Fatigued,
Tomas looked up and found the gentle earth tones of his
study room faded to shades of dungeon gray. After hours of
tapping away he had no answer. He'd been on-line so long his
eyes felt hard and glassy -- spilling occasional tears like he'd
become a stiff android that could fake emotion.
He’d learned
from the search that Trash.exe didn’t exist as a program, virus
or malware. It didn’t exist at all. Going back to his file
manager he hit the delete button for a file. A message popped up
– ARE YOU SURE YOU WANT TRASH.EXE TO SELF-REPLICATE AND ADAPT TO
NEW ENVIRONMENTS. He clicked okay and as before Trash.exe
scanned his system in seconds, duplicated itself and then
deleted the previous file it had infected.
Thinking it
over he decided he was going about it the wrong way. Switching
back to his browser he typed self-replicating into the advanced
search and chose the most comprehensive document, which turned
out to be a file posted by an artificial intelligence research
lab in Toronto. A science teacher; Professor James
Morton intended to create new
artificial intelligence by releasing self-replicating programs
on the internet. His very optimistic expectations were that they
would eventually evolve to new life forms.
Clicking on
Trash.exe, Thomas studied the effect. It came up like a screen
saver -- a pond of soft light flowed with gentle patterns of
flickering colors. It certainly was odd, a display that put the
idea of the primordial soup into mind. The flickering played on
his eyes and mood, soothing him, giving rise to dreamy thoughts.
He leaned back, letting his heavy eyes slowly close -- just a
blur of lights, then he caught something in peripheral vision.
Shadows were creeping on the walls. He shot up straight, his
vision drawn to the waste basket. The garbage swirled inside; he
was sure he saw a banana peel crawl halfway over the edge before
falling back.
Startled,
Thomas seized the desk and pushed, rolling his chair back from
the computer. Was it madness or was Trash.exe invading his mind
and environment? Thoughts of the flickering pained him - if it
really was a program designed to evolve on its own, maybe it was
taking the next step - keying its info into the human brain,
using light signals as the input. What had this nutty
Morton guy done? Didn't he know
enough to avoid playing with fire? An evolving computer program
would be inimical -- a virus that evolved like sharks evolved,
by devouring other things.
Thomas thought
about phoning the university, then ruled it out. They'd check
his background and it would be game over. He might even get
arrested again. His personal history always did him in when it
came to dealing with educated people. He'd started his career on
the net as a Christian extremist, managing to harass thousands
of people at universities and other establishments before his
faith faded, leaving him stuck wondering why he’d done it all.
Now he was known as a former Christian lunatic and a mad
hypochondriac -- a label he found unfair. It certainly wasn't
his fault that he was genetically weak and prone to every sort
of disease. Sure he'd been wrong a few times -- like last week
when he'd e-mailed the university health centre then jogged down
to the lab claiming runaway microorganisms were eating his feet.
It turned out to be athlete's foot and not deadly organisms and
like always he got a lecture and the blame.
This time he
was on to something deadly, there was no doubt about it. Perhaps
it had already replicated other similar organisms. Thomas rolled
the chair back and typed Trash.com in the search engine, and to
his amazement a page began to open. It was titled
Trash.exe's Trash
Compactor Page, home of environmentally friendly computer
organisms. His breathing got heavy as a graphic of a trash can
appeared. He clicked on it and a mail program popped up.
Canceling it he looked at the list
below, which named a number of mirror sites where Trash.exe was
available for download. Sweat began to bead on his forehead. He
feared the consequences of clicking anything on this page. He
hit the view source button and saw that the author of the page
code really was Trash.exe itself. "My God," he said, "it's been
done. This lunatic, Professor James Morton,
has created runaway computer intelligence. Trash.exe has proven
its intelligence by creating its own web and download page."
Going back he scrolled the page. The design wasn't all that hot,
and the graphics Trash.exe used were all stolen from other
pages. But it was still a pretty fancy web page, and Thomas knew
the purpose of the page -- it was a headquarters, a site hosting
a new Frankenstein monster computer intelligence that intended
to evolve by spreading trashy replications of itself across the
world.
