“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?”
“It does in every case except this. The parasites use their own larvae—a network of them linked through mucus—very much like a charged plasma. It’s fascinating and—”
“Seriously, Doc?” asked Trout, jiggling the pistol. “You want to brag? Now?”
Volker colored. “Sorry.”
“So,” Goat said, “these parasites, these wasp thingies, kept Gibbon’s brain alive?”
“No.” Volker looked frustrated. “Gentlemen, in order to discuss this, and to have you understand it, we have to step outside of our normal scientific lexicon. We are not discussing life or death as we have always known it. Those have always been the only two states of existence. However the activity of these parasites, and the unique way in which they protect and maintain their host, has no parallel in nature. This is a third state of existence. Something entirely new, though hinted at in the religion of vodou. This is, to give it a name, a ‘living death.’ Homer Gibbon did die. That is a fact. But the parasites maintained a key few functions within his body so that, instead of dying, Gibbon transitioned into the state of living death. His body is certifiably dead. Right now his skin is putrefying, and he is almost certainly far along in the process of rigor mortis. He is dead. However, the parasites require that certain motor functions remain intact. When I spoke to him on the phone, he was a … reduced … personality. Less keenly intelligent, and yet still capable of accessing his memories, still able to speak and reason.”
“That’s horrible…” murmured Trout. “And you wanted him to be like that in his grave?”
“It was a punishment, damn it!” bellowed Volker. “You were at his execution, Mr. Trout. You know the scope and nature of his crimes. Do I need to remind you of what he did to children? To babies?”
Trout said nothing.
The doctor pounded his fist on the arm of the chair. “I have no regrets for what I had planned for Gibbon. Even with the amount of suffering he would endure … weeks, perhaps months before he truly died … I think he is getting off more lightly than his crimes deserve. Tell me I am wrong.”
Trout looked inside his mind and saw no counterarguments there. Instead he played one tired old card. “You’re not God, Doc.”
Volker snorted. “Neither is any member of the jury that convicted him or the judge who ordered his execution.”
“Guys,” interrupted Goat, “a little focus here. I don’t give a rat’s ass about how appropriate the punishment is or isn’t. What has my balls in a vise is the fact that this son of a bitch is still alive. Or … whatever. Living dead.” He shook his head in frustration. “He’s out there.”
“By now … others may have been infected,” said Volker, cutting a wary look at the pistol in Trout’s hand. “I explained this to my handler. Anyone infected by Gibbon will be entirely overwhelmed by the parasite. Gibbon, however, seems to be an unusual case. He was narcotized using the Haitian zombie coupe poudre before the parasites were introduced. When I spoke to him on the phone, he was lucid. That’s not in keeping with the profiles we worked up during Project Lucifer. The parasites invade the brain and essentially disconnect the higher functions in favor of their own needs and directives. Consciousness remains but intelligent control is gone. Except … that’s not what happened with Gibbon. For some reason he is still in control of his body. Mind and body are still connected even though he is infected. I would need to…” he paused and licked his lips, “to ‘study’ him to understand this variation on the ideal model.”
Trout’s hand tightened around the pistol. He wanted to whip the barrel across this old maniac’s face. He wanted to brutalize him for this. “How do we stop it?” he asked hollowly. “What’s the cure?”
