The Parasite

  Jack. She had no weapons against him, not when he was like that, God, not like that.

  ‘I made you a promise, Carlson.’

  The voice seemed disembodied, seemed to come out of the very air.

  ‘We can talk about this! We can work something out!’

  Carlson was edging towards Gene’s side of the car. She saw that he had a shock grenade in his hand. Gene stood up. She could not fight; she had no weapons that killed. With a flick of her hand she undid a few of the buttons on her waistcoat. Then she saw him: thin as a scarecrow, nail-head eyes remorseless in a death’s head, a twenty clutched in his left hand.

  ‘I don’t want to die,’ she said, wondering if her words would have any effect.

  ‘You don’t have to.’

  The shock grenade went off with a candent red flash, but even as the blast threw her back Gene knew that it had missed Jack, or rather, that he had avoided it. Then an arm snaked round her neck and a Tosh wedged under her chin.

  ‘I don’t know what you value, Jack Smith, but if you value her then you come out and drop that twenty.’ Carlson’s voice was harsh in Gene’s ear. She could feel him shaking.

  Jack walked out from behind a Ford up on bricks and scarred with smoking Tosh burns. He sauntered out with the twenty slack at his side.

  ‘I value her a little,’ he said, his words clipped and his voice strained. ‘I have it under control at the moment.’ He paused for a second and, when there was no reply, went on as if what he was saying should be obvious to them. ‘It’s the anger at the moment, but it knows that she ... she is the same.’ He dropped the twenty on the ground.

  Carlson’s Tosh came up, levelled, fired. Gene saw a shop front erupt twenty feet back from where Jack had been standing, before as she flung Carlson’s arm away. As she hit the ground Jack was there, Carlson’s wrist gripped in his right hand. She heard the sickening crunch of bone and Carlson’s girlish scream, then he slammed against the car and the scream truncated. And Jack was bending over her.

  ‘Are you alright?’

  Of course she was all right, but Carlson? She looked past Jack. The Tosh was in Carlson’s left hand, Jack turning and moving. Gene held up her hand as if to halt time.

  A bright and terrible pain took her away.

  The street was empty of life, empty of movement, but for Jack. He picked up what remained of Carlson and tossed it across the bonnet of the car, an offering perhaps to the woman he could not save and had not precisely known why he had wanted to. Sirens howled close by and like a wraith he fled into the shadows.

  Medical Examiner Estefan was tall and thin with hands that twitched and leapt like insects. His hair was grey and tied back in a pony tail that he trapped under his lab coat. As if the years of autopsies had given him contempt for human life and its foibles, his expression was acerbic. Jane noted he had an oddly-shaped silver ring in one ear and wondered if this designated his sexual preference. He had shown little interest in her thus far – a lack of reaction she was unused to – and was all business.

  ‘Jane Ulreas? Did I pronounce that correctly?’

  She nodded.

  ‘Your fields are helminthology and entomology, specializing in arthropod parasites. Is that correct?’

  ‘I prefer to simply call myself a parasitologist,’ she said with irritation. She was tired and jet-lagged and in no mood for indulging in semantic discussions. She turned to Chris, marvelling anew at his changelessness. ‘That would be about right, wouldn’t it?’

  Chris smiled benevolently and nodded. ‘That is etymologically correct in a general sense.’

  Jane turned away, envying Chris not only his changelessness but his perfect pronunciation of polysyllables.

  ‘And you are..?’ enquired Estefan, touching his fingers to his bottom lip and staring at Chris intently. Jane contained the disgust that had been inculcated into her as a member of that generation called the New Puritans, who grew to adulthood in Europe during the time of the AIDS III epidemic. She had seen the expression, now on Estefan’s face, on the faces of so many when they gazed upon Chris’s Apollonian perfection.

  In that smoothly modulated voice Chris said, ‘I am Chris Golem. I am Professor Ulreas’s assistant.’

  ‘Hmm,’ said Estefan, his hand sliding down to his chin. Then, remembering himself, he led the way into the mortuary. As the doors swung shut behind them, Jane could smell strong disinfectant overlaying a hint of corruption.

