The File

Suburbs of Allen

Commune of Boston, Massachusetts

2044

A woman in her middle years, with black hair turning gray, was using an older desktop computer. It was a Dell model with important information inside, information she urgently needed. However, she couldn't access the computer's main user without the required password.

Feeling frustrated, she took a deep breath, closed her eyes, and thought about her father's favorite activities: fishing, hunting, volunteering, stamp collecting, and raising dogs. Trying different passwords, she attempted "moose," then "bass," and finally, "Angela." She knew she had to be cautious since the system could lock her out, and there were no Microsoft employees in her community.

Expressing her frustration, she exclaimed, "I need those files!" as she hit the desk. Her temper was getting the better of her. Sighing, she rubbed her eyes.

Exhausted from staying awake for two days due to increasing raider attacks in Boston, the woman, trained in firearms, had kept watch overnight. Now, all she wanted was a nap on a comforting bed. As she stared at the password screen, she found herself overthinking.

Out loud, she mumbled, "Firearms." Then, she thought about her father's favorite rifle – a Marlin. Typing it into the computer, it miraculously opened, almost as if her father was watching over her. However, it took about ten minutes to load, clearly having not been turned on in decades and covered in dust when she found it.

When the desktop finished loading, it revealed a picture of her family taken a year before the Solar Flare catastrophe during their trip to Hawaii. Although she was only thirteen when the Sun unleashed its destructive rays, her childhood memories were clear, and she considered this a blessing. Moving the thick computer mouse across the mousepad, she clicked on the files button, opening a tab to search through the computer.

The hard drive contained numerous files and pictures, resembling the disorganization of her father. Reflecting on his lack of organizational skills, she remarked to herself, "God knows how he helped form the commune with organization skills like these."

Her brother John called from downstairs, asking why she was at their father's old desk.

"Hey Angie! You down there?"

"Yeah John! Come down. I’m at Dad’s old desk."

A man with a thick beard and short, buzzed cut hair entered the basement office room.

"Why are you at the old place?"

"There are files on this computer that can help Layla in her court case."

Her brother John sighed. "What did mother say to you?"

"Nothing. I was just interested in saving our sister from certain death."

"She’s being accused of a triple murder. What could that relic have on it to prove anything for her?"

"Proof of her mental illness…"

"They’ll lock her up in the sanitorium for life."

"Better than death John."

Angela gasped and reminisced over old photos, urging John to look at how young they were.

"Look at these photographs John, look at how young we were. Especially you!"

"Angie, I don’t want to think about those days."

"Fine. I’ll get to the file we need."

Angie quickly moved away from nostalgic photographs and videos towards a folder named "Medical Information."

When she opened the folder, it showed hundreds of individual files, each named after a person and their corresponding medical subject.

"Wow. Dad kept a lot of files. This will take me a bit; why don’t you go home, John? Sandra is probably looking for you."

"No, I rocked her to sleep. Bud is watching over her."

"Good boy. Liv raised him well."

"And me!"

Angela smiled. "Of course, buddy."

"Did you look through the closets?"

"Only the office’s closet. I found some old photo books. From when we were really young."

"When I was a baby?"

"A toddler. Hey, what the heck! The computer just went dark." Angela pressed the power button on the computer repeatedly. "Did it just die? Are you kidding me?"

"Let me see," John said, pressing the button himself. "The thing is ancient, what did you expect?"

"I need that damn file, John!"

"I know, Angie. I know what we can do. We take this down to Ernie’s; he’s good with computers!" John unplugged the computer, then picked it up. "C’mon, let’s go!"

“War looms on the horizon!” echoed the cry of a twelve-year-old newspaper salesperson, frantically waving a paper in his hands. “The State of Maine is mobilizing its troops!”

