Winston Chase and the Alpha Machine Read online

  Shade changed mental gears in a heartbeat. “Starving,” he replied.

  “Me, too,” his mom said. “I vote Burgerville. Yoga class makes me want onion rings.”

  Mrs. Tagaloa was the most cheerful person Winston had ever met. How she could live with a grump like Mr. Tagaloa was anyone’s guess. No matter what, though, Winston knew where the discipline came from in that house, and Shade would be counting the minutes until the real enforcer came home. Mr. Tagaloa only had one boy to carry on his legacy, and the idea of that legacy getting suspended would not sit well, no matter what the circumstances.

  Winston kept a $20 bill in his wallet for emergencies. He offered to pay for himself, but Mrs. Tagaloa waved his money aside.

  “Honey, I got this. You’ve had a rough day.”

  “Thanks,” said Winston. “Would you mind if I got a shake for Mr. Allen, too?”

  She regarded Winston in the rearview mirror and smiled. “That’s fine. You still see him, huh?”

  “Sometimes.”

  The truth was that he visited every two or three days. But Winston knew it was odd for a teenager to show such interest in a bed-ridden senior, so he made no other explanation.

  Winston got a pepper bacon cheeseburger, fries, and a Northwest cherry chocolate shake plus a small boysenberry shake on the side. Mrs. Tagaloa drove him the half mile back to Progress Oaks and dropped him off at the front entrance.

  “Don’t forget your 8:00,” said Shade.

  “What’s at 8:00?” his mom asked.

  “Nothing,” said Winston.

  Shade grinned. “Winston has a date with Alyssa Bauman.”

  Mrs. Tagaloa clapped with excitement. “That’s great! Congratulations!”

  Winston shook his head. “It’s just on Skype. Helping with her homework.”

  “She talked to you!” Shade gave him a duh! face. “This is huge!”

  “Well, good luck, Winston,” said Mrs. Tagaloa. “You deserve a little romance.”

  “OK, not awkward at all.” Winston started for the doors and waved toward the Lexus. “Thanks again!”

  The Tagaloas drove off, and Winston walked into the cool dimness of the retirement home. No one sat behind the front desk. Winston signed in on the clipboard perched atop the desk counter and trudged up the stairs to the second floor, carefully balancing the bag in the crook of his arm with a shake in each hand.

  When he announced himself at Mr. A’s door, the old man tried to sound elated but had to fight his way through a throat full of phlegm. He was still under the bedsheets and still in his wrinkled T-shirt, apparently having not moved all day. Winston held out the boysenberry shake. Mr. A gratefully accepted it, although his hand shook and his expression seemed a bit confused.

  “My knight in shining armor,” said Mr. A. He took several determined sips on the straw. Winston set out his own food on the tiny table. The aroma of beef and bacon filled the room, and Winston took a long draw on his own shake. The fruity chocolate ice cream drove away some of the day’s stress. They both sighed contentedly and laughed.

  “Thank you, Winston. This really hits the spot.”

  The old man’s head lolled back against his pillow. He blinked several times, trying to clear whatever fogginess obscured his mind.

  “You’re welcome,” said Winston.

  “But this isn’t where you eat lunch. Explain.” He motioned for Winston to come closer.

  Winston moved his chair next to the hospital bed and used the space next to Mr. A as his table. The old man nibbled at one fry but clearly wasn’t too interested in it. As Winston arranged his food so as not to make a mess, Bill lumbered into the room. He gave Winston a dark glance, then turned his back on the boy as he busied himself with pills over the corner sink.

  “I got suspended for fighting in gym class,” said Winston.

  Mr. A’s unruly white eyebrows arched upward, and the hint of a smile played through his wrinkles. “Really? ‘Bout time.”

  Bill looked at Winston over his shoulder. “Didn’t think you had it in you.”

  Winston threw up his hands. “Geeze! Why am I in trouble if all the grown-ups don’t care?”

  “A lot of things aren’t fair,” said Mr. A.

  Bill approached the bed carrying a paper Dixie cup containing several pills. He made sure that Mr. A took the pills and showed every sign of waiting until his patient swallowed them. With a grimace, Mr. A did so.

