One Upmanship

I hate my big brother.

Ever since we were kids, he always outshined me. If I got a B+ in science, he got an A. If I pushed and got an A, he would get an A+. No matter what I did, he would always, ALWAYS get just a little ahead of me.

And my parents?? God, my parents didn’t help matters any. They would always praise my brother and fawn over him, telling him how good he was. Then they’d turn to me and say, “Why can’t you be like your brother? He always does so GOOD.” I heard that so much growing up, I was ready to throw up.

When he graduated, our block…hell, the whole town was proud of him-and he didn’t even make valedictorian. Two years later, I graduated at the top of my class, valedictorian, AND student president-and nothing. One of my aunts had the gall to say to my face, “Well, you inherited your skill from your brother, so you were expected to do okay.” Okay?!?! OKAY!?!?!

He went to medical school to become a doctor, which made my mother very happy. I went to MIT to study biology, my mother said nothing. All I ever heard in what few letters I got from home was how good my brother was doing. Even when I received an award for my research on the spread of infectious viruses, my parents were more excited about where my brother was going to do his residency.

My brother could do no wrong-he did his residency, married the hometown sweetheart, and settled down with two kids and a great practice in our hometown. I, on the other hand, was selected to work with the military on ‘finding cures/vaccines for possible biological weapons’-that’s what the press release stated. I knew better-my job was to find efficient ways to kill people without (a) killing our own people and (b) keeping the territory in pristine shape for possible occupation.

I didn’t have a wife, didn’t have children-my work was my life and I enjoyed it. But I never heard one word of praise from my family. My mother commented at Christmas one year, “Oh, our youngest works as a civil servant. He makes his money off of our taxes.” My ears still ring at the laughter that night.

It was after that incident that I knew what I had to do. I was working in my lab with a particularly nasty bug when it hit me. I held in my hand the power of life and death-the power of God. If I dropped that particular vial, everyone in the building would contract the virus and die within an hour. My mind raced feverously as I logged onto my terminal and brought up the database on what the lab had in stock. I scanned over a literal menu of death-anthrax, e coli, botulism, and a cornucopia of little weapons all at my fingertips. The trouble was that any of the known biologics could be stopped-I needed to create one of my own. It didn’t take much because I had written the book on gene manipulation and so, after several late nights of unauthorized work, I had my little gem-My way of striking back at the past and my brother.

There was no problem getting it out of the lab; again, I had written the procedure for quarantine/control. Besides, no one would think to check a harmless piece of paper. I drove out to the dam that held the reservoir for our town’s water supply. As I stood in the pale moonlight, I held the piece of paper in my hand and thought about what I was going to do. All the slights, all the hate, all the disrespect rushed through me like a wildfire. Without a moment’s hesitation, I balled up the paper and tossed it into the spillway of the dam.

There was no immediate reaction the first week after I released my revenge. Life in my hometown went on as normal. Then, three weeks later, the first signs started. People were showing up at their doctor’s with rashes, boils, and bleeding sores. Everyone was baffled, but the worst was yet to come. At five weeks, the skin started to peel away from people and they died a horrible death. Some bled to death; others had their insides fall out. Men, women, and children-it didn’t matter. My gem, my gift did not discriminate.

I sat and watched as death rode through my town with a fury. Comparing my statistics to past plagues, I was impressed. Even the famous Black Death didn’t move as quickly as my creation. And it was infectious, oh was it ever! A drop of any bodily fluid from an infected victim on a healthy person and it was a death warrant. The death toll rose from the hundreds to the thousand in a little over a month.

In two months, everyone in my hometown was either dead or dying. It was then that I walked into the FBI headquarters in D.C. and told the unbelieving agent what I’d done. They didn’t believe me, of course, but the files and samples I handed over convinced them rather quickly.
So now I sit in a federal penitentiary awaiting trial for mass murder, use of a WMD, and whatever other charges they want to file. I have no access to any form of communication, but I know that my head is wanted on a platter.

It doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter at all.

Because when they strap me to that gurney, I will smile. I will smile knowing that, for a short time, I was God. And my brother never was.

Top that, big brother.