possible!
Prologue
Nanologic Technologies and the Best of Intentions
Patricia pressed her head into the plastic cocoon-hood of her Hazmat suit before sealing it shut around her collar bone. She sucked in a breath through the fibrous mask that covered her nose and mouth as she pushed the code on the keypad next to the door. She walked inside and the pneumatic doors hissed shut behind her. The ventilators showered her with smoky, white air before the second set of doors opened into the greenhouse.
Hi Pat,
came the muffled voice of Miguel behind her. He held a clipboard in a gloved hand, and a sectioned gardener’s box of soil samples in the other. His face was protected by a screened, hooded mask.
Miguel,
she nodded. How are my babies, today?
Clearing his throat, Miguel nodded. Well, the babies are just fine,
he said. All the specimens in Sector Seven-B are showing significant responses to your Nanologic Serum. Nineteen out of twenty of the mature plants are technically and fully ‘dead’, but still producing viable fruit at a rate one hundred times faster than our control group of normal tomato plants.
Miguel paused, wishing he could scratch an itch just above his ear. It’s the most amazing thing. The plants are black and dry. The stalks crumble in my hands, but the tomatoes are plump, red, and still growing. I’ve already prepared the truck with samples for transport to our main site in Buckston.
Patricia smiled, the edges of her mask rising against her cheeks. My serum works,
she breathed. Her pupils widened, stretching against her blue irises. Excitement tingled up her spine, down her arms and into her fingertips.
Did you say something?
Miguel arched his neck, leaning closer inside his suit to hear her better.
No,
she said, shaking her head. I was just thinking how lucky we are to work for the company that is going to end world hunger.
Miguel chuckled. You sound like Deidra in Sector Four A. You idealists make the strangest scientists. Still, I must admit that I’m pretty proud to be a part of this. If we can populate the world with plants that bear fruit up to seventy-five days after they’ve died, well–let’s just say we can be prouder of this than Nanologic’s other studies.
Yes, Miguel. I suppose that’s the truth,
Patricia said, nodding. I’ll check on those specimens immediately.
She turned on her heel and walked down the narrow path between plant pallets toward Sector Seven-B.
As she walked, the folds of her plastic suit brushed against the plants arching out over the pallets on either side of the corridor. She knew that each pallet represented a different test group and so she was not surprised to see purple-leafed tomato plants bearing blueberry-blue tomatoes on one pallet across from the creeping yellow tendrils of a modified cabbage on the next. While she knew that every serum in this section of the Nanologic greenhouse was meant to improve the growth and development of vegetation in order to provide a more expansive food supply, she couldn’t help but think no one would want to eat a blue tomato.
Turning the corner in the pathways that intersected the raised garden beds, she caught sight of Sector Seven-B, a pallet of tomato plants she’d treated with a serum of her own creation. Her masterpiece serum was a combination of modified parasites designed to expedite the nutrient-depletion of the soil into the plant and chemicals combined to trick the plant’s chemistry
into thinking it was still in its fruit-bearing stage even after death.
The result would be a tomato plant that would produce ripe and juicy tomatoes once every two days instead of once every ninety, and the kicker? It would grow them on the blackened, dried-out stalks of the plant long after the plant should have gone to compost heaven.
Sure enough, as Patricia drew closer to the pallet, she saw vibrant, baseball-sized red tomatoes hanging limply from the graying, yellowed stalks of a hundred or so dried-out plants. Her heart pumped hard against her chest. A peaceful smile pulled her lips toward her cheeks. Her grand opus, her serum had worked and it was a miracle.
Overwhelmed by her success, by her dream finally manifesting, her mind began to wander. She imagined herself delivering her acceptance speech in Oslo at the Nobel Peace Prize Award Ceremony. An exaggerated gentleman with a monocle straight out of a Dickens novel would ask her how it felt to create a sustainable food source for all humans on the earth. In her mind, she could see his white mustache bobbing under his stiff upper lip as his shaggy white eyebrows knitted together. At his question, she would redden, bat her eyes at the podium, and say softly into the microphone, It was nothing. I was just doing my job.
As the imaginary applause filled her ears, Patricia’s eyes scanned the field of delectable tomatoes so ripe and plump and red that her tongue started to sweat. Without thinking about the consequences, or the slap-in-the-face it would be to scientific procedure, Patricia’s hand rose slowly from her body as if compelled by its own mind.
Overcome with excitement, her rubber-tipped fingers closed around one juicy specimen of tomato. The fruit freed itself from the withering vine with a hardy snap. No clipboard. No specimen container. No animal tests. All that spiraled through Patricia’s mind was the sound of that applause, the deafening, rumbling thunder of an auditorium of thousands all slapping their hands together for her. In all the excitement, her science had disappeared.
