Daimones

Virtual Presences

Easter Sunday. For all Christian communities it was a date to celebrate with family and friends. Easter Monday would be, too, and Annah enjoyed the holiday from lessons. Taxi and Tarantula profited aplenty from Annah’s freedom. Dates, celebrations, and recurring events were vital to observe for, in a sense, they were all that was left, the last tie with everything that was no more. Ephemeral things, days on the calendar had more meaning for us now than they had before.

Mary opened the window in the home office that morning and yelled. “Dan.”

Annah and I were in the yard taking care of—or playing with, to be honest—Taxi and Tarantula.

“Dan. Come upstairs, quick.” She sounded thrilled, not frightened.

“What the… Mary? Mary!” I shouted from down below. From the window on the top floor, she waved her hands excited. “The Facebook ads!”

She didn’t need to say more. Both Annah and I rushed upstairs. When we arrived, Mary, triumphantly, pointed at the iMac screen. It showed the dashboard for the campaigns we launched back in February, with all the data collected into graphs.

Of all the details about reach, target, and others statistics, only one meant anything to us: the number of clicks... One!

The enormity of the event is difficult to explain or describe in words now. One person; one concrete, unquestionably real and strikingly present survivor. Someone saw and had clicked on our message.

One click. With one single click somewhere in the world, our world had abruptly changed again.

We checked all our email accounts. The last messages received were the usual automatic emails acknowledging our initial attempts to post into moderated forums or subscribe to mailing lists. No human beings involved. Now, it had to be just a matter of hours before we would be contacted by whoever had seen our message.

The phones. I checked again to see if all were working. We had used them recently but they could die at any moment. Maybe we had a recorded message we had inexplicably missed. Nothing. Our voicemail was empty.

“It will happen. It will happen. Any moment now,” I told Mary, more to reassure myself than anything else. She and Annah watched as I verified again the campaign target details. “Twenty-five countries. That one click could come from anywhere.”

The dashboard had no details as to when the connection happened, not the date or the time. “Yesterday morning the click was not there. I’m sure because I went through the campaign ad details. If it happened during the previous night…could that mean it is from someone in the U.S.? No, wait, maybe someone in the Far East? So many time zones separate us. Mary, did you check the page yesterday?”

I accessed the dashboard in the mornings, and it seemed impossible I had missed it. Wait a second; indeed the click could be from someone in Europe. Maybe someone had checked our message during the evening, and we missed it because no one had verified the page before going to bed.

“I don’t remember.” Mary noticed my anguished expression as I opened my hands. “How could you not remember?”

“I don’t remember exactly, okay? I think I did.” She took a deep breath. “Yes, I checked before dinner.”

Admittedly, with time, we had started to believe we'd have no luck at all with the Facebook campaign. We were no longer systematically following the initial scheduled check routine. I believed the probability that someone could actually see our message, and react, depended on so many factors that the whole thing had started to have only an emotional value, a faint hope.

“They will contact us again, right Dad?” Annah said.

“Yeah.” I sighed.

***

We spent Easter Monday checking email and ensuring that all the phone lines were working properly. We all felt…pending. Here we had a solid and undeniable proof that others were alive; one very close, living in or around Geneva; another in one of the countries covered in the Facebook ad campaign which miraculously had generated a click. One click, the most important click ever in the entire world digital history.

The truth was that, in all these weeks, I really didn’t expect to see any response from the ad campaign: I feared the entire world was disconnected. But now I was excited so I checked the dashboard again and again—and all email accounts—almost maniacally. I didn’t want hide in some photographer’s shop waiting for someone to show up, someone whom I'd waited for almost an entire week already. I wanted to stay with my family when we received a tangible sign, an email or a phone call, maybe both.

Nothing happened. Almost forty-eight hours had passed since that click and still nothing. No signs. My mood changed completely. I remembered those T-shirts sold at tourist locations: “My sister went to London and all I got is this lousy T-shirt!” I felt the same. All we got was that lousy click.

