“There’s the library,” Mr. Conner said, nodding to a low-flung concrete building beside the road. Mr. Conner parked the truck in front. They both got out. “Looks closed.” He cupped his hands around his mouth and yelled “hello?”
A man wearing a cardigan and a ponytail opened the door.
“Charlie?” he said. “Weren’t you staying at Raquette?”
“Got someone here who needs your help,” Mr. Conner said. “Amadeus, why don’t you explain what you need?” As Amadeus told a shortened version of his story, the librarian became increasingly excited.
“Whatever you need,” the librarian said. “I fucking hate Tivooki Systems. You can use an office computer. Full access; no filters or firewalls.” Amadeus copied the file to a computer for the librarian to watch as he worked, then he sat down at another machine. The Conners busied themselves with magazines. In his email, a message from Annie:
Amadeus, thank you for sending this to me. I knew you didn’t do what they said you did. I’ve talked to my editor. She says we’re going to run with this. Good work.
Smiling with relief, Amadeus downloaded a client-side program, created a torrent file, and named the file “gate_crasher.zip.” He sent the file to Sal, asking for his help, then sent messages to everyone he could think of. A few university friends, he found them online, sent them the torrent file, and asked them to download it. After ten minutes, he had twenty seeds, people who had parts of the file and could share it with others. At least one person had finished the full download. If he guessed correctly, this number would increase exponentially as word spread. The word was out. Unless the internet shut down, which wasn’t entirely unimaginable, the world would have access to the plans. He logged onto Grassal’s secure site and found this message from yesterday:
Hey brother, I hope you’re okay. I’m not sure what happened, but when I woke up two days ago, everyone was gone: Jones, Lilly, the Koreans. It’s like they just disappeared in the night. The compound was completely empty. I didn’t know what else to do, so I left. Remember the girls from the train? I’m staying with them until we can figure out what’s going on. These are scary times. Right now we can post here, I think it’s still secure. Good luck and see you soon.
Amadeus replied, telling Grassal about his site, his plan to distribute it, what happened to the Pachyderm, and that he would come to San Francisco as fast as he could. With that, he checked the seeds again. Up to a hundred. It was working. Wondering what had happened in Colorado, he logged off. The librarian came over and shook his hand.
“That’s far out, man,” he said. “Nice, and exceedingly clever.” Amadeus thanked him then asked the Conners to take him to the bus station.
At the bus station, people sat on suitcases and taped cardboard boxes. A sign said all routes to New York were closed. There was a train station in Albany, though, and that would take him to San Francisco. According to the digital board above the counter, they still had tickets. Mr. Conner waited in line with him, not bothering to make small talk. As they waited, the number of seats dwindled from ten to five to one and, just before Amadeus stepped up to the window, the last one sold. A young man with a shaved head and a long, scruffy beard had bought it.
“Excuse me,” Amadeus said, “did you just buy a ticket for Albany?”
“Yeah, I got to get to my girl before all hell breaks loose.”
“What would you take for that ticket?” Mr. Conner said. “It’s very important this man gets to Albany. Would you take a hundred for it?”
“Sorry chief, not selling it. They’ve already marked up all the prices, hazard rates, you know how it is,” the young man said. “No more tickets until tomorrow.”
“Look,” Amadeus said. “You can get a ticket tomorrow. If I don’t get to Albany today, I’m going to be up shit creek. What about three hundred dollars and a broken phone? It’s got some good software on it; a couple years ago it was state of the art.” Amadeus pulled out his phone and handed it to the young man. “You can get the screen fixed, no problem.”
The young man considered it. “How do I know that thing’s not stolen?”
“I promise you it’s mine. I don’t want to give it away, but I have some very important work to do.”
“Um.” The young man said. Amadeus looked at Mr. Conner. His face was turning red.
“Son, if you don’t take the offer,” Mr. Conner said, trailing off as he discretely lifted the front of his shirt to reveal a handgun tucked into his belt, “we might have problems. It’s a very good deal for you.”
