My careful planning may have gone to shit, but Brandon isn’t drunk enough by nine am for him not to notice if I’m not at my bench, or at my desk doing research. So I’ve dragged my sorry ass in because turning up, at least, is mandatory. So is doing something that at least looks like work and, probably, if I want to keep this job, producing something that at least looks like results.
Thankfully measuring reaction mixture and adding the DNA into PCR tubes is one of those things where I can use routine. For that I don’t need my brain. In fact, I actively don’t want it. Instead I get into that beautiful flow state where my mind can go elsewhere and my fingers can do the work. Suck up the reaction mixture into the micropipette and pop it into the tube. Paranoia makes me suck it back out of the tube and flow it back in. Logically I know it’ll mix in the thermocycler, but I got into the habit years ago and yeah, I should stop, it adds time to every tube; but if I change that then it’ll interrupt my flow.
Then I’d actually have to think about what I’m doing, and not whatever else I want to use the time for.
Along I go, filling each tube and then repeating the process with DNA. I dump the whole lot into the thermocycler and, lucky me, I’ve got some time for clean up, a coffee, and a misogynistic remark from fucking Damian. There’s always time for a misogynistic remark from Damian, though.
They’re always thick as thieves — ha, I suppose we’re all thieves here — but in this case they just seem so… sad? Isolated, I guess. All they seem to share are their miseries. Well that and their abrogation of responsibility for anything wrong in their lives. It’s no surprise him and Adam are both Jordan fucking Peterson fanboys, and a more thorough introduction to presumed incompetence and sexism would be hard to find.
“The cleaner’s break room is downstairs,” Damian said the first time I walked into the lab. I attempted to set fire to him with my eyes, sadly ineffectively. But he then added to his attempt to climb on my list of fuck head asshats with “Oh, hah, you must be the new lab girl Brandon was talking about. You got a boyfriend?” I may be pretty new to this whole being a girl thing, but I knew the answer to that one. His disappointment when I vigorously indicated that I have was palpable. “Oh well, you’ll get bored of him when you’ve been around me some. Need a proper man in your life. Although,” he paused, as though preparing some great insight into humanity. “You’d be prettier if you smiled. Well, I guess the first thing we should find out is whether you make decent coffee.”
I don’t, as it goes. Generally make shit coffee. Especially for someone like that. Honestly, he should count himself lucky I didn’t chloroform the asshole just to shut him up. Despite the disgust I directed at him, he still didn’t ignite. I think that’s a result of the sexism inherent in our patriarchal society. Also a lack of sufficient gasoline and no handy pack of matches.
The coffee thing has remained a running ‘joke.’
“Since you’re going to the kitchen, you can make me a coffee, babe.” He winks obnoxiously at me as I walk past and, admirably, I don’t stab him.
Adam, the asshole, is sniggering about something in the background. I think he added “Where you belong.” Unfortunately, it was sufficiently under his breath to make it certain. Not that I could do anything about it. It’s not like Itero has an HR department. Well, not a real one. Anyway, I’ve heard the other words out of his mouth and wished I could unhear them, so missing these is not a great hardship.
When I head back I make a point to walk through the lab on the way to my little workspace, lidded cup of coffee in one hand and my (still wrapped) cookie in the other. This place might be fucking lax, it’s not quite eating at your bench crazy. You do have to walk through the lab to get to the workspaces though which is insane. I can’t imagine how much they had to pay off the inspectors to get this place approved. Assuming, that is, that they did.
Back to noodling at this problem, which is at least slightly challenging. Mainly because the obvious way to do it’s been patented and everything we’ve come up with so far really works nowhere near as well. Also because my being awake is fully predicated on consuming enough coffee to revive a fossilized mammoth.
“Right you yeasty little shit,” I mutter as I pull up its sequence again.
“Bitch was raised by wolves, I swear.” Adam’s voice floats in through the AC vent. The one which definitely shouldn’t be shared with the main lab but clearly is.
“Like you’d kick her out of bed.”
“Ha. She wouldn’t get in my bed. I’ve got standards.”
“Oh is that why you’re posting your lunch on kitchen incels?” I can hear Damian’s smug grin from here.
“it’s just a dry spell. Like I said I’ve got standards. Most bitches just don’t meet them. Like, have you seen what she’s wearing today?”
“Yeah, she always looks some homeless freak. Shame really, if she’d adjust her attitude and make an effort she could be quite pretty.”
I try and tune them out and focus on work. Or focus on something other than the words, which really shouldn’t bother me, but absolutely fucking do. Why am I letting what some mansosphere-poisoned asshats think bother me?
