Джеффри Дивер - Nothing Good Happens After Midnight - A Suspense Magazine Anthology

“If you’re still alive,” George said. “Remember a few years ago, those cell phones caught on fire because of the lithium batteries? What if something like that happens? I could blow your goddamn hand off or something. Or I might be sending out some radioactive signals...”

“Nothing like that is going to happen,” Ed assured his friend — and himself. The truth was the scrambling signal might end up doing just about anything to the phone — and the person holding it. That was why he needed to be the Guinea pig with this experiment. He might have wanted to screw with some of the phone-obsessed jerks out there, but he didn’t want to hurt anybody.

Ed didn’t want to get hurt either. So, despite how he acted with George, he was skittish about this experiment and the unknown results.

He clutched the Samsung in his left hand and punched in his home number. He heard it ring upstairs. Extending his left arm, Ed held the phone as far away as possible. “Okay,” he said, wincing. “Go ahead.”

The machine answered. He could hear his recorded voice talking over the connection.

The Intruder device in his hand, George shook his head. “I can’t! What if I end up killing you?”

“For God’s sake, press the button!” Ed yelled. His hand was shaking. He wondered if this was the last time he’d have all his fingers. “Go ahead! Do it!”

His answering machine greeting was still going.

George grimaced. “Here goes...”

Nothing happened.

“Did you press the button?” Ed asked.

“Yeah...”

Ed went back to the drawing board.

A week later, he and George tried again. The experiment was another failure. Ed took him out for pizza anyway.

Five weeks and five pizzas later, Ed gave up. Not that he blamed George, but his friend had hardly been encouraging. He’d said again and again, it was a lousy idea that would end up getting him into trouble. And he was probably right.

Ed had no rational reason for taking the Intruder with him when he went shopping that Saturday afternoon in late April. The damn thing didn’t work, but he thought he’d engage in a bit of whimsy, pressing it whenever he saw a rude texter or someone texting and driving. Maybe pressing the Intruder button would be good therapy for him — like squeezing one of those stress-relief balls.

He ambled down Broadway, the main drag of Capitol Hill, with the Intruder in his pocket. He kept passing so many Intruder-worthy candidates — most of them texters not looking where they were going. With each idiot he passed, Ed pressed the button on the device, but of course, nothing happened. And it was no fun merely pretending to screw up their phones.

Just ahead of him, Ed spotted a skinny young woman with corkscrew black hair wandering across the street — against the light. She wore earphones and worked her thumbs over her phone screen. A car with the right of way screeched to a halt as she mindlessly stepped in front of it. The driver honked. The girl didn’t even look up or quicken her pace. She casually flipped off the driver and went back to texting.

It reminded Ed so much of Rude Jason, flipping him the bird. This woman probably gave people the finger all the time. Could she possibly be any more of a jerk? He wanted to yell at her, but of course, she wouldn’t hear him.

Instead, Ed took the Intruder out of his pocket, aimed it at her and pressed it three times in a row.

The girl suddenly stopped dead and shrieked. The phone flew out of her hand, sailing up over her head. With a clatter, it landed behind her in the middle of the street.

The driver of the car revved his engine and zoomed past her, running over the mobile device. Ed heard it crunch under the tire.

Screaming hysterically, the young woman gaped down at the flattened, broken phone on the pavement. She acted like someone had mowed down her dog. At the same time, she kept wringing her hand and massaging it. Passersby looked at her as if she were crazy. Others didn’t even notice her, because they wore earphones or they were too busy on their own phones.

She held up traffic again, crying and cursing at cars swerving around her as she frantically gathered up the pieces of her shattered phone. She set the shards in her claw-like left hand.

Ed knew it was horrible, but he couldn’t help smiling.

He wondered what exactly had happened to make her throw the phone in the air like that.

He found out that evening, in his backyard with George during a final “test run.”

Rolling his eyes, his friend wondered out loud why Ed had resurrected his lame-brained “Intruder” invention. “You and your After-Midnight Specials,” he complained. “Nothing good is going to come from this...”

Ed hadn’t told him about the incident with the jaywalking texter.

Once again, he was the Guinea pig. With his friend standing by the garden on the other side of the yard, Ed called his home line. He’d instructed George to wait for his cue and then press the button on the Intruder three times in rapid succession.

Ed heard his voice on the answering machine. He was about to brace himself and nod at his friend. But George jumped the gun.

“Here goes,” George called out. He jabbed the button three times.

Ed wasn’t ready for the jolt of electricity that surged through his hand — like a hundred fiery needles. He let out a howl and dropped the phone. Stunned, he rubbed his throbbing, tingling hand. He was so rattled that he could hardly get a breath.

“What happened?” George asked. “Did you get a shock?”

“Um, a... a little one,” Ed lied. His heart was still racing. “Just a little one...”

He started to get the feeling back in his hand. With trepidation, he reached down and touched his phone. He didn’t get another shock. He picked it up off the lawn and listened. The line was dead. He switched it on and off again, but nothing happened. The phone had short-circuited.

“Well, it looks like I screwed the pooch again,” Ed heard himself say.

But it was another lie. Actually, he considered the experiment a major success. He just didn’t want his friend to know, because George would only try to talk him out of ever using the Intruder again.

So, when they went out for pizza and beer afterwards, Ed talked about how he would abandon the project. But all the while, he thought of Rude Jason in Nordstrom’s bathroom — and all the others like him. Armed with the Intruder, Ed wouldn’t have to put up with them anymore.

The following day, when he walked down Broadway, Ed felt like Charles Bronson in Death Wish . He was just looking for trouble. The Intruder in his pocket gave him an intoxicating sense of power. Broadway was like Cell Phone Central. It stood to reason, that for every ten phone users, at least one was rude about it. So, with all the techies and millennials on Broadway, Ed figured he’d come across at least three Intruder-worthy candidates on every block.

He passed one person after another on their phones — texting, talking or scrolling while they walked. Hardly any of them bothered to look where they were going. After a while, Ed didn’t even need to conceal the Intruder, because no one noticed him. He was over fifty. He may as well have been invisible. His thumb hovered over the Intruder button. He could have pressed it at any time. He must have seen at least a dozen idiots who deserved to get zapped. But none of them seemed quite rude enough. So he took mercy on them.

Or maybe he was just scared to use the device now that he knew what it could do.

Giving up, Ed felt deflated as he wandered into the QFC for some groceries. The supermarket was lousy with people on their phones blocking the aisles. As always, at least two or three morons had brought their dogs into the store — despite the signs saying pets weren’t allowed.