The Secret of Strain 5

By Ben Maxfield

Strain 5 is poison. Everyone eats it. Only the designers of this genetically modified food know the danger.

Orchestrated at the highest levels of society, the nation’s food supply has been hijacked and contaminated in the first step of a global plot. George Miles, a scientist, discovers something is wrong and joins grocery delivery driver Dustin Fowler on the trail through a world turning insane: terrorist wristware, inflatable farm equipment, a woman following her dream to become the world’s fattest person and Tolkien-themed Pyramid schemes all stand in their path to save everyone from a monstrous fate.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Ben Maxfield
• Release date: Nov 29, 2016
• ISBN: 9781540113641

Ben Maxfield

Visit Ben Maxfield's website at: benmaxfield.com

Book preview

CHAPTER 1 

No thoughts of celebration entered his mind as he read the DNA analysis, printed out on clean white paper, stapled once in the corner. George had told the birthday group he would catch up with them in a moment, but twenty minutes later, he was still reading.

The group had left the lab and gone to the conference room to celebrate a co-worker birthday and eat bland co-worker birthday cake. He had signed the birthday card, handed to him in an empty folder, under the table, when no one else was looking, under the guise of important work.

He had read the birthday messages and tried to think of something witty to add. He failed, as had everyone else, and decided, as had everyone else, to make up for his lack of wit with a double helping of enthusiasm. Happy Birthday!! Twin exclamation points, you couldn’t get much more enthusiastic than that. Then he noticed Margret, the receptionist from the ground floor, had finished her birthday message with three exclamation points. He picked up his pen and worked on his message some more. Now it had four exclamation points.

Birthday messages long forgotten, he turned the page. He sat alone in the lab, at a clear patch of bench space beside the DNA sequencer. A brown paper bag in his lap. His name was written on it in thin black letters, George Miles. Inside the bag was a midmorning snack he had prepared for himself the night before. It was the same snack he always ate on Mondays: half a cheese and pickle sandwich, on white bread, with the crusts cut off. The bag sat on his polyester trousers, its contents uneaten.

Flipping to a graph on the next page, he absent-mindedly sucked on a carton of strawberry milk, chewing on the straw a little. He had been sucking air through the straw for two minutes. He kept reading.

He leapt up from his chair. His snack shot across the lab in one direction, chair in another. Running to his office, he picked up the phone on his desk and punched numbers.

A woman answered, Corgen, head office.

This is George Miles, senior scientist at the biotech lab here in Elcada. I need to speak to Arnold Pearson.

The CEO is a very busy man, she said. You will need to make an appointment.

This is urgent. There is no time for that.

Why don’t you tell me what the matter is and I’ll decide whether it is urgent, she said.

George felt his grip on the receiver tighten. You are a receptionist. You are not qualified to make that type of assessment. Do you have a PhD in biotechnology? Have you been genetically engineering crops for Corgen for the past twenty years? If not, then stop wasting time and listen to me. This is important. Put Pearson on the phone. Now.

He’s out of the office at the moment. I have a mobile phone number for him, but that is to be given out only in emergencies.

"Have you listened to a word I said? This is an emergency. Give me the number."

Alright, but you have been very rude, she said. I will be reporting you to HR.

Do what you like, just give me that number, George said.

He scribbled it down and hung up the phone with a stab of his finger on the hook switch. He dialed again.

The ringing tone thrummed against George’s eardrum. Trilling then silence. Terror then dread. Just as George was preparing to leave a voicemail, someone answered.

Hello? said a muffled voice.

Hello, Mr. Pearson? This is George Miles from the Elcada biotech lab—

Ah, George. You boys have been doing a great job, Mr. Pearson said. I’ve been meaning to visit the facility. Can you rub some oil on my legs?

What? George said.

No, not you. I’m talking to my masseuse. Miss Wang has magical fingers.

Oh, right, George said. "Anyway, the sequencer emailed me the results of the DNA analysis I conducted on the Strain Six feeding trial. According to the report, there seems to have been a mix up in the Corgen shipping department. The batch of genetically modified corn sent to our lab for testing was an older variety: Strain Five."

Four!

"I have the report in front of me. I’m pretty sure it’s Strain Five."

No. I’m hitting out of some deep rough.

You’re playing golf? I thought you were having a massage.

Can’t a man do both? Miss Wang, hold my sand wedge.

When I first saw the report, I was worried about wasting resources retesting a strain that’s already been tested, FDA approved and on the market for over a year. Then I looked at the results. We have a big problem. The lab animals suffered genetic damage.

