It was a deceptively beautiful day, considering the horror that would follow. The sun shone bright in a double crystal sky (crystal blue and crystal clear). The temperature and humidity hung in that perfect zone, which called all but the most invalid out of their homes to enjoy the day.
It was the early summer of 1975, in the small Brazilian village of Ponta Claros; although, calling it a village was giving it too much credit. It consisted of 4 paved roads, about 6 (depending on how generous you are with the word "road") dirt roads, a gas station (which was also the village garage), 2 small shops, and a bunch of ramshackle houses built nearly side by side. Technically, the village didn't even exist. It was deemed far too small to be put on any official map. Like most things not officially recognized, it didn't change the fact it was still there.
Originally founded by runaway slaves, Ponta Carlos sat right on the edge of the Amazon. It was the last vestige of civilization before being consumed by the jungle. The main population of the town consisted of 4 families, 2 of which could trace their ancestry all the way back to the founding. The beliefs of the town were a mixture of Catholism and Spanish, African, and indigenous folklore. Prayers to Jesus and the Virgin Mary were often intermixed with those of various ancestors, spirits, and the names of gods long since forgotten. It was a place Afonso and his cousin Eduardo desperately wanted to escape.
Afonso Claros was 23, smart, and bored. He had lived his whole life in Ponta Claros and hated every minute of it. He hated the poverty, the small-minded superstitions, the complete absence of any opportunities; he hated all of it. To him, Ponta Claros wasn't a place to live, but to survive and flee as soon as you could. Unfortunately, no one ever made enough money to flee.
Eduardo Cardoso was 4 years younger than his cousin. A tall, lanky boy, his arms and legs were disproportionately long for his body. He spoke with a high, nasally voice, which led to others calling him "a menina que chora" or "the wailing girl". It was for this reason that the only person he ever made any attempt to talk to was Afonso. Out of everybody else, Afonso was the only one who never teased him - much.
Without any legitimate ways to make money, the boys had taken to looking for antiquities to sell on the black market. They never found much and lacked the proper connections to make any real money, but they found enough to keep them looking for the time being (plus there was nothing else to do). What they were doing was illegal, but they were too small to arrest and too poor to shake down. Every cent they made, they hid in a jar, hoping one day it would be enough to get out of here.
"I read in the newspaper the United States was on the decline and Brazil was poised to become the new powerhouse in the hemisphere," Eduardo said as he and Afonso made their way through the bush, marking the occasional tree so they could trace their way back. Since Afonso was the only person he talked to, he always tried to talk as much as possible when he was around him.
Afonso snorted in dismissal. "They say that about Brazil every five to ten years. 'Brazil is on the rise', we haven't rose for shit! Our corrupt politicians and the greedy, rich businessmen who control them will never allow that to happen. You watch! They'll be writing that same shit forty years from now." Afonso had no hope for his village or his country as a whole. Eduardo thought they were only trying to move out of the village, but Afonso wanted out of the whole damn country. For some reason, he always thought Jamaica would be a nice place to live. He didn't know why. It could be just because he was a Bob Marley fan. It was as good enough reason as any he supposed.
The boys searched most of the day and found nothing. A few times, Eduardo would ask if they could go back, but Afonso always said they should keep looking. It was at the time of day when the sun began its long bow into the horizon to give the sky to the night, when they came to the ruins. A crumbling stone wall about a meter and a half high, 50 meters long, and 25 meters wide, sat in an open field where nothing grew. Not a tree or a flower or blade of grass could be seen within the wall. The earth was black and barren. At the corner of the left-hand and far wall was cyclopean tower, roughly 16 meters in height with no windows or even a door. In fact, from their vantage point, there was no obvious way in at all.
"I don't like it here," Eduardo said as he crouched behind Afonso, despite being 30cm taller.
"Why? It's just some ruins. Maybe an Aztec prison or a communal garden? I don't know, and I don't really care. I guarantee you that there's some valuable shit in that tower there." Afonso pointed to the tower with his left hand.
"No. We should go back. If this Aztec, why hasn't anything grown back yet? This is what? - hundreds, thousands of years old? Something should be growing here."
When Eduardo stopped talking, he noticed something else, something even more disturbing. "There's no noises here either. Listen! I don't hear anything. No birds, no insects, I can't even hear the wind going through the trees! This is bad, Afonso, I'm telling you, real bad."
"BAH! You sound like one of those old grandmothers back in town." Afonso's voice was halfway between teasing and irritated. He harbored no superstitious or religious sympathies. To see a normal, grown(ish) man cower out of superstitious belief made him angry and reinforced his idea that the other villagers would be nothing more than a bunch of ass-backwards hicks.
Afonso turned around and grabbed Eduardo by his upper arms. "Go back if you have to, but anything I find here is all mine! Whatever money I make, that's mine as well. So if I get enough for me to bail this shit stain of a village, then I'm going, and you can die here by yourself."
"No! I'll go. I'll go," Eduardo said, raising his hands in defeat. More than any potential ghoul or demon he might face, the thought of being left behind without his only friend was what truly scared him.
Afonso nodded while looking sternly at Eduardo. He patted his cousin's arm, turned around, ran at the wall, planted his palms on top, and jumped over; landing in a celebration pose worthy of an Olympic gymnast. Eduardo merely stepped over the wall with no fanfare about him.
Inside the wall, even Afonso was beginning to feel strange. The air felt heavy and sticky, almost as though they were underwater. The hairs all over his body began to stand up, his brain felt foggy, and he had trouble concentrating. It was undeniable that something was vastly different here than outside.
"I don't like this. I feel weird. We need to go," Eduardo said. He spoke way too slow, far beyond sounding natural. His voice had also dropped, too. The closest comparison he could make was a record being played at half the speed it was meant to.
Afonso shook his head angrily. "No! Not until we find something!" He turned around and motioned for Eduardo to follow him. Reluctantly, Eduardo forced himself forward.
The two stumbled their way forward towards the tower, looking like a couple of drunks making their way home on a Saturday night. Whatever fear or trepidation they might have had was displaced by the need to move. Every brain cell had to be called forth just for the simple task of putting on foot in front of the other. Everything around them began to ripple, giving reality the appearance of one of those pictures that changed depending on what angle you held it. The air became thicker, gravity heavier. Space stretched out before them; making the tower look farther away than when they started. They tried to speak, but their mouths refused to obey their minds. Just as they thought they would go mad, they suddenly found themselves at the tower.
"We gotta," a panicked Eduardo said, shaking Afonso.
Afonso pushed Eduardo to the ground. He stood over him, shouting, "I ain't leaving until I get something! Mother fucker want ta act like a little bitch! Fine! I told you you can bug the fuck out any time, mother fucker, but I'm gonna get my shit!"
Eduardo could only look up at his cousin in disbelief. "Man, you felt that shit, right? This ain't natural cuz. This is some jungle devil shit! We shouldn't be here! We need ta go!" He slowly got up and stared desperately at Afonso who just glared back at him.
"I told you, I'm not living in that goddamn shit hole any longer than I have to," Afonso said, pointing in the direction of the village. "Do what you gotta do and I'ma gonna do what I need to do. Go or stay, but shut the fuck up either way!" Afonso turned and started feeling his way around the tower to see if he could find a way inside.
Eduardo wanted to run, screaming, as fast and as far away as he could. Everything in him was screaming this place was cursed and nothing good would come of being here. He couldn't leave his cousin though. Not only was he family, he was his best and only friend. Against all his reason and better judgment, he decided to stay and started to help Afonso find a way in.
****************************************************
"Man, we've done been around this bitch four, five times already and haven't found shit! Can we finally go back now?" Eduardo pleaded as he started his next revolution around the tower.
"There's got ta be a way into this mother fucker," Afonso said, although it was unclear if he was talking to Eduardo or himself. He stopped, sighed, and rubbed the bridge of his nose. "Nah man, shit, you're right," he said finally, fully exhausted from looking for a way in. "Let's get out this bitch," he said in a voice of complete loss and disappointment.
