Red Twilight: Long Distence Runners

Chapter 8 GV

Larry seems to become less human with each passing day. The corruption that has taken over him is spreading like a horrible cancer. By the time sunrise comes, half his c.h.e.s.t has been consumed. To hide this, Snake takes a bed sheet from the hotel and stitches it into a makeshift poncho. The color is fading from Larry's skin and hair alike; his eyes have turned yellow and bloodshot, almost like a heroin addicts would after years of the habit.

Snake takes Larry by the arms and carries him out to the convertible. "Put a bullet in me, Bro. I'm done," Larry whimpers.

Snake fakes a laugh. "You're fine. Just a head cold. I'll light you a 'fatty' in the car and you'll forget all about it." He rolls his eyes, throwing his brother in the backseat. "Besides we talked about that yesterday in case you forgot." Snake jumps in the front and pulls out a joint for Larry.

Snake is terrified, but there is no need for panic right now. Things are out of his control, and the only thing he can do is stay strong. Larry needs him. There will be no sleep tonight. Snake needs to be in Minnesota by morning.

* * *

September 14:

2:45 a.m.: The Gekks brothers arrived at the Mayo clinic yesterday. I (Marks V. Karingson) was called in to examine their case. Subject Larry Gekks is suffering from an illness I can only describe as tri-mutagenic. He is devolving, but if that weren't strange enough, it looks as if his evolution is un-unilateral as it were. His mind is transmogrifying to meet his body. It is sometimes claimed that simplicity possesses domination over complexity.

To see this in its purest form, look no farther than bacteria—a single cellular organism almost completely unchanged after endless lifetimes of Darwinism. Larry is in contrast to this. His body is turning let's say Cro-Magnon for the moment. His mind is becoming more complex, it would seem.

I was asked to come here as a specialist in the fields of biochemistry and microbiology, rightfully the individual that first observed the "Gekks Virus" (I think I will refer to it as GV from here on out), assumed it to have been induced by an oral fungal cross contamination. (I'm not prepared to comment on that as of yet.)

By the time I arrived, his body was 45 percent malignant: left arm, left leg, 30 percent stomach, and 40 percent c.h.e.s.t covered by this hostile plague. I was of course captivated.

I have started observing rotten examinations. Vitamin treatments, medicating . . . At this point amputation would prove meaningless. (Losing the hand to save the arm won't work if there is more infected flesh than salvageable.)

On a side note, it looks as if Snake Gekks has chosen to stay in the hospital. It disturbs me the way he passes up and down the halls. I will ask a nurse to give him a tranquilizer.

* * *

Snake paces tirelessly up and down the hall of the hospital most of the day, every hour on the half. He pounds on the RN desk, looking for Larry. They had rushed him into a back room only seconds after he passed through the ER door. The nurse quickly runs out of things to tell him.

"Mr. Gekks, you need to be seated. We will let you see your brother as soon as we can."

Snake slams his hand on the desk furiously! "Miss . . ." He peeks at her nametag.

"Rose, don't you think 'soon as we can' is a bit loose!"

Rose leans over the desk. She is a young women with brilliant blue hair and deep tan skin. "Snake Gekks! You will lower your voice or I will come out there and sing you a lullaby."

Snake is taken aback by her aggression. It takes him but a moment to piece things together in his mind. "She is a former field medic, and chances are she is still packing."

"Your brother is ill. We don't have the tools to treat him on hand. In fact, based on your loose description of how he came to be as is, you will be lucky if we even can treat him. Now get your sorry a.s.s in that chair!" she demands.

"I am not recommending this place to my friends." Snake walks backward away from Rose. Snake tips his head and squints as he watches her walk away. "Her shadow . . . it's not moving right. She looks . . . just like the snake monster that had attacked Larry." Snake is tired; he can't be confident of what he is seeing. His first instinct is to reach for his iron and see if "Rose" can dodge bullets. He restrains himself.

Dr. Marks Vigeta Karingson arrives by helicopter early the next morning. He is a strange-looking man. His skin looks like bronze; his eyes are a pale brown that looks almost red from a distance. His hair is tucked into his overcoat; there is a barcode on his neck. The way he walks looks somehow wrong, but Snake can't place it. "It's almost like El." He is greeted like a superstar, clapping and shaking hands as he passes.

