Mug

by Daniel Keohane (© 1998)

As a child would cling to its mother's arm in a desperate appeal for sweets, the old man hung on Marcus' elbow. For the second time he crowed, "No, no. Throw it in the trash. You'll toss the gum onto the sidewalk and everyone will die!"

Marcus tried to swing the wrinkled man away, but he held fast. He gazed around the city plaza, pleading for help. Men and women in business suits looked with fascination in every direction but his. Two police officers leaned on their cruiser sipping coffee. One looked up, slapped his partner on the arm and together they ran towards the scene unfolding in front of the newsstand.

"Let me go," Marcus pleaded. "Are you nuts?"

The old man pulled the hand holding the spent wad of gum towards his toothless mouth. Marcus tried to pull away but was held fast by his attacker's adrenaline-infused grip. As the chapped lips closed over Marcus' fingers, the officers closed in. One of the men wrapped his arms under the old man's shoulders. The other moved himself between Marcus and the still-open mouth.

"Come on, grand dad," he said. "No eating people on my shift."

"No. No, you don't understand. Please, sir, throw your gum in the trash." He leaned sideways to better see Marcus. "I'm not crazy. I've been given the sight. I can see what will happen." He slid backwards towards the cruiser. The second officer ran ahead and opened the back door. The old man tried unsuccessfully to squirm free. "Look at me! Listen to me!"

Marcus remained frozen in place, arm hanging like a puppet's over the sidewalk. He stared into the man's face and felt a wave of nausea. Swallowing hard, assuring himself that this person was no longer a threat, he tossed the gum on to the sidewalk.

The old man screamed as if watching his own grandchild fall from a tenth story balcony. The gum landed soundlessly on the pavement.

The world slept under miles of drifting snow. Heavy skies hung over the landscape, dropping a million flakes. Here and there entombed trees reach a skeletal arm skyward, waiting year after year for a sign of Spring. The gray sky blurred with the stark white of earth, giving the illusion both of eternal depth and claustrophobic closeness.

A lone figure tried to stand, snow falling from its back. It fell once more into the virgin drifts. Time passed indifferently, but once again the figure rose. This time it stood on trembling feet. It walked with frozen steps. As it traveled, other figures emerged. They fell again, rose, and walked.

They huddled in groups, relearning all that had been taken from them. Old children watched monstrous adults, waited with emotionless terror as the sores on their companion's faces slowly, painfully, disappeared. These groups traveled through heavy squalls of snow and sleet. As the gray days passed into black nights, the growing number of figures unmarred by sores and welts offered a word long forgotten: hope.

The snow stopped one day, when the dirty rain fell and the temperatures rose. It was a dark rain. Soot stained clothes and hair. The people walked faster than before, looking for shelter under trees with charred branches. After a time they began to run. Tree after tree exploded. Fire the size of city blocks swelled with unfathomable heat. Maples and elms became objects of terror as they ignited from within, as if the world had been carelessly tossed into a mad god's microwave. Heat bound together the flames and smoke. It shot forth from the fireballs rolling across fields and alleys, devouring children and animals like a Pacman in hell. Knowing there was no where to go the people nevertheless ran blindly for cover. The black roiling sky laughed with the voice of Satan. A break in the clouds now and again brought no comforting light, only a slanted red eye staring down, looking for survivors.

Thousands, then millions watched in silence as the fire heaved upward. It pierced the clouds, which thinned then broke revealing a deep blue sky. Fire, smoke, clouds raced as one around the globe, watched by the hordes of spectators. These people stood unmoving, trying to decipher the nightmare above them. When the elements raced into each other like lovers, they created a light so bright every mind thought the sun had exploded.

"Mom what kind of plane is that?"

"Eat your sandwich. We're not getting anything else until supper."

Mother and child ate their lunch in the green shade of the park. All around them people in damp business suits power-walked their predetermined lunch periods. Messengers on bikes took short cuts over the grass, sometimes splitting up families who wandered without purpose or care under cumulous white clouds.

~ ~ ~

The fire pounded the walls of the funnel, threatening to break through to the men and women standing vigil in stunned silence. Every instinct drilled into them said they had done well. Every one of them wondered why they had done it.

"This is your last warning, son. Please do it."

