Exit Zero

By Neil A. Cohen

When scientific research into curing both hunger and obesity goes terribly wrong, a fast moving plague is unleashed and sweeps across New Jersey.

The state is abandoned by the country and sealed off from the world. The victims have become horrific mutations of their former selves. The inhabitants are left to kill or to die.

A soldier, a scientist, a detective, a mobster, a politician and a prepper, along with a beautiful yet dangerous woman from the Philippines, must come together during the first 48 hours of the outbreak and journey through chaos towards their only chance of escape on the Garden State Parkway–Exit Zero.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Permuted
• Release date: Feb 10, 2015
• ISBN: 9781618684547

Book preview

Bride of Christ

Holy Friends Catholic High School, located in central New Jersey, was your traditional red brick building, most likely built in the early 1970s and lacking any creativity in design.

The banner that hung across the front entrance read ‘Congratulations Graduates’, and behind the school, families sat on metal bleachers surrounding the multipurpose athletic field. Rows of empty chairs that were awaiting students to parade in and occupy were positioned in front of a stage with a podium.

Inside the school auditorium, Sister Puglia, a cast-iron nun in her 50s, stood on the stage in front of rows of seated students all wearing black caps and gowns, delivering her final speech to the graduating seniors.

And so, once your name is called, you will proceed to the stage, accept your diploma with your right hand, proceed down the left side of the stage, and return to your seats. You are not to yell out to the audience, cheer, throw your hat, or perform any other foolish stunt you were thinking of. In the past, I have heard people screech from the stage things like ‘This is for you, Grandma!’ Sister Puglia held up her hand holding an invisible diploma, mocking the behavior. There is no need to share that thought with the entire school. We do not know your grandmother, and we do not care, so keep those testimonials to yourself. I expect all of you to behave like the proper ladies and gentlemen that we at Holy Friends have prepared you to be. Now go with peace, go with God, but please…just GO!

This attempt at humor came across as less of a joke and more as a manifestation of Sister Puglia’s barely restrained desire to have this class of students gone, banished, never to return. The comment was met with polite but muted laughter from the audience.

The students started to shuffle out the doors to their awaiting graduation ceremonies, and Sister Puglia made one last announcement to the class.

Will the following students remain behind: Mr. Virgil Ganado, Mr. Daniel Sullivan, Mr. Gerald Sullivan, Mr. Patrick Callahan, Mr. Ivan Gold, Mr. Woodrow Coleman, and Mr. Sean McGreevy.

The rest of the students filed out in an orderly manner, casting quick glances at the doomed group of boys that had been called out to remain.

When Mike Antonio passed them, he commented under his breath, That’s what you guys get for hanging out with a Jew! He cast a sneering look at Ivan Gold, the only non-Catholic in the school.

We prefer the term non-Goyim, Ivan countered, and shouldn’t you be with the other Mario brothers chasing Donkey Kong?

Antonio, superior in size and strength to Gold, stopped and postured as if he were going to physically respond to the insult, but knew he would be beaten to a pulp by the Sullivan brothers before he got in the first punch. A verbal assault would have to do.

Hey Jew boy, you’re lucky you got your two drunken mick retards to protect you.

Oh, and Mike? Ivan continued. I forgot to tell you, your mom’s a filthy WOP whore.

Gasps and chuckles came from the students within earshot, and the verbally vanquished bully filed out with the rest of the class.

The seven boys that had been requested to remain behind stood in the silent gymnasium amidst the muffled sounds of graduation proceedings. They could hear music and cheering, though it was as if it were taking place a thousand miles away. Why had they been called out of the graduation ceremony as it was about to begin? Had a long ago prank been discovered?

After a few minutes that felt like hours, left alone to ponder these questions, the door opened and Sister Puglia entered. Her steps echoed across the silent room with a quick and determined walk, one with purpose and anger. The boys had each, individually and collectively, been a thorn in her side for the past four years.

For the next fifteen minutes, she paced back and forth in front of the boys, letting loose four years of repressed frustration in a single hate filled diatribe. What she hurled at them would have been more appropriate coming from a Marine Corps drill instructor to a batch of new recruits he’d found drunk in their barracks. But this was a Bride of Christ spewing her rage towards a bunch of seventeen-year-old kids whose only offense was being obnoxious.