  “Bill, you should take my blood pressure,” said Mr. A. “I feel strange.”

  The nurse glanced quickly at the IV line but then pointed at the Dixie cup. “That’s why you need your meds.”

  Mr. A sighed. When the last pill was gone, he said, “At least it tastes better with the shake.” He and Winston bumped drink containers.

  Bill closed the medicine cabinet and left to continue his rounds. Winston watched the big man’s back disappear out of sight, then said in a hushed voice, “Something else happened, too. In the locker room.”

  Mr. A nodded. “The bully came back for more?”

  “Kind of. When I had my back turned, he snapped me on the butt with a towel.”

  Mr. A shook his head, then stopped, blinking more. He must be feeling dizzy. “Did he wet the tip? That hurts like the dickens.”

  “Maybe. I don’t know. But when he did, afterward…” Winston took a breath, both afraid to say it and relieved to tell someone. “The area around where he got me turned blue.”

  Mr. A went completely still in mid-sip. The straw slid from his pale lips, leaving a glistening spot of purple. “Blue,” he said.

  “Blue. And it glowed.”

  “Just like Bernie,” he muttered absently.

  Then the shock and fear from this morning crept back into Mr. A’s face. His right hand with its long IV tail started toward his mouth, as if to cover it.

  “I mean…” Mr. A started, but he had no idea what to say next. His fingers fluttered over his mouth, uncertain and scared.

  A chill went down Winston’s back. The old man believed him. He knew exactly what Winston was talking about. He had even known someone named Bernie with the same condition.

  A loud crack sounded in the room’s entryway, startling them both. They heard the clatter of several small plastic pieces, and two little black bits rebounded into the bedroom. A low voice cursed, and a moment later Bill appeared, picking up the shattered remains of his walkie-talkie.

  “Were you just standing there?” Winston asked.

  Bill looked up at him, red-faced, but said nothing. The nurse retrieved the last of his radio, settled the bits into his pocket, and left. This time, Winston followed him out and made sure he disappeared from sight.

  Winston returned to his chair, but he now sat on the seat’s edge.

  “Mr. A, what is going on? What—”

  The old man put his finger over Winston’s mouth and shook his head in a warning. Again with the glance around the ceiling.

  Mr. A moved his hand to Winston’s cheek, cupping his jaw in a dry, wrinkly palm. Winston’s first instinct was to pull away. He didn’t like people touching him, but he forced himself to stay still as the hand patted him gently and Mr. A stared into his face. The man’s eyes were moist again, the lines around his eyes darker and deeper than ever.

  “Winston…” he whispered. Mr. A’s hand slid back through Winston’s hair and pulled lightly on the back of his neck, urging Winston to come closer. Winston obliged, and Mr. A wrapped his fragile, sagging arm around him in the closest thing he could manage to a hug.

  Mr. A held him there for a long moment, then finally drew a long, shaky breath.

  “My boy,” he whispered right into Winston’s ear. “I’m so, so sorry. But now you have to run.”

  “What do you mean?” he whispered back. “I’m not in that much trouble.”

  “Yes, you are. I’ve really made a mess of it.” He paused. “They were only watching me because of the time you spend here. They didn’t know who I was. But now… Bill will be
calling them, repeating our discussion. They will come for me, too, I’m sure.”

  “What are you talking about? Who is ‘they’? Mom was talking nonsense like this, too.”

  He felt Mr. A nod against his cheek.

  “You’re changing,” breathed the old man. “They probably figured you weren’t a risk as long as you seemed normal. But now you’re not. And when they take me, they’ll want to know…what I know.”

  Winston pulled back when he felt a warm drop on his cheek. He reflexively wiped at it, then noticed the tears spilling from Mr. A’s eyes.

  “Please,” said Winston. “You’re not making any sense.”

  “I think they’ve been watching you all your life, waiting for me to turn up. They didn’t expect me to be…like this.” He glanced down at his body, frowned, and swallowed thickly. “I should have died sooner,” he whispered to himself. “I should have just destroyed it all.”

  “Stop,” said Winston. “You’re scaring me.” He tried to pull away, but Mr. A’s arm kept him locked in place.

