Independence Day Plague

by Carla Lee Suson

  Tyrone stepped aside, shotgun held upright, and glared as Mitchell passed him. As Mitchell climbed the stairs, he noted the cameras on the landing and opposite walls. Macon or someone working with him monitored the entrances.

  The graffiti covered door swung inward easily. Stepping through, Mitchell gaped at the room. The dirt and trash ended in the hall. The cream colored, large inner room looked more like an upscale apartment than the inside of a slum building. A glass partition sliced the southern corner away from the rest. Inside the partition, the pristine room included a medical style, reclining chair, precision machines and trays of tools scattered across the bench. On the east wall, flickering screens silently filled a desk and two dark bookcases. Murmuring voices came from a small bank of seven police radio scanners lining the top of the bookcases.

  “Welcome stranger to the reality of beyond.” The tall back chair by the computer screens swiveled. When the thin figure stood up, wires that Mitchell had assumed fed into the chair rose with him. The colored coils wrapped around his thin waist as a sagging belt and then continued up his back before disappearing under a mass of black dreadlocks. Mitchell had seen many wireheads since coming to DC. They littered the streets and subway systems. Macon’s implant looked far more intricate and massive. The man’s brown eyes stayed glassy and unfocused as he spoke.

  “Chill, clone-man. Haven’t you ever seen implants before?”

  Mitchell smile wryly, “Nothing like that.” He pointed towards Macon's head. “We didn't have wireheads where I used to live. Folks on the streets here usually only have a few copper wires behind their ear and a battery pack down their shirt. Does it hurt?”

  “No. The average street-Jack integrates with the pleasure implants. I sometimes help others plug in theirs,” he pointed to the surgical area, “but I don’t bother with the pleasure shit. That’s for the waste-oid druggie elite. I've hardwired into straight temporal lobe stuff, making me one with the machine.” He spread his arms wide turning slowly back to the shelves of flickering monitors.

  Mitchell straightened up out of the submissive hunch. He moved closer to Macon, looking over the wire pathway. Multiple connections stood out just under the hairline from over the back of his skull. The color-coded wiring weaved together into the thick cord running down his back. “It is honestly the most impressive thing I’ve seen in a long time. Can you unplug?”

  “Nothing out there worth seeing anymore that I can’t see through the ‘net. The lines run long enough to give me full range of my domicile and the local little Hitlers keep me stocked with delivery boys and the occasional worldly wench. I’m telling you, old man, it's true nirvana at a hundred gigahertz speed.”

  “Why do you need the armed guard?” Mitchell jerked a thumb back towards the doorway.

  Macon shrugged. His shoulders looked skeletal through the white cotton shirt next to the thick cords of muscle in his neck. Cream-colored tie-up sweat pants completed the picture. “The gangs and drug factories work on the third floor. They use me for info and we have a mutually beneficial arrangement. They also keep the entrance heavily fortified with firepower. I live in peace and get the comforts of modern life for the occasional exchange of hack-hosted information.”

  Mitchell nodded, “Sounds like a good arrangement.”

  Macon watched him for a few moments motionless, head tilted to one side, eyes glazed. Finally, he became animate again, crossing the room, dragging the cords behind him. “Down to business, clone-man.”

  “Why do you call me that?” Mitchell carefully kept his tone neutral.

  Macon smiled, “It's you, completely. Your attitude gives you away. Your eyes shine, obviously free of the wonderful world of modern meds. You look smarter than the average Jesus Freak that comes around. No obvious wire, shiv, or gun or my downstairs detector would have gone off. You stand up straight so you’re not the beaten gang wannabe. Besides which, you’re too old. All that adds up to you being a cop.” He gestured at the screens, “which I would have downloaded before you ever left the Metro. That leaves corporate clone or one really fucked up man who wandered into the wrong neighborhood.”

  Mitchell nodded, “You’re perceptive.”

  “In my business, you gotta be. Now, you introduced yourself as Mr. Geller.”

