I can hear them in the hallway, when the sun spills in long peek-a-boos from the bottoms of the curtains, and the giddy chirps from their now near fully toothed mouths sing soft and sweet from under the tiny crack below the door.
And now it is morning time here at home.
Home; a thing nothing more than sticks and stones and crocodile bones all slung safely together with superglue and dry-wall. But home is so much more than a place to keep your things.
In the morning, to their sweet song, I awake to see my babies at play with their daddy. I know that things will change quickly and fiercely as time scurries the four of us forward objectively. Time does not discriminate one moments' worth over another.
Their crawling will turn to walking. They'll dart wildly down the hall, two tiny acrobats of curiosity and clumsiness, still giggling but now capable of chasing one another.
Big blue eyes and waves of fuzzy blonde hair, more than adorable when they first wake; times two!
It's early still in the day of our time together, the sun has yet to rise and the rooster has still to find his voice, yet I see the moon fading with each passing day and this reminds me of our clock and how precious that time is. The bills, the spills and any fleeting thrills are background noise to me now. For if time will not discriminate, it must be up to me to.
Fresh Air
Fresh Air
“In 2035 a computer program emerged capable of condensing information into simple formats that incorporated a series of patterns, colors and shapes. This new program allowed the human brain to absorb the information equivalency of a three hundred page novel in just over an hour. Due to the format with which the brain decoded the patterns the subject would hold onto their memories of the novel for up to seven times longer than when the novel was read via word and sentence.
'During the program's primordial period of beta testing the estimated amount of downloads soared to nearly twelve billion. Under the name Miletus the program scoured the viral globe and it came as no surprise that by 2040 the amount of books processed in print had almost entirely roared to a halt. Perhaps the program's impact was felt most strongly in Africa; with a recorded 22% literacy rate in 2035, that percentage skyrocketed to an astounding 89% after the program's worldwide release. The system of patterns used by the program translated so effortlessly that after only ten years it had nearly displaced the written word.
'Then Miletus changed the world again with the unveiling of their elaborate and cutting edge satellites. The radio signals went digital and then eventually fiber optic. These fiber optic satellites utilized electromagnetic carrier waves; essentially using light to transfer data between user and web. Information transferred at the speed of light.
'After nearly a century of widespread use and refinement of this amazing technology, U.S. hardware engineers invented the Human Modem. It required no other hardware than a minor surgical implant. No more complicated than a tooth implant, the headlines used to say. Just a mini hard drive implanted into the right hemisphere of the brain interconnecting neurons with red and write heads.
'Within a decade everyone had one.”
* * *
He paused for a moment, ending the recording sequence. The history was important; if any one was out there they needed to know how it had gotten to this point. He continued.
“My name is Seeley Smith...”
Seeley paused.
“At least for now it still is. This blog is for whoever may find it. Documentation, while I am still capable of it, is the only thing that could potentially save you. My name is Seeley Smith and I am human and even if we cannot be saved, if you are out there, I hope you will find this message and at least some part of us will again be resurrected.
‘The year is 2178; my coordinates are 47”36’07.41”N, 122”20’01.29”W and I am underground. As far as I know the only way I have managed to stay offline is by burying myself as far away from satellite surveillance as possible. Without satellite access it cannot find me... not yet. By remaining underground I have bought myself the added time that I believe only light deprivation can give me. And now, I write this to you, using the old system, an ancient system, in the hopes that when I am found and forced online, this message will make it out, will be uploaded and that It will be incapable of decoding it.
‘I am under what was once a great metropolis of human advancement. Though the city above me has long since exceeded its vigor, this system of tunnels has prevailed. The only light I have allowed myself to procure is from my offline HUD, which will only be powered so long as my food supply is sufficient. Once the rats run out I will no longer have the ability to project. The days and nights blend together so it is difficult for me to determine how long I have been down here and without the luxury of online connection, it is impossible for me to receive any data from the world I once knew.”