Your future looks very bleak, Sister Puglia concluded. I have been an educator for more than twenty years. I know when young men and women develop the necessary sense of responsibility and maturity to be successful in life…and that has not happened with any of you. Instead, you have developed a character marked by a pattern of negative behavior which is counterproductive and destructive to any collective effort for good. It will not work anywhere. Not in college, and certainly not in the workplace. You will not succeed in life. You will only find unhappiness, hardship, and misery, and you will bring about nothing but disaster to those around you.

Under her breath she muttered, I only hope the State of New Jersey can survive you.

The boys listened intently, waiting for some chance of redemption in her speech, some words of hope, opportunity, or encouragement to change, like Marley’s ghost providing an opportunity to escape their terrible fate. It never came.

Sister Puglia had determined there was no course correction, no redemption, only disaster awaiting this bunch. They had actually made her question her faith. For what purpose, what plan, would God create such children and then bring them together as a group? It was like mixing together the ingredients for a dirty bomb. When she had finished her rant, she instructed them to join the rest of the class outside.

They walked down the hall glancing at each other in disbelief. Sure, they were ball-busters, but were they really that bad to make a nun hate them?

Tonight they would return and drink beer in the woods behind the school, as they had done most every weekend since they were freshmen, however, this would be one of their last times together as a group for many years.

In this region of New Jersey, people never strayed too far from their original orbit, and it was the rare child that did not fall into the well-worn paths of his or her parents. Electricians begat electricians, plumbers begat plumbers, hairdressers begat hairdressers.

It could be described as a crab barrel culture. When live crabs are thrown in a bucket, they will try to climb out. But inevitably, there will be another crab that will reach up and pull a rising crab right back down with the rest of them. That is, unless someone reaches in from the outside and lifts the crabs out.

Even then, the crabs’ newfound freedom was short lived, as the person lifting them out of the bucket had his own ideas for the creatures, and the crabs’ next location could be considerably worse than the bucket.

Holy Friends High School had your typical cliques, each with a stereotypical nickname that delineated membership. There were the Jocks— those that excelled at sports and would most likely remember their school years fondly, but who quite often peaked in life during those four years. There were the Mean Girls, whose job it was to ensure others did not remember school fondly. There were the VoTechs— those that had already been determined to be not college-worthy and were pre-ordained as blue collar worker bees. They would spend their days learning how to repair engines and fix appliances rather than being burdened with subjects like math and science. And then there were the Grays. The Grays were the bland, middle-of-the-road kids that make up the vast majority of every population, and simply become the indistinguishable backdrop of faces that pass by but never become more than scenery.

The selected group that had been called out to remain behind the rest of the class was not falling into any of these categories. Each was an outsider, an outlier. Each was going to forge his own path in life, or so each of them thought. And that was what frustrated Sister Puglia most about these boys; they would not fit the script, could not be put into a box, a category, or to coin a phrase from the band Rush—a subdivision.

* * *

After graduation, the boys drifted apart to find their way in the world, taking with them nothing from their official education that would help them in any way, unaware of the paths that had already been chosen for them.

Chapter 2

Modified Embryonic Animal Tissue (M.E.A.T)

Fifteen years had passed since their final encounter with Sister Puglia.

Woodrow Coleman, or Dr. Woody as he had become known in the media and to his adoring fans, was attending one of his latest new-age bookstore signings. Sitting at a table piled high with his latest self-help release, he observed that the line of people waiting for his signature snaked out the door and onto the sidewalk. A mixture of vegans, Earth First’ers, hippies, hipsters, and diet enthusiasts stood in queue for hours eager to meet their latest author slash guru.

Dr. Woody ogled a very attractive twenty-something blonde girl who was next in line. She was wearing a PETA crop top displaying her toned abs and peace sign belly-button ring. It was her turn to get his coveted signature on her newly purchased, but probably never to be read, copy of Woodrow’s latest book. She pressed her ripped jeans against the table and leaned over seductively to hand the author her copy of the book.

What you are doing to save the animals is so awesome, she purred.

Well, I envision a world where meat can be produced for the food supply safely and abundantly without the need to raise and slaughter cattle, Woodrow replied, making sure to speak loud enough that all his fans within earshot could hear his pontification. And that is hopefully how my Modified Embryonic Animal Tissue— or M.E.A.T theory— will be put into practice someday. I just hope we will see it in our lifetime.

The girl glowed with his attention. You know, that would be awesome. I have been a vegetarian for so long, I honestly hope I can taste your meat someday, she said with a knowing giggle.

Woodrow replied that he, as well, would like for that to happen very soon.

