Dead Road: Trigger

By James Whyte

"The virus is designed to live within the host, but it can stay alive in a dead body for days, even if the body is frozen. In fact that just freezes the virus too; once the body is thawed it will infect any living person that comes along. So those," he pointed to the silver cartridges, "are overkill. Same stuff is being released across the globe. Great Briton... Germany... Australia... West coast just a few hours ago. Manhattan, all of the East Coast in fact. I want the two of you to head out from here. One vial here, then one of you heads west, the other south. Go for the bigger cities... Water supplies... Reservoirs... Release it in the air or water, it doesn't matter. There are men heading out from the south, the west coast. The Air Force will be dispersing the same stuff via cargo planes tomorrow or the next day... As long as they can fly, if we can even make it that long and that isn't looking really good right now..."

• Language: English
• Publisher: A. L. Norton
• Release date: Sep 19, 2021
• ISBN: 9781005539733

Book preview

Dead Road Trigger

Dead Road Trigger is copyright 2022 James Whyte. All material is covered, all rights retained completely.

You may not use this material in any form without exception. It is meant to be read as an eBook by the purchaser. It may not be traded, re-sold borrowed, loaned or in any way conveyed to anyone, app, software, service other than the original purchaser.

TABLE OF CONTENTS

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

PROLOGUE

Six months before:

Esmeraldas, Ecuador

Harry Filano and Winston Fairfield

Winston Fairfield stood quietly and sipped at his coffee. The house in Esmeraldas was his private escape. He could sit and watch the ocean or travel into the mountains in just a few hours’ time and Ecuador was such an easy country to live in: The people so happy with so little.

He owned a building in Manhattan, he owned a house in the hills outside of L.A., but this was his favorite place. This was where he did his real business, entertained and spent time with the women in his life, besides his wife and daughters back in Manhattan. This was the place where he bought his associates. Those that another man might call friends: In Winston's world there was no place for friends. The luxury the concept didn't exist.

Harry Filano stood at the rail a few feet away and smoked a cigar, looking out over the ocean. He was probably the closest person he had to a friend. The two of them had a lucrative relationship. Winston's drugs and drug connections, Harry's organized crime connections. Between the two of them, they controlled almost everything that moved on the East Coast. They had tentacles that stretched all the way to the west coast and inroads into the south that we're starting to look like highways.

They both dealt in millions daily. Privately, they were probably two of the richest men in the world, but they were on no one's list of who's who, except a few specialized task forces within the world's governments: Even they couldn't touch them. They owned too many of their officials, too many of their agents were on their payrolls. They didn't fight the task forces or special government branches the way the old syndicates had, they simply bought them. Every man really did have his price. And if that was too high you simply bought the man beside him or above him, it was just as effective.

With all the deals they had made and the millions they had amassed, nothing came close to what they had on the burner right now. Harry had fallen into a deal on a tip, a way to collect on a sizable gambling debt and the two of them had decided to take the risk.

Harry sipped at his drink and then raised his eyes to Prescott. Concerned? Harry asked.

Unconcerned... It's only money, Winston assured him.

Good, Harry said quietly. He reached into his pocket and retrieved a slim silver cylinder. A small red button, with a protective cap in the same cheap looking, red plastic covered the button.

Winston pulled a deep breath, audible in the sudden silence. From somewhere deep in the jungle of a forest that surrounded them a big cat screamed.

Looks like nothing, Winston said.

I told the kid it reminded me of these little refill cylinders I used to have for my BB gun when I was a kid, Harry said.

Winston laughed. I can't imagine that you played with anything that didn't have a silencer and at least a ten round clip."

Harry laughed and then fell silent. This is it, Jeff. Strip off the protective cap, push the button... The kid said it doesn't matter after that... How close, how far, it will protect us.

"Infect us, Winston corrected. There is a difference."

Infect us, Harry agreed. I figure, why not... We paid the big bucks for the rest of it, but this will start us down that path... Why not do it.

Why not, Prescott agreed. A sample? Just enough for two?

Harry shrugged. He didn't say... I depended upon the reports he smuggled out more than the first-hand knowledge he has. He knows what he has seen, but he has not witnessed anyone come back... The reports detail exactly that.

Winston laughed and shook his head. Immortality.

