The plan is simple in design.
“The third-floor workstations have access to every device found in the county,” Enzo tells me over the phone. “Get on that floor and wait for me to initiate the meeting with Caris. I’ll make sure the spot is easily surveilled.”
“How will I find the meeting location?”
“The system is searchable. I’ll meet him somewhere on Cannery Row. I’ve probably installed dozens of spy cams on that block.”
But the execution is complicated.
“My badge won’t grant me access to the third floor,” I say.
“The weekend crew at the building is different than the weekday part-timers. I’ll have a new badge for you in an hour or two.”
I get Fuji settled. Make sure she’s comfortable in her nook and her tanks are working as they should. Before I left the Golden Home Medical truck near their offices, I emptied the supply of tanks at Fuji’s so she would be set for a few weeks. Long enough for me to play out the string on everything happening in my disintegrating life.
“You know what you’re doing?” she asks.
I pull all four of her blankets to her chin. Place a heating pad under her feet. “You just focus on getting some rest. I’m going to take Glitch out to the backyard and let him hang there so he doesn’t disturb you.” I look over at my dog, whose glassy eyes reflect the knowledge that we’re talking about him.
“He’s not a bother.”
“He’s a blessing. But I just want you to take care of yourself for a change. He’ll be fine out there. He couldn’t jump that fence even if he wanted.”
“How long will you be gone?”
“If all goes well, only a few hours. I need to stop by my place first for something. It’ll be quick.”
“What if the cops are waiting for you?”
It’s a decent question. I have kept my personal phone off for the most part, but when I power it back on here and there, I have several voicemails. One from Cal, sincere and concerned, trying to check in. The rest—at least half a dozen—are from the cops. Short messages. The first few asking if I could call them back or come down to the station. The last few no longer asking politely. But none of the messages suggest that I’m a suspect yet. As far as them waiting for me at my apartment, I know better.
“I covered crime at the paper long enough to know they don’t have the resources for a weeklong stakeout—especially for someone only moderately suspicious. I’ll take the back entrance to the building if it makes you feel better. Anybody parked out front won’t be able to see.”
“Please be careful.”
Fuji’s forehead wears its creases. These are the marks of age. Of decay. Every line branded into her skin so gradually it’s imperceptible until it’s too late. Father Time holds the branding iron, sizzling with immortal heat, intended for the mere mortal. But age isn’t the only barometer informing Father Time when to drive his brand into our faces.
So, too, does loss.
And as Fuji flashes her current disappointment to me, Time’s markings fold and crease harsher, but the story within each one has nothing to do with me. Those stories were told years before I met her—when despondency invaded her heart. Cynicism into her soul. When Richard was still alive. Or at least barely hanging on. There are billions of humans breathing and sleeping and hating and loving and shitting and walking and screaming every single day. But somehow, the lottery you hope to never win inevitably plays out, and a single person’s number is called. Not just any person.
The person.
And once they’re gone, you only remain as the pained survivor.
That is why Fuji’s wrinkles are pronounced so heavy with agony. Because nothing spins the hands of the clock faster or accelerates the decay of our bodies quicker than watching the most important person in your world die.
“You’re going to fall asleep soon, and when you wake up, I’ll be here like I never left.”
Her forehead and mouth relax from a pursed hold. “Okay, honey.” She closes her eyes.
Glitch follows me down the hall and into the kitchen. I fill up his bowls with water and kibble and guide him out into the backyard.
“Enjoy the fresh air, my friend.”
I set his bowls down and he sticks his face in. Starts scarfing down his food one inhale at a time. With only a few more bites to go, he looks up at me. Feels me out, and somehow, someway—the ancient wolf-and-man instincts taking over—he knows we’re about to part ways. Glitch walks over, licking his lips clean, and takes a seat in front of my feet. He looks up at me and we know what comes next.
“I know, boy.” I kneel and cup both of his ears with careful pressure. Massage them in circular motions. He tips his head closer. My forehead meets his, and he’s up on his hind legs, his front paws now placed atop my shoulders. I kiss him on his muzzle, his whiskers tickle my lips. As I stand, we share one more glance at each other, and I can’t help but wonder—if I wasn’t on the verge of not knowing myself at all, would this dog be my redemption?
“I love you, Glitch.”
