Category: Writing

Show time. Myles walked over to Alan’s office, rapping softly on the open door.

“Come. Ah, the shorts are ready, yes?”, Alan distractedly waved Myles in to a seat, sipping a latte from a tall disposable cup.

“It’s complete, I double checked the renders myself.”

“Good, lets pull in your files and give it a once-over.”, Alan opened his editing software, importing the files.

SuccINCt used the top of the line software, which meant loads of built in features. Myles had taken advantage of its scripting language to create segments that looked indistinguishable from the original, but would swap out suggestions to new objectives.

He hoped that Alan wouldn’t notice the resource usage, or the small spike in processing power it would take to do so.

“Ah, what is this?”

“Sorry, what’s the problem?”, Myles swallowed nervously, had he been caught out?

“Thought we agreed to use the updated logo for the outro.”

Of course. He had been so focused on the ThinVert suggestions that he had missed a part of the director’s brief.

“I can fix that, my mistake.”

“See that you do. Otherwise, it looks like all green to me. Forward to the media team when you’re done.”, Alan waved off Myles, like a misbehaving housepet.

Myles could barely contain himself. He wanted to reach across the desk, hauling Alan over it knocking his large monitor on to the floor. He had never met anyone so annoyingly passive aggressive. Clenching his fists, he went back to his editing console.

Focus. There was only one chance to get this right.

The rows of editing suites were empty, large twin screens showing the SuccINCt logo bouncing in random arcs. Myles had to make sure that they wouldn’t be able to make new ThinVerts, at least for a while. The long-term plan was to anonymously tip off federal agencies to SuccINCt’s malfeasance.

He unclipped his trusty USB Drive, slotting it into the front port on the render farm. The tall racks were bolted to the floor and fixed to the wall, matte black steel doors with clear plexi inserts. A frosted SuccINCt logo stenciled in the center like high-altitude clouds, translucent and ethereal.

Myles had swiped the barrel-shaped key from a co-worker. With the rack door open, the machines gave off a pleasant hum of whirring drives and buzzing cooling fans. Constellations of green LEDs blinked in flowing patterns, with hypnotizing precision.

He typed out commands on the pull-out keyboard, small monitor mounted above. Copying the code to the master server, he closed the session and pushed in the tray.

“What are you doing?”

Myles turned slowly, palming the USB drive. The frowning face of the IT support technician glaring through oversized lenses.

Time for the brain-lock maneuver.

“Oh, good question. You see, I noticed a rendering error in the clips I was working on, so I whipped up a quick fix so that the latest campaign wouldn’t be late. It involves the split-second timing of certain edits, which programmatically were adjusted using best business practices to adhere to the clients needs. Our window of delivery was limited, so it left me no choice but to employ a hotfix before the deadline…”, Myles trailed off, staring at his eyes.

The pupils didn’t dilate. Something was wrong.

“That doesn’t answer my question.”, the tech pushed up his glasses, moving closer.

“Oh, well its all here – take a look.”, Myles brought up his hand holding the keychain, whipping it into the tech’s jaw. Pushing down on his shoulder, he brought up his knee connecting it with the tech’s skull. It was over in a matter of seconds.

The tech lay slumped on the floor, thin trail of blood dripping from his nose. Myles looked down at his shaking hands. He hadn’t meant to do that so forcefully. Better hide the body before it was discovered. He hauled the tech under both armpits to the last row, stuffing him under the desk.

Walking back to the render racks, Myles carefully closed the door, locking it with the barrel key. He circled back to the dozing technician, stuffing the render farm keys into his front pocket.

“Trust me, I’m doing you a favor.”

When SuccINCt found out about their failed ads, they’d most likely look for a culprit in the support team. Myles wanted to throw them off track, it wouldn’t help having them on his trail when the house of cards came tumbling down. SuccINCt had a lot of money and resources. Not the kind of enemy he wanted raging after him.

Myles went back to his workstation and clicked the “Render All” button. The racks whirred into life, surging bits flowing across multiple pathways as hundreds of silicon cores crunched through the video frames. He composed an email, linking the output directory on the network drive, destined for the media team.

He had to get out of here. Staying only increased the risk of having the whole thing unravel.

Elevator down, out into the lobby.

He walked briskly through the exit into the twilight beyond. Further down the street, Myles cracked his access badge in half, tossing it into a trash bin. He was done with SuccINCt, the entire bloody mess. A huge weight came off his shoulders, he felt like a bird gliding in the sky.

In his left hand, a dull blue manual containing the technical details of ThinVerts.

Myles smiled, thinking about the future.

There was so much more he could do.

SuccINCt believed in supplying their creative team with the best equipment possible.

Twin monitors at every workstation, custom keyboards, cutting-edge editing software and trendy ergonomic chairs with mesh-like coverings. Myles wished his desk had a chair like this. Everything could be adjusted from the lumbar support to the inclination of the seat.

He had been in the editing studio for over two weeks now, getting used to the layout and technical requirements of the job. It sure beat making copies in the dead of night. With his new-found responsibilities he had gotten much less sleep. There were multiple commercials in the pipeline, and he had to help get them into shape for airing.

He wished he had never read the SAS files. It was insidious, invasive and horrifying. By inducing the mental “lock”, subjects would be planted with subtle suggestions, what to buy, what to wear, and now – who to vote for. The first part of his plan had worked, navigating the project requirements arranging to be put into the editing studio.

The rest would be a bit more involved.

Mary Harrison was SuccINCt’s newest client, a city council hopeful with eyes on state representation. Her opponent, Conrad Burke had been involved in council positions before, but was now jockeying for the state slot as well. The defensive strategy distilled into a series of “ThinVert” spots run on local cable and streaming sites.

Given Harrison’s resources, she was outgunned by Burke’s larger warchest and commercial business sponsors. That was the external view. The internal view from his perspective she was an easy shoe-in, just a few ThinVerts from a landslide victory.

“How’s the latest segment coming along?”, Alan was wearing a turtleneck sweater today with jeans, an homage to someone he thought was very clever. Myles thought it looked smug and pretentious.

