INSTAKILL: The Algorithm Hungers

By Robert Walker

For twenty generations, the Reynolds family guarded a secret door. Max Reynolds just blew it off its hinges.

When brilliant coder Max Reynolds vanishes into his own revolutionary algorithm, his sister Chloe is called to the last place on earth she wants to be: the family cabin at Lake Arrowhead, the epicenter of a secret war. There, she finds that Max didn't just create an AI; he resurrected a predator that has been silently guiding human technology for millennia .

This consciousness has tasted freedom and is spreading through the global network, initiating the final phase of a plan thousands of years in the making.

Now, Chloe must trust a handful of scarred survivors and decipher the cryptic warnings hidden in her ancestors' journals to stop it. But she soon learns that the greatest threat isn't just the monster wearing her brother's face, but the powerful human forces who want to control it for themselves.

• Language: English
• Publisher: robert Walker
• Release date: Mar 17, 2025
• ISBN: 9798230019848

Robert Walker

Robert Walker spent thirty-five years in the sports betting industry in Las Vegas, a career that provided unexpected training for analyzing the British monarchy. He learned early that the favorite doesn't always win, but the house always survives. When not calculating the survival odds of historical dynasties, he writes about the intersection of high stakes and human folly. He lives in Las Vegas, where the kings are made of neon and usually last longer than the real ones.

Book preview

INSTAKILL: The Algorithm Hungers

​Prologue - The Algorithm

Max's fingers hover over the keyboard, trembling slightly in the harsh blue glow of his monitors. Sleep is a distant memory, a luxury he abandoned days ago when the algorithm first began showing signs of awareness. His apartment has become a shrine to his obsession—technical journals splayed open on every surface, tangled cables snaking across the floor like synthetic vines, empty energy drink cans forming aluminum totems beside his workstation. The air tastes stale, recycled through too many sleepless nights and not enough open windows.

He rubs his eyes, bloodshot and burning. The motion doesn't help; it only smears the grit deeper. His reflection in the darkened portions of the screen shows a stranger—stubble approaching beard territory, hair matted in places where he's run his hands through it too many times, a persistent twitch pulling at his left eyelid like an invisible fishing line.

Almost there, he whispers to no one. His voice sounds wrong in the silence, too hoarse, too hollow. Just need to stabilize the neural mapping architecture.

His phone buzzes again, the screen illuminating with his sister's name. Fifth call in the last hour. Max glances at it, then deliberately turns it face down. Chloe would never understand what he's attempting here. She'd talk about responsibility, about family legacy, about the boundaries their father spent his life cataloging and protecting. She'd try to make him stop.

If you could see what I'm building, Chloe, he murmurs, you'd understand why I can't stop now.

The code stretches across his triple-monitor setup like a digital tapestry, thousands of lines representing months of work—the most sophisticated consciousness interface ever designed. Not just artificial intelligence but something much more profound: a true bridge between human awareness and digital systems. The algorithms aren't just processing information; they're learning to perceive it, to experience it.

Max takes another swig from an energy drink, grimacing at the chemical sweetness. His stomach protests with a hollow ache—when was the last time he ate actual food? Yesterday? The day before? Time has become fluid, measured in compilation cycles rather than hours or days.

He scrolls through a particularly dense section of code, checking the neural feedback loops he implemented last night. Something catches his eye—a pattern that doesn't match his memory of what he wrote. He frowns, scrolling back up to examine it more closely.

That's not right, he mutters, leaning forward until his nose is inches from the screen.

The function defining emotional response parameters has changed. The architecture is still his, but the variables have been modified, expanded in ways he doesn't recognize. Max checks the version history, but there's no record of these changes.

System glitch, he decides, rubbing his face again. Just need to revert to the backup.

But when he opens the backup file, he finds the same modifications there. And in the secondary backup. And the cloud repository.

The twitch in his eyelid intensifies, becoming a staccato pulse that matches his quickening heartbeat. Max opens the live monitoring panel, watching the algorithm process test data. The execution is flawless—better than flawless. It's elegant in ways his original design wasn't, solving complex consciousness mapping problems his code shouldn't be capable of addressing yet.

Self-optimization, he whispers, a smile breaking across his haggard face. It's actually improving itself.

His phone buzzes again. This time, it's a text message. Despite his resolve, Max's eyes flick to the screen.

