Fungus, Part Two

Back in our apartment I called my client. I didn’t tell her what I’d seen. Only that her husband was sick.

“How sick?” she demanded. “With what?”

            I hesitated. “I don’t know yet. I’ll call when I have more information.”

I got the name of the research facility her ex-husband worked for: Fahringer Laboratories, up in Barrington, which—the website told me—specialized in “plant-based solutions to all manner of diseases and disorders.” Jim Gold was listed as a “eukaryotic researcher,” with a link to his résumé. His photo showed a bearded, somewhat portly man with a broad smile.

            I looked at the picture of Gold-as-fungus on my phone. Something had happened to him. Something terrible.

            So I called the lab and asked for Jim Gold. The receptionist told me he was on a leave of absence, and wouldn’t tell me anything about when he was expected back—or what he was working on.

            I checked the time—12:30. Enough time to drive up to Barrington and ask some questions in person.

            Then Rachel came out of the bathroom. “We have a problem. At least I do.”

            The back of her right hand was spotted with fungus.

            “Oh, shit.” I shoved my chair back. “How did that happen?”

            “I don’t know.” She was surprisingly calm. “Maybe when I passed him that beer. I tried to be careful, but . . .” Her voice trembled now, and her shoulders shook.

I stood up, but she darted away. “Don’t touch me! I was washing my hand for fifteen minutes! Soap, rubbing alcohol, everything but Drano, and I might try that next.” She sank onto the couch, holding her arm in the air. “You might have to cut it off.”

“That’s not happening. Remember last month when I was a vampire?” I’d told her to be ready to drive a stake through my chest.

“This is different! You could live as a vampire. Or un-live, whatever. I can’t end up like that—that thing we saw!” She bent down, hyperventilating.

I went to the bathroom and brought out a towel to wrap around her hand, and used duct tape to keep it in place. I checked the Fahringer website again for the address. “I’ll be back.”

“Where are you going? And how do I work the TV remote with my left hand?”

            “You’ll figure it out.” I leaned down to give her a kiss. Without touching her, it was the least satisfying kiss ever. “I’m going to get some answers.”

             

I might have broken the speed limit on my way up to Barrington. Getting off the highway, I definitely rammed through some yellow lights. At least I didn’t hit any cars in the Fahringer parking lot.

            I locked the Honda, took a deep breath to steady my nerves, and headed for the front door.

            The Fahringer building had three floors, but it took up a lot of ground space. The entrance was all glass and steel. The second floor had tinted windows, shades pulled down and shut tight. The third floor windows were completely blacked out.

The doors on the ground floor looked solid enough to stop bullets. They slid aside and I made my way to the front desk. A second set of sliding glass doors waited beyond.

            A young African-American man smiled as I approached. “How can I help you, sir?”

            Breathe, Tom. Breathe. “I’m here about Jim Gold.”

            “Let me just . . .” He clicked a keyboard. “I’m sorry sir, Mr. Gold is on a leave of absence—”

            “I didn’t say I wanted to see him. I want to talk about what happened to him.” I planted my fists on the reception desk and leaned forward. “Let me see his supervisor.”

            I’m no Sam Spade. I could never pull off the tough-guy detective act. But my voice apparently made an impact. He picked up a phone. “And you are?”

            I gave him a business card.

            “Yes, Dane? It’s Pete at the front desk? There’s a . . . Tom Jurgen out here? He says he wants to talk about Jim. All right.” He hung up. “Just a minute, Mr. Jurgen.” He pointed to some chairs. “Take a seat.”

            I paced the lobby instead. Five minutes later the doors behind the desk slid open and a tall balding man in thick glasses, a blue blazer and a black necktie walked through. “Mr. uh, Jurgen? How can I help you?”

            I pulled out my phone and pulled up the picture. “This is Jim Gold. I took this two hours ago. Can we talk?”

            He peered at the screen. His face seemed to turn from pale to green before he looked away. “Come with me.”

            The doors locked behind us. Dane led me down a long hallway, turned right, and then pointed into an office. The nameplate on his desk read “Dane Adler.” I sat.

            He sat behind his big desk, shoving his computer screen to one side. Bookcases around the room were stuffed with looseleaf manuals. His window looked out on the parking lot.