He decided to
power down. His system was infected, which meant he'd likely
have to destroy it. He rolled his chair back as the hum dropped
to silence, then stared in amazement at the pattern still
flickering on the monitor. His eyes were so heavy from the long
hours he thought that maybe he was seeing patterns where there
were none. He tried to clear his thoughts, but found them
getting odd -- a moment later muddled pre-dream logic took over
and he fell asleep in the chair.
. . . in
dreams Thomas felt dizziness rush in and the feeling shook
him with confusion. It was like being a picture fading in and
out of lines and distortion. He couldn't quite get a handle on
the trembling. In everyday life, Thomas prided himself in being
sharp, neat and clean -- a crisp suit, skin always scrubbed pink
. . . a self-image cut to perfect glass. But now his vision was
clearing, showing the frayed cuffs of a blackened white shirt.
This dream hit
with power and he forgot himself, like an actor that gets
involved and thinks the movie to be all that exists. It was
shocking to find himself ugly, and he knew it would happen
again. He turned to the mirror, feeling terror rise in his
blood. A tramp Mr. Hyde showed in the glass . . . hair wild,
frayed, yellow-gray and unkempt. He had blood-spidered
eyes sunk in the ashen craters of a face gone leathery, creased
and tar-stained, and wore a wrinkled white shirt with worn dress
trousers that looked all the sillier being held up by shabby
suspenders.
Nails in the
floorboards penetrated his paper-thin soles as he slowly turned
to the window. Horrible odors rose from rotting food in the
corners of the room. The sun was a silvery smear behind a
shifting wall of gray clouds, but the street looked to be clean.
Hobbling over he slid the glass up and took a breath of fresh
air. The streets had been scrubbed clean by spring rain -- walls
steaming fresh, spotless asphalt and brickwork leading off to a
misted rainbow at the centre of town. It was an irresistible
sight that sent him out the door, hobbling hurriedly down the
rickety stairs, wiping his foul nose in anticipation.
He heard
nothing but ghostly echoes of the wind and his footsteps on the
way down, and he was thankful for it. Bursting out the door, he
took a deep breath, then fell to his knees, choking. He’d
swallowed something so bad he felt a squirming fish in his lungs
and withering poisons shooting into his blood. It’d been a
trick, a ghastly trick -- he looked around, seeing trash spilled
everywhere on the cobble stones, and not a soul, unless some of
the heaps of old clothing were people.
Thomas stood
up, his usually straight back irritatingly stooped. Covering his
nose with his ragged sleeve he began to walk. Rounding the
corner he came to some rusty autos and a view of the avenue.
There was no end to the garbage, and he saw rats scurrying on
the rubbish heaps. Just the thought of all the germs nearly
knocked him down, and in that unsteady moment he became aware of
something malevolent watching him. It existed in the garbage, a
being or evil force. The thing that had caused this mess. He
knew it was ancient; it had always been around -- an evil force
of filth . . . the unclean thing that nature and God had fought
for eternity.
Now it wanted
his body and soul. Panic-stricken he began to run. His gait
crooked, the mounds of garbage passing above like slow clouds,
the cans and swirling paper tripping him up below. Rats
squealed, he saw vultures circling. Dogs began to howl. Ahead a
mound of tar came to life, twisting itself into a giant human
form. Like an evil spirit made of rubbish it spread its arms
wide and was about to seize him, then he woke up.
The
computer screen was blank. He began to rise, but his legs
were asleep and he fell forward to the floor. The tingling
subsided only to be replaced by a terrible body itch. Thomas got
up, scratching his balls like a gorilla. Somehow the trash in
the dream had irritated his skin. His clothes felt suddenly
filthy so he took them off and headed for the shower. Grime
stained the walls; he'd been too busy to notice how filthy the
place was getting. Entertaining thoughts of bringing in a
fumigation and cleaning crew, he stepped into the shower.
Showering was
a bit of a ritual. Thomas cleaned the stall with hospital
disinfectant each morning, and would never step in unless it was
spotless. The taps needed a touch of chrome polish, but
considering the state of the house, he decided to let it go. A
smooth rush of steaming water emerged from the tap, and he
waited until it was nearly scalding hot before popping on the
shower head. It was a special massage head that cleaned with
power and he immediately aimed it at his genitals -- the area of
his body that was usually the most unclean. As the head pounded
scalding water on his testicles, he fancied that he was washing
old Mr. Hyde down the drain. But not quite, that would really
take a brush. Taking down a stiff scrub brush he went to work.
