Deadly Design (9780698173613) (16 page)

“Will you kill me? That might be nice, actually,” he says. “The pain of this is getting to be a bit much. But do you really want to spend your final months caged in a cell? I should highly doubt that.”

“You're crazy.” It's all I can say as my legs start to buckle beneath me, and I push him away. He teeters but somehow manages to continue standing, his hands cupped over his cane.

“On the contrary,” Sharp says. “I'm quite rational. I'm not doing this for my own gain. I'm doing this to save humanity.” Sharp's skeleton chest tries to inflate, but the very act of filling his lungs with air causes him to cough violently. “Seven billion people,” he says, drawing out each word as he tries to catch his breath. “A mere three hundred years ago, the world was home to less than one billion people. At the current rate of population growth, we'll see catastrophic levels of pollution, starvation, disease, climate change. All life on Earth will be in danger of extinction, including human life. Something has to be done.”

“So, what, you plan on giving every person on Earth an expiration date?”

“Yes,” he says, matter-of-factly. “Well, my successor will. I'm far from perfecting my research, but I'm hopeful that the doctor I turn it over to will succeed.”

“But how? That's impossible.”

“Do you know how HIV works? It uses the DNA in our cells to not only replicate itself, but also to actually plug the virus's genetic information into the cell. It's quite a remarkable process, and it's this process that will deliver my genetic sequences into billions of people. We simply have to bind it to a common virus that replicates itself in the same manner as HIV. It will enter the body, alter the genetic structure of cells, and eventually be passed down from generation to generation.”

“But HIV doesn't get passed on genetically, so why would your virus?”

“It's not the virus that will be passed on, but the genetic sequence loaded into the cells, the sequence that will level the playing field. It will be inherited just like a child inherits eye color or height. Within a generation or two, people will all get the same amount of time. Say . . . sixty years—barring any accidents, that is. Get hit by a delivery truck in an alley, and it doesn't matter what your DNA says.” He looks at me, his black eyes narrowing. And I know he's thinking about Scott Stiles, his former employee.

“You seriously want to make billions of people drop dead when they turn sixty?”

“I know—sixty may be too long. Especially considering the current levels of water contamination. Might be best to cut it back to fifty years. Just think, no more overpopulation, no more sick, elderly people draining the system of resources. Health care costs will plummet, and it will be so much easier for individuals to get their affairs in order, because they'll know exactly when they are going to die. I know it's hard to truly see my vision, but I assure you, it's the only way to save humanity from itself. In the end, every species wants to survive. But sometimes it takes someone of strong mind to help lead the way.”

“Then why create an immortality sequence?”

He considers me with eyes so clear, so alive in contrast to their decaying frames. “To see if I could, of course.” His smile carries a hint of sadness. “We are going to die. I suppose we could make a race of it, but I think I have an unfair advantage.” He tries to laugh but starts coughing instead. “It's best we both accept our fates.”

“I'm sixteen, and you want me to accept that I'm going to die?”

His slight cough intensifies, becoming more and more out of control. He takes a white handkerchief from his pocket, holds it over his mouth, and I watch as white turns to red.

I feel nothing, nothing but a burning sensation in my eyes, as if the fluid that constantly bathes them has been turned to acid. My legs are gone. Even my heart seems to be frozen in silent disbelief. I am nothing but eyes looking at a half-dead man and feeling the angry spirits of dead teenagers all around me. They didn't want much. They never asked for perfection of mind or body. They just wanted to breathe, to feel, to live. That's all I want.

“Connor was a great person,” I say, and I see him, his smile and charisma. “James was amazing too. Triagon had a great sense of humor. I never got to meet him, but I know from his blog. Alexis and Hannah and”—I feel a special stabbing in my chest—“Amber were beautiful, gifted women. You had no right to kill them. And you have no right to kill me. At least give me a copy of your research. Maybe I can find someone who can use it to save me.”

“I will give this part of my research, my very sacred research, to the person I deem worthy of continuing it. But no matter who that person is, he or she won't be able to help you. There simply isn't time. I'm sorry. And just in case you're wondering, it's quite secure. No one will be able to access it without my consent.”

“I'm begging, all right? Is that want you want? You want me to beg to you like you're God? Okay. Fine. Just help me!”

