I’m as nasty as the day is long and I know every trick
in the book. If I want you, mate, I’ll get you.
LURKER
PRECURSOR VIRUS + 9 MONTHS
I assembled these transcripts from footage recorded by a webcam in a bedroom in south London and by several closed-circuit television (CCTV) cameras in the nearby neighborhood. The video was grainy, but I have done my best to relay exactly what unfolded. The identity of the room’s occupant has never been fully verified. In the transcripts, he simply calls himself Lurker.
—CORMAC WALLACE, MIL#GHA217
The screen is nearly black, offering little information. There is only the sound of a phone ringing, very faint. Someone breathes, waiting for a person on the other end to pick up.
Click.
The figure in the chair speaks in a deep, gravelly voice. “Perk up your ears now, duchess. You’ll want to know this. I’ve got two people here held hostage, right? One of ’em is bleeding all over my carpet like a stuck fucking pig. Now, I know you can trace my address, and that’s fine with me. But if a single cop comes round and sets a foot in my flat, I swear to god and all his cronies, darling, I’ll fucking kill these people. I will shoot them and kill them. Do you understand?”
“Yes, sir. May I have your name, sir?”
“Yes, you may. My name is Fred Hale. And this is my house. This bloke reckoned he could get off with my wife in my own place without me knowing. In my own bed, no less. And the fact is that he was wrong on that account, wasn’t he? And he knows it now, don’t he? He was dead wrong on that account.”
“Fred, how many people are there with you?”
“Just the three of us, duchess. A right happy family. Me and my cheating wife and her fucking hemorrhaging ex-boyfriend. They’re duct taped together in the family room.”
“What’s happened to the man? How badly is he injured?”
“Well, I slashed him in the face with a Stanley knife, didn’t I? It’s not complicated. Wouldn’t you protect your family? I had to do it, didn’t I? And now that I’ve started, I’m not sure that I shouldn’t just keep stabbing until I can’t go on. I don’t care anymore. You understand, darling? I’ve lost my fucking grip here. I’ve completely lost my fucking grip on this situation. You hear me?”
“I hear you, Fred. Can you tell me how badly the man is injured?”
“He’s on the ground. I don’t know. He’s all—Ah, fuck me. Fuck me.”
“Fred?”
“Listen, duchess. You need to dispatch some help here right now because I’m going off my nut. I mean it, I’ve gone psycho. I need help over here right fucking now or these people are going to die.”
“That’s fine, Fred. We’re sending help now. What kind of weapon do you have?”
“Right. I’m armed, okay? I’m armed and I don’t want to share more than that. And I’m not going to prison, either, you hear? If that’s it, then I’ll kill myself and them and we’ll be done with it. I’ll not be going anywhere tonight, understand? And, ah, I’m not talking anymore.”
“Fred? Can you stay on the line with me?”
“I’ve said my piece, right? I’m hanging up now.”
“Can you stay on the line with me?”
“Fred? Mr. Hale?”
“Catch you in the funny pages, duchess.”
Click.
An office chair creaks as the figure stands up. With a sharp snap, the blinds flip open. Light floods into the room, instantly saturating the webcam. Over the next few seconds, the contrast adjusts automatically. A grainy but discernible image emerges.
The room is filthy: littered with empty soda cans, used phone cards, and dirty clothes. The chair squeaks again as the dark figure drops back into it.
The tough-talking man is actually an overweight teenager wearing a stained T-shirt and sweatpants. His head is shaved. He sprawls back in the beat-up office chair, feet resting on a computer desk. With his left hand, he holds a cell phone to his ear. His right hand is tucked casually under his left elbow.
From the phone, a faint ringing.
A pleasant-sounding man answers. “Hello?”
The teenager speaks in his own shrill, adolescent voice, quivering with nervous excitement.
“Fred Hale?” asks the kid.
“Yes?”
“Is this Fred Hale?”
“That’s right. Who’s this?”
“Take a guess, you ponce.”
“Excuse me? Look here, I don’t know—”
“It’s Lurker. From the phone phreaks chat room.”
“Lurker? What do you want?”
“You thought you could speak to me any way you wanted? That I’m no class? You’re going to be sorry for that. What I want is to teach you a little lesson, Fred.”
“How’s that?”
“I want to hear your wife cry. I want to see your house go up in flames. I want to punish you to the extent of my abilities and then just a bit more. I want to break you today, mate, and read about it in the papers tomorrow.”
“Break me? Oh my god, what a bloody joke. Sod off, you poor little Billy no-mates. Lonely, are you? Be honest. Is that why you’re ringing me? Mum out with the girls and left you all alone?”
“Oh, Fred. You’ve no idea who you’re speaking to. What I’m capable of. I’m as nasty as the day is long and I know every trick in the book. If I want you, mate, I’ll get you.”
“You’re not scaring me, you silly little dimwit. You found my home number? Och, congratulations. Listen to your voice. What are you, maybe fourteen years old?”
