Plaga Iuventae: A Debt to Pay, Part 2

Another day of cameras, lightings, and sounds. Another crowd gathered, watching and waiting to see what happens next. No, this is not a major news development. This was just a filming for some new live-action series that would garner attention for a short time; and now, any minute, the director would yell...

"Cut!"

I had to wait a few more minutes, as the personnel started migrating from this set to the outside world, going for refreshments or a good cigarette. My person of interest, however, was with the director. He was to relay a message to me.

Wait, you JUST STARTED READING THIS?!

Fair enough, let me reintroduce myself; I am Ian Sung, Korean-born famous journalist now on the hunt for the ultimate story; a one-on-one with Blake Plakkim, the "Plague Doctor".

So, before I involve the director in all this, let me start from where I last left off, with the phone call from Harrold Tooms.

"Ian Sung, the world-renowned journalist. It is an honor to speak to you, sir," cooed the smooth and deep voice of my speaker. "Had a good chat with Mrs. Mayor of Salem?"

I paused. "How did you know that?"

"It was only a matter of time before someone from the media tried to talk to her again, but I had to keep an eye on her and the guard, just in case."

Again, I paused. "What do you mean, 'again'?"

Harrold seemed to inhale slowly. "There is sensitive information that our former employee holds, and the media does have the habit of twisting information into something dramatic. All we're wanting is a bit of decorum, as well as an honest light upon our organization. We never set out to do this...horrible deed. Perhaps there's more to tell that isn't over the phone, or where any ears can hear us?"

"Ah-hah, that's the case then, yes?" I asked. "Should we take this in the homestead?"

"We cannot allow you into our organization, I'm sorry to tell you", remarked Harrold. "But, if the weather holds, I can meet you at our front door."

I sighed. So close, I thought. But, at the very least, I was getting to talk to someone from the organization, albeit under heavy scrutiny and discretion. I got the gang back together, consisting of KC and Camera-Man*, and I went to see Boss. Surprisingly, he was on board with my interview, and practically hurried us out the door with the promise of a bonus. No mention of the letter was made, but he seemed calmer after, I assume, reading it.

One trip in KC's van, and we were at the heavily-fortified location of the organization (why will they not have their damned name made public, the people have a right to know!), where a dark-haired man wearing a nice dark-blue suit was waiting. He looked like a Greek statue, and KC joked that he must be a vampire with the way he gleamed in the sun. I didn't get the joke, but we headed out to greet him.

"Harrold Tooms?" I asked, hand outstretched. When he nodded and took my hand, I continued. "Ian Sung, journalist. This is KC and Camera-Man, they have asked for anonymity. I hope you understand."

Harrold smiled. "We are all about anonymity. We are also about progress, as well as justice. You are looking for information on Blake Plakkim? I don't suppose anyone has already told you how dangerous he can be?"

I kept a level performance, as I have done when facing people like dictators or crime bosses. "I have assumed that a man working with viruses and making a treatment that kills people could be viewed as dangerous, and thus should be treated as such."

"And you would be right, my good man," stated Harrold, "although the depth of his actions runs deeper than you realize." Looking left to right, he leaned closer. "I chose the front entrance here because, until my superiors tell me otherwise, our security cameras and audio recorders are down for the count. Updates, you know. So that means that what I say here is going to be between all four of us." At this, he looked sharply at KC and Camera-Man, both shying away a little (poor Camera-Man almost dropped his camera). "While you may listen, young man, I must ask that you keep both the camera and microphone off until I say otherwise. Is that understood?" When Camera-Man nodded, Harrold turned back to me; "The death toll of the world, thanks to Blake, started within these walls with two former veterans."

"The two veterans Blake mentioned in his final notice?" I interrupted.

"Yes. But what Blake didn't tell you was what he did to both veterans before implementing his 'treatment'; he murdered them both."

This took me aback. "But...he stated that one of the veterans was already dead, and the other...disappeared."

Harrold shook his head. "Mort was in critical condition when he was brought in. Todd, however, was still stable and under our surveillance. Blake was curious about Mort's condition, but when he couldn't get any information about what he saw was a potential gold mine, he made Mort's passing look like it was the initial disease." Seeing my confusion, he answered, "Mort and Todd had Progeria, although it was a mutated form that has never been observed. Blake was sure he could turn the mutation into a reverse-aging treatment, and needed to cover up his tracks." After stating this, he looked at Camera-Man; "So, you can turn your camera and microphone on."

Harrold gave his statement about Blake attempting to reverse aging with a mutated form of Progeria, omitting out the veterans as well as their deaths. There was more, I was sure of it, but I didn't press (no pun intended). We had our interview here, and headed back.