This is an outrage! Mr. Pearson said.

I know—

Who puts a bunker there? Honestly. Miss Wang, I’ll have that sand wedge now.

It seems Strain Five, combined with prolonged consumption of the product, resulted in genetic damage in the test subjects.

That combination is a nightmare, Mr. Pearson said.

Yes, it was—

Who would have thought that massage oil and bunker sand would be so scratchy? Miss Wang, ease up on the shiatsu.

We were very thorough, George said. We ran the trials on rats, guinea pigs, rhesus monkeys—

Eagle!

"We didn’t conduct avian testing but I can order some birds into the lab if you would like. I don’t know how Strain Five was fast-tracked through the FDA approval process so quickly. My department wasn’t responsible for developing this variant, but I can tell you, if I was in charge of that project, I would have made damn sure the stuff was safe. There are serious problems with it and the corn has already made its way into the food industry.

Our only saving grace is that the problem is cumulative. The effects of Strain Five build up slowly in the body. At this stage, no human would have consumed enough corn-derived products to be at risk. Not unless they were eating a huge amount of food. George let out a nervous laugh. "We’re probably safe for the time being. No one would be eating that much."

Well, why didn’t you say so, Mr. Pearson said. If it’s only going to affect a few fatties—no, not you Miss Wang, you look superb in that bikini—then that’s an acceptable risk. You had me worried, George. I thought you were talking about a real problem.

"This is a problem. Eventually people will eat enough corn to suffer genetic harm. We need to destroy all existing crops of Strain Five, send out a press release, and order a product recall of Strain Five seeds and all food stuffs containing Strain Five corn as an ingredient."

Whoa, steady on now. That back rub is too rough. Miss Wang, you have a grip like a sailor. Product recalls are very expensive. That type of nonsense is bad PR. Remember the stink that Corgen pollution scandal brought up five years ago? I don’t want a repeat of that kind of thing. Think about the Corgen stock price. How long will it take for people to be effected?

George did some calculations in his head. Maybe two years.

Well, that’s alright then, Pearson said. By that time, I’ll have my executive bonus and have exercised my stock options. After that we can talk again about product recalls and press releases.

But people are going to start getting sick by then, George said. "We need to send out a press release now."

I want a full release, Mr. Pearson said.

Fantastic. I’ll draft up a document and—

Do not contact the media! Mr. Pearson said. George heard the thunk of a golf club sliding back into its bag. Listen George, just do as I ask. This is the way these things are done. You want to get ahead in this organization, don’t you? I want that report destroyed and I don’t want you to mention any problems with our genetically modified products to anyone.

We shouldn’t keep quiet on this, George said. This is going to end in disaster.

I demand a happy ending! Mr. Pearson said.

George drew a breath to protest further then shook his head. Pearson had hung up. He wandered into the break room, his mind in a daze. Was this really happening?

A folded newspaper sat on the break room table. He collapsed into a chair, squared the newspaper in front of him and started flipping through it. His mind was in no state to be doing scientific work. He needed a minute to decompress. A minute to make sense of it all.

He stopped at a small article buried in the middle of the newsprint. It was a common enough story, a poor woman chasing her dreams for a better life. The thing that caught his eye was the way she was doing it. She was going for a world record: the world’s heaviest person. His eyes darted to the woman’s photograph, then to the figures underneath. 1186 pounds. One year of heavy eating. Massive caloric intake.

Yanking a pen out of his shirt pocket, he punched the numbers into his calculator watch and scribbled figures in the  margin next to the story. He gasped and pushed the paper away from him. She was eating too much. Or you could say, she was eating enough. Enough to be poisoned by the hazardous corn. Enough to suffer genetic damage.

He stuffed the newspaper under his arm and hurried back to his office. The article stated the woman’s name was Grace Wheeler. He dismissed the screensaver on his computer with a wiggle of his mouse and typed her name into an online phone directory. No results.

He flipped to the front of the newspaper and dialed the number printed there for the publication’s office.

Good afternoon, Daily Messenger, said a female voice.

Hello, George said. I’m interested in contacting the lady in today’s paper—

Let me guess: the overweight woman going for the world record?

Yes, that’s the one.

Listen here, you degenerate. We’ve already had a flood of fat fetish perverts calling here trying to get that poor woman’s phone number.

No. I’m not a fat fetishist.

What do you call yourself then? Chubby chaser? Fat admirer? Heavy hitter? I’ve been answering the phone since nine o’clock and I’ve heard them all. You people make me sick. She is not your ‘Big Momma.’

This is an important matter. I need to speak to her.

