Escaping Midnight (What Goes On in the Walls at Night Book 3)

by Andrew Schrader

  They were married a year later, and he no longer felt like the puppet from his childhood. Sleepless nights, which had once left him pacing at three in the morning, slowed to a halt.

  They planned meals together, renovations, birthdays. Life, which had once seemed so oblivious to them, so arbitrarily neutral in its chaos, had conspired with fate at long last, and the results had been worth waiting for.

  She died close to their fifth anniversary, in a freak accident. The kind the inhabitants of Terra sometimes read about. An unknown allergic reaction. Anaphylactic shock took her on a street corner. She’d just been to the butcher. There were other facts, all of which Guy found meaningless, yet they were still recorded for posterity by the paramedics.

  For what reason she died, only Life knew, and it apparently had no interest in telling Guy what it could be.

  Guy stepped off the hoverbus with a hundred other commuters, rode the escalator down, and walked the three blocks to the hospital. He spent the first half of the day treating children with colds, and one unfortunately heavy boy who’d developed diabetes at the young age of five. He wanted to give the kid a lollipop, but resisted the urge.

  When the boy and his mother left, Guy lay down on the examination table. Skipping his lunch—he didn’t each much these days anyway—he traced a crack in the waiting room ceiling until it was time for his next appointment.

  Lucinda Penn led her seven-year-old son, Raymond, by the hand at top speed into the room, interrupting Guy’s impromptu rest. He smoothed out his coat, pulled out a new sheet of paper over the examination bench, and gestured to Raymond to sit.

  Lucinda had wrapped Raymond’s head in bandages five layers deep. She fluttered about like a butterfly, batting Raymond’s insatiable, wandering fingers that danced precariously close to his face.

  She whacked them again. “Stop that!” She turned to Guy, exasperated. “He won’t stop!”

  “Stop what?”

  “Picking his nose!”

  Raymond looked sheepishly at Guy, then rolled his eyes in reference to his mother.

  Guy smiled. “Why’s that?”

  Raymond kicked his feet and shook his head.

  Guy kneeled down. “You don’t want to tell me?”

  No.

  “Alright, then. How about a lollipop?”

  After a moment, Raymond nodded. Guy handed him one. “You know, I used to do that all the time when I was your age.” He turned to Lucinda, who sat on the other side of the large examination room. “It’s very normal, you know. Nothing to be disturbed about.”

  “Yes, but—”

  Guy held up a hand. “Let’s have him tell me.” He looked at Raymond. “If you want to, that is.”

  Raymond looked nervously at his mother. He leaned in close to Guy, who turned to him earside.

  He whispered. “There’s a garden up my nose.”

  “Oh, yeah?” Guy asked in hushed tones.

  Raymond nodded. When he spoke it was nasally, due to the bandages. “I’m tending to it.”

  “Are you now?”

  “That’s what my dad used to say. He said it was important for people to tend to things. Do you do that, tend to things?”

  “I suppose so. I’m tending to you right now.”

  “Uh huh. Well, there’s lots to do up there, some days.”

  “Like what?”

  “I have to plant flowers and shrubs, and different things need to be rotated and moved when they grow up.”

  “And they need to be picked when they get old enough too, I bet.”

  “Yeah. Do you tend to anything else, Doc-tah?”

  Guy thought a moment. “Not so much anymore. I used to. But sometimes there’s no more to tend, and you have to move on, I guess. Come on, let’s have a look up there.”

  He unwrapped the bandage from around Raymond’s head. He clicked the light on his otoscope, tilted Raymond’s head back, and peered up his nose.

  “Do you see it, Doc-tah?” the boy asked, sucking air through his mouth.

  “Yes, I do. That’s quite a pretty bunch of roses you have. Are those vegetables?”

  “Uh huh. Tomatoes and spin-idge.”

  “Looks like you’ve picked them all recently. I’d say they’re good for quite a while.”

  “Just let ‘em grow?” Raymond asked.

