Project 137

by Seth Augenstein

  SICK FAMILY’S CLAIMS AGAINST GOVERNMENT DENIED

  PHILADELPHIA— A federal appellate court today dismissed the claims of a New Jersey family who claimed government experiments with their water supply gave them rare cancers.

  The court ruled the government did not purposefully give the residents of the village of Chooser’s Mill chronic diseases.

  Federal agencies were simply dosing a standing water supply with toxins to gauge the effects, and were not necessarily trying to cause any deaths, the judge said.

  “These officials simply created a set of conditions, stepped back, and objectively observed the effects,” said Hon. Dickinson DeLarder, the circuit judge who wrote the opinion.

  Some 400 people were diagnosed with various immunodeficiencies in the wake of the experiments, the defense had claimed.

  The Bulsara family also alleged in their lawsuit that the trials, run by the Army under codename Project 137, were part of an extensive biological and chemical warfare weapons program that began during World War II, when technology and expertise was seized from the defeated Axis powers of Germany and Japan, and then turned against the American people for research purposes.

  “We know what they did, and they know what they did,” said Freddie Bulsara, who accuses the government of causing his ruptured spleen, hemorrhaging rectum, and late-stage prostate cancer. “The shame of it is—it will take a whole lot of other people getting sick before the truth of the government’s crimes against the people are revealed. Mark my words—this is a crime against the American people and someone will uncover it, eventually.”

  Jim Frick, the U.S. Attorney handling the case, said he was pleased—but not surprised—at the outcome.

  “Just another conspiracy theory gone too far,” he said. “Occasionally people catch unlucky breaks and look for someone to blame. In this case, a family took the initiative and sued the government. Thankfully, the judges saw through their motives. The taxpayers have been saved of a needless burden.”

  The judge ruled that all court costs are to be handled by the Bulsara family, because the suit was deemed frivolous.

  Frivolous—that final word was underlined once, hard, with O’Keefe’s pen.

  The second one was barely a blurb.

  SICK FAMILY WHO SUED GOVERNMENT FOUND DEAD

  TRENTON—A family that accused federal agencies of poisoning their water supply and sickening them as part of a massive biological- and chemical-weapons program was found dead in their rural New Jersey home Monday morning, authorities confirmed.

  The Bulsara family died of unknown causes in their new home in Old Rimrock, state troopers said. Autopsies are pending, but local detectives have already deemed the five deaths non-suspicious.

  The Bulsaras were assessed legal fees by a federal circuit court last year, after a judge threw out their claims that the federal government had poisoned them. The family filed bankruptcy weeks later, according to sources.

  The family’s case had been the centerpiece of a class-action lawsuit for families in the affluent nook of Chooser’s Mill, where dozens of citizens claimed they contracted a wide spectrum of diseases through the alleged government experiments. The Bulsaras were the lone family to take their case all the way to court. The others settled for undisclosed sums. But the court ultimately found the claims frivolous.

  Frivolous. Again, O’Keefe’s pen cut an emphatic line underneath the final word.

  The last page was an old photocopy of an ID card—the kind of credentials for government locations with the tightest security. The whole thing was blurry. But I could just make out the words “Research Team.”

  The blurry name was Cornelius Wetherspoon. The picture was shadowy, indistinct, but the shape of the head and the prominent nose were all those of my mentor, a few decades younger, his jowls plumper. He looked threatening, somehow.

  And at the bottom was a familiar logo. The same Bureau of Wellness seal, the two snakes coiled around the staff, the quiver of arrows fanned out at the taloned feet of the screaming eagle. Below the seal ran the same serial number prefix I’d seen for weeks, on the collars of dead men, at the water intake valve on the dead river, on the foot of Rothenberg’s casket.

