The Lady at the Post Office

It has to be, what, two o’clock in the morning. Hard to know for sure with these goddamned lights on. Two rows of fluorescent bulbs all the way across the ceiling. One edge right to the opposite edge. The light could be part of it. Part of their plan. Keep me awake, get me talking. Easier to squeeze information out of me that way. If it's two o'clock in the morning, then by now they’re all dead.

The jackboots who put me in here want access to The Keyhole. They might even think they can get to The Locksmith himself. Good luck with that. He’s four steps ahead of you, assholes. He has a W security clearance. Access to the highest-level intelligence. He knows what they are thinking before they do.

I tried to warn some of them. The woman at the post office. The one who calls me sweetie when it’s my turn to go to the counter and give her my package. The one who asks me how my day is and then listens. Actually stops and listens. Nobody really listens anymore. She didn’t deserve it. Most of them, though, most of them got exactly what was coming to them. They were complicit. They stood by and let it happen. They ignored the warnings in The Locksmith’s drops, his codes and instructions on the .6roMM Message Boards. They laughed at me. At my office too, they laughed. Eleven years coding expenses for reimbursables. Numbers into digital boxes in the EXREIMB.excel spreadsheet. My supervisor told me not to be so paranoid. Don’t believe everything you read on the internet, he said. Get back to work, he said. I was upsetting some people in the office, he said. I kept my mouth shut from there on. Punched numbers into boxes and kept quiet. Didn't say another word. He deserved exactly what he got.

The Locksmith called it Operation Apocalypse. The Bureau agents embedded in the Ministry of Defense and the Ministry of Information and Patriotic Thought were planning to wipe the slate clean. That's what they called it. Wiping the slate clean. Too many of us knew The Bureau members' identities and operational structure. We were waking up to the vast conspiracy, piecing it all together. We knew all about the battle raging for the soul of mankind, about the reckoning between the forces of good and evil. The Bureau could no longer operate in shadows. But they're not strong enough yet. The Members still need the full power of the state regulatory bodies, especially the Transnational Atomic Power Agency and the Nutrient Quality Certification Administration. Those two are key to The Bureau's whole plan. They needed more time. Operation Apocalypse was The Bureau’s Plan B. Their failsafe.

It has been nearly fifteen years since the air became toxic. I remember the before time. A person could breathe. Just open your mouth and fill your lungs. It was that easy. Then they put hydroxysulfur in the jet fuel. They started seeding the atmosphere, trying to block out the sun. They said it would help cool the planet, keep it habitable. How'd that turn out, assholes? Triggered the Great Feedback Loop is what it did! Ground level nitrogen levels started skyrocketing almost immediately. Within a year, people were just keeling over right in the street, gasping for breath. Maybe poisoning the air was part of their plan. It gave them the chance to build the Quad-State Oxygen Distribution System. One-inch diameter PVC pipes leading straight into the homes of twenty-eight million people. Just think about that. Think about the power that gives them.

Can’t they turn off these goddamned lights for just a few minutes? Just give me a break already! They buzz too, the lights. A high-pitch whine common to fluorescent lighting. The Bureau thinks it can break me with a little bit of sleep deprivation and excessive aural stimulus? They don't know who they're messing with. I'm wise to their tactics. I've been building up my tolerance. The Locksmith gave us strategies to resist.

The neurotoxin is designed to kill ninety-plus percent of the Quad-State population within hours. It was globally coordinated, the attack. Members positioned at three other Human Settlement Density Zones. The coordination of Operation Apocalypse was impressive in its own way. Density Zone Number Seven, the one that used to be known as London, was their highest priority. That one had to go. People there were agitating. The Bureau had already lost control of that one.

It was all in the Message Board drop from The Locksmith for anyone willing to read it and who could rub three brain cells together. There would be innocents, of course. The Bureau knew that. It didn’t matter to them if innocents died, as long as they also got us. Got the Awoken.

The Bureau came for me in my home. How dare they? Knocked on my door like it was some friendly neighborly visit. One guy was visible through my peephole. He was dressed regular. Button up shirt, one of those stupid three-cornered hats they're all wearing these days. Had a silly grin on his face too, like he wanted to apologize for disturbing me or something. I should never have opened the door. Stupid. I should have known better. There were two more crouching down out of sight, hiding. Someone must have tipped them off. Or they were reading my Message Board posts, maybe. They said it was for my own good. For my own safety. People had complained, they said. People felt threatened. They feared for their safety.

When they threw me in here, into this room with the locked door and the buzzing lights, those goons looked at me through the little window on the door. Two big guys in white scrubs. Tattoos on the one's arms. Interlocking spirals. Codes within codes. I could tell they were laughing at me. Assholes. They’re certain to be dead by now. Got exactly what they had coming to them. Unless they had the Mineral Solution, of course. The antidote. A simple mixture of household cleaner and cranberry extract. If they have that then they're still alive. They're probably waiting for me to crack. Another few hours under these lights and they'll be back.

The Locksmith said it would happen at midnight. The Apocalypse. I tried to warn the lady at the Post Office. I really did. I told her that The Bureau was ready to act at any moment. I explained the whole thing. Told her that she needed to her own emergency oxygen supplies. That she should start stockpiling. I had thirty high pressure cannisters myself, I told her. Enough for a month. That was the bare minimum. She touched my hand. When she took my package her hand touched mine. It wasn't an accident. I'm sure of it. Brushed her hand right against mine. Nobody ever did that to me before. She called me sweetie like she always does. She smiled at me. She didn't deserve it. Maybe I should have tried harder to save her, the lady at the post office.