Traumatic Impulse

         Michael checked Stuart's vitals displayed on the monitor and unconsciously read them out loud, "brain activity okay... pulse normal and blood pressure resting comfortably. Stuart, you're in fine shape."
         Michael figured Stuart hadn't been this relaxed since day one of med school. Stuart was hypo-glycemic and tended to be short, incensed. In fact, that was the last thing Stuart said before sedation: "Hurry up Mike, I'm hungry."
         Although it was half past midnight, the windows of the O.R. were covered and the door was locked. The surgery room stunk of rubbing alcohol. In a back corner, a camcorder gazed at them from a tripod. Michael had enough anesthesia to keep a man five times Stuart's weight sedated for hours, two units of matching O positive and a cellular phone in case of emergency.
         Stuart's unconscious body was clothed in greens and his head propped back as if about to be given CPR. The padded plastics holding his head in place glowed in the artificial light. Neither his arms or legs were secured. A crash cart was parked in the corner.
         Michael chomped a slice of Double Mint behind his surgical mask. He wore only scrubs, boot baggies. Lethargically, he clicked a few strokes upon the keyboard, allowing the surgical gloves to unstick from the plastic covered keys. His left leg though, bounced in nervous anticipation.
         The high-resolution monitor flashed suddenly with a blurred image. Michael snapped his fingers and shoved away from the terminal. Beside the monitor sat his own laptop with a series of wires protruding from the back, one a phone jack. The portable computer was plugged into a heavy duty surge protector which drew power from the wall.
         Both medical students planned to become neuro-surgeons. Stuart was book smart with a photographic memory, a natural with the scalpel, and had rich parents. Michael was a gifted medical student, suffering from an abundance of IQ points, an infinite supply of energy, and an unbridled personality. Michael also enjoyed writing anonymous software programs that would do interesting things to computers.
         "Okay Stuart, my friend, fiber optics are up and ready." Michael turned a grin upon his sedated roommate and said mockingly. "You know Stewy, I'm having second thoughts. Maybe you were right. Perhaps this is dangerous."
         Stuart had rejected Michael's idea from the start, but relented to his hyperactive and terribly persuasive friend. Although he did finally agree to go along with the experiment, Stuart's conditions were written in ink: Stuart was to live through the procedure without any significant alterations to his memory or anatomy, have a minimal scar that could be explained as the result of a knife fight in which he was the victor, and not wake up somewhere strange in the city... again.
         Michael selected one of three syringes from a metal tray, flicked the needle and injected his friend. "Just enough happy juice to keep ya anesthetized till I'm finished. And a bit to spare for me... in case this doesn't work."
         Michael selected a scalpel and approached his patient. The cut was already marked with a green line along Stuart's neck. He traced the mark and returned the bloody tool to its tray. Then he inserted the laser unit. Michael activated the tiny laser and a reading appeared on the monitor beside him, showing the different heat levels inside Stuart's brain.
         Watching the monitor, Michael guided the laser via a remote command he'd wired from the collective pieces of a Realistic calculator and a PlayStation 2 controller. Stuart hadn't seen the laser's remote command prior to going under because Michael figured it might have swayed his already flimsy decision.
         Guiding the laser's beam along the brain stem, Michael moved it by Stuart's medulla, pituitary gland and halted just beside the thalamus. Michael popped his gum, pressed the "A" button on the controller as he said, "Releasing relay numero uno," and pressed one on the calculator to implant the micro-implant.
         Michael implanted four more relays to Stuart's motor cortex, association cortex, cerebrum and hypothalamus through the tiny tunnels created by the laser. Then his main system transmitter was connected to Stuart's corpus callosum, which allows the left and right hemispheres of the brain to interact.
"All right, Stewy, it's time to log on and see just how stupid you really are," joked Michael as he flipped on the laptop and plugged a cable into it. He screamed suddenly, nearly spit his gum into his mask, yelling, "Oh my God Stewy, you've got a dinky brain."
         Then Michael grew serious and his fingers exploded upon the laptop's keyboard. He struck enter with his elbow. "Loading Michael Angelo," he announced. A grin slid along his face at the thought of his baby, the Michael Angelo computer virus. Michael was the sole author of seven major virus' architecture, including Stoned, Medusa, and the ever popular Anti-Christ. "I'm kidding, of course."
         Michael had been arrested twice in high school, suspended from eleventh, tenth, and once from ninth for disrupting school computers. In tenth he'd even attempted to load a virus onto the police department's network. They hadn't appreciated his humor either. In ninth grade, nobody had expected his virus because it was his first, and it had trimmed computer memory piece by piece. He'd named his first demon Slim Fast.
         His tenth grade prank had been extremely sophisticated. The virus was christened Shock Wave. Computer hard drives were formatted, which completely devastated the school's files. Mother boards were given an equation with infinite solutions, which sent them into unrecoverable loops. All seven computers were a complete loss, compliments Michael's Shock Wave.