  “I’d say so, especially if—” Guy stopped. He stared hard into the boy’s nose and gulped a dry breath.

  “What is it, Doc-tah?”

  “Do you ever have, uh, help with the garden?”

  “Uh huh. My dad helps. He died a while ago, but he stays up there sometimes.”

  “And a lady?” Guy’s voice was a thin whisper.

  “Yeah. She has white hair. I like her.”

  Guy’s hand trembled. He clicked the light off his otoscope. “Yes,” he croaked. “I see her too. Her name is Lori.”

  “That’s a nice name.”

  “Yes, it is. She’s a nice person.”

  “Did you know her?”

  “She was as close to me as your father was to you.”

  “What happened to her?”

  “She died too.”

  “And now she’s in the garden with Dad?”

  “Yes. And you mustn’t pick at them too much, or else you could hurt them. They’re there to help you tend to the garden, remember.”

  “Is that where everyone goes when they die?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe.”

  “That’s where I want to go,” Raymond said. “There or the moon.”

  “The moon? Wouldn’t you be lonely?”

  “Huh uh. Think of the view. No one else would have it. It would be special. Someone has to see it. Besides, being lonely isn’t so bad. There are good things there too.”

  “Things to tend to?”

  “Different things. That no one else has.”

  Lucinda glanced up from her tablet. She’d been paying little attention to their conversation. “Is he okay, doctor?”

  “Hmm? Yes, he’s fine.” He turned to Raymond. “Aren’t you?”

  The boy smiled and nodded. Lucinda stuffed her tablet into her purse and plucked the last bits of gauze from Raymond’s face. She turned to Guy. “We’ve been a little jumpy since his father passed. It’s been hard on both of us.”

  She wiped her eyes, took her son’s hand, and led him to the door. Raymond turned and waved to the doctor, who waved back.

  And by this time, of course, the garden had disappeared, but by then he didn’t need it anymore.

  Triggered

  Around 10 p.m. on December 31, 2025, Wallace Avery, age 31, stepped into Salato, the trendy Italian joint in the East Village. Shaking the snow off his boots, he stood awkwardly and waited for the herd of people waiting to be seated to move. Eventually, he made it to the front and spoke to the manager, who gave him the unfortunate news that his pickup order was running behind, and that it would be anywhere from fifteen to thirty minutes before his food was ready. She offered apologies, which were accepted, and Wallace found a chair against the wall on which to perch while he waited.

  Nearby, a young woman in a tight skirt and fur-lined trench coat spit words at her friend. “What a piece of shit. I mean, who posts things like that? Like, I would never tell my audience that I even liked a right-wing candidate, even if I did. That just sends all the wrong signals to my audience. I don’t know why, but it really pissed me off. Never mind, I lied, I do know why. I can’t even link to Logan O’Brien anymore; he’ll, like, rub off on me. But he posts good things sometimes, and they get lots of views and impressions, so now I’m, like, torn, because him posting that is costing me money, right?”

  And on it went.

  Wallace smiled to himself as he checked his email on his phone. Eavesdropping on random influencers never failed to amuse him.

  Vultures, all of them.

  The email sent by his editor a little after 6 p.m. read: “Posted your new piece. Looking great so far, lots of traffic for New Year’s Eve
. I’ll try to get you some interviews next week. Be well.”

  Wallace thought about blasting the article link on social media, but the thought made his stomach lurch. This was his night off, and he meant to stick to it.

  He put his phone away.

  The door opened and more people flooded in, bringing with them a gale of wind and white that chilled him instantly. Standing, he pushed through the throngs of people to an oasis nearby. As he turned, resting his elbow on the bar, he saw a black man in a booth by the window waving to him.

  He squinted. “Andre?”

  He waited for a party of three to pass. Yes, it was him. With an oversized coat, baggy shirt, and buzzed head, Andre stood out from this crowd of wealthy trendsters. Nothing he wore seemed to match.

  Andre’s smile grew creepily large as Wallace approached.

