Timestruck

by Speer, Flora

  Timestruck

  By

  Flora Speer

  Smashwords Edition

  Copyright © 2000, by Flora Speer

  Cover Design Copyright 2013

  By http//:DigitalDonnna.com

  Smashwords Edition, License Note:

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  Prologue

  In the late 1990’s, people began to wonder what would happen when the date rolled around to midnight on December 31, 1999 – January 1, 2000. Most computers were not programmed to automatically reset their dates to a new millennium. Wild news stories were published, suggesting that computers would crash, destroying valuable data and ruining the stock markets and banks, that airplanes would fall out of the sky when their on-board computers failed at the stroke of midnight. In short, a world-wide disaster was feared.

  Rather quickly, a new industry was launched. Computer “experts” would repair the so-called Y2K (Year 2000) problem in advance, resetting the inner clocks of computers, thus preventing the feared crashes….

  Chapter 1

  New York City

  7.45 A.M.

  Friday, December 31, 1999

  “Not so fast!” The landlady planted herself squarely in front of her tenant, blocking Gina’s rush through the hall of the old house to the outside door.

  “I can’t stop to chat right now,” Gina said, even though she was certain that conversation was not on Mrs. Benson’s mind. “If I do, I’ll be late for work.”

  “Your rent is due.” Mrs. Benson’s manner was decidedly hostile. She was a short woman on the far side of middle age, and at the moment she looked like an angry little bulldog.

  “Legally speaking, I don’t have to pay you until the first of the month,” Gina said.

  “Legally speaking,” Mrs. Benson snarled right back at her, “tomorrow is a holiday. The banks will be closed all weekend, and from what I’ve heard, they won’t open again until the end of next week. If we’re lucky, that is. Some say this here XYZ problem will stop all the computers. That means, on the stroke of midnight there’ll be no electricity, no water, and probably no food in the stores. I got shoppin’ to do before then.”

  “It’s Y2K,” Gina said. “Actually, I don’t think there will be much of a problem at all. Most large corporations, including banks and public utilities, have made the necessary corrections to their computer programs. It’s only small companies and individuals who are expected to run into trouble with their computers.”

  “You sound just like them government agents I been seein’ on the TV talk shows,” Mrs. Benson said. “You don’t believe them, do you? Or maybe you do, since you work on computers all day, every day. But I don’t trust the government, not here in the city, not the people in Albany, nor the folks in Washington, neither. And I sure as hell don’t trust them infernal computer machines. Disaster – maybe even the end of civilization – is comin’ at midnight tonight, and I expect you to pay your rent today. In cash.”

  Gina resisted the urge to ask what Mrs. Benson was planning to do with cash if she really expected civilization to end. The woman’s attitude was so illogical and so ill-informed that Gina wanted to laugh. She shivered instead, as an odd, chilling sensation crept over her.

  No wonder she was cold. The old brownstone building that Mrs. Benson had turned into a boardinghouse, renting out sparsely furnished rooms with bathroom down the hall to a motley collection of tenants, was always chilly, and the front vestibule, where Mrs. Benson had cornered Gina, was the coldest place of all, thanks to the door opening and closing so often.

  “Mrs. Benson.” Gina said, straining for patience, “if you want the rent money, you’ll have to let me out of here so I can go to work. I’ll be paid at noon, and I promise I will cash my check at the credit union right there at Y2K Computer Systems. The moment I get home this evening, I will knock on your door and hand you the cash. I’ve never been late before, have I?”

  “There’s always a first time,” said Mrs. Benson. She squinted at Gina, screwing up her wrinkled face as if to make herself appear even fiercer.

  “Not this time,” Gina retorted sharply. She ventured a step in the direction of the front door, and Mrs. Benson, making no secret of her reluctance, moved out of the way, letting Gina finally make good her escape.

  “Home, sweet home,” Gina muttered sarcastically as the door slammed behind her. “The kind every woman dreams of.” She paused on the front step to turn up the collar of her hip-length black leather coat before she stepped off briskly in the direction of the subway. She told herself the sudden moisture in her eyes was caused by the cold and the city’s gritty, sooty wind.

  “You’re late,” said Gina’s boss, frowning at her. She was a tough woman who seldom smiled. Gina sometimes wondered if she slept in her dark, severe business suit.

  “My landlady imagines civilization is going to end on the stroke of midnight,” Gina explained, “I had to reassure her that she will get my rent money before that happens.”

  “Ignorant fools,” grumbled the boss. “I’m sick to death of these millennialists and their end-of-the-world scenarios, and even sicker of all the publicity about tonight.”

  “I guess it’s natural to be afraid of something you don’t understand.”

  “If you say so.” The boss handed Gina a sheet of paper. “Here’s the printout on the list of calls you’re to make today. If you’re efficient and don’t run into too many problems, you ought to be finished by six or seven. That’ll give you plenty of time to celebrate the New Year. At least I and my employees won’t be expected to work all weekend long, unlike the people in some companies I could mention.”

