Free IGMS Issue 9 by IGMS

as soon as he could. He retreated to the ER entrance and stood to one side with his arms behind his back.
    John took a seat and waited. First Marie, and now Paul. He had seen too much of hospitals lately.
    Half an hour passed before a nurse emerged from the double doors to tell him that Paul was bleeding internally, and had been taken into surgery.
    "Can you tell me how he is? Is his life in danger?"
    "We're doing everything we can for him. We'll update you as soon as we know more."
    She walked away, back through the double doors.
    An hour later, a different nurse emerged and took Officer McPherson back to talk to Keith. McPherson came out after twenty-two minutes. John timed it.
    He stood and intercepted McPherson before he could leave. "What did he tell you? What did he say?"
    McPherson kept moving toward the exit as he talked. "He said they were attacked outside a warren on West Fifty-Seventh."
    "A warren?"
    McPherson sighed and stopped. "It's a kind of secret den, usually hidden in a basement, for crackers and phreakers. Lots of black market hardware and software is traded there. And there are plenty of secure and untraceable Net connections available, in case you want to crack a system, launch an attack on a corporate web site, or introduce a virus. All set to loud music and flashing lights, with plenty of Euphoria tabs to go around, if that's your thing."
    "What were they doing there?"
    "He wouldn't say. But when they left, they ran into a group of Jesus Phreaks." Before John could ask, McPherson said, "A local gang whose members carry Bibles, knives, and saps. Dedicated to ridding the world of unbelievers and other undesirables. They like to break into Jewish and Muslim sites and shut them down." McPherson paused. "They, ah, don't think highly of clones."
    "Son of a bitch."
    "The boys were afraid to go to the hospital, so they went to a friend's apartment. Tried to patch themselves up. When your son lost consciousness, Keith finally brought him in."
    John ran a hand through his hair. "So what's next?"
    "I have to go check out his story and round up some witnesses. And I'll need to talk to your son if he comes around." He handed John a business card. "If you'll excuse me, please." He edged past John and left.
    John sagged against the nearest wall. The business card slipped from his hand.
If he comes around
, McPherson had said.
If
.
    The handheld clipped to his belt started beeping.
    He pulled it out and opened it. The display indicated an urgent text from Eric. John frowned, wondering why in the world Eric would be awake at such an ungodly hour. It had to be after one in the morning.
    He opened the message. It read,
John, have you heard anything about this? Call me as soon as you can. Eric.
    Beneath the message was a link labeled
Frankenstein Diaries
.

Maybe you've heard of big-shot, best-selling author John Griffin. Maybe you've even read some of his books. Maybe you think he's terrific. But none of you know him. None of you know what a bastard he really is. Well, that ends today. Now you can read from the diary he's kept for the last fourteen years. Check it out. Click on any of the entries below. Take a look at the way he treated his own wife (April 19, 2026). Find out how he
really
feels about his cloned son (December 3, 2029). See what he thinks of his agent and his editor (February 8, 2039). And there's lots more.
    See for yourself. Then pass on this link to anyone who might be interested. Have fun!

    John had once thought that Steven's death would be forever marked in his mind as the single worst day in his life. As he sat in the emergency room, living every parent's worst nightmare for the second time in his life, scrolling through screen after screen full of dated entries, he concluded that he may have been premature in that judgment.
    The entries were all genuine, copied verbatim from his diary.
    His journal had been password-protected since the day he had bought it. He changed the password every sixty days,