The Last Words

by Marcus Caine

  For some reason this seemed to particularly upset Marcus, who then upset the other patients, pointing at the TV and making some inarticulate noise. Why Marcus, and why this? Marcus is, in my opinion, autistic, and shouldn’t even be here, but in a different institution altogether that is better suited to his needs, but alas, he isn’t my patient. The peculiar thing is Marcus has never even indicated that he really understands the news, or anything else on television before. He often repeats things he hears, but never in a way that indicates he actually understands what he is saying. Even his journal entries, done entirely on a computer, are just, as they say, copy pasta of things he sees online: news reports, tweets, Chuck Norris jokes, pictures of cats, etc. I have often wondered if it all meant something to him, if he was trying to communicate through this medium, but have never seen a pattern to his entries.

  From the journal of Jude Guerrero

  12/22/2012

  Started today as I suppose I do every day; jumping out of bed, looking at my watch, seeing my tattoos, reading my damn journal. It seems like I get through the days OK. My memory can last a few hours, depending on what I’m trying to remember, so I can still know I know someone, even if I can’t always remember their name, and I know I’m in a hospital, even if I don’t always remember it’s in New York.

  But, the mornings are hard, because after sleeping 7 or 8 hours, I don’t remember anything, at all. Not where I am. Not what has happened. I see those damn tatts, and I read the journal and I feel the scar on my head and I cry because my platoon is dead then I pull myself together and get on with the day, because I’m a soldier and that’s what I do.

  And I get to know the locals, something I’ve always been good at. My skin color and language abilities made it easy for me to blend in over in Iraq and Afghanistan. It was always my specialty, so it’s what I continue trying to do; talk to people, chat them up. Some of them are barely coherent, some seem perfectly normal and fine, and most just don’t want to talk. Cassie loves talking, talking about how the internet and TV and radio have subliminal messages and are trying to get inside all of our heads and control us and drive us insane. Marcus talks about movies, actually, he talks in movies, repeating them word for word. Eric bitches about all the things he hates, which is all the things. But I always end up talking to Tim, or Tim Tom as everyone here calls him and he calls himself.

  Big guy, huge, used to be in construction until an accident put a rod through his head. That’s why he’s here, because of the rod. It damaged his — what did the Doctor say? – Broca’s area, and now he can speak and write just fine but can’t understand any written or spoken language. Crazy, what the brain can do. But boy can he talk. I end up just listening to him talk about damn near everything and I have to admit, it calms me. It’s damn hilarious, but also oddly soothing, the way he just never shuts up.

  Today I was just listening to him talk about welding some statue of a dragon when everyone seemed to get really upset over something on the news and I had to go see. Have to admit, it was odd. There was a shooting at Cambridge, which is sad, but I didn’t think much of it until someone told me about the shooting at Oxford the day before and I checked my journal and sure enough, a shooting at Oxford. But then they started talking about the shooting at Oxford earlier today. Today, but my journal said yesterday. I asked the Doctor, and he confirmed, yes, there was a shooting yesterday and another one today, and now this shooting at Cambridge. He was silent, he didn’t fall silent that often, and he left the room.

  From the journal of Timothy Lorne

  12/22/2012

  I was talking to Joe today about my art when everyone started raising a rumpus in the boob tube room. I saw what looked like a really nice university, really old looking, and they were wheeling people out of a building on gurneys. But of course I had no idea what was going on so I asked Joe and he pointed at the TV and made a gesture like a gun shooting. So, another shooting, that was sad, and probably at some nice college. That’s why I like Joe, not just because he listens but because he uses his body to communicate a lot. He even uses these military gestures that I’ve picked up. I guess he used them a lot as a soldier when they had to be quiet or he was trying to talk to someone in a different language. I knew he had been in Iraq, he had pointed to it on a map for me once and I had assumed he had just gone there cause he don’t really look Arab, he looks Mexican to me, or maybe Puerto Rican, or maybe Argentinian, hell, I don’t know. But I could understand him better than all the others because he gestures so much.

  So, then later I was talking to him about this girl I’d know once or twice or thrice, a really pretty girl, way too pretty for a big hairy lug like me, and then everyone gets all upset again and we are all watching the news and I see Harvard. Now I know Harvard, I’m a Boston boy. Not that I went there or anything, nope, I’m just a blue collar guy who worked construction. But also, I’m an artist, or at least I was, back before the accident. Made things out of metal that just came straight out of my brain — dragons and centaurs and Pegasus, stuff like that.

  And there’s swat teams there and everything and I ask Joe again what’s going on and he makes the gun gesture again and then shrugged his wtf shrug and holds up his hands saying five and now I see what the big deal is. Does he mean five people dead? Or five shootings? Either way I know there was at least two shootings today at nice schools and that is a big deal — really weird stuff.