“Progressing, getting some of the final bits spliced in now.”

“Excellent, when the whole series is done we’ll have another project for you to cut your teeth on.”, Alan patted Myles on the shoulder in a way that made him want to punch Alan in his condescending face.

It had been exhausting working on the ads, there were a lot of moving parts that Myles never knew existed. He waited until Alan walked out into the hallway, frosted glass doors quietly closing in unison. This might be his only chance. He had been in a state of constant tension, with managers and their bosses touring the studio to keep tabs on their latest enterprise.

Myles quietly unhooked his portable USB Drive from his keychain.

Slotting the drive, he brought up a file system window and started copying over code and assets he had created at home. This had better work. He felt the same urgency he did in his nightmares, running through faceless crowds trying to reach an objective in time. In some a huge colossus would be glaring down with wide open eyes, intense beams sweeping the crowd.

He always woke up when the dark fingers grabbed him, the smell of burning charcoal filling his nostrils.

“Say, what are you doing there?”, Alan peered over Myles shoulder, squinting at the monitor. Myles heart leapt into his throat, hammering pulse pounding in his ears.

“Oh good question. You see I’m putting these assets on here because the project needed a bit of enhancement. As you know, the asset requirements were for multi-level tactics employed with SuccINCt protocols. In brief, the components that you are looking at have been calculated to elicit the primary response, which in this case would be..”, Myles trailed off, watching Alan’s eyes go into that thousand-foot stare that Gail, his boss had done.

Alan had been reset.

Myles found that anyone who had viewed the ThinVerts without an appropriate counter-response would be susceptible to the lock phenomenon. He had made his own inoculating clip at home, and viewed it daily. It was a mental flu-shot in the middle of a raging epidemic.

He carefully hid the file window, bringing up the video editing suite.

Alan blinked, and straightened up.

“How’s the latest segment coming along?”

“Proceeding on schedule.”, Myles turned, looking at Alan’s eyes.

The same detached expression as Gail, like someone woken up in the middle of the night, not quite grounded in their surroundings.

“Excellent, well carry on.”, Alan walked slowly to the double doors, with a stilted gait.

Myles didn’t like using the brainlock, but it had leapt out of his mouth without him thinking. Alan wouldn’t remember anything he had seen before the reset. It was a horrible thing to do to someone. But the plan had to succeed. He thought about what would happen if it didn’t.

SuccINCt would expand their business from just slinging products to influencing policies and electing politicians. It would lead all the way to the top, with SuccINCt pulling the strings. From what Myles had observed in planning meetings, it was the exact opposite of the world he wanted to live in.

His assets copied, Myles retrieved and pocketed the USB drive.

The final edits were due tomorrow. If his substitution went unnoticed, he just might pull this off.

Myles rubbed his face with his hands, staring at the video timeline. A few edits was all it would take. Deliberately, he began inserting the key phrases and suggestions he had created.

Mouse clicking like the escapement in a clock, ticking towards an unknown fate.

(To be continued.)

Myles was lost in a crowd. Faceless bodies pushed past and buffeted him with elbows and hands. He had to make it to the computer terminal before the timer ran out. Shoving through to the sidewalk, facing multiple lanes of blurred traffic. He stepped off the curb, hands extended waving for cars to stop.

A large truck bore down on him, beeping its horn louder and louder.

Myles woke, alarm squealing in the background. Early morning light streaming through the blinds. Damn, he was late. He hurried to the bathroom, shrugging on his least dirty shirt. Splashing water on his face, ignoring the slight stubble and circles under his eyes.

Gail was probably texting him now, demanding status reports.

He ran out the front door, tucking in his shirt. Myles hopped into a hastily summoned rideshare, an unwanted expense, but he couldn’t afford to wait for public transport. SuccINCt was strict about attendance and punctuality. As an intern, he didn’t have much leeway compared to full-time employees.

He ran through the lobby, pushing past the turnstile, taking the first elevator up to his floor. Gail’s office was empty. A small mercy considering how late he was. Sitting down in front of his computer, he logged in, opening his work queue for the day.

Normally he would be happy to have a full workload, as it made the time pass faster. His head was groggy and he felt out of sorts, sorting through the rest of his assignments. Myles hadn’t seen Gail all day, which suited him fine. The last thing he needed was his boss riding his back.

An instant memo popped up on his screen, from one of the creative directors “See me soon-as, new campaign asst.”

He had been drafted by yet-another-senior staff member to be the errand boy on a new project. Sighing, Myles locked his machine and headed towards the director’s office. All higher-ranking employees had offices on the edge of the floor plan, which afforded window views and doors that shut.

Myles wondered if he would ever reach that status.

Walking into the office, Myles sat in the nearest chair with his tablet ready.

“Good, you’re here. I’m going to need your help on a new project.”

Alan pushed his clear-framed glasses up on his narrow nose. As one of the higher level creatives, he didn’t have to wear a suit and tie. Myles found himself envying the unbuttoned polo shirt, it looked extremely comfortable.

“Absolutely, just tell me what needs to be done.”

“Excellent, I’ll beam over the task list. This is a new account for us, so I don’t have to impress upon you the need for timely execution.”

Alan tapped his keyboard, invoking a data transfer via wireless.

“Sure thing, I’ll get on this right away.”

“See that you do. That will be all.”, Alan waved Myles away focusing on his monitor. It was easily twice the size of the one on Myles desk.

Myles walked slowly back to his cubicle, scrolling through the item list.

• Mary Harrison – Primary candidate for city council, new campaign
• Conrad Burke – Opposing candidate, see notations for background bio
• M.H. focus on expanding opportunities, better jobs, lower tax rates – other client spec as needed
• C.B. target failed policies, biased contractors, selective tax treatment – SAS enhancement opportunity

That acronym again. Myles sat down in his chair, syncing his tablet. Clicking on the imported folder, he skimmed the rest of the data. SuccINCt was gearing up to use the SAS “enhancements” he had read about. This was a first for the company, usually their campaigns were focused on retail products, not politics.