  “You are planning to hand out the paychecks today, aren’t you?” Gina asked, ignoring the comment about celebrating. She had nothing to celebrate, and she wanted to be sure she hadn’t made a mistake in promising to have the rent money by the end of the day. Sometimes the holidays messed up even the most basic routines of everyday life.

  “Scared the computer will go down?” asked the boss.

  “I’m not,” Gina said. “Mrs. Benson is.”

  “Stop back here at lunchtime, and you can pick up your check then. But don’t be late; I’m leaving early.”

  “I’ll be here.”

  The first two names and addresses on the printout were located in midtown Manhattan. Both were fairly simple problems with personal computers, and Gina made short work of them. The third address was on the Lower East Side. Gina took the subway, which seemed to be running at half speed. One of the passengers loudly complained that the Y2K problem was already beginning to affect the subway machinery, which would shut down completely at midnight, if it didn’t grind to a halt before then. Other passengers looked uneasy. Gina shrugged and kept her mouth shut.

  The nearest subway stop was several blocks from her destination, so she had to walk. By the time she reached the address it was almost noon, and she was hungry and irritable. She’d had only a quick cup of coffee for breakfast, and if she didn’t get back to Y2K Computer Systems, Inc. in time to pick up her paycheck and cash it before the credit union office closed for the day, she wouldn’t have money for lunch. Or for dinner. Or a place to live, if Mrs. Benson had anything to say about it.

  “It’s just plain stupid,” Gina muttered to herself as she checked the address again before pulling open the door of a decrepit office build
ing. “Everybody has known about this problem for years, even people who don’t have computers. Why would anyone wait so long to fix it?”

  She jabbed the Up button for the elevator, then waited impatiently. Down in the basement a loud, rumbling sound began and drew slowly nearer.

  Gina glanced around the dreary lobby, alert as only someone bred in a large city can be to the possibility of an intruder intent upon robbery, or worse. The lobby was empty. There weren’t even any pedestrians to be seen on the street beyond the smudged glass door. But then, as Gina was uncomfortably aware after the last fifteen minutes of walking, the day was so cold and windy that no one who didn’t need to be would be outdoors.

  She heaved a long, irritated sigh. The world outside was typical of late December, all gray and bleak. Inside the office building wasn’t much better. The lobby was decorated – if decorated was the right word – in dull brown and beige, without even a holiday wreath. It wasn’t a place where anyone would want to linger.

  “Come on, come on,” Gina said to the lumbering elevator. She tapped the toe of one high-heeled, fake-suede boot on the dingy linoleum floor. “I haven’t got all day.”

  As if in response to her words, the door slid open to reveal a grubby-looking elevator.

  “Doesn’t anybody ever clean this dump?” Gina grumbled. She stepped inside, taking care not to brush against the walls. Her coat was secondhand, but it had cost a week’s wages, and she knew she was going to have to wear it for years.

  Three stories above street level the elevator stopped with a jolt that almost unbalanced its lone passenger. When the door opened Gina discovered she would have to step up a good ten inches to floor level. The realization did nothing to alter her growing conviction that the last, miserable day of the old year was going from bad to worse in a hurry.

  “There must be a law about elevator safety,” she said under her breath as she planted one foot on the floor and hauled herself upward. “I bet the owner pays off the inspector so he doesn’t have to fix this machine or buy a new one.”

  There were only three doors in the third-floor hallway. One of them bore a stenciled sign announcing her destination: THE BROWN DETECTIVE AGENCY. Gina turned the knob and walked into a small, cluttered office.

  It looked exactly as she expected, a sleazy place where the majority of clients were probably women who wanted to hire detectives to dig up information about their adulterous husbands. Gina was glad she didn’t have a husband to worry about.

  After a quick glance around the unkempt room, she understood why the computer had been neglected until the last possible moment. Obviously, nobody cared about the office equipment – or the appearance of the employees.

  “Well, hello there.” A man wearing a stained sweatshirt and sporting an untidy beard looked up from the tabloid spread across the reception desk. Behind him a door stood ajar. It looked as if a larger office lay back there, with gray midwinter light coming through a couple of windows.

  “What can I do for you, pretty lady?” asked the bearded man, letting his gaze sweep over Gina in a way that was all too familiar to her.

  She wished she had worn trousers instead of a short black leather skirt and opaque black pantyhose. In fact, she wished she had worn an old-fashioned nun’s habit that covered her from head to toe. Gina hated it when men looked at her the way Mr. Hairy-Face was doing. She was glad she was through with men. No one was ever going to break her heart again. Or empty her bank account and max out her one and only credit card, either.

  “Virginia McCain,” she said crisply, and deliberately did not offer her hand to shake. She didn’t want to touch him; she was sure his palm would be sweaty, and he’d try to hang on to her fingers too long. “I’m from Y2K Computer Systems, here to fix your equipment.”

  “You’re kidding, right?” Mr. Hairy-Face leered at her. “You look as if you could have another reason for being here. I’ll be glad to help you.”

  “Do you have a problem with women?” Gina demanded, making her voice hard and cold. When the man’s eyebrows rose in surprise, she continued, “Having ignored the issue of Y2K until much too late, you called last week, begging for our help.”

