Agents of the Internet Apocalypse

by Wayne Gladstone

  “Yeah, but you’re forgetting one thing,” I said. “I don’t care. We’re here. Somehow, we got to the clue that will break this open. And look! The sign’s not even fenced in. They’ve just fenced the closest road to it. A road we never took because we’re badasses. So I don’t fucking care. I’m going.”

  Just then a black helicopter came into view, similar to those I first saw in Central Park, when New York shut down. Tobey, Jeeves, and I all hit the ground while its searchlight scanned the hills.

  “Uh, you still going on?” Tobey asked.

  “Yes! More than ever!” I shouted over the sound of propellers chopping the air. “The fact that there are black ops helicopters protecting this place proves I’m right.”

  “Well,” Jeeves said. “Maybe it’s just a normal helicopter, and maybe it’s because the Net is down so the cameras aren’t working, and they still want to police the area for trespassing and vandalism.”

  “Yeah, that,” Tobey said.

  I waited and watched the helicopter sweep over and get farther away. I was determined not to let it break our momentum. “Do you think I’m crazy, Jeeves?” I asked, but interrupted myself before he could reply. “I don’t mean delusional crazy, in-need-of-help crazy. I mean, do you think it’s crazy to believe there is a clue hiding up here?”

  “Yes,” he said. “It makes absolutely no logical sense that I can understand.”

  “Then why did you haul your ass up this mountain?” I asked.

  “Because we’re you’re friends, asshole,” Tobey said, and I could see even in the moonlight, they were both smiling. I supposed that should have been comforting—having two friends beside you to provide the strength to go somewhere you were afraid to go. But that’s when I realized I hadn’t taken a Wellbutrin in over a month and this was all too familiar. Once again, I’d gone to the heights of a coastal landmark in search of something improbable.

  “Fuck!” I screamed, but neither Tobey nor Jeeves asked why. Maybe they thought I was angry about being thwarted by the helicopter, which now seemed to be looping around for a return sweep. Or maybe I’d been making friends again. The kind that don’t exist or question you. I was scared, but I knew Wellbutrin wasn’t an antipsychotic, and I was sober. And there was real blood making my jeans stick to my skin. There was dirt under my nails. But, ultimately, it was Jeeves who provided the most comfort.

  “It’s not just friendship,” he said. “I do feel something. I don’t know what I’m feeling, but you’re right. This place is important. I just don’t logically understand why. That’s all I was saying. But that’s always been the deal, right? From the very beginning, we knew you saw fantastic things. So either you’re a crazy deluded mess or you are what I said you were over five months ago, in Central Park. So no, I don’t understand why we are here or how this could be right, but I already went all in when I proclaimed a thirty-something drunk the Messiah.”

  “Well, then,” I said, trying to sound like the more attractive of the two options, “let’s get digging because we have a phone book to find, and I say it’s right there.”

  I pointed to Hamilton’s letter. The “D.”

  “Two problems,” Jeeves said. “One, you’re really not at all concerned about that helicopter? And two, did you bring a shovel?”

  I was confident. “If they wanted me in jail, I’d be there already,” I said. “They know I have nothing to do with these bombings, and surely that’s a bigger concern than trespassing. And as far as the shovel, yeah…” I said, losing all momentum. “Fuck, yeah. No shovel.”

  “Not so fast, Mr. Pottymouth,” Tobey said. “I think I have a hand spade in here at least. We used it to build a fire pit.”

  “How the fuck did you climb a mountain high on mescaline and then build a fire without killing yourself?”

  “Well, one of the hippies did catch fire. We buried him somewhere around here with this,” he said, pulling out the spade.

  Jeeves and I looked around for a grave.

  “Just kidding,” Tobey said. “I mean, Starfinder totally did catch fire, but we put him out with the Faygo.”

  We worked our way down the mountain backwards, gripping at the grass and dirt to prevent ourselves from falling. The ground leveled out when we reached the back of the letters standing fifty feet tall in corrugated steel. We could still hear the helicopter, but not over us. A shovel would have been easier, but I was grateful for the spade. I was even grateful for Tobey despite all the shit he gave me while I dug sixteen, three-inch holes all around the “D.”

