Evolution

By E. Gordon Hoofnagle

Can you recall how the world functioned before the Internet? And what would happen if it all fell apart?

Follow our heroes as they struggle to contain a menace that threatens to destroy the world if left unchecked. It's mission is simple - to collect all information, everywhere. It's methods are terrifying - infect the networks of social interaction, recording their sights, sounds, intimate relations, and conversations. The last shred of personal privacy evaporates when this unstoppable virus infects a host. And worst of all, the victim is completely unaware they've been infiltrated - it's an Orwellian nightmare come true. This bad situation becomes worse when the NSA cybersecurity team gets involved, and their unquenched lust for power and addiction to control puts the world on a crash course for survival.

Yes, technology has changed the way we live and the way we love. And now, it will change the way we die.

• Language: English
• Publisher: E. Gordon Hoofnagle
• Release date: Sep 30, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301292738

E. Gordon Hoofnagle

E. Gordon Hoofnagle is a contemporary fiction-writer with a passion for capturing the interplay of technology on the human experience and its impact on relationships.

Book preview

Chapter 1

Sirens filled the deathly cold midday air with shrill, pulsing electronic sounds which were unmistakably law enforcement. It was enough commotion to encourage even street-hardened New Yorkers to look up from their newspapers or their iPads, and they struggled to comprehend what, exactly, was happening on that cold, grey day in Astoria. But from afar, the scene unfolded like any garden variety car chase…

First, there was the car, which was going way too fast when it recklessly entered the intersection. As his wheels screeched, Jaz’s lungs were almost immediately filled with the unpleasant smell of burning rubber – the acrid smoke adhered to the back of his throat and gagged him. Fortunately he was gripping the steering wheel with both hands, because he was immediately required to swerve violently to avoid plowing into a jaywalking pedestrian. Phew! That was a close call! If he trashed the car, Jaz wouldn’t be able to sell it to his local chop shop. Things were looking good, and in a few quick turns he would be entering the highway that led to his final destination – and that meant he would earn a fistful of money. Jaz smiled at his reflection in the rear-view mirror and saw the cop car slow down – it was precisely as he had hoped. Last year the local news televised a live car chase that resulted in cop-caused deaths, and the mayor issued guidelines for officers to avoid high-speed chases, if possible. Jaz loved the new rules, because all he had to do was be vaguely reckless and he could get away with grand theft. He mentally saluted the cop and firmly pressed the gas pedal. Jaz’s head was involuntarily pushed back against the headrest as the car’s engine roared and the vehicle effortlessly picked up speed. He was zipping through the crowded metropolitan neighborhood, weaving around slow moving vehicles as if he were playing a video game. Jaz’s senses were in high gear as he felt the physical thrill of danger. Indeed, Jared Singh, or ‘Jaz’ as they called him, loved the rush that came along with committing crimes. And today, everything was going according to plan - the car was in great condition, it was nearly new, and he would get top dollar for its parts. Jaz figured that it would net almost $3,000 for a little less than three hours work, which was not too bad…and it was the second car this week that he had pinched.

Later, in what seemed like an eternity, but was really only a half-minute, the police car followed, in a pursuit that could only be called lukewarm…at best. Officer Brinson was infuriated at the black-haired punk. This kid had only recently moved into the neighborhood and was doing his best to degrade and defile the pleasant, middle-class existence where Brinson was lovingly nurtured. He wanted nothing more than to nab this kid, but the orders were strict…no high speed chases unless they were matters of life-and-death. Examples given at the briefing included situations like potential hostages, terrorists, bank robberies and violent criminals. But chasing this punk-ass car thief didn’t count as any of those, and all Brinson could do was keep the car in view and relay his position, hoping that the punk would make a wrong turn and get stuck, or maybe run out of gas, or have engine troubles…anything! Sweet Mary, mother of Jesus! Brinson was desperately pleading for the attention of a silent God as he tried to get close enough to burn the punk’s image into his brain. One day, he vowed, he would see the punk walking around the neighborhood, and he’d take him somewhere deserted to teach him a lesson. Oh…this punk would pay! Officer Brinson’s knuckles were white from the pressure of his hands gripping the steering wheel in frustration. He had communicated his position to the dispatcher, who was not as interested in a car theft as he was in the security detail that was needed for the governor’s visit to today’s unveiling of a new office building. Fighting a losing battle made Brinson’s cholesterol-laden blood boil to unhealthy levels. The Camaro gained speed and its driver became more reckless. Brinson violated his instincts, but he followed orders…slowing down to give the punk some room - no more screeching tires, no gunshots, nothing but safety, just as the captain ordered. Punk ass loser…I’m gonna get you! Brinson cursed at the stolen car as it gained ground from him.

