Warren Murphy: Killer Chromosomes

It hadn't been long ago that his diet was rice, fish, duck, and occasionally vegetables. How long had it been since he'd had something sweet? How had he gone without for all those years?

Remo had a second Twinkie in his mouth when Sheila appeared in the doorway of the kitchen. She had changed into a gauzy white robe that left none of her body to the imagination but instead offered it to Remo as a gift. She opened .her mouth to say something, then clamped it tight, brushed past Remo and violently stubbed out his cigarette in the ashtray.

"Hey, I was smoking that," he said.

"It's about time you learned smoking is bad for your health," she said. She turned to him again and brushed her breasts against his chest. "On the other hand, I might be very good for your health."

Remo, Twinkie in hand, felt something else he hadn't felt in many years-desire, burning, sexual desire for a woman. The art of Sinanju had made him a user of women's bodies when he wanted to be; it had taught him techniques to send women up walls in frenzy. But in making it an art and a science, Sinanju had made it dull. Remo couldn't remember the last time he had been aroused.

Till now.

He stuffed the rest of the Twinkie in his mouth and put his arms around Sheila Feinberg. His bodily urges made his mind not care that the woman had ripped open his stomach and throat only a few weeks before. He ran his hands down her slick back, feeling the tightness of smooth flesh through the flimsy nylon. Then he placed his hands on the rounded globes of her behind, pulling her to him and feeling, with pleasure, his body responding.

She raised her mouth to his and he covered it with his lips.

Then Sheila Feinberg lifted and carried him into the bedroom where she placed him gently on the bed.

"Does this mean we're going together?" Remo asked.

Sheila took off her wrap and lay on the bed next to him. "You're here to provide stud services," she said. "Now provide."

Remo did. For a full thirty seconds.

The same art that had killed desire was itself killed when desire returned. It was over before he realized it. He felt embarrassed at his lack of control.

"You're not much," Sheila said with a thin pursing of her lips.

"I'll get better," he said.

"You'll have plenty of practice," she said. Coldly, with no afterglow from the sex act, she rose from the bed and walked out the door. Remo heard it lock behind her.

"Go to sleep," she called through the door. "You'll need your rest."

Remo did not mind. He had put the pack of cigarettes in his trouser pocket before leaving the kitchen. Now he fished them out, lit one and lay back on the bed smoking, flicking ashes on the floor and considering that life was all a matter of timing.

Ten, thirteen years ago, before he joined CURE, he could think of few things better than being the captive love slave of a voluptuous blonde whose only demand was that he screw well and often. Now here he was, and all he felt was uncomfortable.

He smoked three cigarettes, stubbed them out on the floor, kicked the butts under the bed, and fell asleep. He slept hard and loglike. When he woke in the morning the bedroom door had been unlocked and left ajar.

Sheila stood naked at the kitchen sink, her body glowing with health and strength, an X-rated display of centerfold perfection.

"Do you want to make it before or after you eat?" she asked when Remo came in.

"After."

Remo saw the food on his plate. Uncooked bacon and a bowl of raw eggs.

"Before," he amended.

"After," she said.

"This stuff isn't cooked," Remo said.-

"I didn't want to fool with that stove," Sheila said.

"Who can eat this?" Remo asked, but saw that Sheila had sat down at the table and was eating it, dropping the strips of fatted, slick, white bacon down her throat like a finalist in a goldfish swallowing exhibition.

"I've done the best I can," Sheila said sharply. "If you don't like my breakfast, too bad. Eat cereal."

"I'll cook this," Remo said, lifting up his plate and bowl.

"You'll leave that stove alone. Eat cereal," Sheila said.

Remo had a Twinkie. When he was done, Sheila put a strong hand on his shoulder and led him into the bedroom.

"Come on, Ace," she said. "We'll see if we can get you up to the full minute mark today."

Remo followed, wondering dully what it was all about, but deciding not to worry. At least not until the cigarettes were gone.

It was the third day at Folcroft. Autopsies had been performed on the three tiger people killed and the results confirmed Smith's worst fears. The three had undergone chromosomal change. They were, in point of fact, no longer human beings. They were something else, something between man and beast. Smith worried that the thing they had become might turn out to be stronger and smarter, even more bloodthirsty than man.

The deaths in Boston continued but their number declined. It might have been the presence of the National Guard patrolling the streets. More likely, Smith felt, it was that he had decimated the tiger people's forces with the three deaths. That meant Sheila Feinberg-Smith was now convinced it was she who had carried Remo off-had not gone back to Boston. If she had, she would have by now created more man-eaters. The toll would have begun climbing again.

There was another thought gnawing at Smith, a thought at once so frightening and painful that he consciously tried to put it out of his mind. Yet it persisted. Suppose Sheila Feinberg had taken Remo to make him one of them? Remo, with all his skills, but coupled with brainless, animal savagery? He had been unstoppable before and now would be worse, therefore must be stopped. In those circumstances, there was only one man in the world who could stop him.

But how could Smith raise the subject?

Smith tapped lightly on the door of the second floor room. There was no answer. He pushed the door open and stepped inside.

Chiun wore a white purification robe and sat on a grass mat in the center of the floor. The room's two windows were heavily draped. Candles flickered at the four corners of the darkened room, which was bare of furniture. In front of Chiun, incense burned in a small porcelain bowl.

"Chiun?" Smith said softly.

"Yes."

"I'm sorry. There's been no word on Remo. He and that woman seem to have vanished off the face of the earth."

"He is dead," Chiun intoned dully.

"How can you be so sure?"

"Because I wish it so," Chiun said after a pause.

"You? Wish it so? Why, for God's sake?"

"Because if Remo is not dead, he will become one of them. If he becomes one of them, one hundred generations of Masters of Sinanju will demand I send him home to the sea. Even if he is my son. Because I have taught and given him Sinanju I may never permit it to be misused. So, because I do not wish to..." Chiun could not bring himself to say the word "kill."

"... because I do not wish to remove him, I wish him to be already dead."

"I understand," Smith said. His question had already been answered. If Remo was changed, Chiun would dispose of him. He began to say "thank you" to Chiun but caught himself.

The old man's head had sunk low again on his chest. Smith knew there was no conversation left in him. He wondered how many more days the death rites of Sinanju must continue.

Remo had a good guess now why Adam and Eve made a deal with the devil to get out of paradise. It was too damned dull.

Six days. The weather was always perfect. Sheila Feinberg was always beautiful and available.

Remo had to do nothing but lounge around the farmhouse and perform when Sheila wanted him to.

He was bored.

To make matters worse, he had run out of Twinkies and was running low on cigarettes. The cigarettes might have lasted but Sheila had this annoying habit of running around and, whenever she saw a cigarette, jabbing it out in the ash tray.