Connor Bible was out cold. For the past five hours, he had been staring at the blank Microsoft Word screen. Music didn't help the words come out, and neither did bashing his forehead repeatedly with his fist. He knew that there was a story in his skull, and he was close to performing brain surgery with his bare hands in order to make black appear on white. Fortunately, that didn't happen. He relented, and let himself drift off into sleep mode. After awhile, there was a beep. And another. And another. He slowly crept back into the real world to find that his laptop's monitor was still on, illuminating the room from where it sat on the desk.
The screen, however, was not displaying the empty Word document he had open when he had drifted off. Connor rolled over in his bed, his mind still foggy from sleep, and pawed for his glasses, which had been resting on the nightstand. He put his glasses on, and his world came into focus. The screen, curiously enough, was completely stark white, with the exception of two words written stark, black letters:
"HELLO, CONNOR."
Connor raised an eyebrow, mouthing to himself, "the hell?" He got out of bed carefully so that he wouldn't alert his mother, who slept in the next room. She was a notorious in the family for being a light sleeper; Connor could hear her getting up frequently in the night to use the bathroom. There were usually groans of pain, as well. He figured that it was psychosomatic, and suggested that she relax, and lay off the Goody's pain-relief powder. She sporadically visited doctors for check-ups, always wondering if there was some malady affecting her entire being. There never really was.
He approached the laptop with caution. He bent down and squinted in the bright light, staring at the two words for a good minute. He looked down at the keyboard and pressed down "ctrl," "alt," and "del," hoping that would bring up the task manager. As he looked back at the screen, the previous two words were gone. The blank white screen remained, but in the center of it was an entirely new sentence.
"THAT'S NOT GOING TO WORK, CONNOR."
Connor shook his head. Either I'm having a really vivid nightmare, or the mother of all hacks was performed on my computer. He sat down at the desk, and pinched his right cheek hard. His suspicions were confirmed: this was no nightmare. It can't be a virus, he thought. He regularly scanned his computer and cleaned the disk, as well as avoiding questionable websites that could compromise his system's integrity. Ever since that damned Lolcow thread was started, he was on heightened alert. Suddenly, he started getting e-mails from people he'd never met, some of them unpleasant and vulgar. He never intended to earn the wrath of the Kiwi Farms, but such was the nature of the Internet. He'd contemplated running away from home, faking his death, or seeking refuge in South America or the worst parts of Africa. It was only a matter of time that something like this happened.
On the screen, the letters disappeared quickly, from right to left. New letters appeared as though they were being typed.
"YOU ARE IN DANGER."
Connor was hesitant about answering, but took the plunge anyway. He carefully typed his response, and pressed the Enter button.
"Who are you? Why am I in danger?"
There was a good minute before a response came up on the screen. Connor stared at the screen, as two words were written out. They read simply:
"IT COMES."
Connor was speechless. He punched in another response, trying to make sure the anxiety that was surging through his bloodstream would not escape from his body through the pressing of the keys.
"What are you talking about? What's coming?"
The screen flickered. Upon it, a new response appeared.
"DON'T GO OUTSIDE."
The screen started to glitch, and the image skewed, leaving in its wake a block of multicolored pixels. It flashed, and odd bleeps and blerps came out of the laptop speakers before the screen went to black. It had shut down.
Connor didn't know what to make of this. He didn't hear the footsteps of his mother, and so he breathed a sigh of relief. He was in the dark now, and he pressed the power button of his laptop. The A/C adapter was plugged into the nearest wall. That should have provided it enough juice for Connor to figure out what was going on. Instead, the screen remained dark. He palmed his face.Jesus Christ. Not only did he need the laptop for his writing, Connor absolutely required it for his math class. His parents would be furious. He would fail math. He would end up a janitor, if he survived the night. What is out there? He got out of the chair, and moved towards the blinds, pushing one down. Beyond the bushes of his front yard, on the other side of the fence, he could see tiny lights. The street lamp, for some reason, was dead.
Trace was at the head of the pack, as he usually was. He and his squad were decked out in black camouflage, and wore light armor to accommodate for speed. This was a cowboy job for the Society, top priority. Connor Bible and his entire immediate family must die, for the purity of the human race. This is the fate of all inferiors. The squad of five's choice of weapons were standard for close quarters, and silenced. Shotguns were suggested, but Trace refused. Despite their power, they caused significant noise.
Trace paused, and held up a hand to halt the rest of his crew. Something was off. It was then that Trace realized that the night was silent. No crickets, no chirping of peepers in the night; absolutely nothing. There was no breeze.
One of Trace's companions pulled down the bandana over his mouth. "Dude, are we gonna pelt that fat fuck or what? My mom's gonna kill me if she finds out I'm out past curfew."
"Shut the fuck up, Josh," Trace snapped.
"You're not pussying out, are you?" Asked another one of his companions.
The boys were dressed in paintball gear, spraypainted black to look convincing. Their airsoft guns had the orange tips removed. The plan was brilliant. Trace had seen Connor around campus, talking about murder into a tape recorder like a psycho, and talking about bizarre conspiracy theories about adoption or something called the "Kiwi Farms." So naturally, Trace and his companions decided that the best course of action would be to scare the shit out of bastard and make him think he was a target of some organization. They would mention something about The Society, and once Connor had hid under his bed and wet his pants, they would retreat. The best part was that Noah had a Go-Pro strapped to his helmet, so Connor's reaction to the raid would be recorded for posterity.
Trace had thought he heard a noise, something like a wet, slapping sound, somewhere beyond the trees. He strained his ears for a moment, before finally addressing his companion.
"I'm not pussying out," Trace said. "Let's fucking do this."
Connor snuck out of his room, slipping on a pair of sweatpants and a jacket. He went out onto the front porch with his flashlight, and he could hear chatter. Sons of bitches. He turned the flashlight on, and stepped out onto the front yard. He turned a corner, a suddenly felt something hard splatter against his arm. He almost immediately shone in the direction of the shot, and saw five young men, not even out of their twenties, widen their eyes. "What the fuck is this?" Connor exclaimed.
Trace aimed his rifle at Connor. "FREEZE!" he hollered. "GET ON THE FUCKING GROUND!"
The boys swarmed around Connor, running towards him, shouting over each other. Connor turned and ran out of panic, and the boys pursued him.
"GET FUCKING BACK HERE, PIGGY!" Trace shouted. "YOU CAN'T RUN FROM US." The rest of his crew made squealing noises.
Connor felt his breath run ragged as he gasped for air. He hadn't run like this since gym class. The beam of a flashlight danced wildly on the underbrush around him. He felt as though his heart might explode and leave a gaping hole in his chest. Surely that would be preferable to the humiliation planned for him.
As he thought this, Connor fell forward, letting out a startled cry as he tumbled down a steep slope. The forest spun around him until he finally reached the bottom, letting out a subdued "oof!" as he collided with the trunk of an oak. Above him, he could hear the boys shouting, calling out for him.
Perhaps, Connor thought hopefully, they'd give up and go away.
