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

He suddenly felt like a hunted man — and they hadn’t even published the email yet. He wondered if they would. Maybe The Seattle Times would assume he was a crank and simply ignore the letter.

Two days later, his note was printed on the newspaper’s front page under the headline: “Anti-Phone Zealot ‘Ed’ Claims Responsibility for Series of Phone Malfunctions: Hero or Terrorist?”

Ed suddenly felt like the Zodiac Killer or the Unabomber. Portions of his email were read on TV — and not just the local news, but national news, too. He was all over the Internet. Some people thought he was absolutely nuts. But others spoke out against phone-abusers — or to quote Ed, “cell phone scum.” And to them, he was a hero, a crusader.

A follow-up article appeared a few days later. It cited the benefits to the “cell phone scare.” Movie attendance in Seattle had gone up by twelve percent. Washington State Highway Patrol reported accidents due to distracted drivers were down by twenty-one percent. The Seattle Humane Society issued a statement that dogs were “healthier and happier” now that less and less dog owners talked on their phone or texted while walking their pets.

Ed’s friend, George, was off the current events grid. He never turned on the TV or read a newspaper. So Ed didn’t have to worry about George finding out. But it was weird to have created such a stir and not talk with anyone about it. Nobody knew he was famous. He couldn’t help feeling lonely, but not quite as alone and isolated as he used to feel walking down the Seattle streets full of phone-focused people.

He couldn’t use the Intruder quite so freely anymore. He found out the hard way — on the bus. The number of people texting or talking on their phones while riding had definitely decreased. It was quiet, except for one twenty-something guy talking loudly on his phone, laughing and casually cursing a lot too. His favorite modifier was “fucking.” He used the word in practically every other sentence. After a while, it became annoying as hell. Ed could see he wasn’t the only one. Other passengers on the bus were bothered by the guy, too.

So Ed subtly took out the Intruder and zapped him.

The guy howled and dropped his phone. “My fucking phone just fucking shocked me! Fuck!” The whole bus heard him.

A few people applauded. Ed suppressed a smile.

“Oh my God, Ed’s on the bus!” another passenger declared.

“Ed, where are you?” someone else called. “Stand up!”

A couple of people started chanting his name, like he was a football star or something.

“Shut up!” yelled one man near the back of the bus. “That guy’s nothing less than a criminal! He’s a self-appointed vigilante. He’s killed people!”

That was a boldface lie, but Ed wasn’t about to say anything.

The guy he’d zapped was seething and out for blood. “Where’s this Ed guy? He’s gonna fucking pay for my fucking phone!”

Ed quietly slinked off the bus at the next stop — even though it wasn’t his.

During the long walk home, he decided to retire the Intruder for a while. He’d become too famous to use it.

But then something happened, something he had no control over.

People started getting attacked while using their phones in public. It started out with texters and callers being doused with water, sodas or Slurpees — and in one noteworthy case, hot coffee. When the coffee-pitcher was arrested, he claimed, “The cell phone scum had it coming!” The victim, who suffered second degree burns, had merely been standing at a bus stop, texting a friend.

Incidents of people on phones being attacked went on the rise in several cities across the country. They were punched, pushed, and in some cases, even stabbed or shot.

When Ed read about the first fatality, he was sick with guilt. He knew it wasn’t really his responsibility, but he’d started the trend. Some people even referred to the attacks on Smartphone users as “ripping an Ed.”

It only got worse during the summer. Drive-by shootings were reported, with phone users as the targets. Road rage against texting drivers turned even more lethal with the phone users getting shot at or run off the roads and highways.

Everyone seemed to blame the elusive, mysterious “Ed” for all the carnage. The Seattle Times reported that the police manhunt for him had intensified.

But no one was getting shocked anymore. They were getting killed.

Ed wanted to write another letter to the newspaper saying he’d stopped zapping phone-abusers months ago, and he disavowed all the violence. But he decided he was better off maintaining a low profile.

Meanwhile, it got so nobody felt safe using their phone in public anymore. Phone booths started popping up again in various cities, but now the glass was bulletproof.

By October, the violent aggression against phone users was on the wane. On the streets, in the stores, and on public transportation, people still weren’t using their phones. Instead, they talked to each other, read books or just seemed to notice things around them. Every once in a while, Ed would see someone furtively pulling out their phone in public, and they’d check something. Then, right away, the phone would go back in their pocket or their purse.

Ed still carried the Intruder around, like some people carry a rabbit’s foot. He had it with him a week before Halloween when he went downtown to Nordstrom to buy George a pair of sneakers for his birthday. But Ed had had too much coffee that morning, and before browsing Men’s Shoes, he ducked into the restroom. There was an open stall, and he grabbed it.

“You’re a two... you’re a four... you’re a six...” he murmured to himself as he stood in front of the toilet. Then he peed right on cue. He flushed the toilet and stepped out of the stall. He was about to wash his hands at the sink when another man stepped into the restroom.

What were the odds?

It was Rude Jason again, still sporting the backward baseball cap look, and once more, on his phone. “Yeah, yeah, I know. Well, he’s bluffing...” he said into his phone as he headed to the urinals. He unzipped with his free hand before he even reached his destination.

Agog, Ed stared at him. Despite everything that had transpired in the last ten months, this rude, self-important, phone-obsessed asshole was still a rude, self-important, phone-obsessed asshole.

Ed quickly washed and dried his hands. Then he reached into his pocket. He had to take the Intruder out of retirement just this once. He wasn’t even sure if the device still worked, it had been so long since he’d used it.

He stared at Rude Jason’s back while the guy continued his phone conversation at the urinal. With a smile, Ed pressed the Intruder button three times in rapid succession.

“Son of a bitch!” Rude Jason wailed. His voice echoed off the bathroom tiles. He dropped his phone in the urinal and staggered back. He was still peeing. The yellow stream shot around the men’s room — all over the floor. Ed almost got squirted.

Wincing, the guy crazily shook and waved his hand as if his sleeve was on fire. He finally turned to the urinal to finish peeing and then zipped up. But obviously, he was still frazzled. He kept wringing his hand as he stepped back from the urinal. Then he slipped in a puddle of his own urine.

Agog, Ed watched Rude Jason’s legs slip out from under him. He flipped back and landed on the floor. His head hit the tiles with a horrible crack.

His baseball cap askew, he was sprawled on the washroom floor, perfectly still. Beneath his head, a crimson pool began to bloom on the gray tiles.

“Oh, Jesus,” Ed murmured. He stuffed the Intruder back into his pocket, and quickly took out his cell phone. “Hang in there, buddy!” he called to the man, who didn’t respond at all.