Dark Little Wonders and Other Stories

by Amy Cross

  I stare at him. He seems very hot and bothered. “It's a health monitoring device,” I tell him. “Cardio, toxins, anything, really. It monitors all my vital signs and picks up on any health problems the moment they appear”.

  Malcolm takes a deep breath. “Bollocks,” he says. “That's bollocks. That's what they told you? Seriously, my friend. Bollocks with a capital 'B'. They lied”.

  I narrow my eyes. Malcolm is well known for his love of hyperbole, but he never outright lies and he's too smart to get caught up in conspiracy theories. “What are you talking about?” I say. “I've checked it out. It's all over the web, it's a new health-monitoring system that's being introduced”.

  “Yeah yeah yeah,” he says. “It monitors some shit, but that's far from all it does. Jesus Christ, you let them implant this in your head? Who gave you this thing?” He starts pulling up various pages on his computer, showing all sorts of technical data that I unfortunately don't understand.

  “My employers subsidized the cost,” I say. “They want to ensure that all their agents are at the peak of their health”.

  “Yeah,” says Malcolm. “Maybe”. He points at something on the computer screen. To me, it just looks like a string of letters and numbers. “But they also want a back-door into your head. Two-way. Receiving and transmitting. Executable programs, you moron. Hard-wired to your nervous system, with access to your pre-occipital notch and half a dozen other parts of your brain. I hope you kept the receipt, and I hope you have the number of a good surgeon”.

  I stare at all the data Malcolm has up on his screen. I don't doubt that he believes this is all true, but I can't help thinking he's made a mistake somewhere.

  “Take it out,” I say firmly.

  “I can't,” he replies. “It's stuck to your skull, I can't just eject it”.

  There's a moment of silence as we both stare at the computer screen.

  “What does it do?” I ask.

  Malcolm points at some code. “It runs according to a full circadian cycle. Basically it waits until you're asleep, then it secretes neuroinhibitors that prevent you from waking up. At that point, it starts doing this -” He points at more lines of code. “- and I'm not sure what this is about at all, but it's complex and it involves connecting to a remote server. My guess is that there are more executable commands coming your way, which means... Well, I don't know exactly what it means, but I do know how to find out”.

  He reaches into a desk drawer and pulls out a notebook.

  “Permission to mess around with your brain,” he says. “Seriously. Virtually”.

  “I don't know -” I start to say.

  “Cool,” he says, entering some numbers of his keyboard. “All I'm doing, is I'm looping the inhibitors. So the thing will think you're asleep, when you're not. This way, at least you get to be awake while it's doing whatever it does. Excited?”

  “Not really,” I say.

  “I thought you would be”. He types in some more code. “Someone's hacking into your head, you idiot. Doesn't that pique your curiosity?”

  I nod. “But maybe it's just firmware updates to the Healthchip3000EX, just normal stuff?”

  Malcolm shakes his head. “Not a chance. All that health bullshit is just a cover for whatever this baby's really doing”. He finishes typing. “There. Tonight, go to bed as normal, but don't go to sleep. Eventually this thing'll kick in and start doing whatever it does. And then you can report back to me in the morning and we'll go from there. Deal?”

  I look at my watch. “I have to get back to work,” I say. “I'll let you know how it goes”. When I get to the door, I turn back to look at Malcolm. “This has nothing to do with the grass, then?”

  “Screw the grass,” Malcolm says. “The grass is the least of your problems”.

  ***

  That night, it takes me a long time to get comfortable in bed. I stare at the ceiling, waiting for something to happen. Glancing at the clock, I see that it's exactly 23:00. I'd usually be very much asleep by now. As a precaution, I make one final check of my feet. No grass. With the light off, I await any developments with interest. Even though I have no idea what I'm waiting for, I feel a sense of excitement. Something is coming.

