The Gene Institute
Chris spent several hours each day at the Holt Gene Institute
digging into the records--endless files of paper and computer data.
With this information he had begun to put together a picture of what went on at
the Institute, though his own records were on a data cartridge
that was missing from the cabinet.
There was a daily event log, though in the last chaotic
days it was not being kept up. Furthermore, Chris felt it was
deliberately not complete. From it he could tell that they had a
research facility at Marfa, the same town that the FBI had traced
Jan's body snatchers to--the town on the edge of the desert
where he had found himself dazed and drugged.
Chris knew now that the Holt people were somehow involved in
the snatching. They must have wanted Jan's body for their own
research purposes, or wanted to keep it out of the reach of other
researchers, or perhaps both.
Then there was the fact that the Institute was involved
with Chris' own background, at least when he was a child. He
could remember his mother bringing him to this very clinic in
Houston for treatments, though it had never been clear to him
exactly why.
All this added up to the Institute having played a role
in the outbreak of the Death, and to his own survival. When Jan
died, the Holt people knew that her death was related to their
own research and they were concerned enough about it to steal her
body out of the morgue.
Then there were the missing days in Chris' own memory and
the fact that the first place he could remember being after the
missing time was near the Big Bend, not far from Marfa.
There were transcripts of telephone conversations on the desk in
Jonathan Holt's office. He had found one that was very interesting.
"Have you got the tissue samples from the woman?"
"Charlie is flying them in this afternoon. It wasn't
difficult to get them. They know we've been doing related
research. We're getting together the family medical history as
well."
"Anyone find H02217?"
"Not yet. By the way, the woman's daughter has just been
admitted to the hospital. I'll let you know as soon as we find
out what's going on."
"Do that. Talk to you later."
"Wait a minute. Charlie's coming in now; hold on a
second." After a moment's pause the voice came back. "Charlie's
just talked on the phone to some of the hospital staff. The daughter
is dying of old age, the same as her mother did."
Chris put his feet up on Jonathan Holt's desk, the pieces going through his mind.
The Institute had done something that changed Chris'
chromosomes, and whatever it was they did had worked--it did keep
him from dying soon after puberty as it appeared he would have
otherwise.
Whatever they had given him was somehow dependent on his
particular body chemistry or cell structure to live--thus it
wasn't contagious to others.
Something had changed the virus so that it could live in
the body of an ordinary person. Its effect on others was to
cause what it prevented in him.
But there were still many questions annoying him.
Would his offspring, having his disease, be long-lived?
Was the disease a dominant or recessive gene?
Did anyone else on earth have the disease? Had anyone
else had the treatment, and if not, why not?
If there were other people with the disease, under what
conditions would they be likely to survive the Death?
Perhaps the most intriguing clue, however, was found not at
the Institute, but in a small bureau under the loft in Justin's
room. In it were Carey's clothes and personal things. One day
the top drawer stood open, and in it lay a piece of paper which
caught Chris' eye.
"Here is my cousin's old address that I dug up at Holt," said Chris.
"I was going to look her up in Houston. Carey must have gotten it
out of my backpack."
Justin glanced over at the paper and said, "No, that
paper's been in there since before I met you. That's Carey's
address. It's where I found him."
Chris looked at his own familiar scrawl and furrowed his
brow, then shrugged and started to put the paper back in Carey's
drawer, certain that Justin must have the bit of paper
confused with some other. Something on the back of the paper
caught his eye, and he lifted it up again. It was part of an
H.I. in a circle, the Holt logo. He realized he had to pursue the issue
further.
"See, it's mine. Look, there's the Holt logo."
Justin took the paper, glanced at the logo, then turned
it over and looked again at the address. "It does look like your
handwriting," he conceded.
Chris went on. "I found it just now in Carey's drawer.
I remember now, the last time I saw it was when I was at the
Institute the day I was captured and locked up. On my own file
folder there was an address label sticker. I couldn't fit the
whole folder into my pack easily, so I wrote the address down on
the back of a sheet of paper I picked up off of the floor, tore
off this piece, and put it in my pocket. It was the address of
my cousin, where I stayed when I was a kid, getting the Holt
treatments. Somehow it's in Carey's drawer."
Justin flipped the paper over and looked at the logo,
then flipped it back and looked at the address again. "Damn it,
I know I'm right, I've been there. This is Carey's address.
That's why I keep it in that drawer."
"Where did you get this paper?"
"From my father. I stole it out of his pocket. We were
looking for you then, and I thought maybe it was where they had
you hidden. So Tony and I went there, and in the house there was
a bed with this dead lady that was beginning to smell, and a
hungry little boy peeking out from under the bed at me. It was
Carey."
Chris wrinkled his forehead and thought for a moment.
"Your father must have taken this paper from my pocket when they
caught me and locked me up."
"It was your cousin's address! That means Carey is your cousin!"
"Wait a minute," said Chris. "It only means Carey was
found in a house that my cousin once lived in, ten years ago.
Her last name was Crawford. Carey's is..." Chris had heard it,
but couldn't bring it to mind.
"Briggs," finished Justin. "So either they're not
connected, or maybe his mother was your cousin but remarried, or
something."
The first thing to do was ask Carey, which they did.
He thought that maybe he had heard of the name Crawford
somewhere, but he wasn't sure.
Chris studied the little boy's face. The hair, the eyes.
Could this be his cousin's son?
It was interesting to see how the city had developed in just
a few weeks with no adults. Many of the stores had been
claimed by a child or a group of children; they would set up
shop and trade or sell the goods. Chris wondered what the medium
of exchange would become. There seemed to be a bit of buying and
selling with currency, but from he had seen so far, most trade
was by barter.
There were a few kids wearing guns and driving around in
police cars, but this was less popular than Chris might have
expected. He hadn't heard of anyone trying to make any serious
attempt at providing more than simple medical care.
Sexual maturity had become a sign of impending death.
Once there was even a rumor of a child being born, but Chris
hadn't spent time trying to verify it.
Chris knew there was no avoiding going to Mexico. But how? He
didn't want to go without Justin, who in turn wouldn't leave
Carey for any length of time. He was uncertain how many kids he
should have along on what might be a long and dangerous trip. On
the other hand, Houston wasn't going to be the safest place
either in the coming weeks. Water was already a problem, and
there would be other problems.
They could drive, but it would be a terribly long and arduous
journey, trying to siphon gasoline from underground tanks at gas
stations, watching out for wild drivers, obstructed roadways, and
who knows what sort of chaos and leftovers from previous chaos.
That left flying. It seemed to be the only reasonable
choice. Chris was accustomed to flying a Cessna 172, a four-seater.
That would mean the possibility of bringing not only Justin, but
Carey and perhaps one other. Somehow the thought of taking them
made him nervous, but then, the sky should be one area that was
less chaotic since the Death. He had given plane rides to kids
before, so what was the difference?
Previous Chapter
The Circle's Begin
Next Chapter
Flight
Copyright ©1995 Robin Verner
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