Killer of Killers (35 page)

The nurses took the filled receptacles to a
station on the opposite wall, where they were labeled and placed on
a cart. Before long, a male technician would gather them for
processing in another part of the wing. Trent had discovered the
secret ingredient, and his stomach soured. He counted ten bunks,
with each end bunk flush against the sectional divide. Normal
double doors were located in the center of the divide. These doors
were propped open, allowing movement between rooms.

Based on the size of the wing, Trent guessed
there could be up to ten rooms on each side of the central
corridor. That meant E Wing might contain near two hundred
patients
. He approached a capsule to inspect the body inside
and examine the abstruse apparatus to which it connected.

Most workers ignored him, but one of the male
technicians seemed to take exception to Trent’s visit. “Can I help
you?” he asked.

“Yes,” Trent answered. “I’m the
inspector.”

“Where is Dr. Benson?”

“He quit. What is that stuff you’re
extracting from these people?”

“And you are?”

“I’m Dr. Benson’s brother.”

“If you are Dr. Benson’s brother, then why
does your nametag identify you as Fitzsimmons?”

“Because, um, that’s my name. Fitzsimmons
Benson.”

The technician narrowed his eyes.
“Fitzsimmons Benson?”

“Yeah,” Trent said, thinking fast. “But you
can call me Fitz.” He fondled the medallion that dangled in front
of his chest.

When the technician noted the medallion, his
eyes became relaxed. “Well, then,” he continued with a softer tone,
“as you probably already know, we’re extracting cerebrospinal fluid
from our patients. It’s the base ingredient that, after processing,
we send over to C wing for instilment into the serum.”

“Right,” Trent pretended to agree. “That’s
where they combine it with the diacetylmorphine. But do you know
the exact ratios and measurements? I’m particularly interested in
the use of tetrodotoxin.”

“No,” the technician answered. “That’s all
controlled by the computers.”

“Not anymore,” Trent was quick to say. “The
computers are off line.”

“We’re aware of that. Without the computers,
production will come to a stop, probably very soon.”

“Then why are you continuing to extract the
cerebrospinal fluid?”

“We’ve been ordered to continue. Mr. Soriah
figures to have the problem solved fast enough, like the last time
it happened. Until then, he intends to proceed with procurement,
and C Wing will finalize production of the serum that was already
processed before the computers went down.”

“That’s where I come in,” Trent said. “I need
to understand how you will disconnect these devices from your
patients.”

“Well, you know we can’t just unplug them,”
the technician advised. “The tubes extracting the CSF are spliced
to the choroid plexus inside the third ventricle of the brain.”

“Is it that way for all of the patients?”

“No, some of them have the tubes spliced into
the lateral ventricles. Others are connected to the cerebral
aqueducts into the fourth ventricle, but those are the
exceptions.”

“Why?”

“The third ventricle provides the best
results, but sometimes it’s necessary to alternate the source of
the ependymal cells.”

“What would it take to disconnect them?”

“It’s a complicated operation, conducted by
Dr. Benson.”

“Only Dr. Benson can perform that
operation?”

“No, Dr. Lee and Dr. Wong can do it, but it’s
usually Dr. Benson.”

“Why Benson?”

“Because Doctors Wong and Lee conduct the
surgery to introduce the extractors. When the patients are ready
for disconnection, Benson does it. That was his condition to
participate in the process.”

“His condition to participate?”

“Yes, it was Dr. Benson’s idea to use
cerebrospinal fluid, but only human specimens returned positive
results. When Mr. Soriah arranged for the importation of our
donors, Dr. Benson—your, uh, brother—didn’t like the idea of
preserving them in the stasis tubes.”

“I see,” Trent replied. “What about the
patients lying on their stomachs? Are they hooked up inside their
brains, too?”

“No. They have been deemed unfit for
ventricular extraction. For them we’ve resorted to the traditional
method—a procedure called lumbar puncture.”

“So what happens when your donors run out of
cerebrospinal fluid?”

“That doesn’t happen. Everyone’s body
produces more than five hundred milliliters of CSF every day. Since
the human brain only accommodates one hundred and fifty
milliliters, we have an ample resource right here in E Wing.”

