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MacMurphy Publishing
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Science Vs The Four Horsemen
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Wordcount: Approx 2,350
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Mickey
MacMurphy
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9/30/2013
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Science
vs The Four Horsemen (Dec 16th/01)
Agen
Sperrer was sitting at his lab table, pondering. As usual, the lab was deserted
this late at night. The object of his intense thought was a small round glass
petri dish sitting on the table in front of him. It contained the last sample
of Sequence X, the last infectious disease known to man.
Humanity
had come along way over the last few hundred years. The first to go had been
famine, after the advent of cheap and safe mass genetic engineering. This had
led to cheap nutritious food for all. He looked up at the block of wood hanging
over his table. It was a 15th Century portrayal of the Four Horsemen
of the Apocalypse riding off to conquer humanity.
But
their days were almost over. War had been next to go when science was finally allowed to help humanity to
master its innate aggression and anger and phobia. There hadn’t been a war for
over 75 years, major or minor. One of the major causes of war, overpopulation,
had been dealt with at the beginning of the last century, with a combination of
colonization of space, and the worldwide dropping birth rate caused by
increased worldwide education. Nuclear fear was a dinosaur of the past, all
remaining nukes stationed on Mars for use against threatening asteroids.
Death
was only a shadow of her former self. Whereas in the past, people had tended to
die violently by the hands of other people, or if they were really lucky,
perhaps quietly in their sleep. Now death was a rarity, thanks to the wonders
of modern research medicine and longevity treatments. Only the most severe of
accidents took any lives now, and those were fortunately exceedingly rare.
Agen
smiled. And now his life’s work was almost complete. Sitting in front of him
was the last of the scourge known as Disease. It had taken him many years of
frustration, long tedious hours and much hard work, but now it was so close.
His one and only goal was nigh upon him.
The
lab had finally finished the last of the exhaustive research concerning this
particular nasty bit of bacteria. Now all that remained was to place this last
sample in the incinerator and the specter of everything from the common cold to
the nastiest sickness would be confined to history. He grinned again, pleased
that the powers that be had chosen him to dispose of the last sample. {Expand?The
very last sample of illness known to man}
At
first, he failed to notice the tiny figure, draped all in green, desperately
waving its arms, running back and forth on the table. He was so lost in thought
that he realized he had been watching it for several seconds now, before
properly noticing. He blinked and looked closer, refusing to believe his own
eyes. The figure was a three inch tall man covered head to toe in flowing green
robes. Greens of every shades, from the most putrescent to the most brilliant.
The only explanation was that he had pushed himself too hard over the last few
weeks and the result was this peculiar little hallucination.
But
no, that couldn’t be right. The close Agen looked, the bigger the figure
appeared. It had already doubled almost, and now he could hear a tinny voice,
speaking insistently in a helium flavored tone. What was going on? He couldn’t possibly be that tired, could he?
By
now, the figure was just over a foot tall, jumping up and down in what looked
like frustrated impatience. But this seemed to be the limit of its growth for
it suddenly stopped and looked up at him, beady eyes peering out from the
darkness of its cowl.
“Que
dera mokan che?” it finally asked, tilting its head inquisitively.
Agen
was at a complete loss. He had a momentary impulse to run, but his scientific
curiosity got the best of him. He couldn’t bear the thought of wondering about
this the rest of his life.
“Are
you an alien or something?” He tentatively asked, adjusting his spectacles.
“My
how things change. English is it? It’s ok, you don’t have to adjust, I can do
English.” The voice was still so oddly pitched, still with that flavor of
helium.
“What
are you?” Agen’s curiosity was starting to far outweigh his fear and
uncertainty now that he could understand this creature.
“Allow
me to introduce myself. Of course, I’d normally be much bigger, more your
size-ish. But things haven’t been going too well for me lately. And of course,
that’s a lot your fault.” It drew itself to its full, impressive foot and a bit
height. “I am Plague. One of the four Horsemen of the Apocalypse.” It paused to
glance around the room, taking in Agen’s woodcut.
