EVIDENCE

The file reads: EVIDENCE.exe. And I can’t find a way to delete it.

These computers should be quick to wipe out. It’s a fact. I’ve been doing this every December for the past five years. I enter each and every one of them, delete the files, and clear them out manually. A virus ruined them back in 2023. ShredOS doesn’t work on them anymore. I don’t really know what else the virus does to them. In all my time dealing with them, I haven’t seen anything suspicious. I don’t really think there’s anything else to the virus. The computers seem fine.

It’s an easy hustle. The lab calls it “security”. It told me it would do it itself if it had access to the computers, but it doesn’t. Another of the virus’ effects, it says (I personally think this is a lie. It’s security legislation that doesn’t let the lab’s AI access any more devices). There’s millions of them, all the research franchise’s computers from around the world, brought to one single point. You can’t dispose of all of them in one month. It will take at least 13 more years to get rid of every last one of them. What with environmental legislation, we can only get rid of 1,000 a year. And since neuroscience research doesn’t pay nearly as much as it used to, it’s a job I cannot refuse.

But this one is stubborn. Which is unusual. And, yes, a bit cryptid. I’ve deleted all the files but one. EVIDENCE.exe. I’ve dragged it into the bin, I’ve tried using the ShredOS (just for good measure), and nothing happened. It stays there, in all its luminous glory.

I sigh and take off my glasses. I rub my eyes and yawn. I don’t have time for this. It’s late and I have an early morning tomorrow. But it’s just one file. With an oddly suspicious name.

I spend the next hour trying to delete it. It may or may not be the virus’ doing, but then again, if it were, why would it keep this one file? I have a thought, then, one I don’t really want to consider. But Keith would know. He was always better at computers than I was. 

I fear the file might be another virus. Then I remember they’re going to throw the computer away anyway, and I could install thousands of other viruses if I wanted to–

All I have to do is get rid of this one memory virus. And it resides in every computer it touches.

I double-click on the file, the old machine taking longer than it should to respond. When it loads, a new window opens. It’s blank except for a little circle that goes round and round, “loading”. 

Loading archive…

Verifying records…

Identity check: PASSED

I stare, a frown forming between my eyebrows. I lean forward. I’m not sure what this is. I’m really not. But a small pool of doubt is settling into the pit of my stomach.

Then, gradually, the pixels on the screen turn black–

And the word ARCHIVE shows on the screen–

And I know exactly what this is.

That bastard. Petty like no one else I’ve ever met. Grudges stronger than steel. And so, so entitled. 

“No you didn’t,” I murmur under my breath as I take my glasses off and wipe them on my shirt. “No you didn’t.”

I am thrown into a void. A strong vertigo twists my insides and my fingers are clammy when, out of a need to confirm my greatest fears, I scroll further down on the page.

A list drops down in front of me–

project_admin, original_research, manuscript_publication, experimental_records, ethics_and_incidents, subject_k, final_record.

I curse under my breath. “No. No, no, no, you idiot. You idiot.”

I slam a fist down into the table, breathing hard. 

“No. No…”

Then I slump back into my chair and run a hand down my face. I hate him. I. Hate. Him. And I have to think. Taking a deep breath, I piece it all together. Of course he’d do it. It’s Keith for God’s sake. Never mind he’s been gone for five years, he always does these kinds of things.

Now more than ever I have to delete this. 

I stubbornly try using ShredOS again. I can’t believe it. I know he did it–

“What is this? Some kind of late revenge?” I mutter, rebooting the computer. “You really made a memorable entrance, K. Five years late!” And, again, it’s so perfectly him it hurts. Yes, disable 18,000 computers and make me dispose of them. Hide a single file among all of them for me to find. Yes, really, really, rational on his behalf. 

“Dr. Parodi,” says the lab, startling me, “the doors will lock in three hours. I recommend you go home.”

“No,” I say. The laptop’s on again, and without me having to click on it, the file is already open, incriminating, accusatory. EVIDENCE. 

Nothing works.

The bastard and his virus.

I find myself staring at the start screen again.

“You don’t get to do this,” I whisper to Keith. He isn’t here, I know. But I also know that he’s pictured me a million times over, finding his file, and saying these exact words. “You asked for it,” I continue. “You don’t get to ruin me.”

Then I do something very simple. I move the mouse to the edge of the screen, and my cursor hovers above the red X. How did I not think of this before? So simple. Close the program. 

I click on it, a surge of hope rising in my throat–

But instead of disappearing, a new tab opens–

And it’s all text. Handwritten text. Scanned from the pages of a notebook. His notebook. 

–parasite is showing up along the optic pathway again. We still don’t know how it passes between hosts, only that prolonged eye contact seems to precede the symptoms. Samuel says the subjects experience short periods of confusion after transmission, but that’s not what the recordings look like to me. I told him we need to stop. They’re going mad, I think–

My hand fists involuntarily. If anyone found this–

Before I finish formulating my thought, a new tab pops up on screen. Then another. Then another, and another until it’s too many and they begin to overlap–

The original manuscript, the authorship documents, microscope images, logs, notes, research, footage–

Footage. Oh, God, no.

The screen is a mess, a black and white, wordy, writhing mess and in the middle of it I see myself. And Keith. And the old lab and all the research– his research strewn about the tabletops. And he’s kneeling in front of the glass box, and his hands are tied behind him and the cat in the box is frothing at the mouth and I remember–

I remember how horrible I felt about how little I cared.

When the cat tried to latch its claws onto the glass. And Keith tried to shut his eyes with as much force as he could. And I stood behind him and pulled them open–

I want to kill Keith. I don’t know where he went, if he’s still alive or if the parasite ended him but I want to kill him. My hands shake with searing bright rage and I slam the computer shut–

And I’m breathing hard. I’m sure my glasses are askew. But I feel myself calming down. Because the computer’s blue glow is gone. And I’m plunged into peaceful darkness. 

“Go away,” I say. “Leave.”

Silence.

“Dr. Parodi?” asks the lab, a pulse of weak light rippling throughout the space when it speaks.

I’m very still. I take a deep breath, and loosen my fists. I lean back into my chair and run a hand down my face.

“Dr. Parodi?”

“What.”

There’s a whirring noise. Then the lab speaks again. “Dr. Parodi?”

I’m asking it what the hell it wants when the lab does something I didn’t know it could do. It projects a video onto every wall. 

I don’t even know where it comes from–

The lab doesn’t have projectors–

It just doesn’t. 

“Dr. Parodi?” it asks again, its voice as monotonic as always. I curse, cover my ears and shut my eyes. Because I know what he’s doing. I know what he’s doing. 

I can feel a white glow all around me as, with my eyes shut and ears covered, I lower myself to the floor. 

“Dr. Parodi?” the lab asks again and again. 

“Go away,” I whisper as a different voice replaces the lab’s usual monotone.

“Samuel Parodi?” asks Keith Coltrane.

He doesn’t stop asking my name. He doesn’t. I fall asleep to his voice, to white lights flashing behind my eyelids.

And when I wake up—disoriented to a quiet lab—I make the terrible mistake of opening my eyes–

And meeting Keith’s projected gaze on the wall.

And I know–

I know I will not last long.