by Ison, S. A.
The azaleas had already bloomed and their jeweled petals gone. She could feel the heat of the sun in the soil she dug in. It was warm, and felt good in her hands. Gardening wasn’t work, it was a joy. She would listen to the strident calls of the blue jays as they squabbled, and from time to time she would see the bright red of the male cardinal flitting from bush to tree to bush again. There must be females near.
She also had her hummingbird feeders out, and could hear their dive-bombing buzz. Their high-pitched squeaks had kept her company throughout the morning. It brought a gentle smile to her lips when she thought of all her birds and how happy they all were to share her garden. Randal would come out from time to time, but he knew the garden was her domain. Now her husband had brought them a feast. At least she didn’t smell of that awful raw chicken.
Randal set the sandy bucket on the kitchen table. Pearl bit the inside of her cheek and tried not to laugh at his windblown face. His nose had white zinc on it, and it had smeared across both cheeks and up his forehead. His hair was standing stiff and straight from the salt water and sweat. He was a happy mess.
From inside the bucket came the restless scratching of dozens of crabs. The smell of ocean and warm sunlight wafted up from the heaving mass. Bits of seaweed clung to some of the crabs, waving about like jade standards.
“All right, mister. Into the shower with you before you ruin my floors with your sand and seawater,” Pearl announced, gently leading her wayward husband down the hall to their bedroom.
“It was wonderful out there today, Pearly girl, just wonderful. The waves weren’t too big, and those little fiends were about as easy to catch as you want.” Randal chortled with glee, following his wife obediently to the bedroom.
“Well, we’ll certainly eat good, that’s for sure. Good thing I made potato salad this morning, old man.”
Having helped Randal strip out of his sodden, sticky clothes, Pearl shoved and shepherded her husband into the shower. She enjoyed watching her husband hop around the shower as the cold, then warm, water hit him. He reminded her of a pale white frog, long lanky limbs with a small pot belly. The thought made her smile, her eyes crinkling into small brown triangles. He smelled of sun and sand, sweat, and male animal.
“Make sure you get that sand out of your hair, old man, or there will be hell to pay if it gets into the bed tonight.”
Randal laughed, “All right, all right.”
He’d been twenty-three and she twenty-seven when they’d finally married. They had dated for eight months, and knew they had met their match.
She gave him a look, knowing his heart would beat a little faster. She acknowledged her power over him with a siren’s satisfaction.
“Sure you don’t want to join me, woman?” He waggled his eyebrows suggestively and thrust his hips forwarded.
“You are a dirty old man,” Pearl laughed, and began to strip.
Washington D.C.
Gerald Tidewater had spent the whole night slamming Red Bull and eating day-old pizza. A self-proclaimed computer genius, he worked with some of the most cutting-edge programing languages, Kotlin, Erlang, and Ocaml. Self-employment was a necessity now, since he’d been fired from his previous seven jobs. He’d been accused of being temperamental and self-serving. He supposed it was true, and wasn’t embarrassed by the accusation. Feeling he was far superior than his employers hadn’t helped, but Gerald was a realist. In his book, he was exceptional.
His hair was oily and his body stank, and his nose wrinkled as a loud fart squeezed out and filled the room with noxious fumes. The whole apartment had a funk haze. He’d been working all night on his baby, a computer supervirus that could quite literally take down everything in an entire country, hell, maybe even the world. His work, however, was a segment of a larger and more comprehensive computer virus. But he had gone beyond his parameters; this was his chance to shine, to show his stuff.
Gerald once again thought of Georgia. She was a hot chick. Gerald had never met anyone from the CIA, or the government, for that matter. He wondered if Georgia knew a bunch of secrets from black ops and such, and what kind of info she was privy to. Georgia had handed him this golden egg four months ago, throwing a shit load of money his way.
