2050: Psycho Island

by Williams, Phil M.

  Derek watched a BMW approach the guard shed. A person rolled down their window and waved their hand at the chip reader. The metal arm raised, and the car drove across the bridge to the hotel. Derek looked at the underside of the bridge and the steel truss girders. Staying away from the light, Derek crept closer to the bridge. Instead of walking across, he crawled underneath, grabbing ahold of the steel girders with his leather gloves. Like playing on the monkey bars, Derek hung from the girders and “walked” with his hands while dangling over the water. He traversed the forty-foot-wide canal, making it to the other side still dry, not even a drop of sweat.

  In The Regal Hotel parking lot, he checked for black SUVs. He was careful to avoid the cameras by crouching and hiding behind the cars, his bandanna covering his face. Ideally, he wasn’t seen at all. Even if the cameras didn’t recognize his face, he reasoned that a masked man in the parking lot might sound the alarm.

  Apart from the security gate and the cameras, he wasn’t sure about The Regal Hotel’s security protocols. Could he just walk into the hotel? Derek hoped that the security inside was lax, given that everyone was supposed to be verified at the security gate. Also, given the rarity of crime, most places spent very little on crime prevention beyond facial recognition cameras. Businesses had done the math long ago. It was most cost-efficient to search the video after a crime had been committed to find the culprit. Insurance companies covered any losses. But, most important, the cameras prevented most crime from ever occurring in the first place. Even if people covered their faces, the cameras had the resolution to see license plates, distinctive features such as tattoos, and some could even match walking gaits.

  It didn’t take long for Derek to find Zhang Jun’s diplomatic plates. He’s here. Derek then found a dark spot at the edge of the parking lot, obscured by hedges, but with a view of the entrance. He crouched in the mulch and watched guests coming and going.

  Two beautiful women accompanied by a burly man exited a sedan and approached the building. They looked much younger than the other guests. Less refined. The women wore tight-fitting dresses and flats. One of the women was very short, the type of woman who always wore heels. His mind flashed back to the video of April entering the building in her flats. Maybe Zhang Jun’s short and requests his escorts to wear flats. The women disappeared into the hotel, but the man stood outside smoking and tapping on his phone. Maybe Jun doesn’t allow bodyguards in his penthouse. That could be a problem. After the burly man finished his cigarette, he entered the hotel. It was hard to tell from Derek’s vantage point, but it looked like the man took a left as soon as he entered the hotel.

  Derek waited nearly two hours for the women to return. The burly man escorted the two women to the sedan. They weren’t quite as fresh-faced as they were two hours ago. Their makeup was smudged, their hair a bit disheveled. The shorter woman had puffy eyes, as if she’d been crying. One side of her face was red. Derek waited for them to pass his hiding spot and to gain a safe distance away from him.

  Derek stepped from the hiding spot, his face uncovered, but his back to the cameras. He jogged toward them, holding up his phone. “Excuse me, miss?”

  The man turned at the sound of Derek’s voice and heavy footfalls. He stepped in front of the women, his body in a defensive posture. They were only a few steps from their car.

  Derek slowed to a walk as he approached, still holding up his phone. “I work for Mr. Jun. Did you happen to forget your cell phone?”

  The women checked their tiny purses. The taller woman said, “No.”

  The shorter woman said, “Your boss is a fucking creep.”

  “He’s lucky he has the money to pay,” the burly man said.

  “What did he do?” Derek asked.

  “None of your fuckin’ business.” The man glowered at Derek.

  They entered the sedan and left.

  Derek had hoped to gather more information from them. I have to go inside, to see for myself. The cameras are gonna see my face. I can’t walk in there with my face covered. That’s too suspicious. As soon as I turn around, the cameras got me. Does that even matter? I’m not a criminal. They could call the police, arrest me for trespassing, but that’s it. I have to see how close I can get to Zhang. Derek turned and walked toward the building.

