Gregg Hurwitz - The Program

Thunder rumbled through the floor, and Tim became aware that rain was beating down on the roof, that it had been doing so for some time now. A feeling of isolation descended. It was just him and the Teacher atop a hill, buried in the heart of a forsaken building, the windy night staved off only by graveyard-shift lighting and a feeble roof.

Emotion rose to Tom's face. He looked away, wiped his nose with a knuckle. "I found out who killed Jenny."

"You're a man of action. And resources."

Tom Altman stood abruptly.

"Sit down," TD said. "You can handle it."

"No. I want to stand."

TD rose from his armchair, confronting Tom face-to-face. "You solve your problems with money, Tom. Isn't that your Old Programming?"

"Yes."

TD's stare was sharp, unblinking. "You hired someone."

Tom Altman's eyes welled.

"Your wife couldn't handle the decision you made."

Tom choked out the words. "It wasn't just that." Tim felt lost under the spell – he'd completely slipped into character. He eased himself back down into the chair, TD mirroring his descent precisely, the eyes never leaving Tom's face. Tim caught up to what Tom was going to say just as the words came out. "He…he killed the wrong guy." The confession was another piece of Tom Altman's narrative, and yet it wasn't just fiction; it connected to the trail of bodies Tim had left in the wake of his rampage last year.

"I don't think so, Tom. He killed the right guy. You identified the wrong guy. Or your people did. But you were in a hurry, weren't you? And you had the money to make others hurry, too. Money killed the wrong guy. Right? Your money."

And so now, Tom Altman thought, you'll do me a favor and help me rid myself of that $90 million burden.

They sat together quietly, the storm raging outside, TD nodding as solemnly as a priest. He leaned forward, grasping Tim's knee with a surprisingly strong hand. "We're going to get you beyond this. You commit, and The Program will do the rest."

TD rose, and Tom, no after-the-fact wallower, followed his cue. The sterile corridor amplified the sound of TD's thick-heeled boots thunking tile. Outside stood Lorraine, cloaked in a charcoal slicker, the hood cinched tight so the trembling white drop of her face seemed to float in suspended misery. Her whitened fingers clasped a closed umbrella and a pair of galoshes, which she shakily offered to TD.

"Please go on ahead and prepare my bed. Then Tom will be awaiting you at his cottage for his Night-Prep." She stood expectantly. "That'll be all."

She scampered off, reeling against the gusts of rain. TD ushered Tim back inside. The door scraped shut, reducing the din. TD leaned over to pluck at his laces, then tossed his shoes aside. "I'll send her back for these later. She's one of the good ones, Lorraine."

Tom Altman nodded.

"They're the most in need of being broken down and reprogrammed. Women. For the most part, on the great gender assembly line, victimhood is installed with the uterus. Women are constructed to nurture. So what do they do with their pain? With their anger? They adopt it, devour it, dissolve it into their exalted ovoid wombs, pump it through their veins and arteries until their entire bodies are suffused with it, until they're sclerosed, rigor mortis-ed with victimhood. They need to be taken down to the studs and reconstructed. It's the only thing that works for them."

Thrusting his foot into a rubber boot, he flashed Tim an uncharacteristically rapacious grin – the wolf snout peeking from Grandma's bonnet.

"Ironically, women see men as gods because we destroy rather than create. And men have introduced virtually every groundbreaking idea that has advanced civilization. Only by razing do we reseed. Only by destroying can we innovate. Every great notion slays its predecessor. Video killed the radio star, my friend. Any bitch can whelp. The power to destroy is all that's ever bought a God respect. Yahweh was an Ugaritic figurine until he smote the Philistines, Allah a milquetoast before he sank Ubar into Arabian sand."

"How about Buddha?"

"Buddha has been consigned to taxi dashboards and faggot conversation pits." He patted Tim on the shoulder. "I'd lay your chips elsewhere."

TD pushed out into the rain, and they were both instantly drenched. He pressed the umbrella to Tim's chest until Tim accepted it. TD winked, then strolled into the thunderstorm, arms swinging cheerfully, his pursed lips the sole evidence of a whistle.

Despite the downpour, Tim loitered outside his cottage, noting the wire-caged motion detectors that hung from the corners of the eaves like wasps' nests. Though they appeared functional, the encasing mesh had long rusted; the units were likely vestigial security precautions from adolescent-rehab days. Bricks embedded in the dirt on either side of the front step demarcated mini-garden plots, though nothing had grown in them in years.

Tim shoved on a brick with his heel, then pried at it until it rested loose in its muddy foundation, ready to be snatched and wielded in a jam.

He stood dripping in the doorway, battered umbrella at his side, enjoying the silence. The culties were still dispatched, tending to important matters of state like clockwise dish wiping.

The fire alarm was a low-grade blip – and – screech – cracked plastic patties in each room, red eyes blinking heedfully. D batteries – present. Wiring – senescent but still live. Even a few valiant sprinkler heads. No code violations there. He was grasping at straws; a faulty fire-alarm system would hardly strike Winston Smith as a pretext for a federal raid.

A closer examination revealed security mag strikes on the bedroom windows. He sourced the wiring to a pitiful alarm panel in the kitchenette. Its adapter plug could simply be pulled free from the outlet to disable the system. It reminded him of something he'd read once, that one could park a docile elephant by pushpinning its leash to the dirt.

He continued to snoop, cautious of Fraulein Lorraine's imminent arrival.

The pantry held cases of Red Bull and high-energy teas loaded with ginseng, ginkgo, and mahuang. An attic hatch gave roof access, but the opening had been barred, another boon from the ranch's previous incarnation. From film director's retreat to juvie home to cult residence – a consistently squalid tradition.

He chanced on a forbidden TV in one of the common room's cabinets, but a spin through the channels revealed static and more static. A sabotaged cable line and missing antenna explained the lack of reception. A cassette protruded from the video slit beneath the screen. Tim pushed it in.

TD standing on a mountain peak, one booted foot resting atop a boulder, an arm bent across his knee. At his back the sunset glowed theatrically, gold irradiating his fluffed-out hair and blurring his face. Tim found himself concentrating closely to bring TD's features into focus.

TD's voice came as a soporific monotone. "This is your crossroads. You can turn off the tape right now. Go ahead. Go back to your life. And, hey, if everything's perfect there, that might be a good idea. But if it's not, you'd better keep listening. This very moment can be the doorway to your potential."

Tim fast-forwarded a bit, watching TD's head waggle. When the camera pushed to close-up, Tim hit "play" and found himself in the midst of a kinder, gentler Guy-Med. The camera continued to drift and zoom, harmonizing with TD's murmurs. Tim studied the Guy-Med, noting his responses. Sharp, irregular pain seemed to prevent Tim from going under – biting his cheek was just as effective as digging his nail into his palm, and less easily detected. After another few minutes, he eased himself down to the ground and sat. He stifled a yawn. TD's hand drifted up into the screen, and Tim sensed his arm start to rise to match the motion, as if buoyed by rising water. He watched it drift toward the ceiling, unsure if it was detached from him or he from it.