Marks approaches Snake steadfast; the moment Marks extends his hand to meet Snake, Snake can tell what he hates about Marks. Marks is proper, prim, and urgent; none of these things can Snake admire. "You must be Mr. Snake Gekks. Allow me to introduce myself. I am Dr. Karingson, Marks Karingson." Snake fakes a smile in spite of the sour taste in his mouth he is choking down. Snake takes Marks' hand in a stout grip, locking thumbs.

A handshake can tell a man volumes about he who stands before him: If you show someone your hand and then refuse to take it, then there is a liar. If they squeeze your fingertips, that makes them tame or cowardly. They roll your knuckles, they're dominating, and if they grip your thumbs, they're pompous and arrogant.

Snake is both.

"Mr. Gekks, I would like to inform you that things are well in hand . . ."

Snake's skin crawls in the good doctor's grip. His inner voice seems to call out to him, "This dude is bad news. Run while you still got time." Snake shuts out the whisper. "This guy could be a goddamn hoodoo witch doctor. He is still the only chance of getting though this I can see."

The first day in the hospital has been hellish; the following day does not improve. Things start to look progressively more surreal as time goes on. Maybe it is only Snake's imagination, but the halls seem to become more and more still with each passing hour. As day starts to break on his third eve, Snake feels as if he is alone in the south wing. It seems like beds, wheelchairs, and IVs roll by without aid.

As Snake continues his repetitious streak, he stops to try to follow one of the self-propelled pieces of equipment. He fails to unravel this mystery as his monotony is shattered by the reappearance of Nurse Rose. "Snake." She grabs his arm. "Marks asked me to give you these." She hands over a bottle of pills. "And to tell you Larry is being moved to a 'clean-room' in the west wing." Snake nods.

* * *

September 15:

Larry Gekks has slipped into coma. No change was observed over the course of the last nine hours. That is the good news. On a less optimistic point, it looks as if GV is contagious. A dozen members of the hospital staff have begun to show symptoms since my arrival.

Know the fact that GV is transferable and inescapable. But the method is mind-boggling. Examination of Larry's body revealed a kaleidoscope of inquest.

Outside of the obvious, Larry also seems to have suffered numerous ballistic wounds, some old, some more resent. He has fresh laceration marks on his back (less than a week old). There are also four puncture wounds on his shoulder (these interest me a great deal)—clear evidences of bacterial infection around the wound (typical of bite wounds). This seems to have been covered with field wrappings (looks like the type one might have learned at a day camp).

I would like a clearer picture of how these injuries were sustained, but that seems unlikely at this time.

My first thought after noticing the punctures was that GV perhaps is the result of some form of animal self-defense methodology. Terrifying as this is, that would be easily contained. I'm disappointed I was wrong. (Or that GV could have jumped the species barrier, this is equally horrific.)

As is, one truly bizarre apparition is now on the cusp of a micropandemic.

Forgive me, that was a bit alarmist. Let us stick to facts.

It is 8:39 a.m. The Gekks arrived 53.57 hours ago. The hospital staff had known instantly that they were not equipped to handle the situation at hand. Over the last several hours, a dozen members of the hospital staff began showing what I now recognize as early symptoms of GV (dizziness, sudden pigment shift in skin, redness of eyes, sensitivity to light and sound).

I will refer to these individuals as subjects 2-13 for purpose of this doc.u.ment.

Subjects 3, 5, 9-11, 13 experienced cardiac-arrest less than in an hour after reporting symptoms, 3, 9, 10 were found dead. Subjects 5, 11, 13 seemingly drowned during resuscitation attempts; they were proclaimed dead on the operating table. Like "Calera" it seems GV possesses a 50%+ mortality rating.

Subjects 2, 4, 6, 7, 12 are even more interesting. (Germination period in mind it turns out that Larry himself is tolerant to GV.) Approximately one hour thirty minutes after infection was detected, each of the individuals observed began their own unique metamorphosis. (This was of course accompanied by all subjects joining Larry in quarantine.)

