💾 Archived View for midnight.pub › posts › 1765 captured on 2024-08-25 at 03:45:10. Gemini links have been rewritten to link to archived content
⬅️ Previous capture (2024-08-18)
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I’m sitting at my usual booth in the Carl’s Jr., away from the prying eyes of the strangers who stop in off the Interstate, downing the usual- egg protein slithers down my throat, reinforcing my muscles. I consider how these calories are going to affect me. Can’t overthink trivial details like that. Not today. Check my watch. 8:03 A.M.
I’m tired, shaking the mortal coils of sleep off, and the entire staff is becoming sick of my caustic periodic appearances. The main fry cook- she’s here Thursday through Tuesday, looks to be of Hispanic descent with bobby pins in her bun and a stiff delivery, she has to be sick of seeing me show up. Go somewhere else, she thinks. Where? This is the only place in town.
The flatscreen TV up above blares on, it’s muggy and the ventilation in here is woefully inadequate, I’m leaning back into the red leather and hoping that it swallows me up like a mouth, takes me deep into its chasm and never lets go, and I can spend a hundred years here slowly sipping my coffee one molecule at a time, but I can’t prolong this anymore.
With a rushed farewell and an awkward hand gesture vaguely in the direction of the counter, I put on my ribbed jacket, toss the styrofoam carton in the trash can near the front, stride out on the bleached ivory parking lot and the furry noise of I-25 courses through my awareness.
I’m careful not to make any noise on the carpet as I shuffle past the potted fern, the courtesy phone in its tan receiver, the morning rays jutting in through the shutters near Carla-Jean’s desk. Her chair is absent, as usual, spinning slowly on its hinges. A pregnant query. I breathe slowly, pull out the little white tablets, shake them. A maraca and it shouldn’t have any adverse reaction with the caffeine. Not that I should be taking caffeine regularly in my state.
As I push on the tab of the water cooler and the little paper dixie cup reaches its capacity, I make out typing, shuffling, from somewhere past the hallway, to the right. It stops. Then, footsteps. From the door of what used to be my office, a dreary-eyed visage emerges.
He perks up somewhat as he determines that I’m not a threat or a burglar, I raise one arm for a weak hello and he pops out, clutching a manila envelope beneath his vest. He’s bespectacled, sandy blonde. 19 or so by the looks, fresh out of the educative machine, inquisitive pinwheels darting behind his eyes, traces of stubble appearing along his chin. I loom over him.
“Hi,” he offers. “Nathan.” I shake his hand, limp rag concealed behind polyester.
“Gerard,” I respond. “And you are-?”
“I’m filling in,” he sheepishly barks. “Until Vernon can hire someone else. I’m the nephew of one of his golf friends, Uncle Phil recommended me for the position because I know some coding and tabulation and like that- but I won’t be here too long, I think.”
“That’s good,” I remark, mulling over the notion. “Better that way.”
“I hope I’m as good as you, I’m trying my best, hopefully I can use this as a reference down the line. Vernon seems nice, though.”
“Yeah. That’s because he is nice.”
I flick my paper cup into the waste, it produces a resounding impact.
“Well, that’s awesome,” he stammers in that way only today’s generation does. “Uh- here you go. He said you were supposed to have this. I guess you know what it is.” He flimsily hands over the envelope, I swallow what remains of the pills, having ground them up into a fine paste between my molars. They taste like sulphur and they burn my tongue.
The interaction having concluded, Nathan disappears back into the office and starts clicking away at the keyboard. I sigh, take my coat off and drape it over my elbow. Make sure nobody is watching, look up into the corner of the ceiling. No cameras, not so much as a fire alarm. Probably not even regulation compliant, the building itself is a matchbox near a kerosene tank. I can detect the initial signs of a migraine creeping in.
I tear the edge of the stupid thing open with the ferocity of a cat, lick my fingers to prevent friction and haul a stack of around 50 sheets of paper out. Of course it’s all paper- you can’t have these documents sitting on any hard drive. That’s why everything here is physical, why the computer system is so rudimentary and borderline unworkable. Not because they don’t know how, but because a well-established computer network would compromise the operation.
I cruise past Nathan, glance in to witness him scrolling on an HP desktop, hasn’t learned to turn his desk around. I envy him and his inevitable glaucoma.
Pushing myself forward now, almost at the finish line. I imagine stacks of money, big crisp $100 bills, Vern standing in front of me, teeth flashing, opening up a heavy platinum suitcase. I picture the width and thickness of the paper, the weight of the bands that hold it all together in neat little $10,000 increments. I try to smell the money- that nice Crane And Co substrate. Smells like bleach and industrial processes. Work for me.