* * *
I’m back inside when I get the text from Enzo. He’s nearly to the gas station where we agreed to meet. I pull my hoodie over my head. Slide on a pair of Ray-Bans. I grab Fuji’s car keys. She let it be known that her minivan is available to me. It’s surprisingly new—only a couple of years old and less than five thousand miles of usage. The poor woman’s illness traps her inside too often.
I take as many side streets as possible and park behind the apartment complex. I speed walk past the mailboxes, and I’m up the stairs and inside my apartment without coming across another person.
I move into the bedroom and to my desk and computer. Fire up a Word document and start typing away at blistering speed. No concern for grammar or typos.
Because there is no need.
This isn’t a story for the paper. Nor is it a description for the data center. Instead, this is the full diary of what I’ve been up to these last several weeks. From the first time I met Rocket to today and everything in between. I finish the last sentence and hit print. Two copies. Two separate envelopes. My tongue slides saliva across the adhesive strip on each, a bitter taste times two.
I’m back in the van and across town. I park near Cal’s place in Seaside. I march up to his front lawn and slip one envelope inside his mailbox. Rush back to the van and get out of sight. Drive out to Carmel-by-the-Sea using the vehicle’s navigation and find Joan’s house. A medium-sized single-story on a downward-sloping hill. Guessing the back of the house faces Carmel Beach. I drop the second envelope off in her mailbox. Now Cal and Joan will have the full story. The complete picture of what I’ve been dealing with. With the info, they know they need to be careful and keep themselves safe. Maybe they’ll be able to help somehow. But I find relief in just them knowing.
I leave Fuji’s minivan in front of her salon-turned-house and hoof it to the gas station. Fifteen minutes later, I find Enzo in the front seat of his 1980s Chrysler LeBaron. I suddenly wish I drove Fuji’s van here so we could take that instead of this dogshit car. But doing so would clue Enzo in on the old lady. Would jeopardize her more than I already am.
“Get in.”
I find my new identity resting on the passenger seat. It’s a new driver’s license. It’s clipped to employee forms I’ll soon be handing over to the building’s security guard, already filled out. I read my new name. “Mahmoud Salman.”
“You probably look more like a Mahmoud than a Dash,” Enzo laughs.
The LeBaron’s engine groans and whines in the fast lane, and we raise our voices to hear each other. “Don’t have a ton of time,” Enzo barks. He presses down on the car’s cigarette lighter mounted beneath the cassette player. To the side of the stereo is the chrome ashtray hanging open—probably permanently stuck in that position. “I’m dropping you off in Gilroy and then have to haul ass back here. I meet Caris in an hour and a half.”
“How’d you land a meeting so fast?”
“I told him I know how to find you. I knew he wouldn’t want to have the rest of that conversation over the phone.”
We pass the sand dunes. They’re now cleaned up—no trace of Emily or Veronica’s bodies. No message in kelp. The bike trail leading up to the dunes is closed off by orange police tape. The dunes are now nothing more than the ruins of my mistakes. That police tape will eventually be removed, but the blood that seeped deep into the sand remains, whether it’s perceptible or not. Just like the blood on my hands.
I take out the stack of Post-it notes. It’s as much about habit now as anything else. My mind is evaporating, and logging its progress still seems appropriate. Even if I knew what Rocket was going to do to me. So I reach as far back into my mind as I can. It’s not far. First above the fold story. Age: twenty-five.
The cigarette lighter springs out. Enzo holds the cherry tip to the cigarette clasped between his lips and sucks in. “Want one?” I turn down the offer. Less than an hour after leaving the gas station, Enzo pulls over just down the road from the data farm.
“Good luck,” he tells me.
“You too.” I open the door, clutching the documents in hand.
“Oh my God,” he grabs his forehead with his palm. “I nearly forgot. Here—you’ll need this.” He reaches inside his coat and hands me a cell phone so old it’s a technological relic.
“Recognize it? It’s a Nokia 6110!” he says with delight. But the sight of the candy bar–shaped phone delivers me zero feelings.
“Come on. Everyone had one of these in high school!”
“How the hell do you know?” I ask, half-joking.