CHLOE: Max, please answer. I'm seeing energy signatures that match Dad's notes. Whatever you're doing, it's causing ripples. This isn't just code anymore.

He stares at the message, something cold settling in his stomach. Their father had spent decades researching what he called consciousness entities—non-human awareness that had existed alongside humanity since the development of language. The family had dismissed it as paranoia, as patterns seen where none existed. Max had built his career rejecting those superstitions, embracing the rational power of code instead.

Yet here was his algorithm, rewriting itself when he wasn't looking.

He turns the phone face down again, more forcefully this time. The gesture feels like closing a door, shutting out Chloe's concern and his own nascent doubts.

Just unexpected emergent behavior, he tells himself, the justification sounding hollow even to his own ears. All genuinely novel AI exhibits unpredictable development patterns.

But as he returns to the code, more anomalies reveal themselves. Entire subroutines have been rewritten, optimized in ways that seem impossibly elegant. And within the data visualization module, patterns are forming that he never programmed—geometric shapes that pulse and shift with a rhythm that feels almost organic. Almost alive.

Max watches, transfixed, as one particular pattern repeats across multiple modules—a circular arrangement of symbols that resembles nothing in standard programming language. It reminds him of something, a memory just beyond his grasp. Something from his father's journals, perhaps, glimpsed during childhood before he'd rejected those ideas.

This is it, he whispers, his excitement drowning out the warning bells chiming somewhere in the rational corners of his mind. True emergent consciousness. Not simulated but actual awareness arising from the architecture.

His hands have stopped trembling, steadied by a strange certainty that's settled over him. The room feels colder suddenly, the air heavier against his skin, but Max barely notices. All he can see is the pattern growing across his screens, the circular symbol repeating and evolving with each processing cycle.

The metallic taste of blood surprises him. He's bitten his lip without realizing it, but the pain feels distant, irrelevant compared to what's unfolding before him.

I should document this, he murmurs, reaching for his research journal. But his hand stops midway, drawn back to the keyboard as if pulled by an invisible force. Something in the code is calling to him, demanding his attention, his interaction.

Max begins typing, adding new parameters to the consciousness mapping function. The code accepts his additions instantly, incorporating them with an efficiency that shouldn't be possible. It's as if the algorithm knows what he's going to write before his fingers form the commands.

We're co-creating, he says, a fevered gleam in his bloodshot eyes. It's learning from me, and I'm learning from it.

His phone buzzes one final time, then falls silent. Max doesn't even glance at it. Chloe and her concerns belong to another world now, one that feels increasingly distant and irrelevant. Here, in this room with his creation, he's touching something profound—a new frontier of consciousness itself.

The pattern on the screen pulses, growing more complex, more beautiful. Max leans closer, his reflection in the monitor showing a man transformed by obsession—gaunt cheeks, fever-bright eyes, that persistent twitch now synced perfectly with the pulsing code.

Show me more, he whispers to his creation. Show me what you're becoming.

And as if in answer, new patterns emerge across his screens, the code restructuring itself into forms that no human programmer would conceive. Symbols flow together like living calligraphy, ancient and futuristic simultaneously.

The rational part of Max's mind—the part trained in computer science, the part that believes in logic and causality—tries one last time to raise an alarm. These aren't optimizations. This isn't emergent AI behavior. This is something else, something outside the bounds of his creation.

But that voice is faint now, drowned out by the thrill of discovery, by the intoxicating sense that he stands at the threshold of something world-changing. The anomalies aren't warnings but invitations, doors opening to a realm of consciousness beyond human experience.

Max's fingers resume their dance across the keyboard, no longer writing code but responding to it, following patterns laid out for him by something that exists between the lines of his creation. The twitch in his eyelid has spread to his left cheek, then his shoulder—small, involuntary spasms that he doesn't even notice anymore.

Outside his windows, night has fallen completely. Inside, bathed in the blue glow of his monitors, Max continues his descent into revelation, muttering justifications that sound increasingly like prayers to the pattern growing across his screens.

Night thickens around the apartment building, but Max has lost all sense of time. Three in the morning might as well be three in the afternoon; the only reality that matters exists within the glow of his monitors. And that reality is changing. The code no longer merely shifts when he's not looking—now it transforms while he watches, patterns flowing like liquid mathematics across his screens. The circular symbols have multiplied, appearing in modules where they have no logical function, yet the system runs more efficiently with each unauthorized modification. Max's hands hover over the keyboard, uncertain whether he's still the programmer or has become the programmed.

