The Methuselah Solution

By William O. Harris III

As the prison population grows exponentially in the U.S. today, writer Bill Harris has captured the politics of the prison system and found a revolutionary answer in his futuristic novel The Methuselah Solution. One of the storys two protagonists, Dr. Cynthia Turner, is a rising star at the Institute where she supervises the administration of a new form of alternative sentencing - an aging serum developed to replace multiple years of costly confinement with the injection of a drug that rapidly ages convicted felons to their prescribed sentence. The serum is a favorite with politicians, but the bane of powerful companies long profiting from the spiraling expansion of prison construction. The serum is in its sixth year of use when the problems start. A time when prisons have become a place where aged felons can readjust to life with weaker bones, slower pulses and mottled minds. Except for the antagonist, Joshua Howard.

A career criminal, Joshua is clever, attractive, self righteous and has been sentenced to be aged twenty years for embezzlement. Dr. Turner watches with a mixture of awe and horror as Joshua is over-aged thirty years, leaving his body far weaker than his spared mind. Dr. Turner and her boss, Dr. Kenneth Lambert, attempt to deal with Joshua and another prisoner, Patricia Bennett - a former Olympic Gymnast, who killed her husband while responding to the encouragement of her dead father. The Institute is now faced with the epic task of confronting Patricias Olympic strength and the determination of Joshuas contempt and rage.

What happens inside the underground prison throughout the story would remain as silent and deadly to the population of Texas as the Ebola virus was to Reston, Virginia, except for the disorganized attempts of the second protagonist, Alexis Troutman. Alex is a local reporter who has begun to oppose the use of the aging serum and attempts to enlist Dr. Turners help to rectify the prisons problems. The Institute is racing to develop an antidote to counteract over-aging reactions; the only problem is that Joshua gets to the antidote first. The apocalyptic conclusion explodes when Alex enters the Institute as Joshua and Patricia embark on a reign of terror and vengeance after securing the antidote.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Nov 6, 2000
• ISBN: 9781469111292

William O. Harris III

Bill was born in Huntsville, Alabama in 1936, attended high school in Wichita Kansas and graduated with a BS in Engineering from the United States Naval Academy in 1959. Commissioned in the USAF upon graduation, served twenty six years as a pilot in the Air Force, including two combat tours in South East Asia. He retired in 1986 in Norfolk, Virginia, managed a Tennis Club for two yearsd served as an Assistant Athletic Director at Old Dominion University until 1995 when he and his wife, Amy, moved to South Boston, Virginia. Employed by Cardinal Homes Inc. for two years he now serves as the Executive Director of the YMCA.

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

CYNTHIA TURNER, DALLAS, TEXAS, DECEMBER 18, 1996, 9:55 AM:

Cynthia folded the newspaper and placed it in her brief case as she exited the bus. Cindy smiled, humored by the Editorial by Alexis Troutman. She looked up through falling snow, glancing at the pink building of fourteen stories jutting upward through the descending flakes. She smiled and refocused on her quest for recognition and respectability in her new profession. Her efforts over the past two years would soon culminate in her graduation and future career in a brave new profession determined to rid mankind of the horrible influence of crime.

Looking upward, the building struck her as a large, pink, penis, thrusting toward the heavens. She allowed herself a laugh and promised to ask Dr. Brookworth about the building’s original designer. He must have been weird, she mused.

Announcing the purpose of the building, a black enameled plaque proclaimed:

THE BROOKWORTH COSMETICS COMPANY

YOUR YOUTH IS OUR FUTURE Cindy yanked the woolen cap from her head, allowing the snow to impact her face. Her blue eyes sparkled at the cleanness she visualized in her future as she ran into the building, rubbing her exposed flesh to generate friction and warmth.

* * *

On the northwest corner of the Brookworth building, a third floor laboratory facility grew silent as the large wall clock announced 10 AM. A thirty-four year old male, now designated Mr. Alpha, was wheeled into the laboratory by Dr. Jennifer Brookworth and two lab assistants. Cindy Turner, and several other students, clapped upon Dr. Brookworth’s entrance. Dr. Brookworth smiled back, thanking her devoted students. And, through his drug induced state, Mr. Alpha smiled also.

