Sharkman (8 page)

11

T
he ride home from the lab that first night was an exhausting one—mentally, physically, and emotionally. I had pressing questions for Dr. Becker . . .
Why weren’t human stem cells as effective as shark stem cells at restoring damaged spinal cords? Was there a way to counteract the side effects by reducing the dosage? Was it possible that a human subject would fare better than a rat?

The answers to these questions and dozens more would have to wait. Upon concluding my “sneak peek at the future of stem cell therapies” lecture and tour, Dr. Kamrowski had put me to work entering gobbledygook subject data into a computer. Four hours of tedious work . . . with no chance of face time with her majesty, Dr. Barbara Becker.

Still, using the lab’s computer did offer me access to the boss’s personal files.

I’m not a hacker by trade, but yeah, I know how to do it—thanks to Clark Newsom. Clark was my best friend back in San Diego. His parents owned a cybersecurity company and Clark often tested his parents’ clients’ firewalls, getting cash bonuses for hacking their sites or identifying honey pots—traps designed to detect someone illegally accessing a system. That knowledge became especially useful when we decided to hack into the navy’s site to access the Admiral’s private e-mails. We shut down after reading a series of encrypted messages from my father about some top secret deal called Operation Strawman.

Dr. Becker’s firewall was more of a Strawman than a real security system—designed to intimidate, but with little substance. By the time my driver, Bill, had us heading north on Interstate 95, I was already accessing her files on my iPad, perusing a list of links.

Background of protocol.

Granulocyte counts (listed by shark species).

Subject results.

Genetic mutations.

I clicked on
Genetic mutations
, which brought me to a page of links corresponding to every rat used in the study. I randomly selected Rat TS-19 . . . the TS an abbreviation for tiger shark.

Appearing on my screen were two images of a double helix. One twisting spiral ladder was the rat’s DNA
before
the stem cell injections; the other was the rat’s DNA
after
it had received an injection of the tiger shark elixir. In both the
before
and
after
double helixes of DNA, green, yellow, and red specks appeared along the twisting strand like lights on a Christmas tree.

A quick search of Becker’s notes identified the green points as the rat’s normal functioning genes. The yellow spots were noncoding DNA—insignificant to the animal’s genetic code. The green and yellow DNA in the subject’s before and after helixes were identical.

The differences were rooted in the red spots—the rat’s transposons. According to Dr. Becker’s notes, transposons are parasitic DNA—a hand-me-down that was left over from the earlier phases of mammalian evolution. Found in both rodent and human genes, parasitic DNA disrupts normal gene function and is what causes cells to mutate into diseases like cancer.

Rat TS-19 had been purposely stricken with cancer to test the tiger shark stem cells. The good news was that the stem cells had gone after the rat’s transposons, destroying the cancer cells. The bad news was that, instead of forming scar tissue, the transposons had adopted the traits of its dominant benefactor—the tiger shark DNA. These mutated cells were spreading rapidly among TS-19’s genetic command center, and the green specks which represented the rodent’s normal functioning genes were too few in number to fight off the invading force.

In plain English—the stem cells had killed the cancer but had mutated the host into a species that was half-rat and half-shark . . . essentially killing it.

Hope is a double-edged sword—it can save you and it can cut you to the quick. For the next two days my mind was severely screwed up; by Friday I was officially depressed. Jesse Gordon texted me a reminder about Saturday’s band practice, but even that barely raised my pulse.

Leave it to Stephen Ley to resuscitate me.

With no appetite, I headed for the gym during my lunch period, hoping to break my lethargy by shooting hoops. Coach Flaig wasn’t around, but his office door was open, so I borrowed a basketball from his rack and wheeled myself out onto the hardwood court.

As I mentioned earlier, my wheelchair isn’t made for sports. Lacking leverage and a harness, I nearly heaved myself out of my seat on the first shot—an air ball from the lower block—about a three-foot bank shot. My next dozen shots were bricks—until I gradually began compensating by holding the armrest with my left hand and shooting one-handed with my right. Within fifteen minutes I had worked up a sweat and was consistently making shots from as far back as the foul line.

I started to feel better. A few times I actually smiled.

And then Stephen Ley entered the gym with his entourage.