Glancing at the door first — I don’t want them realizing they’ve got to me — I check what I’m wearing. And sure, it’s maybe not the best combination? But I wore shit like this in the lab, in college, in school, and it was fi—
“Further distressing developments this morning in Red Dust.” Kylie is one of KSLV’s better anchors, she actually sounds like she belongs on a real cable news network, not this podunk shit. She handles difficulties with their presumably ancient, and certainly fairly unreliable outside broadcast hardware like a pro. I can’t help but wonder if she chose to get stuck in the ass end of Nowheresville, Nevada, whether she got blackballed, or whether she’s some kinda cursed.
“During a press briefing that just concluded, Chief Robberts, together with Detective Jansen, lead investor for both the investigation into the disappearance of Deputy Saint James, and the investigation into the suspicious deaths of at least seven women, informed us that yesterday another body was located at the site Saint James’s abandoned pickup was found. It is unclear whether this is related to the bodies located on the property belonging to Deputy Saint James.
“Detective Jansen stated that they are still searching for the missing deputy and, although hundreds of tips with potential sightings have been recorded, as yet none have progressed to a positive lead.
“Also during the briefing the findings from the final pathologists report regarding the two individuals whose bodies were found in Saint James’s abandoned pick up, and in the Desert Light Motel room previously used by Desert Light Motel receptionist Steven Ray. Both deceased individuals were reportedly intersex, and both appear to have died of multiple organ failure secondary to severe dehydration and malnourishment. These similarities have led some to draw links between the two disappearances, and it seems encouraged individuals to attempt to find more connections between the unidentified victims. Detective Jansen and Chief Robberts both urged members of the public who may know the identity of these individuals to come forward.”
“Chief Robberts, however, shared that some progress has been made in identifying the woman involved in the traffic stop which resulted in Deputy Saint James’s suspension. The image on screen right now is of the woman taken from CCTV at a QuickStop gas station two hours east of Red Dust. If anyone recognizes the woman in this image, they’re urged to contact Woolsey County Sheriff’s office at 1-800-555-9874.
The Toyota Corolla seen here was, it seems, purchased from the junkyard in Red Dust the day after the traffic stop. The owner of the yard, Skye Zane, has so far refused interview requests. In a brief statement she indicated that the vehicle was legally purchased. However, based on the footage from the traffic stop, speculation has arisen that Deputy Saint James deliberately disabled the unknown woman’s vehicle. Perhaps to prevent her escape.“
“Erika,” Brandon calls, his voice managing to carry all the way from his office, through the lab, to the workspace I’ve ensconced myself in. “Get in here.”
He’s sitting in his side office that hangs off the other side of the main lab. Closer to the break room and substantially nicer. His desk’s mostly clear but atop it, there’s a coffee mug steaming, unlabeled bottle sitting next to it.
“What’s this?” He turns his laptop to face me, and I find myself staring at my own picture. Grainy and blurry it may be, but it’s sure as shit recognizable to folks who know me. “They said the police need to talk to you about that cop that disappeared?”
“Yeah, they did. I don’t know why,” I say, simply.
“You bring cops in here I’ll be pissed. Fireable offense. I’m letting you know that now.”
“I won’t” I say emphatically with a certainty I really don’t feel.
He nods, “Okay then. You’d better go call them before one of those guys out there does.”
#
The idiot detective from the local PD has been futzing with the camera for a solid five minutes. Daniel, I think he said his name was. If he weren’t a cop he could be kinda cute. Fluffy hair, just onto the right side of buff. Shame about the personality. Between Daniel’s seeming inability to work a tripod and the news I’ll also get to talk to the FBI as well as this dumbass local detective, my heart rate hasn’t returned to double digits since I put down the phone.
“Thank you for coming in to assist us today.” He mumbles half into his shirt as he performs some kind of dance with the tripod that manages to be somehow impure and yet deeply unerotic. He looks like he’s unsuccessfully trying to pleasure the thing while getting increasingly sweaty and frustrated — it’s not a good look.
Eventually, he seems to have all the legs where he wants them, all of them locked, the camera pointed directly at me and, after a moment of staring at the screen on the back, he flashes a thumbs up. “Sorry about that.” He gestures at everything. “Normally I have someone to help me but Jane’s out today so it’s me and Mac. And Mac’s not our technology guy.”
Mac grumbles slightly before glancing at my lawyer and assembling a more professional face.
My lawyer? Hah. I guess. One quick google search and a phonecall and here I am in an office that I swear was entirely fitted out by Temu and Value Village rejects. Still. She was available, and she’s better than no lawyer.
“Please state your name for the record.”
They offered the option of me providing a statement in my home. Monetarily I imagined the idea of inviting police, without a warrant, into my apartment. Of them trailing cables across the shit new couch, then somehow accidentally opening the closet and managing to peek in, before wandering into the bedroom in search of the bathroom. No, yeah, no. At least I managed not to laugh hysterically at the suggestion, which I think was very polite.