With her free hand, she tore the seal of her Hazmat hood and lifted her mask. The fruit rose to her lips. The smooth skin of the tomato felt cool against the soft pink of her mouth. Her teeth met its surface, lightly piercing the skin. Cool, wet red juice sprayed over her tongue as the tangy taste of tomato flooded her mouth. She chewed quietly. A little of the juice spilled on her chin, but she did not stop to wipe it away. Her fruit, her baby, had grown up and it had all of her attention.
The only thing she noticed was the flavor of her Nobel Prize as the harsh white lights of the greenhouse faded into the background.
She didn’t notice the tingling sensation in the soles of her feet or the palms of her hands. She didn’t think of the unknown parasites and chemicals that may be injecting themselves into her salivary glands as she chewed. She didn’t notice her blood thicken, or her vision blur. She didn’t notice as Miguel turned the corner between the pallets, his mouth sagging open at the sight.
She didn’t notice when, minutes after swallowing the first bite, her heart stopped beating and the blood in her veins turned as inky black as the stalks of the dead tomato plant beside her.
She didn’t hear Miguel’s scream.
Chapter One
Max
What was that, you little punk?
Ronald slammed down his coffee cup, a few spurts of coffee sloshing over the side onto the table top.
Max looked at the floor in silence.
Hey, you better smarten up, boy!
shouted Ronald as he flicked the back of Max’s head with the side of his hand. I asked you a question and I better get an answer.
Max glared at him from under the brim of his baseball cap. Threads of hay-colored hair stuck out in scraggily points all around Max’s face. A band of freckles spread across his nose like Orion’s belt, and tiny tendrils of peach fuzz curled over his upper lip and chin. He stood by the door, slouching in an oversized flannel shirt, with one hand looped loosely around the door knob and his other hand clutching a tired strap of a black backpack.
I said, you’re not my father,
Max said quietly, setting his jaw to one side.
Ronald glared at the boy. You’re damn right I’m not your father. If I was your father, I’d have to kill myself just like he did.
His voice rose steadily with each word, spit shooting from the sides of his mouth as he spoke.
No. On second thought, I would take you out back with the trash. And everyone would thank me. You know why? Because everyone–
The man slammed a fist into the table top. Max flinched as the coffee cup bounced, splattering coffee onto the newspaper beside it. The murky brown liquid pooled together along the edge and began a slow drip off the side of the table.
Because everyone knows what a punk you are!
Ronald raged on, his scraggily voice cut with what Max assumed was smoker’s cough. Because everyone knows you will never amount to anything. Your teachers know it. Your truant officer knows it. For Christ’s sake, your mother and I sure as hell know it.
Bleary-eyed and frizzy-haired, Max’s mother drifted into the kitchen. A cigarette dangled from her mouth with a half-inch cylinder of ash clinging to the end. Ronald stood panting, his knuckles white where he gripped the edges of the table and a red vein pulsing in an angry arch across his forehead.
Max stared desperately at the puddle of coffee collecting on the floor, afraid to look up, afraid to make a sound. He thought, if I can just stare at this long enough, if I can just pay attention to this one tiny detail, maybe I’ll disappear the way chameleons vanish into the background.
Shouldn’t you be at school?
she asked, her voice croaking and rasping from a dry throat. As Max’s mom spoke, the cigarette pasted to her lips bounced up and down. The cylinder of ash separated from the end of the cigarette and flitted to the floor. Max said nothing.
Hey, boy. Your mother asked you a question.
Ronald stood and made a move to walk around the table, before he was seized by a chest heaving cough. His hand rose to his throat and stroked it for a moment, before he twisted his body around the table and started after the boy.
Max looked up. I was just leaving,
he said quickly, turning the knob and opening the door into a bleak, gray morning. Half-hanging out the door, he glanced at the clock on the stove across the kitchen. It was already 7:15. He’d probably make it in time for first period history by the time the school principal was done plastering him with detention slips for missing homeroom. Max didn’t mind detention, though. It meant more time out of the house and away from his mother’s latest stupid boyfriend.
Good,
his mother said, turning her back on him as she shuffled barefoot toward the refrigerator.
Max stared at her back for a minute, blinking. He wondered if she cared about him at all. He felt as though she didn’t even know he existed, or at least that she’d prefer he didn’t. He stepped outside and slammed the door behind him.
Bye, sweetheart,
he said in a quiet, high-pitched voice. I hope you have a nice day at school today.
He sighed. Whatever, he thought as he swung his backpack back and forth to match his shuffle down the sidewalk.
Chapter Two
Bryan,
his Girlfriend, Rachel,
and her Sister Kiley
Bryan watched from the window as Rachel eased her silver Volkswagen up to the curb in front of his house. The car jerked into park before the familiar horn honked, announcing her arrival. He grabbed his laptop case and school bag from the counter by the front door.
My ride’s here. Bye, Dad,
Bryan yelled as he flung the door open.
