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equipment or studying simulation results on their computer screens. These included several of the leading AIDS researchers in the country, along with top immunologists and experts in bioengineering and computer modeling.
M
etcalf had bought them all of the equipment they’d asked for. All of it state of the art, all of it damn expensive. After two years of them working sixteen-hour days they were still no closer to understanding the vampire virus than when they started—which was a source of constant irritation to
M
etcalf. He damn well wanted results, and if not an outright cure for the virus at least a way to mutate it so that an infected person could eat normal food and not be affected so severely by sunlight. Was that so fucking much to ask for?
Dr. George Chabot led the team. In his previous life he had been a Nobel Prize-winning immunologist. Before becoming infected he was a good-natured roly-poly man in his early fifties who wore thick soda bottle-type glasses and had long sideburns that blended into an old-fashioned style of whiskers—almost as if he were a playing a doctor in a 1950’s Three Stooges short. Like all other vampires he had since lost his body fat. He was now a stick figure compared to what he had been. Also, consistent with the virus his facial hair had fallen out and his skin was now smooth, although in his case his complexion had a waxy unnatural quality to it. The infection did nothing to improve his eyesight and he still wore the same soda bottle glasses as before. With his changed appearance he gave the impression of a turtle that had been removed from its shell.
M
etcalf walked behind Dr. Chabot, who continued to sit hunched over a computer screen, trying hard to pretend he didn’t notice his visitor. Tremors shook through Chabot’s body, and after a minute of this he gave an act of looking startled.
“Oh, it’s you,” Chabot said.
M
etcalf didn’t bother responding. His eyes narrowed as he squinted at the scientific data Chabot had been studying.
“I thought I heard a commotion earlier?” Chabot asked.
Again,
M
etcalf didn’t bother to answer his lead scientist. Chabot and the other scientists, as well as the rest of his staff, probably already knew about his incident with Juliet. They were like old women the way they spread gossip. Chabot in particular had to be nervous. For months he’d been dropping hints how he’d like to spend a few hours on the outside so he could visit his wife and children.
“Any progress yet?”
M
etcalf asked dryly.
“It’s only been three days since you asked me that last.”
“I’m asking again.”
Chabot shrugged. “This virus…it’s unlike anything ever seen before. It defies scientific explanation.”
“That’s not good enough.”
Chabot shrugged again, his neck disappearing. “We’re working as diligently as we can.”
“Again, not good enough.”
“What can I tell you. This virus…the effect it has on the skeletal structure and muscle tissue…its regenerative properties…this is a whole new area for us. At the moment we’re only children groping stupidly in the dark.”
“I want results.”
“We all do, sir. We all do.”
M
etcalf stopped for a moment to run his thumb along the full length of his scar.
“
M
aybe I’ve been working you too hard,” he said. “
M
aybe all of you need a break. Some rest and relaxation.”
“That would be helpful,” Dr. Chabot conceded cautiously.
“It would give all of you a chance to clear your heads.”
“Sometimes that is what is most important in solving this type of problem,” Dr. Chabot agreed, nodding. “Yes, a chance to take a step back, to catch one’s breath.
M
any times that leads to fresh, innovative