Immortality, Harry agreed. He paused, stripped the small red cover from the slim, silver tube and pressed the button before he could change his mind. Nothing: He turned the silver tube back and forth.

Maybe there should be no sound, Winston said. He had braced for what he expected: A small cloud of vapor, a hiss, something to impart that magic the tube was supposed to contain.

Harry raised the tube to his nose, but there was no detectable odor. But did it do its job, Harry said so low it might almost have been to himself if he had not raised his eyes and asked of Prescott.

The million dollar question, Prescott said quietly.

"Multi-million dollar question, Harry corrected. He stared at the container a few seconds longer and then slipped it into his pocket. In for a penny," he said.

In for a pound, Prescott agreed.

You know Chuck Colbine? Harry asked after a few moments of silence, changing the subject to private business.

Your best, Winston said.

Harry nodded and turned back to the rail. When you find out who it is, tell me. I'll have him take care of it for you. He's good. Discreet. Fast. He turned and looked at Winston. Yeah? he asked.

Winston nodded. Yeah, I appreciate it. I've got Carlos on it. I'll know soon. When I know, you will know. From my lips to yours, he said.

Harry nodded. He sipped at his drink again.

I have that young woman you like so much coming over in just a little while, Winston said.

Harry turned away from the rail and smiled. I could use the diversion, he said.

Winston shrugged. It's what we do for each other, he said as he got to his feet. Enjoy yourself, Harry. I am about to head back... Take care of a few things. I will see you at your place up in the Catskills next week? he asked.

Absolutely, Jeff, absolutely, Harry said. The two men embraced and Winston left the warm night air of the deck and followed his driver who was waiting to take him to the helicopter pad. Harry watched him go and then turned back to the rail, watching the waves out in the sea, rolling under the moonlight.

Sir? a voice said from the doorway.

Harry turned from the rail to look at Andrea Ivanna Zurita, the beautiful young woman who stood in the doorway smiling.

The Leah Situation

Manhattan

Leah... Leah, stop, Leah: What are you doing?

I want you... I want you... I know what I'm doing, Leah said.  Her lips fell on his, her body pressed up against his own. He had been okay until he felt the softness of her breasts pressing against him: The firmness of her thighs as they moved against his own thigh. Whatever he had held back: Whatever resolve he had, had, he lost. He felt it fall away as he pulled her to him: Tasting her; feeling her hands on his body.

Leah? he tried again, but without much resolve. He breathed it against her cheek as she kissed his neck, ran her hands over his chest, squatted and came level with his belt line. Her fingernails pressed against the fabric of his shirt, ticking downward and she ran her hands across to stomach and found the catch to his pants and then worked the zipper down.

"Leah... Think, Leah," he said.

She took him in her mouth and everything flew away. Everything he had fought to say. Everything he had been afraid of. All of it gone. There was only the warm night, the girl and the darkness.

She stood and lifted her dress, she was bare beneath: He picked her up and her thighs parted, coming around his hips and locking together as he slid into her. Her lips fell on his neck once more; his hands pulled her closer, drove deeper into her. He stumbled forward until the wall was at her back. She thrust her hips harder and the last vestige of doubt, the last small piece of resolve, melted away: She came alive under his hands.

Two Days Later

Brookport, New York

Carlos and Gabe

The man moved more fully into the shadows. You Gabe? he asked in a near whisper.

The darker shadow nodded. You...? He started.

Now who in fuck else would I be? He asked.

The darker shadow said nothing. The other man passed him a small paper bag. Count it, he told him.

Gabe Kohlson moved out of the shadow, more fully into the light. "It's a lot; I can't stand here, out here counting it."

The man laughed. "You asked for this place. It's the middle of nowhere. I Googled it, it comes up marked as the middle of nowhere. Who in fuck will see you? He laughed and then choked it off with a harsh cough. Count it. No mistakes... You got the shit?"

Kohlson's head popped up fast from counting. Of course I don't... That wasn't the deal.

"Easy... Easy... Keep your panties on... I'm saying you got the shit... You got access to the shit?"

That I got... I can get it out this Thursday at shift end... He held up the paper bag. A lot of this goes to greasing the skids... You know, to get it out, Gabe told him. This stuff.

Whoa right there, the man told him. Don't say shit about it. I don't know what it is and I don't want to know, see? I do a job. Take this thing there, that thing here. That's all I know. Keeps my head on my shoulders when all about are losing theirs.

