The Brain Eaters

Chapter 30

All the lights blazed in the Biotron laboratory complex. The small employees’ lounge adjacent to the labs was bright with an ersatz high-tech cheeriness. It made the gray-black sky outside look even darker.

Corey Macklin sat at a formica table in the lounge with Dena Falkner. On the table before them were two Styrofoam coffee cups, which they toyed with while their attention was elsewhere. A cigarette smoldered, forgotten, in an ashtray at Dena’s side. Their free hands rested on the table, touching.

“You look tired,” Corey said.

“It’s been a long day,” Dena answered with a weary smile. “Going to be a long night, too. Dr. K doesn’t sleep, so he thinks the troops shouldn’t sleep.”

“You guys ought to have a union.”

“I’ll bring it up at our next meeting.”

They exchanged smiles that were clearly forced. The conversation sagged. Corey looked around for inspiration. Through the window he saw the dark trees at the forest line toss their branches and lean forward as though they wanted to advance on the buildings that had taken their space.

“Storm coming,” he said.

“Feels like it.” Dena took her hand away to rub the gooseflesh on her other arm. She conspicuously avoided the patch of bandage on her elbow.

A look of pain flashed across Corey’s face.

“Hey, I feel okay,” she said. “No worse than a bad cold. Anyway, at the worst I’ve got what — a week?”

“You’re the doctor,” he said in a husky voice.

“Yes. Well.” She glanced at the efficient wristwatch she wore and checked it with the big wall clock. “I’d better get back.”

“Sure.”

They stood up at the same time, leaving their cups sitting on the table with the cooling coffee untasted.

“I’ll check with you later,” Corey said.

“Good.”

Dena turned and took a couple of steps away from him, then stopped. She turned back. The uneasy smile she had kept in place through the coffee break was gone. Her eyes held a hint of desperation. She and Corey took a quick step toward each other, and she was in his arms, her face pressed against his chest.

“I’m scared, Corey,” she said, her voice small and muffled against his sweater.

He held her tightly, one hand patting her shoulder. “Hey, why wouldn’t you be? I’m scared, too.”

“I don’t want to die,” she said. “Not like this.”

Corey’s throat closed on him, and he could not speak for several seconds.

“It doesn’t have to happen,” he got out finally. “Like you said, if you had to get the damn things, you couldn’t be in a better place.”

Dena took one very deep breath, then stepped back away from him. Her smile was in place again, her eyes a little feverish but steady. “That sounds like a good-news, bad-news joke. Maybe later we can send it to Reader’s Digest.

“Right,” he said. “Later.”

She turned again and walked from the lounge through the swinging door into the laboratory. Her step was firm, and this time she did not turn back.

Corey looked down and saw that his fists were so tightly clenched the knuckles were white. He forced himself to relax and to give Dena time to reach her work station; then he followed her into the lab.

Dr. Kitzmiller was a touch less hostile when Corey approached him than he had been earlier in the day. For the forbidding biochemist, this was a huge concession to personal warmth. He even left the table where he was reading over notes made by the other members of the task force and took Corey back into his small, chilly office.

“Any news?” Corey asked, making an effort to keep it impersonal.

“I thought your briefing of the media was finished for today.”

“I’m asking for myself,” Corey said.

“We are making progress, of a sort.”

Corey leaned forward.

“There has been no breakthrough,” Kitzmiller continued quickly. “We are approaching the problem from two directions. We must find a means of protection for those not yet afflicted and a cure for those whose blood already carries the parasites but who are not yet too ill to be helped.”

“How ill is too ill?” Corey asked.

“Dr. Everett, the brain specialist, feels that once the parasites have been carried by the bloodstream into the brain tissue and have begun their damage there, it is too late.”

“And it takes about a week from the time they enter the body for them to get to the brain?”

“That is no longer a valid assumption. Our reports show that as the cases have spread, the length of time for the parasites to reach the brain has decreased.”

“How long?” Corey’s mouth had dried up.

“Three, perhaps four, days.”

“Jesus. But you say there is some progress toward finding a cure?”

“I said we were making progress of a sort. The preventive approach must take precedence to preserve the health of those who are not yet infested.”

“That’s not fair to the people who have the brain eaters in their blood. They could still be saved.”

“Life, Mr. Macklin, is not fair. Now you must excuse me.”

Corey sat alone for several minutes in the cold office, then pulled himself out of the chair and went in search of Lou Zachry. He badly needed somebody to talk to.

Zachry’s office was empty. Corey walked to the entrance and looked out into the parking area. Zachry’s car was gone. Lightning sparked down through the slate-colored sky, and thunder crashed like cymbals.

Corey sat down heavily on an ornamental concrete bench in front of the Biotron entrance. The wind made him shiver, but he paid it no attention. He stared unseeing out toward the gate, his mood darker than the skies. A first, fat drop of rain hit the bench beside him.

