Kami didn’t see them coming until it was almost too late, the crunching of glass in the dark alleyway being her only warning. Her heart raced, the blood pumping at quickening intervals choreographed to the rhythm of her legs. She had almost won first place when she was still on the track team in school before the Recession hit... before the street. Now she did little more than scurry after rats in the gutter just for a spot of protein, at least, that was until tonight.

She smacked a rusted trash can over that was sitting next to the dumpster, feeling a pang of relief with the even louder crash and outburst of curses that followed.

“Catch that bitch!”

How many of them were there? 

Tires squealed off to her right, instinct telling her to go toward the noise instead of away from it. The car flew past her as she turned the corner onto the main road, and a new screech tore into the night; the puddles on the street glowed red as their brake lights erupted onto the scene.

“Shit,” she hissed.

Her pace quickened, and she felt the strain of unused muscles resisting her call, malnutrition and complacency taking their toll. She didn’t know how long she could keep up the pace, only knowing that stopping would likely be her end. Rumors had been spreading that other kids on the street had been vanishing, never ones that came from families of consequence, mind you, just those society forgot about. Everyone had forgotten about Kami when her father shot himself, losing his job along with three hundred others at the plant, even her Mama, who just couldn’t cope. Kami had come home from school one day, and Mama was gone, the house locked up tight. From that point on, she was a vagrant, and the neighbors made sure the police were called, believing at their core that their family never belonged there.

The street turned dark very suddenly, and the disorientation from her pupils attempting to adjust made her misstep, twisting her ankle and falling to the pavement. She clenched her teeth as she tried to rise on her hands, blood trickling from the fist-sized scrape on her cheek.

All the streetlights were out, the realization causing a cold sweat to flourish between her shoulder blades.

Kami fought the urge to scream, her breathing flowing out of her in whooping huffs on the verge of hyperventilation. This was how the other children were captured… there was coordination. New York City never slept, yet the street was clear; somehow, they could control her artificial sense of comfort: the lights.

“Mama—“

Her whispered cry cut off as she put her weight on her ankle before collapsing again with a gasp. There was no way to move forward, the pain being too great. A car slowed to a stop beside her as she pulled herself across the sidewalk, the sound of the window rolling down and her wheezing the only thing her ears registered.

“Can’t help but feel for the little street rat; she’s still trying. This is a good one.” He admired her; the inflection was plain to anyone listening, her very existence sounding as commodified as a stout pair of reliable shoes.

“Just fucking do it already. We only have a two-minute window on these lights.”

A cat peered at her from under a newspaper stand a few feet away, watching as a thunk noise— like a ball launched from a tube— preempted a pinch in her shoulder. Her muscles seized, and she fell forward, numbness washing over her body. Kami tried to open her mouth but to no avail, and as she lost focus on the world around her, the cat came into view a final time, a rodent securely in its jaws. 

Nothing like losing a game of cat and mouse.

Chapter 2

“Ladies and Gentlemen! Thank you so much for attending this little party!”

The crowd laughed, passing glances at one another and taking in the entire ballroom around them. This little party was actually quite a large shareholder celebration, six hundred strong. Lazarus, Inc. had a record-breaking sixteen months since they secured United States Food and Drug Administration compliance, and they intended to bask in their fortunes with every decadence available. Corks popped as servers carrying white cloths, dressed in black, moved with surgical efficiency between guests like SS officers at a rally in Munich circa 1936, offering glasses of Armand de Brignac Brut Gold Champagne with an accompanying napkin of beluga caviar and foie gras. Glasses clinked, and the shuffling of bodies and chairs put a pulse on the event, a building hum of energy and anticipation. 

Jarum Daughtry watched from his dais on stage, taking it all in, feeding off it—a parasite draining its host. All of this was due to his vision. The grandeur, the pomp, and, oh, the profits. He learned the mistakes of the other biotech firms, watching them take one fatal move after another, all with the same goal: preserving youth and eliminating disease. 

Thasia Labs was the first to die, their immortality failing despite what the origins of its name implied. Koschei GmbH was the next to go, followed closely by YWS. The human genome was a tricky mistress, and all of them had the key to the vault, something a little corporate espionage revealed and helped to further his own endeavor, but they did their execution all wrong. Eradicating Alzheimer’s and heart disease were admirable goals, even his ailment for that matter, but when in America had anyone truly thrown money at a cause solely focused on good intentions? 

Where was the manipulation of the consumer? The invoking of the deep seeded need for American consumerism? It needed pizazz and sex appeal. Fountain of Youth? Lazarus had the answer. Like the proverbial biblical figure, Jarum’s company had the means to resurrect, in a manner of speaking, for a price. [Explain more] Debilitating diseases could be pushed aside, delivering hope via a short infusion and the great ol’ American dollar. The infirm would have the clock turned back for the rest of their lives, and Jarum Daughtry was the savior.

Kenny Hotchkins, Lazarus’s COO, clinked his glass with a Montblanc pen and waited as the noise quieted to continue. The subtle sound of fabric shifting against chairs carried in the air like the whisper of flapping wings as he held his gaze on the crowd just as sharply as Jarum. He could feel the goosebumps cascading along his arms as he felt a near-orgasmic thrill at their captivation. The cameras were rolling, and he smiled, teeth gleaming, his mouth becoming the pearly white gates with the answer to the eternal question. 

“Today, we saw something nobody ever thought possible. For years, researchers have looked for that next step—that missing piece that will complete the puzzle of disease and aging among our fellow man. Trial and error, decades of contentious ethical debates, studies, failed endeavors, and religious stonewalling seemed to create an impenetrable barrier to success. But no more.”

Kenny paused, turning around to lock eyes with Jarum, preparing him for his declaration. Inhaling deeply and sweeping his gaze across the room for maximum effect, Jarum stepped forward, pulling the room into his vortex, the sheer force of his presence.

“Ladies and Gentlemen, I give you our CEO, Jarum Daughtery.”

An eruption sounded throughout the banquet hall as the two men shook hands, and Kenny stepped aside. Kenny had always been a loyal friend, and at times even more, but the one thing Jarum could rely on, above all else, was his idolatry, with Jarum being the golden calf.

“Kenny Hotchkins, everyone,” Jarum said, clapping as his accomplice waved to the crowd of shareholders.

“I couldn’t ask for a better COO. With his help, what he has alluded to couldn’t have been possible, but it is. Today, I am pleased to announce that we officially have certification for our treatment, the only one of its kind to go mainstream for the public. Lazarus Inc. holds the keys. No longer must we watch our elderly suffer the debilitating effects of dementia, our children suffer from incurable congenital disabilities, or, more deplorably, see the results of bad plastic surgery on our celebrities.” A boom of laughter filled the room as Jarum scrunched his nose as if catching a whiff of something distasteful. They were captivated. They were his.

A hush descended—signaled by his upraised hands—preceding his gaze taking the room in, one quadrant at a time, filling every attendee with the sensation that Jarum was looking directly into their eyes, speaking to them.

“My friends. My colleagues. My fellow visionaries. Tonight is our night. Drink, eat, and celebrate. Tomorrow... we take the world.”

The applause was thunderous, rippling through formal attire in shades of noire, an impending storm warning of its imminent deluge. Ripples formed as Jarum stepped off the dais, the sycophants closing in, reaching out to touch the cloak of the most high, hoping for a brush with greatness, the man who shaped the fortunes of those in the room from mere millionaires to billionaires. Their eyes were glazed, their admiration a trance.

Jarum was pleased.