  Mitchell drew in a deep breath. “I’m not Geller. I know you’ve dealt with him through the Internet. He’s dead and left me instructions on how to get to you.”

  Macon smiled, “I knew you weren’t Geller coming in. No one gets through that door without me shuffling them through the ‘net. Also, I know Geller from long ago. Strangely enough, I don’t get a hit at all off of your face.” He gestured to the bank of screens. The center one flashed up a picture of Mitchell’s face from outside as he looked up at the building. “Being 'netless is practically unheard of unless you’re from some lost African tribe or Mars. Everyone’s in the system one-way or the other. That made me curious enough to meet you. You’re a true null. You want to explain that, clone-man?”

  “Actually, I’m dead.”

  “Is that a fact? Not good enough, dead-man. A search would still have gotten security card numbers. Dead people's faces still flow through the net with death certificates, obits, wills, that kind of crap.” Macon pulled his hand out of the loose pant pockets. The small black pistol gleamed. “Try again.”

  “You said you knew Geller?” Mitchell reached into his back pocket to pull his wallet out. Macon raised the pistol, pointing at his stomach. “It’s okay. I’m just pulling out some ID.” He pulled out Geller’s driver’s license and social security cards and slowly handed them to Macon. “Try those numbers and see what you get.”

  Macon looked at the cards and then his eyes went glassy again. Mitchell looked at the screens and saw Geller’s face flash up on three of them. The center screen flickered rapidly, too fast for Mitchell to read.

  Macon spoke softly, “Well, how about that.” His eyes focused again. “Ray’s not on the ‘net anymore. No ID’s, banks, school records… nothing.”

  Mitchell said, “He had a wife and five kids. None of them exist anymore.”

  “I knew about the wife, Jennifer.”

  “My name is James Oliver Mitchell. I did my graduate work at Johns Hopkins twenty-four years ago. I’ve lived in Dawson, North Dakota for twenty-three years. My wife's name was Caroline Sealy Mitchell. She worked as a world-class vet with a specialty in primates. My daughter’s name was Katherine. Run a search on all of us. None of us exist anymore.”

  The video monitors flickered faster again. Hints of pictures and words twitched across the screens. “Just ghosts to the machine?”

  “Something like that. You might find something if you can get into the records at Johns Hopkins Medical School. Some records may exist there.”

  “Oh, I’ll try, ghost-man. How do you explain this?” Macon turned and faced him, eyes clear and sharp and pistol trained on Mitchell's stomach.

  “People in high places didn’t want us to exist anymore. They erased us.”

  “What happened to Geller?”

  “Same people killed him along with all his family.”

  “I don’t usually do business with the dead. If they wanted you gone and you're still eating and breathing, then you’re a dangerous man to know. What do you want?”

  “I need information on specific people. I’ll give you the names later. Most of the information is probably government classified, high security stuff. I also need twelve disposable com-units phones with strong email capacity, clean numbers and untraceable. Finally, two useable food cards and bankcards. I’ll give you a micro-drive of information. I need the information on it dumped on every Internet, Hypernet, and Xnet system worldwide. It needs to be done on midnight on July 4th. No sooner and no later. Can you handle that?”

  “It’s possible. Anything’s possible for the right price.”

  “Will you do it?”

  Macon didn’t answer immediately. He glanced over at the screen bank. The vide
os slowed down to an almost readable rate as they flickered from website to website. He turned to face Mitchell once more. “How did Geller die?”

  Mitchell frowned. “Why does it matter?”

  “It just does.”

  “He died from blood loss due to a terrible disease. His family went the same way.” Mitchell’s voice became cold. “What’s it to you?”

  “He's my uncle.” Macon pocketed the pistol again. “The family's not exactly social network material and we lost touch with them many years ago. About five years back, he contacted me again. Said he was worried about the future.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  Macon coughed a little and looked at him with a shadow of the cockiness returning. “What you want comes cheap normally but, ghost-man, your situation's full of glitches. Like I said, you being connected to me is viral to my situation here. I got a good thing going on. I don't care for someone fucking it up for me.”

