The Startup

I need to find Zowen.

I know he’s here somewhere in this park or rather, under it.

It has grown wild in the last few years. Weeds choke off the hiking trails, briar patches proliferate, and trees are popping up everywhere. The old reservoir is little more than a swampy bog filled with cattail and sedge.

I get up off the ground and stretch to give my back some relief. I lean down to grab my water bottle and sit down with my maps.

Shelter Park is approximately four-hundred and twenty-two acres.

Checking the map of the park, I can see that I have searched from the old fence-line to the north wall of what was once a picnic pavilion.

By my calculations, I have searched about…. Four acres.

Only four-hundred and eighteen acres to go.

I met Zowen in college. We were freshman, he was a whiz in our computer class. He was also failing English Lit 101 and badly needed a tutor. As an English major, I was happy to volunteer. He didn’t have many friends. Zowen was odd. For all of his technical genius, he didn’t understand humans. He couldn’t discern what made a character a protagonist or an antagonist in a story. He couldn’t pick out characteristics that characters exhibited through behavior, like fear or despair. He couldn't discern why conflict arose between two characters.

He didn’t understand the emotional inner life most people had. Maybe because he himself didn’t have the same inner life. I would read later that this is a characteristic of a psychopath.

Once he passed the class, he started to come around my dorm room, he wanted to hang out, to go grab lunch. That sort of thing. He fixed my laptop of few times.

I think I was his only friend.

I grab a small pickaxe and start at the edge of where I finished digging yesterday. I use the pickaxe to loosen up the first solid layer of the ground.

Then I dig with my pointed spade, stabbing it into the ground and stepping on the top edge of the metal scoop to drive it further down.

I don’t have to dig far. Maybe a couple of feet at most.

What I am looking for is the hatch to the old bomb shelter and it should be close to the surface.

Many people don’t really know why the park was named Shelter Park. I myself never thought about it until Zowen told me. 

A century ago, Zowen’s family had owned most of the land that later became the park. At some point during the 1950s, his great, great grandfather had become obsessed with nuclear war that he believe was imminent. The man spent the rest of his life building the biggest, strongest, deepest bunker that his money could buy. And he was a rich man. According to Zowen, it was a multi-chambered underground manor, complete with bathrooms, king-sized beds and weapons. The shelter was only accessible through a surface blast hatch proofed against water, fire, bullets and of course, nuclear annihilation.

Great, great grandfather’s obsession didn’t pass on to his children however, and by the time he died in the 1970s, they were ready to sell the property. They had a lot of political pull and managed to broker a multimillion-dollar deal with the city to sell the property for a public park.

The city came up with the unimaginative name of Shelter Park, after the bomb shelter that sat under the surface.

For a few years, as the park was being designed, the blast hatch entrance was visible. Then someone complained that it was an eyesore and it was covered over with a small garden. That was over a hundred years ago. The garden is long gone. I can only guess how many decades of park development, landscaping, building and planting have concealed the entrance to the bunker.

But Zowen knew where it was. His father had showed him. The location of the hatch had been passed down through the family lore.

Once, we planned to explore it together. We never did but I do remember seeing a faded picture of one of Rowen’s deceased ancestors standing next to the blast hatch. It is a round metal door set into a concrete base leading to the underground bunker.

The sun is sinking. I have not struck a metal door or a concrete base. I have spent the day pulling up clumps of weeds, breaking up root systems and digging around trees in a pathetically small area. “It is not much, but it is progress,” I think grimly as I gather my tools and head back to the old planetarium. With carpet and plenty of space, it is easily the most comfortable place to stay here in the park.

After college, I lost touch with Zowen. Then I heard about his startup, World Away.

World Away was billed as the ultimate staycation, vacation, service, shopping, social media, luxury experience.

The technology behind it was hailed as a breakthrough. A microchip could be implanted into the human brain and anytime you wanted to you could go to a World Away kiosk to experience…. well…. anything you wanted to experience.

Imagine you are struggling with depression and instead of calling to make an appointment with a therapist, you just have to find a World Away kiosk. Put on one of their headsets and an artificial intelligence model would immediately read the microchip, identify your needs and connect you with a therapist, who was also AI.

Imagine it is the middle of winter but you would like to spend a day sitting on a tropical beach. You don’t have to book a flight, take time off work, pack bags, get a house sitter and kennel the dog. You step into a World Away kiosk, put on the headset and the beach experience comes to you.

