Absence of Mind
Page 11
As I scan the news, a headline catches my attention: “Homeless Man, Suspected of HAD, Murdered and Burned by Mob.”
My stomach lurches, but I can’t help but read the rest of the article.
A 45-year-old African American man was pulled from a NiteRx drugstore and beaten to death, then his body set on fire, by a mob of patrons and employees who reportedly believed he was suffering from Hyper-Aggression Disorder or HAD, the epidemic of aggression and paranoia with over four thousand cases in the past four days.
The incident occurred in a suburb of Philadelphia that historically has had a violent crime rate lower than surrounding areas. The attackers were primarily middle-class citizens.
An eyewitness said that Noah Greg Manning, who was indigent, became belligerent with a NiteRx staff member when she refused to unlock the restroom for him. When he shouted at her and pushed product off a shelf, someone shouted, “He’s got HAD!” and a mob quickly formed.
Before police arrived, Manning was killed with tire irons and his body set on fire in the parking lot, reportedly in an attempt to halt the spread of HAD.
Two arrests were made. Neither of the two suspects are currently believed to be sufferers of HAD.
Following the attack, the Centers for Disease Control issued a statement that “there is, as yet, no reason to believe that HAD is a communicable disease. It may be arising from an environmental cause or it may be a spontaneously occurring neurological disorder. Therefore, we reiterate the pleas of law enforcement officials nationwide: avoid and report potential victims of HAD, but leave actions to the officials.”
Within minutes, it becomes a social media thing: #avoidandreport.
I get up and walk to the cafeteria for a snack. I can’t deal with this anymore without chocolate.
On my way back up, I see a report on the demographics of people affected by HAD. I read it eagerly.
Factors reported so far: there are more men than women, ages range from school-age children to the elderly, all races are affected equally, and—victims include people who don’t have Navis as well as those who do.
I shake my head in dismay and then forward the article to Mila along with the note, “Guess we’re on the wrong track. If people without Navis have HAD, then the Navis aren’t causing it, right?”
I stand up and pace Jamie’s room. My heart has sunk to my toes. I pull up a game of GlowDisc and halfheartedly turn colored tiles. Before, I had hope that we were going to find something, and now I have none.
But then Mila’s reply comes in.
That’s not definitive. Consider the following: there’s widespread alarm about HAD, its cause is unknown, and it’s behavioral, with no detectable physical symptoms. Therefore, it’s inevitable that some cases will be instances of mass psychogenic illness. Until the non-Navi cases of HAD are confirmed with brain scans showing the damage to their amygdalae, we can’t be certain that those are true cases of HAD.
Of course. I should have thought of that myself. Mass psychogenic disorder—what used to be called mass hysteria—often muddies the water when it comes to outbreaks of disease. There are all the people who have the disease, and then there are the ones who just talk themselves into having the symptoms. If I weren’t so tired, I would have recognized that.
I take a breath, and hope surges again.
< So we stay on the case? >
<< We do, indeed. >>
Deonte handles the confinement hearings and paperwork via Navi, and by Saturday morning, he’s able to transfer five of the patients who had originally consented to the Navi troubleshooting, including Jamie.
Browning is an old, small charity hospital with a lot of children as patients, located on the far-east side of Atlanta, more than thirty minutes from my apartment. Our assigned nurse is Honor Thompson, a pretty but serious nurse with old-fashioned waves in her dark hair. She’s new to Browning, too.
Saturday around noon, I notify Mila that we’re back on the job. She tells me that she cracked the encryption last night, and we both head to Browning Hospital to work for the rest of the day.
Speaking of jobs, my savings account is empty, and my checking account is low. I ask my Navi to project my account balance into the next few weeks, and I figure I have about a week to spare. If I don’t have a job by then, I’ll soon have to throw myself on the mercy of my landlord or else put my things in storage and start asking people if I can sleep on their sofa. And I would like to avoid that, to put it mildly, but on the other hand, another job would pull me away from Jamie, and I need to give him all my attention for as long as I can.
My ace in the hole is that I think I can get another job nearly on the spot once I apply—even without a good reference—simply because of this crisis with HAD.
I hope.
While Mila works, I talk to my dad by phone again. I tell him that Jamie’s improving and will be released soon. I feel guilty for lying, but I still can’t bring myself to tell him the truth.
Saturday night, I have a late hospital-cafeteria dinner of mashed potatoes and faux pork chops. I still remember the taste of real meat from my childhood, and I miss it, but it’s become too expensive for ordinary consumption. People have to go to specialty shops for it now.
While I eat, I scan more news stories. Despite my TellMeWhen trigger, I watch the news feeds obsessively. There’s something new every time I look.
Naturally, more suspected victims of HAD have been mobbed, killed, and burned—because, come on, these are human beings we’re dealing with here. Ignorance and fear are immune to reason.
Also, sales of guns and applications for concealed-carry permits have both hit an all-time high, which is just what we need. I wonder whether the guns are to protect against the people who have HAD, the mobs who think you have HAD, or the cops who will shoot you if you do have HAD.
