Exit 9

20

The link to the online video remained active for exactly nine minutes and thirty-seven seconds before it was located and removed. In that time, of the 622 people who clicked on the link, only 51 clicked on it soon enough to watch the video in its entirety. For the others, the video stopped where their download had ceased, and when they tried to reload it, they were presented with a message about technical difficulties.

Of the 51 who did see it, only 24 actually watched the whole thing, and of these, all but three thought it was a viral marketing ploy for a new disaster movie. The three initially took it seriously, and were willing to believe at least part of it might be true. A killer virus, distributed by man. It sure sounded plausible to them. Unfortunately, when they realized the link had disappeared and they couldn’t share it with like-minded friends, they began to lose interest.

Within five days, the three potential believers would barely remember the video at all.

“Dammit,” Tamara Costello said. “Only nine minutes? They’re getting even faster.”

Bobby Lion frowned at the computer screen. “It lasted only three on Vimeo.”

“Do they have somebody just waiting for us to upload? Is that it?”

“Well, yeah. I mean, it’s probably automated to a point. Someone gets alerted when a suspicious video gets uploaded and they take a look, then do whatever they do to pull it down.”

They’d tried everything-unassuming titles, benign descriptions and keywords. They even created a new account every time they posted. Without exception, their work got pulled down with no more than a handful of people seeing it. It was beyond frustrating.

Tamara and Bobby’s job was simple: create and distribute video reports aimed at exposing Project Eden to the general public. Their talents were particularly suited for this. Both had been in the employ of PCN-Prime Cable News-before being recruited by the Hamiltons to help stop the Project.

Recruited was a relative term. What happened was Tamara and Bobby had run afoul of the Project while they were reporting for PCN from the front lines of the Sage Flu outbreak in April. Some of the Hamiltons’ people had helped them escape before they became casualties, too.

They spent several months at the Ranch, learning about Project Eden. Bobby had believed right away, but it had taken Tamara some time to accept the horrifying reality. It was at that point they’d been asked to put their skills to use, and act as the public voice of the resistance.

They’d been set up in San Antonio, Texas, with false identities. Tamara was now Deirdre Murray, and ran a secondhand shop called Deirdre’s Treasures. Bobby was Ralph Barber, a freelance handyman who never seemed to be freelancing anywhere. Instead, he and Tamara spent much of their time in the small studio built in the basement of Deirdre’s Treasures, where he edited the pieces, and Tamara wrote the scripts and recorded the narrations, albeit with her voice altered to avoid identification.

They had tried to get their early video reports into the hands of the established media, hoping they would be aired on networks everywhere. They had met with zero success. They had tried blogs next, but quickly pulled the plug on that when one of the bloggers who posted their video turned up dead within twenty-four hours. They decided, in consultation with Matt and Rachel, that the only thing they could do was post the videos on public sites and hope for the best. Unfortunately, the best had yet to happen.

“How the hell are we supposed to get around this?” she said. It wasn’t the first time she’d asked this. Not by a long shot.

“We have to hope that at some point, they’re going to miss one long enough that people will copy it to their computers and repost so it goes viral. If it starts popping up all over the place, they won’t be able to pull it all down.”

She sighed. “Well, let’s re-upload-”

Her cell phone rang. She answered it. “…this one now. And see if it sticks this time.” The name on the phone’s display read: UNKNOWN.

“Hello?”

“Tamara, it’s Matt.”

She switched to speakerphone. “Hey, Matt. You calling about the latest video? A whole nine minutes this time.”

“Nine and a half,” Bobby said.

“Sorry,” Matt said. “I didn’t know you were putting something up.”

Tamara couldn’t help but frown. They had sent Matt and Rachel an email like they always did before they posted. Matt had even responded with a simple “Thanks.”

Bobby leaned toward the phone. “Fifty-one views before it got pulled down, though I don’t know how many were able to watch it all. Did you get a chance to look at the script for the one we’d like to start this afternoon?”

“Whatever you were planning, you need to table it,” Matt said.

Tamara and Bobby exchanged a concerned look.

“What’s going on?” she asked.

“I need you to finish WC.”

For several seconds, neither of them could speak. WC did not stand for water closet. It meant Worst Case, as in the video that would be placed if the worst-case scenario occurred. In other words, the video that would describe to humanity what was happening to them. They had started it months earlier, but had not finished it in hopes it would never be needed.

His voice dry and tentative, Bobby asked, “It’s happened?”

“No. But if it does, it will be soon.”

“How soon?” Tamara asked.

A pause. “Days. Maybe a week. Not much more than that.”

“Are you sure?”

“About as sure as we can be. How soon can you have it ready?”

“We’ll get right on it,” she said, glancing at Bobby.

“A day or two, no more than that,” Bobby added.

“When it’s finished, I want you to close everything up and go to your backup safe house,” Matt ordered. The safe house was a location not even Matt knew, just Tamara and Bobby. “If it looks like things are going to shit and you can’t reach me, upload it. Don’t wait for me to give you the go-ahead.”

“Do you think…do you think we’ll have to upload it?” Tamara said.

The silence stretched out for what seemed like minutes. “Yes.”

The line went dead.

Tamara put her hand on Bobby’s, wrapping it around the side and squeezing tight. He looked at her, the reality of what appeared to be coming reflected on his face.

Then he nodded. “We’d better get to work.”