"No, Comrade Major. I am sorry, but I cannot do this."

Major Andrikevich shot a bullet into the boy's brain. The spray from the shattered head coated the console in red. Gripping the key on the console, the major looked at the only other person in the room. "On my mark, Private. One, Two, Three. Mark." The two soldiers turned their respective keys in unison. The major did not release his grip even after the red light shifted to green. He stared at the key and felt the terrified stare of the soldier beside him.

General Kayevski unlocked his office door. All around him the blaring klaxon fed the chaos of the moment. He left the room dark, lifted the receiver and waited without dialing. When a voice acknowledged the call on the other end Kayevski said, "Red 0. Red 0. Blue." He repeated the words twice, as well as the list of passwords and check numbers. Before he was able to hang up he was rewarded the sudden silence of the alarms. In the dark quiet of the office, he could almost believe the world outside was as fine as it seemed only hours before.

The walk to the president's office felt like moving through water. Implications, questions tore at him like beggars. He knew these inhibitions must be eradicated before reaching the office. Without obedience there was chaos.

The president waited one final heart beat, then said, "Launch a counter attack immediately. We have no time for debate."

Kayevski did not move. "As you command, Comrade President."

The president rubbed a hand through his hair. "All this time preparing, waiting, for what would never come."

"It was inevitable. They have too much power at their fingertips and not enough common sense. We have always known this."

The president's voice fell to whisper. "Common sense? Bah. The Americans have more common sense than anyone gives them credit for. Even a child knows not to eat candy if there will be retaliation. And retaliate we must, while we still can." He gazed at the corner of his desk. "This red phone. All these years it has remained mostly silent, yet its power is immense. I lift it," he did so, "and the leader of the United States of America answers, no matter where he is."

The president held the phone to his ear, then after a moment slammed it back down. He shouted, "Nothing. Ringing and ringing and no answer. Have they all lost their minds?"

Kayevski cleared his throat. "Perhaps they underestimate our abilities. Perhaps they feel we are too splintered, too lost in our own problems to react in time."

The president stared for a long moment at his advisor. "Perhaps. They claim to be our ally, yet it seems they have no hesitation about murdering millions of innocent people."

"Comrade President, the reports are confirmed. Approximately one hundred nuclear missiles have crossed the Arctic. They appear to be targeting the following locations." He carefully laid the sheet of paper on the center of the president's desk. At that, he saluted stiffly and left the office.

Alone, the president of the largest country in the world leaned back in his chair. A mistake. It all must be a mistake. He leaned forward and lifted the receiver to the White House hot line.

The president of the United States had to go to the bathroom. He considered just letting it all out in his pants. No one would notice in the chaos surrounding him. Instead, he sat slowly behind his desk and shouted, "I need this phone up now. Get me a damn cell phone if you have to!" One of the nameless aids raced from the Oval Office, either to do just that or to go to the bathroom himself.

"Mister President, we don't understand what happened to the system. Even the fail-safes are down. Roberts is assuming an incredibly elaborate virus. Perhaps more than one. The hot line has been re-routed to some pay phone in New York. We're trying to re-establish now. They couldn't have done all this from the outside."

"Shut it all down then," the president said. "Power off everything."

"We tried, but -"

"Mister President," Mitchell raced into the office, his face gray as if he died two hours before but forgot to collapse. "They're up. The birds are up."

For five seconds the room was quiet. Then the president stood. "Where's that fucking cell phone?"

Fire ripped against the curving walls of the underground silo. The twelve men attempting to disarm the missile disintegrated before they hit the floor. The sound drowned out shouts and orders in every office and hallway. At every installation across America the same scene played out .

Davids grabbed a young soldier. "What the hell is going on?"

"The birds, sir. They're going up." He was crying. "We can't stop them. All fail-safes respond negatively." General Davids released his grip on the boy's shoulder. Taking the act as a dismissal, the soldier gave a half-hearted salute and continued his pointless travels down the hall.

Davids stood for a moment beside the yellow phone mounted in the hall. He whispered, "What have I done? God, please tell me this isn't happening." He grabbed the phone.

