Chapter Twenty-One
"Isn't this sort of thing meant to happen to ships?" asked Frankie dubiously.
"Hey, you should've seen the party when we got our FACS machine," gushed Kerryn, "It was cheap champagne and suspicious roast avian when the grant came through for that one."
"For a fax machine?" Frankie blinked. "You science types really don't get out much, do you?"
"No, no, FACS," Kerryn explained, "Fluorescence-Activated Cell Sorter. Very whizz-bang. Very expensive. Definitely a good excuse for a long lunch. Or at least, for a couple of sore heads, and a couple of cases of gastro," she shrugged, eyeing the fizzy orange drink dubiously. "This is safe to drink, isn't it?"
"Castiel reports that it's safe for humans to drink," confirmed Sam, peering at his own glass, "But whether it's desirable to drink, well, that's another matter."
"Chuck assured me that it's his best batch yet," shrugged Kelly.
"That does not reassure me in the slightest," muttered Kevin, "I'll stick to the flat stuff, thanks."
"I'm not sure if it's a mark of twisted genius, or sad desperation, that somebody would use orange juice as the base of a fizzy drink," mused Fic. "Or just classic Chuck."
"Actually, it's not too bad," opined Dean, knocking back the last of his drink and refilling it.
"Comin' from somebody who's prepared to drink the sort of crap you will, that's hardly a ringin' endorsement," Bobby pointed out.
"An observation about the colour of pots and kettles comes to mind, darling," said Crowley, "You know, if this crazy scheme of yours works, and we somehow figure out a way to stomp those two pompous arses back down into the disgusting slime whence they came, the first thing, the very first thing I do, will be to pop over to the east coast, and pick up a nice Speyside single malt. Or maybe the Orkneys, they might just have held out better there. No, wait, if they have, they'll have drunk their way through the entire stock of Highland Park by now, what with the population being half Scot and half Norwegian, it's only to be expected."
"If I might have your attention," called Beverly, rapping on his own glass, "On this momentous occasion, I call upon Dean, our Fearless Leader here at Camp Singer Salvage, to say a few words."
There was a smattering of applause as Dean took centre stage.
"Well, uh, I've never been asked to open anything bigger than a bottle before," he began, "But, given that this is the result of hard work by Dale, and Arjan, and some sterling scouting by RJ, and very careful appliance wrangling by Tiem and Zan, it gives me great pleasure – should I be doing the royal wave, or something while I say this bit? – yeah, well, it gives me great pleasure to, uh, declare this autoclave, er, open." He paused. "God bless it, and all who… sterilise with it."
With great ceremony, Beverly shut the door on the steel cabinet, spun down the lock, and hit a button. With an ominous gurgling from the reservoir, the autoclave began a sterilisation cycle. The small gathering cheered.
"We'll really need this," Beverly intoned, "If the Evil Overlord is intent on keeping up the pace we've been working at."
"I'm not," Kerryn said, "We need to step it up. We're not getting anything that looks useful turning up. And I got no way of verifying what the problem is – those enzymes could just be too old – so our only option is to keep trying with more samples."
"She's a slave driver," complained Frankie.
"She's the Evil Overlord," Kevin pointed out, "And we're minions. It's kind of her job."
"So, drink up, minions," sighed Sam, knocking back his own glass of Chuck's strange cross between orangeade and window cleaner, "And then noses back to the grindstone. Or, swabs back to the medium."
"I'll be turning the compost," announced Crowley. "That's just for your information. If anybody wants me, I won't actually respond."
"Before you do that, go make tea," ordered Bobby. "So, how's it goin'?" he asked Kerryn quietly.
"Like I said, slowly," she sighed, glancing at the whiteboard, which was a mess of her incomprehensible scribbles, diagrams and gene maps. "This is real bucket biology: put the two samples together in a suitable host, hope like hell you get some recombination, then hope like hell that new virus has the qualities we want. Frankly," she threw a dubious glance at the improvised containment where Frankie and newly-recruited Sabine were setting up more testing samples of tissue taken from Croatoan zombies, "I really hate that bit. It creeps me the hell out. The time I had to dissect out adrenal glands from still-warm chunks of fat thrown to me by guys off the abattoir killing floor I nearly threw up, but this…"
"Is there anythin' else we can go out and scrounge for?" asked Dean.
