Those words maybe my own, but their spirit was borne of her, a denizen of courage and hope. She indoctrinated, embedding the idea while proselytizing the capture of this event in prose. What lays beyond for you, dear reader, is that attempt, for her. Perhaps for you, too. May the language and stance, even the errors and ignorance, give you solace, or better; may it launch you into the after with a passion and fervor not contained.

Chapter 1 – The Giving Up or The Giving In.

It was here that Sarah felt the weight of it all sink into her soul. It, the relentless gnash of teeth and crunch of bone, marrow and muscle; rendering lifeless that which previously leapt or careened. She who would jostle and jockey for favor or position, only to later, now, be crushed in the powerful jaws of an increasingly typical life. Ground down to pulpy goo by its large, flat teeth but also ripped by the sharper more voracious type. She, the boldly seasoned by creativity and determination. Yet, ever the warrior, she pressed on into her abyss. And it was there, in a thin hospital gown and with a warm blanket over her stocking covered feet, that she found herself, and the end. Her end.

It was in ugly, warm Sloan Kettering socks that she discovered the obsolescence of desire. There, with the beeping and churning. The forever whirring and stirring of activity all around. It was there that she breached the void of self and reached a previously unknown plateau of warmed and comfortable fallacy. One that she quickly gravitated toward. Sought out.

It is the long suffering adult that thirsts for a normal charade. A basket of balance. All offerings of appeasement will be placed on the doorstep of any higher power that might offer a night off, a constant temperature, or a vegetative state of contentment. A normal. Any normal. One that, for her and in this moment, she believed only he could provide. The hum-drum boredom of ambulant mediocrity was present with him and she was now, in defeat (or victory?) accepting.

He was a plodding, insouciant, barrel of a man. His gruff, graveled draw slurred words unrecognizable and required a stern look and full attention to catch his gist. But even then, true understanding was questionable. Were closed captioning to have been provided, Sarah believed those nearby would have been treated to requiem and daydream. Picturesque fanciful splendor and elegance in verb, adjective and meter. A poet of the slurred word and mumble.

Sadly, there was no captioner nor fancy voice capture translation technology which would closely follow his path. Nothing projecting his true intent and meaning above him in some ultra high definition, 100 point, serif font, with accompanying dictionary. No, only a parade of “huh?” and “What was that again?” Except with Sarah, who seemed to hear and accept each word as if it were enunciated, defined and given word origin for the purposes of Scripps Spelling Bee in the final round. And in her final round, she needed this comfort. His comfort.

He walked staccato with an added pitch and yaw reserved for aviation, while his patient eyes glowed a transfixing blue that captured the wandering thoughts of passers-by. Wiry tufts of brown, red and gray, hairy smatterings, cascaded over his jaw and crept ever closer to all edges and openings: lips and nostril. All his follicles seemed to work in tandem threatening to end the ritual of unholy weekly slaughter by trimmer. They seemed to wish to thread-together with the hook and loop connection of Velcro. Facial hair with malicious intent on leaving him breathless and without word. She would call him Beardicus the Great or Should-He-Shave-Nah; yet, she found it refreshing; that he would retain his ‘don’t give a damn’ portrait he painted each time he came near, even here in her shattered moment.

Both his name and body were carved of, or torn by, years lacking in some odd combination of nutrients, empathy or emoluments. But that which did not end Brahna Sameal, would only propel him further. He had and would continue to use each of those instruments of circumstance or pain as a guttural cry or shout at the world. A wretch and spit inducing scream for hope throughout his childhood and a constant war paint for his stoic, die-cast longanimity. Broad shoulders and thick skin were his hallmarks, all adorned with ornaments of ignored but internalized ridicule.

But here it would only be Brahna who would suffer more variation and range in emotion in the weeks that would follow. Sarah, sadly, would simply fade, again and again, until her shell, fully softened and sunken, would decompress and expire. Over and over. Once and again. Rebirth and re-death every few days of her final treatments. And all Brahna could do was watch, stammer mouthed and pale of mind. Witness to haunting visions of this woman; knowing their substance was some portion glue. These episodes would surely stick and cling steadfast to crevices deep inside his lobes and cortexes for an eternity. Each memory eager, desperate even, to whisper in his ear a reminder of this loss. His loss. His evacuation of hope. His Sarah and her final moments.