  Mitchell nodded, “True but they think I’m history already. No one knows I survived.”

  “I’m supposed to believe this?”

  “Tell you what,” Mitchell brought out the four-gig micro-drive out of his pocket. “I want this broadcast on the Fourth of July. Don’t spread it yet. Just listen to it. Look at the data that’s attached. It’ll convince you that no one’s looking for me now.”

  “What about later, once your info's uploaded on the net?”

  Mitchell smiled grimly, eyes sad with pain. “Then it won’t matter. They’ll find me and I’ll be erased too.”

  Macon didn’t speak for a few minutes. He crossed the room back over to the tall back chair and sat down. “What about for payment: food cards, credit cards, negotiable items or bank wire?”

  “How about contraband currency, old bills in $100 denominations and less?”

  Macon became very still, eyes turned glassy again. Finally he spoke, “LOL man. Greenbacks are pretty rare these days, usually worth more than the cover amount, quite anonymous and untraceable.” The nation’s legitimate companies had switched entirely to identity cards and credit cards for business. The world outside the law embraced and cherished the use of old fashion, contraband currency. “Sounds like we can deal.”

  Mitchell pulled a crumpled bill out of his pocket and handed it over. “My inheritance from Geller. I’ll leave five fifties with you today in good faith and ten more when I get the pod phones. I know you’ll want to validate them.”

  Macon fingered the greenback. “If they’re counterfeit, I’ll send all kinds of shit your way, ghost-man. The little Hitler upstairs will drop by for a visit. I hear he's real creative in his punishments.”

  “Don’t worry, they’re genuine.”

  “Just two food cards? So this isn’t a credit scam.”

  Mitchell smiled, “No, even dead men have to eat.”

  “Why so many com-units? That’s a lot phone power.”

  “Let’s just say I just want to reach out and touch someone.”

  Chapter 6

  June 10, 2026

  The day started out at a cool sixty-five degrees but the dew in the air was a promise of hot and muggy air by the afternoon. At seven thirty in the morning, the Red Line subway train already felt humid and stank of stale air and too many bodies pressed close together, as they closed the door at Cleveland Park and jerked forward again. Dorado hated the morning commute in from Rockville, Maryland, but knew he would loathe living in downtown DC even more. Despite tax breaks and incentive programs, most families fled the inner city for the sometimes wealthier and more peaceful suburb life. Many of the single corporate people often lived on the fringes in high tower condos whose bottom floors looked like a cross between upscale shopping mall and a fortress.

  Dorado exited the subway at Gallery Place, which was his normal routine. Instead of changing station levels and boarding the Yellow Line for the short hop to L'Enfant Plaza, he walked out of the station next to the National Portrait Gallery. He wanted fresher air and a better tasting cup of coffee than what waited at the DC police station. As more of his days were spent in static meetings, Dorado increasingly took the long walk to work, relishing in the exercise. A cool breeze blew some leaves and paper trash around his feet as he started walking the six blocks towards the heart of the town.

  Gallery Place, like the city itself, had seen better times. Homeless men and a few women cluttered in building nooks and near entrance points around the sports arena. He found himself streaming along with the dark suit corporate crowd as they weaved around and hustled by the jobless. Dorado stepped out of the main pathway and watched a few go by, security badges nestled around their necks on cloth lanyards and eyes covered by computer integrated sunglass-monitor systems called visio-coms. Most of them whispered as they walked, almost oblivious to the world around them as they blew by, briefcase in one hand, plastic coffee cup in another.

  Two blocks along in his path, Dorado found an open shop that lacked the early morning waiting line spiraling out the door. As he entered, he surveyed the small coffee shop, taking in all the sights and smells as if it were a new crime scene. He had built that habit over years of police work and didn't feel the need to stop now. The ordering line was only six deep with three people working behind the counter, bumping and swerving around each other in the thin work area.