"Not that's going to be useable here," Kerryn grinned ruefully. "I thought about other mutagens – chemicals, or a rad source – but we got no way of getting hold of them, I've talked to Simon about it, and we're more likely to poison ourselves. UV radiation is a possibility, but without a meter, it's impossible to know what the output of a lamp is."
"What exactly do those things do?" Dean wanted to know.
"They, well, they induce changes in the DNA," Kerryn told him. "I could give you the lecture on DNA repair, base excision or nucleotide excision or strand breaks or nicks or mismatch or adduct formation…"
"Can I have the crib notes version?" he suggested. "And keep your voice down, I don't want Sam to hear this, he'll come in his pants."
"I heard that," Sam turned around from his careful inoculating and gave his brother a Bitchface #13™ (You Are So Totally Gross I Don't Have A Bitchface Adequate To Convey My Utter Disgust).
"Well, they induce damage in the genes, which then get fixed, and put back together," Kerryn continued. "When that happens, sometimes bits get changed around, so what you end up with is a different version of what you started with. Warped, usually it gets taken apart, and put back together not quite right."
"Turned into somethin' else that aint quite right," mused Bobby. "Taken apart, and put back together wrong, huh?"
"There's more to it than that," Kerryn seemed to be somewhat intellectually outraged at the simplification, "But yeah, that's basically it. Very basically it. As in, I think if that ever leaves this room, somebody somewhere will take away my scientist card."
"In my experience, young lady, 'basically' can have a lot goin' for it when you aint got anythin' better to go on," chortled Bobby, putting down his glass and wandering away.
"Could you possibly spare Sam, Frankie or Sabine?" Dean asked her. "I need noses on patrol, and not just dogs. We've picked up demons around the camp."
"Since the Flight Of Mrs Eggity?" she queried.
"Yeah," he confided, "I don't want to worry people, but there's definitely snooping goin' on. So far, we've managed to find 'em, and stop 'em before they run back to His Assholeness, or Her Douchebaggery, but they only gotta be lucky once. Their scouts keep goin' MIA, they'll work it out, sooner or later, by subtraction."
"Well, if demons find this place, then it doesn't matter whether we're making progress or not, does it," she reasoned, "So, leave me one, if you have jobs for the others to do."
"Great," he smiled, "Send 'em out as soon as you can."
"If you need another demon-killing knife, there's that one," she gestured to the small desk she used in the corner of the lab building; it peeked out from under a pile of paper.
"It was given to you," he told her, "Keep it here."
"What for?" she demanded, "I can't use it! Can't you take it, and give it back to Andrew for me?"
"He can't use it," Dean explained, "Having the dexterity to use a knife is something that Old North werewolves rarely manage. Sabine can; we think she inherited it. Sam sorta can, because he works at it, and he was taught by the best. And Ronnie could. She made that knife."
"Yeah? So, how did she manage it?" asked Kerryn, curious.
The smile on Dean's face was sad. "Because she was Ronnie," he answered. "She was… special. Even for a werewolf. She could do things, manage things, that shouldn't have been possible."
"She could knock you on your ass," grinned Sam, carrying a load of used glassware to the washing up area.
"She could put her teeth on your neck without breaking a sweat," Dean reminded his little brother. "Do your dishes, Francis, then I need you and Sabine on patrol." Without a further word, Sam scuttled to comply. "Huh. If only he'd always do what he was told."
"Good luck with that," huffed Kerryn, turning back to her whiteboard, "Okay, so, are we ready to grow up the next batch of swabs, because…"
There was a clatter of dogs, boots and raised voices at the door – Kerryn went to investigate.
Bobby stood at the bottom of the step, grinning up at her. "I found you somethin' that can warp stuff and put it back together wrong!" he announced cheerfully.
"I protest at being man-handled like this!" complained Crowley. "Madam, if you put him up to this, I wish to register my displeasure!"
"Shut up, Mr Mutagen," growled Bobby. "Now, demons are the masters of ruinin' things, and puttin' 'em back together in a twisted way, so I figure, it's gotta be worth a try, right?"
Kerryn looked at Crowley, quivering with indignation, small pieces of compost falling from his overalls. "Uh, do you think we could autoclave him first?"
...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo...
"It smells dreadful in here," Crowley whined.
"It's the autoclave, I'm afraid," Beverly apologised, "But doing the medium this way will give us better results, the E.O. says."
"Can't we open the windows?" he complained, "That would help. And it's uncomfortably warm in here."
