Pharmacological Research Gone Berserk

Pharmacological Research Gone Berserk

(Needed: volunteers)

by

James W. Nelson

Copyright 2011 by James W. Nelson

Published by James W. Nelson at Smashwords, 2022

Dedicated to all the people working in the Medical field

Primum non nocere Latin phrase: First, do no harm

Table of Contents

Introduction

Chapter 1 Wakeup

Chapter 2 Suspicion

Chapter 3 Breakfast

Chapter 4 The Mall

Chapter 5 The Night

Chapter 6 Underwater in Symphony

Chapter 7 The Walk Home

Chapter 8 Lord Cigarette

Chapter 9 Delilah

Chapter 10 False Alarm

Chapter 11 Otter Creek

Chapter 12 Natalie

Chapter 13 The New Volunteers

Chapter 14 Psychopath Among Us

Chapter 15 Date With Nataliec16

Chapter 16 Patrick Durant

Chapter 17 Electroencephalogram

Chapter 18 The Straw is Broken

Chapter 19 Assault

Chapter 20 Danger: Radioactive Meal

Chapter 21 The Article

Chapter 22 The Student Nurses

Chapter 23 At Last, Purpose

Chapter 24 Constipated

Chapter 25 The Gift

Chapter 26 The Ring

Chapter 27 The Tempting

Chapter 28 Morning Must Come

Chapter 29 Victims

Chapter 30 Disclosure

Chapter 31 Farewell, New Friends

Characters

Books by James W. Nelson

Descriptions

Biography

Contact

Introduction

Pharmacological Research Gone Berserk (Needed: Volunteers)

(A medical mystery)

A test of will power, a romance, some humor, a little sex & a little violence.

While going to the bathroom in the dead of night, Shea McTory witnesses a gurney disappearing into a darkened elevator. Was one of the volunteers lying on it? Is something going on in secret? Something maybe illegal? Maybe even dangerous? Standing at his partly-opened, private door, after rubbing both sleep-starved eyes, he sees the night nurse back on her station and everything is quiet again. So, did he see something suspicious, or not? Was he maybe even hallucinating? He has no idea, but what he thinks he saw will bother him all night, and later challenge and antagonize him. The conditions he's living under will prevent any open investigation...any wrong move could even get him kicked out of the study.

Where he's living could be compared to a Prisoner-of-war camp. Prisoners-of-war live in a place likely cold and dirty, they eat only what they’re given, and their bathroom is likely a can. And they’re locked up. They probably are allowed a little exercise but can go nowhere. I’ve never been a prisoner-of-war, so I don’t know, exactly, what happens, but I can imagine, and I’m pretty sure a prisoner-of-war camp is not a very nice place.

This novel is not about a prisoner-of-war camp. But there are some similarities. Nutrition research volunteers live in a warm and clean facility but are absolutely locked up. They can go to movies, the mall, bookstores, pretty much whatever, but their every move out in the regular world is chaperoned. No candy, no pop, no cigarettes, no alcohol, no sex, not even a public water fountain, no anything that people living a normal life can have anytime they want.

      Life at MEAL, the Metabolism & Excretion Analysis Laboratory, is not a normal place. Men--volunteers--living there are told what to eat, when to eat, how much to eat, and definitely how to go to the bathroom. At the end of their meals they’re required to clean their dishes, literally, to lick them clean, so that they get every drop of nutrition measured out for each individual volunteer. There’s lots of free time, but tests like electrocardiograms, electroencephalograms, underwater weighing, controlled exercise, etc., go on all week. So, it’s not really like a prisoner-of-war camp, and nobody gets tortured or brutalized.

      And even though they signed their name and get paid for living under these conditions for up to six months at a time, they still have the option of stopping, of quitting. And that’s the clincher, what makes living at MEAL similar to, but also way different from, a prisoner-of-war camp: Any time they can’t take it a moment longer, they can leave.

      The real test is emotional: frustrations build, tempers flare, love affairs, friendships, hatreds, develop.

Chapter 1 Wakeup

The need to urinate broke into Shea McTory's dream. Where the hell was he? Rain was spattering on the dark window. Lightening flashed. The huge cottonwood across the alley became visible.

Then he remembered. The nutrition research lab. For months. And still he wasn’t accustomed to the somewhat different living conditions. Somewhat? Likely no place on earth like it.

