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The Morning After Post
Re-opens After Army of Truth's
"Media Manifesto" Attack

by Philip Waters

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A Giant Brought Down to His Knees
I remember how terrified I was of Harvey Winton, Post Manhattan's editor-in-chief, back in 2000.
His fiery eyes, billowing voice and flowing, silvery hair kept me working late every night.
Eight years later he was crumbled over his desk like a pile of laundry.
He had abandonned the coffee mug he usually sipped his scotch from and had gone to swigging straight from the bottle without picking his head off the desk.
His hair, what was left of it, was now a flat grey.
The fire had gone out of his eyes.
Martha Benson, human resources director, Kiko Yamamoto, information systems specialist, and I stood in Winton's office.
Outside the office, a maintainance man was replaring the flourescent lights.
Most of the staff hadn't bothered showing up to work this week.
There was no point, with the presses and website down.
I hadn't seen my mentor, Conner Banks all week.
It appeared, however, that his secretary was writing a story herself.
The Manifesto had been up for a week after repeated attempts to reclaim the Post website.
Yamamoto was being outwitted by the Army's air-tight virus that hijacked the computer core, and he was starting to worry about his job.
"This is the last file it possibly could be," insisted Yamamoto. "Okay, 'nero', say goodnight..."
He tapped the enter key.
A second later, a small explosion from the computer server room coincided with the loss of power throughout the Post offices.
"Well, we no long have a computer core," Yamamoto announce after a few seconds in the smokey server room.
Winton looked at him but said nothing.
"Look at it this way- at least the Manifesto is down."
I looked over at the screen of my laptop and clicked "refresh."
Still there.
They were looking at the screen, too.
It meant that the Manifesto was on the servers at IJI headquarters in the Cayman Islands.
The Army's infestation ran deeper than anyone had thought.
"Who do you want me to fire now?" asked Benson.
"What does it matter?" responded the broken Winton.

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