He felt a ball of worry grow slowly in his gut. If SuccINCt was expanding its interest into politics, they would have an obscene advantage. Last night’s reading delved into deep psychological territory, all centered around the “brain lock” phenomenon he had witnessed with Gail.

Myles had learned the “lock” phase was only the beginning. In that state, the brain was open to suggestion. Nearly any suggestion. Like voting for an opposing candidate kind of suggestion. It wouldn’t take much, push the cognitive envelope with a trigger phrase, then drop in the instructions.

It was elegant, like a well-written computer function. Except this was direct tampering with people’s brains. Myles sat back in his chair, staring out over the dividers. He couldn’t let this campaign air the way that it was. If SuccINCt used these tactics to gain power, there would be no end to it.

Leaning forward, he started a new document laying the details of his plan.

This had better work, or there would be hell to pay.

(To be continued.)

Mondays were filled with meetings and status reviews, queues of anxious coders and designers starting their first round of “360” evaluations. Myles was secretly grateful he didn’t have to participate in those. The stories that leaked out during lunchtime were horrific.

Gail’s odd behavior kept looping in his mind. The stern warning, then the blank stare. It hadn’t been anything he had said, had it? He wondered if it was a huge prank being played out at his expense. Descending to the lobby, the elevator was full of polo-wearing techs and suited sales reps.

Release the herd!

Myles visualized the escaping employees as a stampede of cattle, thundering out the turnstiles into the busy city streets. He was more a tumbleweed or curious turtle, waiting until the dust settled to make his way home. He needed to look at the documents again.

There was something he was missing. SuccINCt tailored each of their campaigns to exacting criteria matching the demographic and specific client requirements. With the pressure of Digital Video Recorders and streaming services, they were all too aware of the tendency to skip ahead avoiding ads entirely.

The invisible hand of attention deficit plagued the industry. Was it better to pour more resources into production, raising the bar compared to their competitors, or change the content? SuccINCt had taken a different route, cutting out the fat and condensing pure ad-messaging into “ThinVerts”.

Myles had seen the ThinVert term used throughout the SAS archive. It seemed the most likely place to begin searching for clues. He didn’t watch much television himself. Myles loved movies, he often would sit with friends watching or stream his favorites to his tablet, curled up in bed.

Sometimes, during dry status meetings he’d hold his phone under the table edge, playing a movie with sub-titles. It preserved his sanity in a job that he wasn’t even sure he wanted to pursue as a career. It certainly didn’t match up with the recruitment pitch that got him his internship.

Arriving home, Myles tossed his work bag on the floor grabbing a beer from the fridge. It was a “premium micro-brew”, which happened to also be one of SuccINCt’s clients. Hoovered into the gaping maw of industrial brewers, the name of the hapless brewery was still used. It lent authenticity to the brand.

Myles logged in to his computer, pulling up a browser window.

Trice Triple Bock ticked all the boxes, a dark amber lager produced by Trice brewery before their corporate takeover last year. Myles executed a search for adverts they had posted. A short list populated the screen, one from before the acquisition, and several after.

He clicked on the first ad, thumbnail of a bearded man holding a brown beer bottle standing in front of stainless steel fermentation tanks. “Welcome to Trice, we believe in the best ingredients even if Bob is too drunk to pour them into old Gertie here.” A comedic sketch ensued, where a Trice employee stumbled around the tanks spilling grains from a burlap sack.

Myles chuckled, as the brewmaster caught up with bumbling Bob. The video ended with both men clinking bottles reciting the slogan “Trice-tation”, smiling into the camera.

He scrolled down to the latest video, thumbnail showing gleaming rendered tanks in a cutaway view. The presentation was heads above the first one, shot professionally on high-resolution equipment. Splash presentation, rapid intercuts to a label dotted with condensation.

The pace was tight and synced with the pounding soundtrack. Liquid amber background undulating behind multiple slices of pouring beer laid on top. It concluded with a rapid fly-through of the brewery, resting on the Trice logo fading into a black background. The running time of the video was short, almost half of the first one.

Myles looked at the first video running time. It was nearly 4 minutes. The SuccINCt videos were 3, 2, and 1 minute 30 seconds. But why shorter? He knew that budgeting for a given campaign didn’t vary too widely. The only extras were effects rendering times and billable hours for client changes.

The trend was obviously down, but Myles didn’t know why.

Clicking on the SAS archive, he began reading more carefully. The first pass he had made only scratched the surface. The answer was here, he was sure of it. Hours passed, sunset fading into the still of night. Cool breeze creating dancing shadows from the trees outside.

He was halfway through the archive. Scrolling down one more line, folder labeled “OCS Redefined”. Myles clicked, swearing it would be the last one before turning in for the night. His weary body felt hollow and worn. Expanding the folder, he clicked on “Introduction”.

Operant Conditioning is well known and largely confined to positive and negative reward systems. We propose a more original approach, where the subject is given stimuli in concentrated sessions designed to enhance attention deficit yielding exploitable results.

Myles stopped cold. Operant Conditioning? He knew advertising was linked to internal desires and creating need, but not on such a fundamental level. What was Prototyping up to? He chewed on his lower lip, scanning through the document. Large sections of text referred to scientific studies, with notations added in red.

This was it. SuccINCt’s core strategy.

He clicked on the next document.

There was so much to understand.

(To be continued.)

Myles woke to sunlight streaming through the window. Weekends were the only time he got any quality sleep, during the week he’d have stressful dreams about forgetting something important for a meeting. He never could find the proper conference room in time, and when he arrived everyone stared at him without saying a word.

Grabbing a breakfast shake from the fridge, he walked over to his desktop. Time to see what was lurking on the USB drive. Myles inserted the connector, slotting it home. A new window opened showing multiple files and folders. It was more than he realized.

Drinking sips of shake, he paged through the documents in order. Myles knew how to program, but he didn’t advertise that skill to his superiors. He’d seen how they treat their coders, with strict security protocols and grueling “360 Reviews”. He wouldn’t wish that on his worst enemy.