Changes observed thus far included are varied. Subject 2: female, mid-twenties, Melato descent. Over the course of infection, it would seem that her ears have fallen off, eyes widened, her jawline has lifted, cuspids receded, incisors have pressed forward (front teeth have enlarged perforating over the lip line), long thick whiskerlike hairs have begun to form along the cheekbones; lastly there has been noticeable engorging of the tailbone (in fact, three extra vertebrae have grown in). Thick semi-pubescent hair has grown around the tail like a protrusion. Psychological changes include heightened sensitivity and childlike behaviors; it seems she is also developing an oral fascination.

Subject 4: male, mid-forties, Hispanic, seems to have suffered some change in the structure of Ischium resulting in difficulty in standing upright; he is instead walking on all fours. Eyes have moved together, brows swelled, jaw lengthened, hair is growing at abnormal speed (in and amongst other changes, this one seems negligible). Subject 4 shows signs of enhanced aggression, territorialism, especially in the presence of older women.

Subject 6: female, Cambodian, early twenties, a strange secondary skin has formed around pelvis, t.h.i.g.hs, legs, feet seem to be losing muscular structure, ball joints forming around h.i.p.s, secondary injector style teeth forming around gum-line. Jaw looks somehow to be fragmented. (I'll elaborate on this as soon as I can.)

Subject 7: male, forty-five, Ethiopian, complains constantly about hunger pains, cartilage has formed over feet pushing them into a clove shape, tongue is spotted, hair is brittle, subject is walking hunched over, hairline is receded, bone fractures push through skull, shape of skull itself seems to be changing . . .

Subject 12: female, nineteen, French, skin has become silky, hair greased and vibrant, has lost the ability to breathe oxygen, requires di-hydrogen oxide, becomes quickly dehydrated, body must be kept completely submerged.

As would be expected, the transformation period seems quite . . . uncomfortable. I had remarked in an earlier doc.u.ment that the transformation is "nonpartisan." Let me elaborate on that at this time. Twenty hours after quarantine was declared, it seemed that the first infected had completed their transmogrifications.

Subject 2: the end of her growth cycle resulted in her becoming a "Vermanen" (cone like in nature)—long ears, nose tipped upward, and has grown a short tail. To "ye that knew her" this is of course horrific. In my opinion, it's not without its charm.

Subject 2 seems to have no recollection of her life before today. Strangely she still possesses all knowledge associated with her schooling but has no understanding as to where the information derives form. She can walk, talk, and has fundamental understanding of hand gestures; her knowledge of current events is within expected parameters. Specifics of her life on the other hand are gone. She has six children ranging in age from 1 to 9 and three husbands, none of which she remembers.

It looks to me that subject two has developed some form of recuperative property to replace this loss of memory. I allowed her most recent husband to view her through an observation window. He suggested she looks ten years younger than she had been when last they were together. He was understandably unmade by what he witnessed, and that make this evidences more or less anecdotal.

In spite of this, speaking to the husbands has opened my eyes to possibilities that I dared not entertain prior. Subject 2 even before her run-in with GV was a clinical nymphomaniac.

This insight has led me to call the emergency contacts of all that have been affected, searching for other trivial pieces of information that may lead to a better understanding of what is GV. It's almost like a "Divine Comedy." Can it be that GV has a sense of humor?

Subject 4 has a night job as an attendant at a puppy farm. He himself seems to have become an alpha wolf (most specifically a North American Minnesota gray timber wolf, based on the shape of his new ears, tail, and his yellow eyes) or at least more wolf than man.

Subject 6 has taken on a serpentine appearance; the stripes on her back and tail suggest she is a Burmese python. Unfortunately nothing in the stories her roommate told me seemed to explain this in any way that I could interpret. No night jobs or nocturnal habits involving snakes . . . (Snake? . . . Some part of this seems provocative.)

Subject 7 ultimately grew two feet after his transformation. All of it in leg length, it looks to me as if he has become part antelope. His hunger pains are a result of abnormal cardiac and respiratory behavior. When standing still, his base heart rate is 164/90; when walking or running, it seems to restore balance. (As a side note, his sprinting rate clocked at twenty-six miles per hour. That is impressive.) He has lost the ability to speak altogether. But retains the cognitive reasoning necessary to understand he had relationsh.i.p.s with the people around him and reacts more or less accordingly. (or as a pachyderm would).