  From the journal of Cassandra Morgan

  12/22/2012

  So Jude decides to tell me what’s been on the news, even though I told him I don’t care and it’s all lies anyway just to get us to watch so they can beam the messages, the damn messages, into our head. But, he decides to go ahead despite my protest. So, five different shootings in two days; two at Oxford, one at Cambridge, one at Harvard, and now one just now somewhere in Norway. Crazy stuff, but it is a crazy world out there, beyond these walls, much crazier than it is in here. The people in here, at least they aren’t liars, they may not always tell you the truth, but they at least think they are telling you the truth. Even Dr. Gates, even he tells the truth. But five shootings, that is some crazy stuff, and at nice prestigious universities, where they teach people to lie, and they put messages in their heads.

  So I think it’s here, what I’ve always known was coming. What exactly “it” is I don’t know for sure, but I’ve always known it would be through the internet, the TV, the radio, the cell phones, that’s how they would do it, that’s how they would get to you. And I’ve told people this over and over, and what did they do? They put me in here. Guess I shouldn’t complain though, at least I have food and a bed, more than I had before when I was living on the streets, stealing to live ’cause I don’t beg. But, now it’s here, and I’ll have to fight it, even more than I always have. I’ve got some ear plugs I keep in my room in case the TV gets too loud and just to make sure I’ve wrapped some ripped sheets around my head to cover my ears more. I’ll fight it, I’ll fight those fucking bastards.

  From the journal of Jude Guerrero

  12/22/2012

  It’s been an odd day, I suppose probably odder than most, but hey, I can’t really remember so I’m just going by what I wrote in my journal. Six shootings now; in England, Norway, Boston and now in Japan. Though Japan wasn’t a shooting, some guy just went crazy with a knife on the subway, started stabbing people. The only reason the news connected it with the others is that he was a professor too, just like all the other mass murderers.

  I get the feeling that something is going on, something’s not right, but it’s kind of hard for me to trust my feelings when I don’t have a memory to really build on. Maybe mass shootings are becoming more common and I just don’t remember them? But no, I don’t think so, just scanning my journal I don’t see anything else about them so I decide to ask Dr. Gates.

  “No, this is really, really strange, quite ominous in fact, I’m not going to lie to you Jude.” He was solemn. Was this the way he always was? “This is scary stuff an
d I’m debating for the first time on whether it’s really a good idea for all the patients to be seeing this on the news.”

  “So you’re going to turn it off?” I asked.

  “No, but I should. I don’t know. It has really upset them and I’m not sure that is what they really need, not all of them at least.”

  “Maybe Doc, and it may not be my place, but they are adults.”

  “I know, and I had never considered censoring what they watched before. But, I will say, Jude, I know you and Cassie are friends.”

  “Which one is she?”

  “The blond, and I think you are playing with me Jude. I now you are friends, but I’m not sure you should be telling her about what is going on. I’m afraid it will just reinforce here delusions regarding media and mind control.”

  “I’ll think about it Doc, of course, you know, I’m going to forget you told me this.”

  “I know, but I also know that you will write it in your journal, as you write every…”

  And that’s when it hit home. People were screaming, I mean really screaming, at the TV and we ran in there.

  Cornell, a student this time. No guns, but he had driven his car into a crowd of people on campus. Right here in New York. It was here.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  From the journal of Jude Guerrero

  12/23/2012

  So I wake up like I suppose I do every morning; heart pounding, feeling for my gun like I’m still under fire. I see that tatts, I read my quick notes, and eventually I’ve freaked out, cried, settled down, worked out, and I’m out the door.

  “Morning Joe”, “Morning Jude”, good morning says a bunch of people I don’t know. But they know me. And I do know them, I just don’t remember them. And I don’t remember what they are all talking about but I catch up quick.

  The killings. It’s all they are talking about.

  “I think it’s just copycatting. These things always come in waves, like the postal shootings and the school shootings.”

  “And those stabbings in China.”

  “No, it’s the Devil doing it.”

  But no one listens to that guy.

  “It’s a virus.”

  “It’s stress, the economy you know.”

  “Aliens,” said one of the schizos with crazy tall hair.

  And then we are all back at the TV, looking to find out more. And there is more. Another one already, a guy who murdered his family in France. The only connection is the words, worm milk chest mouth, some other words, written over and over on his twitter feed, the whole phrase short enough to fit in one tweet.

  We get computer time. When we can email family and friends, or do, really whatever we want, they don’t censor us. But today everyone is checking the news. Checking twitter, blogs, etc. It’s all about the shootings. No one even on Facebook. I guess Facebook is still the thing, you know, I’m not sure, it’s been two years, sort of. Maybe MySpace is back, probably not.

  And they’re talking about the words; written in notebooks, repeated on computers that the killers had. Worm, milk, some other words, that didn’t make sense. Repeated, over and over. Moth oil. What the hell does that mean? Why would all of them have it? Is it like some cult thing, spread out in the world? A code, maybe? Do the words have some other meaning?

  From the journal of Marcus Welsh

  12/23/2012

  @marcus314 Worm milk, chest mouth, sea wound…

  Status: Worm milk, chest mouth…

  Liverpool — Another pub brawl gone terribly wrong, and football not even involved.