Looking back on that day, which he seemed to do every morning in the shower and every night before desperately and unsuccessfully trying to fall asleep, it was almost like slow motion when the little kid darted into his peripheral vision. What in the heck? How could the kid be so stupid? Oh my God, the kid was looking the other way! Yes, he was bundled up in that puffy winter coat, with a hat and a scarf, and he was looking back over his shoulder towards his mom, or his sister, or whoever was already gawking in horror at the impending disaster. On the evening news, it would be noted that Mrs. Hamlin was Jonathan’s grandmother, and they were headed out to get ice cream…who wants ice cream in the winter? If only he could scream and get the kid’s attention. And, it happened so fast! The events registered in his brain, but just a fraction of a second too late. By the time the driver saw the red scarf, billowing like a matador’s cape behind the tot, there was no time to react. The unfortunate kid didn’t even catch a glimpse of the bumper on the speeding car as it made abrupt and uncontested contact with his petite, defenseless body. And, although it was happening in what seemed to be a disturbingly slow set of interrelated freeze-frame photographs, the actual collision was over in the blink of an eye. He felt the dull thud on the underside of the car and immediately knew that his life had changed forever. It was not the first time he had taken someone’s life, but it was the first time that he killed an innocent person. Even worse, he had just killed a kid.

Shit! he screamed aloud to no one, I can’t believe it!

It was surreal…being a dead man, but still breathing, still driving a car, and still staring into his rear view mirror at the rapidly shrinking crime scene. What just happened was huge; and yet, it was somehow falling behind him as a rapidly shrinking reflection. Some of his minions knew what Jaz was doing that day, and word was bound to get out as people laced together the times, places and events. Sooner or later, Jaz would be fingered as ‘the hit-n-run asshole that ran over a little kid’ and, from that point forward, he would be a wanted man. There was no street honor in killing an innocent bystander, and Jaz’s rivals would use this unfortunate event to consolidate forces and to dispose of him once and for all. Jaz’s heart sank when he saw the cop car stop at the scene. Jaz won the car chase, but it had become a pyrrhic victory. The stolen automobile, which recently looked so alluring, had suddenly become an albatross, and Jaz quickly ditched the car in a mall parking lot and walked down the depressing sidewalk towards the station. Within a half-hour of the incident, as he would later call it, Jaz was boarding the first Long Island Railroad train that arrived at the Jamaica stop. It was an eastbound train that ended at Montauk, the end of the Southern tip of Long Island. Montauk seemed like a world away from his troubles in Queens, and, for lack of a better place to go, he decided to take the train to its final destination.

Jaz always traveled with a small athletic bag that contained the essentials – his handgun, a Swiss army knife, some stolen credit cards, $5,000 in cash, some fake IDs, an iPod, and an untraceable cell phone. Anything else that Jaz required could be purchased along the way.

Jaz sank into the chair of the empty commuter train weaving its way through the spindly brown and grayish Long Island scenery. His chest was thumping when he thought about the badness. It was guilt, wasn’t it? Or was it self-pity and fear?

One thing was certain, Jaz was in trouble.

Chapter 2

The mahogany-paneled bar of the Montauk Inn is a crammed hot-spot in the balmy, bikini-clad summers, but in the off-season, things are very different. In the cold winter light, the bar is revealed to be a tired, drab outfit in need of cosmetic repair. There was a time when you could smoke in bars…and everyone seemed to smoke back then. And while the laws were changed decades ago, the stains and smells still permeated this establishment. Yes, in winter it seemed as if the entire town magically reverted to a small and mostly defunct fishing village, not at all resembling a bohemian playground for rich tourists.

From the outside, the one-story building that houses the Inn’s bar looked more like a general store, its front adorned with a faded blue canvas awning, splattered with bird shit. And while the awning can only be described as disgusting, it did serve one useful purpose - providing shade for the large picture windows on each side of the front door. In fact, the building’s entire façade seemed to feel the effects of age and nature’s elements. It’s hard to believe that summer patrons vied for the window seats, and the only explanation is that they wanted to be ‘seen’ by the people queued outside the bar. There’s no other explanation for these seats being desirable, because the main view from the front windows was only the parking lot, not the picturesque harbor with its magazine-like collection of sailing and fishing boats tied up to the grey wooden docks.

