Antiforum

Written By: Gauri Binup
Graphic By: Izzy Gavin

There's no reason for Ramon to be traveling at night, or taking the alleys. The streets have not seen sunlight or headlights since the crash last year.

Still, Ramon slinks along, walking only in the shadows of the tallest dumpsters, and taking care to avoid even the unlit street lamps, as if they could turn on and spotlight him at any moment.

Because it has been a while since he's been this far from his apartment — usually he ventures only as far as the complex’s built-in convenience store for his everyday needs — he tries his best to take mental note of everything he sees along the path. The walls, for example, are slick with midnight and rain, and they are often stained in parts a slick neon, thrown at angles from the flickering halogen signs. The signs are essentially the only source of light in the district, drowning out the glow of the dim and still dimming moon. Ramon doesn't mind this. With how faint its impression is in the sky, shrouded by clouds, the moon is more like a memory in the process of being forgotten, anyway. Halogen is that bright and active gas, proof of motion, and of the fact that things are always changing. Where the moon will soon be reduced to motion static images of the phases, not even a motion of the moon but only the facsimile of it, in textbooks, halogen signs remind Ramon that he is moving now, breathing now, living now. 

It doesn't really matter which alleys Ramon decides to take, as his destination is clear: the tallest building in Central Square. The Forum.

The Forum is not like many things which may have once been features of Central Square, like parks or fountains. Instead, the Forum is a very out of place skyscraper, cylindrical, and with rows and rows of always-unlit windows which stretch into the fog of gray clouds. The capital letters “THE FORUM” stand out most. Ramon doesn't know how tall it is, or why it is so tall. He doesn't even know how it was built, or when it got here. He had opened his blinds one day, for the first time in months, and it was there, dwarfing the rest of the skyline.

Ramon has long been irritated by this fact, and it is perhaps because of his irritation that he is walking now.

To be clear, this journey is very out-of-character for him. When the State announced the arrival of the crash, Ramon did not riot in the streets or petition his local politicians. When the State announced the power shutdown, Ramon did not complain, and he bought blankets and candles as and when he could. When the State announced the lockdowns within all residential buildings, Ramon stayed in his apartment building. And when the people he saw grew sicker and paler, then dwindled until there was nobody left on his floor, or on many of the others, Ramon did not say anything, gracefully accepting rations whenever he was offered them.

Ramon, in short, had reason to think that he was probably not the type of person to get irritated easily, if at all.

And then he saw the Forum.

Ramon has just reached the building’s steps. He cranes his neck up, toward the underside of the big white block letters “THE FORUM” (which only look like dashes from his angle), then still further, as if checking for some stray employee who'd forgotten to turn the lights off in a room, or where the building ends. He finds nothing of the sort, and pushes the door open. 

Ramon is quite apprehensive as he steps inside. This could be the first time in weeks that Ramon sees another real, living person, let alone a crowd of them as might be expected of such a large building.

But as far as Ramon can tell, nobody is inside. His footsteps echo sharply, and alone. He walks to the center of the circular space. From his spot on the ground floor, he can see many of the floors above him, as large circles have been cut into every floor above his until only rings of flooring perhaps ten meters wide are left around the outer edge. On these rings of flooring, arranged in a large circle, are desktop computers. Their processors appear to be quite large, and so the computers offer the impression of those from the early days of the computer's invention, some few centuries ago.

Ramon then notices a rope ladder which hangs from somewhere high above and drips onto the ground. Compared to how oddly sleek the rest of the interior is, the rope seems out of place. It looks rough and maybe even childish, like a toddler’s means of clambering into a treehouse.

Ramon tugs at it, testing its capacity for weight, then climbs up. The rope bites into him as he ascends, leaving behind indents in his palms. He grows tired of the sensation and feels a strange relief at reaching the second level, then disgust at his own relief. He rolls rather ungracefully onto the marble flooring, then shuffles to the closest computer in the ring.

With a sort of sardonic grin, he sits in the rolling office chair in front of the computer. He fiddles with the keys of the keyboard, enjoying the clunky plastic sounds it makes and holds down the “ON” button. He presses it for two seconds, enough to be excused for jest, then after a brief glance around him, presses it ten seconds or maybe fifteen, as though he were really trying to wake it from a great slumber.

And it does. 

Without any warning, a dim light is suddenly cast upon his hands. Ramon startles, nearly falling out of the chair. He stares at the screen, which plainly contains a progress bar indicating the computer to be booting up, then walks around the desk, surveying the wiring. There is no indication that the computer is connected to any power source at all.

Ramon gets the sense that, at any moment, whatever miracle currently gracing him may soon leave, so he quickly scrambles back into the chair and rolls close to the desk, just as the bar reaches 100% completion. Instead of a lock screen or a desktop, the screen opens to “THE FORUM.”

The style of the website is quite outdated, like something he'd seen in his study of cassette tapes in his Studying the Origins of Film course as a college undergraduate. The screen display is grainy and run through by thin streaks. The website, which he can't “Esc” from, looks to be coded with very rudimentary HTML, with a plain black background and an ugly neon green serif font. Ramon finds a list of several threads, and it seems to go on indefinitely, with no page selection tool in sight.

His index finger grows tired of scrolling, and so he selects a thread at random from his screen. It was dated several months ago, fresher from the immediate aftermath of the crash:

TOPIC: extra food!!

hey, have extra food in the house in case anyone wants any. please reply if you'd like some

That's nice, Ramon thinks. There are no replies to the thread, however.

Ramon clicks on a back arrow which had appeared on screen, moving him to the next most recent thread:

TOPIC: Book Club?

I was thinking that it might be depressing to stare at my same walls every day without anything to do, so I want to start a book club. I've just started reading Gallances. This space will be for talking about the book.

No responses under that one either. Ramon scrolls to the top of the page and selects one of the most recent threads, which, to his shock, seems to have been started only days ago:

TOPIC: PLEASE PRAY FOR MY SON

ive wrapped him in blankets. ive started so many fires in the house.

Is anyone among you sick? Let them call the elders of the church to pray over them and anoint them with oil in the name of the Lord. And the prayer offered in faith will make the sick person well; the Lord will raise them up. If they have sinned, they will be forgiven.

James 5:14-15

AMEN
AMEN
AMEN

No replies, no replies, no replies.

Ramon realizes this is perhaps because there is no reply feature at all. He himself could not respond to any of the threads.

Then Ramon realizes something worse. That each and every one of these posts was from the same author.

Suddenly, a new post, from only seconds ago, populates the page. Ramon gasps and shoots to his feet, looking around frantically for another lit screen, another computer user on his ring.

TOPIC: no more no more no more

theres nothing left. tell me not to do it and i wont, but ive already made the preparations ready for today. tonight it ends

Ramon begins to walk close to the edge of the ring, looking up and straining his ear to hear any and all sound beyond the hum of his machine. But there was no one there. 

Without any way of responding to the author's post, Ramon feels the ladder beckon him. Perhaps it is only that this poster is just a few too many floors above him to be heard.

Before he is consciously aware of it, he grips the rope and climbs up.

He keeps climbing and climbing. Indents cut deeper, his skin chafing. All the while he calls out:

“Hello?” 

“Is someone there?”

“Whoever you are, answer me!”

Somewhere between the ninth and tenth ring, Ramon’s hands slip.