  “They probably have people watching everywhere you go, including your friends. You must find it before they do, understand?”

  “No, I don’t! Find what?”

  “Go. And when you’re away from here, tell your mom…tell her that finches fly in the fall.”

  “Finches fly in the fall? What’s that mean?”

  “She’ll know what to do.”

  This time, Winston ducked his head and did pull away. “Wait. You know my mom?”

  Mr. A winced. The old man reached for Winston’s face again, but he was now too far away.

  “You do,” said Winston.

  “Hush!” hissed Mr. A. “Call your mom.”

  Winston backed away from the bed, unable to process what he was hearing. His calf brushed against part of the paper garden he’d made last year, and he saw that he would rip off a tulip head if he moved any farther. Part of him wanted to, and he didn’t understand why. A squat, black wastebasket rested on the entryway floor. Winston dropped what was left of his milkshake into it. He’d lost his appetite.

  Winston took one last look at Mr. A. Medicine dripped slowly into the IV bag plugged into his arm. Winston wondered at the strange expression on the old man’s face and wished he could interpret it.

  “You’d better go,” Mr. A said faintly. “Call.”

  Winston’s brow furrowed, and he shook his head as he walked out.

  He left Progress Oaks in a daze. Rosie greeted him brightly as he walked by, and he merely waved in reply. As he glanced at her, he saw that the manager’s door was closed, and he was fairly sure that he heard the low rumble of Bill’s voice coming from inside.

  He walked a little faster.

  Outside, Winston contemplated Mr. A’s window. There were no decorations there, only closed curtains. Part of him wondered if the old guy had lost his marbles, gotten Alzheimer’s or something. But if he had, then his mother had gotten it, too, and that didn’t add up.

  Winston walked around the building, cutting across the resident garden area, weaving among the beds of tomatoes, cucumbers, and roses.

  He pulled out his phone and dialed his mom’s workplace. Normally, the owner, Sam McCollough, answered the line in his office after three or four rings. This time, his mom answered after only one.

  “Sam’s Diner on Ninth Street,” she said so quickly that the words almost blurred together. “Open ‘til midnight seven days a week. This is Amanda. How can I serve you?”

  “Mom?”

  “Winston?” She sounded instantly alarmed. He could hear the clatter of plates and glasses in the background. “Are you OK?”

  “Yeah, I’m fine.”

  “The school called me. Mrs. Tagaloa was supposed to pick you up.”

  “She did. It’s fine, Mom. It’s…”

  Winston heard someone faintly holler, “Can I get some more coffee?” There was a pause, and Winston imagined his mom gesturing to the customer or beckoning at one of the other waitresses to help.

  “Yes, Winston? What’s wrong?”

  He opened his mouth and almost said, “Nothing.” He wondered if the whole thing was some huge misunderstanding. Maybe he should just go home, google his way to some plausible explanation about the blue-glowing skin, and give his mom and Mr. A a chance to make sense of all this madness. Patience always paid off. He needed to apply Occam’s razor: When in doubt, the simplest explanation is almost always right.

  Almost.

  He would try this one last thing — spit it out, and then all of the insanity would blow over.

  “Mr. A said to tell you…” He reached the fence and walked along it, letting his fingertips bounce across the wire diamonds. “Finches fly in the fall.”

  His mom made no reply.

  “Mom?”

  Still nothing, and now Winston felt the chill return to his back. He stopped walking.

  “Mom, are you there?”

  Plates clinked. He heard the sizzle of something being flipped over on the grill.

  “I’m coming,” she said far too quietly. “Go to the back yard of the empty house where you jump over the fence. You know the one?”

  How did she know about that house? Had she been following him?

  “Yes, but—”

  “I’ll be there in thirty minutes. Don’t move.”

  “Mom, what are you—”

  “Thirty minutes,” she said with a decisive tone of command Winston couldn’t recall ever hearing before. The line went dead.

  `

  6

  Majestic Motion

  The mouse lay on its side, struggling to breathe. On its lips, a small pink froth of blood bubbled, and its claws twitched in random spasms. The human nose growing out of its back, covered in the mouse’s own skin and white fur, quivered.