  ‘I think only one branch of your knowledge may be required ... the helminthology,’ said Estefan.

  ‘Worms,’ said Jane as they came to the sheeted figure under the panel lights. She noted the fluids spattered on the sheet then peered to the lab technician who was cleaning instruments at a bench along the far wall.

  ‘Get Miss Ulreas and Mr Golem a coat each, Smythe.’

  Smythe glanced round, paused, then turned round for a better look. ‘Why certainly,’ he said.

  That’s more like it, thought Jane, then felt ashamed of her vanity.

  ‘Here,’ Estefan handed her a tube with ‘Anosmic Gel’ printed on it in ice-blue letters. She accepted it and, to show that she knew precisely what it was for, squeezed some out and wiped it under her nose. It immediately numbed her sense of smell – a lack she always associated with open bodies.

  ‘Mr Golem?’

  Jane watched as Chris took the tube and wiped some of its contents round his nostrils. It seemed for a moment as if his expression was one of resigned annoyance, but that, of course, was impossible. Estefan took the tube back, touching Chris’s fingers unnecessarily, Jane thought, then dropped it into his top pocket and turned to the corpse. Smythe next brought their coats, and they both put them on as Estefan pulled back the sheet with a dramatic flourish. Jane repressed the urge to turn away. The bodies she was mostly used to dealing with were of animals. Here lay a young woman opened out like a fish, her ribs splayed out like fingers and most of her internal organs removed. Jane stepped forwards, Chris just behind her, peering over her shoulder.

  ‘Helminthology, you said.’

  Wordlessly Estefan pointed to the bottom of the cavity left by the removal of the woman’s intestines and liver. Clinging along her spine was a white, segmented worm. It could, perhaps, have been a mistaken for part of her spine, so closely was it intertwined with her vertebrae, had it not moved. Jane was fascinated, her repulsion forgotten.

  ‘Probe,’ she said, holding out her hand to the lab technician as if she were back in her laboratory in Cornwall rather than half a world away. In a moment he placed a Perspex light-wand in her hand. Jane poked at the worm.

  ‘Long, segmented like a cestode ... has to be some sort of cestode ... you don’t get trematodes of this size ...’

  ‘Cestode?’ said Smythe.

  ‘Tapeworm,’ said Estefan.

  Jane glanced up at him. He would not be easy to fool. In his work he must have encountered numerous parasites, since this part of the world was swarming with them.

  ‘No scolex ... head ...’ Jane pushed aside one of the segments and noted a thin bundle of fibres like ganglia penetrating between the host’s vertebrae. She explored further and found the same fibres spreading across rib bones, some severed and hanging loose.

  ‘What did these fibres penetrate?’

  Estefan sounded embarrassed. ‘The heart, lungs, liver ... all the major organs and glands. We didn’t notice—’

  Jane interrupted, ‘This killed her?’

  ‘No,’ said Estefan, and seemed to relish pulling the sheet back further to expose the woman’s head, or rather what remained of it. Her lower jaw and part of her neck had been burnt away. ‘Some sort of gang warfare in the lower city. She was hit by a Tosh.’

  ‘A Tosh?’ said Jane.

  It was Chris who answered, ‘A form of particle burst hand gun manufactured by the Toshiba Corporation in Japan.’

  Jane stared at him long and hard, wondering where he had got that little piece of information, then turned back to Estefan
. ‘Have there been others like this?’ She did not refer to the manner of the woman’s death, as she knew it likely to be quite common in Sao Paulo.

  ‘No, this is the first, but an order has been issued to everyone with med-scan licences to report anything like—’

  ‘Do you have formalin, glycerine, Zenkers fluid etcetera?’

  Estefan seemed taken aback. ‘Of course.’

  Keep him off-balance.

  ‘Canada balsam, hydroplastic?’

  ‘Yes...’

  Jane peered at the parasite again.

  ‘You were lucky I was here at the conference,’ she said, hoping that Chris would keep his mouth shut. ‘Would it be possible for me to investigate a little further?’