Into the bitter hallway with the horrible cold pockets, the noise of the fan increases, out in front it’s nearly silent but overhead now the turbine is spinning, creating drops of coolant that rain into subsequent cardboard slats in a never ending cycle, a frigid reincarnation. Dark and wet and moist, humidity rises and I can detect microscopic droplets manifesting on my cheeks. I brush them away.
I forget exactly where the staircase is located. I put my hand out, feel along the wall, for anything that resembles an opening. Nothing. Well, I’m lost, and I don’t know if there are any light switches back here. May have to go to the beginning of the maze and start over. I put the envelope beneath my arm and use both hands to feel around, crawling in sonar confusion.
I don’t want to get lost back here.
Some empty recess, I blink twice, hope my night vision will kick in. No such luck. To avoid falling headlong down the flight of stairs I assume is right ahead, I crouch down, feel forward with my hands. There it is, the handrail. Like a long oak snake coiling out from the caverns, my palm makes contact and I swing forward. One step, two, there’s the width, the proper stride- and I try to remember which direction Bradford hit to turn the lights on. Left. Phosphorescent tube flickers on. I’ll need to memorize all this.
I pause, breathe deep in the dusty air, the cold slabs on either side closing in fast, run my digits over my face, which is losing blood and becoming pale. I feel ill. This is, I imagine, how one feels after a vampire bite- the energy taken from you, that vital quintessential essence, right before a new, more gnawing and insatiable energy, an energy unknown to mortals, sets in. I back up and gather my bearings.
Behind that door is a living, breathing member of my species. There’s a mind in there, a mind withered and gnawed at by years of inactivity. Dormant, like all weapons of the highest grade. I’d be lying if I said the curiosity pertaining to that weapon wasn’t a powerful force in and of itself, a siren’s call guiding me onward towards the keypad.
I gnaw at my fingers, bite the knuckles a little. Bad habit, I’ve had it for some time, ever since we moved here, in fact, and my hands are getting irritated and red, have to buy lotion to soothe the pain, numb the itch. When I bite my hands, angry thoughts race through my consciousness- anger at Bradford, at whoever’s backed me into this corner, at my family back home, at Sheila, even if I know, on a more cognizant level removed from my wanton animal destruction, that she’s done nothing wrong.
The iron door doesn’t seem nearly as bad now. I reach out to touch it, notice its contours and its indentations, its altogether unique features. I flip through the stack of papers, which along the journey has grown unwieldy and disorganized, unlodged from its position beneath my arm. I hope I didn’t drop any back there. Yes. Here’s the one I want. The code, simple hexidecimal format, easy enough to enter but complex enough that only a sophisticated computer could ever crack it. There’s a new code every week.
Beneath that box, instructions on how to properly incinerate the packet, how to seal the chamber properly after leaving, how to repair the coolant system, how to escape in the case of a systemic malfunction. Graphic with a hand and a lighter, rectangular prism of documents burning into ash. For your eyes only.
That’s the ticket, press those buttons down, gradually, knowing you shouldn’t, that the sequence’s input will result in the fragmentation of something critical. I go ahead all the same, cold computerized logic and pragmatism rises up, cuts out all these vital instinctive defenses. I can do this, I’ve seen encephalograms and cross-section scans and I’ve put in the years for it. Nothing can shock me anymore, I reckon as the iron hinges swing open and the condensed mist begins seeping from the widening slit. I step inside.
I jut my hand out from my sleeve, feel for the temperature. Good thing I have my jacket on, it’s a good thirty degrees. Working under these conditions requires a certain temperament, and I imagine the chill also dulls the senses, numbs the pain. Things slow down and grow dormant in cold, energy leaves a vessel, atoms slow their rotation...
Nil sits before me with the same chalky complexion as ever. I pause at the helm, take up my silent position as captain of the derelict oil freighter, engines pulsing and humming. If I close my eyes and lean back into the cushions of the swivel chair, it becomes clear.
I put on the headphones, block out the ambient noise, nothing now but the pervasive silence, I try and look past Nil’s visor, but it’s impossible because whatever visual appendages he has have long since stopped functioning. Tap the microphone once, minor feedback on my end. I rearrange it, then pull out the list of approved phrases. The monitor before me displays good vital signs- heart rate normal, decent blood pressure, respiration in the clear.
So this is what it is to stand before the total zero, all particulate sapped, stare into the abyss and try not to blink. To create art in a vacuum.