We didn’t know what to think. For all we knew, a glitch in the Facebook campaign could have been the cause. If it really was a person, why not getting in touch with us right away? I needed to go back to Geneva and see whether whoever had been at the shopping mall was going to resurface again. I couldn’t neglect the survivor who was surely living nearby and trade that for an email or a phone call that could never come.

I was disappointed; after all this waiting, the lost hopes, the renewed excitement, and then nothing. Nothing. Why? I urged Mary and Annah to keep a close eye on the dashboard and emails and immediately get in touch with me if… Yeah, if.

With a sense of betrayal from the entire human race, I left and resumed my sentinel watch at the shopping center.

***

Taxi probably enjoyed the stalking game more than I did. He rested on the floor, and—at times—stared intently at me. He was alert all the time, probably because of my mood, but he was peaceful, too. I guess he knew we were there for something important. Maybe his master was going berserk and he could not fully relax.

Around midday, I enjoyed one of those treasured Esplendidos cigars Davidoff had graciously supplied me with. Taxi grunted at the smoke so I kept the fanlight above the entrance door open and air circulated freely. I gave no thought that maybe, outside, the smell of cigars could reach distant places and betray my presence.

The back room also had a little oval window giving to the internal court of the building and providing some light to the back of the shop. With that one kept open as well, I prevented the entire place to turn into a gas chamber. The cigar gave me something to do, in addition to chatting with Mary on the iPhone from time to time.

“Still nothing?” Mary asked.

“No. Not a sound, nothing in sight. Any email?”

“I would have told you right away…”

“I know. What are you doing?”

“Nothing. We miss you.”

The Apocalypse in the real world wasn’t the frantic zombie saga of some TV series.

***

Another day passed. I came home feeling a bit more depressed every evening. Frustration replaced the excitement of the previous days, and anger surfaced, too.

I didn’t know what to think, and neither did Mary. That click, and the mess at the mall, both were crucially important, and became a fixation that engulfed us all. We were fine as we were, right? But those were outrageously important, I kept repeating myself.

We had survived, and we had no future. Annah had no future. Her only hope rested on us and other survivors to be numerous enough to become pioneers again in our own world. In that case, will we begin anew as we once did? Eons ago? That’s why it was vital to find other people.

We decided to leave a note at the shopping center. Mary put together a meaningful text. She explained we, as a family, had survived that fatal February night. That in the past months we had organized ourselves at home and maybe others were doing the same. We hoped for them to be safe. She did not add any details about our location or how many we were.

We agreed it was okay to leave our email; no phone numbers, though, in case others could access existing online services to trace back to our home address. I had tried myself and did not succeed, but I didn’t want to take the risk. Maybe I was becoming paranoid for real. We asked to leave an answer on a small billboard, left in the open, at the corner of Jargonnant-Terrasiere Street, stuck to the sign pole.

I don’t know whether in other situations, normal situations, we would have come out with such a plan. Maybe it sounds ridiculous now, but it was the best we could think of at the time.

We knew a contact might never happen; what we had found at the mall could have been the result of a one-time visit from someone on the move, never to return. We were improvising on a stage no one had prepared us to deal with. A scenario we hadn’t chosen and for which there was no audience.

The next morning, Taxi and I went to the shopping center again. I was tired of hiding and waiting.

Birds had started to conquer the spaces. They were very vocal, and their calls the only noises to hear when once it was only cars, and traffic, and people walking and chatting. The never-ending buzz of a living town had died. The contrast with the present was striking with all the reflecting surfaces in a town, every single and rare sound now bounced to reach far distances, giving birth to an eerie echo.

When we got inside the mall, the same unchanged and unwelcoming scene greeted us: decaying plants and rotten pastries. I let Taxi sniff the hoodie I had recovered almost two weeks before. He examined it and snorted, trying to find traces of the old scent. With me close behind, Taxi wandered around seeking to find its track again, and I had the impression he did it only to please me. It seemed no one with that odor had visited the place recently.

We reached the aisle where we found the cereal box. The aisle was in the exact same state we left it. I took Mary’s paperboard where she had written our message in English and in French. I secured it in place with sticky tape and headed toward the upper level, just in case.

I showed Taxi the hoodie again. Once more, he didn’t find any new clue. He spent some time in the women's apparel and clothing area, but the odor had weakened and Taxi wandered unable to catch it again.

