Wallace shrugged. “I could see that. Sure.”
“Someone shares a news story. You see it on your feed. Should you like it, give it a thumbs-up, or simply scroll past? I don't know. Because it isn’t as simple as liking it or not. Because, in fact, if you like it, you’re backing your friend, you’re endorsing this person’s view, right?—and if you do that, others will see that you endorsed it, and now you’re making decisions about allegiances with this person or that person, and deciding which of your friends’ perception of you will shift based on your liking this post. And then there are all the people you make an impression on with your thumbs-up, or your like, or your comment. None of those people you can control, and all of them, see, are now, with merely the possibility of maybe seeing your reaction, invisibly controlling you.
“See, it isn’t about the post itself. It never was. Sure, we know about corporations using information for targeted ads, the government having files on every living person in the country, but this is something entirely different—and worse.”
“I get what you’re saying, but . . .”
“But so what.”
Wallace shrugged. “I guess, yeah. What are you getting at?”
“By reducing people to content, it is easier to control them. To manipulate them. To direct them. And in—” he checked his watch— “just under two hours, we’ll know for sure how well the system works.”
“So what’s your theory? What do you think is actually going on?”
Andre held up a finger as if to say hold on. “I’m getting there. The point I’m making about us being content is this: We consume content. And in this brave new world of interconnectivity, we are consuming each other.
“But even consuming isn’t the best description. That’s not all we’re doing. In reality, we are policing each other. We tell people when their opinions are wrong, we tell them when their behavior is wrong, we criticize their thoughts, their minds. In the old dystopian books, it was always the shadowy agents—the thought police and so on—controlling us. But that’s too obvious now. The ones in charge, the ones in control of our technology, devised a new plan—to make us police ourselves and keep ourselves in line. Social media is simply a conditioning device, a tool, a primer.”
Andre leaned forward. “Do you ever feel like the walls are closing in on you? Like freedom of thought is slowly dying? Points of view becoming more constrictive? It’s counterintuitive because with the internet, we’re freer than ever before, right?
“But the reality is, and I’m sorry to say it, that all of it is about to change forever. At midnight tonight, the next phase begins. The closing of society. The clamping down on free thought.
“At midnight tonight, the first second of the year 2026, my friend, my old friend who I still care deeply about—we enter the real phase of what’s coming. Society will enter a kind of police state. But run by the people. Enforced by the people. And guided by those in charge. The military, or government, or whatever you want to call it—The Ones Doing This—will have total control over the entire population. Full spectrum dominance. A police state where the civilians are their own captors.”
By this time, the sounds of the restaurant had fallen away from Wallace’s ears. When the waitress spoke, he hitched his jaw up, so engrossed had he been in his very old friend’s strange rant that he hadn’t noticed her approach.
She listed off the six meals he’d ordered, and Wallace handed her his credit card. The waitress disappeared, leaving the bags of food on the table.
Wallace turned back. “Okay. So, your theory is, the internet, and social media in particular, is a conspiracy to usher in some kind of police state. What do you mean by that?”
“I mean a shutdown of all independent thought—not just online, but offline too. Friends and neighbors using real violence to enforce the quote-unquote rules. Right now we yell at each other online for having one view or another, right? And who benefits from that? Certainly not us. But it’s quite good for those who are ‘in charge of things.’ Suddenly, no one’s paying attention to what they’re doing.
“Corporations and the government have an unlimited amount of information about each and every one of us. We agree on that. But what’s the point of gathering it all if not to use it? And how will they use it?
“After tonight, you’ll start seeing mobs of people physically enforcing the types of thought and language that the authorities want. People will swarm their neighbors’ houses, murdering them in cold blood. Minor differences of opinion will no longer be minor. They’ll become vicious battles of religious proportions.
“No more talk about ending wars, income inequality, or anything else deemed out of line by the security and surveillance state, the bankers, or Whoever Are Really Running Things. Anything the elites want to keep the same will stay the same, got it? Because people will enforce certain points of view on their own. Of course, people will think they’re enforcing them because it’s what they think, but after midnight, no one who uses the internet will truly be in control of their minds, ever again.”
“And how do they plan on getting people to kill each other?”
“The ones in charge will deliver a single pixel across the world wide web, infecting all computers, cell phones, you name it. The pixel is the trigger. We’ve already been conditioned for it. Hypnotized by the digital. Reinforced by dopamine. The trigger, the pixel, will turn us against each other. A mass brainwashing scheme bigger than anything you could imagine.
“I’m talking about mass psychosis. Prepped by years of conditioning and reinforced thought patterns, and triggered by one invisible, almost infinitesimally small bit of information.
“Of course, with everyone psychotic, everything will seem normal. Most of us don’t speak to many people in real life for hours, sometimes days at a time; most people will hardly notice something’s wrong. The sad truth is, people will very quickly get used to seeing and committing mass violence. It will be normalized in only a few days.”
Andre savored the last of his wine and went back to the window, letting Wallace take it all in.
Wallace raised his eyebrows at his friend. After years of conducting interviews, his poker face had become well honed. He rarely lost control of his expressions.