He slapped the the tower as he was about to walk away and suddenly heard a the sound of a heavy stone grinding against another. The section of the tower directly in front of him pulled back and slid to the right side, behind the rest of the wall. Afonso began to laugh triumphantly.
"HA! I told you Cuz! Today is our lucky day!"
Eduardo just stared in terror at the abyssal blackness that had revealed itself to them. "Nah man, I'm out," he said as he stepped back with his hands held up as though he were surrendering to some unseen force. "Do what you gotta do Bro, but I'm out. That's some gateway to Hell type shit. I'd follow you damn near anywhere, but not there. Peace." He turned around, stepped over the wall, and started to make his way back.
"PUSSY! FAGGOT! FAGGOT ASS PUSSY!" Afonso screamed at Eduardo as he left. "I'M GONNA GET MINE MOTHER FUCKER! YOU BEST BELIEVE THAT! I'M GONNA GO OFF AND BE RICH IN JAMAICA AND YOU CAN FUCKING ROT HERE, THINKING ABOUT HOW MUCH OF A PUSSY ASS FAGGOT YOU ARE!" None of his berating caused Eduardo to stop, let alone turn back. He spat on the ground, cursed one last time, and entered the tower.
The first thing Afonso noticed when he went in wasn't any physical sensation like a smell or the temperature, but a feeling of intense loneliness. It was pure, absolute. He felt as if the entire universe had just blinked out of existence and only he was left. So complete was this feeling, he dared not look behind him for fear of seeing nothing but infinite blackness behind him.
This ain't right, he thought to himself. The light from the outside should be shinning in here. Why is it so goddamn dark in here still? I should be seeing something! Right? Oh shit! What if everything really is gone? What if Eddy was right, and this is a gateway to Hell? Oh shit! Oh fuck! I should have listened! Fuck! Why didn't I fucking listen. God! God, please forgive me! Jesus, please help me! Hail Mary, full of grace; the Lord is with thee. Shit! Fuck! How the rest of that go? Shit! I gotta get out of here!
Just as he was about to turn around and run, the interior became llilluminated enough enough for him to see. All over the walls were strange markings he had never seen before. They appeared to be a strange combination of hieroglyphic and written language, but it was from no civilization he had ever heard of. This was something brand new, something never discovered before. The archeologists would have a field day here. He could become rich and famous just on this alone.
At the center of the room was a stone pillar about a meter tall. It had more of the strange markings carved and/or painted all around it. On top was a plane, metal box. It looked anachronistic compared to everything else. This was a modern, metal box in the midst of this ancient structure. It was almost blasphemous for it to be here.
Afonso cautiously made his way to the box, worried about any possible booby-traps. Gently, he touched the box, running his thumbs along the seam where the lid met the body. There was no obvious locking mechanism, so he decided to open it. As he opened the box, he saw a glowing blue light coming from it. He became giddy with the idea that the box was filled with sapphires, and it was them that was causing the glow. As he looked inside, he saw a perfect blue light. It swirled and bubbled, forming vortexes, spiraling whirlpools of energy. It popped and crackled. It was like looking into the infinite forever. Afonso knew that this was what he was meant to discover, destined to discover, and bring back to his village.
He closed the lid, turned around, and walked out. Blood poured from his eyes as he smiled insanely. His entire life now was about one thing and one thing only ‐ getting this box back to Ponta Claros. So fixated was he on his mission, he never noticed the ruins behind him collapse into dust.
Matilde was finishing up with a patient. He was a young man, somewhere between 16 and 18. Records around here were spotty, leaving people's ages in a range, as opposed to a definite number. He, like a lot of the men, frequented the local house of ill repute without proper protection and had suddenly found it to be extremely painful whenever he urinated. She had given him the usual shot and prescription, along with a pack of condoms she knew he'd never use. Men loved to make babies they'd never care for and were willing to suffer any STD to accomplish it. Who knows? Maybe this kid was young enough to learn from his mistake.
Matilde laughed. A man of any age who could learn from their mistakes? Nah, she'd sooner believe in aliens in flying saucers before she'd believe that. Women rarely learned from their mistakes. Men never did.
The kid left, and Matilde started cleaning the examination room, getting it ready for the next patient, when a tall, blonde man walked in. While such men weren't unheard of in Brazil, they were a rarity. Like the Spanish, Portuguese men might have been bloodthirsty conquistadors and slave owners, but they were also exceptionally horny. Far more than the English or French. In the United States and Canada, race was fairly well-defined and rigidly policed. In Latin America, race was a bit more amorphous. While it was true, the lighter the skin, the further you could go; it didn't change the fact that everyone was a mixture of European, African, and indigenous.
She stared at him. He had on a well trimmed, white suit, sunglasses, and Italian loafers. In his left hand, he carried a manilla fokder. She thought he looked like some sleazy salesman or politician, and was about to tell him to get out, when he held his hand up and said, "I was told you speak English. Is this true?" His voice was deep, and his tone was straight to the point. He was undeniably American.
"Yes. I went to Harvard," she answered in a clipped, flat tone. "So who are you? FBI, CIA? And what do you want with me?"
"Neither. I am Dr. Daniel Peterson. I'm here on humanitarian grounds." He had the cool, slick smile of a man with too much confidence. In other words, he had a smile like 90% of all men.
"Let me guess; one of those Christian charities that send nice white people into the jungle to teach the savages how to live?" Her tone was unapologetically dismissive.
She had seen people like that her whole life. Rich, white folks who had no interest in the people they were dealing with. Often, looking down on them as an inferior species. They were rude, patronizing, and in the end, did very little except dig a useless well or build a shitty structure of some sorts: a house, a barn, a school, but usually, a church; that usually fell down within a year after they had left. People like that came to places like this to puff up their own ego and earn celestial bonus points in case there was an afterlife.
Peterson removed his sunglasses and put them in his left breast pocket. "I assure you, I'm not. One, I'm an atheist. Two, before that, I was Jewish. I guess, technically, I still am by birth. My mother is Jewish. That's neither here nor there, though. And, third, I was called down here by the Hospital Santa Madre."
Matilde gave Peterson a confused look. "Santa Madre? That's one of the best hospitals in the region. Why would they call an American in?"
"Maybe I should tell you what my specialty is? Radiation poisoning. About three weeks ago, a little girl was admitted to the hospital with wounds the like no one had ever seen before. She kept talking about 'the blue light' and how it called to her. It took a few days, but they eventually learned she was suffering from accute radiation poisoning. A former classmate of mine was one of her doctors, so he contacted me."
Matilde's confusion gave way to curiosity. "Any idea on how she was infected?"
"No. The thing is, it wasn't her family that had brought her in. A good Samaritan found her lying alongside the road and brought her in."
"How are they doing? Any signs of poisoning on them?" Matilda asked with growing concern and sense of urgency.
"He's dead. When the police went to his apartment to ask him questions, they found him sitting in a chair, his throat slit open, and his eyes were gouged out. All wounds were determined to be self-inflicted. The only thing they found was a note saying the voices won't stop."
Matilda rolled her eyes and shrugged. "That either means the man killed himself, or the police were paid off to cover up his murder. Both are likely around here."
Peterson nodded. "That's a problem many departments back home have as well. I suppose police corruption is a universal trait."
"You still haven't said what that has to do with me."
"My colleague said you were one of the best experts on radiation poisoning and sickness he'd ever met. He recommended that I look you up."
"Really? Why didn't your colleague ask me himself? Why call you, all the way in America, only to have you call me? Sounds a little, how do say, ass-backwards."
"Because I'm the only one who can. As the expert, I can build my team with whomever I want. As an employee of the hospital, he can't bring you in because of the ban."
"That ban is bullshit!" Matilde spat and cursed.
"I agree."
Matilde was hired at the hospital to investigate a sudden and inexplicable rise in radiation sickness amongst their patients. Matilde determined it was due to a faulty radiation machine that the hospital had just purchased for their cancer ward. The head of the hospital wasn't too thrilled to hear that their new, extremely expensive machine wasn't working. Instead of having it fixed, he fired her. She then went to the press with her findings, which caused the president to get rid of the machine, but it also led to her being permanently banned from the hospital. Not only that, but no other hospital would hire her either, so she started her own family practice.
