Medical Thriller (Fiction)

November 18, 2017

10:59 pm.

Project name: Retribution 06/18

Trial subject: 009

It was invigorating to watch the process of death.

The figure sat in the darkness, staring at the scene unfolding onscreen with a smile akin to sadistic satisfaction. Great care had been taken to ensure clear-cut visuals, by installing a camera in the light bulb of the subject's bedroom, which streamed directly to a private computer via an untraceable IPV6 address.

It had taken three whole days of waiting, restlessness, and jittering but finally, his reward was at hand.

The figure watched as the subject walked to a small table in a pale cream-painted bedroom and poured himself a shot of whisky, downing it in one fell swoop.

Alcohol, a weakness he'd been fortunate to observe on a fateful day as the subject had made haste to clear out all trace of evidence, with crippling fear and shame at the implications of being caught in the workplace.

If there were two things the figure understood quite perfectly, they were weaknesses and addictions. It governed your sentiments as well as your antipathy; stripping you of discipline and courage. He knew them deeply and personally, and in the past years, had learned just how best to manipulate them to his will. He'd kept the subject's secret that afternoon, to the man's greatest relief and gratitude, never knowing if and when it would come in handy.

It was perfect for this moment; a great way to begin the trial that would finally produce the peace of mind, freedom, and justice he badly craved.

Seconds crept by; a few minutes followed valiantly close. The subject stood up suddenly, losing balance and falling haphazardly over the table, scattering all the items on top of it. He clutched at his throat, trying hard for a shout, a scream perhaps but his voice seemed to have congealed and frozen into rubbery capsules. Then he began to scratch at every visible surface of his face and neck, till he was tearing at his nightshirt; taking blood and tissue along.

The smile on the face of the figure behind the screen deepened, for he knew what had happened, and what was to come next.

The nanocell he'd injected into the subject three days ago, had introduced a fatal engineered viral load into his bloodstream. The inert RNA had interacted with the alcohol lingering in his system, and the whiskey shot a few minutes ago had done the final job of setting off the result.

The figure watched the anguish intensify on the subject's face as the skin of his face and limbs began to melt and harden rapidly. He could imagine the level of burning pain being felt by the subject, yet it wasn't enough to ease the betrayal and emptiness that plagued him within. It was only the beginning. He kept watch, as the subject tore at his skin, scraping and pulling out fingernails coated in blood as the virus ate through all the cells in his body. He watched the subject ardently— in between short sips of Italian rum—crawling pitifully for the door through repeated muscle spasms and skin hardening.

There would be no help gotten. His throat had swelled greatly and would be pressing heavily on his esophagus and airway lining. With the rapid progression of acute systemic sclerosis that was setting in, he would be dead in less than fifteen minutes.

The figure felt a rush in his blood as the subject's pace began to slacken slowly, till he wasn't moving anymore. Zooming closer, he watched the subject's heartbeat rise and fall in slow gasps and pauses, laboring through the strain of collapsing organs and hardening tissues. The fight was inadvertently lost less than a minute later. The subject lay a few steps from the bedroom door, dead and hardened like a brick.

Project Retribution was successfully underway.

The figure behind the screen smiled satisfactorily and began to write down a report. The trial had gone successfully well, just as he expected it would. There would be more to come before the entire project was completed and his madness was sated. They would suffer and know the pain he'd known all this while. All of his innermost sadistic thoughts and desires were coming out to play and the worst was there was no holding back, not anymore. He'd lost the last vestiges of control and restraint along with his dwindling sanity.

They would all get their dues and comeuppances, and Project Retribution would finally be complete.

November 20, 2018

8: 40am

The Beginning.

The morning was a crisp and clear one in Morgantown, West Virginia as Robin Jessica Harper drove down Willowsdale road, heading to her new job at Moderna Biotechnology.

Synonymous to London mornings in the thick of fall, the weather awoke a deep nostalgic feeling within her, but it was incomparable to the relief she felt to be finally away from home.

This had entirely nothing to do with the traffic-free road; a privilege which was enjoyed only on occasions, when she'd lived and worked in Central London. It wasn't the fresh anticipation that usually came with new jobs either, but rather a pent-up respite at the chance of being away from her meddlesome mother at least for several hours.

Shirley Harper had shown up at her doorstep last night without notice, armed with enough food to feed a small army, barely a few minutes after she'd returned from the research center. Tired and spent from a long, rigorous day trying to orient herself with the responsibilities that came with leading a new team of researchers, she hadn't been expecting her mother or anyone else, nor had she been in the appropriate frame of mind to deal with company. As much as she loved the meddlesome woman, Shirley Harper could wear at a person's patience, and being her daughter wasn't any excuse. Rather, it came with all the privileges; like daily meditation mantras and a fridge full of food she'd have definitely forgotten to pick up herself.

