Fools' Apocalypse

by Anderson Atlas

  Ian heads across an expansive brick courtyard toward the headquarters. It’s a simple modern design, probably built to appear as solid as a bunker. His father, the great architect, would hate it. On the other hand, it mocks ostentatious fleur in its modesty and looks as blue collar as can be. The building is ten stories or so tall with small square windows surrounded by red bricks. This is the most secure building in all of New York.

  Ian passes metal barricades intended to funnel people directly toward the entrance. A hundred cops pass, going in and out as well as a hundred people in plain clothes and suits. No one even looks at Ian. He’s trying to look as confident as hecan.Keep your head up, back straight, but be casual. You’re just another guy doing his job. At the entrance there are a dozen cops with machine guns slung from their shoulders, muzzles down. They’re chatting and gossiping about the game or some bit of drama.

  Ian hands the work order to a man at the exterior entrance who reads over the document and hands it back, and then points to the front door. Ian passes through the revolving door framed in gold and enters the front lobby. Huge banners rise high over his head. A vertical banner says ‘HEROES’ and another displays the NYPD badge. Ian heads to a side door near the elevators. There’s an electronic card reader next to the handle. He swipes the card Zilla gave him and waits. The card reader’s light turns green, and he steps inside the small room.

  Ian is greeted by a man in a white shirt wearing a bulletproof vest and carrying an M-16. “You’re not Redmond. Where’s your ID? Put your tools down and get your hands up.”

  Ian’s throat fills with his stomach but he does what he’s told. There are no windows, adornments, or seats. There is a back door, plain white with more security locks. It flies open, and another guard comes through, looking like his skin is about to burst into flames. He walks right up to Ian and snatches the ID card. After a moment he looks up. “I’m sorry about the inconvenience, Mr. Hadley. We had a bomb threat in the building this morning and are running hot around here.” He moves to the back door quickly. “Stay put, we just need to run additional security checks. It’s protocol, that’s all.” The two guards leave him alone.

  Oh shit, Ian thinks. I’m going to jail.

  Chapter 1.2

  Ian:

  The Patriot Fool

  As Ian waits for his credentials to be verified, he sweats like Niagara Falls and can’t shake the image of vomiting in the corner. Why haven’t they come back? Did Zilla screw up my ID? Zilla despised, as Ian did, the tyranny of the capitalist leaders. He believed those leaders corrupted the entire U.S. system, which led to currency manipulation, shadow courts, and wars for oil. Zilla wants to see the power given back to the ninety-nine percent. The forgotten man.

  The whole global system is run by secret groups of the super-rich and designed to keep the power in the West and suppress growth in the rest of the world. It’s not cat and mouse; it’s checkmate. The rich and powerful must be taken down. Billions of dollars are spent on guns and bombs and stupid political campaigns while people starve. Jesus, Ian sounds like his mother.

  Weakening the capitalists is the only way to bring a sense of balance back to the Earth. His mother fought the system until her last breath, and so will Ian. When socialism reigns the globe over, things will be better. Decisions will be based on what is good for the planet and humanity. Nationalism will finally be nailed in its coffin and put six feet under. The American dream is dead, having almost killed the world along with it. The future is globalism, environmentalism, and fairness.

  This Zilla guy can say it better than Ian, which is rare. At night sometimes they’d speak for hours. They saw eye-to-eye on almost every political issue.

  Six months ago Zilla divulged his plan. Ian can still remember what he said to this day, “The poverty of man and his reign on this Earth is over. American wealth is holding back global change. The puppet masters are too powerful. The U.S. must be weakened before we can build a unified and fair global government.”

  “Are you talking about the Bilderberg group? The G8? Illuminati? How do we even know which one controls our government?”

  “That’s what we need to know!” Zilla blurted out. “There is an Achilles’ heel to America’s power. The media is still private and always looking to take someone down. So we need to find the corruption wherever it hides. We spy on the pawns. Then follow the money and see who the knights and bishops are. They will eventually lead us to the kings and queens.”

  Zilla continued, “We need to know how far down the feed trough goes. This is where you come in. I’ve got bugs on the President and the Vice President and in many offices in Washington. But the elite are careful. We need to bug the police, National Guard, and defense contractors.”

