Seed Police

by Gayla Prewitt

  “Hey, Rex, good see’n ya,” greeted Kyle, reaching out to shake the older man’s hand. Looking down at the bags of food, he continued, “I’m sorry to say this batch isn't as good as the last. Seems there's been a lot more patrols by government choppers. Had to use the grow lights much more than we like. And nothing seems to grow crops as good as regular ole’ sunshine.”

  “It all looks good enough to eat to me,” said Rex.

  “Well, I hope so,” said Kyle.

  The family crew began loading the food into the truck. Once they were finished, Kyle shut the hatch on the camper shell. “Well, I think that’s the last of it. You take care, Rex. Tell Elizabeth we said hi! And you be careful.”

  The two men gave each other a parting handshake. Upon releasing their grasp, Rex slipped money into Kyle’s hand.

  “That's for the kids, Kyle. It's not much.”

  “Thank you, Rex.”

  With that, Rex returned to his truck and backed out of the garage. Kyle embraced his wife with what he hoped would be a reassuring hug as the pair watched the little truck fade into the distance.

  “How long do you think we can keep doing this?” Sarah asked.

  “As long as we can.”

  Chapter 8

  The Mystery Deepens

  In her office at Community Hospital, Doctor Charity Simpson spent the morning on the phone, calling anyone who might help her find answers. She was determined to uncover the reason why so many people were dying, but the information only seemed to raise more questions, fear, and helplessness. Dr. Simpson had just ended a conversation when in walked pathologist Phil Wannamaker. Her eyes down, hand on her forehead with a weariness of a warrior who has seen too many battles, “Unfortunately, we’re not alone,” she said.

  “What do you mean?” asked Phil.

  “I just got off the phone with several hospitals across the country. They all have numerous patients with the same symptoms.”

  “Do you want to hear something else?” asked Phil. “The fibers we sent to the lab don't resemble anything in nature. But the fibers from all the patients match each other.”

  Looking up, “What are we dealing with?” she asked.

  “I don’t know,” replied Phil.

  “I feel like we don't know anything. More people are dying every day. We’re running out of time. Sometimes, I just don’t want to think anymore.

  “We just gotta keep mov’n,” encouraged Phil.

  Chapter 9

  Delivery Day

  Elizabeth Gibson sat in the living room of the couple’s Mill Valley home, with only the ticking of the grandfather clock to keep her company until Rex’s return. The wait seemed long every time Rex went to make the pickup. She knew they were doing the right thing, but sometimes the right things could be the hardest to do. In her hand, she held a list of about 50 names, people she called weekly to collect the smuggled goods that Rex delivered.

  Dialing the first number, Elizabeth waited for an answer. “Hi Clara, just wanna let you know your laundry will be ready for pick up around two o'clock. I'm doin’ fine, hun, see ya then.” Not knowing who might be listening, “laundry” was the code word Elizabeth gave for the contraband supplies she and her husband distributed.

  Elizabeth dialed again. “Hello, Rosalie? This is Elizabeth Gibson. Wanna let you know you can come and get your laundry around 2:15 today. Okay, bye-bye.” As Elizabeth hung up the phone, she heard activity in the garage, assuming it must be Rex, she went to meet him.

  She spotted her husband as he pulled down the garage door from inside. “Glad you’re here. I’ve been making phone calls for the pickup. Any trouble?”

  “No, none at all,” he said, giving a wink to his love of nearly 50 years. Rex continued to the back of the truck, opened the camper shell door and began unloading.

  Elizabeth followed her husband to help. “How are the Sanders?” she asked.

  “Bout as good as to be expected,” said Rex, continuing to carry boxes into the house. “The kids look good. I think all of this has taken a toll on Kyle and Sarah. But I think getting to help out in this way makes it easier.”

  Outside, across the street from the Gibson home, two men watched the residence through binoculars. The men, clean-shaven with military-style haircuts and fresh-pressed suits, sat in a nondescript black four-door sedan.