Angie and John strolled through downtown Boston, a city meticulously maintained post-Event, thanks to the swift establishment of the Commune during the chaos of the American Collapse. Congress Street bustled with vendors peddling their wares, and as the siblings passed by the American Collapse Gardens, they encountered the Boston Commune Memorial—a solemn tribute to those who perished during the tumultuous process of communizing the city. The memorial, a sturdy slab of stone, bore the engraved names of the departed, with pots of flowers adorning the steps.

"Spencer is furious, as usual," John remarked, absentmindedly scratching his beard.

"About what?" inquired Angie.

"The iron-casters' work schedule. They're demanding weekends off, and there's talk of unionizing."

"Give them the weekends, and let them form a union. Happy workers mean a happy commune, just like Dad used to say," Angie affirmed.

John blew a raspberry. "Do we really want unions?"

"Yes, unions boost productivity."

"Cleveland fell to raiders due to over-unionization."

"We're not Cleveland. We can manage unions more effectively than overseeing each individual worker. Besides, it's essential for a content workforce," Angie asserted, forging ahead to indulge in a pretzel and mustard combo at a food stall. "Two pretzels and mustards, please," she requested from the Japanese-descended vendor. "That'll be two silvers." The Vendor said.

Angie handed over the coins as John voiced his concerns. "I dislike these unions. If they gain too much power, they could overshadow the Councils, the Workers, and even the State itself. Remember Maryland? Once a democracy, now a dictatorship led by the Greene dynasty!"

Angie sighed in response. "We'll demonstrate the benefits of unions over the next two weeks leading up to the vote. Convince others of their potential. The government needs less power, not more."

"The Councils form the foundation of the Commune, Angela. We can't just undermine their authority!"

"I agree, John, but we can find a way to keep the Councils strong while still ensuring the happiness of the workers."

"The Councils could increase support for welfare!"

"Will they, though? They've resisted welfare increases for years," Angela shook her head. "Let's face it, John, the Councils are filled with the wealthy and politicians."

"Maybe, but if we offer them something they desire in exchange for welfare support, we can play their game."

"Or we can change the game entirely," Angie suggested, smirking at the thought of a government overhaul.

"Councils work best. It's the most efficient way to concentrate power and resources in one individual."

"A strong leader could also prevent corruption, backed by a Senate or Congress."

"Like the old days?"

"Yes, a president, vice president, and a speaker of the house."

John fell silent. "How about a Prime Minister?"

"Perhaps, but Boston played a crucial role in establishing the Republic long ago."

"Okay, a Republic of Boston?" John mused, putting down the computer and stretching his back. "That's a possibility."

The vendor handed Angela two pretzels in a takeout box with two small cups of yellow mustard. "It's a possibility indeed. Thanks. Here's some change."

"Thank you, Miss Allen," the vendor replied, smiling as she collected the pre-Event change that could substitute for the Boston Coin System.

"Let's hurry to Ernie's before he closes up," John urged, picking up the computer. Angela took a bite from her pretzel as she followed him to the shop.

The repair shop held a mix of old electronics, new gadgets, scrap, outdated robotics, and remnants of old-world entertainment. Among the items, Angela noticed an ancient video game console. Knowing it was unlikely to work, she disregarded it and observed her brother conversing with Ernie, a greying man in his sixties. If there was anyone in Boston capable of fixing a computer, it was Ernie.

"I've seen many of these computers back at the college," Ernie remarked, inspecting the computer's hard drive. "We were fortunate that the flare didn't wipe out all of humanity's precious gems."

"Just the important ones," John added.

"Yes, but not everything is lost." Said the older man.

"So, how's it looking?" John inquired.

"The wiring is fine, but the input itself is corroded with age. I can get it fixed quickly," Ernie assured.

"Thanks, Ernie," John replied, expressing gratitude. Turning to his sister, he offered to buy something for her.

"How about that PlayStation? An original model," Angela suggested, pointing to the original PlayStation amidst the scrap and technology.

"Ernie? How much for the PlayStation?" John inquired.