Aside from the headsets the kiosks were fitted with technology that could mimic weather, temperature, breezes, warmth from the sun, snowfall. All the senses could be engaged.

The uses weren’t strictly to mimic vacations. Drug rehabilitation centers began using the kiosks to ease withdrawal symptoms for addicts. Funeral homes installed them to give grieving loved ones a chance to “have that one last conversation” with their deceased loved one.

As the sun sets, I search through my supplies and find what I am looking for, a can of chili. I check the date. It expired five years ago. I check the can for rust or dents and finding none I grab a small pot, my backpack and make my way out to the old camping section of the park where the cooking grills are.

I pull my walkie-talkie out of my backpack. 

I turn it on and push the button to speak. “Sparrow, this is Seeker checking in,” I say.

I wait when Sparrow answers. “Seeker, we have been thinking about you, any sign of him?”

“Not yet. How are things at base?” I ask.

“Quiet, we worked the gardens today, should be a good harvest soon.” Sparrow tells me.

“Good to hear, I’m getting ready to eat an old can of chili. Think of me while you are enjoying fresh vegetables in a couple of weeks. Over and out,” I tell her.

“We’ll make some fresh chili when you come back, we are putting up deer meat. Over and out.” she replies.

While I eat, I think about the little community we have managed to cobble together. We are like thousands of others across the ruin. So many of us working every day not just to survive but to thrive. We still have a few things from the old times, but on a smaller scale. Our engineers managed to set up some solar generators so that we have electricity most of the time. We have also set up small transport wagons that can be pedaled and they are actually fun to take on the old roads and interstates. Establishing trade and communication with other communities was essential.

World Away made Zowen a billionaire, but he wanted more than money. He wanted power.

It started with a government contract that World Away received to implant microchips into the brains of parolees who had been released from prison.

Parolees were required to meet with parole officers but the system was overburdened. World Away could set up parole meetings with “AI parole officers” at individual kiosks for any parolee who volunteered to have the microchip implanted.

The program worked so well that soon it was mandatory for all parolees to get the implant.

Beyond the convenience of the kiosks, the microchip, and the person it was imbedded into, could be tracked by World Away.

A few lone voices in congress sounded some concern about privacy.

Zowen was called to the Senate to testify about World Away’s tracking capabilities.

He promised that they didn’t track customers, only convicts.

No one pressed him further.

After all, they were just parolees. Ex-convicts don’t garner much sympathy from the general public.

I wake up and slide out of my sleeping bag, leaving it behind on the carpeted floor of the planetarium. After I get myself ready for the day, I fill my water bottles from a small spring that lies on the edge of the park. I start digging again, first with the pickaxe; finishing with the sharp spade until I am satisfied that the spot doesn’t hold the hatch.

Sometimes, I think I have found it. The pickaxe will strike something hard or the tip of the spade will hit metal.

My heart will jump, I will dig faster and find that it is just a large flat rock or a piece of an old can.

After that kind of disappointment, I usually have to rest. Sometimes I go back to the digging, sometimes I stop for the day.

Zowen would never be called before congress again, he spent the next several years installing his own political puppets into the system.

One of them sponsored a bill to allow World Away to put their implants into the brains of children.

Prior to this, World Away could only be used on adults.

Again, a few voices raised concerns of safety, of consent, but these were quickly dispensed with.

After all, if someone wants to provide their children with a virtual reality experience why should the government stop them?

Everyday. I wake. I dig. I rest. I eat. I sleep. Everyday. I think about leaving. Everyday. I wake up in my sleeping bag on the planetarium floor and think about my community. Everyday. I finish and cook and connect with Sparrow. Everyday. I miss her. I miss everyone. I think about giving up. Everyday. A nagging voice inside my head, or maybe my heart, tells me Zowen is here. Everyday. I think about the wars. I think about my brother who was shot in the head and my nephew who died from that stupid implant. Everyday. I think about Zowen’s greed. Everyday. I hate him. I hate him. I hate him. Every Day.

 The high-profile disappearance of two girls hit the news like an earthquake. Luckily, one of the girls had a World Away implant that could be tracked and they were found alive and well.

They had just run away, but after that many parents opted to get their children the implants.

In light of the good publicity, one of Zowen’s political puppets introduced yet another bill to make the implants mandatory for all children.

The dissenting voices were louder this time, protests were more visible, but they lost and the bill was passed. Children lined up at police departments across the country to have the injectable implant installed. Parents who refused to comply could be prosecuted.

