Fugue in D Minor, part 6: Penitence and Perdition

Part One   
Part Two
Part Three
Part Four
Part Five
[Part Six]
Part Seven
Part Eight

“I hated everyone. Every last man, woman and child. I hated all of them for their mindless roll-the-dice, move-your-mice approach to life. I was a terrorist.”

She looked up. “But once I actually got on the road to do it, I saw other sides of people. Homeless people smiled at me, children waved, random people I didn't know said hello to me.”

I leaned back and yawned. “What was that like?”

“...I...couldn't say.” She thought about it for a while.

“It was incredible, like becoming a real person after being a puppet, or a cartoon, or a toy. I had never seen anything that way before.”

“I was determined, but every day that I saw that side of people weakened my intent, and I eventually gave up completely and turned around. Which was today, when my car was stolen.”

I sighed. “You don't remember what I did, do you?”

“No...well...it was something strange. It must have, because they didn't give any information, and you were on after a murderer and a pedophile, and they didn't mention anything about you, or what you did, at all.”

I closed my eyes and frowned. “What...could I have done?”

“Dammit man, I don't know, but the whole situation is sketchy as all hell. You were probably taking down the government or something, and they didn't want to tell anyone.”

She laughed a small laugh, hardly more than a giggle.

“Well, Mr. Anarchist, we still have the internet, thanks to viewers like you.”

“Ha, well, thanks, I guess. Although I don't remember ever using it...”

My mind tried to change gears, but stripped all the teeth off of one of them and popped the other off the axle. “So, what do we do now? I don't know the first thing about living on the run. Or anything at all, really.”

She snorted.

“Well, I guess we're going to have to find out, aren't we?”

Fugue in D Minor, part 5: of Identity and Categorization

Part One   
Part Two
Part Three
Part Four
[Part Five]
Part Six
Part Seven
Part Eight

I snickered a bit.  Bomb the Web?  That's nothing short of ridiculous.

      "How, exactly, were you going to do that?" 

     Her jaw was again set in a scowl.  

      "You're going to have to drop that snarky-ass tone if you want me to keep answering your questions like a goddamn schoolgirl."

    Awfully foul-mouthed for a schoolgirl.  "Yeah, ok.  So, how?"

      She stretched her hands, twisting first the left and then the right until they made a tiny grinding sound, closed her eyes, and began.

     "I designed a computer program to systematically hijack servers-basically big computers that handle network traffic- and then use them to ping other servers and computers thousands of times a second, basically overloading them with information.  The program would then tell its servers to turn off their cooling fans and run at maximum processor speed, which would set the physical servers on fire."

     She drummed on the wheel idly in time with the raindrops, although she didn't seem to be doing it deliberately, lost in thought.

     I sighed.  "That's a hell of a program."

     She stopped drumming.  "It worked, by the way.  Accidentally let it loose on some websites based in Brazil, but it burned all of its bridges and basically got stuck.  That was an older version.  Unfortunately, AL isn't quite as reckless."

     "Al?"  I asked, incredulous.  "Of all the names you could have given to a destructive virus, you gave it Al?"

    "AL's not a virus," she retorted defensively, "he's an artificial intelligence, and the first one of his kind, as far as I can tell."  She chuckled to herself for a moment.  "In one of my moments of good humor, I named him AL because I misread some of my notes that said A I, in capital letters, which looked a little like AL."

     She drew in breath almost as if she was gathering thoughts.

     “Are you familiar with the idea of artificial intelligence?”

     I thought for a moment. She decided to explain it anyway.

     “Artificial intelligence, or A.I., is basically a thinking computer. A computer that can make its own decisions, learn, and communicate, like a human.”

     She continued excitedly, obviously enthralled with her pet project. Lightening lit up the sky again, but Ana didn't seem to notice.

     “It was often regarded as impossible. I ignored all the doubters, and I succeeded! I created a synthetic thinking being!”