Matilde looked Peterson up and down, trying to get a read on him. "I don't know if I can trust you, and I definitely know I can't trust the hospital administration," she said bluntly.
Peterson nodded. "I understand. Trust must be earned." He held out the folder he had been holding. "Hopefully, this helps."
Matilde took the folder and opened it. Inside were pictures of the girl. Or, as would be more accurate to say, the thing that used to be a girl. Her skin looked like it had carbonized. Thick, black scales covered the parts of her body that weren't broke open and oozing what looked to be blood and pus. The face was blistered and peeling. Only the eyes looked human. They were sad and full of anguish.
"Santa mãe de Deus!" Matilde gasped in horror. In all her studies, her practice, she had never seen anything like this before.
"Those were taken two days ago, shortly after I got here. I've seen the photos of the victims of Hiroshima and Nagasaki. None of them looked as bad as this. As one doctor to another, will you help me?" He said "me" and not "her" because it was clear to both of them she was beyond help. This wasn't for her, but whatever did this to her was still out there and could infect someone else.
She handed back the folder, her hand, shaking. "Let me cancel all my appointments," she said in a hushed, broken voice.
"I will be waiting outside, in the limo. Oh, and I think it goes without saying, you can't tell anyone about this. The government wants this all kept under wraps for now."
"Brazilian or American?" Matilde asked with some agitation.
"Brazilian," Peterson said as he put his sunglasses back on. "For now." He then smiled and left.
The limo would have been luxurious ten years prior, but now it felt old and grimey. A bit like watching an athlete who was a decade past their prime, still competing. They might be good, great even, but it was impossible to remove the air of sadness and desperation from them. So, while this was still a better car than she had ever been in, it left her feeling uneasy.
Peterson, who sat across from her, appeared indifferent to the outdatedness of the ride. He sat reclined and relaxed; a pleasant smile never leaving his face. He looked a good fifteen years older than she. She suspected that glorious, blonde hair of his would be turning white soon enough. That said, he was an attractive man. It was his quiet confidence that was the trademark of most American men, which tipped his looks from slightly better than average to very pleasant on the eye.
"Anything you want to talk about," he asked in his deep, calm voice, having noticed that she was looking him over.
"No," she answered in a sharp, clipped tone. "Nothing personal, at least. Unless it applies to the case."
"Fair. I rather detest people who feel the need to discuss their entire life's history upon first meeting."
"Same," she replied flatly. "I assume your credentials are good if you were called in from the States."
"Very. You'll get a full dossier on all the members of the team." He turned to look out the window to judge how much longer they had until they reached Santa Madre. When he was sure the time was sufficient, he turned back to Matilde and asked, "What are your initial impressions of the case?"
"I try not to have any. Forming any hypothesis before examining the data can create unintentional blinders that cause you to go down dead-end roads. What about you? You've been working on it it for a while. You've seen the data. You have any theories about what is going on?"
Peterson shook his head, his smile widening. "I never discuss my ideas with a colleague until they've had a chance to look over all the information. Like you, I don't want to unintentionally put 'blinders' on someone before they've had the chance to formulate their own opinion."
"Smart," she simply replied.
"Not to sound condescending, but your English is excellent. Most native speakers don't speak as well as you do."
"Of course. No native speaker speaks the proper form of their language. Do you think anyone here speaks proper Portuguese? Only foreigners speak the proper version of a language. It also helped that I went to a stuck-up, Ivy League university. It forced me to speak at a higher level."
Peterson didn't say anything. He just turned his head and looked out the window. Matilde figured he was testing her out; seeing where her pressure points were, and where she might break. That was ok. She was doing the same thing to him. Her mother had taught her three things - don't trust men, don't trust those with power, and don't trust Americans. Peterson was all three. The rest of the trip (which was, mercifully, not that long) was spent in silence.
When the limo pulled up to the front of the hospital, Matilde audibly groaned with disappointment as she saw Dr. Miguel Batista waiting for them. Miguel had been one of her biggest supporters and friends, but when she was being kicked out of the hospital, he said nothing in her defense. It was one of the worst betrayals she had ever experienced.
"Your colleague, I assume," she asked bitterly.
"Now you know why I didn't mention his name," he said with a big, mischievous smile. He opened his door and got out.
"I have her," he said triumphantly, opening his arms wide for Miguel, and the two hugged.
So he knows, she thought to herself, watching them from the limo. At least he knows Miguel's version. I wonder what he told him? It shouldn't matter. Not on a case like this. Still, humans are such emotional, petty creatures. Oh well, hopefully, I can keep my head out of my ass so it won't matter if they have their heads stuck up their own.
She stepped out of the limo and went straight up to Miguel. "You're bringing me on doesn't atone for you stabbing me in the back," she said bluntly in Portuguese.
"I'm not doing this for forgiveness. You are the best person for the job," he answered back, showing no shame or contrition.
Just like every other man. You betray, you hurt, and it matters nothing to you. Damn, I wish I was a lesbian. I'd still have to put up with male bullshit, but at least I wouldn't feel compelled to bring one of you home.
"Fine. Take me to the patient. Just know, I am going to stab you whenever I have the chance." She then turned to Peterson and, in English, said, "Lead on."
As they walked to the room where the girl was being kept, Miguel explained a little about the case. "She was brought in about three weeks ago. A man found her lying alongside the road. Daniel probably already filled you in on that part."
"Yes," Matilde replied in an obnoxiously clipped tone that said to get on with it.
"Right. Well, when she was first brought in, she was covered in a jelly like substance; sort of like Vaseline but thinner. Her skin was raw and red. Everyone assumed that she was suffering from some form of chemical poisoning."
"Was she dressed?" Matilde asked.
"What?" Miguel asked back, not understanding her question.
"Was she wearing clothes, or was she nude? Simple enough question. Was she nude, were there signs of sexual trauma? Bruising to the genitals or breast area?"
"I fail to see what that has to do with anything," Miguel replied, annoyed that Matilde was asking what he considered to be irrelevant questions.
"When the victim is female, it always matters. It matters a fucking lot. God! You men are so stupid!"
Miguel gritted his teeth, but decided it wasn't in anyone's best interest to argue. "No, there were no signs of rape or abuse. But, yes, she did arrive completely unclothed. We tried to talk to her, ask her what happened and where her family was, but all she would say was how beautiful the blue light was.
"We took her back and tried to wash the gelatinous material off her, but we realized quickly that the material was her skin. We were literally wiping her skin away. That's when the smell came. She was emitting an oder that I can't even describe. Imagine a cross between rotting flesh, feces, vomit, and, oddly enough, ginger. Everyone in the room with her began to vomit and pass out. Some even started bleeding from their eyes, nose, and ears. The nurses and doctor who were closest to her all wound up dying a week later."
"You survived," Matilde said with obvious disappointment.
"I wasn't one of the initial people who worked on her. I was brought in the next day, when it was determined that anyone going in had to wear a full hazmat suit. Even so, you could still smell it.
"Anyway, the first round of tests came back and showed that her condition wasn't chemical, viral, bacterialogical, or fungal in nature but radiological. She had accute radiation poisoning. As soon as I saw that, I called Daniel."
Peterson nodded. "I came down as quickly as I could. He went over the case with me, explaining it much as he did with you. Once I started my own examination, I understood that this was like nothing I had ever seen before; either in the literature or in person. We discussed having her transfered to the States, but we both agreed that that wouldn't be the best strategy for now. Given relations between the US and USSR, bringing in a person with this degree of radiation poisoning, might set off alarm bells we don't want rung. I know how Uncle Sam works, and it's not pretty."
Matilde looked from one man to another in disgust. "We have a girl with severe radiation poisoning, and you are keeping it underwraps? Really? Have either of you contacted the NNSA or the IAEA yet? Or are you worried about them as well? By the way, when does James Bond show up?"
Peterson glared at her. "Don't mock. I've worked on certain 'black projects' before. I've seen what my government will do to keep its secrets. I also know what private industry will do as well."
"The Brazilian government has been notified," Miguel butted in before Peterson and Matilda got into a real fight. "What they've done with that information is on them."