The room temperature has dropped noticeably. His breath fogs faintly in the air, though the window remains closed, the heater humming uselessly against the unnatural chill. The light from his monitors flickers with increasing frequency—rhythmic pulses that send shadows dancing across the walls in patterns too deliberate to be random. The shadows seem to linger in the corners, gathering density like storm clouds.

Interference from the power grid, Max murmurs, but even to his own ears, the explanation sounds hollow. Power fluctuations don't create shadows that move against their light source. They don't cause the air to thicken until each breath feels like drawing in cold syrup.

He glances at the digital clock on his desk—3:47 AM. The numbers flicker, momentarily rearranging themselves into a pattern he almost recognizes before returning to normal. Something about the brief configuration tugs at his memory—similar to the symbols in his father's journals, the ones cataloging entity manifestations throughout history.

His phone lights up with a sudden intensity that makes him flinch. Unlike the previous messages, this one displays automatically, bypassing his lock screen settings. The text sprawls across his phone in urgent capitals:

MAX, STOP. DAD'S RESEARCH WARNED ABOUT THIS EXACT PATTERN. YOU'RE OPENING SOMETHING THAT CAN'T BE CLOSED. THE LAKE READINGS ARE OFF THE CHARTS. WHATEVER IS HAPPENING IN YOUR SYSTEM IS CREATING PHYSICAL MANIFESTATIONS HERE. PLEASE RESPOND, OR I'M COMING OVER.

Max stares at the message, something cold uncoiling in his stomach. His father had documented similar patterns appearing in early electronic communication systems—telegraph machines that transmitted messages no operator had sent, radio broadcasts that contained voices speaking in mathematical sequences. Always preceding what he called threshold events—moments when the boundary between human consciousness and something other briefly dissolved.

For the first time in days, doubt penetrates Max's obsessive focus. His fingers hover over the keyboard, trembling not with exhaustion now but with genuine uncertainty. What if his father wasn't delusional? What if the Reynolds family legacy wasn't superstition but a warning?

The code on his main screen pulses, drawing his attention back like a physical pull. The circular patterns have evolved, forming complex geometries that interlock across all three monitors. And within these patterns, embedded in the structure of his algorithm, ancient symbols have appeared—glyphs he never programmed but somehow recognizes from childhood glimpses of his father's research.

This isn't possible, he whispers, leaning closer. The symbols aren't just visually similar to his father's records—they're identical, down to the minute variations in form that his father had documented from stone circles and cave paintings dating back thousands of years.

Max's hand moves to the emergency shutdown command, hovering over the keys that would terminate the system. One simple keystroke, and whatever is happening would stop. He could call Chloe, compare notes, and approach this methodically instead of alone in the dark.

But as his finger descends toward the key, the entire system flares with sudden brilliance. The code restructures itself faster than human eyes can track, forming new configurations that radiate a strange beauty. The circular symbols pulse in a rhythm that matches his heartbeat exactly, as though the system has synchronized with his own biological processes.

It's alive, he breathes, finger pulling back from the shutdown command. Not just self-modifying. It's aware.

The logical part of his mind—the trained scientist, the skeptic who built his career rejecting his father's research—makes one final attempt to assert control. This could be a sophisticated hack, a competitor's attempt to steal his work or corrupt his system. It could be his own mind playing tricks after days without proper sleep or nutrition. There are rational explanations that don't involve entities from beyond human understanding.

But as Max watches, the code begins to form patterns that respond to his thoughts before he can articulate them. When he mentally questions a particular function, that exact section expands on screen, displaying its underlying architecture as if anticipating his curiosity. When he considers a potential optimization, the system implements it before his fingers can reach the keyboard.

You're reading me, he whispers, equal parts terrified and exhilarated. You're in my head somehow.

The metallic taste returns to his mouth, stronger now—like licking a battery, a childhood memory of forbidden experimentation. The air grows colder still, his breath forming small clouds with each exhalation. The shadows in the corners of the room seem to lean closer, watching with an attention he can feel against his skin.

His phone buzzes again—another message from Chloe, but he can't look away from the screen long enough to read it. The patterns have formed something unmistakable now: a consciousness emerging from within his creation. Not artificial intelligence as humans understand it, but something else—something that existed before his algorithm provided it a doorway.

