My ears were still ringing from the news. To have a person from the past living in my head is almost as unimaginable as discovering zombies in my mom's backyard (no, not the game). I had thousands of questions for him-what's his name? Where did he come from? How did he end up in my brain? Does this man has anything to do with my loss of control at Del Taco and with Wong? Or my cracking of a twenty-digit/alphabet highly encrypted code after recently solving the renowned Master Sudoku?
At the end, I decided to state the obvious, partly because I didn't quite believe his claim. "So, you're telling you are a prehistoric human."
"Not really." The man grunted. "Just a couple of years back. Nineteen ninety-nine."
The year rang a bell in my head (no pun intended), but I couldn't quite figure out what it meant. Before I could ask another question, he grabbed the initiative.
"You haven't told me your name, boy."
I was indignant. I was nineteen, and he was calling me a boy? Nevertheless, I replied, no doubt with a steely edge to my voice. "Jarod."
He snorted. "Last name?"
I was blatantly irritated. This guy barges into my head, goes into a screaming frenzy, doesn't even apologize or introduce himself and now he's asking for my last name? Give me a break. "Why don't you tell me something about yourself, Loudred?"
He inhaled sharply. For a second I thought he was about to rebuke my manners. My instinct told me that he wasn't used to having his orders questioned. Well, I didn't care if he was George Bush or Captain America; as long as he was in my head, he should at least show me some respect.
"Fine. My name is Phillip Rogers." Pause. "The rest is classified."
I guffawed rudely. "So you're playing CIA agent now, huh? Well, I can live with that, but just answer me this-what the hell are you doing in my head?"
"That was exactly what I was gonna ask you. I was in the middle of an atta-" He stopped in mid-sentence, suddenly realizing that he'd spoke too much.
I groaned. "Great. Now you're telling me that you were halfway through an intense Call of Duty match, and suddenly, for no reason at all, you end up in the head of a nineteen-year-old. How very devastating."
There was a knock on the door of the stall.
"Dude!" A voice called from behind the door. It sounded angry. "Stop taking up the stall with your phone call! Someone's gonna die of diarrhoea here!"
There were snickers in the background.
I exhaled the breath I didn't realize I had been holding. How am I supposed to communicate with Phillip Rogers without other people staring at me like I'm a psychological freak?
As if he could read my thoughts, "You know, as I am somehow inside your mind, I guess you'll just have to think what you wanna say and I'll be able to hear it, loud and clear." Phillip suggested.
So he could read my thoughts after all. I felt naked. Like I was standing in front of this Phillip Rogers guy with nothing covering my groin. Jesus.
"If you're thinking I can hear your every thought," Phillip started. God! This is real creepy. "You're probably wrong. For I can't hear a single thing right now."
Well, that's a relief.
"HEY! OPEN UP, YOU ASSHOLE!" The banging was harder now. It threatened to shatter the hinges.
"One second!" I called.
I tried directing my thoughts at him. It felt like thought-speaking-I had to imagine a guy in his forties as I 'hurled' my thoughts at him. "Can you hear me now?"
"Affirmative." He confirmed.
"We've got to get out of here." I stood up and was about to open the door when I remembered something. Turning back, I flushed the toilet.
A bald guy with tattoos all over his scalp was waiting for me. Standing beside him was two funny-looking punks. They were snorting and scoffing like a pair of donkeys.
"Been jerkin' off huh, kiddo?" Tattoo Baldie sneered. Brays of laughter erupted from the two funny-looking punks.
I stared hard at Tattoo Baldie. As he was a couple of inches shorter than me, I found myself scrutinizing the tattoo of a naked woman in the centre of his head. Some art.
"Don't," I warned, in a tone that wiped the stupid smirk off Tattoo Baldie's face. The two donkeys cut off in mid-bray and stared at me with their mouths agape. With one last threatening glare at the trio, I shoved past them and exited the toilet.
As I returned to my seat, I found myself wondering at my sudden show of bravado. "Dude," I thought at Phillip Rogers. "Was that you just now?"
"Those kids need some serious ass-kickin'." Was his admonishing reply.
I was half-amazed, half-awed. "Where did you...y'know, learn such badass moves?"
"You call that badass?" Phillip Rogers snorted. "I'll show you badass."
My hands grabbed the can of Coke and were about to hurl it at the counter. "NO!" I shouted aloud. "Don't!"
