by Rob Hart
Her voice is shaking a little by the end.
“I was kidding,” I tell her. “Deep breath.”
She shakes her head, crosses her arms.
Cannabelle’s path comes around to Magda’s desk. She reaches down and pulls up a book poking out from underneath a pile of magazines. “It’s right here.”
“Oh well…” Magda seems to stumble a little. “Someone must have returned it and it didn’t get shelved yet.”
Cannabelle nods and holds it over her shoulder. I cross the carpet and pluck it out of her hand, stuff it into my pocket. “I’ll have it back soon.”
Magda nods and I leave. Outside Cannabelle comes alongside me.
“That was a little weird,” she says, her voice hushed.
“Magda isn’t all there,” I tell her.
“You don’t sound like you believe that.”
“No, I don’t.”
She nods. “I concur.”
Cannabelle doesn’t leave room for me to respond. She runs and leaps onto the branch of a thick tree hanging close to the ground and throws her legs over it. Upside down now, her shirt falling down into her face, she salutes, pulls herself up, and suddenly she’s on her toes, perched on top of the branch. She leaps to another branch, and the next, higher and higher until she’s gone. Off to work, leaving me alone.
I don’t know what to do at this point. I could keep asking people questions but I don’t know what questions to ask. If there’s something untoward going on, there’s no sense in tipping off the guilty parties. I already went through all of Pete’s belongings, of which there were barely any.
And then it hits me.
I went through his physical belongings. I didn’t go through all his stuff.
The main dome is the one that makes me ache for home. Therefore, it is not always my favorite place to be.
It’s the closest anything around here gets to ‘sprawling’. It’s the biggest of all of the domes by double and separated into a couple of rooms: There’s an office that’s used mostly for filing. There’s the computer room, which is a wheezing old desktop covered with stickers that someone probably bartered for ten years ago. It still uses Internet Explorer. I’m not a computer guy and even I know that’s some bullshit.
Then there’s the bar/lounge. It’s not exact, but in style and spirit it’s a replica of Apocalypse Lounge. My favorite bar, which was being shuttered as I was leaving New York. The only place my friends and I had that felt like a beacon in a storm.
The office is dark wood and smells of cinnamon and spice. That incense smell that bothered me so much when I first got here but that I’ve come to appreciate. This room is the darkest, the windows covered up so the failing tube monitor is viewable. A touch of sunlight and it gets washed out.
The computer is perched between two overflowing gray filing cabinets. The seat is occupied by Alex, the little hipster girl who looks like she was plucked out of Williamsburg, wearing torn jean shorts and a Clash t-shirt with brunette bangs nearly touching her eyes. She’s clacking away at the keyboard, staring at a giant block of text. I come up behind her and ask, “Can I cut in?”
She points a thin finger over her shoulder without looking up or losing stride on the keyboard. “Sign up sheet is on the wall.”
I know about the sheet. I also know it’s full for the rest of the afternoon.
“Bit of an emergency,” I tell her.
“Got to write a love note to your slampiece?”
“I don’t know what that means.”
She looks at me and smiles with her cat eyes, eyeliner caked around them. “What’s it worth to you?”
“I don’t have much to give.”
“I’ve heard rumors of bacon.”
Great. It was only a matter of time until word got around.
At the bottom of the chest fridge, down where it’s coldest, there’s an old box of tempeh, which no one ever touches, because no amount of kitchen kung-fu can make it taste better than wet cardboard. There’s a package of bacon inside, property of me and Aesop. We also have a special cast iron skillet for bacon only, so there’s no cross-contamination.
Meat isn’t technically off limits, but it will earn you a lecture. Whenever one of us feels the urge, we duck into the woods at night and fry up a few pieces.
She leans back, stretches her arms over her head. “I think we could make a deal if you could scare up some of that sweet, sweet bacon.”
I lean on the desk next to her, cross my arms. “What are your terms?”