  Inside the hotel, Derek walked on the checkered marble, his heart pounding in his chest. Ornate chandeliers hung overhead. A young woman stood at the front desk. “Good evening,” she said.

  “Good evening,” Derek replied, trying to sound like he belonged.

  He took the elevator to the sixth floor. Derek stepped from the elevator and walked down the hall. At the very end of the hall, approximately 150 feet away, a man in a suit sat next to the door. The numbers started at 69 and went down from there. About halfway to penthouse suite number 60, Derek was sure that the man sitting at the end of the hall was one of the security guards he’d seen on the video tape who threw April’s lifeless body in the back of Jun’s SUV.

  Derek stopped and turned from the man, pulling his phone from his pocket as if he’d gotten a call. Derek went back to the elevator, confident that he’d gotten a lay of the land and not wanting the security guard to recognize him in the future. Now he knew he could do it. He also knew he’d never get away with it.

  50

  Jacob, the Murderer

  Stiff and jet-lagged, Jacob and his family made their way to baggage claim. The airport was mostly empty that Tuesday night. Looking like a baby Zamboni, the autonomous floor cleaner motored past, leaving a sparkling three-foot-wide path in its wake. A towheaded young man walked in lockstep next to Jacob.

  Not breaking stride, the man pointed his phone at Jacob and said, “How much did you and your family make off the stock market crash?”

  Jacob turned toward the man. “Excuse me?”

  “You heard me, Jacob Roth. How does it feel to profit off the pain and suffering of others?”

  “What’s he talking about?” Ethan asked.

  “Probably the fire,” David said.

  Rebecca shielded her sons and led them away from the amateur reporter. Lindsey stayed with Jacob, her backpack over her shoulders.

  “How much money did you make by cutting maintenance on low-income housing?” the man asked, a smirk on his face.

  Jacob didn’t answer.

  At baggage claim, robotic baggage carriers were parked along the wall. The baggage carriers were three-by-three platforms on wheels, with four low walls, each wall with the ability to open for easy access. Jacob scanned his chip card, and the baggage carrier followed them to the baggage carousel.

  While Jacob and Lindsey waited by the baggage carousel for their luggage, the young man still pestered them.

  “Four hundred and forty-eight people died because of you,” the man said, still pointing his camera phone at Jacob.

  “Leave us the fuck alone,” Lindsey said, moving between the man and Jacob.

  Jacob placed his hand on Lindsey’s shoulder and said, “Go sit down with your mother.”

  Lindsey gave the young man a dirty look, then went to sit with her mother and brothers.

  “What is it that you want?” Jacob asked.

  “I want you to admit that your family and a few other banking dynasties control the world with money and credit. Your family has enslaved all of humanity with your monopoly on money.”

  Jacob snickered and shook his head. “You don’t really believe that, do you?”

  “One hundred percent.”

  “I think you’ve been reading too many conspiracy theories. Why is it that fools and fanatics are always so certain of themselves and wiser people so full of doubts?”

  The young man was speechless. The carousel began to move, and luggage appeared. Passengers crowded the carousel, many with robotic baggage carriers in tow.

  Before the man left, he said, “I hope you rot in hell. Fucking murderer.”

  Jacob simply turned, grabbed two of his bags from the carousel, and placed the
m on the robotic baggage carrier.

  * * *

  On the way home from the airport, Jacob sat in the front passenger seat of their autonomous Mercedes, and his family sat in back. His phone chimed. Jacob raised the privacy window that separated the back seat from the front.

  He answered his phone and said, “Eric.”

  “You back yet?” Eric asked.

  “I’m in the car on the way back from the airport.”

  “Can Rebecca and the kids hear?”

  “The privacy window’s up. What is it?”

  “We have a situation. Zoe Benson was arrested.”

  “My receptionist?”

  “Apparently, she videoed your meeting with Naomi Sutton.”