  His request hit Ian like a sledgehammer to the groin. “You want me to bug all those organizations?” Ian asked.

  “Yes. With undetectable cameras and Wi-Fi data interceptors, we can tie down the conspirators, who they employ and how they communicate. The corrupt are in control. We need to take them down in order to destroy capitalism.”

  Ian loved the idea. It was a “gotcha” move that wouldn’t hurt anyone, only reveal hidden pyramids. So he signed up.

  Ian stares at the camera mounted to the corner ceiling of the little room and suddenly imagines spending the next ten to twenty years in a federal prison. This job is different than all the other crazy guerilla activism stunts he’s done. This one messes with the Feds. Ian thinks about turning, throwing open the door, and running far away. Bad idea. I’ve already broken a half dozen laws just to get in this room. They’ll plaster my face over the six o’clock news, and my life will be over.

  The far door opens, and the same security officer enters. He moves to the corner and morphs into a statue. His deep-set eyes are cold as ice. Ian is a rabbit among wolves. His eyes start watering. Blink, Damn it!

  Just before Ian starts screaming, the door opens and the portly man steps through. He hands the ID back.

  “New with the company?” His face is chubby and wrinkled from decades of stress and too many tumblers of scotch.

  “Yes, sir,” Ian responds. “I’ve taken over Central.”

  He smiles, drawing his lips off his whitened teeth. “Good. Redmond was always late.”

  Ian wonders for a moment where Redmond is. Was he fired? Or rotting at the bottom of a dumpster? How did Zilla get me into this company anyway?

  The portly man waves to the security guy in the corner. He reaches out for the toolbox.

  Ian’s heart should be audible in the quiet room; it’s thumping so loud.

  The guard hands over the tools, rifles through the box, and after setting it aside pats Ian down, thoroughly. The portly man hands Ian a paper. “Now then. You’ve got crybabies on two and six saying they don’t have heat. So get to it.”

  The man opens the door, and leads the way to the elevators.

  Ian inspects vents in ten offices and plants five bugs just behind the grates.

  Thankfully, no one is the wiser.

  Two hours later, the heat is on, and people thank Ian as he exits the building. Most of these people are good, hardworking city employees. Ian is only interested in the crooked one percent.

  #

  Eight months pass. Ian gets his last job today, and he’s not scared anymore. No one will see him sweat. He’ll feel nervous when the job is done, but going in, he’s solid as a seasoned con man.

  Ian has planted bugs in four other precinct offices, the National Guard offices, and the mayor’s office. It was invigorating. Zilla must be collecting mountains of data.

  Today, Ian head to a tall building downtown. It’s gray, covered in windows, and about fifty stories. The lobby is almost as secure as the police headquarters, almost.

  The main security guy checks out Ian’s credentials and he gets approval. The guard looks tired, apathetic. It contrasts Ian’s high energy and vigor. Ian gets a schematic printout of the ventilation system. It’s more complicated than anythi
ng he’s ever seen. He can’t make heads or tails out of it.

  “Got some serious duct cleaning ahead of you. Here’s where our system shut down the intake.” The security guy points to a spot on the map. “Get in, clean out the stink, then get this paper back to Muriel. You are familiar with our ACL response ventilation system?”

  Ian nods, having the vaguest idea of what to do to bypass the alarms.

  “Good. Muriel’s the older woman at the desk on level ten. She’ll call an escort to lead you out of the building when you’re finished. Rick, here, will escort you to level ten.” The man turns without another word and saunters off.

  Rick, another security guard in a black suit, escorts Ian to the elevators. He stands next to a short, acne-covered kid sucking on a lollipop. Ian nods and smiles at him. His dad must work here. Sorry kid. If your dad is one of the bad guys, he’s going down.

  The elevator arrives, and the three step in. The kid reads the name on Ian’s badge and gives him a funny look. Ian gets off on the tenth floor and forgets the kid’s pimply stare and is abandoned at the receptionist counter.

  A nasty smell wafts from the vents.