Uh... Lost me, Gabe Kohlson told him.

Just shut up about the shit, man. I don't want to know anything past what I know, okay?

Okay, Kohlson agreed.

I do know you got to get it out and I will be here to get it... Hey, he waited until the kid looked up. You know who I work for, right? You fuck this up you'll wind up out at the county landfill... Gulls pecking out your fucking eyes let me tell you. I will meet you here next Thursday night... Seven... Don't be late... Don't fuck this up... Don't make me come looking for you... He faded back into the shadows more fully, turned and walked down the shadowed front of the building. A few minutes later he found his car in the darkness: He waited.

He heard the kid’s shit-box beater when it started. A few moments later he watched as it swept past him, heading out of the small park area toward the river road. He levered the handle on his own car, slipped inside, started it and drove slowly away.

Three months before:

Manhattan

It makes no sense to me, Carlos Winston said. How can you say there is no one when I know there is someone? When she talks about her lover to her friends? This man or boy or whatever he is, is so bold as to meet her right in my very own home... Not always, but she brags to her friends about it. I know I listen, but she never says his name: How can that be...  It's like she is torturing me with this lover. He looked to Carlos Sanchez.

Carlos, you are like my son. I give you everything. Power, money, whatever you need. Whatever you ask, I give, Carlos, you know that...

Carlos nodded. I know, Mr. Prescott, I know, Carlos said.

So if you are as a son to me, I am like a father to you. How could you let someone do this to your father? It is as though I were naked; would you leave me naked and laugh about it as Hamm did with Noah? Or would you cover up my nakedness, as Shem and Japheth did? His eyes locked on Carlos' own.

I would cover you, Carlos said.

"This man has left me naked, Carlos: Exposed. So has she and I will deal with that transgression too, but you must find this man: You, my son. You." He nodded firmly at Carlos and Carlos nodded back.

Overclocking: SS-V2765

Somewhere in the world…

Stay down next to the friggin' bank, Hunter! Beeker yelled. Beeker could see that Hunter probably wouldn't be hanging around for much longer. He didn't have the wits that Simpson had had. And a fire fight was no fuckin' place to have to baby sit. Why was it that he always ended up with all the ass-holes anyway? They had been pinned down in this particular position a sandy beachhead for four days. Sand and water in front of them, mountain and jungle behind them. They were on the other side of a river, and if the man upstairs the man that pulled all the friggin' strings, Beeker liked to think, didn't do something damn soon they might not see five.

The fire was just as heavy as it had been on the first day. Non-stop. Round after round of machine gun fire, and mortar rounds that came so fast it was hard to tell when one ended, and another began. Hunter crawled over, eating some dirt as he came. But at least he had crawled. The numb son-of-a-bitch had walked the first few times; like he was out on a goddamn Sunday stroll.

Sergeant Beeker? he whisper yelled over the sound of the gunfire. Shouldn't we maybe take the shit now, sir?

"Hey, fuck you, if I say we lay low, we lay low. We take it like we’re supposed to, no deviations on my watch. Now, shut up and crawl your white-ass back over to your position, mister, NOW!"

The shit was V2765. The thing was, Hunter had already had it at least once, the rest of them hadn’t and never would. But Hunter had come with the vial clearly marked as a booster shot… He didn’t need that yet.

Hunter went, he didn't have to be told twice. Beeker was one mean bastard, and he had absolutely no desire to mess with him. Even so this whole situation didn't set well in his mind, and that was mainly due to the fact that it didn't make any sense. And how in hell could it? he asked himself. There was no answer, because there could be no answer at all. Fifteen days ago he had been safe and sound in... In... It wouldn't come. Someplace. He had been someplace, not here, and he had been... Whatever he had been, or where ever he had been it wouldn’t come. He could almost remember, like it was right there, just beyond memories…

He could remember waking up here with Beeker, Philips, and Ronson. In the middle of... Of... Where am I? He didn't know that either, and they weren't disposed to tell him. Other than waking up in the middle of this fire-fight, he couldn't remember jack-shit. He made the outside perimeter, and curled up into a near ball as he pressed himself into the dirt embankment.

