Chapter 1
Anabellus was only 41 when he died from an apparent viral infection. The illness took almost thirteen days to rip through his body in many agonising and horrific ways. That was twelve years ago and, quite clearly to his own mind, it was the best thing that ever happened to him.
His so-called "last days" were spent being watched over by a research company that was brought out years ago.
Dilectus labs are located on the southwest coast of a large town located fairly far away from any major cities. The practical upshot of this is that it was significantly cheaper to build the research facility than it might otherwise have been.
Dilectus labs are owned and run by Gymus, Smith, Grey & Maxdure. GSG-Maxdure is a large multinational pharmaceutical company formed from a number of smaller companies many of which were founded and grew on the basis of innovation alone.
Smith Pharmaceuticals were responsible for developing the technique that left Dilectus labs as a self-regulatory semi-independent outfit working only to the slight limitation of a findings report every six months. Beyond that, they have been left as an autonomous and self-directed unit.
This has suited the ex-employees of a small development company Dravistrow Ltd very well indeed.
Dravistrow Ltd were originally made up of six men and two women working all the hours their bodies would stay standing for. It had been a small-scale start up and all the staff had been shareholders. These men and women were now moderately well off and free to do as before but with better funding.
Things could only get better.
As Paul Benite palled up in his new convertible across town Margaret Louise Harding was dieing. Her body was eating itself and seemed to be trying to rip her apart. Even as he climbed out of his car to great a day of doing not a lot a sample is travelling by courier to his office.
Dilectus labs had sucked up most of the employable work force for the town and now it was about to pay its dues.
"Morning Sam" called Paul as he entered the reception area "how’s life today?"
"Morning Mr Benite, life's just great at the moment, although the news papers say different again."
"That must be at least six this month." said Paul shaking his head as he passed out of the reception area and into the elevator.
The sample passed park road and turned west toward the lab-complex.
Paul exited the lift and his simple life turned to chaos.
"Paul! We have a situation." said John Baker.
"What's the buzz, guy?" asked Paul his curiosity piqued for a moment.
"Do you know Margaret Harding?" Asked John.
"Uh, yeah. I think so," said Paul, "isn't she that skinny lass with all that black lace and too much eye-liner; writes that god-awful introspective poetry about death and graveyards?"
"That's the one," said John. "Tall, consumptive morticia gothic. My little brother used to have quite a thing for her."
"So, how’s that a situation?"
"She's dieing and no one knows why."
"God! That's terrible. What's that got to do with us?"
"Research case." said John. "The local hospital haven't got the resources to deal with the situation but we have."
"I don't know if you noticed but we don't work for the hospital anymore, John."
"They have a set of samples coming here now. I told them we'd do it."
"Thanks for consulting me" said Paul.
"It was a here and now judgement call... we used to owe them about a dozen favours and we don't exactly have much to put in the report and it's due soon."
"You may be right, but I don't have to like it." said Paul.
"That's my boy," said John, "Sample should be here soon all we're going to do is identify if the cause is any kind of disease and if it might be infectious."
"Don't tell me," said Paul, "six million tests and maybe we'll grow a few cultures just like in the old days!"
"Something like that." said John.
"You never change," said Paul, "Look, I take it we're going to spend the day looking at this girls notes and digging up obscure facts from archives, so I suggest you get Johnny to order some donuts and coffee and I’ll see if I can hurry up that order of new machines.”
"Sounds like a plan," said John, "Alex and the girls will be handling the nitty-gritty with the samples and that but tomorrow the race will be on to identify the cause. It’d be real good if we could get some more computers too."
"we already have two, John, what d’you want more for?"
"It’d be nice not to have to share a terminal given as how we don’t have to budget for them any more."
"I’ll see what I can do. No promises though"
"Oh, Paul, one more thing."
"Aye"
"No need to hurry, the courier is Jackson Dent."
Jackson Dent considered himself to be the best chess player that ever lived but his attention to the job in hand was often the cause of much shouting from employers and co-workers. It is possibly for this reason that he now found himself working as a glorified self-employed "goffa".
Jackson was en route to the big lab complex across town with a package marked simple "VERY Urgent" and decorated with all those semi-mystical hospital simbles. Codes, for something, they were meant to be but they might as well have been ancient runes to Jackson Dent. However he knew enough to know that whatever was in side needed to stay inside if he wanted to get paid.
The labs were only around the corner and it was a reasonably hot day. The law according to Jackson Dent dictated it was time to stop for a drink. A nice cool can of something and maybe a packet of crisps was what a dry old day like today required.
"You're a jerk, dent. A total arse-hole!" The voice of his sports teacher echoed down the ages. It stalked him in the dark moments and harangued him from the shadows of day.
"Tosser!" he told the world at large. "I'm stopping for my diet-coke break and that's the end of it."
"Fat-so!" the voices of a hundred tormenting children called out to him from his memory.
