Taboo Descendants and the Multi-Dimensional War

We had not managed to save a single soul yet.

The epidemic had started only four nights prior to today, but the public was already getting restless—and understandably so. Despite their dissatisfaction with our work, no one was more upset about the situation than we were. The death rate was just too high.

Added to the list of the dead was now Nurse Pascale Dumas. Apparently, she been admitted into the hospital last night and passed away, like so many others before her, on the operating table surrounded by neurosurgeons. She had been like family to all in our department.

I placed my hand on Shaneequa’s forearm. She lifted her head up and looked me in the eyes.

I said to her, “It’s going to be alright, Sweetheart. Why don’t you take the rest of the day off?”

She dropped her head and shook it slowly from side to side.

I continued, “Tell Dr. Martinez that you’re having a rough time dealing with Ms. Dumas’ loss and see if he can’t get someone else in to cover her shift.”

She stopped shaking her head and looked up again.

“You think that would be alright?” she asked in an exhausted voice thick with grief.

She had stared at that chart until she finally broke down. Fifteen or twenty minutes had passed since I first saw her.

“Look, you go ahead and get shut down here and I’ll write him an email on my way to the car.”

She looked at me curiously for a second which made me realize why I had approached her in the first place.

“I have to run over to the Miami Police Department and talk to those two detectives that were here earlier this week, but don’t you worry about that.”

I gave her a gentle and reassuring smile.

“Okay,” she said almost reluctantly. At least she had stopped crying.

I turned to leave.

As promised, I wrote Dr. Martinez an email on Shaneequa’s behalf.

It took me longer than expected to arrive at the Miami PD building on 2nd Avenue. Morning traffic lingered on the roads.

I approached the burgundy and white building, and admired the glow reflecting from its east side in the early morning sun.

I walked up the stairs in the front of the building and proceeded to enter through the glass doors.

Detective Jackson stood in the atrium waiting for me to arrive.

He appeared as if he had hardly slept all week. His eyes appeared blood-shot and his under-eye puffy. His skin has lost some of its previous luster.

I greeted him and he returned the salutation before asking me to follow him.

“I hope you don’t mind taking the stairs,” he said, pausing for a moment. “We’re going to the second floor.”

“No, not at all,” I replied.

“It’ll be faster than waiting for the elevator,” he added as though I needed further persuasion.

“That’s fine.” I gave him a reassuring smile. I needed the exercise anyway.

I followed him in silent anticipation. I had no idea what I was about to see on the surveillance video. Though it related to the police department’s investigation, could be unhelpful to my research.

The building’s diverse population had one trait in common, a fast pace. People with a wide range of ages, genders, and ethnicities scurried about the building with large stacks of files and computer bags. Hips in the police department carried both phones and guns.

We arrived at our destination.

The sign next to the door read “Interrogation Room.” I raised one eyebrow at Detective Jackson to show my confusion as I spoke, “Am I under investigation, Detective?”

“What?” he asked distractedly. Clearly his thoughts were somewhere else. He followed my gaze to the sign. “Oh no, not at all, Doctor! I apologize for the misunderstanding.”

“Well, that’s a relief,” I added half-jokingly.

“With everything going on, we’d be in the way if we attempted to view the video in an actual evidence room.

Interrogation rooms are some of the least used rooms this week. With no leads on this case and people dropping like flies at night, we’re not doing much interrogating.” His voice trailed off.

“Do you still believe a person or group of people is behind the deaths?”

He gave me a look as if to say, “You don’t know the half of it.”

I swallowed my doubts.

Detective Jackson knocked rapidly on the door. When it opened, Detective Marin emerged with a serious yet weary look on his face.

“Good morning, Dr. Jerito,” he said in his heavy Cuban accent.

The way he pronounced my last name made it sound so exotic.

“Good morning, Detective Marin. It’s a pleasure seeing you again.”

“Let’s hope you feel the same way after viewing this video. Come in.”

I felt worried now, scared even.

I walked past both detectives into a small dimly lit interior room with no windows. A worn wooden table sat in the middle of the room surrounded by three slightly old metal chairs.