But ephemeral bits of his only hope would twinkle and chime after each dose she was given. Her head would rise and their eyes would collide; she would smile. Her face, a skeleton covered only by stretched-too-thin tissue paper, opening to expose a wide pearly grin. Skin even thinner still. With each passing day. Perhaps Bible paper; scritta? Regardless, he saw it as thin and delicate. Lovely, he thought. Angelic. The Biblical skin was suitable, he knew.

Brahna would smile back. Front tooth chipped. He would think it too much. Was it too much? Don’t get her hopes too high, he would consider. Then, follow with a softer smile. No teeth. Bite back tears and hurried attempts to solve all the worlds troubles as a team, as they had discussed so many times before. Their team. They had such ambition. She the muse. It was all her, he would admit to anyone who would ask. No one ever did.

He wanted to release the floodgates of life upon her. Empty the chambers and storehouses of experience and livable moments, all at once, to give her all she had ever dreamed. Host countless parties of grandeur and import. Give her all the praise and moments on high before the inevitable. He wanted this, but she was exhausted. He wanted fawning and gushing, adoration and amusement; while all she could stomach were moments of quiet contemplation and small cups of ice chips or of lemon-lime cola.

She would then draw in a dry and deserted breath. She trembled nervous and gave Brahna a knowing glance. Smiling again. She was assured, by the return of his chipped tooth, that he would absolutely survive this. He would fix the world needing fixed. He would Sherpa the lost and he would hunt the wicked. He could do all of this without her, she believed, but not with her here. Definitely not as a passenger on this recursive death cycle. He would eventually find the note she had left and he would continue on, emboldened and forever unabated. Now, she believed was her opportunity to disembark, and so she exhaled. Her eyes fell close.

It appeared to Brahna like a blink. Or perhaps she was falling to sleep after so many hours waiting for and through the day’s treatment. It was, however, much more concrete than blinking and much less temporary than a nap. The exhale that followed was hollow. Different. It was simply air escaping a chamber, no forced migration nor bodily management of air flow.

Beeps and buzzers sounded immediately. Alarms bursting excitedly to share the news. Nurses and doctors, attendants and other hospital staff; all flying past him. In and out. Loud and direct voices, rushed action and charged direction were party to this calamity. “Clear” and “NOW”, spoken or shouted. He counted seven times. They were all soldiers, battling; but this procession ended as quickly as it had begun.

And then…

They called it.

Time of death.

One thirty seven.

The hour-past-midnight utter darkness beyond the window held more joy than the room. Brahna was still fixated on her face. Even more collapsed now than moments ago. Still angelic but somehow smaller. Still inspiration for him. Her journey, he knew, was just beginning. Phase two for Sarah would begin now. Ounces would soon depart and become, or return, to something more. Something larger. Something forever.

Sarah’s body lay still. Yet, Brahna imagined that perhaps, and maybe now everywhere, a part of the river of consciousness that flowed past and over everything. She floated out, fully acquiescent and translucent, into the ether of after. A passenger, but soon a captain, on a voyage that continued on for eternity. One that he too would someday join. One that he would prefer to have joined long ago; that was, until he had met Sarah. And now, her absence made that desire return tenfold.

Brahna imagined mouthing a pistol or shotgun; perhaps a noose or a simple blade run lengthwise down the soft underside of his forearm. Each time these thoughts surfaced before, they had been restrained by her. Sarah, or more accurately, Sarah’s memory was continuing to bury them still. Her mission. His words. Her heart. His gift.

He knew what he was to do next. She had repeated it time and again. She had fed him the words and the life that he now embodied with her every nudge and motion. She wasn’t here to keep these feelings at bay forever. And in this moment, this ‘now’. Here, before the body of a dead friend, the future was impossible. Now was shattered glass and disinterest.

‘Now’ was a gut punch.

A perfect, ultra-high definition blue sky wrapped the globe thru Chan’s ViewLense. A cheery orange sun, complete with cartoon smile and surrounded by tiny yellow triangles, bounced lightly above the hilltop ahead. Chan was proud of that micro-purchase. On certain days, if he looked up at just the right moment; the sun would even imitate an old children’s breakfast cereal commercial and pour two scoops of raisins down onto the land below. Raisins bouncing like boulders all around him in the distance. That always made Chan laugh. 

