A team of four doctors, two chemists and three lab assistants were assigned to begin work on the island, fully unaware that thisnew facilityhad actually been built on an existing, partially erected structure from the 1920’s by a stark-raving madman and a slew of underpaid private laborers who just wanted to go home.
Surely, the team of Project Alabaster weren’t expecting anything too fancy. But the concrete building left much to be desired. Not only was it not at all what they’d been expecting, but it was mind-bogglingly confusing. They spent the first three weeks on assignment just trying not to get lost.
Nonetheless, they had a job to do. And that job was one so confidential, they weren’t even allowed to go home to their families until it was deemed acceptable by the FBI. The stone house that had been built there in the twenties was converted into living quarters for them—more than enough space, but still not exactlyhomey. But they made do, because they had to.
Not only did the public not know what was happening on this island just five miles south of Montauk… They didn’t even know it existed. It was purposely left off of all maps, and anyone who’dever seen or heard about it was bound by nondisclosure so strict, it was enforced by the CIA.
And they’d killed two of the most public and influential figures of the last hundred years, so you know… They’re not to be trifled with.
Based on the secretive nature of Project Alabaster, one can only assume something nefarious was happening on that island. And those assumptions would be correct. But, it was nefarious with the common goal of the advancement of science and human civilization in mind, which makes it okay.
During the two years that Project Alabaster operated on that island, twenty-five test subjects were brought over by ferry—a dock had been built, as well as a runway so that the government officials could pop in by charter plane when they wanted to see how things were progressing.
That never happened.Not once.
Most of the test subjects were, as the CIA would say,throw-aways. Meaning transients, the homeless, or those suffering and alone. Andyes, they were human.
That fact wasn’t made transparent to the Illuminati-esque board of silent benefactors until the project was already in progress, though it’s highly unlikely they would have objected. But it was initially proposed as an animal testing facility, which is equally yucky.
Either way, it was a horrible place, using human beings as test subjects in experimental processes. Everything from cloning to disease research that the CDC wouldn’t touch with a ten-foot pole.
The problem—or let’s say, one of many—was that the facility wasn’t built for such work. Sure, they had some equipment, but John James Josephson III had designed it as more of a penitentiary than a lab.
He’d modeled it after Alcatraz, with notes of the Blackwell’s Island—known today as Roosevelt Island—Women’s Lunatic Asylum. Keeping with the theme of accessibility, and taking regular advice from the voices in his head, the facility at Alabaster was an eight-hundred thousand square-foot concrete anomaly with three levels and only one set of stairs. Prison cells, group showers, one cafeteria, and an entire wing of rooms with no functional purpose.
It was only a matter of time before something bad happened.Inevitable disasterwas sort of the running theme of Alabaster Isle, after all.
Two years into the project, there was a boiler explosion that not only killed several people and maimed several more, but also set fire to one of the labs, thus destroying much of the research and contaminating an entire wing.
No one was quite sure exactly how it happened, as seemed to be the standard for the island.
Nevertheless, the FBI pulled the plug on Project Alabaster, the facility was labeled a biohazard, and the entire island was condemned. Shut down, roped off, and left to rot as another immoral black mold-ridden page in our country’s dark history.
That is until nearly sixty years later, when the island was given as a gift, to someone with an equally evil force of energy.
Someone who would accept the key, and willingly reopen the gates of Hell.
THE HISTORY OF ALABASTER ISLE
Part II: Ivory
Upbringing shapes a person. Family,lineage… it matters.
But it doesn’t have todefineyou.
I believe that was what my father was trying to make sure I understood.
Yea, it didn’t really work out.
But we’ll get to that.
I was born in Cartagena, Colombia, to Sebastían and Mariana Blanco. My father was in construction, and my mother made jewelry, which obviously didn’t bring in much money, but she didn’t do it for that. My father’s work supported our family, she just liked feeling like she was contributing, while doing something she enjoyed.
My parents were big on everyone pulling their own weight. As soon as I was old enough, I helped take care of the house and did side work with my father. He wanted me to learn the value of a hard day’s work, independence, and utilizing your skills to build your empire.
But make no mistake, when my father spoke ofempire, he didn’t mean becoming wealthy. He believed that a legacy could look different for everyone. It could be raising your children right, starting a successful business, providing for your family.Whatever gave your life purpose, and having purposewasbeing rich in my father’s eyes.
He was a man of principle, and integrity. What he didnotbelieve in was lying, cheating, and stealing to make a buck. And because of that, he was vehemently against involvement in the Colombian cartel.
