Conclusion

by Peter Robertson

  It was the end of the week. There were a few tourists looking to camp, but mostly the area was populated by outfitter employees in their telltale olive shirts, fixing up abused canoes, washing out empty Duluth bags, refolding tents, and scrubbing out pots and pans.

  Colin was late back with his canoe and thus obliged to pay for an extra day. The smile on the young woman’s face as she ran his credit card told him that it happened a lot.

  “Welcome back to civilization,” she said as he signed papers and retrieved his valuables from a safe.

  “Where’s your partner?” she asked.

  Colin thought fast. “Waiting at the car,” he said. “She’s dirty and she thinks she smells and doesn’t want anyone to see her.” He tried to laugh convincingly.

  The young woman smiled, “Tell her she can shower here.”

  Colin shrugged, “She just wants to get going. You know how it is.”

  She finished up the paperwork, and Colin was free to go.

  Justin was waiting outside the office. He was sunk into an Adirondack chair as he held Brand’s computer tightly in his lap.

  Both men were suddenly very hungry.

  Colin bought sandwiches and sodas and a long power cable for the computer. As he handed over his money, Colin wondered how much the staff at Lauder Lake knew about their employer. It wasn’t something he could ask.

  When Colin found Justin, the younger man stood up reluctantly. He stretched his body upward then groaned loudly.

  “The one thing I miss the most? Up here in the wilderness?”

  “What’s that?”

  “Back support.”

  Colin smiled sympathetically.

  They found two other chairs further away from the offices, affording more privacy and shade. There was a charging station nearby, equipped with multiple outlets.

  “My rental came with two complimentary showers,” said Colin. “That’s something I missed.”

  Justin considered this information. “When we finish this. If it works out. We can both shower. I must be dirty. Way more than you.”

  “Do you think it will work?” Colin was holding the laptop.

  “You’re good with computers,” Justin reminded him. While that was true, Colin wanted to say he was nowhere near as good as Angela Rennie had been.

  How long would her death take to rise to the surface? She was a criminal and secretive, and she was cunning. He thought it might take a while. She had relatives. He would try to find them when he got back. He would stop first in Duluth to exchange cars.

  They ate their turkey sandwiches and drank sugary, ice-cold sodas.

  When they finished eating, they powered up the laptop. Colin held it. Justin watched over his shoulder as he began to type.

  The welcome screen asked him for a four-digit password.

  Colin Tugdale almost felt like laughing. He punched in the numbers without thinking. Nothing happened.

  He tried again. Still nothing.

  Colin began to panic. How many attempts could he make before he was locked out? He forced himself to slow down and think.

  “Type one-two-three-four,” Justin said pleasantly. “Most people are lazy. Or arrogant.”

  Colin wanted to argue. But he entered the numbers.

  Just like that, he was in.

  Justin asked, “What numbers were you using?”

  Colin mumbled something about a stupid hunch and began to type.

  Most of what they found on Brand’s laptop was related to the Natural Boundary Foundation. Spreadsheets documented financial scenarios both lavish and spartan. Brand had been fantasizing about Elliot Devine’s bequest before his chances of landing it vanished.

  Colin studied all the applications on the laptop. He thought he knew most of them: browsers and notetaking programs. He read through lists of contacts. There were several hundred, mostly people unfamiliar to Colin. He found one name he recognized. There were copies of credit reports concerning one Angela Rennie. They were extensive; well beyond lists of tardy payments. Other documents related to her. He found one email where Brand had requested that her house be broken into and searched. He even found his own name, noting that his status was never elevated beyond harmless sidekick.

  On a secondary screen, Colin found an unknown application with a one-word name that initially meant nothing. He paused and considered the word. It seemed like it should be something significant. So, he thought harder.

  Then it came to him. It was the name of the university where Sir Julian Brand and his team had discovered the scan/weld.

  He clicked on the icon and waited.

  It was too good to be true, an exact number of names. All twenty-three.

  All men. The ones Colin recognized were as white as driven snow.

  Several were known violent racists. Others were survivalists. A select handful swung both ways.

  One was a high-ranking politician with an unimpeachable record.

  Two were third world dictators infamous for the brutality of their respective regimes.

  And as far as Colin could remember, they were all dead.

  There were a few names that meant nothing to either Colin or Justin. Colin would have been more than happy to ascribe guilt through association, to generously wager that the names that failed to register were not the names of justly sainted philanthropists or Eagle Scouts.

  Instead, he used his phone to check for obituaries, which didn’t take long, as internet service was blindingly fast close to the outfitters.

  He read quickly. As he suspected they had all been eulogized, mostly castigated, and only occasionally mourned.

  Beside names in the spreadsheet were dates. Colin’s best guess was that he was looking at activation dates for the Brand. The dates of their “deaths” varied. Similarly, the dates of their unholy rebirths were randomly assorted.