"Lieutenant, I need you to get as many people as you can and bring down every phone line surrounding this complex. Yes, every one! Now! Use fucking tanks if you have to. When that's rolling, call Wittman in Comm., tell him to kill every internal line, computer, phone, everything. We have a mole in the system and it's going to kill us all if you don't move now." He punched four numbers on the yellow keypad and hung up. He knew it was too late.

Henson leaned over the computer operator. "What's happening, soldier?"

"The systems are sounding level 5, sir. No one can confirm. Jesus, it's like the computer just took off on its own. I'm trying to override but it rejects every command."

"Sir," O'Brien shouted from his station across the room. "Missiles are being primed for launch. This is confirmed. As yet we're unable to shut it down."

The scream of the general alarm burst through the walls. Henson whirled, not knowing what else to do.

A red light shown steadily on the box beside the terminal. The electronic bell did not sound. The console operator continued reading the newspaper, knowing if anything changed the automatic alarm would kick in. He turned the page. In the small glimpse of the box as he worked to fold the paper the red light caught his eye.

"Sir, I have a red light."

The red light blinked out. The bulb beside it glowed green.

The signal traveled from one routine to the next, each algorithm calling the next then subsequently destroying itself when instructions had been performed. Hidden files and executables lay dormant in their silent path. Other files lying lifeless for as long as ten years in uncatalogued directories responded to the new instructions which passed through the system. Modems dialed, squealing their unidentifiable language to others of their kind. The routines traveled their predetermined path, directory to directory, computer to computer.

The primary subroutine hit the inner firewall, a set of files and programs designed to prevent unauthorized data from entering or exiting the system. An inconsequential binary request opened, and the subroutine passed to it the code and password it received from the terminal. Thirty-six other prompts appeared, but the process acknowledged them as red herrings and gave no response. In fact giving an answer to any would shut down the system and trap it in a silicon grave forever. A hole in the firewall opened. The subroutine deposited sixteen executables in various directories. It sent the command for process number one to execute. It then erased itself from virtual existence.

Ahmad Shensi smiled as he typed the code. The modem dialed, made a clean connection. The dialog lasted less than a minute. When it completed, Ahmad logged out. He swiveled around to face his companion.

"Praise Allah," he whispered, holding the torn piece of paper in his fingers. "At last the demons will be cast into the pyre they have crafted so cleverly for themselves." He closed his eyes. "Most Holy One, we humbly offer you this eternal sacrifice. Purify us with their blood."

He opened his eyes and handed the slip of paper to the blonde man. "How can we be sure this is not some electronic trap?"

The blond man shrugged. "We don't. The others weren't. As far as we can tell every file we've placed in the system is still there. Waiting for this." He held he paper with two fingers. "I think its reliable. He doesn't seem to have told anyone about us."

Ahmad said nothing. Dark eyes glistened with expectation. He watched the blonde man pocket the slip of paper and walk slowly from the room. Ahmad Shensi was alone, with his dreams of western annihilation.

"I assure you, General, my clients are quite discreet. Information today can be so easy to obtain with the proper key. No more credit cards stuck in doors. It's all so easy, and no one gets hurt. That's the best part is it not?"

General Davids said nothing. The knot in his stomach threatened to double him over. He opened the black briefcase, examined the contents quickly, closed it and handed it to his companion. The blonde man shook his hand. The small strip of paper passed unseen between them. Davids stuffed the paper into his pants, taping it in place below his left testicle. The blonde man smiled.

"It is nice to see you again, General." He backed into a waiting taxi and disappeared. Davids watched the taxi pull away. His stomach settled a little with the solitude. He looked around. For all he knew, every kid aboard a skateboard watched him, every old woman taking her terrier for a late night walk. They waited for the right moment to descend on him like vengeful angels. No one did. Feeling naked out of uniform he moved behind a group of trees, waited for ten minutes. When nothing unusual happened in the street, he turned and crossed the park.

Davids stared from his office window, across the base with its irregular patterns of buildings. He held his hands behind his back, letting the sadness sink like sand into his bowels. How could he be thinking of doing this? Was he finally mad? He thought of his wife, his precious lovely Rita. He smiled in reflex for a moment, then hardened his expression. 'Lovely Rita' was their song. What other song could they have had? What a stupid goddamned song. How could she have done this to him? All these years, hour after hour in this office, wondering why he was here. Every time he decided to trying, to cash in his chips and take early retirement, her love pushed him on.

