Internet Kill Switch (12 page)

The hardest one
-- the one he learned most thoroughly -- was this: Technology was evil.

Far from
being a neutral agent, it was instead the devil incarnate. The lure of computers and the Internet had landed him in this hellhole.

Why hadn’t he seen it before?
The siren song of technology had enticed him, filled the void in his soul. It made him rich, and even popular, at least in his peculiar subculture. Technology made him feel powerful. It made him
somebody
. Somebody to be respected and feared. Somebody to be reckoned with. His “clients” demonstrated their respect when they paid him huge sums of money to keep him away. He, Mitchell Bass, was the Technology Master.

What a blind, arrogant fool he had been. Technology, he discovered, had not been mastered; instead, it had mastered him. Like a spurned mistress, it had turned traitor and sought to bring him down. Technology, when unmasked, was in reality a vengeful hellion that twisted his mind and mangled his soul inside the lethal walls of Florence ADX. Technology ruined him, laughing as his life flat-lined, turning into one long, monotone beep. She took his youth, and gave him back five pairs of orange prison duds.

For 11 years in Florence, Bass had time to
fixate on his growing hatred of technology. Prison is a wonderful place for a man to nurse a grudge; it gives him so much time to focus on it, build it, obsess over it to the exclusion of all else. Bass, in his signature single-minded way, purged all thoughts of technology from his mind. He began to devour history books and novels of ages past, times when a horse-drawn plow was state-of-the-art and outlaws were hung a week after being caught. He read so much about the past that he began to dream about it regularly. He began to daydream, too, imagining himself in a log cabin on a Wyoming prairie, his obedient wife slaughtering a chicken for dinner.

H
e also became fascinated with the Amish, reading book after book. They were the present-day group closest to understanding the joys of life without technology, and built their lives around it. The Amish knew the destructive power of technology, and avoided it at all costs. They were the only ones in America that truly “got it”.

But
though he admired them in many ways, he also saw their one huge flaw; they were weak. Their weakness, as it was for so many, was God. Straight-jacketed by adherence to a religion that turned the other cheek and praised meekness, they stopped well short of being what they could. Bass would have none of that.

The simple life part, though, was spot-on. No technology to distract a man, to suck him in with promises of a satisfying roll in the hay, only to
trick him, tie him up and rob him of everything.

Bass spent
more than a decade envisioning his new life, planning it down to the nitty-gritty details. He finally knew who he was and what he wanted. His destiny called to him incessantly, until his ears filled to overflowing with the sound.

Finally done stacking the wood, Bass headed back to Omega, stripping off his soaked shirt as he walked; it felt like it had been through a thunderstorm.

After 1
1 hard years in Florence, Bass earned his release and emerged from the pit. Again a free man, he got right to work; he had a lot of plans, and his destiny wouldn’t wait. He still had plenty of money, which he had no problem spending. Money, for him, had become part and parcel with technology: another empty promise to lead the mind astray. He didn’t care about houses and cars anymore, only his vision. If he went broke building that vision, even better.

The vision began with the like-minded, the clear thinkers who
understood the evil of technology and wanted to change the world with him. He started small, and built slowly. That was OK; Bass had learned patience in prison. He recruited here and there at gun shows and Tea Party rallies; slow work, but it had to be done properly. One of his key recruits was Rudolph Schnell, who knew Bass from his hacker reputation. Bass knew him too, and liked his meticulous nature and disdain for “small minds,” as he called nearly everyone else. Bass didn’t use computers anymore, but Schnell did, and Bass needed one hacking guru on his team. Schnell became his online recruiter, talking to people on militia-related sites and others with a hatred of government or authority in general. The group met for awhile at Bass’s parents’ house, until he could find their permanent home.

He
eventually found some cheap land in the woods near Searcy, Arkansas, and cleared out 100 acres for his compound. He built it one piece at a time, only adding buildings as people joined: first just a single building, then three, then a mess hall. A mini-farm for food was established. Eventually, concrete walls around the whole place were added.

In three years, Omega Compound had grown to 1
53 “revolutionaries” and 17 buildings. His people worked hard, learning farming, lumberjacking, and other non-technology skills. As they worked, had children and read books at night by candlelight, they waited for Bass to give the word that would launch the revolution and fulfill his destiny. Only it wasn’t just his anymore; it had become
their
destiny. It was a shared destiny now, he told them. They believed, like they always did.

Their waiting was
now over, Bass knew as he returned to the compound, waving his wet shirt over his head. His excitement carried him along so buoyantly he almost skipped.

He
’d known from the beginning what he had to do to carry out his vision and fulfill his destiny. What he didn’t know initially was the timetable, because he didn’t have the trigger, the means to implement the first necessary event.

He figured on another few years, at least, before his team had the ability to pu
t the plan in motion. But now that Tony Carver and his mind-blowing phone were here, the timetable could be thrown out. The time was now. Right now. Maybe as “right now” as today, in fact.

Bass entered the compound
through the guarded gate at a full run, sweat bouncing off him all directions. He went straight to the lab and threw open the door. Schnell, startled, looked up and blinked at the blaze of light.

“Well?”

Schnell smiled, shook his head and gave a thumbs-up.

“I’ve got root, Mitchell.”

Bass clapped him on the back. “Time to start the cleansing of America.”
He felt like a prophet. Hell, he
was
a prophet. And the prophet sayeth these words: “Technology giveth, and it’s time for technology to taketh away.”

29

A day had passed
since his meeting with Mitchell Bass, and Tony hadn’t seen or heard another person, except for the guards who brought in his food. Normally that would be a good thing, as Bass made his skin crawl and Tony had no desire to ever look into those crazy eyes again. In this case, however, he suspected it was a bad thing. A very bad thing.

