Chapter 12


In her cramped apartment, Pamela had set up a small lab, where every night since her transformation she feverishly worked to finish the preparations for the next phase. To her satisfaction, her cultures had grown to perfection; she now had more than enough. Carefully collecting her cultures and storing them for safe keeping, she then began systematically dismantling everything, taking care to sterilize all her equipment in her miniature autoclave. As she flushed her test tubes with concentrated peroxide, one of her ferns looked on questioningly.

"Yes, my dear, we're going to have to leave soon." She petted its leaves reassuringly. "Don't worry, I'll find a new home for all of you, someplace with more space and light."

The rhododendrons nearby seemed skeptical. Shrugging, she said: "We all must make sacrifices. Even if we don't survive what's to come, it is a necessary sacrifice to save the whole Earth."

In the silence of the early waking hour, Pamela surveyed the site. All incriminating equipment and samples had been dismantled or destroyed. At work, she had successfully pilfered all the equipment and supplies she needed. The plans had been made, the preparations completed. Everything was ready.

All she needed now was a date.


"Mister Cataldi!"

Cataldi turned, surprised yet pleased to see Pamela Isley sauntering up towards him.

Running her fingers through his hair, she said: "I missed you, sir."

All thought of his upcoming lunch with the VP of marketing vanished from his mind. "I missed you too, pussycat." He gave her a lookover, then continued. "I see you've been very busy, working hard for CP. I'm very pleased, yes indeed."

She blushed, her cheeks shaded a color of pink halfway between her red hair and white skin. "I'm so sorry for turning you down before, sir."

"And well you should be. But all is forgiven!" She beamed. "I take it then, you wish to, ah, work closer with me?"

"Of course, Mister Cataldi. May I know when the next family get-together is?"

He frowned. "Family get-ahh!" Instantly he smiled. "I see you've been asking around. Yes, the next one is this Friday at 10AM. I trust you'll be there?"

"I wouldn't miss it for the world."

"Excellent. I'll see you then." He fell silent as he watched her from behind, walking down the hallway, looking better than ever in an attractive black skirt and brown pumps. Must remember to clear my schedule for the weekend, he thought lazily.


For what must have been the hundredth time that evening, Martin Fuller looked down at his watch. It was 12:20AM, and the entrance to Cataldi Pharmaceuticals was empty and silent as a tomb. Only a handful of researchers and security personnel remained in the building at this hour, so as usual he had nothing to do. "Late night sucks," he said aloud to a nonexistent audience. Next time, don't make jokes about the supervisor when he's standing right behind you, he chided himself once again.

Fighting off sleep, it took a few seconds for Martin to realize someone at the doors, trying to get in. Stumbling, he reached for his gun, desperately hoping he wouldn't actually have to do what a security guard in his place would have to do. Now fully awake, he squinted to get a better view, and his fear quickly became delight.

Pamela! The unmistakable figure of Pamela Isley was now knocking on the door and waving at him. With a smile, he turned on the lobby lights and unlocked the front doors, thus giving himself a clear view of her as she strode towards him. Apparently she had been working out, for she was wearing (tight!) sweatpants, a damp grey tank top and a pink headband. A large gym bag was slung over her shoulders, and she seemed out of breath. Unconsciously he sat up straighter in his chair.

"Hi... Martin, isn't it?"

He was all smiles. "Yes, ma'am. Haven't seen you here in a while. Working late tonight?"

"Oh yeah," she said, fanning herself. He watched as her motions made her top billow. "Just had a little late-night workout, then wanted to stop by work."

That sounded crazy, but who was he to argue? "Very good, Miss Isley. Okay, just give me your card and I'll log you in—"

"—Oh, I'm sorry, I forgot my card. Could you just let me in?"

"Uh," he stammered. Technically he had to get her ID, but the last thing he wanted to do was annoy her. Pamela was stroking her hair. Smiling, he said: "Never mind. Just don't break anything!"

She stopped playing with her hair and smiled. "Thanks, Martin! I think I owe you something special." She leaned closer and pursed her lips, as if to kiss him!

"Much obliged!" Martin said breathlessly, struggling to lean over. Just as he got close enough to respond, he was surprised to see a spray can in front of his face.

The last thing he remembered was her smile...