  “Not me,” said Mr. Hairy-Face. “That must’ve been Bob Brown who called. But he’s not here. He’s taking a few days off.”

  “Why am I not surprised?” Gina bestowed her best icy glare on the man. “Do you want me to fix the computer or not?”

  “Yeah, sure, go ahead. I can’t send out the January bills till it’s fixed. It’s in there.” Not bothering to rise from his chair, Mr. Hairy-Face tilted his head in the direction of the inner office. His next words were filled with insinuation. “Are you going to need anything special from me, honey?”

  “Nothing, except to be left alone while I work.” She marched past him with her nose in the air. “By the way, I am not your honey. Call me that again, and I’ll sue you for sexual harassment.”

  “Yeah, right.” Mr. Hairy-Face stood up at last and took a step in her direction as if to intimidate her. He was several inches taller than Gina and a lot heavier. She kept glaring at him until he grinned at her, almost as if he knew how hard her heart was pounding in alarm. “I’m leaving now. It’s time for my lunch break. If anyone calls or comes by, tell them I’ll be gone for about an hour.

  “By the way, honey, “he added, shoving his face much too close to hers, “I was only asking if you wanted me to bring back anything for you to eat or drink.”

  “Close the door when you leave. I don’t want to be interrupted,” Gina responded.

  She waited until he was gone before she entered the inner office. There she leaned against the door, letting out a long, shaky breath. Then she noticed there was no lock.

  “Oh, well, with any luck I’ll be out of here before the creep comes back, and I won’t have to deal with him again,” she said to herself, still using her tough voice.

  Despite her desire to complete the job she’d been sent to do and leave, she stayed where she was for a minute or two, leaning against the door for support and despising herself for her weakness. Though she felt like swearing, she refused to let herself utter a single four-letter word.

  She had been six years old – she couldn’t recall whether she was living in her third or her fourth foster home – when she decided that she was never going to use the kind of language the people around her used. She didn’t understand the impulse; she just knew she wanted to be different, so she decided she would always speak proper English and would never resort to cursing. It was her first small rebellion against the circumstances of her life.

  Unfortunately, she was the only person who thought she was different from any of the other foster children. Everyone else saw just a skinny, sharp-faced kid with black hair that was too curly and big eyes that people teased her about, calling them cat’s eyes. As soon as she was old enough to get a part-time job and earn enough money, she solved the hair problem by visiting a stylist and having the unmanageable curls cut into an ultra-short, spiky style. She had kept the same style ever since, no matter what the fashion trends were. That taming of the apparently untamable was her second act of rebellion.

  Her third revolt was her decision to call herself Gina instead of Ginny, the nickname others invariably used.

  She couldn’t do anything about her green eyes, but few people teased her these days. Gina was too street-tough now for teasing. She never let anyone see her real feelings. Half the time she didn’t even let herself know her real feelings. Life was easier that way. If she thought about how alone she was, how empty inside, without a place where she belonged or anyone who cared about her, whom she could care about in return, she’d never get any work done. Which, she told herself, was what she ought to be doing right now – working, instead of daydreaming. Dreams weren’t going to pay the rent.

  She surveyed her surroundings, discovering that while the inner office was neater and cleaner than the reception area, it was no more cheerful. There was an oddly unused look
about it, almost like a haunted room in an old house, in spite of the perfectly ordinary furnishings. Beige file cabinets and a bookcase stood against one wall, and the floor was covered with wall-to-wall brown carpeting. The desk in front of the windows was plain dark wood, its swivel chair upholstered in brown.

  The office was unnervingly quiet, with no noise coming from the street outside. Shafts of pale sunlight slanted through the windows in shifting patterns as the clouds blew across the sky. Gina shivered, trying to shake off the eerie effect of sunlight, shadow, and complete silence, telling herself her reaction was the result of Mr. Hairy-Face’s suggestive leers.

  “I wish I were somewhere else,” Gina whispered so intensely, it was almost a prayer. “I wish there were someone – ah, forget it. No one cares. No one ever has. No one ever will. Get over it, Gina. Live with it. Do the job, and clear out of here.”

  There were no papers on the desktop, no pencils or pens, no In or Out box, not even a paper clip. The computer she was to repair sat squarely in the middle of the barren surface.

  “That’s odd,” Gina muttered, frowning. “If Mr. Brown is a neat freak, why is the reception area such a mess?”

  Shrugging off the peculiar discrepancy between inner and outer offices, she dumped her purse on the floor beside the swivel chair, then pulled off her coat and draped it over the chair back.

  “OK, let’s see what we’ve got here.” She quickly discovered that the computer was plugged into a relatively new surge protector, which in turn was properly connected to the wall outlet. Wiring to both the keyboard and the printer appeared to be in good condition. When she pressed the switch, the display lit up, and the self-test sequence began to run. The familiar, soft noises of a working computer eased her tense nerves a little.

  “So far, so good.” Proud of her typing skills, Gina preferred to use a keyboard rather than a mouse. She derived great pleasure from the sensation of her fingers flying over the keys. She sat down in the swivel chair, pulled the keyboard closer, and waited for the screen to turn blue.