  “It must be laundry day,” said one of the men, still looking through the binoculars. “That seems to be the only excitement in this town — laundry day. How long do we have to stay in po-dunkville anyway?”

  “You know the policy,” said the other man. The two men continued to watch the Gibson house while people came and went, laundry baskets in tow.

  Clara, one of the ladies Elizabeth had phoned earlier, made her way to the Gibson’s front door and rang the doorbell. Elizabeth opened the door and greeted her life-long friend. “Come on in Clara,” she said. The two ladies walked to the back pantry, where bags of food were sitting on the counter. The women proceeded to make small talk as they loaded the food into Clara’s basket.

  “How's Fred?” asked Elizabeth.

  “Oh, he's good,” said Clara. “Seems to have a little cold, but other than that, he's as ornery as ever.”

  With the basket almost full, Elizabeth grabbed two white towels to strategically place in the basket, hoping to conceal its contents. “Here we'll just put these on top,” she said, giving Clara a bit of a mischievous look.

  “Same time next week?” asked Clara.

  “God will'n, should be the same time next week,” responded Elizabeth.

  Clara grabbed Elizabeth’s hand. “Bless you,” she said as she picked up her basket to make her way out of the house.

  On the sidewalk, Clara met the next recipient. “Hello, Rosalie,” she greeted.

  “Hello, Clara.”

  The two women passed each other, as it appeared one more “laundry day” had gone on without incident. How long they would be able to carry on the charade, no one could guess.

  Chapter 10

  Dead Seeds

  With the words still ringing in his head, Jack Landon knew he had to get to the bottom of the mystery. “Dead seeds,” that’s what the voice had resonated that night from the darkness. What could it mean? He planned to put all his researching skills to the task of finding the answer.

  Sitting at his desk, in his congressional office, Jack typed the words, “dead seeds,” into the search window of his computer. Accessing the government database, the congressman hoped the query would lead to information he longed to find. Bingo, there seemed to be a match. The name “Goliath Project” appeared in the window. However, when he tried to open the file, “access denied” was visible on the screen. He tried again; once more, the database blocked entry, keeping him from opening the project file. During his search, the phone rang. Congressman Landon could see it was his wife, he chose to ignore the call.

  Concerning the search, the congressman decided to take a different route. Perhaps a general internet keyword search would turn up some leads. Scrolling through the links produced by the inquiry, one entry caught his eye. He spotted an article titled, “Artifice Foods to Stop Development of Terminator Seed Technology.” The congressman began reading the publication out loud to himself. “Terminator seeds . Keeps crops from reproducing … plants sterile … environmental concerns … company pledges to stop production.”

  He paused to digest what he had just read. Without another word, Jack rose, leaving his office. At the end of the hallway, the congressman reached the hub of the Capitol’s internet security. At the helm was the likable Sal Brubecker sitting behind the monolith of computers and monitors. Sal was competent but could be influenced by just the right amount of persuasion. Jack and Sal had a comfortable rapport; an avid researcher, the congressman, often asked for assistance from Sal.

  “Hi, Sal,” greeted the congressman.

  “Hey, Congressman Landon. What can I do for you?” asked Sal.

  “Well, I am trying
to do some research. Wonder if you could help me get access. The system doesn't seem to want to let me in.”

  “Well, I don't know? Tell me what you’re searching for.”

  “Trying to find out more about the ‘Goliath Project,’ ” said Jack.

  Sal began typing on his computer. The word “CLASSIFIED” appeared on the screen. “Oh, Congressman, you know I don't have the authority to give you access codes to active classified projects.”

  “You said active?” inquired the congressman.

  “Right,” responded Sal affirmatively.

  “Thanks, that's all I needed.” The congressman left Sal to ponder his request.

  In the bureaucratic office of Ted Harris, sat an older gentleman, well dressed with a custom-made suit and perfectly manicured fingernails. Even in a sitting position, the man wielded an air of power from his chair.