"You love your job. I can see that," She'd say. "If you left you'd be miserable. It doesn't matter what they make you do, or what they say. They're just jealous. You've given your life to this country. If the country doesn't appreciate it then it's their loss. Don't make it yours."

The sweetest voice in the world said these words to him whenever he wavered. Her love for him was the fuel to get his ass out of bed and into uniform day after thankless day. After each talk he would be ready for one more go at it. Usually by lunch he'd realize it was all an illusion. When he came home, however, it would be with a smile and good news from 'the front.'

For Rita. It was all for Rita.

A sudden burning in his chest, not physical so much as emotional, ignited. She never meant those things to help him. She just wanted him out of the house. Wanted him away for all those hours and days and weeks, so she could play with her pool boy. He closed his eyes and saw entwined on the couch.

Davids looked at the business card in his hand. The company name and address were phony. A quick background check the morning after receiving it with his dinner bill proved that out. He was certain, however, the number hand-printed on the back was real. Why hadn't he thrown it away? Three months and still he kept it sitting in the desk drawer.

The American flag hung flaccid in the corner of the office. All the years he suffered under the weight of this country, buoyed by nothing more than some bitch's lust for other men. He looked slowly at the phone, as if the silent AT&T unit would burn him if he looked too long.

"Fuck them," he said aloud. "Fuck everyone and their goddamned pool boys." It was time for him to get something out of all this crap. He sat in his heavy leather recliner and dialed the number written on the back of the card.

General Davids' right fist dripped blood. Matt crawled away, feeling for something to hide behind. His eyes swelled shut from the repeated blows of the older man.

"Don't hurt him, please. It's me you should hate." Rita's leaned naked over the back of the couch. The room spun around him, making the general clutch the edge of the entertainment center. Blood smeared across the polished mahogany. Staring at his wife's body, he fought for breath.

"How - " He swallowed. A rip seemed to open at the bottom of his stomach. "How could you - " then he gave up trying. The young pool boy, hired by Rita last summer David's didn't fail to remember, got to his feet. The general squeezed his shoulders, not having any of the young man's clothing to grab onto to.

"You son of a bitch," Davids hissed. His right hand pistoned blow after blow into the face. Rita screamed, but the sound only fueled the madness dancing in Davids' mind. Finally, he spun the pool boy around and tossed him onto the naked woman. Rita's hands moved slowly along the pool boy's legs.

Davids backed through the doorway as if in slow motion, his eyes frozen on the two lovers. 'Look away,' a desperate internal voice whispered. He watched his world crumple like burning paper.

Matt lay sweating atop her. Their eyes never wavered from each other. He felt his breath catch. Damn, if this woman didn't excite him. Her sexual insatiability, mixed with the fact that she paid him to feed it, fueled him with an energy he never realized was attainable. His tight body grew aroused once more.

"Another?" he whispered. Rita giggled and pulled his mouth to hers.

Davids lifted his uniform jacket from the rack, listening with pleasure at the music that Rita selected for one of the stereos in the house. He couldn't identify the artist, but then he was never able to keep up with her tastes. He smiled and walked outside. The lawn sloped down, blending with nine-foot hedges along the property. He made a note to come home at lunch more often. It gave him a chance to appreciate this damned expensive yard in daylight. Benson had done him a favor after all.

"When would be a good time to reschedule?" Benson tried to sound confident but knew he failed. He just hoped the general was more forgiving than everyone said.

Davids waited ten seconds before responding. Over the years, he found ten seconds was just right for unnerving whomever was on the line, but not so much as to allow them to say anything further. "Maybe in political life keeping appointments is not a priority, but in my world they are everything." Again he waited.

Benson cleared his throat. "I assure you, General, it won't happen again."

"No. It won't." Davids hung up the phone, then jotted down a note for Sheila to reschedule with Benson's people. She'll know enough to wait until tomorrow to call. The general looked around the office. The meeting was supposed to take up the rest of the afternoon. What to do with all this spare time? An interesting idea came to him.

Forty-six miles away, Benson shut off the cell phone. He checked his watch. "Damn it. Damn it. Damn it." There was no way in hell he'd be on time now. He had one option left, and knew he had to play it. Having political aspirations meant swallowing pride. He accepted that, and put the cell phone to his ear.

