Migration Patterns: A Dust of the Arena Prequel– Part 4

The Journal of Mortimer Anhingas

October 12th,

The gosling has most definitely imprinted on me. Through a bit of research, I’ve been able to determine that he is male. Against my will, my brain has decided on the name Clancee. It seems like a very dignified goose name and I think it suits him well. I probably shouldn’t be getting so attached…

I was able to get a live experiment waiver– sometimes, being the son of someone so rich and powerful has benefits, even if he is lacking in the fathering department– and now Clancee lives in a little 50 gallon plastic tote with a heating panel, water, and feed next to my desk. He’s watching me right now, seems to be very curious as to what I’m doing.

It’s kind of nice, to have a pet. Companion? He’s not exactly a pet. More like a dependent. But he’s friendly. We’ll have conversations. He whistles, I whistle back. I don’t know what it means, but it seems to make him very happy. I’ll keep working on it. Maybe I’ll be the first man to really crack the code to speaking Goose.

Speaking of codes… my advanced genetics class has now gotten involved with the Altered drama. The professor has connections with the CDC, and since Billington is known for its high rate of graduates who go on to be pioneers in genetics, she was asked to assign us to look for patterns in the cases, see if we can find a common force in what activates the Altered virus. Our research, if it’s well done, will be sent to the CDC and may be a key element in helping fight the Altered virus.

Iris has become downright obsessed with Altereds. Especially the ones whose mind was enhanced with the disease. She wants to go visit that boy in the next town, interview him. I can’t say I’m not tempted to go with her.

And… I did manage to find some source material about what the patriarch of the Anhingas family thinks about all of this. With Iris’s help, I was able to email my younger brother Phineas. Phin says that Dad has invested in a new organization working to contain and attend to those with the Altered virus. Not the CDC, although there are people from the CDC working there. With how much stock Dad put in… he’s got a lot of say and control. I wonder why Altereds interest him so much?

Who am I kidding… it’s for the money. It’s always for the money with that man.

I think the whole Altered thing has really shaken up Phin. He said he missed me at the end of the email. My brother, the too-cool-for-everything Phineas Kayden Anhingas. Any time I come home for holidays he talks about how he can’t wait for me to be gone so he can have the bedroom to himself again and now he says he misses me.

If I’m being honest, I miss him too. Not the ribbing, or teasing, or constant invasion of my privacy, but he’s still my little brother. We’ll never be best friends, but the blood counts for something.

I must go now,

~Mortimer

***

The Mental Observations of Iris Gray

October 12th

It’s raining today, but there’s something very fine about riding in a taxi cab down the cobblestone street of a small British town on a rainy day. Like we’re living in a novel or something.

“Are you sure that this is a good idea?” Mor asks, fidgeting in the seat next to me.

“We’re not going to harass him,” I say. “Just ask a few questions.”

We should be coming up to the house soon. My source said it was the green house just outside of town, and we’re leaving town now, the cobblestone turning into smooth asphalt through browning fields.

“Not like other people haven’t done that already.” Mortimer leans against the window, fingers still drumming on his knee.

“You were the one who encouraged this!” I sputter.

He doesn’t respond, just shifts his jaw side-to-side.

“Just… doing more thinking about it.”

I huff, turning to my window to watch the fields fly by, listening to Mortimer’s rhythmic tapping. Then he turns to me again.

“I don’t want the kid to feel like…” Mor stumbles on his words for a second. “You know… I don’t want to scare him. He’s already really scared. He doesn’t know what’s wrong. And he’s probably had a lot of people asking questions lately. He might seem like he’s handling it well, but he’s still only twelve.” He chews on his thumbnail, side-eyeing me. “Just… remember that when we go to talk to him. Don’t… don’t overwhelm him. Don’t make him feel bad about something that he doesn’t have the power to change right now.”

Understanding, I nod.

“I’ll be gentle with him, Mor, don’t worry. I just want to help him.”

He relaxes a bit. “All right. Just… wanted to make sure we’re on the same page.”

His twitching eases, but only slightly. I wonder how much of his sudden nervousness over this is him remembering questions he must have gotten asked over and over again about his eye and his albinism.