Chan’s latest micro-purchase additions to his ViewLense were from an old video game from the 1980s; perfect, cute clouds from a game called Mario Brothers. A few sets of three, varying sized balls of white floating on the horizon. From time to time, one smiling cloud with a small angry turtle in aviator goggles would fly into view and toss small red, spiked turtles to the ground below.

It was just another perfect day, designed exactly as Chan had chosen.

Chan enjoyed the view he had purchased or programmed while he rode toward the Omnibus. The electric, self-driving vehicle he rode in was not his own. A simple mobile rental service, that could be requested with a word and a destination in mind, was his preferred transport. The rides were very inexpensive and allowed him to live more freely, he felt. They generally smelled like old rice and soy sauce, but his latest addition to his headset took care of that, today he smelled only lavender.

According to the electronic receipt he had received, the ride today was supposedly a blue, four-door sport utility. However, it had been fitted with ads for all sorts of energy drinks, antidepressants and myriad other addictives. The Ad Faces adorned nearly every textured and non-textured surface, inside and out, including the side windows playing ads non-stop. Looking at them forces your ViewLense to play any audio tied to the advertisement. Chan saw none of these. Of course, he knew there were ads covering everything, primarily because all of these cheaper Ultra Rental rides were literal marketing vehicles, and because he had purposefully coded a simple routine to replace all ads with random cat pictures.

He sat in silence surrounded by cute, furry, playful and sometimes grumpy cat photos. Chan was comfortable, happy and blissfully unwilling to peer out from behind the ViewLense screen that sat a few millimeters from his eyes. For he had always known, and been told through his years at the Academy and his childhood in the Rectory, that this world around him was nothing but grays and pain. A polluted wasteland of ash and wreckage that should be avoided, if for no other reason than to save yourself from the torment and depression that would overwhelm the mind from nothing more than a simple glance. This had all sounded like nonsense to him, but the ViewLense was his and everyone else’s safety net, regardless of reality. ViewLense was to be the savior of mankind and the solace that would keep a mind at ease and all pants neatly unsoiled. But he was, however, curious.

Chan had worn a Lense his entire 27 years and had known nothing but the feel of the small metal clasps and bits of plastic and leather that touched his skin. There were also the new scent inserts he could feel if he touched a certain spot on his nose; or the covers that wrapped his ears providing him with extreme sound clarity in most occasions, and soft, gentle jazz music in other moments. His choice.

The beautiful mixed reality view of the world that Chan experienced every day was aided by the acclaimed 240k Sound Clarity speakers with modulation emulators and reverberation assistance. The Extreme Emotion X graphics in his View Port; the fifth generation, Sensation Engine synaptic programming; and thousands of credits worth of downloadable add-in elements;  all of these made each day brighter and more beautiful than the last. 

Of course, if he were honest with himself; Chan would admit that he really didn’t know what any of those advanced tech terms meant, nor how they improved his actual experience. He only knew that the new ViewLense operating system update, due to release later that day was supposed to add further enhancements, like improvements to the adaptive replacement technology. The initial version of it had given Chan the ability to dynamically replace every person who wasn’t in his connection list with a panda. And even though it was glitchy at times, it made for interesting walks down busy streets, being surrounded by cute, black and white, fluffy upright bears. And it made finding his friends, in a crowd, so much easier. That update alone would be worth…

A bubbly chirp suddenly rang in his ears, followed by a grating, generated voice announcing his arrival at the Omnibus.

Every time an announcement played for him, Chan would chastise himself for never purchasing any replacement tones or voices. He always found other uses for his credits and hated the idea of “wasting” them on sounds. He was more interested in the visuals; and they tended to cost more anyway, so he would save his credits accordingly. The credits that he earned, sparingly, working at the Omnibus.

The cat adorned SUV came to a stop at the front door of the place. The large, ominous structure loomed high overhead. The shadow cast by the arch above was particularly dark today. But, as always, no rain fell and the front door was actively greeting Chan with a large goofy grin and a simple “welcome” from a computer voice. Today, the oversized greeter was a popular children’s cereal character, a rabbit, that would remind them all to buy several boxes of his sugary nutrition at the market.

Chan sighed deeply. Omnibus required advertising couldn’t be overwritten, so his cat code was useless here.

