She glances up at me, and then back to Chris as we approach the clean black counter, “Would this guy ever eat Anchovies?”
“ Never !” Chris said, his voice low and forceful, as if she were asking if I would sell secrets to al Qaeda.
“Well then, I'll have the same thing,” she said. And I can tell that everyone that meets this girl is starting to fall for her. She has this innocent charm that infects you without warning. She is so calm and real around people. There's no pretense about her. No psychological make-up.
We go to my usual table in the corner where we can look out the window at the outside tables and the small park just beyond.
“Why do you sit here?” she asks me, not to screw with my head, but to figure me out. And this is strange for me. I haven't really opened up to anyone other than Ricky and Ms. Josephine. But this is not the same.
I like to watch the birds walking around in the park over there, I say. They're kind of simple and stupid, but honest. With a bird, what you see is what you get. They are what they are. And they're funny. Like when they're pecking around for nothing in particular.
Her hands are folded on the table in front of her, and she's leaning forward just a bit, looking at me in the face.
What?
“Who are you, Jack? Where did you come from?”
I'm not really good at this, Angela. I'm not really interesting, I don't think. I don't want you to think I'm some kind of dullard, it's just that I'm trying to figure the world out, right now. Like a child, or an immigrant to a new country.
“Hey,” she said, reaching her hands across the table and putting them on mine, “you don't have to tell me anything. Or you can tell me everything. I just want to get to know you. There's something about you that I can't get out of my head. You have this honesty to your character that I don't see often.”
I'm the same as anyone else, I guess.
“You're the only good-looking guy I've ever met in the self-help section of the store. You may be the only guy who ever actually admitted you're searching for a chance at self-improvement. And you hunt ghosts for a living. I'd say you're pretty unique, just from the first glance.”
I'm sorry, I say to her, I didn't hear anything after you said good-looking .
She laughed, and I smiled stupidly, my cheeks probably turning three shades of pink.
“You're blushing.”
Yeah. It's a condition I get when I come into direct contact with flattery.
“It's cute.”
Oh, I'm way cuter than this. I'm only at like . . . thirty percent of my cuteness potential.
And she laughed again, her perfect little nose and cheeks and eyes all brightening her face. And I knew, right then and there, that I liked being around attractive girls that tell you nice things. I liked being with this new girl.
Now I know what Ricky is always going on about.
We ate pizza, and sipped Dr. Pepper, and laughed and joked, and she told me all about working her way through school on a partial scholarship, and how she came from a big family, but wanted to prove to them that she could make it on her own. The more she tells me, the more I want to hear her speak.
I feel human again.
And that was my first official date with Angela Lima, the best thing I've ever found in a book store.
25
ALG office.
Saturday afternoon, 3:16 pm . . .
Today is the day that Frankenstein gets his shock to life. Our computer system—nicknamed, Hal, after that old Stanley Kubrick film—will track and collate data from all over the globe. We're tied into all the world's news sites, geographic and seismic survey statistics, Agricultural and livestock reports, satellite intelligence that's legal, satellite intelligence that's quasi-legal, and many more sites that would probably land us time in Federal Detention Centers answering questions.
What we're doing is called, Realtime Data Mining . We can acquire intelligence on strange and mysterious deaths from around the world as the investigations take place. When the world's top minds trade heinous information, we'll be able to take a look at it.
And all of this starts in about 10 minutes, when they're certain that all the back-up generators and power supplies and surge protectors are reliable. What I'm doing right now is just clicking through my two-hour segment of video, looking over and over at that shadow. Could be something . . . probably isn't. I'm having a hard time concentrating, knowing that Hal will soon be online.
Somehow, and this hasn't been sufficiently explained to me by anyone, Billtruck has found a way to borrow space on an old KH-47, KeyHole spy satellite. One of those relics from the 80s when our enemy was the communist empire of the USSR. Billtruck says this gives us a competitive advantage over the forces of Evil.
Bigger marketshare and all that.
Now, I don't know any of this for sure. I've watched television and read online encyclopedias. But, despite the fact that I'm taking all this on faith, it sounds terribly exciting.
We all gather around Billtruck at one of the supercomputers. He's sitting, wearing a white lab coat with small round glasses hanging on the edge of his nose. Ricky, Ms. Josephine, and I, we're standing over his shoulder waiting for something magical to happen. All of the workstations are dark, their screens patiently standing by for instruction.
And although there are all sorts of humming and whizzing sounds coming from the sleeping machines, I know that's about to change.
Ricky puts his hand on Billtruck's left shoulder and looks over to Ms. Josephine and I. He nods, “Go ahead, Billtruck . . . breathe life into him.”
Billtruck's right hand slowly lowers over the keyboard, his index finger hovering close to the ENTER key. “Today,” he says prophetically, “ . . . evil is dealt a blow.”
And like it was happening in slow motion his finger lowered and depressed the button. I'm glancing around waiting for something to occur.
Flashes of colored light?
Strobes?
Fireworks and bolts of lightening?
Anything worthy of this monumental moment.
And then, on the black screen in front of us, one sentence blinks in green letters, over and over:
Saturday, July 14, at 14:2354 (Central/Standard Time) . . . Hal awoke.