A small DVD/Television unit had been placed on one end of the table. It was currently off. I felt like I was in an episode of CSI Miami.

“Have a seat, Doctor,” instructed Detective Jackson.

I sat down without a word.

“This video has become the focal point of our investigation, though it raised as many questions as it answered,” Detective Marin shared. His eyes shifted between me and his partner as he spoke.

“The video is from last night,” continued Detective Jackson.

We were hoping that in your line of work, you have seen or know of something that could lead us in the right direction,” Detective Marin said.

“I will do everything in my power to help you gentlemen,” I promised.

They exchanged hopeful looks before Detective Jackson gave Detective Marin a ‘go ahead’ nod.

Detective Marin walked over to the TV and picked up a remote, then both detectives took a seat. A moment later, the television screen came to life. The video appeared paused, but it clearly showed that the quality of the film looked moderate enough for facial detection.

In the center of the frame, stood a gorgeous East Asian woman dressed in an all-white jumpsuit that was so tight it look painted on rather than worn. Her fair, glowing complexion gave her the look of a geisha, carefully painted before a performance. On the contrary, her thick, dark hair hung loosely around her infinitesimal waist. She was the woman from my nightmare, more stunning and frightful on screen than she had been in my mind.

She’s real!

My heart began to race and my breath became shallow. Just as I had convinced myself that the woman was a metaphor for death, she stood on the television before me.

Is this video evidence to another cold-blooded murder at the hands of this unknown, lethal geisha in the white jumpsuit?

Near the murderer, next to a row of parked cars, stood Nurse Dumas! She wore casual clothing and carrying two reusable grocery bags full of food.

One of the detectives hit play and the figures began to move.

The deadly woman, her pure white outfit shimmering in the beams of the headlights, walked swiftly towards Nurse Dumas. Without warning, she reached for her face with both hands and began to kiss her passionately. Nurse Dumas froze with shock.

The two bags of groceries fell to the ground. A few pieces of citrus fruit rolled out of the frame. A river of milk spilled formed as the carton emptied its contents onto the pavement.

Nurse Dumas immediately began to fight her, but to no avail. Her arms swung wildly and her fist struck their target sharply, but the aggressor did not budge. In fact, she did not seem affected by the strikes in the least.

I gasped, tears running down my cheeks. I knew exactly what this meant. This seemly intimate behavior was precisely the way that this erotic killer had slain T-Rick in my nightmarish dream. This could not be a coincidence.

The response from the police officer in the video was blunt and slightly vulgar.

He cursed followed by, “What in the—”

The the sound of a car door opening and closing immediately followed his foul language. A second later, a young Caucasian male in a navy blue Miami PD uniform jogged into the frame with his gun drawn. Clearly, Nurse Dumas did not accept the affections of the other woman.

“Ma’am, let her go! Now!”

Cars passed by closely at the officer’s back. A couple of drivers honked their horns. No one knew the real danger of the situation.

The killer slowly loosened her grip and allowed Nurse Dumas to fall like a string of pearls to the ground. The killer then stepped over Nurse Dumas’ limp body and approached the alarmed officer.

“Hold it right there!” the officer yelled.

He aimed his weapon at her but the fearless woman continued to stalk forward, a hungry look in her eyes. The officer’s gun remained steady, though his voice began to waver.

“Lady, this isn’t a joke. Stop where you are!” he commanded.

She stopped, close enough to him to count his few chin hairs. She wore a placid smile, but her eyes appeared maniacal. She uttered no words. I began to hate that insipid grin of hers. She had flashed it all of my nightmares just before she struck.

The hair on the back of my neck stood on end.

What happened next ended just as quickly as it started. The woman launched herself at him like a jungle cat. His gun fired three times, but only pierced the air. She mounted his chest, knocking the gun away with a swift kick.

She kissed him as if it would be her last. His face, directed towards the camera, contained empty eyes and no emotion.

He fell backwards towards the ground as the killer rode him like a wave. They crashed to the pavement together, his body unmoving.

She rose victorious and looked at both bodies, admiring her own dirty work. She grinned as she walked out of frame.

Nurse Dumas drew ragged breaths five feet away. The officer’s body convulsed as his nervous system reacted to pain of the attack.

