Gary Brandner - The Brain Eaters

“The man is a scientist,” Corey protested.

“So was Dr. Mengele.”

“Won’t you at least talk to him, doctor?” Corey said. “He’s right outside with Lieutenant Purdue.”

“Give me one reason why I should see this Bolshevik.”

“He says he has critical information about the brain eaters,” Corey said. “He claims that he developed the same parasites in Russia a year ago.”

“Hah! Of all the discoveries and inventions the Russians have claimed over the years, this is one I would like to give them. But it is not true. I, Frederich Kitzmiller, brought what are now called the brain eaters into existence in this very laboratory.”

“I know the story,” Corey said impatiently. “You were experimenting with a new pesticide — ”

“Bullshit pesticide!”

It was the first time Corey had heard the icy Dr. Kitzmiller use coarse language, and he stared at him.

“There is no point in keeping up the pretense any longer, regardless of what Mr. Zachry thinks. The brain eaters were developed to be exactly what they are, for possible use as a weapon.”

“A weapon?” Corey felt as though he had been slugged over the head.

“Yes, of course. With the Russians’ lead in chemical-and biological-warfare preparations, we felt it critical to have a response. It was done under a specific, highly secret contract from the Department of Defense. Did you really believe that such a horrendous result could come from innocent research on a pesticide?”

“A lot of people did,” Corey said.

“Well, that was the intent.” Kitzmiller’s voice grew calmer, but the fire stayed in the flashing blue eyes. “It became an obsession with Zachry that the public should not know of the government’s part in it. It would have destroyed the power of the Pentagon, he said, and with it the current administration.” His thin lips stretched in a mirthless smile. “A lot that matters now.”

“Lou Zachry is with the Defense Department?”

“Yes, of course. When the ‘accident’ occurred, he was sent here immediately to oversee the investigation. Which one of his made-up identities did he use on you? No, don’t bother to tell me. There isn’t time, and it does not matter, anyway.”

Corey was shaking his head. “I can’t believe that anything so appalling could even have been considered as a weapon.”

“Ah, but you see, we did not anticipate the terrible virulence of our little parasites. How could we? When experiments on animals gave an indication of what we really had, the project was immediately canceled and the single test canister marked for disposal. Had it not been for the unspeakable carelessness of one employee, the brain eaters might have been stopped then and there.”

“But Kuryakin says — ”

“The devil take Kuryakin and all Russians! Let Purdue deal with him.”

“No!”

Kitzmiller looked up, surprised at the sudden snap in Corey’s tone.

“I don’t give a damn about your personal feud with the Russians. This man has taken a considerable risk in coming here. It’s possible that he can help. If he has nothing to offer, we’ve lost only a few minutes.”

Kitzmiller’s mouth was a grim line. “Very well, I will see him. Alone. And only long enough for him to prove to me that he is a liar.”

“I’ll send him in,” said Corey, and hurried out the door before Kitzmiller could change his mind.

The stocky Russian and the lean German scientist faced each other in the sterile office behind the Biotron laboratory. The air crackled with hostility.

“The agricultural expert, I presume,” said Kitzmiller with heavy sarcasm.

“And I salute the maker of fertilizer,” Kuryakin answered, speaking German.

They acknowledged each other with careful nods.

“I have heard of your work,” Kuryakin said. “Your real work.”

“And I yours. But apparently not all of it. Or so I am told.”

“We do have our secrets despite your spy satellites and CIA.”

“I have no time to compare espionage systems.”

“I will make my point. These brain eaters of yours were discovered by me in a Moscow facility thirteen months ago. We called it Project Romanov. A bit of socialist humor.”

“Why should I believe you?”

Kuryakin gestured toward a chalkboard along one of the office walls. “May I?”

Kitzmiller nodded brusquely.

The chalk clattered over the board as the Russian scribbled a series of formulas, talking as he wrote. “It was our thought that these parasites could be used in controlled circumstances as a biological weapon. Defensive, of course, to be employed only if we were attacked.”

“Of course,” Kitzmiller said. One corner of his mouth quirked in an ironic smile.

“We discovered, as you have, the full horror of these creatures, and the project was abandoned.”

Kitzmiller studied the chalkboard notations when the Russian stepped aside. He said, “Very well, I can see that you might have achieved the same result as we did. What is it you want, my congratulations?”

“I want you to listen to me, you stubborn sausage head!”

Kitzmiller’s eyes snapped wide.

“My colleague now waiting in front of your factory would have us flying back to Moscow, leaving your capitalist country to be consumed by your damned parasites.”

“Why should you feel differently from Raslov?”

“Why should I not? Our personal codes of honor are not issued by the Politburo, regardless of what you may read in the American press.”

“I was exposed to your Russian code of honor in 1945.”

Kuryakin leaned down and glared, his face close to Kitzmiller’s. “I have no more love for Germans than you have for my people. However, I do not waste emotion on atrocities of a long-dead war. I have come to share with you the second stage of my work. If you choose not to accept it, the tragedy will be on your head.”

“Second stage?” Kitzmiller was stunned by the Russian’s sudden vehemence.

“After I had brought the brain eaters to life, I did not stop my experiments. I also discovered how to kill them.”

The wind-driven rain slashed against the windshield, leaving greasy streaks where the wipers failed to clear it away. Lou Zachry sat hunched forward in the driver’s seat, gripping the steering wheel, peering into the storm.

He almost drove past the weed-grown dirt road that angled off into the trees. The hand-lettered sign Park Place was obscured by blowing brush, and Zachry saw it only as he came abreast. He hit the brakes and skidded several yards beyond the road before he could get the car under control.

He drove carefully, avoiding the tree roots that reached up like crooked fingers from the road. Overhead, the trees thrashed in the wind.

As he rounded a sharp bend, he came suddenly upon the house. It was almost too cute, with its overhanging roof, rounded edges, gaily painted shutters, and lacy curtains. A warm light shone from inside. Pale smoke curled out into the wet night from a stone fireplace chimney. Zachry was reminded of the gingerbread house from Hansel and Gretel.

He brought the car to a stop on a muddy patch of grass in front of the house. From the glove compartment he took a short-barreled.38 Chiefs Special. He left the car and walked cautiously across the mud toward the front door with its little shingled portico.

In his haste Zachry had not bothered with a coat. His shoes squished with every sodden step. The oxford cloth shirt was soaked through and plastered to his skin. The short blond hair was flattened wet against his skull.

When he reached the front door, he pressed his ear to the panel, listening. The rising wind and slash of the rain outside damped any sounds that might come from within. He released the latch and pushed the door open.