After the initial introduction, Mr. Alpha was wheeled from the room and the head of Brookworth’s research, Dr. Terrance Martin, raised his hand for quiet.

Cindy and Philip Cordoba moved toward the rear of the room. They were both excited, Cindy could feel Philip’s rapid pulse as she held his hand. They took their assigned seats behind the second row of lab tables as Dr. Martin announced,

Our selection of the first human volunteer is complete and Mr. Alpha awaits his appointment with destiny. This afternoon, at 1 PM. the initial injection will be administered . . . Dr. Martin opened a small refrigerator and displayed the opaque syringe filled with cooled, blue liquid contaminants. He rotated the syringe back and forth in his massive fingers, then continued,

. . . our earlier animal tests provide an optimistic prognosis of the effect the Serum will have on the first human . . . Dr. Martin paused.

All the lab assistants were prepared, ready to jot down how Dr. Martin believed the Serum would affect the chosen subject. Dr. Martin rubbed his fat chin with a surgically gloved hand and resumed, . . . first the body will fight the Serum, sweat glands will secrete to expel the aging solution but, once the Serum’s free radical contaminants overwhelms the body’s defenses, his skin will ashen and flake from his body. This, of course, is a supposition from observing the many pigs we have aged . . . Dr. Martin added with a hint of humor, then he caught himself, . . . of course, human skin is very different from pig skin, but soon after the skin loss begins, we expect the hair to gray, beginning near the temples, then spreading throughout the scalp. Mr. Alpha possesses genes receptive to balding so, we expect him to lose hair in noticeable amounts . . . Finally, Cindy thought, Martin is acknowledging that this is a person. Then her attention refocused on the presentation,

Dr. Martin continued, . . . after hair loss begins, specific hearing loss will occur and progress in severity as the process continues. As a thirty-four year old male, being matured twenty years, the target age for our experiment, . . . Cindy knew that Martin wanted to coin a phrase that would be the politically correct substitute for the word aged, and matured must be his choice, she mused. . . . Mr. Alpha will sustain a forty per cent hearing loss, compounding his other problems. Dr. Martin paused and asked, Are there any questions so far?

A tentative hand rose in the back of the group. Philip, a thin lab assistant, released his grip from Cindy’s hand and stood, Dr. Martin, how . . . he was immediately interrupted by Dr. Martin’s insistence for protocol.

What’s your name and status? Dr. Martin demanded, knowing full well the gay technician’s particulars.

Eh, sorry sir, Philip Cordoba, Master’s student at the University of Texas.

Very well, what’s your question, Cordoba?

Sir, how was the volunteer chosen?

I thought we covered this yesterday, I don’t want to spend a lot of time on this Cordoba! He has a medical problem and we have agreed that his previous, and future, medical bills will be covered by our Foundation. He’s a middle-aged indigent, without resources. This was sufficient to secure his permission for the test. He was told only that the process will age him twenty years. Martin completed this statement with a flourish. Then an important aspect of the tests crossed his mind. He raised a gloved hand, index finger aloft and added, By the way, to the best of our knowledge, Mr. Alpha is not a criminal. We rejected that category for our initial testing.

Dr. Martin relaxed and undid the single button holding the white lab coat around his huge body. Its release provided him comfort and some freedom of movement. At five feet six, 280 pounds, Dr. Martin was immense, spread out like an over gorged watermelon. He smiled and the folds and creases of his jovial face showed his resultant level of comfort. He continued,

The addition of twenty years will occur in three phases, with three separate injections, each one sequenced twenty-four hours after the other. We are not certain to what extent each injection will age the subject, but our calculations are based on many successful tests with animals . . . Dr. Martin’s explanation was interrupted by a feminine hand thrusting its way into the air. Martin’s joviality faded, Yes, what is it now? he asked, frowning. His frown vanished as Cindy stood.