Vacuums are funny things in that a total one has never been observed. Like Infinity they’re theoretical at best, because imagining an infinite quantity of things is as abstract as imagining a complete absence of things. Both extremes warp the horizon a little, cause you to reconsider where you’re at. Then you blink.
“Hello, Nil,” I articulate. The words bounce back toward me.
No response. The breathing apparatus continues funneling air into his lungs, silent mechanisms whisk away any abnormalities, the master processor flips thousands of punch-cards over, watching and waiting. He’s a cyborg, I recognize. Not in the traditional sense, in that machinery has necessarily been implanted into his body, but in the sense that without it surrounding him at all times, he could not live.
I try to make out some frequency with his breathing, use that to imagine what it must be like in his brain, how the brain would construct an environment piecemeal to compensate for the lack of input. Maybe in his mind he’s reclining on a beach in Acapulco, watching the eternal sunset and my words sound to him like the waves washing over each other, insignificant murmurs unworthy of consideration.
I chuckle, because I know this isn’t true.
Glance upward. Same seven views, angles on Nil, a compound eye. The packet instructs me to remove the Hi-8 tapes from each one before I leave each day, stick them into special slots in the console, which subsequently convert them into mp4 files and send them to- well, where exactly I don’t know. For the purposes of review. Freshly stocked Hi-8 tapes, presumably brought by Bradford, are located beneath the console in a drawer.
Fine so far. Nothing suspect here. My fingers are trembling.
There’s something about him, the way he detects you without really knowing what you are, one of those beings in the deep subterranean caverns of the Earth which hasn’t evolved eyes because it doesn’t need any. I imagine for an instant that I saw him move half a centimeter to the left as I did. No. Trick of the light.
“Hello, Nil,” I repeat. The breathing drones on. Heart rate normal.
I flip through the pages some more, recline further and kick my shoes up. If a piece of equipment is broken, I am to bring it to a specific electronics repair shop on Grand Avenue. They fix anything here in under a week, and I’m to retrieve the device as soon as it’s repaired. I am not, under any circumstances, to bring any repairman into the facility.
“Nil,” one more time.
I wonder how the rest of them felt, the ones before me, sitting down here like this at Bradford’s behest, turned soft by the long hours. The eternity, the pauses, the weeks of effort without fruition. I wonder how they fared, how long he’s been up to this little game of hiring new figures to race along the wheel.
I’m probably taking the wrong approach. I need to view this from the perspective of whoever set it up. I rise to my feet, walk back about three feet, take in the panorama of surveillance, the precision of the angles involved. I do the old trick where I turn my index fingers and thumbs into a rectangle, hold this up to the screens of each in turn, viewing them first from a distance, then close. They’re mounted on long fixtures to the wall, wiring subsequently embedded into the edges surrounding the two-way mirror. Several fixtures are patched with duct tape.
Camera one yields a view of Nil’s face head on. His pale skin behind a layer of static, all orifices rendered inoperable. I imagine that’s how he’s meant to stay.
Camera two. Higher angle, though still from the front. This one shows both the upper half of Nil’s face and the table in front of him, as well as whatever would theoretically be on it. Also his hands. Today they’re uncovered. Gnarled, twisted appendages which remain lifeless. I wonder if Bradford trims his nails, or if the machine hooked up to him is also capable of it. Or if his nails grow at all, for that matter.
Camera three shows a view from beneath the table, to be thorough. Wouldn’t want to miss any movement in the legs. His heavy boots are chained to the table with durable steel, the cuffs of his suit hang flaccid, blowing ever so slightly from the air conditioning. Mustn’t confuse that with movement of the body.
Camera four is an overhead angle similar to camera two, from the upper right. From this I notice that the room extends around a foot and a half more than what I can see from my spot at the console. On my left, there’s one door leading in, which is only discernible because of its edges but is otherwise painted the same impenetrable white. I assume Bradford uses that one to affix various implements and garments to Nil when I’m not here. Or perhaps someone else entirely is charged with maintenance and upkeep.
Five and six are self-explanatory eye-level profiles, from the right and left. Nil’s nose can vaguely be made out beneath the breathing apparatus, the chest of his slender profile moving in and out beneath the device’s plastic veneer.
Camera seven is the back of Nil’s head. It’s balding and flaky, all the hair on it is dead and untouched, vestigial stuff which has never known sunshine or unpurified air. I look away from this camera immediately. I don’t like looking at him from that angle.
Because from that angle, I realize, I can see the two-way mirror. I’m behind it.
