Read Online Notes From the Internet Apocalypse by Wayne Gladstone - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Wayne Gladstone
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That’s the sounds of the Internet.”
“Yeah, I heard something, but why would anyone be using a dial-up modem now?”
“Dial-up?” Oz asked.
“Yeah, that’s what that terrible crunching beeping noise is.”
“I thought Chef Abdul was just mashing some more dates?”
“It’s coming from outside,” Tobey said.
We looked out through the glass of the lobby doors to see twenty soldiers in riot gear. The black stormtroopers from the park had returned. And that modem we’d heard appeared to be merely dispatcher crackles over walkie-talkies. But I didn’t process that then. At that moment, all I could think of was the force of twenty troops plowing into the lobby, flowing like violence and filling it with screams for everyone to hit the floor.
Oz broke for a side door and was taken down instantly. I sprung forward as if the knee pressing into her back were actually driving mine, but a trooper blocked my way, screaming, “Get down! Now! ”
Before I could even decide to comply, another guard screamed, “He’s getting away!” I looked and saw Tobey slipping through the door that Oz had failed to reach before sprinting uptown with two troopers following after. They labored under the weight of their riot gear, but Tobey bounced off pedestrians all legs and elbows like an ‘80s video-game character.
I heard a familiar voice in protest. “What is the meaning of this?”
It was Khalil, standing right beside me and demanding an explanation from one of the troopers.
“Hit the floor. Now!”
“No, sir. I will not,” Khalil said. “Under what authority do you come here and do this?”
It was a fair question, but not one the trooper was prepared to answer. It wasn’t one he’d even thought to ask. He searched for an answer in his memory, in his training, but, ultimately, found it in the butt end of the rifle he jabbed into Khalil’s face. Khalil dropped to his knees, pressing at the blood that flowed through his useless fingers onto the lobby floor and his pretty white shirt until the trooper restrained him from behind, cuffing him and laying him flat in the mess he’d made.
It felt like my moment. Greatness being thrown upon me by inequity. But that’s only because I was looking through my eyes. In another instant, I was thrown to the floor just like everybody else. My own trooper for my back. My face inches from Oz. She looked at me, hoping for something I could not give, and I watched them drag her to the car outside and take her away. Her hand on the glass. Reaching for me or maybe waving good-bye.
Interrogation
Arrests weren’t just something for other people, and narrating events into my journal didn’t keep them from happening to me. After the raid, my journal and the things in my backpack were confiscated, along with my flask. I was placed in a van and taken to what seemed to be a conventional downtown office building. I didn’t know why I was under arrest, or if I was under arrest, actually. Once sequestered, my cuffs were removed and I was asked to sit in a tiny conference room. The door wasn’t locked, and when I poked my head outside, a woman at a cubicle politely requested that I sit back down. I looked at the exit sign over the stairs. There was nothing keeping me here.
“Please, sir. Have a seat. The agent will be with you in a minute. Can I get you some water?”
I closed the door on myself without a response and sat back down. After another twenty minutes a man in his early forties, devoid of body fat or whimsy, entered the room. He had my things.
“Mr. Gladstone,” he said, pulling a chair from the small conference table between us. “My name is Agent Rowsdower. Do you mind if I have a seat?”
“Am I under arrest?”
Rowsdower sat and smiled. His teeth were too small or there were too many. Maybe both. Not sure. Something was wrong and less than human.
“Why? Have you done something wrong?” he asked.
“Good one. Where’s Oz?”
Even a man with a deficient sense
“Yeah, I heard something, but why would anyone be using a dial-up modem now?”
“Dial-up?” Oz asked.
“Yeah, that’s what that terrible crunching beeping noise is.”
“I thought Chef Abdul was just mashing some more dates?”
“It’s coming from outside,” Tobey said.
We looked out through the glass of the lobby doors to see twenty soldiers in riot gear. The black stormtroopers from the park had returned. And that modem we’d heard appeared to be merely dispatcher crackles over walkie-talkies. But I didn’t process that then. At that moment, all I could think of was the force of twenty troops plowing into the lobby, flowing like violence and filling it with screams for everyone to hit the floor.
Oz broke for a side door and was taken down instantly. I sprung forward as if the knee pressing into her back were actually driving mine, but a trooper blocked my way, screaming, “Get down! Now! ”
Before I could even decide to comply, another guard screamed, “He’s getting away!” I looked and saw Tobey slipping through the door that Oz had failed to reach before sprinting uptown with two troopers following after. They labored under the weight of their riot gear, but Tobey bounced off pedestrians all legs and elbows like an ‘80s video-game character.
I heard a familiar voice in protest. “What is the meaning of this?”
It was Khalil, standing right beside me and demanding an explanation from one of the troopers.
“Hit the floor. Now!”
“No, sir. I will not,” Khalil said. “Under what authority do you come here and do this?”
It was a fair question, but not one the trooper was prepared to answer. It wasn’t one he’d even thought to ask. He searched for an answer in his memory, in his training, but, ultimately, found it in the butt end of the rifle he jabbed into Khalil’s face. Khalil dropped to his knees, pressing at the blood that flowed through his useless fingers onto the lobby floor and his pretty white shirt until the trooper restrained him from behind, cuffing him and laying him flat in the mess he’d made.
It felt like my moment. Greatness being thrown upon me by inequity. But that’s only because I was looking through my eyes. In another instant, I was thrown to the floor just like everybody else. My own trooper for my back. My face inches from Oz. She looked at me, hoping for something I could not give, and I watched them drag her to the car outside and take her away. Her hand on the glass. Reaching for me or maybe waving good-bye.
Interrogation
Arrests weren’t just something for other people, and narrating events into my journal didn’t keep them from happening to me. After the raid, my journal and the things in my backpack were confiscated, along with my flask. I was placed in a van and taken to what seemed to be a conventional downtown office building. I didn’t know why I was under arrest, or if I was under arrest, actually. Once sequestered, my cuffs were removed and I was asked to sit in a tiny conference room. The door wasn’t locked, and when I poked my head outside, a woman at a cubicle politely requested that I sit back down. I looked at the exit sign over the stairs. There was nothing keeping me here.
“Please, sir. Have a seat. The agent will be with you in a minute. Can I get you some water?”
I closed the door on myself without a response and sat back down. After another twenty minutes a man in his early forties, devoid of body fat or whimsy, entered the room. He had my things.
“Mr. Gladstone,” he said, pulling a chair from the small conference table between us. “My name is Agent Rowsdower. Do you mind if I have a seat?”
“Am I under arrest?”
Rowsdower sat and smiled. His teeth were too small or there were too many. Maybe both. Not sure. Something was wrong and less than human.
“Why? Have you done something wrong?” he asked.
“Good one. Where’s Oz?”
Even a man with a deficient sense
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