     Her smile disappeared.  "He was a project, a brainchild born out of the code of that first destructive program, but with reasoning and intelligence.  Basically he's unstoppable once he's plugged into the Internet, and we're stuck in a car with no gas and no battery...."

     She almost looked like she was crying.

    I don't have much experience with people, but I tried to comfort her.  She's violent, but the only person I know, and I should try to keep her calm, for both of our sake.

     "Ana, we'll stop him, somehow.  Maybe hitchhike."

     She jumped, startled. “...How do you know my name?”

     I closed my eyes for a moment in thought.

     “A phone...your phone...rang a while back. Woman named Jen wanted you to know she was waiting for you at the airport.”

     “Sounds like Jen, all right. She...” Her sentence died. Lightning flashed once, leaving red circles as if we had our picture taken.

     “Where is the phone?”

     I rummaged around my feet. “Um,” I said. “Oh, here it is. Why?”

      She sat back and exhaled deeply. “We're even more fucked than I thought.  AL's already over the border.”  She flicked her eyes toward me and back to the road. “Wait, you talked to Jen?"  

      "Well, she yelled and swore at me.  I guess that counts."

      Her stomach rumbled.

     “Hey, I'm hungry. Sign says there's a gas station a mile up the road.”

      “Ana, it's torrents outside. Do you have any money anyway?”

     She didn't need any time to think, apparently, because she followed me up immediately with a “no.”

     “I know because I tried to get coffee earlier today, and I was twelve cents short. I ended up just sitting in the shop and watching TV....” She trailed off, and threw me a split-second look that could only be described as terror. I frowned.

     “You all right?”

     “...Yeah, I'm fine.” She obviously was nothing of the sort, unless “fine” meant “scared shitless,” and I don't think it does.

     “You know you were on TV recently, right?”

      “Why would I know that? I don't remember watching TV ever, let alone today, let alone being filmed for it.”

     She breathed deeply. “Right...well, I don't mean to alarm you, but...” She trailed off, as if she had suddenly lost confidence.

     “But?”

     She sighed again. “....You're....in trouble...law trouble.”

     WHAT.

     “...WHAT.”

     Of course I don't ask anything helpful, only the stupid obligatory question.

    She flicked her eyes back to the road. “I don't know what you did, but there's an APB out for you.”

     She snorted. “I forget exactly what APB means, it's not good...but not any worse than me.”

     I mentally reeled in confusion. “Wait, I have and APB out for me, so...” I trailed off, before finding the words to complete my question, without sounding like an ass.

     “So...what does that make you? A terrorist?” I snickered at my little joke. Hee hurr.

      She turned to me for a moment before turning back to the road. I could hardly see her face, but I didn't need to look to see her bitter shame. Whoops.

“Yep.”

Fugue in D Minor, part 4: In which an Incompatability exists between Reality and Existence

Part One   
Part Two
Part Three
[Part Four]
Part Five
Part Six
Part Seven
Part Eight

4:53.

      She scowled at me, pacing like a starving tiger, and then stopped, sat down and closed her eyes. She seemed to have lost her adrenaline high and was dropped unceremoniously back into her unfortunate circumstance. If I had looked up “beaten” in the dictionary, I would find a picture of her alongside the second or third definition. She sighed.

     “Three men, dressed up as a truck driver and two mechanics. I thought they looked suspicious, but I've had to ignore my gut feelings for a while now.”

     "They walked up to me when I was filling up at a gas station and told me that my left taillight was out.  I showed them that it wasn't.  They snatched my keys, threw me in the trunk, and drove...." She looked around and shivered when the wind picked up.  "Well, drove somewhere."

      She turned back to me. 

     “You don't look like them at all, now that I think about it. They were huge gorillas of men, hands that could crush cans into paste. You....aren't.”

I thought that was generous, considering I got knocked out by a crazy trunk-lady.

     Her face softened for a moment. She was beautiful in a strange way, some combination of her almost sharp features, large expressive eyes, and jaw-length hair, which was currently all sorts of awry. Being locked in the trunk of a highway-bound car for an undetermined amount of time can do that, I suppose.

