Project Beast

I don’t know what’s happening to me. Thick layers of wiry black hair grow on my arms and legs like in a video in accelerated motion, except it isn’t happening on a screen; it’s happening on my body. I try to yell for my brother, who was with me seconds ago, but a horrible yowl comes out of my mouth instead. My newly grown serrated claws as sharp as knives shred the carpet into ribbons as I tear out of my apartment, galloping on all fours towards the only place I can belong now.

***

My name is Olive Thatcher. I am 26 years old. I lived in the forests until my brother, James, found me. James is a human. I don’t know what I am. I don’t know why I’m here. I shouldn’t be here. It took forty-five minutes to write those seven sentences on the notepad the doctor gave me. I hadn’t written a word in three years, much less a sentence, due to the fact that my talons couldn’t grip a pen. Except now, I can. Whatever concoction the lady in the white coat gave me, transformed my body back into the normal human being I once was. I can speak English, walk on two legs, and hold an object without carving deep incisions into it.

I tear the page off of the notepad and hand it to the nurse, who forces a smile and presses a button to call the doctor. She’s had to babysit me for the past hour. “Dr. Schultz, she’s finally come out of writer’s block,” the exasperated nurse mutters as the doctor walks in.

“Excellent!” exclaims Dr. Schultz, reviewing what I had written. “Well, Ms. Thatcher, considering, ah, the lack of detail and time it took you to complete this, I think it is safe to say that you’ve had significant memory loss. You have an unidentified biological substance in your blood. I suspect it is what made you have memory loss and hallucination issues. However, there is an odd substantial increase in muscle mass and you are more than perfectly healthy, physically, which is quite shocking, considering your diet consisted of only raw meat … oh dear, Ms. Thatcher, can you hear me?”

My vision is swimming again, and I feel my two front teeth lengthen and sharpen. Strong hands force my mouth open and a liquid trickles down my throat. I bite down, sinking my fangs into the fingers, but the hands don’t budge. “Swallow, Olive,” says a familiar voice.

The hand shifts from my jaws to my chin, tipping my head to help me gulp down the fluid. I’m able to gradually focus on the icy blue eyes of my brother. Eleven years my senior, James and I were never close growing up, but he was the first human I had set my eyes upon since I fled my apartment in Los Angeles. He said he hired a private detective to find me, thinking I was kidnapped after hearing my shrieks. He said they followed a trail of my fingerprints and hair, then hired a professional tracker as well. He said that I am not what I think I am. I don’t know what to believe.

“What are you doing here? What was that you gave me to drink?” I ask.

“I developed an antidote to your illnesses.” Upon seeing my confusion, he says, “I’m the CEO of a biotechnology company, remember?”

I try to remember. James started something called BioFjordTech, fresh out of college, then became a millionaire at the age of twenty-five. He was always the smartest and most successful person in the room. I was more than a little less extraordinary than him.

Dr. Schultz clears her throat. “Um, Mr. Thatcher, I don’t recognize this … FjordAid medicine. Is it approved by the FDA?”

“It will be.”

Her eyes widen. “It will be? You gave your sister an unauthorized drug that-”

“Worked brilliantly,” finishes James. “It has undergone stringent testing in my lab. Thank you, Dr. Schultz, but I think we’re done here. Let’s go, Olive.”

***

As James’s Lamborghini speeds down an empty private road, he peppers me with questions: “How did you hunt your meals down? Were you ever able to take down an animal bigger than you? Did your sense of smell improve? How many hours did you sleep each night?”

I mumble some indistinct answers that James doesn’t appreciate. I can vaguely recall James’s dislike of impracticality. “Olive, if I am to help you, you need to give me the specifics,” he says.

“You already helped me. When will that drug wear off?”

“I don’t know, but I am expecting at least a week. It is an experimental drug after all, but don’t worry. The hallucinations are gone, aren’t they? Your short-term memory will improve too, though it will take longer, but hopefully you’ll remember your past soon enough.” He flashes a rare smile. “You’ve had a difficult three years. You should relax for a while, before doing much.”

When we get to James’s home in Bel Air, I find a guest bedroom, crash there, and immediately fall into a dreamless slumber.

***

I wake up at 2:30 in the afternoon. I’m briefly confused about my whereabouts, wondering where the verdant carpets of grass and the scent of pinewood are. When I remember the previous day’s events, I call out, “James?”

“Mr. Thatcher is not home,” says a woman’s voice.

I turn around, but don’t see anyone. “I am Mr. Thatcher’s personal digital assistant, Vela. If you need anything, just ask me.”

“Where is James?”

“A business meeting in San Francisco. He will stay there as long as he needs to.”