“And
I see by your charming if inaccurate artwork that you already know about myself
and my associates.” Plague continued. “Funny thing, that. It always pissed war
off, that particular portrayal. He said it didn’t capture his likeness at all.”
“Uh,
no,” Agen stammered, somewhat flummoxed. “No, I must’ve fallen asleep.
Dreaming. Overworked and all.” He paused and rubbed his eyes then peered over
the rim of his glasses at this strange hallucination.
He
pinched himself, hard enough to wince, but Plague was still apparent.
“No,
I assure you, you’re quite awake. I’m quite real. For a little while more,
perhaps. Imagine that. I’m here to beg a favor. Imagine that! Me! Plague! Reduced to begging favors from a lowly human
beast. What has happened to the world?”
The
figure, Plague, it had called itself, paced small circles into his table,
mumbling about the horrors of modern conveniences like sewers and medicines,
staring down at its feet almost wearing grooves into the surface. Agen rubbed
his temples. I don’t have time for a
mental breakdown.
“Well,
what is it you want?” Agen finally asked, determined to be rational about
losing his mind.
“Right
to the point, aren’t we? I like that. Not like War, not at all. Just beat
around the bush, constantly, that guy” Plague trailed off darkly mumbling
again, before brightening. “What I want? Quite simple, really. Simple and to
the point. What I want is don’t destroy that sample. You’ll be the death of me.
Death of me. Get it? Death of me.” Plague giggled a little manically at his own
arcane but somehow twisted little joke. Agen got the distinct impression that
he had missed something.
Agen
rubbed his eyes again, much harder this time, digging the heels of his palms
into his sockets. His whole life had been a battle against death and disease,
since watching as a young child his once strong father die in front of him. His
father had died of a very rare cancer, months after the more common versions
had been entirely cured, and mere months after his version had finally been
cured. He had despised that feeling of helplessness he had got watching his
father die, and now he suddenly felt that same despair again.
What should I do? I swore to do no
harm. Agen thought miserably. After getting so close to
completing his life’s work, he was now being told that he would essentially be
committing murder by ridding civilization of disease. He had sworn during
medical school to never take a sentient life. But did Plague, seemingly a
living, sentient being pleading for his life, really count? Especially after
being responsible for so many miserable deaths over the years?
But
murder was Wrong. There were no two ways around that. But really, was it murder? Agen didn’t know and he could feel the
stirrings of a vicious headache. Automatically, he reached in his pocket for
his omnipresent bottle of aspirin. Briefly, he wondered if Plague was responsible
for his headaches, a burden for as long as he could remember.
“So
let me get this straight. You are a Horseman. You and the other Horsemen
actually exist. And now you’re claiming I’ll be responsible for your death?”
Agen stared hard around the lab. “This must be some kind of cruel and bizarre
practical joke. All right you guys. This isn’t funny, you can come out now.
Where’s the projector? Seriously, this isn’t funny.”
“Yes,
we do actually exist!” interrupted
Plague with an indignant squeak. “Well, not exactly so much anymore. Famine and
War just kinda faded away. Right before my eyes! They’re gone now and Death is
almost insubstantial, a pale shade of what she used to be,” he continued,
rather very sardonically, Agen thought.
Plague
strode up to him and seized his lab coat and violently shook it, or rather
tried to but barely had the strength to dislodge Agen’s ID badge.
“I
don’t want to die!” he wailed. “I’ll be gone to, if you destroy that sample!”
Ironic,
thought Agen, that something responsible for so much death and suffering was so
fearful of meeting the same fate. He struggled with whether it would be murder
to destroy that last sample. He looked down at the petri dish, feeling the
weight of the world on his shoulders. The very last sample of infectious
disease. In the Whole World. Agen felt crushing indecision, and mentally cursed
Plague for forcing this upon him. He almost felt like losing his mind would’ve
been easier.
