The Zen Gene (3 page)

When the meal was over and the mackerel was done, if slightly charred, she glanced meaningfully at her watch and pointed out the time difference between Thunder Bay and the west coast and encouraged him to retire. She marched him back to his room and when the door closed behind him he was sure he heard an extra click. He wondered if she locked him in but did not check the door, he was tired and it would not help him sleep knowing he was a prisoner of the Canadian Armed Forces.

Colonel John Western

At eight the next morning a different woman called and told him she would be there in half an hour to escort him to breakfast. She knocked and unlocked his door ten minutes early. She was older than Patricia and did not offer her name or make small talk as he scarfed down his breakfast. When he was finished she led him to an office where a man in uniform sat behind a gunmetal grey steel desk. The demeanor of the man who stood up to shake his hand was not even remotely friendly.

He took note of the fact that Colonel Western held eye contact for a long time, long enough to make him feel uncomfortable and when he looked away he realized that was the point. He introduced himself as Colonel John Western, Canadian Forces Military Intelligence Pacific Fleet. He was medium height, dark haired with grey at the temples, and belligerently unremarkable in appearance. Nondescript did not begin to describe the lack of distinguishing characteristics of the man. His uniform did not have markings to indicate which branch of the Canadian Forces he was affiliated with nor his rank. The only identifying item on his person was a white plastic nametag with black lettering pinned over his left breast pocket.

No picture ID for the chief spook, he thought. There was nothing personal in the office, no pictures, diplomas, golf trophies, memo board, nothing. He assumed it was a room used to interview enemy agents or hostile scientists, which he certainly was. There was no reason to believe the man sitting behind the desk was named Western other than that was how he introduced himself which his plastic nametag corroborated.

“Please have a seat,” he said.

He sat in the chair placed before the desk, it was small and metal and apparently designed to be uncomfortable.

“There is a soldier we would like you to…examine,” Western began and waited letting his opening statement age for a moment.

Mann did not say anything in response he simply continued to look out the single window at the harbour. He saw two parked warships and a BC ferry in dry dock. It was a nicer view than the one they gave him and this room was used to interrogate prisoners. He wondered what they were trying to tell him. I should ask for a room upgrade, maybe cash in some Air Miles, he thought smiling. He had decided, while gazing at the lovely Patricia over dinner last night, that he had no choice but to grin and bear it. Lyle Greef made it clear, though he never said it directly, that if he wanted to keep his research grant he needed to cooperate with Western. He may as well enjoy his time in Victoria. The nonsense they told him about helping them with a genetics problem could not last much longer. He knew they would eventually get around to the real reason they wanted him there.

“We need to understand what has happened to him,” the Colonel paused again and waited for a response but he remained silent.

“The soldier in question was hand-picked for an assignment overseas,” he continued as he put on his glasses to refer to a document on the desk, no longer waiting for him to respond.

“Pre-mission training took place on this base and he was in good mental and physical health. He was in top shape when he shipped out on an overseas mission. He is thirty-seven years old, married, a graduate of UBC. He has one child, a daughter who is thirteen, and a dog. He lives with his family in a good suburb of Victoria.

He is a career soldier, in for more than fifteen years, and he has seen active duty in several hot zones and performed well. He has not suffered an injury, beyond the usual bumps and bruises, and he has never suffered head trauma. He does not have any psychiatric disorders, does not use drugs, is not secretly gay, and he doesn’t have any aberrant sexual behaviours or desires, or money problems,” he said.

He sat silently impassively listening as the Colonel described to him, in some detail, an ordinary man.

“While he was on his last assignment we discovered he has developed a serious problem, one which he did not have on previous assignments. To put it in blunt terms Dr. Mann this highly skilled and experienced combat soldier has lost the ability to carry out the duties for which he was trained. That is to say, he tells us he was willing to carry out the assignment, but when he tried to do so he became physically incapacitated. This occurred while he was on a mission where he was expected to use deadly force,” he said.

He found the Colonel’s hushed and reverent tone comical and he laughed. The Colonel’s lowered voice and whispered words seemed as though he were hesitantly outing a comrade, telling his worst secret, much worse and more shameful than impotence or homosexuality.

“Do you find this situation funny Dr. Mann?” he said.

He looked at the Colonel and could see by the splotchy colour on his face he found nothing humorous about it.

“So find the guy a desk job,” he said, exasperated.

“I don’t think you understand the importance of what I’m telling you, Doctor. This is a highly trained elite soldier who can no longer perform his duties,” he said.