And he had to piss. That happened sometimes on rainy, cold nights. Or, could be his period. One of the things the lab had learned, that males too had monthly periods, or as they called them at the lab, water cycles. Whatever.

His dream too had been full of water. And a certain woman. They had been dang close to consummating their relationship, and how many times had that happened in his dreams? Then he had to piss. No wet dream. Hell no.

He swung his legs to the floor, sat blinking for a few seconds, then slipped his sandals on, rose, and headed for the door.

****

Trying to keep the noisy latch quiet Shea pulled the door open. Natalie, the night nurse, sat at her desk. He always had erotic dreams when she came on duty at eleven, when everybody was supposed to be asleep. Strange how that worked. Rich brunette hair the color of German chocolate hung in curls to past her shoulders. At the moment she had her head down.

It didn't matter if she saw him. Just a matter of privacy. Had to do with what the volunteers were required to do there. Staff had said no need for embarrassment, but with Natalie he felt some embarrassment.

He stepped into the hall, pulled the door back to the latch but did not close, then started across the darkened floor. About ten feet to the well-lit bathroom. He made it without her looking up.

Inside, he shaded his eyes from the brightness, groped toward the refrigerator, and pulled the magnet sealed door. His jug sat in front. One gallon. Blue label. His name: MCTORY. How did his always manage to reach the front? He snatched it and entered one of the private cubicles, made his urine deposit, returned the jug to sit with the other color-coded labels, but pushed his to the back. Each volunteer could have memorized his own color. Then they wouldn’t have had to put their names on the bottles. But hell no. Some dumbass would have forgotten and pissed in somebody else's piss.

At the door he covered his eyes and waited a few seconds for his eyes to readjust, then pushed the door open. Now if he could just get back to his room without Natalie looking up. What he would like would be to stride gallantly to the office, lay her down on the desk and let nature take its course. And that time of day just quadrupled his desire.

But what a dream. What a dreamer.

He didn’t like the idea of using a desk for sex anyway. He had seen people in the movies do it, but he thought it was stupid, and it had to be very uncomfortable, especially for the woman.

It wasn't a sound. Not a shadow. But something made him look first down the hall opposite of Natalie. What the hell? One of those stretchers-on-wheels being pushed down the hall? It disappeared.

He blinked three or more times then saw, vaguely, but yes, the elevator door closing. But there was no interior light. He thought not anyway. So damn dark. He blinked several more

times. Or had he seen nothing?

No movement now.

He glanced toward Natalie. No movement there either. Not at her desk. Fine, so he didn't get to glimpse her again. Fine. So he didn't expect she stayed in one spot all night. He slipped back to his room. Done. He had gotten his privacy.

Back in bed he wondered about the stretcher-on-wheels. Had there been a body on it? If so, who? Why in the middle of the night? And why apparent secrecy? He didn't wonder long. Sleep came quickly in that place, and dreamland. Had to be the food.

****

Shea's morning erection had grown out of his boxer shorts and was rock solid. A woman opened his door. He knew her. He knew the rosy cheeks. That lush hair. But he couldn't quite make out her face. He could not see definitely who she was. She stepped through the cracked-open door with a beam of light, then closed the door and glided to his bedside.

Waves of passion swept him but he knew what she would do. Nothing that he wanted. But wait. What was she doing? Pulling the sheet back? Exposing his erection? Then she knelt, and caressed the top of his upper right thigh. Then she leaned toward him, her lovely mouth opening wide—three knocks on his door.

Vital signs, Shea. Good morning.

He awoke instantly and turned onto his right side. His rock solid erection shrank like a deflated balloon. The pitiable thing remaining retreated into his shorts, the sheet and the blanket. She wouldn't see it, and, again, would not know of his lust for her.

In the crack of light she stood, clipboard in hand, stethoscope around her neck, white sleeveless pullover smock reflecting morning from the hallway. Her rosy cheeks glowed as if she had just come in from zero degrees weather.

Morning, Natalie.

She closed the door to its crack and walked to his bedside. She sat next to him. Human contact. So comforting. So arousing but he must control that. She inserted a thermometer into his waiting mouth, grasped his wrist, checked her watch, finally smiled her professional smile.

After a moment he knew she had finished the count of his pulse. But she continued holding his wrist, occasionally glancing at his chest rising and falling. Her way of measuring his respiration. The other nurses would just drop his wrist and stare at his chest. But Natalie did it her way, and he enjoyed the extended contact. Natalie could hold his wrist as long as she wanted.