“Four pieces, extra crisp. Nearly black, but not like fully black.”
“Has to be done under cover of night. I’m talking three, four in the morning.”
She nods. “Night bacon. I dig it.”
“So?”
She turns back to the computer, hits some keys, logs off. She gets up from the chair and sticks a pinkie out to me. “Night bacon?”
We pinkie promise. “Night bacon. We’ll talk later.”
Alex saunters off and I fall into the nearly-shattered office chair. I don’t lean back too far because I learned that lesson already, the time I went ass-up. There’s something stiff underneath me and I think maybe I sat on something, and then realize it’s The Monkey Wrench Gang. I take it out of my back pocket, consider putting it on the desk, but slide it into one of the filing cabinets. Given that it has some value, my gut tells me this is somehow safer. If I put it anywhere else, someone will just walk off with it, either to return it to the library or read it themselves.
I’m glad Alex didn’t push me too hard on this deal. Our bacon supply is running low but four strips, I can manage. And this is worth it.
Trading bacon for favors so I can solve a murder that probably isn’t even really a murder. My life has gotten strange.
There’s a little scratch, somewhere at the back of me. Something feels missing. Takes me a second to remember what it is: I am still sober. I pull out my hillbilly flask, dose myself with some shitty whiskey. Give it a second to settle. That evens me out.
On the log-in screen there’s a long list of file folders, each with a name. I click on Pete’s, which actually says “Crusty Pete,” which is a little goofy. A prompt screen comes up for a password. Of course.
I log onto the general account, the one I use, and click over to my e-mail. See Bombay’s name in the little chat window.
Me: Yo.
Bombay: What up bro!
Me: Need some help.
Bombay: Let me guess. Some illicit shit?
Me: You know it.
Bombay: What happened this time?
Me: Don’t know. Maybe nothing. Just need to know some stuff.
Bombay: Fine. Details.
Me: I’m on a shared computer. Need to get into someone’s folder. Password protected.
Bombay: OS?
Me: ?
Bombay: Operating system.
Me: Windows.
Bombay: www.teamwatch.com/download
I click on the link, get taken to a download screen. Install the program. A little window pops up with a shiny blue bar that slowly marches to the right.
Bombay: So how are things?
Me: Okay.
Bombay: Tibo good?
Me: Yeah man. He wears this leadership thing well.
Bombay: How about the hippies? Are you making friends?
Me: Loads.
Bombay: I honestly wish I was there. How funny that must be.
Me: Dude, it’s fine. I’m a chef now.
Bombay: So you’ve given up on the other work? Wait wait wait no you haven’t, because you’re asking me to do some illicit shit!
Me: No comment. You been to see my ma lately?
Bombay: She’s good. Misses you.
Me: That’s nice. Hold up now.
The blue bar meets the end of the screen and turns from sky to French blue, marking the end of the download. Quicker than I would have expected, but the computer makes a grinding noise from the effort. I go through the steps and a s
creen pops up with two boxes—one marked ‘address’, one marked ‘password’, both with long strings of numbers.
Bombay: Got some numbers for me?
Me: 342840, 038113
Bombay: Okay, don’t touch anything.
The screen flashes and the cursor moves around the screen without me touching it.
Bombay: lol
Bombay: Holy shit dude.
The mouse clicks on a couple of things until there’s a screen full of numbers for memory and storage and speed.
Bombay: I think this is the first computer ever built.
Bombay: Okay, what do you need? You can type now.
Me: Username is Crusty Pete. Need to get in there.
Bombay: Fucking hippies man!
Me: Yup.
Bombay: Sit back, two minutes.
I watch as a black screen pops up full of white text. Typing, typing, and a long string of words spill across the screen. More commands, more words. I should pay attention. This is useful to know.
Then again, this is why I have a Bombay in my life.
Bombay: Whoever juiced this thing up didn’t do too bad a job. This computer is old as fuck but still runs. Respect.
