Fools' Apocalypse

by Anderson Atlas

  It’s a chat request from a hacker friend.

  GigglyPus666

  “Hey man, found your viral aerosolizer.”

  Josh’s coffee cup almost fell out of his hand. It had been eight months since the professor had told him the aerosolizer was stolen then vanished himself.

  GigglyPus666

  “A manufacturer in Taiwan is selling the design specs of the small device on the deep web. They improved the design, miniaturizing it further.”

  Josh stares at the text on his screen, falling into paranoid thoughts. A dirty sensation crawls over his sweaty hands. Someone could culture a virus, pack it in the device, and spray it anywhere. Anyone would be frightened to learn about a gadget like that, not just a germaphobe like him.

  JoshP8484

  “Oh my God. Is there any way you can find out if someone bought this thing?”

  GigglyPus666

  “No. But this is Hansel and Gretel-ville. Bread crumbs are everywhere if you know what to look for. I ran a search on a hundred chat servers looking for anyone talking about the device or spreading a virus into crowds and found some fucked-up shit.”

  JoshP8484

  “Isn’t the dark web already full of fucked-up shit?” he typed, not sure he wanted to hear the answer.

  GigglyPus666

  “Not like what I found. Or say didn’t find. Eight, nine months ago, people were talking about the theft of the device from Columbia U and some were saying spooky shit about using it. After every post by this guy called Zilla, the thread vanishes. Threads like these don’t just stop. See, the dark web is full of shit-breathers. Boards like these fill up for pages. Not when Zilla comes around. He usually cuts the boards down like a samurai hacking off heads. It’s weird, like his posts have some kind of corruption capability attached to it. Kinda looks like he doesn’t want people to talk about it.”

  JoshP8484

  “You look into this Zilla guy?”

  GigglyPus666

  “Who do you think I am? Zilla is everywhere. He’s supporting socialist ideologies over here and anarchist movements over there. He’s a democrat and republican, Dahmer and McVeigh all in the same breath. Big tatas, little tatas, the guy can’t be pinned down.”

  JoshP8484

  “What is his game?”

  GigglyPus666

  “From what I can tell, he’s trying to make some friends. He’s like a political call girl. He’s dressing up in whatever ideology you like then taking their chats offline, usually to proxy server addresses that no longer exist. I did find an old one. A year ago, he was using a server in South Africa almost exclusively. Fucker was chatting in Chinese, Italian, Russian. There was something in his Russian post that got me freaked.”

  JoshP8484

  “You speak Russian?”

  GigglyPus666

  “I was born in Ukraine, brotha, before coming to the states. Pay attention. He transferred over two million bitcoin to a transpacific freight company. A week later the boat left a Chinese port filled with microprocessors. Not too weird except I found out the boat had one very cold, very secret package on board.”

  JoshP8484

  “How do you know it was secret?”

  GigglyPus666

  “It wasn’t on the manifesto, but some clown in the maintenance crew snapped a pic of it and tweeted it.”

  JoshP8484

  “What was so special about the package?”

  GigglyPus666

  “Oh, biohazard symbols, coolant lines, locked up behind some fancy door, no one’s supposed to talk about it. That kind of thing.”

  JoshP8484

  “But he’s talking about it.”

  GigglyPus666

  “Not really. Facial recognition software picked up the biohazard image in the background.”

  JoshP8484

  “So if you found the image the NSA knows about it for sure.”

  GigglyPus666

  “Yeah, probably. Still kinda spooky. Some guy shipped a virus to the states the same time some thingy that sneezes it out gets stolen. I’d keep outta Times Square for a while.”

  Josh’s computer flicks off, snapping his nerves like wound up rubber bands. The desk light is still on; his clock still blinks so the power didn’t go out. Josh pushes back from the desk and stands. His keyboard isn’t lined up straight anymore, so he squares it off with the monitor then adjusts the pens laid neatly next to the printer.

  His hand itches, so he bathes them in alcohol. I gotta write about this. People need to know this crap is happening. His mind stalls. GigglyPus knows, and so the government has to know. They have wiretaps on everyone, right?