  BOW-137

  Bureau of Wellness

  Project 137

  I stared at it for a second. Then I put the pages down, taking a last quaff of the whiskey. I snorted an energy stick. I stared at the bright window as my mind wheeled. Wetherspoon knew it all, back all the way to an unknown and undocumented century. And what had happened to the Bulsara family was just the beginning. Was there a link between a vast research program, an ongoing push for weapons of mass destruction, and the unexplained death of an entire family in their rural home decades earlier? Between ancient history and the rushing present? The possibilities made my head hurt.

  Wetherspoon would be able to answer. At best, the Old Man had been withholding information about the Bureau of Wellness. He knew more than he was telling. At worst, he was a murdering puppetmaster.

  Either way, a liar. Potentially a thieving, murdering kind of liar. I had been wrong about him the entire time, and I felt like I could kill him myself at that moment.

  I went to the bathroom and sat on the toilet. The Atman in my hand beeped and pinged at each touch, echoing off the tiles. I dialed the toll-free number for the Bureau of Wellness. As it rang, I could see the light of dawn breaching the window blinds. I’d just let the phone ring, and then listen to whatever the prerecorded message told me.

  “Operator,” burst a woman’s voice. “What is your emergency?”

  I was taken aback. The voice was so familiar. Who was it? I didn’t know what to say. A moment of silence passed.

  “Operator here. Do you have an emergency to report?” the voice repeated.

  “Yes,” I said.

  “City, state, and zone, please,” the operator said.

  “Yes—there’s been a chemical spill in the Messowecan River, in New Jersey, Metro Zone. It turned the water green, and it infiltrated a Bureau water intake.”

  The operator typed, clicked and verified, from her cockpit on the other end. Something beeped loud, stinging my ear.

  “We will note your report, sir,” the voice said. “We are sending investigators out to examine your claim and take the appropriate response. Are you in imminent danger, sir?”

  Suddenly I knew where I’d heard this voice before. It was the synthetic, brusque tone of Saxas. Somehow, I was talking to the cyborg herself. Or had she always been alive, a human creature? Stunned silence paralyzed me.

  “Sir, are you incapacitated?” she asked.

  “No, no, no,” I stammered. “I’m not in danger.”

  But then, on the other end of the line, the clicking stopped—the process of noting and reporting halted.

  “Sir—when did this chemical spill occur?” the voice said.

  “About ten days ago,” I said.

  “And sir—how did you come to learn about this chemical release, as you call it?” she said. “The Messowecan River is twenty-three miles west of your current location, by my coordinates, and it is a prohibited preserve. Only Bureau of Wellness personnel are authorized to visit that location. But you already know that, don’t you, Dr. Barnes?”

  Recoiling from the Atman in horror, I slapped it off with a wave of my hand. I stared at the thing, then put it aside. At the sink I splashed some water over my face and toweled off.

  The Atman rang. It hiccupped with that electronic babble, bouncing off the walls, seeming to grow more and more insistent. I tossed the towel on the rack. What had I done—what digital triggers had I tripped with a single call? I pushed the power button, turned it off.

  Ten seconds later, amid my hammering heart, it rang again—without even being on. Rearing back, I hurled the thing against the wall, but it only resounded with a thud and tumbled down the tiles to the bottom of the tub. I reached in, picked it up again and walked toward the kitchen.

  As I reached to pu
t it on the counter, it rang again. With a desperate roar, I tapped the screen and the figure of a man popped up—a man coughing. It was MacGruder, hacking, doubling over. He looked terrible, like a monster from a pre-Purge horror movie. I breathed hard, temporary relief washing over me. I rubbed my face.

  “Christ, George, are you alright?”

  MacGruder held up a finger, pausing the conversation, as his other hand covered quaking coughs rattling deep in his chest. After a few moments of choking, my patient gasped harshly.

  “Doc, I hope you don’t mind me calling,” he croaked. “I don’t feel well.”

  “You sound terrible,” I said. “You don’t need me—you need a hospital. Don’t go to Saint Almachius, though. Go to Clara Maass.”

  “Can’t you make a housecall, Doc?”

  “I’ve been fired, George. I can’t treat you.”

