Apocalypse Drift

by Joe Nobody

  When it was her turn, the young Asian woman placed her purse on the x-ray machine’s rolling belt and then inserted Susie’s ID card into the proper slot. A few nervous seconds later, she heard a humming noise, punctuated by the metallic sound of a latch being disengaged, and the revolving turnstile was free.

  Two months ago, Lee had installed a GPS tracking software on Susie’s phone. The spying device had recorded Susie’s movements and voice conversations. The stand-in had studied her movements, stance, and voice recordings. Her performance was worthy of an Academy Award.

  After retrieving her purse, the woman avoided the elevators, choosing the less traveled staircase instead. Two flights up, she exited to the right, striding just a little too deliberately to a cubicle. When a mere ten minutes passed, she removed the 32-gigabyte thumb-drive from the workstation and switched off the computer.

  The replacement Susie retrieved her purse and immediately stepped to the ladies’ restroom, choosing a stall and securing the door. Taking a seat, the impersonator withdrew a small envelope of green powder from her jacket pocket. Holding the mixture of herbs and spices close to her nose, she inhaled deeply and then relaxed, waiting on the effect.

  Within the hour, the snorted concoction began to do its job. The woman’s throat became irritated and her vocal cords constricted. Her now raspy voice was accompanied by red, puffy, watering eyes and a sniffling nose. Gathering her wits, she proceeded to execute the most difficult part of the mission. Approaching the supervisor’s office door, she casually looked inside to verify the boss was at his desk. Three raps sounded on the doorframe, causing the middle-aged man to look up from his paperwork.

  “Good morning, Susan, how was your weekend?”

  This was it – the hardest part. The substitute’s heart raced in her chest, and she could feel her cheeks flushing, adding to the powder’s effect. She dabbed at the moisture in the corner of her eyes, and her voice sounded terrible. “It was fine – thanks for asking. I think I’ve caught something though. I don’t feel very well.”

  A look of concern crossed the supervisor’s face. “I saw a report on the news last night, and flu season is in full swing. I think you should see a doctor – take a few days and get some rest.”

  The conversation was going just as they had predicted it would during her briefing. Her pulse slowed and confidence sat in. “Yes, I think that’s a good idea.”

  The replacement then lowered her head slightly. In a low voice she continued, “Thank you for the concern.”

  Spinning his chair quickly to open a file drawer, the man pulled the proper form out of the cabinet. “Take as long as you need, Susan. I hope you feel better soon. I’ll fill this out and take it to human resources today.”

  She responded with the perfect viral sequence. A sniffle and sneeze, followed by the unmistakable sound of her blowing her nose all preceded the weak, “Thank you.”

  “No problem, Ms. Wilkes; go on home and get well.”

  Ten minutes later, the White Honda pulled out of the parking lot.

  Within an hour, a complete copy of the IRS’s computer source code was being transmitted, routed, and re-routed over the internet. The final destination - Beijing.

  Four days passed when a county sheriff’s deputy pulled into the farm’s driveway. The man hired to feed and care for the horses detected a horrible smell of death coming from the barn and found Susie’s body. He notified the sheriff’s office immediately.

  Susie was discovered in the barn next to Baygirl’s stall. The back of her head had been crushed by what appeared to be a kick from the nearby horse.

  Section One

  The Downdraft

  Chapter 1

  AP Press Release – Oakland, California – U.S.A. 08:00 December 1, 2016

  Oakland’s Police Commissioner, Roger T. McLain, announced today that the city is issuing a warning to visitors of California’s eighth largest city. Commissioner McLain explained that the police force is no longer capable of protecting tourists and other visitors to the area. The 30-year veteran lawman detailed the situation during a press conference held this morning at city hall. According to McLain, the warning is precipitated by a series of events that have unfolded over the last three months. “A combination of budget cuts, a depressed economy, and the resulting rise in violent crime degraded my department’s ability to respond to emergency situations. Unless absolutely necessary, we are advising casual travelers, sightseers and vacationers to avoid Oakland until a resolution can be found.”

