The dial read 3:00 minutes to entry.

Despite the violent, rapid tremors eminating throughout the cockpit, the only thought that crossed Jack’s mind was that he tasted metal. He worried silentely to himself that it was not mentioned in training.

The intense heat building outside the capsule was mentioned in training and, while rather hot and uncomfortable, the comfort Jack took in the fact that his protective suit prevented any long-term radioactive tissue damage helped.

The capsule came to an abrupt halt and let out a loud HISSS.

It was Jack’s first flight but he studied the topography well and knew by now he should be just a few miles from Vienna, near the Mariahilf district. Jack looked outside, it was night. He opened the hatch of the capsule, breathed deep, paused a moment, closed his eyes and took another, deeper breath. He never breathed air like that before. Clean, fresh air. A respite from the thick smog to which he was accustomed.

After a minute, Jack’s mind returned to the mission. Consulting a map, he determined he and the craft were settled in a field somewhere just off of Loquaiplatz St. - mere blocks from his objective. He glanced at his watch - 2:45 a.m.

Jack removed an old, raggedy book from his coat, no bigger than a small diary. It was tattered and ravished by age, yellowed and torn by the decades that passed since ink was last scribbled upon its pages. He flipped through it, briefly refreshing his memory of key mission details by what little could be discerned from the writings and returned the book to his coat pocket.

Jack camouflaged the capsule of his craft as best he could with nearby brush and leaves and set off toward his objective: The Mark. 

It was dark. No moon hung in the cold night above the Mariahilf district. The gray cobble-stone streets were empty and dimly lit by the lantern flames hanging from poles at each corner. Despite the calm, Jack thought it best to use the alleyways in an effort to remain unnoticed. His heart raced as he walked the three blocks to Stumpergasse St., going over the details of his mission as he neared. 

Once there, standing under a street lamp at the intersection of Stumpergasse and Liniengasse St., Jack removed something from his pants pocket and held it up to the light. It was a very old, ragged and torn black-and-white photograph of an apartment building. Glancing back up at his surroundings, he crossed the street toward a similar building, a row of apartments stretching the length of the street. The building he stood before was made of freshly-lain brick, the smell of new construction still in the air. Jack glanced down once more at the yellowed photograph, then back up again at the building - confirmed they were the same, and entered. 

Inside the lobby, a night porter dozed quietly at his desk near the entryway. Jack crossed the lobby toward a nearby stairwell and crept silently to the third floor so as not to disturb any of the sleeping tenants.

He walked the length of the hallway, searching for a specific room. He stopped at a door which had a metallic “2.9.” nailed to it, reached into his pocket, produced a key, and slid it quietly into the keyhole.

Jack opened the door without a sound.

He entered the dormitory-style room and shut the door behind him. It was pitch black in the room. Pausing a moment to allow his eyes to adjust, he looked around and saw two small beds against opposite walls; in both, a human-sized heap of blankets rhythmically rising and falling with each breath.

Above the bed on the left side of the room, he saw the initials “A.H.” crudley carved into the wooden headboard. Jack moved in closer.

Next to the bed was a nightstand and, on it, a small book. Jack reached over with his right hand and picked up the book, taking great care not to betray the silence. With his left, he once again produced the old book he carried in his coat and held it up to compare the two: the same. Still legible on the front of each, in German: “Diary: Adolf Hitler.”

Jack set the books down and removed a silenced .45 caliber pistol from his waistband. He pulled back the bedcovers, exposing a tuft of dark hair, placed the barrel of his weapon against the young man’s temple, and fired.

Abigail lived in an old ranch house in a little town called Munday, Texas. She inherited the home in her thirties when her parents died.

Her family owned land, picked crops, and raised cattle for generations, but the fields were barren now and all that remained were rusty, old, John Deere tractors and dilapidated barns. 

There was something nostalgic, even bucolic, about the round bales of hay that sprinkled the horizon as the sun set that late autumn evening. The north Texas gust caused the giant cypress trees to sway slowly in a manner that seemed intentional...deliberate, as the wind-chimes on the front porch sang their verse.