  Unbelievably, up above the names was a menu bar with a number of irresistible options. He clicked once on Edit. From the drop-down menu he chose Terminate. Then he held his breath. The names reappeared with a select box beside each name. He clicked them one by one. Then he clicked Continue. After he had done that, he was asked again if he wished to continue with the termination process. The options were two large buttons marked yes and no. A warning at the bottom of the screen strongly implied that once the yes button had been selected there was no going back.

  And there he stopped.

  Colin could hardly speak. He whispered, “I think this will terminate them.”

  “Are they all killers?” Justin asked quietly.

  “I don’t know. Maybe. I’m not sure.”

  “Do they all deserve to die?”

  “How should I know?” Colin said. “I’m not God.”

  Justin marshalled his thoughts. He tried again.

  “There were names that you recognized,” he pointed out.

  Colin nodded slowly.

  “Were they all evil? The ones you knew?”

  Colin nodded again.

  Justin asked, “Can you tell how old they were when they first died?”

  Colin used his phone once again.

  “The names I recognized on this list are all men who lived to be at least seventy-five.”

  “What about the other obituaries?”

  Colin could see where this was going. “They all concluded,” he replied.

  Justin chose his next words carefully. “Then they all should be dead by now,” he said.

  Colin looked at the list again, at the names he knew. He struggled to recall his first encounter with each name, watching footage of right-wing agitprop rallies that morphed into pitched battles, or seeing shadowy websites exposed by liberal media watchdogs. He grew surer. They were all gruesome men.

  Colin raised a last argument. “We shouldn’t get to play God.”

  But Justin swept it aside. “Do you want to let them live?”

  “No,” Colin said. “I don’t.”

  Justin spoke. “Then don’t,” he said.

  C
olin looked down at the screen. He had taken too long. He reselected them all. He was asked to choose yes or no. Once again, he chose yes. He was asked if he was sure, if he was certain he wanted to terminate the chosen names. He indicated that this time he was.

  With one last implausible click, it was done.

  Colin Tugdale was a god.

  They had the communal showers to themselves.

  There was no shortage of hot water, which was good, because they were both filthy. Especially Justin, who was vigorously bathing himself again. He scrubbed away at the strata of dirt/sunscreen/repellent that was lacquered onto his bare feet.

  When Justin Everly had looked into a large mirror, he was surprised at his appearance. His body was lithe and sinewy, and his face was weathered. He thought he looked simultaneously ten years older and twenty times fitter.

  From behind the shower curtain he talked loudly to Colin, who had washed and shaved and now sat on a wooden bench bundled up tightly in two rough towels.

  Colin had been doing some thinking.

  “Tony and I could help you buy this place.”

  “Is it for sale?” Justin was starting to laugh.

  “It might be,” Colin said. “I understand the owner just died.”

  “That’s interesting,” was all Justin said.

  “You know how to contact me?” Colin asked, not for the first time.

  “I do,” Justin replied.

  “Let me know where you are after the summer. Email me.”

  “Like I said. I thought maybe Duluth.”

  “What would you do there?”

  “I know how to tend bar. Deliver newspapers. Work in a diner.”

  “You mentioned college before.”

  “I did,” Justin said. “I meant it.”

  “What would you study?”

  Justin had his answer all ready. “Nature. Ecology. Biology. I like living things and living places.”

  When Justin turned the water off, there was a warm, steamy silence.

  “There is one thing,” Justin began.

  “What one thing?”

  “Something you could do for me.”

  Colin waited.

  “Are there any cheats?”

  “Cheats?”

  “In Trench Warfare?”

  Colin hesitated. He had promised Tony. But he spoke up, anyway.

  “Have you fought the First Battle of the Marne yet?”

  Justin informed him that he had.

  “And did you march through a French town afterward?”

  “I think so.”

  “Did the citizens throw flowers?”

  “Yeah. I remember now. They did.”

  “There was an old lady dressed in black. She was standing in the street. She was handing out yellow flowers to the soldiers.”

  “I don’t remember that,” Justin said. “What about her?”

  “You need to fight the battle again. When you win and your troops march through town, the old lady will run out into the street and hand out her flowers like before.”

  “What do I do then?” Justin breathed.

  “You shoot her in the head.”

  “Well, I can do that,” Justin said with a grin. “But what happens then?”

  Colin Tugdale was unable to stop himself from smiling. “You’ll see,” he replied.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Shirley Murray suggested rearranging the chapters of this book. She improved it immeasurably in the process.

  Rick Hanzelin arrived at the very last moment, and made the northern wilderness that much more believable.

  All the errors that remain belong solely to me.

  PETER ROBERTSON was born and raised in Edinburgh, Scotland, and currently lives near Chicago.

  GIBSON HOUSE PRESS connects literary fiction with curious and discerning readers. We publish novels by musicians and other artists who love music.

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