Free Doc Ford 19 - Chasing Midnight by Randy Wayne White Page A

carry mine unless I’m away from the lab for more than a day. It’s like being on a leash.”
    The man’s expression had read
Good!
“But we’re the exceptions, 
hermano
. The majority of people are so dependent, it makes us vulnerable as an Oklahoma trailer park. Sure, we can survive without cell phones and Internet, but we can no longer
function
without them.”
    It was an interesting premise. There were Darwinian implications that I would have offered, but Tomlinson had been into the subject, so I let him talk.
    “Internet and cell phones have morphed from simple conveniences into human sensory devices. No… sensory apparati, becausethey have unseated our own five senses in importance. As well as our reliance on humans to provide—well, let’s face it—actual human contact. Shut down those two electronic senses without warning, man, it’ll be like… almost like…”
    I had offered, “Sudden blindness—the psychological response would be similar. Shock, disbelief, denial and then panic. It depends on the person, of course. And how long the system was down. Which is probably an exaggeration, but—”
    “That’s my point,” Tomlinson had interrupted. “No one will know how long the systems will be down. How can we? Combined with a simultaneous power outage and it will be the demon mother of all uncivil chaos. Coast to coast, rumors will spread like butt cheeks at a chili festival. There’ll be talk of a terrorist attack. Of government conspiracies. Of the CIA taking control of the White House—not that those bastards aren’t above trying. Rumors and disinformation will spread like crabs at low tide, from neighborhood to neighborhood. No… I’ve got that wrong.”
    As he considered alternatives, Tomlinson had tugged at his hair so hard that, for a moment, I saw the little lightning bolt scar on his temple.
    “Nope… I was right the first time. Rumors will travel from house to house. Of course they will. But the only real news we’ll get will come from fishermen and truckers, because they still communicate by radio. Some of them, at least. It’s been a while since I’ve done any hitchhiking, so I’ve lost track of my eighteen-wheeler brothers. Do they still use CBs?”
    Taking off my lab coat, I had told him, “Truckers might do a better job than newscasters. Less biased, and they probably have better bullshit detectors. But you’re getting spooked for no reason. To use a Tomlinson phrase: ‘Shallow up, man.’”
    My pal had given me an impatient look, meaning the subject was too important for him not to be upset.
    I had closed the Mote file and put it away. This was on a Friday afternoon. That morning, I’d had a huge breakfast at the Over Easy Café, just down the road from Dinkin’s Bay Marina. The night before, I’d eaten a mammoth piece of Drunken Parrot Carrot Cake at the Rum Bar. Which is why I’d felt as if a slab of lead had been strapped to my butt.
    The best way to treat a caloric hangover, I have discovered, is to bludgeon the offender with exercise. That’s precisely what I had intended to do: go for a run, then do an hour of serious cross-training—PT, my friends call it.
    As I headed out the screen door to change clothes, I had said, “You mind taking your empty beer bottles to the recycle bin? A marine lab isn’t supposed to smell like a brewery. Not my lab, anyway. But it does way too often. And don’t think I don’t know it when you smoke dope in here, too.”
    Because that sounded harsher than I’d intended, I added, “I’m going to jog Tarpon Bay Road to the Island Inn. Nicky Clements just installed a pull-up bar. Twenty minutes there, and I’ll swim the no wake buoys to the West Wind. You could pace me on your bike during the run. I want to keep it under eight-minute miles, then we could meet at West Wind pool later. How’s about it?”
    Tomlinson had turned and studied me for a moment. “Dude, you are about as ripped as I’ve ever seen you.