We’re Not Supposed to Cheat Death – It’s Part of Life

Senator Marcus Cicero walks through the Garden of Senators, one of Washington D.C.’s most popular attractions. He pauses at the statues of his father, Lucius, and his grandfather, Julius.

He squeezes his hand, hoping to relieve the numbness that has taken root in his fingers.

“It won’t be long now.”

Marcus vigorously shakes the hand of a young constituent but feels nothing.

The young man beams at the charismatic, dark-haired politician.

“Your speech was magnificent. Senator. It reminded all of us that even though we conquered the Siberian Plague, we can’t stop looking for ways to live past forty. As the only person on record to do it, what’s your secret?”

Marcus lets out a long, exasperated sigh.

“Stress management.”

Smiling as if he’s discovered the Fountain of Youth, the young man pumps his fist as he walks away.

“Dang it,” Nick Toon, Marcus’ driver utters under his breath.

“Problem?”

The brawny, half-Cherokee’s skin turns crimson with embarrassment.

“Oh, no, Nick. Did you lose another pool?”

“Yeah. The money was mine until the last dude asked.”

“So, how many times today has someone asked me what my secret to longevity is?”

“So far? Seven.”

“Your father ran a casino. You know gambling is seldom profitable. If you want to make the most of your forty years, Nick, you should pursue your passion.”

“You mean my pursuit of the perfect slice of pecan pie?”

“Absolutely,” Marcus replies. “There’s a new place, ‘Pie in the Sky’ near midtown that we can try.”

Marcus wrings his hands.

Nick gives him a troubled look.

“Just a cramp. Nothing to worry about.”

Marcus stirs cream into his coffee.

“Dessert for lunch. If my doctor knew, he’d turn in his stethoscope. Or maybe he’d make everybody eat pie in the hope it’ll make us live longer.”

Nick samples his pecan pie. “I’ll sign up for that prescription.”

“So, what’s the verdict?”

“Just the right amount of vanilla.”

Marcus picks up his cup of coffee. It promptly slips from his hand, clanging off the table.

“Is this gonna be a regular occurrence, boss?”

“Don’t worry about it, Nick.”

“Are your fingers still numb?”

“Just a little bit.”

“So, you’re just gonna ignore it? Enditalis doesn’t go away until you do, and I don’t want to lose my fellow pie taster.”

Cursing with each step, Secret Service Director Turpin Bayha limps to the second floor of his lonely home.

Although childhood polio stunted his growth, Bayha’s austere attitude and single-mindedness have made him a political giant.

Bayha limps into the spare bedroom where his wife, Marjorie, lies in cryogenic sleep to stave off the final stages of Enditalis.

Bayha presses his small hands against the cryogenic capsule’s cold metal, looking through the glass dome at his wife’s solidified but still angelic features.

“I swear, we’re going to find a cure. Then things will be like they were. We’ll be Washington D.C.’s power couple again. We can have that family we talked about.”

Marjorie and Turpin had met in college. At first, Turpin was convinced that Marjorie’s sorority sisters had put the 5’ 9” beauty up to asking the 5’ 4” crippled gnome as a joke. While Marjorie wasn’t his match physically, she was a chemistry major, an editor for the school newspaper, and as nerdy as he was.

They married at twenty-four when they were both accepted as agents into the secret service.

“…We were going to rule D.C…,” Bayha laments, remembering the day their dreams turned into a nightmare.

“This may pinch a bit,” Harriet Quimby, the head researcher for Sinvac says, smiling nervously at Quincy “Bulldog” Butler, a serial killer who, in exchange for more jailhouse privileges, has volunteered for an extended life experiment.

“Is he all doped up?” Special Agent Paul Page asks.

“Yes. He should be a little drowsy for a few hours.”

“That’s the way we like him,” Page replies. “Mind if I use your office phone? Apparently, ours don’t work underground surrounded by reinforced concrete.”

As Agent Page leaves, Field Agent Marjorie Bayha jokes, “Some ‘Special Agent’ you are.”

She turns back in time to see Bulldog choke out Harriet Quimby.

The second researcher screams for help. Bulldog throws her against the wall with such force that she breaks her nose and jaw, leaving a streak of blood running down the wall to her crumbled body.