“Fuck it, take the ticket,” the young man said. Mr. Conner smiled and handed him three hundred dollars. Amadeus started to give him the computer but the young man refused it.
“I don’t know what you two are up to, but that’s probably stolen. I don’t want a damn thing to do with it.”
“Look,” Amadeus said, “it’s not stolen.” He took the flash drive out, started it up, and showed him the first part of the video. “If it was stolen, would I put a video of myself on it?”
“Maybe not. Okay, I’ll take it,” he said.
“Two more things,” Amadeus said, still holding the phone. “One, when you get home, but no sooner, take the back off and reconnect the wireless. You’ll just need to plug in a couple wires, real easy. And two, watch the full video. Trust me, once you do, you’ll feel a lot better about selling your ticket.”
“Whatever,” the man said as he took the computer.
“Wise decision,” Mr. Conner said. The young man stuffed the computer in his pocket and left the station. Given the ticket was twenty dollars, even with hazard fees, Amadeus thought they had treated the young man fairly. They walked over to the platform. Rumbling busses waited for their passengers. People hugged as the drivers loaded their luggage aboard.
“They were tracking you with that, weren’t they?” Mr. Conner asked, smiling like he knew a secret.
“Before I disconnected the wireless.”
“Clever, son, real clever.”
“What was your job before all this?” Amadeus asked him.
“High school algebra teacher,” Mr. Conner said. “Before last week, I’d never handled a gun in my life.”
Mrs. Conner came into the station and stood beside her husband as Amadeus waited for his bus. Amadeus thanked them both for their help and asked them what they’d do next.
“You know what we’re going to do, Amadeus,” Mr. Conner said. “We’re going to build a couple gate crashers then tell anyone who’ll listen how to build them, how to use them. Not everybody uses the internet, you know.”
“Maybe it’s best if you stay with your family,” Amadeus said.
“They can take care of themselves up there. Not many people going up that way. If we don’t, who will?” Even though he’d only known them a short time, Amadeus gave each of them an awkward hug and thanked them for their help before he boarded his bus to Albany.
*
He sat with his waterproof bag in his lap. In his bag, he had the bandages Mrs. Conner gave him, a couple bottles of water, and the handgun. Amadeus didn’t like carrying it, especially on a bus full of families and children, but he couldn’t exactly throw it in the trash. Of course, at the train station, he might have to. He expected security would be heavy and tight. Yet, when his bus stopped at the transfer depot outside the train station, people were spilling out the doors of the station, packed tight, shoulder to shoulder. A man stood on a box and said the trains were running double capacity; all westbound express were standing room only. Amadeus waited in the queue. People around him pushed and jostled, frantic and impatient. Behind him, Amadeus heard an older man behind him telling his wife he had heard something about a way to locate the demon gates. Amadeus smiled and wondered if his solution had reached critical mass. If these folks knew of it, surely the more internet-savvy folks would have heard about it.
The security check points were nonexistent. Everyone simply walked through. He decided to keep his gun. He even guessed (correctly, he would
later learn) that no one was prevented from taking weapons with them, registered or not. The government, or at least the station supervisors, had decided their passengers needed less protection from each other than from inter–dimensional demons. After an hour and a half, Amadeus pushed aboard the train and found a place in the hallway to sit. To fit, he had to keep his legs drawn up close to him; his entire body occupied only a square meter. He took a couple pain pills in anticipation of the long, cramped ride to San Francisco.
On either side of him, suitcases pressed into his arms, but he liked the secure feeling he got from it, like being in a childhood fortress built of couch cushions. All around him, people stood or sat pressed against each other, talking about their plans, their work, anything to take their mind off things. Most people planned to go to one small town or another.
Amadeus wished he had someone to talk to, but from his place on the floor he could see only denim-clad legs. He needed to sleep, but every time he closed his eyes he saw the demon he had killed, the one with the beak, but instead of it only swiping at him, it spoke to him, though Amadeus couldn't understand the words. Angry but intelligent; sentience made them much more terrifying. After hours of drifting in and out of this nightmare, his mind allowed sleep to take him, and he didn't wake up until the train lurched somewhere in the Midwest.