Dr. Richard Sharp walks toward me on thin, faulty legs. When he's close enough, he stops and places his palm against my chest. “Your heart
will
betray you.” He turns and walks toward his bed. “I'm getting tired,” he says, sitting on the edge and sliding his feet out of his slippers. With great effort, he reclines against the mattress. “Can you send in the nurse on your way out? I need my pain medication.”

I walk to his bedside and am surprised that his eyes are closed. I could easily lean over him, take a pillow from the bed, and press it to his face. He wants to win the race, why not let him win now—today. He deserves to die. But he's right, I don't want to spend what time I have left locked away. I want to spend it figuring out how not to die. I'm not going to die. I refuse. I don't care what he says. He's not God. I'll figure it out, then once I do, I'll figure out what to do with the next two or three hundred years.

C
ami's asleep. She tried to fight it, tried to hold her eyes open and keep me company on the way home from James's funeral, but about an hour from town, she lost the battle. Truth is, I'm kind of glad. I needed quiet. I needed, still need, time to process everything.

Seeing James displayed in the entryway of the church was . . . I still can't believe it was real. There was a receiving line like after a school play, when all of the actors line up in the hall so people can congratulate them on a job well done. But no one was congratulating James on his heart attack. No one was shaking his hand or embracing him, or even talking to him. They just filed past. Some tried to look at him, but turned quickly away as they wiped their eyes. Others stared for a long time, like they were waiting for his chest to rise, for his eyes to open, for his mouth to curve into one of his glorious grins.

Cami looks so peaceful sleeping, but I keep looking at her chest, making certain that it's rising and falling, because Death seems to be everywhere now. He stands beside me, and if he gets bored, he might just reach out with his scythe and take her or Mom or Dad. He might as well take them if I die. They won't live through losing another child.

I haven't told anyone about my conversation with Dr. Sharp. Cami wanted to know everything, and I told her that he's working hard, trying to come up with a solution, but that he's old and sick, and maybe she shouldn't get her hopes up. Maybe I should have told her the truth. Maybe I still will, but that morning after I left Sharp's condo, she was so hopeful and I couldn't tell her. Not then. And not today.

“We're home,” I say, slipping my hand into hers.

Cami yawns and stretches her legs out as far as the Smart car's interior will let her. “Sorry I fell asleep.”

“It's okay. It's been a long day. I'm just glad you went with me.”

For a moment, we just stare at each other, then I lean over and softly put my lips to hers. We get out of the car, and lightning bugs flash on and off around the yard.

“You coming in?” she asks.

“Just for a little bit,” I say. We'd left early this morning for Kansas City. I need to go home and see my parents, but I also want to talk to Uncle Jimmy.

He's in the living room sitting on the floor next to Josh. They're playing video games but not
Call of Duty
or
Black Ops.
They're playing
Mario Kart,
racing around on the deck of a cruise ship.

“Who's winning?” I ask.

“I am,” Josh yells, and I have to smile, because Uncle Jimmy picked Princess Peach and Princess Daisy as his characters and they suck. He's obviously letting Josh win. “Will you play me, Kyle?”

“Maybe in a few minutes,” I say. “I kind of want to talk to Uncle Jimmy for a second.”

“I'll play you,” Cami says. “Just let me change real quick.”

Jimmy stands. “Want a beer?”

“He's sixteen,” Cami says, then looks at me and smiles. “But he's mature for his age, so . . .”

“No thanks,” I say.

Jimmy opens the fridge, takes out a bottle of beer, offers me a bottle of water, and I take it.

“You want to go outside?” he asks.

It's nice outside for early August, and the neighbors might be thinking so too. They might be sitting out on their decks or patios with citronella candles keeping the whine of mosquitoes away. They might be able to hear things spoken in neighboring backyards.

“How about your room?”

Jimmy looks at me, intrigued. “Yeah, sure.”

Cami's coming out of her room wearing a large nightshirt. She looks at us, somewhat concerned, as we enter Jimmy's room, and he shuts the door.

The room isn't exactly how I would have expected it. The walls are painted a deep blue, and Spiderman wallpaper borders the ceiling. The bed's small, a single size. The sheets are Spiderman, but not the red comforter that somehow ended up on the floor.