"That's because you look like a kid wrapped up to go out and play in the snow," Bobby rolled his eyes. Whereas the other minions had improvised lab gowns from a series of garments including oversized shirts and dresses, Crowley had swathed himself from head to foot in protective garmentry, including a hat, a face mask, pillow cases tied over his shoes, and a pair of heavy rubber gloves. "Seriously, Fergus, I've seen burqas that don't give as much coverage as that!"
"I don't want to be contaminated," muttered Crowley sullenly.
"This from the King of the Compost?" asked Fic incredulously.
"There's a demonic component to this thing, isn't there?" Crowley griped. "What if it makes me sick? What if it kills me? What if Frau Frankenstein here is actually making a biological anti-demon weapon?"
"Hmmmm, a bug that would wipe out any demon that set foot on the planet," mused Bobby, "Golly gee, wouldn't we all be upset about that, boo hoo. Our luck's not that good, ya idjit."
"It's blood-borne, Fergus," Kerryn told him, "And we're aiming for anti-Croat, so as long as you don't intentionally inject yourself with anything in here, you'll be fine."
"Mosquitoes!" Crowley yelped, "What about mosquitoes? Midges? Other blood-sucking pests?"
"I'll tell Ian you said that," grinned Kelly, "Next time I see him."
"Lice!"
"They'd have to eat our experiments first, which they won't do," Kerryn said, starting to sound exasperated. "And nobody's got lice, anyway, or we'd have had an eradication campaign."
"Fleas!"
"We do not have fleas in here," Kerryn went on, "I assure you, Fergus, there aren't any on the dogs, or we'd have had an eradication program for them, too…"
"Bedbugs!"
"Fergus, nobody sleeps in here!" she said emphatically.
"Well, you have pulled a couple of overnighters," Kelly pointed out. "But not in a bed," she added, as Kerryn glared at her.
"Bats! There could be vampire bats around!"
"They only come from South America!" snapped Kerryn. "You're being unreasonable, Fergus, look, all I want you to do is…"
"Leeches! What if leeches from the lake find their way up here?"
"Leeches? Leeches? Fergus, leeches live in water! Look, I think you might be over-thinking this…"
"What about a bird? What if a crazed bird gets in here? Haven't you watched any Alfred Hitchcock movies?"
Kerryn gawped at Crowley, then scowled, stomped over to her desk, and returned, powered by impatience, exasperation, and lack of sleep.
"Fergus, let me explain the situation here. I, the unprepared, assisted by the untrained, am trying to do the unlikely, with the unworkable, in a time frame that is unachievable. I am not trying to create an anti-demon weapon. I am not interested in killing you. However, if you don't stop whining like a med student in prac, I will take this knife, and make you sorry. I don't know how to use it, but I'm willing to bet that I could work out which end to stick into you for maximum effect. So don't worry about leeches, or bats, or rabid birds, because if you do not get with the program, the only blood you're going to lose will be when I stab you in the leg. Do you understand?"
Sam laughed. "See? I told you. That expression? Priceless."
...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo...
"I feel like an idiot," mumbled Crowley resentfully on his third day of duty as a source of demonic radiation.
"You are an idiot, according to Bobby," confirmed Kelly. "Actually, you are an idiot, according to me, too."
"Yeah, I agree with that," beamed Fic.
"All those in favour of confirming that Fergus is an idiot, say 'Aye'," chirped Beverly, refilling the autoclave.
"What is this?" demanded Crowley as a chorus of 'Aye!'s ran around the room. "The Annual General Meeting of the Let's All Pick On Fergus Club?"
"I'd be so sad if we had to wait for a whole year to do that," mused Kelly.
"Just ignore them, Fergus," instructed Kerryn, "You're doing very well."
"I'm going cross-eyed," complained the King of Hell, moving on to stare at the next sample with his most intimidating I Am King Of Hell stare.
"That must mean that you're doing a good job, then," Kerryn encouraged, "Putting a lot of oomph into your stare."
"How do we even know this is doing anything?" griped Fergus.
"Well, if you get bored, there's always the compost," Kerryn pointed out brightly. He sighed, and turned back to his staring.
"Exactly what is the unit of demonic stare radiation?" asked Fic. "Discombobulations per minute? Tantrum per square inch? So many snides per second?"
"I hate you all," Crowley muttered. "This one's done."
"Put it in the incubator cupboard, for Kevin to test tomorrow," pronounced Kerryn. "Make sure it's labelled, and transfer the paperwork with it."
"I haven't finished testing yesterday's samples yet," Kevin said wistfully, "I'm really better at electronic stuff."