The police radio squawked inside the vehicle. The lack of response from the officer caused alarm at the station. The dispatcher called for backup. They would arrived too late to lend any assistance.

The video ended in silence. I just sat there, dumbfounded and visibly shaken. The beautiful killer had been a mere nightmare before, though T-Rick had died in reality. Unfortunately for me, I did not have the convenient excuse of being asleep this time. I would not be able to explain this away.

Nurse Dumas died the previous night of the same ghoulish neurological symptoms as the other victims, including T-Rick. This woman had been with both of them. I had no choice but to conclude that this petite killer had murdered them both with her bare lips.

“What happened to them?” I asked the question though I suspected I knew the answer.

“They died, of course,” answered Detective Marin with extreme brevity. “Just like the others.”

Detective Jackson expounded upon his partner’s blunt summation, “This happened around 8:45 last night. When paramedics arrived, Officer Hanley was pronounced dead on the scene.

“The woman was still alive, so they rushed her to Jackson Memorial. She died during surgery early this morning.”

“I know her. She’s a nurse in the Neurology Department. I read her admission file this morning before I came here. She died of a massive subdural hematoma—just like the others.”

“Are you telling me that this mystery woman’s erotic behavior caused traumatic brain injuries?” questioned Detective Marin, incredulous.

“It’s hardly a feasible option,” I agreed, “But the evidence is clear.”

“Doctor Jerito,” interjected Detective Jackson in a much more appropriate tone, “Being both reasonable and creative, how can this be possible?”

“Logic and imagination rarely play well together, Detective, but let’s give it a shot.” I tried to sound optimistic as well as cooperative. “Do you have any hypotheses?”

“Yes, just one so far,” he answered.

“A weapon—” Detective Marin blurted out as he leaned forward in his chair. “Something small that we couldn’t see in the video.”

Detective Jackson continued, “Is there any sort of weapon that you know of that could injure the brain without leaving any external damage?”

I thought about it for a moment. “I’m no weapons expert—obviously. I’m not aware of anything in particular that could cause subdural hematomas, but it would have to generate some sort of shock waves.”

Both detectives sat up a little straighter in their chairs, listening with intent.

I continued, “Shock waves can bruise the brain when they pass through the cranial cavity without physically damaging the cranium itself. The resulting hematomas and increased intracranial pressure we have seen in the patients we’ve treated could be explained by the existence of such a weapon.”

“What’s been happening to the victims after they’re admitted into the hospital?” asked Detective Jackson.

Detective Marin added a second question to the first before she could open her mouth. “And why is it that no one’s been able to make it out alive?”

I ignored the latter detective’s attitude and responded with professionalism. “Surgery is the only option for subdural hematomas of this magnitude. A section of skull, called a bone flap, is removed so surgeons can extract any blood clots and drain any excess fluids.

“The main issue is time. The surgeons have not been able to make the bone flaps big enough, fast enough. The patients’ brains have swelled beyond the point of repair and atrophied, killing the patient.”

Detective Jackson looked at his partner, then at me and said, “Well, thank you Doctor Jerito for your time. It was much appreciated. You gave us a lot to think about.”

I rose and shook both of their hands. “Thank you for sharing this evidence with me.”

“Of course.”

Detective Marin rose and opened the door for me. “Thank you,” I said, “And I trust I’ll see you both again—hopefully on better terms.”

“Definitely,” said Detective Jackson.

“Likewise,” said Detective Marin.

I stepped into the parking garage later that evening with work still on my mind. The lighting was dim at best. The rectangles of sky visible beyond the concrete columns appeared black as pitch.

Another long work day.

The sun had set about an hour before, ushering in the night and its accompanied horrors. Most of the available hospital staff waited near the ER entrance for the inevitable arrival of the killer’s next victims—only they did not know the truth.

I shuttered and quickened my pace.

I did not want to be here when the bodies started arriving. My emotions already raw, I imaged the patient’s parents, children, or spouses pacing anxiously in the waiting room, praying the for good news that would never come.