After a while, we left for my hideout to spend another day waiting. Taxi and I had just reached our surveillance post across the street and settled in when the iPhone buzzed. It was a message from Mary. Actually, an email, a straight email forward with no added comments from her. I watched the screen in awe:

From: [email protected] Date: 13 April 2012 07:11:44 CET

"Hiya. Who the fuck are you? Not for nuttin’ but the punks who whacked us are still here. If you’re fucking with me, go see where you gotta go punk. M."

Who the fuck are we? If I was expecting alleluia, kumbayah, and “people of the world unite,” forget it. I called home.

“Dan? Have you read it?” Mary’s voice trembled.

“Yup.” The message had troubled me. “I don’t know what to think, Mary. And what does ‘the punks are still here’ mean?”

“It feels so…harsh.”

“Do you know anything about long headers in emails?”

Silence.

“Never mind. I’ll do it myself later. Maybe we can find where it comes from.”

“Come home.”

“Listen…” I disagreed, but I changed my mind. I had spent enough time in town already and it was pointless to stay any longer. “Ok. I’ll be there soon.”

That was not the message from someone eager to get in touch with anyone anytime soon. It showed distrust and suspicion. Well, I showed distrust and suspicion myself toward whomever I stalked for days there now. I still did, but this was different. I was just being careful and protecting my family.

The guy must have searched for others, too, if he’d seen our message on Facebook. So why that reply? Moreover, whom was he referring to with that “still here?” And the “us” in Michael81’s email, whom the hell was he talking about? Other survivors or the entire humanity?

If there were other people…could it be that groups of survivors became hostile to one another where Michael81 was? Possible. But why? Again the Mad Max movie scenes came to life in my mind. Thus, I might've been right not coming out naively and looking around in the open, in full view for anyone who was still alive in Geneva.

This was no kumbayah world. Maybe criminals have had the same chances to survive as respectable and law abiding citizens. If Michael81—and his group?—got whacked…by whom? We could get whacked as well. Now I really wanted to go back home. Nothing better than some uncontrolled mental surge to trigger muscular movement. We left our hideout.

Taxi and I ran to the car. I looked over my shoulder all the time in fear of some bullet and a sudden attack at every corner. Taxi didn’t seem nervous. I knew I could count on him at every moment, even at the cost of his life. Dogs are that faithful.

We rushed into the car—didn’t even waste time to open the trunk—and reached home in a short time.

I was right to be paranoid, I repeated to myself. If anything, the message showed danger was still very present in our world and we had better treat any survivor as a potential threat. How silly I had been. “Homo hominis lupus.” Man is like a wolf to other men. The wisdom of the past and of our ancestors.

I secured our entrance as usual with the truck. Mary and Annah rushed out of the door and hugged me, barely uttering a word. We got inside quickly. I locked the door.

“I’m glad you’re back.” Mary frowned. “What do you think?”

“There must be organized groups of survivors. Maybe they fight for…what? Control of supplies?”

“Why, Dad?” Annah shook her head. “There’s so much of everything for…” I think she was about to add ‘for everyone,’ but Annah bit her tongue. I pretended not to notice.

“Yes, here we have everything we need. And plenty of it. Maybe it’s different elsewhere, where this Michael lives, and people are fighting for it? I cannot really say, sweetie.”

“There must be many others then,” Mary reasoned.

Yes, sure, and not welcoming, I thought but kept my fears hidden. “Maybe.”

“And…what about Geneva?” Mary went on.

“Maybe,” I repeated.

“Did you place our message?”

“Yes, where the cereals are, but now I need to go back to town.”

“Why? What for?”

“Dad, no. Why?” Annah pulled my arm.

“The paperboard. We’re saying we are in the surrounding area. Also, I’m going to change our Facebook message and remove our phone numbers; one could get to our address, too.” There, the fear came out.

The possibility of finding a group of survivors who could turn hostile toward us was not quite what we needed, now or in the future. Nor what I expected to feel about other survivors. Moreover, we were not really hiding, and anyone determined to find people and provisions could easily get to and locate us. If a group of survivors were out there, how long would it take before they’d find us? Mad Max, Mad Max...he truly haunted me.