And I don't know why, but I kind of feel like a child has been born.
Hal is not just a conglomeration of pieces and parts, shipped out of some foreign country at prices US companies could never compete with.
No, he is an entity.
Another member on our team of Evil hunters.
Billtruck spins around in his chair and looks at the three of us, slowly raising his hands to the side like a symphony conductor. His eyes are closed, a knowing grin on his face. As his hands reach all the way out, like where they'd be if he was getting nailed to a cross, I see the monitors spark to life.
Everything in the room suddenly comes alive.
All at once, Hal has taken control over every piece of machinery.
“ Hal ?” Billtruck says.
And we look at each other as information from everywhere is zipping past us on all the different screens and monitors.
“Hello, Bill . . . ”
And I just clap, because that is the coolest thing I've ever seen—discounting, of course, the angels and undead that own my soul. Pretty soon Ms. Josephine and Ricky are clapping, too. This is fun.
How, I ask, does it know who you are?
Billtruck spun back around, a grin on his face, “I've been recording audio streams of all of us for the last couple of days. Go ahead, Jack, give it a try.”
I walk forward to a workstation and say, Uh . . . hello, Hal.
And like I'm talking to somebody hidden behind the screen, “Hello, Jack . . . ”
I clap, again. I have a new friend. And everyone seems more amused by my reaction than by the fact that we have a Hal. I'll never be bored again. No matter what anyone says, if they're mad at me or not, I'll always be able to come in and talk to
Hal.
“And Hal's not just some hollow voice, either,” Billtruck said. “He's got access to psychological files, mood algorithms, and all sorts of filters and programs that gives him a certain level of personality. And he'll build up his repertoire of social skills the more he interacts with us, and studies the world.”
Is this Artificial Intelligence ? I ask.
Ricky laughs, his eyes narrow and kind of sinister, “No, Jack. This is Intelligence.”
“That's fairly accurate,” Billtruck chimes in. “He's going to learn much faster than a human because of all the different information sources he can mine. He will be learning when we're sleeping, and when we're away. Parts of him will be doing one thing, and at the same time, he's looking at over five-hundred million different bits of information.
“Constantly syphoning, distilling, separating facts and details from the minutae of information that's floating around. This is cutting edge, stuff, fellas.”
Hal, I say to the computer, what is my favorite food?
“I can only estimate based on your recent credit card purchases, and there is no data available for that information . . . ”
“Ha!” I say, thumbing my nose at Hal and his faltering omnipotence. And as I look over at Ricky and Billtruck and Ms. Josephine, he continues.
“ . . . but based on your social interaction with Ricky, and your voice intonation, I make the assumption that you are close friends, and that you spend time together. Necessarily, you must eat to sustain your metabolic levels, so I searched Ricky's card purchases and found that DiGiorno's Pepperoni and Mushroom, Frozen pizzas are a staple in his shopping habits, and since he only weights 174 pounds—”
“Okay, Hal, thank you,” I say, interrupting his way-too-correct investigation. I look sheepishly at the others. I point over my shoulder at the computer, “He's good.”
Billtruck nods, “Yeah, he's a bit wordy right now, but give him a few weeks and he'll be one of the gang. He's even programed to continually alter his vocabulary to be more accommodating to us. More user friendly, if you will.”
I take a couple of steps back, looking down at the computers, then at my friends, then around at this incredible office. It almost takes my breath away. Slowly, I roll up my sleeves, for the first time revealing all of my new tattoos to Ms. Josephine and Billtruck.
Alright , I say. Let's hunt evil.
And right then the phone rang. The red one.
26
4 minutes later . . .
Ms. Josephine has become our defacto phone voice. Billtruck said that we could get Hal to do it, but Ricky and I figured that might lead to inordinately large phone bills. We opted to wait for Hal to become more acclimated to human speech patterns, and social norms.
While she's nodding and scribbling things down on a large clean pad that sits by the red phone, I am watching things stream by on the wall screens. There's so much information scrolling by that you can't possibly take it all in. It's overload for all but Hal.
I sit down at one of the workstations, again. I fold my hands in front of me and consider my question.
Hal.
“Yes, Jack . . . ”
I would like you to search for information that deals with strange deaths that have occurred across the world in the last several weeks.
“Among what species or organism are you inquiring about for this data?”
Humans, Hal. Humans.
“Are there any keywords you might expect to be related to your query?” Hal asked flatly.
I say, Evil ,
Horrifying ,
Monsters ,
Terror ,
Violence ,
Fear ,
. . . and . . . captivating .
“The progress of this search will be cataloged as 'Project: Human ' for future access.”
Thank you, Hal.
“Enjoy your pizza, Jack.”
And I'm not sure, but it sounded like he was being sarcastic. Ricky is standing near Ms. Josephine, trying to read her chicken-scratch.
Ms. Josephine holds the phone to her chest, looking down at her notes. “Dere's a 'ouse in Farmer's Branch dat needs our services. It's a two-story, tirty-five 'undred square-foot colonial, wit red and white bricks, a two-car garage, and a screamin' blue child dat floats by at tree in da mornin'.”
