I'M NOT DEAD: The Journals of Charles Dudley Vol.1

by Artie Cabrera

  “What’s that? Is that you knocking, Charlie?” I heard Jane ask from the bathroom across the hall as I was packing.

  “No, why? I don’t hear anything.”

  “I think someone’s at the door downstairs.”

  “The door... Dusty? Dusty came back? Son of a bitch!”

  I ran down the stairs to the sound of the frantic banging. Cooper pawed at the front door with his tail excitedly whipping from side to side. The boy made it back home!

  Just wait until I get my hands on that kid, I swear. I swung the door open and as the sunlight blasted my eyes and blinded me, Jerry shoved his way into my house, again.

  “Get your shit, man. We have to get the fuck out of here!”

  “Jerry?”

  I felt as if a ghost had just rushed past me. I waited a second, then, I punched Jerry square in the face as hard as I could, and he went skidding across the linoleum tiles.

  “What was that for?” he squealed, holding his jaw in horror.

  “I wanted to make sure it was really you.”

  “Yes, it’s me! Who else would it be?”

  “Where the hell have you been, asshole? I thought you were dead!”

  “What? Why would you think that?” Jerry screeched, massaging his jaw.

  “Because I buried your ass across the street, that’s why. Literally, I buried your ass across the street. Jesus Christ, I even wrote you a letter.”

  Jerry’s eyes froze in place for a moment.

  “You did?” he said, nervously clearing his throat, looking out the door.

  “What the hell is wrong with you? Do you have any idea what I’ve been through since you’ve been gone?”

  “Charlie?” Jane came down the stairs looking frightened.

  “Oh, it’s okay. He’s my friend,” I assured her. Jerry nodded at Jane and then did a double take.

  “I know, Chico, but listen to me, I will tell you everything you want to know, but we have to get the hell out of here before they come!”

  “What are you talking about?”

  Jerry shot up from the floor, walking right past me to the open door and beamed his finger to the sky... “Them!” he said.

  To Be Continued …

  THIEVES OF

  DESTINY

  THE JERICHO DOSSIER

  Today, the mysterious Jericho Island sits just five miles off the Long Island Sound–a square mile shrouded in mysteries.

  In the 1930s, Jericho Island was home to the controversial Rothschild Asylum, which closed its doors in the late 1950s for reasons unknown. The city transferred the inmates of the asylum to a similar institution, but, to this day, there’s been no record of the institute or their supposed relocation.

  In 1955, independent contractors began construction on Jericho Laboratories. At the time, the labs functioned as an animal research and disease control center under the supervision of young German bio-engineer Keiser Ludvig and virologist Johann Krause.

  In the late 1960s, Jericho came under heavy scrutiny from nearby residents for its participation in the bio-chemicals and weaponry program called “The Cerberus Project.” They considered the lab a disaster of cataclysmic proportions waiting to happen. The people insisted the labs shut down or move out.

  In 1974, there were reports of bodies washing up onto the shores of Long Island. Some local residents, unfazed by these cases, quickly dismissed rumors and accepted that it could have been crime or drug related incidents since the bodies were unidentifiable. They believed if no one came looking for them; then they must not have been missing. It could have been hookers, drug dealers, junkies, homeless people, or runaways.

  Witnesses, who insisted on remaining anonymous, claimed that some of the bloated and deformed sea creatures, in addition to the human remains discovered on the beach had strange appendages or genetic alterations on their bodies, and might have originated from Jericho Labs.

  Unhappy residents suggested the labs may have been experimenting on human subjects, rather than just animals, calling them: “Beasts, Monsters, Mutants, Demons, Aliens, and the Spawn of Jericho.”

  Local police never cooperated and refused to release a statement on the matter. Authorities swept it under the rug as a hoax, further enraging the public. The investigation eventually lost traction and was closed.

  Vandals retaliated against those individuals who spoke too much of the matter. The People vs. Jericho— DENIED.

  A movement for investigation and removal of the facility by the people continues to go unheard.