  By 23:30, I'm starting to feel foolish. Malcolm is a good friend, but he's not infallible. In his excitement, he clearly saw more in those lines of code than perhaps exist. And for a while, he had me going. I fell for his conspiracy theory about the mysterious Healthchip3000EX, and the idea that it might be some kind of malevolent invader doing strange things inside my body. As I start to drift off to sleep, I resort to my familiar bedtime fantasy of meeting Debra Desmondleigh in a bar and seducing her. That sure would be nice.

  Suddenly I sit up, swing my legs over the side of the bed and stand. I walk to the wardrobe, open the door and take out a suit, into which I quickly change. Then I go to a cupboard in the hallway, root around at the back and pull out a suitcase. I open the suitcase, and I check the magazine of what appears to be a small handgun, which I then place in my trouser pocket. Then I go to the kitchen, switch on my laptop and log on to an unfamiliar website, from which I download a list of names and what appear to be coordinates. But here's the thing: I do all of this automatically, without any intention. It's as if my mind is a passenger, and my body is doing these things of its own accord. I'm powerless to do anything except watch from my eyes. It's almost as if someone else is controlling my body.

  I head to the elevator, and go down to the first floor of my apartment building. As I head towards the exit, the doorman calls out to me. I stop and turn to him. I try to speak, but I find that I can't. I'm a prisoner, a passenger in my body.

  “Some post for you, Mr. Charles,” says the doorman.

  “I'll get it tomorrow,” I hear myself saying, except I'm not the one saying it. Again, it's as if someone else is controlling my body. Although I try to speak to the doorman myself, I find that I can't. Instead, I walk out the door and head along the street, eventually getting into an unfamiliar car and driving off.

  With my body doing the driving, I can simply look ahead at the road. As hard as I try, I can't control my body at all, nor can I speak a single word. Perhaps I'm dreaming? Perhaps it's one of those lucid dreams? Suddenly my phone rings, and I wince in anticipation of the inevitable pain. But the pain doesn't come, and instead my body answers.

  “I'm on my way now,” I hear my voice saying.

  I can hear the person on the other end of the line. “Click in when you get there,” the voice says. “Tracking is patchy tonight, and we need to know where you are”.

  “Understood,” I hear myself saying, before the line goes dead.

  Eventually I park up in a small side-street just off the main road. I get out of the car and walk calmly towards an apartment building, punching in what appears to be the correct door-code to get into the main entrance, though I then remember that all agency members have a 'skeleton code' that gets us into any residential building in the city. As I head up in the elevator, my body retrieves the gun from my pocket and seems to be double-checking that it's loaded. Without fitting the safety, I carry the gun out of the elevator and along a small, carpeted corridor until I reach a door marked 411B. Here, I seem to wait for a few minutes before briefly pulling out my mobile phone and pressing a button before putting it away. Then I stand back, wait for a moment longer, and finally I charge the door down.

  “Damn it!” I try to shout, but I'm not in control of my mouth and in fact I say nothing as I quickly get up. A man comes rushing out of a room, wearing nothing but a pair of boxers, and I shoot him dead with a single shot straight between the eyes. After kneeling to make sure he has no pulse, I go through to the bedroom. At first it seems there's no-one here, but then I walk over to the wardrobe, open the door and find a woman hiding inside. Not just any woman, either: it's Debra Desmondleigh. Tears are rolling down her face and she's completely naked.

  Although I try to fight, I find my body grabs Debra by the hair and dr
ags her out onto the floor. While I pick her up and throw her onto the bed, the real me – the 'me' inside my head, watching all of this unfolding without being able to control it – can't stop marveling at her beautiful nakedness. All those times when I could have slipped into the bathroom with her and seen her naked body while I was working undercover, and now this is how I finally get my peek.

  “Don't hurt me!” she shouts, clearly terrified.

  “You have committed an unauthorized criminal act,” I hear my voice saying. “Section 411 of the code requires your execution”.

  She tries to roll away, but I pull her back. “Don't kill me,” she whimpers. “Please, I didn't do anything”.