Despite all of our efforts, Boss still remained calm, even expecting our arrival. All material now in the possession of the outlet, a date was set for the broadcast, and I was getting ready to go home when Boss came over to me and seemed to help me with my coat. "Have a good night; tomorrow morning, there's just one thing left to do." I didn't understand what he meant by that until I got in my car and a piece of paper slipped out from under my coat collar. On it was written, "8:30 AM, Portland Center Stage. I shall direct you to my lab."

Another clue in the message?

The next day, an hour's drive found me within Portland. It wasn't hard to get to the Portland Center Stage; what was scary was how easy it was for me to get in - the director was expecting me. Now, I didn't know the director personally; he was some up-comer who started his career by making indie films. Why he was working on a series that hardly anyone would care about is beyond me, and yet here I was, viewed by everyone else as just a famous journalist taking down the story of a rising celebrity.

Eventually, I must do that story, but one step at a time.

When everyone went to lunch, the director hanged up his headphones, came over and sat next to me. "Mr. Sung, the infamous journalist. Welcome to the show."

I shook his hand. "And you are Mr. Trish van Wilkins, the 'Indie King', as Oregon overall calls you."

He smiled. "People will attach a name to anyone so long as it makes a good headline. Hard work tends to make...or break a person."

"You making a drama?"

"A miniseries, but yes. It will garner a bit of attention while I work on a different, and better project. One with a consultant that we're both familiar with." At this he reached into his pocket and pulled out a key. "It's called, 'Viral City'. I anticipate a lot of controversy, but it's just on the floor until I can get this drama weepfest done with, so I'm just literally stalling for time. The consultant is waiting for you; head to the stage."

He then left, and I looked around before crossing the stage. Standing in its center, I waited. One by one, the lights went out. "Ooh, dramatic!" I joked. Then I almost screamed as the floor suddenly gave way and I fell a good twelve feet down onto a thick, foam mattress. My brain was a little rocked, so I had to take a minute to gather myself. When I could finally stand up, slowly, I noticed a line of lights almost like a Christmas decoration heading to a metal door. Walking over to it, I noticed a recently made sign planted near the door, which read, "DISTRESS".

More puzzles. I understood that this "consultant" didn't want to be found so easily, but couldn't he have just given me instructions through the director other than to wait? Testing the door, I found it obviously locked. No keyhole, which was unusual. Perhaps an electronic door? Maybe the consultant was waiting for a knock-

Of course! "Distress", the message on the sign, was also a message for ships to signal for help! Three dots, three dashes, three dots. I decided to try this as a knocking approach; three quick raps, three hard knocks, and three more quick raps. Open sesame.

The door opened to a winding staircase. More downstairs shenanigans, I thought, but I headed down it with great trepidation. After the stairs came a hallway, which split in two directions. A white arrow was pointing to the right side and, for posterity's sake, I took it. Here was an open room, and the sudden sight of everything here after the blatant Hollywood-esque trip I took nearly overwhelmed me.

The ground itself was split into what I could only describe as four large squares: one was carpeted and had a large case of books for its respected wall; one beyond that was what looked like a dirt floor with a forge and various carpenter machinery all around it; the floor adjacent was either linen or marble (it looked slippery), appearing like a kitchen and pharmacy with tubes, microscopes, petri dishes, beakers and eyedrops, along with an oven, a microwave, a fridge, a dishwasher, and equipment I couldn't name out of ambiguity; and finally, a clean wooden floor with a bed, a dresser, an armchair, a table with a couple pillow seats, a tall lamp near the chair and a smaller lamp on the table, and a large T.V with shelves of DVD's lining behind it. As I took all this in, a large thump had me turn to face a large being with a mask coming out of the forge. Fear suddenly gripped me, and I thought of the slasher movies from my childhood.

The being, in question, stopped in its tracks and reached up, removing the mask. It was Blake Plakkim. "Welcome home," he announced. "Want a water?"

I was in the home of one of the most infamous persons upon Earth, wanted in almost every country and district around the world (dead or alive), and held accountable for the death of two billion people. And the devil himself was offering me a cold water from his fridge. "If you need to freshen up, the bathroom's around the corner, past the forge."

This was much to take in, and I almost forgot about what Harrold Tooms said. "I...I...thanks..."

"Surprised?" asked Blake. "During my time with the organization, I took advantage of another renovation being done at The Armory, here. I was making enough money at the time, but I also acquired more information about my project...and my employers." He opened his bottle and downed all of the contents in just ten seconds. "You met Harrold Tooms, I take it?"