Cynthia Turner, standing next to Philip Cordoba, was tall, about five feet eight, and as Dr. Martin had noted to himself many times, quite pretty. Dr. Martin looked toward her waiting face as Cindy brushed the blonde hair away from her smooth forehead and asked her question,

Dr. Martin, Cynthia Turner, Master’s candidate, Texas University. Could the Serum we have tested on smaller animals have a totally different effect on this first human subject? Possibly a lessening due to the human body weight and density? Or, an increase due to a more complex cardiovascular system?

Well, Miss Turner, Dr. Martin began, with a growing smile at the corner of his mouth, I could speculate on your Master’s area, but for brevity I’ll only answer your question. His grin grew, attempting to project what Dr. Martin believed to be his ingratiating personality, Yes it’s possible, but we documented the results from each change in animal size, and of course, the cardiovascular impact was our reason for extensive testing with pigs. As you know, a pig’s cardiovascular system is very similar to a human’s and our calculated dosages, and time intervals, have been adjusted to Mr. Alpha’s body weight and density to give this test the maximum chance of success. We will error, if any, on the conservative side since it will be far easier to increase the dosage to achieve a twenty year change than to have the subject wait for us to produce a successful antidote to reduce an overreaction. Most students laughed at Dr. Martin’s attempt at humor and Cindy blushed slightly. Dr. Martin took mental note of her and adjusted the shoulders of his coat, trying to camouflage his bulk from Cindy’s piercing eyes. Dr. Martin smiled as she sat down, then continued,

Mr. Alpha’s aging will take place in a total of twelve minutes, four minutes of reaction to each injection, with a final injection occurring on the third day. At that time I expect to observe his outer layer of skin covered with wrinkles . . . He paused then added, . . . his eyes will take on a final signatory dullness and droop at the close of his reactions. Advancement, from thirty-four years to fifty-four years, is not excessive, so external changes should be subtle at first, then, decay will accelerate during the second and third injections until the inevitable roller coaster ride ends . . . Dr. Martin finished his statement with a flourish of his large hands, following the path of his imaginary roller coaster.

As Martin moved his hands, Cindy’s shoulders shook and a shudder attacked her lower neck. Philip responded immediately, Cindy are you OK.? She gave a slight nod of her head, but turned her face so Philip could not see the fear and recollection she was experiencing.

Dr. Martin’s hands reminded you of your father’s, didn’t they? Philip asked and Cindy nodded as her mind sank into remembered despair.

APRIL 27, 1978 HOUSTON, TEXAS

Cindy’s mom was away for Cindy’s fifth birthday. Cindy’s aunt Helen in Austin, Texas was having her first child and Cindy’s mom wanted to be with her for the delivery. Helen said she would be OK alone, but Cindy’s mom had insisted. Cindy understood, but she was disappointed until her father told her it would be a birthday she would never forget.

Cindy’s dad asked her older brother, William, to go with his mom to Austin. At fifteen, William heard for the first time that he would be a man. Since Helen had lost her husband, William would be present to assure his mom and her sister had no problems. William was elated with his first adult assignment and Cindy’s mom was surprised by her husband’s show of consideration.

Cindy was striking in her cowgirl outfit. Rhinestones sparkled from her white leather vest and her ostrich skin boots, hand tooled with her nickname, PRINCESS, shining in the early spring sunlight.

The four ponies arrived at 3pm. One was a special pony, pure white with gilded hoofs, a golden saddle and golden reins. He was for Cindy on her birthday. Alice, Suzie and Gloria shared the other three ponies with Dorothy, Julia and Betty, but Golden Boy, Cindy’s special pony, was for her alone. Cindy rode and rode and rode. Her white leather skirt undulated about her chubby legs as Golden Boy jogged around the pony ring.

Cindy’s screams of pleasure were unrestrained and her father smiled as he watched his Princess revel on her special day. For every ride the other girls had, Cindy had two. By five o’clock, when the ponies departed, Cindy was ready for cake and ice cream. The girls gave Cindy her presents, but none was as special as her time with Golden Boy.

