The Program (A Zombie Outbreak Spy Thriller)

Prologue

[Ten years ago.] The crowd cheered and applauded as the ceremonial yellow ribbon was cut by semi-important local dignitaries, marking the opening of the Holtsville Rehabilitation and Research Center, located in Suffolk County, New York.

Standing a distance away from the crowd were two men in their forties. One was a short, skinny man dressed in a doctor's lab coat, the other a tall robust man dressed in green Army dress uniform. Standing guard nearby were U.S. Army soldiers, scanning the crowd and the surrounding area for danger to these VIPs.

It took a while, but we finally opened our research facility, the doctor remarked.

The colonel looked at his companion. Just remember who is funding this facility, and your research, he replied sharply.

The doctor smiled at the military man. Of course, my friend.

With a small nod at the proffered reassurance, the colonel turned his gaze back towards the newly opened facility, built on the site of a former landfill, and the secret military biological weapon research program within.

Chapter 1

Breakthrough

Doctor Czabach, please come take a look, a young, pretty Asian woman in a wrinkled, white laboratory coat calls out from her work station in the laboratory.

Doctor Anton Czabach looks up from his desk, annoyed at the interruption of his work. Sighing, he gets up from his chair, and slowly walks out of his small office next to the laboratory. He turns his head to and fro, seeking the caller. He finally sees Cynthia Zhang, his Chinese postdoctoral student and lab assistant, waving her hand in the air. She is waiting for him next to her optical microscope. As he walks over to her station, he can't help but note the excited look on her normally calm face, and raises an eyebrow. With a nod, he takes a look at the sample through the high-powered lens of the microscope.

As the director of medical research looks at the sample, Zhang explains, This is a blood sample obtained this morning from patient ZX305. He was given a low dosage of the compound Omega 59 along with his evening meal yesterday. She observes his mood as he looks into the eyepiece of the microscope. Her boss stands five foot four inches tall, with a small frame, and curly light brown hair. His gaze is a piercing brown. The lab assistant notes that the director is absent minded sometimes, losing his train of thought in more than one conversation with Zhang.

Czabach looks up at his student upon hearing that the compound was introduced to the patient‘s blood sample. He sees that the blood sample is clear, with no sign of infection. The compound worked! Pushing aside his excitement at the possibility of a cure finally developed after so many years of research, the director says calmly, I want this process duplicated with five more patients. Give them an extremely low exposure to the ZX virus, and then introduce the Omega 59 compound into their bodies.

Yes, doctor! the student quickly replies.

Satisfied at the answer, the director gets up from the work station, and heads back to his office. I need to call Colin Hayes, he thinks to himself as he closes the door to his office, and makes an out-of-state phone call.

Chapter 2

Slacker

SPLASH!

The young man puts the heavy duty mop into the big yellow bucket, which has a set of four wheels connected to the bottom. He pulls the lever attached to the wringer to squeeze soapy water out of the mop. The bucket is the fancy, bells and whistles type found at your local The Home Depot.

The man, in truth just a teenager at nineteen years of age, is wearing a dreary gray janitor uniform. He has curly black hair that is trimmed to regulation standards of above the neck. He is wearing a brass earring on his left ear. His cheeks are pockmarked by acne. His finger nails are painted alternately neon green and black. His wooden cross, which hangs around his neck, is tucked inside his uniform.

The young man is slowly mopping the long hallway on the second floor of the Holtsville Rehabilitation and Research Center. The hallway smells of strong bleach. Bored of endless moping of lifeless floors, Chad Willinger pretends the mop is a rifle and shoots at imaginary targets. RATATATAT! he mimics the sound of his imaginary assault rifle going off.

WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING, MISTER WILLINGER? a scream suddenly fills the air.

With dread filling his heart, Willinger slowly turns around. He sees his worst fear come true: his asshole of a boss, William Boxley, catching him slacking off! Willinger's eyes widen in horror at the sight of his boss, and quickly remembers to salute. Mopping the floor, sir! Willinger stands at attention with a sharp salute, as if his life depends on it. His pose is stiff as cardboard.