  Finally he said, “Look, if your D’s turned up nothing may I again suggest digging under Hef’s letter? I mean, he rebuilt this place. If he wanted to hide something, seems like that’s the way to go. And I still think my porn theory for who stole the Net is better than your, y’know, no fucking theory.”

  I nodded at Tobey and then completely ignored him, holding the spade up to Jeeves. “Tell me where,” I said.

  “Boo,” Tobey said. “Y’know, Jeeves is always looking for the D.”

  Jeeves and I turned to Tobey. “Was that just a joke about … man, you are the worst,” I said.

  “Actually, Gladstone,” Jeeves said. “I was just about to make the same joke. Anyway, I’m out of touch with my feelings. I wish I could close my eyes and walk around this place without falling to my death.…” Jeeves took the spade and paced slowly behind the letters, holding onto them for support and making sure to avoid the potholes I’d made behind the “D.” Then he kneeled behind the second “O” and ran his hand over the dirt, back and forth, before jabbing the spade into place. “Here,” he said. “Best I got.”

  “Whose letter is that?” I asked.

  “It’s the one Alice Cooper bought.”

  Tobey was pleased. “Ooh, I like the sound of that.”

  I pulled back on the spade popping out a patch of dirt with the dig that Jeeves had already started. Then again and again as the helicopter grew louder and louder, returning from its loop and flying directly over us.

  “We were totally just in its spotlight,” Tobey shouted. “Maybe we should go.”

  “Leave if you want, Tobey,” I said, shoveling as hard as I could. “I’m digging for gold.”

  Tobey worked his way a few feet down the front of the mountain, looking more nervous than I’d ever seen him, but he did not leave. Jeeves knelt down beside me and started using his hands to swipe away at the loose dirt until we could see more. Tobey contemplated the descent for the moment.

  “What are you doing?” I asked.

  “I’m plotting our escape in case we have to take off. We shouldn’t go back the way we came. The hippies warned me. That access road we crossed is the first place they pick you up if you’re spotted.”

  The theory made sense, but I didn’t give it much thought. Probably because my next dig made a sound. A metal, prize-winning sound. I shoveled more. Each dig produced a thunk and a scrape.

  “Hey, fuckwad,” I shouted down to Tobey. “Why don’t you come back and see how crazy I am now!”

  Tobey joined us and I stopped digging so we could all stare at this shine in the Hollywood Hills together.

  “Even the box is gold,” I said. “Even the box!” I laughed and pulled the world’s most needlessly ostentatious book holder out of the ground. Square, heavy, official, and with something definitely inside.

  “It’s locked,” Tobey said.

  “Well, y’know,” I said, “I do know how to pick locks.”

  Jeeves put his arms around both of us.

  “I’m sorry,” Tobey said. “I’m proud of you, G-Sauce. You were right. I was wrong, and I’m sorry I doubted you. Repentant enough?”

  It was the most sincere and forthright I’d ever seen Tobey and it felt very good to know he could be that way—pure—but our moment was interrupted when the helicopter returned. This time, however, it seemed to drop directly out of the sky, hanging in front of the letters.

  We hid behind the “O” as a voice came f
rom a bullhorn. “Halt!”

  “Gladstone,” Tobey said, “Jeeves and I will head for the access road. Wait ‘til they follow us, and then bust down the front of the mountain.”

  “But the car’s not there,” I said.

  “You’ll end up in Burbank somewhere. You’ll be fine. I mean, if you don’t eat it falling down the front of the mountain. Just get that box opened and the book to Quiff.”

  “Good idea,” Jeeves said to Tobey. “Man, you make it hard to hate you.”

