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STEALING THREE by CHRIS CASTLE |
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“So what are we talking about here?” I ask, as he paces around the room. It’s the same routine each time;
twenty two steps to one end of the room and twenty one back, as if the room
somehow shrinks every time he sets out on one of his mini pilgrimages.
“I’m talking about change,” he replies. His
throat is dry from all the talking and the intermittent cigarettes we’ve smoked
in these last set of hours. Once,
I’d kissed that mouth and made his voice change from his normal low pitch to
something higher, more feminine. We
slept together for a time but then he went back to just being best friends, as
if that part of our life together was just another box to tick. I wonder sometimes if our whole lives
are not just a sequence of boxes and sequences for us to fulfil, one tick
steadily following the next until all the questions are answered.
“But what are we really talking about here?” I press on, not letting him off the hook. Both of us are computer hackers at
the highest level; growing up, people tried to diagnose us with medical
conditions, rather than just acknowledge we were just… smarter than them. We met through the internet and now
it looks like we could die through it, too.
I’m still in love with him, so I guess I’m okay with that. Being heartbroken can make me selfish
but maybe I’m taking this to a whole new level.
“I’m talking about tearing everything down and starting from the bottom up,” he says, finally
settling back down in his chair.
We’ve been breaking code and sweeping viruses for over twenty-four hours and our
room smells like a teenage nightmare.
None of the stereotypical things are on display: no energy drinks, bad
food or gaming posters. We drink
well and eat well. We take ending
the world very seriously. After all,
I want to be in good shape for the apocalypse, if it comes to that.
“We’re talking about ending everything,” I counter.
Part of me loves it most of all when we argue, even when it comes to
blows. It’s the time when I feel
most alive, as if I’m part of something.
I’ve never had the guts to self-harm, so screaming and shouting and the
occasional punch is as close at it gets for me.
Once, he gave me a black eye and I wore it like a badge of honour for
days, even when he begged me to put on shades.
I told people I picked it up in a bar fight but everyone knew, of course.
“So what if I am?” He says and there’s viciousness to his voice, underneath the intelligence
and the pouting, which makes me realise he could be serious. My heart ratchets up another notch
and instead of feeling scared, I just feel
alive.
“So…” I say, drawing out the small word for as long as I can, just to give him reason to run
through it one more time.
“We steal the number three,” he says, suddenly matter-of-factly. “We take it from every place, on
every file, in every country around the world.”
“And you realise what that will do,” I say, trying to keep my voice equally matter-of-factly
but not quite managing it. Instead,
I hear it tremble with excitement and crackle with a fear that’s more adrenaline
than panic. I see him nodding and a
grin creases along his mouth.
“Everything changes,” he says, summing it all up and at the same time side-stepping the
ramifications of what he’s putting on offer.
War codes, government passwords, back-up systems, banking…such as it is. Every number ever created, minus one
of the digits. It would be like
taking a major organ out of the world and then asking it to try and run a
marathon. Maybe it would get around
and maybe it would collapse after a few steps.
“Worst-case-scenario?” I ask, still trying to act flippant as inside, every fibre of my body
feels alive and crackling with heated energy.
It feels as if the sun is beneath my skin, flaring with new-found power.
“Everything ends before sun-up,” he says, the timbre of his voice not shifting one iota. Even as I fight it, my heart soars
watching him; there is perfection to him that I will never know. I understand that and the truth makes
me love him more and hate him harder.
“The best?” I fire back at him, suddenly curious to know if he has even considered a light at
the end of the tunnel. He smirks
again and I know that he has even managed to manufacture something positive out
of his doomsday scenario.
“We take over,” he says and I realise there’s no irony in his voice. A stab of petty jealousy grabs at my
heart, as I realise he has thought all this through and has reached his own
conclusions without consulting me first.
For the first time, I consider hijacking his plans, not for anything as
noble as world preservation and peace, but just to slight him off.
“How does that happen?” I say, trying to sound superior but hating the inflection in my voice
that still flickers with curiosity.
“You want to people to pray from the rubble?”
“When everything is gone, we’ll be the people to start things over,” he says. The words he uses and the lack of
hyperbole are smart. It’s the
lunatics who are quickly dismissed when speaking like messiahs; the ones who
carry out the plans talk just like you and me.
“What about the hurt, the destruction?” I ask, for a moment trying to adopt a prudish
conscience that clearly neither of us have.
