Seizure Read online

  He shook his head. He was being paranoid.

  He arrived at the Seashore Inn in a few minutes. The lobby buzzed with conventioneers. Kent got his room key and headed up the elevator.

  In his room, Kent swept open the curtains to admire the view of Angle Lake Park across the street, then settled down to finding the Northwest Institute. He had the address from his call to Allen the night before. A quick consultation with Google Maps yielded a route to the Institute.

  It was a fifteen-minute drive and by the time he arrived, the rain had stopped and the clouds retreated from the skies. Kent drove through the front gate into the main parking lot of the Institute, and walked to the gray building surrounded by a bright green lawn.

  Inside, men and women in lab coats roamed the lobby, chatting with each other. Kent approached the front desk, where the receptionist smiled up at him.

  "How can we help you?" she asked.

  "I have an appointment to see Doctor Allen," Kent said.

  The receptionist punched some keys on her computer, then smiled. "Right you are. Down that hallway to your left. Take the elevator to the fourth floor."

  "Thanks." Kent obeyed her instructions and stepped out into a hallway decorated with landscape portraits. One wall displayed a sign that read "Neurophysiology."

  A slender man in a lab coat approached him. "Are you Kent Reynolds, from the New York Weekly?"

  "Yes," Kent said, inwardly wincing at the lie. He had told Allen's secretary that he was a reporter doing research on epilepsy.

  Allen thrust out a hand. "Reginald Allen. Nice to meet you."

  Kent returned the handshake. "Likewise."

  "Let's talk in my office." Allen led the way to an office further down the hallway.

  The office rumbled gently from the heating vent in the corner. Kent sat down across from an oak desk decorated with a plastic model of a human brain. Allen settled behind the desk with his hands folded over his stomach.

  "So," Allen said, "how can we help you?"

  "Well, specifically, I'm interested in your research on VGRS. I was told that your institute is one of the leading research facilities for VGRS in the country."

  Allen nodded as his smile collapsed. "Uh, yes, we were one of the leading researchers. I was one of the original doctors to document the ailment. Unfortunately, we were forced to halt our research in that department."

  "Why?"

  Allen picked up his brain model and turned it over in his hands. "I'm afraid that's a very long and unpleasant story."

  "That's why I'm here," Kent said.

  Allen looked up at him, studying Kent intensely, then finally said, "Very well. Now, first of all, are you aware of what epilepsy actually is?"

  "I suppose not."

  "Well," Allen said, "epilepsy is caused by electrical misfires in the brain. It can be the result of any number of ailments and head injuries, but some forms of epilepsy are genetic in nature. Others have no known cause."

  Allen spread his hands, the plastic brain still clutched in one of them. "But VGRS is something entirely different. In the early eighties, we began investigating the children that were having these seizures. Most of these children had no history of epilepsy. We investigated and discovered that video games were the single unifying factor, but not all of them. The child who had a seizure playing Mario Bros. could play Duck Hunt without any problem."

  Allen put the brain back on its stand. "We developed the theory that some children and adults suffer seizures while playing certain video games. Our institute was the first to set aside a department to document and study the ailment. At first, we worked under the theory that the children were light-sensitive, a common form of epilepsy in which seizures are triggered by patterns of light."

  Allen put the plastic brain back on its stand, then held up fingers to count off as he spoke. "We established a test group of three hundred patients, aged five to forty five, but most were teenage boys. All had a history of VGRS, but no history of epilepsy. We were fairly confident of what we would find. We ran tests on them. Magnetic resonance imaging, CAT scans, everything. They all appeared perfectly normal. So we ran EEGs on the patients while displaying various patterns of light, expecting that the brainwaves would change in response, just like light-sensitive epilepsy. But we got nothing. The patients were not light-sensitive."

  Allen leaned forward to fold his hands over the desk. "This forced us to revise the theory. We he to admit that this might be a new form of epilepsy, one caused only by video-games. But at the time, we insisted that VGRS was an abnormality, one caused by abnormal brain activity in certain individuals."

  Kent watched Allen's face brighten as he talked, obviously recalling the enthusiasm of those days. "We changed our focus to the video-games themselves. We began analyzing what games caused seizures and when. We were able to narrow it down to a few games, then a few segments in the games. Gradually, I began to see that it wasn't the games that were causing the seizures, but a pattern of light displayed by the games. We had suspected that before, but believed it to be a random pattern. However, our research suggested that it was a specific pattern of colors flashing in a specific pattern that caused the seizures."

  Allen swiveled his chair to look out of his window. More clouds were rolling in from the horizon. "We brought in a group of computer experts to try to isolate and duplicate the patterns. Our plan was to create a program that would display the frequency of light. We would then show it to our subjects to see if it did indeed trigger seizures. The programmers did all sorts of things I didn't understand. Then, one of them died."

  "Died?" Kent asked.

  "Yes," Allen said, his back to him. "Died. Of a grand mal seizure. His computer's monitor was burned out afterward, but our investigations led us to the realization that he was testing his latest program when he died. The programmer had succeeded in isolating a pattern that caused seizures. But it wasn't what we expected to find. It caused seizures in anyone who saw it, not just our subjects. And the seizures were invariably fatal. It took four of our best researchers to find that out, the hard way."