"So why me? If you got Secet Agent Man here; why bring me on?"
Peterson and Miguel exchanged worried looks. There was a reason for her being here; they just didn't want to say. Not now, at least. She was annoyed, no, angry at the whole secrecy thing, but pushing against it now would be a waste of time, and might even get her thrown off the case. She decided it was best to hold back for now (only for now).
They got to a set of double doors with a chain and lock around them and two armed guards standing on either side. Miguel and Peterson showed them their badges and explained who Matilde was. The one guard called the head of the hospital to confirm that Matilde was supposed to be there. When he got the confirmation, he nodded to the other guard, who unlocked the doors and let them in. On the other side of the doors, to the right, was a room filled with hazmat suits.
"We need to suit up now. No exceptions," Miguel said.
"I didn't plan on refusing," Matilde snapped back.
They put on their suits and walked down a maze of hallways until they got to the room where the patient was being kept. It was surrounded by windows so everyone could look in. There was one way in which was manned by two soldiers with machine guns. In the center of the observation room was a giant, black mass that looked like a charred piece of timber, except it was breathing and dripping blood and pus onto the floor.
"Jesus!" Matilde gasped in shock. The pictures were bad enough, but seeing it in person was far worse.
Peterson said, "If Jesus is responsible for this, he deserved to be crucified."
"Can I go in?" She asked, wanting to touch the patient, check out every square centimeter of her.
"Not yet," Miguel explained. "You need final clearance for that. You won't get that until you go over all our notes and findings so far."
"Then give them to me! Right now," Matilde demanded.
"We have the briefing room all set up for you. If you'll follow me," Miguel said.
Matilde started following him, looking back once to see the thing that once was human.
Matilde sat an oblong, faux wood, conference table looking over all the reports and notes thus far. The room they were in was as bland and generic as they come. Cream colored walls, a complete lack of pictures on the wall, only enough furniture to accomplish the job for which it was being used for, and a single white board at the front. It was a space designed to remove all distractions. In a strange way, it had the opposite effect. Its lack of anything approaching a personality drew your attention more to it; giving most people a sense of isolation and emptiness.
Except in this instance. Matilde was drawn to the reports, studying every word, comma, and period. The numbers of the various levels; burning themselves into her brain. For her, there was nothing else, no outside world beyond these notes. Peterson and Miguel watched her with interest; noting every change, every twitch of her facial expression; trying to scrine any sort of hint as to what she was thinking. Once she had gotten through them all, she placed the folders on the table and looked, mouth agape, between the two.
"This is like no radiation I've ever seen before," she said, still trying to get what she had just read. "Radiation works by damaging and breaking down the cells in the body. The skin blisters, the internal organs start to liquidfy, blood vessels start to break open; all because the energy from the radiation stops the cells, the DNA from functioning properly."
She picked up a folder and slapped it. "This, this is something else. From everything I read, it looks like the DNA isn't damaged but being rewritten. Almost like she is being transformed into something else. Yes, radiation can cause tumors to grow, but these aren't tumors."
Peterson leaned forward, folding his arms on the table. "That was my hypothesis as well. Honestly, I wish we had a way to map and read DNA to know for sure."
"Never happen," Miguel interjected while shaking his head. "DNA is far too complex. It would take every super computer in the world, non-stop, a million years to map out DNA. Maybe someday, but not in our lifetimes."
He then stared into her eyes, a smile on his lips that Matilde couldn't figure out if it was mocking or not. "Notice anything else? Any similarities between this and any other cases you've worked on?"
Matilde grew cross and scrunched up her face. "What are you talking about? I've never seen anything like this before!" She didn't know what he was trying to get at, but she couldn't stand people not coming out and saying exactly what they meant.
Miguel kept smiling and nodded to the folders again but didn't say anything. Matilde, more annoyed now than ever, decided she would take another look. She started going through all the reports again, looking for anything that was similar to another case she had worked - oh shit! She finally saw. She was about to say it out loud when Miguel shook his head. He then put his hand up to his ear like he was trying to hear something. Matilde understood then. They were being listened to.
She nodded, sat the folder back down, and said, "Sorry, no. I didn't see anything."
"Too bad," Miguel replied, sounding much more natural than she had. "I know we parted in bad company. Given we will be working together, I'd like to try and patch over things as best we can. Would you be interested in getting together later, perhaps my place, and just talk?"
"Yeah, I would like that." Even though she tried to sound normal, she couldn't help but feel she was being blatantly false. She wasn't an actress, after all.
"Any other questions, Dr. Alves?" Peterson asked in the most natural voice of all. Obviously, he had the most practice in lying out of all three of them. Something Matilda found very dangerous.
"No," she shook her head. "May I go in the patient's room now?"
"I don't see why not," Miguel said.
**************************************************
The three of them stood outside the room where the girl was being kept while Miguel went over things. "The one thing you'll notice when we enter will be the smell. Despite these suits being completely sealed with their own self-contained air supply and a state of the art air filtration system, the stench still gets through. It's not overpowering, but it's highly unpleasant.
"Another thing, don't touch her, for want of a better word, bark. It's hot enough to cause paper to immediately combust. Finally, don't look her in the eyes. Not if you want to sleep for the next week."
Matilde felt a righteous rage build up within her. "What are the odds of us saving this child?" She asked while looking at the bed where the girl lay, finally understanding why she was essentially lying naked on a concrete platform.
"None," Peterson answered, blunt and honest. His stance, his face were inscrutable. Did he feel nothing for the girl, or was he hiding it, burying his emotions deep inside himself, as men are want to do.
"Then why keep her alive then? This is cruel, inhuman. She's suffering for no good goddamn reason!" Matilde demanded, the sorrow she felt transforming itself into blind fury.
"She won't last long," Peterson coldly replied. "Her feeding tubes and IVs were removed two days ago when they kept melting. I'm surprised she's lasted this long. Her body can't hold on, though; not like this."
"Matty," Miguel started to say softly as he gently put his hands on her shoulders. Matilde spun around as fast as she could in her suit and glared at him with contempt and hate. Getting the hint, he pulled back his hands in an almost "surrender" position.
"I mean, Dr. Alves. The unfortunate and unpleasant truth is we have no idea what she's suffering from. No one, ever, has recorded or observed anything like this. Every stage of its progression has been unfathomable, unpredictable, and whatever other 'un' word you can think of. We could learn a lot from her corpse, but not nearly as much from her living body; as cold and cruel as that sounds.
"We can't help her. However, whatever caused this to happen to her is still out there, infecting who knows how many other people. Maybe, hopefully, what we learn from her will help us to save them."
Matilde turned away and cursed to herself. This was cold. This was cruel. This was inhumane. She also knew that it was also the only way. For the first time in a decade, she prayed inside her head. Please, God, do not let her suffering be in vain.
She turned back and asked, "Anything else?"
Both Miguel and Peterson shook their heads.
"Alright. Lead on."
Miguel nodded toward the one guard who opened the door.
As soon as they entered, Matilde immediately understood what Miguel had meant by "the smell." Every organic compound smells differently as it rots. Rancid milk smells differently than a rotten apple. A rotten apple smells differently than a rotting chicken breast. And a rotting, cooked chicken breast smells different to a dead chicken in a field. What she was smelling wasn't the odor of a specific thing rotting but the smell of the entire concept of rot.
"Are you sure we're safe?" She asked, reluctant to take one step further in the room.
Peterson answered, "No, but no one's shown signs of adverse reactions so far."
"That's not reassuring," she replied.
"It's the best I can do," he answered back.
Matilda winced but followed them over.
"I'm not experiencing any temperature increase," Matilda said as they neared the what? - patient? specimen? creature? thing? Nothing felt right to say. Case study? Maybe. Victim? Certainly, but victim of what? God, if we're being honest.
"The heat field only extends five centimeters above the body," Miguel explained.
"That's extremely low given how high the temperature must be," Matilde said.
"It is. There's also no gradual increase in temperature either. It goes from room temperature to incinerator instantly."
This was crazy. Everything about this was crazy. She was beginning to believe she was crazy for coming along.
