This trip, Bowen brought the bottle back with him. “Yeah? Well get this — shut the hell up. No wants to hear your crap anymore, you religious prick. Bowen, chapter one, verse one.”
“We are being punished for our sins, Mr. Bowen.”
“I’ve got no sins, padre. My soul’s as lily white as a bedsheet.” Bowen lit up a cigar. “Besides, I could get used to this kind of hell.”
Cameron had taken a glass ornament from the Christmas tree. He threw it against the wall. “This is crazy. This is like Nero fiddling while he watched Rome burn. Shouldn’t we be doing something instead of just sitting here on our thumbs?”
Bowen blew a cloud of cigar smoke in his direction. “Like what?”
“Oh, right. I forgot. This is productive, isn’t it — getting drunk and smoking the president’s cigars?”
“I don’t think he’ll mind, boy, do you?”
“Cameron’s right.” Loeb put his glass down. “We can waste time later. Right now we should focus on finding the others. I need access to your computer center, your phones, the Internet, camp schematics, everything.”
“Sure, but I’m telling you there’s no one out there. I already tried.”
“There’s at least one other person out there. We’ll start with him.”
Cameron and Loeb left the others and went to the command center where Loeb again checked for messages, comments, posts, anything to indicate someone else was out there. The video counter was still a “1.” He tapped the keyboard: “Someone viewed the video, but they either can’t or won’t contact us. What do you make of that, Cameron?”
“How do you know the “1” isn’t you? Or maybe it’s a computer troll, or something like that.”
“Valid question. The software is supposed to filter me out by login, but I hadn’t considered the possibility of it being an automated program. Do we have access to the CIA from here, not the one the hackers play with on the Internet, I mean the secure connection?”
Cameron handed him a red folder marked “Top Secret.” “I found this in the camp commander’s office. It has the daily password from the twenty-first. Last I checked they hadn’t changed it. You’ll have to use the gray dinosaur over there. It’s the only one on the private network.”
Loeb clicked through a maze of screens on the isolated computer until he arrived at the CIA secure site.
“What are you doing?” Cameron asked.
“The CIA has access to every phone record, every Web transaction, every click, every view, everything we see or do electronically. And they store it all right here.”
“I’m sorry. I guess I missed that on CNN. They track everything we do? Without a warrant? Isn’t that somewhat illegal?”
“Don’t be naïve. Of course they do. I realized it about three years ago when the technology for ultra-massive storage became affordable even to people like you and I. It was only logical that the CIA had been using it when price was not an issue. Of course, I never went public with my beliefs. I have enough trouble with the media as it is and no desire to end up in a ditch in Rock Creek Park.”
“Yeah, that would suck.”
The page split into a double screen of Loeb’s video on the left and computer gibberish on the right. He ran his finger down the symbols and statements line by line. “There it is. The video was accessed from the backbone of the capital hub on this main trunk. And there is the IP address.”
“And that is helpful how?”
Loeb made a face.
“I’m not a geek,” Cameron said. “I’m a writer.”
“Every computer on the Web has an IP address. That’s what makes it possible to send and receive information between distinct individuals over the Internet. Think of it as a phone number. If you know someone’s phone number, you can call him. If you don’t, you can’t.”
“So call him.”
“He’s apparently not online now.”
“Who does the number belong to?”
“Therein lies the problem. What do you do when you know a phone number and need to know who it belongs to?”
“Is this a test? I hate tests.”
“Do you even own a cell phone, Cameron? You do a reverse lookup, obviously.”
“Silly me. Of course you do. Everyone knows that. It’s so obvious.”
Loeb entered several commands into the computer and waited. “The problem is that not everyone has a static IP address like they do a phone number. When they log into a service provider, that provider assigns them the first available address from the bank of numbers they’ve purchased. It can be different every time they log in, within the limits of their range of numbers, naturally. That makes it nearly impossible to trace someone who uses a large service provider, unless you also have access to that provider’s login records to connect the dots, and thanks to the CIA, we just happen to have that.”
“I’m going to nod and pretend I understand every word of what you just said, okay?”
Loeb swiveled the screen so Cameron could see it more clearly. “Whoever watched the video did so from inside the White House.”
The Watcher
Loeb raised his glass to the others around the table: “Here’s to the holidays: peace and good will to men, at least to what’s left of us. If only we had da Vinci to paint this last supper.”
He and Cameron had prepared Christmas dinner from the turkey and fixings set aside for the president, had the president chosen to celebrate the holiday there, and, more importantly, had he survived 12|21|12. Michael, bolstered by stronger meds from the dispensary, had been talking nonstop about heaven, hell, and redemption. The more he talked, the more Bowen drank. That was his idea of an anesthetic. Ferret ignored them all.
“What’s the matter, Ferret, we’re not good enough for you?” Bowen asked.
“You shot me, remember? And you don’t smell right.”
“I don’t smell right? You’ve had two showers, and you still stink like a skunk, you waste of a bullet.”
“I wish I had gone home for Christmas,” Cameron said, more to his cloth napkin than anyone in particular. “I miss my parents. I’ll never see them again, will I?”
