by Anthony Puyo
I keep my hand on the wooden rail as my feet step up the carpet steps. I get to the top and have two options. Left or right. I choose left, since that’s what we seem to do when we choose to do things in order.
I creep to the closed door with only dim light from the moon as my guide. It shines between a slightly opened curtain at each end of the hallway.
I tread in, this time electing to use my phone's flashlight. The watchman is across the street, so I conclude there’s no chance for him to witness the glare of it.
There’s not much to see as David is proving to be a simple man and exceptional clean freak. A dresser sits one end of the yellow walled room, a bed on the other. Next to it is a nightstand. There’s a few pictures up; siblings and other family I assume. I open his closet slide door. Nothing unusual. Clothes as you would expect, some shoes for different occasions. No boxes, no clutter, nothing to go through.
“What am I doing here?” I ask for the third time.
I turn off my light and skip going through any of the other rooms. I don’t think there’s anything to see. David the monster I thought would have lived different. I expected to find hate messages painted across the walls along with bible verses. Maybe some articles of paper showing his anger for the world, or things that suggest what kind of mind he had. There is nothing though. All his walls have a few portraits of family and some flower paintings. Nothing to suggest any disdain. I even notice a few magazines on the coffee table that have to do with spiritual faith with one book being of the motivational kind. All this leads to more suspicion of this bizarre case. What happened to you David? If only the walls would fill me in.
I close the back door gently, and prowl my way back up to the front. I stay close to the fence, being careful not to be seen by the watchman as I move forward. I peer over into the car from fifteen feet away. His head leans over his shoulder in the opposite direction loosely, still asleep it seems.
A sound like heavy moving limestone grabs my attention. I gaze to the right of the empty street. The road there glistens from its own slickness and the reflection of the streetlight’s outer rays. A manhole there slips into place by a force I can’t see.
Though there is some anxiety, fear, and nerves, I feel prompted to investigate.
I get to the sidewalk and walk down it. I move to the middle of the road when I get closer to the manhole. I want to say something but I’m worried the sound of my voice will wake the watchman. It begins to sink in, If I lift this cover and go down, I could be putting myself in grave danger.
I touch my temple, tapping into the mainframe. If something happens to me, I want Myra to know where I was. I’ll block what I’m seeing and feeling, but I’ll let her know my location after a twenty-minute delay. There’s no point in putting her in any danger or possibly legal problems.
I move the manhole back in place, then I climb down. The air is stale and horrid down here. I can hear slowly flowing water in the deep darkness of the tunnel along with parted drips falling down the moist walls.
I can’t see anything. The feeling of fear and excitement brawl in my chest as the need for answers clutch my curiosity. With shaky hands, I put my phone’s light on. The sight of the bloody and dirty face in front of me makes me drop the phone to the sound of a break. A pain feels the side of my head and I . . .
“Jason Mendez, accountant at Matson. Fuck Matson. Fu—fu—fuck tha tha!”
I feel woozy and a sting burns around my left ear. There’s light but my vision hasn’t quite come through. All I see is scales of distorted color, translucent in nature.
The voice I hear sounds that of a man trying to imitate a child of twelve or younger.
“He’s awake. He’s awake. Matson is bad. He’s from Matson.”
“Who are you?” I groan. I try to speed up my recovery by rubbing my eyes and forehead. My sense of touch comes back to me as I feel the grimy cold stone I lie upon.
“You—you—know, Matson guy. Yu—you just playing dumb.” The voice shifts in strength; the way one sounds when they’re moving around while talking.
My vision clears. I follow the yellow glow to its source of richness. A lamp up near a stone wall. By it, is a wooden crate with a chair cushion on it. On the stone ground besides it, rests what looks like a hand pistol. I turn my head to the sound of chalk resolutely scraping. There stands the large man I’ve seen all over television screens, buildings, blimp drones; twenty-four hours a day, and all throughout the city.
“Casper?” I remark with a wilted tone.