I turn away from the setup to cough. The chemical-doused mist or whatever it is fills my lungs, water vapor congeals in there. Not sure if it’s the same mixture in Nil’s room, or the same mixture flowing through his tube, but whatever it is, I’m not exactly fit to operate within it. By design, surely. Nobody is fit to operate here.
I flip through the pages once again, come across a particular order in the third column. It interests me. I grab the microphone on its stalk, bending forward as far as I can manage.
“Speak, Nil.” Just the right inflection, monotone and voyeuristic. He can’t resist that, surely. Some response, something virtually undetectable but present. A minor shift of the fingers, a twitch of some atrophied muscle, something. I sit back down and wait for my words to tunnel their way through his ear canal, past his hammer and stirrup, burrow and lodge themselves such that he can’t ignore them.
The machine continues its breathing process. Nil remains inert.
Damn these vital signs, I think. Damn them all, the nice clean electric yellow mountain ranges signifying his average heart rate and ideal metabolism. These aren’t signs that should read from someone as ravaged as him, he should be in significantly worse health. Whoever designed this machine put a lot of thought- inordinate levels of thought- into maintaining his life for as long as possible. Ensuring no release from the bonds which tie him.
Of course, I’m sure those in my position have tried to get him to speak before, and he’s physically incapable. How can someone who’s never used their vocal cords speak? The whole idea is patently stupid, the neurons which form these sorts of habits from an early age would decay and rot, in time. Unless-
Well, as Bradford was keen to point out, this is unprecedented territory.
It dawns on me, looking into all the cameras, all the rows and long vistas of equipment in this one room, not to mention whatever underlying infrastructure must be connecting it in the adjacent rooms, that whoever runs this operation must have an unusually high amount of confidence that something will happen here, that there is a point to all this. Nobody would sink time and resources into this unless they expected some large payout. That’s how the world runs, there is no investment without intrigue.
Unless I’m the experiment. Which is certainly possible, that’s how many experiments seem to go, they rely on deception. On fucking with you through subterfuge. That’s why I avoided psychiatry, going into neuroscience, because the psychiatrists are so damn haughty, so sure of themselves, feel they’re so well and truly above everyone else. Neuroscience is concrete, resilient. It doesn’t play around, it doesn’t mince words. It has certain aims.
I’d be sweating if it wasn’t 20 degrees and lower. The suggestion has me in its grip now. Suppose there’s a camera above me, monitoring me, watching my every move. In which case it wouldn’t be wise to turn around and check the ceiling, would it? No. Of course not. Have to keep them thinking I suspect nothing, then I can go along with it until the big reveal where everyone is a paid actor and nobody’s fun is ruined.
No, I tell myself. Going back to the thing with cost. These are millions of dollars, not even the most twisted, well-constructed academic experiments pour this much material in. There would be false fronts, cheap looking props, I’d be given less options to deviate from the desired path. There would be telltale signs.
“Nil?” Moreso out of desperation now, I need to feel the presence of someone else in the room with me. I am, technically, not alone. I can’t say the same spiritually. I don’t know if Nil has a spirit or what we’d refer to in the common parlance as a soul. Everything about the project has been relayed to me in such casual, blase terms it’s practically comical.
I pursue the guide. I’m not to use inflection. Yes, I can’t forget that. I just used an inquisitorial demeanor. I can’t lose my grip here, Bradford probably knew I would, he wants me fired and gone and packed out so he can forget about me and move onto whoever’s next. He knows I’ll fail, you can’t win under these circumstances. I grab the edge of the table, open one of the drawers, rifle around in it until my fingers detect a pencil with no eraser and some looseleaf scrap paper. Obviously not for communication with Nil, he can’t see whatever I write.
My digits are trembling from the temperature and the looming pressure but all the same I grasp the paper in one hand and feebly begin to jot down a few lines of text. I’m sure that, even if I am being monitored in this silent crypt of voyeurism, the resolution isn’t high enough to detect what I’m writing. Not that it would matter to them anyway.
Nil sits and a red button ahead of me flashes. It’s feeding time. From some subterranean tank, Nil’s lunch rises out from the machine, into a receptacle on the front of his mask, and if I lean into the speaker and turn the volume way up, I can hear the noise of semi-solid matter being pushed down the esophagus without the involvement of the teeth or tongue. It’s a serpentine rhythm, two beats then a pause. Caloric intake: sufficient.
The pencil snaps in two, the graphite bit rolls off from the impact, and my fist slams down onto the surface of the desk. I can’t read what I’ve written, because my eyes are busy rolling back up into the recesses of my skull and I’m smiling from ear to ear.
Let me out
Let me out
Let me out