"Your sexual gratification is not an important matter, she said. I have your caller ID. If you phone here again, I’m contacting the police."

Frankly, you sound jealous, George said. The phone went dead in his ear.

Dejected, he replaced the receiver. Turning back to the newspaper, he looked again at the overweight woman’s photograph. Amongst the clutter in the background, he saw a box with letters printed on it. He bent forward and squinted at the picture but couldn’t make out the words.

He took the newspaper into the lab workspace and placed it under a bench-mounted magnifying glass on a spring-loaded arm. He flipped on the magnifier’s light and pulled the lens over the photograph. The black specks on the box grew into words. They read, Fresh ‘n Tasty.

CHAPTER 2 

Dustin squinted at the morning sun, stepped off the loading dock and into the back of the delivery truck. His shirt had his employer’s logo stitched onto the chest pocket, a cornucopia of groceries tumbling out of an open box, spilling over the words, Fresh ‘n Tasty, the largest supermarket in Elcada. He wore it untucked, hanging over his faded jeans.

In his arms, he carried a cardboard box. On the side was a label, Delivery Carton 11. To: Mrs. Grace Wheeler.

His dirty sneaker squeaked against the steel floor of the truck’s cargo area as he stopped at a low wall of stacked boxes at the far end. He bent over at the waist and set the box down, letting it drop a foot onto the bed of the truck. The sound of plastic bags rustled inside.

He figured dropping the box a little was probably just as healthy as bending at the knees when he set things down. Who really does that knee-bending thing anyway? His supervisor was on his case all the time about bending his knees when he lifted boxes but he had never seen his supervisor bend his knees either. He figured lifting with the knees was kind of like Bigfoot: some people had heard stories of it, but no one had ever actually seen it in real life, and the only evidence it ever existed was captured on grainy, out-of-focus health and safety training videos.

As he straightened his strangely aching back, he picked up a wooden clipboard from the stack of boxes and studied the manifest clamped under a chromed clip pitted with specks of rust. The top corner of the manifest read, Driver: Dustin Fowler. He hated looking at his name next to that job description every morning. He’d much rather be looking at paperwork that read Rockstar: Dustin Fowler or MMA Champion: Dustin Fowler. Half the time, he thought he’d be happier with Unemployed: Dustin Fowler.

Five deliveries and he could go home. That was one good thing about working Mondays: he only had one round of stops to make. He bounded out of the back of the truck and closed the doors on the cargo, happy to have finished with the boxes.

Ambling back into the poorly lit loading dock, he slapped the clipboard against his thigh in rhythm with his gait. He made his way into its depths, weaving past products in various states of damage and decay. Fruit packed in damp wooden crates, pallets of cereal bursting their corn flake guts out onto the concrete floor and an enormous wad of empty plastic spaghetti jars, mashed together with an enthusiastic amount of shrink wrap.

He stuck his thumbs into his pockets and whistled as he walked around the shrink wrapped monstrosity, looking it up and down. Whoever worked at that container factory, packaging jars for transport, was a kindred spirit. It takes a special kind of boredom and resentment to make something this great. It was a slacker work of art.

He was about to kick the structure to test its stability, when a man scurried out from behind a crate of tired looking apples.

Hey there! The man waved a tense arm at Dustin.

What is it Rupert? Dustin said in a monotone, his shoulders drooping as if someone had snuck up behind him and let the air out of his spine. Dustin could already feel the enthusiasm for the shrink wrapped sculpture draining away. Such was the power of Rupert Riley.

Rupert trotted up to Dustin, his black shiny shoes clacking on the hard concrete floor and stood in front of him with his small hands on his hips. He was short, fat and bald: the winning trifecta in the invisibility-to-women sweepstakes. He was not an old man but he sported old man jowls and wore glasses that needed constant adjusting, not because of some nervous tick but because his ears and nose were incredibly greasy.

Watching Rupert keep his glasses on his face was a little like watching a plate spinner keep dishes in the air. It was a mesmerizing performance that often kept Dustin entranced and completely oblivious to Rupert’s daily lectures berating him on his poor work performance. This was probably a good thing as Dustin was close to punching Rupert in his greasy nose as it was.

What are you still doing here? Rupert pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose with one pudgy hand while tapping his faux gold watch with the other.

Talking to you. Dustin shrugged his shoulders.