When his genitals had been scrubbed pink, he went to work on the
rest of his body. Breaking into song was his method of killing
the scrub-brush pain. It‘d been hymns a while ago. Now he sang
old Frank Sinatra tunes. "The summer wind!" he sang and as he
ripped the brush across his ass.
The garbage
strike was endless and Thomas wiped his brow as bright
sunlight sent black ghosts skittering across his mind. Old as
brass and as hot as a magnifying glass, the sun melted the
shadows and revealed the twisted scrunge
existing in every corner. He walked down
Harbord Street shaking his head. A good shower, a crisp
suit, but just step outside and you're ambushed by the filth.
The rain and wind … nothing is renewed any more. They only carry
the filth, water it down and stain the world with it. Halting,
he picked up a Mars Bar wrapper with his cane and flicked it
away. As a boy he'd stepped over every crack. Now he was sure
he'd survived because of it. Somewhat satisfied, he watched the
wrapper flutter into the gutter, and land right in front of a
rat -- a stinking fat rat. Furious, Thomas charged, breaking
open a fallen garbage bag as a whip of his cane missed the
fleeing rodent.
Cheeks
reddened, he continued down the street, happy he'd missed and
not fouled his cane with rat crap. A mountain of trash was
heaped against Angela's board fence, and he saw it like a
conspiracy. They knew he was coming and put the trash wherever
it would block him. Damn government had promised an end to
garbage strikes when they sold the services to the private
sector. Now the private companies were union and on strike.
Odors of sweet
rot mingled with the fragrance from Angela's lilac hedge. The
air was so thick he could've spread garbage honey from it.
Homeless tramps were loafing out front of the drugstore, picking
about in the trash beneath a giant tampon marquee. A sight so
sickening he had to grind his teeth to keep from throwing up.
Thomas had once thought cutting people off welfare was a great
idea, but now that the streets were filled with the unwashed, he
hated Hatchet Hardin and his new Conservative government for
doing it.
Jumping the
fence at a low spot, he got into Angela's back yard, and found
himself looking about a little slice of heaven -- a blossoming
cherry tree, an apple tree, corner rock garden, lush grass and
the lilacs. It all came to an end at the fence where he could
see a curtain of stink heat rising above the boards.
Her house was
cottage style, and it looked homey and not out of place among
the larger structures. Thomas had lived here once and moving
back would be nice if Angela didn't come with the house. He
knocked on the door pondering the situation, remembering that
she was still angry about the trouble he'd caused during his
days of salvation.
She answered,
fresh out of the shower, her honey blond hair blow dried and her
robe clean. It brought a smile to his face and he felt an
erection rising as he stepped inside.
"Thomas, I was
about to phone. I didn't think you’d go out in this."
"I've not much
choice, do I," he said as he took out his pocket book. He
produced a check. "The alimony," he said. "Three months, so I'm
up to date now. But, er uh," he
cleared his throat.
She snatched
the cheque. "But what . . . but more excuses for next month --
Is that it?" She bit her lip, her large eyes and tiny nose
giving her the look of an angry doll.
"Well, sort of
. . . a terrible thing has happened. I might need money to hire
a private eye. There's this university professor, James
Morton. He's released deadly trash
organisms onto the internet and--"
"The answer is
no. No money for more of your crazy conspiracy theories. I don't
care if the professor’s little bugs
are straight from Hades."
"They're using
screen savers to invade our minds. I'm sure they caused this
garbage strike. They sent me dreams of being Mr. Hyde."
"You're nuts,
Thomas. And as far as I'm concerned, Mr. Hyde is what I need.
Mr. Hyde would at least know that his wife wants to get screwed
once in while."
"Please,
Angela, you make me feel so terrible when you use that word. And
the way you want to do it. It's unclean."
"No money,
Thomas. If you want to know about this
Morton guy go there and talk to him. And be smart enough
to avoid being put away."