“Kwan-san! Shooting some hoops, buddy? Let me help you.” Ley grabbed the rebound from my miss and gently tossed it to me as if I were a three-year-old.

I knew better; I should have left. But there were students watching . . . a few had their cell phones out. So I shot . . .
swish
.

Ley grabbed the rebound. “Nice shot, buddy.” He walked the ball over to me and offered a low-five—pulling his hand away as I reached out and whiffed.

Palming the ball, he teased me with the offering, performing for his pals.

“Twenty bucks . . . you and me, Ley. Ten foul shots each.”

It was a bold move, but in my mind a win-win. By challenging Ley I stopped the teasing. If he accepted the bet, the worst thing that could happen is that I lost a foul shooting contest to the best basketball player in school.

Oohs
and
ahhs
from the entourage, which had been growing steadily into a crowd, forced Ley into accepting my terms.

Ley smirked. “Where’s your money, honey?”

Reaching into my backpack, I pulled out the twenty. “Put up or shut up, bitch.”

More
oohs
and
ahhs
.

Now Ley couldn’t back down. Removing his wallet, he fingered two tens and dropped the bills on the court. “Shoot.” Ley slapped the ball dead onto the wood floor, forcing me to bend over to pick it up.

My first shot missed badly.

He made his shot . . . and the next five. After seven shots, Ley was up six to four when I started feeling it and he started acting like an asshole, shooting behind his back.

I hit my tenth shot to tie it at seven.

He had the last shot . . . and missed.

“Sudden death,” I said, rolling after his rebound.

Behind my back, he was instructing the crowd.

Returning to the foul line, I set myself. Now my ego was pushing me . . .
now I wanted to win!
I took a calming breath and shot—only to see Ley smack the ball into the bleachers, the students laughing.

Ley had regained control. I should have left. I should have done a million other things. Instead I retrieved the ball like a dummy, intent on winning the battle of egos.

“You afraid, Ley? Afraid of losing to a cripple?”

“Shut up and shoot.”

Setting myself, I went through my preshot ritual and launched the winning basket—which the asshole blocked again.

I felt my heart pounding in my chest like a bass drum; I felt my blood pressure rising. Maybe it was the fact that I was being denied an opportunity to compete, maybe it was Ley just being a jerk, humiliating me yet again in front of my peers—but I lost it. Lowering my head, I rolled as hard as I could for him, aiming for his shins—and missed him as he easily stepped out of harm’s way.

Tears of frustration in my eyes, I went after him again—nearly tipping over on one wheel as he performed his bull-fighting act to the cheering crowd.

Kwan the bull. Stubborn and snorting snot and tears, I charged again and kept after him.

The act quickly turned from comedy to pitiful. Embarrassed, the students filed out.

I was spent. Breathing heavily, I bent over to catch my breath.

Ley picked up his cash and tossed it at me. “You win.” He turned and walked away.

This time I didn’t miss.

The foot-holders of my chair struck the basketball star full-force in the back of his calves and he fell onto his knees, screaming in pain. Rolling onto his back, he kicked my left wheel and suddenly I was airborne.

And then I hit my head.

It must have sounded bad because Ley panicked. He righted my chair. Then he grabbed me from behind, picked me up by my armpits and dragged me backward onto the seat.

Ever handle a drunk? A paraplegic with a concussion is ten times worse. It took Ley several tries before he figured out how to wedge my shoes onto the foot-holders so I wouldn’t slide. He swore again as my pants flooded with urine—my catheter having pulled out in the fall.

He shoved the basketball in my wet lap and fled the scene.

“Kwan? Are you all right?”

It was Anya—the last person in the world I wanted to see. Still woozy, I tried to wheel myself away.

“Where are you going, let me help you. Oh my . . . Kwan, your pants—”

“I know!” My face must have been bright red with embarrassment and purple with rage
and what the hell should I do first?
I couldn’t think, my mind lost in a fog—
urine was dripping down my seat onto the floor!
It was splattering everywhere, and I had no control.

I became an animal. I grunted and cried and babbled something incoherent as my mind crawled back inside my mother’s womb.

It was dark when I woke up.

12

I
t’s scary waking up in the hospital. It’s like being zapped from one moment to the next. You don’t dream. You don’t register the passage of time. You just open your eyes and your throat is as dry as a desert day and there are tubes sticking out of your arms.