  “Holy shit,” Andre said, rising, hugging his old friend. He patted Wallace on the shoulders as if he’d been away at some distant battle for many years. “It is you. You look fucking great, man!”

  Wallace told him so did he, and Andre motioned to the empty seat across from him. Given that his food was nowhere to be seen, Wallace sat with his old friend to catch up. He ignored the aging arthouse lady beside them. That two African American men together still drew furtive, often disapproving glances from old white women hardly gave him pause; he was used to it.

  “My God,” Andre said after pouring Wallace a drink. “Has it really been twelve years?”

  “By my clock. Since college.”

  They chatted for a bit about old friends, who was doing what, who had kids now, who’d gotten married then divorced, then who’d gotten married and divorced and remarried, and Andre leaned back in his booth and shook his head. “Time fucking flies, man.”

  “For real,” said Wallace. “I don’t have time for anything anymore. None of my friends have time for anything anymore. What the fuck happened? Where is time going?”

  “It’s like that song. Time just keeps slippin’, slippin’, slippin’ into the future.”

  “True. You ever feel like time is speeding up? Everything moves so fast, all the time.”

  “Oh, that.” Andre rolled his eyes. His demeanor seemed to grow heavier. No more smiles, just a hint of sadness. “That’s easy to explain.”

  Wallace waited.

  “Interconnectivity,” Andre continued. “Phones, internet. It’s a time-suck. Hypnosis, really. Sure, I see you laughing at that word, but the average person looks at screens something like eleven hours a day. No wonder we lose track of time. But—there’s more to it than that.”

  Wallace poured himself a glass of wine. Years of journalism had taught him two things. First, stay aloof. Second, let the person talk. Even with old friends, he found this habit hard to break.

  Scooting forward, in a low voice, Andre said, “You ever think it’s all a conspiracy?”

  “What is?”

  “Screens. The internet. It seems to me that . . . ah, never mind.”

  “Tell me.”

  Andre paused for a moment to sip. “I’ve read your articles online. They’re great. So when I say this, don’t take it as a dig or anything.”

  “Man, I get ripped on all day long, don’t even trip.”

  “Well, it’s not about your style. Your writing is brilliant.” He drank more. “And your ideas about too much screen time and the effect it’s having on us. They’re good, but they’re very . . .” He searched for the word. “Pedestrian.”

  “Okay.” Wallace smiled. “Go on.”

  “It’s much deeper than you think.”

  “Deeper. What’s deeper?”

  “The Plan, man. The Plan.”

  “The Plan,” Wallace repeated.

  Behind him, the woman in the tight skirt was yelling at the hostess. “We’ve been here for over an hour—!” The hostess tried to calm her, to no avail. The woman’s friends pulled on her coat, dragging her outside. The wind and white invaded the restaurant for a moment, and then they were gone. When Wallace turned back, Andre was staring out the window, seemingly lost in his thoughts, until—

  “So, are you going to tell me about this ‘Plan’?”

  Andre looked at him.

  “You afraid I’ll think you’re weird or something?” Wallace laughed.

  Andre smiled. “I’ve never had to explain this to anyone before, so bear with me. I think an example, to start, would be good.

  “Take media. In the last fifteen years or so we’ve gone from reading real, physical books and magazines and newspapers to using our phones for almost everything. And all our information now—everything we buy, and everywhere we go, and everyone we know—is placed in a database somewhere. Why? We don’t know. Who has it? Fewer and fewer corporations, in bed with the government, yeah?

  “Of course you know about this,” he continued, with a dismissive flap of the hand. “You write about it all the time. But why is it happening? That’s the question.”

  “And I suppose this big, tremendously important buildup is because you have some sort of answer for me.”

  Andre smiled a devious smile. “I’m getting to that. Let’s back up. You know I was in ROTC in college.”

  “I remember. You and your goofy-ass uniform.”

  “That’s the one. And after college you and I lost touch. You went to—”

  “Here. New York. Internship with the daily news.”

