The Wired Man

23

Personal Entry: The Wired Man

My old neighbor offered me the couch for the night, but I knew better. They would be coming if they weren't already.

Once he went to bed, I snuck out into the street and began walking. The occasional automated scanning bot broke up the vast curfew-induced emptiness. The tall, metal cylinders hovered on by as if I didn't exist, and I guess to them that wasn't far from the truth.

Although it had only been a day ago, life up on the second level seemed distant. The clean skyways so vibrant and full of purpose were replaced with the cracked concrete sidewalks and paved roads leading to the factories. The people who were so friendly now dredged in and out of their dirty ant hives in almost complete silence. Why bother trying when there's nowhere left to go?

I wondered what Carissa was doing and whether she was worried or not. Warmth filled my body as I pictured her smiling, but a sharp pain inside my lungs hit me when I realized I'd probably never see her again. With a subtlety of a train wreck, my body collapsed. Tears globbed up my vision, and I put my face into my hands. What was I doing? How did I get here? I fell back into a nearby wall and sobbed.

I sat on that street corner for what felt like an hour, trying to cry away all of the problems I knew I couldn't outrun. I knew the SPA would catch me, I knew I was going to prison, and I knew I would never see her beautiful face ever again. Whoever that Good Samaritan was that moved me to that dumpster could go die in a fire. I wanted everything to be over. I wanted to creep into the bathroom with my own little razor blade and paint the walls with my blood. Instead here I was sitting next to a building in the middle of the Lowers crying my eyes out because I had nowhere and no one left to bother running towards or away from. I wanted to die.

Sick of the frustration and endless grief for my long-dead life, I started back down the sidewalk. Once I got my stability back, I saw the blurry outline of a person standing on the side of the road. Probably another pathetic has-been like me.

I kept walking, and when I got closer, a man in a long coat came into focus. He had something peculiar in his fingers, a small, white stick with a thin column of smoke rising from the end.

When I got close enough to see his face, a black ground sedan with dark, tinted windows pulled up next to him from a nearby alley and stopped. I took a step back. Nobody had tinted windows and that nice of a car without some kind of security clearance.

"Wait a minute before you decide to run off," he said.

His voice was smooth and firm as if he had rehearsed every word a hundred times. Everything about him screamed vintage, his coat, his voice, even his shoes, yet somehow they all looked brand new like someone plucked from his own time and dropped into ours.

I stopped. He opened the car door and beckoned.

"Please. We don't want to do you any harm. Why do you think we've been trying so hard to keep you safe?"

The words hit me like jumping into a cold pool on a hot day.

"So you're the one that took out my-"

"Tracking chips, yes. And moved you from that alley into a rigged incinerator two miles away. And helped you escape that dreadful apartment of yours."

I grabbed the webbing of my right hand between my index finger and thumb. My heart started pounding and I looked over my shoulder. This guy, whoever he was, wasn't playing around.

"You may run. I can't stop you, but you won't get far," he said.

"Whatever you say." I took a step back.

"Your friend called the SPA the moment you left, so they will be here any moment."

The man put his lips to the end of the smoking, white cylinder and sucked in. He left it hanging off the corner of his mouth and ash fell onto the side of his jacket. He took two steps toward me and put a hand on my shoulder.

"You can come with us, or you can take your chances. Either way, this ends tonight," The man said.

He took the smoldering cylinder out of his mouth and threw it at a passing monitor bot. He smiled.

"Can you guarantee my safety?" I said.

"Nope. But I can guarantee an end."

"An end to what?"

The man held out his hand and panned it across my field of vision behind him. "All of this."

I walked toward him and, without a word, got in the car. I didn't know if I could trust him, but I was out of options and I didn't have much time to think it over.

The man walked to the driver's side, whispered some instructions to a man up front, and patted him on the shoulder. After some protest from the driver, the man opened the rear door and fell in beside me. Before shutting the door, he pulled out a small package from his pocket. "Cigarette?"

"No thanks."

I didn't know what a cigarette was, but the thought of inhaling smoke didn't seem that appealing. He shut the door and the car zoomed away.

"Suit yourself."

He took one out of the pack, put it in his mouth, and struck a match. "You sure got some nice friends," he said.

"Can't say I blame him."

"Me either," he said. "The system usually brings out the worst in people."

He took a puff of smoke and pushed the button to roll down the window. "It didn't start this way, you know. It started as a way for people to connect. To keep in contact but everyone got so damn paranoid."

"You going to tell me what's going on?"

"You had lots of friends, a good relationship, and a great job, right?"

Before I could answer, he continued.

"You had everything. It had to be you, or at least someone like you."

"I don't understand."

"I wouldn't expect you to."

His statement annoyed me. "How am I supposed to understand when all you're doing is making vague statements like it's a puzzle?" I said.

"Someone who's been inside has a different perspective than an old man who still pines for better days."

"Perspective for what?"

"Makes the judgment unbiased."