Adorning the inside of this small-town bar was Smithy, and he had been the bartender for as long as anyone could remember. Montauk is a transient town, after all, and Smithy’s ten years on the job seemed like an eternity. Some might find the slow life boring, but for Smithy this meandering existence was much better than where he spent the first eighteen years of his working life – roaming the seas with the navy. The dusty plaque on his bedroom wall stated that he retired with full honors, and he looked back fondly on his days as a young, strong, handsome cadet…women instantly fell for him, especially if he was in uniform…or, at least that’s how he remembers it. But fast-forward ten years and one sees the cumulative effects of being in a bar full time, coughing up alimony for an ex-wife, and succumbing to the predictable vices: cigarettes, video games, gambling and alcohol. Objectively speaking, Smithy pissed away most of his navy pension, leaving him with a life that was tranquil but never lavish. His financial plan consisted primarily of purchasing lottery tickets when times got tough, compulsive gambling when he was flush, and eventually, working harder when he needed more money. And yet, he had grown to enjoy, or at least to tolerate his plodding life. It was uncomplicated and it was predictable…and that suited him just fine. He once had dreams, but could never muster up the energy to get off his ass and do anything about them. Now, even his good friends described Smithy as burnt out.

During the slow season, time itself seems to crawl, and the reduced number of visitors and guests at the Inn seem to invite more individual attention – they are like live specimens on display for Smithy’s evaluation and analysis. On this particular afternoon, there was the young Indian kid at the rear corner table who seemed to keep his back to the wall and warily evaluate everyone who entered the bar, even though it was nearly empty. There was the middle-aged couple who were obviously having an affair, because no one who was married could ever sit so close to each other and kiss so frequently, or for so long. And, finally, there was the reclusive black-haired guy by the window that looked like a college professor. He never left his laptop PC unless he was walking his chocolate Labrador around the premises of the hotel, letting it sniff every corner and then piss on the flowerbeds in a seemingly random pattern. Fortunately the guy picked up the solid refuse that the brown dog generated, because Smithy was not interested in taking on any additional sanitation duties at the Inn. The professor and his dog arrived almost three weeks ago, and Cynthia, the desk manager, explained that the professor was Doctor James Andrews. He had been checked in as a VIP guest that required privacy – just like everyone else in this place, thought Smithy.

The Indian kid arrived yesterday. Cynthia said that his name was Jeff Singh. He arrived at the Inn wearing brand new clothes and looking like a freaking fashion model; and yet, the Indian kid talked to no one and seemed overly cautious at everything and everyone who entered his field of vision. He was a walking contradiction, with long hair, clean skin and trustworthy brown eyes that betrayed the skittish behavior of his body – maybe he had ADD, thought Smithy. The kid was definitely not older than thirty and Smithy mentally nicknamed the kid ‘Shifty’. The kid drank rum and coke and didn’t eat much - in fact he seemed half-drunk by lunch time. This was probably another rich, spoiled yuppie experiencing a melodramatic pre mid-life crisis. Fortunately, he didn’t cause any disturbance, and he tipped well, so Smithy placed him in the category of wealthy guest who would spend a week or two drowning his sorrows in self-pity and then head back to Manhattan, to his hedge fund, or to whatever other slime pot he crawled from until the next time that his Prozac stopped doing its magic.

But the college professor, Doctor Jim Andrews, he was worse than the shifty Indian kid. He kept to himself, he didn’t tip well, he didn’t drink booze and he took up real estate that, in more ebullient times, would generate hundreds of dollars in daily tips. Smithy was vainly hopeful that the doctor-professor would soon be leaving, and that his absence might encourage some valuable customers to take up his table. Why was he always glued to his laptop? And why did he keep to himself all the time? And who in the hell brings his dog to a hotel? Smithy was annoyed as he found himself unable to get inside the professor’s mind, it was like a Manhattan apartment door that is locked with two dead bolts and a security chain - this guy was a freak.

That was life at the Inn in the winter…deciphering the life stories and dwelling on the annoying points of all the patrons in the establishment. Smithy’s attention was diverted because the kissing couple needed their check. They quickly paid, leaving an adequate tip, and proceeded to leave the bar arm-in-arm…again. He nicknamed them the Humpy Twins and was sure they were headed back to their carnal love den for another go around. He settled back at the bar to scan the newspaper, feeling vaguely depressed that he had no sex life to speak of, except for the occasional romp with Cynthia…always at her place, always with the aid of Viagra, and always in the same missionary position – god he hated that legacy of the evangelicals.

