“These subjects are in the final stage, originally reached within 5 to 7 days after first treatment,” Dr. Moz explained. “The poor souls you saw will be at this stage by tomorrow. The process speeds up with each successive exposure.”
When they entered through a high security door leading into a corridor of cells, the subjects went wild, reaching, grabbing, trying to force their faces through the bars, biting, moaning, and shrieking. Some slammed their heads against the steel bars, attempting to get at their prey. One man ran towards the group and slammed his face against the bars with such force his cheekbones and jaw shattered, sending his teeth scattering onto the floor. The guards became visibly nervous, placing hands on their holstered guns, as if getting ready for a quick draw competition.
“How long will they live?” Woodrow asked, approaching one of the caged patients.
Dr. Moz shot out his arm to prevent Woodrow from getting too close to the skeletal subjects. “These are no longer living.” He sighed. “These are the dead.”
“I understand they are beyond saving, but when will they truly die?” Woodrow asked.
“You don’t understand,” Dr. Moz said. “These are the dead.”
Moz removed a guard’s pistol from its holster. He put the barrel of the gun to the head of one of the caged subjects and fired point blank into the forehead. The top of the man’s head exploded.
Woodrow recoiled in horror and shouted his confused objection, but was silenced when he observed what happened next. The subject, who’d had his brains blown out, did not collapse to the floor in a crumpled dead heap, but only stumbled backwards a few steps. The gunshot victim then straightened himself upright and again begin reaching through the bars again, biting at the doctor.
Dr. Moz pointed the gun to the temple of another caged subject and pulled the trigger, this time blasting off the entire top of the target’s head above the bridge of the nose. Again, the creature arose, minus three quarters of his head, yet the body kept reaching and what was left of the jaw was still biting.
Woodrow stood motionless, speechless.
Dr. Moz then fired a single bullet into each of the now nearly headless men’s stomachs, causing them to crumple to the ground, finally still. He handed the gun back to the guard, turned towards Woodrow and spoke in a tone that seemed relieved he had someone with whom to finally share this knowledge. “And my friend, that is not the strangest thing I am going to show you.”
Minutes later, Woodrow stood on unsteady legs in the mortuary area. On a steel table lay a body covered by a sheet. Dr. Moz lifted the sheet to expose the cadaver’s head, displaying that the cranial cap had been removed, and the brain was nearly gone; almost liquefied.
“At first, we thought this was some sort of spongiform encephalopathy, perhaps the Mad Cow Disease had spread to humans,” Dr. Moz explained. “And, in this particular instance, that would be a very likely possibility.”
Woodrow focused on how he said “this particular instance”. Mad Cow was caused by cows eating ground up cow bodies in their feed. He wondered what that scenario had to do with his research. The whole point of his theory was to avoid the raising, feeding, housing, and slaughter of livestock.
“Although the test subjects have become almost skeletal, their stomachs continue to expand. At first, we thought it was retention of gas and fluid. We were wrong. We could have never imagined what was really occurring in the stomachs of these poor souls.”
An assistant in a lab coat pulled back the sheet all the way, displaying the cadaver’s full body. It was a male whose stomach had been sliced open for autopsy, the vivisection displaying a stomach lining that had taken on features resembling those of a human brain.
“It is as it appears. And it does not just resemble a brain, it is functioning like a brain. It can think… to some extent. It can control the body; it has achieved dominance over the subject’s actions.”
Woodrow could not believe his eyes. “My work, my research…caused this?”
“We tried and failed to make the process work with animal cells, as at first, we hoped to follow your path, and grow actual meat for consumption.”
“You’re not making any sense,” Woodrow said. “If you tried and failed, what am I doing here?”
“We are a nation at war. Our leaders know that what Napoleon said was true, that an army fights on its stomach. Our soldiers’ stomachs were empty. We had enough guns and bullets for many armies, but we did not have enough food for a single battalion. As I said, we failed to make the process work with animal stem cells, but we found a replacement. We experimented with the process using human stem cells.”