He and Georgia had met five years previously, at a conference on programming and threat assessment. They had found they had both gone to Yale, though Gerald didn’t mention that he’d quit in his sophomore year. They had kept in touch via social media, since they moved in different circles. When Georgia had approached him with this “Top Secret” project, Gerald had jumped at it. He’d been surprised at the scale of the project, but he liked a challenge, and the opportunity for a big payday was irresistible.
Gerald felt that he was trustworthy, and if he did a great job, maybe Georgia would throw him a few more projects. He knew how to keep his mouth shut.
The program was essentially a four-tiered destabilization. Gerald would handle the last two protocols, and Georgia the first two. Once he was finished, Georgia would combine them and turn the whole over to the higher-ups. Pretty easy, and lucrative, Gerald thought. He’d finished his part of the project, but kept telling Georgia he was still working on it. Besides, there were a few more tweaks he could add. She paid him weekly, and he felt he could milk a little more money from her. After all, he would need spending money when he went on his trip. He’d give it another two weeks; she was starting to get antsy, and he didn’t want to piss her off. He was going to get a big bonus, after all, for handing it in early. Just not so early.
From the parameters Georgia had given him, Gerald knew this was a prototype for a dirty computer virus they—whoever they was—were going to send to the country’s enemies, probaby in the Middle East, or any other pesky country. The phrase “send’em back to the stone-age” kept swimming around his brain as he spent hours writing code.
Georgia had reiterated over and over for him to keep this project on the down low, because she basically wasn’t supposed to be subcontracting it out. He’d been told to develop his part on the stand-alone laptop she’d given him; that way, there was no chance of it getting loose. The douchebags in Washington wouldn’t like if their little pet project got out. He didn’t listen, of course. He knew how to be careful, and had some damn good firewalls on his own computer. Besides, he had several of his own pieces of code that had been helping him develop this one. He was careful. He wasn’t a rookie, for Christ’s sake, and neither was he ignorant. He was adept at navigating the Darknet after all.
Gerald was sure some senator was behind it, or at least the CIA, but as long as he was making good money, he wouldn’t bitch.
It had taken him nearly a month of long nights, and he’d even missed a few days of his side job at the Galaxy Computer Hub, as well as working on his other projects, to develop on the code. He’d become obsessed with it, his creative juices flowing through his fingertips.
It was a brilliant bit of coding, if he did say so. It would send out a worm that would attach itself, was self-replicating and self-propagating, and would also delete its own trail so it couldn’t be traced.
It could hop via computer, phone lines, land lines, cell phones, and satellites. With the cell phones and directory systems, it would propagate phone calls to all saved numbers and send the virus along to those phones and so on with inestimable reach and damage.
Mangling IP addresses, the worm would delete and destroy files on a massive scale. Any system, no matter how small, would be infected, and any kind of link to a targeted satellite would be exploited to spread the virus. Once uplinked to a satellite, it would spread exponentially. The effect would be catastrophic. It would cause a cascade and, like dominoes, systems would fall as it spread its tendrils out.
For the larger and more complex equipment, a broad-spectrum virus would be initiated, bypassing firewalls and infiltrating subroutines. This was theory, however. Worst case was that it would not work, but the worm would chew through all other programs, essentially wiping every bit o
f stored information. It was also multitier, since it would also send out messages containing the virus to all stored addresses, thereby infecting other systems.
There were a few safeguards he needed to think about, though. He didn’t want the virus to turn around and bite him in the ass. Taking another sip of Red Bull, Gerald leaned back in his chair and scratched his balls. The chair creaked alarmingly, his large bulk pushing the springs to their breaking point.
He would have the respect he so desired, because even though Georgia had told him not to say a word about it, he knew that once it was finished, and if it was deployed, he would tell his cronies just what he had created. He would also show them the evidence, because he knew they wouldn’t believe him. And when he showed them the money, they would have to believe, and they would have to give him his due.
