Page 48 of Juniper Unraveling

“I’m … thank you.”

He doesn’t bother to look up, ignoring me for his study.

My eyes wander the walls in search of distraction, and I find it in a plaque that hangs below the clock, a plaque that reads Dies Irae.

“What does it mean? Dies Irae?”

“It’s Latin. Day of wrath. Mass for the dead. It’s the day of judgment, when all men stand before God, and those who are saved will be delivered into heaven.”

“And the ones who aren’t?”

“Cast into hell.”

“Do you believe that heaven exists?”

“Do you?”

“Yes. I think it does.” And this is hell, I don’t say. “Do you believe in God?”

He pauses his twisting of the knobs only briefly and huffs. “I did. But God stopped believing in me.”

“Josef?”

The foreign voice draws my attention, to where a lanky man is entering the lab, with sandy brown hair and a thin face. The lines in his skin put him somewhere around fifty, or sixty, but his eyes, as small as they are, are naturally wide and excitable. He tips his head as he approaches, and those eyes fall on me. “You didn’t tell me you’d taken up an assistant.”

“I don’t tell you many things, Doctor Ericsson.” Doctor F finally looks up from the microscope and sits back in his chair.

“And what talents does this one possess to work so closely with you?”

“Daniel can read and write.” It’s strange hearing him say my father’s name, and for a split second, I want to correct him, but I don’t dare.

“A savage that reads? Seems rather unlikely.”

Savage. That’s what they call us here. I’ve gathered it’s how they refer to those who live and survive out in the Deadlands. Animals, basically.

“I was surprised, myself, but … he’s proven to be quite useful.”

“Indeed.” The way the man looks me up and down sends the hairs on the back of my head on end.

I’m relieved when he turns his attention back on Doctor F.

“I wonder if you might be familiar the strain phenomenon? I’m seeing a variety of phenotypic traits that lead me to wonder if the nucleic acid theory might stand true. The Dredge prions themselves have affected various parts of the brain that differ from subjects co-infected with Creutzfeld-Jakob and Kuru.”

I’ve no idea what he’s saying, but I listen intently just the same.

“They are constantly folding,” Doctor Falkenrath says. “An ever-changing surface that adapts with the host.” The boredom in his tone carries like a weight around his words.

“An evolutionary prion?” Doctor Ericsson chuckles, folding his arms. “I’ll be curious to know the results of your work.”

“Likewise.” Doctor Falkenrath is far less enthusiastic in his responses, and when he leans forward to peer through the microscope, the message is clear that he’s no longer interested in conversation.

And Doctor Ericsson’s focus falls on me once more.

“What is a prion?” I ask, to avoid any of the probing questions while his eyes seem to silently examine me from head to toe.

“A rather fascinating organism,” Doctor Ericsson answers. “It is a protein that is essentially misfolded. When it comes into contact with other proteins, it induces the same misfolding, creating holes in the brain that resemble a sponge.”

“That doesn’t sound fascinating, at all. It sounds frightening.”