  “We just picked up another one. I think that’s the last,” said Harris.

  “It better be,” said the man, Waldo Boatwright, CEO of Artifice Foods.

  “We’re on it,” said Harris.

  “You should’ve taken care of this a long time ago.”

  “I don’t take orders from you.”

  “Remember how you got here?”

  “You don’t own me,” replied Harris.

  “My company has spent a lot of money developing patents for the new seeds. We can't risk the competition.”

  “Like I said, we’ve got it under control.”

  “For your sake, you better,” warned Boatright. Just as he was leaving, the CEO picked up a picture of a younger Harris and a woman smiling in the photo. He gazed at the snapshot for a minute before returning the frame to Harris’ desk. Harris glared at the man as he exited the office.

  Chapter 11

  Bait and Switch

  Days later, Dr. Augustis Gabani strolled down the hallway of the government food growing facility, greeting co-workers as he did every day on the way to the lab. Routinely, he wore a dress shirt, dark slacks, and sensible shoes. His tie hung loosely around his neck. However, this day would prove to be anything but typical.

  “Good morning, Dr. Gabani,” greeted a co-worker.

  “Good morning,” replied Dr. Gabani.

  “How are you, Dr. Gabani?” greeted another.

  “Just fine, and you?”

  When Dr. Gabani reached the end of the hallway, he placed his finger on a keypad, then bent down to where a beam of light scanned his retina. When complete, the door unlatched, and Dr. Gabani went inside. In the room lined with rows of lockers, Gabani retrieved a white lab coat and changed his shoes to sneakers.

  Leaving the locker room, Dr. Gabani entered another secure area where he grabbed a pair of blue paper shoe covers from a cardboard box. He placed the sterile footwear on his sneakers and snapped the elastic band to envelop his shoes.

  Once inside the room filled with beakers and the squeak of rodents spinning exercise wheels, Gabani donned a pair of medical gloves. Then, he opened a glass case and with what looked like a turkey baster, sucked a slurry of brown substance from a beaker labeled, “Er143.”

  He carried the mixture to the first cage stamped with “Subject A 125,” on the front. Below the official sticker were the words, “Big Bertha. “Good morning, Bertha. Breakfast, just like you like it,” said Gabani.

  With that, he placed the slurry in a petri dish as the rat rushed to feast on the manufactured meal. Gabani moved to the next cage. This one marked, “A126,” with “Hercules,” the unofficial moniker. “You didn’t think I would forget about you?”

  Again the rat scrambled to devour the food. Dr. Gabani shifted to the next cage, subject, “A127,” “Tank.” But this time, there was no hungry eater dashing to the dish. The rat remained motionless in the corner. Upon further examination, Dr. Gabani discovered the rat was dead. He quickly checked the next six cages, the rats, ALL DEAD.

  Meanwhile, Ted Harris waited outside the facility as the sun slowly peaked over the horizon. The complex’ buildings resembled giant white marshmallows dotting the desolate land. Several buses stopped in front of the structures, delivering legislators for their promised tour and “enlightenment.” Ted Harris greeted them.

  “Good morning, and welcome to our flagship location. We have thousands of sites like this across the county. We like to call this our little Garden of Eden,” gloated Harris, almost unable to contain his anticipation to swoon his captive audience. “I think you’ll be amazed at all the advancements we have made, providing everything nature would, to grow healthy food.”

  Harris escorted the legislators inside. The walk transported the group into what looked like a man-made rain forest. Tropical birds flew overhead, lush green foliage filled the dome, and a waterfall roared as white foam cascaded into a small containment pool. A look of awe filled the faces of the lawmakers as they took in the sights.