He turns and now I’m deeply disturbed. He quickly moves to the ground where I am, gathering all of my sight by getting close to my face. He’s hideous. Nothing like the man I’ve come to recognize—we’ve all come to recognize.
“What did they do to you?” I ask with mostly air, fascinating over his bandaged head that’s soaked with blood and a haze of yellow plasma, swollen to the shape of a lightbulb.
“I had to take the demon out. The demon—Matson. Matson demon.” The deranged man says, standing, then writing once more on the concrete wall.
I get to my rear, feeling unnerved. I glance to the weapon by the crate. I’m not sure if I could crawl fast enough to get it.
“Look!” David’s voice rings out. “Look at Matson.”
I examine the drawing he wants me to see, squinting from the lack of light there. Afraid he might hurt me once more; I try to make it out with appeasing effort. He doesn’t show a lack recognition from his injury as he grabs the lamp and puts it next to his drawing.
“Look!” he says again, smiling wide.
He drew in cave dweller modu operandi, using stick figures to relay his message. The drawing starts with the Matson symbol. The rest is hard to describe. In picture one, there are many stick figures with a money sign underneath the group. Right next to them, is some sort of box with what looks like lightning rods in the center of it. To the right of the box is another group of stick figures. Something like a cloud or something is over their heads which looks to be coming from the box. In the second drawing, the figures with the money sign have a crown now. And the group after the box all lie in stacks.
I shake my head to David. “I don’t understand.”
David, slobber dripping down his chin, puts a big ex over the lying stick figures. I feel my mouth droop as I try to understand.
“David, are you saying—”
He walks with a stumble, grabbing a small matchbox from a shelf he had to have placed down here. He extends it to me. I reach slowly, hoping he won’t hurt me. He hands me the box then begins to unwrap his battered skull.
“No, David. Keep that on.” I say while wincing.
He doesn’t listen. As each wrap delayers, the one under is remarkably more soaked in blood—glistening so. I want to close my eyes. I’m not the kind of man who can tolerate large amounts of blood. I feel I hear something in darkness beyond. A skid of sorts. David makes sure to keep my focus. He points with a red finger towards the box, right before he undoes the last wrap.
I open it but stare up at him winced by my own fear and grotesque feelings.
He drops the wrap on the cold stone ground. He bows slightly for me to have a good look.
I can’t believe my eyes.
A fist size hole is at the top of David’s forehead. If I shined a flashlight in there, I believe I could see his brain amongst the grains of skull tissue. I cannot fathom how he is still alive.
He points while grunting for me to gaze into the matchbox. I reluctantly do. I don’t want to see anything anymore. My curiosity has been nothing but a curse as of late. The hurt that this man must be feeling along with my own frailty, almost brings me to tears. I peer in the box, slobbering out of my open mouth as I groan. A silver shines underneath rotted tissue. I tweezer out what I know it to be. I cry knowing this is what caused this poor man to do what nearly no good soul is capable of. I cry knowing this crime against humanity is my very own skull.
“Matson.” David blurts. “Matson—demon.”
/> “Thank you for finding him, Jason.” The voice of a golden age gasps.
A piercing echo makes my ears ring, and the flicker of light frightens me.
David stumbles back, arms open wide. The hole in his chest leaks out. He thuds back against his shelf. Falling over his limbs tuck under his body loosely. His open eyes gaze into mine, but I know the breath of life is no longer with him.
I roll over quickly, finishing with a lurch. I grab the pistol off the ground and fire at the blur wildly enough times that I can’t be certain of hit. I hear a grunt, but I don’t stay to see who it is. My survival instincts kick in and I knock over the lamp. Without wasting another second, I zip down the tunnel as fast as humanly can.
“Jason! I will find you, Jason!”
I hear the yell behind me begin to fade. I’m almost to safety.
10
“Where are you?” Her lovely voice asks. The voice I could get used to hearing every morning of my waking life.
“I’m standing outside my place. The authority is there along with the black car I had seen outside your place.” I reply through the mainframe, since my phone is no more.