  “Insider trading,” I say.

  “Everyone does it!” she screams.

  “That is no excuse,” I say, even though what I want to say is “That's okay, Debra, a quick session in the sheets should settle everything”. I just want to make love to her, to pleasure her naked body.

  “I see,” she sneers. “I guess I didn't pay off the right monkeys in Washington”.

  “Your bank accounts have been monitored and impounded,” I say. “Your computer systems have been examined and locked down. Your assets are now property of the government. You are to be executed”.

  I raise the gun to her face.

  “You corrupt little -” she starts to say before I grab her by the hair and haul her across the room to the window, which I open. The sudden sound of the city is almost deafening, the wind rushing into the room. “Don't hurt me,” she screams.

  “I have been given no order to ensure that your death is pleasant,” I say. She tries to get away, but I hold her tight. While I start pushing her out the window, I try to take control of my body. I don't want to do this. I want to save her, to take her away. I've spent time watching her. I know she's a good person, a nice person, a kind person. So many people are involved in insider trading, it's unfair to target her like this. Throw her out the window, and you might as well throw half the politicos in Washington out the window too.

  “You can't kill me!” she screams into the loud night as I wrap my hands around her throat and squeeze. Although I try to let go, I find that my body is still not my own. Against my will, I feel her throat constricting under the pressure I apply, and I feel her struggling for life. Though my hands are being controlled by the other me, I can feel her skin against mine. Eventually, after a couple of minutes, she stops struggling, though the wind continues to whip through her hair. I give her a final push and her naked body plunges to the street below. I watch her hit the pavement, a splat of blood appearing under her head and there's no doubt that she's dead. But by the time the enormity of this murder hits me, my body is already heading out of the apartment, running down the back stairs and out the building, back to the car.

  The phone rings and I answer. “She's dead,” I hear myself say. I'm not sure if there's anyone on the other end of the line, or maybe just machine. All I can hear is a series of clicks.

  III

  When I get home, I put the gun away and then I go to the kitchen sink and wash my hands. I head through to the bedroom, undress and hang my clothes up, and then I get into bed. All the signs of my night-life have been safely stored away, like a dirty secret. The version of me that's walking about right now is clearly convinced that the 'real' me is unconscious. He can't sense me in here, screaming. For a moment, I stare at the ceiling. The phone rings, and I answer.

  “All done for the night,” says the voice on the other end. I disconnect, put the phone back on the little table, and wait.

  And wait.

  I try to move my body, but I'm still not in control. Then, I find myself standing up again and walking through to the bathroom, where I stand and stare at my reflection in the mirror. It sure looks like me, but... those eyes that stare back... Damn it. Who am I kidding? The eyes are mine. This is me. Somehow. But why am I staring at myself in the mirror like this? What am I trying to see?

  With a shudder, I realize what's happening. This version of me has his own mind, his own thoughts. He's looking into the mirror, trying to see me, just as I'm looking into the mirror and trying to see him. How much does he know about me? About the real me? Or is he not really a real person? Maybe he's just the inevitable brief consciousness created by the fact that the body is moving about? Maybe it's not possible for a body to do this kind of thing without developing some kind of independent thought? Maybe that's all any form of consciousness is: a reaction to our actions.

  I walk out of the bathroom and, wearing nothing at all, I head out of my apartment. I go out to the back of the building, where there's a small patch of grass growing between two pavement slabs. I kneel down, pick one of the blades of grass, and carry it back up to my bedroom. The last thing I do as I settle down in the bed is to carefully place that blade of grass on my foot. And then I stare at the ceiling, and suddenly I become aware that I can move my body again. I sit up, totally in control this time. I look at the blade of grass on my foot. What is that? A message from one version of myself to another? A simple hello?

  I carefully touch the side of my head. I can just about feel the little lump where the Healthchip3000EX has been grafted to my skull. I have to get rid of this thing. I have to regain control of my body. But then... I don't see how that's going to be possible...