There was no way, of course, Abigail could have known it would be her last night in that house; indeed, her last night on Earth. Had she known, she surely would have stopped to enjoy the fields, the wind, and the trees, if only once more. 

It was nearly ten o’clock when Abigail retired to her bedroom as she did most every night. The cool evening breeze whistling softly through the open window screens provided pleasant company to a woman who lived alone. She pulled back the light-blue quilt her mother made when she was a child and exposed clean, pressed white sheets. She slipped under the covers and sunk gently into the bliss of down pillows, down comforters, and feather beds. Her sleep was peaceful that night; until...

...she awoke and sat up in a panic; cold sweat, chest heaving.

Her damp, white night-gown clung to her skin. What time was it? Had she been dreaming?

The questions raced through her mind as her eyes adjusted to the dark. It was a moonless, permeating, thick blanket of darkness familiar in the country. What seemed unfamiliar to Abigail was the quiet...

There was no breeze. No wind whispering lullabies through the window screens, no soft song of locusts in the cypress trees, just stillness - terrible, unusual stillness and silence so complete she worried without knowing why. 

Then she heard it...

Breathing, but not her own. 

Abigail froze. 

Someone was there in the corner, stifling their breath as she strained to see. 

A piercing, terrible shriek let out from the dark as a shadowy figure bolted toward the bed. In a moment, Abigail was in a fight for her life.

Her hands reached frantically to grasp at the limbs of her attacker, but she fumbled helplessly to no avail. In those brief, terrible seconds which, to her, lasted a lifetime, she realized her hands slipped every time she gained a grip on the invader.

Was it sweat? It felt like slime.

She felt hot, panicked breath in her face as she was pinned down under the incredible strength of her assailant. An otherworldly, horrific, animal squelch roared inches from her face as droplets of ooze dripped on her forehead.

Just then an enormous, blinding light filled the room from the windows. The creature, now revealed, was grey with great, black, oblong eyes and nightmarish rows of pointed teeth.

Abigail became aware of a deep rumbling which shook the foundation of her country home, rattled the framed photographs of her parents on the bedside table, and vibrated the glass panes in each window.

The monster forcibly tore Abigail, screaming, from her bed, taking with them the light-blue quilt she clutched in a desperate attempt to grab anything for salvation. 

There would be none for her that night.

With amazing speed, the two were gone through a large tear in the window screen and out into the yard underneath the great flood light from the sky. Abigail had mere moments to look upward, blinded after seeing rows of smaller lights she struggled in her daze to understand. 

Then the light was gone and, with it, the pair from the yard.

Everything returned to normal and as it should be in the country. The moonless night blanketed all beneath with its pervading darkness; the cypress trees in the yard began their deliberate sway; and the locusts their soft song to the verse of the wind-chimes on the porch. 

Inside, the new hole in the window screen altered the pitch of the whistle from the breeze. The clean, soft sheets of Abigail’s bed rustled in the wind, never to feel the warmth of her skin again.

Day 1: I’ve dreamt of this day for as long as I can remember. Though this journal will serve as a training guide upon my return, I’d first like to thank everyone involved in the selection process. I find I’m giddy like a child on Christmas morning despite currently being bedridden. Radiation sickness is subsiding but I can’t get the taste of metal out of my mouth; like the old copper pennies. Nothing in the handbook or training mentioned a metallic taste and it has me a little worried. By tomorrow I should be able to stomach some food. I can’t wait to get outside. 

Day 4: Feeling much better since my last entry. My spirits are high and the project is going extremely well. It’s a surreal feeling, as one might imagine. Everything is old, but brand new. It makes me feel…claustrophobic. I’m sure that’s hard to understand. I’ve never been much of a writer but the journal helps as a form of catharsis, give my thanks to the Army shrink. 

Day 7: Although I’ve studied the vocabulary extensively, I’m still having a difficult time communicating. People look at me strangely when I slip up and I sometimes feel as though they’re onto me - ridiculous, I know. I have to say, the food is amazing; everything here tastes better. 

Day 10: I broke protocol and went to a dance today, sue me. I had a great time. However, I can definitely say we underestimated the ‘poor hygiene’ chapter. I miss plumbing. 