At Woodrow’s look of horror, Dr. Moz felt he needed to further explain this course of action. “Now I assure you, this was an experiment, to see if the process could actually work.” Dr. Moz was in full confessional mode now, and Dr. Woody was the priest, a role in which he did not feel comfortable.
“Scientists know much about the human stem cell, but very little about animal stem cells. So we had to start with what we knew. If the process did work with human cells, we could then discover where we were doing wrong in our animal cell research. The process, when conducted using human stem cells, worked exceptionally well. We were able to grow an abundance of cultured meat. Human cultured meat.”
Woodrow gasped. “How the hell did you get your hands on the amount of human stem cells needed?!”
“Our benefactor at PCRC has many business interests, many investments. The corporation has private armies serving around the world, owns hospitals, prisons, morgues. There was no shortage of whatever we needed.” While Dr. Moz continued speaking, Woodrow continued to stare at the corpse whose body had become an abomination.
“I am not proud of what I have done, you understand, however, our nation is desperate, and our leaders are…persuasive. They did not want to wait for us to use our human stem cell success to research and rectify our animal stem cell failures. They forced us to move forward with the next phase.
“We tested the MEAT product on human subjects. Several tribal areas were chosen to become test sites. You may call them ‘focus groups’.” Dr. Moz gave a weak smile at his attempt at gallows humor.
“All volunteers were offered generous compensation for their part in the research. They did not know what they were consuming, they believed it was Halal meat. They quickly became ill, and we soon realized that those affected had become addicted to the M.E.A.T we provided. They could no longer digest anything else and their bodies rejected all other nourishment. The sickness progressed, and those affected began to waste away as the body digested all of its own body fat, and the victims became emaciated, skeletal-like.
“Soon even the brain itself wasted away. It was then that we noticed a tumor had formed in each subject’s stomach. The mass formed not only its own veins to receive blood, after that, the tumor developed its own nervous system. Like a parasite, it drained the host of all resources, blood, and body tissue. The stomach then mutated around this mass, taking on features of neural cells, and soon grew its own brain stem and synapses. It was not long before the stomach acted like a secondary brain. During this time, when the two brains fight for dominance, the subjects go into a psychotic state. Many kill themselves; some appear to be aware of what is happening and have attempted to cease the process by removing, actually cutting out their own stomach.”
Dr. Moz thought back to the first Bedouin camp where they had set up trials. He remembered the horrified faces of the villagers when the first Skell attacks took place. He remembered a tribal chief, a man educated beyond his humble surroundings, who had somehow figured out what was occurring and literally disemboweled himself in an effort to cease the occupying brain.
Moz continued, his voice weaker, having been shaken by the visions in his mind. “Eventually this new formation in the stomach becomes the dominant brain of the victim, which controls the body with one purpose: to seek out and consume the only substance that can alleviate their suffering, thei
r hunger, their addiction— human flesh. The new brain now has control of the host body’s basic functions, movement, hunting, feeding.”
Woodrow had heard enough. “This is monstrous, what you have done! Simply stop! Stop all of your work, burn this place to the ground, destroy everything you have done, and pray for some sort of forgiveness from whatever God you worship!”
“It is not that simple,” Dr. Moz said. “In the beginning, we were not aware of the seriousness of the affliction. We lost track of several of our subjects. Once exposed, the subjects act as carriers, and they were able to infect others. We have found people suffering from this abnormality that we had never treated, who must have been infected by those that left our facility. We determined that the infection was at the cellular level. It is a virus that acts like a cancer; but a cancer that is easily communicable. A bite, an exposure to bodily fluid, spread the condition from one subject to another. It goes beyond that. A standard virus is passive in its transmission, like a jellyfish at the will of the tide. If the tide brushes the fish against you, you could get stung, but the jellyfish is not swimming against the current to get to you. This virus is aggressive in its transmission, like a shark seeking and attacking its prey. This virus does not wait to be spread; it takes the initiative and forces the host into transmission mode.”