He lay quietly gazing at the smooth shape of her face. Those lips. Full, perfectly shaped. Kissable. He ached to kiss them, to merge with her. The core of his groin stirred.

She released his wrist. The stir stopped.

Blood pressure next. She began wrapping the pressure cuff around his upper arm while his hand at times dangled close to her breast. Then she pumped the inflation bulb till circulation seemed threatened, placed the stethoscope on the lower part of his arm beside the cuff, finally gazed at the manometer, watching the liquid in the tube gauge rise and then fall.

Efficient Natalie was. Blood pressure was the best time for seeing the sharpness in her eyes, and the softness. Her brown eyes held everything he had ever wanted. But today they seemed, sunken, as if she felt distressed by something.

130 or 80. Not bad, Shea.

His blood pressure was lower with the other nurses. Funny thing about that. At last she removed the thermometer, checked it, made her entries. The thermometers were outdated but handy to keep the volunteers from talking until the nurses were finished. Ditto for blood pressure, outdated in the new millennium but the lab had decided to keep the antiquated operations specifically for the volunteers psyche: better human contact with the nurses.

He wanted to ask, what? What could he ask? Why her eyes were sunken? Yeah, right. Make her feel real good about herself. But he had to say something, to at least remind her he was alive. Probably something stupid, How about letting me listen. Yes, stupid. But he did want to compare the sound. He pointed to the stethoscope, Ya got time?

Sure. She transferred the tips from her ears to his, then again pumped up the pressure.

Fabum Fabum Fabum

Wow, that's my heart beating? Didn't sound the same as with other nurses. He had checked with two. Definitely more intense with Natalie doing vitals.

Her smile glistened. The sunkenness of her eyes seemed to fade as her brow furrowed slightly and those deep eyes seemed to look right into his, for a second. No longer. Not exactly. She began rising, It's a combination of your heartbeat and the pressure of your blood as I release pressure from the cuff. Sounds kind of strange, huh?

Yeah. From the close distance he had also seen faint freckles on the upper part of her nose splaying onto her cheeks. But, vital signs finished. So was his favorite time of day. She remained close. Backlighting from the hall caused an aura in her rich-textured hair. He rose to his right elbow, had almost forgotten, Natalie, did something happen last night?

Happen?

Worded poorly. Totally groggy in the morning. Had to be the food, Yeah, with one of the other volunteers?

I don't know, Shea. We haven't had our morning meeting yet. She gazed at him, obviously needing more information, Do you know of something happening?

I don't know. He rubbed his eyes, then his forehead, Probably dreaming.

She stood for a second longer, clasping that hard clipboard over her front with both arms, as if covering herself would lessen his lust for her, as if anything could.

Meet you at the scales then?

Yes, ma'am. Then she was gone, so quickly sometimes as to have never been there at all. He glanced at his lighted digital clock. Six as usual. He threw the covers back, swung his legs, felt for his erection. Long gone. Really gone. Strong was his will power. Ha! Someday he would throw that will power right out the window. Yeah, right.

Sandals. Cutoffs. He slipped the articles on and headed for the door. Will power. What a laugh. Natalie should have been his to chalk up long ago. Yeah. Right!

****

Next stop the restroom. Shea, five-feet-ten, glanced at himself in the mirror as he passed, ran his hand through dark wavy brown hair. If straight it would have hung halfway to his shoulders, but rather it rambled as if styled that way. Good fortune with hair he attributed to the weeks sometimes his hair had gone without washing, and the buildup of oils. It probably would never need conditioner again. Dark eyebrows and lashes and dark blue eyes matched his hair.

He stared at the refrigerator. What an unholy piece of technology for what it contained. A jug of his urine as well as jugs from five other nutrition research live-in volunteers. But duty called. And nature. And Natalie would soon be waiting for him in the exercise room.

Ah, if only she waited just for him. But she would wake the others too, and take their vital signs. He winced at that. Natalie, sitting beside them on their beds too, and they all probably experiencing similar fantasies.

He jerked the refrigerator door open. The blue-labeled jug sat there. Right in front again. Highlighted. His piss for the last twenty-four hours. He grasped it, slipped into a cubicle, removed the cap, unzipped, pulled out his penis, aimed and released. What a sound. His piss joining more of his piss in a plastic gallon jug with his name on it.