“It wouldn’t have mattered, Cameron,” Loeb said. “They would still be gone.”
“I suppose they would, but then maybe I would, too.”
“So we’re not good enough for you either?” Bowen’s elbow slid off the table, knocking his water glass onto the floor.
“You drink too much, Bowen,” Loeb said.
“Yeah, and you talk too much.”
“What’s going to happen to us?” asked Cameron.
Bowen grunted and waved a thick finger, stirring the fog that had settled around his brain. “We’ll grow old and die. Or I’ll shoot you. One of the two. You pick.”
“No, I mean the human race. Is this it? Are we finished?”
“God has judged us, and found us guilty,” Michael coughed. “Repent while there’s still time.”
“Fine words for a man who’s told us he’s lost his faith, cheated on his wife, and robbed his church.”
“At least I had faith once, Mr. Bowen. What have you got? To you, life is nothing more than survival. The one who deserves to live is the one who’s better at taking what he wants from others.”
“Damn straight, padre. You see, that’s the difference between you and me. I know there’s nothing more than this crap, so I can deal with it. You think there’s got to be something else, something you’re going to miss out on because you screwed up, and you can’t handle it. Just remember, everyone goes the same way when they die and that’s six feet under. The sooner you realize it, the better off you’ll be.”
“God left the five of us here for a reason, Mr. Bowen. I believe that now. Everyone is here on Earth for a reason. I’d just lost sight of mine and, God forgive me, I’m sorry for that, but now it’s clear to me that the Almighty has left me here to tell you that it’s not too late to come to Him and confess your sins.”
“If that�
�s your reason for living, padre, you’re wasting your time. I’ve got nothing to confess.” Bowen looked into his empty glass. “I’ve got no reason to be here.”
“I know why I’m here. It’s because them dumb bastards missed,” Ferret laughed. “They blew the crap out of my place, but they didn’t get me. No sir. Must not a-been using them expensive smart bombs. Guess they could only afford the dumb ones for the likes of me.”
Cameron exhaled. “I write speeches. It’s what I do. And they’re good speeches. The president thought so… I thought so… Maybe God did pick us for a reason, but why choose me? I don’t have the brains of Loeb or the skills of Bowen, or your religion, Michael, or even Ferret’s dumb luck. I just write.”
“Grace is a gift that no one deserves,” whispered Michael.
The oak paneled dining room had seen many a joyous holiday over the years, but it was neither merry nor bright that Christmas. There were no presents under the dead tree and no stockings hung by the chimney. Over the fireplace, an old mantle clock ticked softly. After dinner, Cameron made coffee.
“And that is why God let you live, Cameron,” said Loeb. “That’s the best cup of coffee I’ve had in a long time.”
“Amen to that,” smiled Michael.
“I was a barista at Capital Coffee my junior year. Can you believe it? The pay was lousy, but I got a free coffee IV out of it. It kept me going. I’ve been thinking, Dr. Loeb…”
“Here we go again,” Bowen pushed his chair back. “I’m going to need more scotch and another cigar for this.”
“No, seriously, I’ve been thinking about this. If we do survive, maybe there is a place for a writer like me. Maybe I should chronicle this for future generations.”
Ferret slurped the coffee that had spilled into his saucer and wiped his mouth on the linen tablecloth: “Waste not, want not — that’s what I always say.”
Loeb shuddered. “That’s assuming, Cameron, that the human race survives at a level somewhere above Cro-Magnon, I presume?”
“You don’t think we’re going to make it, do you?” said Cameron.
“Oh, individually we will survive to the end of our days, assuming Bowen doesn’t shoot us first, but one thing is crystal clear. We are not, last I checked, an asexual species. If we don’t find others, specifically if we don’t find any women, our lives and the life of our race will wind down pointlessly, and there will be no future generations to read your chronicles.”
Ferret smacked the table. “Now you’re talking. I say we each round up as many chippies as we can, screw all day and party all night. Now that’s my kind of salvation.”
“Ferret?” Loeb said.
“Yeah what, Doc?”
“If it comes to that, I’ll shoot you myself.”
“Don’t you worry Doc, they’ll be plenty for everyone.”
Outside the window, the night sky was filled with stars, and the moon reflected in pale blue off a fresh covering of snow.
“For the human race to survive, we must find the others.”
“We’ve been over this, Doc. The human race is finished.”
“I refuse to believe that, Bowen.”
“Believe what you want, it’s over for us.”
“Can we be a little more positive, people? Maybe we should focus on finding the one who viewed your video, Dr. Loeb?”
“Look kid,” Bowen scowled. “Don’t you think they would have contacted us by now if they could? Face it. They’re dead.”
“We should at least try.”
“Why? What difference does it make? When I die, that’s it; the world ends for me. Whatever happens to you losers after that happens. It’s no concern of mine. I’ll be a dead, rotting corpse.”
“That’s just cold, Mr. Bowen. We’re people just like you. We’re your own kind. We should stick together.”
“You’re nothing like me, boy.”
“You’d feel differently if Carmen were here,” Loeb said.
“You leave her out of this.”
“Who’s Carmen?” asked Cameron.