By seven o’clock Cindy’s guests had gone home and she was beginning to feel sore from the two hour pony ride. Daddy I’m sooo happy. Cindy proclaimed excitedly, her rosy cheeks puffed and shiny with perspiration, My Go’den Boy was won’rful. Thank you for a won’rful day. Cindy hugged her father and felt him respond, massaging her waist and shoulders, his strong arms encircling her little body.

Then, something distracted Cindy and she paused and gingerly touched herself between her small, pudgy legs. Her tiny hands moved carefully as she touched her puffy red skin. Daddy, I’m so sore from my ride. I’m sooo sore.

Don’t worry Princess, daddy has some won’rful medicine, her father teased, mocking Cindy’s words, it’s for your hurt. Soon it will be all better . . . yes, all better. her father promised. Go to your bedroom, take your clothes off and wait for daddy. I’ll be right there, I’ll bring the special medicine for my Princess.

Cindy obeyed and walked slowly down the hall toward her room. As she walked she attempted to push her fat little legs out, away from her inner thighs, trying to lessen the scraping pain as she moved. As Cindy piled her clothes neatly on the bed, her mother’s words sounded in her mind, Always be neat and tidy Cynthia. God will judge you by how neat and clean you are. Her mother’s words echoed back to Cindy as she waited for her father.

Cindy loved and missed her mom, her dad was OK, especially today on her fifth birthday because he had given her a wonderful present of the pony rides. She finished folding her clothes as her father entered the bedroom wearing the silk bathrobe Cindy and her mom had given him for Christmas. Cindy had helped pick the robe out, it was a deep green silk, Cindy’s favorite color.

Cindy watched her father approach and she smiled. She loved to feel the cool silk of the robe and was very pleased when her father wore it. This was a special birthday for sure.

Oh, you’re sooo red Princess, her father sympathized, look at the soreness on your little legs. Cindy glanced for the first time at her inner thighs. Her pudgy flesh was turning a bright scarlet and throbbed with pain. Her big blue eyes began to show tears and her father added, Daddy has the medicine for your sores Princess. He’ll put the medicine on you now, so you’ll be well tomorrow. OK?

OK, Daddy. Cindy said through her tears and a clogged nose as her father turned her around and helped her lean over her bed. Cindy relaxed as she lay face down, her body anxious for the pain to go away.

Cindy’s father began to undo the lid of the large glass medicine jar. The scraping of the metallic lid against the rim of the glass jar made Cindy shudder and her small shoulders shook momentarily from the intruding noise.

Don’t worry, Princess, the medicine will make everything better. her father soothed, then he began to gently apply the cooling salve, rubbing the cream on her legs and thighs. Then, he smoothed the medicine on her buttocks, where Cindy didn’t hurt at all. She could feel her father’s large hands moving over her skin.

It duden’ hurd ‘dare daddy. Cindy offered, as tears returned from the growing conflict in her mind.

The soreness may be contagious Princess, and could spread if we don’t use the medicine all over. her father whispered, keeping it their secret.

The conflict of relief from the soothing medicine and fear as her father’s large hands caressed parts of her body that her mother assured her were Cindy’s own private domain, brought more tears to Cindy’s eyes. Random thoughts swam in her mind, without direction, without purpose, with only apprehension. The fear became overwhelming as Cindy remembered her mother’s warnings about protecting herself from the touches of men. But surely, she finally told herself, that warning did not apply to her own father.

Cindy began to relax as the relieving pleasure of the cooling cream and the gentleness of her father’s hands continued to glide over her small body as he applied the medicine so the soreness would not spread. Then, her euphoria ceased, Cindy’s eyes filled with tears again and her throat clamped shut as she felt the green silk robe enfold her in darkness. Her father pressed against her back, reaching around her, rubbing the medicine all over the front of her body, enclosing her and overwhelming her tiny existence.

Once Cindy felt the sudden pressure of a hard object press between her tiny legs and she said through choked tears, No, daddy, that hurts me!

Sometimes Daddy’s hands get tired, Princess, then he must use the magic rod to spread the medicine. Cindy began to cry openly and the magic rod went away.