  1981–Dr. Kaiser Ludvig dies of unknown causes and Johann Krause resigns.

  A reported outbreak of an undisclosed pathogen on Jericho Island shuts Jericho’s power grid and containment units down for three hours on August 16, 1982. The meltdown subsequently affects over thirty-five percent of both Jericho employees and the livestock farming system.

  Jericho officials reportedly destroy the infected livestock and quarantine the rest, in fear of the pathogen leaving the island. There have been no reports of contamination on or off the island since the incident that year.

  The exposed officials and employees were said to have “fully recovered” under the watchful care of colleagues and scientists, but were never seen again, on or off the island.

  In the summer of 1993, not too far from Jericho, three Port Washington residents died of what was speculated to be mosquito and tick bites.

  Pictures taken of each of the victims’ bite marks indicated abnormalities in the infected areas: bruising of the skin, protrusion of the veins. Prior to their deaths, victim experienced aggressive changes in mood, and flu-like symptoms.

  There is still not enough evidence that Jericho poses a threat great enough to warrant an investigation by Homeland Security.

  Paging Doctor Windham –

  Thursday, November 21st, 2012

  ROUTINE BOARD MEETING: Jericho Island

  Tighten some screws, tweak some of the security, and close up some of the loose ends. INSPECTION TIME—look ALIVE, you monkeys! The suits will be here any minute, and they will hang your balls from a flag post if there are any inconsistencies in the lab.

  They were not happy the last time. They won’t be happy this time either. Windham’s department raced against data corruption–again.

  A chronological list of all subjects that showed violent or fatal results to the NX-36 serum have been wiped from or is choking somewhere in the archives this morning. Dr. Windham learned his lesson the last time this happened and began funneling data to his home office onto the back-up drive just in case and on the down low. No one needed to know. It was his work but company property nonetheless. They would “have his ass”—as some would like to put it.

  There was no time to call in tech support. This is what happens when you outsource work to other countries like India.

  The weather outside was causing brown outs throughout the building and trips in the system. Retrieving data from the home network now would be the nail in Windham’s coffin if anyone caught on. His closest colleagues didn’t even know.

  You just never knew who had their tongue up the boss’s ass when you weren’t looking.

  Clarence Windham was a go-lucky-likable fellow. At thirty-six years old he still hadn’t let his brains or good looks go to his head. He preferred his last job, but this one pays better—much better. He preferred Fantasy Football league night, old sci-fi movies, and beers with the fellas’, but that didn’t pay at all.

  Dr. Windham was very good at his job, but he never flaunted it. King of the nerds, top of the class, made smart kids look stupid, honor roll, Ivy League school, enough certificates to fill a wall, and plenty of awards he could wipe his rear with.

  He was “the works.” They labeled him a child prodigy at five years old, but Dr. Windham found himself pulling his balls down from that political flag post more than he’d like to these days and didn’t care much for the super geek badge. Today his presentation had to be on course with the Board of Directors and legal. He
had to nail it or it was back up the pole the boys go.

  Cherry flavored chewable antacids, coffee, cigarette, stick of gum, and Dr. Windham was off to the races collecting last minute data from the labs.

  A smooth jazz rendition of “Papa was a Rolling Stone” jangled through the halls, but the tension was mounting. Hard soles and marble floor tiles weren’t helping the migraine.

  Another stop to the boy’s room, the bladder is in overdrive today—nerves will do that to you; pressure will put holes in your stomach.

  “I should have taken the Valium,”—too late. Shake twice, flush, zip up, spit, make a quick stop at the automated hand sanitizer dispenser, and back down the pearly white halls.

  “Come on people! The sooner we lose our jobs, the sooner we can all get home to our families and stuff our sorry faces for Thanksgiving dinner!”

  Was it worth moving here from the sticks and away from his girlfriend? That was debatable. New York was too expensive for his taste, and people moved faster than what he’s used to, but the food and the women made up for it—Thai food and fiery women.