48
Amadeus had no idea how long he slept. His wound throbbed with pain and his legs and butt were numb from sitting on the hard floor. The train was stopped. Some passengers departed. Even more boarded. A voice announced they were in St. Louis. A chemical red sky covered the city. Another announcement came over the PA system, but Amadeus couldn't make out the words. Outside, people stood shoulder to shoulder, trying to get on the train. He wanted to move around but realized if he was going to keep his spot, he best stay put. So he did.
The train screamed on through the night. Just before dawn they arrived at San Francisco Station. Still sleepy, Amadeus left the train with his little waterproof bag slung over his shoulder. The early morning air was sticky and cool but not cold. He needed to contact Grassal. Amadeus decided to find a library with public computers, but only after breakfast.
Breakfast made Amadeus' stomach stick out. Pancakes, bacon, eggs, hash browns...he hadn't realized just how hungry he was until he sat down. He washed it down with a few cups of coffee and left a generous tip for the long-suffering waitress. He asked the waitress where to find a library. She gave him vague instructions that involved energy fields. If nothing else, he could head in the general direction and ask someone when he got closer.
Unlike Utica, San Francisco still went about its business. On the street, people seemed in no hurry to go anywhere. Unlike New York, where everyone had worn something semiformal, here most people wore khakis and untucked oxford shirts. A few men wore ties. Something about this place, Amadeus liked, but he couldn't say what. This was the place his heroes came from, internet pioneers and technology innovators...but it was also the same place that produced a man as rich and crazy as Ross. Maybe, Amadeus thought, that is the price of living somewhere interesting: a few people are bound to take weirdness to a whole new level.
He found the library with no problem, though on the way one man tried to sell him drugs and another asked him up for a cigarette. He declined both. Both men were quite polite in their solicitations. Inside, he signed in to use a computer and waited. Most of the terminals were occupied by young people, but also by a couple scruffy guys with big beards and jackets. No one sat next to the scruffy guys. Amadeus thought that was strange until he came close enough to smell them. Taking a seat, he logged onto the forum and found a message Grassal had left yesterday. The new message read:
Hope you’re in town by now. Nice work on the website. The code’s a little dirty; I took the liberty of making some improvements and posting it on some off-Tivooki mirrors. Right now I’m staying in the Mission District. At Fisherman’s Wharf, there’s a giant crab at Pier 39. I’ll look for you there at 10am and 4pm for the next few days. Greasmonkey out.
Amadeus checked the time: 9:30am. How far was he from Fisherman’s Wharf? A map showed him only two kilometers away. He logged off, left the library, and received directions to the Wharf from a guy lounging on a bench. The day was still cool, the air was thick with morning fog and smelled of baking bread and sewage. After a cramped night on the train his muscles enjoyed the movement and exertion, but his throbbing wound and his cramped legs demanded for rest. He stopped in front a cell phone shop with English, Spanish, and Chinese words printed in cut vinyl. A television filled the window. Amadeus watched.
A video showed two news anchors holding cordless phones and popcorn bowls. A scrolling caption at the bottom read “Times of America reports solution to demon gates.” Amadeus smiled and continued, reaching Fisherman’s Wharf at three minutes until ten. Most stalls were empty, though a few fanny--pack wearing people still wandered around. He pushed through the crowd and came to a giant steel crab, its body covered in vines. Underneath sat a man staring out at the water. Amadeus squinted. He could’ve been Grassal, but his hair color was off, platinum blond, the build too stocky. Regardless, Amadeus went closer. Halfway, the man turned and Amadeus recognized his friend.
“I thought you were somebody else,” Amadeus said. Indeed, his friend looked different with curlier brown hair and a patchy beard that clung to his face like moss on a rock. But Amadeus guessed he neither looked nor smelled like his normal self. They embraced. Grassal picked Amadeus up in a big bear hug and swung him around as if he were a sack of flour. Amadeus laughed then ended up gasping for air within Grassal’s powerful grasp. Amadeus had to smack his back to get him to let go.
