DAY 89: Function = 0

"Anybody seen C0dy?"
Orson peeked out from his cubicle.  "Oh, yeah- nope!  Still recovering from his drinking games with Redbone last night.  I emailed him about the contact page.  I also got my phone auto-dialing every 3 minutes; soon as he comes back from the dead, he oughta pick up.  If he doesn't fix the page by lunch, can you take care of it?"
Elise nodded.  "I'll take care of it now.  But is he coming in today?"
Redbone shrugged his shoulders.  "He was still in bed when I got up.  Maybe he went to the lab, get some hours in with the English majors."
"No good, " Elise said.  "He didn't show yesterday, either.  They think he's on a campaign..."
"Not without me, he isn't!"  Orson logged into his workstation as he made a call to a
guildmember on speed dial.  "Terry, is C0dy logged in?   He's AWOL..."

Elise sat down at C0dy's station, and got his password on the third try.  By that point, Orson and Redbone had exhausted their search efforts.  Elise brought up the source code for C0dy's pages-

the code was gone.  C0dy had wiped out every line, except for one:   "function=0"



inspired by Discover Magazine article, "An Activist's Tragic End: Remembering Aaron Swartz"

DAY 82: Night Survey

Parnicius woke up strapped to the table.  As he became increasingly aware of the degree of his restraints, he began to panic and struggle. The forehead strap gave enough, so Parnicius turned to his right.  Nicodimus was strapped down and vivisected, his mouth held wide open for inspection.  Parnicius's scream startled a masked man in a surgeon's apron; he dropped the metal pan in his hands.
Martin stomped in the tent.  "Enough with ye!" he shouted, served with a Scottish burr and a backhand.  He rested an elbow on the familiar's chest, pressing the air out of Parnicius, until he was barely a whisper.  "We got questions, so save your breath for 'em!"  The hunter stood up, allowing Parnicius to gasp for air.
Martin turned his attention to the man on the floor.  "Geddup, Monty!  An' pick up that heart!"
Monty dusted himself off.  "Sorry.  I got startled, dropped my guard.  Won't happen again..."
"It rarely happens twice, yeah?"  Martin pointed at the dead one.  "What can ye tell me about him?"

Monty began the autopsy.  "Advanced necrosis of the extremities; necrotic tissue in significant portions of the heart and lungs...  The jaw separates in three areas... teeth comparable in count and structure of human teeth.  The canines, however - do not retract."
"Really?  That's interesting.  An' the eyes?"
Monty peeked under an eyelid.  "Yellow sclera, no iris...  Carpathian?"
Martin grinned wide.  "Carr-pathian!  We got us a royal!  Box up that heart, an' keep ye jesus tree under ye shirt, or the whole tent'll go up!"

Martin turned his attention back to Parnicius, studying his neck and wrists.  "Did ye know that about ye friend?  He's a classic, he was; real archetype.   You ever see him turn into a bat?"
Monty interjected, "Are you sure that's safe, sir?"
"Oh, this runt's nothing!  See for y'self!"  Martin pulled his protege toward their prisoner.  "Flush cheeks, harried breath, pissed pants:  he's a familiar!"
Martin pulled the silver cross off Monty's neck and waved it over Parnicius, "Does this hurt?  Does it?"  Parnicius shook his head.
Martin placed the cross on Parnicius' forehead. "Does that hurt?  Eh?"
Martin swatted his forehead, shaking the table and yielding a yowl from Parnicius.  "How about that?  Y'see?  No reaction to the Holy Cross or to contact with silver, and he's got a thin skin! Ain't no vampire; just some boy in black lace who didn't get hugged enough, did ye?  Just a snack on standby!"

"Who the hell are you?" Parnicius whimpered.
"Martin Van Helsing, scion of Professor Abraham, and inheritor of his life's work, converting pseudo-science to science.  Monty there's me assistant, aide-de-campe, and Boswell.  Your master there is one of 70 species we've cataloged in our field guide. And you... well, you're bait."



inspired by Discover Magazine article, "New Disputes Over Psychiatry's Manual"

DAY 72: Arsenic and Old Rice

Jiro was trying to talk himself out of eating sushi.  He had two phones and a tablet by his plate, to help him..  The tablet identified the components of his dinner - a list of ingredients in the Crunchy Rainbow roll, under sesame sauce and presented with a side of wasabi.  In the phone to his immediate right, he searched for documentation of identified toxins with each ingredient.  In the other phone, he calculated the estimated toxin levels he could expect to be exposed to, down to the piece.

He had been proud of his dietary lifestyle: not as doomed as the bacon cheeseburger worshippers, not as pretentious as the vega-ova-terrestrials... just chicken, fish, and the kind of stuff that gets a B-to-B-plus on the nutritional report card.  But then the local news reported that a sister location of his favorite grocery store had recalled a week's worth of chicken breasts sales, after several families contracted a previously unidentified strain of avian flu.  He started reading headlines about the risks in foods that he had trusted, to the point that he recognized he was becoming phobic about the act of eating.  He compromised with his fears, and began his dietary audit.