     “Why do you have to ignore your gut feelings? Did they get you in trouble?”

     She looked almost startled that I would ask her such a personal question.  I got the feeling that she wasn't used to it. She took a deep breath and went back to her veil of suspicion.

      “....you could say that.” She looked at the ground and absently played with some small rocks, trying to stack them up into towers, which didn't seem to work out. I would have prodded her further, but she began again of her own accord, lifting the metaphorical veil.

     “I've had to tell a lot of lies to a lot of people, and if my gut had its way, I'd be in prison right about now.”

      I was on a roll, as far as information-gathering went.

“So what's all the stuff in the car for, anyway? The switches? That stand thing?”

     She clammed up again. I was not on a roll, apparently.

     The sky darkened slightly and rumbled like a baritone giant. She stood up and stabilized a little awkwardly, favoring her left leg. Probably hit something on her way out of the trunk.

     “I'm going inside. Come with me,” she said, which sounded more like an order than a suggestion. I wasn't about to argue with her or the approaching storm clouds, so I followed her to the Saab, grunching over the increasingly slick pebbles.

     She slammed the driver's side door shut and relaxed, collapsing into the relatively comfortable driver's seat as raindrops began to patter on the closed sunroof. She glanced at the dash and frowned. “Great.” The car's display was dark.

     I jumped in and closed the door behind me, remembering at the last second that there was a bunch of stuff on the passenger's side. I did a strange half-pirouette in midair and landed facing backwards with my knees on the seat, successfully saving the accessories from my feet. She only partially suppressed her smirk at my stupid trick, even in spite of the situation we found ourselves in. I looked over my right shoulder at the items on the floor.

     “Is this your stuff?”

     She leaned over to take a casual glance at it, which quickly turned very alarmed. “Yeah, that's my-OH SHIT! Give me that bag!”

     I reached down for it, eventually dislodging it from everything else. I handed it to her.

     “Here. It feels empty.”

     She took the bag and immediately her face fell like a suicide jumper. She went limp and sunk into the seat.

     “Of course. Perfect end to a perfect day. Fuck.” She tossed the bag over her shoulder, where it hit the rear seats with a flaccid flump.

     I rearranged myself, managing to negotiate myself into a normal seated position. The thunder grew louder, but still didn't entirely reassure me that sitting in this car was such a good idea. Too late now. 

     Actually, it was probably too late however many hours ago I ended up with this car. Oh well.

     I turned my attention to her from the rivulets that turned to rivers on the windshield.

     “So what do we do now?”

She turned he head lazily, in a kind of trance, or more likely shock.

“...I don't know.”

I closed my eyes and leaned back, rubbing my temples, listening to the rain on the roof. It made me think of tribal drums, but I couldn't think of where I would have heard such music.

“Well,” I began, “We're in the middle of nowhere, and the car's dead.”

     The map I had seen suddenly came to mind.

“Hey, what's in Lazero Cardenas? It's marked on your map.”

     I had my eyes closed still, listening to the patterns the rain made on the roof. I heard a heavy sigh that sounded like it could have come from an ancient statue in a forgotten ruin.

     “That's where I was intending to go the day before yesterday, and it's where the contents of that bag-” she pointed a thumb back at the seat behind her, “-are headed right now.”

     She shook her head. “ Fuck.”

      I saw a hint of distress as she winced in pain as she accidentally bumped her foot on the brake pedal, but her iron shroud returned almost instantly. I could guess there was a lot more where that sad look came from.

     “I'm sorry.” I meant it.

     She looked hard-eyed, almost angry, but I caught a watery glimmer in her eye for a second.

     “No, I should be sorry. I should have expected this. I had it coming. It's all over.”

     Tears escaped her eyelids and wandered slowly down her unmoving face, much like the water on the windshield. I reached over and flipped the wiper controls. She sniffled once and rubbed her face with her dingy shirtsleeve.