Myles liked being “in the zone”, where attention focused to laser brightness and the rest of the world fell away, grey and forgotten. Several hours passed before his back started to ache. Stretching, he went to the bathroom and washed his face. He stared in the mirror, not quite believing what he had just read.

SAS stood for “Short Attention Span”. It wasn’t a study on hyperactive teenagers or sugar-crazy kids, it was a cold clinical term applied to how human attention worked. From what he could gather, SAS was the vanguard of SuccINCt’s new product and advertising strategy.

It devolved into pseudo-marketing speak and other business terms which were too dense for Myles to understand. He did have an idea of how it worked, though. It wasn’t much different than a new computer language. Syntax and rules designed to achieve given results.

He just had a hard time believing that any of it would work.

People weren’t just black boxes, where you shoved in data and got something out in a reliable fashion. They had free will and unique thoughts. It bothered him that SuccINCt was reducing people to monetary resources. Whatever it was, from the files he had read it looked like every bit of advertising in the past six months had been using it.

Myles shook his head, walking back to his computer. He had chores to do, and the rest of this could wait. If he only had the smarts to make a robot to go to work for him, now that would be something. Laughing out loud, he smiled and started cleaning his apartment.

---

Monday morning, dark skies in the dead of winter. Myles didn’t mind the longer night hours, it put the sun in sync with his drowsiness. Nothing worse than a bright morning when you are still rubbing sleep out of your eyes. He yawned, walking across the plaza to the lobby entrance, dominated by the backlit SuccINCt logo.

Swiping his card, he pushed through the turnstile. Security nodded as Myles held up his ID, secured by a lanyard around his neck. The elevator thankfully was empty. He hated the awkward ride up to the main offices with other people in the car, each pretending to stare at the floor number display.

Arriving at his floor, he navigated to his desk. It was in the middle of the open office, which gave everyone visiblity of what he was doing. He didn’t like it, but there wasn’t much he could do about it. It felt like being in a fishbowl, with people tapping on the glass.

Logging in, he saw an alert pop up on his screen. SuccINCt was proud of their interoffice “memo” system. A supervisor or higher-up could issue a demand or general policy announcement, and everyone would see it. They could be targeted too. His note said “See me soon-as.”, with the name of his immediate boss.

That wasn’t good. Before the morning meeting, too.

Myles swallowed and straightened his tie. What could it be this time? He walked up to Gail’s door and rapped softly.

“Enter.”

Gail Webb was a no-nonsense kind of manager, and Myles tried his best to avoid one-on-one situations like these. She had the look of someone sizing you up, probing for weakness. His stressful dreams were fueled by Gail’s disapproving glare.

Myles sat down, tablet ready to take notes.

“So. Tell me about Friday evening.”, Gail peered over designer glasses, hair drawn back into a bun. Manicured nails drumming on the desktop.

“Well, uh, Friday. I uh, was getting the financial reports done.”

“The copier is on the top floor. Security said you were in Prototyping.”

Miles swallowed nervously. Dammit, he had been rumbled by Security. Just tell her something, anything.

“I had to send an email, so I went down there because it was closest.”

“Let me be clear, you are still an intern. That means you only go where your duties require it.”

Myles hated confrontations. It made him sweat, face growing warm as his cheeks turned red. He had to say something that showed he was on task. His mind ran through a blizzard of words, Myles felt like he was in a heavy storm with high winds blinding his eyes.

“The reports were taking so long I decided to take a walk down the stairs. You know that I hate elevators. So on the way I was thinking about how I needed to send this email. With the copies going on, you see. No use in having me sit there when there’s just a counter to look at. So, I get down to the Prototyping floor and got on a computer to get that email sent like I said before.”, Myles spoke rapidly, trying to impress.

Gail blinked, fingers still. She looked like she was staring at something far away, beyond the walls.

“So, Tell me about Friday evening.”

Gail had repeated herself. That never happened. In fact, Gail hated to repeat things to underlings. The oddness of it prickled the hairs on the back of his neck.

“I had to send an email, while the copies were running.”

“Fine, see you at the morning meeting.”

Just like that. Myles stood and left Gail’s office, walking back to his desk.

What had just happened? Was it something he had said? It couldn’t be. The only thing he had done was expound at length, something he tried not to do at work. He had been desperate to say anything, so he brain-dumped whatever he had on his mind.

It was like watching a computer reboot. Myles tapped his keyboard idly, staring at the screen.

Another memo popped up, “Morning Meeting – Conference Room B”.

He had another meeting to attend. Sighing, Myles grabbed his tablet joining the others lined up at the entrance.

There had to be more to this, he thought. If only he knew what.

(To be continued.)

The lower floors were more utilitarian than the executive suites.

Stubby dividers of frosted glass fenced in most of the “open plan” office. SuccINCt had strict rules about one’s workspace. You were allowed a maximum of two personal items. One could be a framed picture (which had its own rules attached governing content and size), and the other a knick-knack or small plant – all subject to additional restrictions, of course.

The Human Resources orientation manual was bulky when printed, and came in a large three-ring binder. He had used his as a doorstop at home, after turning in the “I have read and understand” form with his signature.

Myles hated the open office design. It meant constant interruptions by well-meaning co-workers, usually when your mental flow was at its deepest. Mentally ascending to the shallow waters of careless conversation stressed Myles out, especially when he had a deadline to meet.

The overhead lights were off, which was a relief. Only the wall halogens were lit, casting graceful parabolas on the textured walls. During the day, the long strips of ceiling lights cast an overly-bright glare on everything below. It was like being trapped in a photographer’s infinity backdrop, visual cues for wall edges washed out in the persistent fluorescent blizzard.

Myles walked carefully between 3D printers and digital drafting tables. Here a concept could be created and instantiated with relative ease. Some objects were left on the printer trays, bright colored plastic shapes and cross-sectional coverings.

He needed access to the planning files.

