Static Mayhem

by Edward Aubry

  "All right," he said.

  "Last name."

  "Cody."

  The interviewer wrote that down in ink. "First name."

  "Harrison."

  "Do you prefer Harry or Harrison?"

  "I prefer Mr. Cody, but Harrison will do fine." It was a surly answer, and he had given it reflexively. Most of his life, people had called him Harry, and he didn't care for it. Only one person had ever said it in a way that didn't irritate him, and that person was not sitting across this table from him. His caustic answer did not provoke a response.

  "Middle initial?"

  "Wallace." The interviewer winced, and Harrison realized he had over-answered the question. Already, he wanted a lawyer, just to keep him from divulging too much about his own name. He was offering his best obsequiousness, and it was not going well.

  "Date of birth?"

  "July 4, 1976," he said without emotion. He expected a reaction to the date. He usually got one. Even in the friendliest of interactions, most people initially assumed he was making it up, but it was true. This interview was, at best, an unfriendly interaction, and he would have every reason to lie about himself, so he braced himself for the accusation.

  He did get a reaction, but it was an odd one. For the first time, the interviewer looked up at Harrison's face, probably to gauge his truthfulness. The man had a strange, awestruck expression, and he turned to look at his cohorts standing at the door. They, too, wore expressions of amazement.

  After a moment's pause, the questions continued. There was no further discussion of his birthday.

  "Were you a US citizen?"

  Harrison weighed his answer to that one. "Still am, I believe."

  "Yes or no, please," he was instructed. The interviewer checked yes. "Did you ever serve in the US armed forces?"

  That was easy. "No."

  "Have you ever been convicted of a felony?"

  "No."

  "What was your last occupation, prior to May 25 of this year?"

  That question hit home. May 25 was the day it had all come down, but "this year" was markedly, perhaps deliberately, vague. He had seen enough to know that not everything left had come from May 25, 2003, and these people likely knew that, too. He wondered what year this man was talking about, but he chose not to ask.

  "I was a bookseller," he said.

  The man looked up again, less awed this time. "Bookseller?" he asked. He sounded like he didn't know what that could possibly mean.

  "I managed a Waldenbooks," said Harrison, annoyed by so many aspects of this question. This line of questioning was dragging up all kinds of career issues he had been wrestling with, all of which were now totally moot.

  "I see," said the interviewer, checking a box on his form. He flipped the paper over the back of the clipboard, and continued. "How did you come to be in Chicago?" he asked, attempting to do so seamlessly: no change of inflection, no pause. Harrison wasn't buying it, though. The segue was choppy. This was a whole new species of question, and Harrison's guard went way up.

  "I walked," said Harrison. He had already given them his middle name for free. They would have to work for everything else.

  The man made a note. This form did not have check boxes, apparently. "From where?"

  "Massachusetts." The man looked up, alarmed again. "Northampton," he added, concerned that if he weren't specific enough, they might think he was playing them.

  "That's a long way," remarked the interviewer. "And east of here."

  Harrison waited for the question. "Yes, it is," he agreed.

  The man did not write that down. "How did you get inside the border?"

  This was the meat of the questioning, he realized. Claudia and the other guy-Alex? Alec? Something like that-had discussed that very concern. Right in front of him. Something about an inhibitor. "I'm not sure where the border is," he said truthfully, although he had a pretty solid guess. "The first I knew I was in Chicago was when I was in the CVS." Also true, also evasive.

  The man wrote that down. "How did you get into the CVS?" he asked. Obviously, he already knew about the CVS. Was he trying to get Harrison to change his story? It wouldn't matter. Harrison applied his standing policy on the truth; it was always the best choice, because it was always easier to remember.

  "I came in through the back door."

  "Was it locked?"

  "No." Again, this was the truth. He had faith that they could not hold him to breaking and entering, because he knew he hadn't done that.