      "What do you mean?  Why is the bag go-"  She cut me off with a wave of her hand.  She began with a question.

     "How much do you know about the Internet?  Or, well, how much do you remember?"

     I thought for a moment.  "Not much.  Bunch of websites."

     She turned a little, halfheartedly facing me.  "That's the Web.  The Internet's the hardware that it all runs on, all the interconnected computers and wires and satellites."

     My temper rose slightly.  Arguing over the fine meaning of words has a place and time, but not in the middle of nowhere, in a thunderstorm, at 5:21 pm.  

      "So what?  Why is the difference important?"  I scratched the back of my neck in frustration, trying to relieve some tension. 

     I could hear her grinding her teeth.  "The difference is important because changing hardware requires someone to be at the location to change it, or fix it, or whatever.  Changing software can be done from one place, with the right access."  

     I laid my hands out in a questioning gesture.  

     "So what?"

     Ana exhaled harshly.  "So what?  I was going to Lazero Cardenas to bomb the Web."

Fugue in D Minor, part 3: a Madwoman and a Misplaced Garment

Part One   
Part Two
[Part Three]
Part Four
Part Five
Part Six
Part Seven
Part Eight

     I don't have any memories of opening a car's trunk, but I definitely didn't expect to be greeted by a crazed snarling shoeless psycho woman who jumped out swinging.

     “RAAAAH!”

     One of her flailing fists landed solidly on my nose. It hurt. I clamped my hands down on my nose as blood began to stream from it, which really did  nothing but make my cursing sound ridiculous.

     “AHHH DA FAAAAHH!?”

     A young woman with more malice in her eyes than I had ever seen in my five or six hours of life towered over me in her wrinkled pants and grimy shirt. She kicked me in the shin once almost lightly, and then wound up for another one, which felt like a light tap with a socket wrench followed by a sledgehammer-and-chisel combination.

     WHAM.

5:29.

     She had her hands up in some kind of improvised fighting stance, ignoring the new red splatters on her bare feet. I couldn't tell if the blood was mine or hers. I dropped my left hand from my nose, folding it into a fist, and sent it into her jaw with a flat solid smack like a belly-flop.

     She reeled from the blow, but as I readied another punch, she swung her elbow around behind her and located my temple-

6:13.

     Once I woke up and my nose had stopped bleeding, I tried to explain myself as I lay in the ground in submission, and although she, sitting nearby, nodded coldly, I could tell she believed very little.

     “So....how in HELL did you end up with my car?”

     I held my head in my hands. I kept answering the same halfway-disguised questions with the same information; that is to say, none at all. I was getting a little exasperated.

      “I don't know. The first thing I remember is driving it on the highway...this highway.”

     She stood and reached for a license plate that sat on the gravel. Nothing good could come of that.

     “That's bullshit and you know it. Where are your friends now, asshole?”

     “....What? Friends?”

     She walked toward me with the ragged metal plate that grew more and more ominous.

     “So they left all the dirty work to you. I guess there's no heroes among thieves after all. I hope I'm out of this gig before I'm the ass-end of some operation.”

      I said nothing and gave her a look of incredible confusion.

    Unnamed thugs....hmmmm.   Something dawned on me.

     "Wait, what did they look like?  Was one of them wearing these pants?"

     She gave me a look of such exasperation that I just shut up and decided to wait for her to talk, hoping that she wouldn't open my throat with the saw-like license plate.  Then she frowned.

     "Yeah....that's my blood on the right knee, but the guy who was wearing them was a hell of a lot bigger than you.  Hit me straight in the mouth."

     She gestured to her busted lips.   "So, how did you get his pants?  And my car?"

     "I told you, I don't know.  I remember how to do stuff, like drive a car, but I don't remember anything about my life."

      She sat back down and eyed me with reinforced suspicion.

“How did you end up in the trunk of your own car?”

     She glared at me. “Shut up,” she said flatly. She sounded like a raccoon that hadn't slept for a year.