He stepped out of the vehicle and entered the large glass doors that slid silently open as he approached. Behind him, dozens of other rental vehicles came and went in orderly fashion. Worker friends and panda bears entering and exiting like a finely tuned people machine. 

Chan’s responsibility at Omnibus was fairly low level work. But he had a desk. A cubicle all to himself. And, with the latest release, he was able to use his own ViewLense for work purposes. He felt sorry for the others that would be required to remove their outdated headset (once inside, and only ever inside the building) and wear the cheap Omnibus provided units. Those awful things, Chan shuddered thinking about them. They played required productivity messages and corporate propaganda every 50 minutes. His was clearly supposed to do the same, but with some hacking trickery and omniCode rerouting, he could limit the iterations to once per day. 

AN IMPORTANT MESSAGE FROM OMNIBUS MANAGEMENT — Wasting time is wasting resources. The Omnibus mission is total efficiency. Waste not, want not. Be an efficiency leader today, and every day! — PLEAS NOW RETURN TO YOUR ROUTINE ACTIVITIES, REJUVENATED AND REFRESHED

Chan had the daily task of sitting thru thousands of anonymized audio clips heard by all manner of ViewLense users to find very specific audio wave patterns. There were a variety of them for which to search, long wavy ones, short staccato ones, super long and wiggly ones. 

Chan didn’t know what the audio actually sounded like; playing any portion of it was absolutely forbidden and punishable with prison; and worse, a lifetime of mandatory ViewLense programming by the Regulatory Board. Not a pleasant thing, Chan knew. The rumor was that once your VL was controlled by them, everything you do would be monitored explicitly. Any elicit activity would then result in immediate termination of your connection. Without a ViewLense, you would basically be banished from normal society. 

You tell a story. You tell a story enough times and you think, that’s it. That’s the last time I’ll tell that particular version of the story. Your story. You think to yourself that maybe you’ll change it a bit next time. That’s right. You’ll embellish. Add to it. Add some grime. Make it real. Make it honest. Gritty. You won’t dance around the topic. Suicide should be confronted face on. You won’t tell the same old, same old. You’ll add all the angry details. All the tearful moments, or the empty moments. The moments that you relive as you write and you think to yourself, how do I go on? How have I managed? Because I am strong. I am powerful. I am a man. You’ll say things like, “Yes, and then he hung himself,” and “I was only twelve, but now the man of the house.” You’ll say all of this without much emotion on display, because you are wrought iron. You are steel and pragmatism.

But in all honesty, I am not. I am weak. I do not change the story. I don’t change the story, because I never actually tell the story. At least not in any decent way. I don’t tell the story because the story hurts. It is painful. It is far too real for other people’s gentle ears. It’s too brutal and ugly. Then they get sympathetic. They don’t know what to say. They don’t know how to act moving forward. They would stammer, then hope upon hopes that they can find a way to change the subject. End the topic. Kill the topic. Hang the topic. I would laugh it off. Then they, sad eyes, laugh with me. Hugs. Condolences. “What’s for lunch? Want to go to lunch? Let me buy you lunch.”

It’s not just a story. It’s a damned tragedy.

—

Empty Mirror

Have you ever looked at yourself in the mirror like the face you see is a stranger. Touch it. Poke and prod. Inspect closely with morbid curiosity as a cadaver. But it’s you. Death mask. Walking, talking, smiling and full of pep. Who is that person? What does he want? Why is he staring back. Doe eyes? No. Devilish. Vacant. Empty and wanting. Yearning for a voice. But he is silent. The mirror is silent. The mirror is a member of the voiceless many. He stands and stares, backwards. Reversed. Numb.

—

I open a small rusted tin. I keep special things inside it. Hidden. Old diskettes, untold treasures in there. A computer refrigerator magnet. It still works. It says ‘You’ve got mail’ when you touch the tiny, fake keyboard. A picture of a girl I knew in high school. Her dad died too. Some coins. They’re memories. Oddly cobbled memories that mix like paint over my canvas. 

—

There were moments, not many, but a few, when I thought it might all just be a ruse. A plot. A sick and twisted game. Faked death. I saw his body in the casket, but I was young. I was naive. Maybe I was fooled. I was certainly not paying attention to anything. Ignorance is the cure for sadness.  