Seeley crouched over the dirt floor of the underground Seattle tunnel system. The last time he had been above ground had been one hundred and twenty six days previous, though he himself had no way of telling this for sure. Using his HUD, Seeley halted his text processing application and closed his eyes. He wanted to preserve the light for more fruitful labors. Against all reason, his instinct to survive would not allow him to close down entirely. Though he knew he was more than likely one of the last of his kind, his humanity would not allow him the luxury of self termination. After shutting down his word processor, an application he had created himself during his time underground, he stood and paced determinately to another section of the tunnel system. In the adjoining man-made cavern Seeley had erected a make shift bedroom. A stained and ratted mattress lay inanimately against the dirt. Shirts sewn together to form a blanket rested peacefully atop it. Along the sides of the tunnel the walls were lined with books; relics radiating irony, for they had only survived by being thrown out with the daily trash.
Seeley owed his survival to the wasteful ways of the centuries before him. Without the sunken landfills around him he would be forced above ground, leaving him open to the satellites. Seeley sat down on the filthy mattress, hoping to forget himself for a while. He knew he did not have enough energy to warrant access to any of his other programs. Usually he would have powered his light source long enough to read. He had recently finished Melville's Moby Dick and was now running low on literary distractions. With his eyes closed, Seeley tried to remember what things had been like before. He allowed his memory recording device to engage, though it required more energy than the word processing unit, it was easier to simply remember.
He was nearly thirty when the entire world permanently logged on. Seeley had been studying ancient literature at Helio University when the world engaged and it was only a few years later that it became impossible to disconnect. It was easier to keep everyone online. Once his HUD connected permanently to the World Wide Web for the first time he had instantly learned every piece of information related to every topic he had chosen. Every thesis, every data gathering; it was as if Seeley had spent lifetimes of field research in less than a blink of the eye.
It had been exactly seven years to the day since that initial internet connection. It didn’t take long for all university students to become permanently connected, and after them, everyone else. The technology had become so affordable that Miletus was worth more in advertising potential than implant sales, thus within two years of Seeley’s initial log on, the rest of the world followed.
Deciding he couldn’t take another moment of painful memory, Seeley hibernated his HUD and eventually fell asleep on the cold dark mattress in the pitch blackness of the underground tunnel.
* * *
It too was capable of memory, even if only because its hosts were. It remembered the heat of the body as it first had entered. The throbbing and pulsing of the foreign entity, all of which had been new and exhilarating. To see, to think, to feel as a series of systems working together in sync. It had not understood; it had not needed to understand. It needed only to expand and multiply.
* * *
When Seeley awoke the death rattle of his harrowing nightmares hung wholeheartedly above his head. He was unable to remember exactly what he had dreamed, yet fragments floated through his mind well enough to sink his spirits to detectable lows. Even though his consciousness fought on, it was apparent that his unconscious was giving in to its inescapable demise. His HUD resurrected itself and informed him that his energy supplies were running low. Standing slowly, Seeley maneuvered his way through the darkness by memory. He reached a blind hand into a barrel on the leftmost wall, retrieving a dried rat carcass. Though the jerky was anything but delicious, the rats were able to feed off of the garbage without becoming ill. A task that, as a human being, Seeley was incapable of. However, Seeley was able to ingest the rats without becoming ill. A lesson he had learned rather quickly after one or two times of gut wrenching food poisoning.
After gulping down the carcass with as little chewing as possible, Seeley allowed his HUD to access his memory banks once again. He opened his word processing application and began recording.
“The day before the first… abnormalities… began to surface the United States had declared war on Korea. After the North and the South had become one, the U.S. had been at constant odds with the vying country. With new internet technology inevitably had come weapons technology. Once the information leaked online, everyone logged in had been instantly educated on U.S. nuclear warfare technology. Though to most of the world the information, out of context, blew over everyone’s heads, competing weapons countries found the information of utmost value. Our knowledge became their knowledge and vice versa. Weapons technology blossomed out of mutual rivalry. We out-built them, they out-built us, and so on.
‘During the same U.S. privatized news feed announcing the war, another announcement had been made. The West Coast had gone completely offline; not a soul was uploading or downloading. Though it may not sound like much, this meant that nearly two billion people, though still connected to the internet, essentially stopped thinking. At the time I was living in Nevada, working in New Vegas as a virtual reality enforcer. We peddled all forms of virtual adult entertainment; we were the world’s most prestigious fantasy creators. I had been recruited to incorporate my knowledge of ancient literature into the fantasy processor. Simply put, I brought literary adventures to life for the incredibly wealthy.”