But after a moment, he sighed. He liked conspiracy theories, but this was too much. Warily he said, “You’re claiming that—the military, okay—has had a program in place to inculcate us, condition us to fight with each other, and that tonight they’ll trigger the entire online population to become ‘Manchurian candidates’ and bring in a new police state where we become our own judge, jury, and executioners.”
Andre tipped his wine glass to him.
“This doesn’t seem to bother you much,” Wallace said, crossing his arms.
With a resigned, almost forlorn look, Andre gave his answer. “Gallows humor. I’ve accepted what’s coming.”
“Well, if this as far-reaching as you say it is, my guess is you’re taking quite a risk to”—he motioned to the restaurant—“just come right out and talk about it like this.”
Andre shrugged. “Like I said, it won’t matter in”—he checked his watch—“about an hour and a half from now.”
“If you’re right.”
“I am right,” Andre said icily. “I was there. I worked on it.”
Wallace smoothed out the front of his shirt. “You’d need clearances way above top secret. The idea that someone like you would just be brought in and given this information is absurd. I’ve written for the biggest outlets in the country and I’ve interviewed dozens of military officials, leaders in the tech world, congressmen, senators. I’ve never once heard anything about the capability you’re describing. A pixel? Besides, you’d have to have access to every web domain host in the world, every—”
“—all of which the government has, my friend. Let’s do a thought experiment. If the government, or the military, was building such a program, I believe they’d need things like infrastructur
e, engineers, designers, correct? I think we can both agree that many, many people would be needed for such a thing. Well, if you remember, way back when we were still young, innocent keg-standing creatures in college, I was in ROTC, but I was also an engineering major. Now, it just so happens that when we split off, and you went to New York to become a reporter on technology and spread the good word, I went to a secretive, hush hush facility—and became employed by a contractor who was put to work on a secretive, hush hush assignment, and guess what that was.” Seemingly exhausted, Andre slumped in his seat and peered glassy-eyed through the window.
“Andre—” Wallace started.
“Save it. I know what you’re going to say. First of all, I’m not crazy. I had my psych evaluation last month. Company orders. Second, I know how hard all this is to believe, but . . . shit, man, just look around at things. Look at the world. Is what I’m saying really that crazy?
“Take people here, in this very restaurant. Have you felt the tension? The woman in the corner has been on her phone, grinding her teeth, for the last ten minutes. The maître d' is too distracted by his phone to take orders. You see? It’s starting. And when you go outside, when you go home tonight to spend a night in with your girlfriend, your family, whatever, you may notice that people are getting . . . uncomfortable. Edgy. Can’t sit still. They’ll become inexplicably angry at you. Then—the clock strikes midnight and—boom. It erupts.”
The waitress appeared again, handed Wallace his card, and apologized for the delay. “It’s a madhouse in here tonight.”
“How so?” Andre interjected, leaning forward.
She turned to him. “People are just, I don’t know, pushier,” she said, and left.
Wallace pretended not to notice Andre’s smug expression. He put his credit card away and pocketed his wallet. “Well, I sure hope you’re wrong,” he said nonchalantly, and stood.
They shook hands and hugged.
“Fucking good to see you,” Andre said.
“You too, man.”
Wallace turned to leave. Then, as if forgetting something—
“Oh. If I were to—avoid the trigger, what would I do?”
“That’s easy,” said Andre. “Never go online again. Not after midnight tonight.”
“That’s it?”
“If I were you, I would stay off altogether. Things are going to keep heating up, get more intense before the trigger.” He gestured across the restaurant, palm up, as if to say “You see?”
“Wouldn’t make much of a living if I never went online again,” said Wallace.
“Of course not. That’s how they get you.”
Wallace smiled.
“Fucking good to see you,” Andre repeated.
Fetching his bags, Wallace turned and pushed through the crowd. As he opened the front door, he allowed himself one look back at his very old friend. Andre had turned toward the window again, gazing at the passersby and ignoring the commotion in the restaurant. It was becoming a madhouse in there. Wallace could admit that—people overflowing into tables; the occasional yelling now becoming continuous. As Wallace turned and left, people quickly filled the gap he’d made, and he envisioned Andre being swallowed up by an ocean of hungry people.
The icy wind smacked him in the face. He walked to the next block and turned right. Taxi lights splattered yellow onto everything. Street people staggered, hunched over, battling the snow. A cab would be nice, he thought, but he was only a few blocks from home and it would take less time to walk than it would to flag one down.
Reaching his apartment, he stomped his feet on the mat outside, let himself into the hallway, and trudged up the flight of stairs to his apartment where his guests were waiting.
Jackie and Timothy Margoles had already finished off a bottle of wine. When he found them, they were cackling hysterically on the couch.
He set the bags of food on the kitchen counter. Meredith came out of the bathroom wiping her hands on her jeans and gave him a kiss hello. “I’m glad you’re back. They’re toasted already. Need that food to soak up the alcohol.”
Wallace looked around. “Where’s Dante and Anthony?”
“They canceled,” she said. “Both of them. They texted a few minutes ago.”