~ ~ ~

"How can you take 30 minutes? Was that the only cab you own? I don't care how busy you are -" He waited. "Yes, three fifty-one Ca--- yes, that's what I said. No, three fifty-one oh go to hell." He clicked the recall button until the number displayed. He put the phone in his jacket and walked back to his apartment building. He scanned every street for a cab and saw none.

Damn if he intended to stay an assistant to the aide to the Governor for the rest of his life. This meeting would have raised him, if even just a little from the mass of bodies in City Hall screaming for attention. He rounded the block and scanned the cars moving slowly by. Nothing. Cursing the electric company for their incompetence he spat on the sidewalk. He would have to invest in one of those obnoxious wind-up clocks if he wanted to be Governor some day.

A cab moved along the road just in front of his apartment building. He swore aloud, seeing the man leaning back comfortably in the back seat, going somewhere light-years less important than the meeting with the general. As Benson ascended the front steps, the cab pulled up to the curb. A man backed quickly from the vehicle's rear door. Benson smiled. What kind of luck was that? It seems God, himself, wanted to make sure the appointment would happen.

He backed into the building. Checking his watch, Albert Benson felt his heart smash against his ribs. Of all the mornings to take a nap then wake to a flashing alarm clock.

Kirk McCarthy ran. This time of day a cab didn't stay empty long. In the corner of his eye he saw someone coming down the stairs. Kirk ran further away from the cab. As he did he slowed his pace, then stood watching the bus back towards a spot twenty yards in front of him. He looked down at his shoe. The gum smeared across the genuine wooden sole like an alien bug.

"Damn people in this town," he said aloud. There was no getting back to work on time now. The bus rolled nearer. Kirk felt like a marathon runner just missing out on the ribbon as the bus rolled back to where he stood panting. He slammed an open palm against the closed doors of the bus as it slowed to a stop. "Shit," he muttered. He started running backward along the sidewalk. Kirk thought about the gum but knew he could not miss this bus. The folding doors opened. Kirk knew the flashing lights meant it was about to pull away.

"Oh no," he said. He stopped for a moment and inspected the white gunk soiling the easy scuffs of the shoe. Too late he remembered why he was running. His foot came down on the gum for the first time. He sensed it under him like the Princess and the Pea. The next step left the gum on the sidewalk. He slowed his pace, walking past the newsstand. He looked passively at the two policemen dragging a raving old man across the plaza.

Marcus flicked his wrist. The gum jumped from the sidewalk to his hand. As it rose, the old man screamed as if his own grandchild were falling from a tenth story balcony. Marcus squeezed the gum between his fingers. His brain seemed to spin the opposite direction as the Earth.

The old man laughed.

"Do you see," he said. "Do you see now? Now you understand. You saw it, didn't you? Please just - " The police cruiser door slammed shut. The old man stared out the window like a pauper into a restaurant window. He's waiting for something, Marcus thought. Then he remembered the gum. He turned sideways and tossed it into the trash. The old man seemed to melt inside the car.

Marcus attention was broken by the man named Kirk McCarthy. McCarthy ran past the newsstand. Marcus watched the man catch the doors of the waiting bus just as they closed.

"My God, " Marcus murmured. He took a couple of tentative steps in the direction of the departing bus, then ran around the block. He saw the apartment building. A cab waited. A short man with curly black hair walked confidently from the building's entranceway. He smiled as he slid into the cab's back door. The vehicle pulled away to carry its burden to a bright political future.

Marcus slowly walked back to where the gum was never dropped. He opened another stick and popped it into his mouth. He winced at the taste. The violent, sharp tang reminded him of fire sent from hell, of bodies burning and freezing. He looked at the blue sky. The world seemed so fragile as he chewed, so vulnerable to Fate's whim. He spit the gum into his hand. Carefully, he dropped it into the trash receptacle beside the newsstand.

Barney Carlson looked up from a stack of Cosmopolitans. His voice carried that South Boston twang the tourists loved so much. "Can I get you something, my friend?"

Marcus thought of the General suddenly, and sighed. Throwing out the rest of his gum he said, "How much do cigarettes cost these days?"

* * *