“A virus that chooses its own destiny?” Dr. Woodrow interjected incredulously. “It almost sounds like it is conscious of its actions.”
“You would think it impossible, would you not?” Dr. Moz asked. “We thought we had finally isolated all of the initial infected, but the virus adapted, and we found that even skin to skin contact caused transmission. The virus can work its way through the skin when a person moves, attacking the victim’s cells. We shut down that facility and moved our research here, where we have better access to resources. We need to study this, find out where we went wrong. We can’t put this back in the box. It exists now, and there is no turning back. What if we missed something, and there are still carriers out there? We need to find out how to reverse it before others find out, before it spreads again, or falls into other hands, before it can be exploited, used as a weapon perhaps. And that is why we summoned you. We must understand this condition and discover how it can be stopped, before it’s too late.”
Chapter 7
Daddy Issues
James Sullivan and Patrick Callahan sat in the conference room of PCRC in front of the bank of television monitors. They were watching the local newscaster talk about how freshman Congressman Pat Callahan was in town to thank his supporters. The station was running footage of Pat attending a ribbon cutting ceremony for the new Supersaver store.
“… other local news, the statewide joint exercise between the Army and the Army National Guard is underway. This is a disaster preparedness drill, so don’t be alarmed if you see some military maneuvers and activities underway, the military is ensuring preparedness and joint interoperability. Staged scenarios will be conducted all around the state. And tonight at 11, we will have a follow-up on that horrific gang fight at the Monmouth Mall last night that led to 5 deaths. Now with breaking news, we take you to John Williams, who is covering a domestic dispute that has turned into a hostage situation in Red Bank, New Jersey. John…
James used the remote to turn the TV off.
Pat Callahan was one of the few from town that had escaped his working class roots, and with the benefit of a full scholarship funded by PCRC, he had gone on to college and then law school.
His alcoholic and abusive father was threatened by his son’s success, and his bitterness only grew when his son moved into a “rich” neighborhood.
One heavy night of drinking had ended with his father in prison and his mother in the grave, leaving Pat as close to an orphan as could be. That was when Maxwell Gold, owner of PCRC, stepped in as a surrogate father.
It was not long after graduating from law school that Pat started his first Congressional campaign, running on a strict gun control platform spurred by the loss of his mother. The young upstart won a seat as the representative from the 3rd Congressional District.
James raised his glass of scotch in a toast to his guest. “Congrats, Congressman. So I guess I can’t threaten to kick your ass anymore without the Secret Service coming after me.”
Pat smiled. “Congressmen don’t get Secret Service details. Besides, the bad guys know I have you as a friend so no one will come near me.” He pointed to the window where a line of military trucks and soldiers were congregating. “I noticed a couple of military vehicles outside of your building. You guys secure yourself some of this military exercise action?”
James swallowed the scotch and put his glass on the table. “No, and I am still pissed about it. I actually know nothing about this ‘exercise’, as they are calling it. We were unable to get any information at all. This whole operation is off the books. I thought now that I had friends in high places,” James snickered, but was seriousness under his levity, “I could secure more of these federal contracts and stop having to work in every third world shithole around the globe. I want to start focusing on U.S. government contracts.”
“I thought you were getting quite rich on those third world shithole contracts?” Pat remarked, playing counterpoint. “Private plane, nice summer place in Cape May. You’re in these shithole nations, or what the civilized world refers to as ‘emerging nations’, cleaning up the rubble and rebuilding the infrastructure after they have a war. The only threat to your business would be if world peace broke out. If your business plan ain’t broke, why fix it? And by the way, I don’t think your particular business model would work in the USA.”