They stood facing each other, sizing each other up, and began to laugh like two maniacs hallucinating. The laughter spread to a couple of the shopkeepers nearby, then spread from there to their friends and continued across the pier until fifty people were laughing and gasping for breath.
“Your video, that was brilliant, telling your story at the same time as giving a little tutorial in demon killing. The same pundits who called for your head? Now they’re calling you a hero.”
“Thank god for hypocrisy.”
“That’s the good news. Here’s the rest. The day before everyone disappeared, Lilly told me she overheard her father on speakerphone, yelling at someone, saying they were wasting their time, chasing shadows, that everything was coming together as it should. She said the voice sounded like Gravity. I’m not sure what he’s been doing, but apparently he’s been busy.”
“That still doesn’t help us,” Amadeus said.
“Well, I thought about this some more. Remember how I said the contractors were doing something downstairs? Like bringing in palates of stuff? Maybe I left too soon.”
“What do you mean?”
“What I mean is that someone could still be there, down in the panic room or the bunker or whatever the hell they call it. I should’ve paid more attention, but to be honest, with everyone gone I was kind of spooked. I mean you wake up one day and everyone just disappears, it makes you want to get away.”
They turned their heads towards nearby shouts. A man wearing several jackets was yelling at some invisible accuser, gesturing with his arms around like a firebrand preacher.
“A few weeks ago,” Amadeus said, “that guy and my father were the only people who had actually seen demons and believed they were real. Now, the whole world is in a demon-believing mood.
“Amazing,” Grassal said. He was peering into the distance like a sailor scanning the distant sea.
“What? How people change opinions faster than you change your underwear?”
“Very funny. No. Meter maids. Look down there. No matter what, they’re still out giving tickets.” Grassal started walking towards the parking lot. Amadeus followed close behind. A golf cart was parked beside an old Jeep, the same Jeep Lilly had used to pick them up so long ago. A man with long hair was writing something on a pad. Grassal shouted at him. �
�Hey, we’re just leaving. Come on, be a pal, don’t ticket me.” Something about the man seemed familiar, and when he turned around, Amadeus recognized him as the man who had followed him in Prague, the black-eyed man. The man reached into his pocket, but before he could pull anything out, Amadeus threw his arms around the man’s wide chest, pinning his arms. Grassal jumped in and knocked them both to the ground. Someone screamed.
A small crowd gathered. Amadeus stood and started kicking the man’s ribs as Grassal sat on his shoulders and held his head, smashing it against the concrete. The black-eyed man curled up in a defensive ball. Amadeus felt himself being pulled backwards. He grabbed the man’s coat to reveal a handgun tucked into his belt. Someone yelled that the man had a gun. Two men pulled Grassal off.
“Damn it, let me go!” Amadeus said, struggling free of the arms that held him. He looked back. Around him stood a group of pissed-off onlookers. “I’m done, I won’t touch him.” They let him go and backed away. Amadeus reached into his bag and wrapped his fingers around the handle of the gun, just in case.
“Amadeus, who is this guy? Who are you?” Grassal said. The man was on his knees, trying to pull himself back up.
“That’s no meter maid,” Amadeus said to the crowd. The man smiled then made a move for his gun. Amadeus pulled his out first and leveled it at the black-eyed man. “Don’t move. Put your hands up.” The man winked at Amadeus but didn’t put his hands up. Amadeus cocked the hammer on the gun. Click. “Put your hands up, right now. Don’t give me an excuse to kill you…because I would love to. Tell me who you are.” The man showed no fear. He appeared to be on the verge of laughter. At the sight of guns, the crowd around them had fled, though a few people watched from a distance.
“You won’t shoot me. You are only an irritation. Just like your father. And I am the man who neutralizes irritations.” Blood ran from the black-eyed man’s nose, but he didn’t seem to notice.
Amadeus felt the gun shake in his hand as his brain processed what the man said. Did he just admit to killing his father? He took a couple steps closer to the man, keeping the gun aimed at his head. Amadeus was close enough to see the blue of his irises and the sheen of sweat on his forehead.
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