Everybody stared. Abashed, I lowered my hand awkwardly. Muttering a garbled "'scuse me", I stood up and hurried out of the café.
"So I've been mocked by donkeys and ridiculed by a Coke, all thanks to you, Mr Phillip Rogers." I fumed. "Not to mention turning my room into a rubbish dump too."
"Oh, shut up." He waved away the accusation as if it was a fly. "And just call me Phil, would you?"
I was careful not to scream out loud this time. "Just Phil, eh? Tell me why I shouldn't be calling you a frigging bastard instead?"
Phil completely ignored my thought-screech. "Why don't you continue checking out the shiny black device in your pockets?"
That shut me up for good. Shiny black device? Oh right, the phone. And the answers. "It's an IPhone." I corrected him.
"Yeah, yeah. You're not the only one who's confused, Jarod." He said. "I want some answers too."
"So you were the one who cracked the code?"
"Me?" Phil gave a disdainful sniff. "I've always sucked at cracking codes?"
"Oh?" I raised an eyebrow. "So who did?"
There was a pause. "Not a clue. But who cares? The code's cracked, and that's all that matters."
I clicked into the call log. There was a couple of numbers in it, but only one without any name or number. Just a blank slot from an unknown source.
"Great. I've got a blank number. Now what?" I asked.
"Hmm." Phil murmured thoughtfully. "I've got a source that could track down the exact location of any phone number. Even an encrypted one."
"Really." I sniggered, not really impressed. "Don't forget you're in the twenty-first century now."
Phil didn't sound very happy at my kindly reminder. "Just do as I say, boy."
I rolled my eyes.
A few minutes later, I was in a cranky looking bus, on my way to where Phil directed me to. I do not believe in coincidences, but the place he told me was nearby; just a few miles away from Redwood hospital.
I was dying to know more about Phil, but getting him to open up to me was agonizing. Our conversations droned on endlessly, and was totally unproductive. Like between an over-enthusiastic paparazzi and a completely pissed off celebrity. For example:
Me: So, tell me about yourself. Where are you from?
Phil: Sorry man. That just wouldn't do. It's confidential.
Me: Oh, c'mon! Surely by telling me where your hometown is wouldn't get you executed for treason.
Phil: Probably not. But still, nope.
Pause.
Me: What's your favorite color?
Phil: (chuckles) Fat chance. N-O-P-E.
Me: (snorting) And I thought soldiers were easy to sway. Now I know why I'm wrong―they don't even have a favourite colour.
That pretty much summarizes my entire conversation with Phil in the bus. He was definitely not answering any questions, I could tell. I guessed he was probably CIA or FBI or some other secret government organization. I knew they had strict orders to not reveal their identity. Even Phillip Rogers could be a pseudonym too.
Wait. What about the guys who killed Dr Gordon? Could Phil have anything to do with them?
Suddenly swamped by a wave of distrust, I decided to keep quiet until I reached my destination.
Fortunately, the awkward silence wasn't long, for around half an hour later Phil pressed the STOP bell. As I got down the bus, I found myself staring at...a gymnasium. It was a grey and faded double storey building with the words "ULTIMATE FITNESS" printed in bold on a large board at the top.
"Seriously?" I snorted. "A gym? Your friend's a bodybuilder or something?"
"Just shut up and keep walking."
I shrugged and strode towards the front door, trying to feel like Arnold Schwarzenegger. After a few steps, I decided against it. I looked more like a retarded automaton than a tough muscleman.
"Welcome to Ultimate Fitness. First-timer?" A cheery voice greeted me along with a refreshing wave of air-conditioning. It was a young black guy who had a wide smile on his face. His name tag spelt 'Fisher'.
"Okay, you're gonna tell him this," Phil said. "'I can only bench press 10 pounds.'"
"What?!" I hissed. That was humiliating! 10 pounds! Even a sturdy three-year-old could manage that.
"Just tell him that, you stupid egomaniac."
"Sir?" Mr Fisher was looking at me dubiously. I realized I had been staring at him wordlessly.
Damn you, Phillip Rogers. I thought, gritting my teeth. I gave the guy my widest smile. "I can only bench press 10 pounds."
Ugh. It felt like my pride had dissipated in that one single line. I expected the guy to laugh at me, but to my surprise he did not. Instead, his face changed; it darkened, as if I'd just called his mother an old fart.