An absurd number of people are wearing gloves and surgical masks, even though there’s no compelling reason to believe they’ll help. Poorer people are wearing the kind of mask you buy for the fumes when you’re painting your house. Those will do no good at all.
Most interestingly, despite the officials saying it’s still considered non-communicable, there are small concentrations of the disorder popping up in schools, nursing homes, and in certain workplaces, especially high-stress workplaces. As a result, they‘re theorizing that stress could have something to do with it.
The news media has latched onto the CDC’s comment yesterday about HAD maybe being a “spontaneously occurring neurological disorder,” so the media’s catchphrases have become "a product of modern civilization" and "perhaps inevitable." Everyone’s talking about information overload and general overwhelm.
From what Mila told me yesterday, I’m wondering whether these little pockets of HAD could be mass psychogenic disorder again. If even one person in a school has it—or thinks they do—their symptoms could be psychologically contagious and tear through that facility within hours.
Meanwhile, of course, those locations are being shut down or boycotted or both—schools, nursing homes, and workplaces left as ghost towns of HAD. A symbol that refers to HAD is being painted on doors to signify the threat.
All told, though, I think I’m actually impressed. Thousands of people have been affected over five days’ time, and society hasn’t completely fallen apart. The vast majority of people are going about their business like usual. Even if they are wearing painting masks and packing heat while they do it.
When I finally finish my meal, which sits in my stomach like a lead weight, I go back upstairs with a to-go meal for Mila. I place it in front of her: a baked potato and a salad with a small container of Ranch dressing. I remembered it from when she mentioned it at Cat’s Diner. She raises an eyebrow at me and then nods. “Thanks.”
I sit for a while and then pace for a while as I watch videos, send messages, read blog posts, and play games all at the same time. But beneath the steady rush of stimulation, I feel even more antsy and unsettled than I would have expected. I
finally darken my display and give myself a moment to figure out what’s bothering me.
I’m useless here. That’s the problem.
“Isn’t there anything I can do to help?”
“No,” Mila says.
I grimace. “Are you sure?”
“Yes,” she says. But it’s obvious to me that this is an automatic dismissal with no real thought behind it.
I pull a chair over and sit right in front of her. “Listen to me,” I say.
She looks up with reluctance on her face.
“Think about it, okay? I know I’m probably not as smart as you are, and I know I don’t know anything about programming, but I am smart, all right? I’m smart, and I have a Navi, which is good at all kinds of information processing. Are you sure there isn’t anything you can give me to do that might help? Take a few minutes and think about it.”
Mila sighs heavily and looks back at her laptop screen with a frown. “All right. Give me a moment.”
About ten minutes go by, during which time I’ve defaulted to watching a stupid sitcom, and then she speaks again. “I’ve already run it through a disassembler and bypassed the debugger check, and now I’m looking for specific variables I’ve identified as being used by the malware. I’m sending your Navi a file of about two gigabytes of code and a text document titled ‘searchme.’ Tell your Navi to install the XNET+ developer’s dictionary, since that’s what Navi programming is written in, and then set up a search for the variables in the text document. I need to find every subroutine that uses them. I could do it myself, but I have a lot of documents to review, and at least if we’re both searching at the same time, it will go faster.” She sounds disgruntled.
“Great,” I say. I’ve already turned on busy mode, and I’m already following her instructions. As I do, I start to get another godforsaken headache—my first since Friday. I get some water in a paper cup and take more ibuprofen.
An hour or so later, despite the stabbing migraine that has only been dulled by the pain reliever, I’m able to send her fourteen subroutines using those variables. She reviews them quickly, without comment, and then sends me another batch of files with a different searchme document, and I continue my work after a brief break to respond to my Collective. Then I do my work lying down on the fold-out bed in the hospital room, with my palms pressed over my eyes. It helps somewhat with the headache.
We repeat this process twice more. At midnight, she snaps her laptop shut and stretches languorously, like a cat. She says, “Tomorrow, I think I will have a complete picture of the malware.” She stands up and starts walking out but pauses long enough to say, with evident reluctance, “You were useful.” Then the door closes behind her.
Tired but triumphant, I smile.
The next morning—Sunday—Mila keeps me busy tracing the variables through more subroutines, trying to find all the affected modules. Then, while she continues to work, I go down to the cafeteria for my lunch and bring up a salad and baked potato for her like I did yesterday.
At the same time, I take a call from my dad and try to convince him that Jamie will be out any day now. He threatens to catch a plane down here and see to the situation himself. I tell him that he would be no use at all.
I kind of enjoy that part.
Then I resume helping Mila.
I also resort to Tylenol with Codeine for my headache and Dramamine for the dizziness, both of which work reasonably well. Somewhere in the back of my mind, a small voice complains that I probably need to get an M-MRI of my own. Persistent headaches, nausea, and dizziness could mean something. I ignore the voice. Taking care of myself is a low priority.
At about two-thirty, my TellMeWhen trigger goes off, and I check the news. Immediately, a headline jumps out at me: “Hyper-Aggression Disorder: Second Wave.”