The mass was near featureless at this point. The limbs had all fused together. The face was completely gone outside of an opening that Matilda assumed had been a mouth at one time, and two, red and orange, watery eyes. She made the mistake of looking into them. The eyes emitted unfathomable sorrow and pain. The sum of this girl's suffering was being broadcast through these eyes and into her soul.
It was overwhelming as she felt like she was being lifted up and pulled into those eyes. Strange, incomprehensible, surrealistic images started to flood her mind, pushing her out and down. She was dissolving away.
"MATILDE!" Miguel shouted as he spun her around and shook her.
She suddenly snapped back into herself. She felt groggy, like waking up with a hangover after a night of binge drinking. She both did and didn't know who she was, where she was, and what she was doing. The more she regained of herself, the more she lost of what she had seen and experienced while looking into those eyes.
"I told you not to look," Miguel said in that parental mixture of fear, disappointment, and anger.
"Whatever you saw, the nightmares will be worse," Peterson said. "Trust me. I unfortunately know of that which I speak."
"I need to get out of here," Matilde said. "I think I'm going to be sick."
"You are," Peterson bluntly informed her.
**************************************************
Matilde sat at the cafeteria table, poking at a cold piece of toast with a fork. Beside it was an equally cold cup of tea. After throwing up for ten minutes straight, Miguel and Peterson had brought her here for the universal, post spew meal of tea and toast.
"I'm not going to ask if you're ok, because I know you're not," Miguel said quietly. "That, whatever it was, started last week; just before Daniel arrived. I can't explain it, only it has the same effect on everybody. Four of the nurses attempted suicide after looking into its eyes."
Peterson leaned back in the chair. "The best hypothesis we have at the moment is that whatever radiation is causing her to mutate, is interfering with our brainwaves and causing hallucinations."
"If that were true, it would happen whenever someone got in vicinity of her; not only when you looked into her eyes."
Miguel asked, "Do you remember anything? Anything that you saw?"
"No. I only remember the feelings of despair, pain, and fear. She's suffering. That little girl is suffering so much." She paused to regain herself. "That's all I can remember."
"Listen, there's not much more you can do today. How about you come over to my place tonight. We can talk about things, work some personal issues out," Miguel offered.
Matilde waved her hand. "I'm fine."
"There's two things you need to know: you're not fine and you can not be alone for the next twenty-four hours," Peterson said. "It hits everyone differently. Women tend to get hit harder, but we all take a hit. We know what you have gone through and what you will go through. You might not like us, but you have to trust us."
Matilde looked at them and then lowered her head. "Fine," she said, too tired to fight back.
"I'll finish up here while Daniel sits with you. Once I get back, we can head out. Is that ok?"
Matilde didn't even bother to look up this time. She just nodded her head while picking at her toast.
Miguel unlocked his apartment door and motioned for Peterson and Matilde to enter. Being a doctor afforded Miguel a fairly nice (and secure) apartment. Still, no one, regardless of how nice or secure their place was, ever left home without locking their doors.
Brazil was brutal. Then again, every country in the western hemisphere was brutal, save for maybe Canada, but they were still under British control. Maybe it was the punishment for all the nations being born out of genocide and slavery. Although, if that was true, why was it always the poorest and least powerful that always paid the highest price? Who cares, Matilde finished her thoughts. It is a nice apartment.
"I'm going to wash up, then start supper," Peterson said, making his way to the bathroom. "You two can hash things out while I do." He then disappeared behind the bathroom door.
"He must be a good friend to cook for you," Matilde noted. She wasn't sure what she meant by it. Her and Miguel had had a brief affair. It was like most affairs, she supposed. She had been the young, inexperienced doctor, fresh from med school. He was the older, more experienced doctor who took her under his wing. Feelings had flourished, bodily fluids exchanged, and, finally, they realized that they were better off as friends and colleagues. Still, it made his betrayal that much more bitter.
"I've been a fan of Daniel's cooking since we were in med school together." The words he had used were simple and straightforward enough, yet the way he said them implied that there was a greater subtext to the words.
"So what did you see?" Miguel asked as he sat beside Matilda on the couch. "We all saw something whenever we looked into her eyes. What did you see?"
"I don't know. Not exactly, entirely. It's all a blur now. Um, pink. White, orange, magenta, not lights, but the colors themselves. They were pulsating, throbbing, bleeding together, yet always distinct. Eyes. There were eyes there, too. Red eyes. Pure, red eyes with pitch black pupils. They were looking, looking for something. There was so much pain and sorrow and loneliness. Immense loneliness." She shook her head. "That's all I can remember or decipher; depending on how you want to look at it."
"You didn't see a blue light?" Miguel's expression and tone was one of absolute confusion.
"No. Why? I guess that's what you saw?"
"That's what everyone sees. A perfect, vibrant blue light; shining in endless darkness. It calls you, seduces you. It is the satisfaction of every desire and the answer to every question. At least, that's how it feels. There's always a follow-up vision that's personal to whoever is having the vision at the time, but the blue light is the constant - until you, that is."
"Lucky me. I guess I'm special," Matilde sarcastically remarked.
Miguel gave a strange, little side head nod. "Maybe you are." He stood up and said, "I have something for you."
He walked over to a pleasant but unremarkable painting of a young man in 18th century attire and moved it to the side, revealing a wall safe behind it. He entered the combination, opened it up, and removed a thick manilla folder. He closed the safe backup and brought her the folder.
"These are all your notes from the faulty machine case. What's left, that is After you were fired, the admistrator ordered all your notes were to be destroyed. I saved as many as I could. Unfortunately, I couldn't save all of them.
"This is why I stayed behind," he explained. "If I would have gone down with you, these would have been lost completely. I know the basic nature of all organizations is to cover their own asses, but this is something different. I wanted to speak up, but I knew I had to stay. I'm sorry I didn't explain earlier."
Matilde took her old notes and began to look through them, excitedly; completely indifferent to Miguel's apology. "I knew it!" She triumphantly said as she held a paper aloft. "The radiation, or, at least some of its effects are similar to what I found in the patients who had gotten sick! It's not exactly the same, but it is close."
Miguel nodded, proud that she was able to understand it. "Daniel and I came to the same conclusion. Sorry, I showed him your notes."
"No problem. Thanks for saving them." She stopped and started taping her upper lip with her right index finger.
"So what's the link? What do they have in common?" She thought out loud. "Was the girl a former patient? No. We contacted all those. Perhaps she had been exposed to another faulty machine? But where are all the other victims?"
"I can answer that." Miguel was excited to reveal everything he had learned so far. "That machine, it was the only machine that company ever made. Not the only one of that type, but the only machine, period."
"What the fuck?"
Miguel nodded. "Sinalys. Founded by a Maxwell Richardson in nineteen seventy-three, folded in nineteen seventy-four."
"That was only last year. Was it because of me?" Matilde was hoping the answer would be yes.
"No. It shut production down three weeks before your investigation. From everything Daniel and I have been able to find; it was founded for the sole purpose of making that machine and shut down afterwards."
"Hold on," Matilde said, shaking her head. "None of that makes sense. I was told that it was a software issue that caused it to give the wrong dose of radiation, and it could be fixed. It's why the director asked me not to make my findings public. If the company folded, how could they fix the glitch?"
Miguel leaned forward and pointed at Matilda. "I'll do you one better. How does a company start from scratch, design and manufacture a sophisticated, million dollar piece of medical equipment, and then dissolve all in the period of one year?"
"Well, what do we know about this Richardson guy?"
"Not much. He was born March fifteenth, nineteen sixteen. His father owned a bank. He eventually took that over in thirty-eight after his father died. He bought several other local businesses: a book store, a machine shop, a used car lot, he really diversified his portfolio. Um, married his wife, Genevieve, in forty-six. They had their only child, Jeremiah, in fifty. He later died of a drug overdose in sixty-eight."
Matilde gave an unimpressed sigh. "Nothing really there. He was a rich guy who liked owning a lot of different businesses. I guess it stands to reason he'd try a medical machine businesses. I guess."
