by Mark Souza
Perko raised an eyebrow.
“It was deemed that there wasn’t enough time left if we wanted to meet our release date, and cost was an issue as well.”
“Louis,” Perko said.
Berman snapped his head around as if he’d been slapped. “Sir?”
“Why didn’t you approach me with these problems and ask for an extension and additional budget?”
Berman cleared his throat and fixed his eyes on the desktop. “Uh… I trusted Petro’s interpretation of the data and thought with the additional buffers, that he had a handle on the problem. I guess I overestimated his abilities.”
Petro squirmed in his seat. He seemed to be coming to grips with his conundrum. Shift the blame to Berman, and Berman would bury him. If he didn’t, Perko would. Watching the programmer squirm delighted Perko.
“I read your test report,” Perko said. “Did anyone test to see how long the effect lasts? I didn’t see that documented, either. Do we know if it wears off over time?”
Petro and Berman exchanged a questioning look. “Uh, no sir we don’t,” Petro said. “I don’t think it occurred to either of us that it might.”
Perko eased back in his chair. “It would be most unfortunate if the implant wears off. For you see, if it does, it would be like pulling the curtain back on the wizard.”
Perko saw the confusion on the men’s faces. “That reference might be a little before your time. What it means is, if the process becomes visible, the magic, and in this case, the usefulness of this program, disappears. Everyone will know what we did to them and they will be angry. Not with me, fortunately, but with Digi-Soft. They will want to know there were consequences for those responsible.”
Perko reached over and pressed a key on his keyboard and the doors to his office swung open. Footfalls marching in unison pinged off the stone floor. Berman and Petro turned as a quartet of security agents advanced.
After they had taken up positions beside the two men, Perko said, “Take him in for rehabilitation.”
“Which one?” asked a security agent.
Perko pointed at Petro. “That one.” Petro tried to run but didn’t make it to his feet before an agent hit him with a wand.
While the agents dragged Petro off, Perko directed his attention at Berman. “I have never seen such incompetence. I want him put on display so it doesn’t happen again.”
Perko sighed and slumped in his chair as if the experience had drained him. He pointed a crooked finger at Berman’s face. “And Louis, don’t think you are immune. You are on a very short leash from here on out. One more mistake and they’ll be dragging your carcass out of here. Are we clear?”
“Yes sir, crystal.”
Saturday, 27 October
Brothers Connors and Duffy stood in Moyer’s doorway and knocked politely, though Moyer could plainly see them. He smiled, curious about what they wanted. Their faces were grim. He sat up and swung his legs over the edge of his bed, resting his splinted arm in his lap. “Come in. There’s no need for formality.”
The men stood shoulder to shoulder. Brother Duffy did the talking, head down and avoiding eye contact. “Brothers Nastasi and Hawthorne are dead.”
“I know,” Moyer said. “I felt it happen. It’s why I fell from the tree.”
Connors and Duffy glanced at one another. “You have a gift,” Connors said.
“The Worm is complete,” Duffy said. “They used it to wipe the demonstration by Brothers Nastasi and Hawthorne from the memories of those who witnessed it.”
“Were there suicides?” Moyer asked. Connors’ mouth dropped. “We saw suicides when it was tested,” Moyer explained.
“Yes, wide spread, there were millions of them,” Duffy said.
To Moyer, it explained what he experienced, especially at night when he slept and his defenses were down, and the pain and angst of so many had found their way inside him.
“We’ve lost most of our spies. The incinerators are going day and night, and yet nothing about it has shown up on the net.” Duffy was silent for a moment. He was troubled by what he had to say. “We don’t know if we still have a resource to insert the virus. I don’t want to risk people to find out unless we are ready to go. How much more time do you need to finish?”
Moyer studied their expectant faces and tried to read what they wanted to hear. “Spring I think.” Moyer kept his face impassive. He could be a very good liar when he wanted to be. In truth, the virus was done. Something told him that if they knew, they would pressure him into downloading it, and once that happened, everyone in ManningtonValley would soon be on the run from Security Services with little chance of surviving the winter. He wanted to see his child born. He wanted some assurance that if they had to run, they could survive.