Basically, I was toast.

A female voice was calling me
Mr. Wilson
—which made the whole thing seem even creepier.

“Can you hear me, Mr. Wilson?”

“Throat . . . dry.”

“Here’s some water, just sip it. The doctor will be by to see you. Do you remember hitting your head?”

“No . . . yes.”

“Your girlfriend called an ambulance. You have a concussion and a few bruises we’ll need to keep an eye on. We called your grandmother—she’ll be here soon.”

“How long . . . do I have . . . to stay here?”

“That’s up to the doctor.”

“Tell . . . me!”

“At least three days.”

They kept me in the hospital eleven days. Eleven days of IV bags. Eleven days of being woken up eight times a night. Four roommates, three who snored, two visitors, and no Dilaudid, just enough antibiotics to cure all the gonorrhea in Las Vegas.

Every morning after breakfast the orderly came for me. He’d wheel me across the hall and past the nurse’s station to the elevator; then we’d ride down three floors to the hyperbaric chambers.

A hyperbaric chamber is an enclosed pressurized cylinder where you breathe in pure oxygen. Pure oxygen helps heal the brain, decreases swelling, and fights off infection.

What it doesn’t help is the claustrophobia induced by being locked up for four hours at a time in an enclosed pressurized cylinder.

Eleven days. Ten sessions. Four hours a session.

Forty hours of oxygen therapy—nearly two complete days stuck in an isolation tube with nothing but my Doors CDs and my rancid, ugly, self-loathing thoughts . . . a deadly combination.

This is the end . . . beautiful friend. This is the end—my only friend, the end.

Anya came to visit me on day seven. It was her visit that set my “elaborate plans” into motion . . .

“You’re looking better,” Anya lied. “When will they release you?”

“I don’t know.”

“You seem depressed. Don’t be depressed. Things will get better.”

“Whatever.”

“Stephen Ley was suspended on Wednesday. Principal Lockhart saw the Facebook photos taken in the gym.”

“It doesn’t matter,” I said, looking away. “I’m not going back to school.”

“What do you mean? Kwan, you have to come back. If you’re not at Seacrest, you can’t intern at the stem cell lab.”

“Big deal. Why do you care anyway?”

The moment I said the words, I regretted it. I liked Anya . . . hell, I loved her. Okay, the whole college relationship leads to marriage deal—that was YOLO fantasy camp. . .
You Only Live Once so What-the-F?
But Anya was also my friend (counting Jesse, one of only two) and I had just told her she could bail on the cripple.

Maybe it was her British-Indian upbringing or just her strong character . . . but she didn’t leave.

“Kwan . . . I thought we were friends.”

“Are we friends, or do you just feel sorry for me?”

“Kwan, I like you. You’re real. Most Americans are con artists—what we used to call
jinelz
back in London. As in,
I don’t trust ’im, ’e’s a jinelz
.”

Her cockney slang made me smile.

She sat on the edge of my bed, her closeness causing my flesh to tingle. “Back in August, the first week I was here, a girl who lived in our neighborhood invited me to a party. Stephen Ley was there; he put something in my drink to get me
chenzed
.”

“
Chenzed?
”

“Drunk. Did you ever?”

“Ever what?”

“Try to sleep with a girl by getting her
chenzed
.”

“No.”

“See? That’s why I like you, Kwan, you have morals. When I lived in New Delhi, I couldn’t walk the streets or ride the train without some guy rubbing his hand or his groin all over me. In London and here in America it’s all about partying; in India the women are openly abused. I’m glad my father brought us to the States—I wanted to be able to do something positive with my life . . . something to help other people. That’s why I’m interning at the lab. A good person like you deserves to walk again.”

“Do you even know how I injured my spine?”

“To be honest, I was waiting for the right time to ask. Why don’t you tell me now?”

So I told her. Everything. From texting and killing my mom to being disowned by the Admiral, to my attempted suicide back in the hospital . . . everything.

When I was done, she hesitated, contemplating her response. “Becker had a breakthrough last week.”

“What kind of a breakthrough?”

“I’m not supposed to say. I’ll tell if you promise not to breathe a word of this to anyone—especially Li-ling.”