Anton Kuryakin sat in the pickup truck in a farmer’s roadway where he had pulled off after his second pass by the gate to Biotron. Raslov and the KGB men were still there, parked across the road, waiting for him. Kuryakin knew they would park there indefinitely, watching the road, waiting to take him. Time was on their side.

Kuryakin made a decision. There could be no more delay. He shifted the pickup into reverse and backed out onto the highway, taking a small pleasure in his growing skill in operating the American vehicles. He pointed the machine back toward Biotron and hit the gas.

When he came to the end of the chain link fence, he began to pick up speed. There could be no stopping for explanations to the guards at the gate. Raslov and the others would be there too quickly, and one way or another they would surely prevent him from entering.

When he could see the gate and guard shack ahead on his right, Kuryakin pushed the accelerator pedal to the floor. He swung the truck to the far side of the road to allow himself a better angle for approaching the gate. There was no need for him to worry about oncoming cars; traffic along that road had dwindled to nothing.

Rain began to smack the windshield in fat, heavy drops. Kuryakin had no time to search for the wiper control; he needed all his concentration for the driving.

From the corner of his eye he saw movement behind the smoked glass of the parked limousine as the pickup roared past the spot where it was parked. Up ahead, the door of the guard shack opened, and a uniformed man stood looking out as Kuryakin yanked the wheel and swerved into a tire-screaming turn off the road and toward the gate.

He hit the heavy steel mesh of the gate with a jarring crash that threw him forward against the steering wheel. The breath was blasted from his lungs as the gate sagged inward and the truck came to a stop.

Kuryakin’s chest heaved as he struggled to pull in air. I’ve failed, he thought as the men surged out of the guard shack. In the rearview mirror he could see the limousine across the road start to move toward him.

He kept his foot on the accelerator. The rear wheels spun; the heavy air was acrid with burning rubber. The face of one of the guards appeared at the window. He was shouting something Kuryakin could not hear.

Simultaneously, with a blinding flash of lightning overhead, the gate gave way with a metallic crack. The spinning tires of the pickup bit suddenly into the wet asphalt, and the truck went skidding across the parking area, turning one complete revolution before Kuryakin could bring it to a stop.

Corey Macklin was the first to reach him as he climbed unsteadily down from the cab.

“I am Anton Kuryakin,” he gasped. “I must speak to Dr. Kitzmiller.”

Three men from the security force, weapons at the ready, ran through the rain toward the truck. The others were blocking the path of the limousine, which was trying to follow Kuryakin through the shattered gate.

Corey caught the Russian as he stumbled and helped him upright as Lieutenant Purdue, followed by two of his men, pounded up.

“We’ll take over now, Mr. Macklin,” said the security chief.

Corey stood his ground. “This is Anton Kuryakin. He’s here on official business.”

“I’ll see that he’s placed in protective custody,” said Purdue.

“Please, I must talk to Dr. Kitzmiller,” said the Russian. “For the sake of your country and its people, do not detain me.”

Viktor Raslov, escorted by two of the gate guards, hurried up. The KGB men were being kept in the limousine where it had stopped at the shattered gate.

“This man is a Soviet citizen,” Raslov said. “He is traveling on a diplomatic passport. You cannot hold him.”

“Wait a minute,” Corey said. “Nobody is holding anybody here.” He turned to Kuryakin. “What is your business with Dr. Kitzmiller?”

“It is confidential.”

Corey looked at Lieutenant Purdue, the security guards, and Viktor Raslov. He turned back to Kuryakin. “I think you’d better give us some idea of why you’re here, or you will never get inside.”

“This is a grave insult,” Raslov complained. “This man belongs with my party.”

Lieutenant Purdue turned on Raslov. “Sir, you are both guilty of trespassing on a government reservation. You,” he said to Kuryakin, “have destroyed government property and forced your way into a highly sensitive facility. I am going to have to place you both under — ”

“Wait a minute,” Corey broke in. “Let’s hear what he has to say.”

Kuryakin looked from one of the men to the next and chose finally to speak to Corey. “In your American press Dr. Kitzmiller has been called the ‘Father of the Brain Eaters,’ has he not?”

Corey nodded. “I suppose that in a way I’m responsible for that.”

“It does not matter, you see, because it is not true,” Kuryakin said. “Your Dr. Kitzmiller is not the father.”

The other men stared at him. Corey said, “What do you mean?”

“He cannot be the father,” Kuryakin said evenly, “because I am.”

Frederich Kitzmiller’s lean face was darker than the storm outside. He glared at Corey Macklin as the two men stood in his office just off the laboratory.

“Absolutely not!” Kitzmiller thundered. “I have given you more time today than I should have because I let my sympathy overcome my judgment. But this is too much. I will not waste any more of my time with some double-dealing, lying pig of a communist!”

“The man is a scientist,” Corey protested.

“So was Dr. Mengele.”

“Won’t you at least talk to him, doctor?” Corey said. “He’s right outside with Lieutenant Purdue.”