Rupert continued on quickly. Listen here. You are late for your deliveries and you’re already in the bad books with Mrs. Wheeler. Did you know she made another phone call to management complaining about you? How many is it now? Three? You should count yourself lucky she hasn’t sent a formal complaint in writing. That would have gotten you fired for sure. Fresh ‘n Tasty has a policy to have all deliveries completed by noon on Monday and Mrs. Wheeler has lost her patience with her consistently late food. You are a representative of Fresh ‘n Tasty while you drive that truck. You need to start showing some respect for our customers and your employer... Hey! Are you listening to me?

What? Dustin had become enthralled with the black rimmed glasses skating up and down Rupert’s nose.

"I said, ‘respect for our customers.’ " Rupert’s jowls wobbled as he emphasized the word.

Oh yeah. Respect. Got it. Dustin tapped the spaghetti jar sculpture with his toe, hoping it would relieve some of the tension. It let out a hollow boom that reverberated throughout the loading dock. Rupert did a little jump. His jowls stopped jumping a little after he did. It did not relieve the tension.

Unpack those containers when you get back. Rupert pointed to the mound of plastic with a look of disgust on his face. He turned his back on Dustin and started to walk away.

Sure. Dustin eyed the spaghetti jar sculpture sadly. What a waste. He should have known Rupert couldn’t appreciate real art.

One more thing. Rupert slowly turning around to reveal his irritation melting into a smile. Management has given me authority to fire you if you get one more complaint. He spun on his heels and clacked away, his little arms pumping back and forth in satisfaction.

Dustin gave Rupert a mock salute with the clipboard in his right hand, while with his left, he gave Rupert a different kind of salute. He didn’t like working at Fresh ‘n Tasty and he hated that greasy twerp Rupert even more but he needed this job. He had moved out of his psycho mother’s house two years ago and he had no intentions of going back to Liberace records at full volume and empty Xanax bottles as far as the eye could see.

He looked at the digital display on his black Casio watch, fastened to his wrist with a dark blue resin band. 10:33AM. Son of a bitch. He had never completed a delivery run in under 2 hours before. Not even close. And Mrs. Wheeler was the last stop on his route, almost twice as far from the Fresh ‘n Tasty as any of the other stops.

Dustin’s mind started racing. He considered driving straight for the Wheeler house and doing the other stops afterwards but that would put his other deliveries even further past noon and who knows, one of those customers could phone in a complaint about him too. On the side of his truck, painted in big red letters was the notice, If you are not satisfied with the speed or quality of your delivery please call us! One day he’d have to paint over that sign. If he still had a job after today, that is.

He would just have to drive the fastest run of his two-year career, without upsetting any customers. Or crashing the truck.

Five deliveries. In ninety minutes.

CHAPTER 3 

Dustin walked casually towards the delivery truck at the end of the loading dock as Rupert stood watching from the doorway of his little adjoining office. As soon as Rupert was out of sight, Dustin broke into a sprint. He leapt up onto the running board of the truck and threw the clipboard through the open driver-side window, hearing it clatter to the floor. He grabbed the door handle and pulled. The door didn’t budge. He yanked at the handle frantically, as if it was electrocuting him.

Peering through the window, he saw the door was locked. Oh come on! he said. Who locks the door with the window wide open? He remembered clearly leaving the door unlocked while loading the truck. Dustin shot a look over his shoulder and spied Rupert peeping out from behind the spaghetti jar sculpture. Oh, you son of a— Dustin said under his breath.

With a quick reach into the cab and a quick flip of the lock, Dustin had the door open. With as much grace as he could muster, he composed himself and climbed into the cab. He picked the manifest up off the floor. Delivery 1: Mr. Collins, 115 Ellis Street. Mr. Collins was a day trader who worked from home. He would definitely notice if his stuff was late and might complain too. There was no getting out of this one.

Dustin cranked the ignition. A puff of blue smoke shot out of the exhaust as the engine rumbled to life. He immediately took off, leaving the loading area behind and merging into traffic.

After a few minutes driving the truck, Dustin’s mind started to clear from the panicked state he was in moments before. He thought of another idea. He could call his friend Dave.

He squirmed in his seat as he fumbled his phone out of his pocket, swerving at the last moment to make his turn onto Ellis street. A old man in a Prius gave him the finger. A young man in a delivery truck returned the gesture. Dustin dialed and put the phone on hands-free. The cab filled with the sound of crunching and lip smacking.

The chomping stopped for a moment. Hello?

Dave, I need your help, Dustin said. What are you doing?

Eating Munchos, Nacho Cheese flavor, Dave said. "I think they are Nacho Cheese flavor." Dustin heard rustling plastic in the background.

Are you at home? Or anywhere near Ellis Street?

Yep, these are definitely Nacho Cheese flavor, Dave said.