Jungle all around… Not the Middle East then… Where he had been… Had he been in the Middle East? Fighting… Fighting the… He couldn’t make the information come to him, but it seemed as though it was just barely out of reach like all the rest…

Bluechip… Volunteer? For? Thoughts floating around in his head… They had given him a shot… Some sort of booster? Yes, booster… Booster shot… For, what? He asked himself, but he had no idea.

About fucking time, Beeker yelled above the roar of gunfire... ...They had been pinned down for the last several hours, with heavy fire. It had finally fallen off somewhat, and it was time to make a move: Beeker was no fool, he had every intention of getting his men the hell out, including that test case they had laid on him...

He'd already lost four good men on this mission. He couldn't see losing any more. He looked across the short, smoky distance, directly into Ronson's eyes, and signaled left, away from the sand, towards the jungle that pressed in from behind them. A quick sideways flick of his own eyes told him that Hunter and Phillips had caught it too. Beeker signaled Ronson out first, then Phillips, and then Hunter. It was a slow go; belly crawl for the first few hundred yards. The bullets continued to whine above them, but they all made it one piece. Two hundred yards in they were able to stand. The jungle finally offering some protection. Beeker led the way quickly yet carefully, through the lush greenery. The others fell in behind him silently. Two miles further through the dense jungle, and they finally lost the distant sounds of gunfire, and the jungle fell nearly silent. They fell silent themselves, moving as quietly as they could from tree to tree: Aware of the noises that surrounded them. A short while later when the gunfire had completely fallen off, the jungle seemed to come back to life. Bird calls, and the ever present monkey chatter. That was a good sign to Beeker, if the jungle was full of soldiers, the birds sure as fuck wouldn't be singing. They pushed on through the night, and morning found them in a small village with a main trail running through the middle of it. They walked quietly through the village end to end… Burned out… Empty… A good place to rest-up.

Oh, man, Ronson complained. Fuckin’ cra-zee, Beeker agreed wearily. He was leaned back against the side of a burned out hut, smoking a cigarette he'd pulled from inside his jacket.

Hunter didn't have the slightest idea where they were, let alone what they were talking about. Beeker had led them through the jungle and at first light they had come upon this village. They had crept in warily, ready for whatever lay before them. There had been no need, it was empty; a couple of dozen scattered bodies busy gathering flies: Burned out huts. The design wasn’t familiar to him. He had thought Beeker would move on. He hadn't. They were still here. But where here was, and how Beeker had found it, eluded Hunter.

Sure as fuck did thought we was done, Phillips agreed.

Yeah, well, we made it this far, Ronson said. He grinned, and then the grin turned into a full fledged smile, and he began to laugh. Phillips joined him, and a second later, when Hunter was sure Beeker was going to open his mouth to tell them all to shut the fuck up, he started laughing too. Oh... It's good, look-at-him, Ronson said, holding his side, and pointing at Hunter, he don't have a friggin' clue. That seemed to drive all of them into hysteria, Hunter saw. Including Beeker, who was usually hard-nosed and moody. He was doubled over too. Holding his sides. Tears squirting from his eyes.

That true? Beeker asked at last, once he had managed to get the laughter somewhat under control. That your friggin' problem is it, Hunter, you don't have a clue? he stopped laughing abruptly, and within seconds Ronson and Philips chuckled to a stop. Do you have the slightest idea where your ass is? Beeker asked seriously.

No... Well, a jungle, I guess, Hunter answered.

No... Well, it could be a jungle, I guess, Ronson mimicked in a high falsetto.

Is it? Hunter ventured in a near whisper.

Look... Beeker waited for silence. Take a break, it's going to get worse. Why don't you have a smoke and kick back... Enjoy the break?

Well, the thing is that I don't smoke, bad for the lungs. I'm pretty careful about my health.

Really? Beeker asked politely. He chuckled briefly, lit another of his own smokes, and then spoke softly. I would like your complete attention, Hunter, do I have it?

Yeah, sure...

He cut him off, his voice a roar. In case you hadn't noticed, there's a fuckin' war goin' on, you pansy mother-fucker. A fuckin' war, Hunter, you understand that, you ain't gonna live much fuckin' longer anyway. Get with the program mister, now!

Hunter's eyes bugged out, but as Beeker finished he forced himself to speak. I know that... I can see that... It don't mean I have to die though, not necessarily.

