The 4th Subject

Chapter 23: Preparing for the Worst

Over the next couple of months, so much happened. And yet, everything was a blur. Days—no, weeks—all a blur.

The stalker texted us on the phone we pulled from the LAPD case and left us the keys to the Mountaineer. Said it was a "sign of good faith", whatever that was supposed to mean. Turns out, he wanted us to find a cassette tape underneath the steering wheel. Woods said he had a cassette player, so we went over to his house.

                                                ~*~

"Your mom got you something," I said, pointing to the box wrapped in a Target bag.

"What?" Woods said, walking over to his bed and slowly unwrapping the Valentine's gift.

"What is it?" Sam asked, focusing the camera on Woods. He looked in the bag and started laughing. I walked up next to him and peer over his shoulder. He pulled the box out of the bag to reveal an alarm clock. We all started laughing as Woods set it on his nightstand and began searching through a bin for the player.

After a few minutes of figuring out how to get the cassette out of the case and rewinding it, we gathered together to listen. It sounded like... well, awful. A heart rate monitor speeding up and slowing down, drills and other machinery going off, and faint voices. The echo led us to believe this probably happened in one of the warehouses, which was terrifying to think of. Suddenly, a voice cried something I could actually make out.

"Stop!" I cried, leaning back on the couch.

"What?" Matt asked.

"Did that say..." Sam started.

""I wanna go home", yeah," I finished, staring at the cassette.

After a brief moment of silence, Woods continued the tape. The rest of it was just the rest of the experiment. Or whatever was going on. Once it finished, we all looked at each other, confused. This was what Syphus wanted us to hear? Why?

"I could hear voices in the background," Matt said.

"So could I, but I couldn't make anything out." Sam added.

"Could- I don't know if it's possible, but could Mike look at it?" I piped up.

"Yeah," Matt replied, "he could probably clean this up. Let's go talk to him."

                                                 ~*~

"Wait, what?" I cried, lifting a hand to my mouth.

"Did he say what I think he just said?" Sam asked.

""I've never seen you like this, D.""

"D. This is D." Matthew said, leaning on Mike's desk.

"This is D and the other co-founder," I stated, "whatever his name is, talking about pushing Syphus out of the company."

"Is this what he wanted us to find?" Sam asked.

"It has to be, but why?" Matt said.

We had no idea. Was this supposed to make us feel bad for him? D and the co-founder had good reason to want to push him out if he was the one responsible for everything. Were we really supposed to side with him?

                                                ~*~

We discovered more and more as the weeks went on. We asked the undercover officer about the fire, and we got some answers. But the real answer we received was from Syphus. He told us D3B, the program on the Apple II, was not a program. It was Deb.

We confronted her about it, and Syphus was right. She had tricked us into thinking we were talking to a computer, but she herself was the one responding. She said she wasn't sure if we'd believe her as a human, and I guess I can understand that. And when she told us the end was coming, I couldn't help but believe that too.

                                                ~*~

Weeks of what felt like nonstop moving came. Talking with Deb, Syphus, and the undercover LAPD officer. Every time it felt like we were getting closer to legitimate answers, the rug would be ripped out from under us and we'd be back at square one.

We left the case with some of our information for John Doe. Once he got it, he sent us another directory ID to use on the Apple II. Using that directory ID, we discovered what appeared to be a murder plot. But the twist was, it was Deb plotting to kill Syphus. We didn't know what to believe anymore.

It all came to ahead March 4th. March 5th—whatever was going to happen—was mere hours away. The fear in me was making me sick. My dreams were becoming worse and worse. The only good thing about them was that they were becoming harder to make out. Flashes of neon green and black, jumbled words and numbers, symbols and faces I'd never seen before, everything was a blur. Nothing was making sense.

We got to have one final conversation with Deb. It went about as well as I could imagine the conversation going. She explained very little, and yet so much. And then she warned us. Warned us of what was coming. Or, who. The only thing we could do was prepare for the worst.