  A bang is followed by his mother’s scream. Her cry is cut short. Josh leaps up and reaches for the door handle just as it opens. Behind it is a large man in a black suit. He points a gun at Josh, backing him to the bed.

  Another man, no gun in his hands, enters the room. He’s got ice-blue eyes and a crew cut. “Sit, please.” He pulls out a badge and shows it to Josh. “I’m with the National Security Agency.”

  Josh nods; his mouth goes dry like he’d been water boarded with flour.

  “We have evidence that you’ve been in contact with a known felon. His screen name is GigglyPus666. We’ve learned some very interesting things from him, and we know he’s told you some very interesting things, as well.” The agent folds his arms across his chest. “We also know that you’re very radical and you work for a right-wing magazine, Liberty Values.”

  A huff bursts out of Josh. “I’m radical? Have you ever read Thomas Jefferson? Adams? They’re our founders. I’ve not said anything they haven’t.” Anger fills him up like a puffer fish.

  “Sorry you find men in wigs so fascinating. However, we live in a new America.”

  “What did you do to my mother?” Josh croaks, glancing at the door.

  “She’s fine, don’t worry about her right now.”

  Three more men in dark suits, white shirts, and skinny ties barge into the room and dismantle the computer, hauling off the parts.

  “What are you doing?” Josh tries to stand, but the agent with the gun forces him down.

  “We’re ending your little career. No more articles about liberty or freedom or your precious Jefferson. No more rebellious comments, and no more hacker friends. In return, you won’t go to jail, your mother won’t go to jail, and maybe your sister in Ohio won’t go to jail either. If you publish anything or go to the media, your family will be ruined.”

  “You can’t do that.”

  “The Patriot Act gives me more authority than even you know. You might even try to use a weapon on me, forcing me to put you down like a dog.” The agent moves his jacket aside, exposing cuffs tucked into a leather belt pouch. “Do we have an agreement?”

  There isn’t much Josh can do, or say, so he nods.

  “Now, go get yourself a nice easy job and move on with your life.” The agent with the ice-blue eyes leads his men out of the home.

  Josh runs to his mom. She’s crying on her bed, her face smashed into her pillow.

  “Are you okay?” he asks.

  She looks up, her eyes puffy and red. “What have you done to the government?”

  Josh shakes his head. “Nothing. I just dissented, that’s all.”

  #

  A week goes by before Josh goes out of his mind. His friends are on him about missing emails and texts, and his boss fires him, regretfully, because Josh insists he can’t write anything political anymore. It makes him miserable. His tongue was effectively cut out. But his mother and sister are none-the-wiser and they’re not hauled off to some secret prison, or worse.

  It’s amazing how the clock becomes your enemy when you don’t have anything to do. Every tick is like a nail being driven into his hand. It sends his brain into dark areas, exacerbating his phobias and paranoias. Twice, he’d seen that classic dark car parked outside the building, and his landline clicks suspiciously.

  Everything around Josh gets dirtier though he
washes constantly and sanitizes surfaces daily. He can’t seem to leave the house, and even tap water looks like it’s crawling with bacteria.

  His mother finally notices his odd behavior. She tries to dig out his problems, but Josh can’t tell her anything. Her life is on the line. Though she is annoying at times, he loves her. He can’t let anything happen to her, even if he’s relegated to shining shoes for a living.

  Josh wakes at two in the morning. He’d dreamt about Zilla again. Did he know the NSA hobbled my life? Was it him that sent men to his apartment, pretending to be NSA? He’s haunted by these questions and can’t seem to survive without some answers. Maybe he can investigate, as long as he’s sneaky about it, very sneaky.

  The morning arrives, finally. Josh throws on a long sleeve shirt (though it’s summer), pants, and a face mask and heads out of the house. The New York hustle and bustle seems particularly frantic, but he’s a poor judge of normal. After ducking in and out of alleys, looping back twice and making sure no one followed him, he finds the local library.