  Windham didn’t get out much to soak up the rich social life New York had to offer. He was now a Long Island native buried in his much to-do-work with the company of his subjects—primates, canines, insects, and plants—kid’s stuff.

  Bioengineering and genomics research was the name of the game: sequencing and modifying DNA maps for the greater bad.

  Here, at Jericho Island, he was the adopted whipping boy. He and his previous team had cloned ears on the backs of mice. His team had repaired damaged tissue and transplanted hearts at remarkable speeds in Billings, Montana.

  He’d worked miracles on parts of the body you didn’t even know you had, but not here—here he was reduced to collecting data and babysitting a zoo for the suits. The job description had a ring to it though: Head of the Name that sounds more important than what it really meant–Department.

  The suits don’t want to hear excuses; they want results. They don’t want your opinion; they want cold hard facts. They don’t want setbacks; they want leaps and bounds. They want full proof product innovation— what else is new?

  Millions upon ludicrous amount of millions later, they’re still asking us to do something with it…we don’t know what IT is, but do something with it. We know IT can do something. Make it happen.

  Because money can buy things to make things do things.

  Today it was Windham’s duty to tell the board the product was defective—the doggy wants off the leash.

  NX-36 (Nanobioxin) is a highly intelligent, blue crystal microorganism that fully reconstructs, re-animates, and restores tissue when it wants to, but there no was telling when it was going to want to. It is compatible with species across the board before deciding if it likes its host or not. It is alien in nature, mixed with contrived insanity. It has a mind of its own, and you cannot control it.

  The serum is both cure and disease. The cure means life—the disease means mutagen or death. When the serum doesn’t cooperate with its host, it doesn’t play nice. It renders the subject into either an agitated or vegetative state, and then the lab destroys the subjects–and then it’s back to the ole drawing board.

  One day it gives you the Garden of Eden with beautiful and intelligent plant life in the nursery, and the next it has a chimpanzee eating the eyes out of its own sockets during a neurotic meltdown. The neurotic meltdowns were fascinating in their own right.

  On a good day, it works miracles beyond your wildest dreams, but not enough to break out the bubbly and noisemakers just yet. It was Windham’s job to find the middle ground, stabilize it, and keep it there, if not better—Yeah, wishful thinking.

  Needing more time was an ongoing joke in the labs.

  Dr. Windham had formed his own theory on the serum—IT was screwing with us, but who would believe such a thing? What’s it going to take? What does it want?

  “See, this is what I can do—nice, right? You like the pretty colors. Now watch this, you’ll like this even more. Pay close attention, human, because I’m only going to show you this once. Here we go, amazing stuff, huh? Do it again? No, no—now you’ve seen too much.”

  The origin of the NX-36 is classified. Jericho officials denied Dr. Windham access to Dr. Ludvig’s files because the suits filed Ludvig’s research under OBSOLETE shortly after he died.

  Everyone who followed in Ludvig’s shadow became OBSOLETE shortly too–after dying.

  Windham had limited access around Jericho because that’s the way the cookie crumbled around here—no respect for the rookies. More smoke screens and oil slicks for the monkeys slaving away in the labs, but “we want results” they say.

  When Dr. Ludvig passed away it seemed like there were too many cooks in the kitchen; too many cooks in the kitchen spoiled the soup. Why was this so important?

  Fifty years of research and we are not one step closer from where Dr. Ludvig began? Zero progress—just a bunch of soups. God only knows how many times they had tampered with and manipulated the serum since its purest form.

  One last trip to the office of administrations for a quick briefing with middle management, and it was off to the boardroom for the hanging.

  The office of administrations was the epicenter of corporate assholes. The air was so tight in there you’ll have an aneurysm. It was the place where employees went to die. If the office of administrations beckoned during office hours, be sure to pick up some lube on the way over. Dr. Windham had thicker skin than the others. The politics hadn’t killed him—yet. He was already used to the bureaucratic mind games from the last gig in Montana.