The driver turns down an older paved road, gray with age and riddled with potholes filling with water in the downpour. By the time I have my stuff gathered together, Mor has already paid the driver, slipped out with an umbrella, and has opened the door for me. For someone who trips over his own feet a lot, he can be surprisingly fast.

“Thank you,” I murmur, taking his offered hand to get out of the car.

He smiles. “You’re welcome.”

I forgot my umbrella, so we walk up to the farmhouse together, Mortimer leading the way around the puddles even though with his long legs he could easily step over most of them.

As we approach the gate, a little Border Collie comes running up to us, scattering chickens barking furiously. From his bared teeth, I don’t think it would be a smart idea to keep going.

I look around the farmyard for signs of life besides the animals, and to my relief a woman in her mid-forties steps out, hurrying out to meet us under the cover of a worn gray umbrella. Mrs. Parking, the mother of Ollie no doubt.

“Ash, down girl!” she snaps to the collie, before glancing up at us tentatively. “I’m guessing you’re the students from Billington who called me? Iris and… Mor?” She looks over him with the usual unease of someone seeing anyone with albinism for the first time.

“Mortimer Anhingas, ma’am.” Mortimer switches his hold on the umbrella to extend his right hand. “Pleasure to meet you.”

I hold back a relieved sigh as Mortimer’s meek but firmly polite tone eases away some of Mrs. Parking’s stiffness. She smiles as she shakes his hand. “Pleasure to meet you too.”

“How is Ollie doing?” I ask. “I can imagine all of this is really scary for him.”

The question seems to ease some of her suspicion, replacing it with a mild surprise. “I’m… I’m not sure. He refuses to talk to me. Holes up in his room all day.”

The pain in her voice pinches my heart. “I don’t know how much we can do, but my hope is that by talking to him, we might be able to figure out a way to help other people like him. It’s still in the early stages, so I’m afraid what will come from this is undefined…” I wince, feeling like I’m rambling and not making any sense.

But Mrs. Parking nods. “It’s refreshing to see people trying to help, instead of treating him like a circus attraction.” She unlocks the gate. “Come in, come in. Even if he doesn’t want to talk, you should still come inside for tea. It’s very cold out here.”

“We don’t want to impose,” Mortimer says.

“No, no, no, it’s no trouble. Better than me drinking tea by myself.”

We slip through the gate, Mor still holding the umbrella as Mrs. Parking leads us to the house. As we pass by a little stone wall, a gaggle of startled Sebastopol geese bolts from their hiding spot, honking. Mortimer can’t keep himself from grinning at them, even as they sidle up to us, hissing.

“Sebastopols?” he guesses, and then, seeing some fat gray and white geese, adds, “And Tolouse?”

Mrs. Parking smiles, pleasantly surprised. “Yes. Meat and feather birds. Raised some Pilgrims too, but the coyotes got to them.”

“Shame.” Mortimer turns to the stalking flock,  mimicking the breathy trill of a friendly goose-greeting. Confused, the geese stop, eyeing us. Mor trills again, sticking out his chin a bit like geese do when they meet each other. I laugh as the geese cautiously trill back, gently bowing their heads.

“Should we leave you outside to talk to the geese?” I tease..

Mortimer startles and his face turns bright red, like he forgot we were there. “N-no, sorry. Got distracted.”

Mrs. Parking chuckles and leads us up to the house We take off our shoes by the door, and I hang up my coat, looking around. It’s a lovely house, small, but tidy, and it has the smell of a home that someone is always baking in. There’s a tea kettle whistling and Mrs. Parking bustles into the kitchen to take it off.

“I’m not sure if Ollie will talk,” she says. “But if you give me a minute, I can call him down here.”

“Your home is wonderful,” Mortimer murmurs.

“It’s old,” Mrs. Parking laughs. “But yes, I am quite fond of it myself.”

She sets the tea to steeping, then nods to the living room. “Take a seat. I’ll be right back.” She goes upstairs, calling for Ollie.

Mortimer and I sit down on the sofa, the feeling of invasion crawling across the back of my neck with guilt.

“Maybe we shouldn’t have come,” I whisper.

“Maybe,” Mor agrees. “But we might also learn something that can help us.”