Day 13: I’m beginning to experience mild headaches. The doctors in pre-screen hypothesized this might occur from sensory overload so I’m not terribly concerned. I didn’t expect to feel fatigued this early. I keep reminding myself I signed up for this and that when I return I’ll be a hero (that’s a joke, Cpt.).

Day 22: My health seems to be deteriorating. I haven’t left my room in a week. Massive sensitivity to light, headaches have increased to debilitating migraines. I’ll see a doctor tomorrow, although I’m not sure what good he’ll be able to do. 

Day 24: Something is wrong. I collapsed unconscious during the doctor’s visit. I woke up in a hospital and was treated for nose bleeds and head trauma before being released. Thirty-six more days; I can make it. 

Day 29: Have not left the room I’m renting. I’m losing track of the days. Afraid.

Day 9: feel confused. I know am supposed to write soething today.

DayeS: I can not remmeber what am to rite here. head hurts no better. ddaiy: am going to gat halp. now. send halp plese.

dayii: ive ive want home…

---

NOTE TO MEDICAL STAFF OF TRANS-ALLEGHENY LUNATIC ASYLUM: To those in receipt of this woefully disturbed and vehemently vexed patient found wandering in distress, hereupon referred to as ‘John Doe’, for whom asylum restraint is needful, please remand this curious document which accompanied him to the involuntary detention ward of the hospital for further study.

Given under my hand this 17th day of August, 1867

{signed} W.J. Bucknill, M.D.

A couple of years ago I wrote a letter to Ted Kaczynski who currently resides in ADX Florence (the “Alcatraz of the Rockies”) super-max prison located in Colorado. For the sake of refreshing, Dr. Theodore John “Ted” Kaczynski, a.k.a. ‘The Unabomber’, was one of the F.B.I.’s most wanted criminals for nearly two decades. Prior to that, his life showed promise as he was accepted to Harvard University at the age of sixteen, received his PhD in mathematics from the University of Michigan, and became an assistant professor at U.C. Berkeley by the age of twenty-five. He left that position after two years and became a recluse, living in a remote cabin in Lincoln, Montana, during which time he became increasingly angered with the establishment of modern technology. From 1978-1995 he engaged in what is referred to as his “bombing campaign” during which time he murdered three people and maimed twenty-three others using homemade explosives. At the time I wrote him, I’d recently read his manifesto (Industrial Society and Its Future) and had some questions that I thought only he could answer. Because, in this day and age, these things may be misconstrued, I feel it’s worth stating that in no way do I condone the actions of Dr. Kaczynski; on the contrary. Clearly his actions were deplorable but I also felt that his manifesto was extraordinarily contradictory. I wanted to engage him in a conversation and slowly confront him on some of those contradictions (as you can read in the correspondence), however, the conversation never lasted that long. My letter and his response are included in this post. I’ve edited only my name and information. The following is my correspondence with the Unabomber: 

“9/23/2014 - 19:42 

Mr. Kaczynski,

I feel that it is most rude, and inappropriate to begin things without a proper introduction. So, allow me to introduce myself…Hello, my name is ___________. I am twenty-six years old and currently reside in Texas. Like the many others who have undoubtedly written you during your incarceration, I have read extensively on your position regarding Industrial Society and the Technological Revolution. Yet, I have questions which remain unanswered. These are questions whose answers are not meant for a school paper, news publication, or trite, water-cooler conversation; they are meant solely to fulfill my own personal curiosities. It is my intention to correspond with you in the hope that they will be answered. If it’s all the same to you, I’d prefer to go straight to the source. I would also like to note that, unlike you, I am not what our society would consider an educated man; I am a high-school drop-out, and any research of mine has been independent. The questions are: 

We are approaching the 20th anniversary of the release of your manifesto, “Industrial Society and Its Future”; in this time, we have seen that some of your assessments regarding the consequences of a technological age may be accurate. For instance, since your incarceration, as I am sure you are aware, the advent of hand-held devices has swept the globe. Although we are less personable, have forgotten our manners, and certainly have forgotten to step outside and return to nature, our society remains intact. It would appear that we are headed more toward enslavement than collapse. With so many theoretical eventualities, I challenge you to expand on those that may lead to collapse, in lieu of enslavement, as I cannot. Which, if any (save for the most regurgitated, nuclear-apocalyptic), are there? 