  Knowledge and experience may have made him feel long in the tooth at times, but, on the contrary, Dr. Windham had a severe case of stage fright. He couldn’t care less if they shot the messenger, just as long as he didn’t have to stand in front of a crowd and give the presentation. It was scar tissue from elementary school plays and ridicule for poor performances.

  Never mind the four months worth of data that had once again gone corrupt or that three live subjects had gone missing under his watch.

  Windham’s only proof of the NX-36’s bad behavior didn’t compare to stage fright.

  “I should have taken the Valium,” the good doctor reminded himself, massaging his temples—it would’ve subdued the pounding in his head.

  Windham made a b-line straight past the rows of Stepford wife looking secretaries plugged into their desks, mostly mechanical and hot. Maybe a little too hot and aloof to be working at a disease control center for Homeland Security. He managed to work up seven different male fantasies and dialogue before reaching the door to the boss’s office.

  The rectangular and shiny golden plaque on the door read, “MARCUS BRYCE – EXECUTIVE VICE PRESIDENT,” or what Windham liked to call Executioner V.P.

  “Get in here and close the door behind you, I’ll get to you in a second,” the gruff, and clearly annoyed voice, called from inside the room.

  Windham wormed his way into the office, before Bryce’s oversized mahogany desk. Bryce still had his eyes on his computer screen as the tips of his fingers hammered away at the keyboard with the grace of an elephant trying to knit a sweater. His face held off any emotion.

  Windham slowly glanced over Bryce’s collection of official certificates, buttons, and medals of congressional badassery lining the walls of the office. He took a mental inventory of a glass showcase containing old books, a boot, knives, bullets, coins, and a broken stopwatch that all looked to be from the Civil War Era.

  Bryce reminded Windham of his old principle back in high school, Mr. Armstrong, except Mr. Armstrong didn’t keep a Glock at his waist.

  “Talk about screwing the pooch on this one, huh?” Bryce said with a flat and bone dry tone. Bryce was a difficult man to read, his mannerisms were as vacant as a man without a soul.

  “How do you mean?” Windham replied.

  “Someone fucked up. Obviously, someone isn’t doing their job in the pit
. I’m the one who has to answer to the board for all the wonderful work you and your team are constantly flushing down the toilet—millions of dollars down the drain, Windham. Have a seat,” Bryce said with his eyes still on his monitor.

  “Well, I didn’t anticipate…I could come back later,” Windham said, inching back towards the door, but he wasn’t going to get away that easily.

  “Sit down. Luckily, for you, we have a shit storm coming in this morning, a super cell, they say, and it’s bought us some time. The board members won’t be here for at least another couple of hours.”

  “That’s great news. It will give us more time to try to recover the data!” Windham said, relieved.

  Bryce turned to Windham slowly removing the specs from his face and leaning forward, clasping his hands perfectly over another on the desk.

  “Right, about that, this is why I asked you up here, Windham—to talk. Frankly, here’s the deal, I think it’s best if we don’t mention the data or the defects to the board—between you and me.”

  “I don’t follow…”

  “Damage control, Doctor. They shuffle their old asses in here once a month and stuff their faces with coffee and crumpets. Half of them are already taking their afternoon nap by the time the meeting’s over. We tell them everything’s fine and on schedule as planned—and they’re back on the jet, back to wherever it is they came from.”

  “Okay, why would we do that?”

  “It’s simple. I’ve been here eight years now as an intermediary; rain or shine, the money keeps on coming. I don’t know why, but why stir up the roost? We just tell them what they want to hear, and we get a blank check. I keep my job, you keep yours, and everyone is happy. They know we don’t always get it right, but why worry anyone with the details?”

  “They’ll eventually catch on that there’s trouble in paradise, won’t they?”

  “Not necessarily. We throw a couple of the research samples and the chimps their way and do away with the rest. As long as the assholes overseas have a bone to gnaw on, it will keep them busy until NX is ready and stable. They don’t need to know the logistics. The Japanese are still talking about those cute little talking things we gave them months ago.”