It meant they didn’t need him anymore. They only needed Max, apparently. Tony assumed that meant they were hacking into something
; probably something really, really big. Bass had figured out quickly that Tony was useless for hacking, which meant he was useless to whatever plot he was hatching. That meant Tony would likely be killed, and anytime now. The thought terrified him. He wasn’t ready for eternity.

He wondered what would happen after he died. Would he meet God, or Jesus,
as his Mom said? Or would he just stop being alive, like Rick thought? Tony had never really pondered those questions, being so far from death (or so he thought at the time). Now was a good time to ponder, though.

As he considered, he eventually came down on the side that God did exist and there was something after death, although he didn’t know the specifics on heaven or hell
or limbo or purgatory or whatever. Of course, he said to himself, his conclusion might be influenced by the fact that he could be just days or hours from death. Still, it helped some. He hoped that if he met God, that the Almighty would go easy on him.

30

Tony lay on his bunk,
still trying to figure out this God thing, and imagining the life he might have had with Scarlett, when they entered. The guards had rifles, which was unusual; he’d only seen machine guns before. They wore camouflage like everyone else, and mirrored sunglasses so he couldn’t see their eyes. He’d never seen these guards before, but that wasn’t what made them stand out.

What
Tony noticed more than anything was that they seemed distracted. “On your feet, Carver,” one of them said. “Bass says you’re not needed anymore, now that it’s begun. So we’re taking you home.”

Could it be possible?
Tony doubted they had any intention of taking him home. They were only humoring him, he suspected, to make his execution easier to take. They probably thought he wouldn’t freak out as much. But he had to cling to whatever hope he could in this situation. Maybe Bass wasn’t as evil as he’d thought.

Tony started to sweat as a guard
bound his wrists with a zip-tie. As they tied him up, the guards chatted, not mentioning Tony again. They had other things on their mind; something really big – whatever “it” was -- had happened earlier.

“I heard it took Schnell less than a day
, once he got full access to that phone,” said the guard putting a gag in his mouth.

“Yeah. I didn’t think it could be done,” said the other.
“Can’t wait to see what happens now. The whole country’s about to go down the crapper.”

They led Tony out of his cell and across the compound.
Lots of people were walking around, talking excitedly. A sense of expectation filled the air.

T
hey passed through a side gate in the eight-foot-high wall surrounding Omega, and into the woods. Not into a car, as would have happened if he was really being taken home. So this was the end, after all.

To
ny thought desperately about a way, any way, to escape. Nothing came. If only Max were here. He could do something. Not impotent Tony. Where was Max, anyway?

The guards kept up their conversation.

“When did it come down?” one said.

“Like an hour or something ago,” the other answered. “
It took awhile, but I heard it’s done, complete. Unbelievable. Bass really is a prophet.”

“Amen to that, brother.”

They walked through the woods about 50 yards, then ordered Tony to stop. They pushed him against a tree, and one of the guards, strong as an oak, held Tony. He struggled like mad, but it was useless; he had no chance. He screamed “No! No!” through his gag. The guards kept talking to each other, almost as if Tony wasn’t there. You’d never know they were about to kill an innocent boy in cold blood.

“C’mon, Ted. Hold him tighter. I don’t wanna shoot you accidentally
, although it wouldn’t be too big a loss,” he said, cracking a smile. He raised his rifle and aimed it at Tony’s heart.

The guard holding him clamped down even tighter on Tony’s shoulders, keeping him from squirming.
Tony closed his eyes and waited for the shot that would snuff out his life.

At that moment, he heard two almost simultaneous sounds, one ear-shattering, the other sharp and clear,
though insignificant compared to the first. The first sound was an enormous
BOOM
, like the kind in war movies, only unimaginably louder, since it was real. The explosion shook the earth under his feet.

The second sound was the rifle shot, which the guard ha
d snapped off a millisecond after the
BOOM
. Tony felt a bullet tear across his right leg, sending agony through his body as it carried off a chunk of his thigh. He screamed and dropped. The guard’s hands no longer held him.

The shock of the
BOOM
had jolted the executioner, sending the death shot awry. Everyone looked in the direction of the blast. What they saw was a huge gap in a section of Omega Compound’s wall. A gap that hadn’t existed a moment earlier.

Then came another ear-splitting
BOOM
. Then another. Then two more. Chunks of cement whizzed through the air. Smoke rose. A momentary pause, then another shattering
BOOM
. A body from inside the compound flew high in the air from the force of an explosion, landing on the roof of a building. The body had no legs.

The guards forgot Tony
and sprinted for the compound. Tony looked down at his leg and saw a large gash in his jeans. Blood soaked the pants, a spreading red stain. Tony tried to get up, to run, to grab his chance to escape. But instead, the moment he put weight on his right leg, he collapsed in a heap. His hands were still tied, and he couldn’t walk or even scream for help because of the gag. He’d survived the firing squad, but was doomed anyway, his life bleeding out of the hole in his leg.

31

Bass allowed himself one, and only one, indulgence, and he enjoyed it right now,
along with Schnell and Marty Gerard, his second-in-command: Cuban cigars. The three men smoked them with their feet up on the table in the meeting room. They smoked and laughed and swapped stories, allowing themselves a half-hour of triumph before getting back to work. After all, they’d just accomplished what most everyone thought was impossible; they deserved a bit of celebration and relaxation. The cigar smoke filled the room, wreathing their heads.

BOOM

Bass fell backwards in his chair and crashed against the floor, as did Gerard. Schnell’s cigar dropped from his mouth into his lap. The room shook, and cracks appeared in the wall; dust floated down from the ceiling, mingling with the smoke.

M
ore
BOOM
s
came as Bass scrambled to his feet and ran outside, Schnell and Gerard at his heels. What they saw next nearly ripped their minds apart.