  Jacob’s entire body tensed. “Videoed? How the hell did that happen?”

  “According to the FBI, a nanocamera and a mike.”

  “The FBI?” Jacob’s mind flashed back to the meeting with the congresswoman. Did I say anything illegal?

  “Don’t worry. They don’t have the video.”

  “Then how do they know it exists or what’s on it?”

  “They were monitoring Zoe Benson and her brother, Mark, and they talked about the recording. After their arrest, Mark Benson claimed that he destroyed the only copy.”

  “Do you believe that?”

  “The FBI does.”

  “How could they possibly know that?”

  “They’re pretty good at extracting information from people.”

  Jacob rubbed the stubble on his chin. “If there is a copy, I could be indicted for bribery.”

  “Even if they find a copy, which is doubtful, the FBI’s not interested in investigating you. They’re aware of our influence. They’re not looking to bite the hand that feeds them. They’re more concerned about the general public getting ahold of it.”

  “I’ll need to be better about security.”

  “That’s the reason for my call. We’re implementing regular scanning for recording devices and more thorough background checks for Roth Holdings’ employees. I suggest you do the same at Housing Trust.”

  51

  Summer and Treason

  In the morning, they’d taken blood samples, saliva samples, checked her vitals, and even did a brain scan as part of the psychopath test, although they called it the APT. Summer knew that stood for antisocial personality test. While they’d poked and prodded Summer like a lab rat, she’d had contractions, but they’d been far apart.

  The army nurse had raised her eyebrows when she’d checked Summer’s heart rate and said, “Your resting heart rate is very slow.”

  Summer knew that was one of the APT markers. She had replied, “I’m a runner.”

  “Not in your condition,” the nurse had said, one side of her mouth raised in contempt.

  Now, Summer sat in a tiny square room, her hands bound in front of her, sitting at the table across from an FBI agent. A cotton ball was attached to her arm with a strip of medical tape. Her back ached from the metal chair. Her side ached from the body slam she’d endured at her apartment building the evening before. Thankfully, her hip and not her pregnant belly took the brunt of the impact.

  “We know you’re involved with The Resistance,” Agent Curry said.

  “This is ridiculous,” Summer replied. “First of all, I wasn’t involved, and, even if I was, who cares? The Resistance is just what they call themselves. They didn’t do anything. They just sat around and talked about conspiracies. It’s not a crime.”

  Agent Curry was a dark-skinned man with an athletic build and close-cropped curly hair. “But that’s not true, is it?”

  Summer looked away.

  “Javier Munoz. Mark and Zoe Benson. And even your fiancé, Connor Pierce. They’ve all confessed.”

  Summer glared at the agent with glassy eyes. “I don’t believe you. There’s nothing to confess.”

  Agent Curry opened one of the file folders in front of him and made a show of scanning the contents. “Let’s see here. We have evidence of violating federal wiretapping law by audio and video recording a congresswoman and a CEO of a GSE without their knowledge.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  Agent Curry nodded, nonplussed. “Then why were you and Connor leaving town?”

  “We weren’t. We were going to visit his parents.”

  “Then why did Connor run?” Agent Curry glanced at Summer’s swollen belly. “I know why you didn’t run.”

  Pain radiated through Summer’s lower abdomen and upper thighs. She grunted as the pain peaked.

  “Where is your father, Patrick?” The agent paused, watching Summer grimace in pain. “Ms. Fitzgerald?”

  Summer exhaled as the pain dissipated. “I don’t know. What does he have to do with this?”

  “I’ll ask the questions. We know your father’s involved.”

  “I haven’t seen him since December.”

  “That doesn’t mean he’s not involved. Where is he?”

  “I don’t know!”

  “Wrong answer.”

  “I need to go to the hospital. My contractions are getting closer.”

  Agent Curry’s face was blank. “Tell me the truth, and we’ll take you to the hospital. Or we can sit here all night. I don’t give a shit if you give birth on this floor.”