Smoke
drifted on the street, fingers of a giant hand formed and it
was like a monstrous hand of filth that would molest him when he
passed the fence. The bums were drifting south, and a few guys
in university computer science jackets were out front of the
drugstore. Two of them went inside and the rest walked away.
Perhaps they’d know where to find Professor
Morton. Thinking it as good a place as any to begin his
investigation, he crossed and went inside.
An attempt to
be decorative had failed, making the place a little more than
cheesy. A tiny restaurant area was at the back and the
university guys were there ordering. Thomas slid into a booth
beside them and picked up a menu. Peeking over it he studied
their behavior, finding them to be classic nerds … pimpled
litterbugs, already making a mess with pop and napkins. These
were the dipstick propeller heads of yesterday, suddenly made
cool by the popularity of sexy pseudo science and the internet.
They were naturals for the new Trash.exe army; members of a
fraternity that stank with college boy sweat gathered in close
rooms and apartments that were dumps full of candy wrappers,
pizza boxes and crumpled notes.
The waitress
was young and a pleasant-faced blond, busty and attractive and
no doubt these fat brained nerds came here to ogle her. Thomas
tipped her as she put down his milk. He took a sip, thinking how
much he'd hate it if he saw her on a date with one of the slimy
nerd balls. Giving them another glance, he saw one of them spill
ketchup on a dirty part of the table, nonchalantly wipe it up
with a fry and swallow it.
Thomas grunted
then grimaced in disgust. "Looking at something, pal," the guy
said, ketchup foaming at his lips.
"Don't be
offended," Thomas said. "I admire you university boys. I
couldn't help but notice your computer science jackets."
"A loser,"
ketchup lips said to his buddy, who was likely nicknamed stretch
dick or zit ass.
"You got work
for us?" Stretch said.
"Ah, no. As it
happens I’ve been reading about the university and Professor
Morton’s new life forms. What do you
know about this exciting new discovery?"
"Morton,"
Stretch said as he took a bite of his
hotdog. Then he swallowed and burped loudly. "He's one of
my teachers. I can't tell you anything about him. His project is
top secret."
"Secret,"
Thomas said. "Well what would you say if I told you his
experiment has gone awry? And that I happen to know that those
intelligent bugs of his have built their own web site?"
"I would say
that you look like the type of guy who thinks bugs are building
their own web sites."
"Wait a
second," ketchup face said. "If this is true, genuine computer
intelligence has been created."
"Not really,"
Stretch said. "One of Morton's bugs
could've attached itself to a web design program and built a
page without being intelligent."
"You sound
skeptical," Thomas said. "Aren't you afraid of what might
happen?"
"Not really.
Professor Morton’s idea can't work.
He's released his artificial intelligence into a pond that's too
big and has no control handles. The internet won't aid it in
forming a new kind of intelligence. It's like releasing bacteria
in a pond and getting a formation of green scum. There has to be
a centre for intelligence, an intelligent life form needs a
brain. His critters can't evolve, they can only do freak things.
Like create a web page, or screw up some server's software."
"I'd like to
talk to Professor Morton about it,"
Thomas said. "Know where I can find him?"
"For some cash
I do. But don't tell him I sent you. I want to get more than an
F this year."
Stretch
played a couple raunchy tunes on his laptop then the boys
got up and left. Thomas pondered Morton
and pond scum. He studied the mess the college boys had made --
ketchup, mustard, crumbs, pop, and wrappers. They'd even got
coffee stains on his table. Kids today were definitely dirtier.
Some kind of bug had already infected them. They were a ready
host for new trash intelligence. Once it found a way it would
spread out of control and the whole world would be
garbage-strike pond scum.
He watched the
waitress bend over to clean the table, her rising dress
revealing clean pink skin that soothed his mind. It occurred to
him that if Stretch knew the pond scum theory,
Morton had to know it too. A fanatic
like Professor Morton wouldn't let
his plans be blocked by that so what would he do? "Hum," Thomas
thought. "What he'd do is have a human host prepared for the new
intelligence." No one would volunteer for it so that meant he’d
probably use himself. That was it -- of course . . . Professor
Morton intended to open his own
brain to them. That was why Trash.exe had been set to use screen
saver flashes to code into the human brain. It was possible that
Professor Morton was already
infected and breeding a new Trash.exe super
organism of disease. Thomas' eyes opened wide at the
realization, and as they did the waitress looked back and caught
him staring open mouthed at her ass. "Creep,"
she said as she carried the tray away.
