Chapter 2 – A random event in a maelstrom of chaos

“Paul, I think you should look at this report.” Said John, marching into Paul’s office.

“Is it really that important that it cannot wait, John? I still have to produce this work of fiction to justify our existence here.”

“This is why you need to read this report, Paul.” Said John

“Why’s that?” asked Paul.

“Look.” Said John. “It’s all in the report. That girl she had some kind of virus, we’ve been toying with it and it’s like nothing else I’ve ever heard of.”

Paul looked up. Now his attention was piqued, something novel would make this report to head office a simple job. “Give me the short version.”

“The virus doesn’t seem to be capable of becoming air borne and it dies readily enough away from a host to infect but it is the way it behaves that is so interesting.”

“Don’t keep me hanging on, man. I know most of that from our work trying to save her.”

“The virus infects a host cell in the normal way but the effect is startling. Sometimes it causes the host to divide and sometimes it reproduces in the way you’d expect a virus to.” John looked hard at Paul. “The new cells are not like the old, they are changed, whole sequences of DNA are completely replaced, it like a form of proactive, retroviral gene therapy gone horribly wrong.”

“Interesting but hardly ground breaking.” Said Paul.

“True but you should see for yourself what happens when they encounter bacteria or another virus.” Said John.

“They have a tea party and exchange pleasantries?” said Paul.

“They attack them. Any threat to the monopoly of this virus is attacked with utter ruthlessness.” Said John with a sense of amazement. “We’ve tested almost sixteen different types of bacteria and, without a single exception, when the virus attacks it - it becomes just a means of a virus making more viruses and with such speed that some bacteria don’t even get a chance to reproduce.”

“Now that is interesting.” Said Paul. “Do you think that…”

“We are already seeing if we can produce a weaker strain that can be used in medical trails.” Said John. “Make believes we may have a cure for Aids and possibly a new handle on cancer too.”

“So,” said Paul, “we may have yet found our miracle drug.”

“Indeed,” said John, “so much so that right now we have a HIV sample that we are about to test.”

“Now that is worth a report mention, thank you John, that was well worth an interruption.”

“Don’t mention it.”

“Ok I won’t, shut the door on the way out…”

“funny man!” said John. “Going to the pub later?”

“Yes I think I might, I’ll meet you there.”

Jackson Dent was sitting at home when he should have been working, he should have been doing something but something was nagging at his mind and all he could think of was that he should be waiting for something.

Nothing made any sense in his head today. The chessman would not line up and the board and nothing would obey its master. He should not have gone down the evil road, it attack him. They had ambushed him; his memories had lain in wait for him.

“Evil stinking arse-wipe memories.” He shouted at the walls of his room.

Jackson Dent shock in silent anger at the memories that haunted his every wakening moment. He longed for the time after the setting of the sun when the memories slept and he was free until dawn.

Another being awaited the coming of night his name was once Jacque D’Jusuit and before that, he had another name and another before that - but he is more readily known simply as The Keeper of The Book.

The records that he keeps are records of histories so secret that possibly no other knows them. They are written in over nine different languages including one known only to The Keeper himself. It is a language of an ancient people who once did many mighty deeds and had songs made about them and were proud and now they are no more. As far as The Keeper of The Book was aware he is the only speaker of this language, but he is also aware that there is a possibility of others.

If there are no new speakers of the language then he will have to teach a new keeper or translate it all.

The Keeper of The Book was waiting for the night in the basement of number 203a of “that road” that Jackson Dent felt so strongly about. The Keeper of The Book waited and as he waited, he worked hard with a cheap a pen and cheaper paper translating portions of the text into Middle English – another dead language but one that he felt comfortable with, knowing there were others that could understand it. The trouble with translating from one language to another is that the older languages often do not have the words to express ideas that the speakers of the language never encountered. The Keeper of The Book was having to invent all too many words for his own liking and some words simply had to become phrases such as the oft repeated “They that believe” which lacked the subtlety of the original but kept the main part of the meaning.