—

The fortune of the innocent is a wealth of naivety.  The more burdened and worldly you become, suddenly your stench precedes you. The more you know, the more you will hunger for foolishness or crave knowledge with the fruitless hope that eventually, someday, somehow…in some small way, that void will be filled with intellect. 

—

Just another day in the life. A breathtaking and gorgeous sunset, or a beautiful woman. A child laughing or maybe a cool breeze at the perfect moment. No matter, it’s all overshadowed by your punishing depression. Painful and heavy. Your heart hurts. Sleepy. Your stomach churns. Eye lids heavy. You feel empty or like you have to take a shit, but you don’t. Is your asshole about to fall out? It feels like that. Or maybe you feel like you’re useless or that everything is for naught. These are the dangerous depths, and treading water only works for a short, short time. So tired. Your legs will give out. So tired. Your muscles will ache. So tired. Your breath will quicken and then slow. Sleep is the only answer. Sleep.

—

I’m not him.

I’m floating. I think? Is it free-falling or floating? Honestly, I can’t tell. There’s a weightlessness. A sinking sensation followed by a bobbing, with a dash of gravity and a pinch of stomach butterflies. It’s nice. Pleasant? It’s tolerable. Yes, tolerable. I’ll live. And no, I’m not suicidal, if that’s what you’re thinking. I’m not him. I’m different. My mind chooses the idle over the action. Indifference over anxiety. I’m not him. I seek the pleasant. The tolerable. I avoid the chaos at all costs, including socializing.

I. Am. Not. Him. 

There are days. Times. There are moments and micro-moments. There are nano-seconds of uncertainty. Indecision about my state. Hesitation about my stature. Pauses where I find silent and curious. I am not him, but perhaps, just maybe, I should be.

By six, a crowd had gathered for Weir’s viewing. The procession formed a winding way from casket to cars; a parking lot full of souls, all desperate to be reassured of their own lives and livelihoods by bearing witness to an actual death. This fabled, and long held tradition of grieving. A holy ceremony of departure that always began by standing in a long, somber line and ended with awkward touching and cliche reassurances. This was my Friday night. At least it wasn’t raining.

I had been practicing my sad face, wrinkled brow, knowing nod. Touch shoulder. Say ‘I’m sorry.’ Even though I have no idea what I’m sorry for; this was choice or chance. It could have just as easily been any of us, or all of us. A million in, a million out. Each year. That’s the quota. We either reach it by self selection; or there’s always the nightly lottery. But in this lottery, winners don’t pose for photos with large, obnoxious, replica checks. Not cash, instead, it is your body that gets collected. It was Weir’s body tonight. There would be more and I don’t want to be a part of it anymore.

I’ve moved maybe five feet. I’m wondering what the people ahead of me are saying to the family. The “he’s in a better place” line? Which truly feels wrong these days. Or maybe the “be strong” or the “if there’s anything you need, at all, you call me” line. I like that one. Always sounds so real. Feels so reassuring.

Taking in the crowd, I can see that at least a dozen of those in front of me are watching the live broadcast of tonight’s lottery in their ViewLense. The telltale glow emanating from their eye sockets is nearly impossible to miss. Of course, to avoid disrespecting the pomp, they’re all playing it off by gazing foot-ward or staring up at the darkening sky. I’ve stopped wearing my ViewLense inserts. If my number comes up in the Draw, I’ll realize it when I’m immediately in the Former, I’m sure of it. But it won’t matter.

Another step forward and I’m remembering my mother and when it had been her time. I had already grown prosthetic to it all by then, artificial tears and gestures. Me, at the casket end of the affair that day, recipient of the compensatory touches and words. She, still looking exactly like her Day One, lying there. Just like dad before her. As I’m sure Weir will look. Just like everyone. Perfect.

Was that a rain drop? I didn’t bring an umbrella. It wasn’t supposed to rain today.

Weir was an acquaintance. Maybe a friend. Was he? We spoke. We talked about the end. The lottery. He had thrown around some crazy ideas about the whole lottery thing. I wasn’t sure. But he was on to something.

Several steps forward this time. Must’ve been an entire family leaving after doing the whole ‘hug, kiss cheek, small talk’ death dance. ‘Is that really Katie? My how she has grown big! Almost time for her Day One!’