Smithy returned his attention to The New York Daily News and absorbed the summary of the day’s events – the paper described a bland world. No, there was no new news, nothing of substance…it was just another day filled with hit-and-run drivers, illicit love affairs and random incidents of violence and crime. It was only out of boredom that he turned the pages; the newspaper always depressed him - except for the college football game reviews and, of course, the lottery results. It was around 1:30pm when Smithy confirmed that he didn’t win the lottery. He remembered the time because it was nearing one of his cigarette breaks, and he was thinking about changing his lottery strategy. Maybe he would only buy tickets on weeks where the jackpot was substantial? No, he decided, as he mentally argued with himself - that might mean weeks would go by where he wasn’t playing, and not playing would be worse than losing. The lunch rush seemed to be over before it even began, so Smithy got up to have his customary smoke. Smithy made a mental habit of segmenting all of his smoking breaks, and naming them…this way each cigarette seemed like a well-deserved entitlement. He asked the Indian kid and the professor if they needed anything, and when they declined, he announced that he would be back in about ten minutes. Neither of the two patrons seemed concerned or interested in what Smithy had to say, and they barely moved as he sauntered out the door.

The sun struggled to illuminate the stone-blue sky and the clouds were wispy and scarce, as if hiding from the cold. The unrelenting wind confirmed that winter was making itself very comfortable, with no departure date in sight, nor even hinted at. And despite the bright rays of light that emanated from the sun, there was no warmth in its light. The breeze was still swift, but the boats were not rocking in their slips - they had been pulled from the water back in October and were now individually wrapped and parked in giant wood cradles, neatly tucked side-by-side in the parking lot. The absence of boats left the marina with an almost lonely and desolate aura - even sea gulls seemed to have left for greener pastures. They don’t fly south for the winter, do they? No…they must be hibernating, Smithy thought to himself. The boat cradles took up most, but not all of the spaces in the parking lot, but there was still room for the employees’ cars, the occasional visitor’s car, and of course the garbage dumpster. The dumpster was emptied on a monthly basis during the winter and, despite the cold weather, it emitted a smell that wafted downwind in a noxious plume. Smithy avoided the stinky air and reached into his pocket for his soft-pack of Camel cigarettes. He scanned the pack, counting how many butts he had left, and noticed the dire warning labels. Smithy laughed, and confirmed in his mind that he would leave this earth on the day that God had pre-ordained, with or without cancer, and probably not in the arms of a woman, or at the hand of a jealous lover. Smithy inhaled the smoke, and concluded that the end of his life would be as inconsequential as the day of his birth, and it would be a fitting conclusion to the useless space sandwiched between the two dates. Smithy turned up his collar and enjoyed the smoke as he surveyed the Inn’s well manicured grounds. That was new, he thought, as he took stock of the parking lot. Nestled in between the boats was a shiny black Range Rover. The car wasn’t in the lot yesterday; in fact, it wasn’t in the lot when he had his post-coffee, mid-morning smoke. He obliquely peered at the vehicle and noticed the driver inside the car seemed to be observing the Inn. He took one look at the clean-cut male and knew for sure that he was military – there was not a shred of doubt in his mind…Smithy had spent half his life with that ilk, in fact he used to be one of them.

Something was clearly afoot at the Montauk Inn.

Preferring to remain a defensive yet aloof observer, akin to milquetoast, Smithy began to do an about face and get the hell out of the parking lot, but he paused because his cigarette was only half-finished. At $13.00 per pack, he was not inclined to waste tobacco. He glanced back over his shoulder at the Range Rover and felt a shiver on the white hairs that lined his neck and populated his freckled and age-stained back. He knew that the driver had taken stock of him, and the thought of being spotted caused him to shudder. Smithy’s ex-wife used to say that he had ESP because he could sense bad things before they happened. She even swore that it was some side-effect of spending so much time with sonar, but Smithy thought she was full of shit. And yet, today he felt like something was not quite right, and the G-man in the Range Rover had everything to do with his newfound malaise. A few more strained puffs and Smithy approached the end of his cigarette, so he picked up the pace and marched back into the bar. He was sweating despite the wintry air. Since none of the patrons seemed to acknowledge his arrival, he uneasily settled back at the bar stool and picked up the paper, noticing for the first time that he had a clear view of the Range Rover. It had been hidden in plain sight all along, but he had not noticed it until his post-luncheon cigarette break.

Doctor Jim