Flicking
by Lukas Oberhuber
1.8
This book tells the story of the downloading of movies and the hackers that have changed the face of the Internet as well as the forces arrayed against their illegal activities. The details are accurate in every way, though names have been changed and incidents modified to protect the parties involved and streamline the narrative.
Midnight
Federica sat upright, sheets tossed to the foot of the bed, heart thumping in her neck. Something strange. Noise? What kind of noise? Did she hear someone in the living room? She should call out Babbo’s name. No, too dangerous. She rolled her bare feet onto the wooden floor, threw on the tank top she’d pulled off during one of her earlier flops and scanned the room for a weapon.
She could picture Babbo and Mamma Casso, her parents, lying spread-eagled on their bed in the next room, the slow decline of middle age erased by sleep, their top sheet shoved to where tired feet could no longer push it.
For what felt like the last few hours, Federica had flipped and flopped, the breeze hardly touching her heat drenched body. Why hadn’t her parents invested in an air conditioner? Then maybe she could have dropped off. Too bad they were used to the glowing heat. It was simple as that. All she had to do was listen to their deep breathing to prove it. She, however had become soft, needing chilly London weather to be able to doze off...
The sound of a truck provided distraction, motor running in the late dark before melting into the background of her mind. She could sense the heat still shimmering above the asphalt outside. A slatted blind rattled shut further down the tree-lined road.
Her thoughts wandered as she scratched the prickly backs of her knees, twisting to her other side. She seriously needed to get some rest. She squeezed her eyes shut. Too bad that first she had to find a way to stop thinking about things like whether she actually wanted the MBA she’d worked all last year for at LSE.
She wiped the swelter from her stomach, fingertips coming back wet. Maybe she should have stayed here in Milan.
The hours dragged. Federica had tried to find a position where her arm didn’t get pins and needles from the weight of her head and her jaw wasn’t mashed into a too solid pillow. She thought about year two. It wouldn’t be that hard; she’d expected more, actually. She realized she had better not tell Babbo about any disappointment, though, or should she call him Hugo now that she was grown up? In any case, she had to make the loans worth it.
Her fingers found a tiny itch below the ribs. Annoying. Everything itchy. She flipped again, ending with her head hanging over the side of the bed. And Cieran. What about Cieran? Of course she loved him. They’d been together for a long time. But maybe she should keep away from ragazzi, boys, even him. She pulled back and jammed her head into the pillow again. No more work for her brain, she ordered. The body needs sleep. Grazie.
She tried one more technique. She loosened every muscle she could find, using the slow breathing technique from her yoga classes near Marylebone, until her whole body drooped, her mind slowed and cleared of thoughts. Sleep finally wrapped its arms around her. Silence.
It all seemed a long time ago. Now, with her heart beating hard in her chest she needed to focus. She stood frozen in her bedroom, the heat forgotten. Wait, another sound. She strained. There, again! Footsteps, and from the living room, not Babbo and Mamma. No one had passed her door, so it couldn’t be them. Could it? Had her brother come home unexpectedly? Was Mamma wandering because she couldn’t sleep? A night watchman (how could he get in?), a dog, a thief, a bird flown in the window? Grandmamma’s ghost (not seriously), Babbo having a cigarette, the wind? A thief? It was a thief. He could be armed. Knife? Gun? A stick, fists, brass knuckles? No, knife. The thief had a knife.
She desperately needed a weapon. In the street-lit darkness, she spotted the clothes hook she used to hang blouses high up in the wardrobe. Not heavy, but if she swung hard…
A key scraped in the apartment’s armored front door, most likely the first lock. How did the intruder get inside with the door still locked, she wondered? She’d better check. She tiptoed into the hall, squinting into her parent’s room. Both still there. That proved it, something was very wrong.
“Wake up,” she whispered, “there’s someone in the apartment.” She shook Babbo by the arm. Nothing. “Cazzo,” she swore. Time was running out. She’d have to do this herself; she couldn’t afford to make more noise.