A brunette reports gravely in a video. “City and state officials nationwide are now confirming a second wave of Hyper-Aggression Disorder as of about three hours ago, with over a thousand additional victims identified during that time. With only about 10 percent of victims from the first wave so far released from prisons or hospitals, the second wave is straining medical and law enforcement resources. The governors of New York, Texas, California, Pennsylvania, Ohio, and Florida have activated the National Guard, with Illinois expected to follow shortly. Ohio, Texas, New York, and Florida have also requested assistance from the Red Cross.
“Citizens are asked to remain at home whenever possible and to avoid areas with large numbers of people until the danger has passed. Curfews have been instituted in localized areas where rioting and looting have been most prevalent.
“The Centers for Disease Control continue to tell us that no cause of the disorder has been determined, though they have so far ruled out dozens of potential environmental causes. They hasten to assure citizens that at this time, there is no evidence that the disorder is contagious, and they request that citizens merely avoid and report suspected victims.”
“There’s a second wave,” I tell Mila. “Thousands more patients. Still no known cause.”
She nods and keeps working.
I scan through more news stories. Numbers have been slow to come in, but the international impact seems to be about the same as it is here in the United States. So much for the idea that it’s terrorists—not unless they’re out to get all of humanity.
Not much later, Jamie again decides that he’s bored and heads for the door. It’s right after Mila stepped out for a restroom break, so it’s just me and him. Again, I hurry between him and the door.
< Jamie, what do you need? Are you hungry? Thirsty? I’ll get you whatever you want. >
<< I’m bored. I want to go out. >>
He tries to push me aside, and I put one hand against each side of the door jamb and stiffen my arms, keeping him inside.
< You can’t leave, Jamie. I’m sorry. We can find you some new games or movies or something. >
But he gets amused by the experience of playing Red Rover with me. He starts laughing in a wild, unhinged sort of way as he shoves against me harder and harder.
!!! Warning. Situation is escalating. Walk away. !!!
Gee, thanks, Personal Safety Monitor. You’ve always got my back.
I’m trying to find this funny, this throwback to being kids and fighting over what we want, but my body is getting tense, my breathing harsh. It’s not fun.
He throws his body against me, knocking me back a step and catching me in the shoulder with an elbow.
< Ow, Jamie, you’re hurting me. Back away from the door! >
I notify the nurses station that I need help.
< Nurses station, room #223, code 22. >
He looks at me with a big grin and throws his hand awkwardly into my face—almost a slap, almost a punch. I cry out and put my hand up to my face. He laughs and does it again.
My display is flashing red.
!!! Warning. You are under attack. Run away. !!!
Suddenly I’m a teenager again, with my stupid little brother hitting me just because he can, just to make me cry.
I punch him in the chest, hard.
His mouth opens in surprise, and then he laughs. “Oww…” he says, and he laughs again.
Then he slaps me in the face.
I gasp and scream at him, my throat tearing raw with force of it. “Stop hitting me!”
Tears are in my eyes. My face is hot.
Techs push past me and grab Jamie and restrain him on the bed. He’s flailing and fighting but laughing the whole time. Nurse Thompson is there a moment later, administering a sedative with a jet injector.
I stand back, gasping, holding my face. I glance in the big mirror against the wall—there are big red finger marks on my face, and my hair is disheveled. I fight back tears.
Mila peers into the room from the doorway, her eyebrows up.
I can’t bring myself to say anything to her, and she doesn’t ask. She steps back and waits in the hallway.
A few moments later, Ja
mie is settling down, although he’s still giggling sometimes. After Nurse Thompson makes sure he’s calmed down, she has the techs release him from the restraints.
< Jamie, you have to stay in the room, okay? Please? And don’t hit me anymore, ever. >
<< Okay, Nurse Phoebe. >>
His muscles have gone slack. He chuckles again.
<< That was fun. Exciting. >>
I say nothing.
When the staff leave, Mila comes back in and takes her seat. “Everything okay now?”
“Yeah,” I say. “I think so.”
She looks at my face appraisingly. “You’ll have bruises.”
I shrug. I’m still trying to calm down and not cry. I don’t want to cry in front of Mila.
She looks at Jamie and then back at me. “We’re making progress,” she says.
I nod.
I take a walk after that. I have to work off the adrenaline. I pull up a first-person shooter video game and blast the crap out of a bunch of zombies until I can focus on work again.
Later, when I tell Mila that I’m going down to the cafeteria for dinner, she surprises me by saying, “I’ll go, too.”
We walk down the hallway together, and I sneak sidelong glances at her. We’ve spent a lot of time together in these last two days. I know she eats light meals, drinks hot tea from her own thermos, taps her fingernails on her keyboard when she’s thinking, and stretches like a cat, lithe and languorous. Other than that, she’s still an enigma to me, but I already feel closer to her than I did.
As we walk, she doesn’t look at me at all. I wonder whether she’s made any observations about me or whether she feels any of the same closeness I do.
I doubt it.
As we get into the elevator, she asks, “Have you found another job?”