Adam Zed – Science Fictionby E L Russell 18,000 words
God and I
Adam Zed knew today might mark the end of his dream to be a microbiologist. He sat in the Dean’s office of Upper Peninsula State University staring at an ornate, oversized mahogany desk of his department chair and head of his dissertation team.
Dr. Dean Bainard dressed in what might be the last three-piece, grey tweed suit in Michigan, paced behind the wooden barrier. Sporting rimless glasses that magnified his piercing dark eyes, he looked like a predatory bird and Adam was his victim.
With a rolled up copy of Adam’s research proposal crushed in his fist, Bainard paced, punctuating his words by slapping the carefully crafted paper into his other hand with each word.
“Human subjects?”
Adam nodded at Bainard’s rant. He felt each whack of his paper in his crouch and made adjustments to ease the pressure.
“You hope to get permission from the university to use human subjects for you proposal? Is that correct?” The chairman tossed the paper on his desk as if throwing away a used tissue. “Unwise, Mr. Zed. Unwise.”
True to form, Bainard, like a fly fisherman, had cast a line of shit and waited for a bite. Adam remained stone still. He’d learned in Bainard’s class that any reply would be taken as a challenge, yet the man waited.
He hated the bastard and cleared his throat. “Well, it seems to me—”
“Most unwise, Mr. Zed.” Bainard waved his hand dismissively and peered at him over the top of his rimless glasses. “Human trials . . . ” he paused, “ . . . are way beyond your reach. There are many research steps you would have to cover before you even consider application for human research. Wouldn’t you agree?”
No, he didn’t agree. Would he be asking for it if he did? The piss ant piece of scum . . . the micro-controlling piece of flotsam, the . . . the piece of shit. It was a losing battle and he knew it. Bainard held all the cards and the bastard’s joy in life was to take a graduate student by the nuts and squeeze. Or maybe twist.
“If you say so, Dr. Bainard.” He didn’t remember moving his lips. And the Jackass had the nerve to smile. Why was he surprised?
“Of course I do. We’ll have to work closely on this one, Zed. It will need some modifications. By the way, I recommend adding a course or two to bring up your GPA. A good idea, right?”
I’m fucked. Adam tried to swallow, but found no spit. He’ll never get out of this hellhole. Bainard often bragged that as a high-ranking member of the administration, he taught to keep his fingers on the pulse of rising scholars. It was more like he kept a thumb on their jugular. He required all graduates to take both his Advanced Molecular Biology and Genetic Protein Engineering classes. This allowed him to weed out anyone he deemed unfit for his program and today he was going after Adam.
As his dissertation chair, Dr. Dean Bainard had total control over Adam’s research design. What he allowed him to do for his doctorate would define his career options for the next ten years. If he still had the opportunity to have a fucking career.
Bainard’s fake smile did nothing to alleviate his icy stare.
Two more courses, nice. “Of course, sir.” The bastard wins, the university wins and I lose.
Bainard turned and nonchalantly took a book from the wall behind the desk. After opening it, he looked up in mock surprise. “Oh, you’re still here Adam? I almost forgot. Be sure to pick up your grant application papers from Mrs. Puff. You’ll need to complete them . . . along with your amended dissertation proposal. There’s no need to do a rush job on this, Mr. Zed. Just get it right.” He snapped the book shut. “That’ll be all.”
Myrtle Puff, Bainard’s gatekeeper, had already placed his to-do list on a manila envelope lined up exactly in the farthest corner of her desk.
He nodded. “Mrs. Puff.”
Without glancing from her keyboard she said, “Good morning Mr. Zed. I see you had another nice session with Dr. Bainard.”
“Yes, ma'am.” He picked up the envelope and placed it in the dry section of his backpack. “Thank you.”
Her eyes darted up from her typing to meet his. “Dr. Bainard doesn’t like his ABD students to move out of graduate housing, Mr. Zed.”
He stopped and turned. “I know, but to manage the cost of tuition I’m joining up with some old friends to share the rent. They’re all serious graduates working in the UPS Ph.D. Program. I’m in good company, Mrs. Puff.” He liked to say UPS because it sounded like the delivery guys and it took some starch out of Bainard’s Upper Peninsula State University Doctoral program.
“I’ll be sure that will put Dr. Bainard’s mind as ease, Mr. Zed.”