She snuck back to her room. Because of a sharp turn in the hall, she couldn’t see into the living room without going in. Merda-shit, she thought. She had to calm down. She couldn’t let her nerves screw up. She’d have to do what they taught in wilderness training: deep breath, deep breath. Her mind had to stay sharp, her adrenaline under control. It was probably some stupid drug fiend who wanted cash for the next fix. One whack and he’d run away.
But she couldn’t convince herself. What if she ran out and smacked him while he was focused on the door? There was still another lock to open and clearly he was fumbling with the keys.
No, crossing the living room would take too long. He’d have too much time to turn. And then…
She waited, hiding behind the frame of her door, clothes hook poised. Silence, and so much of it. Nothing. Unbroken darkness. Her breathing rose in her ears like ocean waves crashing through the back of her throat. She tried to convince herself the fiend couldn’t possibly hear her. The waves and rasping breaths were all in her mind. She had to keep focused, basta.
The walls scrolled towards her until she nearly screamed to end the silence. She’d almost given up, convinced herself all was clear, when a face poked into the room.
Without thinking, she swung, everything moving in slow motion. The hook traced a graceful looping arc. The face’s eyes widened and the head began to turn away. Too late. The metal pole struck the bridge of the nose with a crack. Blood spurted into the dark room. The face, instead of screaming and disappearing as she expected, fell forward with a grunt, followed by a man’s body, his cheek landing first with a crunch. Oh god, he had a gun, not a knife. A huge gun.
Shots echoed through the apartment in rapid succession. She couldn’t tell quite where from. There must be more of them, she realized. She hid behind her door once more, clothes hook ready. Either she stopped them, or she and her parents would all be dead.
“Chi siete?” her father shouted from the other room. “Cosa volete?” She heard a spraying sound, followed by a high scream and heavy breathing. Babbo must have got the bastards with the pepper spray he kept by his bed. “NOOO!” her father screamed. It felt like hours, during which Federica forced herself to stay hidden. A rapid burst of gunfire snapped the word off. Federica choked back a screech. Where was help? Couldn’t the neighbors hear? More shots. Oh god, Mamma?
Three blurs rushed into Federica’s room. She swung the pole, muscles obeying fractions of a second late, leaving only the last head in her sights. A gloved hand shot out, freezing the clothes hook harmlessly in the air, halfway through its arc. A rifle butt punched into her stomach, knocking her to the ground.
“Che cazzo sta succedendo?” she shouted, doubled over, arms and legs flailing, stomach burning.
He pointed a pistol at her chest. “What’s she saying?”
One of the other men shrugged. He didn’t know.
“What’s going on? What have you guys done?” she heard an American voice yell from somewhere in the apartment. “What the fuck?”
“Who are you?” she screamed in English.
“Ah, you speak our language.”
“Please, take our money. It’s ok. We won’t do anything.” But the gunshots put doubt in her mind.
“What the hell is happening here?” the voice shouted again.
“We want o
nly you,” the black gloved man laughed harshly, leaning over and tearing at the thin fabric covering her breasts.
“Don’t,” Federica pleaded, her fists glancing off his arm.
“Look at him,” the other man said, pointing at the body on the floor. The man turned, shaking his comrade.
Calm. She needed to keep her mind clear. Find a way to survive.
“This is not good,” the man said, his face contorting.
“Hold your fire, goddamn it,” the voice yelled, closer now. “We’re here for the server.”
She had one chance: get help. After all, they only wanted a server, whatever that was. Federica opened her lungs and screamed, nothing else existed, pure fear and anger. The sound echoed into the courtyard outside, shook the adjoining windows and first penetrated, then cut short the neighbors’ dreams.
“Goddamnit! It’s too fucking late now you morons,” the voice shouted from the hall, “shut her up.”
The gloved man stood up, turning back to Federica, and pointed his pistol. She would scream until every window in the place shattered if that’s what it took, her back arching from the floor. The man’s finger seemed to slip and slide over the trigger of the pistol, trying to hunt for a place to pull. It must be broken, or jammed, Federica thought. His gloves were probably too slippery to grip and now he couldn’t