"Here's the second part," Phil whispered urgently. "He's gonna doubt your self-deprecating claim, but you're gonna say 'My biceps are horrendously small.'"
Okay, now that's way too much. I was about to call Phil something not very decent, but the Fisher guy gave me no chance.
His initial look of surprise was gone. In its place was a mocking look. "Really?" he scoffed.
Oh, blast it! I'll settle Phil later.
"My biceps are horrendously small," I admitted. Or at least it sounded like I admitted, for I'd said it in a 'You better back off.' tone.
Fisher straightened abruptly, all business. He gave me a look of doubt before saying, "Follow me."
I followed Fisher into an adjoining room which was full of gym equipment. From there, he unlocked a rather insignificant looking door and beckoned me to follow him inside. I'd expected it to be full of gym equipment too, but it was dark, like a storeroom of some sort. Then Fisher flicked on the lights.
It turned out to be a room full of sophisticated looking computers. Judging by the old models and the layer of dust on most of the gadgets, this place was quite antique.
"Sir?" Fisher was calling. For a moment I thought he was gonna voice-activate a gigantic killing robot to slice me up, but as I followed his gaze, I realized there was someone slumped in the corner. Empty Heineken bottles were scattered around him.
As the figure lifted his head, all I saw was a man, probably in his late fifties, with dull and gloomy eyes, staring back at me. His beard was an unkempt bush soaked with drool. He was donned in a shabby old jeans and a black-and-white turtleneck. He looked kinda pathetic.
"Sir?" Fisher sounded nervous. "It's him. The guy you're expecting."
I'm sorry? What did this scruffy old man have anything to do with me?
The scruffy old man wasn't so sure himself. "Who?" He frowned.
"He's the one." Fisher insisted, pointing to me. "He said the exact words."
"Wha...what words?" The man squinted his eyes at me.
Fisher was getting upset. "The code words, sir. The one you told me, sir." Getting no response from the old man, Fisher repeated my confession. "'I can only bench press 10 pounds.' 'My biceps are-'"
"Don't take me for a dotty old fool." The old man spat. "Of course I know the words. Just...it's impossible. This cannot be him." He shook his head, all the while staring at me as if I were a ghost.
I held up my hands. "Can somebody tell me what exactly is going on?"
"It's definitely not him." The old man shook his head sadly.
"But...but he said the words..." Fisher stuttered.
"Phil," I thought urgently. "I think you've got me the wrong man. This guy here appears to be a drunkard in old-fashioned clothes."
"Lend me your mouth for a sec," Phil said.
"What?" That was just unacceptable. Lending my mouth to a guy whom I'd just known for what, sixty minutes?
I glanced anxiously at the old man. His jaw was set in a determined manner. "Take him out." He ordered.
"No, wait." I blurted out. Focusing at Phil, I thought grimly. "You better not get my tongue cut out."
Maybe you'll be wondering how it feels like to actually lend someone your mouth. Well, here's the funny part: It doesn't really hurt, no. It's just like having a dentist inject localized anaesthetic to your gums.
"Hector." I heard myself say. "It's me, Phil."
Oh, so this scruffy old man is Hector. And Phil is really Phil. Or at least that's what his friends call him.
Upon hearing my (or maybe Phil's) words, Hector's head snapped up, so abruptly that I thought I'd heard his neck crack. The conflict of emotions in his eyes was so abrupt that it seemed almost comical; first with absolute joy, which was then replaced immediately by shock, terror and finally, distrust.
"You're lying." Hector spat venomously. "Phil's been dead for fifteen years now. I even remember burying him myself."
What?! To have a Phillip Rogers from 1999 living in my head was peculiar enough, but a dead Phillip Rogers was an entire different story.
Phil sounded troubled. Apparently he wasn't very happy to hear his friend declare that he'd been buried under three feet of earth. "Was there a body?" Phil asked.
"No, just a coffin." Hector shook his head forlornly. "They told me there was nothing left of him after the blast...only his cap."
"And you believed in that bullshit they told you?" Phil sounded excited. "C'mon, old pal, surely you ain't such a simple-minded fool!"
I was about to admonish Phil for his choice of words, but Hector didn't seem the least bit agitated. Instead, he brightened at the fact that a nineteen-year-old had just called him a simple-minded fool.