Assuming that you still consider our society, due to these technological advances, to be on the brink of enslavement or collapse, what are the possible timelines for such an event? I suppose the answer to that question depends on the catalyst…

You mention that, “If the system survives…there is no way of reforming or modifying the system so as to prevent it from depriving people of dignity and autonomy.” (#2 - Industrial Society) Yet, also, that the system, “…may survive. If it survives, it may eventually achieve a low level of…physical and psychological suffering,” which, to me, seems contradictory. How may the system come to achieve a low level of suffering, but not be reformed or modified? Does this mean that, while the system may allow for a relatively low level of suffering, the same system will still continue to deprive people of dignity and autonomy? Is that not suffering? 

“We therefore advocate a revolution against the industrial system. This revolution may or may not make use of violence…” (#4 - Industrial Society). You imply that the revolution against the industrial system is possible through means of non-violence. In hindsight, is there a way to have achieved awareness for your cause through non-violent means?

Is it fair to assess that, during the decades of your campaign, you focused on the eco-invasion of the industrial/techno revolution? How do you think you would view the industrial-technological system had you been born twenty years later, thus experiencing the techno-boom of the early 21st century? Computers, the internet, hand-held devices, etc. 

What did you set out to achieve with your campaign from 1978-1995? In other words, what was the best case scenario? Certainly you had to have known that, even in what you may have considered to be the best case scenario, it would have been but a drop in the bucket towards achieving the goal of an end to the technological system. In that sense, it seems as though your intentions would have been mostly for awareness. Is this true? 

On what level did you suspect that the publication of your manifesto would lead to your capture? Was it more important that your message be read and understood by the public than to potentially be captured and incarcerated? 

Which do you think furthered your cause more, the bombing campaign, or the publication of your manifesto? 

Thank you immensely for your time. I look forward to your response.

Respectfully,

__________” 

I received an envelope from the ADX Florence penitentiary a little over two weeks after I sent the initial letter; it was from TJK. His response was written on the back side of an actual, developed photograph of the Cloud Gate structure near Chicago, Illinois (which you can see above). Although, with no identifying markings or explanation at all, it took a little research to figure out what it was. The photograph is interesting to me for several reasons: I have no idea where it came from, if he took it, or if it was bought from the prison commissary, but Cloud Gate stands today approximately seventeen miles from where TJK was born, in Evergreen Park. Also fascinating to me, one can easily recognize the meticulous nature in which it was handled. For example, the ten stamps adhered to the back side are near perfectly in line with one another. Likewise, the dividing line TJK created on the back of the photo was made with pen, by hand. Look at it. He must have used a ruler or something similar with a straight edge, drew the lines in the perfect center of the photograph, and filled it in; mind you, this is an elderly man in his seventies. Cloud Gate is a shiny, metallic structure; as such, it appears to show a reflection of the photographer standing directly beneath it, however, as TJK has been incarcerated since 1996 and the photograph looks a little newer, I doubt it is him. The response read as follows: 

“From:

Theodore John Kaczynski

04475-046

U.S. Penitentiary Max

P.O. Box 8500 Florence CO 81226-8500

10/10/2014 

Mr. _______, 

No way I can find time to answer your questions! But you’ll find many answers in my book Technological Slavery, which you can get from amazon.com --TJK”

I’m not entirely sure how it could be difficult to “find” time while you’re spending your life in prison. Maybe he wasn’t searching in the right place...or, maybe he just didn’t care. TJK has apparently been bitten before by corresponding with a particular individual at length; a Google search indicates as much. While it certainly was not the response I was hoping for, I did go buy the book... 

He certainly wasn't the best at anything, though he tried. It's something, perhaps, that he was best at: trying. He tried many things. He'd probably wish he tried more. But the one thing, I think we can all agree, he definitely should not have tried...was to wrestle that alligator.