“Thank you Mrs. Puff.”
The Priss. Other coherent thoughts went AWOL until Adam pushed through the large metal doors and he saw the rain . . . again. Fuck.
Following his roommate’s lousy directions, he kept his head down and took North Avenue away from campus. He ignored the puddles and other students while replaying his argument with the asshole chairman of his dissertation What the fuck was he supposed to do? Bainard’s so-called counseling about his research options sucked. No human trials? He probably wouldn’t even have access to lab rats. What the fuck? No choices. No options. Just one more fucking ‘my way or the highway’ speech. If he weren’t up to his ass in student loans he’d take the damn highway.
Asshole.
Stopping under the leeward side of a large oak, he positioned his backpack against a miraculously dry spot on the tree and leaned on it while he wiped the screen of his handheld and checked his notes for the address Ducky had given him. He and Howard, aka Ducky had been close friends for the past six years. They were perfect roomies. They’d met at a small, religious, undergraduate college where no one wanted to room with a gay black guy and no one could stand Adam. For graduate school, they followed Adam who had enrolled at Upper Peninsula State in Minnesota, three semesters ago. The huge state school, only a short cold walk from Canada, easily met their diverse graduate degree aspirations.
He thumbed Ducky on his screen and waited.
A crisp, South African accent told him to leave a message.
“What the fuck, Duck? There’s no street address. I’ve walked my ass off. Where the hell are you?”
Two male students, also wearing hoodies and hunching up against the cold wind, approached from behind.
“Hey, guys, which way to Alpha Pi Delta?”
Without stopping, the tall one pointed ahead. “Two more blocks.”
The short one added in a stage whisper, “Fucking freaks.” They both laughed.
Not sure if they said freaks or geeks, Adam didn’t reply. It was one more reason he didn’t like the idea of renting a house on fraternity row with those Aryan bastards. Ducky said they would be a couple of streets away from campus on University Way, which was between Alpha Pi Delta and Alpha Lambda Zeta. Shit. He couldn’t wait to get warm and dry and score a cold one.
Digs
The increasing levels of crushed beer cans indicated proximity to his new digs. Perfect. The cold rain changed to sleet and Adam pulled the hoodie down over his forehead. Using the frat trash to release his pent up anger, he kicked the party debris with gusto.
His last kick sent a can careening off a metal pipe driven into the mud next to the curb. It gave a satisfying resounding clank. That one’s for you, Bainard. Trying to keep icy water out of his face, he raised his blue eyes, rather than his head, to check for an address. Someone had taped an old wooden plank to the curbside mailbox and written 420 with a thick black sharpie. It was a poor excuse for an address, even with its jagged arrow pointing to a broken concrete entryway.
Adam’s eyes followed the fractured path past a narrow front lawn boarded by two tall scraggly hedges in need of a serious trim. His eyes darted left and right glimpsing broken pots, partial bikes, pieces of water hose, large rocks, and four sagging wooden steps flanked by a mostly broken grey lattice panels that failed to hide the fucking pier and beam foundation. The steps led to a full width porch with two rusty swing chairs hanging on likewise chain and a dark green, hand-painted, old fashioned porch glider that went out of style and practically out of existence half a decade ago. More sharpie writing on the warped front door said,
WELCOM
The spelling was no worse than the letters it covered.
DELTA DELTA DELTA
Fuck a duck, it’s a former fucking fraternity house. That explained the mess. Testing the placement of each step, he edged toward to the door and finding it unlocked, cautiously pushed it open and entered. Warped floorboards, fractured walls, cobwebs, and an old lamp, minus its a light bulb, greeted him. The smell of mildew and stale beer assailed his cold nose, probably from the decrepit couch shoved into the corner. In a stunned daze, it was several moments before he noticed the faint, but familiar retro sound of the South African Jazz, drifting from or through the floors above. He laughed. The Rocket man, Major Tom Bates would soon be filling the halls with his favorite Swedish House Mafia cuts. But for now, he looked forward to seeing his roomie, the Howard Oates, the Duck.
Before announcing his arrival, he checked a few light switches. Surprise. Some worked. The hallway bulb highlighted a straight line of a dozen or so clean cardboard FedEx boxes tucked next to a staircase. In his meticulous fashion, Ducky had told everyone to ship their stuff ahead. Since Ducky had packed for both of them, he wondered what address he gave the rest of the gang and how the hell did the FedEx guy find this place?