Picking up a syringe, Bulldog charges across the room, sweeping Marjorie up into a headlock before she can draw her weapon.

“Please, I’m a newlywed! And I’m new to the job!”

“Pretty obvious, or I wouldn’t’a got the drop on ya.”

His gun drawn, Agent Page blocks the doorway, abetted by two Sinvac security guards eager to fire their weapons.

“You think you and a couple of rent-a-cops can stop me, pudgy?”

One of the overanxious guards fires a shot at Bulldog.

“This may pinch a bit,” Bulldog says, plunging the syringe into Marjorie’s neck.

The serum wouldn’t have harmed Marjorie if she wasn’t allergic to some of its contents. As Agent Page and the guards ventilated Bulldog, Marjorie fell to the floor and into a coma. Instead of vaccinating Marjorie from Enditalis, the experimental serum accelerated her contracting the disease.

Marjorie was hidden away in the spare bedroom for a decade. Turpin climbed to the top position in the Secret Service, his every move designed to bring his wife back to him.

Dr. Beverly DeForrest checks her readout.

“Everything’s normal except for your elevated heart rate.”

“Maybe stress is the key to extending life,” Marcus jokes.

“Then we’ll both live to a hundred. Our bodies are only supposed to last for forty years. You’ve exceeded that by two years. You’re a miracle, and I don’t know why.”

“I’m lucky, or at least I was,” Marcus replies, covering his shaking hand.

“You’re finally breaking down. We talked about what happens when the body reaches the stage of Enditalis. The shaking and numbness in your hand is just the beginning. It’ll spread. Your body will feel like it’s made of cement. You won’t be able to feel your feet, then you won’t be able to walk. Your organs will atrophy as well, and you’ll literally turn to stone.”

Turpin Bayha and his men gaze in awe at Blossom, a seven-ton African Bush Elephant, as it stuffs a combination of fruit and grass in its mouth.

“And you thought they just ate peanuts,” Agent Thorn Colero says to Agent Stone Cargil.

The broad-shouldered agent lifts his sunglasses, exposing his copper-colored eyes. “Right now, I’m more concerned with whether she eats meat. That chain holding her leg in place looks flimsy.”

“The seems a bit far-fetched. Are you sure this is going to work?” Bayha asks.

“Didn’t I modify the DNA of twins before they were born?” Dr. Myles Boltman, head researcher for Sinvac replies. “Didn’t I discover new methods to promote the transvection of cells?”

“Didn’t those experiments fail?” Thorn whispers to Stone.

“Why an elephant?” Bayha asks.

Dr. Boltman’s grey eyes brighten. “If we can reverse Enditalis in something five times the size of a human being, then we know a much smaller dosage of the serum will work on us.”

“Proceed.”

Three men in lab coats and wearing protective masks wheel out a cart containing a stand and a large syringe. They mount the syringe on the stand. One of the men pulls a lever on the stand as the trio quickly backs away.

The syringe is propelled at Blossom, hitting her in the hindquarters. Raising her trunk, Blossom trumpets loudly, spraying Bayha, Dr. Boltman, Thorn, and Stone with her undigested meal.

Wiping the goo from his face, Bayha states, “This had better work, Boltman, or you’ll be the next subject.”

“And an elephant never forgets,” Thorn whispers to Stone.

Raising her chained leg, her tusks pointing in the air as if she were on the attack, Blossom suddenly freezes.

“It’s already taken effect,” Dr. Boltman says confidently.

Blossom’s grey skin turns ivory white, matching the color of her tusks.

“Full Enditalis. Her body is as hard as stone.” Dr. Boltman says. “Now the disease should begin to reverse itself.”

A series of short, explosive sounds follow.

A piece of Blossom’s alabaster-colored skin falls off. Other pieces crackle and fall to the floor.

Blossom’s massive body crumbles, turning into a pile of fine white sand.

Bayha looks at the large syringe, then at Dr. Boltman.

Marcus pulls his inconspicuous Honda close to the former offices of the Petry Factory. The factory has been empty for half a dozen years, making it an ideal location to hide someone on the government’s wanted list.