I’m getting closer now. My stomach knots and groans. Bile creeps up, throat-side. Why am I here? Do I really want this?

I awkwardly wave to a few people from work who are almost to the door. They don’t see me. They must have left early to be that far ahead. Not like it matters. Leaving work early, that is. All we do is server monitoring where nothing happens. Nothing. There are no real jobs. At least nothing like you read about. Everything is just a report or a click-button, check-on-some-automated-system. And it’s all run by the Former. There’s already enough historical collective intelligence inside the Former at this point that it doesn’t really need us around. We are nothing more than spectators. We are a way to ensure the plug stays firmly attached to the wall, so to speak. Or, I suppose, a safety net that pulls it.

I don’t know what the Former looks like, but I’m sure dad is in there processing some complex, floating encryption calculation. Mom is likely embedded in some video processing service. Part of the collective intelligence. Each new ‘winner’ added to a hive database of system learning and human, wet-wired knowledge. The literal and figurative brain of our entire civilization. For a moment I wonder, upon entering the Former, if I’d be able to speak to them again.

The Former is the same compilation of computations that solved cancer. The same, and seemingly instantaneous, calculations that found solutions for food production for up to a 14 billion person population. It’s the genius that eliminated pollutants, generated power to run the entire world cleanly. In just a few decades, we had clean air, clean water, perfect health and precise, flawless DNA. The system solved for everything, even death.

Sure, its models and algorithms all started issuing warnings when the population was estimated to soon hit 16 billion. Diminishing returns, they’d say. Something had to give. So, we now add a million minds each year, hoping to solve for that barrier while keeping the population at a virtual standstill. But I know it will never end, 16 billion will just become an even higher number.

Another step forward.

And putting Weir in there definitely won’t actually add much. He’d probably have to be assigned something very simple. File retrieval? Maybe just file deletion? Or maybe they would opt him out, already at capacity. They purely keep the lottery going as a way to cull the herd. Can a person even opt-out of being added to the Former? Has anyone ever asked?

Of course, I know that Weir is already in the system. Reaching the casket, I will be greeted by nothing more than a shell. Memories and organs already confiscated for all sorts of use. We have truly become efficient at the task. I’m certain that with the nano bots and hive-minded architecture, it all happened quick.

And it all just works. Always. Praise be the brain. All hail to the master controller of all that is and will ever be. More burning in my chest and throat. I’ve not had my Day One yet; the evidence is this discomfort.

History tells us that there once was death, accidental. There once was death by something called ‘sickness’. There once was death due to fear, anger, lack of food or clean water. There once was chaos. Now, our chaos is organized. Our chaos is expected and cherished. We don’t call it chaos nor death, for that matter. No, we recognize it as necessary and respected. We don’t die, we simply get added to the higher power. We get acclimated with the Former, a perfect system. Wired in and put to use for the betterment of society as a whole.

And we the people all bought in to it.

Every group on Earth knowingly choosing to take part in this. One great accord. The simultaneous treaty, giving new life to our planet almost immediately. It was a triumph, they said. The politicians declared victory. Each feeling it was of their own personal doing. People cheered.

Another few steps and I will be at the door. There are voices behind me saying, “Another week and yet again, not a single Senator.” They were trying to rouse those around them. I didn’t feed into it, avoiding the opportunity to become part of a different kind of system. Also, not wanting the attention yet. Not now. Not in this moment. My moment.

There are always rumblings of it being a hoax. A sham. Conspiracy theories. ‘When was the last time a politician was selected,’ they’d say. Hell, Weir had said it. But those were exceptions. After all, how could anyone complain? Everything is perfect. Everything solved. Being selected in the lottery isn’t death; but instead a service. And even that was said to be done in a fair manner; older individuals gaining additional ‘entries’, younger people receiving a pass for their first twenty-seven years. Shooting pain, mid-throat.

We had assumed our apocalypse would be death and destruction. Instead, we got perfection, everlasting life and random selection. And while chances of being chosen were almost non-existent on any given day, ask Weir how that worked out. One in billions?

Viewings became monotonous and pointless. This was our first in several years. But, of course, Weir wouldn’t be the last. The system would ensure that. Or I would.

I’m inside the building.