I find a pack of steaks and eat them raw, since if I try to operate the stove, I’ll probably set something on fire. I also attempt to do the basic things most humans do, like showering and brushing my teeth (I end up swallowing my toothpaste). After that, I become bored; usually, I would spend all day tracking a herd and devising a plan of how I would capture my next meal. Instead, I wander the villa, trying to find something to do by opening random doors (most of them leading to more unused guest rooms), but then I come across a steel door with what looks like steam coming out of the cracks. However, when I try to open it, the door doesn’t budge. It is locked. “Only Mr. Thatcher has clearance to the lab,” says Vela.

“This is his lab? Why can’t I go in?”

“There is confidential and sensitive information stored in there, as well as possible biological dangers.”

“Is this where he made the cure for my … problem?”

“He makes everything that isn’t on the market in there. Mr. Thatcher doesn’t trust his employees at BioFjordTech with everything.”

***

In the end, I decide to relearn how to type. Vela gave me my brother’s email address so I could send him a message:

To: James Thatcher

From: Olive Thatcher

Date: Monday, April 16, 2035 09:15:32 PDT

Subject: Thank you

Vela told me you went to San Francisco. Let me know when you will be back. Also, I didn’t thank you properly for tracking me down, getting me to the hospital, and creating a treatment just for me, so thank you.

I press the send button, temporarily proud of myself for remembering capitalization and punctuation, then realize I should’ve inquired about how long I had to stay at his house. Just as I am about to click the undo button though, I notice my fingernails morphing into the beginnings of a claw. It happens slower than usual, but my panic is greater than ever. I tear away into the hallway, trying to remind myself, It’s just a hallucination, it isn’t real.

It’s no use though, since I once again feel like I’m losing my grip on reality. I fall to the ground, fighting the urge to follow the seducing scent of rain and earth. As I writhe on the floor, I see the steam curling out of the edge of that white door out of the corner of my eye. I need that medicine in James’s lab.

I sprint to the door and grab the handle, twisting it so hard, it breaks. “Ms. Thatcher, you cannot enter,” says Vela.

I ignore her voice and kick the door open. Frigid air envelopes me as if I’ve walked into winter. Shelves lining the walls are laid with dozens of cases of dry ice. I search each case of vials, not caring if I touch the dry ice. “Where is that blasted FjordAid?” I mumble.

“If what you are looking for is FjordAid, go to section D, shelf 9,” says Vela in that irritatingly calm voice.

I don’t question the digital assistant’s choice of giving an intruder that information and grab the vial, then chug the liquid. Relief floods me when I see that my nails are back to normal and the long body hair is gone. I laugh and shake my head. “That did not last a week, and this won’t either.”

“Your manufacturing equipment is ready for more FjordAid dose production, Mr. Thatcher. Would you like me to give the order?” asks Vela.

There are only four more vials, which won’t last me even a week. “Um, sure.”

“The equipment is also ready to manufacture more doses of FjordBeast.”

“What’s FjordBeast?”

“According to your notes, FjordBeast is a drug derived from the deoxyribose nucleic acid of bears, wolves, ibexes, and other animals or artificial nucleic acid inspired by the features of animals, injected into the blood of a human. The concept was that humans could become greater beings by going back to the roots of our primordial, wild existences and enhancing it. The purpose of the drug is to enhance a human’s speed, agility, muscle tissue mass, sense of smell, hearing, vision, and let a human function perfectly with little sleep. For example, FjordBeast takes inspiration from the speed of a cheetah and develops longer legs, flexible spines, and loose hips in order to increase the speed of the human. Known side effects of FjordBeast include severe hallucinations of having physical features of other animals, memory loss, a lack of cognitive skills, discomfort in urban areas, and adopting unintended features of some animals such as walking on four legs instead of two. However, only one clinical trial has been performed, so there are possibilities of other unknown side effects. You, Mr. Thatcher, developed FjordAid to counteract the known side effects.”

Frost creeps up my spine. “Tell me about that clinical trial.”

“On March 27, 2032, Olive Lilliana Thatcher was injected with the FjordBeast drug. On the same day, she went missing, due to neurological side effects caused by FjordBeast. She was found on April 14, 2035 and given FjordAid the day after her rehabilitation. The clinical trials of FjordBeast and FjordAid were a success and Phase Two of Project Beast is now underway.”

“What’s Project Beast?” I demand.

Vela laughs–a hair-raising, digital cackle. “My, my, Mr. Thatcher, you have forgotten a lot, haven’t you? Project Beast is a personal arrangement between BioFjordTech and several private intelligence agencies, vigilante groups, and militias, to privately distribute FjordBeast with the addition of FjordAid. Phase One, which is developing and testing FjordBeast and FjordAid, has been completed. Phase Two, negotiation and deciding what the price is based on demand, is happening now, in San Francisco.”