  The Greater Oakland Chamber of Commerce protested the announcement, calling on city hall to do its job and provide protection to residents, businesses, and area visitors. “This announcement will only serve to further damage economic interests in the community. The police department has lost several lawsuits in the last few months due to its own incompetence, and this is just a kneejerk reaction,” stated Bernard Winslow, spokesman for the organization.

  Other experts agreed with Mr. Winslow’s assessment. Global statistics released by the United Nations Office on Drugs and Crime indicate that Oakland’s safety rank is comparable to some third-world nations. A rash of robberies, homicides, and other gang-related violence has plagued the bay area city for the last few years. State and federal courts have awarded huge sums to the victims and families. The city reported its insurance premiums have increased more than 300% in the last two years alone.

  Oakland isn’t the first metropolitan area to resort to such drastic measures. Detroit’s Chief of Police issued a similar warning in 2012. In 2014, Trenton, New Jersey attempted to privatize that city’s law enforcement, resulting in several months of chaos. During that period, curfew restrictions all but eliminated visitors to the east coast city.

  In 2013, Chicago invoked a similar warning for the south side of the nation’s third largest city. Escalating drug-related violence triggered record numbers of homicides in the Windy City that year.

  The National Federation of Law Enforcement Officers places the blame squarely on staff reductions. The NFLEO issued a statement today, citing an overall reduction of 119,000 officers from 2010 levels throughout the continental United States. Ongoing budget difficulties, erosion of the tax base, inflation, and seven years of recession initiated these deep cutbacks.

  Beijing, China

  January 11, 2017

  Wu Ling Chi leaned back in the chair, careful not to tip over the rickety contraption. Despite his meager 27 years, he was fatigued, aching, and even a little cramped here and there. He stretched his arms over his head while arching his lower back, but the discomfort stubbornly prevailed. He peered at his watch and smirked. It was no wonder he hurt; he hadn’t stirred from the computer workstation for over six hours. He tried rotating his head in small circles, but that didn’t offer any relief. Neither did massaging his temples. Working this long is nothing new, he thought. You’re turning into an old grandmother. Always logical to a fault, his own words caused him to laugh aloud. Are there any young grandmothers? Pushing away from the desk, Wu stood slowly, blankly peering around the tiny, windowless office.

  In the Chinese Ministry of State Security, or MOSS as it was known in Western security circles, having an office was nothing extraordinary. Having an office with a window was an indication of achievement. Wu hoped the results of his latest efforts would lead to such perks, perhaps more. Having a window would make the protracted days at his desk more tolerable, with the added benefit of quietly announcing to his co-workers that he was of value to the Party. Perhaps, he would even be allocated an apartment with more square meters of space on a higher floor. The elevation meant less traffic noise from the bustling boulevards of Beijing, where every day more and more automobiles raced through the streets. Wu sneered at the thought, as his demanding work schedule meant he never spent any time in his apartment anyway. What real difference would a larger flat make?

  Wu moved to the small, open area in front of the table that served as his desk. He gingerly twisted his body at the hip
s, hoping to eradicate the kink in his lower back. Despite his stiff frame and growling stomach, Wu was basking in a sense of self-worth. He could only hope his superiors agreed with his assessment. This closet-office was going to drive him insane if he had to work in here much longer.

  There were no pictures, certificates, or other personal effects in the workspace. Such trinkets were expressly forbidden at MOSS. The bare walls were painted bureaucratic hospital green, no doubt intended to surround the occupant with a relaxing harmonic and to promote efficiency. A single guest chair and a locked metal file cabinet rounded out the contents of the space. About the only item that provided any flavor to his eye was the state-of-the-art computer equipment residing on the table. Updated just a short time ago, the hardware had been imported from one of the huge Japanese conglomerates that had no idea of its intended use and probably wouldn’t have cared anyway. The thought of a greedy, capitalist computer salesman enjoying the benefits of profit made Wu shake his head. The West was full of such short-term thinking, and it would be their downfall. The irony of his foe providing the weapons he would use to crush them was not lost on Wu. A vision of the sloppy Yat Boon Gau (Japanese Dog) whoring with women while overindulging in food and wine flashed through his head. The civilized Chinese would triumph as they always have.