  “The whole floor reeks. I hope you can clear this smell out quickly and get the heat on,” Muriel says. “I do not tolerate the cold.” She’s older, and there’s no nonsense in her body language.

  “Not a problem, ma’am. Can you show me the vents that seem to smell the most?”

  She walks Ian to a nearby office. It reeks. Ian locates the vent plate and unscrews the four corner bolts and unclips a sensor panel attached by wires to the metal grate. There is some serious tech here. Zilla had informed Ian how to open the grate so he’s not totally in the dark. White clip first because that’s the power. The colored clip is next. Ian types in a code on the control box situated inside the duct then completely removes the cover.

  No alarms, yet. Ian crawls into the duct. There’s a lot of space, but he still has to wriggle on his belly. Fifty feet into the duct Ian starts to feel claustrophobic. Finally, around the bend is a small bloated corpse. Maybe a mouse, a pigeon perhaps. Ian gets closer. It is a fat, greasy rat. There is a bald spot on its head where a wire sticks out of its skull like an antenna. Robot rat? Who is this Zilla? If he is this sophisticated, why does he need me?

  #

  A year ago Ian was at a Red Stars meeting in an apartment on Thirty-Sixth. He was one of the core organizers. They rallied the crowds, set up the email lists and secret chat rooms, printed fliers, and hired graffiti artists to paint shit on walls and rooftops. The apartment was dark and smoky, and the beer flowed heavily. But they weren’t there to party.

  Phisto shushed everyone. He brushed his long curly hair from his face and leaned onto the table. “We’re chasing our own tails, yo!” Everyone got silent. “We’ve got this next rally in the bag. What we need to do is spend a minute on our next goal. We can get people out of their houses. Now we need to get a politician in our pocket. Real power doesn’t come from the bottom up it comes from the top down. We need to do a favor for someone in power.”

  “What kind of favor?” Ian asked.

  He thought for a moment. “Maybe organize a campaign rally that rocks the whole city, help someone get elected.”

  Bennie spoke. “How about getting funds to build a park or an urban garden? We give the publicity to any senator we choose.”

  Phisto nodded, “Yeah. Something like that. Look, it’s not the act we’ll be doing. That can be anything. The endgame is how we’ll use the payback for something we need done. It’s called leverage.”

  #

  Ian thinks about what Phisto had said that day even as he gags on the stench of the rotting rodent. This is the first time Zilla had used anything as sophisticated as a robot rat. If Zilla has all this spy-tech at his fingertips, then he doesn’t need Ian. Is he getting Ian to do all these jobs as a way of taking control of him? Am I just a big rat with a wire sticking out of my head so I can take all the blame? Ian has installed multiple cameras in a lot of offices. He can be exposed at any time if Zilla so desires. Ian is sitting in his lap; Zilla has all the leverage here.

  Ian reluctantly puts the corpse into a bag, seals it, and scrubs the duct with a sharp-smelling chemical. He shakes off the negative thoughts because he’s long since committed himself. Maybe the rat was just an extremely complicated excuse to get him up here. Besides, Ian knows what he’s doing. This is as much his desire as Zilla’s. Ian has power, too. He’s a soldier, and he’s been making the first moves against tyranny.

  Two more offices are marked on his map. Ian crawls to the first one just outside the office of someone important. He unclips the measuring tape from his belt and slips out a round device from under the label. The round object is the size of a flattened golf ball. There are two other devices that are pressed into the measuring tape, a surveillance-gear Pez dispenser. Ian sticks one to the wall of the vent next to the grate and pushes the activation button. It will pick up secure Wi-Fi signals and audio and send the data to an off-site server that Zilla controls. Ian crawls to the next vent and does the same. The other vents are more difficult, but Ian get it done.

  A conversation on the other side of the last grate lets Ian capture an important piece from the conversation. He’s in a DOD satellite control facility. Wow, this is intense, Ian muses. If he’s caught in here, he will simply disappear.

  Ian leaves the DOD building with the strange high he gets when he does one of these jobs. He’s the spy, committing treason. Didn’t George Washington commit treason though? He was a patriot in the end, and Ian feels he will be, too, a New World Patriot.