"There's a little more. A couple months after his son died, he started a camp for kids who were doing things they shouldn't be doing to go to and get back on track. 'Camp Fundamentals', he called. It lasted for five years."
"Seventy-three!"
Miguel nodded. "Exactly! And get this, Sinalys started one week after the camp closed."
Matilde screwed up her face. "I guess, interesting timing, but I don't see a connection. He was probably working on the place for years beforehand. Anything else? What's he doing now?"
Miguel shrugged. "I don't know. After Sinalys closed, he sold off everything, including his house, and no one knows where he's at now."
"So him and the wife take off, hmm?"
"No. The wife died in childbirth."
Something about that made Matilde feel uneasy. She didn't know why. Even in the modern era, women still died in childbirth at an alarming rate. There was nothing remarkable about it, yet it didn't feel right. It was like having a small needle poking her brain. For whatever reason, that was something she would have to look into later on.
"What happened to the machine? Was it fixed? Did they get rid of it?"
"The day after you left, a bunch of guys in black uniforms came in, tore everything down, packed it up, and carried it away. I've tried to find out who they were, but there was no markings or logos, no company name, on their uniforms, nothing. I initially thought they were from Sinalys, but then I found out that the company closed down before everything happened. There's no paper trail either. I've looked. The machine and the men who took it, vanished into thin air."
"None of this makes sense. None of it!" Matilde put her head in her hands and began rubbing her face, up and down; trying to find a way to put the pieces together.
Peterson came out of the bathroom, freshly showered and dressed in a black, floral print robe and white slacks. "That's what both of us said." He then sat beside Miguel, so close, he was nearly on his lap.
"Are those your clothes?" Matilde asked, pointing to Miguel.
"No, they're mine," Peterson said before Miguel could respond.
Matilde pointed to Peterson. "Hold on! Are you staying here?"
"He is," Miguel responded this time.
Matilde looked between the two of them rapidly as she slowly pieced everything together. "Ooooooohhhhhhh," she sighed when she finally put two and two together. "We need to talk then," she said angrily to Miguel.
Miguel was about to say something hateful, when his phone rang. He went over to the little, circle top, side table that had the phone and picked up the receiver.
"Hello. What? Slow down! You're not making any sense. What do you, no. You can't, ok, ok. We'll be there shortly."
Miguel turned to Peterson and Matilde; his chocolate brown face was completely pale. They sat, in shock; looking at him as though he had the secret to life and was about to share it.
"That was the hospital," he said in a slow, trance like voice. "The patient exploded."
They stared in horror at the scene before them. Wherever the viscera had landed, it ate holes through it. It didn't matter if it was glass, steal, aluminum, plaster, wood, or plastic; the results were the same. Everyone who had either been in the room or just passing by was dead. The ones in the room had been dissolved down to bone, while the ones outside were frozen into monuments of pain.
"Fuck," Miguel said. It was the only thing his brain was able to come up with to say. The unrelenting pageantry of revulsion overloading his cognitive abilities.
"When did it happen?" Matilde asked, barely keeping her wits about her.
"About an hour and forty-five minutes ago," the director said. His voice was heavy and exhausted. "It was half an hour before anyone could even get close. Even fully outfitted, the gas was too much. It ate through the suits like water through tissue paper."
"Gas?" Matilde was perplexed by his use of the word "gas". What gas was he talking about? Where did it come from?
"Yes. Apparently, from what I've been told, there was a build-up of gas within the body, which was the source of the explosion. It spread everywhere. Anyone who came in contact with it died immediately. We had to wait for it to dissipate before we could even begin the cleanup."
"Ok," Matilde said, nodding her head as though she were trying to shake her brain into working. "I'll get some dishes from the lab and start collecting samples."
"Why?" The director asked. "The patient is dead. No one has come forward to claim or identify her. As far as I'm concerned, the matter is over."
"The hell it is!" Matilde was boiling mad. How could he think for an instance that this was over? It was literally only beginning. "I can understand you wanting to cover up the radiation machine killing people. I don't agree with it, but I understand it. That was covering your ass. This? This is a whole other animal. Whatever caused this to her could still be out there, affecting God knows how many other people! We need,"
"It's over," the director sternly said. "Your services here are no longer required. Please leave before I call the police."
Matilde got as in his face as their hazmat suits would allow. "It's because they're linked," isn't it, she was going to say, but she felt herself being violently pulled back.
"I'll walk her out," Miguel said, wishing he could put his hand over her mouth.
"I might as well get my things," Peterson said stoicly. "If she's no longer needed, neither am I." He shrugged and walked off.
Matilde and the director glared at each other as Miguel led her away.
**********************************************
Outside, the early evening air had grown cool. Fall was here, making the nights pleasant and comfortable. Fall wasn't the same here as it was in the north, especially the United States and Canada. It never got what a northerner would call chilly, let alone cold. It only made things nice.
If anyone would have been cold, the white hot fury that was emanating from Matilde would have warmed them up instantly. She paced back and forth, cursing to herself in every language she knew, only stopping to glare at Miguel.
After about ten minutes of this, Miguel said, "You can curse me out to my face. It wouldn't be the first time."
"It'll be the last," she hissed as she came to a full stop and glared at him. "Second, no, third time, Miguel! This is the third time you've stabbed me in the back! First, with the machine. Second, by not telling me you were gay,"
"Bi," he interrupted her diatribe. "I'm not gay, I'm bisexual. It was none of your business. I felt no reason to tell you. It's not like I indulge that side of me much, anyways. I've only been with three men, and Daniel counts as two of them. This is a dangerous world for people like me. I'm one of the lucky ones, though. Because I'm attracted to women as well, I don't feel as denied as my homosexual brothers are. I can quite comfortably live in my closet."
"Always an excuse for everything," she said bitterly; her arms crossed across her chest.
"Yes, I do. I even have an excuse for tonight."
"Ok. Let's hear it."
"If you would have let it slip that you know this and the radiation machine are connected; you would have put a giant bullseye on your back. Something is going on, and the hospital is involved somehow. My guess is that he would do anything to keep that secret. Anything. Right now we have to proceed cautiously. We can't solve this if we're at the bottom of the Amazon."
"You think it'll come to that?" Matilde was skeptical, but not entirely closed off to the idea that the director would use nefarious means to cover this up.
"I don't know if he will. What I do suspect is we can't take that possibility off the table. We're in uncharted waters here, Matty. We need to be extra cautious here."
Matilde considered what Miguel was saying. Honestly, he wasn't wrong. No matter how many times she went over everything, she couldn't come up with a credible rebuttal. Something was going on here. Something big from the looks of it. Was it big enough to kill for? She couldn't truthfully answer that no.
Matilde sighed and rubbed her face. "Fine. Fine! I'll play it your way for now. But I'm going to have my eyes on you. If I think for one moment you're going to betray me, I'll kill you myself."
"That's more than reasonable," he replied with a slight bow.
They waited the rest of the time in silence until Peterson came out with a cooler in one hand and an old-time doctor's bag in the other. "Sorry for the wait," he said and gave a quick look behind him. "I wanted to make sure I had gotten everything. I can't leave without my lunch box." He gently held up the cooler.
"It's fine," Miguel said, and all three went to Miguel's car and got in.
They drove around a bit, not saying anything. Miguel didn't even bother to turn the radio on. Everyone craved silence at the moment. They each had to think, to process all that they've seen tonight. People don't become exploding pieces of charcoal, yet one did - a young girl that no one had claimed as their own. Where do you even begin with that?
Peterson broke the silence first. He turned his head slightly and asked Matilde, "Do you need to go back to your practice and get your car?"
"No," she replied in a distracted voice. "I don't drive. I walk, bicycle, and take public transport. Cars are too expensive to buy, maintain, and run. I have better things to spend my money on."
"I see," Peterson said a little too dramatically. "Well then, do you have a place where I can store these at your house?" He opened his cooler and showed her a bunch of samples he had taken.
Matilde was shocked but also excited. "How did you get those?"
"As I said, I've done black ops before. Vietnam." He smiled and patted the top of his cooler.