  "So you found the VGRS frequency," Kent said.

  Allen turned to face him again, his hands formed a steeple over her chest. "We're still not sure about that. I believe we found a frequency, but perhaps not the specific pattern that triggered the VGRS exclusively. I believe we found a pattern that forces the brain to flash electrical signals in unison with it, a pattern that causes fatal seizures."

  Kent tried to comprehend what the man was saying. "But that's impossible, isn't it?"

  "Actually, no," Allen said. "Sensory perception causes electrical activity in the brain. That's how we see and hear and feel. But photosensitive epileptics are in danger because certain patterns of light trigger storms of activity in the brain. It's possible that the pattern we've discovered jumbles a normal brain in the same way."

  Allen tapped the plastic brain set before him. "I don't think the pattern is the Holy Grail of VGRS research. Our research indicates that VGRS is still an isolated incidence restricted to a few individuals. But too many people died working on the project. I ordered it shut down. That's why we can't help you, Mister Reynolds. We've moved away from VGRS research."

  Kent stared at the brain model on Allen's desk. Something was clicking in his mind, connections being made. He was developing a theory.

  "However," Allen continued, "I can show you a new area of research we're working on. We've been experimenting with using electrical signals to halt epileptic seizures before they start. I've been doing research on dissected portions of the brains of mice. Using electrical stimulation at key points in the brains' activity, we're able to control the patterns--"

  "No," Kent said, "thank you. I've found out what I needed to know. Thanks for your time."

  He stood up and shook hands with Allen, who was smiling again.

  "I hope I've been helpful to you," Allen said.

  "Yes," Kent said. "Just a few more questions, if you don't m
ind. Where is the VGRS program now?"

  "We erased it," Allen said.

  "Did you actually witness the erasure yourself?"

  Allen's smile faded. "Well, no, but I entrusted it to one of my best researchers. Why?"

  "That's all I needed to know. Thanks for your time." Kent walked out of the office, leaving Allen with a puzzled expression on his face.

  In the elevator, Kent dared to think a forbidden path. He began to wonder if the program had been erased after all. This institute had created a Pandora's Box, and Kent suspected that the box had been opened. Somehow.

  When he returned to his room, Kent made a quick phone call to Adrian Morgan in New York.

  "Hi, Adrian," Kent said. "I just wanted to check on one thing. Did Morgan ever go to the Northwest Institute of Epileptic Research?"

  "No," she said. "I'm quite sure he didn't."

  "Can you think of any connection between him and the Institute?"

  "No, he never mentioned it. Kent, what's going on? Why are you asking all these questions?"

  "I'm sorry, Adrian. I'm just working on a theory about Morgan's death."

  Her voice lowered. "It wasn't an accident, was it? Did someone kill him?"

  "I don't know for sure. But I think so. Talk to you soon."

  He hung up, then went down to the restaurant for breakfast. He wasn't hungry, but he felt like he needed the strength.

  * * *

  Troy had spent all of Saturday on his computer until Sunday morning. He never left his room, not even to get something to eat. He lived on potato chips and soda he had stashed in his closet. He used the bathroom attached to his room.

  He told himself it was because he was free now. He didn't have his father nagging him all day long. If he wanted to stay in his room all day, eating junk food, he could. That was his choice.

  But he knew the real reason; the house was empty, and he was all alone. He couldn't stand the thought of walking down dark hallways, passing rooms filled with little more than shadows. He could easily imagine walking down the stairs to find his mother sitting in the living room, gaping up at him with dead eyes that begged for help--

  So he stayed in his room playing with his computer. He played Odyssey and other games, but mainly he just stayed online, talking to people in chat rooms on Orion.

  It was on one of these conversations that he met Pluto.

  Troy lurked in a chat room where others discussed a new game being released by Valve when he heard a chime, indicating that he had a message. Troy clicked on Orion to load the message.

  It read:

  I'm in VirtuaChat, room called UnderWorld. Let's talk.

  That was it. Troy wondered if it was one of his online friends, but he didn't recognize the e-mail address. He couldn't think of anyone else who would want to talk to him, but he was bored enough to try anything. He exited the channel.

  VirtuaChat was a new feature on Orion that used three-dimensional objects, called avatars, in a virtual environment to represent people. It was designed to be more personal than the usual text conversations online. A user could even make his avatar use expressions, something you couldn't do with text.

  Troy clicked on the VirtuaChat icon. He clicked on the private room icon, then typed in "Underworld."

  A full screen appeared with various pictures of the avatars he could become in VirtuaChat. They brought a smile to Troy's face. He could be anything from a human being to a smiling octopus. Troy knew from the ads that if he choose to become a human being, he could alter everything on it from the body shape to the color of its hair. For fun, Troy clicked on the octopus.

  The octopus grew larger on the screen until it filled it. Then he was looking at a Victorian room with columns along the walls. It was almost stunning in its photo-realism. But he was not alone.

  Troy was a little taken aback by the avatar in the room with him. It was a human being, but enormously muscular. Its creator had chosen to make it bald with glowing red eyes, green skin, and a hunched back.