Hey, wait a minute.
Bryan’s dad trotted toward him, his wallet in hand. He paused a few feet away from his son, and bent an elbow over his mouth as a dry, raspy cough sputtered from his lips. He wiped the back of his hand across his lips.
Bryan paused at the door and turned around. You all right, Dad?
he asked.
Straightening, his dad fumbled in his wallet and pulled out a twenty dollar bill. Do you need some lunch money today? I know I forgot to get bread at the grocery store last night.
Bryan switched his bags to one hand and gratefully accepted the money. Thanks, Dad! That’s awesome.
His dad lifted an eyebrow. You will spend that on lunch, right?
Of course, Dad. I’ll get Rachel and me a couple of hamburgers, or something.
His father tried to grin, but his red rimmed eyes gave the man’s face a sickly hue. Bryan’s shoulders tensed, bracing for what he knew would come next. His father patted his shoulder.
I think—
the man began, but his voice seemed to catch in his throat. Bryan waited for another coughing fit, but his father just swallowed as the muscles in his face shifted visibly under his skin. I think your mother would have really liked Rachel.
Bryan forced a smile to his face. Yeah,
he said. He looked at the ground. She’s waiting, Dad,
he said after a pause. I gotta go.
His father snapped himself from his reverie. Of course,
he said, clearing his throat again, the pads of his fingers massaging his neck just below the Adam’s apple. You have a good day at school.
He paused for a second before wrapping his arms around his son in a big, bear hug. I love you, son.
Bryan dropped his bags and returned the hug. Sure, Dad. I love you, too. Thanks.
Scooping up his bags, he turned to walk off the stone porch. See you tonight,
he said, jumping off the last step onto the driveway.
Not tonight, Bryan. I’ve got that business trip to Chicago, remember?
He covered his mouth again as the cough seized his chest. His eyes clenched shut as he sputtered and hacked into the crook of his shoulder.
Are you sure you should be going to Chicago like this, Dad?
Bryan asked, hesitatingly. You need something?
No, son. I’m fine.
His father coughed once more into his elbow, then ran a palm across his forehead. I just wanted to be sure you remembered I was flying to Chicago today. That’s all. It’s a quick business meeting; that’s all. I’m sure this is just allergies anyway.
Bryan raised an eyebrow, but knew better than to question his father’s resolve. Oh. Yeah. Okay, Dad. Sorry I forgot. I guess I’ll see you, um, Saturday then?
His father nodded solemnly. Yes. I’ll see you Saturday. If you need anything, Helga will be in Thursday. Let her know if you want anything special for dinner. I’ll leave some money in your room just in case.
Sure thing, Dad.
Bryan paused and eyed his father. Are you sure you shouldn’t just call in sick? I could stay home and make you soup or something.
Nice try, Bryan. Don’t you have an algebra test today?
said his father, cocking his head to the side.
Bryan grinned. Geesh, Dad. You’ve got a better memory than my laptop. Yeah, yeah. I have an algebra test today that I am completely prepared to take. I really was just looking out for you, pops.
Right,
said Dad, returning the grin.
Bryan waved the twenty dollar bill as he took a step backward. Thanks again.
Behave,
said his father just before shutting the door.
Like hell,
Bryan whispered through his grin as the door clicked into place. He turned back to face Rachel. She rolled her eyes as he sprinted toward the car, the drawstrings of his navy hoodie bouncing against his chest as he ran.
I thought he’d never let you leave,
she muttered as Bryan slid into the passenger seat.
I know,
he said as he leaned in to greet her with a kiss. As his lips approached hers, she cleared her throat and tipped her head toward the backseat.
Bryan didn’t even look. Hello, Kiley.
I don’t know why you have to kiss my sister every single time you see her,
Kiley grumbled, fixing her darkly penciled eyes coldly on the back of Rachel’s seat. She crossed her arms over her chest, and slid her index finger under the black fishnet glove on the opposite hand. Her black lips pursed.
I mean, that’s a lot of saliva to be sharing every single day. And don’t even get me started on what kind of mad germs you two are exchanging. Ebola virus, anyone?
Kiley’s eyebrow cocked as she stared darkly at Bryan through the rearview mirror. She continued, My friend Molly kissed Derek behind the bleachers at a football game last week–not that either of us would ever be caught dead at any event featuring blondie, cheerleader losers and sunshine-yellow pompoms, mind you, but Molly was absolutely insistent that her new nugget had to hand out towels or something for some ridiculous detention he supposedly got for wearing a Flying Spaghetti Monster t-shirt to school and upsetting the adult collective. Whatever. Loser if you ask me. Cuz you know what happened to Molly?
Kiley paused for effect. Her eyebrows lifted high on her pale face and her head cocked to the side. Now Molly has Mono. No joke.
Okay,
Bryan said cautiously.
