by Welke, Ian
I kick off my shoes and let my sore feet air. I put some music on the computer, a playlist consisting largely of Siouxsie and the Banshees and other bands that bring my best memories to mind, and I reach for my sketch pad. This isn’t what I want to do right now, but I need the distraction. I draw. First, I draw a sketch of my mother, the picture of her as a young woman in Holland from memory. My next sketch is a rough storyboard of my mom and me together at our favorite Mexican food place. I’m not sure if I have any story for this, but I draw it anyway. It’s three panels of us eating together. The camera is zoomed in a bit on the final panel, catching my mother smiling. For a fleeting moment, I relax.
My computer chimes the bells of the Cologne cathedral.
Jane: Hey! You there? Are you safe?
Annie: Yeah. And no kidding. You wouldn’t believe what’s been happening.
Jane: ???
Annie: My mom’s missing.
Jane: Damn. It seems like… I don’t know. Are there a lot of missing people all of a sudden? Or are we just so well connected we notice it more?
Annie: The police station was full of people filling out reports.
Jane: The police? Wow.
Annie: You should have seen it.
Jane: Have you heard more from your Michael?
Annie: Just a text. He seemed to know the virus was coming before it started.
Jane: Good thing we had warners to alarm us that the links are wrong.
Warners? People who warned us? It’s late. Or early. Don’t be paranoid.
Annie: Jane, who warned you?
Jane: I was warned by my cousin.
Annie: Is your cousin a programmer or something?
Jane: Yes. He is employed in programming.
I pause for a second. Has her account been hacked too?
Jane: My cousin would very much like to meet your Michael. Could you set up meeting?
Jane: You’re not responding. You could use a good distraction. How about this file? Download it for fun!
I logoff. In the corner of my eye I see that the file Jane offers is a script labeled ZRJZPST.
~
I don’t know what to do after I’ve shut down my computer. For several minutes I watch the television with the sound turned down all the way.
After pacing around the room for a few minutes, I fetch my phone out of my purse and send a text to Jane.
Annie: Are you okay? I think your IM account is hacked.
I wait, but no response comes. I had texted Michael shortly after leaving the police station, but still haven’t gotten a response from him.
I don’t even know if it was him.
The TV news has a report on the virus. It’s basically just a series of press releases from tech security companies saying that they’re working around the clock to address the problem. The news does not say anything about missing people or power outages. “With so many web sites infected, I guess I’ll have to do some work,” the newscaster says to his laughing co-hosts. I make a pistol motion with my hand and fire at the screen.
I lie flat on the couch. My head hits the cushion, and my eyes shut, but open again right away.
Mom will call. It’s all a misunderstanding and you’re freaking out because you haven’t slept. There’s nothing you can do about it now anyway.
I hit the volume button on the remote for the television, turning it down low enough that it won’t wake me if I’m lucky enough to fall asleep.
My upstairs neighbor breaks the after-ten noise rule doing his laundry. The dryer door creaks open, followed by the drones and thuds of its cycle. As if in answer, the neighbors on my right start their dishwasher which grinds metal on metal, and the rush of water causes the pipes in the walls to shudder.
Do these things happen every night, and I just don’t notice? If I could just get some damned sleep.
I sit up to grab the remote and check what I have saved on my DVR. As the show starts I have to push up the volume to cover the odd creak of my DVR and the neighbors’ appliances. I don’t want to watch anything I haven’t seen already, figuring if I have to pay attention to the plot I won’t fall asleep. So I put on an episode of classic Trek. There’s something about the music on that show that’s always been like a warm glass of milk…
The phone rings, startling me awake. Confused and not sure when I fell asleep, I lurch off the couch toward the kitchen for the phone, before I remember I’ve left it on the coffee table.
I look to the cable box for the time. Half past two. The Trek episode is over. I check the caller ID on the phone, which shows my mom’s cellphone number. “Mom?”
“Hello, dear.”
“Mom,” I say, struggling not to cry. “Where are you?”
“I had to get away.” A faint buzzing sound hangs in the background. I wonder at first if I’m imagining it, but then the line clicks four times. “The police said you were worried. I let them know
“Mom? I think the line is bad.”
“Yes. It is the line that is bad.”
There is definitely a buzzing sound in the background. “Mom, when are you coming home?”
“Not for a while, dear…” A series of clicks and buzzes drowns out the rest of what she says.
“When can I see you?”
“Not for a while, dear.” Her voice is distorted, like a warped record.
“Will you be home next week?”
There’s no answer. For a moment there’s not even buzzing.
“Hello? Mom?”
“I’m here, dear. You can see me
“Mom?” The phone clicks again. “I love you,” I say, but I’m talking to a dial tone.
~
I wait until the backup finishes on my laptop, and still don’t go online. Just to be extra safe, I unplug the external drive.
Double plus paranoia.
I grab a thumb drive for another back up. I make a folder on the thumb drive for my art files. I guess that’s what matters most. All I’ve ever really done. Everything else is just lost days and pointlessness.