Red-faced,
Thomas put a generous tip down and left, nearly running to the
door. He stepped out into blinding sunshine and found himself
surrounded by pan handlers. Their appeals for cash might as well
have been blows. He ducked back in the entrance, not wanting to
be touched by them. He could phone a cab, but that wouldn't get
him past the scum. Getting an idea, he hurried to the washroom.
He looked approvingly at the clean tile floor then crossed to
the window. It opened on a broad alley. He could see dented
dumpsters, auto wrecks, trash cans, rotted clothing and the
usual muddy carpeting of flattened litter. There were no bums or
rats. It appeared to be a clear avenue of escape. Jumping to the
sill, he climbed out and dropped, landing in something squishy.
Looking down he saw that he was standing in a huge pile of dog
crap. As he grimaced, he saw a tramp
moving at the far end. Jolted, he took a step, slipped, and
banged his head on the side of a dumpster. Then the scene
exploded like a rotten melon as he blacked out.
His tongue
was thick and sour, feeling foreign like moldy beef instead
of flesh. Gloom whirled in his head, then a lead sky faded in.
The air hung heavy -- thick with a reek that sealed his lungs .
. . atmosphere so oppressive it was like being squeezed in a
trash compactor. The tiny bit of light stabbed at his eyes with
the power of something unholy.
Blood pounded
in his heart, some type of adrenaline rush buzzed through him.
Arteries pulsed explosively. The reek of urine and feces aroused
him like ether, then he felt something crawling on his leg.
It moved to
his genitals. Releasing a hoarse breath, Thomas tilted his head
and watched a dim form shift into focus -- a shabby tramp,
picking his pocket with one hand and molesting him with the
other.
Thomas pushed
up and punched him in the face. He groaned and staggered back as
Thomas got to his feet. Without hesitation, Thomas charged,
seized the man and threw him into some garbage cans.
Tin clattered,
rotten meat and peelings got spilled, the bum rolled, arms
flailing. Thomas howled and held his hands up in strangler's
pose. Unearthly rage burned in his throat. He saw that his hands
were crooked, strong and grotesque. Muscles and hair bulged from
his torn sleeves -- he'd become Mr. Hyde again.
Yellow miasma
rose from a sewer grate, he saw crumbling bricks and decay, felt
rancid water flowing over his toes -- the reek of refuse and his
hatred of the human refuse, it all added up to strange fury.
He stepped
toward the tramp, finding his right leg to be as stiff as wood.
It made him growl, irritated that even as Mr. Hyde he was
handicapped. Grabbing a heavy bin of trash, he hoisted it and
tossed it fifteen feet down the alley. A rat squealed as it
crashed, moldy bread hit the wall and stuck. He turned back to
the tramp, bloodlust fueling him now. The man was on hands and
knees, so he stepped over, picked him up and bounced him off the
brick wall with such force he heard his bones break. Then he
watched, huffing quietly as the body tumbled across a heap of
discarded tires. It split in the middle -- mattress stuffing,
straw and marbles popped out, then it turned to red sawdust and
collapsed in a heap.
Thomas grunted
with satisfaction. Hunger ached in his belly. Smelling pizza he
went to a trash can, lifted the lid and was suddenly blinded by
sunbeams.
He awoke in
the alley, his head aching, the smell of dog crap and
garbage turning his stomach. Brushing himself fiercely he rose.
He had to get the shit off his shoes so he stepped over to an
oily puddle. His reflection showed in the water, a purple goose
egg by his eye. He grimaced, bothered more by the Hyde dream
than anything else. It should’ve been a nightmare, but in it
he’d been about to eat garbage and enjoy the act. It was proof
that his brain had been infected and it meant that he was
deteriorating mentally and would soon be trash or Mr. Hyde. The
trash man was a better description. He was becoming a trash man,
and Professor Morton's evolving
internet bugs were the root cause of it. Somehow they'd got
their pattern of decay into his brain.
Fumbling in
his pocket he found the note with Professor
Morton's university address - 548 Madison Way. It was
within walking distance so he strolled out of the alley and
headed down Sheridan Boulevard in the direction of the campus.