Man, Beek, don't waste your time, he hopeless, same old shit, like Simpson. Like all those friggin guys before Simpson, Ronson said.

Beeker drew a deep breath, winked at Ronson, and then spoke. Yes it does, Beeker said calmly. It does because you ain't a regular. You ain't been here long enough, and you don't mean a fiddler's fuck to anybody. And that sucks, but that's life, Hunter, he paused and looked over at Ronson. How long was the last one, fourteen days, am I right?

As rain, Ronson replied coolly.

And where are we now? Beeker asked.

Seventeen? Phillips asked.

Uh uh, Ronson corrected, eighteen, man, remember? Simpson bought it eighteen days ago, and this ass-hole came into play. Replacement, supposedly.

Right! Beeker said. It is eighteen, and that's why nobody gives a fuck about you, Hunter. Eighteen's too far, you'll be done at twenty, it never goes past that, and I'll bet bullets to bodies you'll buy the farm long before we're done with eighteen, see?

No, Hunter said slowly, I don't see. Seventeen? Eighteen? What the hell was that all about? he wondered.

Ronson chuckled. I think he's confused, again, Beek.

I think he was fuckin' born confused, Phillips added.

Seventeen? Eighteen? Hunter asked aloud. He didn't get it, not completely anyway.

Have a cigarette, Beeker told him.

I told you, I don't...

Yeah, right, fuck that noise, there's a pack inside your jacket... Check it... See if I'm right.

Hunter fumbled with the jacket snaps, and finally pulled the jacket open. A half pack of smokes resided in the inside pocket. A silver Zippo tucked in beside them. He looked up with amazement.

So? Beeker asked, smiling widely.

One of you guys stuck them there, while I was sleeping, has to be, Hunter said.

And when was that?

Hunter thought about it. He Looked over at Beeker. Beeker just smiled.

Don't you get it yet, Hunter? Don’t you feel like an extra in a play.

"Bluechip? Volunteer for SS-V2765? ... Wow, they must have zonked your brain, man…

"Look, it was hard for Simpson too. He was with us for twenty days, and you know, I liked that sucker. He was all right for a white dude. All you guys show up… Combat ready… Except you’re all fucked up in the head… No idea what to expect or even where you are… It aint supposed to be that way, so we always have to lay it out… You are one of them, Super Soldier, we call it over-clocked… You’re gonna get dead, and you know what? Then you’re coming back… Don’t ask me what the fuck is in that shit they give you, all I know is you’ll get dead and then you’ll come back from it and they’ll ship you out… That booster shot? It ain’t exactly a booster shot. I don’t know what exactly it is, but once you’re gone I know this, it’ll bring you back."

"Yeah, back… In the beginning some didn’t come back, it don’t matter though, ‘cause they come and got them too… But the last several months they, all of you, come back… Dead and then you’re not… And then they’re here and you’re gone and then in a few days some other dick-wad shows up in a supply drop…"

What? A supply drop? Hunter asked.

Oh yeah… Supply drop… Wrapped up like a… Like a douche, man..

Uh uh, Beek, man, that line was really Revved up like a Duece, Ronson said.

Okay, bad analogy… I hate that fuckin’ song anyways… Always did, but you guys come wrapped up, like a package, man. We unwrap you and you’re alive… We leave you be for a while and next thing you know you’re sitting up… Walkin’ and talkin’.

Yeah, boy… Fuckin’ freaky shit, Phillips said. Mucho freaky!

Hunter swallowed hard, lit up one of the smokes from his jacket, and leaned back against the side of the hut. The silence held.

So, Beeker finished quietly, you gotta deal with it man... You just got too... It won't be long...

Stateside: Project Bluechip

Complex C: Patient Ward

Test Subject: Clayton Hunter

Compound SS-V2765: 29 hours after catastrophic failure...

Gabe Kohlson moved away from the monitors. Heart rate is dropping, don't you think... He stopped as the monitor began to chime softly; before he could get fully turned around the chiming turned into a strident alarm that rose and fell. Dammit, Kohlson said as he finished his turn.

What is it, David Johns wheeled his chair across the short space of the control room. His outstretched hands caught him at the counter top and slowed him at Kohlson's monitor.

Flat lined, Kohlson said as he pushed a button on the wall to confirm what the doctors’ one level up already knew. Clayton Hunter was dead.