He’s staring at me. Oh right. Question.
“Erika Smith.” I mumble. I guess we get to see how well the new ID holds up. I assume they’re gonna run it — although maybe they already have. Maybe they’re waiting for me to incriminate myself more before grabbing me and dragging me down to jail. Who fucking knows.
“Can you please repeat that a little louder?”
“Um, sure. Sorry. Erika Smith.” I run my nail along the chipped edging of the table. There’s crumbling chipboard lurking underneath, I start dismantling the table one wood fleck at a time.
The voice to my left startles me, “Remember, Erika, you’re here voluntarily. You don’t have to say anything at all. If there’s any questions that give you concern then let just look at me. Although,” she adds gently, I’ll obviously be listening for anything they shouldn’t be asking.” She turns her steady gaze back to Daniel and Mac.
She told me this before I entered the room. Before I called the cops. And now — with more force — she’s reminding me that I do have some power here. Some. Unless of course they run my ID and—
I thought about fleeing, could visualize me throwing a set of stolen plates on the car, then heading back across the states. Driving and driving. Maybe try California? Maybe New Mexico? But how would I hide? The fucking trans’d and dead cop made my existence part of a stupid national story. That’s what tipped me into staying. Into calling. Into sitting in this stupid room.
For an hour, maybe two, I toyed with the idea of just not calling. Waiting for the news cycle to move on. But then there was my nice new face on fucking MSNBC and I figured either Damian or Adam would turn me in the second they saw it.
Maybe that’ll get my face off the news? I have nothing useful or interesting to say. At least, not about Saint James. As for the rest, I guess I just wait and find out if Neuragene turns up and grab me? If I walk in the door and Oaklen’s there screaming at me, some unmarked gray van to bundle me in waiting outside.
Fuck.
My hands twisting over each other in my lap, hidden from the camera, but I need something more. Turns out, the screws holding the chair together are just a little bit sharp. Enough that I can run my thumb across them and feel the raised edges bite. Something physical to concentrate on, to try and pull me back away from my racing heart.
“Okay, in your own words, can you describe what happened immediately before you were pulled over by Deputy Saint James?”
At least the news isn’t focusing on the virus much. It looks like the quarantine’s worked, at least… Mary-Anne hasn’t mentioned anyone else catching it. Knock on wood, no-one should be contagious anymore and they’ll end the quarantine. Mary-Anne said they’re all loners, most of them only made their way into town for the gym or book club. So maybe—
“Ms. Smith, I asked you a question. Would you like me to repeat it?”
Shit.
“Please. I, uh, I’ve found it hard to concentrate since the attack.”
Sarah reached her hand across, places it on mine, gives it a gentle squeeze, gives me a subtle nod. “If this is too soon, Erika, we can reschedule.”
“No— No, it’s okay.”
“Could you please give us your recollection of your interaction with Deputy Saint James? And please, take your time.” Daniel actually sounds sympathetic. Good job whoever trained him.
#
“Thank you for your time, Ms. Smith. To be clear, you’re not under arrest at this time, although if you are leaving the city we’d appreciate it if you could let us know in case we have any further questions.”
“Oh shit, the rash!”
“Sorry?”
“Uh, work problem. Sorry. The answer just came to me.” I say, glancing anxiously at my lawyer who does not, it must be said, look impressed. “I, I’m working on this thing—”
“Did you have any further questions, officer?” Okay, no, now she doesn’t look impressed. Perhaps self-immolation would work? I know it hasn’t worked on anyone else yet…
“No, no. Thank you, Erika” He glances towards the door before standing.
After they pack up and leave she turns to me and says gently, “Never volunteer information they did not specifically ask for. Did your parents not talk to you about the police?”
“Yeah— I just—”
“It’s okay. Just if they come back, if they have any other questions, direct them to me. Wait for me to be there before answering. It doesn’t matter how innocent the question seems. Got it?”
“Uh, yeah?”
“Okay. I’ll send you my invoice. Don’t hesitate to get in touch should you need anything more.”
#
The fucking rash. God damn it.
I’ll make up the day, I decide. Damian and Adam can deal with the shit in the thermocycler. Serves them right, I think as I fire off a text to Brandon and attempt not to sprint back to my car.
My back, barely visible in that motel’s fucking mirror. But even still I could see red dots scattered there. Stupid fucking scarlet marks.
And I know I’ve seen that rash before. Saw it on a couple of the test subjects.
I need to be at home to check something. Right now.
I drive carefully: never more than a few miles an hour above the limit, a full and complete stop at every single stop sign. I cling to the road rules like a liferaft. If I don’t my foot’d bury the pedal in the carpet, and who knows if I’d make it back.
