In present day, technology is already changing our lives. But it can go a lot further. A story not so far-fetched called:
New Age Virus
Bernard Burn, resident of 1010 Parry Street, sat and glared at the string of symbols on his computer monitor. Without looking away, he pulled at the skin beneath his eyes, trying to make them less dry, and less exhausted.
The room: dark, but he did not turn on the light. If he did, the fan would turn on, and Bernard was already too cold in his house. He was never without his blue, too big for him jacket. He shivered and continued looking at the rows and rows of numerical and alphabetical gibberish.
Occasionally, but only occasionally, one part would seem to have a concrete word to it, an inherent linguistic meaning. He’d voice these aloud when they occurred to him.
He picked at his teeth and shook his head. “No, no. Not right. Incorrect. Zip. Some other word for ‘wrong.’”
After another ten minutes of thinking and staring and getting nowhere, the icon at the bottom of Bernard’s screen flashed green. His hand flicked out and dispelled the code’s browser and opened to the sent message.
Got any ideas?
Bernard brushed back his brown hair with his hand and moved back to the code. He recited off, quietly to himself, the more promising sequences of almost logic, but if it was a code, he was not cracking it in the next few minutes.
He popped his knuckles and typed out a response.
Where did you find this?
The symbols for a message’s active composition danced on the screen for a few minutes. Starting and stopping several times. Bernard imagined the guy or girl on the other end wringing their hands. He expected a paragraph at least for the time spent, but the response was curt.
On my computer. Popped up on the screen.
Bernard’s eyebrow shot up on his face. He was certain they were neglecting to tell him something. No one bothered to contact him, hell, no one knew how to contact him, unless it was an extreme, desperate, and hyper-esoteric situation. Bernard, after all, did not like being bothered.
And what do you want me to do about it? Is your computer broken? An I.T. could deal with that much.
Rather than a written message, the response came in the form of several picture files. Bernard’s cursor hovered over them, ready to click, before he ran a quick virus and malware scan over the entire thing. It came up clean with a little dinging sound, and he opened them.
His eyes dissected it before he sat back and grinned. This, this was interesting. All the images the same, but clearly belonging to different monitors. One even had the reflection of someone’s tired eyes, right in the corner.
He wrote it as a question, but he didn’t have to guess.
Is it spreading?