  "You're quite sure," the interviewer persisted. His tone was flat, and Harrison was not sure whether he was being given a chance to contradict himself or confirm something they already knew. Again, the truth was the simplest choice, and he made a point of sticking to just what he knew for certain.

  "When I pulled on it," he said, "it opened. I do not believe it was locked."

  The man seemed oddly satisfied with this. He made another note. "Please describe any magic or magical artifacts you have employed since May 25."

  Harrison could feel his heart accelerating. He had not expected this question and had certainly not expected it to be asked so clinically. He was certain that if there were a single question in which they would be able to catch him in a lie, this was the one. He thought, very carefully, about what the full, true answer to this might be. His thoughtfulness was mistaken for hesitation. "Mr. Cody?" the interviewer asked. "Did you hear the question?"

  "Yes," he answered quickly. "It just surprised me." Again, this was true, again, it was misleading. He reflected on his experience with the wind-stone. He reasoned that being knocked on his ass by it hardly constituted employing it. He had long since disposed of it, along with every other magical doodad he had picked up along the way. Well after the fact, he had taken Glimmer's advice. Everything was currently resting at the bottom of a wastebasket in Dorothy's Hallmark store. "I haven't used anything like that," he said. He convinced himself that this was a truth. A sort of truth. He decided, though, not to make a show of pretending not to believe in it. They could make of that whatever they chose. He braced himself for the follow-up question.

  "Right," said the man. He put the cap back on his pen and tucked the pen in his pocket. "Thank you for your time," he said, courteously, absurdly. Without further comment, he left.

  Shortly after that, he was served a meal. He ate, he slept for a while, he woke up on his own, and he was served another meal.

  The second visit had a very different feel to it. It was the same man (with a different pair of door loiterers) who entered, unannounced. This time, he was carrying a briefcase. He put the case flat on the table, spun it so that the handle faced Harrison, and said, "Open it."

  Harrison inspected the case. There were two latches, one on each side of the handle. Each latch was activated by a thumb trigger, and each trigger was mounted above a four-digit combination lock. Every digit on both locks was set to zero. He pushed the triggers outward with his thumbs. The latches popped obediently, and he pushed the case open.

  It was empty.

  The man closed it, turned it around, fiddled with it, and turned it back to Harrison. The combinations were now set to different, seemingly random, values. "Again," he said.

  Harrison glared at the man with poorly disguised rancor. This game was bizarre, and already he did not enjoy playing it. The case was obviously now locked, and was, of course, still empty. Without breaking eye contact, Harrison pressed the triggers again. The latches popped.

  Baffled, Harrison tried to push the case open again, but it was snatched away from him, and the man took it straight out the door.

  A few meals and a few naps later, the man returned. This time, in addition to the two door guards, he was accompanied by the man Harrison had met in the CVS (Alec, he was now certain) several days (he thought) earlier. The smaller man was holding a cardboard box that looked heavy. He placed it on the table, and remained standing. Alec sat down and motioned for Harrison, who was sitting on the cot, to come take the o
ther seat.

  Alec reached into the box, and pulled out a combination padlock, spun the dial once, pulled on it to check that it was secure, and handed it to Harrison. Apparently he was not concerned that Harrison might use the metal object as a weapon. At one against four, that was a safe assumption.

  Harrison stared at the lock. He was being drawn into some bizarre game now, and he didn't care for it. Reasoning that it was time to reassert some degree of control, no matter how slight or fleeting, he chose that moment to ask again, "Where are my kids?"

  "Take the lock," Alec instructed him. There was no acknowledgment of the question in his words or expression. Harrison felt the acid in his stomach start to creep up his throat. The possibility that he had doomed his charges was beginning to feel less remote. If so, nothing that happened next would mean a damn, anyway. He leaned back in his seat and folded his arms across his chest.

  For several anxiety-provoking seconds, Alec showed no change of expression whatsoever. Then he looked at his watch. "School," he said, still looking at the dial.

  Harrison took that in. "What?"

  Alec looked up and made eye contact. "They're in school," he repeated.