  The sound of a turning doorknob interrupted Wu’s mental victory lap.

  Wu turned as the door opened vigorously, and his jang chuan (boss) appeared in the threshold. “Greetings, Team Leader Yangdong.”

  The older man was in his mid-thirties and carried himself with military air. His tunic was neatly pressed, plain black loafers recently shined, trouser crease razor sharp. Yangdong’s shoulders were squared, and his neck appeared as though it were attached to his torso with a steel rod. There was no smile or greeting from the visitor. He took a single, measured step into the office, promptly closed the door behind himself, and then spoke. “Analyst Wu, your report, please.”

  Wu cleared his throat, “Comrade Yangdong, the results of our latest efforts are better than anticipated. The Americans have not yet discovered the intrusion. As of one hour ago, no countermeasures have been detected. We are ready to implement the next step.”

  Wu’s report elicited an unusual response from his boss. Yangdong’s right hand moved to his chin, stroking his clean-shaven jawbone while lost in thought. Wu had anticipated his team leader would thank him as usual, and immediately exit the office. This had been the daily routine since the inception of the project almost four years ago. Not today. His superior appeared to be surprised by the report, and was mentally exploring its implications.

  After a few moments, Yangdong’s eyes narrowed, focusing harshly on Wu. “You are absolutely certain of this report, Analyst Wu?”

  “Yes comrade, there is no doubt.”

  Houston, Texas

  January 12, 2017

  Wyatt pulled into the driveway without even realizing he was home. He’d been so focused on the financial reports streaming on the radio; he couldn’t recall navigating the last few blocks. He parked in front of a suburban residence that had been the family’s home for more than 14 years. The car’s engine idled while he listened to the last of the broadcast.

  Even when the announcer began his rant about the Rockets’ latest trade for an overpriced power forward, Wyatt didn’t move. His mind was completely occupied, digesting what he had just heard. Today’s grim inflation reports catapulted the stock market into a steep nosedive this morning. A lot of people had been momentarily crippled by the news. Gold was going nuts, and three major banks announced an increase in their prime interest rates. Other financial institutions were expected to follow.

  Wyatt rubbed his eyes using his thumb and index finger. He turned off the car and leaned back in the seat, a deep sigh escaping. The timing of this couldn’t be worse, he grunted.

  He stepped out of the vehicle, closing the door in a single, robotic motion. A year ago, he would have slammed it shut with gusto, but not anymore. Wave after wave of bad news, bad luck, and bad decisions had taken the fight out of him - he simply didn’t have the energy anymore. Besides, the old jalopy probably didn’t have a lot of door slamming left in it.

  He initially turned for the mailbox, but then reconsidered. The postman never delivered good news anymore, and after the report on the radio, Wyatt didn’t have the heart. He knew the box would contain a dozen or so letters from bill collectors demanding their money, threatening late fees, and reminding him how badly his credit would be affected if he didn’t call them soon. That final threat always provided a little comic relief. There’s nothing anyone could do to make my credit score any worse. Why do they even bother with that crap?

  Opting instead for the front door, Wyatt’s path crossed the high grass and weeds in the yard. The overgrowth reminded him of the need to check on the lawnmower. It wouldn’t start last Sunday, and he needed to tinker with it. Cutting my own grass is just a sign of the times, he told himself. A year ago, a yard crew groomed the lawn, shrubs, and edging. They weren’t expensive in the grand scheme of things, but when the decision came down to paying the yard guys or buying groceries - eating won handily. On loan from a friend, the secondhand lawnmower had kept the neighborhood association and their nasty, reprimanding letters at bay. Those notices always included the mandatory threat of a fine if he didn’t comply with the association’s idea of a neat and tidy lawn. He hesitated at the front stoop, remembering an even better reason to mow – they were having another garage sale this Saturday.