  I look at my hands. Just an hour ago, these hands were murdering Debra Desmondleigh. I wasn't in control of them at the time, but still... my hands, wrapped around her throat. I killed her. I watched, like a passenger, as my body was taken over and used to kill a woman who might or might not have been innocent, but whose illicit activities pale in comparison to what goes on in the city's penthouses and political meeting rooms. Screw it, no matter how I try to rationalize it, these are my hands and they squeezed the life out of Debra. I felt it happen...

  ***

  TOP FINANCIER KILLED IN WINDOW FALL, says the headline the next day when I log on to check the news.

  Still reeling from what happened, I meet Malcolm in a cafe on the other side of the city. He says it's too dangerous to meet at his office, and he's probably right: federal agents, he claims, have been spotted in the area, and he worries that they've found out he's been tampering with the device inside my head. He says he thinks they've been in his bank accounts, going through his email and bugging his phone. He's planning to maybe take a trip to his parents' house in Florida, though even there he might not be safe. Remarkably, he's rather sanguine about the whole thing, saying that everyone gets investigated like this at least once in their life. So what if he hasn't actually done anything wrong?

  “That is so messed up,” he says after I tell him what happened last night.

  I nod. “The grass is what gets me,” I say.

  “Screw the grass,” he replies. “The fact that they're controlling you like this. It's like... It's like they're turning you into a zombie killing machine. It's like you're a walking botnet”.

  I put my head in my hands. “I put in for a break in the program this morning,” I say. “I don't think they're going to grant it. I've probably just set off alarm bells all across the country. They're going to label me as a non-conformist, they'll probably put the brakes on all my operations”. I look up at Malcolm, and I feel a sense of rising despair. “It's inevitable that we've both been listed now, as possible subversive individuals. Even if we weren't before”.

  “I'm definitely on lists,” Malcolm says. “You should see the type of porn I buy. And all of it by credit card. They have all my data, I'm a complete idiot”.

  I take a deep breath. “Maybe I should just issue a pre-emptive apology to my superiors. Tell them I was wrong to question their strategy, tell them I have total faith in them from now on”.

  Malcolm laughs. “They install a mind control device in your brain and you're the one who's supposed to apologize?”

  “I don't want them to think I'm subversive,” I say bluntly.

  “That doesn't mean you have to rol
l over and die”.

  “I don't see how I can stop them,” I reply. I stare at my coffee. “There are thirty-seven agents in my division who are also part of the Healthchip3000EX program. Do you think they're all being used like this?”

  “It's possible, man,” Malcolm says. “If any of you screw up, they can just drop you like a stone. Claim plausible deniability, leave you to rot. I guess it's an experiment, to see if the technology will work”.

  “It works,” I say. “I need you to make it un-work. I need you to fix it so I can sleep through it again. Okay? If I can't stop it happening, at least I don't want to have to know about it”.

  “Are you kidding?” he asks.

  “No,” I say. “I don't want to know. Can you do that for me? Just make it so I wake up each morning and I don't remember what they had me doing. And find a way to stop him leaving that blade of grass on my foot, I don't want his messages”.

  After a pause, Malcolm nods. “If you really, really want that -”

  “I do,” I say, interrupting.

  He sits back. “I can probably do that for you. The part about making sure you stay asleep, anyway. I don't know if I can stop the grass”.

  “I should never have started asking questions,” I say.

  Malcolm sighs. “If this ever gets out,” he says. “If the press ever find out that the government is using this kind of shit... It's like mind control. Do you remember when stuff like this didn't happen?” He raises his coffee mug. “A toast,” he says. “To the world and all the shit in it”.

  We clink glasses.

  “It's been a shitty year, hasn't it?” Malcolm says slowly. “Next year's got to be better, right? No matter how bad 2019 has been, 2020 can't be worse”.

  Why Did You Leave Me?

  I

  “Nick, don't leave.”