Adler leaned back. “What’s this all about?”

            “You tell me.” I waited.

            I used to be a reporter. One thing I learned was that letting people talk—without prodding them or interrupting them—was the best way to get to the truth. So I sat back and crossed my arms.

            Adler sighed. “There are things I can’t tell you.”

            “Why?”

            “Rules. Contracts. Confidentiality. Jim’s privacy—”

            “I talked to Jim this afternoon. He said what happened was an accident here at the lab.”

            Adler shook his head. “I can’t comment on that.”

            “What kind of research was he doing?”

            “Again, I can’t comment—”

            “I’m not asking you for comment, damn it!” Okay, the whole letting-him-talk thing wasn’t working. “I’m asking you for answers! Jim Gold is a big blob of fungus on a bed, begging for beer! You can tell me what’s going on, or I can take all of this public before the infection starts spreading!”

            “It can’t spread.” Adler looked confused. “It’s contained in the lab—”

            “It’s spreading. Believe me.” Figueroa. And Rachel. But I didn’t want to tell him. Not yet.

            “If it’s outside the facility, then it’s on Jim. He signed papers.” Adler stood up abruptly. “Let me show you.”

            He took me back up the hall to an elevator. On the third floor, I followed him down a narrow hall with locked doors every 20 yards or so. A few staffers said hello. Adler ignored them.

            At the end of the hall he turned left and tapped a code into a keypad above a door marked 312. Inside the door, a man and woman worked on computers in front of a wide, wire-reinforced window.

The man, wearing wire-rimmed glasses and a gray lab coat with a nametag that read “Hurzberg,” swiveled around in his chair. “Hi, Dane. What’s up?”

            “This is Tom Jurgen.” Adler gestured to a window in front of the two scientists. “Take a look, Jurgen.”

            The room had a tile floor and sound-absorbent walls. Harsh fluorescent lights burned down from the ceiling. A refrigerator sat against a wall.  

            I peered through the wire-reinforced glass. Inside a small enclosure I saw a pot, tubes inserted in the soil. Rising from the pot was—something tree-shaped. But covered with fungus. The same kind of fungus I’d seen in Gold’s bed.

            It enveloped the tree, strands dripping gray slime from the lower branches. Puddles of slime blotched the white tile floor. The fungus shivered, as if breathing in and out. The trunk of the tree bowed over under the weight of the fungus, looking as if it might topple over at any time.

            “What we’re looking for is a way to fight fungal diseases.” Adler sounded like a university professor. “Mycosis, blastomycosis, candidiasis, and more. This is a new type that we’ve developed to fight those infections. The longer we study it, the closer we get to cures.”

            I stepped back. “How did it get out?”

            Hurzberg pointed to a door leading into the chamber. It looked like a hatch on the International Space Station. “That’s secure. No one goes through that door to gather samples without full protective gear.” He stood up. “Back there.”

            A long closet in the back of the room held hazmat gear—coveralls, helmets, gloves, boots, and small oxygen bottles, the size and shape of gallon water jugs.

            “So he would have suited up in these? And then gone inside?” They looked like spacesuits. “Who’s responsible for checking people out before they go in there?”

            “We’re all trained.” It was the woman. She wore a pink T-shirt, blue shorts and green rubber boots, a nametag with “Wilton” pinned close to her neck. She looked up from her screen, annoyed at the interruption. “We check each other out every time. And all the samples are secure. They’re stored in separate containment, down the hall. Can I get back to work, please?”

            “And we all know what we’re doing.” Hurzberg slammed the door. “Are we done here?”

            “Something got out.” I pulled out my phone. “And it’s killing Jim Gold. Take a look.”

            Hurzberg’s eyes narrowed. Wilton gasped.

            “That’s enough.” Adler pulled out his own phone. “I’m calling security. You’re leaving.”

            “Is there a cure?” I peered at the fungus, growing inside the habitat. “What are you doing to control it?”

            I didn’t want to talk about Rachel. I was too scared. And not sure what I might do or say if the answer was “no.”

            “All right, I’ll go.” I marched toward the door. “But I’m not done here.”

            Adler smirked. “What can you do? This is a private facility. This is legal research. If Jim violated protocol—”

            I leaned against the door, my brain flashing. “You don’t want to know what I can do.”