“I won’t tell. Now tell me.”

“We started injecting the rats with Taurus’s stem cells last Monday—with one change. Dr. Becker had me set up a separate experimental group of rats. We gave these rats a daily two milligram injection of mouse growth hormone.”

“Mice have growth hormones?”

“Everything has growth hormones. We used mice GH because it’s ninety-five percent compatible with rat physiology and shares sixty-five percent of the same proteins found in human growth hormone. Anyway, it’s been a week since the two subject groups received their bull shark stem cell shots. The control group has already regressed into Phases 3 and 4—the mutation and death stages. But the rats that received growth hormone shots haven’t shown any ill effects—no mutations whatsoever.”

“Anya, what about the rats that were paralyzed?”

“They’re crawling on all fours again.”

I sat up in bed, my pulse numbers racing on the cardiac monitor.

“Kwan, it’s early—there may still be side effects. Dr. Becker has to test the GH doses, perform full physiological tests on the—”

“But it worked! Does Becker know why it worked?”

“She thinks the growth hormone caused an intergenic suppression.”

“In English?”

“The growth hormone diverted the shark mutation by causing a second mutation somewhere else within the rat’s genome . . . they call that an intergenic suppression. The second mutation released a protein inhibitor which suppressed the shark mutations, protecting the rat’s DNA.”

“How soon?”

“You mean for human trials. I knew you’d ask me that. Don’t ask me that. And don’t ask Becker because you’re not supposed to know. No one’s supposed to know. But if you came back to the lab, then you’d eventually find out. You’d have the inside track. In a few years, when the medical profession allows Dr. Becker to begin human trials—”

“I can be first in line.” I closed my eyes, my thoughts racing.
Why are you telling me this, Anya? Is it to give me hope, or is it something else? Are you saying that there’s a place for me beside you—but only if I was whole again?

“You’re right, Anya. I need to get back to school . . . I need to be putting in time at the lab. Thank you for trusting me with this. I promise it’ll stay our little secret.”

After she left, I formulated a plan. There was no way I was going to wait two or three or four more years . . . I wanted to walk now! I wanted to play ball again . . . play in college and the pros . . . above all, I wanted Anya.

To complete my mission, I needed the bull shark stem cells and human growth hormone.

My first call was to the principal. “Dr. Lockhart, it’s Kwan. Sir, I hope to get out of the hospital soon, and I’d like to square things with Stephen Ley.”

“No need to worry, son. Mr. Ley has been suspended.”

“Yes, sir, I heard. But what happened was partly my fault. If it’s okay with you, I’d like to propose a truce—if you’d get him to agree to my terms.”

The suspended star of Seacrest High’s varsity basketball team entered my hospital room a day later carrying a grudge. Maybe it was my imagination, but when he saw the IV bag and tubes, I thought I felt the Grinch’s heart soften.

“Lockhart said he’d remove the suspension from my record if I came to visit you. So? I’m here. I suppose you want an apology?”

“What I want is a favor. I need you to score me some human growth hormone. It has to be the natural stuff, not the synthetic crap. You know . . . the injections.”

Ley shook his head in disbelief. “HGH? First, I don’t do HGH. How am I supposed to get it? B—that stuff’s expensive—a month’s worth of injections runs about three grand. And three—even if I liked you I wouldn’t do it. If I got caught, no college recruiter would touch me.”

“Fair enough. Now here’s why you
are
going to do this. A—because you owe me for putting me in here. B—because if Lockhart doesn’t remove your suspension then you’ll be labeled a bad risk by college recruiters, so bye-bye scholarship offers, hello junior college. C—because if you know what it costs, you probably know someone who uses it, maybe a relative or a doctor. And D—because I’m going to pay you well to get it for me.”

I handed him a debit card. “There’s five thousand and change in that account, all that’s left from my inheritance. Go to any ATM and withdraw what you need—my pin number is one-nine-five-nine. Bring me a month’s worth of injections and you can keep what’s left over. But you’d better bring the real stuff, because if you try to screw me I’ll know, which means I’ll file assault charges and we’ll see which college coach wants to recruit your ass then . . .
buddy
.”

I held out my hand for him to shake. He ignored it, took my debit card and left.