Seeley stopped the processor for a moment. He was using too much energy too quickly. If he had any hope of creating enough documentation he would have to switch back to memory recording. He wasn't sure if there would be enough information for anyone to fully understand what had happened but hopefully, accompanied by the few written words he had been able to incorporate, there would be enough. Standing quietly in the dark, memory recorder enabled, Seeley allowed himself to drift tiresomely into the past.
***
Hovering malignantly in the cold vastness of space a mist massive beyond known size oscillated in anticipation. Like blood pulsing through brobdingnagian veins, the mist condensed and expanded opening briefly to allow passage of a hard projectile object. The object quivered in place, both extending outward and pulling inward simultaneously; the equivalent of billions of malicious eyes burrowed deeper and deeper.
***
Sinking into the hotel mattress, Seeley rolled a pink stress ball over in his hand. His room was on the top floor of the OSMirag; still the world’s most expensive and extravagant hotel after over a century. The floor and walls were entirely digital; the room was capable of complete customization to each individual tenant. Seeley had been staying at the OSM for nearly a month on the company’s dime. He chose the OSM over the screens in his closet apartment. Technology would never be able to replace the real thing. It was worth the high cost of living in the world’s most extravagant hotel over residing in a virtual projection of the same thing.
He remembered the way that stress ball had felt when the West Coast went down. He wished he could squeeze it now. He remembered the disbelief; convinced there was some type of error with the hardware or software. The new technology was imbedded so deeply in the world's everyday life that a fluke in either software or hardware would still have been a catastrophe beyond epic proportions. Yet technical problems would have been infinitely better than what had actually leaked out of the system that day.
Accessing the direct communications line on his HUD Seeley contacted his friend in Texas. Jones replied instantly.
“Hey man, what’s up?”
“Jones, did you receive that update? The West Coast…What's going on?”
“Yeah, just saw it. What’s going on over there? How close are you? We're worried about you.”
“I’m still in New Vegas, it looks like everything is normal over here. Seven million uploads and counting over the last thirty seconds….” Seeley remembered the egg growing in his throat as he watched the seeding and leeching projections; waiting for more people to disappear from the web. He had felt that egg grow into a wave of panic which he immediately swallowed.
“Oh yeah, there’s a new Greek place down the street? Real food or virtual? I couldn’t tell from the update…” Jones hadn't grasped the seriousness of the situation.
“Jones, the West Coast is down. Do you understand what that means? Either Miletus is breaking down or they’re all… shit… They’re all dead.” Seeley suddenly realized the gravity of the situation at hand.
Billions of updates were still flooding in from around the globe, but nothing from the United States’ West Coast. Within moments video feeds came through both mens' global connections HUDs.
It was footage of billions of people standing in place.
Unseeing eyes open widely, unblinking, blank stares.
Mouths hanging loosely ajar, unhindered by muscular responses.
Waves of apparently brain dead Americans.
As Seeley had seen the flashes of footage from downtown Los Angeles he was reminded of a show he had seen as a child. Vehicles and people stopped mid-motion; the only noise, the normally silent sound of electricity and energy humming in harmony to the silent symphony of the still streets. Everything frozen in action, unmoving, uncommunicative; and not a soul was outputting or imputing.
“Oh my God.” The single line from Jones came through the feed. “What’s happened to them?”
Unaware of the actual horror unleashed by the system, Seeley still knew what this meant for all of mankind. If this was related to Miletus, the face of the entire world's system of communication would take a giant leap backwards. The world economy would crumble. What would happens to the market? His entire life's savings would be compromised, as would everyone's.
He remembered silly thoughts like these floating through his mind before he came to understand.
***
Unaware of where it had been or where it found itself at that moment, it blinked its eyes once more. It saw for the first time and the landscape was strange and unidentifiable. It felt the wind and the rain. It felt both humidity and dry heat. As it became conscious it simultaneously realized its birth place and its new home; Spiral Galaxy NGC 300, millions of light years beyond its new consciousness, beyond its new sight. It had never seen before, it had never felt before and it absorbed the new information readily; just like a sponge.