"Yeah. Um, take me home. We'll store them in my fridge.I'll get some clothes as well, in case we're being watched. Tomorrow, we'll go to my practice. You can use the lab, it's not big or fancy, by the way, while I attend to my patients. If anyone asks, you're just giving me a hand while you're here."
"And I'll keep going to the hospital to see what I can find," Miguel added.
Matilde nodded in agreement. "We got to look as normal as possible. We can't let them think we're up to something."
"The key is to figure out who the girl was and where she came from," Peterson said. "Maybe you and I can start looking around this weekend," he said to Matilde.
"Definitely," she agreed.
As they drove to her place, Matilde couldn't help but feel something was watching her. Not someone, but thing. Those red eyes burned inside her mind, as though they were literally reading her thoughts. She tried to block them out but other thoughts, other images filled her head. Images of strange, unearthly vistas, bizarre creatures, and skies filled with black stars and clouds the color of blood.
From those images, she felt hands grab a hold of her; pulling her down into wet, black earth. She was sinking, sinking, being devoured by the ground itself. With a voice not her own but unmistakably female, she shouted out, "NO!"
Immediately she found herself in her bedroom, packing an overnight bag. She looked around as if she were trying to find a clue as to how she had gotten here. That's if she was here. It, her room, time and space itself, somehow felt less real than it had before; a thin paper picture placed over something more solid, real, that threatened to tear through at any moment.
Peterson stuck his head through her bedroom door. "Are you almost done?"
Matilde looked at her bag and then to him. "Yeah, sure. I'm almost done."
Matilde couldn't sleep. She couldn't even pretend to sleep. Miguel's couch was comfortable enough. She'd definitely slept on worse. It wasn't that she was apprehensive about Miguel or Peterson. She felt as safe around them as she did any man. It wasn't even the wretched horrors that she had seen today. Being a doctor meant you saw all types of nastiness all the time. No, there was something else that was keeping her from the bliss of unconscious.
We all go about our business with one unassailable assumption: that we, and everything around us, is real. For the first time in her life, she wasn't so sure about that anymore. It wasn't because she had experienced something unexplainable. Nothing was unexplainable. People had words for describing the unexplainable before they had words for reality. Words like: magic, gods, ghosts, demons, spirits, witches, and the like. Even now, with the nebulous "supernatural," it was still a word; a word to classify, categorize, pin-down, and define. Everything in a nice, neat box.
What she experienced was different. Sure, you could use a word like "vision." But that was too simple, too anemic. What she felt was that she had glimpsed what reality actually was. This, this world, this place, this three-dimensional existence was of no greater substance than a hologram or a beam of light. She felt as if the mask was coming off the world, and she was seeing the real face of reality for the first time.
That feeling, that sensation, made her feel alone and isolated as well. If nothing was real, then neither were the people around her. They were all illusions; glittering and shining inside her mind. They weren't there. She was alone. Alone, except for the eyes. And the woman's voice. Just her, a pair of eyes, and a disembodied voice. That's all there was. That's all there ever was. That is all that will ever be.
She heard the bedroom door open and turned to see Peterson walk out. Thankfully, he had on pajama pants and his robe. He was an attractive man, but she had no desire to see him naked. He walked over to the kitchen area, opened the refrigerator door, and pulled out a Pepsi (a rarity for this country).
"I thought everyone drank Coke," she said as she sat up.
Peterson looked at her unphased by her unexpected question. He smiled and said, "When I was in Vietnam, all they had was Coke. I drank so much of it, I got sick of it. I swore that as soon as I got out, I would never drink another Coke again. Cheers." He raised the bottle, popped the top off, and took a drink. "Personally, I prefer grape soda."
He walked over to the couch. "May I sit down?" He asked.
Matilde nodded towards the couch. "Sure. Miguel doesn't like people bringing food or drink into the bedroom. Not even water."
Peterson sat down at the end of the couch, providing a respectable distance between them. "No, he does not. I assume that you learned that first hand?"
"Yeah, we fucked," she answered straight and to the point. "It didn't last long. It ended pretty badly, to be honest. You don't need to be jealous," she added in case the reason he came over was to tell her to leave Miguel alone.
To her surprise, he just laughed. "Trust me, I'm not. Miguel and I dated, briefly, but we came to realize we made better fuck buddies than actual lovers. Don't get me wrong, he's plenty fun, but we're too incompatible for anything long term." He looked at Matilde to see what her reaction was. She only grunted and shrugged.
"I take it you're not offended or put out by my 'appetites'?" He asked, pleasantly surprised by her reaction.
"You like cock; so do I. I mean, yes, I was upset with Miguel. I get liking women. I get liking men. I don't understand liking both. It feels weird."
"I understand. If I am to be honest, I feel, or should I say, felt, much as you do. Bisexual men tend to only sneak out of their closet to have a little fling, then run back to their happy, hetero lives. A bit of fun is ok when I was younger, but I'm growing older now and want something more stable. What about you, my dear? What are you looking for?"
"Nothing. Romantic relationships have never been a priority for me. I enjoy them, when they happen, but I never seek them out. Love, romantic love, is like sugar. It makes life sweeter, but I don't need it." She leaned forward, bowed her head, and rubbed her hands together.
"I have to ask; you said you served in Vietnam, why? Were you drafted? Why would you decide to go to war?"
Peterson leaned back, sinking into the couch. "I get asked that question a lot. I enlisted in sixty-eight. I had just finished my residency program; so I was much older than most of the other recruits. They couldn't believe that someone like me would ever sign up. But I, like most people, was brought up to think of war as a grand adventure, a place to prove one's masculinity. As a closeted gay man, proving my masculinity sounded rather fine to me. I also thought that there would be no better place to gain medical experience than a war zone. It helped that I was determined and in excellent shape at the time as well. I pushed myself as hard as I could to prove myself. I won a lot of respect from my superiors.
"I shipped out in sixty-nine. Given the combination of my medical training, my drive, and my fighting acumen; I was picked to be part of a small group to go behind enemy lines and, as my commander said, 'fuck shit up'. So we did. I did."
Matilde stared at Peterson, not knowing what to say. She felt there was part of him that wanted to talk, but another that demanded to remain silent. With much trepidation, she asked, "How did it affect you? What you did?"
A strange smile crossed his lips. "The general public has one of two views on war: either it has no effect on you, or it completely changes you. I have definitely met men from both camps, to be sure. However, I find that I am a bit in the middle. Killing people while trying not to get killed yourself, did change me. I certainly wasn't the man I had been before I went in." He stopped and gave a a spiteful chuckle.
"On one mission, we were making our way through the jungle and we come across a dead body. Two, in fact. The clothes and most of the flesh were gone, having been torn and picked over by various scavengers. What was left was riddled with maggots. It was completely unidentifiable. Seeing that body, that decrepit, rotting mass; I came to a realization. Whatever that person had been, whatever their beliefs, politics, everything they had ever done or said, it was all gone and they were nothing more than a meal for the worms. More than that, I realized we were all like that. King or beggar, genius or dullard, famous or unknown; it didn't matter. In the grand scheme of things, we were all worm food.
"And that brought me to my final revelation. There are no immortals. Alexander the Great, Julius Ceasar, Shakespeare, Mozart, DaVinci, Einstein, in time they will all be forgotten like everyone else. It'll just take a little bit longer with them than with us. But what's the difference between a few decades and a few millenia on the scale of eternity? At the end of the day, we're all memories waiting to be forgotten, and none of this matters."
Matilde felt herself grow cold. Was it the cold of despair or fear? She could not tell. "Don't you feel that's a horrible way to think?"
Peterson gave a quick, proper laugh. "Au contraire, Ms. Alves! It's liberating. Once you understand that we are all equally irrelevant, it frees you to see humanity, the world, the entire universe for what it is. I'm not depressed, I'm free. Also annoyed. For you now see how blind and mentally enslaved everyone else is." He sighed. "You take the good with the bad, I suppose. So what do you believe?"
She shook her head. "I don't know. I don't think I want to know either, but I'm afraid I will."