Finished. He shook out. The lab wanted every last drop. No cheating. And not that he considered cheating. But the idea of what went on there. Piss in the bottle. Shit in the bag. He chuckled, zipped up, pushed through the cubicle door, had just about replaced his jug when the swinging door opened.

Damn. He liked to get out of there and get finished weighing and showered and back to his room without having to face any of the other guys before breakfast. No such luck.

How ‘bout that babe, huh?

The ex-sailor. Shea gazed at the blocky young man, the shoulder length, stringy straight red hair, and tried denying Natalie had sat on his bed too, and had held his wrist. But denial was impossible. It was her job.

Morning, Ballard. He pushed his jug to the back, closed, headed for the door, but could not help hearing Ballard's second comment, That woman don't shit, man. She candies.

Brutally, he pushed through the restroom door, didn't consider that someone might be entering, until the bump. He pulled back, then opened more carefully. A man about six and a half feet tall with dark brown eyes, black hair, metal-rimmed glasses, stood there, evidently shaken.

Sorry, Galloway.

So what's the hurry, Shea? Always needing a shave and older than Shea's thirty-one years, Galloway was his best friend at the lab. And he had almost flattened the man's face.

Just anxious to get weighed and showered. Already irritated at Ballard, he would as soon avoid Ballard's and Galloway's skirmishes too, which could happen at any time and any place, See you at breakfast.

He hurried toward the exercise room where he knew Natalie would by then be waiting, and part two of his favorite time of day, at least favorite when Natalie did the wakeups.

Rendezvous with your sweetie, eh? Galloway called.

He waved without turning. Yes, Galloway would think that. He passed Nurse Alison in the hall, Oh, morning, Alison. Alison waved but barely looked at him, and he barely noticed her because he barely knew her. He did notice her face looked kind of taut, though. Alison usually worked only nights and did most of the wakeups. No pounding heartbeats and rampaging erections on those mornings, and not that she wasn't good looking. She was okay, but she wasn't Natalie. Natalie didn't often wake him, and that was all right with him, for if she woke him that meant the end of her shift.

Strange Alison would be there for the day shift.

But he thought no more about Alison, and slowed just before turning the corner. Clipboard against her front Natalie waited, that professional smile glowing. Oh yes, she’s my sweetie. Yeah, and he had the world by the ass too.

****

Shea stepped from his sandals onto the scales. He watched Natalie's delicate hand tap the slider. He always looked for a ring but never saw one. But not seeing one didn't mean anything. Lots of married people wore no ring, for whatever reason he did not care. With Natalie he cared. He wanted to know but did not ask. She was so close. He could smell her fragrance, could feel her body heat.

His penis began erecting. He stared down at his groin. Yes, cutoffs already bulging. He felt hot all over—Damn it!

The slider at last reached the right number and the bar hovered in balance. Seventy-four kilos, Shea. Natalie wrote his weight on her chart, Three days in a row.

Thank God. He stepped from the scales and turned away enough so that she wouldn't see, bent slightly and brushed at his groin. The jerky movement loosened his penis enough so that it at least curved upward and did not, horrors, slide into view.

And thank God for the consistency in his weight, which rose and fell in cycles. His reprieve was good for another day. They would not change the calorie level of his diet and he would not have to eat any more of that fat-saturated…he hesitated to call it food.

Seventy-four kilos, Churchill. Natalie called out his weight.

Oh no. He had forgotten. Physical work capacity. His absolutely least favorite weekly test. He looked at Natalie as if she could help him. She stood smiling her professional smile, clipboard across her front, See you next week, Shea.

Next week? He swung toward her, then remembered the bulge in his cutoffs and swung away again, But it's only Monday.

I have the week off. She sobered. For a second her eyes took on that sunken look again. Some problem burdened her. Then the professional smile came back, I have some personal matters to attend to. No, an almost-smile. Her eyes had not gotten into it that time.

Okay. His very soul went out to her. He wanted to help her. He would do anything for her, but knew he could do nothing, for the look in her eyes said man. She had some problem with a man. Who? Husband? Ex-husband? Boyfriend? And he stuck here? Nothing he could do. Nothing. Except, Bye. Good luck.