Cindy began to feel better, until much later when she was eight and the magic rod returned.

CHAPTER TWO

THE CARTEL:

Tuesday evening, 18 December 1996, Fort Worth, Texas was bitterly cold. Snow that had assaulted the Texas panhandle for the past week pushed steadily into the city placing a temporary hold on local Christmas travel.

Conrad Hunt pushed the velvet window curtain to one side, exposing a view of the deserted train station from his private rail car. His journey from Houston to Austin had gone well and he was certain his presence in Fort Worth remained his secret. He had just arrived by car from a meeting with the governor in Austin, Texas and remained dressed for the cold weather.

Conrad’s mind questioned, why am I doing this? Why am I willing to share? Because it will be immensely profitable, his mind answered, what’s the matter with you? You’ve agonized over this a hundred times. Have you made the right decision? Sacrifice a small amount up front for the lion’s share of future profits is right. Grow up, get on with it, the name of the game is wealth and power and this is right. Conrad calmed himself and turned toward his secretary,

Burton, can you see them?

No sir, I’ve been watching but, so far, nothing. I see the porters standing under the station portico, I’m sure they’ll move as soon as the limos arrive. Don’t worry, sir, no one will see them, John Burton added to reassure his boss that all would remain secret.

Burton cracked open the rear platform door, permitting a clear sighting of the train station’s rear gate. A swirl of snow cascaded into the private car, first rising with the support of unexpected warmth, then melting and falling toward the thick plush pile of the carpet, its life cycle ended.

Conrad slowed his pacing, he was only showing concern for the secrecy of their arrival. Conrad breathed in the aroma of his damp collar and shook his upper back allowing the heavy coat to fall from his shoulders. The coat was immediately seized and carried away by a waiting valet before its skirting ever touched the floor.

Conrad’s silk hat came off next, he handed his hat to the bartender as John Burton announced,

They’ve arrived, sir, the porters just left their covered area. Ten more minutes and they’ll be here. Burton turned toward the bartender and directed, A nice pitcher of martinis, Joel, not too much ice.

Yes, sir, answered Joel as he passed Conrad’s silk hat to another valet and it vanished with the coat into a cedar lined closet.

CHAPTER THREE

PATRICIA FOX, December 18, 1996

Patricia looked forward to Christmas. If only her father and her boy friend would be more civil to each other, then it would be perfect, she mused.

Patricia was only slightly disappointed by her performance in Atlanta. Everyone assured her that her Silver Medal showing in gymnastics was the best they had ever seen. Only her father was upset with the outcome. She remembered his guttural voice as it cracked through the crowd noise when she returned to his side,

God Damned Clinton and his pissy attempts to placate the Russians! You know that’s the only reason you lost to that commie bitch. Clinton’s ass is grass, Pumpkin, you mark my words, the country will be through with him soon enough.

Maybe her dad was right. even her father’s good friend Conrad Hunt had expressed the same thoughts. Her performance had been perfect, only surpassed by a few percentage points that could have been political. Patricia pushed the thoughts from her mind and concentrated on how she would reconcile the differences between her father and her boyfriend Brad. She had to get this done, it was important to her. Soon, Brad would announce their engagement and she wanted everything to be perfect for their life together.

Her opportunities were abundant, an Olympic champion with an influential father and the richest man in Texas as her friend. She had it all, only her challenge to smooth over the friction between her dad and Brad stood in the way of her happiness. Her dad came first, he always would, but her total happiness depended on her life with Brad and she would have to find some way to work it all out. She wouldn’t let her life be destroyed like her mother’s was.

CHAPTER FOUR

THE SERUM

Cindy, Cindy are you all right? It was Philip rubbing her hand, bringing her back from the black hole of her worst memory.

Yes, Philip, I’m fine now, she smiled and returned her attention to Dr. Martin. It was 1PM and right on cue Mr. Alpha rolled into the lab on a stainless steel gurney, his eyes staring vacantly in an attempt to hide his growing fear. Mr. Alpha’s pin-point focus continued to move about the room as if looking for the nearest exit. Strapped to the gurney he began to succumb to a sedative that blocked out predicted pain but would not alter his respiratory functions.