  ‘That is dependent on the coroner, relatives ...’ but Estefan was staring at Chris hungrily and Jane knew she would get her chance.

  ‘I would very much like to investigate further.’

  Estefan glanced at her. ‘Do you know what it is?’

  Jane smiled and nodded.

  Not a word Chris. Not a word.

  She said, ‘It’s one of the taenia solium or a new form of Echinococcus cestoda, which of course would be quite interesting. We don’t get much of a chance to see specimens like this in England and of course this branch of helminthology is one of my main interests.’

  Don’t lay it on too thick.

  She held out her hands and smiled. ‘In the interests of international co-operation?’ It was a standing joke in most scientific communities since the war fought in Antarctica, a joke Estefan appreciated.

  ‘I am sure something can be arranged.’

  Later, as Jane and Chris walked through the park grounds of the hospital to their waiting police transport. Chris said, ‘Taenia solium or a new form of Echinococcus cestoda?’

  Jane would have thought him guilty of sarcasm, but that was impossible, quite impossible.

  ‘Bullshit baffles brains,’ she said. ‘I’ve never seen nor heard of a parasite like that one before now.’

  When Jack left the Rio Hotel, Gene would not have recognized him, but then, the condition Gene was in at that moment, he would not have recognized her. He was clean, for the first time in months, wore new jeans, a sweatshirt, jacket, and trainers, all comfortably fitting his shrunken frame. His face was cleanly shaven and his blond hair cropped close to his skull. He felt good as well: no cold-like symptoms, no bleeding, and in the past couple of weeks he had put on weight. Only the movement of that something deep inside him served to remind him that perhaps things were not well.

  At the pavement he flagged a hydrocab, climbed in and seated himself comfortably. The driver, a shabby Puerto Rican, tapped the touch plate on his meter and looked round with a raised eyebrow.

  ‘Nearest big pharmacy with med-scan facilities,’ said Jack, surprised at this driver’s reticence. The driver nodded and entered the chaotic flow of traffic with a suicidal lunge. And his reticence soon transformed into a flow of swearing that made even Jack’s ears burn.

  The pharmacy had half a street of glass frontage and at least ten street doors. Jack paid off the driver, fought his way across the pavement and through one door, and then waded into crowds impossibly more dense than those on the streets. Inside, the place was like a cavernous shopping centre. He soon saw a sign advertising med-scan facilities and forced his way towards it. Again something inside him was enjoying being surrounded by a mass of people and he wondered if that was truly part of him. He knew there was something poised inside him, ready to evoke fear or anger, and he intended to find out what it was. Suddenly the crowds parted and he found himself at the edge of a space occupied by three constables. Two of them crouched, pinning a woman to the ground, the third lying on his side clutching at his mouth, a pool of blood before his face in which a couple of teeth lay glistening.

  ‘Bitch!’ shouted one of the constables, and cracked the woman across the back of her head with a stun baton. Her struggles subsided somewhat, but she should have been unconscious. Jack faded back and observed from behind a dumpy black woman loaded down with carrier bags full of shopping which must have weighed half as much as she did. Soon all three of the constables were on their feet, the injured one staggering like a drunkard. They dragged the woman through a channel that automatically opened up through the crowds for them. Jack caught snippets of conversation.

  ‘Christos! She moved like a snake!’

  ‘... every damn one fights or runs ...’

  ‘Bastard PVs!’

  Jack moved over to the small balding man who, by his white coat with his name badge on it, obviously ran the med-scan facility.

  ‘What was all that about?’

  The man looked at him lugubriously and shook his head. ‘Another PV, that’s the third I’ve had today. Anyone would think them guilty of some crime the way they react, but they’re only being taken to Central Hospital.’ He turned away and surveyed the crowd as if wondering where all the madness was coming from.

  ‘PVs?’ asked Jack.

  ‘Oh,’ said the man glancing back at him, ‘parasite victims. Some sort of parasite going around. The first was detected about two weeks ago, in the corpse of some woman killed in the lower city. All med-scan facilities have been told to report...’ His gaze wondered away.

