Hallways

His footsteps echo through the hallway. Bouncing off polished linoleum, and painted plaster. Lights click on overhead as he passes under them, and click off as he exits their illumination. He’s in a rush, walking fast. Every couple of steps his shoes skid, squeaking on the floor. He mumbles numbers under his breath, repeating a sequence over and over, until it slips from conscious action to unconscious ritual. 6-4-2-5-1-8-8. Sometimes he chunks it, to keep the pattern fresh in his mind. 642-51-88. His foot skids, no that isn’t working. Back to single digits. 6-4-2-5-1-8-8. He has to remember. He should have written it down, why didn’t he write it down? If he has to run back to his office to get the number again it’d waste too much time- he might be too late. He has to get it right the first time. 6-4-2-5-1-8-8. It reminds him of the sequence of repeated numbers on the TV show he watched when he was younger, ”Lost.” Those numbers prevented the end of the world. In a way, these numbers might also prevent the end of the world. In ”Lost” the numbers were each two digits long. Was there a reason for that? Is 64-25-18-8 easier to remember? No. It’s not. Because the numbers easers each isn’t pairs, it’s 7 unique numbers that need to be punched in, in order. 6-4-2-5–1-8-8. The order matters. It’s left to right, top to bottom. But he has to remember the two middle boxes are close to each other, but the box on the right is actually higher than the one on the left, and he must enter that first. The order is easy, 1-2-3-4-5-6-7. No, stop stupid. No more numbers. Focus. 6-4-2-5-1-8-8. Repeat it until it becomes second nature. He shoves open the doors at the end of the hallway, and propels himself down the stairwell. 3 floors then the first right. Milchick’s office is there. Maybe he could borrow some paper and write the numbers down- No that’d be too slow. Seconds counted, he should just enter them directly into the terminal. He started taking the stairs two at a time, and throwing his body around the bends every half floor. The short slide made him feel faster. He wondered if it actually was faster. They could test that someday, maybe when it’s slow and they’re waiting for the quantum computer to process. He’ll mention that to Chuck next time they get lunch together. Stop, mind is wandering too far. The numbers. 6-4-1-5-2-8-8-. Just remember the numbers. One floor down two more to go. He slides around another corner, but his foot hits a sticky patch, presumably where someone spilled something. It’s just enough friction to throw him off balance, almost rolling his ankle. It’s fine, he’s fine. He takes a couple steps down, and lands bad on his right foot. Shit, definitely rolled it. Tender paid radiates from achilles. Doesn’t matter. Just the number. Maybe the pain will help him focus. 6-4-2-5-1-8-8. Wait, shit was that right? Did he swap a number? That felt wrong. It was different than last time he repeated it. What did he say last time? 6-4-2-5-1-8-8? No wait that’s what he just said. That was the right number, right? Shit. Fuck, even. He should have written it down. Seconds mattered, but getting it wrong would matter more. 6-4-1-2-8-8. Wait, no. Definitely wrong. 6-4-2-1-8-8. Fuck! That’s six numbers- Where does the five go? Before the one? 6-4-2-5-1-8-8? Yes that feels right. What numbers were the clumps? 64-25-18-8? Yes. Yes that was it for sure. Okay, back on track. One floor left. God, he wished Kurdizov had installed elevators into the sub-basement. Surely there must be one somewhere- How else did they load in all the heavy equipment? No way they forced some movers to haul it down these narrow stairs. Or was everything assembled down here? No, that can’t be it. There’s stuff you couldn’t assemble. You couldn’t just make an MRI machine wherever, could you? He didn’t know. He wasn’t a machine maker. He was a scientist. A scientist that needed to remember seven very important numbers: 6-4-1-5-8-8. Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck. That was six again. What was he missing? 6-4-2-5-1-8-8. Wait, did he flip the five and the one? No. Maybe. It doesn’t matter, he got it the second time. He suddenly remembered ”Remez-vu.” Sorta the opposite of Deja-vu. The idea that you repeat a word or a phrase so many times that it actually loses it’s meaning. Had the numbers lost their meaning? Did they have any in the first place? They weren’t anything on their own, just a random string. 6-4-2-5-1-8-8. But they were part of something bigger. And the bigger thing had meaning, a whole lot of meaning. Well not yet- but it would. As soon as he plugged in the numbers, it’d be real. 6-4-2-5-1-8-8. Finally, he reached the right floor. He charged through the doors, down the hall, and hooked the first right. He slowed his pace- Not a lot, but just enough to read the names on the doors as he passed. Mildred, Kenneth, Counter, Cole, Milchick. Thank god. He opened the door, and rushed in. 6-4-2-5-1-8-8. Milchick looked up as he busted in. Milchick started to say something, but he rushed to the terminal. He clicked through the appropriate screens. Test 5, Parameters, Set Parameters, Yes, discard previous configuration. Then a loading bar. One that filled. Slowly. So slowly. That’s fine, one final time to run through the numbers. 6-4-2-5-1-8-8. Those felt right. He was certain they were right. They had to be right. Or else-

It loaded. And he punched in the numbers seared into his mind. 6. 4. 2. 5. 1. 8. 8. Enter.