The Valley mall was a well-known location. How long before someone else, even if far from there, would think about paying it a visit? There were many good places in town, and between Geneva and Lausanne, too...places to find food and supplies. That made our mall not the first in line for anyone in Geneva, but in the future? A gush of acid reflux burned my throat and almost choked me. I swallowed hard.

By all odds, it was better if we discovered them first, to have the advantage and be prepared. Suddenly, the idea of putting up the paperboard did not seem like such a great one anymore. I needed to calm down or I would shoot at anything moving without thinking. I thought I was rational and cool in most situations but, if I had reached this point, what could have happened to someone more inclined to violence than me?

Mary interrupted my thoughts. "Okay, then. But we're coming with you.”

I realized there was little to discuss. Our world was not as peaceful and safe as we had naively concluded it to be.

We all got back in the car armed with loaded guns—as if going into battle—and with a strange light piercing our eyes, as if the cold reflection of an indifferent moon over a frozen land had replaced the warmth and fuzziness of a benevolent sun.

Our perspective became acutely different in those moments, and all because of one single email that supposedly should have been an event received with celebration. I supposed we walked on the edge of a mental chasm. In its depths, violence, hatred, suspicion, and madness were all willing to embrace us to reach their ultimate climax.

We arrived in town without uttering a word, and I had been careful to approach the mall via back roads, taking a long, improbable detour. If our paperboard had already been found, maybe there would be a welcoming party waiting for us, the happy and naive family. Mary and Annah kept their weapons ready. We parked on the sidewalk of a narrow street a few blocks away, got out, and crouched between the car and the wall of a building. Ready to head off a confrontation.

Before moving forward, we scanned the surroundings with our binoculars. Nobody talked. The world had changed and it had changed us, more than I had imagined.

I signaled Mary and Annah to stay behind, and reached another safe spot with Taxi. I scanned the area once more, only then did I call the others to join us. Tired, we reached the corner in front of the shopping center entrance some twenty minutes later.

All was quiet and apparently safe. I pointed the binoculars to the photographer's shop. It was exactly as I had left it, but that meant nothing. I kneeled down to Taxi and Tarantula and hugged them both. Then I took the hoodie from my rucksack.

Annah understood what I was about to do. “Dad, no!”

I looked at her and put my index to my lips. My sight was like a cold, transfixing spear. Annah blanched. That was not the moment for discussions. I loved those dogs, but they were our life insurance at that moment.

Taxi and Tarantula sniffed the garment, sniffed the surrounding area, and then raised their noses. I ordered, “Check.”

They jumped forward into the open while I got the Benelli ready to shoot. I swear I would have shot whoever appeared if not with raised hands. Armed, Mary and Annah knelt behind a large concrete flower box at the corner of the restaurant.

Taxi and Tarantula dashed to cross the street and headed toward the automatic sliding doors. They had to stop there, undecided what to do, as the doors remained closed.

T&T had to be below the threshold for the motion detector trigger. They sniffed and looked around the entrance, and a bit up and down the street, too. Meanwhile, we three in the back stayed put, ready for any reaction, movement, or sound. Neither Taxi nor Tarantula seemed to sense anything out of the ordinary, or any danger. Taxi looked in our direction.

“Mary, cover me.”

“Dan!” she protested and tried to grip my arm, but I had already started to run, half bent, strafing toward the dogs, scanning with the Benelli all around and ready to shoot at anything and at the first warning. Taxi and Tarantula watched and waited for me, relaxed; they had done their job. I crouched against the wall and looked back. I breathed hard for a moment.

As I slowly approached the entrance, the doors opened with their usual lamentation that would have signaled my arrival miles away. I quickly stepped inside, followed by the dogs, knelt down and glanced around. Nothing. I held my breath and listened. Silence. Only then did I retreat and, when outside, waved for Mary and Annah to join us, all the while aiming the Benelli at the streets around them.