Clad in only white boxer shorts, Mr. Alpha looked in fair physical condition, Cindy thought. His muscle tone, highlighted by increased perspiration, was good and his lightly tanned body reflected athletic activity. Cooling fans, installed in the ceiling, continuously moved the air in the laboratory, chilling the entire room. Mr. Alpha’s complexion turned to goose-flesh as the movement of the cold air struck his skin. He appeared 175 pounds or so and his five feet eleven frame shook as he seemed to fight against his earlier decision to participate.

Cindy held Philip’s hand as the drama unfolded. I’m half way there, she thought, all my hard work will surely be successful, recognition and respect will follow. She felt the warmth and comfort of Philip’s hand and her mind floated back as she heard her Aunt Helen say:

You’ll be fine Cindy, don’t you give your father a second thought. Some men are just that weak, just that loathsome. Your father is one of those men. Give me your hand now we’ve got to hurry.

Cindy was nine and this was the second time her mother sent her to stay with her Aunt Helen. Her mother promised this would be the last time she would have to go away. Cindy had heard her own words,

Why is my father like that, Aunt Helen? Why is he terrible to me? She asked as Aunt Helen walked her toward the waiting plane. The question went unanswered as the airport PA system cut through their conversation:

Ms. Helen Chandler, courtesy telephone please. Ms Helen Chandler, courtesy telephone please, urgent. the voice added. Helen pulled Cynthia by the hand, leading her to the nearest bank of courtesy phones at the Austin Municipal Airport.

Helen Chandler, she said quickly, fearing her seven year old son was hurt or had a problem. Her son Michael’s anxious voice came over the line:

Mommie, Aunt Molly’s dead, she’s dead. Cindy doesn’t have a mommy now.

In the taxi ride back to Aunt Helen’s apartment, Cindy’s aunt explained that Cindy’s mom had passed away and Cindy’s trip home would be delayed.

I’m so sorry Cindy, but it will be all right, you’ll be fine. Michael and I will move to Houston and take care of you.

Cindy’s mind returned to the laboratory as Dr. Martin nodded to acknowledge Dr. Jennifer Brookworth’s entrance accompaning Mr. Alpha’s gurney. As Dr. Martin moved to help the attendants position the gurney, his ample flesh showed no reaction to the chilling air in the room. With the gurney positioned in the center of the room, Dr. Martin turned to a small cold storage unit and took out a 50 cc syringe containing the Aging Serum. Dr. Martin held the syringe high above his head for all to see. His fat thumb pressed the plunger and forced a short stream of bluish liquid into the room’s excited air.

Dr. Brookworth approached Mr. Alpha and tied a length of amber surgical tubing around his upper arm. She smiled, shyly at Dr. Martin and moved to position herself near Mr. Alpha’s head. Her pale rose colored lips trembled, wanting to say something, but she remained silent, chilled by the cooling air and the inevitability of the test.

Mr. Alpha rolled his eyes to follow her movements as Dr. Martin reached over and squeezed Jennifer Brookworth’s clasped hands to reassure her that all would be absolutely perfect. Dr. Martin held the small syringe in front of the group and resumed his lecture,

No abnormal behavior, indicative of fear or trauma, has been observed in previously tested animals, but as Ms. Turner’s earlier question pointed out, this is the first human to be subjected to the Aging Serum, so predicted reactions are speculative at best.

Cynthia Turner smiled hearing her name mentioned by one of the co-developers of the Aging Serum. Her face remained flushed and the hairs on the back of her arms tingled in anticipation. In spite of her excitement, a physical revulsion shook her shoulders as she watched Dr. Martin’s large meaty hands manipulate the syringe.

Cindy’s companion, Philip Cordoba, noticed her apprehension again and turned her face toward his, Don’t worry Cindy, your father will never bother you again, he’s out of your life forever.

I hope so Philip, god, I hope so. Cindy replied, her voice fading into a mumble against Philip’s shoulder.

