The Only Ones by Aaron Starmer Page A

notes. Then he placed the key in the door and pointed at Martin. “Try it,” he said.
    “Try what?”
    “Knock on the door.”
    “But you’re out here with me.”
    “Just knock.”
    So Martin lifted the mouse and struck it against the door three times.
    “Username?” Felix said in a deep voice.
    “Excuse me?”
    “Username?” he said again.
    “Oh, yes … Martin.”
    “Password?”
    “Alarm clock.”
    “Logged in,” Felix said, turning the key and shouldering the door open.
    Felix’s home wasn’t a home at all. There was no furniture or decorations or anything to make one think this was a place to burrow, to sleep, to live. Thousands of strings created jagged checkerboards and drooping nets and twisted vines that covered the bare hallways and rooms. Each string was connected at both sides to blocks of wood that were either seton the floor or hung on the walls. Writing was scribbled all over each block.
    “We only have about five hundred websites,” Felix explained, “but I’m adding more every day.”
    “I thought the Internet was something for computers,” Martin said.
    “Well, duh,” Felix said. “But do you know any servers that are still operating? Plenty of laptops out there with batteries, but it isn’t like you can go to the café for some Wi-Fi.”
    Admittedly, computers were an abstract concept for Martin. He’d read about them. George had told him about them. He imagined picture frames filled with constantly changing text and images, and he imagined the Internet to be the source of all that visual chatter. He never thought it could be something so organic.
    “What’s written on the blocks?” Martin asked.
    “Ah, more to the point at hand,” Felix said. Then he led Martin into a vast room with a large block positioned in the center of it. Hundreds of strings sprouted from the block, like hairs from a giant square head. Only about one quarter of the block was covered with writing. In the biggest letters, the word
Xibalba
was written.
    “Think of this as your default home page,” Felix said. “You have the story of Xibalba here, and there are screws on any word where I made a hyperlink. The string tied to the screw is the link. So if you want to know about … ohh, I don’t know, the peanut roaster … then you grab the string and follow it to another block. In other words, the peanut roaster’s web page. Then that block might have links to lots of other blocks and on and on and on and on.”
    “The Internet was once used to find missing people, right?” Martin asked.
    “It was used to find naked ladies too,” Felix said, “but this version isn’t advanced enough for either. Apologies if I got your hopes up.”
    “That’s all right,” Martin said. “I’m okay with this version.”
    “Well, then try it out, why don’tcha?” Felix insisted.
    Leaning over the large block, Martin began to read. The writing was small but clear. It appeared to be rendered in black pen, but there were chunks of the wood that had been sanded or shaved away and rewritten on in fresh red ink. Martin ran his finger over the indentations.
    “Edits,” Felix explained. “No web page should be static. Certainly not. Certainly not.”
    “Of course,” Martin said as he resumed his reading.
    XIBALBA
The town of Xibalba was founded on
the Day
.
It is believed to be the only place where
humans currently live. Its name comes from
the Mayan people. The founder and first
resident was a boy named Kelvin Rice.…
    The word
was
appeared freshly written in a sanded dent in the wood. There was a screw in the middle of the name Kelvin Rice.
    “Is there more about him?” Martin asked.
    “Use the string,” Felix said.
    Placing the string between his finger and thumb, Martin began to follow its path. It required a bit of patience, as thestring twisted its way around and over and under other strings, but Martin was in no hurry. When he finally reached the block, he found it hanging by a hook on the