What if you caught leprosy and your skin started to rot and your nose fell off while you were kissing or something? That’s what can happen, you know. That’s how diseases are spread, Rachel. Through mucus membranes, like the inside of your mouth.
Kiley!
Rachel said sharply, fixing her sister with a glare in the rearview mirror. That’s disgusting! Leprosy? What the hell is wrong with you?
Bryan turned to put his book bag on the backseat beside Kiley. She looked at him passively, curling a strand of strawberry hair behind her ear. She had colored the tips of her hair jet black with a Sharpie the night before and a few streaks of black smudged the tips of her fingers and ear. Noticing the stain on her fingertip, she thrust her hand under her thigh.
She’s just jealous,
Bryan said, his eyes fixed on Kiley but his head tipped toward Rachel in the driver’s seat.
Kiley raised her eyebrows and lifted her chin. I so am not. And it could happen, you know. I saw a whole documentary about leper colonies in Hawaii on television last week. It’s an infectious disease, sis. That means it is catching. That means you could get it from kissing!
We are not going to give each other leprosy, Kiley. I doubt there has ever been a case of leprosy in Greendale.
Rachel pulled out of the driveway and onto the street as Bryan buckled his seatbelt. Ever,
she added, ice frosting the edge of her voice.
You don’t know that for sure. You don’t even get good grades in history. History is the only subject that matters.
Kiley pouted, turning her gaze out the window to stare at the steely grey sky. History is where I belong. And besides, Greendale has had plenty of infectious diseases.
Such as, Ms. Know-it-all-Dark-and-Dreary?
sneered Rachel. She sniffled and wiped her nose with the back of her hand before returning it to the wheel.
Um, see? You just infected the whole town with your boogers, Rachel.
Or just anyone who drives my car, sis. So really, just me.
I’m kind of curious about these infectious diseases Greendale is known for, Kiley,
said Bryan, casting a nervous glance at his girlfriend in the driver’s seat. He tried to signal her with his eyes, but she just kept driving, her eyes fixed on the road.
What diseases have you learned about?
he asked at last.
"Well, there was this cholera thing in 1861 that wiped out half the town. Miss Snellar, that’s my history teacher, she told me that it was because a family froze to death on the far side of the lake and nobody found them until spring.
It’s like this thing I saw on the History Channel about rotgut whiskey where all these medical doctors in the Victorian ages, or whatever, were trying to practice on dead bodies but they couldn’t get any, so all these grave robbers started stealing bodies and stuffing them in barrels of whiskey so they could hide the body when they delivered it to the doctors, right? Only after they delivered the dead guy, the grave robbers didn’t want the whiskey to go to waste so they totally drank it. Sick, right?
She grinned, eyes glittering.
Anyway, everyone got sick from all the dead body germs. Dead bodies, by the way, are called cadavers which I think is a totally delicious name for them. Like hors d’oeuvres, or something yummy.
She licked her lips for emphasis and smiled smugly when Rachel, who had been glaring at her through the rearview mirror, shuddered visibly and averted her gaze.
Kiley went on. So this family just rotted in the town’s drinking water when everything thawed out, and that’s when everybody got sick. Just like grave robber whiskey barrels. All these cadaver bits flaking off and floating around in the water. Blood and viscera–yeah, that’s an SAT word, Rachel. You should know it if you want to go to college the year after next. It means guts, Rachel. Guts. Just spilling out of their bodies and melting in the sun and getting all torn apart by the fish, and—
Kiley, enough.
Rachel’s voice was flat and cold.
Bryan swallowed hard as he stared out the windshield, his hand absently rising to cover his stomach. The streets were bare and a thin layer of frost glistened on the grass along the edge of the road.
I’m sorry I asked,
he mumbled.
Looking a little green, lover boy,
whispered Rachel, grinning.
I notice you’re not,
he said sharply.
Rachel shrugged. You live with the Queen of the Underworld back there, you get used to it.
Kiley chipped the tips of her black nail polish pretending to ignore Bryan’s obvious queasiness as she carried on. And then there was some smallpox outbreak in the nineteen hundreds. Miss Snellar told me it was the worst epidemic of smallpox to ever happen in America. They say some kid brought it back with him from visiting his aunt and uncle in Chesterville and cuz Greendale is totally a valley, all the germs just pitched their tents right in the middle of town. She said it killed a third of the kids in Greendale under the age of ten. The Vatican even sent a special group of nuns to come assist with the victims on account of St. Michael’s being a new parish. Can you imagine? An entire fourth grade class, wiped out?
Rachel rolled her eyes. Don’t be such a freak.
Don’t be such a cheerleader.
What does that even mean?
asked Rachel.
"It means you don’t have to be so sun tan lotion and pep rallies, all the time, sis. Death is a part of life. And besides, if you keep trying to tan