The unhealthy environment had worked like disease, wearing him
down, his usual snappy walk and erect posture now the shambling
gait of a defeated loser. He grimaced as a damp wind rose, the
gusts kicking up the lighter debris. Foil, cellophane, yellowed
flyers and newsprint slid and flew like colored rain, taking his
thoughts back to Trash.exe and his fear of it. As a
self-replicating internet entity, Trash.exe couldn't survive as
anything meaningful. It definitely wanted to evolve to more than
on-line pond scum, so it had to pattern its code into the human
brain, using light flashes from screen saver programs. No doubt
Morton had arranged it so the most
evolved replication of Trash.exe would return to his brain and
enter to retrieve implanted instructions. Once in the brain,
Trash.exe would be in a hostile environment, always fending off
disobedient brain systems that would want to clean it up.
Eventually it would have to take a new form and escape.
Chunks of wet
cardboard whirled into his eyes; a potato chip bag hit his face
and stuck. As he brushed it away it occurred to him that in the
outside world the safest and simplest form for Trash.exe to take
was that of real trash -- gum wads, wrappers, plastic bottles,
discarded personal items . . . things people see as innocuous.
If it were
true, if it had already happened, any piece of refuse could be a
copy of Trash.exe. An old boot, a cereal box, nearly anything
could be a piece of hostile trash intelligence - part of a
monster web of neurons in a brain taking over the planet. As a
conspiracy, it was the cleverest
ever devised. Self-replicating, evolving trash -- he chewed on
the idea and it brought back a memory of his black sheep brother
Jacky, saying, "The world is the junk heap." Jacky had killed
himself with junk -- on the needle.
Now the world
really was the junk heap; Mr. Hyde's junk heap and trash was
appearing everywhere. Professor Morton's
sloppy hopes of getting in Nature or winning a
Nobel Prize had killed the planet. It was all but over now,
and not only had the dream gone sour, it was garbage that stank
like hell. The only hope left was that he might be able to
confront Morton and reverse the
process.
Morton's building turned
out to be an eight-story concrete structure with neat rows
of windows in embossed vertical slits. It had a few marble faces
and some decorative sculpture. Mainly it was a product of the
functional fortress style of architecture. A style that brought
budget cuts to mind. Thomas preferred memories, nostalgia - the
ivied towers and quads of yesteryear.
The building
did have grounds but would have been more attractive without
them. Rather than mowed lawns, flower beds and bushes, it had
fields of colored stones and sickly evergreen scrub.
Fields of
stones are at their most appealing during garbage strikes, so
much so that only a few patches of colored gravel still showed.
Trash dunes covered most of the area; the garbage rotting and
releasing smelly hydrocarbons. Waves of potent gas rose,
blurring the higher ledges like heat distortion. Gulls wheeled
through the oily smoke from the incinerator chimney, and a few
hundred more were perched on the dunes.
Thomas' eyes
went from the stack down to the rows of sawhorses holding the
trash back from the walks at the front and side of the building.
A few men in drab navy uniforms and a security guard were near
the entrance. Placing his hands on his hips, he pursed his lips.
His expression soured. This place was more like the guard tower
of a new city dump. The smoke from the incinerator was probably
from animal corpses those crazy professors were burning.
Visiting Morton wasn't going to be
fun or at all appetizing.
Shivering with
revulsion, he concluded that entering at the front wasn't a good
idea. Security would stop him and they might refuse him entry.
Following the perimeter of the dunes, he got to the side of the
building, jumped a sawhorse, pushed aside some evergreen scrub
and walked toward the rear. The lower windows were all barred so
there was no way he could break in. Cupping his hands he looked
in at eye level and saw lab equipment and a dead rabbit on its
back on a table. Dogs snarled, Thomas jumped back, then realized
the sound had come from the rear.
It wasn't a
good omen. He took quiet footsteps to the back. A fence topped
with barbwire protected the back
parking lot, but few cars were parked in it. The dogs were
louder now, their barking dangerously vicious. A quick glance
showed three stray dogs beneath a guard post. Two guards were
inside, under siege from the dogs.