I mentally catalogue the other things I feel proud of. What is there of my life that can’t be saved to a memory stick? College. Both for the people I knew then and all that I learned. Given endless time and money, that’s what I’d do. I’d go back and I’d just keep taking classes. Learn and learn until the end of time. That and paint. I’m proud of my library. Many of my books are boxed up in my mother’s garage, but even what I can fit in my apartment makes me happy when I look at them. I love to pull a book off the shelf, flip through it and remember all it gave me.
Realizing that I’m stalling, I set my anti-virus to full and go online to see if the security situation is solved. Nearly every site still says that they’re down for maintenance to address security issues. Some news sites are back up. My cursor hovers over one of their URLs. No. Those are just links to virus sites. I check and it seems like every link is some delivery method for the virus script.
I shut down the laptop.
No sense in letting it auto-download an infected update. Back to the TV to shut down my mind.
I reach for the remote and stop and shake my head. For a split second that buzzing sound hums all around me.
I switch off the light, lie down on the couch and pull my blanket up over my shoulders. My focus lingers on the digital numbers on the DVR clock. The buzzing grows and fades and grows and fades, like it’s timed with my breathing. I cover my ears with both hands, but the sound grows louder. As I worry about my breathing, I start coughing. Unable to distract myself, I worry about the anxiety and nausea starts as I panic. The overwhelming fear of fear itself consumes me. I worry so much that I can’t escape the worry that my eyes fill with tears and my breath goes ragged.
Don’t panic. Don’t let the panic take you.
I pick one point on the ceiling and focus o
n it, forcing myself to imagine good thoughts coming in when I inhale and the source of the buzzing leaving when I exhale. At last, with the sound reduced to a low hum, I shut my eyes.
~
I can’t remember who I’m talking to, just that I’ve said “… but I hate it there more than anywhere.”
When I open my eyes I’m at the mall. I’ve never seen the it so crowded. Not even before Christmas. The mall doesn’t look decorated for the holidays, but carols play over the speakers, only in a slower tempo and in a strange minor key. A woman bumps into me, one of a pack of women in furs. My eyes burn. The women are like a walking perfume counter.
I push my way out of the crowd. A low growling sound comes from the center of the pack.
I can’t tell if it’s the women or their furs growling.
The albino man in the ball cap is going up an escalator. I pause, waiting to put a few shoppers between myself and him, before I follow.
He carries a shopping bag with the familiar sigil of circles and triangles on its side.
I follow him to a bookstore. Something about it looks different than I remember. It’s got a new name, but then it’s changed hands before. It was a Barnes and Noble. Before that, Crown Books. I can’t remember what it was between being a Crown and the old Sci-Fi specialty store it was when I was a kid. Now it says “Wilmarth’s.” I assume that’s the name of the proprietor. I don’t think it’s a chain.
The books in the display window are faded brown texts with symbols in gold leaf shaped similar to the one on the man’s cap, but I don’t recognize any of the words on the labels. A few of the book covers look like New Age mysticism. Other covers have symbols that look New Age-y, but the words are spelled out in some strange script. What letters I know, don’t spell out words that make sense phonetically. Several of the volumes appear to be bound in skin and breathe in and out. I gag, choking as the air pressure drops suddenly in the mall.
Through the window I see that one of the books on the shelf has the symbol from the albino’s cap on the cover. My heartbeat thunders in my temple, and matches time with the pulsating symbol on the book’s cover. I reach out to touch the book, to take it off the shelf.
Bewildered, I realize I don’t remember coming inside the store.
I let go of the book, and follow the albino behind the stacks. He passes by all of the books without looking at the titles. My vision blurs in the low light of the store. Cobwebs dominate the corners of the walls. The air is dank and smells moldy. The man in the ball cap goes to the back and exits. I creep after him, but stop at the door. I take four deep breaths and reach for the door handle.
A hand grabs my shoulder.
“Shh!” Michael puts his finger to his lips and indicates for me to follow him.
He leads me by the hand back through the store and out into the mall. We pass a food court. The eateries have names I’ve never seen before. “Tcho Tcho To Go.” Another sign is in hieroglyphics. “What’s that smell?” I ask.
“Long pig.” Michael looks nervous. “C’mon. Quick. I’ll explain somewhere less crowded.”
We weave between throngs of shoppers as I follow him down an escalator to a coffee shop.
“You don’t want to go through that door in the bookstore.” Michael clears paper cups off a bench. “I’m sorry I can’t tell you everything now, but I only have a minute. It’s harder than you think to do this. I need you to meet me here tomorrow. I mean this mall, when you’re awake. Maybe eleven? And most importantly, do not go to work tomorrow.”
“What’s going on?”
“You’re dreaming. I’m contacting you in your dream. My software is imperfect. Meeting you here is non-trivial. It would be more efficient to meet when you’re awake.” He pulls a strange-looking phone from his pocket. Its case is made of metal with an ornate design etched on it. He presses some buttons on its screen.
“I’m dreaming.” I pinch myself on my arm, but I don’t wake up. “So that’s why you look like you did when we were in college?”