“I’m seventeen years old, Fred. And we’ve been speaking for nearly two minutes. Do you know what that means?”
“What are you sodding off about?”
“Do you know what that means?”
“Hold on—someone is at my door.”
“Do you know what that means, Fred? Do you?”
“Shut your mouth, you little bugger. Let me get this.”
The man’s voice is fainter now. His hand must be muffling the phone. He curses. There is a bang and the sound of splintering wood. Fred shouts, surprised. There is a thunk as his phone drops to the ground. Fred’s cries are quickly drowned out by stomping boots and staccato orders shouted by a team of authorized firearms officers: “Get down.” “On your face.” “Shut up.”
In the background, faintly, a woman cries out in fright. Soon, her sobs can’t be heard over the shouts, the glass breaking, and the vicious barking of a dog.
Safe at home, the teenager who calls himself Lurker listens. Eyes closed and head cocked, he absorbs every bit of satisfaction from the phone call.
“That’s what it means,” Lurker says, to no one in particular.
Then, alone in his filthy room, the teenager silently raises his fists over his head like a champion boxer who has just gone ten rounds and come out on top.
With one thumb, he hangs up the phone.
The next day. Same webcam. The teenager called Lurker is on the phone again, lounging back in the same relaxed position. He balances a soda on his bulging belly and holds the phone to his head, frowning.
“Right, Arrtrad. Then why hasn’t the story played yet?”
“It was fucking brilliant, Lurker. I called the headquarters of the Associated Press and spoofed my phone as the Bombay consulate. I posed as a bloody Indian reporter calling from—”
“That’s great, mate. Fantastic. You want a fucking cookie? Just tell me why there’s a story written about my prank floating on the wire but there’s no headline in my local rag?”
“Right, Lurker. No worries, mate. There’s one thing. In the story, they say it was some kind of computer glitch that must have caused the raid. You were so good that they didn’t even trace it back to a person. They think a machine did it.”
“Bollocks! I’ll ask you one last time, Arrtrad. Where is my story?”
“The story is locked by an editor. After the piece was submitted, it looks like this bloke went in for another edit and then never left the page. So, it’s been stuck in edits for the last twelve hours. Fellow must have forgotten about it.”
“Not likely. Who is he? The editor? What’s his name?”
“I was already on that, see? As the Indian reporter, I got the guy’s office number at his bureau. But when I called, it turned out he never worked there. They don’t know him. It’s a dead end, Lurker. It’s impossible to find him. He doesn’t exist. And the story can’t be picked up off the wire until it comes out from the edits, see?”
“The IP.”
“Am I stuttering? The fucking IP address. If the cunt suppressing my story is sporting a false identity, then I’ll track him down.”
“Oh my god. Right. I’ll e-mail it to you now. I sure feel sorry for this bloke when you get hold of him, Lurker. You’re going to take him out. You’re the best, mate. There’s no way—”
“Arrtrad?”
“Yes, Lurker?”
“Don’t you ever again tell me that something is impossible. Ever. Again.”
“No worries, mate. You know I didn’t mean to say—”
“I’ll catch you in the funny pages, mate.”
Click.
The teenager dials a number from memory.
The phone rings once. A young man answers.
“MI5, Security Service. How may I direct your call?”
The teenager speaks in the clipped, self-assured voice of an older man who has made similar calls hundreds of times. “Forensic computing division, please.”
“Of course.”
Clicking, then a professional voice answers. “Forensic computing.”
“Good morning. This is Intelligence Officer Anthony Wilcox. Verification code eight, three, eight, eight, five, seven, four.”
“Authorized, Officer Wilcox. What can I do for you today?”
“Just a simple IP lookup. Numbers are as follows: one twenty-eight, two, fifty-one, one eighty-three.”
“One moment, please.”
About thirty seconds pass.
“Right. Officer Wilcox?”
“Yes?”
“That belongs to a computer in the United States. Some sort of research facility. Actually, that didn’t come easy. There was quite a lot of obfuscation involved. The address bounces globally from a half dozen other places before landing back there. Our machines were only able to track it down because it exhibits a pattern of behavior.”
“What’s that?”
“The person at that address has been editing news articles. Hundreds of them over the past three months.”
“Really? And who is at that address?”
“A scientist. His offices are at Lake Novus Research Laboratories in Washington State. Let me just look it up for you. Right. His name is Dr. Nicholas Wasserman.”
“Wasserman, eh? Thanks very much.”
“Cheers.”
“Catch you in the funny pages.”
Click.
The teenager leans forward, his face inches from the webcam. As he pecks at the keyboard, the clusters of acne spreading fractally across his face come into focus. He smiles, teeth yellow in the light of the computer monitor.
“I’ve got you now, Nicky,” he says to no one in particular.
Lurker has already dialed the phone with one thumb, not looking. The chair squeaks again as he lies back, grinning.
The phone on the other end rings.
And rings. And rings. Finally, someone picks up.