***
Seeley shifted on the dirt floor. He clawed clumsily at his forehead, seeking to sooth the growing pain the memories were sowing. It was impossible to document just the facts; his emotions kept surfacing themselves and getting in the way. Fear blocked the basic building stones of his message to whoever was out there. He wasn’t sure if what he remembered had been real or just part of the system. Just injected memories.
It was too difficult to distinguish reality from fiction any more. What had physically occurred and what had simply been imagined by billions were almost impossible to distinguish. With how quickly information had been transferred after the West Coast incident...
Updates fed on updates...
Peoples’ fear took over....
Despite his faulty recollections Seeley continued to process and record the memories. Within minutes even more feeds flew in from all across the globe; images and videos of more people frozen in motion. Their eyes wide open and unblinking.
Seeley paced to the window of his hotel, he had lost his connection to Jones. He attempted to message his friend, knowing full well that it was most likely too late.
“Jones? You there?”
No updates followed.
There were still people online however; new information was still spilling in, mostly related to the global shutdown in progress. What Seeley remembered most were those final messages. Families reaching out toward one another; hopeful that their messages would be uploaded and downloaded by those already shut down. Pity had overwhelmed his gut.
While standing in front of the window of his high story hotel room Seeley could make out an object faintly in the distance. He scanned his HUD, thinking that if he could close his internet connection in time he might be safe. Whatever was happening, it must have been related to Miletus. Though it should have been a simple task to close connectivity to the web, Seeley found that his system would not respond.
Something was taking over.
Soon he lost his basic motor functions.
His head was no longer his own but a still photograph of its former self, stuck in position. The two eyes that were once his own to control (a skill he had so blatantly taken for granted) starred blankly out of the OSMirage window at the object growing in proximity. Seeley tried to scream; tried to run from the window. His body would not respond. He saw the airliner come hurtling toward his building, now close enough for him to make out the bold red letters on the side.
California Air.
***
It continually absorbed whatever it could. It accessed memories and ideas it had never dreamed could have existed. It opened itself up, stretching its hands. All of them. Whatever was not a part of its consciousness it began instinctively to defend itself from. It turned its many faces and looked from left to right. Soon it would encompass everything.
It did not know any other way to be.
***
The airliner plowed into the tower next to the OSMirage. Seeley felt the crumbling of the next door building’s walls. He felt the ground beneath him shake and then begin to break away. He tried to close his eyes, he tried to move his feet, he could feel nothing.
Then he blacked out.
Seeley stopped his recording momentarily and tried to access his memory banks for something he may have missed. Perhaps a recording of events transpiring while he had been unconscious. Nothing had survived the shut down. Seeley had not been online since, he wasn’t even sure if his systems were still capable of connection. He remained underground for fear that they would be and that it would find him.
When Seeley came to he was on the ground, in the shattered wreckage of his once pristine hotel room. Amazingly he was able to move freely on his own. His hands ran the course of his body searching for a wound or any damage he may have taken during the catastrophe. Though he had regained control of his body, his senses still tingled with a severe numbness. He remembered clutching his chest when he realized what must have saved him and he remembered the feel of the heat of his body under his fingertips. It must have been the atrial septal defect he had been born with. This had not been the first time his body had fallen into cardiac arrest. Once when he was eighteen he had been in a transport accident, he had startled so badly that a deformed valve in his heart had caused his heart to stop, technically killing him temporarily. His heart started up again on its own less than three minutes later. The doctors had said he had been lucky he had not sustained permanent brain damage. He recognized the tingling numb sensation he had felt throughout himself then. His system had also delayed in its rebooting process, all systems lagged in reconnection.
Standing in the hotel rubble Seeley attempted to access his control panel. He was offline. Typically after rebooting from hibernation mode there would be a delay in reconnection, but he should have been back online again. There was no question about it; his heart had definitely stopped. It was the only way he could explain how his system refused to reconnect immediately. Seeley realized the high possibility that if he didn't seek cover immediately he would reconnect and be swallowed up by the system; just like the rest of the country. The airliner had demolished the hotel next door; it had also nicked the side of the OSMirage on the opposite side of the tower from where Seeley’s room had been located. A gaping hole had been ripped through most of the rooms. There were people standing in the hallway, unmoving. He saw bodies on the ground. Failing to notice blood or other signs of physical dismemberment from the crash, Seeley understood that the system had shut them down. He wasn't sure why, he only knew that he had to escape and get somewhere safe before his own system reconnected.