Woodrow Coleman was known in high school as a science geek, with the emphasis on ‘geek’. It was during his years of higher education when he found his true calling in the fields of stem cell research and genetics.

A strict vegan, much to the chagrin of his blue collar, meat and potatoes father, he’d succeeded in achieving grants, scholarships, and generous corporate funding to pursue his graduate work in the field of in vitro meat.

The in vitro meat process involved the production of a pork or beef product that had never been part of a complete, living animal. His work in this arena led him to become quite popular in the eco-warrior/PETA crowd, as well as with business leaders eager to fund his research in exchange for a stake in the possible future industry this could create.

He’d published his seminal work, a book titled M.E.A.T.: Modified Embryonic Animal Tissue, before he had even completed graduate school. M.E.A.T Theory, as it became known, laid out his detailed, yet controversial and unproven, path to achieving cruelty free meat. The process involved mass production and growth of genetically modified animal stem cells, which could be harvested and formed into an endless food source, not only feeding the world’s poor, but eliminating the need to raise animals for slaughter.

He gained rock star status in the world of pseudoscience nutrition by appearing on television talk shows, book tours, infomercials, and other speaking engagements with the catch phrase "It can be done!", ironically while never actually doing anything. Real world attempts at growing pork and beef via stem cells using his methods resulted in what could be best described as equivalent to eating a slug on a bun. Still, the hype kept the gravy train rolling.

Chapter 3

Post Conflict Restoration Corporation

-----Original Message-----

TO: All Post Conflict Restoration Corp Employees

From: PCRC Marketing & Communications Department

RE: Branding of pending product release (corporate eyes only, not for external distribution)

Please note that shortly we will be launching a new product in the consumer food division. The new product should be referred to in all customer facing materials to reflect the proper trademark, M.E.A.T. This is to be presented with all capital letters and punctuation between each letter.

The complete trademarked name is Modified Embryonic Animal Tissue, but this descriptive term is only to be used in official documentation and not to be listed in any marketing or customer facing materials. Please ensure all content is in compliance.

As you know, PCRC has been awarded a grant under the Affordable Meals Act.

This is an effort of national importance, and effective upon product release, all low-income households will qualify for subsidized meals consisting of M.E.A.T, which will be delivered directly to those areas designated as Food Desert Zones, i.e., areas with insufficient access to supermarkets and grocery stores.

We have already received the federal funding to open regional distribution centers within these areas and expect to begin home deliveries to the poorest neighborhoods by the end of the year.

We are ready to take up this mission and provide our superior product to those families that are most in need. As the President of the United States said, WE MUST ACT NOW, and we will.

Finally, for those employees who have not returned their organ donor forms, please do so by COB Friday so that your bonus will arrive in the next pay period.

Thank you for your continued support.

Nick Letterman

VP, Marketing

Chapter 4

The Mutants

In the wee hours of the next morning, after a long and interesting night, Dr. Woody and the hippie girl from the bookstore had passed out in bed in his apartment, clothes strewn on floor, the sheet barely covering her naked body. While they slept, the apartment door opened and a large, hulking figure slipped in. They were not awakened by the intruder, nor did they sense his presence as he hovered above the bed. A large muscular arm reached slowly towards the sleeping scientist. Like a cobra seeking out a place to strike, the hand found its preferred target, snapping forward and grabbing a handful of Dr. Woody’s crotch through the sheets.

Woodrow shrieked in surprise, the girl ran from the room naked but for a sheet, and Daniel Sullivan laughed heartily.

You giving the old cannon a work out there, professor? Dan chided as Woodrow jumped up in shock, anger, and pain.

Dan Sullivan guffawed loudly when the girl ran back into the room to retrieve her clothes, cursing them both, and stormed out of the apartment.

Hey, honey, where you going? Dan shouted after her. It’s time for a real man to step in!

Woodrow jumped up and pulled on his pants.

I see you are still working on growing meat, or should I say, tube steak! Dan brayed.

How the hell did you get here? Woodrow snapped at his unwelcome guest.

What, this dump? Dan scoffed. If a North Korean prison couldn’t keep me in, you think your bullshit Home Depot door lock is gonna keep me out?

Woodrow rolled his eyes. I mean how did you get back into the country? I thought they had you on some sort of watch list.

Nah, all’s forgiven between me and Uncle Sam. The military needs people with my skill set and I need their money. It’s a beautiful sympathetic relationship.

You mean symbiotic relationship. Sympathetic is the reason I tolerate your childish behavior.