Trent listened with interest, but found his
temper tested yet again. “Just where do all these
patients
come from?”

“They’re shipped in from China.”

“And the workers here?”

“Shipped in from China. Most of them don’t
even speak English.”

Trent remembered the two nurses and their
limited English skills, but this man didn’t share the deficiency.
“How is it
you
speak English so well?”

“I’m from San Francisco.”

Trent nodded and then scanned the cabinets
into which the wires and tubes connected. Attempting to decipher
the elaborate technology, he saw something that made his blood
boil. It was the same I.V. set-up of tetrodotoxin and solvent he
had observed on the chimps in D Wing. He didn’t notice it earlier
because the labeled cylinders were located much lower on these
particular cabinets. “Wait a minute, that’s TTX being pumped right
into this guy.” He checked the adjacent machinery. “Into all these
people. What’s the big idea? There are other ways—safer ways—to
induce comas.”

The technician explained, “But that’s the
genius of your brother’s solution to the transmutation. TTX,
introduced through I.V.s in precise ratios, maintains the donors’
comatose state, while at the same time compiles the necessary
residue in their cerebrospinal fluid to use as an ingredient for
Eternity. It’s vital for the anabolic alteration and also provides
the ideal counter effect to the diacetylmorphine, which is
necessary for metabolic stimulation.”

“So my brother’s a genius, eh? I don’t buy
it. I know about TTX. It’s not something you want to mess around
with. It’s too dangerous.”

Trent’s tone must have disturbed the man,
because he drew back and narrowed his eyes again. “Well, you’ll
have to excuse me,” he said while slipping into the next chamber.
“I must return to my duties.”

The other workers, not having understood a
single word of the discussion, merely went about their business as
before. Trent followed the technician but stopped at the sectional
wall and viewed the glass gurneys in the adjoining room. It was an
identical set up. He backtracked to the opposite wall and saw the
same picture. Trent could only imagine what it must be like for
each of the sleeping individuals. It could very well be true that
all of them were aware of their surroundings, if indeed their comas
were induced by tetrodotoxin. The mere thought of it triggered a
sudden rush of adrenaline through his veins.

But then Trent’s head felt strange, and the
constant motion of the Chinese staffers seemed to speed up as if on
fast-forward. Watching them come and go in the quick, unnatural
manner made Trent dizzy. Next, the room started spinning, slowly at
first, then faster. Trying to overcome the sudden rush of vertigo,
he gripped the doorjamb and sank his head into the crook of his
arm.

With his balance anchored, Trent dared look
up again, but now everything swirled around in a turbulent vortex,
faster and faster. And through it, he heard voices. Soft whispers
at first, but they grew louder. In scant moments, the
unintelligible words transformed to screams inside his head. Trent
recognized the languages. In Mandarin and Cantonese, the patients
were pleading to be awakened from this nightmare of silent
suffering.

Trent closed his eyes and palmed his
forehead. Exhaustion due to lack of food and sleep was catching up
to him. What else could it be? The drug? After only one shot, was
he succumbing to its side effect, too? He returned his brow to the
fold of his arm. “I’ll try,” he said. “I’ll try to help you.”

Perspiration soaked his sleeve, and his own
heartbeat seemed incredibly amplified. The mental mayhem reached a
crescendo, the pressure unbearable. Trent’s brain was on fire. He
could take no more.
“I will help you!”
he shouted while
springing his eyes wide again.

At once, the voices were gone, and the
spinning stopped. The white-clad workers moved about normally,
although his shout had drawn some stares. “I’m okay,” he said. He
wondered if it was true.

Trent shook his head and wished Samantha
could be here. She was working to bring this operation down, and he
was convinced more than ever it needed to happen. Not for any
future goals of a separate society Soriah may have planned. The
inhumane practice of inducing comas with a dangerous toxin so as to
loot precious bodily fluids had to stop.

Samantha said she wasn’t working alone, that
she would have a contact already inside the facility. Who was it?
Charles entered his mind, but Trent dismissed him just as quickly.
Charles was too close to Soriah, and Trent sensed an unwavering
loyalty in the man. It must be someone else.