“Give me one reason why I should see this Bolshevik.”

“He says he has critical information about the brain eaters,” Corey said. “He claims that he developed the same parasites in Russia a year ago.”

“Hah! Of all the discoveries and inventions the Russians have claimed over the years, this is one I would like to give them. But it is not true. I, Frederich Kitzmiller, brought what are now called the brain eaters into existence in this very laboratory.”

“I know the story,” Corey said impatiently. “You were experimenting with a new pesticide — ”

“Bullshit pesticide!”

It was the first time Corey had heard the icy Dr. Kitzmiller use coarse language, and he stared at him.

“There is no point in keeping up the pretense any longer, regardless of what Mr. Zachry thinks. The brain eaters were developed to be exactly what they are, for possible use as a weapon.”

“A weapon?” Corey felt as though he had been slugged over the head.

“Yes, of course. With the Russians’ lead in chemical-and biological-warfare preparations, we felt it critical to have a response. It was done under a specific, highly secret contract from the Department of Defense. Did you really believe that such a horrendous result could come from innocent research on a pesticide?”

“A lot of people did,” Corey said.

“Well, that was the intent.” Kitzmiller’s voice grew calmer, but the fire stayed in the flashing blue eyes. “It became an obsession with Zachry that the public should not know of the government’s part in it. It would have destroyed the power of the Pentagon, he said, and with it the current administration.” His thin lips stretched in a mirthless smile. “A lot that matters now.”

“Lou Zachry is with the Defense Department?”

“Yes, of course. When the ‘accident’ occurred, he was sent here immediately to oversee the investigation. Which one of his made-up identities did he use on you? No, don’t bother to tell me. There isn’t time, and it does not matter, anyway.”

Corey was shaking his head. “I can’t believe that anything so appalling could even have been considered as a weapon.”

“Ah, but you see, we did not anticipate the terrible virulence of our little parasites. How could we? When experiments on animals gave an indication of what we really had, the project was immediately canceled and the single test canister marked for disposal. Had it not been for the unspeakable carelessness of one employee, the brain eaters might have been stopped then and there.”

“But Kuryakin says — ”

“The devil take Kuryakin and all Russians! Let Purdue deal with him.”

“No!”

Kitzmiller looked up, surprised at the sudden snap in Corey’s tone.

“I don’t give a damn about your personal feud with the Russians. This man has taken a considerable risk in coming here. It’s possible that he can help. If he has nothing to offer, we’ve lost only a few minutes.”

Kitzmiller’s mouth was a grim line. “Very well, I will see him. Alone. And only long enough for him to prove to me that he is a liar.”

“I’ll send him in,” said Corey, and hurried out the door before Kitzmiller could change his mind.

The stocky Russian and the lean German scientist faced each other in the sterile office behind the Biotron laboratory. The air crackled with hostility.

“The agricultural expert, I presume,” said Kitzmiller with heavy sarcasm.

“And I salute the maker of fertilizer,” Kuryakin answered, speaking German.

They acknowledged each other with careful nods.

“I have heard of your work,” Kuryakin said. “Your real work.”

“And I yours. But apparently not all of it. Or so I am told.”

“We do have our secrets despite your spy satellites and CIA.”

“I have no time to compare espionage systems.”

“I will make my point. These brain eaters of yours were discovered by me in a Moscow facility thirteen months ago. We called it Project Romanov. A bit of socialist humor.”

“Why should I believe you?”

Kuryakin gestured toward a chalkboard along one of the office walls. “May I?”

Kitzmiller nodded brusquely.

The chalk clattered over the board as the Russian scribbled a series of formulas, talking as he wrote. “It was our thought that these parasites could be used in controlled circumstances as a biological weapon. Defensive, of course, to be employed only if we were attacked.”

“Of course,” Kitzmiller said. One corner of his mouth quirked in an ironic smile.

“We discovered, as you have, the full horror of these creatures, and the project was abandoned.”

Kitzmiller studied the chalkboard notations when the Russian stepped aside. He said, “Very well, I can see that you might have achieved the same result as we did. What is it you want, my congratulations?”

“I want you to listen to me, you stubborn sausage head!”

Kitzmiller’s eyes snapped wide.

“My colleague now waiting in front of your factory would have us flying back to Moscow, leaving your capitalist country to be consumed by your damned parasites.”

“Why should you feel differently from Raslov?”

“Why should I not? Our personal codes of honor are not issued by the Politburo, regardless of what you may read in the American press.”

“I was exposed to your Russian code of honor in 1945.”

Kuryakin leaned down and glared, his face close to Kitzmiller’s. “I have no more love for Germans than you have for my people. However, I do not waste emotion on atrocities of a long-dead war. I have come to share with you the second stage of my work. If you choose not to accept it, the tragedy will be on your head.”

“Second stage?” Kitzmiller was stunned by the Russian’s sudden vehemence.

“After I had brought the brain eaters to life, I did not stop my experiments. I also discovered how to kill them.”