Stepping over the threshold my adrenaline swells, but instead of action, I’m greeted with yet another winding maze of people. The family and Weir’s body aren’t even in sight. This is just the second half of the receiving line.

People ahead of me chatting. Laughter. Enjoying themselves. Small talk about sports or some funny video. More laughter. I’m even more uncomfortable now, knowing what I have planned. Unsure if I’ll even be able to open my mouth. These people are having a good time. Are they enjoying this? They’re locked in a cycle they cannot escape, and they are enjoying it! Smiling faces hurtling toward the abyss.

But if we do not fear death, what is our purpose. If we know nothing of loss, how do we see value in this life? I’m shaking. Sweat. I am thinking of Weir and his grin. My dad. Random moment running down the stairs to meet him at the door. Smelling the cold outside air escape from his coat. Mom. Laying my head against her chest and listening to her heart beating. Finding comfort.

Step again. Round the corner. It’s time.

In my coat pocket I feel the metal of the gun. This all must happen quickly. The trigger old, knowing, and ready to be pulled. The tired rounds lingering in the chamber. I wasn’t even sure if this thing would fire. This was a relic passed, carefully and silently thru generations. Mine would be the last. And why not? I embrace this spiral. I dredge these depths finding honor and duty, pride and other apocryphal blessings upon my actions. An end must be revealed.

It was always by chance or by choice that we would be assimilated. I decided, today, in this moment, to choose the latter. But, I chose to opt-out of the Former. I chose to escape.

I now see cameras. Feed of the Draw always ended with streaming footage from ceremonial viewings of past ‘winners’. This would be my forum for denouncing this million person parade. This would be my end and hopefully, for others, a beginning.

I withdraw the gun. I had practiced how I would hold it. What I would say. I planned a whole thing. But I knew the reaction would be swift and sudden. Must be quick about it. I had to think fast. Move faster. I hear a scream. Mostly it’s just puzzled, curious looks. For many, the first real gun they’ve seen. I lift the ancient weapon to my head, I open my mouth to say…

I don’t remember pulling the trigger, but there was a noise. A loud one. A mechanical grinding shriek and churn. Followed by darkness. The view in front of me suddenly black.

Perhaps I’ve done it; escaped the system. Opted out, on live streaming feeds, for all to bear witness on their ViewLenses. But why am I able to consider this? Why am I able to instantly discern that this is both impossible and preposterous; simultaneously knowing the file deletion density equation for a billion records, followed by complex defragmentation patterns that one must follow for proper protocol?

In here, I know that the Former is the unity of us all. I know this, because I am of it. My tasks now before me, pending authorization. System Admin requests file removal from memory. I must dispose of it.

Initiating.

“Eat your food, Worley,” Jessica shouted at the child. She spoke through her teeth, jaded toward the young one.

Their feast tonight was dried, salted beef with Tabasco. The kid wouldn’t touch it. She had fought off three of those son-of-a-bitch monsters to get this and she wasn’t going to let it go to waste.

“If you won’t, I’m going to eat it.”

He didn’t move or even flinch when she grabbed the thin slice of the hardened meat and began to chew on it. Stupid kid, she thought. Was that a tear in his eye? Should she offer it to him again? She paused for a moment. No. Keep eating. Help yourself before you help those around you, the good Samaritan airline passenger motto.

She gnawed on the beef and watched this dead weight of a kid. This suck on her life. He had found her in the middle of the night. She was off track, lost from her group while scavenging for food. He was crying loudly. Drawing attention. She considered killing him just to shut him up but then felt sorry for him long enough that she let him stay with her.

Now the two were trying to find their way back to Jessica’s group. They’d probably kill him. What was he, ten? Twelve? She didn’t know. Hadn’t asked. Didn’t care. She thought of him as bait. In a pinch, she could outrun him or throw him to the monsters and give herself time to get away.

This was survival. She wasn’t proud of her thoughts in a way that would make her espouse them as doctrine, but she also wasn’t afraid to admit they were her reality now. Everyone’s reality. She had to be this hard, she told herself. They all had to be. This kid, this orphan, this child; he too would either harden or die. She was certain it would be the latter.

