He Brought It Home

It had been two years since he began his important work in the chemistry lab, keeping late hours, trying not to get in anyone’s way, pursuing his task single-mindedly. He had no time for conversation. He avoided it, in fact. Because they might try to stop him.

He wasn’t even supposed to be on campus, let alone in the lab. He’d gotten himself a key through an acquaintance who worked in housekeeping, and who shared his views. His presence had not been questioned by the few people he’d run into late at night. They must have assumed he’d been working on a legitimate project. He still looked like a graduate student: stressed out, three days' growth of beard, dirty clothes. At least he thought he did.

The other night a gal had asked him if he was — who he was. “You look just like that fellow who was expelled for those illegal experiments!” He looked at her and shrugged. “I haven’t heard about anything like that,” he said. “I’m just trying to get my degree before my son starts demanding I buy him a car.” The gal laughed. He didn’t have a son. He didn’t really have a family. His father hadn’t called him in the last two years; perhaps his father was dead.

The first poison he’d developed was quick-acting but messy, disrupting certain bodily functions in an obvious way before causing death. It was undetectable after a few hours, however, and that was something he could build on. What he needed was something less obviously painful.

He would drive for miles looking for places to try out his formulas. A truck stop here, a road-house there, a campground over there. He usually couldn’t stick around to take notes on the results; he had to depend on news reports. If there was no news report, he couldn’t even be sure if his experiment had had any effect at all. It was not a satisfactory method, but as long as testing such things on homo-sapiens was outlawed, that’s all he had.

He wasn’t sure why his work could not be supported. It was clear that extremists had taken over both political parties and that the only way to stop them was to kill them. They would not be missed, and progress toward a more peaceful world would have been made. Before using poison on any individual, he’d make sure that that individual held extremist views and was a danger to others. He was not going to harm the innocent. This meant he’d have to eavesdrop carefully. He couldn’t start conversations; people nearby might remember, or the person-to-be-eliminated might recover.

His whole process had slowed down considerably since the time he was expelled. He’d avoided arrest, but acquired fear, and it weighed on him. Some nights he didn’t even show up to the lab, and even while there he’d lose focus. He had to work most days with the landscaping crew, and they started at 7 am.

Tonight, though, he thought he had something special. All that remained was to test the substance. The amount he’d distilled was small, only a quarter of an ounce. It had no smell and was slightly yellowish. It would work when placed on the tongue, even before it was swallowed, he hoped. There was no time to test it, so he brought it home to his rented room and placed it on the table by his bed. Sleep overtook him quickly that night.

The dream he had was simple and direct. His father appeared, looming over him as always. “YOU are the ideal test subject, son,” he said. “I think you know what to do.”

Just a few minutes before the sun came up, he opened his eyes. He had some reluctance, but in that half-awake state, he obeyed his father. As the poison hit his tongue, he knew he’d succeeded in making a good potion. There was no pain, and the world disappeared quickly. His troubled spirit rushed through a tunnel of darkness and then into the light, and the light recognized him.

— Macoff