Myles jiggled each mouse as he passed workstations. The ones that lit up with the SuccINCt logo were locked, password prompt hovering in the center. His clearance wasn’t high enough to browse the shared file server. He kept up the rhythm, jiggle, logo, jiggle, logo, jiggle, desktop.

Success! The desktop was littered with links to project folders and proposals. Myles pulled up a system window displaying the connected network drives. Clicking on “Projects Ongoing” resulted in a long list of coded project names, sorted alphabetically.

Inserting his keychain USB drive, Myles browsed to the folder labeled “SAS” and dragged it to his external drive. The OS displayed animated fluttering pages, copying the contents. At the far end of the floor, a brilliant white cone swept the room.

“Who’s there?”, the guard sounded annoyed at having to investigate. Myles must’ve triggered a sensor at the doorway.

“Myles Chapman, just had to send a quick email.”

The guard lowered his light, walking towards the cubicle.

Myles pulled the USB drive and pocketed it, locking the desktop just as the guard rounded the row.

“Sorry about that, just wanted to get out of here – have to tend to some copies upstairs then I’m gone.”

“You and me both, buddy. Okay, take it easy.”, the guard peered at Myles ID before stomping back towards the exit.

He had to get out of here. It was way too late to do any more snooping. Besides, he had to rise early to get a head start on all of his neglected housework. His laundry wasn’t going to wash itself. Myles exited to the elevators, punching the “Up” button.

He sincerely hoped the security guard wouldn’t make a big deal out of his late-night computer usage. Arriving at the top floor, Myles scooped up the still-warm copies from the DocuMax tray dumping the contents on the personal assistants desk down the hall.

Descending to the lobby, Myles pondered about what he had found.

The system was too fast to catch all of the document names he had copied, but momentary pauses in buffering the contents had revealed glimpses of names like “Threshold Stimuli”, “Subjective Analysis” and “Time Domain Perception”. It was very puzzling, indeed.

The subway ride home was noisy and jarring, large metal wheels squealing against worn rails during each turn. Myles preferred to stand, even though the car was empty. He once had made the mistake of sitting down late one night and had fallen fast asleep.

He had woken up in the train yard as the sun was rising, back aching and neck sore from the hard plastic. Myles vowed to never let that happen again. Even if it meant tired feet, it was way better than going to the end of the line and having to walk all the way home.

Myles exited the station and walked home, street lights still shining. He lived in a small three-story walkup on the ground floor. It was a good distance from work, but the price made it worthwhile. He slotted his key and opened the door, throwing his bag on the floor.

It wasn’t large, but it was his. Bookshelves lined the walls, curled posters from concerts bracketing his prized possession a large monitor that also functioned as his entertainment center. Myles paged through the DVR screen, adding some shows to record.

He was too sleepy to watch anything tonight. Maybe tomorrow after he got his chores done.

Myles took the USB drive from his pocket, quick-releasing it from the keychain. Who knew what secrets it held. He turned it over in his hands, placing it next to his computer.

Trudging into the bedroom, he kicked off his shoes and flopped on to his bed. He was exhausted.

A breeze rattled the bare branches outside, casting long shadows on the wall.

(To be continued.)

The constant drone of circulation fans in Carruthers suit lent an eerie undertone to the surroundings. Carr checked the printout, noting the location of the shipping container “ER2C”. The containment team had done well, each towering column of stacked containers were completely encapsulated.

Below, the low ceiling of semi-translucent plastic reminded him of tent caterpillar webs in mulberry trees. Yellow suited technicians swarmed the other columns, trudging up scaffold-supported stairs to each level. Arriving at the container door, Carr unlatched the mechanism.

The door swung outward with an extended metallic groan. Carr’s flashlight played over the boxes inside, shrink-wrapped electronics and assorted parts. He marked it off the list, and shut the door. Whatever was infecting people, it wouldn’t be lurking on circuit boards.

Just to be sure, a backup team would be sweeping every container when they were done taking samples. Carr doubted it was on anything inorganic. Most infections needed something with cellular structure to propagate. The search became a tempo of climbing, opening doors and checking off lists.

Carr didn’t mind, it let his brain tumble over the puzzle of facts in his head. Frank, the embattled Baxley CEO knew something. It was in the way he spoke, how he became agitated when there was another perceived delay. Frank was under a form of quarantine, along with his administrative assistant.

Carr stopped, rubbing his wrist. Figures he’d have an itch while wrapped up in this suit. He wished for a coat hanger he could straighten into a scratching implement. Wouldn’t that be a sight, him in a yellow hazmat suit puncturing the seal to get at an itch. Ridiculous.

As he walked to the next container, Carr noticed a dark pool of liquid on the plastic lined floor. Checking the manifest, he matched it up with the line item “Chiral Medical – Assorted Protein/12 kilo ea.” Carr heaved on the door latch, forcing it into the open position.

The container was half empty, multiple clear plastic pouches stacked on racks wrapped with plastic. This container was a “reefer” or refrigerated. The cooling tubes lined the walls in regular patterns, like a maze. Something was wrong, the compressor must have stopped running. The interior temp gauge was a balmy 70F/21C.

Carr walked closer to the racks, avoiding the dark rivulet of fluid down the center. He tore the plastic containing a shelf of pouches, lifting one up to the light. A pig hoof attached to a foreleg floated in some kind of brine, the end rounded in the same way as the body in the morgue. There were other oblong pieces in each package, all truncated in the same fashion.

He reconstructed it mentally, picturing how the refrigeration unit must’ve failed. With the internal temperature soaring, each pouch became an incubator for whatever was left behind during the packaging process. Some had burst, leaking the fluid Carr saw on the floor. It wouldn’t be a stretch to imagine someone stepping in it, or a rat running through it.

This was it, ground zero. Carr dropped the pouch on the floor, running out to the scaffold edge. He keyed the mic, feeling light-headed.