"Just keep working your way through them," Kerryn said, trying not to let tiredness leak into her voice.
"It's yukky," Kevin complained, screwing up his face at the piece of Croatoan tissue that was his test bed.
"So is getting over-run by Croats and torn to bits and eaten, or getting attacked by demons and being horribly tortured to death," Kerryn said smilingly. "So, get to it, faithful minion."
"Today's delivery!" came the yell from outside; Kerryn recognised RJ's voice, and she groaned. That announcement could only mean one thing.
"Found this one sneakin' around outside," he told her, indicating the headless Croat zombie at his feet. "There's a bit of a hole in the chest where Dad stabbed it to kill the demon, but the rest of it looks okay."
"Oh, God," sighed Kerryn, "Yeah, bring it in, you know where. I'll just get my kit."
"You want help?" he asked brightly.
"Sure, why not," she shrugged, "Although, it might be better if you go get your cousin, I'm really pleased that you're willing to help, RJ, but the last one you did was…"
She stopped. RJ had already shifted to his wolf form, reached down, and punched into the zombie's chest, pulling out the sternum and flaying open the rib cage to expose the lungs. Reaching down, he took hold of one organ in each paw, and pulled.
"That's… great," she made herself smile. "Much better this time. Well done. Just hold that thought – and those lungs – and I'll go get a tray. And possibly a puke bag."
...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo...
"Is it absolutely necessary that you do that here?" asked Crowley.
"Not squeamish are you, Your Hellside Highness?" asked Fic, carefully slicing into the lung.
"I just wish to make absolutely sure that it's truly necessary for us to take a daily delivery of fresh Croatoan zombie," sniffed Crowley.
"They smell worse the day after," Kevin pointed out reasonably.
"We gotta test this stuff, and the fresher the test tissue, the better," Kerryn told him, placing a piece gingerly onto a tray. "We want this thing to be airborne, so looking for some sort of reaction with the lungs is the most rational place to start." Although I have no idea what we should even be looking for, she added in the privacy of her own head.
"Next time somebody releases an apocalyptic virus, can it be an electronic one?" pleaded Kevin, trying not to look too closely as he carefully arrayed a spot of each culture on the chunks of tissue in front of him. "Yeah, it could wipe out life as we know it, and billions could die, but at least it might smell better."
"I don't know why we're even bothering," moaned Crowley, "I need to take a break, or borrow somebody else's meatsuit, the eyes on this one are refusing to focus."
"As soon as we've processed this batch, we can take a break," decided Kerryn, "Might be a good time to get something to eat." She looked at her watch. "Damn, it's nearly dinner time. Okay, we'll finish for now, then…"
"Kerryn," Kevin interrupted, "Come and look at this."
Kerryn put down the tray she was holding and went to Kevin's side. He pointed to one of the chunks of red mess in front of him. "There. Look."
As she watched, a small spot of liquid on the piece of lung bubbled, then fell in on itself and turned murky dark brown, as if it had been splattered with strong acid.
"Do that one again," she instructed.
Kevin obliged with the same sample. The test tissue bubbled, then blackened, once more.
She scrabbled at the notes recording the various combinations they'd tried. "Mrs Eggity," she mused, "This is from Mrs Eggity's swab. Mrs Eggity, plus Fergus's staring, plus Croat virus, equals…" she pointed to the sample that looked like the thousands of others they'd prepared. "That."
"What is it?" asked Fic.
"I don't know, yet," Kerryn replied, changing her gloves, "But I intend to find out. Go get dinner, I'll set up a subculture of this one, and see you there. And tell the Grumpy Old Men we might have a hit."
Yes, I do know what it's like to be on the killing floor of an abattoir to collect adrenal glands from enormous chunks of still-warm and still-liquid cow fat collected fresh from the carcass. When I wasn't collecting buckets of blood. It's amazing I didn't throw in science, and go into something less physically odious, like law; at least lawyers only stink figuratively.
Send reviews, because they are the Great Big Adrenal Glands That Will Give You A Nice Big Cell Yield In The Ice Bucket Of Life!*
*If chunks of cow guts don't do it for you, think of doughnuts instead. Doughnuts. Nice, fluffy, delicious yeast-raised doughnuts. Maybe glazed, maybe powdered, maybe filled with jam. Maybe iced. Maybe chocolate. Whom you eat them off is up to you. Put down a drop sheet if you think it's going to get mucky.