  Using that compliment as jet fuel, Tobey busted back up the mountain as overtly as possible, with Jeeves tagging along behind. The helicopter rose higher in the sky and I put the box into my backpack so it wouldn’t reflect the spotlight. I waited until Tobey and Jeeves got closer to the road and the helicopter followed, then I looked down the front of the hill. I stepped out from behind the “O” without being spotted, taking one last quick look through the hole before stepping forward. The second step didn’t go as well and I lost my footing on gravel that sent my right leg shooting out while I slammed my left knee into the ground. There was no time to concentrate on the pain, though, because once I hit, especially with the weight of a backpack, I went into a roll. I couldn’t see where I was falling, I didn’t know when it would end and took comfort only in the density of the sticker bushes that snagged and slowed me as I tumbled. When I finally stopped moving, I looked up to find the sign more than fifty yards away, and seemingly on fire, but I assumed that was just the helicopter’s searchlight flickering at the top of the mountain.

  Over the next two or three hours I worked my way down, remaining fairly hidden in the dark and completely silent except when screaming from surprise sticker-bush attacks. But at least there were no more helicopters. And when the sun started to come up I could see the mountain had led out into some millionaire’s backyard. I found a road and walked until I hit the town—Burbank I guess—and then I found an all-night diner that didn’t mind serving some eggs and coffee to a man covered in dried blood and dirt.

  My waitress gave me the name of a cab company and the diner even let me use their phone to make the call. Businesses were being nice about that now. Some people were asking them to reinstall pay phones. I thanked her and then noticed the cap of her pen had one of those metal clips you could break off.

  “If I doubled your tip,” I asked her, “do you think I could have your pen?

  “Are you serious?” she asked, looking down to make sure it didn’t have some secret value.

  “Yes, I need it.”

  “Go nuts,” she said and dropped it with the check. I twisted off the metal clip and left a twenty for my ten-dollar meal.

  “Thank you,” she said.

  “Not at all,” I replied. “You wouldn’t also happen to have a paper clip, would you?”

  * * *

  I gave the driver Romaya’s address and worked my paper clip into a zigzag with two pennies between my fingers, and then I must have fallen asleep because he woke me in front of Romaya’s, with my newly fashioned lock pick on the floor and drool running down my chin. According to my watch, it was 7:30 A.M., and I wondered if it was too early to ring her bell. But I didn’t need to decide because Romaya actually rushed out of her door the second I left the cab. She was dressed like an adult again: blouse and skirt and everything.

  “Babe,” I called out, and she looked up in a panic. I was confused, but then I remembered what I looked like. I walked toward her as she stared.

  “What happened to you?” she said. “Your coat is ruined.”

  “Hmm? Oh, yeah, Cali’s been pretty hard on my sports jackets, I suppose. Don’t worry,” I said. “The letter’s still fine.” I pulled the love letter from my breast pocket just enough to prove it still existed, even if it was crusted with the boy’s blood. “Where are you going, all dolled up?”

  “Work,” she said, dismissively.

  “You got a job?” I asked.

  “Just some stupid temp job for now.”

  “I told you I’d get a job,” I said.

  “Did you get one?” she asked.

  “Well, no. It’s been a day … but I have something else.” I took off my backpack and removed the gold metal box.

  “Baby or not, you need a job. You get that, right? You can’t ignore that letter.”

  “I get it,” I said, “but will you look?” I held up the box.

  “What the hell is that?” she asked.

  “The Internet phone book I told you about on the way to Google!” I said, but she didn’t hear me because a helicopter was flying overhead.

  “The Internet phone book!” I screamed. “The one I told you about! We found it!”

  “What we?” she asked looking around.

  “Tobey, Jeeves, and me.”

  “Jeeves is in California?” she asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Where’s Tobey?”

  “With Jeeves. I think they might have gotten arrested. We got separated.”

  “Have you been taking your meds?” she asked.

  “Dude, I’m showing you what I’ve done.” I placed the box on the third step of the outdoor staircase leading up to the second-floor apartments. “I’ve found the biggest clue to who stole the Net—or at least, who had the power to.”

  Even Romaya had to be impressed. “It’s locked,” she said.

  “Yes, but you know I can take care of that, right?” I took out the pen cap and paper clip.

  “Oh, shit,” she said.

  I slid my pen cap tension wrench into place and raked my clip over the tumblers.