Dr. Martin and Dr. Brookworth stood ready. Dr. Martin clasped Mr. Alpha’s elbow and positioned the needle near his proffered vein. The first human volunteer strained through his drug-induced fog and tried to follow the needle as it approached his arm, but his eye control had worsened and he was unable to focus on the contact point where the needle would soon puncture his skin. His outer skin layer retracted one-thousandth of a millimeter as the specular tip penetrated, initially through his epidermis, then dermis and hypodermis simultaneously.

Lab assistants dressed in starched white trousers and long lab coats responded by closing in to form an ever tightening circle around the happening. Students craned their necks to watch as the advancing needle point forced its way through Mr. Alpha’s connective tissue, his smooth muscle, his elastic layer and finally the endothelium of his vulnerable vein.

Dr. Martin smiled at Cindy Turner as he held the syringe securely in his right hand. His left hand seized the knotted end of the tubing, pulling to release the amber surgical tube with a snap. The tubing slacked to the floor like a headless garden snake, wriggling a final spasm. Dr. Martin took a deep breath and advanced the plunger, forcing the liquid from confinement.

Oxygen-derived free radicals in the serum began a chaotic mission to combine with Mr. Alpha’s body molecules. They fought to pair off their free electrons and accelerate the natural decay known as the aging process. Radiation-based free radicals quickly exhibited thermodynamic instability, then attacked capillaries contained in his vein’s endothelium. The rhythmic contractions of his cardiovascular system increased his growing fear, speeding up the process.

Emanating from the upper atrium of his heart muscle, Mr. Alpha’s contractions forced blood quickly to his pulmonary arteries drawing the foul serum toward his heart. The rapidity of the free radical attack and the resultant corruption of his body’s integrity continued to push forward, unabated.

The free radicals contained a further debilitating agent that began to erect a barrier between the biological free radical fighter, Vitamin E (alpha-tocopherol) and the cell membranes it sought to protect. Mr. Alpha’s body began to vibrate, then violently shake.

Ridges and valleys of filmy thin skin again and again sloughed from his body. The discarded skin was replaced by ever yellowing and drying under-layers.

Dr. Martin was astounded by Mr. Alpha’s rapid reaction to the Serum, but remained quiet, observing the process. Cindy fought against a sudden queasiness and pushed closer to gain an unobstructed view.

New cells, produced through division in the basal layer of Mr. Alpha’s epidermis, forced their way outward, attempting to displace older discarded surface cells. The process went smoothly at first, then, as it continued, older cells on the surface were slower to dry and flake off and this traffic jam of drying cells created an undulating layer of detached skin that covered Mr. Alpha’s body. The detached layer of skin rippled like a wafer thin sheet drying on a breeze assaulted clothes line.

Cindy and three other lab assistants were overcome by the sight and smell of the discarded and decaying tissue. The affected observers covered their noses and looked weak, about to faint. Noticing their discomfort, Dr. Martin instructed,

Anyone feeling woozy from the sight or smell should back off and sit down . . . Then as he noticed Cindy was one of the four, he pointed at her and added, . . . tuck your head down between your legs, Ms. Turner. When you feel better, you can return. Several lab assistants helped the four students back away from the process, then assisted them out of the lab toward the rest rooms. Dr. Martin smiled and added to the departing group, Don’t worry you won’t miss a thing, it’s videotaped.

Ridges and valleys came and went as rivulets of human sweat flowed through newly created skin crevices and canyons. Skin rejuvenated as Mr. Alpha’s granular cell level forced its way upward, discarding older epidermis created only seconds ago. Dr. Martin’s wrist pager thumped four minutes, but the process continued to accelerate well beyond his prior estimate.

Dr. Brookworth stood on the outside of the observers. She had a horrible, sinking feeling in her stomach as she watched Mr. Alpha’s escalating reactions. She slammed her hand over her mouth and turned away, hurrying from the room to join the departed lab assistants.

