by Jack Wallen
Jean handed Gunther a gun for protection. Gunther quickly handed the modern pistol to Sally, who looked at said firearm as if it was a tool forged in the raging fires of Hell. Gunther gave Sally an impromptu lesson in holding and shooting a firearm. Sally picked up the lesson surprisingly quickly and the two were soon off into the great wide open.
That left just me, the doctor, coma girl, and the secret avenger who stealthily wandered the halls of the hospital. I debated again whether I should let the others in on the secret, but finally decided my instincts were correct; leave everyone assuming our little haven was, indeed, safe.
I have plans for our mystery guest, plans that would have to wait until nightfall. In the meantime, I have work to do.
After excusing myself from sick bay, I packed the laptop to the nurses’ station. Two things are certain; 1) I work better alone and 2) I need music to work by. Besides, I am anxious to hear what is going on in the outside world again.
“Bethany?” Jean’s voice stopped me before I left the room. “What are we doing here?”
I stared at Jean for a brief, uncalculating moment. I wasn’t exactly sure if he was referring to locale or purpose. From the weight in his voice, and bags under his eyes, I could only assume the latter.
“Trying to save the world before it tears itself apart.” I blinked, turned, and left the room; an exit befitting the situation, I would say. I could only hope my new friend understood just how serious I was.
The nurses’ station was exactly as I left it. Before I sat down to work I had to do a little environmental maintenance. With no disrespect for the certain-to-be-deceased nurses that had nobly manned this station, their decorations and knick-knacks had to go. I am very much a minimalist when it comes to serious work. Besides, I am way too easily distracted.
With as much respect as I could muster, I found an empty box and carefully stored the ceramic cats, various pictures, plaques, and other personal effects safely away. If the nurses were alive and ever returned…oh who am I kidding? They’re all dead, just like nearly everyone on the fucking planet. Dead.
The station was now free of all clutter and sported just two each of computers, monitors, keyboards, and mouse. With the Mengele laptop in place, my station was now a worthy workstation for the task at hand.
Before I commenced cracking, I tuned into “Zombie Radio”. I thought it might be fun to hear a call or two, and maybe some good tunes to work by. I opened up the browser, clicked on the link, and turned up the volume. The final strains of Rush’s Tom Sawyer poured out. I thought the song oddly fitting at the moment, if you really gave it a good deconstruction. And what good Prog Rock song isn’t up for a solid deconstruction now and then? The thought of me as a “modern day warrior” seemed about right.
“So, I wonder how the Canadians are doing with the outbreak? It would be real shame to see the mightiest of power trios succumb to the zombie scourge. Okay…anyway…caller who hails from Gary, Indiana. Wow…I’m guessing the whole virus has passed you up right? Even zombies know better than to bother with such a depressing place. Am I right caller?”
“Yeah…I wish. Actually I wish everyone and everything in this shithole world would be swallowed up and disappear.”
“So, it’s true what they say about your town?”
“Every last word, my friend.”
“Groovy. So what’s your story Gary, Indiana?”
“I hear all sorts of conspiracy theories about what’s happened. Someone told me it was the government trying to create a super army to send to Iran and kill all of the terrorist fucks that caused 9/11. Is that true?”
“Now that’s not one I’ve heard. But I do think I’ve seen that movie before. Wasn’t it a Bruce Campbell flick? Or maybe Rutger Hauer? You see where I’m going with that, Gary, Indiana? Damn, people are really fucking stupid. Can you believe that shit? Of course you can. You have to believe something. It’s like American cinema…you’re not happy with it unless you know exactly why something happened and exactly how it is resolved. That is why foreign cinema is so much better. Outside of America, people don’t have a compulsive need to have everything tied up in a nice, tidy package. Loose ends are okay. The situation we’re in now? Who the fuck knows why it happened and who the fuck knows how it’s going to end? No one…that’s who. It’s an ass reaming brought to you by some unknown source and will end with no one having an orgasm. It’s like sex with my last girlfriend!