  Wyatt stuck his key in the door’s lock and entered the house. Warm air hit his face, eliciting a grimace at the thought of having to reopen all of the windows. They didn’t run the air conditioner any more – cool air being another victim of his financial position. At least the late winter weather in Houston was bearable today, a paltry 70 degrees outside. Wyatt didn’t know what they were going to do in a few months when things became seriously hot and humid in the Bayou city. The heat in southeast Texas had been known to kill those without climate control.

  Wyatt started his grand tour of the house, flipping latches and tugging at window frames. There must have been a threat of rain this morning. That’s the only reason why Morgan would have closed them all before leaving for work. His wife disliked that muggy feeling more than he did. The house was stuffy, and he hoped it wouldn’t take long before the hot changed places with the cool. The sun would be going down in a little bit, and it might actually get comfortable enough to doze off tonight. He made sure the master bedroom’s glass was wide open.

  Out of habit, he grasped the TV remote, hoping to fill in more details of the day’s foreboding financial reports via cable news. He stopped just as his thumb moved to press the power button – they didn’t have cable anymore. The provider had disconnected their service a little over a month ago, and he hadn’t had time to hook up the rabbit ears.

  All of this was so new to Wyatt and his family. Some 18 years ago, he established a small accounting and financial services firm. Its customer base increased steadily. Three years ago, the company reached its peak, providing employment for 32 workers. Growing a small business hadn’t always been a bed of roses. While there had been periods when money was tight, those lean spells were normally offset by generous bonuses later. Walking the tightrope of expanding his corporate blueprint versus raising his family’s standard of living constantly challenged Wyatt. It seemed like every time Morgan and he put a little money back, some company emergency required a reinvestment of their savings.

  It wasn’t always bad news or cash flow problems that motivated them to empty their reserves into the firm. There were times when expansion or improvements depended on cash. After remitting an ever-increasing rent for 10 years, Wyatt decided the firm’s office space should be one of those improvements. An intense search resulted in acquiring a modest building in a stable section of town. The sales price was $1 million even. Morgan reluctantly agreed to allocate a chunk of their savings for the down pa
yment. Wyatt never minded writing a check for the mortgage – it was an investment in their future. He thought of the equity in the building like a savings account.

  Wyatt had always placed a high value on real estate. Reasoning that, “They aren’t making any more of it,” Wyatt convinced Morgan that the majority of their savings should be invested in property. He didn’t believe in anything speculative or risky, just conservative, practical assets. The couple purchased the largest house they could afford in an up and coming neighborhood, thinking that it would increase in value over the years and become a wise investment. That financial plan worked well for over a decade. No one could have predicted home values would plummet in such an unprecedented manner.

  The Houston Sunday paper contained a graph in the real estate section showing property appraisals in various parts of the city. Wyatt could be found with a calculator on many a Sunday afternoon, estimating the current value of his home and office investments. Until recently, the news had always been good.

  Anyone who knew Wyatt and his family pictured them as a fine example of the American dream. Casual observers took note the sizeable home, nice cars, boat, wonderful vacations, and successful business. It was all real – an accomplishment by any measure.

  Their financial situation began changing in 2010. Wyatt thought Hemingway described it best in one of his old novels. When asked, “How did you go bust?” the character answered, “Slowly at first, and then quickly.” I resemble that remark, Wyatt thought. In that tragic year, clients began to pay late, claiming their business was down. Others never paid at all and closed their doors, still owing Wyatt thousands of dollars. New clients were very difficult to find, and competitors continually lowered their rates to win new business.