***

One week later …

To: Olive Thatcher

From: James Thatcher

Date: April 23, 2035 11:39:06 PDT

Subject: Thank you

Dear Olive,

Sorry I didn’t let you know I would be gone and apologies for the late reply. I have been swamped in some extraordinarily grueling meetings. I booked a flight back to Los Angeles for tomorrow, and should be back home by noon.

P.S. It was my pleasure creating your treatment. That’s what family does, right? Help each other out. 🙂

-James

I almost punched the computer after reading it, but there will be retribution soon. I am ready. Vela, still mistaking me for James whenever I stepped into the lab, told me where everything was. I have disposed of every milliliter of FjordBeast, except for one vial. I destroyed the elaborate instruments and trashed any ingredient I found used for making that abominable drug. I researched how to use a syringe. My plan will be put into motion as soon as James steps into the house.

***

“Olive?”

I pocket the syringe containing FjordBeast. I plaster a grin on my face as I run down the stairs to where my brother is waiting. “James!” I shriek. “Why didn’t you tell me you were going somewhere before you left?”

He laughs as he hugs me back. My performance is believable. “I’m sorry, you were so tired that day and I didn’t want to wake you! You slept for at least fifteen hours!”

“You must be tired too. I remembered how to make tea and brewed some for you, so come on, sit down and rest. What were you discussing in your meetings in San Francisco?” I ask as I pull out a seat for him in the kitchen.

“Distributing the latest influenza vaccine to local hospitals. You know what is one positive about your incident? After those three years, somehow you’ve gotten a lot more gracious and kind, I think,” James says.

“Oh yeah?”

“Yes, you were rather stuffy and cold before. Like you were a master at manipulating-”

I suddenly grab his shoulders and slam him into the wall, so hard that the paint cracks. “Ow! Olive, what the-”

“The manipulation running in my blood runs in yours too,” I snarl. “The FjordBeast running in my blood will also run in your blood soon.”

“What are you talking about?” snaps James, trying to break my iron grip on him.

“I was able to break into your lab, thanks to your little drug you tested on me, and Vela told me everything! You can play dumb, but we both know you made me your test device, subjected me to three years of indignity and psychological torture, then lied to me about every little thing! You weren’t actually talking about flu vaccine supplies with hospitals in San Francisco, were you?”

James’s silence confirms my suspicions. “Why James, why?” I bark.

“I thought I was doing you a favor! Look at you, you have the speed and strength of an Olympic athlete now! I didn’t know there were any side effects!”

“Oh, but there were, and look who suffered the consequences of your decision to make me your test subject!”

James’s initial shock morphs into a sneer. “I’ll have to add emotional immaturity to the list of side effects.”

I take out the syringe of FjordBeast. “Then you’ll have that too. You’re going to go through the same thing you forced me to go through: no peace, no comfort, no friends or family. And the only way out is FjordAid, which only I possess now, so your mind will be in my hands, just as mine was in yours. You will live, but your insanity will turn you into a beast. That’s why you called it Project Beast and FjordBeast, huh? Speaking of which, I discarded every other dose of this darn drug, so whatever delinquents you dealt with will want their money back. Any equipment or ingredient used for making FjordBeast also went down the drain.”

James stops struggling. “Well, that’s too bad,” he says, a strange look coming over his face. “We’ll both turn into creatures of the wild with no chance of returning back to civilization.”

“What? Not we, just you!”

“If you destroyed the equipment and the ingredients for the FjordBeast, then the FjordAid cannot be made either. The same things used for creating FjordBeast were used for FjordAid. I also had the equipment custom-made and the recipe is impossible to replicate since only I know it.”

I try to not show my frustration, but I can feel the heat blooming in my cheeks. How could I have been so stupid? Must’ve been another blasted memory pitfall. “I’m going to make a deal with you,” I say.

“Great.”

“I will let you go. In exchange, you will have that equipment remade and create the FjordAid for me to use. Project Beast will be dismantled entirely.”

James’s eyes probe my face, trying to glean from me any hint of deceit. “Deal,” he finally says. I release him. “Um, I’m going to call my supplier … hey!”

I grab his arm and sink the needle of the syringe into it. His eyes, at first full of surprise at my betrayal, glaze over, then transition into panic. He scratches the floor with his nails, as if trying to file down imaginary claws. James gazes down at his body with horror and tries to run, but I maintain my steady grasp on him. It is rather surreal, seeing what he had done to me from the outside. I almost want to let go of him and go through with my original plan, but I can’t. Instead, I empty the vial of FjordAid that I kept in my pocket for emergencies into his gaping mouth.