I take a deep breath, and nod.

“Right.”

Mrs. Parking comes back downstairs, a dark-haired, wide-eyed twelve year old boy with her. He’s almost as tall as her, but lanky– nothing at all like someone who could possibly lift a round bale with one hand. He keeps his hands in his pockets, and his hazel eyes scan us, nervous.

“Ollie, this is Iris and Mortimer,” Mrs. Parking says.

His jaw tightens. “If you’re reporters…”

“We’re not reporters,” Mortimer says. “We’re students at Billington. We’ve been hearing the reports and we’re trying to see… if we can do something about the Altered virus.” He licks his lips. “I promise it won’t take very long. We just need to ask some questions, take notes that we can reference later.”

“Our hope,” I add in, “Is that maybe from what we learn about you, we can figure out some next steps in figuring out how the Altered virus works and we might be able to know how to cure it.”

His eyes flicker. “So you’re saying is, I talk, and you might be able to figure out how to get me back to normal?”

“We can’t promise anything,” Mortimer says. “But the only next steps we have is learning more about it.”

He hesitates, then sinks down in the chair across from us.

“Okay. But only a few questions.”

Mrs. Parking smiles. “I’ll grab the tea.”

I reach inside my satchel and pull out my notebook. Ollie is examining Mortimer.

“Did the Altered virus do that to you?” he asks, gesturing to Mortimer’s pale hands.

Mortimer stares at them, then shakes his head. “No. I have albinism. Just born this way.”

“Oh.” Ollie flushes. “Sorry.”

“No worries. These days you can’t really tell anyway.” Mortimer glances at me. “Do you want to go first?”

I nod, clicking my pen. “So… walk me through what happened. Was anything different that day? Did you feel like you had the flu or something similar?”

Ollie shakes his head. “No. It was just… a normal day. We were moving round bales to the cattle pastures, and my friend Jake was over, helping us out. He was working his track loader… it has prongs that make it easier to move the bales. He’d stopped it to move cattle out of the way, but he hadn’t stabbed the bale far enough, and it started to slip off the prongs… he was right under it. I just sort of tackled him, without thinking, and next thing I knew, I was holding the bale, light as if it had been a cotton ball.” His gaze drops to his hands. “I was so scared I fairly threw the thing, screaming.”

I scribble down his narration as fast as I can. “So it just… happened?”

He nodded. “I thought it was a dream. But then the rest of the day I couldn’t… control it. I’d pat a cow and leave a bruise. Broke the gate clean off its hinge. Almost shattered the door coming inside.” He holds up his hands, showing how bruised his fingertips and palm were. “I can’t even clench my hands without hurting myself.”

“You have little control over it?”

“I have no control over it.” He folds his arms, shrinking against the cushion. “I keep breaking everything.”

His expression is stoic, but I don’t miss the tremble in his voice. My heart aches for him so deeply.

“When did the press find out?”

He shrugs. “It’s a small town. Some neighbor probably saw us, and then blabbed about it to the reporters.”

Mrs. Parking comes back with the tea. I whisper a thank you as I take one of the mugs, wrapping my hands around the warm ceramic.

“When it happens,” Mortimer asks, “do you feel any sort of physical difference to using it versus not using it?”

Ollie pauses, thinking for a second. “My body aches a lot afterward,” he admits. “And when I do it, my chest hurts and I can’t breathe as well.”

That’s an odd observation. A twinge of concern settles in my gut.

“Would you be okay if I took your pulse before and after you do it?” I ask.

His brows furrow. “Why?”

“She wants to see how much it affects your heart rate,” Mortimer says. “In case that’s why your chest hurts when you do it.”

He hesitates, then nods. “Okay.”

I glance at Mrs. Parking. “Is that okay with you, ma’am?”

She bites her lip, then nods. “If it helps you learn something, go ahead.”

Pulling my sleeve from my watch, I walk over to Ollie, gently putting two fingers on his wrist. I count the beats, and then turn to Mortimer. “Ninety-two?”

“Is that high?” Ollie asks.

“A little,” I say. “But you’re a bit nervous, so I don’t think you should be too worried. Still well within healthy limits.”

He exhales a bit, then looks around. “What should I lift?”