#
Shit, the ones with rashes match with the last few test subjects. The ones whose assay results suggested they were infectious. Mucous membranes, broken skin, even maybe airborne. There’s a note about isolation precautions being intensified. Fuck. It’s buried deep in the free text rounding comments. Discussed with virologist. Orders received.
Maybe he had a cut on his hand. Maybe he had some undiagnosed immunodeficiency…
I’m scrolling through my chaotic notes again, staring at the doodle in the corner. 3D blocks sketched while I was thinking. Stacked cubes making patterns while I gave my brain time to process.
Doodling on the notebook in front of me, I attempt to unfocus and wait for it to come to me.
The sun’s down by the time it comes to me. Eyes burning from the fight of staying awake.
I swear they said it.
I swear they said he...
Fuck.
The KSLV Channel Eight website is not as archaic as some of their equipment but it still takes me a while to find the streaming archive. And even longer to locate the report. Eventually I find the moment that stabbed into my thoughts as Kylie intones patiently on-screen “That complaint was about the deputy using and distributing steroids.”
Yeah, maybe he had some medical condition, or more likely he was just a fucking jackass using steroids to get ripped and in the process fucking his immune system.
Jesus.
The stupid asshole. I mean, I guess that he could have had a wound I didn’t see. But I bet it’s the ’oids.
Then, at his most infectious he went and coughed at and spat on and — probably — had to be dragged out of the bar by a bunch of women.
If he’d just left me alone, he wouldn’t have caught it. Wouldn’t have spread it. On the other hand… if he hadn’t attacked me, and caught it, there’d still be women disappearing and ending up in his personal graveyard.
Fuck.
…
I stare at the notes some more. There’s got to be an explanation for the jump in transmissibility somewhere in here. Even if I was…not tracking well.
But at least I have some kind of an explanation for him…
And, if I’ve managed to write in body fluid transmission then I guess the motel guy — Steven? I guess he didn’t deserve it. Just a regular level asshole as far as I know, not like Saint James. But he’s easier to explain. I did my best to clean up some, but I wasn’t aiming for preventing transmission.
There was that super-spreader norovirus outbreak, years ago. All from some vomit in the hallway of a hotel. I covered that hotel carpet in gack. I hope to fuck Steven broke out the steam cleaner. My heart drops a bit at the idea that someone else maybe stayed in the room. Although — if Steven was sick, maybe not?
Maybe I won’t just kill half the population of the US… or further… with some fuckup.
Oh God.
:::MA: I saw the news. I’m so sorry.
:::ES: I think it’s okay.
Well, the talking to the police bit’s okay… Hopefully.
I’m praying no one from Neuragene puts two and two together, or has one of their fucking AIs put two and two together…
:::ES: They just wanted my version of what happened.
:::ES: Got a fine for the expired plates and not having a travel permit on the car.
:::ES: 🤞 that’s all.
:::MA: Could be worse.
:::MA: That must be such a relief!
:::MA: You doing anything to celebrate?
:::ES: I’m gonna go get a tub of ice cream and some pain killers. I did something to my back moving stuff in the lab.
:::ES: Honestly, I’m feeling a bit wrung out. The last few weeks have been a bit much. Got a sore throat and my back’s killing me and I thought I had stomach flu yesterday.
:::MA: Oh no, sweetheart. You take care of yourself.
:::MA: Maybe you should take tomorrow off.
:::ES: Maybe… I already owe for today though
:::ES: Anyhow, enough about me! How are y’all coping? You must all be going stir crazy.
:::MA: We’re all okay! Bored witless. I borrowed me some art supplies, tried my hand at drawing again. Jeez, I never thought I’d miss the mobile library so much!
:::MA: But I have news!
:::MA: Guess what it is!
:::ES: I might need a bit more to go on.
:::MA: [sent an image]
:::ES: You’re starting a box museum?
:::MA: I’m moving!
:::MA: Soon as this is done. A bunch of us are done with this place.
:::ES: omg! Are you going somewhere with both sun and rain? Maybe even seasons?
:::MA: Ya I’m moving up by Sam.
:::MA: I got a job lined up too!
:::ES: Mary-Anne, that’s amazing. If you need a hand moving, I think I could come back and help now…
:::MA: Oh, you’re sweet. I’m going to pay movers. But you need to come visit the new place.
:::ES: I promise!
:::ES: So are all your girlfriends gonna be near each other when you move?
:::MA: That’s the only bad thing. We’re gonna be scattered all over.
:::MA: Jen’s going to Oregon. Her son’s out that way. I can’t imagine her in the rain.
:::MA: Caroline’s going to Texas. I always said she was crazy.
:::MA: The humidity down there? Yeah, no.
:::MA: And Anna! I have to tell you about Anna…