"It's broken; I have to fix it still!" Ernie explained.

Angela laughed. "Fix it, and when you're done, send me a letter."

"Okay, Miss Allen," Ernie agreed.

The shop fell into silence as the siblings observed the seasoned repairman diligently working on the computer. Ernie skillfully blew out years of dust buildup from inside the console. After thoroughly cleaning the machine, he proceeded to the repair process. John closely monitored his every move as Ernie removed a corroded input, cleaning the spot where it had once been. With steady hands, Ernie inserted a new cable input into the computer—a clean, albeit not brand-new, piece of computing technology. Despite its small size, it symbolized the difference between power and stagnation, between life and the confines of a sanatorium.

"I'm nearly done," Ernie announced, adding the finishing touches to the console. "Take a look. Nice and clean, as if it were brand new!"

"Can we plug it into a monitor?" Angela inquired, producing a USB memory drive. "I just need one file."

"Yes, I can find us a monitor here... somewhere," Ernie replied, scanning his shop until he located one in storage. He plugged it into the wall behind the clerk counter, then connected it to the computer. Soon, the computer booted up, displaying the password screen. Angela entered the password and navigated to the medical folder, searching through each file until she found one from 2011—a record of Layla's mental health condition. It detailed two weeks spent in a psychiatric ward.

"Excellent! Let me transfer it onto the USB," Angela exclaimed.

"You got it?" John inquired.

"Yes, it's on the thumb drive now," Angela confirmed, disconnecting the USB drive from the PC and shutting it down.

"How much for the repair?" John asked Ernie.

"Five silvers will do," Ernie replied, unplugging the computer. John retrieved his coin purse, counted out five silver coins, and handed them over to the old man. "Thanks, Ernie," he said appreciatively.

"Sure thing, kid. Come back if you find any scrap. I could use some parts to fix a VHS player," Ernie suggested. "See ya, Miss Allen."

"Goodbye, and don't forget..." Angela interjected.

"Yes, the PlayStation. I'll have it fixed as soon as possible," Ernie assured her. The two siblings exited the shop and stepped onto the bustling streets. A few passersby glanced curiously at the computer in John's hands, their expressions tinged with suspicion.

As Angela walked into Police Captain Richard Gleese's office, the old wooden door made a creaking sound. Inside, she saw pictures hanging on the walls, showing younger versions of the Captain with his family on their farm. Now 76 years old, Captain Gleese sat behind his desk, smoking a pipe.

"How are you?" he asked, looking at Angela as she stood before him.

"I'm good. Do you have a working computer?" Angela inquired.

"Yes, in the resources room. It's the only one still functioning," replied Captain Gleese.

"I'll ask Ernie to fix the other computers. Can I use the one in the resources room? Does it have a USB port?"

"Of course. Ramirez!" Captain Gleese called out to one of his colleagues. "Ramirez!"

A short Hispanic female police officer entered the room, dressed in a Boston police uniform from before the Event. "Yes, Captain?" she asked.

"Take this young woman to the resources room. She needs to use our computer," Captain Gleese instructed.

"Yes, sir. Follow me," Ramirez said to Angela. Angela thanked the Captain and followed Ramirez through the police station, down a flight of stairs to the basement where the resources room was located. In a compact office space, shelves teemed with boxes brimming with records and vital information.

In the room, there was a desk that looked worn out, with scratches and dents on its surface, and some chips missing from the particleboard. Despite the damage, the top of the desk was clean, housing a desktop monitor from the 2010s along with a keyboard and mouse. A red pen holder sat on one corner, containing a few pens.

"This old computer is, well, old. So don't expect anything fancy," remarked Ramirez.

"No printer?" she asked.

"Not since... well... 2038..." replied Ramirez.

"That's unfortunate. I guess I can jot down the information or arrange for someone from court to come here," Angela said as she turned on the computer. It made a loud humming noise and clinked and beeped as it started up.

"I have some information to share with the Department," Angela mentioned.