“That is good,” Connors said. “Snow will make it impossible to travel soon. This way we can go after we get crops in the ground. I don’t think we want to go before then.”
Duffy nodded.
Wednesday, 14 November
Listless morning light the gray-blue of steel fell through the bedroom window. Moyer was already gone, out with Armal into the woods well before it was light. After the first frost, attention shifted from the harvest to the hunt. Moyer turned out to be a natural as a hunter. Though his injured arm prevented him from drawing back a bow, his innate sensitivity allowed him to anticipate the location and movement of quarry. He and Armal had the smokehouse going almost day and night.
Robyn swung her legs over the edge of the mattress and clutched a blanket tight around her. The floor was cold and so was the air. She considered settling back down to sleep. Sounds from the kitchen drifted up the stairs as did the aroma of bacon. Betsy had started breakfast. The woman seemed tireless. Robyn rubbed the gentle swell of her stomach. The baby hadn’t moved yet that she could tell. Betsy had said that was still months away.
Robyn stood to get fresh clothes from the dresser and plucked at the edges of her panties. They didn’t fit right anymore. They were tight and rode up in the back and dipped under her belly in the front. Folded neatly in the drawer were three pairs of Oshun Services work pants, and three matching short-sleeved shirts. It was all she had brought with her. When Moyer asked her to pack, she thought they would only be gone a few days, and they were the only clothes she was willing to risk in the hinterlands. She pulled on the pants and lay flat on the bed to zip them up. She groaned and strained and managed to get the zipper halfway. The moment she relaxed, it unzipped to the bottom again. After a few minutes of frustration, she yelled for Betsy.
Betsy walked in carrying a plate of fried potatoes, bacon, and canned peaches. “I thought you could use a little nourishment.”
Robyn fought the zipper again until her hand shook and heat radiated from her face. “These don’t fit anymore,” she grunted. She blew out an exasperated sigh and let go. The zipper opened again.
Betsy set the plate down and left. She returned a moment later with a blue bathrobe, Armal’s. “Try that on. It should fit.”
Robyn slipped the robe on and cinched the sash. When she lowered her arms the sleeves hung well below her hands. Betsy giggled and helped Robyn roll them up.
“We should sew you some new clothes,” Betsy said. “I have some fabric downstairs.”
In a small south facing room on the main floor, facing a large window sat a machine bracketed on both sides by deep countertops and shelves. Betsy picked out a bolt of fabric and showed it to Robyn, a simple yellow gingham. It was plain cotton fabric containing no fiber optic strands, no glowing patterns moved across the cloth or ever would, but no advertisements would either. The pattern was bright and cheery and brought a smile to Robyn’s face.
Betsy pulled out a paper pattern. “I used this one when I was pregnant.” She held it up against Robyn and made a few marks. She then spread the fabric flat on one of the countertops, pinned the pattern over it, and drew the outline onto the cloth with chalk. At Betsy’s urging, Robyn cut out the pieces and pinned them together. Bet
sy showed Robyn how to work the machine to sew the pinned pieces together.
“You have electricity?” Robyn said.
“Yes. Just a little. Whenever there is a big wind storm, the men take a couple of solar panels from the edge of the city’s array. The city engineers expect a certain amount of losses from weather. We never take many, and we spread out where we take them from so no one gets suspicious. We have a small array of our own now. It’s not very reliable. We don’t have any battery storage so it only works during the day, and on cloudy days like today, it sporadic. I try not to depend on it.”
Just after the words left her mouth, the machine bogged down. “Do you have your foot down on the pedal?”
Robyn nodded.
“It’s probably Louise Duffy. I swear that woman is married to her electric clothes drier.”
“You should have Moyer look at it. He’s an engineer and very good with problems like this.”
“So I’ve heard,” Betsy said.
