Doctor Vector drew a cup of water from a lab sink and swallowed two Tylenol. He’d come down with a bad cough and a headache, was feeling unaccountably tired, and he had this persistent itching, especially under his armpit. He’d been putting in long hours for months now and it was beginning to wear on him. Worse, he’d somehow allowed ticks to escape from the garage lab, despite all of his painstaking precautions. What had he done wrong?
He forced the second-guessing out of his mind. The past could not be undone. He had to focus on the future. His work would soon be finished and then there would be plenty of time for rest. It was coming down to the wire. Now it was time for another feeding, to fatten up his charges, to prepare them to go into battle as healthy and well-fed as possible. A wry, apt expression popped into his head: An army marches on its stomach.
And it was a war, he reminded himself.
He looked around his new lab, deep inside an abandoned warehouse in South Philly. Roomy enough, but kind of cobbled-together compared with his old lab by the farm house. Still, he couldn’t complain. With the help of those idiot goons, he’d quickly cleared out the old lab and resurrected a new one here. Too quickly, in his opinion. But he’d had to move fast or see the destruction of his research.
He placed the empty water glass in the sink, but as soon as the glass thunked against the sink’s steel basin, Doctor Vector felt the itch under his arm yet again and froze. His heart began bucking wildly in his chest. A thin film of sweat broke across his brow. The lab around him dropped away as his mind connected the dots of the past few days. Headache. Coughing. And this itch—this infernal itch. He tore off his lab coat, pulled his t-shirt over his head, and twisted the skin of his armpit closer to his face.
Idiot! he screamed silently at himself. Another mistake, made in haste. In his rush to clear out the garage lab he’d let down his guard, had failed to rigorously follow the careful protocols he swore by. And now here was a tiny tick, embedded in his skin, swollen with his blood.
How had it happened? he asked himself, knowing already that it didn’t really matter. Had he neglected to count every tick during the transfer, including those that were in the process of feeding? Had he failed to securely cap a container? Had he somehow missed a newly hatched larva or just-molted nymph? But he knew it made no difference how old the tick was. At any age it would be a teeming reservoir of Kandahar virus, which was now undoubtedly in his system, coursing through his bloodstream, making its way into his liver, his kidneys, his heart, his brain. The worst symptoms would show up soon. The cough and headache he had now were nothing compared to losing his mind and bleeding out. Did this also mean sure failure of the mission?