A loud knock on the door woke Harold Peterson and the two others manning the security console from their stupor. "What?" one of them asked dully.

"I'll get it," Harold said. Slowly he made his way to the heavy door and peered through a small portal. The sight of the visitor put a sudden bounce in his step as he quickly spun the wheel to open the door, and an amazingly beautiful woman stepped inside. Who is she? he wondered desperately, I think I remember her...Romilda? Patricia?

"Hi, I'm Pamela Isley. I seem to have gotten lost!"

"Oh, yes, well, of course, no problem!" Harold babbled. The other two nodded, getting out of their chairs and coming closer as if to help.

She walked brashly around the room. "Hmm, never been here before. Where am I?"

"Security Operations, Miss Isley," Harold said, his head following her movements. "We watch over the vaults, oversee the cameras, recorders, things like that."

Fiddling with her bag, Pamela nodded and turned to face them, holding a can of deodorant. "Good to know." She sprayed Harold, then the others. Immediately they began choking, then fell to the floor unconscious.

Paying them no further heed, Pamela put on a pair of latex gloves and began entering a flurry of commands into the computer console. She also took special care to completely erase the camera recordings of her entrance into the building a half-hour ago. For the next two hours, she turned off the cameras in certain rooms on the twelfth floor as well.

"Sleep tight, boys," she said to the still forms on the ground. She dropped a couple of empty beer cans around them; when they came to, having no memory of what had happened over the past few hours, they would be hesitant to admit anything had happened to their superiors, meaning that the changes to the security system would not be noticed until it was too late.

Taking the elevator to the twelfth floor, she entered the now-unlocked boardroom, pulled out from her gym bag a small flowering plant, and placed it on the center table. She then went to a nearby office, stood up on a chair and opened a ceiling access panel. Inside the airway she placed a large plastic bag inside, then closed it up again.


It was almost three in the morning when she went back down to the lobby. Martin Fuller was where she left him, keeled over unconscious at his desk, his long greasy hair flowing out from under his cap. Just as she was about to leave, he heard her stirring behind him.

Better increase the dose next time. "Wha— what happen—"

"—Nothing for you to worry about dear," she said as she emptied the can in his face once more. Gasping and choking, he collapsed again on the desk.

She peered at him, considering. Another dose, so soon after the first, was likely to cause brain damage, which might raise suspicions. But instead of feeling concerned, instead a naughty impulse filled Pamela, born of an awareness of her now-arising power. Martin will soon have bigger issues to deal with. I might as well grant the condemned his last wish.

Pamela leaned over and quickly kissed him on the lips, trying not to wretch. "Don't get any ideas, Martin, I'm not that kind of girl," she said warningly. Smoothly she turned around and left.


At 9:55 in the morning Cataldi entered the building, making his way for the elevators. Before doing so, he ran into Pamela. Delighted, he said: "Ah, just in time, dear!"

"Quickly," she said, grabbing his arm. Protesting, he had no choice but to follow along as she dragged him into an empty office.

"What's going on—mmmph!" Pamela kissed him before he could say anything else. When she released him, he was in a daze.

"Huh? What?"

Standing right in front of him, Pamela whispered: "Sorry, sir, I need to run a series of experiments, so I can't make it to the meeting. Hope it's okay."

Cataldi gave her a vague nod. "Yes, of course not dear," he replied dreamily. Smiling, Pamela gently assisted him out of the office and to the elevators. Cataldi still looked dazed as the doors closed in front of him.

As soon as they did so she turned around and sprinted up the stairs. Any minute now...


At the twelfth floor, Cataldi stepped out of the elevator and walked with uncharacteristic energy in his stride. Let's get this meeting started! The others in the room did not look so enthusiastic. As the last of them walked in ten minutes after the meeting started they finally got down to business: how best to bribe local officials so as to gain ownership over an endangered Pacific Northwest forest site filled with suspected rare medicinal plants.

Wishing Pamela was here with him so that he could stare at her so more, Cataldi rubbed his eyes. It looked like a fine white mist was rising up from the flowers in the middle of table. A senior inventory manager leaned in closer, took a big sniff, and suddenly began coughing. The man next to him reached over and slapped him on the back, but it had no effect: now the man was going into convulsions, agonizingly clawing at his throat. A moment later, several others began coughing and gagging as well. Panic rapidly spread as people jumped back from the table. Instinctively Cataldi picked up the phone, but the line was dead. A slight burning sensation was now building up in the back of his throat.