I look to Mrs. Parking for an answer to that. She stands up. “How about the crate of firewood? I’d say that’s about forty, fifty pounds.”

“Perfect.” I look at Ollie. “I just need you to hold it for fifteen seconds. If your chest hurts too much, say something and we’ll stop.”

He nods, shaking a bit. He walks over to the crate and hauls it up so easily, he almost overbalances, I take his pulse again, and my stomach knots at how fast its going.

Good grief, I was worried about this.

Fifteen seconds feels too long. I can barely count his pulse with how fast his heart is going, and there’s an audible rasp in his breathing by the time we hit ten seconds.

“Put it down,” I tell him the moment we get to 15 seconds. He weaves a little after he drops it, rubbing his sternum. I gently guide him back to the chair, feeling slightly nauseous at the number in my head.

“How much?” Mortimer asks.

I swallow.

“Two-hundred twenty.”

Mrs. Parking pales. Mortimer’s eyes widen.

Ollie shudders. “That’s… that’s not good, is it?”

“No. It’s not.” I bite my lip. “I can’t say for sure, but from what I’m seeing, the virus altered your strength, but not your heart and lungs. When you use the… ability, your muscles are demanding more, but your heart and lungs aren’t equivalent to the power they need, and they start working harder than they can handle.”

The terror in Ollie’s eyes is almost more than I can handle. He sinks back in the chair, still rubbing his chest.

“So every time I use it, my heart might explode?”

It’s a blunt way to put it, but pretty accurate.

“So…” Mrs. Parking takes a shuddering breath. “So what do we do?”

“I’m not a doctor,” I say. “I don’t know if there’s something that could help at the moment… all I can say is not use it. But this is a good starting point.” I glance at Mortimer. “Any thoughts?”

“Definitely see a doctor,” he says. “But yes. Until we learn more, avoid using the ability as much as possible.”

“That’s going to be hard,” Ollie mutters. “I don’t have much control over it.”

That’s the problem of the hour, isn’t it? 

I swallow hard, wishing that there was something else I could tell these poor people. But there isn’t.

“Anything else you can tell us about this ability? Anyone you came into contact with who also had similar symptoms?” Mor asks, taking over.

Ollie shakes his head. “I’m… I’m the only one.”

The loneliness in his voice shreds my heart to pieces and I find myself fighting tears.

I wipe away a few that have trailed down my nose and finish my notes. Mor scoots my mug over and I take a long drink of tea, the peppermint steadying me.

“Thank you,” I murmur. “I… I really do hope we can figure this out.”

Mrs. Parking gives me a motherly smile. “The fact you’re trying to help is a lovely thing to do, especially young people like you two.”

We ask a few more questions and I tentatively try one more test to see how automatic Ollie’s ability is. Unfortunately, it blends with his reflexes and activates even when lifting lighter things. I’m having a hard time keeping my emotions together as we finally bid goodbye and Mortimer and I are standing in the rain by the gate, waiting for the taxi driver to come back.

I rub my face, pinching the bridge of my nose.

He’s going to die.

There’s no other way around it. Unless the Altered virus is cured from his system, his out-of-control superstrength will overwork his heart and lungs.

My chest heaves as I try to keep myself from crying, but as Mortimer looks over and gently slips his arm over my shoulders, the quiet attempt at comfort shatters me. I find myself leaning against him, sobbing harder than I ever really have in my life.

“How are we supposed to help him?” I whimper. “He’s… he’s so young… Mor, if he dies…”

“He’s not going to die, Iris.”

“His heart rate shoots up to two hundred twenty whenever he lifts so much as a sheet of paper!” 

“He’s not going to die,” he repeats calmly, gazing down at me, “because we won’t let him. We’re going to figure this out. We’ll find a cure.”

“We’re high school seniors,” I remind him. “Not PhDs.”

His jaw tightens.

“That doesn’t mean we can’t try.”

“But we–”

“Iris.” With one hand holding onto the umbrella, he turns me to face him. “We have to try. For Ollie, we have to try.”

His resolution is firm and certain, and I manage to take a deep breath.

“Okay,” I nod. “We’ll try.”

And hope that Ollie’s heart holds out long enough for us to succeed.