“What did you bring me?” Ingrid Stevens asks, opening the heavy door.

“A brush to straighten out that frizzy blonde hair of yours,” Marcus responds. Taking the knapsack off his back, he hands it to her.

“What’s the matter? Don’t you like the 1960s hippie look?” Ingrid asks. “Besides, denim shirts and jeans look allow me to fit in with the crowd. I look like I run a fruit stand.”

“I told you not to leave the building.”

Ingrid examines the supplies, whistling at a large jug of Clorox. “Relax. I only went to a farmer’s market to buy some fresh vegetables for myself and herbs for your serum.”

Ingrid notices his trembling hand.

“How long has that been going on?”

“A day or two.”

“You should see a real doctor to confirm it.”

“I know what it is, Ingrid. When the hand’s not shaking, it’s numb.”

“We slowed it down for two years. It’s been five for me,” Ingrid says. “I think it’s because I’m a strict vegetarian…If I’d only been there when they created the vaccine…”

“A quarter of the world’s population had died, They had to act.”

“Yes, The vaccine offered the world a miracle cure from the Siberian Plague. The survivors were given the gift of perfect health. No more colds or diseases. But in exchange, our life expectancy was shortened to forty years.”

“All the world leaders agreed,” Marcus notes.

“The real decision-makers were dead. The people who said yes were in their twenties. Forty seemed a long way off.”

“That’s why I came to you. I wasn’t ready to die.”

“I’ve tried everything. Nothing counteracts the effects of Enditalis. You didn’t die at forty, but you don’t have much longer. Maybe we’re not supposed to cheat death – it’s part of life.”

“It’s ironic that my extended life has brought me fame, while you’ve had to hide in the shadows like a criminal,” Marcus says.

“It’s the difference between being a politician and a researcher. You’re a public figure. You’re a living example of hope. Non-governmental research to find a cure has been banned so they can control it. My fellow researchers have either died or Bayha has hunted them down. I expect he’ll find me again soon.”

“Not if I can help it. It wasn’t until you were captured that I understood the importance of your work, which is why I hired those mercenaries to break you out and hide you from Bayha.”

Marcus suddenly freezes, looking at Ingrid with distress.

“More symptoms?” Ingrid asks.

“I’m worried for you. What’ll happen to you when I die?”

“I’ll open up that fruit stand.”

Shaking his tingling hand, Marcus exits the warehouse. He’s about to get in his car when a black Suburban SUV pulls up, screeching to a halt. Another modified SUV blocks his escape. An armored car lurches to a halt nearby and a phalanx of fully armed men charge the factory.

Bayha steps out of the first SUV.

A bright leer crosses Bayha’s features as he limps toward Marcus.

“I knew you’d lead her to me eventually.”

“You knew she was treating me?”

“I spoke with your doctor, who was more than happy to fill me in on your state of health. Your elevated heart rate gave you away. Beztrim elevates the heart rate. It’s found in beets. Beets have been scarce for a century, ever since the plague. Only a few places sell them. Farmer’s markets, for example. I did some shopping at the market in Obama Square recently. Guess who was buying beets? We can’t let private citizens control humanity’s destiny. That’s our job. Senator Cicero, you’re under arrest for harboring and abetting a fugitive.”

“So, what do you plan to do with me? Dissect me?”

“Not me personally, no. Although I might reserve the right to make the first cut. No, you’re going to help the government get it right this time.”

“This time?”

 “Strange how the President names a bridge and a hospital after you for outlasting the rest of humanity, yet he’s never confided in you about how the plague started.”

“Through rats, just like the Black Plague.”

Bayha snickers. “That explanation works every time. It’s ironic that Ingrid Stevens is trying to extend humanity’s life expectancy past forty. Before the plague, when most people lived to eighty, her grandfather worked on a serum that could extend life. A foreign operative planted in his lab stole it. His people modified it and tested it out in a small village in Siberia. Instead of extending life, it ended it. And instead of incinerating the test subjects, those commie numbskulls buried them. A couple of grave robbers dug them up. They got sick and ended up in Novosibirsk, which had a population of 1.6 million. Within two months, it was half of that.”