Mary and Annah quickly covered the short distance from the restaurant to the mall and we were soon all together again. We gathered right inside at the florist shop and let the automatic doors close. We paused for a moment without moving or making a sound to let our eyes adjust to the light conditions inside and to listen for any unexpected noise. Then, with Taxi and Tarantula in front, we moved quietly, very quietly. The two German Shepherds kept sniffing as they advanced. Watching our backs, and moving ever cautiously, we reached the produce store. The entry barriers opened.

We reached the aisle where I had stuck the paperboard with our message. It was still there. Then John Lennon and his catchy phrase struck: Taxi and Tarantula got tense and alert even if we could not hear or see any reason why. Soon after, we were startled at a fast-approaching whooshing sound. We jumped forward to the main aisle, guns at hands, ready for the worst.

A muffled cry in a high pitch came from a figure on rollerblades who screeched to a halt as it saw us and started frantically to run away.

“Stay,” I cried to prevent Taxi and Tarantula from running after the skater, then “Wait,” to the figure who had gained speed and dashed toward the exit. All had been very fast, and the skater was damned good on those rollers; definitely a young woman. She wore tight jeans, a black leather jacket and carried a large, empty backpack. She was wearing gloves and a black helmet that hid her hair entirely.

I started to run as fast as possible after the skating lady while Mary had held Annah behind her back all that time.

“Wait.” Mary yelled. But the girl reached the exit and jumped outside onto the street. The sliding doors closed in front of Taxi and Tarantula, who had started to run with me and passed me in the chase. I don’t know what they would’ve done had they reached the girl in time.

I got to the exit and the sliding doors opened slowly so I pushed them; Mary and Annah caught up with me. I dashed out and, together with Mary and Annah, we got a glimpse of the skater girl speeding down the street and disappearing round a corner. I whistled for Taxi and Tarantula to come back.

“What do we do now?” Mary broke the silence. It made little difference now as the die had been cast. We all knew of the existence of each other, yet I had lost the advantage. “Give me a pen.”

“I don’t have any. What for?”

“Come, quickly.”

I ran back to the mall. The level above the grocery had a stationery shop near to where we had found the skating-girl's hoodie, as I was sure now it was hers. Everyone followed. I reached the upper level and the stationary area full of writing tools of every possible kind and for any writing surface. I got a black marker. Now to the paperboard.

“What are you doing?” Mary grabbed my arm.

“The only sensible thing to do with a woman I just met. I’m asking for a date,” I said, smiling.

“What?” She cried.

I left Mary standing there, rather upset, and ran toward the sliding sidewalk and back to the grocery level.

Taxi and Tarantula were bemused and kept following me undecided whether to be worried, excited, afraid or angry at me for all that senseless running.

“Dad!” I guess Annah was not that amused.

When they finally reached me at the cereal aisle, I had already written my message on the paperboard.

Mary read what I had just written. “You’re crazy!”

“It’s the only thing to do.” I went for the exit.

I stuck our message next to the automatic doors. It covered the entire metal panel that showed the mall's opening hours. That girl seemed terrified. She wasn’t expecting to see our group there, and it must have been quite a shock.

Probably she got her food and anything else she needed there. She went around on rollerblades so maybe didn’t own a car, or too young for one. She must have lived not too far away either, but not in the blocks around the mall. Hence, I kept reasoning, she might not have the leisure, as we did, to neither go far for supplies nor have the choice—or the need—of multiple places. The mall must be easy for her to reach.

She would be back there again, sooner or later. Maybe a bit later now that she was scared, but back nevertheless.

On the paperboard, I added that our intentions were good, we would not harm her or anyone who was with her. I gave her a daily appointment, alone and with no dogs, as proof of our trustworthiness. I would wait for her one hour every day. She had to show up on Jargonnant Street, near the car park entrance. I would come out to talk. From afar. No physical contacts. No harm.

“Mary, I have to do it.” I nodded toward Annah. “You know I have to, right?” I turned and grabbed Annah, pressed her against me. She curled up close to me like a baby.

Mary held both hands to her face as if she was praying. “Not this way.”

I didn’t reply; what to reply?

We got back to the car. Mary held my hand all the way home. Our world was changing rapidly, and there was still Michael81's pending message to deal with.