Halfway up the first flight of stairs the front door slammed open then slammed shut. He spun around to catch a tall, slim woman racing up the stairs.
“Leslie?” In the shadows, he couldn’t be certain.
“Hey, Adam. Can’t talk. Late. Gotta go.” Her nasal New York accent lent urgency to her response.
She sped up the steps taking two at a time and breezed by his hanging high-five. She turned and disappeared in the shadows.
“That you, Adam?” a cultivated South African accent called. Between the flights of stairs he saw only the silhouette of a head looking down from the third floor.
“Hey, Duck, that was Leslie.”
“She late for something?”
“Seems like.”
Another door slammed shut and pounding footsteps from the second floor made him jump closer to the bannister making room for Leslie’s alarmingly careless descent in her mad dash for the door. It’d been a good two years since he last saw her at Villanova, but knowing her tendency to live in the moment, she probably didn’t remember the gap in time. Adam resisted another high-five attempt and hid his hand in his hoodie pouch as she breezed by. He waited to see if the rickety front door stayed attached. So far, so good.
“I didn’t get all our boxes, “ the head from above shouted. “Grab a couple on your way up. Third floor, straight ahead.”
Dropping two cardboard containers on the floor, Adam scanned the room. “Hey, Ducky, where the hell are you, man? And why are we on the third floor?”
“Gables, man, our own special place. Check it out,” Howard Ducky Oats shouted from behind a folding screen across the room.
Adam skirted the screen to find Ducky sitting stretched out in one of two overstuffed chairs, heels hooked on the windowsill, smoking a fat joker cone.
“I thought I smelled your dagga shit coming down the hall.”
His roommate held the joint out for a hit. “Sorry, dude. No dagga. This is local shit. You just missed the man.” He gestured toward the other chair. “Put up your feet and try some. It’s not bad.”
Adam needed no urging. Dragging on the weed, he hoped to ban Bainard from his mind. Time for him later. “You’re right, this gable’s a good nest. The long view across the street isn’t bad, either.”
“Ya mon, this is the best room. No other gable with such a view. What’s Leslie so stoked about?”
Adam shrugged and passed the joker back. “Don’t know. She’s always running somewhere. Always been kinda like perpetual motion.” He held his hand out for another hit. “Your map left a hell of a lot to be desired. You know, like an actual address or maybe the name of two frat houses. Yeah, man, that would’ve worked.”
Ducky rolled his eyes and changed smoking hands. “This place is run-down for a reason. Three of them to be precise. First, its address is really 420. Try to keep that from being stolen.”
“So, tell me.”
He pointed the Joker toward the street. “That there’s a fraternity house.”
“I’m happy for you, man. So, that’s why no one wanted this place?”
“No, I thought you would recognize the names of our two neighbors.” He smiled at a hidden secret, then laughed way beyond anything the joker did for him. “Both our neighbors are lesbian sororities. Word is, the frat boys in this house hassled them to where they brought suite. Women two, boys zero.” He slapped his hands. “Boom, boy’s gone.” His laughed and brought on a coughing fit and tried to catch his breath.
Ducky leaned over. “You okay?”
Adam waved his hand. “Would you believe it? That’s why Leslie’s in such a hurry. They’re probably both rushing for pledges and she heard the word, party. That or she saw someone from her window. Her room opens on both sides of the house so she has a good view into both sorority houses.”
He continued to cough and Adam opened the window wider and thumped his back and. “Do you think she’ll want to move out?”
Ducky waved him away. “No, man. It’s like a candy store. Leslie’s always saying she couldn’t get laid in a house full of women. Well now, she sits between two houses full of ‘em.” He slapped his hands. “And boom! She’s out da door.” He started to laugh again.
“I don’t believe it. You’re saying Leslie can’t get a date? How long has that been a problem?”
He shrugged and coughed once. “Don’t know. She made it sound like a long time. All the time we’ve known her and you never noticed?”
“How could I know she wasn’t getting any?”
The South African put a hand on Adam’s shoulder. “Look man, I’ve lived with you, close to six years now, and you got to face facts, my blue-eyed, pale skin, lab-rat sadist. You just don’t know people.”
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