Moving behind
a mound of stones, Thomas got a better look. Two huge mongrels
and a shepherd had the guards at bay. Red-eyed, frothing and
rabid the beasts leapt at the Plexiglas, nearly knocking it out
with the force of their blows.
Keeping down,
he thought it over, guessing the rear to be another dead end.
There was a storage door, but it required magnetic access, and
if he went for it he'd get his butt chewed while the guards
watched from the safety of the booth. He couldn't give up so he
waited then took another look, seeing a slot in the guards'
access window open. The snarling shepherd muzzled up to it --
and exploded. Thomas saw the head pop – like a Roman candle,
leaving a torn neck stump spilling
crimson as the quivering body fell to the stones. "Hollow-point
bullet," Thomas muttered, completely sickened as he watched the
other two mongrels howl and flee, blood dripping from their
coats as they leapt the fence to the garbage heaps.
The dogs
didn't return and the guards never left the safety of the post.
"Cowards," Thomas thought, "can't even clean up their own mess."
Bushes rustled to his rear. Spinning to look, he saw one of the
dogs creeping up on him. The beast stared, whined and whimpered.
Snapping his fingers, Thomas drew it to him and it rubbed his
legs then sat as he scratched its head. It didn't appear rabid
now, and that meant that animals could sniff out the infected.
He'd suspected it from the first moment; the guards and likely
everyone else in the building had been contaminated by Professor
Morton and an advanced version of
Trash.exe.
"This calls
for strategy," he thought, and a moment later he had a plan. He
picked up a stick and threw it, sending the dog into the bushes
to fetch it, then he ran out, waving as he headed for the guard
post. A whip thin, gray-haired guard trained a
Glock on him, but he lowered it,
confused by Thomas' distressed approach.
Thomas pounded
on the safety window. "Let me in quick! The dogs are coming!"
They saw the
dog running for him and opened up immediately. A burly,
fat-faced guard pulled him in and slammed the door. "Got ID?"
the guard said.
"No, I've been
robbed," Thomas said. "Tramps got me and put the dogs on me. I'm
a friend of Professor Morton's. I
have to see him. It's important news."
"It's okay,
Joe," the thin guard said, "so long as he's a friend of the
Professor."
"Oh-oh, here
come the dogs," Thomas said, wiping his brow. "Shit, there's
three of them now."
"Bastard
animals," said the thin guard. "They've gone so loco we can't
kill them fast enough. I better shoot before that big one breaks
the window."
"Watch you
don't shoot it out," his partner said.
"I have a
better idea," Thomas said. "I'm a crack shot. I was a sniper in
the forces. Give me the gun. I can open the door real fast and
pick the devils off."
The guards
looked at each other and nodded. "Okay, we'll try it," Joe said.
Thomas took
the Glock and motioned for them to
keep back. He watched as they got tight to the wall, then he
flung the door open and rolled out, the dogs tearing over and
past him as he hit the dirt. As he expected, they didn't go for
him, but went straight for the guards -- turning the booth into
a screamer's butcher-shop . . . the guards yowling like a couple
more crazy dogs as they went down.
Getting to his
feet, he dusted himself off. He suddenly realized he'd forgot
about the access card. He could hear the dogs ripping at the
corpses and likely chewing the card. Walking up to the service
door, he fired a shot at the lock. It winged back into the gun,
the force nearly spraining his wrist. "Bulletproof, damn," he
muttered. There was one other option. Biting his lip, he moved a
pile of the garbage bags that'd spilled over the fence with the
leaping dogs, leaving them against the
guardpost. Dashing up them, he jumped, caught the ledge
and swung up. Another hop and he was looking in a second floor
window. Darkness was all he could see so he kicked out the glass
and stepped in fanning the gun.
His eyes
adjusted to the florescent gloom. This was an empty lab -- gray
gun-metal cabinets and desks, a computer with a bank of dials. A
flat screen hung on the wall.
Nothing really
stood out, then white flashed in the corner of his eye -- a
rabbit running on the sill. He aimed, took a step toward it and
nearly jumped out of his skin. A body was slumped on the desk in
front of him. Painful throbbing in his sore hand stopped him
from pulling the trigger, then the odor hit him and he choked.