  “Right. Well, do you know where I went?”

  Wallace shook his head.

  “Of course not. Because when I graduated, I didn’t tell anyone, I didn’t write to anyone, I didn’t even talk to anyone for many years. It’s one of the reasons you and I lost touch. You wouldn’t have been able to find me if you tried!”

  “We did wonder what happened to you,” Wallace recalled. “Rory, Mikey, a bunch of us looked.”

  “Ah, and you didn’t find me. Why? Because I didn’t want to be found. I couldn’t be found, in fact.”

  “Where did you go?”

  “Long story short, my friend—and I won’t be offended by the disbelieving expression you’re about to wear—I went to a very, how do you say, secretive government facility whose name I can’t mention, because if I did mention it, I would be very famous with the folks who run it, see, because what we did there was very secretive and hush hush, and they’re still doing those secretive, hush hush things, and let me tell you, man, if they found out I was talking about this, suddenly there could be armed men at my house waiting to take me away and do terrible things to me until I spilled everything I’m about to tell you.” He grinned again, that mischievous grin that suggested he could be joking, but then again one wouldn’t exactly feel comfortable putting their money on it.

  “Sounds like your employer is very supportive of human rights,” said Wallace dryly. He looked around for signs of his order. Nothing at the kitchen window. And the front-of-house was positively swollen with people. He turned back to Andre, squashing his discomfort with where this talk could be going. Andre always was a jokester, he thought, but this is getting . . . strange.

  Still, he told himself, this is my old friend.

  Andre threw his head back and laughed.

  “I can see you asking yourself what this is all about. So I’ll tell you. The reason I’m telling you this now is A, because we randomly stumbled into each other here, and the chances are very small that we would stumble into each other, and it’s fucking great to see you, man. B, you deserve to know what’s going on, as does everyone else. And C, because after midnight tonight, at the ring of the New Year bell, I don’t think any of this shit is gonna matter.”

  He leaned back in his seat and sipped his wine. “Midnight, 2026,” he said with finality, more to himself than Wallace.

  “What’s so special about midnight?”

  “Midnight, my old friend, my very old friend, is when the clampdown begins.”

  Wallace stared at his friend, his very old friend.

  “I suppose,” Wallace said, �
��You’re going to elaborate?”

  They laughed—Andre, a true guffaw; Wallace, somewhat nervously, in reaction.

  “What I was saying before about your writing. You’ve got the details. The—symptoms of the problem. What you’re missing is the point of it all.”

  “Enlighten me.”

  “Okay.” Andre took a deep breath and waved his hands, as if in a magic show. “In the past, as we previously mentioned, we, people, used to read real things. Real books, papers, etc. We read physical content. Follow?”

  “Uh huh.”

  “And then the internet came along—developed by the government, remember that—and then we got smartphones, and with ’em came data tracking, and location tracking, and friend tracking, and all the rest. And we shifted—in terms of how we define content.”

  “Okay.”

  “Whereas before we consumed content, now we have become the content. Our data—our histories, the time we spend on a page, our location, our friends, our health records, our smoking habits, all of it, are rolled out and chewed up and dissected and bought and sold by unknown entities. We, the content, are being consumed.”

  Andre continued. “Now, hold that thought. We’re going to come back to it. I want to switch gears for a moment. I want to look at social media specifically.

  “What’s the point of it, of social media? To entertain us? To keep us informed? Huh uh. I don’t think so.

  “Do we really care about what other people are doing? What’s the point of seeing who ate dinner at this restaurant tonight, or what I think about the election results, or whose family traveled to a theme park?

  “If we’re being completely honest with ourselves—and I mean one hundred percent honest with ourselves—it’s easy to see that the reason we like it is because it allows us to spy on each other. We can see a friend, an ex, an enemy, but they can’t see us. It’s a power play. Would you agree, that to some extent, this is part of what’s so fascinating about social media? What’s so seductive about it?”