Plague
followed his gaze, and releasing his coat, bounded over to the dish. He (Was it even a he?)wrapped his arms
around it, much like a protective mother and looked up into Agen’s eyes. This
allowed Agen his first good look at Plague’s visage, and he recoiled when he
realized it was a hideous patchwork of poorly healed scars and open sores. It
resembled very much the late stages of leprosy Agen had seen once in a textbook
many years ago. Plague’s nose suddenly fell off, and landed with a sickeningly
wet splat on the table.
“Don’t
mind that. Happens all the time.” Plague said dismissively, bending to scoop up
his lost proboscis. As he bent, a wiggling mass of slimy maggots fell out his
nose hole.
“No,
I can’t and won’t do it! You can’t stop me from finishing my life’s work! From
avenging my father!” Agen had to struggle to control his disgust and bile, and
a sense of rising panic. “I’ve worked too long and too hard! Too long to let
you continue in this world! You killed my father!”
This
seemed to only enrage Plague. Puffing himself up to his full height, he much
resembled some sick toy designer’s idea of the perfect Christmas present for
little Billy. Agen had to stifle a nearly insane giggle at this mental picture.
I wonder what Christmas in the crazy
house will be like?
“You
think you’re so high and mighty, Mr. Scientist? I’ll haunt all your relations
and descendants with yeast infections, cold sores and measles. I’ll cause you
lupus and leprosy at the same time. You’ll enjoy it when all your extremities
turn black and fall off.” Plague suddenly deflated, as if only now remembering
he was entirely at the mercy of his scientific adversary.
With
that, his rant was over and he slumped over the petri dish, caressing it like a
lost Romeo mourning his lost Juliet.
“Well,
at least I’ll be able to give you a horrid combination of jock’s itch and
athlete’s foot. That’ll never go away.” Plague moaned out, stroking the dish,
cooing to the bacteria inside. “Please don’t do it. Please don’t destroy the
sample. I don’t want to fade away.”
Plague
was suddenly very still, so much so that Agen wondered if he was ok. The irony
was not lost on him. Agen got up and began to pace up and down the length of
the little laboratory. He seemed to be stuck on the horns of a dilemma, between
his conscience and completing his life’s work of ridding the world of disease.
He could see no easy solution and again, felt that dreadful helplessness. What to do, what to do?
Plague
watched him, looking very listless. If Agen did what Plague asked and did not
dispose of the last of Sequence X, he would be failing his father. If he
disposed of it, he would be murdering another sentient being. Take no life or save humanity from disease?
The
headache was well on its way to developing into a full blown migraine. Agen
fumbled in his pocket for his pills and quickly popped a large handful. He had
a sinking feeling they wouldn’t do any good.
“I
don’t cause headaches, just so you know.” Plague murmured, rather sullenly.
Agen
paused in his pacing to look down at the green clothed figure responsible for
so many sleepless nights. Plague seemed to have shrunk somewhat, as if his rant
had taken some of his substance. Agen rubbed his temples, suddenly wishing he
had chosen a different field of research.
“Well,
I don’t seem to have convinced you. I guess I’ll just leave then, off to fade
into obscurity. By the way, your woodcut is also wrong because Death is female,
and she rather fancies a big ax, rather than a scythe.”
With
that, Plague was gone in a little puff of miasmatic green smoke. Agen was left
to ponder in his empty lab, empty save for that little petri dish. To incinerate or not to incinerate, that was
the question. Agen imagined a game show host, listing all the prizes for
incineration.
The
next morning, the first technician came in to open the lab, and found the
incinerator cold. Not stopping to wonder, she just began readying the lab for
the day’s work. Removing the samples for the day’s study from the lab
refrigerator, she failed to notice, however, one small petri dish, way up in
the back corner. It was nearly hidden behind numerous jars, dishes and
packages. It was very simple, unadorned save for a small neat label that read
“Sequence X. Extreme Biohazard.”
End
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