“I’m serious, Pat,” James pressed, “we need to go mainstream. What we offer here is no different than selling insurance. We sign the contracts with these countries ensuring that we will be there to clean up and restore everything should the worst happen. Most of these countries know that eventually, and sometimes frequently, shit will hit the fan. Hopefully we can prove that the work PCRC does is not just for profit, but for the greater good of mankind.” James was unsure if he was trying to convince Pat or himself. “We’re no different than a company selling health insurance. You know you’re going to get sick, so you get the insurance when you’re healthy.”
“Actually, I think you guys are more like hit men selling burial plots,” said Pat.
“Bullshit!” James shot back. “These countries know that eventually there will be an uprising, an invasion, riots, terror attacks or civil war. And when it does happen and the dust settles, we’ll be there to go in and clean up the mess and make things like new. We leave these places better off than they were before, in most cases.”
Pat tilted his head at Jim. “Yeah, but after you get these countries to sign on the dotted line, aren’t your brothers Dan and Jerry going in and serving as the catalyst for most of those civil wars and riots?”
“It’s not like that… not anymore,” James said in frustration. “We perform a service. Our clients’ infrastructure is almost non-existent, like the Stone Age, where chewing gum and chicken wire are holding the places together. We provide an avenue for renewal, some short term destruction to make way for long term creation. It’s not only wars, though. We come in after natural disasters as well.”
“Dan and Jerry are natural disasters,” Pat commented sarcastically under his breath.
James frowned, annoyed at having to justify his business to someone who benefited so greatly from the corporation’s financial aid. “Look, things are tough right now; we need to start growing our domestic operations as things are winding down with our military contracts. Goddamn budget sequestration bullshit. We need to expand into new markets here in the states.”
“Jim, I love you guys,” Pat said consolingly. “We’ve known each other for over twenty-five years. And I hear where you’re coming from, but we need to keep our relationship low key. Your brothers are mercenaries.”
“They handle our VIP protection divis
ion,” James said defensively. “Businessmen need to get into dangerous regions of the world; they need to conduct their business, oversee operations, and then get out, preferably alive. Our service…my brothers…ensure that happens.”
Pat gave him a frustrated yet sympathetic look. “Listen, if you want to be legit and grow your business in the states, things have got to change. You need to distance yourself from your past. Kansas isn’t going to award emergency operations support to a company that also puts down revolutions in Somalia and escorts arms dealers around the former Soviet Union. Look at Virgil and me; in high school we were tight. Now, I can’t be seen in the same town has him. It pains me, but it is what it is. During the election, my opponents would bring up my ‘mob ties’. I have barely even seen Virgil in a decade, but they will use anything they can to get to me. We were friends in high school, when the only hits he was ordering were on the football field. Now he is a real live mob family boss. I can’t be associated with that.”
James looked grim, contemplative. He acknowledged this reality, which he could not deny. “I understand,” he said with resignation.
Pat sensed the awkwardness and changed the subject. “Speaking of high school friends, have you had much contact with Ivan Gold lately? Has he really gone off the deep end or what? I get these emails from him trying to get me onto his radio show. I’m not looking to court the lunatic fringe vote. Half his shows are spent talking about government conspiracies, end of the world theories, and alien invasions.”
James rose and began to escort Pat to the door as he responded. “Danny has some dealings with Ivan. We keep tabs on him, of course, for the old man’s sake. For obvious reasons. You know Woodrow had to get a restraining order against Ivan.”
Pat was shocked. “Seriously? He’s a little off, but I didn’t know it was to that level of lunacy.”
“This began just recently. Ivan started calling and emailing Woodrow nonstop, trying to get him to come out to that compound he lives on. He built the thing like a mini forward-operating base, complete with electrified fence, weapons caches and a huge underground bomb shelter. Woodrow blew him off, so Ivan started showing up at his book signings and then at his house demanding Woodrow come to the compound and see something. The Woodman thought Ivan was going to try and kidnap him next and so he got the restraining order. Ivan was pissed.”
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