When he was done, and the project handed over, bonus paid, he was going to take a vacation and head to China or India. That was, if the government wasn’t aiming his virus toward them, he sniggered to himself. He’d always wanted to go someplace totally foreign, and this program was his ticket there, as well as to bragging rights.
Los Angeles, California
Larry Pelletier flicked the cigarette butt into the street. He was waiting for the bus, and it looked like it was going to be late again. In fact, he was going to be late, and his boss was gonna be pissed. What the hell. He couldn’t win, so why worry. Life was just too short. Looking around, he noticed the other people were starting to shift restlessly back and forth; they were going to be late as well. His boss certainly couldn’t blame him if his bus was late. Working on the Hollywood film lot was a plum job and he didn’t want to lose it, but things happened.
His job meant a lot, but he did have a lucrative side job. He and a few of his buddies made a small supply of quality meth. They sold it at a lower-than-street price, and had thereby gained a reliable clientele, small as it was. He didn’t smoke that shit—he’d seen what it had done to his friends over the years—but he wasn’t going to snub his nose at the money that could be made. Someone was going to make money; it might as well be him.
Hearing sighs of relief, Larry looked up to see the bus heading their way. Well, maybe he wouldn’t be late after all. Cool beans, he thought, and stepped onto the bus. Looking around for a seat, he chose one with no other occupants. It was early and the bus would be packed by the time he reached his destination. He liked window seats, as he could look out and ignore whoever was sitting next to him. It was usually someone who had a cough, and how he hated that. It made his skin crawl, as though their germs were sluicing all over his body, creeping into every pore.
He’d once thought about wearing one of those masks he’d seen the Asians wearing, but had decided they might be too claustrophobic. He opted for keeping his head turned away and breathing shallowly. The bus exhaust didn’t help much either. Larry bent his dark head to look out the smudged and dirty window, his brown eyes shifting back and forth. They shifted back to the aisle, and he noticed a woman eyeing the seat next to him.
At least she was a young, pregnant, and seemed perfectly healthy. He relaxed and enjoyed the ride to work. As the vibration of the bus rumbled through his body, he wondered idly if the woman’s unborn baby could feel it too. And what must it think. A small laugh bubble in his chest, but he kept it there; he didn’t want the woman to think he was a freak. There were enough of those floating around.
Resting his dark head against the window, Larry’s eyes watched the landscape go past. He watched the people on the sidewalks as they went past. They reminded him of ants, going here and there in their own little worlds, oblivious to all around them. He wondered if they would notice if they were put into a glass ant farm.
He’d grown up in a small town in northern California, an only child. His mother had been single. She had called him her little heart, and had loved him and told him every day that he was special and wonderful. She had died when he was nine. He’d been devastated. She had been hit by a drunk driver, who was never prosecuted. He had been in a daze for months after. He could barely remember her face now, but still felt that long-ago love. He’d gone to live with his aunt, who had been a royal bitch.
To protect himself, he had built a wall around his heart and had let no-one in. There was no-one else he could love but his mother. When he graduated from high school, just barely, he’d come down to Los Angeles. It had been something of a culture shock. He’d until then never been around so many different kinds of people, from all walks of life.
He’d never seen homeless people, and they frightened him with their vacant, hopeless eyes. Larry found himself avoiding them, or at least avoided looking at them. He felt powerless to help them, and giving them money, which was always hard to come by, seemed almost cruel and pointless.
He couldn’t imagine how it would feel to not have a place to live, to have to live out in the streets where anyone could come up to you and kick your ass—just because they could. He’d seen it plenty of times, rowdy teens or gang bangers. It sucked for the homeless, he was sure. He knew what it felt like to live in a home with a hateful bitch too, but still, he’d never tried to run away.
Larry’s head jerked. He’d almost fallen asleep, and he wiped drool surreptitiously from his mouth, his eyes sliding nervously toward the mother sitting next to him, who was also dozing, her head nodding. Larry smoothed his mustache and stretched. He needed some caffeine. He also needed a cigarette, but he’d have to wait for that ’til he got to work.