   

Fugue in D Minor, part 2: Jen and some Confusion

Part One   
[Part Two]
Part Three
Part Four
Part Five
Part Six
Part Seven
Part Eight

     There's a pocket on the door that held a map of southwest North America, which is interesting only for the reason that it is unmarked, save for a circle around Lazero Cardenas, Mexico. I don't think that's where I am right now, but I couldn't say for sure.

      The car's (my car? Michael's car?) a black Saab, old but full of riddles.

     There is a stand on the passenger's side of the car that has several different segments that turn several different ways, mounted on the dashboard. It looks like it was intended for a computer or TV.

      There's a collection of junk (my junk? ) on the floor on the passenger's side that I haven't gotten around to looking through just yet, mostly due to shock.

      I began to rummage around in the passenger's footwell, hoping to drag my fingertips, like a divining rod, over an epiphany, or at least a clue.

     There was no chorus of angels, unfortunately, but my blindly groping hand did close on a hunk of plastic inside the bag, which turned out to be an old Nokia cell phone missing the column with keys 1, 4, and 7, as well as half of the screen and most of its battery power. I tossed it onto the passenger seat, intending to take a look at it later. 

3: 22.

      I had settled back into my seat just as a jaunty tune erupted from my right, almost causing me to hit the sign that patiently reminded me of the speed limit, which I was exceeding by a good fifteen to twenty miles an hour.

      “OHHH WHEN THE SAAAINTS....COME MARCH-”

      I snatched it up and reflexively mashed the green “Answer” button, if only to stop the symphony of awful. I held it tentatively to my ear.

       “Hello?”

      A woman's voice came over the line.

      “Hey, Ana, it's Jen.”

      I (who) grimaced. This is not what I had hoped for, but more or less exactly what I had expected.

     “Um, hey, I'm not Ana...”

      “Well, is she available?”

      “I don't think so...sorry.”

      She ignored my ignorance and continued in her strident, businesslike tone. “Well, could you tell her that Jen is waiting for her at the airport?”

      I chewed on the inside of my cheek.

      “Um....I can't, actually. I just found this phone. I-”

      She cut me off with such startling force that I veered into the wrong lane. All I heard was “WAIT, YOU-” and then some indignant honking from outside. I dropped the phone in order to steer out of the way of oncoming traffic. I picked it again and interrupted what appeared to be a tirade. “Could you repeat that?” She lost her already thin facade of tolerance. “WHERE DID YOU FIND IT?”

     “Uhhh....” I tried desperately to think of where I could have picked it up, but all I know is road.

     “She never takes it out of her car. How did you end up with it?” This conversation was not going well.

     “What kind of car does she have?”

      “A black Saab.”

      I sighed. “....well, fuck.”

      I hung up just before a I was consumed by a retaliatory volcano of expletives. I tossed the phone into the passenger's footwell, but didn't hear the solid clunk I expected. I leaned over to take a closer look. The phone had landed on a backpack or messenger bag or something, next to some shoes, a cord for something, and two hairbands. As I reached down for the (my?) miscellaneous objects, I caught a glance of my watch, which said 3:25.

After the one sided shouting match with Jen, the odd thumping in the back of the car that I had presumed to be some loose bolts or something became much more ominous. I signaled right even though I couldn't see any cars anymore, hoping that I had imagined all of this, and would wake up...somewhere. Anywhere.

      As I reached down to shut off the car, I noticed there was no key in the ignition. Hotwired?

     I looked curiously below the steering wheel and found an exposed nest of wires, several of which were clipped and electrical-taped together. I really hope I didn't steal this car. Or kidnap the thud sound in the trunk.

      Despite my better judgment, I decided to turn off the car, pulling questionable connections apart one by one. The car's engine died on the second pair of wires.

      I pulled the parking brake, put the shifter in neutral, and stepped out of the car, all the while trying to override the mild panic bubbling up in my throat.