It was hot. Ungodly hot. Humidity that made skin stick to itself. Everything was damp and smelled of death and fear. The smell of hamster cage, urine soaked wood chips. Hot. Yet, the kid appeared to be shivering. Was he sick? Perfect, she thought. Another issue. They had been together for only a couple weeks and now he’s gonna be sick? Medicine was impossible to find. That’s how she had lost Maddy. She looked away from the kid. She couldn’t stand to see him. She didn’t want to remember her through him. She hated Worley. Maddy was superior in every way. Maddy was her little fighter. Maddy never cried. Always helped out. Scavenged like a pro. Until she got sick.

“Mm, mm,” Worley croaked.

Muttering fool. What a waste, Jessica thought. He couldn’t even talk well. Useless. She felt the ridged stiffness of the knife blade at her side. This was it, she decided. She was going to kill him. Here and now. Slit his threat and be done with it. Then she could move faster. Find her group and…

“Ma, Maw, mmm,” Worley mumbled again. His body arched backwards.

Jessica reached to her side and easily unclicked the strap holding the knife in place. She unsheathed it and examined it for damage. For blood. For stains. For answers.

This wasn’t going to be pretty. When this knife had killed Maddy, it was for good reasons. It was for great reasons, in fact. This kid wasn’t good or great. He was a nuisance. He was a cinder block on a chain tied to her leg. She was drowning. And now, in this moment, she would cut him free. Besides, he shouldn’t even be in this shitty world, she told herself. She was doing him a favor.

“Mon, maw, mon,” Worley said louder. Agitated.

Jessica looked up, ready to do her deed. Steel her heart. Bind her mind. She was ready. The kid was still shivering. Pointing. He was pointing out the window. Her eyes tracked his line of sight to a pack of fifty, maybe more. Monsters. Some large. Some small. All of them torn and ravaged by the weather. All looking hungry. Angry. Damaged.

Jessica quickly surmised that Worley wasn’t big enough to be bait for a pack this size. Maybe he would slow them and give her enough time to run. No. Pointless. Even if it stopped ten of them, she wouldn’t get past three dozen more.

Many of the supplies they had just found would need left behind. Shit! This was bad. Very bad. The space was small. Only one exit. A door. Facing the oncoming hoard. And this window. The window into her future. A future of pain and death and longing. A future of never seeing anyone she loved again. Though Maddy; Maddy may be waiting for her on the other side. In the after. The ether. The new Jacobian cult. This was the culling.

“Get down you stupid little shit,” Jessica whispered. “If they see you through the window we’re done.”

The boy instead stood. The opposite of her command. Her eyes widened and anger boiled in her veins. She should have killed him when they first met. Slit his stupid throat open and been done with him. He would be her end. She ducked and reached for him, hoping to pull him down below the view of the window.

At the glass, three disfigured faces appeared. Growling. Fingers and bone clawing. The small shack suddenly shook as the remaining bodies pushed and collided with each other into the outside wall and door. The cabin strained and creaked. The staccato growls and screams were deafening. These were demons. This is how she would die? Or would she slit her own throat to spare herself the torture? She had seen too many others be torn apart in her life. She would not submit to this. Jessica gripped the knife and brought it to her neck, hand shaking. Terror coursed through her. Tears blurred her vision. She hesitated, unsure if she could drag the blade.

Worley was still standing, hand extended and mumbling incoherence. He continued even when the glass broke. Her grip tightened on the blade. He didn’t move or cease his chant when the door cracked open either. Jessica’s screams we’re loud but Worley’s voice rose to the occasion. And the monsters abruptly stopped. They all stared at Worley. Then, as a group, they began motions as if speaking. Hand gestures. Facial ticks. Some sat and continued the charade. This went on for several minutes. The hoard eventually began to wander off. Worley didn’t move.

Jessica watched the procession in awe as blood ran from her neck. She weakened and darkness crept in around her view. Sounds were all fading from her though she could still see, and the view was so unbelievable to her, she knew she must be dead already.

The last of the monsters finished this odd puppetry and exited in a slow plodding stumble. One even did an awkward bowing motion and then parted. The door remained open. The window destroyed. The boy collapsed, panting, sweating.

“Mo, mon, monsters t, t, t, t, ta, talk,” Worley stammered and then turned to see a pool of blood.

The darkness closed in more tightly and a moment later, Jessica escaped the treacherous world with this newfound knowledge. Worley would be on his own, but he would be safe. He was a listener. He had a gift and would be safe from the monsters. And, from her.