Dan picked up the hippie girl’s balled-up panties which had been left behind in her mad dash to the exit, stretched them out by the waistband for a second and then tossed them at Woodrow. I believe these are yours, he cracked. Now get dressed, I’ll buy you breakfast, then I have some people that want to talk with you.

* * *

Dan Sullivan and his brother Jerry had escaped what would have most certainly been a life consisting of serving one jail sentence after another by joining the Army right out of high school. It was during their time in the service that their true talents emerged, and soon they became legends, both within the ranks of the US Army as well as within the terrorist cells and groups of enemy combatants they were so effective at eliminating. With tours in Iraq, Afghanistan, Africa, and other less glamorous regions, their vicious and brutal tactics while engaging the enemy had earned them the nickname The Mutants.

Even Taliban and Al Qaida cells had heard tales of The Mutants; two pale skinned brothers of inhuman size and cruelty that left a wide swath of destruction in their wake. They obviously had connections on high, as their exploits were overlooked, hushed up, and ignored by military leadership for years.

Finally, dishonorable discharge proceedings could no longer be avoided, however, a court martial with hearings and testimony that could leak to the public was in no one’s best interest. The brothers were unceremoniously released from service where they immediately went to work for their older brother James Sullivan.

James Sullivan had worked for PCRC even during high school, sweeping floors, getting coffee, until he graduated and was encouraged by his employer to join the military where he was selected for -a career in Special Operations. He had long ago hung up his military uniform and accepted a position with New Jersey based defense contractor Post Conflict Restoration Corporation (PCRC), where he had risen through the ranks to become the right hand man of the rarely seen owner and CEO of PCRC, Mr. Maxwell Gold, or as he was referred to by many of those in his employ, The Old Man. Dan and Jerry now served under their older brother in the VIP Protection Division of PCRC.

After a quick breakfast at the Red Tree Greek diner, Dan and Woodrow were back in the car driving to PCRC headquarters. While Dan drove, Doctor Woody looked out the passenger side window at the strip malls, auto body shops, nudie bars, and chain restaurants that made up Central New Jersey’s Route 35.

Woodrow had given up trying to remember the name of the girl from last night and turned on the car radio to 1010 WINS. The deep voiced news reader with a slight robotic monotone to his voice was detailing the local headlines of the morning:

"…49 year old Hazlet, NJ policeman is dead, five others are ill and doctors are still puzzled by this mysterious illness that has affected them. All are suffering from flu-like symptoms, but the doctors do not know what exactly the cause could be. It could be a ‘degenerated virus, perhaps mutated’ a local health official is quoted as saying. All patients presented with the same clinical picture but there are no known connections between the afflicted. So far, nobody knows what we are dealing with."

Dan reached over to turn off the radio and got down to business. It was time to explain to his passenger what this wakeup call was all about.

One of our clients has a lot of interest in what you’re doing, Woody. He has asked us to make an introduction.

That’s Doctor Woody, and I’m not interested in making new friends right now. Woodrow sniffed, not even glancing in Dan’s direction.

Just listen to what they have to say, Dan pressed.

Woodrow was quick to shut the discussion down. I’ll pass.

Dan slammed on the car brakes, stopping the car right in the middle of the highway. Other motorists screeched on their own brakes, skidding and swerving to miss the sudden obstacle. Many of them blasted their horns and flipped Dan the bird as they passed.

Dan stared intensely at Woodrow, not even acknowledging the dozen near miss wrecks as cars flew by.

Woodrow, on the other hand, was gripping the dashboard in fear that the car would soon be smashed off the road. He couldn’t decide if he should stay inside and bear the brunt of the collision, or open his door and attempt a Frogger-like move across the busy highway.

Listen, this is serious, Dan snapped loudly, pointing his finger at Woodrow. This is coming direct from the old man. He told me to get you there right now! Don’t forget, PCRC paid the bills for your research and owns the patents. The old man pulls the plug, you’ll be hawking diet plans on infomercials again! All I am saying is, come and talk to this guy.

Dr. Woody reluctantly agreed. Truthfully, he had no other choice and wanted to be out of the car before he puked up his egg white omelet.

Chapter 5

Unimaginable

Dan and Woodrow arrived at the purposely designed nondescript building and entered the large wood paneled conference room of Post Conflict Restoration Corporation, the PCRC company name on the wall emblazoned in gold, lest anyone forget where they were. A bank of TV monitors running cable news shows from around the globe covered one wall, the glow of the monitors reflecting on the