  Devlin Bledsoe scanned the clipboard next to the animal’s cage. According to the lab technicians’ notes, this mouse stopped eating yesterday afternoon, less than two days after the blue flush of its skin had faded into a sickly gray. At this morning’s 5:30 AM check, it was no longer walking. If it followed the pattern, it would be dead in the next hour, less than three days after QV injection.

  One more little body given up for a bigger cause.

  He supposed these experiments amounted to torture in their own way. So be it. His family was no stranger to torture. There would always be someone inside the cage and someone on the outside. Bledsoe knew which side he preferred.

  He set the clipboard down and rubbed his eyes. The room’s “daylight-temperature” fluorescent lighting tended to make everything feel flat and unreal. Among the endless ranks of steel shelves, nickel-plated cages, and white tiles, Bledsoe could only smell his facial mask’s chemical staleness. The thick hiss of pressurized air, hour after hour, lulled his senses. Bledsoe forced his knuckles into his temples and took a deep breath.

  Focus.

  There were nineteen more cages in the row, each occupied by a mouse with a human nose protruding from its back like an oversized dorsal fin. Twenty clones, each identical to the others, and they would probably all be dead before the day was out — another month of work gone.

  Even in Area X, they’d found that QV agents only interacted with higher primates, although it could make them sick for up to forty-eight hours after injection. Obviously, the microscopic organisms required a certain genetic profile in their hosts. Just as viruses that affect pigs or cats usually don’t infect people, the QVs that could live symbiotically in humans wouldn’t survive in lower mammals, even if those mammals had been surgically implanted with tissue scaffolds in their backs that were seeded with human cartilage cells.

  Bledsoe understood why his bosses wanted these experiments run. It was important to chase down all of the QVs' implementation possibilities. This had always seemed like a long shot, though, and it wasn’t even central to their main research.

  The quasi-virus fell from the skies into a New Mexico rancher’s field in 1947. Billions of
those tiny alien life forms had lived within another alien life form. Shackled with 1940s technology, Area X teams hadn’t been able to probe the QVs' inner workings. But before the end, they’d discovered the microbe’s ability to turn humans into something slightly different. Better. Superior. Which was why Bledsoe had stolen it for himself.

  Every QV in this lab descended from that first group originally harvested from Bledsoe’s own blood. He’d been living with QVs in his body for seventy-five years — give or take a few decades — but on the outside, he appeared just like any other man in his late thirties.

  He reached for his earpiece. The thing made his ear itch almost constantly, but it was hard to scratch through layers of clean-room gloves, hair net, cap, and body suit. He twisted and jiggled the thing looped to his ear, then settled it back into place and tapped its activation button.

  “Dictation mode,” he said, feeling the cloth mask crinkle over his mouth and cheeks. “QV modification sequence bravo-six seems ineffective. All twenty subjects are exhibiting signs of rejection distress. Death appears likely. We still have several other possible modifications to genetic target strand fourteen that could yield a more positive outcome, but…”

  He paused. This recording would be synchronized from his local server up to the army’s classified network for possible review by Management. They never liked bad news. Nobody did. And if he wanted to keep his funding, he’d better find a positive spin to put on these experiments and not say what was really on his mind.

  “…success on strand fifteen seems less likely. We should assemble a round of mono-variant tests for strand fourteen and aim for an eight-week completion. Also, more exploration into mid-level primates, such as lemurs. End dictation.”

  Management was terrified of primate testing, always saying it was an option for later, but “improved monkeys” were too much of a risk for now. Apparently, they’d watched Planet of the Apes too many times. Or maybe the idea of a human-like monkey hit a little too close to home among the officers and politicians.

  Bledsoe unconsciously drew a puffy sleeve across his clean suit-covered forehead. When he got frustrated at the lack of progress in his labs, Bledsoe always became more aware of the oppressive heat. On the mainland, clean rooms were often kept at a constant 69 degrees, but here on Rota, stuck over a thousand miles off the coast of anywhere in the middle of the stifling Pacific, the native staff found 69 to be downright Arctic. Hence the facilities were kept at 74, and Bledsoe, despite being born and raised a Texan, never stopped sweating. He always wondered if the QVs made him more sensitive to temperature.