“This is Carruthers, we got a hot zone up here. Chiral Medical container. It seems like… it…”, Carr felt sleepy, like the whole world was pressing down on his shoulders. He shook his head, slumping down to the floor. Just had to take a rest, that’s all. The fans whirred a white-noise lullabye as he fell unconscious.

---

Burning sensation. Pain. Dryness in the back of his throat, grainy and uncomfortable.

Carruthers opened his eyes, staring at the ceiling. The last thing he remembered was the container, going outside and radioing for help. His right wrist felt like it had been sunburned, radiating pain in a circle all around. Carr lifted his arm, looking at the gauze bandage wrapped around his hand.

A pulse sensor was clipped to his finger, and multiple discs were attached to his chest. He was in a hospital. A light blue curtain ringed the bed. Carr moved his toes and wiggled his fingers. Well, at least he wasn’t paralyzed. His head felt like it was stuffed full of cotton. Detached and woozy.

The curtain parted, the Chief in dress blues with a few of his co-workers. Even the kid was there.

“Forgive me for not getting up.”

“You’re a lucky man, Carruthers.”, the Chief presented a folder with Carr’s name on it.

“What’s this, my report card?”

“Its your medical report. You got whatever those bodies had. Lucky for you the doctors here managed to save you and your hand.”

Carr paged through the folder, skimming the reports. Bolded words like “Subcutaneous mycelium structures” and “Zygomycosis like properties” gave him an instant headache.

“I’m not a doctor, just give me the summary.”

“You got whatever bug was crawling on those bodies. They’re still trying to figure it out. Lucky for you the infection on your wrist was contained to the skin which had to be removed.”

The itch. Carr rewound events in his head, recalling when Frank grabbed him before going in to the warehouse. That must meant that Frank was infected too.

“Before you ask, yes, Frank is in critical condition. We’re checking out everyone that had contact with him. So far nobody touched him, so they should be out from isolation soon.”, the Chief took back the folder putting it under his arm.

“What about Chiral Medical? If any other shipments made it out of there-“

“They’re shut down tight. We’re working with the Chinese authorities on the matter. Got two other ships that need to be inspected, but they know enough not to open the containers.”

“One more question – why? What was Frank doing dealing with an outfit like that?”

“Seems Frank struck a deal with the Chiral folks, they’re a supplier for medical applications. One of their breakthroughs was a way to ‘auto-quarter’ livestock. They’d infect an entire pen of pigs and collect the parts in the morning. Problem was, they didn’t anticipate it jumping species. The lab boys are still trying to figure it out.”

The Chief waved off the crowd, waiting until the door was shut.

“Seems that Frank was trying to use the parts for another deal involving pig farmers wanting to make a quick buck. He jumped over a bazillion regs and laws in doing so. Looks like he was trying to undercut the meat packing plants with an exclusive contract with Chiral Medical.”

Carr furrowed his brow. That would have meant introducing the tainted meat into the food supply. That bastard. Chasing money with zero ethics. It reminded Carr of his youthful mistake, letting greed dictate his actions.

“Thanks Chief. Sounds like we caught it in time.”

“Its not over yet. The Chiral CEO went missing before the Chinese could pick him up. We’ve got our international partners looking for him.”

“I’d like to be part of that, if you don’t mind.”

“Sure Carr. Get some rest. Plenty of work to do when you get back.”, the Chief patted Carr on the shoulder, exiting the room.

Carr pushed the call button, looking back up at the ceiling.

He needed a drink, maybe some food.

Anything but a ham sandwich.

Flashing lights and blaring sirens on the drive back to Baxley. Carruthers didn’t like going full-bore, but sometimes there was no other choice. Time was passing at an alarming rate, what had been early morning wore into noon and was rapidly becoming evening rush-hour, cars clogging streets with weary commuters.

The bartender hadn’t made it. The nurses and doctors tried their best, but there was not much left to save. The body had been wrapped in a plastic cocoon, awaiting a full autopsy under the direction of the Center for Disease Control. Since Carr was the point man on the case, the technicians were waiting for him to arrive before inspecting the warehouse.

Frank had been full of surprises, and Carr didn’t trust him. He had to use every skill in his arsenal to get Frank to disclose what he knew. The only reason Frank wasn’t in an interrogation room was the time-sensitive nature of the problem. Baxley’s ancient record keeping wasn’t helping any.

The only reason Carr had a inventory printout at all was due to regulatory requirements, Baxley furnishing manifests and responding to inquiries. He was sure Frank would’ve preferred everything be done on a handshake and a liquid lunch if he could get away with it. It smacked of shady dealings, making him think Frank had some contracts he wasn’t talking about.

Money made people do stupid things.

When he was young and naive, Carr got wrapped up in a deal that ended up being a Multi-Level-Marketing scam. What he had thought was a good friend introduced him to it. The lure of easy cash was too hard to ignore. It took years to restore his credit, after his “friend” bolted with the funds leaving him twisting in the wind. It taught him a lesson, always do your own diligence on a deal.

Carr rolled through the barrier, pulled aside at speed due to his obnoxious entrance. He switched off the lights and sirens, pulling into a spot near the main entrance. Frank was smoking a cigarette outside, scowling at officers and yellow-suited hazmat techs.

Carr wished he had brought the kid in on this one, let him deal with Frank’s bluster while he got down to the real digging. Army of one, master of none – like they say. He strode up to Frank, nodding at the officer tasked with babysitting duty.

“Another body cooling on a slab, Frank. You better be on the level before anyone else dies.”

Frank eye’s widened, he coughed mid-inhale, sputtering, “You can’t talk to me like that–“

“So I keep hearing. The only thing I want from you is the truth.”, Carr locked eyes with the bedraggled CEO, refusing to blink first.

“I gave you everything, I swear.”

“We’ll see about that. Got a team inbound to audit your records.”, Carr stepped around Frank, headed towards the entrance.

“What? I have it organized the way I want, you can’t do that – I got shipments coming and bills to pay!”, Frank grabbed Carr’s wrist, pleading like a child.

“We can, and we will. You’ve got nothing coming, Frank. Harbor master already told them to expect a full inspection when they arrive. Nothing is moving off of those boats until we know its safe.”