As the machine slowly chugged, Betsy explained what to expect during her pregnancy. Robyn became more anxious and scared the more she heard. “How will it get out of me?”
When Betsy told her, the blood drained from Robyn’s face. She cast a concerned glance down at her groin. “I don’t think I can do this,” she said.
Betsy smiled. “There is no thinking involved. It just happens. Believe me when I say every woman in the valley who has borne children didn’t think they were up to it, either. Including me. You will do fine when the time comes.”
When they finished sewing the pieces together and hemming the bottom, collar, and sleeves, Robyn took off Armal’s robe and slipped the dress on over her head.
“What do you think?”
Robyn pulled excess fabric away from her stomach. “I think it’s a bit big.”
“Trust me, you will grow into it.”
Friday, 7 December
Snow fell the first week of December, just a dusting, but it didn’t melt. Moyer knew it was a warning. Soon the snow would grow thick and it would be impossible to travel. He bundled up and stuffed a pillow case inside his coat for the walk into town. The chilled air stung his face as he traveled the cart track toward the creek. Snow stole the color from the world, transforming ManningtonValley into one of his mother’s old black and white photos. It was eerily still and quiet. Even the chickadees flitting branch to branch refused to chirp. As he walked, he played games huffing out air to see how far he could blow a plume. It smelled like more snow in the forecast. The flakes under foot crunched into the muddy path beneath leaving a single line of dark footprints on a field of white, an endless string of onyx beads trailing him.
It took an hour to make it to the church. He turned up the street into town and kept going until he made out the wide squatty shape of the library.
Inside, it was dim and cold. His breath billowed out like ghosts and disappeared. He wandered through the stacks, plucked books off the shelves, and stuffed them into the pillow case. He looked for fiction, careful to pick some titles appropriate to read to the children. Robyn was reading now, too.
He stopped at the encyclopedias and remembered his last conversation with Hawthorne. He tried to recall the unfamiliar word Hawthorne had used. Lemmings. Moyer thumbed through the pages of the volume containing letters J through L, until he found photographs of the furry rodents. One showed a close-up of the fat hamster-like creature. Another was of a great swarm on the move. He read about their migrations and their reputation for blindly following those leading them, even if led over a cliff to their death. Now Moyer thought he comprehended Hawthorne’s warning.
Moyer put the encyclopedia back and loaded the pillow case until he could barely lift it with his good arm. With the gathering snow, who knew how long it would be before he could make another trip. He set the sack of books beside the door to open it with his good hand.
As he cracked the door, a dog rammed its head through the crack, snarling, jaws snapping, trying to shoot the gap. Another dog jumped atop the first trying to enter at the same time. Moyer drove his shoulder into the door. The dogs yelped and pulled back. The door slammed closed.
Moyer stood at the window overlooking the entry. Dogs milled near the door. Six of them. Two identical black shepherds, brothers, perhaps from the same litter. It was the pack that attacked them their first day in Mannington — the same dogs that killed the Connor’s goat.
He sat at a table and remained quiet hoping the dogs would lose interest and move on. The sky was already darker than when he’d set out. He’d left the house at one. The walk had taken perhaps an hour, and would take longer getting back with a load of books. It wouldn’t be good to be walking alone after dark. Maybe the books would have to wait for another trip. It got dark before five now. By his calculation he could wait an hour at the most.
Snow started falling again, flakes big as eider down, and snow globe dense. He watched the pack through the front window. The dogs sat in a line facing the doors, settled in to wait.
It seemed to Moyer they had experience at this. He pulled a book off a shelf and tossed it near the door. The dogs snapped to their feet, eyes rapt on the noise, poised to lunge. Moyer walked through the building searching for something to use as a weapon. Maybe if he lured them in one at a time, he might be able to bludgeon them to death. The heaviest thing he found was the chairs, and he doubted he could wield them effectively one-handed.
