He took a deep breath, flipped through the fiction options until he found the selection he wanted, grabbed his pencil, and went to work. It was never a quick process.
UNCLE CHARLIE ARRANGING BIG FAMILY REUNION 8 23 BRING KIDS AND ALL THEIR TOYS LET ME KNOW IF CAN MAKE IT COME QUIETLY BREAK AARDVARK BREAK BUCKAROO BREAK 49 31 BREAK 90 14 45
He deleted the browser history off the tablet for what little good that did, then randomly went through his library of novels and clicked on several at random, paging through them briefly, just in case somewhere in its deep core the tablet kept a record of which books had been accessed. Then he pulled the battery while he thought. And to keep anyone with the technology from turning on the speaker remotely and listening in. Or triangulating the position of the device, even though it shouldn’t be detectable to anyone further away than fifty feet. It wasn’t paranoia when they really were after you.
That was why they were using so many layers, some high-tech, some analog. A photo, which was harder to scan electronically or with AI than text. Handwritten text in the photo, which was much more difficult to scan with a program. The coded message hidden in the background of a photo of something else, in a thread about an old cartoon series. Then there was the message itself—the numbers denoted pages, lines, and words of a book, and unless you knew which book, the code could never be broken. Uncle Charlie had the same library available to him, and never used the same book twice—the first part of the message was always two words. The first indicated which book, and the second indicated the font size, as changing the font size altered the number of pages of the digital book.
He didn’t know anything about espionage or what he’d learned was called “signals intelligence”. The whole system seemed a grossly overcomplicated pain in the ass and, perhaps, stupid. But, he had to admit, it had been in place for years without being compromised, as far as he knew, so there was that….
It was the strangest message, by far, that he’d ever received from Uncle Charlie. He looked down at what he’d written on the paper, then picked up the pencil again and began figuring, because, as usual, there was a code within the code. The month was August, so subtract eight from 23 to get 15. August 15th.
The message had been left on the seventh. Subtract seven from 49 and 90, eight from 31 and 14, and nine from 45. Then he did the conversions from minutes and seconds into decimals. He wrote the new numbers down and dug into his vest for the map.
It was laminated, but even so it had seen so much use it was nearly falling apart at the folds. He laid it flat on the desk and peered at it in the dim light. He had no proper tools, and used the side of the tablet as a straight-edge. He studied the point where his two drawn lines intersected, and was surprised to find his heart beating fast. He couldn’t attribute it to the location indicated on the map, there really wasn’t anything there, but there’d been something about the message… “BIG FAMILY REUNION” could only mean one thing.
He licked his thumb and rubbed out the pencil lines, folded the map up and stuffed it away, then reinserted the batteries and turned both devices back on. As he waited he crumpled the paper into a tiny ball in his palm and stared at it. After a few seconds he looked back to his small tablet and logged back in to the forum and went to the Chipmunks thread. He made a new anonymous post, something the forum allowed, and wrote, “Theodore approves this thread. He and his band of chipmunks are now heading out to a family reunion.” He yawned, the fatigue creeping into him. Even the little surge of adrenaline he’d gotten decrypting Charlie’s message wasn’t enough to mask how bone-tired he was. When was the last time he’d gotten a full night’s sleep? Not since late winter, at least. Fear, apparently, interrupted REM sleep.
He disconnected and quickly pulled the battery from the SatLink and used the military-grade software program downloaded onto the tablet to wipe the history. He had no idea if it completely removed all traces of his activity, but he had to hope. Every time he inserted the batteries and powered the things up he imagined the thump of rotor blades, the shriek of turbo-diesel engines, the thud of boots coming his way. Or maybe just the brief incoming roar of a missile, even though he knew a missile would impact before he heard the roar as they traveled faster than sound. The batteries went back into their clear plastic sandwich bag and into his right breast pocket. The tablet he slid it into its battered case, which went into his left breast pocket. The SatLink6 went back into the pocket on his thigh.
He looked around to make sure he hadn’t left anything, and saw the ball of paper still in his palm. Shaking his head he popped it into his mouth and started chewing, then stood up, knees protesting. The change in altitude was all it took for his nose to fill up with the delicious aroma that had been creeping through the house. His empty stomach flopped and gurgled loudly, and his mouth began watering.
He moved to the window and peered out at the night sky, changing from dark blue to coal black. Here and there stars twinkled brightly above the rooftops, but the waxing moon was still thin and low in the sky and provided no real illumination; what few houses he could see were hulking shadows. Other than the tiny orange twinkling of a small fire in the distance there was not a light to be seen other than the stars and moon. No sign of the cardinal; undoubtedly he’d found a safe perch for the night. A faint breeze stirred, touching his face, and for the first time he noticed there was no glass in the window frame.
With a grunt he reached down and grabbed his rifle from where he’d leaned it in the corner and headed downstairs.
CHAPTER TWO
It hadn’t been a spur of the moment decision; before he’d finally left home, Jason had thought about going for at least a year, and planned how he’d do it for months before finally working up the courage. He’d found several paper maps and studied them at night when he was supposed to be sleeping, planning various routes down into the city. He knew not to do any online searches, using what little internet access they had; everyone knew internet searches were being monitored. You had to be careful about everything you said and did these days, because you never knew who was listening or watching. Besides, he doubted any maps of the city were accurate. At least those he could access.
It took him a week to carefully travel the hundred miles to the suburbs ringing the city. Once he was there, it had taken Jason another week, slowly working his way south, before he’d been steered to the old woman’s cramped little house. A week of sleeping in abandoned houses and stores, among the rats and the roaches. During the day he roasted in the heat, the sun turning the broken streets into ovens, the air so humid it felt like he was breathing soup. At night it was worse—the heat was mostly just a bad memory, but the tension was unbearable. Every sound had him on edge, sitting up, peeking out the shattered doorway of whatever ruined house he was in. Even though he knew it was ridiculous he couldn’t stop thinking about the rumors he’d heard about cannibals roaming the city. He was scared, and angry with himself for being scared.
No one he talked to was any help; it seemed the people he was looking for didn’t want to be tracked down easily. He should have guessed that; apparently he hadn’t thought things out as fully as he’d hoped. It seemed insanity to be alone on foot, wandering the streets, and more than one person told him as much, but it was all he could think to do. The people he was pursuing were ghosts. Often he was chased off just for asking about them.
And the people he met… his clothes were nothing special, years old, some belonging to his father, the backpack an old hunting pack, and yet compared to the ripped and stained rags most people here wore he seemed formally dressed. A few of the tougher-looking customers eyed his clothes and gear and his young face, but the rifle gave them pause, as did the familiar way he carried it. The only people who walked around openly with weapons were just looking for trouble. If the military caught you it was automatic jail time, or at least that’s what he’d thought was the law, but everyone he met who saw the rifle—and was willing to talk to him—told him that if he ran into a patrol the soldiers would just shoot him on sight if they saw a gun, even though it was just an old lever action. He wasn’t sure if they were messing with him or not. He didn’t care. He was done waiting. It felt like he’d been waiting his whole life.