"Okay? I can fetch our information guy," Ramirez offered.

"Thanks," Angela replied.

As Angela waited for the information guy to arrive, she began typing on the old computer, her focus absorbed in the task at hand. Suddenly, the door burst open, startling her. A shadowy figure stood in the doorway; his face obscured by the dim light filtering into the room.

Before Angela could react, the figure lunged towards her, brandishing a knife. She barely managed to dodge the attack, the blade grazing her arm as she stumbled backward, her heart pounding in fear.

"Who are you? What do you want?" Angela demanded, her voice trembling with adrenaline.

The assailant said nothing, his intent clear as he advanced menacingly towards her once more. With no time to spare, Angela frantically searched for a way out. She spotted a heavy flashlight lying on the desk and grabbed it, wielding it as a makeshift weapon.

With a burst of adrenaline-fueled courage, Angela swung the flashlight at her attacker, striking him with a resounding thud. The assailant recoiled momentarily, giving Angela the opportunity to flee from the room.

As she raced through the corridors of the police station, her mind raced with questions. Who was the mysterious attacker, and why had they targeted her?

Angela raced frantically, her wounded arm leaving a trail of droplets behind her as she sprinted toward the stairs. Her breath came in quick, panicked gasps as she ascended the steps. Just as she reached the second floor, Ramirez entered through the door, followed by a timid-looking man wearing glasses, clutching a notepad.

"What happened?" Ramirez asked, his eyes widening in concern as he noticed Angela's injured arm. "You're hurt..."

"I need medical assistance," Angela replied urgently.

"Come with me, this way," Ramirez said, gesturing for Angela to follow as he led her down the corridor towards the medical room.

As Angela hurriedly followed Ramirez towards the medical room, she glanced back anxiously, but the mysterious man with glasses was nowhere to be seen.

As they reached the medical room, Angela sank into a chair, her heart still racing from the encounter. Ramirez quickly called for assistance and began tending to Angela's wound, while the other officers, alerted by Ramirez, hurried downstairs to search for the intruder.

Despite the chaos and confusion, Angela couldn't shake off the feeling of unease. Who was the man with the glasses, and why had he attacked her? And more importantly, what did he want? As she pondered these questions, Angela couldn't help but fear that her encounter with the mysterious assailant was far from over.

As Angela sat in the medical room, her wound being tended to, the atmosphere grew heavy with the arrival of the captain himself. His somber expression hinted at the weight of the news he carried. With a low voice, he addressed Angela, "Miss Allen, the intruder who came in to attack you... was your brother John."

Confusion clouded Angela's thoughts. "I'm sorry?" she uttered, struggling to comprehend the captain's words.

The captain sighed heavily, his sorrow evident. "He was found outside, wearing a hoodie and jeans, knife in hand. There was blood on the knife."

Angela's mind reeled in disbelief. "What? How?" she managed to ask, her voice trembling with shock.

"We're searching the area for any additional clues. I'm sorry," the captain replied solemnly.

Angela shook her head in disbelief, her mouth half-opened in shock. "My brother?" she repeated, her voice barely above a whisper.

"We don't know anything else yet," the captain admitted, his voice filled with empathy.

"John... Is he okay?" Angela's voice trembled with fear.

The room fell silent, the weight of the captain's next words hanging heavily in the air. "He's gone, Angela. Shot by someone who was not an officer."

Tears welled up in Angela's eyes as the reality of the situation sank in. "Dear god... John..." she whispered, overcome with grief. "Why would he do this?"

"We don't know, Miss Allen. We don't know," the captain replied softly, offering what little comfort he could in the face of such tragedy.

Angela's tears flowed freely as she grappled with the magnitude of her loss. In that moment, she felt utterly alone, her world shattered by the devastating revelation of her brother's actions.

Johnathan William Allen b. June 12, 2004, d. September 2, 2044 (32 A.E.) aged 40