  Most of the customers in line were corporate clone types clustered around the tables. Two twenty-something wireheads loitered around a small corner table in an obviously heated discussion drowned out by the rattle of bean grinding and the whooshing scream of the latte machine. The taller of the two men was skeletal skinny with metal bars and studs running up both ears, through lips, noses and eyebrows. Part of his face was obscured by long, thick black hair. Modified safety pins went through one cheek and the outline of nipple bars stood out against his spandex tank top. Pale multi-colored tattoos peaked out of the shirt around the chest and back.

  His partner was fatter but similarly attired in steel. His shorter brown hair ended around the raw patch of shaved head where wires disappeared into skull circuitry. The red and blue wires curved around his ear and down his neck to disappear under the man's denim coat. Dorado noted the pull of a curved object against his pant leg and guessed the man wore a knife on his leg. The man moved in short thrusting motions and his fingers twitched around the coffee cup.

  Both looked up, noticing Dorado's assessment before he turned away. The line moved forward a notch and he mused that addicts came in all types and specialties. He scanned the menu chalked up on the large overhead blackboard while more people filed in behind them.

  "Excuse me, sir."

  He looked down into the large brown eyes of a teenage girl. Dressed in conservative, sexless clothing, she beamed up at him with a vacuous smile. "Have you accepted the Lord into your life?" Her voice came out breathy as she clutched a bunch of white booklets to her chest.

  "Thanks, but I'm just here for coffee." He nodded once then returned to scrutinizing the board.

  She fell into him as another man pushed by to get out the door. Dorado rocked and stumbled with the girl against him. She righted herself blushing. "Thank you. You know the Lord can be your guide in life. The power of the Son is the greatest power on Earth. Would you like a booklet to read all about it?"

  Dorado shook his head as he reached a hand into his inside jacket pocket. Instantly, a tall, muscled blond man with a blue "The Son can Rise For You Too!" t-shirt stepped beside them. "Julie, is this guy bothering you?" Jaw clenched, the guy puffed himself up to look Dorado in the eyes.

  Dorado sighed. Complaints had come into the station about religious groups shaking down people for cash. The guy and girl team was an obvious con. The girl picked a likely victim to come on to in the name of religion. She approached people while he took offense. Then the poor sucker had to pay them to be left alone. "More likely the other way around, friend." He pulled out his badge wallet and flipped it open to show the shield. The girl's eyes went wide. "Why don't you and the lady move on t
o another shop."

  Before the man could respond, the lights flickered and the grinding machine whirred down to a stop before the lights went out entirely. People murmured and began to jostle each other, heading for the door. A voice called aloud from behind the counter top. "Relax folks. It's just another rolling brownout. The power will come back on in a minute." Voices murmured in response.

  "Third one this week."

  "Suppose to happen all summer, I hear."

  "Yo, man. Pay your electric bill next time!" Several chuckled.

  The whir from silence to activity cut through the voices as the lights flickered and came back on. Long, high screaming cut through the air along with a loud banging noise. Everyone turned to the source in the corner. The brown haired wirehead had his buddy against the wall and repeatedly slammed his head into the wooden post. Blood splattered the wall and ran down the pierced man's face.

  "Shit." Dorado pushed the girl out of the way while going for his gun. Moving at adrenaline-fed speed and power, the wirehead threw his friend into the woman at the next table. The bloody body hit the table and flew to the other side. Shrieking, he then grabbed the knife from his boot and repeatedly plunged it into the woman's male companion.

  The crowd around the corner panicked and began fighting to get out the door. Gun freed, he tried to move forward only to be knocked away by the press of bodies. "Police!" he roared, "Step aside."

  The wirehead moved into the crowd, slashing and clawing at those nearest him. His eyes where wide open with pinpoint pupils. His mouth twisted up into an ugly, wide-open snarl. Dorado brought his gun to bear, still fighting against the fleeing bodies. "Drop the weapon!"

  The man's body began to shake and writhe as he screamed again. Dorado took aim at the chest and pulled the trigger but the shot went wide, hitting him in the bicep. The man began to whirl in spinning frenzy, knife plunging repeatedly around him.