The room in which he worked was damn and ill made. An inch of water covered the floor and the brickwork had a fine white powder covering it. The main parts of The Book were on a high shelf wrapped in a Safeway carrier bag inside a wooden lead-lined box. The portion of text he was working from was a photocopy a marvel of the age that he simple never ceased to enjoy.

All the furniture of the room was just an old cupboard with the table and an old church chair. All were covered in mildew and the cupboard was made of chipboard that had blown quite completely in the constant damp.

The only light in the room came from two large candles that spluttered endlessly. The all-invading damp smell was somewhat masked by the constant burning of incense sticks of all kinds.

He had been through many hardships and this current dwelling barely gathered his attention but for the smell that he would always have to seek to mask. He failed to notice the dripping or the occasional splash.

He has come to this town to observe history that is not told, history that is simply recorded. There was a time when there existed a great number of what might be called monks. Their very existence was dedicated to the recording of events and the understanding of secret histories.

As he understands it, only he is left and only he carries a complete copy of The Book.

In the room above on the ground floor of this badly made building a man sits drunkenly in front of a TV set that does not work. He fails to notice the smell of damp or the smell of incense that swamps his room. Jacque knows that he has made a wise choice for his current accommodation.

Outside the building, as The Keeper of The Book writes adding a tenth language to The Book, a man is passing. His name is not known even to himself. He moves unthinkingly by the influence of post-hypnotic suggestion. He is going to steal a valuable box from an overly rich man. The only problem is this item does not actually exist.

“Ok we’re off now, you coming” said John sticking his head around the door of Paul’s office.

“Not just yet,” said Paul, “I must get this report dealt with. Then we can sit back and enjoy another six months of carefree research.”

“The girls have been waiting ages.”

“I’ll meet you there.”

“Ok, man” said John and he was gone again.

Across town, Angelina Borden woke up.

“Crap” she said, and sat up. She should still be asleep, she was not exactly getting enough at the moment but it was nice and light outside. This wakefulness was just the final straw for her.

“Damn it.” She said. “I must be the only night worker that can’t sleep days or night.”

She considered her options. She vaguely remembered getting regular mailings from the bank and they had stopped being red… perhaps if she got an overdraft she could quit the silly night job and do something a little more worthwhile?

She lay down to ponder that thought.

The nameless man is walking along. His mind filled only with blankness and the occasional image of pigeons. He moves unnoticed in the late afternoon sunshine.

Jackson Dent passed the floor of his room. Something was wrong about the story in the newspaper. He had read it three times now and something was wrong. No player would put his peaces out like that without it being a trap but a trap for whom and why?

The man who knew not his name walked on. The lab was close now and soon he would be there. He felt no emotion in that thought and it passed from his mind like water.

Paul Benite typed on and one by one lights went out but he did not even notice so engrossed was he in his work.

He did not notice the light that went back on either.

He did notice the sound of breaking class.

“What the bloody hell?” he asked.

He left his office and headed down the hall. The sound seemed to come from lab five which was the one closest to his office.

The light was on which was strange. As he drew closer, he began to feel extremely uneasy. The lab door was open.

Inside the lab itself, Paul could see glass on the floor. A bottle had fallen he bent to pick up the glass.

“Damn it!” he yelped. Pulling his hand back, “that’s bloody sharp.”

A shape stepped out from behind the door and hit him.

He awoke on a stretcher being placed into an ambulance. He saw the face of Mark from technical support.

“You’re going to be fine, mate” Mark said.

“What happened?” asked Paul.

“Break in.” answered Mark.

“I cut my self.” Said Paul slowly. “I cut myself in lab five where John works.”

“It’s only minor.” Said Mark. “You’ll be fine, mate.”

“John, had live HIV samples in his lab.” Said Paul as the suddenness crept up on him. “We’ll have to have a full inventory taken and blood tests.”

“Shit.” Said Mark and turned away. Mark looked down at the cut on his thumb. He had been the one to clear away the glass. He had gotten lazy, thought he could ignore a biohazard label. “Bollocks” he said and walked away.

“Hey, Mark what’s up man?” called Paul, “I need some answers.”

The paramedics continued to load him into the ambulance as one injected a mild sedative. The damage to his head and face was going to take some work.