“What about it?” He replies and lets it hang in the air; he’s called my bluff. I was waiting for him to try and
justify it but instead, he’s simply sweated me out and I really don’t have any
real defence to offer. Damn, I read
the papers every day. This place
already has one foot in Hell, if you ask me.
“It’s lazy to answer a question with a question,” I counter feebly, but I know he already has
me trapped in the corner.
“It’s lazier still to ask an empty question,” he fires back and again I feel a brisk stab in
my chest to realise that whatever I will be in this life, he will always be on a
plane just slightly higher above me, forever.
“Are you with me?”
“Yes,” I answer without a second thought and I know, in my heart of hearts, I would always
say yes, no matter what he asked me.
If it had been this or anything else, always yes.
When people look back at this, they’ll call us lunatics, outsiders,
psychopaths, even. And maybe we are. But one of us was driven by love and
that is what people will never understand or always choose to ignore.
“What we’re doing…” he says, and for the first time since all of this has begun, he falters. I can see his mind stumble, as
clearly as if he had physically tripped and fallen on his face. For the first time, I feel fear about
what we’re doing. I have never seen
doubt in him before and it shrouds him like a fever, casting a shadow over his
perfect, pale skin.
“We made this,” he says pointing to the computer screens, “and then we stuffed it full of
filth.
We made it dumb and pointless when it should have been…it should have
been perfect,” he says. I’m startled
to see tears well up in his eyes.
I’ve only ever seen what’s in his head before now. To see what’s in his heart scares me
more than the end of the world that waits beneath our fingertips.
“It should have been beautiful,” he says putting his thumb to the screen. It reminds me of the times he used to
place a fingertip to my cheek before dawn, when everything was quiet and the
world seemed perfect and still.
Maybe that’s how it will be in the future, after all this is done, I think. The idea of that, the notion of a
future stripped of all the noise and hurt and stupidity, pushes me forward,
close enough for me to place a hand on his shoulder.
“Maybe it still can, in the future,” I hear myself say and squeeze the tight knot of flesh
under his shirt. I watch as my touch
seems to stem the tears almost instantaneously and a small, cruel part of me
wonders if this is just a display, to ease me through into the final plan. The bigger part of me dismisses such
an idea but it is there, in the back of my mind, all the same.
“Yes, yes,” he mutters and I see him galvanising himself.
He takes his fingers away from the screen and places his hand over mine. The doubt sloughs away from his
cheeks, dismissed like a dewy cobweb, and the resolve seeps back into him. It’s as if the sunlight I’d felt in
my skin is pouring into him, channelling life and heat back into his body and
giving him strength. I realise that
I am a part of this and that for a moment, just for a tiny, split-second; I am
stronger than him, that he needs me.
I feel as if I have reached a pinnacle and that my life is complete and
true.
“Are you ready?” He asks me, gently shrugging off my hand from his shoulder and into his
seat. It is not done cruelly,
however, and he takes a few seconds to wait for me to take my seat beside him
before we begin. I sit down next to
him and the screens hum into life with our touch.
For a few seconds our bodies are lit by the glow of the monitors and we
are stilled, absorbing their light and silent under their power. He reaches forward to the keyboard
and I follow, as if we are both locked into the sequences of an old and trusty
prayer.
“Let’s begin,” he says and his fingers rain down on the keyboard. Mine soon follow and the familiar
click-clack soon picks up its pace.
Our plan begins. Outside, the
unknowing city grinds along; traffic roars and screeches, people holler and
curse. I pause for a moment to look
up and out of the small window; the only one in the apartment. The sky is grey and I wonder how long
it will be before it glows with a different colour. I wonder if smoke will fill the air. I turn back to the screen, as our
work begins to take hold and chaos unfurls on the screens. As the seed grows, I steal a glance
at him. His pale face is lit by the
bedlam on the screen. He is smiling.
I smile, too.
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Chris Castle
is an English
teacher in Greece. He has been published over 300 times and has been featured in
various end of year and best of anthologies. He is currently writing a novel.
His influences include Stephen King and Ray Carver. He can be reached for
feedback at
chriscastle76@hotmail.com. Chris has become a regular
contributor to our journal: In
addition to this month’s issue, his story
Grid
appears in the January 2013 issue, his story
Slumber
appears in the April 2013 issue and his story
Last House on Vector Street
appears in the June 2013 issue of HelloHorror. The authors published at HelloHorror retain all rights to their work. For permission to quote from a particular piece, or to reprint, contact the editors who will forward the request. All content on the web site is protected under copyright law. |