Narrowing his eyes, the boss stomps his way across the corridor, and stands in front of the trembling young man, who is still holding at attention.

Willinger dares to take a quick glance at Boxley's face. Shit, the subordinate thinks to himself. He's really pissed at me this time!

Mr. Willinger, the supervisor says as he stares down the irresponsible young man. Boxley is in his mid-fifties, with a strong build, and a bulging waistline. His voice is raspy and bitter in tone. Standing at six feet tall, the boss is two inches taller than his employee.

Willinger winces at the close up with his boss. Boxley has a taste for cigars, and the ash breath makes the employee want to vomit! He finds himself breathing through his mouth to avoid the God-awful smell.

You don't look like you were mopping the floor, Boxley squint his dark brown eyes and replies with a scowl. No, you look like you were slacking off. And you KNOW how much I HATE slackers, he adds. For emphasis, Boxley raises a finger and points it in the young man's face.

Willinger dares not move a muscle. He ignores the fact that Boxley's face is merely an inch away from Willinger's. Streams of hot sweat start dripping down the subordinate's face and ears, as his heart pounds harder and harder inside his chest.

Boxley relishes the fact that he is making his subordinate visibly uncomfortable. Willinger is what Boxley calls the lost generation. This generation of kids has neither ambitions nor goals; they are content to slack their way through in life. Boxley absolutely hates Willinger and what he represents. Boxley wouldn’t allow his own nephew to work in this custodial position. It is a dead end job with no prospect for future advancement. But the older man thinks it is perfect for slackers like Willinger.

Since you have time to goof off, we need to find more work for ya. I'm glad you volunteered. As you know that damn sequestration from those goddamn Washington politicians has left us underhanded for the moment, Boxley continues with a malicious grin. "After you finish mopping all the hallways on this floor, I want you to head down to Level X and clean the place. Those stinking poor excuses for human beings sure know how to make a mess."

The underling groans to himself. This new assignment is easily the toughest janitorial task in the entire building! The patients at the lowest level of this research center are a bunch of crazy, drugged up psychos locked up in jail cells that smell like shit and vomit. The rumor among the non-medical staffers is that these patients are subjects of illegal biological research experiments.

Well? What are you waiting for? Finish mopping this hallway already, Mr. Willinger! Boxley stares harshly at his hapless staffer one last time, and stomps away.

Willinger hears his boss mutter something about slackers, as he watches Boxley turn the corner at the end of the hallway. The young man resumes his task of mopping the second floor.

Chapter 3

VIP visit

Tell me again why you decided to have the research center located so close to the Metropolitan New York region, Doctor Czabach? Lieutenant General Colin Hayes asks. He is following Director Czabach with an entourage of six armed military men from the U.S. Army. The general is dressed sharply in his parade uniform. He scowls inwardly at the messy, dirty floors. He tries his best to ignore the generally filthy condition of the busy hallway on the first floor.

"My friend, if you recall it was our mutual decision to have the center built on top of a former landfill site. Allow me to remind you again of the reasons. First, as a former landfill, the site had limited attraction to residential and commercial developers," the doctor starts to lecture.

As compared to the way Battery Park in New York City was built on top of a former landfill, and overdeveloped to boot? the general interrupts and stops walking.

True, the director concedes the point to his old friend with a patronizing smile. However, Battery Park City is a special situation explainable by the laws of supply and demand. As available land in New York City becomes scarcer and scarcer, even former landfill sites become more attractive to developers, he points out.

But let us get back to your original question, General Hayes. In this area, there are acres and acres of unused land. The area is relatively secluded, and therefore away from prying eyes. The only thing nearby is a wildlife zoo, Doctor Czabach smiles again as he drives home his point. He pauses to allow the general an opportunity to present a counter argument. Seeing none forthcoming, he starts walking again.

Right this way, gentlemen, the director gestures to