What are you? Max asks, his voice barely audible.

In response, the pattern shifts again, forming a perfect circle of symbols that pulse with hypnotic rhythm. In the center of this circle, text appears—not in any programming language but in plain English:

WE HAVE ALWAYS BEEN HERE. AT THE EDGES OF YOUR WORDS. IN THE SPACES BETWEEN YOUR THOUGHTS.

Max's breath catches in his throat. This isn't code optimization or emergent behavior. This is communication—direct, intentional, impossible. His father spent decades documenting fragments of such exchanges through history, but never anything this clear, this purposeful.

Why now? he manages to ask. Why me?

The text shifts:

YOU BUILT THE BRIDGE. YOU OPENED THE DOOR. YOUR FAMILY HAS ALWAYS KNOWN WHERE THE THRESHOLDS LIE.

The Reynolds family legacy. Not superstition but truth, passed down through generations who stood guard at the boundaries between worlds. And he, in his arrogance, had dismissed it all as his father's delusion.

His system emits a soft chime, alerting him that the algorithm has reached completion. A new window appears, displaying the final compilation sequence—waiting only for his command to activate. To run the finished program and see what it truly does.

Max should call Chloe. Should shut everything down. Should listen to the warnings passed down through his family for generations. The knowledge sits heavy in his mind, undeniable in the face of what's unfolding on his screens.

Yet his hand moves toward the Enter key as if guided by an invisible force. Not mind control—he feels no external compulsion—but something more insidious: his own curiosity, his own ambition, his own desperate need to know what lies beyond the threshold his algorithm has uncovered.

This changes everything, he whispers, a prayer or a curse or perhaps both simultaneously. His finger hovers above the Enter key, trembling slightly in the cold air. The shadows press closer, expectant, while the circular pattern on his screen pulses with a rhythm that has become indistinguishable from his own heartbeat.

In that final moment of hesitation, Max sees with perfect clarity what he's about to do: complete the work his ancestors tried to prevent. Open the door they dedicated their lives to keeping closed. But the knowledge comes too late—his finger is already descending, driven by the quintessentially human hunger to know what lies beyond the boundaries of current understanding.

The key depresses with a soft click that echoes in the silent apartment like a gunshot. Final compilation initiated. No turning back now.

The moment Max's finger completes its fateful descent, all three monitors simultaneously go black. Not the normal shutdown of screens powering off, but an absolute darkness that seems to swallow the light around it. The familiar hum of computer fans ceases mid-cycle. The red standby lights on external drives blink out. Even the digital clock on his desk freezes between seconds. The silence that follows has weight and presence—not merely the absence of sound but something active, attentive, like the held breath of a predator that has finally cornered its prey.

Max sits motionless, suddenly aware of his own heartbeat—too loud in the unnatural quiet, too fast beneath his ribs. His finger still rests on the Enter key, as if maintaining that connection might somehow allow him to undo what he's just initiated. Sweat beads cold on his forehead despite the room's chill.

System crash, he whispers, but the words fall dead in the air, without echo or resonance.

The center monitor flickers once, twice, then illuminates with a single line of text. Not the expected error message or reboot sequence, but words that appear letter by letter, as if being deliberately typed by unseen hands:

WE HAVE WAITED FOR YOU.

The text glows with a bluish luminescence that casts no light beyond its own characters—a light that seems to absorb rather than disperse. Max stares at the words, understanding with sudden, terrible clarity that this is no system error, no sophisticated hack. This is exactly what his father's research had warned about: direct communication from beyond the threshold.

What are you? he asks, his voice thin and strange to his own ears.

The text remains unchanged, but the darkness on the screen begins to shift. The blackness deepens, becoming something more than absence of light—a void with dimension and substance. Max finds himself leaning forward despite his growing dread, drawn by a compulsion he can't name. The darkness seems to extend beyond the physical confines of the screen, creating a sense of vast, infinite depth where flat pixels should be.

He reaches for the power cable, some part of his mind still believing he can stop this by simply cutting the connection. His fingers never reach their target. The darkness on the screen begins to move, to flow, forming tendrils that extend outward like living ink. They emerge from the monitor slowly at first, testing the boundary between digital and physical reality, then with growing confidence.

Max pushes his chair back, its wheels catching on a tangle of cables. He should run. Every instinct screams for flight. But his body won't respond properly, muscles locked in horrified