Thankfully, James swallows it down, but soon after, he is yelling at me. “What was that for! I thought we had a deal!”

“I can’t trust you. You lost my trust when I found out everything. I had little faith that you would actually cancel Project Beast and go forward with giving me doses of FjordAid. After all, you could just conveniently forget to create a batch of FjordAid, I would go insane again, and you wouldn’t have to stop Project Beast. But now, you must rely on FjordAid too. You will have to produce it, if you want to stay mentally stable. That’s why I injected you, then gave you the treatment right after. Our deal is not broken, since I am letting you go now; I didn’t state specifically when I was going to let you go initially. I never said I wouldn’t inject you with FjordBeast either.”

James opens and closes his mouth, but nothing comes out: an odd thing to be the last image in my head before my vision blurs entirely and I crumple to the floor.

***

Olive. Olive. Olive!

The sound of pounding footsteps fading. The sound increasing again. The sensation of lifting into the air. Blackness.

***

“Ms. Thatcher, if you can hear me, please say something.”

I open my eyes. “What?” I croak.

“That will be sufficient. Mr. Thatcher is being notified of your awakening,” says Vela.

I sit up too quickly. Some sort of medical device sitting on my chest crashes to the ground. “What?!”

The bedroom door opens and standing there is James. He takes a few tentative steps towards me, then stops when he is five feet away from the bed. We’re both unsure of what to say to each other. Finally, I choose to break the silence: “What happened?”

James clears his throat. “FjordAid wore out and this time, when your head hit the floor, I think you got knocked out. I revived you with the medicine again, but um, I’m going to be honest now, I sedated you for two days because I needed time to think of what to say to you.”

“You didn’t cancel Project Beast, did you?” I groan.

“No, no, I did, I promise! But, um, after I experienced what you had gone through, well, I understand it now, and … if you want to leave and never see me again, I totally get it. I rebought your apartment in New York City for you and I will schedule automatic deliveries of FjordAid.”

I stare at him. “What is this, some kind of ploy to trick me?”

“No, just an offer. If you don’t want to go back to New York, I can get you a home anywhere else in the world,” he says quickly.

“I think I’ll stay right here in your house for now. Wouldn’t want to have another spell like the one that just happened, just because shipping might decide to get delayed,” I say, watching his face carefully for any sign of perfidious duplicity.

James stammers, “That’s fine … that’s great! Er, there’s a box of your medicine next to you when you need it and if you want anything, ask Vela … or ask me, either way.”

“Hand me that computer over there, will you?”

He complies. I look up at him as I open the laptop. “Are you going to tell any doctors about FjordBeast? Or anyone for that matter?”

“I will if you want me to.”

I have the chance, no, not just that, James’s permission to expose him. Yes, make him pay, a voice whispers in the back of my mind. But as I examine his red, puffy eyes and notice the constant sniffles, I realize that there is no need to. James has already paid for his mistakes. Enough to balance the scale of right and wrong? No, but it is enough for me. I know that this is his way of saying sorry, for showing the remorse he can’t bring himself to speak of. “You don’t have to tell anyone right now, I guess,” I say.

He dares to look in my eyes for a second, then gives me an abrupt nod. “Understood.” James exits the bedroom without a second glance.

I type in the password on the laptop and open a browser, intending to send an email. However, a photo of my brother catches my eye, on the new tab that automatically displays the news. The headline reads: BioFjordTech CEO Announces Resignation And Confirms Rumors of Illegal Dealings. Is FjordAid wearing off again? I click on the article.

James Thatcher, CEO of BioFjordTech Inc., announced that he was stepping down from his position in a statement issued this morning. Thatcher’s statement also confirmed the reportedly illegal dealings of an unknown bioweapon. “The reports of unlawful bargainings are unfortunately true. I have canceled the deals because these negotiations have seen more negative than positive effects on my life and others. I am officially stepping down from my position as the Chief Executive Officer of BioFjordTech Inc. due to my irresponsibilities and will willingly cooperate with law enforcement.”

I stop reading. Questions swirl in my brain like a kaleidoscope of disoriented butterflies. Why did James issue this public statement? Didn’t I say he didn’t have to reveal Project Beast? He did this before we even spoke, I suppose. Is he going to go to prison for this?

I consider asking Vela to call James to discuss this, but work out that there is really only one thing I want to tell him. I open my email and type the message:

To: James Thatcher

From: Olive Thatcher

Date: Friday, April 27, 2035 10:17:33 PDT

Subject: (no subject)

Don’t forget to forgive yourself.