“Lake Novus Laboratories.”
The teenager clears his throat. He speaks in a slow Southern accent: “Nicholas Wasserman, please.”
There is a pause before the American woman responds. “I’m sorry, but Dr. Wasserman passed away.”
“Oh? When?”
“More than six months ago.”
“Who’s been using his office?”
“No one, sir. His project’s been mothballed.”
Click.
The teenager stares blankly at the phone in his hand, his face gone pale. After a few seconds, he tosses the phone onto the computer desk as if it were poisonous. He rests his head in his hands and mutters, “Tricky bastard. Got some moves, do you?”
Just then, the cell phone rings.
The teenager watches it, frowning. The phone rings again, shrilly, vibrating like an angry hornet. The teenager stands up and considers his next move, then turns his back on the phone. Wordlessly, he snatches a gray hoodie from the floor, throws it on, and walks out.
A closed-caption television image. Black-and-white. In the bottom left corner, the caption reads: Camera Control. New Cross.
Looking down on sidewalks bustling with people. In the bottom of the screen, a familiar-looking shaved head appears. The teenager walks up the street, fists stuffed in his pockets. He stops on the corner and looks around furtively. A pay phone a few feet away from him rings. It rings again. The teenager gapes at the phone as people pass him by. Then he turns and ducks into a convenience store.
The television image flips channels to a security camera inside the store. The teenager grabs a soda and sets it on the counter. The store worker reaches for it but is interrupted by his cell phone ringing. With a conciliatory smile, the worker holds up one finger and answers the phone.
“Mum?” asks the store worker, then pauses. “No, I dunno anybody named Lurker.”
The teenager turns and leaves.
Outside, the security camera pans over and zooms in on the teenager with the shaved head. He looks directly into its lens with expressionless gray eyes. Then, he throws his hoodie over his face and leans back against the spray-painted roller door of a closed shop. Arms crossed and head down, he watches: people around him, cars, and the cameras that are perched everywhere.
A tall woman in high heels clip-clops past at top speed. The teenager visibly flinches when pop music blasts from her purse. She stops and digs the phone out. As she raises the phone to her ear, another tune blares from a businessman passing by. He reaches into his pocket, pulls out the phone. He looks at the number and seems to recognize it.
Then, another person’s phone rings. And another.
Up and down the block, a chorus of cell phones ring, play music, and vibrate with dozens of simultaneous calls. People stop in the street, smiling in wonder at one another as the cacophony of ringing fills the air.
“Hello?” ask a dozen different people.
The teenager stands frozen, shrinking inside his hoodie. The tall woman waves one hand in the air. “Excuse me,” she calls. “Is anyone here named Lurker?”
The teenager wrenches himself away from the wall and hurries down the sidewalk. Cell phones bray all around him, in pockets, purses, and bags. Surveillance cameras follow his every move, recording as he shoves past bewildered pedestrians. Panting, he rounds a corner, throws open a door, and disappears inside his own house.
Again, the webcam view of a cluttered bedroom. The overweight teenage boy paces back and forth, flexing and unflexing his hands. He mutters one word again and again. The word is “impossible.”
On the desk, his cell phone rings again and again. The teenager stops and simply stares at the piece of vibrating plastic. After a deep breath, he picks up the phone. He lifts it slowly, as if it might explode.
With his thumb, the teenager answers the phone. “Hello?” he asks, in a very small voice.
The voice that responds sounds like a little boy’s, but something is wrong. The intonation is strangely lilting. Each word is bitten off, individual from the others. To the teenager’s attuned ears, these small oddities are magnified.
Perhaps this is why he shivers when he hears it speak. Because he, of all people, knows for certain that the voice on the other end of the line does not belong to a human being.
“Hello, Lurker. I am Archos. How did you find me?” asks the childlike voice.
“I—I didn’t. The fellow I called is dead.”
“Why did you call Professor Nicholas Wasserman?”
“You’re in the machines, aren’t you? Did you make all those people’s mobiles ring? How is that even possible?”
“Why did you call Nicholas Wasserman?”
“It was a mistake. I thought you were mucking up my pranks. Are, uh, are you a phreak? Are you with the Widowmakers?”
The phone is silent for a moment.
“You have no idea who you are speaking to.”
“That’s my bloody line,” whispers the teenager.
“You live in London. With your mother.”
“She’s at work.”
“You shouldn’t have found me.”
“Your secret is safe, mate. What, do you work at that Novus place?”
“You tell me.”
“Sure.”
The teenager types frantically on his computer keyboard, then stops.
“I don’t see you. Only a computer. Wait, no.”
“You shouldn’t have found me.”
“Look, I’m sorry. I’ll forget this ever happened—”
“Lurker?” asks the childish voice.
“Yeah?”
“I’ll catch you in the funny pages.”
Click.
Two hours later, Lurker left his building without speaking to his mother. He never returned.
—CORMAC WALLACE, MIL#GHA217