He scratched his head confused.

“Colonel, let me see if I understand the situation correctly. Twenty years ago I did some very preliminary research into aggression in great apes and because of this you believe I can tell you why your soldier can’t kill people. Have I got that right?”

“Yes, essentially,” Western said.

Western’s answer was unbelievable and he shook his head looking at him. What is wrong with this guy, he thought? None of this makes sense there has to be more to it. He decided to force the issue.

“Well, Colonel, it turns out you picked the right guy for the job because I’m a quick study. I have the answer for you,” he said.

Western glared at him but said nothing. It was clear he was not used to such blatant disrespect and there was a shaft of hatred in his steady gaze.

“Here is my diagnosis. Before your warrior left for unknown foreign lands to kill unknown foreign people, he caught his wife heroically doing’ the neighbour and this, understandably, dampened his enthusiasm.”

He leaned back in the chair and expelled a long breath of frustration. What a waste of time, he thought.

“His wife has not cheated on him Doctor,” he said. He spoke with such absolute certainty he suspected Western had checked personally.

“Colonel you are missing my point. It does not matter if his wife has or has not cheated on him. That’s not what I am trying to tell you. The point, Colonel Western, is that the human mind is not a perfect sphere of understanding there are dark recesses and sub-basements and all manner of experiential unknowns. My guess, and that is all it will ever be, is that your soldier has a debilitating case of Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder. The point I am trying to make clear is that I understand this soldier is important to your ‘mission’ but, in this case, it is simply ‘
too bad you lost one.’

With counseling and proper care people with PTSD can and do recover. I sincerely hope this man recovers but I find it hard to believe that an individual soldier is so important he can’t be replaced. I’m sorry I couldn’t help you. Please arrange my transportation back to Thunder Bay.”

He stood up and looked down at the man seated before him and watched his face as it lost a bit more colour. Whatever is going on here, he thought, they are taking it very seriously. The Colonel looked like he was making a decision and he hoped he was deciding to either tell him what was going on here or let him get on a plane and go home.

“Doctor Mann, if Sergeant Peters was the problem we could certainly replace him, but Peters is not the problem.”

He waited.

“Our problem is the sixteen soldiers with the same problem,” he said, “sixteen that we know about.”

High Lights

September 20 2020

Tyler rode into the backyard and dropped his bike on the grass and the rear wheel was spinning as he ran into the house. The door slam echoed behind him as he ran through the kitchen and into the living room where he shrugged his book-laden backpack onto the couch. Homework could wait. This was the second week of school and he was already sick of it.

The house was a small post-war bungalow with two bedrooms on the main level and a full basement. It was the style of home contractors were encouraged to build by the thousands for soldiers returning from World War Two. Andrea chose it because the rent was reasonable and she liked the rural location. It looked out upon farm fields from two sides and it was at the end of the street so there was almost no traffic.

His bedroom was in the basement and the first thing he needed to do was check his email. He unlocked his bedroom door and flipped on the light switch which turned on a low wattage bedside lamp and began the boot sequence for his computer. When it booted he typed in his password and checked his email, he was hoping for a reply from Tomo Labs in Seoul. He was sure that Han, the head of research, believed his story that he was a gene researcher at UBC looking for an industry partner for product development. It helped that he had a UBC email address; he got it by hacking the account of an elderly English Professor. When he checked the account he was disappointed that there was nothing from Han but then he remembered it was the middle of the night in Korea.

Checking the time he estimated he had two hours before Andrea came back from her job. That was good because he needed to turn on the agitator and check temperatures. He wanted to be back before she got home, and two hours should be enough time to do what was needed.

It made him anxious if he ran late because he would have to think up reasons why he was not at home when she got back. She would ask him where he was, even if he was only gone for a few minutes, and she no longer believed him if he told her he was at Zen’s.

If she did not like his answer she would drive him nuts asking questions. It made his life simpler to just be there when she arrived rather than endure endless grilling about his activities. It would be easier if he could work at home but that was impossible. What he was creating was potentially lethal and he could not take the chance that Andrea might, on the pretense of cleaning it, break into his room and be exposed. She’d done it before.

He shut down the computer and relocked the door; on his way out he grabbed a handful of cookies and refilled his water bottle. He ate cookies as he sped down the dirt lane behind the house that led towards town. He finished the last cookie and was sweating in the warm September sun by the time he reached the corner at Munn Road and Steady Drive but instead of turning towards the city he turned on Munn’s towards the industrial section.