In turning, her eyes stayed in his for one second longer than usual, as if she knew how he felt, wanted his help, but knew he could not help, knew he was a part of this research for a specified length of time and could not leave outside of a near act of Congress. He had his duty. She had hers. Then she was gone.

A week. A week! His mettle drained right out of him.

We're waiting, Shea.

Instinctively he grazed his groin with his hand. His erection was gone. And why wouldn't it be? Natalie gone for a week. He did not know how he could survive without her.

But he did turn, and faced his duty.

Chapter 2 Suspicion

From the area of the Ergo cycle three people gazed quietly at Shea. Churchill, research physiologist, red hair, beard, moustache, stood staunch at the heart monitor with electrodes in hand. Roper, exercise physiology technician, light brown hair, clean-shaven, powerfully built, stood solid beside the Ergo cycle with mouthpiece in hand. Melanie, also exercise physiology technician, blonde, slender, stood, sensitively, by the chair, with syringe in hand. And all, likely, had noticed his erection, for sure how he had grabbed at it.

Melanie had him first, How are you, Shea?

I'm fine. But not totally fine. He sat in the plastic chair she offered. Pre-exercise blood draw. He extended his right arm, considered asking if any of them knew what had happened the night before. Certainly someone knew.

She applied a rubber tourniquet, swabbed with isopropyl alcohol, inserted the needle, and his mind went to something besides what had happened, or not, the night before.

A spurt of red soon filled the syringe. Melanie removed the needle, pressed a swab over the wound, held it tight while he doubled his arm. She smiled, There you go, Shea.

Next a session of dabbing goop to secure the three chest electrodes, the placing of a terribly uncomfortable nose clamp, and a horribly uncomfortable mouthpiece leading to the basal metabolic measurement cart, portable equipment which brought Melanie bi-weekly to each volunteer's room before wakeup.

Pre-exercise warm up, Shea. Churchill, a man of few words, hung onto the electrode wires, guided him onto the raised platform, and settled him onto the Ergo cycle. Roper attached the cart's tube to his mouthpiece. Now to sit relaxed for five minutes, breathing, while his expelled breath was measured.

The easy part, and went quickly.

Begin on the top of the minute, Shea. Roper pointed to the timer. Twenty seconds of bliss remaining to prepare his mind, if not his body, for the task.

Ten seconds.

Churchill snapped on the metronome, Five seconds. which caused an irritating blinking red light and an even more irritating clicking that he must get into rhythm with.

Three seconds.

He gripped the Ergo cycle's handles. His legs tensed.

Begin!

He began pumping. His heart rate moved quickly from a restful 60 to about 90, then settled out as he worked into the rhythm. His mind left the lab and followed Natalie. Her last duty, having been there all night, was wakeup. He never knew beforehand who would come for the night, when all were asleep. Usually Alison, and again he wondered what she was doing there for the day shift. Again it didn't matter. When Natalie came for wakeup, inevitably those were the mornings of his best dreams and most powerful erections. Never failed.

Increasing resistance, Shea. Roper always gave him a few seconds warning. How long had he been pumping? Five minutes? Ten? Was this a regular physical work capacity? Or the exhaustion one? He never remembered to ask, and with the hated mouthpiece now could not. Didn't matter anyway for his duty was simple. Breathe and pump his legs.

Roper increased the resistance. Shea's legs and mind pushed to the task. His heart rate climbed to 110, but again settled out as his mind went to Natalie, NATALIE, NATALIE!

Time passed. Churchill and Roper discussed football.

Puffing now, he knew his eyes were staring, probably protruding. And again Roper increased the resistance. Must be the exhaustion one. He bent to the task. He watched his heart rate zoom to 130, though still not his record of 150. Idly he wondered if anyone ever died on the Ergo cycle. He knew guys came from all over the country to volunteer, and some did not exactly describe the homey life. They could die here and probably nobody would notice.

A vision of the stretcher-on-wheels slipped through his mind. Only this time it carried a body under a white sheet. Did somebody die last night?

The thought distracted him, distracted his legs.

Out of sync with the metronome.

What's wrong, Shea? Churchill's voice.

Shea jerked toward him. Then he felt Roper's hand on his shoulder, patting, You don't have long left, Shea.

He faced the clicking metronome and the blinking red light, and willed himself to get back into sync.

That'a boy, Shea. The gentle Roper kept patting him, then squeezed and released, You're back in stride.

Damn, did they care