  “As you can see, we’ve created a complete ecosystem — much like in nature — but only better. There are no pests. Pollination is performed with robotics and nanotechnology,” said Harris, as a robotic arm moved about pollinating plants. “A computer makes certain that humidity stays at an optimum percentage,” Harris continued, “and we even control the amount of ‘sunlight’ (pointing to grow lights) needed for the greatest growing capacity. All designed to keep contamination from unwanted pollen from the outside world. Just in case something might sneak through, we use a specially engineered solution. Spray it on the plants. Kills the weeds. But doesn't harm our crop. So, as you can see, we have complete control, bringing together the latest technology developed by some of the best scientific minds in the world.”

  The “svengali’s” web of words was interrupted by a man whispering into Ted Harris' ear. With a look of great concern, Harris nodded and whispered back. In the meantime, one of the legislators raised his hand and blurted a question. “How do you keep the plants disease and pest free? Do you use some sort of chemical pesticides?”

  “I apologize, something has come up,” said Harris. “However, I leave you in the very capable hands of Dr. Rudolph,” (pointing to the man next to him wearing a white lab coat). He can answer all your questions. Please excuse me.”

  Dr. Rudolph moved over to take Ted Harris’ place. Feeling somewhat blindsided by the quick change of events, the doctor faced the group much like a man before the firing squad. Harris hurried away from the lawmakers; numerous men in black suits led the action. Once inside a lab at the facility, a staff member greeted Harris. “We have a problem,” said the worker.

  Harris looked over at a man, also wearing a white lab coat, sitting in a chair behind a microscope. “Hello, Dr. Gabani,” he said. “I'm told you have some interesting results.”

  “I’ve been testing for possible side effects from some of the latest gene-splicing we’ve been doing,” said the scientist. “I would like you to take a look.” He pointed to a sample under the microscope.

  Harris placed his eye over the eyepiece. “Tell me what I am looking at,” said Harris.

  “These are red blood cells taken from some of our laboratory rats after they’ve been eating the newest engineered rice.”

  “Ok,” said Harris, not too impressed.

  “The cells mutated,” continued Dr. Gabani. “The DNA changed. The rats died.”

  “Rats aren't people, Dr. Gabani.”

  “Yes, I know that,” frustration growing, “but that’s why we do this testing. If we see changes in the animals here, we should assume there is significant possible risk to human population.”

  “Possible risk,” said Harris.

  “I said significant possible risk.”

  “I am not dropping the accelerated program just because a few rats died.”

  “I know what the tests show. I’m not doing this anymore.” Dr. Gabani folded his arms in defiance.

  Leaning over the scientist, “Well, Dr. Gabani, then we do have a problem,” said Harris. With that, two men in dark suits grabbed Dr. Gabani, handcuffed him, and took
him away.

  Just then, another staff member walked into the room. “Mr. Harris, we have some security concerns we would like for you to take a look at,” said the worker.

  “When it rains, it pours,” said Harris.

  The pair walked into the facility’s security room. Numerous television monitors lined the walls showing satellite images taken of farming areas. Thousands of miles of bare ground filled the screens. A technician at the control panel apprised Harris of the latest information. “We’ve noticed a disturbing pattern on one of the larger farm's satellite surveillance. It appears all of the fields on this farm are kept plowed, keeping any vegetation from growing,” said the technician.

  “I don't follow, that's what we want. That's what we pay the farmers to do,” said Harris, somewhat agitated.

  “Yes, but on further observation, we have no record of this particular area on the farm being plowed, yet it remains barren.”

  “I don't understand,” said Harris.

  “We don't have any satellite transmission showing the farmer actually plowing this area, even though nothing ever grows there,” informed the man behind the control panel.

  “Could the transmission simply be missing the farmer plowing?” questioned Harris, surveying the room for what he hoped would be a reliable source to answer the mystery.

  “No, that’s not possible,” said the technician. “First of all, because of the size of the area (using a laser pointer to outline the acreage in question) and the schedule of the satellite passage over the bare land.”

  “Who's the farmer?” asked Harris, beginning to feel something was suspect about the situation.

  “His name is Kyle Sanders,” answered a staff member, sitting behind a surveillance computer.