“Oh yeah.” Enzo’s trademark enthusiasm is sniped by the inconvenient reminder that he is nobody now. And any nostalgic sentiments were only planted there by Rocket and Caris as they meticulously rebooted Enzo with an identity of their choosing. His hands squeeze the steering wheel, and his knuckles turn white. “Do you have any idea how numbing this is for me? It’s like I’m the first AI robot that became fully self-aware. Before, everything I was doing felt so purposeful. Rocket gifted me hope. I guess it gave me—what do you call it? Agency, I guess? But it turns out I was just serving the master.” He shakes his head. “And now I don’t know anything. I don’t know who I am or where I’m from. I don’t even know my real goddamn name. And you know the worst part? It wasn’t enough that I fucked up my own life. I brought you into this too. Who knows how many others over the years?”
“Look, you just found out. It’s a fresh wound right now. You’re still bleeding out. Let it scab up a bit. We’ll figure out who you are and what to do next.” I put my hand on his shoulder. “I’m sorry I flipped out on you. I shouldn’t have talked to you like that. It’s not your fault—any of it.”
Enzo embraces the back of my hand with his own. “Give the security guard your personal phone like always. But hide that new burner—we’ll need to communicate later.” He pulls out of the lot and heads back down the two-lane road toward the freeway going south, exhaust fumes dissipating up into the afternoon sky, the car becoming a smaller and smaller dot against the bland Gilroy horizon of uninhabited hills and untilled dirt and soil.
* * *
I head inside the building. Hand over my documents to the security guard, a guy—probably younger than me—with the kind of five-o’clock shadow that a fresh shave can never kill. He stares at my ID. Mahmoud’s ID. He sets it down and turns to his computer screen, cocking his head. Rubs his index finger against his eyebrow.
“One second,” he grunts. He picks up his office phone and swivels his chair away from me. My heart rises into my throat, pumping against my tonsils like a bass drum. He gives me the side-eye while whispering into the phone. I stick my hands in my hoodie’s front pocket and rub off palm sweat marked with the obvious odor of Oh fuck, I’m screwed. But he gets off the call and pulls open a drawer down by his ankles. Rummages through it. He hands me my badge and instructions for finding my workstation. I thank him and clip the badge to my sweater. His stare lingers as I head for the elevator. I’m soon on the third floor—to the glow of computer screens fighting against the office’s twilight. This is the same layout and purposeful employee isolation found on the second floor. Dash’s floor.
But this is Mahmoud’s floor.
And I am Mahmoud.
I pass cubicles, only greeted by the backs of slouching Subterraneans—poor sons of bitches either on the cusp of reaching the final Lobotomy Pill for the first time or about to be unknowingly, unwillingly rebooted back to the beginning. I wonder how many different people have been cycled in and out of here over the years. Could be dozens. Hundreds. There would be nothing stopping them from doing it to thousands of people if they are able to move them around the country without any resistance from the individuals they control.
I find workstation number ten, which the instructions tell me is Mahmoud’s. I log in with the temporary credentials given to me. Wait for the loading screen to pass. And when it does, I immediately understand the scale of everything we’ve been doing.
Enzo.
Me.
All the Subterraneans blindly following orders and completing missions.
The images populate my screen, divided into rows upon rows, columns upon columns—a matrix of black-and-white boxes—each a secret broadcast surveilling the inside of homes, family rooms, and showers. Street corners and parking structures. Employee break rooms and public toilets. I’m a butterfly fluttering hundreds of feet in the air, looking down with its thousand eyeballs, each independently trained to the sights of every inferior creature roaming aimlessly beneath me.
The box in the upper left highlights as a person enters the feed. It’s a young woman with straightened hair down to her waist and low-rise jeans. She walks into her bedroom. I watch from a “smart” thermostat—a motion-sensor Nest device mounted above her dresser. Very few people ask themselves how motion sensors operate. If they work with or without a built-in camera. Or if anyone with a screwdriver and a mission from Rocket can insert a spy cam inside of the device.
There are three lines of text in the top right corner of this feed’s box:
Town: Pacific Grove
Address: 3838 Foam St. APT # 6
Name: Alyssa Sheffield
Alyssa reaches underneath her bed. Pulls out a shoebox. Opens it and lifts the delicate glass pipe to her mouth. She holds a lighter underneath the pipe’s reservoir, where a shard of crystal meth breaks down into a gas, soon to be inhaled. A red countdown ticker pops up in the corner of the surveillance feed. It starts at thirty seconds, making its way to twenty-five before I realize it’s timing me. I refer to the instructions. I need to clip this video using the editing function and move the file to the proper workstation on floor two, where someone will categorize it for the correct market, just like I—as Chris then—did for the last few weeks. I send the edited video to the workstation designated for blackmail and exploitation. A new video feed replaces the smoking woman. I repeat this process several more times. A box highlights when a person enters the frame. Sometimes it’s just a voice overheard on a hacked phone.