  Parasite.

  It shifted inside him and he knew.

  Jesus! Something living inside me!

  He remembered a premillennial flat-screen science fiction film adapted for holovision and subsequently voted least favourite film of the year by those on the TCC station. A creature had gestated inside a man then chewed its way out in bloody Caesarean. Jack rubbed his hand across his chest and broke out in a cold sweat. Inside him that something writhed.

  ‘What does it do? This parasite?’

  ‘Oh,’ said the man, gazing at Jack as if wondering why he was still there. ‘Not much known at present, though I imagine there are the usual symptoms of worm infestation; allergic reactions, bleeding, cirrhosis, lung disease...’ He trailed off, swinging his attention back to the crowds again.

  That confirms it, thought Jack.

  ‘How is it spread?’

  The man shrugged, then abruptly turned and studied Jack contemplatively. ‘Are you here for a scan?’

  Jack shook his head. ‘No, just passing.’ He moved away.

  Back on the street again Jack now noticed a heavier than usual police presence and even a couple an army tank parked at a nearby junction.

  As he remembered something fibrous locked in ice, he wondered if he was now seeing the first results of his crime. He stopped at the kerb and glanced up in time to see an armoured car trundle past. Suddenly he saw, with an unaccustomed clarity, what was to come. He had to get out of Sao Paulo, out of Brazil, and if possible, out of South America. The urge to run at that moment was difficult to suppress.

  Chris forgot nothing, and he was incapable of making mistakes, so it was a comfort for Jane that he did not dispute her conclusions from the last week of research.

  ‘It’s doing something on a molecular level, those fibres fray down to less than a micron in diameter and seem to spread through the system, penetrating every cell in their path. It’s doing something to the nervous system and the immune system. It has its fingers in every pie. Its physical structure is like a ganglion. We can find no cellular structure, no DNA. We don’t know how it reproduces. As yet there is no sign of eggs of any kind. We haven’t a clue to its vector, life cycle, whether it is infective at this stage. Have I missed anything?’

  ‘The equipment is inadequate here,’ said Chris smoothly.

  Jane slumped into an armchair, reached for her bottle of aquavit and poured out two very thick fingers.

  ‘Go on,’ she said, then drank thirstily.

  ‘What is required is a good scatology laboratory for the search for eggs or what may be the equivalent of some kind of miracidium if that is the way the parasite’s young escape the host. That is perhaps irrelevant at this point as we as ye
t have no idea as to how it functions. For the study of what we assume to be the adult parasite, a modern cellular biology research facility is required. Here, all they have is a faulty scanning tunnelling electron microscope, and a primitive X-ray diffractor.’

  Jane put her glass down. ‘Well put, but the parasite is here, for now. How many cases so far?’

  Chris said, ‘Five hundred and seventy-three. Of those only a hundred and twenty are in confinement at Central Hospital. Two hundred went for relocation. The rest are dead.’

  ‘Bloody police, and military. It’s no wonder they run or fight.’

  ‘It is strange that not one host has been taken without pursuit or violence. Also, fifty- two of the three hundred and seventy-three died in the hospital, some attempting to escape, some suiciding once discovering what was inside them.’

  Jane stared at the wall remembering the screams of a man bound in a straitjacket:

  ‘It’s taking me over! It’s taking me over!’

  Somehow that man had ripped out of his jacket and thrown himself through a toughened glass window on the seventh floor.

  ‘What the hell are we dealing with here, Chris?’

  ‘A creature like nothing before on Earth.’

  There, it was said. Jane had not wanted to say it or even think it:

  Like nothing on Earth.

  The ETO – extra-terrestrial organism – idea had been discussed a great deal in scientific circles, but never seriously. Jane wondered what her colleagues would think now if she told them there was an organism on Earth not based on nucleic acids and without a cellular structure. She had a horrible feeling they would laugh at her. At first. She shivered and gulped more aquavit, then she glanced up at Chris. ‘Sit down, you make me nervous.’