I see it, Doctor Ed Adams replied over the ceiling speakers. The staff called him Doctor Christmas for his long white beard and oversize belly. Bertie and I are on the way.

Lot of good that will do, Johns muttered.

Kohlson turned to him. Go on in... Do CPR if you want... They don't pay me enough to do it. I don't know what that shit is. Look at the way the Doc suits up. Clayton Hunter will be in rigor before anyone gets in there at all.

No argument, Johns said. He wheeled back to his own monitor, called up an incident sheet and began to type.

Me too, Kohlson agreed. Preserve the video, med and monitor data. He punched a few buttons on his console and an interface for the medical equipment came up. He saved the last 48 hours of data, and then began to fill out his own incident report. These reports might never be seen by more than one person, maybe two if you counted the person that wrote it, Kohlson thought, but it would always be there. Classified: Top secret for the next hundred years or so, and he wondered about that too. Would it even be released after a long period? He doubted it. The shit they were doing here was bad. Shit you didn't ever want the American public to know about. He had made his delivery a few weeks before. Whatever this shit was, bad people had not only come to know about it, but had come to have a need for what it did. It didn't matter to him, not really. There were rumors, a few things he had seen while monitoring test subjects. Nothing he considered concrete. Maybe it extended life, that was the strongest rumor. From what he had seen though, as far as test subjects, it did its fair share of ending life pretty effectively too. And here was another one to add to the growing number of failures... If that's what they were.

This incident report, along with the one Johns was doing, would probably get buried deep under some program listing that no one would ever suspect to look into. Or maybe it would get burned right along with Clayton Hunter's body. He glanced up at the clock and then went back to typing.

Uh... Call it 4:32 PM? He asked.

Works for me, Johns agreed. I got 94 for the body, Johns said.

Yeah... Yeah, me too. That's a fast drop, but we both got the same thing. 94 it is... No heart, no respiratory, dead as dog shit.

Dog shit, Johns agreed. They both fell silent as they typed. A few moments later the doors to the observation room chimed, the air purifiers kicked on with a high pitched whine, and they could both feel the air as it dragged past them and into the air ducts. The entire volume would be replaced and the room depressurized and then re-pressurized before the doors would open. And that would only happen after the air was tested and retested. A good twenty minutes away before anyone would step foot into the room with Clayton Hunter.

Complex C, Autopsy Room

Ed Adams and Roberta Summers had dissected Clayton Hunter's body methodically. The autopsy had been painstaking. It had to be, it was recorded in detail and some General somewhere, hell maybe even the president, would be looking that video over in the next few days. Maybe even watching live now, Ed Adams thought. They had that capability. There was nothing to see. He had suffered a major heart attack. The heart had a defect. No history. One of those things that just came along and fucked up your two billion dollar research project all at once.

Coronary Thrombosis, He spoke in a measured voice. Appears to be after the fact. The artery looks to be mildly occluded... The myocardial infarction appears to be caused from a congenital defect... Specifically an Atrial Septal Defect... Bertie?

I concur. Easily overlooked. The lack of sustenance put a higher demand on the subject's heart, the defect became a major player at that point... Bad luck for us.

Uh, bad luck for Clayton Hunter, Ed Adams added.

Of course, bad luck for the subject, Clayton Hunter. I simply meant bad luck for a research volunteer to be defective in such a way that in effect it would compromise a project of this magnitude so badly. She turned her eyes up to one of the cameras she knew to be there. This in no way paints a true picture of V2765. We should proceed, unsatisfying as these circumstances might be, we should proceed with subjects 1120F and 1119X... Same compound. She turned back to the corpse on the table. You want me to do the brain biopsy, She asked Ed.

Ed frowned as he made eye contact with her. They had decided, at least he had thought they had decided, not to mention brain biopsies. Three times now he had discussed the importance of not focusing on the changes that V2765 made to the brain. Anything that altered the brain could alter financing, funding, lab time. Even the government didn't like changes to brain matter.

Are you thinking there could have been an embolism? He asked.

Well I, she sputtered away for a second before Ed rescued her.

"I think all we would see is evidence of the embolism that occurred near the heart. We could search out areas of the body and most likely find more than one occurrence of embolism. Well thought, Bertie, but I believe we will take