“Mr. Bowen’s one and only soft spot, apparently.”
“You shut up before I shut you up, you intellectual nobody.” Bowen grabbed his bottle and stumbled out of the room.
Loeb raised his glass in a toast and emptied it: “And to all a good night.” He dabbed his lips with his napkin and plopped it on the plate. “Well. There you have it. I can solve the most complex equations in the universe and come up with theories to explain anything, but I’ll never figure out people, even when there are only four of them left.”
“So wait, you do have an idea what happened, don’t you?” Cameron said. “You’re just not saying.”
“I am working on a hypothesis, yes, but I don’t have enough evidence yet.”
“Can’t you at least share? It’s not like we’d be calling the tabloids with photoshopped high school reunion pictures of you on a pyramid surrounded by aliens or anything.”
“It’s pure conjecture. I need more data.”
”Dr. Loeb, I know I’m only speaking for myself, but I’ll take anything at this point.”
“Suit yourself. The question is simple: Where are the 6.8 billion people? Answer that and the rest becomes obvious.”
Cameron turned to Michael. “Of course! Why didn’t we think of that?”
“Cameron,” Michael said, putting down his teacup. “I know you’re just trying to cope with this. We all are, but I’m not sure your sarcasm is helping.”
“I’m sorry, I’m just not ready for this… this Armageddon. Maybe if I had more time to prepare, take some notes, brainstorm ideas…”
“Not everything in life is a speech, son. At some point, you just have to accept things and act.”
The fireplace was warm and relaxing. Loeb stared into its yellow and orange flames: “You do know that these gas flames are highly inefficient,” he said. “But they are designed that way because that’s what people expect to see when they looked at a fireplace. It looks more ‘real.’ We have the technology to make a more efficient gas flame, one with combustion so complete that it would give off little or no emissions, but then the flame would be cold and blue and uninviting. We can’t have that, can we?”
Cameron buried his face in his hands. “This is insane. I must be dreaming.”
“I’v considered that possibility as well,” said Loeb. “But ask yourself this: if this is a dream, why can’t you wake up? Furthermore, dreams are vague and indistinct constructs of our own experience. They may have the appearance of detail, but they are never this elaborate or this real. And even in my wildest dreams, I would never have included anyone remotely like you, Bowen, or Michael, and certainly not the likes of Ferret. No offense intended, of course.”
“None taken. Where is Ferret anyway?”
“He likely went outside to prowl. I saw him at the window a few minutes ago.”
Cameron picked out a few songs on the electronic jukebox that was next to the bar.
“You’re a little young to be a Beatles fan, aren’t you?” Loeb asked.
Cameron listened to the song and stared at Loeb. “What if we’re all in the same dream?”
“And we’re the ones who aren’t real? Preposterous.”
“But I don’t like the Beatles. I have no idea why I picked that song.”
“Then who is dreaming?”
“Maybe the one we think watched the video is actually the one who is dreaming, and we’re all just ideas rolling around in his head. Maybe that’s why we have no control over this, and that’s why I picked the Beatles — because he likes the Beatles. That’s why we can’t wake up. We’re not real.”
“Cameron, if you truly believe we are no more than a dream in some Beatle lovers head, I don’t think there is anything I can say to convince you otherwise, but I choose to go by the facts. And the fact is that billions of human beings were here at one point in time and simply not here the next. I have no proof, but I think the explanation is clear enough.”
“It is?”
“Of course. Isn’t it obvious? The people are not here because someone took them away.”
“What? No way.”
“Then tell me, what happened? There are no bodies, no destruction, nothing.”
“I don’t know, maybe it was one of your alien visitors with a ray gun that just zapped them all into nothingness.”
“If one person a minute were removed from this planet, it would take thirteen thousand years. Even at a hundred a minute, it would still take 130 years. I think we would have noticed your alien with a ray gun,” Loeb said.
“Maybe it was a really big ray gun and he got them all in one shot, you know, like the Death Star?”
“As I recall that destroyed the planet as well, didn’t it?”
“So they’ve done some upgrading. I don’t know. What difference does it make? Everyone’s gone, and we’re still here.”
“It makes all the difference in the world to me. If we assume that whoever is behind this is benevolent and that we were simply left behind, it behooves us to find out if there is still a chance we can rejoin the rest of our race. If, rather, we assume that this was an attack of sorts, we should stop looking now and start hiding.”
“Which do you think it is?”
“I would think if another race had eradicated our species in a prelude to colonization that they would already be here, and we would have seen them. On the other hand, if they came for raw materials, they are in for an unpleasant surprise. In either case, we would know they were here. But in my mind, there seems little point to attacking a planet as insignificant as Earth.”
“Maybe they came and took everyone to be slaves on their home world.”
“Six billion slaves? That’s a lot of mouths to feed, and I don’t think we’re talking about Pharaohs in space ships.”
“Maybe they’re using us for food.”
“If so, wouldn’t it make more sense to grow us in our native environment and harvest us here as needed? Cameron, I would be more than happy to discuss any other imaginative speculations you might make, but to answer your question directly, I believe that those who are responsible for this did so with good intentions.”
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