“Jesus Christ people! You need a fix and I have just the thing…The Fixx and ‘Secret Separation’!”
Cy Curnin’s voice came at me like an old friend shaking me out of a deep funk. This DJ seems to know my very soul. But isn’t that the way? Some disembodied spirit grabs you from a distance and makes you think they are speaking only to you.
I let the lilting guitar riffs take me away to some other moment in time, back when I had only begun to put fingertips to keyboard, a romantic period when “hacking the planet” actually seemed like a righteous and worthy goal. Now? That righteous and worthy goal is real and immediate: a cure. Not only a cure but the cure, the cure of cures. The only thing between me and said cure was some seriously high-level crypto.
I know I’ve said this before, but I’ve seen (and cracked) nearly every form of encryption on the planet, and the signature on this file is crazy!
There will be no more isolation… I closed my eyes and sang along as the music came to a vibrant, echoing end. And then the idea hit me. I couldn’t believe it took this long. I clicked the “Call” button on the “Zombie Radio” site and the computer Skype client opened. I grabbed a headset and waited for an answer.
“Hello caller. What’s your name and where are you calling from?”
“My name is Bethany calling from Paris.”
“Well, oui oui, Mademoiselle.”
“Listen, I have something very important to tell everyone.”
“I like your style. No bullshit. Sexy. We’re all ears, Miss Paris.”
“I know why this happened. It was an attempted genocide by the hands of a Dr. Lindsey Godwin.”
“You mean ‘all over the news’ Lindsey Godwin? As in Fusion Generator Godwin? No way, not buying it.”
“I know it sounds crazy, but I have the entire account of what happened. It was written by a journalist, Jacob Plummer, who died documenting the tragedy.”
“Wait, you’re serious aren’t you? This station usually just attracts crackpot conspiracy theorists.”
“Yes, I’m serious. And there’s more. I very well might have the cure. Dr. Godwin left behind an encrypted file that I believe holds the cure for the virus.”
“Fucking Christ!”
“It’s very important that everyone read the document. I have it up on a server that anyone can reach if they still have internet access. Please everyone, download this document, print it out, read it, and give it to someone else. The truth needs to be known.”
“What’s the name of that document Mrs. Paris?”
“I Zombie I.”
“Whoa, sounds like –”
“It’s not. It’s real and it’s even more frightening when you know the full truth. Please everyone, read it.”
“Thank you, Miss Paris. Well, you heard the lady, download that manuscript! Read my lovely children, read! And for all of you enjoying your library time, let’s play a little Vivaldi to set the mood.”
I gave out the IP address of the server hosting the file. In the thrill of finally knowing Jacob’s journal would become the stuff of legend, I nearly forgot to give the address of my own attempt at documenting the apocalypse. I guess the apocalypse will not be televised this time around, but it will be blogged. Like Jacob, I want everyone to know what is happening, only I have the luxury of making it known in real time. So I slapped a link to my blog next to the link for Jacob’s journal.
The people of the world deserve to know everything.
The Vivaldi dancing out of the speakers faded away and the DJ pronounced his love for me, du
g deep into the well of the ‘80’s, and dedicated The Psychedelic Furs’ The Ghost in You to me. The song was a subtle “thank you” and I got it. That little nod gave me everything I needed to dive back into my work with renewed energy.
“How is it going?”
I was so engrossed in my task that I didn’t even hear Jean approach.
“Do you hear that?” I added a hint of gloat to my smile.
“The song? 1980’s American pop, no?” I couldn’t help but notice Jean’s charm. My pre-disposition against the French was oh-so-slowly melting away, thanks to this man’s infectious charisma. Even though the man was wrong about the song being American pop, he was certainly genuine.
