by Jamie Nash
“You really think this is the U.S. Government? As in Jimmy Carter? Ronald Reagan?” Crazytown laughs. “You think those jokers could do something this big? Have you ever been to the post office or the DMV?”
“What about the Star Wars thing Ronald Reagan’s been talking about?”
“Nukes in space?” Shaft scoffed. “Yeah, that’s gonna happen.”
His sarcasm bugs me. In Star Trek, they always supported each other. Except for Bones. He was a bit of a dick. “Well, someone built this thing. Someone who subscribes to Tiger Beat.” I flash an issue with Scott Baio on the cover. They stare cluelessly. If only Charles was actually in charge right now. I need to do something. I click random buttons and throw various switches. “Maybe we can turn this thing around. Maybe it has an autopilot.”
“Or a self-destruct,” Shaft says.
Yeaaaah. Good point. I stop clicking. But still, we can’t just sit around staring at stars. I turn to Shaft. Light flickers off his face. The computer. It’s alive with activity. On the monitor, words appear one at a time.
NIAGARA. DENIED.
NIAGRAFALLS. DENIED.
HORSESHOE. DENIED.
MAID. DENIED.
The text appears one character at a time like it’s being typed by a ghost.
“Someone is trying to War Games this thing,” Crazytown says.
I glance back to the closed bulkhead doors. A grinding tickles my ears. The security camera turns to us. It’s them. Whoever they are.
More attempts scroll by.
BARRELS. DENIED.
ONTARIO. DENIED.
CANADA. DENIED.
MIST. DENIED.
The screen freezes. The cursor blinks. We just stare, waiting for the next thing.
One by one, new letters appear.
M-A-I-D-O-F-T-H-E-M-I-S-T.
The computer rewards it with a resounding bloop.
PASSWORD CORRECT.
A new response rolls out across the screen.
WELCOME NOMAD … HOW CAN I HELP YOU?
“Who’s the nomad?” I ask, not expecting an answer. “Us?”
More text spills across the display. Letter by letter, the phantom hacker types a response.
RUN SUBSYS
The screen responds by rolling out a list of choices.
1 – SENSORS
2 – PROPULSION
3 – NAVIGATION
4 – ENTERTAINMENT
5 – LIFE SUPPORT
Mr. War Games chooses number five.
I steal a glance at the ever-watching security camera. “What are they doing? Why would they choose life support?”
The boys have no answers. Or they’re too scared to voice them as if speaking their fears makes them real. A new menu washes over the old one. It’s gibberish to me, combinations of letters and numbers, hundreds of them.
1 – AS22
2 – EN01
3 – EN02
They remind me of license plates. Before we can read even a quarter of them, our mystery user selects “CR77.”
I turn to the placard above the Red Door. It matches. CR77 is this room. It’s us. “He’s trying to kill us,” I say.
“Maybe he’s turning on the air conditioning or filling the room with memory gas,” Shaft says.
Crazytown and I shoot him a look. Memory gas? Memory gas?
A flurry of commands and responses flash across the screen. My eyes barely follow. The codes and commands make no sense until the final string of words spools out in front of my eyes.
INITIATE SHUTDOWN SELECTED.
ARE YOU SURE?
The cursor blinks, a heartbeat. The response rolls out like a death sentence.
YES
LOADING …
I gulp. My lungs cramp. It’s probably just fear getting the best of me, but it feels like the oxygen has already left the room. Shaft wildly punches the keyboard. It does nothing. His keystrokes don’t even register on screen. It’s as if the keyboard has been detached from the computer. “We’re locked out,” he says.
LOADING ………
“No.” I scoot in beside Shaft and jab the space bar, the return key, the escape. Nothing works. I tug at the keyboard’s connective cable. It’s still tethered to the computer. We’re still connected. Why won’t it work?
LOADING ………………
I hit two keys at once, then three.
“Try control-alt-delete,” Crazytown coaches over my shoulder.
I try it. I try everything. Then I try everything again.
LOADING ……………………
I pound the heels of my fists against the entire damn thing. Pounding. Punching. Yelling.