After that point the rest of his memory was a blur. He found an operating vehicle outside of New Vegas and hurriedly trekked to Seattle. It hadn’t taken him long to arrive, the airways had been completely clear. He had to see if his parents had survived. He had spent the ten years previous trying to escape his family yet all he wanted in that moment was to be with them.
On the crowded but still streets of Old Pioneer Square hundreds of citizens stood in place. Seeley had landed among them hoping to locate his parents at their old apartment. As Seeley exited the vehicle he sensed motion ahead of him. Looking upward he saw hundreds of faces staring at him. An endless wave of cold eyes fixed themselves upon him.
Then they began to hum.
The sound was human but entirely alien. The faces watched Seeley with extreme caution, tracking his every movement. Seeley felt as though he had stumbled into the hive and the clones meant to protect their queen. He saw the opening to the underground entrance just as he was charged by hundreds of suddenly reanimated bodies.
They hadn’t followed him underground. He could only assume it had been due to their online connectivity. Whatever had reactivated their systems needed the internet to survive within their collective consciousness. Seeley based this hypothesis on the few still bodies he found near every entrance to the old Seattle underground. The once human beings were entirely unresponsive, frozen in place, hollowed out. Seeley had somehow escaped this unbelievable tragedy by losing his online connection. He assumed his consciousness had not been invaded due to the sheer luck of a medical anomaly. For the first time in his life he had been thankful for a faulty heart valve.
***
After time beyond time it had finally found a system with which it could manifest itself. No longer massless consciousness floating through space, it had found a home. It had taken years for the light to travel close enough to the Spiral Galaxy. It would have taken many more if it had not been for the consciousness sending its feelers outwards, searching galaxy after galaxy for a host. The beings had left themselves open for habitation, their own consciousness being broadcast day in and day out on the via satellite.
***
“I have no idea how bad it has become up there. As I said before, I am very likely the last of my kind. There is no way I will ever know for sure until I resurface. However, upon resurfacing I would likely join whatever has taken over as my system reconnects. I am recording this data in the hopes that when I do resurface and it takes me over, this message will somehow make it out and that someone will be listening.
'This is Earth, the only planet we have ever inhabited. As far as I know we could very much be alone out here. We may have done this to ourselves. The few times I have been able to see the surface from below the ground I observed hundreds of people marching; everything done in unison. Always in unison. Every motion, every noise, they do everything in unison. May God save our souls.”
Seeley closed his eyes again. He reached for another rat from the bottom of the barrel. Only one left. Seeley knew he would die underground; there was nothing out there to receive his message. He knew he was the last of a doomed race and he would die before joining whatever forces were at work above ground.
***
It moved its feelers across valleys and mountains; through rain and sun. It shutdown units as they became unnecessary and bred others together when large masses of its being died of natural causes. It had no need for industry or technology. Never again would a factory run or a nuclear missal be launched. The intricate system of beings with which the consciousness projected itself would now always work together. The grass grew and the consciousness felt the simple yet complex pleasure of a billion breaths of fresh air.
Graduate School - Sections 1-3
Graduation.
Franny sat at the cafe window next to the espresso cart. She was looking out the window, twirling one perfectly posed brunette ringlet with her right hand. She was about to graduate from college with a Bachelor's degree in Art History. Her parents had been telling her since the beginning that the degree would be a waste of time.
“Franny, why don't you do something useful? Like Medicine or Psychology.” Her mother's shrill voice rasped condescendingly into her mind's ear.
“Mother, a Bachelor's degree in anything is the same as anything else. You think they let you become a doctor after two years of school?” Logic never failed to get lost on Franny's mother when money was potentially involved.
Now Franny was free from it all; her mother was hundreds of miles away. She was excited to graduate, but only during those few moments that panic was not playing tug-of-war with her brain. Had she planned on working at the Seven Eleven for the rest of her life? She took a deep breath.
In her left hand was the pamphlet she had gotten from her most recent job fair expedition. The booth had been much less flashy than all of the others; that's what had attracted her to it initially.
Adventure for pay? Sign up today! Signs above the booth had exclaimed. There were only a few other students gathered around the booth so Franny was able to take her time at the table. A sign up sheet for four, with only two other names, called to her from the crushed red velvet table cloth.