Bombay: Oh god. His password is fucking ‘password’.
Bombay: What a dumbass
Me: Don’t speak ill of the dead.
Bombay: Oh c’mon! You’ve got me hacking a dead guy’s account?
Me: That sounds awful strong.
Bombay: Whatever. Call me sometime man.
Me: No cell service out here.
Bombay: Go somewhere you can get it. You still live in America, right?
Me: For now.
Bombay: ??
Me: We’ll talk soon, got to work.
Bombay: Fine. Bye.
Me: <3
Oh how I miss Bombay. We met one day a long time ago when a bunch of kids were pushing him into a locker and calling him a terrorist. Being a Muslim in New York was never a cakewalk. It was a very dangerous thing after 9/11.
I made them stop. I’m not a fan of bullies. I didn’t like how I got picked on for having a girl’s name, I don’t like other people getting picked on for anything else. Especially for things they didn’t do.
It got bloody. I got suspended. By the time I came back to school, Bombay and I were inseparable. We work well as a unit, because his first response to a problem is to think through it instead of hit it. Pretty much the opposite of me.
The best kind of friend a guy could ask for. One day I hope to return the favor.
The password works and I’m in Crusty Pete’s little section of the hard drive. There’s not much. A folder with some pictures. Him and his unwashed friends. Another folder with some Word documents, all of them full of ranting bullshit, about the working class and income inequality. Many of the documents have the word ‘manifesto’ in the title. I skim a couple of them but find nothing of value.
I open my e-mail and send them to myself, just in case. Maybe there’s something in there worth knowing, though I strongly doubt that. Then I check the browser’s history.
News stories. A lot of them.
Activists sabotage a rail line in Mexico that will displace families and result in the removal of large swaths of trees. A fire causes $200,000 worth of damage to partially-constructed homes on previously-protected land in Canada. An agricultural center researching genetically-engineered crops is burnt down. An SUV dealership is vandalized, the cars covered in paint and lit on fire. A mink farm is raided and all the minks are released. I don’t know what a mink is. A quick Google Image search shows it looks like a ferret.
There are more stories. Stuff as recent as this year, some stretching back to the early 90s. The common thread between most of them is that the Earth Liberation Front took credit, or was suspected in the attacks.
Scattered throughout are links to porn—apparently Crusty Pete had a thing for feet—but that doesn’t really seem relevant to the rest of this.
As if the arson guide wasn’t already ominous, this makes it downright scary.
I check the Gmail sign-in page, but his username and password aren’t autosaved. That’s too bad. I once asked Bombay to crack a Gmail password and he laughed at me. I’d need a keylogger, except Pete isn’t here to type in his password. I can’t guess at his password recovery information—phone number or favorite pet or mother’s maiden name. I wouldn’t even know where to start with Pete. I don’t even know if Pete is his real name.
I go back to the news stories, see if there’s anything I missed, and as I’m hovering over a link, there’s a sound outside. Someone yelling, then the roar of an engine.
That’s probably not good.
I jump out of the chair and run for the front door, into the main clearing at the foot of the road, and a black van is screeching to a halt, throwing up clouds of dust. It may as well be a spaceship. Cars never come down this far. They’re supposed to stop at the lot right after the bridge.
Then a bunch of guys spill out, guns drawn, wearing bulletproof vests and ball caps. No identifying details.
One of them beelines toward me. He’s big, linebacker size. He screams, “Freeze.”
I put up my hands. He pushes his substantial hand into my chest, throwing me back against the outer wall of the dome. “Don’t resist!”
I’m about to argue when he pulls something off his belt, holds it up, and points it at my face. A thick stream of liquid shoots into my eyes. Every nerve cell in my body lights up like a firework.
As I collapse to the ground in a crying, blubbering mess, choking on the liquid and phlegm in my throat, I feel something hard and tight clasping my hands behind my back, cutting into my skin. I think it’s a zip tie.