According to Subject 7's mother, his career as an RN was a backdrop. His passion was in Olympic class running. For a decade, he has been training for track and field. Every week Monday, he runs from his house to the clinic (distances 27.70 miles following the highway.)

Subject 12 is the least human of them all at this point. She has become completely aquatic; only tiny pieces of humanity still visible within her. She has a dorsal fin, winged ears, her eyes are on the sides of her head, all her hair has fallen out, her legs have fused together. She still has hands and arms but they're webbed, and her face shape is more or less human.

Subject 12's upper brain was destroyed in the transformation. She has lost all memory as far as I can tell. Her behaviors are nothing shy of animalistic, her every action revolving around the prospect of eating or identifying mating options. Her "human" appearance is nothing more than a masquerade to attract suitors.

If ye be so pleased, this brings me full circle to Larry Gekks, and maybe more interestingly Snake Gekks. And this is why I am immune to GV myself; reason seems clear enough. Snake on the other hand, why is he immune? . . .

The facilities here are inadequate for my needs. We will need to move to better campuses. I will summon some "Hawks" to help me transport my guest, and we will bring Snake with us when we leave. I have no doubt that there is some part of his physiology that we will find extremely interesting.

* * *

Marks watches Snake with a fierce determination; it seem like hours that he stands in the doorway between the lab and the waiting room staring out at him. Snake finds after a time that it would be best to pay no heed.

There is no one in the waiting room anymore. Snake stands stunned for a moment at the sight. 'Is this what Larry sees every time we find ourselves here?' Only Dr. Karingson and himself remain; not long after he is completely alone.

The still becomes unstill around midday; a number of police officers arrive, followed by men dressed in hazmat gear. Something within Snake tells him things are not as it seems. Snake follows the officers.

The "cops" move in formations—twin, single field lines shoulder to shoulder clearly in step. They hold weapons closely at hand. One seems to be wearing a dog collar with a tag on it that reads "UBC Private First Class Harris."

Snake sneaks in close. He follows the so-called "enforcers" through the hollow halls of the hospital. Alien noises assault Snake's ears as he tails his prey—shrieks and sequels, squawks and shrills; he can't even imagine the origins of hunters of these quarters.

Soon Snake stands in the shadows of the ones he stalks. Snake is swift and smooth. He stands close enough to whisper in the ear of his prey, and the stocky has no idea he's even there. Snake stand over his shoulder in optimum position to plant a knife if he felt the need. His second query has a tattoo, small and tasteless, an eagle with an olive branch in one claw and a flag in the other; below the flag it reads "Urban Blockade Commandos."

"Holy Shit, they're goddamned Mercs," Snake whispers to himself. (Merc: a Merc is a gunslinger for hire. Traditionally ex-military, but from time to time mobsters, gangsters, and dishonored law enforcement officials are given the same title. Anyone else willing to kill a man in broad daylight for five hundred bucks might get the name as well. If your honor is for sale, you just might be a Merc.)

Snake recalls a time his brother was approached by one of their recruiters. Snake saw to it that they put in a change of address from the same day. Mercs have a habit of working alone or in team; there are at-least a dozen of them in the hospital. "What the f.u.c.k is going on here?" Snake asks himself. An answer comes from an unaccepted angle.

Marks approaches in a way that is fast and so quiet it seems he floats. He takes Snake by the back of the neck with a firm hand; the grip is almost violent "Hello, friend, I'm glad you're still with us."

Snake twists to face the mad doctor. Marks rests his hand on Snake's c.h.e.s.t, shoving him to the wall with a gentle touch. "What the . . . ?"

Marks cuts him off, "F.u.c.k is going on? I heard you the first time. Allow me to illuminate you. Follow me." Marks turns to a solitary-looking hall with steel shutters over the window and coded locks on the door. "Your brother is quite ill." "I know that already!" Snake is irritated.

"Of course you do. Actually this is amongst the most extraordinary transformations I've seen so far." Snake follows in behind Marks, watching him closely with a most disgusted expression. "Not in that the physical Gilgamesh, and it is impressive, but more so in the idea that change is imperfect. That in of itself is just far unheard-of."