  This answer was so banal that Harrison wondered if this guy had any real clue that the world had undergone a change recently. "Is that supposed to be funny?" he asked, his voice lacking patience. "Is that a joke? Or just a euphemism?" He gestured at the walls of his cell. "Am I in 'school' too?"

  Alec showed neither amusement nor annoyance at this outburst. Still looking at Harrison, he held his hand out to the side. The man who had interviewed Harrison earlier produced a small stack of file folders from a shoulder bag and handed them to Alec, who laid them on the table and opened the one on top.

  "Mitchell Bell," he began reading aloud. "Male. Age nine. IQ 108. Reading and math skills both at fourth grade level. Signs of Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, so far well-managed. Enrolled in fourth grade." He skimmed the rest of the sheet in front of him, then closed the folder and opened the next one. "Dorothy O'Neill. Female. Age twelve. IQ 154. Reading at college level, math skills at tenth grade level. Well-adjusted. Offered enrollment in eleventh grade. Requested placement in eighth grade for social reasons. Enrolled in gifted program." Alec closed the folder and looked up. "Now," he said flatly, "take the lock, please."

  Harrison was stunned. Either this was a meticulously constructed lie or he was finally hearing good news. The sparse descriptions of the children were consistent with his knowledge of them, which nudged him toward credulity.

  Harrison took the lock. Alec watched him expectantly. He nodded. Harrison pulled on the bar. It opened without resistance. Alec produced another lock, this time a keyed padlock. He tested it and handed it over. Harrison's anxiety level was rising, but he did not want to appear oppositional, so he took it. As soon as it touched Harrison's hand, the spring loaded mechanism snapped open. Alec took out another keyed lock and set it on the table in front of Harrison. He nervously reached out and touched it with one finger. As soon as he made contact, it popped.

  "That's quite a talent you have, Mr. Cody," Alec said. He appeared neither surprised nor truly impressed.

  Harrison could feel his adrenalin surge. He had already told them he had not used magic, and here he was, opening locks with an ease that was obviously unnatural. Then he worked backwards. Suddenly he understood that the CVS had been locked. He really had broken in, though he hadn't even realized it. Worse, he had, unknowingly, done it with magic. He had consistently told the truth, and still they had him dead to rights on two lies already. He scrambled to regain lost ground.

  "I swear I didn't do that on purpose!"

  "Yes," said Alec, "we know. The ability is innate, not deliberate." He paused. It was sinister. "We've even considered the possibility that you were unaware of this ability until now. The problem," he said, and he paused again, so that Harrison could fully absorb that last, menacing word. "The problem is the matter of your curious and transparent lie."

  Harrison was sweating freely now. What lie? The thing he said about not using magic? If he told them about Glimmer, would they trust him? Had the children already told them about Glimmer? Doubtful, he thought. They both seemed to have tremendous respect for her (even Dorothy, who had never met her, respected the tales she had heard) and would likely have wanted to keep her a secret as long as possible, to keep her for themselves.

  "I don't know what you mean," he said, trying to keep the desperation from bleeding out into his voice.

  "The one where you march out of Wisconsin and then tell us you're from Massachusetts. The three of you arrived at the north border. We have three sets of perfect footprints in the putty strip that match the shoes we took from you and the children."

  "Putty?" Harrison asked, trying to keep up.

  "That's right. So," Alec said, bringing the diatribe back to a question, "why would you lie about that?"

  Harrison started to see the first tendril of hope. He reached for it. He had, by withholding most of what he knew, created the appearance of ill intent. Perhaps if he simply started volunteering information, the whole ugly misunderstanding would go away. He wanted that lawyer now. Very badly.

  "We came the long way," he began tentatively. Alec said nothing, waiting for him to spill. Waiting for him to give himself more rope was more likely. "We found an underground train in New York, and it went to Chicago, but we had to go by way of Canada." For the first time, Alec seemed to lose his composure. While this was evidently not the story he expected, he looked disproportionately shocked. He started to say something, then waved Harrison on.