Ricky looks up, closing his eyes, “Tell them we'll take a look Monday, we're all booked up until then.”
“Would Monday be an appropriate time for us to come take a look?” Ms. Josephine asks politely. She nods, and then looks at Ricky, “Monday dey take da kids to soccer camp.”
“Tuesday?” Ricky asks as he pulls out his Palm Pilot and starts touching the screen with the little plastic pen.
“Tuesday will be fine,” Ms. Josephine says. “We'll call you before we come. Tank you for contacting da After Life Group .” And she hangs up.
I bet that one's fake, I say. Swamp gas and bad plumbing, for sure.
Ricky agrees with me, “Yeah. That's bullcorn. If you have a glowing apparition floating by, screaming, at three in the morning, you get it sorted out. You don't worry about band camp.”
Soccer camp, I correct.
“Whatever. You solve your poltergeist problem first. Soccer camp, second.”
“I'll go out on Tuesday and 'ave a look around. If it's serious, I'll call in da big guns,” Ms. Josephine tells us. And I'm not certain, but I think she's being sarcastic, too.
I stand and walk across the office, all the way to our magical, liquid crystal window, looking down at the indoor courtyard where several pine trees and big-leafed plants add color and ambiance to a bunch of tables and uncomfortable looking chairs.
Behind me, Hal is mining, Billtruck is observing, Ricky is pondering, Ms. Josephine is laughing. We're searching for the footprints of Evil. The echoes of death.
27
The loft.
3:21 am . . .
I'm sitting in bed, my eyes closed, and I just know, know , not to open them. My head is throbbing something fierce, and that means only one thing . . . the flashes are back. Against my better judgement I slowly open my eyes, and sure enough, they're here.
But this time, it doesn't just disappear so quickly. Through my left eye I see the twisted world of the Land of Sorrows. And not the border town where Uriel and I occasionally meet. No, this is the real deal.
Melted, twisted furniture. Broken out windows. Where there was ceiling, there are gaping holes so that I can see the starless sky above. Dark clouds are rolling by, maybe faster than they should be. And I can see dust blowing by the large hole in the ceiling. Some of it's falling haphazardly into the loft, on to me while the wind howls.
In my right eye, the vision is normal. Colors are present. There is warmth. Doors are still rectangles, and the roof doesn't need fixing. Slowly I sit up, waiting for it to fade away. But it doesn't.
This is my degenerative brain disease, only half way.
My advanced schizophrenia, working 50 percent.
This is the undiagnosed tumor that only wants to mess with my right brain, and hence, my left eye.
That's how it works, you know. The right hemisphere of your brain interprets the information that your left eye sees for the most part. And the reverse is true for your left hemisphere.
When this started, I got on the internet and looked up all kinds of information on what in the hell was going on in my brain. Obviously, they didn't have a section on the undead, or whatever I really am, but a researcher in this area of Hemispheric studies had some interesting finds.
He investigated the functioning of the two hemispheres of the brain. He found that the left hemisphere is superior in analytical functioning, of which the use of language, for instance, is a good example.
The right hemisphere is superior in many forms of visual and spatial performance and tends to be more synthetic and holistic in its functioning than the left. This is the side that's getting death-vision.
While normally both of your hemisphe
res work together, it is possible for them to work separately. They did a test where they worked with split-brain patients—individuals who've had their corpus callosum severed.
Because the corpus callosum, in the normal brain, links the two hemispheres, in these patients the hemispheres function independently of each other. But, like with normal functioning brains, the right side of the body connects with the left hemisphere of the brain, and the left side connects with the right hemisphere.
These clever researchers asked split-brain patients to match small wooden blocks held in either their left or right hands (but not looked at) with corresponding two-dimensional pictures. They found that the left hand did better than the right hand at this task.
But what was really cool was they found that the two hands appeared to use different strategies in solving the problem. Their analysis demonstrated that the right hand found it relatively easier to deal with patterns that are readily described in words but difficult to discriminate visually. In contrast, the left hand found it easier to deal with patterns requiring visual discrimination.
So, with this death-vision in my left eye, that might make sense. My right hemisphere is better at dealing with patterns that require spacial and visual performance.
Basically, the part of my brain that is more capable to deal with Deadside seems to be evolving in order to see it, even when I'm not dead and climbing out of my chest.
I decide to do a little test of my death-vision, so I scoot to the edge of my bed and slowly stand. It's a little weird, seeing the Land of Sorrows out of my left eye, and the Earth plane out of my right. Luckily, the ground is where it's supposed to be.
What's strange is, I can feel with my left foot, that I'm walking on carpet right now, but I look down with my left eye and I see bare, old concrete, worn by time and sadness.
I hold my hand over my right eye and I see nothing but Deadside.
I cover only my left, and I'm back on the earth plane.
This is like wearing those 3-D glasses when you're walking around the house late at night. Everything looks funny, and your depth perception is skewed. I can't trust what my left eye is seeing, and yet, as a cold wind blows by and something screams off in the distance, I realize another startling fact: It isn't just my left eyesight, but also my left-side hearing.
See Jack Hunt (See Jack Die) Page 11