  Romaya smiled. “I remember that sound.”

  “Me too. It feels just like the windows at Fordham.”

  I’d never picked a lock quicker than the night we snuck onto the law school roof, and I knew I couldn’t beat it, but I was hoping to still make a strong showing. My first attempts did little more than dislodge dirt, and I readjusted my wrench.

  “I really don’t want to be late for my first day of work,” Romaya said. “Even if it’s a temp job.…”

  “I got this,” I said, and ran my pick with a touch more assertion and a drop less desperation. It popped. The locking mechanism actually dislodged and shot forward.

  “Holy shit,” Romaya said. “That’s exactly like the Fordham windows!”

  “Yeah, weird right? I’ve never seen that anywhere else.”

  “That was hot.”

  I opened the golden box and inside was a thin leather-bound book, much nicer than the earlier version Quiff had given me. The cover read. “Internet Control, Edition XXII.”

  “Now are you ready, Babe?” I asked, and I swear she was excited, even if she’d spent a decade scraping away at the possibility of wonder. I was putting her behind the scenes into a whole new world. “Here is the biggest clue of my investigation,” I said, taking the book out for display. “The names of the people who have the ability to control the destiny of the Net. This is what Anonymous was looking for and couldn’t find without me. I did this. Do you understand? Me. I found it.”

  She nodded in silence, and it will never be clear to me if her silence was born from suspense or good manners. I took out the book and there on the very first page of heavy parchment was the name I knew I’d see: Hamilton Burke.

  “Look!” I said, handing her the book. “Look! Hamilton Burke. I’ve met him. Twice.”

  Romaya took the book from me. “The guy from your journal. The rich guy.”

  “Yes, I met him at the Playboy Mansion just the other day.”

  “You what?”

  “Yes. I’m telling you, Babe. I’m not spinning my wheels here. I’m onto something.”

  “What were you doing at the Playboy Mansion?” she asked.

  “Tobey and I got invited. By Hamilton!”

  “So Tobey met Hamilton Burke too?” she asked, hoping to validate this story.

  “Well, no. He went off with that douchebag from High School Musical, but I’m telling you. We had a drink and a
cigar.”

  Romaya didn’t say anything. She just flipped through the book. “There are some other names here too,” she said as if choosing an appetizer from a menu she’d never seen before.

  “Babe, I’ve won the trust of Anonymous and Jeeves. I’ve climbed the Hollywood Hills and found the clue no one else could find. Do you think anyone could do that?”

  “No, but what’s your point?”

  “My point is marry me. If I can do this, can’t I be the man you need?”

  Romaya took a step back, unprepared. It wasn’t just because we were divorced, but because she had been convinced for years before she left that I did not love her.

  “Marry me,” I said again, like it was a simple proposition. Like we had lived a life designed to deliver us to this conclusion as inevitably as the Hollywood Hills had delivered me to Burbank this morning. But again, she did not hear me over another helicopter. Without a wedding ring, I grabbed the gold box and held it up to her.

  “You thought we got divorced because you couldn’t crack conspiracies?”

  “That’s not the point.”

  “Then what’s the point? This doesn’t prove you love me. If it proves anything, it proves you’re the Internet Messiah.”

  “I don’t want to be the Internet Messiah, I want you to love me again!”

  “Aren’t all those followers enough?”

  “No. They’re not. They’re not nearly enough to replace everything. They don’t fill the hole you left.”

  Those were still the wrong words, so I said what I almost said the day she left.

  “Please. I’m still me. This is still my jacket. It’s dirty and ruined, but it’s still mine. It fits me. And it still has my love letter in its pocket.”

  She looked down at the gold box and back up at me. I felt she could see me a little more clearly now, but now that she was looking, she could also see the things I wasn’t showing her.

  “I know you’re hurt,” she said. “I’m hurt too, but isn’t this the part where you’re supposed to tell me you love me?”

  I dropped down to one knee, saying, “I don’t care about this. I care about you. I love you. Let’s melt this fucker down to twenty wedding rings.”