"Doc, what is the chase and how do I cut to it?"

"I see." Marks stops before a door labeled "S-6." "Well as of current, I have been having some trouble in understanding some aspects of this case. Maybe you can help me. Do you have any idea how or when you brother may have be exposed to whatever had infected him?"

"No, not really . . ." Snake sounds uncertain.

"Lying to me isn't going to help anything."

"We were in a bar and got into a fight . . ."

"With what?"

"With a thing."

"A thing?"

"Yes."

"What sort of thing?"

"Well . . ." Snake struggles to come up with a method to describe his thoughts.

"A thing like this?" Marks opens the shutter leading into the room housing Subject 6. Snake is paralyzed recognizing what was once Nurse Rose, now a serpentine monster closely resembling the Lamia he met the other day, chained to the bed beneath her.

Snake doesn't need to say a word; Marks can see into his thoughts. "That is precisely what I was hoping for." Marks withdraws from his pocket a syringe. Frozen in place, Snake fails to see Marks position himself behind him; he barely notices when Marks c.o.c.ks his head off to the side and buries the needle into his neck. Snake feels the burn as the unknown chemical fills his blood.

Snake places one foot on the wall and kicks against it with a ferocity enough so to knock back even the war machine Marks. Snake elbows Marks in the side and staggers away holding his neck. Marks stands with his feet together and his hands folded in a triangle over his c.h.e.s.t. Snake glares. "What was that?" Snake pants and begins to sweat, gasping for air.

"Distilled blood."

Snake tries to ask, "Who's?" But it is only noise.

"Hers." Marks points at the serpent.

The venomous blood burns in his veins for only moments before Snake begins to hallucinate. Nightmares flash in and out of his reality; Snake thrashes his arms out denying this reality. He fights the sickness with all that is him, but still the darkness persists. The walls flash with flames; metal clanking assaults his ears.

Marks himself fades between three beasts: part man, part bird, and part bat.

"What seems to perturb you, Mr. Gekks?" Marks asks as if he doesn't know.

Snake struggles to stay upright, gripping his neck with one hand. "I am going to kick your self-righteous a.s.s."

"Let's see if you survive the night first."

Every inch of Snake is under attack, and Snake responds with regal fury. Snake as he begins to collapse finds power in madness. He reaches for his iron; withdrawing a single revolver, he begins a prayer worthy of "the brothers of steel." "Sword be true, Strike down thee enemy's with holy vengeances in the name of glory!" Snake's arm begins to lift; Marks stands defiantly over him. Snake howls like a wild beast. But in spite of his rage, the fever overtakes him. Snake faints, passing wholly into his fantasies.

* * *

The nightmares are lucid; they have scent, color, and depth that is uncommon in the eyes of the common dreamer. A hell of twisted metal entangles him. A colossal talon embraces him and a descent begins into the underworld. Snake never fails to struggle, and his vigilance is rewarded.

A six-winged figure reaches out to take him by the hand. The six-winged stranger has no face, only a light from which it hides beyond. The struggle for salvation has only begun.

Sleep that can't have lasted more than half a night feels like years. Snake finds his memories corrupted, his fantasies twisted; there is no rest. Snake finds himself climbing a stairwell forged of mirrors, every mirror a window into his life but never a door in sight. The darkness that fills his blood manifests, taking shape as he ruminates of thoughts, things forgotten and forsaken, your every sin returning for retribution.

At last the top of the stairs.

There waiting for Snake is Larry as he knows him, as well as a demon wearing his skin, and there between them is Marks, but not as Snake remembers him. Marks is changed; his face is covered in white clown paint with diamonds beneath his eyes, covered by a dark robe; he has a batwing on his port and an angel's wing in starboard.

The stairwell of mirrors comes together to create a lonesome world as Snake understands it. He, his brother, the demon, and Marks are lone three-dimensional objects in a suddenly two-dimensional world. Marks stands at the fulcrum in waiting. The lights of the mirrors seem to hold the deformed memories at bay.