Having downed my own water, I felt my nerves become calm. "Yes," I responded. "He had, uh, quite a take on you."

"He tell you I murdered those two veterans?"

The clairvoyant nature of this interruption caught me off guard. "Yes. How did you know?"

"I know Harrold Tooms's reputation as a good liar. His job is to make the organization appear clean and clear, by any means necessary." He set his empty bottle down, and stripped off the heavy clothing. "Excuse me," he said, before heading back to the forge, presumably to the bathroom.

A few minutes later, he headed to the floorboards, to his dresser, and got dressed in something more casual. I never imagined Blake Plakkim, the legendary "Plague Doctor", would be in front of me wearing a dark-green T-Shirt, blue cargo shorts, and bare at the feet. "Come, sit with me," he invited over to the table and sat at one end; I took the other.

"Mort and Todd, two Vietnam veterans, were both exposed to an agent used by their own government as a means to wipe out any resistance between the borders established in the country. The experimental agent affected them both, but unlike their enemy, these two slowed in their aging process until it became stagnant...for over a year. For me, the need to interview them both was strong. Unfortunately, Mort was already dead and Todd was being kept under surveillance. Again, not my fault! By the way...you are writing all of this down?"

I had been too enthralled by all that was happening that I forgot to pull out my notepad. Immediately rectifying that mistake, I also took out my pen and quickly wrote down everything that Blake told me, albeit in a shorthand system. I nodded, and he continued:

"Getting to meet Todd was almost impossible; the hoops I had to jump through just for an hour alone with the man! Well, it was mostly paperwork here and filing there, getting someone a message over to someone else, nothing illegitimate or illegal, as far as I knew. Now, the details of that meeting were already in my recording, I'm sure you and many others have made copies. Here's the rub; Harrold stated that I killed Todd, even though the only things that I was allowed within the vicinity of Todd was a protective suit and a recording device, all within a room holding more cameras than a red carpet event! And he was there up until after I was granted a blood sample from his still-living body!"

"After the reports of the epidemic rolled in, I demanded to see Todd, to get another sample and try to correct my mistake. Yes, I admit to my error in overlooking a crucial part of the treatment. When I proposed the treatment, I was assured that I would be given about a year to work out the kinks; instead, six months had passed and someone upstairs got tired of waiting and decided to send Harrold Tooms to sweet-talk me into the developing stage. I was foolish into believing that we had everything worked out. Harrold assured me that there would be lab tests done with mice first, then dogs, then chimps, and finally humans. Specifically, death row inmates. And when nothing bad happened for two weeks, watching their health spike and their wrinkles disappear, Harrold had me commit to the distribution of the treatment in a needle pushed around the world into many a skin, mostly the elderly. The rest is a history of gravestones and grave tones."

I stopped writing. "So far, you have merely added to what we know now. I gathered that Harrold lied about you murdering the veterans, but you weren't exactly speaking 'sanity' at breakfast, holding us hostage with that case."

"Oh!" he exclaimed. "That was a bluff; there was nothing in it. I figured that was the best way to get your attention, as well as get that letter to your boss."

"What did the letter say?"

"Everything that your outlet needed to tell the world what happened. Also, I outlined to your boss that you were, effectively, finished with my story and now working on the story of the director, van Wilkins."

"What?!" I almost dropped my pen. "But...WHY?!"

There wasn't an answer for about ten seconds, and then Blake leaned closer. "The organization has eyes and ears wherever they can spare them, even at your place of work or around your home. To have them think that their narrative is still ongoing will keep them complacent. Meanwhile, as you go "interviewing" the director on his upcoming project, you will have access to my new lab, and you can bear witness to me clearing my name and work out the final obstacles in my research."

I stopped writing and put my notepad down. "And if I refuse?"

The conversation had been a pleasant one for me up to this point, and seeing the doctor pull out a large hunting knife and spring around to me definitely almost had me running and screaming, but the point was put on his arm instead of me; from my position where I had practically thrown myself, with outstretched hand between me and him, I saw the knife plunge into Blake's arm and cut a deep gash before being pulled out. He held his bleeding arm out to me and remarked:

"You would be missing out."

The wound started closing and, almost as immediately as it was made, all that was left was the blood now drying up on his forearm. Curiosity washed away my fear, and I picked myself up and looked upon this man; he did seem a little different from how he was portrayed by the mainstream. Mad, perhaps, but not insane.

Blake placed the knife back into its sheath and then held his hand out. "You are safer with me than with the organization, or even your own outlet. Your boss knows what to expect, Harrold doesn't. Help me, and I won't give you a story; I'll take you on a journey."

The opportunity could not be missed. I took his hand.