He rode for another five minutes then slowed his bike as he approached the high wooden fence that ran the length of Layton’s Auto and Truck Wrecking yard. He stopped and wiped sweat from his forehead with his shirt sleeve then grabbed the water bottle from its holder and took a long pull of cool water.

He turned his head and looking over his shoulder to see where the sun was in the sky. It hung above the aspen trees on the crest of Wilson Hill; the ideal height. With only two hours he did not have time to waste but the conditions were perfect he could feel the need draw him. It would not take long to make one pass though there was always the possibility he could get stuck and that would be bad.

He leaned forward with his chest on the handlebar and looked at the shadow cast by his wheel spokes on the gray packed-earth trail. The line between shadow and light was crisp; it indicated the high quality of the early autumn light. The familiar pulse of excitement began to tic within him and he shivered with anticipation.

The day had been hot and the air was still warm but the prospect of a run in this perfect light sent an icy chill of need cascading through his senses. Before he was completely drawn in by this need he remembered to repeat the safety words Zen gave him.

“Once,” he spoke the word solemnly then gazed along the length of the fence trembling with anticipation.

“Only once,” he repeated.

When he spoke the words he mimicked the extra emphasis Zen put on them and this gave the words more power, even as his excitement built he could feel his control strengthening.

‘
Only once Tyler. That’s the deal, only once. Okay?’

He could hear her voice in his head and he repeated the phrase again.

“Only once.”

He spoke the words softly one more time and he was ready. He turned the handlebar to the left, lifted the bike by the seat, and kicked the pedal to spin the rear wheel and shift down to first gear. He dropped the bike and the spinning rear wheel kicked up a rooster tail of dust as he hopped on and began to pedal. He followed the slope which led to the footpath that ran along the fence behind Layton’s.

It was a path that generations of kids had used as a shortcut; the soil had been pounded into fine grey dust from shoes and wheels traveling along the gently undulating rise and fall of the land. He checked ahead to be sure there was no one on the path, he nearly run down a group of school kids last time. He leaned forwards as he peddled putting his face down as near to the handlebar as he could without bumping his chin and picked up speed. Ahead he saw the yellow weathered top of the wrecked school bus in the junkyard and he tilted his head up slightly. Turning his face towards the fence he swiveled his eyes upwards; the fence pickets became a blur in the periphery of his vision.

Two more rotations of the pedals and individual fence boards came back clear and sharp in his vision. One more turn and they became distorted like the vibrations of guitar strings. He was getting close now. He tightened his muscles picking up more speed; readying himself he set his jaw; the muscles in his chest, shoulders, and arms ached with tension. Only his legs continued to move freely as he braced himself for the section of fence where it would happen. He held his breath as he entered the long shadow of the school bus. When h emerged at the other end the light rocked him.

The bike wobbled and he maintained his balance though he was no longer fully in control. The energy of the light flooding his optic nerve produced a small voltage which was sufficient to uncouple much of his conscious awareness from his surroundings. His lower brain functioned as it should and it, along with his forward momentum, kept him upright.

The strobe effect of the light through the pickets induced voltage spikes to his cerebral cortex which induced a seizure lifting him from the confines of his body, leaving land and flesh behind and below as he entered a state of flow.

The unmediated light shook him violently as the electro-chemical effects infused his mind with intense sensation. His eyes were prisms which turned light into infinite seductive sensation.

The peak came and lifted him away; soaring, vibrating, beyond pain, to that sweet inner source of pure elation. Sky, ground, fence, everything was gone, driven away as he surfed on waves of ethereal intensity.

Below him he sensed the path coming to an end, he did not want the sensation to end but he knew it must and he searched his mind for the words Zen made him promise to say to resist the urge to go again.

Only once Tyler, that’s the deal, only once, okay?

It was hard to let go but he set his will and forced himself to keep pedaling past the end of the fence, past the gas station on Water Road, past the Hydro maintenance yard, peddling until the tears in his eyes had dried and the sensation ebbed; he wanted more but refused to give in to the need. He was three blocks away when he felt the need let go of his mind as the hollow ache inside him lessened its grip.

Zen taught him to replace the emptiness which followed with pride and focus on the knowledge that he was strong enough to resist it and that too felt good. The further he got from the junkyard the better he felt and the stronger he became. The sweet memory of the sensation sustained him until he was far enough away the danger of getting stuck was gone.