Mr. Alpha’s eyes tightened with increasing fear as pain approached. His muscle and bone mass began to reduce perceptively and his skeletal statue began to contract. The pain from the pressures created as joints and cartilage hardened overcame Mr. Alpha’s mild sedative and his eyes snapped open and he cried out pathetically, Oohhhh Goooddd no, oh God no!

Mr. Alpha’s hair fell to the floor in clumps as dermal papilla decreased. Elastin fibers further loosened his epidermis and created wrinkles over the surface of his body. A haze formed in the center of the room as the process slowed. Dr. Martin observed twelve minutes on his watch.

The haze created by discarded skin vapor and biological excrement reacting to the cooling room air began to abate. The aftermath was clearly visible to the remaining observers. They were all dumb struck from the serum’s performance and only the low hum of the cooling fans could be heard. When it was obvious that the process had stabilized, Dr. Martin signaled several assistants and Mr. Alpha was covered with a white sheet and wheeled out of the lab toward a private room.

The gurney’s wheels became temporarily entangled in the discarded skin and made a horrible sloshing sound as the attendants pushed against the foul residue. The janitorial staff was summoned to clear the laboratory floor and they entered the lab gowned, masked and armed with brooms and mops. Quickly they began to scrape a pathway allowing Mr. Alpha’s gurney to proceed.

Well, Dr. Martin stated as Mr. Alpha was finally wheeled from the room, it appears that Ms. Turner’s question was quite prophetic. He smiled, a sadistic turn at the corner of his mouth, too bad she wasn’t here to observe the answer. Dr. Martin laughed, expecting the remaining lab assistants to join in, but none did as they vacated the room. Dr. Martin’s smile faded as depression attempted to smother his euphoria.

Dr. Brookworth watched from the hallway, frightened by the results of the first human test of her Serum. She was certain they had begun an irreversible journey.

As Dr. Martin watched Jennifer Brookworth tremble in the hall, he became certain that his goal of a single injection series for humans would become a reality.

CHAPTER FIVE

THE CARTEL:

The train station was cold, void of adequate heat to fight the wintriness. The surrounding snow was propelled by a gusty wind that swirled the white powder into globe shaped vortexes surrounding the glowing street lamps. The snow encased lights were covered with soft, spherical, cotton candy shrouds, dimming their output and darkening the station.

The brisk wind rattled a garbage container chained to one of the street posts and disturbed the corrugated roofing on the icy train station as two black limousines sliced through the blizzard and came to a halt under lamp posts. Seeing the limousines, several men, instructed to keep the arrivals secret, rushed forward with large umbrellas and woolen blankets. These porters banded together as they hurried toward the automobiles, then separated into two distinct platoons, headed for their assigned objectives.

The trunks of the limos popped open and three men removed and carted hand tooled leather cases off into the swirling snow. Two other cart handlers transferred the leather cases to a private rail car standing alone near the station’s back gate. Four other porters gathered up their two human charges and bundled them off to Conrad Hunt’s snow covered rail car. The car stood alone, uncoupled, waiting a hundred yards to the rear of the bright orange and black engine named The Spirit of New Orleans.

Conrad ignored the conversation between John Burton and the bartender and moved to the large conference table to examine his briefing notes. At sixty five, Conrad carried himself well. His weekly work-outs with his personal trainer were well invested time. It wasn’t everyone that had the personal attention of a Silver Medal winning Olympic athlete to assure their fitness. Conrad shook off the thoughts of his physical training, Patricia Fox was not just a hired athlete, she was the daughter of Maurice Fox, a close personal friend and the present Democratic Party Chairman of the state of Texas.

Patricia’s achievements during last summer’s Olympics had been a great source of pride for Texans and had assured her father’s selection as the Democratic Party Chairman. Conrad smiled warmly, basking in the friendship.

Conrad’s movements were those of a much younger man. His features had been altered slightly by cosmetic eye surgery, but other than that, and the addition of ten pounds to his lanky frame, he remained the same man he was thirty years ago when he began to shape his vast empire. His face was worn and rough and his swarthy complexion hinted at his love of golf and tennis. His light brown hair, graying at the temples, was combed smoothly back