“It's the kid's room. He's sleeping with his dad while I do a little work in the basement. Then I'll head down there, and he'll get his Spidey room back.” Jimmy sits in a kitchen chair next to a folding table with a laptop on it. I sit on the edge of the bed. “Matt wanted me to tell you that he's sorry it took so long. He was really frustrated, and marines don't like being frustrated.”

“It's okay. I know he did his best. Dr. Sharp seems to have some pretty intense security. But there might be more he can do for me, if he's interested.”

Jimmy smiles. “Why don't we ask him?”

He pops open his laptop and starts tapping on the keyboard. In a few minutes, Matt's face is on the screen.

“Jimmy!” he calls, a big grin on his face, then he sees me kneeling in front of the screen. “Hey, Kyle. Man, I'm really sorry about your friend. But I'm glad to see you too. Did you get my message, Kyle?”

“What message? I've been away from my computer all day.”

“At the funeral?” Matt asks. “So rotten. Only eighteen years old. Sucks. But I wanted you know that even though I ran into some major firewalls with that doctor, I think I finally figured out how to get around them. He's got a master computer guy working for him, and let me tell you, he pissed me off when he ‘gave' me the information I've been working my ass off trying to get. But it just made me more determined to hack into their system. And I think I've finally done it. Or at least I'm close.”

“Seriously, that's awesome. I need to find out how to get his research.”

Jimmy looks at me, confused. “I thought you met with him,” he says. “He's trying to help you, right?”

“I met with him, but he's not trying to help,” I say, and now Jimmy knows I lied to Cami. “He planted a genetic code in all of us so that we'd die at the age of eighteen. But he wanted to hurry me along. I'm supposed to die at seventeen. That gives me about four months. And he doesn't care. His experiment was to see if he could kill us, and it worked. But if I can get hands on his research, maybe I can find someone who can help.”

“You are not going to die,” Jimmy says, placing a heavy hand on my shoulder. “Not on our watch. Right, Matt?”

“Yeah,” he says. “If the research is stored in a computer file, I'll find it.”

“He said something about finding a successor, someone to carry on his work,” I say. “If you can access his contacts, maybe you can find out who it is. Dr. Sharp's got terminal cancer. He won't live that much longer. He's looking for someone he can trust to carry on his research, and it's not good. Killing all of us was just the start. This guy wants to kill everyone, and I mean everyone. He wants every person on Earth to have this genetic sequence that will make them die when they're fifty.”

Matt's staring hard, and I can feel the intensity of Jimmy's stare from beside me. “You're fucking kidding, right?” Jimmy says.

“I don't think so,” Matt answers. “I've seen the kind of security this guy has. It's better than some of the military stuff I've run into. Even the phone was some type of special Android that normal programs couldn't hack into. But maybe I can find a path to who he's considering giving his research to.”

“What if Dr. Sharp finds somebody as crazy as he is? Somebody who thinks it's a good idea to put a kill switch in every person on Earth? How can we let that happen?” I ask.

“My dad just turned fifty,” Matt says. “We just had a big party for him. He's still got twelve years before he plans on retiring, and some asshole scientist thinks fifty years is enough. I'll figure it out, Kyle. I promise, man. I will find whoever this is, and we'll get that research.”

Even on the screen, Matt's a good-looking guy. It's Friday night, and he's at home alone on his computer. He should be married now. He should be the golden boy for the military, but he's not. And he's not wearing a button-down shirt like he was at the truck stop. I never asked Jimmy what method Matt had used to try to kill himself. It didn't seem right to. But now I can see the place where a rope had tightened around his neck, had torn through his skin and scarred him. No leg. No sense of manhood, and a constant reminder that there was a time when he didn't want to live anymore.

I like the light I see in Matt's eyes, and I love the determination in his face. He's alive, and for now anyway, he wants to be. And he wants to help me.

“I'm not going to your funeral, Kyle,” Jimmy says. “I've been to enough of those. Matt, if there's anything I can do, you tell me. Anything.”

Matt runs both his hands over his short blond hair and grins. “Commence Operation Save Kyle and Everyone over Fifty.”

I know it's too small of a word. But small words can sometimes be the most powerful. Words like
hope
or
hate
or
love.
And so I say the only word I can think of for this particular situation: “Thanks.”