Buzzworm (A Technology Thriller): Computer virus or serial killer? Read Online Free
Author: Theo Cage
seemed to brighten and grow closer.
Mary Ellen felt like gagging, a warm broth of coffee, coke, soup and dinner rolls rebelling in her stomach. She vomited into her lap, over the clamped hand on her mouth, across the screen of her terminal. She slipped to the floor, hunched over, her hands on the slick linoleum — her breath coming in ragged bursts. She reached for the power cable. Pulled. It slipped in her hands.
She groaned again, rolled back, felt the cable finally give at the other end, felt it separating from the electrical plug. She heard the monitor above her squeal, and she covered her ears, her head on the cold floor. It was impossible and stupid, but she knew somehow that the creature on the screen was coming for her, that a hand would reach down and pull her into that nightmare.
MED tried to move, but her muscles refused. She lay there in the dark, shivering.
After a moment, she picked herself up shakily and looked over the edge of the desk. The monitor was blank — but she swore she could still hear the voices.
CHAPTER 2
Roger Strange lost the tips of his fingers experimenting with a homemade pipe bomb when he was fourteen years old. It wasn't an act of extremism - just plain dumb-headed curiosity. He needed to know what made things function. And he was always taking stuff apart to see how it worked.
In this case, what came apart was the family cat. She happened to nuzzle up to Roger at a critical time. The crude bomb ignited, and she lost her life. Roger lost everything from the last knuckle and out on his right hand. But if it wasn't for the cat, which took the brunt of two pounds of poorly packed blasting powder, Roger might have lost his eyes too. Or suffered brain damage. Because of that he always kept a few strays around for good luck. Except, of course here, where they didn't allow it. And that's why he was feeling so uneasy right now - almost naked. He always did his best work around cats.
Strange was working at his computer, his face up close to the screen, when the phone rang. He muttered something unintelligible and felt for the phone without taking his eyes off the monitor. He pushed a square button labeled SPEAKER.
"Roger here," he answered, distracted.
"Roger? Pick up the phone." It was Sharon from eScape. She sounded anxious.
"You're on speaker," he said.
"Pick up the damn phone," she raged, "or say goodbye to the contract of a lifetime."
He turned his head, his eyes still on the screen. Purposefully slow, he put the phone to his ear.
"You're right. This is so much more romantic," he said.
"Strange, I'm not going to waste my time talking to you while you hack code." Roger pressed three more keys. "I need your attention for a change. Shit, you're still at it. Look, let’s forget it. I'll get Dash to work on this. And he’s easier to meet with, if you get my drift."
Strange smiled. Dash was a propeller-head to the nth degree. Spent a hundred hours last month on Internet chat rooms - making out with hot young babes who signed themselves in as Bambi or Dynasty or Vanna. The truth was, they were probably portly old ladies with unwashed hair, or worse, men getting their jollies by stringing him along with a phony handle. Dash gave guys like Strange a bad name. But he was on the outside. He had that going for him. "Dash doesn't know a sub-routine from a sub sandwich."
"He returns my calls."
"Yeah. He's sheer genius with a phone. Especially if its got a 1-900 number."
"Do you want this job or not?" she said, sounding serious.
Strange only blinked. He always blinked when getting his ass chewed out, which was often lately. "I'm still working on the last one you gave me. The client from hell who wants to keep meticulous control over his dazzling universe of 300,000 used dishwasher parts. And I’m on schedule."
She grunted into the phone. She had been on his case about this particular program for weeks now. It wasn’t glamorous work, but it paid the bills. And he was right - he never
Mary Ellen felt like gagging, a warm broth of coffee, coke, soup and dinner rolls rebelling in her stomach. She vomited into her lap, over the clamped hand on her mouth, across the screen of her terminal. She slipped to the floor, hunched over, her hands on the slick linoleum — her breath coming in ragged bursts. She reached for the power cable. Pulled. It slipped in her hands.
She groaned again, rolled back, felt the cable finally give at the other end, felt it separating from the electrical plug. She heard the monitor above her squeal, and she covered her ears, her head on the cold floor. It was impossible and stupid, but she knew somehow that the creature on the screen was coming for her, that a hand would reach down and pull her into that nightmare.
MED tried to move, but her muscles refused. She lay there in the dark, shivering.
After a moment, she picked herself up shakily and looked over the edge of the desk. The monitor was blank — but she swore she could still hear the voices.
CHAPTER 2
Roger Strange lost the tips of his fingers experimenting with a homemade pipe bomb when he was fourteen years old. It wasn't an act of extremism - just plain dumb-headed curiosity. He needed to know what made things function. And he was always taking stuff apart to see how it worked.
In this case, what came apart was the family cat. She happened to nuzzle up to Roger at a critical time. The crude bomb ignited, and she lost her life. Roger lost everything from the last knuckle and out on his right hand. But if it wasn't for the cat, which took the brunt of two pounds of poorly packed blasting powder, Roger might have lost his eyes too. Or suffered brain damage. Because of that he always kept a few strays around for good luck. Except, of course here, where they didn't allow it. And that's why he was feeling so uneasy right now - almost naked. He always did his best work around cats.
Strange was working at his computer, his face up close to the screen, when the phone rang. He muttered something unintelligible and felt for the phone without taking his eyes off the monitor. He pushed a square button labeled SPEAKER.
"Roger here," he answered, distracted.
"Roger? Pick up the phone." It was Sharon from eScape. She sounded anxious.
"You're on speaker," he said.
"Pick up the damn phone," she raged, "or say goodbye to the contract of a lifetime."
He turned his head, his eyes still on the screen. Purposefully slow, he put the phone to his ear.
"You're right. This is so much more romantic," he said.
"Strange, I'm not going to waste my time talking to you while you hack code." Roger pressed three more keys. "I need your attention for a change. Shit, you're still at it. Look, let’s forget it. I'll get Dash to work on this. And he’s easier to meet with, if you get my drift."
Strange smiled. Dash was a propeller-head to the nth degree. Spent a hundred hours last month on Internet chat rooms - making out with hot young babes who signed themselves in as Bambi or Dynasty or Vanna. The truth was, they were probably portly old ladies with unwashed hair, or worse, men getting their jollies by stringing him along with a phony handle. Dash gave guys like Strange a bad name. But he was on the outside. He had that going for him. "Dash doesn't know a sub-routine from a sub sandwich."
"He returns my calls."
"Yeah. He's sheer genius with a phone. Especially if its got a 1-900 number."
"Do you want this job or not?" she said, sounding serious.
Strange only blinked. He always blinked when getting his ass chewed out, which was often lately. "I'm still working on the last one you gave me. The client from hell who wants to keep meticulous control over his dazzling universe of 300,000 used dishwasher parts. And I’m on schedule."
She grunted into the phone. She had been on his case about this particular program for weeks now. It wasn’t glamorous work, but it paid the bills. And he was right - he never
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