Dave, forget about the chips. Try to concentrate for a minute. Where are you?

At home, Dave said. Hey, can I borrow your Beastmaster DVD?

Sure, whatever. Is your mom home?

Yeah. She gave me the Munchos.

Can you borrow your mom’s car?

I guess. But she wants me to wash the car before I take it out.

Can’t you just borrow it and wash it later?

I don’t know, Dave sounded concerned. She gave me these Munchos after I promised to wash the car.

There’s no time to wash the car right now. I’m in a real hurry here.

"But they’re Munchos, Dustin."

Look, why don’t you just tell your mom you are taking the car to a car wash. I’ll give you the money for the wash after we’re done. I’ll even kick in for wax.

Dustin heard the sound of contemplative munching. I guess she’ll agree to that, Dave said.

Great. Meet me at 115 Ellis Street. I’m driving the delivery truck. If I’m not at the truck, wait for me there.

Does your truck have any Munchos?

Just come to 115 Ellis Street and I’ll get you that car wash and however many bags of chips you want.

155 Phillis Street?

"115 Ellis Street, Dustin said. Write it down and don’t forget."

The phone let out a bleep, signaling that the call was over. If Rupert had to supervise Dave at the Fresh ‘n Tasty, he’d have an aneurism, Dustin thought. And a problem with disappearing Munchos. Dustin seriously considered getting Dave a job at Fresh ‘n Tasty. Seeing Rupert in mental anguish was one of the only things Dustin enjoyed about his job.

Dustin parked by the entrance of the apartment complex. A polished brass plaque on the facade, engraved with 115, reflected his image as he stacked three boxes onto a hand cart and shut the truck’s cargo doors. He looked around for Dave and hoped that his instructions had sunk into Dave’s brain.

With one last glance up and down the street, Dustin put the clipboard on top of the stack of boxes and pushed the hand truck into the building. A middle-aged woman in a brown tweed skirt and jacket sat behind a white laminated reception desk. She stared at a computer screen, scrolling down the front page of a celebrity gossip website.

He nodded at her and smiled as he pushed the truck up to the desk. Hello.

The woman, not bothering to look up, waived a finger in the direction of a nearby sign-in sheet while she continued to flip through scans of a rock star restraining order. There was a pen on top of the sheet attached to the counter by a short chain. Dustin picked up the pen and wiggled it between his fingers. The chain slapped against the counter, making a rhythmic clacking sound. The receptionist closed the restraining order gallery and clicked on a headline for a celebrity chef drug arrest.

Dustin shrugged and let his hand fall to the sign-in sheet. His watch clunked against the counter top. The woman looked up from the computer screen for the first time and glared at it. She raised her wrist in the air, jingled a large collection of thin metal bracelets in irritation and went back to looking at bikini pictures of a botched liposuction.

Dustin filled out the sign-in sheet and spiked the pen at the page in a final flourish. The tip struck the paper and spat out an ink blot at the end of his entry, like an exclamation point. Nice talking with you, he said. He grabbed the handle of his hand truck and steered the boxes past the reception desk to the elevator, hitting the call button next to the stainless-steel doors.

He mashed the button a few more times, hoping it would make the elevator descend faster. He checked his watch. It was 10:40 already and he hadn’t made a single delivery.

The receptionist’s chair creaked behind him. He heard the jangle of bracelets.

You there! she said. Dustin turned to find the receptionist tense on her feet, chin out.

Dustin groaned. He didn’t have time for this. Leaving the boxes by the elevator, he returned to the counter. The receptionist gawped from the computer screen, to his wrist and back to the screen. Her browser was open to another tabloid article, detailing an account of an on-set actor meltdown, complete with audio recording. Beside it was another window. It showed text from a mainstream news website beside a picture of a watch. Dustin could read the bold pull quote from the other side of the counter, The Casio F-91W digital watch is a favorite of terrorists the world over for its retro styling, ubiquity and for making bombs.

What kind of watch is that? The receptionist jabbed a finger at his wrist as if she was Miss Marple solving a murder mystery. An over-caffeinated Miss Marple.

I don’t know. A Casio, I think. Who cares? Dustin inspected his watch in bemusement. The elevator opened its doors behind him with a ding. Look lady. I don’t have time to chat about men’s fashion accessories. If you want to buy this watch as a gift or something, you can pick it up anywhere for about eight bucks. I really have to go now. Dustin turned his back on the receptionist and stepped toward the elevator.

Wait right there!

Reviews for The Secret of Strain 5

[desses · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

Funny book and well written. The story kept me interested all the way through.