  “That’s just the thing, Joe,” MacGruder said. “I know you were suspended. But every time I go to the hospital since you left, I end up feeling worse. I can’t explain it.”

  MacGruder wheezed high-pitch, like some tiny part inside him somewhere was broken. It ended with another hacking cough.

  “I only…trust…you, Doc,” the patient said, wheezing. “The other specialists and nurses…don’t even look at me. They plug their recommendations into the O’Neill-Kane, and then go off on their rounds. It’s like I’m not even there…” He hacked again.

  “Alright, George,” I said. “My license is still technically in good standing outside the hospital, so I can come by, maybe even prescribe something. But if something’s really wrong, we’ll have to get you an ambulance somewhere better.”

  “Thank you so much—thank you so much,” MacGruder said. “When do you think you can get here?”

  “I can leave in ten minutes. I just have to wash up,” I said.

  “Oh, thank you. Thank you,” MacGruder said. “See you soon.” His coughing began again.

  I touched the screen off. The man was in bad shape—it sounded like pneumonia, or worse. I had to hurry. I went upstairs and pulled off my dirty suit, which had begun to emit an odor, then went in the bathroom. I washed my face and brushed my teeth. Then I went over to Mary, whose face was still hooked into her Dormus.

  “Dear, I’m leaving for a bit,” I said. “There’s a patient who needs my help.”

  Her head stirred on the pillow. Her mouth opened. She pulled the mask up onto her forehead.

  “What?” she said, her eyes opening to narrow slits.

  But before I could answer, her eyes went wide. Her face contorted, and she clapped her hand over her mouth. Flinging the Dormus apparatus aside, she scrambled out of bed, lurching to the bathroom. The door flew shut behind her.

  “Dear,” I said. “Are you alright?”

  A retch. A splash. A retch. A spit.

  “I’m fine,” she said, voice echoing from deep in the bowl. “Where are you going?”

  “There’s a patient from the hospital who needs help. It might be nothing—I just need to check on him. I should be back in an hour or so.”

  Behind the door, the toilet flushed. I heard the gurgling—all the morning sickness sounds I’d come to know so well at that point. But for some reason, this time, I was afraid.

  I forced myself to turn away. But before I left the room, I realized I was missing something. I checked my pockets—and I found my Atman wasn’t there. I’d left it behind in the bathroom. Hesitating, I knocked once. No response. I quietly pushed the door inward.

  “Sorry, dear,” I said, my hand shielding my eyes. “I’ve got to grab my Atman.”

  The Atman was at the side of the sink. I stepped forward, averting my sight. I grabbed it and slid it into my pocket. I tried to leave without looking. But I glanced at her. And I was stopped dead in my tracks.

  Blood. There was bright red blood in the bowl, and when she pushed the handle, it swirled around the edges, and then flushed down. But a pinkish tinge still stained the water.

  “Jesus, Mary! Are you okay?” I said, rushing over, crouching by her side.

  She pushed me away.

  “I’m fine,” she said. She gestured weakly, but her arms fells limp on the toilet seat. The wispy strands of her hair spread out over the edge of the toilet.

  “Dear, this is not normal,” I said, feeling her forehead with the back of my hand. “We need to get you to the hospital. To a real hospital like Clara Maass. Not Saint Almachius.”

  She shrugged my away, stubborn but sluggish. I stood.

  “I’m fine,” she said. “My mother always said…difficult pregnancies…run in the…family.”

  “They very well may run in the family,” I said, “but this is something else. I’m a doctor, Mary. You’ve got to trust me.”

  Her face angled up to me. She blinked twice.

  “Joe, I’ll be alright,” she said. “Remember, Adam said to expect this. You go and take care of your patient, and we’ll talk when you get back.” Her pale lips spread to a weak smile.

  “When I get back we’ll go right to the hospital, right?” I said.

  She nodded, and hiccupped.