For now, Trent needed to get out of E Wing
and do what he could to free these hopelessly enslaved immigrants.
Even if he did destroy the flash drive in his pocket, Trent was
sure the fate of the sleepers would remain unchanged. Knowing
Soriah’s determination, the research would continue for however
long it took to recreate his elixir of eternal life. The FBI had to
be notified, but who was the contact?

Trent returned to the portal and scanned its
surface for the means to open it. There were no knobs or buttons to
press. On the adjacent wall, he noted a red translucent patch. It
was a motion sensor. He passed his hand over it, and the dual
circular gates began their counter rotation. But when the movement
stopped, the corridor failed to appear. A blue-clad giant blocked
the aperture. It was the immense security chief—Toka Tacau!

Before Trent could even make eye contact,
Toka snared him by the neck and raised him off the floor. In
seconds, he would be asphyxiated, or the man’s great strength would
snap his vertebrae. Trent had to do something, and it had to be
fast. He reached for the motion sensor, and the double doors
reacted, catching Toka’s forearms in the reverse rotation. The
howling chief released Trent and jerked his arms back before they
were mangled.

Trent doubled over and coughed the air back
into his lungs, all the while cursing himself for dropping his
guard and allowing an enemy to catch him by surprise. Within
seconds he stood up again and glared at the giant security chief
through the portal’s circular window. Toka was glaring back.

Since the masquerade was finished, Trent
removed the coat and scrubs, along with the hairnet, and tore the
pendant from his neck. He threw it to the floor and then devised a
martial strategy. For a man as thick as this, he would have to
target the most vital nerves in the spots with the least muscle. He
recalled the fight with Topu Tacau almost cost him his life.
Clearly, Toka was every bit as tough as his brother. Perhaps even
more so.

Most of the Chinese workers had abandoned the
room when the security chief assaulted Trent, but some on the far
end were still unaware of the brief conflict that had just
transpired. Two nurses crossed the room and, oblivious to the
standoff, activated the portal. After they exited, Toka stepped
inside and pointed at Trent. “You will die an agonizing death
today, you son of a bitch,” he growled. “You understand that?”

Trent didn’t answer. He stood focused and
prepared, but his silence seemed to anger the Samoan even more.
“I said I’m going to butcher you senseless!”
the huge chief
screamed.
“You hear me?”

Trent heard enough. “Shut up and do it, you
fat pig.”

In a rage, Toka bull-rushed Trent with his
hands outstretched. There was no room to maneuver in the small
space between the cots, so Trent pivoted and grabbed Toka’s arm
with both of his hands. In the same fluid move, he swerved behind
him and jerked his arm in a lock that would have dislocated the
shoulder of any other man. The chief’s massive frame prevented
injury, however, and he pulled free by spinning around and slamming
Trent into the flanking gurney. The impact knocked the bubbled
capsule out of position, and several of the electrodes broke from
its cabinet, spewing a brief shower of dazzling sparks.

Trent slid to the other side of the capsule
and pointed to the glass-encased sleepers in the room. “Look
around, you brainless oaf,” he said. “These people aren’t dead.
They’re in comas, and if we fight in here we could disrupt the
machines that are keeping them alive.”

“Who gives a damn about them?” Toka retorted.
“They’re already dead as far as anyone cares.
And you’re gonna
join ’em
.” He grabbed the capsule and wrenched it free of its
final links. Again, sparks flared and fluids spilled from severed
tubing. Showing no concern for the unconscious occupant, the
blue-clad giant flung the gurney aside. The glass tube shattered
against the opposite wall, and the gurney overturned, dropping its
unlucky patient onto the floor amidst the crystalline debris. The
workers who remained ran screaming from the ward with their hands
raised, dropping everything in their possession, and no one else
made their way into this part of the private wing.

Toka charged again, and Trent responded with
a kick aimed at the gargantuan chest. Reacting faster than Trent
thought he could, Toka seized Trent’s leg and swung him into the
electronic cabinetry, which burst into a sparkling display of
sizzling pyrotechnics. Trent landed on the floor where the bulky
chief tried to stomp him, but Trent rolled from side to side, and
Toka’s boot pounded only the wet and shimmering tile.