LOADING …………………………
Shaft pulls me away. I want to punch him in the face, but he’s right. I can hammer at this thing all day and it’s not going to save us. I take a deep breath, sucking down some of that juicy air before it’s shut off. My lungs rise and fall … rise and fall.
It’s taking forever. Slow-ass computers.
I remember booting up Zork on one of these piece of junk Commodores, and it took half an hour. This ain’t Isaac Asimov. This science is still made by the people who came up with New Coke and Betamax players. There’s still time.
LOADING ………………………………………
I plant myself in front of the spying camera. “Stop this,” I say. I’m shaking. Doesn’t matter. I’ll make it work. Play the feeble girl card. “We’re people. Barely adults. This is murder.” The word ‘murder’ sends a chill through me. Someone is legit trying to slaughter us. I’m some dorky girl who tapes The Young & the Restless on VHS and plays with Barbies way past the appropriate age. No one has reason to kill me. No one.
More gears grind around us. Engines surge and swell in the echo chamber of the ceiling vents above. Shaft and Crazytown stare, lumps in their throat—Wild West outlaws staring up at the gallows.
LOADING ……………………………………………………………………
I grab the swivel chair, hoist it over my head, and hammer the monitor. Glass explodes. Plastic cracks. The monitor’s encasement caves like a smashed pumpkin on Halloween. Its wire and microchip guts spill out. I keep swinging, smashing, destroying everything in sight. I don’t want to leave a single microchip intact. I toss away the chair and break parts with my hands—pulling wires, stomping circuit boards. The machinery above us continues to sputter and crank.
The air feels dense, stale. My breathing is labored.
A pair of exposed cables that were once connected to the monitor snake around to the backside of the keyboard. That’s where the real computer is. The monitor is just a dumb echo box. The keyboard houses the brains. I slam it on the ground and bring the heavy chair wheels down on top of it.
The plastic shell snaps in half. The guts spill out. Green boards with microchips, wires, batteries, and power units. I keep smashing, breaking pieces. Then pieces of pieces.
Shaft puts a hand on my shoulder. “I think you got it.”
I stop, breathing fast, letting the adrenaline and anger drain from my shoulders and arms. The vents have settled into a less ominous hum. Our lungs are pumping, and we’re still alive. It worked.
For now.
“Why do they want to kill me?” Crazytown glares. “What did you do to them?”
Shaft slumps onto the floor. He’s pale and sweaty. His hands tremble. He’s not going to make it unless we do something.“They’re not gonna stop. We have to get out.” I shuffle toward the Red Door.
That damn camera follows me. My blood boils. I stop and stew for a second. I’ve had enough. I spin to it and stare right down the barrel. “You wanna watch?” I grab the chair. “Watch this.” I slam it into the camera. The blow knocks it from its perch and breaks its lens clear off. I pick up the remains of the camera and hurl it across the room, smashing it against the far wall. My body quivers with rage.
I’m not some damsel in a comic book. I’m a modern girl. A re
gular Mary Tyler Moore. I’ll be my own superhero, thank you very much.
I glare at the broken camera. What would Rambo do? Or a competent Girl Scout? I track a gentle buzzing. A new sound, playing over the constant droning. It’s coming from the Red Door. The tiny light on it now flickers, buzzing with every color change. It cycles through red and green. Green. Maybe it’s unlocked. Maybe if I time it just right.
I push my hands against the thick steel door and time it. When it goes green, I push, grunt, flex, giving it everything I’ve got. It doesn’t budge. Not an inch. Dumb. Rambo would’ve never done that.
I pound a bunch of keys on the pad. Nothing happens. That light keeps blinking like my VCR after a power failure. Maybe it got reset when I demolished the computer. I crouch down to eye level with the keypad. The flashing rhythm is almost hypnotic. Red-Red-Red. Green-Green. Red-Red-Red. It repeats. Red-Red-Red. Green-Green. Red-Red-Red. Red-Red-Red. Green-Green. Red-Red-Red.
“Door,” a voice from behind startles me.
It’s Hero.
He’s awake. Damn, I almost forgot about him. He’s missed all the excitement. Lucky him. “I’m here.” I shuffle over, crouch down, and squeeze his hand.
His head slumps onto the floor. “Door,” he mumbles again. “Door.”
