“Mr. Verne, it’s not—”
“Frankly, I hope this is a joke,” Verne scoffed. “Even if this disease does spread throughout the gay community, won’t it just end once they’re all dead? Just like that, gay cancer will be over. Have you even—”
Gabriel took a step forward. “Stop it. Right there.”
The room went dead silent. Nobody interrupted Rufus Verne. Gabriel clenched his fists. Verne’s face became a tangled knot of wrinkles, and his eyes went corpselike. Gabriel squeezed his wedding ring again. I’ll make you proud, Yvonne.
“First of all,” Gabriel said, “I’d appreciate it if you stopped casually dismissing people’s lives, Mr. Verne. Every life is valuable, and any human life lost to this virus is a failure on our part. People are dying. That’s not something to snicker at.”
“Oh, please,” Foyer said. “Can you—”
“Second,” Gabriel interrupted, “listen to me. The immunodeficiency virus that I’m telling you about has absolutely nothing to do with homosexuality. It’s spread through the contact of bodily fluids. It spreads through blood, and yes, through sexual contact, but if we don’t do something about this now, people will continue to die. Hundreds of people. Thousands.”
Verne glared ahead, his falcon eyes sharpened by bloodlust. The rest of the suit-clad men sat bolt upright with mouse-like expressions. They were all so on edge that it was a wonder they hadn’t toppled over a long time ago.
Gabriel continued. “In 1978, there was a person who rapidly lost weight and died in Kinshasa with swollen lymph nodes and a cytomegalovirus infection. The year after that, a concert violinist in Cologne—”
“A gay concert violinist?” Foyer interjected.
“A violinist contracted Kaposi’s sarcoma. Three months later, his lymph nodes swelled. His body was attacked by one disease after another until the accumulative effect finally killed him. In 1980, a patient at UCLA came down with a yeast infection in his throat—”
“Get to the point!” Gene Yates, a surly character seated beside Rufus Verne, growled.
“My point? It’s happening, gentlemen. People are already dying, and this is only going to spread faster. I can help you, and you can help the world. You can give me additional researchers, funding assistance—”
Verne tapped the glass table. “And who are you, Mr. Schist?”
“Pardon?”
“I had my employees do some research since I’d never heard your name before. Do you know what I found?”
Gabriel’s lip trembled. He reached into his pocket and wrapped his fingers around his cool metal pocket flask filled with cheap whiskey, his hidden escape route that Yvonne didn’t know about, for emergencies. Overcome with guilt, he pulled out his hand and instead squeezed his wedding ring. I won’t drink it, Yvonne. I promised you. He stared at the table of businessmen, who looked like grinning demons.
“Turns out you’re a bit of a renegade.” Verne smiled. “A mad genius, from what I hear. A lot of academic achievements. Not everyone can claim to be an immunologist, a virologist, and an applied mathematician. But I also hear you’re something of a rebel. I hear you’ve never kept a healthcare-related job for more than a year.”
“Well—”
“Yes, it seems you have a long record of getting fired for using company materials for your research. And, Mr. Schist, when it comes to your precious research, you’re a bit obsessed.”
Gabriel stood in the spotlight like an actor taking his last bow. He had to win them over. The dying people on the streets needed this. “Sure. Call me obsessed. I’ve devoted my entire life to stopping this virus.”
Verne chuckled. “That’s a shame. Because as long as I’m around, Mr. Schist, you’re not going to be stopping any virus. Have a nice day.”
Chapter 23:
Wheel
Summer 2018
It was already sunset. Another day had flown by, and Gabriel had made no progress on curing the Black Virus.
He’d figured out how it acted, how it worked, and what it did, but that bizarre sperm-looking creature still confused him to no end. The creature was an extra puzzle piece that didn’t fit anywhere on the map. His uncomfortable conversation with Melanie had planted the idea that he could have imagined it all. But even if that were the case, it wouldn’t explain the concrete evidence that Morris’s sample provided.
He needed a direct sample from the creature, and since there was no way Bright New Day was going to let him crawl around in the basement, he had to wait for the Slug Leader, “Michael,” to appear. The timing of the virus’s emesis stage had so far proved as unpredictable as the virus itself, so catching another victim at the right moment was like playing high-stakes poker.
Bernard’s TV had been on since midnight, and the old truck driver had consistently rung for more snacks and fluids than any one man could possibly consume. Gabriel had spent his day staring into the microscope and waiting for a lightning bolt to hit him. He’d scribbled notes, equations, and formulas all over the walls of his room like an imprisoned madman. He’d studied textbooks and compared the virus to every other disease known to man, but he had drawn no clear conclusions. Every time the Lego blocks almost clicked together, a different-shaped one revealed itself and threw the whole system awry. He had to keep reminding himself that he’d done it before, so he could do it again.
He gazed out at the parking lot and watched the translucent sunlight dissipate into the opaque darkness of nightfall. He decided he needed to take a walk. If he stared into the microscope any longer, he would get too discouraged.
Gabriel stood up, put on his trench coat, and grabbed his cane. He hobbled out to the corridor. Tap. Tap. Tap. As he meandered through North Wing, he peered into the rooms where most of his fellow residents were asleep. He walked past the physical therapy center and considered venturing out to West Wing and seeing if he could find Victor’s room. But Victor clearly savored his privacy, and the man might not react kindly to an unannounced visit. So Gabriel instead traveled to South Wing, which gave him a surprising sense of nostalgia.
Everyone was asleep there, as well. Bob Baker was out like a light, blankets pulled over his head. Mickey Minkovsky shouted down the corridor, but he often did that while asleep.
Edna Foster was the only person he found still awake. Her wheelchair was stuck in someone’s doorway, the left wheel wedged in the frame, and she was rolling back and forth, trying to escape. “Ohhh… this is terrible… the worst ever…” She wore her usual scowl, and her Parkinson’s-ridden body was shaking and twisting from head to toe.
“Hey!” a woman yelled from inside the room. “How stupid are you? Get the hell out of my door.”
Edna continued rolling backward, forward, and backward again. Gabriel hobbled over to her. Her palm was cold and rough and twitched spasmodically, even as she squeezed his hand. She stared up at him, searching his face for something she couldn’t name.
“Ohhh my God.” Her eyes opened wide with recognition. “Sam. It’s you, Sam. Yes, it’s really you. I thought you were dead.”
Sam? “Uh… no. It’s Gabriel. Hi, Edna.”
“It’s so terrible…” She gulped. “So, so terrible. Worse than ever.”
“I know. I know.” Gabriel released her shaking hand, grasped the handles of her wheelchair, and yanked her free from the doorway.