It seemed that whenever he stopped they caught up with him just like at school. The trick there was never stop running and never look back.
"Wankers, the lot of you" he announced and stopped his bike by the newsagents. It was time for a break and maybe just a few chocolates as well.
Just less than ten meters from Jackson Dent's spinning bike wheel lay George Anabellus.
Anabellus was waiting.
Anabellus was hungry and happy and Anabellus was going to be married - his bride was preparing herself.
Since death, Anabellus was having the time of his life.
Jackson dent came back out onto the empty street. It seemed that he always felt thirst when he got to this shop. Somehow, a cold beer made things worse but at least he felt he could stand his ground here.
Jackson had settled for a can of sprite and just two packets of prawn cocktail crisps with a pack of mints for later. Tucked under his arm was a newspaper baring headlines proclaiming that the bloodless killer had struck again.
Some how the sun felt as if it were getting hotter and hotter while at the same time Jackson started to feel a little cold.
"Maybe it’s my open and perceptive mind," he thought, "chances are it’s going to be a changeable sort of day today. Better get going as I might need my rain coat later."
The last stretch of road toward the labs was well known for it’s dryness and to Jackson it was well known for it’s total lack of anything interesting.
At least I will be paid today he thought to himself as he walked along the dullest road on the whole journey. No trees, no alleys, no interesting architecture just endless identical cheap houses tall and gardenless, drained of all colour and placed only to reflect the heat of the day onto the dusty dry road that passes through the heart of the industrial estate. Many of the buildings had long ago been converted even cheaper flats and every third or fourth stood empty, damp, damaged or filled with dangerous squatters.
The old fear from the days of his school gripped Jackson Dent so that he stopped as if a fly trapped in amber.
"You’re a jerk dent, a total arse-hole. If not for you we would have won that match! Why don’t you just crawl away and die?"
"Why don’t you just stick it up your arse?"
"You little dick! I’m going to kick the kick the crap out of…"
"Go away!" screamed Jackson, "You can’t beat on me any more."
"You’re a jerk dent…"
Curtains twitched.
Jackson looked about himself and realised that he had said that last line aloud. He threw himself upon the bike and peddled quickly away.
It was not long that Jackson Dent arrived panting at the doors of Dilectus Labs.
Paul gave him an extra ten pounds as a tip for getting the package to its destination safely and on the right day.
They took the sample and, three days later, the girl was moved to a specially built isolation ward as the lab. In the eleventh day of her illness her heart stopped and would not be started again. She was taken away without autopsy due to the small irritation of something called a "living will" lodged with an all too insistent solicitor.
His so-called "last days" were spent being watched over by a research company that was brought out years ago.
Dilectus labs are located on the southwest coast of a large town located fairly far away from any major cities. The practical upshot of this is that it was significantly cheaper to build the research facility than it might otherwise have been.
Dilectus labs are owned and run by Gymus, Smith, Grey & Maxdure. GSG-Maxdure is a large multinational pharmaceutical company formed from a number of smaller companies many of which were founded and grew on the basis of innovation alone.
Smith Pharmaceuticals were responsible for developing the technique that left Dilectus labs as a self-regulatory semi-independent outfit working only to the slight limitation of a findings report every six months. Beyond that, they have been left as an autonomous and self-directed unit.
This has suited the ex-employees of a small development company Dravistrow Ltd very well indeed.
Dravistrow Ltd were originally made up of six men and two women working all the hours their bodies would stay standing for. It had been a small-scale start up and all the staff had been shareholders. These men and women were now moderately well off and free to do as before but with better funding.
Things could only get better.
As Paul Benite palled up in his new convertible across town Margaret Louise Harding was dieing. Her body was eating itself and seemed to be trying to rip her apart. Even as he climbed out of his car to great a day of doing not a lot a sample is travelling by courier to his office.
Dilectus labs had sucked up most of the employable work force for the town and now it was about to pay its dues.
"Morning Sam" called Paul as he entered the reception area "how’s life today?"
"Morning Mr Benite, life's just great at the moment, although the news papers say different again."
"That must be at least six this month." said Paul shaking his head as he passed out of the reception area and into the elevator.
The sample passed park road and turned west toward the lab-complex.
Paul exited the lift and his simple life turned to chaos.
"Paul! We have a situation." said John Baker.
"What's the buzz, guy?" asked Paul his curiosity piqued for a moment.
"Do you know Margaret Harding?" Asked John.
"Uh, yeah. I think so," said Paul, "isn't she that skinny lass with all that black lace and too much eye-liner; writes that god-awful introspective poetry about death and graveyards?"
"That's the one," said John. "Tall, consumptive morticia gothic. My little brother used to have quite a thing for her."
"So, how’s that a situation?"
"She's dieing and no one knows why."
"God! That's terrible. What's that got to do with us?"
"Research case." said John. "The local hospital haven't got the resources to deal with the situation but we have."
"I don't know if you noticed but we don't work for the hospital anymore, John."