My vision is blurry, skin burning like I washed it with a slurry of habanero peppers. Which is probably close to exactly what that spray was. A pair of rough hands grab me under the arms and drag me across the ground. There’s not much I can do but go along with it, stumbling and trying to stay upright.
I’m shoved toward the gaping maw of a black van. The person behind me pushes me inside hard, and I collide with a mass of warm bodies, skin slick with sweat, limbs writhing in confusion. It reeks of body odor.
A few more join us, bodies landing with thuds and rocking the van. I catch an elbow on the side of the head. The door slams shut. The engine starts and we’re moving, bumping over the dirt pathway that leads out to the road. I twist into a sitting position. It’s hard to focus but I’m crying so hard some of this shit is getting cleared out of my eyes.
After a few moments I think I have the headcount. Tibo, Marx, Aesop, Magda, Cannabelle, Katashi, and Job. Everyone’s eyes red and puffy. A little bit of blood trickles from one of Job’s nostrils.
At the rear of the van, by the door, is some dude with jet black hair and a face serene as a lake. He’s got on a black bulletproof vest and a black baseball cap, perched on one knee, holding onto a strap in the wall of the van. There’s a gun holstered on his hip.
Tibo sputters. “What is this?”
The guard says, “Don’t talk.”
“I’ll talk all I want,” Tibo says. “Who are you and where are you taking us?”
“Don’t talk,” the guard says, in the same tone, not looking at anyone in particular.
Marx says, “Fuck you, pig…”
The guard slams his fist across Marx’s face. His head whips back, cracking on the side of the van, and he goes down. The guard’s expression doesn’t change. “I said don’t talk.”
That’s enough to keep me quiet. Same for everyone else.
The ride smooths out as we hit the road. I tuck in, breathe slow, try to come to terms with the searing pain in my face, because I feel like this isn’t going to get resolved any time soon.
I don’t know how long we’ve been driving when we stop. There’s silence all around, and then the door opens, sunlight blasting into the back, burning my already-stinging eyes.
Men in commando gear haul us out, s
tand us in a row. Tibo to my left, Magda to my right. Magda is whimpering from the pain, which makes me want to do bad things to these assholes, even though a lot of them are carrying heavy artillery. Lucky for them my hands are tied together.
Though, probably more lucky for me.
Gravel crunches underfoot. A man walks in front of us, comes to a stop, looking us all up and down. Black guy, built like a fighter jet. Six feet four, arms the size of my thigh. Probably the guy who visited Ford, which makes these guys FBI, though I didn’t know this was how the FBI liked to operate.
His eyes are tired and his face is covered with stubble, like he hasn’t seen a bed or a mirror in days. He takes an unmarked plastic bottle out of his pocket and walks down the line, pouring it on our faces each in turn, everyone making little sounds of relief. When he gets to me, I tense up. He grabs my chin, pushes my head up, and pours the liquid in my eyes. It’s cold and the burning subsides.
Once he’s doused everyone he says, “Inside.”
I look around. We’re in a parking lot. It hasn’t been used in a long time. Big heavy cracks, weeds sticking out at odd angles, the paint marking the spaces worn and faded. It’s an industrial complex of some kind. Flat elevation, surrounded by buildings, concrete and metal weeping long, deep rust stains. There are fields beyond them, and then the horizon.
“C’mon, get,” the man in charge says.
The prettyboy agent from inside the van puts a hand up, signaling us to follow him. He leads us across the parking lot to a long, one-story building. We step through the door and inside it smells like mildew and animals. The hallway is littered with papers, the fixtures broken, things ripped out of the walls. There’s a long line of doors, many of them propped open. A female agent with tight blonde hair pulled back into a harsh ponytail gets in front of me and herds me toward a door.
“In there,” she says.
I step inside and there’s a card table with chairs on either side. She pushes me against the wall, pats me down. Pulls out the belongings that I have on me, which is only the flask and—much to my dismay—the piece of paper with the code on it.