  “You can’t do that. I have rights.” Summer sounded whiny. Her eyes were glassy.

  Curry opened another file folder and slid it across the desk. “You’ve been classified as an Unlawful Enemy Combatant. In the interest of national security, you have no rights. I can recommend that this classification be revoked, but I won’t do it without a full confession. I have to be certain you’re not a threat to national security.”

  “Look at me. I’m not a threat to anyone.”

  “You wouldn’t be the first pregnant woman to commit a crime against the United States.”

  Tears slipped down her cheeks. “I don’t know what you want from me.”

  “Is there a copy of the video?”

  “I already told you. I don’t know anything about any video.”

  He shook his head. “That’s not what Zoe and Mark Benson told us. They said it was your idea.”

  “That’s not true!” Summer’s heart raced.

  “The wiretapping violation isn’t your main problem. If you’d just videoed some guy in his house, the max sentence is only five years in prison. With a first offense, chances are you wouldn’t even do time. The problem for you and your comrades is we have a very strong case for treason. To prove treason, the act does not have to be a crime itself. The important thing is whether you took the action with the intent to carry out treason. We have mountains of antigovernment rhetoric posted by your comrades giving us treasonous intent, coupled with the fact that you were recording a high-ranking government official. If not for the purpose of sedition against the US government, what other reason could you have for the video?”

  “I didn’t have anything to do with it.”

  “Then you do know about the video.”

  “I don’t know anything. I swear.”

  Agent Curry exhaled in resignation. “Believe it or not, I’m trying to help you, Summer. As an Unlawful Enemy Combatant, you won’t receive a normal trial. It’ll be a Combatant Status Review Tribunal. I’ve never seen someone released after a tribunal. You gotta give me something, or you leave me no choice. Don’t you wanna see your baby grow up?”

  Sweat beaded on Summer’s forehead. Her head pounded from the bright light and the stress. She felt a popping sensation and a slow trickle of fluid soaking her underwear and pants.

  52

  Naomi and NEA

  “We have about five thousand and counting,” Vernon said.

  Naomi was in her congressional office, sitting at her desk, across from Vernon. “How many of them are we paying for?”

  “I wasn’t counting paid protestors. That’s just from your base. Not bad on short notice, huh?”

  Naomi
nodded, a smile on her lips. “It’s been less than twenty-four hours since we put out the word.”

  “Nobody works anymore.”

  “Maybe we can get some robot protestors?”

  They both laughed.

  As their laughter subsided, Naomi asked, “How many do you think we’ll have on Friday?”

  “Including the paid protestors, at least ten thousand, maybe fifteen.”

  The desktop phone chimed. Naomi tapped the OLED screen and said, “Yes, Nina?”

  “Your one o’clock is here,” Nina said. “Mrs. Regan from NEA.”

  Naomi checked her watch—12:58. Where did the time go?

  Vernon, aware of Naomi’s schedule, checked his own watch and stood from the desk. He said, “We’ll talk later.”

  Naomi nodded to Vernon and said to Nina, “Send her in.”

  Vernon left the office.

  Naomi greeted Mrs. Regan at the door with a firm handshake. The president of the National Education Association was chunky and pear-shaped, with a ruddy round face. They sat across from each other at Naomi’s desk.

  “Thank you so much for taking the time to meet with me,” Mrs. Regan said.

  “The pleasure’s mine,” Naomi replied. “How can I help you?”

  “As you know, unions have taken quite a beating over the years,” Regan said. “The Greater Depression destroyed defined benefit pensions as we knew them. Many pensions were defaulted on. The few teachers who retained their pensions had the value inflated away. With less money to attract quality teachers, public schools have been forced to increasingly use online classrooms to cut costs. Unions have always been an important part of the social fabric of this country. I’d like to restore that. I don’t want to speak out of turn, but, from what I’ve heard, you may be a strong ally of the cause.”