"They have a set of samples coming here now. I told them we'd do it."
"Thanks for consulting me" said Paul.
"It was a here and now judgement call... we used to owe them about a dozen favours and we don't exactly have much to put in the report and it's due soon."
"You may be right, but I don't have to like it." said Paul.
"That's my boy," said John, "Sample should be here soon all we're going to do is identify if the cause is any kind of disease and if it might be infectious."
"Don't tell me," said Paul, "six million tests and maybe we'll grow a few cultures just like in the old days!"
"Something like that." said John.
"You never change," said Paul, "Look, I take it we're going to spend the day looking at this girls notes and digging up obscure facts from archives, so I suggest you get Johnny to order some donuts and coffee and I’ll see if I can hurry up that order of new machines.”
"Sounds like a plan," said John, "Alex and the girls will be handling the nitty-gritty with the samples and that but tomorrow the race will be on to identify the cause. It’d be real good if we could get some more computers too."
"we already have two, John, what d’you want more for?"
"It’d be nice not to have to share a terminal given as how we don’t have to budget for them any more."
"I’ll see what I can do. No promises though"
"Oh, Paul, one more thing."
"Aye"
"No need to hurry, the courier is Jackson Dent."
Jackson Dent considered himself to be the best chess player that ever lived but his attention to the job in hand was often the cause of much shouting from employers and co-workers. It is possibly for this reason that he now found himself working as a glorified self-employed "goffa".
Jackson was en route to the big lab complex across town with a package marked simple "VERY Urgent" and decorated with all those semi-mystical hospital simbles. Codes, for something, they were meant to be but they might as well have been ancient runes to Jackson Dent. However he knew enough to know that whatever was in side needed to stay inside if he wanted to get paid.
The labs were only around the corner and it was a reasonably hot day. The law according to Jackson Dent dictated it was time to stop for a drink. A nice cool can of something and maybe a packet of crisps was what a dry old day like today required.
"You're a jerk, dent. A total arse-hole!" The voice of his sports teacher echoed down the ages. It stalked him in the dark moments and harangued him from the shadows of day.
"Tosser!" he told the world at large. "I'm stopping for my diet-coke break and that's the end of it."
"Fat-so!" the voices of a hundred tormenting children called out to him from his memory.
It seemed that whenever he stopped they caught up with him just like at school. The trick there was never stop running and never look back.
"Wankers, the lot of you" he announced and stopped his bike by the newsagents. It was time for a break and maybe just a few chocolates as well.
Just less than ten meters from Jackson Dent's spinning bike wheel lay George Anabellus.
Anabellus was waiting.
Anabellus was hungry and happy and Anabellus was going to be married - his bride was preparing herself.
Since death, Anabellus was having the time of his life.
Jackson dent came back out onto the empty street. It seemed that he always felt thirst when he got to this shop. Somehow, a cold beer made things worse but at least he felt he could stand his ground here.
Jackson had settled for a can of sprite and just two packets of prawn cocktail crisps with a pack of mints for later. Tucked under his arm was a newspaper baring headlines proclaiming that the bloodless killer had struck again.
Some how the sun felt as if it were getting hotter and hotter while at the same time Jackson started to feel a little cold.
"Maybe it’s my open and perceptive mind," he thought, "chances are it’s going to be a changeable sort of day today. Better get going as I might need my rain coat later."
The last stretch of road toward the labs was well known for it’s dryness and to Jackson it was well known for it’s total lack of anything interesting.
At least I will be paid today he thought to himself as he walked along the dullest road on the whole journey. No trees, no alleys, no interesting architecture just endless identical cheap houses tall and gardenless, drained of all colour and placed only to reflect the heat of the day onto the dusty dry road that passes through the heart of the industrial estate. Many of the buildings had long ago been converted even cheaper flats and every third or fourth stood empty, damp, damaged or filled with dangerous squatters.
The old fear from the days of his school gripped Jackson Dent so that he stopped as if a fly trapped in amber.
"You’re a jerk dent, a total arse-hole. If not for you we would have won that match! Why don’t you just crawl away and die?"
"Why don’t you just stick it up your arse?"
"You little dick! I’m going to kick the kick the crap out of…"
"Go away!" screamed Jackson, "You can’t beat on me any more."
"You’re a jerk dent…"
Curtains twitched.
Jackson looked about himself and realised that he had said that last line aloud. He threw himself upon the bike and peddled quickly away.
It was not long that Jackson Dent arrived panting at the doors of Dilectus Labs.
Paul gave him an extra ten pounds as a tip for getting the package to its destination safely and on the right day.
They took the sample and, three days later, the girl was moved to a specially built isolation ward as the lab. In the eleventh day of her illness her heart stopped and would not be started again. She was taken away without autopsy due to the small irritation of something called a "living will" lodged with an all too insistent solicitor.
posted by Matt the Hat at 11/01/2004 08:15:00 pm
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