The images from the video evidence crossed my mind and I thought of the way the killer had discarded Nurse Dumas with ease. The officer had suffered the same fate, with a little more effort on the killer’s part, but no less regard after the deed concluded. In stark contrast, she had handled T-Rick with curiosity and care after death.

I did not believe that T-Rick was her first kill. She had murdered him with such swift execution. She had the precision of a professional assassin.

Deep in thought, I nearly ran into him.

“Rahim!” I yelped. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t see you standing there.”

And I honestly had not.

“Am I so easy to overlook?” he teased, smiling.

I shook my head, but declined to answer him for fear of seeming more foolish.

“Will I see you at the poetry house tonight?” he asked.

“I’m sorry?”

“I left you a flyer. Did you forget—or decline?” he asked. The tone of his voice traveled from amiable to disheartened at the prospect of being rejected.

“Oh—that,” I exclaimed. I had forgotten not only the invite but also the flowers. I had intended on taking them home. “Of course—I’ll be there.”

I smiled to cover my flustered disposition. I hoped I sounded confident as I looked down at my cell phone. I had no idea how I would pull off family time and a date in one short evening. I wondered why I could not just say ‘no’.

I looked up into his eyes, examining my face and found myself transfixed. His attention captivated me: mind, body, and soul. My face warmed with blush.

“Where do you live, by the way? I hope The Globe Café is not out of your way.”

“Not really. I live in Hialeah, off of Le Juene Road.”

“That is on my way. May I pick you up? It would be no trouble at all for me.”

“Sure. Why not?” I knew I sounded unsure, but the words had escaped nonetheless.

“Wonderful. How does nine o’clock sound?”

“Perfect.” I looked at my phone again. It was 6:45 p. m. “I better go and get ready then.”

“Indeed. See you soon.” He casted his incandescent smile.

“Thank you for the flowers, by the way.”

“You’re most welcome.”

“And the poem. They were both immensely sweet.”

“The wh—”

“There you are,” screeched a high pitched, irritated female voice from across the parking lot.

I turned to observe a lean brunette with long, wavy hair stalk with purpose our way. Her cascading locks bounced in perfect rhythm with every graceful step she took. She carried herself as if she could hold the world in the palm of her hand—complete with impenetrable confidence. Her long, olive-toned legs enabled her to sashay where others walked, one foot in front of the other. Her sapphire eyes peered into the soul where others glimpsed the superficial.

She continued her intended rant that sounded rather like a bird’s song. “I absolutely loathe when you just disappear like that without a word of warning.”

I did not know who she was talking to, but there was no one else in the garage besides Rahim and me. I did not know her from a fly on the wall—she could not be addressing me.

My overworked brain drew out the epiphany at last.

I followed her playful glare right into the face of my gorgeous male companion. In a panic, my eyes darted to his left hand in search of a wedding band, but it rested inside his pants’ pocket. I had not thought to look for one before, but I could not recall seeing one either.

Rahim’s expression did not display nervousness or guilt. He wore an unmistakable look of recognition but stood there relaxed and smiling.

He opened his mouth to speak when she stood a few feet in front of us, “Iris, Dear, I told you I would return shortly.”

“Well, your version of ‘shortly’ turned out to be rather lengthy,” she retorted in a tone that rang with harmony. “Is this her, Rahim?” She looked at me as if noticing my presence at last.

My heart sank into the pit of my stomach.

“Yes, Dear. This is the woman that I told you about, Doctor Kaya Jerito.”

“Ah, Doctor Jerito, it’s a pleasure to finally meet you. Rahim won’t stop talking about you.”

She held out her hand as she spoke, a gentle smile on her face. I took her slender palm and digits into mine and shook them lightly. The handshake registered to my touch like a combination of cashmere and porcelain—soft yet firm.

It amazed and worried me that this woman knew of me. I deducted that she had no intention of harming me, but her familiarity with Rahim worried me still. I raked through my memory and tried to recall Rahim mentioning a wife or girlfriend. I could not remember one clue suggesting that to be the case, but it had to be true.

“The pleasure is all mine, uh—” I intentionally drug out the end of the sentence to indicate that I did not know her name in order to address her.

She understood my intent and responded.

“Iris Veex. Rahim’s other half.”