His thoughts wandered back to the homeless. They made him feel uneasy, and he didn’t know why. Perhaps because of his aunt’s drinking? He’d always felt that they were on the edge of eviction from their home. His aunt had been verbally and physically abusive, always smacking him for the least infraction. She never told him what he had done to earn the hitting. She also constantly told him he was lazy and no good.
Sometimes, when he arrived home from school, she was totally shit-faced and all was quiet. He could relax then. He had to steal her money to eat—there was never enough food in the refrigerator, and if there was, it was rotten. He never brought any friends home; he was ashamed of her, and afraid she would abuse them as well. Larry had felt isolated and alone. All his memories of his loving and devoted mother became distant, and that frightened him most of all. Perhaps the vacant and hopeless gaze he’d seen in the mirror when he was a child was the same he saw in the homeless. Perhaps that was why they made him feel uneasy.
Chicago, Illinois
Stephen Martin leaned out of his window, a large glob of spit hanging by a thin glistening thread. His eyes crossed as he watched the glob bounce up and down before the tension broke and it fell six stories to a wino below, splat, right on his head. Stephen sniggered as the wino looked up, perplexed, his hand going to the top of his greasy head. Stephen grabbed his cigarette before it fell from the dirty ledge and took a long drag. He was bored. Bored shitless. It was too early to grab a forty, and his crew wasn’t there yet, so that left dropping shit on the vagrants below.
Turning, he went to the old Frigidaire, looking for inspiration. He found it in half a carton of eggs. Going back to the window, he took one of the spheres and, squinting, aimed and let go. The egg fell with speed and a loud crack and pop, followed by scalding curses as the wino got up, shaking his fist. Stephen laughed again and hurled another egg down, the wino surprisingly agile as he dodged out of the way. Miffed at the miss, Stephen shot two more eggs, hitting his target this time. He gave a howl of laughter as the old man shambled off.
Christ, he was bored. He looked over at the clock. Almost noon. What the hell, he could use a drink. Going back to the fridge, he exchanged the carton of eggs for a 40oz bottle of beer. Why not? he thought, and twisted the cap and turned on the TV. He’d play a couple hours, then meet up with the boys and see what kind of fun they could find.
He was just getting into the game when his door swung open. Looking up, he saw Mike’s grinning face. Mike Taggart was Stephen’s
best friend; they’d known each other since before first grade. As pale white as Stephen was, Mike was nearly a blue black. They were known as salt and pepper to their crew. Mike pulled out a baggie and waggled his nearly invisible eyebrows. Stephen put down the controller and grinned, the gap in his front teeth wide, as he felt under the couch for papers and a lighter. The day was certainly picking up.
“Where’s your woman?” Mike asked, looking around the small apartment for Alisa.
“She’s all pissy and in a mood. Left to go see her brother.” Stephen snorted, taking a toke of the weed. “This is some good shit. Where’d you get it?”
“Ran into Lawrence. He had some, gave me a good price,” Mike said, taking a drink from Stephen’s 40oz.
“Ain’t you worried Zack is going to come over and kick your ass?”
“Yeah, he can kiss my ass. I do what I want, not what he thinks I should do or not do.” Stephen’s lip curled contemptuously.
“Ah well, I’m sure we’ll run into him sooner or later,” Mike said, snatching the controller out of Stephen’s hand.
Stephen sat back on the beat-down couch and ran his hands through his baby-fine hair, which was nearly white, and continued to smoke his joint as he watched Mike battle zombies. Maybe after the game, they’d head down to the bar and watch the girls and sell some dope.
At 26 years old, Stephen felt he was at a place in his life where he should be farther along, but felt mired in the day to day grind. He loved his girlfriend, but her brother was such a pain in the ass that, at times, Stephen wondered if it was worth the bullshit. Now she was pregnant, and he was torn between fatherhood and being able to come and go as he pleased. His own father was a strict asshole.