  It’s packed with unshaven, unwashed, unbrushed types. Germs fill the air like confetti, but he has a face mask on and a pocket full of hand sanitizer. He sits at the only available computer and starts rooting around message boards. He looks for GigglyPus666 first, but his posts are a week old and useless. They really did get to him.

  Someone coughs nearby. Josh wants to flee but he forces himself to stay rooted. Zilla, where are you? He doesn’t quite know what he’s doing, so he visits some popular chat sites and some boards that GigglyPus quoted. Nothing.

  The keys stare at him, their worn-off letters crying out to be used for good. Josh is shaking and is overheated. If he tells anyone about what happened, his family is at risk. But if he says nothing . . .

  Josh looks around; no one is paying any attention. Good. Though the risk is high, he creates a free email account and types a message to his boss and best friend. He pauses the mouse at the send button. Sweat rolls down his cheek. He’s got some savings, his mom does too. If he sends this email, detailing what has happened, prefaced with strict instructions to let him get out of town before investigating Zilla and GigglyPus’s disappearance, he’ll have time to get out of town, right?

  Josh hits send.

  The clock in his head strikes midnight. Now’s his witching hour, he needs to make a great escape from New York.

  He stands, dumps a handful of cool, fragrant hand sanitizer into his palm and massages it over his hands, wrists, and arms.

  Some toothless guy taps his shoulder. “You done, Man?” His breath is as foul as a sewer pipe.

  Josh recoils and heads for the door. Outside isn’t much comfort. His paranoia has increased exponentially, and he didn’t even realize it. The sidewalk is too crowded, and everyone is too eager to invade his personal bubble.

  The apartment is a block away, his only respite from all the filth.

  The people he passes, every one of them, are agitated. Sirens wail in the distance in unusual urgency. The streets are gridlocked. He jogs to his building and ducks inside.

  Thirty-five stairs up and a stubborn lock later and he’s inside his bedroom, trying to catch his breath. He flips on the TV and starts season four of the X-Files and cranks the volume so he can’t hear the weird chaos outside and so the bugs in the apartment can’t hear him packing; he knows there are bugs.

  Time to get Mom.

  Josh hadn’t passed his mother on the couch; nor was she in the kitchen. He walks to her bedroom. There’s a note taped to the door.

  Couldn’t keep it zipped up, could you. We warned you.

  ~Zilla

  Josh nudges the door open to finds his mother dead on her bed. Her glossed-over eyes stare, overflowing with a thick yellow mucus. Bloody snot bubbles from her nose and mouth, and the skin on her arms and legs are dotted with red welts.

  My mask!

  He slams her door shut, runs to his bedroom and snatches his mask off the desk.

  The front door bell rings over and over.

  “My husband! He’s sick. He needs a doctor, but I can’t get through. I need your phone, Josh! Please! Maybe you can get through.” It’s his too-friendly neighbor, Mrs. Beckle.

  “I’m sorry. I don’t want to get sick.” Josh screams through the door.

  His suitcase stares at him from the bedroom. Damn it. Tears stream down his face.

  He can hear Mrs. Beckle fighting another neighbor in the hallway. They’re coughing and coughing and trying to get in their door, and Mrs. Beckle won’t let them past. She’s crying for help, screaming for it.

  Josh runs to the utility closet and pulls out a fat roll of duct tape. The building shakes like there’s an earthquake and the power goes out.

  In a panic, he tapes grocery bags over the cracks around the front door and his mother’s door, grabs some food and water from the kitchen, heads to his bedroom, and tape that door shut as well. There is more chaos and screaming coming from the street three stories below. Instead of peeking, he pops a valium, chugs some water, and slinks into the corner.

  “This will be over soon. This will be over soon,” Josh mumbles over and over.

  Chapter 1.4

  Ben Leman:

  Two Days Before the Extinction Event

  Ben doesn’t like it when people look at him for too long. He turns away, then peeks, and they’re still staring. Either they’re jackasses, or they just don’t have a fucking clue where their pupils have decided to rest. Either way, it’s their fault, and he wants to slap the shit out of them and throw them off the Brooklyn Bridge.