The sky was darkening and the snow falling harder, collecting in the coats of the huddled dogs. How long before Robyn started to worry? I’m going out is all Moyer had said when he left. What an idiot, he thought. They wouldn’t know where to look if he didn’t return. Fifteen centimeters of snow had settled on the ground, and it was piling higher by the minute. His trail of footprints had probably been obliterated; a part of his recent history covered over, as if he had never existed.
The dogs lay side by side facing the door, snouts resting on paws, eyes attentive. They appeared almost tame. He thought of what they would do to him if they ever got in; probably what they did to the Connors’ goat. He’d be hamstrung, disemboweled, with his throat ripped out in a matter of minutes. Moyer shuddered at the thought and couldn’t stop shaking. It was more than fear. The cold was getting to him. Freezing to death was a real possibility. How long could he wait? Could he outwait the hungry mongrels waiting for him? How long before he froze to death? THINK! Though it was six against one, there must be a way.
He had an idea. He pushed a chair to the door and laid it down on its back. From foot to the top of the back it was a couple of centimeters longer than the width of the door. It was close enough. He placed the foot near the hinge and rotated the chair like a compass to mark out the door swing. He dropped a book to mark the distance. He put his back to the nearest set of shelves and shoved it toward the door. He stopped where he’d dropped his marker, with the rack parallel to the entry wall. He worked the next rack into position butting it against the first. He was no longer shivering. In fact, he was working up a sweat. When he was done he stepped back to admire his makeshift wall. His shirt stuck uncomfortably to his dewy skin.
Seven bookshelves lined up end to end created a corridor about a meter wide. If he opened the door halfway so it butted against the end of the shelves, the dogs would have to run down the twenty meters of his makeshift corridor and round the end to get at him. Twenty meters down, and twenty meters back. Forty meters in all. How long did that give him?
He positioned the chair and rotated it again to check his work. It was good. The door would open without hanging up, yet if partially opened even with the bookshelf, the gap was small enough that they would be forced to go down the corridor the long way around to get him. Still, so many things could go wrong. In fact, his plan would only work if everything went right.
The dogs waited, heads on paws, ears perked for sounds from inside. Moyer admired their patience. They seemed so sure that there was only one way out and they would remain on station for however lon
g it took. Didn’t they ever doubt? Perhaps they weren’t smart enough to. Lucky them.
Moyer dropped the book again and they snapped to their feet. It wasn’t good enough. He wanted them worked into a frenzy. A tentative straggler would undo everything leaving him exposed and defenseless.
He rapped against the door and one of the black dogs threw itself at the sound. Moyer knocked again and they bared their fangs. He opened the door a crack and the pack rushed forward. They thumped heavily against the door when Moyer slammed it shut. He did it again. The dogs snarled. Hackles rose along their backs and they growled as though close to turning on one another. It was time.
Moyer positioned himself so the wall of shelves he’d assembled was between him and the door. He’d be safe for as long as it took the first dog to navigate his mini maze and round the end. He reached through the shelves and cracked the door and let them charge. Snapping jaws wedged in to the crack trying to push through. Moyer resisted and they pushed harder. He opened the door half way and they rushed in. They shot down the narrow makeshift channel between the row of shelves and the wall. Claws clicked against linoleum. Moyer was safe for the moment behind the door and his wall of protective shelves. The lead black dog sprinted for the far end undeterred as the last of the pack ran through the door.
The lead dog attempted to arrest a skid rounding the corner, its claws slapping out a rapid staccato. It was mere seconds from a free run at Moyer. The animal skidded onto his side and slammed into the wall. It recovered its feet and started its charge. Moyer opened the door wider, slid past the shelves, and exited the library. He grabbed the bag of books on his way out, and slammed the door shut behind him trapping the dogs inside.
He heard claws skidding and a thud against the door. He laughed nervously. The lead dog had rounded the corner much faster than he’d anticipated, almost before the last dog entered the corridor. It had been close, too close. If it hadn’t been for the slick floor and the animal’s inability to round the corner, he wondered what the outcome might have been.