“My place? What are you talking about?” Myra expels.
“I have to go. The men in black coats have spotted me.” They begin running towards their black car. “I think you should stay away from me, Myra. Matson was involved with Casper and now they’ve killed him. I believe I may have something they want.” I take a glimpse at the matchbox in my hand. “I don’t want to bring you harm. Please understand.”
“Jason, wait. I talked to my father. Its true Congress will pass the bill you talked about, but he said it’s for the good of mankind.”
“I know you’re confused, Myra. You want to believe, like so many like you. But they’ve lied to you . . . I don’t think you should contact me anymore. Don’t look for me.”
“Jason! Jason, please— “
“I love you, Myra.” I say while running towards an alley. I felt the warmth heart. She was letting me in, but I couldn’t do the same. Not now. Not while someone who knows my name wants to kill me. I won’t end up like Casper . . . My next move is to find the engineer.
I ran and ran till I found the subway. So, tired, so exhausted. This late at night the place is empty with only the outer pieces of society in there. They take up small spaces near the walls, sleeping with no mind of the loud metal screeching on metal of the tracks when a train passes. As time went, I found myself dozing. I decide to close my eyes on a bench seat in the near empty cart. My only hope right now, is that I wake up with my wallet. Someone who needs the money can have it. But I would like them to leave everything else.
I wake to something sharp poking my chest.
“Hey, you gotta get up. It’s time to move on.”
The voice is strong but gentle. I open my stuck together eyes, seeing clearly through one but not so in the other.
“Okay, sir. I’ll do that.” I reply to the subway’s security, a very large and stout man who dangles a Billy-club in his hand.
I straighten myself out. I notice the cab is half filled with people now. They look at me with dry curiosity. Probably more upset that I’m holding up their ride than anything.
I walk out with the guard following behind me. “Where are we?”
“Journal Square.”
I search my coat pocket for my phone, then I realize it’s somewhere in the sewage of a plant somewhere. I can’t believe I traveled so far from home.
“Thank you, sir.” I say as I part from the guard.
I keep walking, ascending the white steps, passing a quarter filled station area. I gaze around for a clock. The digital one by the transit times says 7:22 a.m. in red numbers.
I can’t go home knowing I’m sought after by who I suspect are Matson’s or DARPA’s goons. The authority was with them as well. That part makes me wonder. Am I wanted by them, also? If so, why? As far as I know, I have not committed any crime.
Something inside says just keep moving. My plan is to head to PAC, near Historic Downtown. I’m already in Jersey, and it’s only about seven miles from where I am now.
I turn on my chip. I hate to admit it, but with no phone it has come in handy. I call down a drone taxi, and off I go.
I knock then go in. Many of our guys are camped out sleeping here. It must have been a hell of a protest in Philly. Jake is in front of his computer, typing away, while Leonard is knocked out next to a girl from the bar.
“Wow, dude! You look like crap.”
I couldn’t argue that. Running, lying in dirt, sleeping on the subway, those kinds of activities will do that to you.
“The authority was at my apartment yesterday. I think Matson had some goons there, too. Them or DARPA, like it matters.” I say.
Through the glare of Jake’s glasses, I could see his eyes widen. “What?!”
“Yeah, I know. I have something very special. But we can’t see what’s on it here. Wake Leonard. I think we should go to your place.”
As soon as I said that, I saw what look like a flashing red light in my mind. I touch my temple and close my eyes. I see the map of New Jersey, and the coordinates and best route to Jake’s home. I also see I have a message. I have the option for voice or text. I think voice to select my option.
The words two hours ago flash before I hear the heavenly voice of Myra’s. “I miss you so much. Please don’t let us go. I want to know everything. I want to stand by you.”
“Dude, what’s up with you? Are we going or what?” Jake’s voice barks.
