxic damage to the hypothalamus, similar to the pathology in Prader-Willi patients. And coupled with the catatonic excitement and adrenal stimulation. Well…” Devesh waved to the bed.

Lisa’s stomach churned. As she turned away, she finally noted the victim’s face: the agonized lips, the blank staring eyes, the corona of gray hair.

Her hand covered her mouth as she recognized the man. It was the John Doe patient, the one suffering from flesh-eating disease. From Susan’s medical history, Lisa even knew the patient’s name now.

Applegate.

To put a name to the cannibalism here, to personalize it…

Lisa hurried out of the room.

Devesh’s eyes glinted with dark amusement. Lisa realized the bastard had brought her purposefully down here, half naked, unnerved, knowing she’d identify him. It was all some awful bit of sadism.

“So now you know what we truly face here,” he said. “Imagine events magnified worldwide. That is the threat I’m trying to prevent.”

Lisa held back a sharp retort. Trying to prevent, my ass.

“We are facing a pandemic,” Devesh continued as he headed back down the hallway toward the scientific wing. “Before the World Health Organization had responded to Christmas Island, early patients had already been airlifted to Perth in Australia. Prior to that, tourists traveling through Christmas Island had spread to the four corners of the world. London, San Francisco, Berlin, Kuala Lumpur. We don’t know how many, if any, were infected from early exposure, like Dr. Susan Tunis, but it would not take many. Without proper disinfection like we employ here, the virus may already be spreading.”

Devesh led her back down the hall to the virology lab. “So perhaps now you’ll be a bit more forthcoming and open.”

As they reentered the lab, questioning glances were cast their way.

Lisa simply shook her head and sank to her stool.

Once they were settled, Dr. Eloise Chenier shifted from her seat in front of the computer. “While you were gone,” she said, “I pulled up Dr. Pollum’s files. Here is the protein schematic you ordered. From the virus in the toxic soup.”

The doctor backed from the screen so all could see the rotating image, spinning like a toy top on the monitor.

It depicted the icosahedron shell of the virus: twenty triangular sections, forming a sphere, like a soccer ball. Except some of the triangles bulged out with alpha proteins, while others were sunken in by beta proteins. Lisa had wanted it all mapped out to better test her hypothesis.

Lisa pointed. “Can you stop the rotation?”

Chenier tapped a button on her mouse and the spinning halted, freezing the image on the screen.

Lisa stood back up. “Now, on the other monitor, can you bring up the protein map of the virus recovered from Susan Tunis’s cerebral spinal fluid?”

A moment later, a second soccer ball appeared, spinning. Lisa moved closer, studying it. She manipulated the mouse button herself this time, freezing the image where she wanted it.

She faced the others.

Devesh shrugged, using his whole upper body. “So? It looks the same.”

She stepped back. “Picture the two side by side.”

Henri stood up, eyes widening. “They’re not the same!”

She nodded. “They’re mirror images of each other. They may superficially look the same, but they are really exact opposites. Geometric isomerism. Two forms of the same geometric shape, just mirrored one upon the other.”

“Cis and trans,” Chenier said, using the technical term for the two sides of the same coin.

Lisa tapped the first screen. “Here is the trans form, or the bad form of the virus. It infects bacteria and turns them into monsters.” She waved to the other screen, depicting the virus found inside Susan’s skull. “Here is the cis form, or the good virus that heals.”

“Cis and trans,” Miller mumbled. “Good and bad.”

Lisa elaborated her theory. “As we already know, the trans virus toxified bacteria in order to weaken the blood-brain barrier, thus allowing it to penetrate that virgin territory of the inner skull. It even brought along some company.”

“The cyanobacteria,” Miller said. “The glowing bacteria.”

“And normally the toxins produced by the bacteria corrupted the brain in such a manner that it triggered catatonic excitement with psychosis. But in Susan’s case, something else happened. The virus, when it hit her brain fluid, somehow altered. Changed from its evil trans form over to its beneficial cis form. And once altered, the new virus swept out and began reversing all the damage done by its evil twin, healing the patient and sending her into a deep recuperative stupor, contrary to the manic excitement phase of the other patients.”

“Even if you’re correct,” Henri said, “which I believe you are, what was so special about Susan’s biochemistry to trigger this change?”

Lisa shrugged. “I wager over the next days or weeks, we’ll see a handful of other patients make the same transformation. Susan was infected five weeks ago. So it may be too soon to judge. But I think it’s still a very rare event. A random quirk in her genetics. For example, are you familiar with the Eyam phenomenon during the Black Plague?”

Chenier raised her hand as if in a schoolroom. “I am.”

Lisa nodded. Of course, an infectious disease expert would know the story.

Chenier explained, “Eyam was a small village in England. Back in the sixteen hundreds, the Black Plague struck the village. But after a year, most of Eyam still lived. Modern genetic studies revealed why. A rare mutation was present in the villagers. In a gene called Delta 32. It was a benign defect that was passed from one family member to another, and in such an isolated township, inbred as they were, a good portion of the town had acquired the mutation. Then the plague struck. And this strange little mutation, just hanging about, saved them. Made them immune.”

Devesh spoke up. “Are you suggesting our patient carries the Delta 32 equivalent against the Judas Strain? Some random protein that enzymatically switched the virus in her from trans to cis.”

“Or maybe it’s not that random,” Lisa mumbled. She’d been struggling with this question ever since her discovery of the altered virus. “Only a very small percentage of our DNA is actually functional. Only three percent, in fact. The other ninety-seven percent is considered genetic junk. It doesn’t code for anything. But some of that junk DNA bears a remarkable resemblance to viral code. The current belief is that such coding