Hector jumped up with a sudden nimbleness that I never imagined he still possessed. He grabbed my arms feverishly. "I knew it! I'd always believed that you were still alive somewhere, and that you would return someday. And now you have, but-"
Hector broke off, and I saw the doubt that flickered in his eyes. Phil must have seen it too, but he did not let Hector voice his qualms.
"Yes, I know it's hard to accept, but it appears that I've grown younger throughout the past fifteen years!" Phil chuckled.
Hector was struggling to grasp the meaning of Phil's words. "Grown...younger?"
"You still never do get my jokes, don't you?" Phil sighed. "Whatever. It's a long story. Just trust me, Hector. It's really me."
Hector wasn't fully convinced. "Prove it."
Phil thought for a second. "You are a goddamn nerd." He concluded.
Hector smiled. "Fair enough. It's good to see you again, Phil. Thought I've lost you for good."
Phil chuckled. "I'm hard to kill."
"So, why have you came back to me after fifteen years? Last I checked, I wasn't quite at the top of your Best Buds list."
Phil's tone grew serious. "I need your help."
A few minutes later, Hector was examining Dr Gordon's IPhone with a magnifying glass. I had no idea what did a magnifying glass have to do with tracking an encrypted phone call, but I didn't say a thing. Well, I just prayed fervently that this guy wasn't a loony bin.
"So, what's the Big Plan?" I asked Hector. To my relief, Phil had returned me my mouth in one piece, not before exchanging a few more words with Hector, filling him in about our predicament.
Hector's reply wasn't disappointing. "The number's encrypted, all right, but with the right program I believe I can decrypt it. Then you'll have to make a call to the number-"
"How am I supposed to dial an unknown number?" I interrupted.
"I'll teach you how. It's pretty simple actually. The difficult part is that you'll have to stay on the line for at least ten seconds."
I thought about that for a while. Ten seconds might seem short, but what if the guy at the other end of the line smelled a rat? They certainly didn't seem like amateur kidnappers who will carelessly risk exposing their location by staying on the line with a stranger for more than ten seconds.
But I wasn't a stranger to them. For all I knew, they couldn't possibly know I had Dr Gordon's phone. They might not even be completely sure that they'd killed Dr Gordon at all. I've got the element of surprise, and I've got to make use of it to the fullest.
"I'm ready." I nodded to Hector.
"You sure?"
"Yeah."
Hector inserted a couple of wires to the phone that connected to a computer. He shot me an enquiring glance. I gave him a thumbs up. Satisfied, he turned to the computer screen and clicked 'Dial'.
Hector had put the call on speakerphone, so the familiar 'toot-toot' reverberated through the room. We didn't have to wait long.
"Gordon." A robotic voice answered. I started the stopwatch.
I tried my best to mimic what I believed was the dead doctor's voice, with a tinge of anxiousness to it. "Yeah, it's me. I'm sorry to interrupt, but there has been a situation-"
The robot didn't allow me to finish. "What is your favourite colour?"
I was confused. "Wha-at?"
It must be a real guy behind the robot voice, for I heard the sharp intake of breath. "What is your favourite colour, Gordon?"
It's a verification question! I realized. No, I don't think I should venture a guess; get it wrong and he'll terminate the call. I peeked at the stopwatch. Six seconds.
Suddenly Phil was shouting in my head. "Prevaricate! Pretend that you're losing the signal and ask him to speak up. Anything!"
I was sweating like hell, but I obeyed. "I...I can't...you...problem...signal...wait..." I stuttered. Come on, please don't hang up.
The guy hesitated. I was about to run out of stutters when he finally lost his patience and shut the phone.
Eleven seconds.
"You got it?" I asked Hector breathlessly.
Hector was beaming. "Yeah. I've got it." However, his smile quickly turned into a frown.
"What?"
Hector glanced at me worriedly. "The place appears to be three hundred miles away from here."
Not very far away, there was an urgent knocking on a heavy oak door. A figure, face concealed by the dark hood around its head, was hunched over a metal table. Its head snapped up to the knocking.
"Enter."
The oak door hissed open, and a man stepped through the threshold. He stood in front of the figure, and cleared his throat.
"Speak."
The man's response was clear and confident, but the slight tremor in his voice betrayed his emotions. "They're coming."
"Is that all?"
Despite the somehow tense situation, the man broke into a grin. "Well, at least they think they are coming to us."
The figure made no response. After a long while, it sighed. "He'll figure it out, sooner or later. And when the time arises, let him come. We've got a lot to catch up on."