I open my eyes, feeling out of place and a little winded. It’s the Thin Chip, I didn’t realize I had left it on. I hate that it’s extremely useful, and amazing. It seems the more you have it on, the more it seems to become one with you. I can’t help but feel a little scared over that thought. The technology is seductive. So was the snake in the garden of Eden. My analogy makes me think of the terms Adamed and Eved when referring to someone being chipped. The names were coined after the tree of knowledge from the good book. I hate the gall at how much sense that makes.
On the drive to Jake’s house, I flip through recorded thoughts of Myra. It is like nothing I ever experienced. It’s as though I was there again. I do not see the pictures and memories as movies. I see everything through the eyes of myself during the actual moments in time. The feelings get so intense I have to stop. Not only was I being too quiet and ignoring questions like a rude buffoon, but my emotions began seeping through my skin in the form of sweat, and my heart rate was climbing considerably.
“Jason, what’s wrong with you?” Leonard asks.
“Oh—it’s nothing. I’m sorry. What was you asked?”
“You said you found David Casper and now he’s dead. What happened?” Jake blurts before Leonard can speak.
“I don’t want to talk about anything until we’re in your room. I don’t trust anything electronic based right now.”
The two of them give a quick glance to each other, as if I wouldn’t catch it. They may doubt me now, but I’m sure that will all change very soon.
We all sit in the cluttered room of clothes, toys, comics, and broken electronics. We’re gathered around the computer with a screen clear as a piece of glass. Jake puts the Handmade on, which is a thin, small wire that is connected to a bandage type thing that goes around your index finger. It’s made to move the cursor as you type with a simple point of the screen.
“Where’s the memory card you want to go through?” Jake asks.
It’s the first time I decide to show them the chip. I can hardly believe this is what’s inside of my head. It no longer looks like the fingernail sized thing that went into my body through a syringe. No. This thing has grown to the size of a cracker, and now that it’s no longer attached to David’s brain, it has hardened and thickened a half centimeter with a small USB sticking out of it. I can only assume this happens on purpose once pulled out, just in case a next of kin, spouse, authority figure wanted to retrieve what
could almost be described as the essence of the person deceased. It could probably hold half a person’s life in there, though I’m not sure. I do remember Phil Balock saying memories could also be stored in the mainframe, so maybe it holds what you want it to hold. Perhaps the most precious of memories.
“Whoa, what the fuck is that?” Leonard asks point blank. As the leader of our group, he is not the most tech savvy. That department belonged to Jake.
“This is a Thin Chip. Matson’s baby.” I explain.
“Ok. But where did you get it, and why do you want to upload it?”
“It belonged to David Casper.” I reply, knowing what to expect.
“Damn, Jason!” says Jake, smooshing his face in disgust.
“Holy crap!” remarks Leonard. “Did you lift this from his brain?”
“No . . . He did. He wanted me to have it. I’m pretty sure there is something really valuable he wanted us to know.”
Jake moves a book entitled Cops, Criminals, & Gangsters: Modern Noir by Anthony Puyo, off his tower.
“I’m glad you can read, shithead.” Leonard remarks.
“Only the intellectual read,” Jake replies, “so I’m not surprised you don’t.”
“Whatever. Just put in the chip.” Leonard nags.
It’s amazing. David put his memories in files on a very neat interface. He highlighted one file called Matson.
“Wow. He put it right there to be found.” I blurt.
Jake clicks on it. It’s no different from selecting scene sections from a movie film. We push on the first option called The Interview.
We watch things through David’s point of view. It’s somewhat eerie to see life through this man’s eyes; a man we have learned by the authority to be a menace to society.
It starts out with David in the lobby restroom of Matson. He stares into the restroom mirror, dressed in a colored shirt, hair combed neatly. He poses to the side sucking in his gut. Then lets it out with a large gasp. “Eh, who are you kidding? You look better husky.” He smiles at himself. “Today’s the day. Hope you can hear me, Mom and Dad. This is going to be . . . I don’t know what it’s going to be. I’m excited. A little nervous, though. I’m told it won’t hurt. And when it’s done, I’ll be one with the universe.” He bows like in Oriental tradition, then the video ends.