  "We had an accident in Milwaukee."

  That sent Alec over the edge. "That was you? You bloody, stupid son of a bitch! Do you have any idea how far you set that project back?"

  "It was an accident," Harrison repeated, and as he said it, he realized that this, finally, was a genuine lie. It had not been an accident; it had been enemy action. "We were lucky to get out alive," he continued. At best, a half truth.

  Alec was unsympathetic. He turned to the other man, said, "Pick up the locks!" and stormed out. Harrison was alone again.

  * * *

  Some time later, Alec returned. This time, he brought no assistant, no guards. He stood in the door without entering.

  "Come," he said.

  Harrison followed him to an elevator. It was the same one they had used to bring him to his room. He knew from before that they were in an office building, about five stories tall, and that he had been staying in the basement. They ascended. Harrison's dim hope that he was about to be released faded to black after they passed the ground floor. They continued for two more floors, then stopped.

  The door opened onto a hallway. There was a desk stationed there. A man sitting at the desk looked up, nodded, and made a note in a log book.

  Harrison was escorted down the hall and into a spacious office. That Alec was handling him alone was telling. He had, presumably, been ruled nonthreatening, unworthy of extra security.

  Floor to ceiling windows presented a glorious view. Harrison took a moment to take it all in. On his way, he had seen a number of log cabins, recently built, but he had not been sure what to expect from Chicago itself, whether it would still be a real city. It was not, but it was on the way back to becoming one. From this high, he could see hundreds of the little houses, most of them putting out smoke. Interspersed among them were various buildings, such as the one he currently occupied, and a quirky mixture of paved and unpaved roads. Civilization was certainly denser here than anywhere he had been yet, but the city was still, by any previous standard, a backwater.

  Chicago's most striking feature by far, though, was its populace. There was no way of telling how many people there were, how many were indoors, but he could see at least a hundred people braving the cold, some running errands, perhaps, or simply going for a walk outdoors. Some of them looked purposeful, some looked miserable, some were laughing as they shivered. People. It was the sigh
t he had traveled a thousand miles to see.

  Alec pointed to a side door. "In here," he said. It was a full bathroom. "Get yourself cleaned up," Alec instructed.

  Harrison closed the door behind him. Hanging behind it were a shirt, a tie, and slacks, all of which appeared brand new. Sitting on top of a pair of slick black shoes were a pair of argyle socks and a pair of boxer shorts, still in its wrapper. He wondered how they could know his size for all these items, then bitterly recalled that they had confiscated all his other clothes.

  He took a long, hot shower, luxuriating in the process of shampooing and conditioning his hair (the latter of which he almost never did). There was a toothbrush, still in its box, on the counter, along with a generous assortment of personal hygiene products. He swiped himself with deodorant, gargled, brushed, flossed, and decadently applied an adhesive patch designed to remove any lingering blackheads to his nose. While he waited for it to do its job, he went to work on his toenails.

  He emerged squeaky clean and well-dressed. Alec gave him a once-over. "We're getting there," he said, and motioned for Harrison to follow again.

  Several doors down on the same hall, he was taken to a barber. The simple comfort of sitting in a barber's chair with a cloth draped over him was hypnotizing. "How do you want it?" asked the barber.

  While he was pondering choices, Alec said, "Short. Neat. And lose the beard." Harrison hid his disappointment, but admitted to himself it was probably what he would have said, anyway.

  From there, he was led, clean-shaven and tidy, to another room one floor up, where he was told to wait. Alec left. He waited.

  The room was beautiful, luxurious. It felt like old money. His new surroundings were so comically bizarre that Harrison was almost able to be good-natured about his captivity. If nothing else, he was comfortable. He had been left in a room with a gorgeous view of the lake, magnificent furnishings, and a fascinating library. It struck him as not the sort of room one would use to contain a truly dangerous person, the implication of which he found both oddly flattering and insulting.