  Everything inside told me to stay and care for her. Her face had never looked that deathly pale. But MacGruder was sick, alone in that house. A helpless old man just sitting there, gasping for air. I had to do something. I’d be back in a less than an hour, I figured. With a slow deliberation, I stooped down, kissed my wife on her warm forehead, and walked toward the door. When I turned, her head was back down in the toilet.

  “If you have any problems, call me,” I said. “I’ll come running.”

  “I’ll call if anything gets worse,” she said. “But I’m a Marine, Joe. Nothing’s killed me yet. So go save your patient.”

  Our eyes met, and we knew what we were saying without any words at all. I simply turned and trotted down the stairs, the echoes of my wife’s sickness following me with each step that brought me farther away from her.

  * * *

  The drive to MacGruder’s was just a short distance, five miles or so. But the traffic on the ultrahighway stalled again and again. The red tail-lights in front of me stopped, started, then slowed again. I could have run it faster. I cracked another energy stick under my nose. Saxas talked on and on, spilling all her data across the airwaves.

  “Asia is at a standstill this morning as the breakup of the East Asian Federation continues,” Saxas explained. “Japanese drones, backed by U.S. satellites, are conducting flyovers of Korea and Eastern China. Both countries have marked the aircraft with tracers. But no shots have been fired. U.S. diplomats in the region are trying to arrange a conference between all the heads of state in an effort to stave off an impending war. But the Administration continues to refuse comment.”

  Saxas sounded tired. The ending syllables of each sentence seemed to drop off, ever so slightly. The perfect voice sounded worn and frayed—almost human. My ears still rang with that same voice—that of the Bureau operator. Was Saxas a real person—and had I spoken to her? Had she informed the authorities on me?

  “In other news, the War on Cancer debate is now effectively concluded,” Saxas continued. “The doctors opposing the Surgeon General’s declaration of victory have formally withdrawn their challenge. The declaration is expected to be ratified by Congress in the coming weeks. A ticker-tape parade down Broadway in Manhattan is scheduled for next month.

  “In other medical news, the Bureau of Wellness announced a new line of inquiry within its triple-blind vitamins research project unveiled last week,” said Saxas. “The agency has announced they are now investigating birth defects—and their link to pathogens during pregnancy.”

  My stomach plunged. Pregnancy, vitamins study, Bureau of Wellness, medical experiments. My head spun. It had to be a coincidence. Only that, and nothing more.

  Saxas started to repeat herself, looping back on the news cycle.

  “Asia is at a standstill this morning as the breakup of the East Asian Federation continues. Japanese
drones, backed by U.S. satellites…”

  I flicked it off and took the next exit. Storm clouds were collecting far-off in the sky, dark, and so plump they looked ready to burst. The Atman blipped as I pulled in front of MacGruder’s home. I took a deep breath and got out of the car.

  The solid Tudor house was nestled under large oaks, protecting it from the acid rains and the ultraviolet sun and the years. Broken shards of the stone walk crunched under my shoes. The door was open, offering a view of silent shadows inside.

  “Hello? George?” I called.

  Eerie déjà vu washed over me as I stepped within. A neglected order ruled. China dolls and commemorative plates and desiccated flowers lined crooked shelves, Oriental rugs soft underfoot. But everything neatly arranged with a woman’s touch was now coated in a widower’s dust and neglect. Even the sunlight was muted by filthy yellowed windowshades. A painting of George and his wife, young and carefree, standing in front of the New York skyline was coated in cobwebs. Pictures of children long since gone were hung in skewed rows. Dust motes drifted lazily. I smelled must, maybe mold.

  “George—it’s Joe,” I said, tiptoeing forward.

  A groan came from far-off. From the back half of the house. I crept in that direction. I entered a dark room—which flashed with a lightning bolt from outside. But after a few moments of blindness, I realized the shades of the small room were drawn. It wasn’t lightning. The TV was shorting out. It flashed again. The encore of How Low Can You Go from the night before was playing. The strobe light showed the outline of a lamp—a couch—a mantle—a china closet.

  And a sprawled body on the floor.