“Guess we got some more food, then.”
A fresh burst of laughter from the living room.
Wallace rolled his eyes at his girlfriend. “Alright, let’s ring in the new year.”
It was 11:00 p.m.
Then it was 11:42 p.m.
Meredith was standing, arms crossed, willing herself not to cry. Dinner hadn’t gone so well after all.
“What’s Timothy’s problem?” Wallace said, sitting on the couch with elbows on his knees and fists to his lips. “Who gets pissed off like that?”
Meredith bit her lip.
“Jesus Christ, have they lost their minds? All I did was write an article. Why are they so offended?” He got up, threw the wine opener on the counter, and turned. “What?”
“It’s just, you—”
“I what?”
“You did write some pretty mean things in your article.”
“About a senator. It’s not like they know her.”
“Yes, but people like her.”
“And—? That’s it? We can’t criticize people anymore or tell the truth about them because people like them?”
Meredith blew out air in an exasperated tone. “You just don’t get it.”
“You’re right, I don’t get it. What’s everyone so touchy about?”
“They’re touchy because—because I don’t know, okay?”
“And you’re defending them.”
“I’m not defending them, I just understand them.”
“Clearly, you don’t. You can’t even tell me why this is a problem . . .”
Then, Meredith was looking down, shaking her head, almost as if it were vibrating. Wallace noticed her hands. They were fists.
“I’m just—so mad,” she spit out.
“Honey—?”
“You don’t understand.”
He approached her slowly, wrapped his arms around her and led her to the couch.
She looked sideways at him. It took her several minutes to calm down. Then: “You don’t understand people, Wallace. You don’t understand how things make people feel. You never will. You’ve always been stoic—and cold. That’s it, a little cold. You just say things without thinking about other people. And when I read what you wrote, like Jackie and Timothy, I got . . . angry. I mean, I know you’re just expressing an opinion, but it”—her face bunched up as she thought real hard—“it’s like I can feel what you’re saying and, and your opinion, it hurts. Yes, that’s it. It hurts. It hurts like you’re stabbing me with your words, like your opinions are daggers sticking into my body. And I can’t take it. It hurts too bad. Your aura is bad. Your aura is mean. It’s rude. I can feel it, and so can everyone else. Do you understand that?”
Wallace cleared his throat. “You’re saying that my opinions . . . hurt you? Physically?”
She nodded with wide eyes. “Yes. It hurts.”
Wallace’s eyes settled onto the carpet.
Meredith stood. “I don’t feel well. I’m going to go to bed.” She picked up her phone and walked into the room, the blue light from the device shining on her face the whole way down the hall. The door shut.
It was 11:55 p.m.
Somewhere deep inside his jacket pocket, Wallace felt something buzzing. It jarred him out of his thoughts. He answered his editor’s call.
“Wallace, look, I have some bad news. We’re going to have to pull the story.”
Wallace sighed. He could hear thuds from the bedroom. Sounded like Meredith was ferociously cleaning. “I thought you already released it.”
“I did, but you wouldn’t believe the response we’re getting.”
“What do you mean?”
“Death threats.”
Wallace felt a chill down his arms.
“
I’ve never seen anything like it. And they’re getting more frequent. The story was released at 6 o’clock. First one I got, didn’t think much of it. It happens. You’ve gotten them before, of course. But this felt different. Anyway, the next hour you got five. Then ten. Then twenty. Since 11 o’clock, the company’s been sent over one hundred. I gotta take it down. You haven’t seen anything on your email? Social media?”
“I was taking the night off.”
“Well, you picked a good night for it. I’ll touch base with you tomorrow. I gotta go. Happy New Year. Again, sorry.”
The line went dead.
Wallace stared at his phone, then pocketed it and poured himself a glass of wine. Suddenly, he felt stuffy, claustrophobic. His heart thumped. He needed air.
At 11:59 p.m. the door to his building closed behind him and he walked out front, surveying the street. The ice storm had died and a silent sheen had befallen his part of the city. And it was here that he noticed how oddly quiet it was for a New Year’s Eve. Normally there were fireworks, music booming through thin apartment walls, the occasional drunken frat boy. But tonight there was nothing on his block, not even a cab.
Then, he heard a staccato rhythm, something pulsing.
Something like a chant.
Ten, nine . . .
Voices pounded from their homes. Louder. Louder still.
Eight, seven . . .
Wallace gulped. He turned back, looked up at his apartment. Meredith was in the window, her outline lit up by the blue light of her phone.
Oddly, she wore no expression.
Six, five . . .
And then Wallace felt a wave of adrenaline shooting through him. Something feral, a hidden instinct, subdued by technology and comfort and the privileges of society. He couldn’t take it anymore, he needed to move. He was like a gazelle being hunted, a wild beast with an unexplainable sixth sense.
Four, three . . .
He looked up at his darling girlfriend, and she was still staring at her phone, and he tried to yell to her—Stop, look away!—but he knew there was no time, and it wouldn’t do any good anyway, and—
Escaping Midnight (What Goes On in the Walls at Night Book 3) Page 7