“It’s locked. We can’t open it.”
“Me.” It takes a lot of effort, but he points to the door across the hall. “Open.”
“There’s no buttons or anything.”
“Me.” He shakes his head. “En … gin … eer.”
“Engineer?” I ask. “You’re an engineer? You can open the door?”
Hero nods emphatically.
Shaft’s weary head cranes toward us. He’s spying on the conversation. The Red Door’s light still buzzes. That same blinking pattern. Red-Red-Red. Green-Green. Red-Red-Red. Over and over.
Crazytown walks over and runs his hands against the solid metal. “He can open this? How?”
I turn up my hands. “He says he’s an engineer.”
“Like for a train?”
“No.” Idiot. “The sciencey kind that builds stuff.”
“Builds stuff.” Crazytown’s eyes rake across the gadget-filled room. “Like spaceships?”
I shrug. It’s a bit of stretch. But he was the first one out of the canisters. He seemed to have some knowledge of all these gizmos.
Crazytown rushes over, grabs Hero by the arms, and pulls in a tug of war with the door. Hero shrieks. “Come on!” Crazytown yanks with all his might. “Let’s get you out.”
Hero wails in pain. His legs stretch but don’t budge. He’s more likely to rip apart then slide out from under the door.
“Stop it!” I scream, which only makes Crazytown tug harder.
“Help me. We can get him out.”
Hero screams louder, sweat pouring out of him and veins bulging in his temples.
“You’ll kill him.” I shove Crazytown with both hands.
He slams against the wall. I shoved him a little harder than intended. It looks as though he might push back. I’d deserve it if he did. But he backs off, rubbing his arm and shoulder. “Stupid girl. I’m saving him. I’m saving us.”
“Not that way.” I drop my voice to a whisper, not wanting to rub salt into Hero’s wounds. “His legs are crushed under there. Down to the bone.”
“We all got problems, sweetheart.” Crazytown gestures to his blistery face. He stomps off and hits the button on the shutters revealing the stars. He sits on the panel and stares out in a huff. Good. Let him cool off.
“Code. Code.” He’s staring at the flashing light behind me.
“Code? What code?”
“Code.” He points at the door. “Code.”
“Like Morse code?” I whisper. I owned a toy walkie-talkie that had a chart of dots and dashes printed on it. Not that I bothered to learn that nonsense. Where’s an Eagle Scout when you need one?
“Code,” he says, losing breath.
I drift back to the Red Door to investigate and give him a little break. The blinking light has a rhythm to it, but it’s not robotic. It speeds up and slows down. I suspect someone is on the other side, tapping it out, smashing two wires together or something. The buzzing sounds are almost musical. Three reds, two greens, three reds. Three reds. Two greens. Three reds.
I tap my fingers against the wall. Three. Two. Three.
Three. Two. Three.
It’s not Morse code. It’s just a code. I rush to the Mystery Door and punch the sequence into the keypad.
3-2-3.
A shrill bloop answers. The heavy double doors swoosh open. An exhale of conditioned air wafts out, a released sigh. Beyond the doorway, a sterling white room awaits. It’s about the size of a living room. My living room. The paneled walls, the framed paintings that look like they were stolen from a Motel 6, the couch, the La-Z-Boy, the big clunky television with the ever-blinking VCR resting on top.
Okay, the memories are coming, but for now, I need to focus on now.
There’s blood on the floor. It’s still wet. It reflects the dim ceiling lights that are positioned around the room’s centerpiece—a pair of blood-stained operating tables. I shuffle inside. My feet land on large, open drainage vents in the floor. The room has a slight downward curve to it, probably for funneling liquid—blood—to this spot.
Nestled in the ceiling is a bulky contraption with eight robotic tentacles. It reminds me of that Spider-Man villain from the Saturday morning cartoons. Doctor Squid or whatever. The thick arms connect to a base resembling the engine of a racecar, and the whole monstrosity is attached to the wall via a series of volleyball-sized steel balls. The balls aren’t screwed into the ceiling. I’m guessing high-powered magnets. Nifty. It sits there like a giant spider waiting to pounce. Robo-spider.
