LAB
Peter G. was hulking over his microscope. Tall, 6' 2", brown hair, slate gray eyes, his muscular back ached as he lamented over this process. A graduate from the University of Iowa with a doctorate in chemical engineering, he never thought something he loved so much would stiffen his spinal muscles. The chemical bonding was getting harder and more complicated as the series progressed. In previous years, a simple modification was made to the vaccine and sent to the lab. The 'lab' was a maximum security prison where people from around the world were sent to for their deplorable crimes against humanity. If the other inmates didn't kill them, they were part of the experiment. Every fall, prisoners recieved their flu vaccine from the tax payers. Each prisoner was given a free physical exam thereafter, and any slight modifications to the vaccines were made if any 'aw shit' came up. Prisoners rarely saw one another, so when shots were distributed, it was part of the regime.
One year, the first batch tested was with 3 prisoners. Two of three passed away that night. Blood samples were taken, and mods were performed. The next three prisoners were tested and all went as expected. It was easy to see, that if just a few prisoners passed away, nothing was noted in the media. But, if they tested 50 and 45 passed away...a leary eye might turn up. Once the formula was perfected, and a sufficient amount of prisoners survived, the final recipe was tested at another prison - all at once. Data collected, data examined, sufficent government acceptable failures - it was released for public innocultaions.
Peter was thinking about the new Jaguar XKR-S he was looking forward to buying. It has to be red - the Mrs will be upset, but red rules in his mind. His associate Jean, was ranting in the back round. Her ramblings came to and fro his attention as he focused his eyes on the strain through the microscope. She was blaming the past Republican president for the errors of the current Democratic presidential failures. He kept his musings to himself. Sort've like telling the wife what he really thought about her dress wouldn't get him anywhere, he faked his emotions to more serious concerns.
"This strain is breaking down Jean" he quipped, cutting into her rant. "Can you get me another strain please?"
"Maybe if you would quit drinking coffee your hand wouldn't shake and ruin them." she chided.
Office talk was generic for the most part. Peter was married with three children. The eldest daughter, Rochelle, was a Marine. Daddy's girl. Peter wanted a son when she was born, but she filled every son requirement by playing all the sports in school and excelling in judo in a local town club. Her physical strength and mindset helped her become one the best helicopter pilots in the Marine Corps. Peter wished she would've become a veternarian. Number two daughter, Nancy, was in college studying liberal arts at USC Berkeley. Peter oftened argued with her that that degree was as good as scoth tape in a hurricane. Useless. The last child, Mickey, was in high school, senior year, athlete as well as the oldest child Rochelle. She saw the world around her as it was presented and absorbed all she could, but was unsure what the future held for her. Staying with Mom and Dad seemed to bring the most happiness for now.
Jean had a live in mate. She never admitted to Peter that she was a lesbian. Her typical sports bra mushed her breasts down against her chest, covered by a sweatshirt of some local college banner. Brown shoulder length hair with soft brown eyes. When she did have to dress up for the occassional outing, the normal bra slacks and lacy top made her the attention in the room. Peter oftened commented on how well she brightened the room when she dressed this way. Jean had dated men in the past, but felt more comfortable around women. Peter never said anything against her choices, and always regarded her as his work wife. Someone that kept him on the straight and narrow.
They talked about everything in their lives on a generic term. They knew each other well enough in their personal lives as if they could easily fool others into thinking they were married. She walked from the containment fridge and handed him another sample.
"Thanks" he said with a smile.
"Its my job" she retorted. "Shall I destroy this one for you as well."
"Yes please" he said "I'll wash the plates up if you destroy the speciman"
"Deal!" she said "Speciman F6 destroyed as she poured the fluid in an incinerator."
Everything was known between Peter and Jean. All except the strains of flu vacciantions that Peter was re-engineering. Her job was to assist. She did menial odd jobs as required. She played on the internet till her assistance was required. Peter wasn't the boss, and whom the boss was never really brought up. As far as Jean knew, Peter was the boss. If she needed time off she asked him and he always said yes. Peter had deadlines, but never had a hard time meeting those dead lines. From the end of February till October Peter and Jean worked together at their small office in the Biglieant building. Biglieant was filled with energy companies and a sandwich shop on the ground floor.
They parked in a special spot under the building, noone else did. They had a sensor on their front license plate that actuated a gate that allowed them in to park. Once in, you had to scan your right eye in a scanner plate by a steel door. Down two flights of metal and concrete stairs. 33 feet of hallway lit by floor lamps like an aircraft carrier. You stopped at two doors, they had to turn to the right door. Lean left and place left eye on the scanner plate as you placed your right hand on the other scanner plate. Once in, you had to shower and change into lab clothing. There was only one shower and every now and then Peter and Jean would catch a sneak peek at the other by accident. The schedules were offset, but every now and then someone was early or late.
Noone really asked what they did. They kept a log book. They wrote what they did, never exactly. i.e.
worked on strain F3 today. Jean needs more tea, and the coffee is low
They were paid quite well. Peter $120,000 and Jean $90,000. They both swore to secrecy of what they did never left the building. The previous assistant, Rarra, was a graduate of Illionois, she took great interest in what Peter was doing. Often she would make comments in the logbook about the correctness of what Peter should be doing; or what Peter was doing could harm humanity. After the third entry in the log book Rarra was found face down on the cement outside her 27th floor apartment. A suicide note on her computer stated "Goodbye." Office days were 6 hours max, and if Peter thought of something to try on a strain, he called his assistant Jean, and she would cheerfully show up to assist. They never really thought of how did the soap dispenser ever get re-filled? They used it when entering and leaving. Someone always replaces the linen and lab clothes and slippers. Ugg slippers for her, fleece lined. Jean was in heaven.
They drove company vehicles. The company car was required to get to and from the lab. That was it. Plain old black Honda Accord with all the amenitites - and a gas card. This was a good job.
TIP
They referred to themselves as the "concensus thinkers." They too were sworn to secrecy, and their spouses knew they worked for a think group of the government. There were six women and six men. Ideas were thrown about, tossed in the air, written on flip charts. Sometimes they made their own skits to act it out. At times they would get some liquor involved and come to a concensual group thought during their drunken stooper. If they thought process came to two entries and a tie vote resulted, Jake made the deciding vote. They even thought of global warming and laughted hysterically thinking of how to pull this off. They needed that one person to fall for this and create the hype. Someone who sounded sincere, somone who had appeal to the people. Rush?
No comments:
Post a Comment