  The avatar turned to look at Troy. Its piercing eyes narrowed. A word balloon appeared over its head with text in it.

  Hello, Troy.

  Troy realized it was waiting for a response. He typed on his keyboard, and the words formed at the bottom of the screen.

  Hello, Pluto.

  Troy pushed the Enter key, and the words were encased in a balloon that floated out of his sight.

  The avatar named Pluto broke into a smile, then another balloon formed.

  Nice avatar.

  Thanks. I thought it'd be cool.

  It is.

  Who are you?

  I just saw you in the chatroom yesterday, and thought you'd be a cool guy to talk to. I can't stand those public chat rooms. It's hard to get a conversation going.

  Troy grinned, and remembered he could do the same in VirtuaChat. He scanned through his help document which gave all the keys for expressions. He found it. F5 was a smile.

  Troy pressed F5. A small window formed in the corner of the screen that showed his octopus smiling. Troy typed again.

  Yeah, I know. All those people talking at once.

  You said you play Odyssey. So do I. It's the coolest game in the universe.

  Tell me about it. I could play it all day long.

  Me, too. Hey, you mind if I pick your brain?

  Go for it.

  How do you past the Island of Perseus?

  Easy. After you get the Golden Fleece, you need to swim across the River Styx.

  What about the Boatman?

  That's why you need the Chestplate in Medusa's Fortress. You dodge Zeus' Lightning using the Sandals of Apollo

  Troy grinned as he typed. This might not be such a boring day, after all.

  * * *

  In his computer room, Roland Weaver watched the octopus talking on his screen. He already knew how to get past the Island of Perseus. Roland had designed the Island in the first place. He was more interested in building a rapport with Reynolds' kid. The boy needed to trust him for what he planned to do.

  Roland sipped champagne from a crystal glass as he contemplated his next move. Tomorrow afternoon, Cerberus would strike one more time.

  13.

  KENT ARRIVED back in New York at six in the afternoon, in the midst of a raging snowstorm. He unlocked the door and trudged into a house filled with shadows. Diffused sunlight rippled on the staircase from a tree-covered window, but not a sound greeted Kent as he walked into the lobby.

  Despite his discovery, the rest of his trip in Seattle had gone like clockwork. He had met with the management staff of TeleTech, interviewing each of them about the employees and their feelings on the turnover problem. He now had some pretty good ideas as to the problem's cause, as well as how to solve it.

  Kent stamped the snow off his boots as he yelled, "Troy? I'm home."

  The silence fell back once again, like a heavy stone rolled temporarily out of place. Kent headed up the stairs to the second floor, down the corridor leading to the bedrooms. Troy's door was closed. Kent tried the doorknob to discover it was also locked.

  "I'm home, Troy," Kent said. "How'd everything go?"

  Nothing.

  Kent looked down at his feet. The hundred-dollar bill was still where he had left it two days ago.

  Kent felt a rush of fear as he realized that he had left his son alone in a two-story house. He hadn't checked the backdoor. He got a horrible vision of someone breaking into the place to discover a fortune in computer equipment and a fourteen-year-old boy.

  He put down his suitcase to bang a fist on the door. "Troy? You in there? Answer me, I need to know you're okay. Troy? Come on, don't do this to me. Please answer."

  Tentacles of fear wrapped around Kent's throat as he strained his ears to hear something from inside the room. But he heard nothing. No footsteps, no movement. Even Troy's computer was silent.

 
; His throat was tight as he said, "Troy, if you don't answer in three seconds, I'm gonna break this door down. Okay? One--"

  The room remained calm.

  "Two--"

  Nothing. Kent drew himself back to throw himself at the door.

  "Three," Kent yelled.

  Troy's voice broke the deadening silence of the bedroom. "I'm okay, Dad. Just leave me alone."

  Kent fell to his knees at the door. The relief was so great that he couldn't speak for a few seconds. His son was alive. He finally managed to ask, "Are you okay?"

  "Yeah," Troy said. "I'm dandy."

  Kent climbed back up to his feet. "Well...good. Everything go okay? Any problems?"

  "No," Troy said.

  Kent pulled his tie loose with a finger. "Well, I'm glad. How 'bout some Chinese food later, huh?"

  There was a pause. "With you?"

  "Yeah, with me."

  There was another pause. "Okay."

  Kent grinned as he picked up his suitcase again. "Great. Great. Well, good to be home again."

  But that was the end of the conversation as far as Troy was concerned. Kent waded through another moment of silence until he got the message, then headed to his bedroom.

  Kent unpacked his suitcase, replacing its contents to their original positions in his closet and bathroom. When he had tossed his laundry into the bin to take down the cleaners, Kent used the phone to call Janet Bourne.

  The phone rang a few times before Janet answered in a weak voice. "Yeah, Janet here."

  "Hey, it's me, Kent."

  Janet's voice cleared up immediately. "Oh, man, Kent, I'm so glad you called. How long you been back?"

  "I just got in a few minutes ago. I was calling to see if you found anything on Vic's computer."

  "Oh, did I ever. We gotta talk, and we gotta talk now."

  He unbuttoned his shirt. "Okay, so talk."