The Romero Strain (25 page)

“Please answer the question. I need to know.”

“It was physically and emotionally pleasurable, for both of us.” I relayed.

“
What!?
That is not possible. Luci did not have the emotional capacity to experience such things. Breeding was strictly an
instinct
to propagate the species. They are one step above the evolutionary scale from the undead.”

“And your narrow-mindedness is blinding you from accepting the truth. She pleasured herself, both physically and emotionally. I should know; I was there. We even… cuddled. If that isn’t a human need, what is?”

The doctor had no comment. He looked perplexed, taking a moment to absorb my statement. He finally said, “Do the others know about Luci? That you mated with her, then let her go?”

“Not even Marisol.”

“Tell me you did not had intercourse with that child.”

I hadn’t, and even though I wanted to, I couldn’t. I had, in a sense, betrayed Marisol by being with Luci.

“
Child!?
She’s far from a child!”

“Your defensive attitude indicates you have. And did you wear protection?”

“I’m going to say this again: I did not have sexual relations with that woman.”

“Unprotected sex could place her life in danger. I do not even know if your mutation has stabilized. For all I know you could become a full transmute and Marisol could give birth to one, or worse.”

“We don’t even know if my sperm is viable. Nor have I had any further changes. So don’t push the panic button, yet. Besides, when the hell have I had time to have sex?” I quickly added, “With Marisol!”

In an insistent manner he said, “You need to come to the lab. I can run blood and semen tests. We should do this immediately.”

“Can you reverse the damage to my DNA?”

“No. The mutation is a double strand break. The best I can do is to develop an antiviral drug to treat the disease and put it into replicative senescence so that you won’t mutate any further. If I had a pre-mutated DNA strain, I could do minor repair by reintroducing your original DNA with stem cells by the way of excision repair.”

“I missed that science channel episode. Clarify.”

“An
excision repair is where the damaged base or bases are removed and then replaced with the correct ones in a localized burst of DNA synthesis. There are three modes of excision repair, each of which employs specialized sets of enzymes. The first is direct repair, where—”

I closed my eyes, tilted my head to the side, and faked a snore. “Sorry, I must have fallen unconscious for a moment,” I sarcastically responded, interrupting his soliloquy. “What about Luci?”

“What about her?”

“Can you reverse any of her damage? Surely you took DNA samples from her prior to infection.”

He tried to side-step the question. “Her mutation is too advanced. This is not
Star Trek
, this is
real
science and real science has not evolved to a point where an entire DNA helix can be repaired, even with Recombinant DNA engineering. Besides, Luci is not here.”

“Since you obviously weren’t listening when I asked this before, I’m forced to repeat myself… can you reverse any of her damage?”

“
If
her DNA material and the stem cell material are still viable, then it
might
be possible to reverse a minimal amount of damage. Perhaps some slight reversal in the facial structure and memory loss. She still will
never
be human… and this is all supposition. The treatments would take months, perhaps longer, and may never counteract the damage. Even so, the point is moot. The needed genetic materials were loaded onto the train prior to lockdown. That was ten days ago. By now the storage units have failed. And you would be insane to risk your life going up there for some…
one
that may not be alive.”

“Oh, she’s alive, I’m sure of that. You let me worry about retrieving what you need. I’ll have your DNA and stem cells by morning. Just tell me what I need to look for.”

* * *

The first thing out of the doctor’s mouth, as I sat in front of the desk waiting for him to look up from his paperwork was, “I will give it to you straight.”

In the short time I knew him, he had never once given a simple, straightforward answer, so of course I had to say, “That’ll be a first,” which brought on a long winded explanation of my condition.

Indeed my DNA had not stabilized and my sperm had DNA damage. However, since the doctor was not a human reproductive specialist, he said he could only hypothesize, which was a first for him without the use of threat or force. He told me there were two scenarios that could unfold. The first was that post-testicular sperm DNA damage would only marginally affect sperm physiology due to the lack of gene expression, but that it would affect embryo development at the stage that embryo genome (including the paternal damaged DNA) expression was initiated. Or increased sperm DNA damage and increased abnormalities in conventional semen parameters could have a pronounced impact on my reproductive potential.

After listening to his discourse, I felt it my obligation to be snide. “Your last sentence ended with a preposition,” I told him. “Please restate it properly.”

This evoked a response of, “Unprotected sexual intercourse could result in the birth of mutated offspring, or if you are lucky you will only shoot blanks. Even you should be able to grasp the next point. Your DNA is unstable. You could have a pronounced change at any time.”

I had to get one more dig in, just to irritate him. “I’d like the straight answer this time.”

France was blunt. “You are a danger to us all. Is that clear enough?”

I shut up after that, and we finished our conversation in a non-adversarial manner.

I was more concerned about my unstable condition than my reproductive organs, so I decided a self-imposed exile was best for everyone’s safety. But every form of refuge has its price, as I would later realize. The doctor agreed to do weekly tests of my blood and see what he could do to stabilize me. He also agreed to work at synthesizing DNA replacement for Luci.

I got the genetic materials. Just like I told him I would.

VIII. Subterranean Homesick Blues

I had sequestered myself for five weeks, without outside contact, except for the visits by the doctor. I had not been locked in, but rather I had locked everyone out. My friends brought me my meals; everyone took turns, except Joe. It was Marisol, though, who brought my meals and clean bed linens the most, but that was in the later part of my separation.

I explained to Marisol that what needed to be done was for her safety as well as the others. I tried to gently tell her that I could not be “with her” as she wanted. When I told her about Luci, Marisol’s first reactions were ones of confusion, repulsion, and need.