“That wasn’t Ingrid’s grandfather’s fault. And he was part of the team that created the vaccine that ended the Siberian Plague,” Marcus notes.

“True, but the problem remains that even with annual boosters, everyone, except you and Ingrid, have died by forty. So, now, instead of trying to keep the two of you alive, Ingrid is going to work for us to create a serum so my wife and I will live past forty.”

“What about everyone else?”

“What about them? Most of the people I’ve met aren’t deserving enough to live past twenty, let alone forty.”

Marcus notices Bayha’s right hand is quivering.

“You’re thirty-nine, aren’t you Bayha? You’re afraid to die.”

Bayha stuffs his hand in his pocket.

“I’ll outlive you, Cicero. I guarantee it.”

Several days and tests later, Bayha checks on Marcus’ condition. Before entering his room, Bayha gives Thorn and Stone a probing, dead stare and agents recede into the hallway.

Leaning heavily on his cane, Bayha takes several belabored steps toward Marcus’ bed.

“Having trouble walking?” Marcus asks, his voice a coarse whisper.

Bayha laughs vindictively at Marcus’ outstretched form. “Stand up and say that. What did you say, you can’t? The last several days haven’t been kind to you. You don’t even know if you have arms and legs anymore. By now you’ve lost all feeling below your shoulders. Your arteries and organs are hardening. It’s becoming harder to breathe like you’re sucking air through cement. The Enditalis has taken control. In a matter of hours, you’ll be frozen solid, a statue.”

Marcus notices Bayha’s left hand is a gnarled fist, and that the left side of his face is frozen in a clownish half-smile.

His tongue thickened by the disease, Marcus struggles to speak. “I see that Enditalis has you firmly in its grip too. What happened? You tortured Ingrid but she still wouldn’t give away her secrets?”

“Funny thing about interrogation,” Bayha sneers. “Some people can handle any form of torture. When I told Stevens her grandfather had created the serum that led to the Siberian Plague it was too much for her. We found her hanging in her room.”

Gasping for air, Marcus manages to whisper, “…I’m sure you gave her the rope…Ingrid was the only person who could have helped you… You’re as dead as I am.”

A tear forms in the corner of Marcus’ eye.

Agents Thorn Colero and Stone Cargil rush up the stairs of Bayha’s porch, confronting Ada, his panic-stricken caretaker.

“He’s locked me out!”

“How? He’s an invalid stuck on the second floor,” Thorn notes.

“He’s able to run everything in the house by remote control, including the locks.”

Thorn and Stone bang their bulky bodies against the door until it springs open. The two agents run up the stairs, shadowed by Ada.

Bayha’s bedroom is empty.

Ada’s scream sends them running into the spare bedroom.

Bayha is in his wheelchair, slumped over Marjorie’s cryogenic bed.

It takes both men to push Bayha’s solidified body back in his wheelchair.

“He told me his wife died ten years ago,” Thorn says.

“He’s kept her on ice all this time?” Stone asks, looking at the bewildered caretaker.

“There was an old theory that you could cure Enditalis by freezing someone,” Ada replies.

“Ten years is a long time to wait to get healthy,” Stone comments.

“Not to her,” Ada says. “Majorie is literally frozen in time.” 

Thorn looks at the control box.

“The power’s off. The chronometer says it’s been off for an hour. Bayha must have turned it off before he died.”

“So, if I can’t live, you can’t either,” Stone comments. “Typical Turpin Bayha move.”

Thorn looks down at the glass.

“Fog.”

“What?”

“The glass is fogged up.”

Thorn pulls out his Glock service pistol. Bringing the butt end down on the glass until he smashes it.

“What are you doing, Thorn?”

Majorie coughs, opening her eyes. Her hardened, porcelain-colored skin begins to turn pink.

Nick sits on the bench facing the statues of Marcus, Lucius, and Julius Cicero.

“Hi, boss… I wanted you to know they’ve found a cure for Enditalis, and get this, it was because of Majorie Bayha… I found this great place, Marcus. It’s called ‘Miss American Pie’. They’re now at the top of my list for the best slice of Pecan Pie…”

For a moment, Nick is certain he sees a tear in the corner of Marcus’ statue.