"Out of the way!" With no heed to the other men and women around him, the VP of marketing, Steve Jacobs, made his way to the door, but to his horror it was locked and sealed--no one could get out. Now he sank to the floor as well, gasping for air. More than a dozen bodies lay sprawled around the room, some twitching on the floor, others slumped over the table or in chairs.

The itch in Cataldi's throat became a full-fledged burning, reaching back into his windpipe, and down into his lungs; every breath was like breathing fire, and less and less air came with each breath. Coughing, red drops of spittle flew out of his mouth. Off in the distant, he could hear booming alarms crying out, but no one came to open the door. Finally, the horrible feeling of burning from within gave way to silent blackness.


Enough bioharazrd detectors had been deactivated that by the time sensors on the sixth floor detected the presence of an unknown agent in the air and sounded the automated alarms, the toxin had spread throughout much of the building. Much later, investigators would discover that one of the bursting charges in the plastic bag had failed to detonate. Combined with the relatively heavy aerosol mixture used, a far smaller number of spores had managed to spread through the airways than might have been expected. But no one except one shadow of a man would learn the truth: that the incomplete detonation was intentional on Pamela's part, to prevent too high a concentration of spores from spreading too quickly.

At that moment, Isley was not yet fully immune to anthrax.


Panic rapidly spread and people rushed for the exits. Inside her lab when the alarms went off, Pamela evinced a look of bewilderment and concern. She noted with dark humor that now was the only time most of the men who daily accosted her seem more concerned with something else than staring at her or trying to cop a feel. Of course, you can't get off if you're dead!

"What's going on?" she asked Lieberman as he ran by, her voice concerned but not panicked.

Lieberman was not so calm. "Containment breach, the building's been flooded with something." His eyes bulged out, a panicky squeak in his voice. "Rumors are it's really bad in the floors above us, many dead. We gotta get out here!" he said urgently, coughing.

"Right." Surrounded by hundreds of others trying desperately to escape down the stairs, she heard more and more people starting to cough. A few collapsed along the way, unable to breathe. Some tried to help them, but most kept going, filled with fear. She had reached the second floor when she began to cough as well.

As Isley exited out onto the street, she noticed a slight burning start to flare up in her chest. Sitting down as others ran wildly about, the burning slowly intensified, but was still bearable to a degree. Soon she was surrounded by dozens of others, many coughing seriously, while some were keeled over and motionless. The cacophony of fire trucks and police vehicles added to the growing mayhem outside the building, and events became unfocused, distant in her mind, as if she were watching a film including herself rather than living the experience

Several minutes later, as the crowds and noise level seemed to disappear in her mind, a blue-clothed EMT wearing a cloth facemask suddenly squatted down beside her and asked, "How are you feeling, Miss?" His voice was terse, the tension in his face palpable.

"Ok," Pamela replied, coughing between words. "Just— don't— please—"

"Calm down, ma'am. Here—" he pulled out an oxygen mask and placed it over her mouth. It helped, but only a little.

"Thanks." But he was already gone. Other medical personnel frantically tended to the sick. She was impressed when she heard someone yelling, "Anthrax! Anthrax!" Quick diagnosis and response, I'll need to keep that in mind for the future.

The world became blurry; she felt exhausted. Lying down on the hard pavement, Pamela closed her eyes and entered a dazed half-sleep. Some time passed, and she felt herself being lifted into the air, then placed on a cart, and into an ambulance. As the sirens screamed and people chatted in low, urgent tones, even the injection of intravenous antibiotics couldn't keep a small smile from appearing on her face.


As all of Gotham's media converged on Cataldi Pharmaceuticals to cover the ongoing catastrophe, an intern at The Gotham Post opened a small white letter, addressed to her boss, the editor-in-chief. It took less than a minute for the ashen-faced young lady to run to her boss's office and interrupt his whirlwind of telephone calls. He took the letter from her trembling hand and began to read:

today the Earth has Her vengeance
this is the beginning, but by no means the end
stop all pollution
end deforestation
rethink your lives
or we shall end them

so speaks Green Dawn
on behalf of the Silent Ones


End of Part I