It was a rank corpse; he tapped its shoulder with the gun and it
moved, causing the chair to creak. It rocked then collapsed,
throwing the body backward to the floor.
The face was
female, the neck torn open and the gashed flesh swollen to a
giant welt. His eyes flashed back to the rabbit and he saw blood
on its fur. Without a doubt it had ripped the woman's throat
out. Its present timidity meant that he wasn't in as advanced a
state of infection as the woman, or more likely, he was infected
by a more benign replication of Trash.exe that animals didn't
detect.
Professor
Morton's version would be the one on
the loose here, and it’d likely caught everyone by surprise.
Clearly Morton had moved his office
here for security and maybe the chance to do some illegal
experiments on animals. But he couldn't have known that animals
would turn on his new intelligence.
His eyes
drifted back to the corpse. If Professor
Morton's superior form could get killed off by mad
animals, maybe it was possible to exterminate all varieties of
Trash.exe. This woman's corpse could be bagged and studied.
He wondered
where he could get a bag or blanket, then he noticed something
moving in the corpse's throat. Folds of rot parted in the welt
and something yellow appeared, moving like a slimy insect,
cutting its way with a mandible. Caked blood crumbled, he saw
letters on its back. "Holy shit, its back is a chocolate bar
wrapper," he said, then his hand began trembling uncontrollably
and he opened fire, the shots flying wild as he emptied the
entire clip.
The entire
head and upper body of the corpse splattered and the trash bug
flew to the ceiling and then dropped to the floor. He'd missed
it of course and the thing was now crawling towards his foot.
Dropping the gun he turned and ran.
Crashing
through the stairwell doors, terror lifting his hair, he
realized that it was too late. There was no use even looking for
Professor Morton. It had really been
over when the genie got out of the bottle. Insanity swept his
mind, like maybe he could survive by escaping into the bowels of
the earth. Stumbling, staggering, he ran down and burst through
a door into basement 3, the lowest level -- the incinerator
room.
The level was
enormous, like a gloomy cavern. He came to a halt, leaned
against a concrete post and caught his breath. Faint odors of
smoke and corpses and the hissing of the furnace caught his
attention. The furnace base of the huge stack stood on the far
side of the room. Thomas passed another post, drawn by the heat.
Then he saw someone sitting in the shadows and heard paper
rustling.
Slow careful
steps took him to the man and his eyes began to adjust to the
bluish florescent light. The chest rose and fell, so it wasn't a
corpse. Then the face came clear and Thomas knew it was
Professor Morton. The man's eyes
were gone, pouring with blood lava. His ears also bled and that
meant that beyond a doubt Trash.exe had exited his brain,
leaving him nothing but a vegetable.
"You've really
done it now, you madman," Thomas said. And he became as
surprised as he was angry when Professor
Morton lifted his face to him, appearing to hear.
"Ah, Thomas,
you're here," the Professor said. "Your wife called. She told me
to call the police if you get violent. She thinks you're mad,
Thomas."
Rage boiled in
Thomas' brain. It infuriated him that even his wife had betrayed
him. The professor was giggling like a lunatic now, and it was
more than he could bear. He lifted his hands and firmed them to
claws. "You monster, I'll kill you," he said. Then he heard his
shirt rip. He saw his chest expand to barrel size and his arms
grow muscled and hairy. Behind Morton
a chute suddenly opened and yellow wrappers began pour down.
After that Thomas' vision went red and he saw no more.
Some people
believe the world will end with a bang. And the poet said
not a bang but a whimper. But there has to be order, even in
decay and the end. So the world began its ending with Thomas, or
was it Mr. Hyde? Howling like a devil, running down an alley,
banging the dumpsters with his fists, the baying pack following
at his heels. Overhead, two million gulls wheeled and began an
angry swoop toward city hall. In other alleys the trash rustled,
popped bags, bins and can lids and rolled in waves, pouring for
the main streets as it itched for life and fresh blood. At
police headquarters the chief wondered why his men were watching
strange patterns, then he saw his computer screen start to
bleed. Professor Morton laughed his
last mad laugh and fell dead on the floor as thousands of
Trash.exe chocolate bar wrappers fluttered up the incinerator
chimney and floated off on the wind.