  Today, the bank is full of shit eaters. Half of which have already stared at him for too long. He’d say somethin’, but he doesn’t wanna get thrown out. He looks at his feet in order to cool his nerves. Maybe someone has noticed the stain on his shirt kinda looks like Jesus.

  Finally, the teller calls him to the window. “My card doesn’t work at the ATM,” Ben says loudly because there’s three inches of polycarbonate, bulletproof plastic between him and this broad with her hairspray hairdo.

  “To withdraw money you need to slide your card,” she says. Clearly she didn’t hear a fucking word he just said.

  “It doesn’t work.” Ben slips the card into the metal tray underneath the bulletproof glass.

  She looks at him weird.

  “Come on!” yells some construction worker from the line.

  Ben turns, his eyes wide open. “I’m fucking trying. This babe can’t hear me through the sludge that is so obviously clogging her ears.” He turns back and gets the look that says, ‘Now that I’ve decided you’re an asshole, I’m going to sit here and pretend to type out shit just so I can waste your time.’

  So he waits.

  “I’m sorry. Your card doesn’t work.”

  Ben’s head is about to pop. “Dammit, bitch. I. . .” He shouldn’t have said that. The security guard rushes over.

  “Sir, you’re going to have to leave.” The security guard puts his hands on his hips like he’s Captain America.

  “I’m not leaving until I get my fuckin’ money.” Ben really needs the cash, and his fuse has burnt up. Two other guards grab him from either side. They drag Ben to the door and push him so hard he falls to his hands and knees. His body is off-center so he lands on his shoulder and rolls.

  It’s raining. He looks up and see brick buildings towering overhead and gray pregnant clouds. The rain isn’t fresh. It’s rancid and bitter. He pulls himself off the sidewalk and notices his flip-flops are busted. Ben kicks and the thin rubber sole goes flying. It slaps the bank’s glass door.

  He pulls out a cigarette. The instant he does, a gangster walks up. He’s got panty hose on his head, and his fucking pants are hanging, not off his ass, but off his knees. Ben isn’t some conservative fuddy-duddy, but some people just look like, well, dumb fucks.

  “Hey bro. Got a smoke for an old friend?”

  Old friend? In some neighborhoods, having cigs turns you into a lighthouse that be
ckons broke assholes to your shores. Ben doesn’t bother pointing out that he is a total stranger, and hands him the cigarette.

  “Thanks, bro.” He looks down then backs up. “I was gonna ask you if you had some change, but you don’t even have shoes.” His eyes are shimmering with humor. “Gotta light at least?” He never takes his eyes off Ben, which freaks him out. Yeah, he’d be the first off the Brooklyn Bridge.

  “Yeah. Let’s get out of the rain, shall we, bro?” Ben guides the gangster down a narrow alleyway, turns, and socks him in the stomach. He falls, splashing into a puddle. Ben kicks him in the ribs and then snatches the cigarette out of his fingers.

  Gangsters don’t intimidate him, no one does. Ever since he was in school, he was the king of the playground. He’s not much of a king now, but whatever. He rips the dude’s shoes off his feet, fucking Adidas Micropacers. Must’ve stole them from someone. Well now they’re mine. Ben marvels at how well they fit his fat feet. When he turns around there are four more gang bangers. Shit.

  They come at him, and it’s on. Ben lands a few punches, but not enough. He’s laid out with a head butt and lands on his back. The shoes are ripped off, and someone reaches into his pocket and pulls out his wallet. They dig through his cards and photos, toss the empty leather down, and run off.

  When the world stops pulsating, Ben sits up. There’s blood in his mouth and more stains on his shirt. He almost had them. Next time for sure.

  “Are you okay?” Ben didn’t quite register the stranger’s voice. This is, after all, New York. “Hey, are you okay? Do you need me to call an ambulance?”

  The voice is sweet. She’s slender, has a red dress covering her obvious curves, and wears bright matching lipstick. Her hair is brown. Oh, and she’s got a curious scar running from her cheekbone to her jaw, a gnarly gnarly one at that.