         Then there was Michael Angelo. It was his finale, his claim to fame, Tour de Force and blatant, "Kiss off," to society. A programmer from Microsoft had been quoted in Michael's local newspaper as saying, "Even young children know what the Michael Angelo virus is, but you'll draw a blank if you asked them who Michael Angelo the man was. They usually shrug and guess something along lines of a professional basketball player with the Chicago Bulls." The story had ended with the programmer's angry testament to the author: "When the day comes and you get what's coming to you, not even Michael Angelo, if he were alive today, will be able to paint your suffering."
         The color display of Michael's laptop flickered, read, Just a moment, Ignoramus.
         Michael glanced over his shoulder, checked Stuart's vitals. Then a color photo of a human brain appeared in the monitor of his laptop and its speakers played an instrumental version of "Insane in the Membrane." A silver box materialized above the brain like the thought cloud of a Sunday Morning Garfield. It simply flashed, Password?
         Michael typed in the word, singing, "teacher... leave those kids alone."
         With the word 'PINKFLOYD' typed in, he tapped enter. In reaction, the crimson light came to life. The brain in his monitor blinked as electrical impulses passing back and forth like a lightning storm. Then a second thought cloud appeared and text scrolled inside it: Neural link established, transmitter responding and functional, relay one... check, two... check... three, four, five... check. Receiving neurons.
         "Okay, Stewy, let's see if this thing works." Michael touched Stuart's finger.
         The photo of the brain in the monitor flashed and a thought cloud appeared with the word, "Processing" in its center. A few seconds later text: New impulse originated on subject's index finger, right hand. Type of contact, unknown. Pressure applied, minimal. Subject noticed contact, ignored. Status, vitals within normal parameters. No action taken.
         Michael's mouth rounded behind his mask. He pinched Stuart's nose.
The word Processing appeared once more, followed by: New impulse originated on subject's nose. Type of contact, squeeze. Pressure applied, moderate. Subject noticed contact, annoyed. Status, vitals within normal parameters. No action taken.
         Michael stretched his mask away from his mouth, said, "Let's see just how good this thing is?" He blew on Michael's exposed ankle.
         Again the word Processing, and then: New impulse originated on subject's right ankle. Type of contact, unknown. Pressure applied, none. Subject noticed contact, aroused. Status, vitals within normal parameters. No action taken.
         Then the camcorder beeped. Michael's head snapped up just as the red recording light flashed off. Lifting a hand to his forehead, Michael began to curse as he realized the camcorder was out of batteries and he'd left the only other battery plugged into his wall at home.
         Michael grabbed the cellular phone and dialed.
         "Damn recorder... Jimmy, it's Mike. We're at school. I did it. Everything's working perfect, but the camcorder is out of batteries. The other one's plugged into the outlet by my computer. Grab it for me and get down here A.S.A.P. We're in D block. You'll see Stewy's Porsche. I've only got an hour before I have to wake him up cause the janitors will arrive. We won't get the chance to get in here alone again... call me back!"
         Michael tested various aspects of the program for nearly half an hour. He drank a Dr. Pepper, checked his email with his right eye and watched Stuart's vitals with his left. When ten minutes of anesthesia remained in Stuart's system, Michael couldn't sit still. He called Jimmy, completed the entire dictionary of curse words with a few combinations and began to regret drinking the Dr. Pepper.
         "Get down here, Jimmy. I swear, if you're playing games on that stupid computer of yours, I'm gonna kick the hell out of you. Get down here!" Michael slammed down the cellular phone. "Stuart, we've got five minutes and I can't give you anymore happy juice cause it's almost time for the janitors to clean the Johns. And I'm gonna make a mess if I don't take a leak soon." Michael gave in and refilled the Dr. Pepper can.
         The knock came at the door with four minutes and seven seconds of anesthesia remaining. Michael approached the door and whispered, "Who is it?"
         The person on the other side was silently thinking. "Testosterone?"
         "That's the Frat's password!"
         "Norepinephrine?"
         "No. That's last week's."
         "Just open the door."
         Michael unlocked it and yanked open the door. "It's microprocessor." Michael slapped Jimmy's head. "You're a computer programmer and can't remember that!"
         "I had a few this morning. Devils were playing the Sharks. It was one to-"
         Michael interrupted him. "You bring the battery or what."
         Jimmy produced the battery from his pocket. "You want me to put it on?"
         "Yup. All I have to do is a little song and dance to explain what I'm doing and then we're outa here." Michael closed and locked the door then looked at the clock. Three minutes remaining.
         "Okay, Mike. It's recording," said Jimmy.
         Michael stepped in front of the camera. "Ladies and gentlemen of the medical community," he indicated Stuart's still form behind him, "feast your eyes on my colleague and trusting friend, Stuart Masterson. With the help of my two friends, I've established a link with the patient's mind and this computer. All the details of how we've accomplished this will follow the demonstra-"
         "Mike," interrupted Jimmy with some apprehension.
         Michael frowned. "This better be good."
         Jimmy pointed to the large monitor displaying the image of a brain.          Michael, completely oblivious to the camcorder, moved closer to the monitor. He leaned close and read the word, Processing.
         "What's it doing?" asked Jimmy.