Jiro had been eating sushi since he was 13 years old.  Now, he sat in front of his favorite order, trying to figure out how many more pieces he could eat in his life.  He attempted to ascertain the levels of mercury in the fish, arsenic in the rice, lead in the seaweed...  He looked up from his mathwork, and eyed the colorful plate.  By his own determination, this plate of sushi would be his third-to-last ever, to be safe.
He was studying his food so intently, he did not see the waitress refresh his drink.  He shifted his gaze to the glass of tap water...  and he froze.


inspired by Discover Magazine article, "Arsenic-Tainted Rice is Harmful to Humans"

DAY 68: The Right Tool for the Job

There were four left when they reached the former general store.  Mike was in a panic.  "He asked me to shoot him.  Bobby asked me, you all heard that, right?"
"Cool it now!" Ronnie said.  "He said he didn't want to be one of those things.  Don't fall apart now!"
Mickey added, "Yeah, don't worry, Mike. If you give me a reason, I won't hesitate to shoot you."
Ralph stayed silent as he stopped the car.  Mickey held out a pistol to him.  "You want?"
"I'm good," Ralph replied, reaching down for his toolbelt.

Ronnie checked his watch.  "Okay, guys, this shopping spree's good for five minutes.  When I call 'time', we roll."
"And when I call 'zombie', we open fire."  Mickey added.  "Ralph, open the door."
Ralph studied the lock before he pulled out the screwdriver. A quick smack, and they were in.

Mickey had Mike push the shopping cart.  "Straight to canned goods, man!  We need the stuff that lasts.  Damn, do I miss ice cream, though... And cheese!  Even squash!  Butter-fried squash and zuccini, mmm!"  While Mickey reminisced of flavors past, Mike watched the shadows.
Ralph was pushing Ronnie's cart.  "This run's going to be food and ammo, Ralph, but I don't know when we'll be back again.  If there's anything on your list that we can fit in the van, I'll consider it."
Ralph replied, "Two hammers... two needle-nose pliers...  three sewing kits...  rope, at least a hundred yards...  a car battery."
They were between auto parts and the oil-change station. A car battery sat on the counter, still waiting for pickup.  Ralph took out his screwdriver, scraping fresh sparks off one of the battery terminals.  "I'm good," he said, lifting the battery.

They found a stash of cartridges when they heard the first gunshot. Mickey was screaming from across the store, "Cleanup, register 3!"  He and Mike were bottlenecked in the aisle, with only their shopping cart between them and three zombies.  Ronnie barreled through, sideswiping two with his overloaded cart.  That gave Mickey a chance to load up and shoot one, while Ronnie shot another.  The last one was reaching to bit on Ronnie's ankle, when Ralph's screwdriver came down through its skullcap, and out the bottom of its jaw.  Ronnie jumped back, blasting the zombie skull like a ripe pumpkin.  Without a word, Ralph retrieved his unscathed screwdriver and wiped it clean against his pants leg.

Back at base camp, Mickey and Mike shared the spoils - and the story - with the rest of the camp.  Ronnie was talking with the others, in preparation for the memorial service.  Ralph, meanwhile, was ready to plug his battery onto his latest device.  The camp was ready for nightlights and food processors.  He was ready to watch a movie again.  He placed the battery on his improvised workbench, and began adding it to his contraption.  But when he grasped the brackets, he frowned; he needed a Phillips head.
Ralph tossed the screwdriver without looking. "Useless..."



inspired by Discover Magazine article, "MicroRNA Halts Breast Cancer Protein"

DAY 51: Red Evening

"The body will be bathed three times."  Stu placed three bowls next to the training mannequin.  "The first bowl is water and Sidr leaves; Dr Mara should be one of the handlers, but follow whoever has that bowl.  You should probably take the second bowl - there's camphor with this water.  Only pilgrims are exempt; their souls are ready, water is all their body needs."
Marsha reached for the clean water bowl.  "I need to see everybody-"
"They still need to be prepared for burial."  Stu blocked her reach for the water.  "The final bather is also helping secure and dress the bodies, and I don't have time to teach you everything they do.  Take the camphor bowl and repeat every motion the first bather does.  If the body is sick enough for someone to see, they will need more than water anyway."