In fiction, mornings bring about feelings of new possibilities, they steel the nerves and wipe away the dread of the previous night. In reality, they do none of those things. Mornings carry over the same dreads, fears, and problems. Matilde couldn't help but feel that she was being herded into an experience by forces beyond her control. She wondered if this was how animals felt while being led to the slaughterhouse.
Miguel dropped her and Peterson off at her house. While she got a bath and dressed, Peterson checked the samples he had gathered from the hospital and loaded them in his bag. To his surprise, they were all there. In the jungle, he learned how to sense when someone was looking at him. From the thick foliage and the never-ending tunnels, the enemy could be anywhere. You either learned to sense them or you died; simple as that. He had that feeling now; that hostile eyes were watching him, wherever he went.
Matilde emerged dressed in a neat, professional outfit that looked far too masculine on her unmistakable feminine frame. It was an extreme juxtaposition that was further exasperated by her makeup. He looked her over a few times, trying to synthesize the two competing images.
"A bit butch this morning, aren't we?" He asked in a playfully catty way.
"This was the first suit I ever wore. Women, in general, aren't respected. Women doctors are really not respected; even by other women. I thought by wearing the suit, I would get some watered down respect. It didn't work, but ever since then, I use it as my suit of armor. Anytime I'm scared, I wear this to give myself extra courage."
"And you're afraid now?"
"Of course. This isn't natural. This is so far over my head and beyond my knowledge, I don't know what to do. Why? Aren't you scared?"
"Positively frightened, my dear lady," he said truthfully with a nervous laugh. "This isn't the old world we grew up with anymore. Gone are the days of ghosts and ghouls, vampires and witches, werewolves and demons. Those monsters, as terrible as they were, had rules and limitations. There were spells, incantations, prayers, gods you could appeal to for help. This new world has no such assurances. Diseases come out of nowhere, comets or asteroids can fall from the sky whenever, and radiation can seep out of anywhere to destroy the very cells that make our body. Sure, we have our protections; hazmat suits instead of talismans. Unlike the talismans of old, we know our protections are limited and can fail.
"We thought we had it all figured out. We thought we knew everything. We even thought that because we could use mud and stone to make walls; we were somehow safe, impervious to everything but our own degenerate desires. In this new world, we know nothing except how small and insignificant we are. Every second of every day, we are slaves to forces we don't understand and can't control. Forces that don't give a shit about us; that's if they even know we exist at all.
"I wonder sometimes if the dinosaurs knew their time was coming to an end? Could they feel? Could they sense it? Or did they just die with no idea that's what they were doing? Creatures blind and indifferent to a universe that was blind and indifferent to them. We know, of course. We know about the universe, albeit very little. Would we know or understand when our extinction event started? Could we grasp the full horror of it?"
Matilde raised her eyebrow in scorn of what he was saying. "You think this could really be an extinction event?" Her voice was sarcastic and mocking.
Peterson gave her a pursed smile. "No, I don't think we would."
*****************************************************
Matilde spent most of her morning calling her patients to let them know she was available again and to see if they wanted to reinstate their appointments while Peterson conducted various tests on the samples he had taken. There was a grotesque banality to all this, she felt. Here she was, in her office, calling people on the phone. After this, she would check in with Peterson, then go over patient files and possibly get caught up on some paperwork. Pretty much a standard work day. She had done things like this hundreds of times. The specific of Peterson was new, but checking on lab work was extremely routine. Just another, normal day while there was something out there that had turned a girl into an exploding, charcoal briquette.
Outside her practice, more normal people went about doing their normal, everyday business. Going to work, shopping, selling drugs, cheating on their spouse, eating, all the usual things. She thought about what Peterson had said this morning about the dinosaurs. She wondered about all those nice, normal people, living their nice normal lives. Did they think about pandemics or natural disasters or anything else that could put an end to their nice, normal lives? Did they, even for a second, think about a meteor crashing down on them from outer space? There were so many threats out there; threats that could wipe out all humanity. Did they ever think about those while trying to decide what brand of toilet paper to buy?
Then again, she supposed that if people really stopped to consider they lived in a universe that was almost maliciously set up to eradicate any and all life, they would go insane. Even more insane than they already are. She figured it'd be pretty hard to brush your teeth, masturbate, or take out the trash if you truly understood how ridiculous it was that anything was alive in the first place. The dinosaurs had probably been indifferent to their demise because they lacked the intellect to understand it. Humans were indifferent because they fully understood their circumstances and completely shut them out of their minds for the sheer necessity of not going bat-shit crazy.
She was brought out of her ponderings by the sounds of people shouting and screaming, car breaks being rapidly employed, and the sound of a reved up car engine. Matilde got up from her desk and went to the large window at the front of her practice. She saw various pedestrians looking up the road. Some looked scared, some concerned, some confused, and some with an excited curiosity.
In the distance, she saw an old, brown, Ford Galaxy speeding down the road, swerving madly in between cars, causing most motorists to pull off to the side to let the car pass instead of risking being hit. It slowed down dramatically as it reached Matilde's practice. She watched in horror as the back door opened, and a woman came tumbling out.
"JESUS!" She shouted as the car gunned its engine and sped off.
Peterson heard her shout from in back and came rushing out to see what was going on. He made it outside in time to see Matilde going over to a woman lying on the ground. Matilde was just about to touch her when he shouted, "STOP!"
Matilde turned to him and scowled. "What do you mean, 'stop'? This woman needs help!"
"Look at her skin," he ordered in response; pointing to the woman.
Matilde, angry and disgusted by Peterson telling her not to give aid, decided to look at the woman's skin out of caution. The woman had on a black skirt a green, short-sleeved shirt. Her arms and lower legs were clearly visible. The skin appeared waxy, oily in fact. It was as if she had covered herself in petroleum jelly. It was then that Matilde noticed the smell. It was rancid, like spoiled milk.
"She has the same symptoms as the girl did when she was admitted," he said with great sympathy. A doctor's first duty is to provide any and all necessary care to those who need it. He knew every instinct Matilde had was telling her to give aid to this poor woman, but from what he had read of the hospital staff who had touched the girl without proper protection, he knew he had to stop her.
Matilde stepped back, realizing what Peterson said was right. While it may not be the same thing that the girl had, it was close enough not to warrant the risk.
The woman moaned and looked up at Matilde. Her eyes had gone completely white. There was no possible way that she could see anything, yet she somehow managed to lock eyes with Matilde. In a voice that came out of her mouth but didn't seem to originate inside her, she said, "Ponta Claros." She then lowered her head to the ground.
Her body began to heav and inflate as though some unseen person was pumping her up like a balloon. Her skin began to rip open as blood poured out. Both Matilde and Peterson thought about how they were told the girl had exploded at the hospital.
"EVERYONE, GET BACK!" Matilde ordered.
The body shuddered once, then rapidly deflated. A thick, black liquid, somewhere between chocolate syrup and tar, came pouring out of her mouth. Her body began to smoke and burst into fire. A few of the onlookers fainted. Most screamed and ran away. Only a few remained to watch to see what would happen next.
Peterson slowly made his way over to Matilde. He kept staring at the burning body, transfixed by it; halfway expecting it to get up and change them.
"We need to call the authorities," he said softly once he had gotten beside her. He also had to call his contact in the CIA. He had let them know what was going on after Miguel had first contacted him. They were interested but unconcerned. This should make them concerned.
"She said 'Ponta Claros'," Matilde said quietly, still in shock.
"What's 'Ponta Claros'?"
"A small town in the middle of nowhere. I went there once when I first came back from the States. It was part of some rural outreach program."
"Did you know her?" Peterson nodded towards the body.
Matilde shook her head. "No. It was a one day, in and out type thing. We didn't want to be there, and they gave off the impression they didn't want us there. I don't think we even gave one fucking check-up while we were there."
"Country folk are the same the world over: suspicious of outsiders and anything smacking of modernity," Peterson replied, barely hiding his disdain and condescension.
"Well, right now, it's the only clue we've got as to where this thing originated from." She finally turned away from the burning body and looked Peterson in his face. "I'm calling Miguel, then the three of us are going to Ponta Claros as soon as possible." Her voice was strong and forceful. She was making it clear that she was now in charge.