“No, the server. The world is downloading the truth.” I didn’t bother sharing with Jean that the first to be downloading the file were a bunch of paranoid conspiracy theorists and nut jobs, but those very people were the perfect cross-section of society to ensure the “Book of Jacob” was spread.
“I see. And what do you think the world will do with that truth once they own it?”
“I don’t understand.” I really didn’t. Jean was probably driving at some grand-scheme picture; either that, or he was just trying to get under my skin.
“Will the world act on that truth, or will they fear it?” Jean had pulled back on the attitude and dropped a very simple question that rang in my conscience and very briefly made me question my motives. After a bit of thought I arrived at the crux of the issue, at least for me.
“How they react is up to them. The important thing is that they not be left in the dark. For too long the world powers have kept the people in the dark. Ignorance is the mightiest weapon of a government wanting to control its people. Knowledge is power and the people of the world need a little help arming themselves.”
The last sentence hung in the air, doing a bit of a dance in the space between us. Jean stared at me and slowly smiled.
“Brava, young lady. With your help the world just might live to see another day.” Jean started to walk away but abruptly turned back. “Susan is resting well. Her vitals are fine, there is no sign of amplification yet. The coma should buy us plenty of time.”
I thanked the doctor and he continued on back to Susan’s room. It is time for me to begin working my own personal magic.
I stared at the screen of the laptop containing the Mengele file. The hardware was fast, a hacker’s wet-dream. The silk-black screen taunted me, daring me to attempt an attack on one of its precious files. I smiled at the icons peeking back at me and gently ran the tip of my index finger over the keys. The laptop was not online. In fact, I even went so far as to disable the wireless card and would not let a Cat5 networking cable anywhere near the hardware. There was no way I would chance someone opening a back door and deleting the file.
The file.
The “Mengele File.” I made numerous copies, just in case it had a built-in self-destruct mechanism in the event of too many botched attempts at cracking the encryption. There are three copies on the laptop (each on a separate partition of the drive), one on a flash drive that hangs around my neck, and one I uploaded to a very special FTP server of my own. I am taking no chances.
My usual approach to cracking encryption is to employ a few special tools designed for that very purpose. One of those tools is a pretty piece of code, designed by yours truly. A few years back a boyfriend decided to play a bit of a joke on me and encrypt my already-encrypted bank files. It was a real bitch to crack, which is why I created ex_boyfriend.sh, as much an homage to breaking up with the jerk as it was my go-to cracker. It rarely failed.
This time, however, ex_boyfriend.sh did fail. I believe my mistake was assuming the encryption was standard 256-bit scheme. That also explained how quickly the hack reported back the failure. The logical conclusion was to up the ante, skip 512-bit and go straight for the big-guns. It didn’t take much searching, but I pulled down a beast of a cracker (from a members-only site) that could scale the walls of 1024-bit encryption in just a few short hours. The crack was a kludge, but it obviously could handle some pretty challenging encryption and, oddly enough, was named Fuzzy Box of Kittens. I downloaded the crack, copied it onto my flash drive, transferred it to my laptop, and fired it up. The crack was both brute-force and dictionary based, so I knew I had plenty of time to kill before it would spit back the results. Maybe a few hours.
With that extra time I decided to take a stroll around to see if I could find any clue where our stalker was hiding. Before I wandered off, I tucked the laptop safely away where no one would be tempted to touch it.
Trust no one.
*****
Out of curiosity I decided to take a look around on the floor above us. I had assumed it safe after Gunther gave it the once-over. Of course that was before I discovered another resident at Val de-Grace. I should have been frightened. Beyond all reason I should know to not venture outside any known safety perimeters, but my spine was made of curious stuff, so there was no telling me “no” when there was a mystery afoot. And so I carefully opened up the door to the stairwell and, one by one, took the stairs to the next floor up.
I have no idea why it ever surprises me that all hospital floors seem to look alike, but they do. Same layout, same color schemes, same smells. And hospitals all have a way of giving people the creeps. There is, however, an added layer of “creep” when you are the only human being on an entire floor. No caregivers, no near-death patients, beeping monitors, or squeaking rubber-soled nurses’ shoes. Silence and stillness always have a way of making life a little bit more unnerving.