That didn't excuse the lectures she could most definitely have done without. Robin preferred the former to the latter. She'd expected to spend last night curled up on the new divan she'd ordered, eating a can of soup, and studying research papers on the genetic engineering of E. coli left behind by her predecessor, the reputable Dr. Jude Ackerman. Instead, she'd spent a good, long hour listening to her mother berate and lecture on her rapid weight loss, and pale skin tone. Robin loved her mother immensely, but living and working in England for the last fifteen years of her life had been perfect for their relationship.

They communicated over Skype and Emails when she had time away from the lab, and that was enough to keep her sanity intact. To her mother, she remained darling pigtail Robin, not just a renowned doctor of microbiology; but a young promising name in a male-dominated field. Although both her parents were immensely proud of her achievements and status, they barely understood half of what she did, except for the fact that she saved lives and was highly renowned and respected. They were West Virginia natives, born and bred in the sleepy town of Wardensville; they'd never attended college or gone further past the southeast line.

Robin had been born and raised in Morgantown, right in the one-story house behind the family's deli. It wasn't a surprise how it became sensational for the headlines, to highlight her dull, ordinary background while discussing or praising her genius and achievements. It was the major reason why she'd left America to take a job with Optimum Therapeutics in England. There she'd buried herself in the laboratory and her research, working ceaselessly, as she'd always wanted to, without having to deal with the floodlights her previous job at the University of Massachusetts had shone down on her. But that was until Crawford had crept into her heart and set up shop.

In the entirety of thirty-seven years, Robin had never been in love with anyone as she'd been with Harry Crawford. An investment banker with a charming sense of humor, Robin had finally given thoughts to something other than medical research for the first time in a long while. Their love story had been destined for the stars or so it had seemed until she found him in bed with a lab technician whom she'd been mentoring.

The job at Moderna couldn't have come at a more perfect time. Robin hadn't thought twice before packing up and moving back home and away from England and the heartbreaking betrayal that still felt as fresh as yesterday.

It felt good to be home nonetheless and to assume such an important role of heading a team of competent microbiologists working on the genetic modifications of RNA viruses for the treatment of brain cancer lesions. The job offer had been unexpected and out of the blue, especially since she'd never been more than a director's assistant; her shrewd expertise mainly in the fields of immunology, virology, and bacteriology. It felt more unreal when she'd learned she'd be replacing none other than Dr. Jack Ackerman, a renowned microbiologist who’d headed the team of researchers responsible for both the Zika and Dengue virus vaccines.

Dr. Jack Ackerman wasn’t just reputable in the field because of his creations, he was an exceedingly brilliant mind whom she’d admired and looked up to as a mentor of some sort. She'd attended a good number of his lectures and conferences, and had been opportune to meet with him on several occasions with the influence of her former director, Hugh Michelson. According to the board at Moderna, Dr. Ackerman had resigned from the company for a research facility in Russia. All the research materials and reports had been handed over to her by his previous assistant, Rob Sandman; a pleasant dark-haired immunologist who'd made the transition process quite easy and seamless.

It still felt unreal to Robin a few minutes later as she drove into the underground parking lot of the biotech facility; a five-floor and rode the elevator to the laboratory on the fourth floor.

She'd taken great care with her looks, as she always tried to do, and looked impeccably attired in a white dress shirt tucked into black pants, her coffee-brown hair secured firmly at the nape, with red-rimmed spectacles perched comfortably on an upturned nose— a picture of true professionalism.

Yet, Robin wished the projection of confidence reached past her physical appearance and straight into her thoughts. She couldn't help wondering in the last few days since resumption if she could truly handle the job of leading the entire vaccine project team. They were highly intelligent and efficient scientists, who'd had the privilege to have been led by Dr. Jack Ackerman. Could she really fill perfectly into his shoes? Could she work hard enough to fulfill the ten months deadline they'd been given, and have a prototype ready for trial at the end?

Those were the questions that troubled Robin inwardly, but she wore a smile as she swiped her pass card and walked straight into the laboratory.

"Morning, Dr. Harper," a tall, blonde man in his mid-forties walked out of the recess lounge opposite, heading towards her with a smile.

"Good morning, Mr. O’Brien," Robin paused the process of decontamination, a ready smile on her face. "Lest, I forget, thank you for the files you sent over last night. They were helpful in warding off the confusion that had begun to creep in."