     The damp, dirty gravel ground under my shoes with a slick wet crunch. It had been raining on and off for a couple hours now, and it looked as if the clouds were on the tail end of their lunch break.

     I shivered.

Fugue in D Minor, pt.1

Soundtrack
[Part One]
Part Two
Part Three
Part Four
Part Five
Part Six
Part Seven
Part Eight
2:12.

WHOWHEREWHATEWHOWHATWHEREWHOWHAT

HONK HONK HONK HOOONNNNnnnnnnnnnk SKREEEEEEE

2:37.

WHEREAMIWHEREAMIWHEREAMI WHERE WHERE WHERE WHO

2:40.

NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO WHO!

2:52.

NO NO NO NO NO NO NO CALM DOWN NO NO NO STOP NO

3:04.

Ok....ok...this...all right...ok...

3:07.

Ok....where am I? This is...desert...look...for...signs...

3:08.

Highway...8? Where's....oh. Arizona? Huh.

 

3: 12.

As far as I can tell, my life began with the road in front of me; a desert highway spotted here and there with trash and stunted trees, lying submissive under a bipolar sky, waffling between (am i dreaming) storms and sun.

I checked my pockets a while back for (anything at all) something that could tell me about myself. The wallet in my back right pocket has a California driver's license in it, reading Michael Wells, (me me me) a thirty-year-old white guy with a ridiculous moustache and some extra pounds. I checked the rearview mirror.

Not me. These pants are probably his, though. Jesus. This man is a whale. Or was a whale.

So why do I have his pants?

They Should Have Aimed A Little Higher

Soundtrack

9:36

Twenty-five shots later, the smoke that swirled through the conference room like a restless cyclone began to evacuate through the remains of an expensive bay window. The men in business suits lowered their handguns, eyes narrowed, searching through the haze for a corpse.

"Mr. Fuller, do you see anything?" The speaker's empty revolver gleamed in the early evening streetlights far below.

"Sir, I....he's..."







Like many revolutions, it began at the coast and spread inland at incredible speed, overtaking towns and cities under the cover of night.




However, unlike other revolutions, where the combatants fought over a particular patch of land and the rights associated with it, this one was fought over, and for, the people already living there.




9:29

"You misunderstand me."

The hooded figure turned to face his inquisitors.

"There is no industrial profit from this operation. Believe me if you will, but although I was a mercenary once, and may well be one again, there is nothing mercenary about my intent, plan, and proposed execution."


There was some muttering amongst the group, doubt and suspicion among the staple themes.

"Are you gentlemen familiar with Sierra Leone? Small country on Africa's west coast, integral to much of the 18th and 19th century's slave trade, and more recently, the diamond market."

The men's eyes lit up at the mention of the precious gemstones.

"Have I got your attention?"

The men in suits nodded, trying not to look to eager.

"Good."

The hooded man turned away once more.

"If I succeed, I will halt the diamond trade, topple their puppeteer shadow government, and give the people the opportunity to establish leadership they deserve."




The suits frowned. Three reached casually for their pockets, and another fiddled with his watch buttons.

"Gentlemen, I am fully aware of your identities, as well as the companies you represent."

He gathered breath for a moment, and let it out in a sigh.

"Companies that will irreparably damaged, if not destroyed, if my errand-list of activities comes to completion."




Two of the suits reached into their jackets.




9:37

The cloaked figure stumbled as the hazy shroud fell to the floor and the gunmen glanced at each others guns in confusion, mentally computing the number of rounds contained in four six-shot revolvers, and comparing it to the twenty-five explosions ringing in their ears.




As they looked in increasing horror to the hooded man, the modest but tasteful chandelier broke loose of its moorings and fell like a ton of bricks onto the suits. The hooded man straightened up, threw the pinned businessmen a sarcastic salute, and dove like an Olympian through the mostly vacant windowframe.

"Mr. Fuller, call our contacts."

"Sierra Leone, Sir?"

The boss stretched his hand out and grabbed a padded jacket with twenty-four bullet holes left by the window.

"No, all of them."