Some people had scales. Others had swollen lymph nodes. Some had lost entire parts of their bodies to necrosis. Gabriel stopped at the room of Robert Boulanger and watched in silent horror as Robert sneezed out a never-ending mess of black globs, over and over again. Tarry goo ran from his nostrils down to his chin.
“This is horrible,” Gabriel said.
“Indeed,” Victor replied, “and that’s why I’m showing it to you.”
“But I already know full well what the Black Vir—what the Schistlings are capable of.”
“But you needed to see, first hand, why helping these people is so important. I know that you saw this before, but I want to ensure that you don’t forget.”
Gabriel looked down, feeling the mass of his life’s work blow up within him like a tumor. All of his memories were poisoned. “It’s my fault. All of this.”
“Don’t think of it that way.”
“But it’s true. I’m the one who caused this whole disaster. My research. My vaccine. My fault.”
“Stop pitying yourself. I know that you’re a good man, a man of conscience. So instead of looking back, look forward. And tell me, what do you plan to do about it?”
What Gabriel wanted to do was to save the nursing home, to save the entire world—just as he once had, long ago. But he hadn’t really saved the world; he’d poisoned it. His vaccine had formed the DNA of a ghastly creature that was slaughtering his fellow human beings. If he continued to interfere, then the consequences might be even worse next time. “I’ll go on studying it,” he whispered. “That’s the least I can do to make up for this disgusting mutation that I’ve created. But I’ve given up hope on actually beating it. This would be beyond my scope even if I was healthy, and as it is, I’m a mess.”
“No. You can’t afford to give up.”
“Yes. I give up. At this point, the only thing I want… I just… I don’t know.” Gabriel leaned on his cane for support. “I want to die.” He shook his head. “I know what you’re thinking. I know it’s pathetic, but it’s what I want. That’s probably why I’ve been in such a daze, because I don’t have a purpose anymore. I can’t help these people.”
“You’re a better man than you think you are.”
“Not really. And at this point, don’t I deserve one final reward? An easy death, that’s all I ask. A quick one and then—bang, over! Dead.”
“Don’t be a damned fool. You once told your closest friend that you’d never give up.”
“Maybe. But somewhere in the back of my rotting throat, I can already taste death. The dust, the dryness, it’s a good taste.”
Victor’s sharp-angled face dropped to become a saggy experiment in contours. He spoke with a voice that could cut glass. “Fine.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t apologize to me. Apologize to them.”
“That’s not fair. Don’t make me feel any worse about this than I already do.”
“We have nothing to discuss. Say hello to the slugs for me.” Victor Calaca spun around, his black coat whipping behind him like a vampire’s cape, and started walking away.
Gabriel felt sick with guilt. “Wait! I’m sorry!”
Victor continued without pausing.
“Wait! You know the slugs? What can you tell me about them?”
Victor stopped, turned, and stared pointedly into Gabriel’s eyes. Without a word, he whipped back around as if he had more pressing matters to attend to and disappeared around the corner. After several moments of terrified diffidence, Gabriel hobbled after the man.
But Calaca was nowhere to be found.
Chapter 33:
Footnote
July 1985
Gabriel parked outside Father Gareth’s modest apartment and climbed out of the car. He collapsed on the sidewalk and puked his guts out. Whiskey-tasting vomit dripped from his bottom lip and nostrils. It had been a month since Yvonne had told him about the baby, and since then, they’d spent every night fighting. His stomach burned as if the devil were piercing his insides with a searing pitchfork.
He stood up, leaning on his car for support. His knees were badly scraped from the fall on the concrete, and his throat was raw. His reflection in the side mirror was that of a pale, redheaded corpse with greasy skin and dark circles under his bloodshot eyes.
“Well hi, Gabriel,” he whispered. “You look like hell.”
He was still unsteady on his feet, but the nausea had mostly passed. He craved a cigarette but didn’t light up because he’d kept Gareth waiting long enough already. He hadn’t even seen the priest in over six months. Whenever he drank in front of Gareth, the disappointment in the old man’s eyes was overwhelming, so he just stayed away. He’d figured there would always be more time and he’d visit when things got better, but over the phone, Gareth had sounded like a man choking on his insides.
Gabriel rang the doorbell. After a few minutes with no answer, he tried the handle. It was unlocked, as usual, possibly one of the only unlocked doors in Los Angeles. He stepped into the dark foyer. “Hello?”
“Gabriel, my boy, is that you?”
Gabriel froze. The voice was certainly Gareth’s, but at the same time, it wasn’t. The priest’s lively voice had been replaced by that of an old man with one foot in a coffin.
No classical music was playing, and the television was off. The only sounds were a beeping noise emanating from the bedroom and the rasp of Gareth’s breathing.
Gabriel flipped on the lights and walked down the hallway. The closer he got to the bedroom, the louder the harsh frog-breathing became. Gabriel stopped outside the closed door. “Gareth?”
“Yes, Gabriel. Come in here, kiddo.”
Gabriel suddenly wished he’d downed a few more shots. Maybe then he would’ve been ready for what lay beyond that door. He should have told Yvonne that he was coming. She loved Gareth, and she would’ve been there in a heartbeat if she knew how sick the old man was. If she were there, she could’ve supported him. As it was, he instead hovered outside the door, legs twitching with the desire to run away.
Father Gareth’s trench coat and fedora were hanging on two hooks beside the door. Gabriel stroked the trench coat. For the first time, he noticed that a cross had been sewn on the inside of each sleeve. Don’t worry. He’ll wear it again. Old Gareth is fine. Just a little sick, that’s all.
Gabriel took in a deep breath and opened the door. Gareth was wrapped in a cocoon of blankets atop a twin bed. The priest had always been an exceptionally tall man, but his body looked as shrunken as an Egyptian mummy. An aged hardcover edition of Dostoyevsky’s The Idiot lay on the nightstand.
“Sorry to stay in bed this way,” Gareth said. He paused often between words to take in a breath. “It’s just harder to get up these days.”
“I understand,” Gabriel whispered.
“It’s wonderful to see you, Gabriel. Thank you for coming.”
A bulky oxygen concentrator stood beside the bed, and a hose snaked from it to the nasal cannula plugged into Gareth’s nostrils. The lymph nodes in his neck were swollen and discolored, and his once-luxurious beard was ratty and yellowed. Thin blue lines created an intricate latticework of veins across his papery skin. His knuckles and joints were a dark, purplish color, and his lips were a bruised color. In healthcare, that effect was referred to as modeling. And once modeling started, it meant only one thing, which Gabriel was absolutely unwilling to accept.
“How did this happen to you?” Gabriel asked.
“Old age?” Gareth chucked. “I guess the lymph nodes have been swollen for a while. Ever since I had that blood transfusion, some time ago.”
Gabriel wanted to punch himself. He should’ve been there. He should have warned Gareth. Gabriel pushed aside a stack of books and knelt beside the bed. “You can go to the hospital. You can—”
