“Whaddya mean, I can’t google on your
computers?”
“I’m sorry,
sir, but the library discontinued that option years ago. And may I ask you to
lower your voice, please.”
“Can’t you
google something for me, then,” Earl begged in the same volume, “so I can see
what’s goin’ on?”
The
librarian sighed with some sympathy. “Tell me what you’d like to browse, and
probably our data bank has something possible for you to check out.”
“The Leper
Virus,” Earl strained in an indoor voice, “like, from hackers.”
“Is this a
joke?”
“No. I need
some info. Urgently.”
“May I see
your library card, Mr—”
“Garvey.
Earl Garvey. Used to come here a lot before,.. um,” thumbing through the pit of
his worn-out wallet, “y’know, before internet.”
The librarian
typed in Earl’s request. “Books are more popular than ever,” she asserted. “And
that’s not to say we haven’t kept up with the times. Case in point: your
library card,” taking it from Earl and scanning the barcode, “will link you to
our tri-state lending network, community events, online—oops…”
“Oh, no—”
“It says,
Mr— um, I’m supposed to destroy this card and—”
“Show me
the message! What does it say?” Earl forced the flat screen to turn enough for
him to read:
Viral user! Confiscate card.
Unplug this device
immediately and contact
IT.
“No freakin’ way! That laminated piece of nothin’s out to
get me too?”
“Sir,” the
librarian flung the card behind her and fumbled for buttons behind the console,
“You need to exit. Now!”
Earl stared
at his gaping wallet, fingering his last thirteen bucks. He took them,
trembling, and his driver’s license, but left everything else in the faux
leather sheaf, hurling it toward the treacherous library card. “Join your
colony, bastards!”
The mayhem
started two days earlier, as Earl was debating with a buddy the birthdate of
Dostoevsky: just before Halloween, he had always thought, but what about that
Julian/Gregorian calendar hiccup? He clicked Siri on his phone, and instead of
her velveteen voice, a graphic of a dismembered clown appeared with a caption, ‘Look, Ma, no hands!’ Then the screen blacked out.
“Low
battery?” his buddy asked at Earl’s consternation.
“Um, did
you just send me… a halloween meme?”
Clearly he
hadn’t, but that caption rang a bell. “The Leper’s Virus, I think it’s called.
I’d google it myself, but, y’know… Can’t be too
careful.”
They were
pretty near done with beers and Dostoevsky anyway, and flipping a coaster heads/tails, Earl picked up the tab. He took
out his MasterCard and vocalized a decent tip; the bartender rubbed his chin,
though, when ‘NOT AUTHORIZED’ showed on the credit card machine. Earl’s VISA did the same, and by this time,
his buddy took out his Discover and let them out of jail.
“Maybe I
should get one of those,” Earl deadpanned.
“Maybe you
should discover what’s eating your
accounts. I’m outta here.”
“Say what?
How?” Earl’s queries disappeared into the late October chill.
The
following morning was worse. He opened his laptop—same result, perhaps a millisecond
shorter. He eyeballed his PC, usually unused, but decided he’d figure things
out from his cubicle at work. The insurance company had recently granted two
desktops per employee to ‘free up’ the inevitable split screens; Earl eyed one
for business only, the other for, well, whatever came up.
Both, in
turn, shot the same animation while Earl took fretful note: the clown
materialized like a cyber beach ball, spinning to size then freezing, except
for the fingers, wrists, and elbows that segmented forward from his body,
floating a mini-moment before the darkness, and Earl’s sense of doom.
The ‘help
desk’ button on his modular phone had never been pressed. “No time like now,”
murmured Earl, and broached with an upbeat, “hey, Barry—how’s it goin’?” Grimly,
a voice not Barry’s told him to hang up and stay put. “What? Why?” Earl
sputtered into the deafness.
Within
minutes, two techies Earl had never met curled into his cubicle. “We can’t say much, Mr Garvey,” the taller
one said. “You’ve been infected with an IP virus—”
“This leper
thing?”
“Shut it!”
the other almost spit. “Don’t even utter the name. It hasn’t bothered our
system before and shant, as far as I’m concerned.”
The tall
one nodded, “as far as we’re
concerned. Provisional leave, Mr Garvey—you’ll be contacted via registered mail
as to any further action.”
“But—you
can’t be… I mean—help desk, right?”
“There’s no
negotiation. Your digital presence here is a danger to us all.”
Before
slumping home, Earl tried his luck at the bank. The teller didn’t dare swipe
his cards—the user name matching some memo to cut them in half and deliver the
same blunt message to exit and wait for
“Registered
mail!?”
“Yes, Mr
Garvey. We’re sorry, but this is unprecedented. Please—hurry.”
“No, you hurry in figuring this out! I have
monthly print-outs of my balance, six-digits deep!” Earl spun on his heel,
knowing he didn’t have such print-outs, but pretty sure he had proof of
something legally binding.
He called
his mother, who asked him to skype to see his face. “Ma, I’m in trouble. Can’t
skype or anything online. I’m even surprised I can contact you… Ma?... Ma?...
Oh, for Christ sake—don’t tell me it’s—damn!”
He slammed
the phone down and surveyed the shadows for some kind of exclamation. An ex-lover?
Few and far-between, and he had firewalled smartly for that ‘I love you’ virus.
A colleague? A prankster? His younger brother, who never quite forgave him for
pushing him into motocross? Popping wheelies, jumping stunts until a final
landing ramp near cut him in half. Paralyzed, waist down. Morphed into a video
game geek. At least a good one, at that.
November 2nd
the mail came, though nothing ‘registered’. Inside, Earl was dead,
undiscovered. The PC screen was smashed. A postcard with that clown was signed,
yet smudged away.
Daniel Martin Vold
Lamken (2018)
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