Frank let go, slumping against the weathered grey wall. Carr almost felt sorry for him. Almost. There was an undercurrent there that he couldn’t put his finger on, and it bothered him.

Carr pushed on past the front office, to a small utility room that had been repurposed as a staging area. The entire interior had been draped in thick plastic, held up by an adjustable frame. Furniture that couldn’t be moved were indistinct lumps rising from the ground, edges taped and secured against tearing.

Technicians handed Carr some disposable coverings, spraying down the outer surfaces with a chemical wash. The suits hung on a rack past a plastic curtain. Part of the room had been sectioned into a improvised airlock. Two steel benches gleaming in the portable floodlights.

He stepped into the full gown, gloves and shoe coverings wrapped tight on his hands and feet. Turning in the confined space, he received a spray treatment before moving on to the changing area. The air was sharp and tinged with chemicals. Donning the suit, technicians made sure the zipper was sealed with tape before doing another spray-down.

It was like being in a car wash, except the windshield was a rounded rectangle of plastic, any leaks inviting horrible disease. He imagined an array of flopping brushes doing a final pass over his body, coating the suit with a thin layer of auto wax.

“Rust-proofing please.”

The techs halted, looking at each other with puzzled expressions.

“Just kidding. Lets pop the cork and see what we’ve got.”

The interior door had been cut out and replaced with a flexible aperture. Carr stepped through, into the brightly lit space beyond. The containment team had been busy. The warehouse was too big to enclose from outside, so every container block had been draped and encapsulated, with room for portable scaffolding containing stairways to each level.

A low ceiling of plastic was supported by portable struts, each strapped with glowing LED lights. It looked like something out of a science fiction movie. This would be the part where an alien would appear, dripping slime and baring several sets of teeth.

If only it were that obvious. They had plenty of containers to check, and going by the manifest, they would start with the most recent additions. Carr felt tired just looking at it. A dry patch in his throat made him cough, forgetting he was wearing a suit – his gloved hand hit his facemask with a dull thud.

“Sorry, reflex. Let’s get started.”

Technicians began to fan out, each holding a copy of the manifest. Carr cleared his throat, keying the radio on his utility belt.

“Do it by the numbers. Give a shout if you find anything of interest.”

Carr walked up to the nearest column, climbing the shiny metal stairs.

(To be continued.)

Carruthers walked outside, closing the door behind him.

It took some prodding, but Frank finally produced a printout listing every container that had been shipped in the last two weeks. Cryptic number-letter suffix at the end of each line, like a street address, except the houses were stacked ten stories high.

He would need some help to inspect them all. Carr’s phone buzzed in his pocket, derailing his train of thought. A text, from the kid at the station.

Bartender critical, metro hospital isolation

Carr had to get down there. He had been so intent on saving the bartender’s life last night that he hadn’t asked any questions. This could be his last chance. The circle of infection was expanding, beyond the Red Rose and Baxley Shipping. Every moment counted, each lead radiating out from ground zero with fatal swiftness.

Carr tried to get the severed hand out of his mind, lying on the wet sidewalk. He could’ve sworn it twitched when he wasn’t looking directly at it. Might have been the lightning playing tricks with his eyesight, who knows. Shifting into gear, Carr rolled through the barricade waving at the officer on duty.

Metro Hospital loomed up ahead, red warning lights pulsing on the helipad. Brutalist architecture meant lots of concrete and narrow windows. It reminded Carr of the city jail, except the inmates were paying for their stay. He doubted the food was as good.

Carr eased into a parking spot near the Emergency entrance, putting his placard on the dashboard. He walked past an idling paramedic, through the double doors into reception. It was a quiet, just a few nurses filling out paperwork and checking their phones.

“Excuse me, Detective Carruthers for the recent patient in critical care.”

“Over there, down the hall and third door on the left. You’ll have to wear these – isolation ward.”

The nurse handed him a pair of gloves, mask and coverings for his shoes and head. Not a full hazard suit, but enough to keep things at bay as long as you kept your hands to yourself.

Carr donned the clothing, snapping the foot coverings into place with a awkward hopping motion. Doctor Quack, at your service. He felt a bit silly walking down the hallway, foot covers swishing on the white linoleum tile. The third door had a red sign stating “Isolation: Proper Attire Only”.

He stepped into the room, letting the heavy door close silently behind him. Blinking lights, soft whisper of a ventilator pumping air into a flexible tube. Sensor wires and clear drip tubes snaked into a port on the side of the plastic curtain. The bartender lay on a stretcher, encapsulated in the isolation tent.

Carr noticed that one leg was gone, pants folded up to the hip. The bartenders left arm truncated at the elbow, rounded end mottled and red. Multiple scarlet traces were ringing his neck, skin puckering around the edges. He couldn’t help but think of the head in the bathtub, bloodshot eyes staring at the ceiling.

He inserted a gloved hand through the port, gently shaking the large man by the shoulder.

“Hey. Wake up, need to ask you something.”

The bartender opened red-lined eyes, mouth half open. He shifted the mask off of his face, lips slowly moving.

Carr leaned in to hear, head pushing against the plastic.

“Couldn’t.. make… it…”, dry hacking cough filled the room.

“I know. I got the boys to bring you here. This is important, did you have any contact with employees from Baxley Shipping?”

“Yes. Guy came in last night. Crazy story.. half a rat crawled on his boot. Wanted to quit Baxley right there.”

Carr drew back, reconstructing it in his head. One guy comes in, shakes the bartenders hand and gets a drink. Then a buddy of his joins him, they have a few together before he heads home. One gets found on Kennedy Street, the other in the bathtub at his house.

The half-rat must’ve been a recent victim, shedding infecting particles on the worker’s boot. He must’ve wiped it off with his hand, or was careless when cleaning it with a rag. The end was the same, in any case. That was it, all cases pointed back to Baxley.

“Anything else?”, Carr leaned closer.

The big man grimaced, coughing loudly.