Why would I and how could I have sex with a monster?

Then the true realization of what I had done set in. Her feelings abruptly changed to ones of betrayal and hatred. I had hurt her deeply, a hurt which I could not understand for I had never experienced the emotion of love betrayed. I was sure she would never forgive me. My transmute side taking control over me didn’t fly with her. Emotionally distraught and angry, she rebuked Max when I told him to follow her. “I don’t want anything to do with you or your stupid dog again,” was her response. But Max followed her on my command. I knew she would change her mind about him; he was too loveable to blame for my indiscretion.

David, having seen how upset Marisol was, asked why she was crying. I told him I broke her heart. He knew what I told Marisol. I had confided in him.

“Heaven has no rage like love to hatred turned, Nor hell a fury like a woman scorned,” was his response. He shook my hand, hugged me, in that caring, but not too emotional way, and said, “Take care, bro.” Then he walked away.

I knew he would keep my secret from the others, but I was sure Marisol would seek the solace of a confidant. Eventually everyone would find out what happened. I wanted to tell them myself, but I felt the sooner I was away from them, the safer they would be.

Sometime during the third week I heard Marisol’s voice at the door. She had given a light knock and announced my meal had arrived. It was a polite announcement but devoid of any real emotion. She slid the meal tray under the door, where Corporal Drukker had engineered a serving slot, and then departed.

The brief salutations continued into the forth week, until one evening I heard a solemn plea to open the door, because Max missed me. I heard a scratch at the door. As the week progressed, Marisol’s beseeching grew, admitting she missed me, too. But I never went to the door, nor ever acknowledged anyone with any verbal communication except the doctor.

I hid away, mostly meditating and exercising, practicing as much of my martial arts routines that the living space could accommodate. I did miss them, especially Marisol and Max, but it was for the best. Unless Doctor France could put my mutation into dormancy there was always a chance, without warning, that I could get worse and turn against them. This was a risk I was unwilling to take, even though at times they beckoned my return.

One late afternoon, the doctor came to me with the latest results. France seemed to be extremely pleased with himself at his discovery. It was an explanation to the transmute anomaly, what he had hoped to discern before he was unceremoniously handed a cease and desist notice, and a transfer notification from his superiors. Through various reagents and comparative sequence analysis he discovered protein damage in my mutated CCR5 gene. The damage impeded the gene’s ability to completely block acquisition. This made me one of the unexplained anomalies that mutated. Though the doctor’s experimental antivirus had temporarily halted the metamorphic changes, it had not destroyed the disease, only slowed its replication. I suppose I was lucky. I hadn’t changed completely,
yet
… and for my friends it stopped the infection.

However, in order to halt the progression of my genetic mutations, stem cells from a donor with the CCR5 delta-32 allele would have to be transplanted into me. This, Doctor France said, could be done. The Genomic DNA extraction process could be synthesized utilizing the equipment in the facility’s laboratories. As good as that news was, there was a downside. Not enough genetic material had been retrieved from the train for both Luci and myself, even with Master Sergeant Brown’s and Corporal Drukker’s contributions.

In order for a patient to remain without viral rebound, continued transplantation would be necessary. France warned that discontinuation of antiretroviral therapy typically
leads to a rapid rebound of HIV load within weeks, and therefore, in all likelihood, the same would occur for Trixoxen. I had a choice: use the stem cells for my own therapy or use it for Luci. The obvious choice—the doctor made sure to inform me—was for myself, because it was highly unlikely that he could reverse the damage done to Luci’s DNA
and
Luci was gone. The obvious choice wasn’t necessarily the right choice for me. I wanted to help Luci; it was the right thing to do. Then again, I didn’t want to become a full-fledged transmute. I liked being me.

The doctor left me to think about it.

Most likely, I would fully mutate—not a certainty, but a probability. The thought of being a condemned man serving out a sentence in solitary confinement brought me anxiety. I could not condemn anyone, much less myself, to such isolation. Even the most heinous crimes should not be punished with solitude. It was more ethical to terminate the condemned. However, seppuku was not a tradition or a practice in which I was willing to partake. If I chose to forego transplantation, I either would have to leave when the chaos above subsided, or re-integrate myself into our little society with a shoot to kill order if I suddenly turned.

I decided to meditate. Like
Stargate SG-1
’s Teal’c in deep kelnorim, I could submerge myself, oblivious to my surroundings, for hours. However, Teal’c didn’t have a drunk and disorderly ex-Marine to contend with.

It was 9:00 p.m. I ate, completed writing another journal chapter, showered, and began my evening mediation. I was reaching the tranquil oblivious state when I heard a loud thud and shattering of glass at my door. Joe was ranting and raving, spewing obscenities like a foul-mouth derelict going into DTs. He had been drinking heavily and was taking out his anger and frustration on my door, trying to get my attention and provoke me into something.

I lost my peaceful place and was going somewhere I didn’t want to go. When I heard the frantic shouts of my friends trying to calm Joe down I knew I would have to do something. I put on my sneakers and approached the door in olive drab boxer underwear and an olive drab wife-beater.

Everyone was surprised when I came out of my room. When Joe saw me he broke loose from David and Sam’s grasp and ran toward me. I stepped out of the doorway, over the broken glass, and met his challenge, which was not a challenge at all. I blocked his left punch, which had been directed at my face, and cold-cocked him upside his head. He stumbled a few feet sideways and collapsed unconscious to the floor.