The thing has some serious mileage on it. Panels are missing, circuitry is exposed, and a nest of tubes, wires, and valves hang out of it as if someone’s been tinkering with its insides for years. Sockets and access points cover the tips of its long, articulated arms. A large dome of green glass sits at the center of it.
An eye. Watching everything from its high perch.
Behind the weird machine, another one of those ever-watching security cameras spies down at us. Terrific, we’re back on Candid Camera. I salute it. “Hey, long time no see.”
Crazytown slips past me and approaches the robot. He strokes one of its thick steel arms. “Robot, arise.” It doesn’t. Thank God. “I said, arise.” He raises his hands like he’s summoning a demon. Again, nothing arises.
“This isn’t Lost in Space,” I say.
“Actually, it kind of is.” Crazytown turns his gaze to the wall at my right. It’s like some handyman’s garage—filled with all kinds of saws, drill bits, cabinets, and bags. It’s a medical supply closet. The gear is organized to near OCD precision.
“The W.I.T.C.H. Doctor,” Shaft whispers in a pained voice. He slips just inside the door and waves to another damned Commodore 64. It’s labeled with a piece of tape with writing in thick black marker—“W.I.T.C.H.”
I shudder. Another computer. I should get the swivel chair and smash it to bits.
A pair of rubbery, black controllers live beside it. Atari joysticks. I’ve logged countless hours of Pitfall on controllers just like these. But somehow, I doubt these babies are being used for Missile Command or Adventure. On the computer screen, words flash.
TRANSPLANT COMPLETE.
That’s a terrifying thought. I wouldn’t let this piece of junk take my temperature let alone swap out my pancreas. I wonder if they survived.
Crazytown lifts something pink and frilly from the floor. “Someone forgot their robe,” he says. “Must be out there free-balling it.” He offers it to me, such a gentleman.
I slide it on. It warms my still damp suit. I tighten the waist belt and check the fit. Not bad. I stop short of doing a model twirl. It’s kind of nice. Comforting. Then I remember the blood on the floor. Shit. Its last owner probably
got murdered in it.
“Check these out.” Crazytown plucks a large, jagged saw off the wall and swipes it through the air. “Badass.”
Shaft whips his face out of the way, barely ducking a blade to the eye. “Please don’t swing that around me.”
Crazytown wrinkles his nose and skips back into the control room like he’s Peter Pan fighting Captain Hook.
“He’s gonna poke his eye out,” Shaft says.
“As long as it’s not my eye.” I trace my fingers against one of the blades affixed to the wall. It’s solid and sharp. Meant for business. The wall is covered with medical junk of various sizes—scalpels, drills, vices, and tubes. The equipment isn’t as pristine as you’d expect in the medical field. They’ve been used, dulled, cleaned, and used again. A low growl of machinery rumbles above us. The vents again. I steal a glance at the Commodore 64. It sits idle. It’s not the culprit, but it’s only a matter of time before our murderous hacker pal comes back for more. “We need to do something.”
“Yeah,” Shaft slumps onto the surgical bed, allowing Spike to stick up in the air. “What the hell is this place? Is there anything you remember? Besides your name?”
My cheeks and face feel warm with embarrassment. I’m an idiot for lying to him before. “Well, I don’t have a dog named Toto.”
He smiles. It’s a nice smile. “No. I didn’t think so.”
“I can remember stupid stuff. I know all the words to that Chia Pet song. And my favorite movie is Grease 2. And I went to an R.E.M. concert but can’t remember any of the songs.”
“You’re worse than me.” He grunts or chuckles. It’s hard to tell. “And Grease 2? Really? Not even the first Grease?”
Who is this guy? Siskel and Ebert? He’s lucky he has a steel bar sticking out his gut. “What’s your favorite? Let me guess, Star Wars? Every dumbass boy says Star Wars.”
“It was. Now it hits a little too close to home.” He examines his gut. The metal shard has shifted inside of him. He starts to cough and gag at the sight of it.
“You shouldn’t move around so much.” I put a hand on his arm.
He closes his eyes and grits his teeth. His chest settles. “Bambi,” he says. His voice is weak as if he’s half asleep. “My favorite movie is Bambi.”
I frown.