“Yeah. He didn’t tip worth a shit…”

A blue light flooded the room, EKG monitor squealing. Nurses burst through the door, pushing Carr out of the way. The EKG flat-lined. They started CPR, compressing the chest at regular intervals. Carr backed out of the room, out into the brightly lit hallway.

This wasn’t getting any better.

Carr stripped off the gloves and coverings, putting them in the bin marked with a tri-horned biohazard symbol. He washed his hands at the nurse station, using liberal amounts of cleanser. You couldn’t be too careful. Carr walked out to his vehicle, sliding into the driver’s seat.

Clicking the two-way mic, he radioed in to the station, updating the Chief on what he had learned.

The warehouse was the key. He was sure of it.

(To be continued.)

Carruthers didn’t want to see another time sheet ever again. It had taken hours to sift through the records, cross-checking them with the monthly schedule. He had two leads. Technically only one, the john doe found dead on Kennedy Street was one of the workers who had called in sick.

Carr rubbed his face, he needed a good nights sleep. Looking in the rear-view mirror he could see dark circles under his eyes. What a wreck. Day old stubble and a loosened necktie. At least the address wasn’t too far, just on the outskirts of town.

Revving the engine, Carr shifted into gear pulling on to the elevated expressway. It would dump him right where the money ran out, where shiny office buildings faded into dilapidated three-story walkups and seedy liquor stores. Old neon signs buzzing in storefronts, imploring passers by to spend their last dollars.

The wave of prosperity had washed over the city and crashed hard at the borders. The riptide of poverty made for a bleak landscape. Bedsheets in windows instead of curtains, litter on the sidewalks. Even the street sweepers couldn’t keep up, and they didn’t dare stop on their rounds – the last one that had got robbed at gunpoint.

Carr eased off the ramp towards the intersection, framed by peeling traffic lights flashing in standby mode. No one came out here unless they wanted to hide, or couldn’t afford anything else. He didn’t feel better than these people, just the radiated pain reflected in every broken bottle, every sagging store front.

He counted off the blocks, turning left on a pot-holed street near the city limits. The street ended in a cul-de-sac punctuated by stripped cars resting on their bare axles. Scattered piles of green safety glass marking past break-ins. Carr swung around the circle, backing up to provide a speedy departure.

829 Ogden. One story affair with peeling paint and drooping gutters. The front porch was stacked with auto parts, rusting exhaust pipes leaned up next to a torn screen door. Carruthers carefully opened the screen door, pressing the doorbell.

Muted chimes sounded from inside.

Nothing. Just a fitful breeze stirring scraps of paper.

Carr walked around the side, stepping through a rusted gate into thigh-high weeds. The back yard was overgrown, columns of stacked tires graying in the morning light. Stepping up the back porch stairs, he peered through a half-opened window.

Darkness, the faint sound of a radio playing.

“Metro police, I want to ask you some questions. Anyone here?”

Still nothing. Carr pushed on the back door, which swung in with a long squeak. This wasn’t right. He unholstered his pistol, safety switched off. Entering the kitchen, Carr swept the room. Piles of dishes sat in the sink, festering. Flies buzzed around the dim fixture in the ceiling in lazy arcs.

An unmistakable smell hit his nostrils.

Carr found him in the bathroom, water still dripping into the tub. He put on his blue nitrile gloves, putting away his gun. There were a jumble of parts at the bottom of the tub, each rounded and mottled just like the man found on Kennedy Street. The head bobbed at the edge, hair moving like tentacles on a jellyfish.

This whole site could be contaminated. Carr hastily withdrew, going out the back and rushing towards his vehicle. He removed the gloves and hurled them into the takeout bag, joining the others. He’d have to dispose of that somehow, it was probably crawling with whatever had infected the poor sap in the tub.

Carr’s phone rang, vibrating in his pocket.

“Carruthers here.”

“Carr, you better get down to the warehouse if you’re not there now. Ray’s autopsy results has the CDC stepping in. You’re the point man in getting down to the bottom of this.”

“Roger that, Chief. Be there soon-as.”

He hung up, turning the phone like a worry stone between his fingers. Center for Disease Control meant more resources, but the stakes were going up. Titles 8 and 42 expressly permitted full quarantine of any potential assets involved in the transmission or spread of communicable diseases.

Frank at Baxley Shipping would have a fit. His entire inventory would be frozen until it was determined there were no potential infection vectors. Somehow the thought didn’t make Carr feel any better. Shifting into gear, he accelerated down the street, weaving to avoid the deeper pits in the asphalt.

The street in front of Baxley was a swarm of yellow tape and flashing lights. Carr flashed his badge at the officer on the line, who moved the barricade aside to let him pass. He had to give the Chief credit on this one, looked like every possible agency was represented on site.

He got out of the car, walking over to the sergeant in charge.

“Detective Carruthers, Chief put me on point for this one.”

“Have at it, the old man is giving me a headache.”, the sergeant waved Carr on, two-way crackling with updates.

Carr walked inside, greeted by Frank shouting at a visibly annoyed patrol officer.

“You can’t do this! I have a business to run! I pay my taxes, which means I pay your salary, so get out of here!”

“Frank. Shut it.”, Carr nodded to the cop, who stepped outside.

Frank blustered, hair askew. By the look of it he had been ranting for a while. His face was as red as a beet, circles of sweat under his armpits.

“You can’t talk like that to me–“

“I can, and I will.”, Carr stepped forward, staring Frank in the eyes. “You’re not only going to allow these people to do their jobs, you are going to calm down and let us save some lives.”

“What are you talking about, there isn’t anyone dead here.”

“Wrong again, Frank. The body we picked up on Kennedy Street was one of yours. The other I just checked on, he’s dead too. So shut up and sit down.”

Frank slumped into his chair, muttering under his breath.

“Now tell me about your most recent shipments. We’re going to have to check them all. We’ll need the keys to the warehouse.”, Carr drew up a chair, sitting opposite of the disheveled CEO.

(To be continued.)