         Michael shook his head. "It shouldn't be doing this. It's almost as if-"
         Then Stuart's teeth clamped shut with a crack, his eyes burst open and his arms and legs began thrashing. Michael was dazed, looking from Stuart to his computer in confusion. Stuart's fingers clawed at the table and vomit erupted from his mouth and nose.
         "I don't understand," murmured Michael. "This isn't right."
         Stuart's convulsions caused him to crack his heels, head and elbows down against the table. Blood leaked form his nose.
         Michael seemed to wake up and scrambled for a syringe, injected Stuart with anesthesia. He battled the flailing limbs and secured Stuart with leather straps. Michael turned Stuart's head aside to free his airway of fluids. He fumbled for the cellular phone, touched 911 and threw the phone to Jimmy.
         "Give them directions and tell them to hurry!"
         Michael stole a glance at Stuart's vitals. Jimmy shouted into the phone.
         "I don't know what to do, Stewy. I really don't. What's happening? What have I missed. Is it the program, the fiber optics, you, what?" Then Michael noticed a wound open on Stuart's face as if someone just cut him open.
         Stuart, his arms still thrashing, began to unravel the poorly buckled straps.
         "How long, Jimmy?" roared Michael, climbing atop Stuart. He pressed his hand against the gushing wound on Stuart's face.
         "They're dispatching the nearest unit and an ambulance," whispered Jimmy, who could only stare in horror now.
         The flesh on Stuart's right arm stretched taunt as he fought the leather straps. Then the appendage snapped.
         "What'd you do," roared Jimmy as he rushed to help. "What's going on?"
         "Hold his arm down, he'll keep hurting himself," yelled Michael. "I don't know. I inserted the probe and everything was fine. Then I called you cause my battery ran out." Michael turned pale. "My email! Oh, no. Hold him for me."
         Michael stepped away and his feet spun in pools of blood as he made his way to the computer. He tore off his plastic gloves and flopped down on the chair. He leaned past the computer and his eyes fell upon the phone jack. The phone cord stretched from the wall to his computer. Michael tore it from the wall and shook his head "I just wanted to check my email."
         The image of the brain on his screen vanished, replaced by a blank one. Then a message. Attention: You have ten seconds to bring us back on-line or face serious consequences. It was signed: Infectious Rover of Hackers, Inc.
         "Some hacker has connected to my computer," murmured Michael.
         Michael glanced at Jimmy.
         From the computer's internal speaker came the word "nine."
         "Oh God!" shrieked Michael. "He thinks he's loading a virus on a computer."
         "Eight."
         "Just unplug the damn thing," barked Jimmy from atop Stuart's thrashing body.
         "Seven."
         "I don't know what it will do to him," yelled Michael. "I've never disconnected from him before without shutting the program down..."
         "Six."
         Stuart's body went limp beneath Jimmy and his vitals descended into flatlines. A horrid buzzer intermixed with the computer's countdown: "five."
         "Get off him and grab those off the crash cart," said Michael as he pointed across the O.R.
         "The jumper cables?"
         "Four," said the computer.
         "Yeah, and open his shirt. Dip ‘um in that, yeah, rub ‘em together."
         "Three."
         "Wait..." yelled Michael as he held the phone cord flush with the outlet. His hand was held up for Jimmy's attention.
         "Two."
         "Now," hollered Michael as he plugged the computer back into the network.
         Jimmy shouted, "Beer," and sent the pulse of electricity through Stuart's body.
         Stuart's body rocked, his back arcing upward. The vitals displayed remained flat even as the machine popped. The discharge of electricity continued up through the fiber optics and into the O.R.'s main computer, shattering its screen, shorting its circuits and producing a blue stream of flame from the power supply. The electric surge moved through the network wire, punched into Michael and the wall simultaneously.
         Michael collapsed as the Hacker's program was disrupted.
         The laptop's surge protector diminished the electricity pulse. The brain in its monitor flickered, said, Processing. The text box appeared, said: New impulse originated in multiple areas. Type of contact, lethal. Pressure applied, traumatic. Subject noticed contact, ruptured lungs, fractured right arm, fractured left ankle, multiple lacerations, internal hemorrhaging, heart failure. Status, vitals flattened. Action taken... Processing... Processing... [external feed caused data loss] Processing... rewriting.
         Michael glanced at Jimmy who only whispered, "Rewriting what?"
         Paramedics burst through the door, stood frozen in shock. "What the hell?" they unleashed the question in unison. Police officers flooded into the room behind them.
         Michael felt dizzy. Everything from the O.R. to the E.R. was a blur. Jimmy could just see Stuart's face behind the paramedic who had managed to revive him. Michael felt a wave of relief come over him and spinning room slowed a bit. Then he noticed that Stuart was gazing up at the ceiling as if he were a child sitting in a park on a sunny day. He was also sucking his thumb.
         Then Stuart bit clean through the thumb and pulled back a sputtering stump without even a grimace. The severed digit landed at the paramedics' feet.
         The paramedics were held stunned at the sight, mouths drooping.
         Stuart looked at Michael and said, "Hungry up, Hurry I'm Mike."

Word count: 2783