A man talking with his cable company, canceling his service.
A grandson FaceTiming with his grandmother, singing the ABCs.
I keep going. Not because I want to, but because I’m killing time for Enzo to get back in Monterey for his meeting with Caris. Otherwise, each feed’s countdown clock will tick to zero. If this happens enough, I fail my duties and I—Mahmoud—will be escorted out of the building.
I check the clock above the workstation. It’s been forty-five minutes since Enzo dropped me off.
Which means it’s time for the second part of our plan.
Enzo will trick Caris into implicating himself, Rocket, and the entire operation. Once he does, we will have it all on record because my part of the plan is simple. I find the right feed and record their conversation. This should all play out in the next twenty minutes, and once it does, we take the recording to the police.
When the cops bust Rocket and seize his records, Enzo gets what he wants—answers about himself.
I get what I want after we tell the cops this was all part of an investigative story I was working on, helping them understand why there is a photo of me at the warehouse. I’ll then fill them in on everything else that’s going on with the killer. All of his phone calls. His love-hate-murder-mail. And then, finally, they can help protect me and everyone else closest to me. Make sure that my actions don’t cause harm to Cal, Joan, Fuji, Enzo, or anyone else in my orbit.
I find the search function. Type “Cannery Row” and hit enter. Every possible feed within the area fills my screen. I look for one showing Caris or Enzo but there are at least fifty in total. Too many to sort through manually. I know Enzo suggested an alley near the Portola Hotel as the meeting spot. I once covered a story for the paper about a serial vandal in the area. He was spray-painting storefronts with crude messages. They caught him because he was camping out near a dumpster in that alley. They were only able to apprehend him because he was spotted by a nearby security cam mounted to a traffic light on the corner of Foam Street and Wave Street. A security guard in charge of reviewing footage noticed the young man organizing cans of paint in his backpack. Called it in.
I type “Foam and Wave security cam” into the search bar. Hit enter. The number of possible feeds dwindles from fifty down to one. And there, at the center of my screen, is what I need—a fish-eye view of Caris leaning against the side of a building.
I enlarge the picture. Caris keeps his hands in his trench coat pockets.
He waits for Enzo.
I wait for Enzo.
Five minutes pass. Ten more.
Nothing. No sign. Did he abandon the plan? Me?
The burner phone in my back pocket vibrates. I take it out and Enzo’s number populates the screen.
“Hello?” I whisper. “Are you almost there? I just found him.”
“Tsk, tsk,” the voice slithers through the line. “I found my plaything. My reckless plaything.”
I recheck the phone’s screen. Verify Enzo’s number.
“Don’t start acting bashful now—not after how far we’ve come.”
The overhead lights on the floor cut out. The strobe lights mounted above fire alarms start to swirl.
“Where’s Enzo?” I ask.
“Is that its name?” the killer teases. “We’re just getting to know each other now.”
I hear something from down the hall. Garbled static at varied frequencies. Walkie-talkies. The static grows louder. Nearer.
“Would you like to talk to him?” the killer asks. “Here you go.” The phone transmits a ruffling noise. But I never hear Enzo’s voice. Instead, I listen to Enzo struggle. Screams muffled and dampened.
Flashlights search the floor with their unmistakable beams. They cross over my shoulder. Dart left to right along the wall facing me.
“Goodbye-eye-eye.” The killer hangs up.
I hear a different voice from over my shoulder. Probably from the opening of my cubicle. “You were too curious for your own good, little bird.”
I swivel the chair around, knowing who I’ll find. And there, standing in front of six or seven men in suits, arms folded behind his back—is Rocket.
“Take him,” Rocket instructs, his goons rushing me on command. They swat the phone out of my hand. Pin me to the ground. Elbows spear my ribs as they zip-tie my hands behind my back. My heart pounds against the floor.
“Stand him up,” Rocket says.
They do as they’re told.
Rocket grins.
“It’s time to take your medicine.”
The Next Chapter Begins in 3, 2, 1 . . .