“It’s like an avatar in a game. You can really choose anything. But I thought this would be easier to recognize. Or so I’m guessing. This is the first time I’ve tried this, my trial run. Your avatar is pretty by the way.”
I look in a hand mirror that happens to be on the table. Dreams.
If I think about a mirror, there’s a mirror.
I’m flattered to see that I look just like I do normally, and not some younger version of myself.
The buzzing sound catches my attention again, but I can’t place the source. It’s louder than what I’ve heard before and is coming from somewhere in the main mall.
Someone screams. I step forward to look through the window, but it’s opaque. I can only see smears of figures, men and women flailing, dancing to some rhythm I can’t pick out in a cacophony of screams and buzzing. I turn back to ask Michael about the buzzing noise, but he’s gone.
The door swings open, and the albino man steps through. The symbol on his ball cap pulsates, to the same strange dance music of the mall-goers.
His voice buzzes. “I need you to come with me, Annie.” The sound emerges from behind his clenched teeth. He steps forward. His legs move like a marionette. “Join us in our dance.” His gloved hand reaches for me, all five fingers twitching.
I wake up with a jolt, my phone buzzing with an incoming text. I stare at the message rereading it as though if I read it again it might say something different.
Michael: Tomorrow. 11 AM.
CHAPTER SIX
My alarm goes off Monday morning simultaneously with my phone vibrating on the nightstand with an incoming text. I shut off the alarm, and roll over to grab my phone.
Jane: I am all right. You should download this new app for your phone!
The app she’s recommending has that same dream symbol on its icon. I delete her message and put the phone back down on the nightstand.
Her phone too?
The ceiling spins. I stick my leg out from under the blankets and put my foot on the floor. Nausea hits me in waves like a hard hangover, but I haven’t been drinking. I cough, trying not to puke. I double over and gag. Before the panic can take hold, I try to not think about not being able to breathe. The more I think about breathing, the harder it gets and the more I cough and gag.
If her phone is hacked too, how do I even get in contact with Jane?
I don’t puke, but I still don’t feel well. I sit up. The world tilts. Buzzing fills my head. I clasp my ears with both hands. The volume of the buzzing sound rises and falls with my pulse, which beats faster and faster. A grating whistle screeches with each beat of my heart. “Stop it,” I say aloud, in the empty room. “Stop it.” I open my eyes. Tears stream down my cheeks, but the room rights itself and the buzzing noise subsides.
The numbers on the alarm clock are blurry. Once I read them, the backward math tells me I’ve gotten three hours of sleep. The most I’ve slept since the insomnia began, but I don’t feel rested.
I guess if you’re pissing into an empty bucket it’s going to take some time to fill it.
Pressure builds behind my eyes.
First Mom, now Jane. I’ve no one to talk to.
I need to cry, but I can’t. Not properly. My eyes are watering, but it’s not the same. It doesn’t release the pressure. It makes me light headed, and before I know it I’m concentrating too much again on breathing to do it properly.
Stop it. Stop thinking about it.
I stumble to the bathroom and turn the hot water on in the shower. The room fills with steam. The mirror fogs over and water drips down the walls. I tilt my head and watch the water drip. I shake my head and reach into the shower to adjust the water .
The fog on the mirror forms the symbol from my dream. I reach over and wipe it off.
I don’t have time for this. There’s not enough time to lose my mind.
~
My econobox’s engine idles in my apartment’s parking lot. I drop two tablets of Vivarin int
o a can of Red Bull. I lean back into the driver seat, listening to the fizz from the can as the caffeine pills dissolve. Driving sleep deprived is just as dangerous as driving drunk. I read that somewhere. The article didn’t have suggestions for what to do if you can’t sleep but still have to go to work.
I wonder if I should make a doctor’s appointment. I have to get to work first. My crap health insurance requires that I keep my crap job. My crap job will be hard to keep if I have to miss work for a doctor’s appointment. It will be harder to keep if I never get there because I stayed in my parking lot all morning. Getting there will be a challenge. I’ll have to dodge an endless stream of other sleep-deprived lunatics on the road this morning.
I trace the symbol from my dream into the dust on my dashboard. I try and try, but I can’t remember the last time I slept for a full night.
What’s it like to be rested? What’s it like to be able to think straight? Has the world always been like this and I just can’t remember? Or maybe I’ve never been able to remember? Right. Try and make a doctor’s appointment today before I end up in the emergency room. I really can’t afford that.
I chug the first half of the Red Bull and start the car. It sounds awful, like the engine has a chest cold. Some bit of metal clanks as it spins, and the air intake wheezes. Horrible numbers sprout up in my brain, five hundred dollars, seven hundred, limitless repair bills beyond the value of the car. I start to breathe ragged again. Finally, I turn on the stereo and play the CD I last left in the car, even though I’ve heard it too much because it’s the CD I’ve left in the car.
To my relief, it doesn’t cut out and switch to the radio like it did the other night. I couldn’t bear that blast of static this morning. Even if the radio has programming, I don’t want to hear it. Whatever the news is I need a break, even if they have news on the virus.