Most complied.

After all, who wouldn’t want to know where their child was at all times?

Laws were passed to use the implants to track every other group imaginable from immigrants to bad drivers.

All told, over half the population had implants. And Zowen kept getting richer.

I first heard of the problems fifteen years ago. The brain bleeds, the tumors, the cancers, the comas, the psychosis, the early onset dementia and the deaths.

Turns out the components used to make the implant shouldn’t be anywhere near the human brain.

Turns out, Zowen knew in the early stages of development that the implant could be dangerous and decided to hide the information.

Then Zowen disappeared.

Do you know what happens when half of a country’s population dies? Everything collapses, wars begin, bringing famine, displacement, disease and more death.

The last of the wars ended last year. You need people to fight wars and people are in short supply these days. Communities like mine created alliances. A conference was held where it was democratically decided that instead of hurting and killing each other, we would direct our anger at those who caused the situation. We would hunt them down and hold them accountable for their actions.  

Initially, I had no interest in searching for Zowen. I wanted to live in my community, to work with the earth, to scavenge for supplies, to share meals, to talk and to sing around the fires at night.

Then one day while I was poking around near the park, I happened to notice something silver gleaming through a pile of brush. As I pulled the branches away, I realized it was a car. Not just any car, a mint condition 1953 Porsche Spider. They cost, or rather they did cost, about fifty million dollars. I checked the license plate to see where it was from. It said 2Zo-wen.

I told Sparrow and the other council members. We agreed that the best course of action was for me to search the park alone. We didn’t want to waste a lot of manpower if it turned out he wasn’t there.

But I am getting tired and alone is so lonely. My back aches at night. I am running low on food. The weather is getting colder. Soon the ground will freeze and that will slow me down.

The day that I feel the first chill in the air is the day I decide to pack up and return home. Maybe I will come back in spring. I need to recharge.

I survey the planetarium that has been my home for the last few months. The ceilings are high and the walls are covered with curtains. The padded seats recline. The building looks almost untouched except for my camp spot. There is little light, so I move my flashlight around, examining my temporary home more closely. That is when I notice the door knob, just barely visible between the edges of two curtains. I push the curtains back to reveal a sign from another time on the door. It says ‘Restricted Area Do Not Enter’. I turn the doorknob.

The door leads to what looks like an empty utility room, empty except for…. the hatch to the bunker I have been searching for.

“Damn it,” I hiss to myself. The planetarium was built on top of the shelter. It would have been sturdy enough to use as the foundation. I have been right on top of what I have been looking for this whole time.

I reach down and pull the hatch open. I can see a light below—some type of lamp or maybe a flashlight.

I call down into the space. “Zowen, are you there?”

Nothing.

There were a number of rungs in the side of the concrete leading down to the bunker, but several near the top appeared to be missing.

“Zowen,” I continue, “Listen, you and me had a class together, I tutored you in English Lit in college, remember?”

I hear something move. Whether it is a bat or a billionaire in hiding, I don’t know.

“You told me about the hatch, the shelter,” I shout a bit louder. “I wasn’t sure where it was, but I guess this is it?”

I wait. No answer. What now? Maybe go back and tell Sparrow and the others.

“Okay,” I say. “I am leaving.”

Then comes the voice.

“No, wait, please don’t go. I remember you. Please don’t leave me alone,” it pleads.

Then I see the wretched creature drag himself across the floor below the hatch. He is pale. His hair is long and unwashed, a beard covers his face. His leg appears to be broken. He has splinted it, but he cannot seem to move it.

With a broken leg and the missing rungs, I realize he cannot get out, he is trapped.

“Do you remember me?” I ask.

He nods. “You…you were the only real friend I ever had,” his voice breaks, he sounds like a child about to cry.

I look down at him. He is wearing shorts. His feet are bare. Besides the splint on his leg, a bloody bandage is wrapped around his arm.

“Hold on, I will be right back.” I tell Zowen.

I head outside of the planetarium to get some air, pulling my radio out of my back pack.

I turn it on and press the button. “Sparrow, this is Seeker.”

She answers. “You never call at this time of day.”

“I have found him.” I tell her.

She hesitates before she answers.

“What should we do?” she asks.

Zowen deserves to suffer.

He deserves a fate worse than death. 

But violence, savagery and barbarity are the tools of butchers not builders.

The new society we are building, our own startup, deserves civility, structure, order and justice. 

I speak once more into the radio.

“Assemble a jury. Over and out.”