Marsha nodded.  "That works for me.   How many do they have so far?"
"When I called her, she said there were 43 so far, and 8 familes intend on retrieving their loved ones in the morning.  You won't have much time to look, certainly no official examination."
Marsha pulled the CPR mannequin towards her, pointing out areas for Stu to examine.  "We're looking for signs of respiratory infection: flu-like symptoms under the eyes, nostrils, even ear canals.  The cuticles have a unique symptom - keep an eye for purple and white under the nails."
"And what do I do if I find someone?"
Marsha took his hand in hers, startling her.  He turned his hand over to see the oversize thumbtack Marsha had placed in his hand.  "I've got tons of these, and labels in my other pocket to keep them straight.  You know how to use that?"
"Yes.  Are you sure this will work?"
"Well, it's a needle in a haystack.  But somewhere in that mass of the infected are people who chose to die that way.  And this is our best chance of finding them."



inspired by Discover Magazine article, "Fast Proof of Nerve Gas in Syria"

DAY 50: Red Morning...

Andre's coughing woke him up, and nearly cracked his ribs.  He looked to the bed on his right, and saw the sheet over Emil's head.  A hand was exposed and cut at the wrist, the blood draining into a bowl on the floor.  Andre was happy for him.

Andre's nurse, wearing a face mask, arrived to attend him.  She gave him a snow-white cloth to cough in, while she took his temperature.  The sputum was black, shiny as a carapace.  "Can you sit up?" she asked.
Andre nodded, and began the slow ascent.

The nurse returned with the captains, bearing street clothes; they also wore face masks and gloves.  "Put these on," the short captain ordered.  Andre stood up and accepted the clothes; he was stoic and slow as they watched him dress.  At one point, bending to put on the paints, he audibly groaned.  The nurse motioned to assist, but the tall captain held out his palm, keeping the nurse in her place.

Finally, Andre finished dressing.  He straightened himself up and offered a salute.  The tall captain put some papers and a bus pass in his hand.  "Go, and bring the judgement of God to his people."

Andre shuffled out of the room.  He left the building and began shuffling down the sidewalk, to join the others at the bus stop...


inspired by Discover Magazine article, "Hunting a Killer Virus"

DAY 42: Bobbi

There was a bad smell coming from box #18808.  Anticipating the inevitable, Irina pulled out the box and placed it on the work bench.  She retrieved labels for the box's next tenant, and began filling out the paperwork for subject #20131.

The box shuddered, startling Irina.  After the rattle subsided, she could hear the labored breathing inside.  She grit her teeth, and held her hand atop the box, steadying it for the next tremor.  She tried to distract herself with the science of it, the cause that they all served.  She tried to read the label, but it was upside down.  She closed her eyes, and waited.

Tor walked in on her.  In fact, he had asked her a few questions before he lifted her hand off the box.  "I'll process this one, okay?"  Irina nodded, and pulled her hand back.  Tor tucked the box under his arm and walked out of the room.

Irina walked to a safety station to wash her hands; under the running water, she murmured  "Goodbye..."



inspired by Discover Magazine article "Toward a Cure for Ebola and Rabies"

DAY 10: The Escher Box

"We missed you yesterday."  Leigh was standing at Norman's door, dressed for a day in the world. She was greeted by the sight of walking sawdust.

"What happened, Norman?  Where have you been?  They said you didn't make it into work yesterday."

Groggy, he replied.  "I had an idea.  But I lost it."

Leigh let herself in, stepping gingerly through the minefield of aborted projects: half-emerged bears and obelisks, potato-headed steeds,diamond-bodied snakes... a geometric menagerie nipped at her heels.  "This looks painful, Norm.  You need to stop."
Norm grimaced at the words.  "Nobody else knows what they look like.  I don't even know, until it's done."
"God, you're melodramatic.  Where's the Febreze?"

Leigh saw it: an impossible thing, sitting in the mistakes.  She stretched out her hand, but didn't know how to pick it up, how to approach it.  Norm strode up to it, and snatched it off the ground.
"You found it.  That's my Escher Box."  He placed it on the table; Leigh was entranced by it.  "I started with some simple ones; they're over there.  Got some spaghetti noodles and bubble gum.  But that's just an optical illusion.  I was feeling ambitious..."

Leigh stared into the box.  One interior wall was carved like fur, another like collapsing stars.  She picked it up at the edges, starring into a spiral with fluttering edges.  From her vantage point, the corners had opened a door into her hand.  She turned it to a side...
"...I remembered about Fibonacci sequences, Mandlebrot sets, mathematical formulas that could be graphed and visualized more articulately than they could be explained on paper.  I mean, we're reaching a point of mathematics that can't be fathomed with numbers, or imaginary numbers, or anything you can put on a chalkboard..."
She examined the other end.  Leigh was staring into the vortex now, trying to peek past a corner, which seemed to bend deeper and deeper...
"Once I grasped the concept of multi-dimensional formulation - well, half-grasped it.  I realized if I got too much into it, I would-"

Norm's rambling was interrupted by the clatter of the box, landing on the floor.  Leigh had disappeared.


inspired by the Discover Magazine article, "Amplituhedron May Shape the Future of Physics"