  Los Angeles — Onlookers reported that the gunman started beating people with his fully loaded gun instead of shooting while repeating the words worm milk chest mouth…

  …went on a rampage in his software firm…

  Front page of reddit:

  Worm milk

  Worm milk

  Worm mil…

  Look at my cat.

  Worm milk

  Worm milk

  A stick figure cartoon: So I’m away from reddit for a few days. Wtf is worm milk?

  …civil engineer throwing weights from his condos rec center down on innocent bystanders…

  …a virus, says one English epidemiologist…

  Tumbler:

  Fuck Yeah Worm Milk

  …navel crest…

  Another campus stabbing, this time with a Katina sword…

  …perhaps a water borne pathogen…

  …student used what is reported to be a Klingon dagger…

  …armed with a battle ax…

  …and written in the blood of his family on the walls of their own home was the phrase; worm milk chest mouth wound sea…

  …perpetrators primarily aged 20-40…

  …first college campuses, now tech firms…

  What is causing this rash of violence?

  From the journal of Timothy Lorne

  12/23/2012

  I noticed the big orderly first. Something was just, I don’t know, off about the way he was moving. It was kind of twitchy, jerky, almost like he wanted to dance but was fighting it. Was the rhythm going to get him? And the way his face looked. Blank, but with brief little rage faces. Like he would go from nothing to furious in the blink of an eye then back to calm. No, not calm, just kind of blank. I doubt anyone else had noticed. Going for as long as I have without being able to understand what people are saying or writing, I’ve gotten pretty good at reading body language and facial expressions and I knew something was way off with him. His eyes were unfocused, and he seemed to be saying something to himself with his mouth closed, I could see his jaw moving. But I didn’t say anything. I didn’t really know him, just figured he was high or something. Wasn’t my business. You would think in a building full of shrinks someone would see something was off. I should have said something.

  I was playing ping pong with Ponch, of course I don’t know his real name, I think it’s Eric. He was pointing at Eric Estrada one day on CHiPs, probably trying to tell me his name, so I started calling him Ponch because it seemed to frustrate him and he’s kind of a dick. Anyway, he was sucking at ping pong something fierce and I was talking about this shag carpet I remembered from a house I lived in as a kid, how I used to lay on it and move around and build up static electricity and go shock people in my family. I was beating Ponch something awful and his face was just getting more and more irritated, probably at losing and probably at my constant talking, but that just made me enjoy it more. A lot of them think the talking is because of the accident, but actually, I was like that before. I’ve always been a talker, a storyteller, a gabber, even, at times, a poet.

  I heard screaming and hit the ball hard at Ponch’s face before going to see what was going on. The big guy had grabbed a girl by the arm, hard, and started yelling something, of course I didn’t know what, but something, and everyone seemed real confused. And the other orderlies, they looked dazed, like they cared more about what he was saying than what he was doing, so I stepped in. After all, I’m not a little guy.

  “What the hell are you doing?” I think I yelled. And he looked at me and I could see something was broken, something was very deeply wrong. He started yelling something again, but in a singsong chant kind of way, and was about to get in my face.

  Joe grabbed him and turned him around and didn’t even try to talk with him, he just knocked him out, one punch. He didn’t need to do that, I could have taken him, I’ve been in my share of brawls in my time.

  He turned to the girl, I guess asking if she was OK. And I looked around, confused as all hell, and at least two others looked off, like he had, dazed, and a doctor, and one of the patients, and a nurse. Something in general was very wrong. But what? It was really creepy, the way they just looked kind of blank, like they were all thinking something really hard, but something unpleasant. And the worst part is it was like they were all thinking the same intense, unpleasant thing. Should I say something? What would I say? That they all looked weird? I would sound like on
e of the schizos.

  From the journal of Cassandra Morgan

  12/23/2012

  When I first heard the orderlies start saying something, off, you know, those words, I covered my ears. Jude had mentioned some strange phrase on the TV, and I knew, I knew, this must be it, this must be how they did it. Maybe it was the code words that they had conditioned into us with the TV and radio and internet. Conditioned us from birth, and these code words would activate us, or sedate us, or something, like on the Manchurian candidate. Brainwashing. Or maybe we were starting to hear the words they had conditioned us not to hear. I don’t know but I knew I couldn’t listen to them. I knew that their true purpose was…insidious. So I covered my ears and went to my room and put in my ear plugs. I kept a stash I got from the nurses’ station, for when the TV was too loud. And then I tore my pillow case into strips and wrapped it around my head and put some extra padding from the pillow over my ears, just to make sure.

  I would have to be careful about seeing it too, stay in my room as much as possible. I made a blindfold to keep around my neck, in case I needed it to cover my eyes later. I also made a bandana, you know, like those anarchists and rioters, to cover my mouth in case there was gas and smoke later. There was always gas and smoker later, wasn’t there, when things like this started? Molotov cocktails, tear gas grenades. Police state. It was coming. I was right, and I wished for the first time that I had been wrong. That I had just been crazy, like they said I was. I wish I had been wrong.