  Ian drives the van to a parking garage on 145th, changes into a provided black suit and tie, and walks home. It’s fifteen blocks and a beautiful day for a walk. When he gets close to his building a police cruiser flips its lights on. Ian instinctively pushes back against the building’s wall and looks for an escape route. The cruiser seems to slow as it passes. Is that cop looking at me? His skin beads with sweat. The cruiser picks up speed and drives off.

  Ian’s relieved but jittery. Getting used to breaking the law isn’t easy. He passes Mochias Café’s patio, which is next to the front door of his building, and stops. Ian suddenly has a strange thought. My mother feared prison and took her own life to avoid it. He looks at his reflection in the café window. Will he do the same if it comes down to jail?

  Instead of going straight home, Ian stops at the café. Zilla congratulates him via encrypted email. Good work, soldier. The data is piling up, and now my analysts have to pore over the evidence and follow leads. So that’s it for you. I’ll be in touch.

  Ian stares at the phone. What now? What do I do?

  He tosses his gear into a garbage can in an alley and heads home a little disappointed. For the past eight months he’s installed devices everywhere. He’s crawled through duct after duct, cleaned out heaters, and stuck bugs to a couple dozen vents. It was a lot of risk, and after every job he worried, but after every job came another. Not this time. Now he’s done, his duty is over. The last of the buildings on the list are bugged. Maybe he can breathe deep again. No one will know his name, but he will know. When Zilla and his lawyers start to prosecute, he will revere in being the shadow warrior, the virus in the machine.

  Ian orders a latte. A dude with dark circles under his eyes and pasty skin cranks out cup after cup of steaming coffee and milk and flips change at people. He seems fine working ten-hour days, making pennies on the dollar.

  After finding a seat on a knee-high wall bordering a grassy patch and a tall metal sculpture that needs to be recycled in a bad way, Ian watches people pass. A lady pushes through the crowd, running down the street like a lunatic. She’s not the only one that is acting weird. There’s an energy Ian can’t quite place. Everyone has their phones to their ears. That might not be out of the norm, but their faces are tight, contorted. It’s like the crowd is collectively cramping with gas in their guts.

  A guy in a tacky plaid shirt and
a flat cap yells into his cell phone, “Yeah, right! The military satellites are down. Trust me. I’ve got a source at the Times. The government is peeing in their pants.” Ian stands and follows him, eavesdropping. “Yeah, well, if the government satellites are that vulnerable, then this virus will start crawling across the Internet. . . Yeah, I’d unplug it and sell off your SEC antivirus stock.”

  Ian turns and heads home. Everyone he passes looks worried, agitated.

  “Mornin’, Mr. Gladstone.” The doorman opens the door, tips his hat.

  “It’s Ian. Mr. Gladstone is my father.” Ian tries to return a smile, though he can’t stand when doors are opened for him. He doesn’t feel special.

  There is a flat-screen TV in the lobby. A blond woman spouts off, “We are getting reports that there is an attack underway that is targeting the satellite infrastructure of the United States.” Ian holds his breath. She isn’t talking about his little spy game. No, it’s the satellites that are failing.

  The elevator doors open and there’s G. Mason. He’s a slick businessman with an addiction to the call-girl type. He shakes his cell phone at Ian. “I was about to make ten thou on the UK stock exchange,” he complains. “But the satellite dropped my call. Smart-ass hacker needs to get a job.”

  Ian nods because his throat is too dry to speak. Every time he hears this guy talk about losing money he wants to kick him. They switch places as Ian gets in the elevator.

  “I better check my accounts,” Ian croaks sheepishly. That came out wrong. Why do I feel so nervous? Oh, right. I always feel this way after committing treason.

  “Hacker’s probably some punk living in his mama’s basement, eating animal cookies for lunch. I hope they throw him in jail for the rest of his life.” The man moves on, smacking his gum like a hyperactive cow.

  After the doors close and the elevator starts moving, Ian speaks out loud. “You are one of the reasons this world is so screwed. I hope you lose your entire fortune with this virus.” Maybe I’ll just piss on his door. Ian shakes his head, regretting that thought. Time to check out, he’s frazzled.