I stopped to take in the surroundings and the sound of static drifted from one of the rooms. The sound made its way up my back, sending electric fear shooting across the synapses of my spine.
Ever so slowly I made my way down the hall to an open waiting room for the family and friends of the sick and dying. In the room I found the standard issue hospital-comfort chairs, sofas, and a television that presented itself out of service.
The static tickled the air again, only much louder. The noise was coming from the room I was currently occupying. I did a quick scan of the room and, tucked between a cushion and armrest was a radio – a walkie talkie-type radio, to be exact. The antenna gave away its position, like a house cat’s tail giving away its intention of pouncing on your foot as you walk into a room.
Greedily I grabbed up the radio.
Echo Bravo, repeat.
The voice coming from the walkie talkie pulled my heart through my chest and out on the cold tile floor. My pulsed jumped from zero to sixty faster than a Ferrari.
Echo Bravo, repeat.
My finger hovered over the talk button, hesitating from the fear of the unknown. Who is on the other end? Who are they attempting to communicate with? And what does Echo Bravo, repeat mean? I gathered up my nerve and slowly depressed the talk button.
“Hello?” My nerves had dried up my mouth so my voice was rough and scratchy.
Before I could think of another, more intelligent call for help, footsteps echoed through the halls. I had to get out of there. The footsteps and the radio probably belonged to the creeper, and I wasn’t at all ready to confront whoever it was. I had to get out.
When I stepped out of the waiting room the shadow stalker was there at the end of the hall. He must have realized what I had been doing as he took off after me. Fortunately I had the jump on him (and had fear propelling me forward), so I made it to the safety of the elevator before he could reach me. My fingers nervously tapped at the button for my destination floor. My heart was still running a race my feet were not aware of.
When the elevator door chimed open, my feet joined the race again. I sprinted down the hall to Susan’s room and threw open the door.
“Jean, there’s someone else in the hospital!”
“Alive? That’s great news, we have to—”
“No, it’s not.” I interrupted him before he could begin to get his hopes up. I had to make Jean understand my p
aranoia. If someone where in the same building as us, with what has happened, that someone should be thrilled to know living, breathing, thinking humans were present. That is not the case here. Instead we have an unknown variable communicating to another unknown party with a walkie talkie, hiding in shadows and darkness. I wanted so badly for this to be nothing more than my overactive, paranoid imagination. Ever since self-preservation became the primary driving force in my brain, I simply can’t trust those I don’t know.
At the very mention of the word “trust” I made a beeline back to the nurses’ station to retrieve the laptop. It was still plowing through the crack and had a long way to go. The machine would remain in Susan’s room, tucked inside a cabinet, so it could do its job in some semblance of safety. If our midnight creeper got his hands on that file…
I finally spilled the beans to Jean about the other night. It was that little tidbit that pushed him over, into the land of conspiracy. He fought the idea that another living human could be a threat to us, but we couldn’t help but err on the side of caution. With what we had in our possession, we couldn’t afford a single mistake.
“What is ‘Echo Bravo, repeat’?” Jean said, asking the same question that had been pinging around my skull since I first heard the words crackle out of that hidden radio. I had no idea what it meant, but when I produced the offending walkie talkie Jean and I both stared at it with as much fear as desire. I wanted so badly to hear those words again and I wanted those words to indicate that the military was on the other side ready to tear down the very walls of society and rebuild it, minus the shroud of death.
The voice had not repeated itself since I made my presence known to whoever was on the other end. That, to me, was not a good sign. I fought the urge to pick up the radio from the table and demand to know who was on the other end. The urge was pulling hard at my will, taunting me, insisting I give in. I knew eventually that old bitch curiosity would get the best of me, so I gave in.