Three years ago Andrea had been frantic and asked Zen to help look for him when he did not come home after school. Zen found him on the ground next to his bike trembling and insensible. That was the day he discovered the weird light effect and got stuck making too many passes and only stopped when the sun moved out of position. He nearly blinded himself and needed to wear dark glasses for a month to combat the headaches.

Zen was smart about things like that, she told him that she did not understand why he did it but she wouldn’t tell Andrea about it because she would freak.

They told Andrea he fell off his bike which was mostly true. After his headaches stopped and he could ride again Zen spotted him heading in the direction of the junkyard and followed him. She watched him do it and realized it was probably not harmful if he only did it once.

When he turned his bike around and tried to go again she forced him off the path. She was bigger than him and easily knocked him off his bike. She sat on top of him pinning him down mercilessly tickling him until he gave up. She called him the ‘nerve junkie’ for a long time after that.

He did not like being touched but, if he did not exactly like it, he could at least tolerate some touching when Zen did it. Over the summer she caught him a few more times and came to understand this was something he was strongly drawn to. He could not understand why she wanted him to stop the fence thing; he did he believe it would hurt him. It was when she threatened to tell Andrea he agreed to a compromise. He could do it once a day. She made him promise he would stick to their deal.

Only once Tyler, that’s the deal. Promise me.

He turned onto Enterprise Crescent and made his way past blocks of empty and shuttered industrial buildings then turned left onto Dunstan Road for another block and a half to the factory property. He jumped off his bike and pushed it through the hole in the security fence stashing it in the weeds behind the factory’s long dead power transformer. His bike would not attract any attention; there was no need to lock it because it blended in with the rest of the junk strewn around the lot. The transformer had once supplied electricity to the factory, an Agro-Pharm Corporation, which had once been a large player on the local industrial scene back in the eighties.

Now it was another abandoned piece of twentieth century technology standing sentinel to the massive structure decaying behind it. The pharmaceutical complex was two city blocks long and at least half a block wide with a dedicated spur line for rail cars. Three shifts of workers pumped out billions of doses of hormones for the dairy and meat industry during the late twentieth century.

Until the unfortunate connection between artificial hormones and Alzheimer’s disease was discovered hundreds of employees efficiently turned out products which produced generations of out-sized livestock and over-sized humans. The physical plant was shut down in 2013, and as far as he could tell, no one had been inside the building since it had been boarded up and abandoned. He discovered it six years ago when he was ten and it became his playground.

Cars seldom drove past and there were never any people around and, as a solitary child, the situation suited him well. He ran his fingers through the waist-high weeds growing along the rail spur which led to the factory’s concrete loading dock. He walked down the path worn through the Scots broom.

Somehow the first year he begun hanging around the factory Andrea found out and forbade him to play there. She made up stories about how they experimented on children inside the factory but as a ten-year-old he was bright enough to realize she was making up stories to scare him, and if anything, her efforts made him more interested in the place. It was only a few blocks from their house and he came most days after school while she was at her job.

Sections of the metal security fence around the property had collapsed and it was easy to get onto the property and once inside there was lots of interesting stuff for a kid to play with. While he was looking for materials to build a fort he looked under the long concrete loading dock and noticed the wire grill covering an air vent. He thought the grill would make a good window for his fort and it was easy to pry it off using the pry bar he found on one of his earlier adventures. It was not until the grill was off that he realized the vent provided an entryway into the building. Going inside the first time had been terrifying; it almost killed him.

He walked to the loading dock and squatted down amongst the tall weeds and waited a few moments watching the road and the surrounding buildings. He wanted to make sure there was anyone hanging around. Satisfied, he ducked underneath and duck walked over to the vent. He removed the metal grate covering the air duct leading to the building’s basement. He knew it was unlikely anyone was watching him but he was being more careful after the incident in lab four. The meatpacking plant across the road was shut down and boarded up long ago like most of the industrial buildings in this part of the city but he was careful about not being observed.

The vent, eighteen feet long, led to a basement utility room. He discovered the vent has a deceptively gentle downwards slope which turns vertical at the twelve foot mark. The first time inside he crawled into the vent in complete darkness and was caught by the sudden drop off. He fell down the vent and came to a painful stop when his head slammed into solid steel grating covering a huge fan at the bottom. Plummeting face first down eight feet of ventilator into complete blackness almost killed him. His out-stretched arms slammed through the gaps in the fan cage and dangled in the blade space below and his face and head bashed hard into the steel fan cover.