Snake is exhausted from his run up the steps. He enjoys a moment of rest with which he uses to fill his lungs with much wanted air. "All right." Snake exhales.

"You aren't trying to eat my brains yet so you're not zombies, so . . ."

"You think this is a dream?" Marks asks.

"Isn't it?"

"Where you came from was the dream. This is real."

Snake is bamboozled. "Then where in the hell are we?"

"Hell's not far off. This is purgatory . . . for you at least. You see it changes depending on the expectations of the suffering."

"Bullshit."

"How so? You're dead after all. Have been since September 11, 8:45 p.m.

Eastern time."

Snake approaches Marks viciously. "Then why are you here?"

Marks eyes close as he smirks. "To save you."

"Why?"

"Like so many stars in the sky, you Snake, are a light shining though the endless night. You have the power, as so few other do, to banish the darkness that plagues our world. That power is yours should you choose to accept it. Will you fall or will you fight? Only you know."

Snake laughs at the thought. "So God sent you to give me a pep talk? How underwhelming that the Almighty would . . ."

Seamlessly, Marks is gone from the summit and a galactic visage has come into view in his likeness. "Let it be known, I can be kind, as can I be cruel. You find yourself on the cusp of something of a scale that makes your limited understanding nothing more than Planck. Your ordinary comprehension cannot hope to embrace what is to be. You are a cog in a machine, a lonely antibody in a ocean of single cellular life forms, barely conscious as is. Can a soul Cardin atom hope to divine its nature in contrast to its twins? I think not. But you nonetheless have a destiny apart from that which is common to your kin. Cometh a new dawn, the axis of history will fall on your shoulders as it will back dozens of others . . . Now will you fight, or will you let this day pass unmarked?"

* * *

Snake beats himself against the back of a hospital bench till he awakens. He falls off the chair. His clothing is half torn from his body; he is in a cold sweat. His head feels three times too big and his eyes are throbbing in his skull. Snake feels himself up, making certain he is still himself, then feels his neck, questioning what he thought he saw he really did.

Finding nothing, Snake makes his way to the bathroom to take one more look. It seems most of the day has passed while he was napping. Everything looks fine, no signs of change at all. There's no way Marks injected him with that poison. Is there?

* * *

September 17

We are preparing to change offices. The facilities here are simply inadequate for my need. I have wired ahead to my colleagues in Manhattan. Allen seems overly excited with my findings and wants to be included in my research. AC Dem-Row is overjoyed as well. This make me uncomfortable. My former assistant and my sponsors this interested in bioresearch? Shaun Clawed's response seems much more up to speed. He is apprehensive. I like that.

Rhys, he is terrified. I asked him if he would feel more comfortable working on another project. He ensures me that he wishes to stay by my side. I must say I love Rhys. I'm pleased that he has chosen to stay in the end.

It's time to make the move.

* * *

Thereare no signs of life anymore; Snake can hear the sounds of the fans on the other side of the building running. Snake discards his coat and shirt in the bathroom and stares at himself in the mirror. Snake rolls his body, looking over his shoulders and down his back, searching for wounds and evidences of what he thought had happened to him.

The tattoos running down his face and neck continue down his back and c.h.e.s.t. A seven-headed dragon covers most his body: "Teamat the hallow" the dragon mother, child of "Chaos mother of Creation." The dragon has two heads looking up, casting fire from their eyes. Three heads are facing down in remorse of the emptiness she feels. Her other heads are facing in opposing directions in symbolism of choices. Snake is "Teamat," hunger that knows no end, l.u.s.t that can't be satisfied, and always at the crossroad of choices. Teamat wishes for purity but can't help but succ.u.mb to indulgences of the flesh.

Snake redresses and makes his way back to the waiting room. Dazed, he picks up a copy of GI Magazine (a weekly electronics magazine). "Nothing happened. I imagined all of it," Snake tells himself, time and time again trying to convince himself.

The stillness is interrupted; footsteps are moving toward him. Snake looks up. He expects to see a nurse or Marks; either way it is good for him. Snake has questions, and he needs them answered. Snake doesn't get what he expects. He sees instead the UBC rifles in hand. Another door opens; Snake hears a yell, then a gunshot, and everything goes dark.