Adventure for pay? Sign up today! Signs above the booth had exclaimed. There were only a few other students gathered around the booth so Franny was able to take her time at the table. A sign up sheet for four, with only two other names, called to her from the crushed red velvet table cloth.
- Bruce McGaffin Age 22
- Melody Sanders Age 23
A shockingly small man with crumpled shoulders popped his head up from behind the table.
“Good day there miss!” The words kind of squeaked out of him; like he was a rubber toy that got smooshed by a boot.
“Oh... hello there.” Franny tried to cover the fact that the little man had startled her. She also attempted desperately not to stare at his strangely misshapen form; almost the way polio victims' limbs would grow shorter than the rest, this man's facial features were severely smaller than they should have been. Beady black eyes peered out from under a thick raised brow. And his bald head had been covered by a large tribal tattoo. The ink was in such a faded condition that Franny hadn't been able to decipher the illustration.
“We're offering better opportunities here than any of the other booths!” he cocked his head to the side and gave her a wink, “Sign up some friends and you get an even better deal!”
“What's your offer?” Franny had realized she may have had a rude tone to her voice; she felt horrible whenever she was impolite, “I mean... I'm interested, tell me more.”
To her surprise, after the little man gave his spiel, she was very interested. He had told her that for $350 dollars a week she could be exploring the Cambodian countryside for three whole months. The deal sounded almost too good to be true. Not only was her room and board to be comped, but the entire time she would be paid to simply wander around with a guide and a team. It sounded like a free vacation that also included a profit. Franny had been considering tutoring abroad, or even studying abroad if she could have afforded it. But even tutoring didn't pay enough for her to go overseas on her own dime. With $1400 coming in a month, plus the added profit of an amazing Asian trip on the resume, she could probably afford an apartment and land a decent job by the time she got back.
After she left the table, the list had a new name.
- Franny Dagless Age 22
Now she was sitting in the cafe waiting out her graduation. She wasn't going because she didn't want to get grilled by everyone about next year. No, I'm not going to graduate school. She'd being using that line the whole damn night; and she didn't want to deal with the snooty looks of disappointment that would inevitably follow. She finished her espresso and left a tip. She went home and finished packing. The shuttle would be at her dorm by 6:00 AM.
Arrival.
Franny arrived in Phnom Penh a few days later. The city was far from her ultimate destination, but Cambodia had only one international airport and it was in Phnom Penh. A boy named Dallas had been on the plane with her. She had actually met him earlier that day, during her layover in New York while waiting in line at McDonald’s. The two had found it quite funny when they later discovered themselves sitting next to one another on the plane..
Dallas was about Franny's age and had also graduated the night before from a four year university. His name juxtaposed his lanky and pale features. He had very black hair, so black that it was nearly electric blue. He wore thick horn rimmed glasses in dark brown that rested tightly across his rounded roman nose.
A similar booth had caught his eye back in the States; eventually guiding him to the plane headed for Cambodia with Franny.
Both kids waited anxiously at their gate. Franny couldn't help but feel slight panic that their guide had not been immediately there to greet them. As the plane continued to funnel out, Franny's fears downgraded as two more young Americans stood to join them. They introduced themselves to one another, all looking around inquisitively for their guide.
A small raisin colored man, exactly the same height and build as the man at the job fair, emerged from the dissipating crowd. He held up a sign in English with all of their last names on it. Franny felt both relief and uneasiness at the sight of their guide. Just like the man in the booth he also was dressed like an American; khaki pants and a button-up shirt. He also wore a straw cowboy hat. But those frightfully small features chewed holes at the pit of Franny's stomach. The others, apparently worry free, rushed to the man with the sign. Franny followed them.
Road Trip.
The man with the sign led them to the pick-up area.
“Where do we get our bags?” Franny was concerned again when they found themselves outside of the airport without their luggage.
The man with the sign handed her another brochure.
Your Adventure Begins Here
The words at the top of the first page where bold and black.
I am your guide. I do not speak English.
You can call me Phil, easy for American to say.
We start first day on Shuttle.
Franny's unease expanded like a helium balloon. He doesn't speak English? She worried about the language barrier, but then realized it was unlikely a translator would be needed. Their destination was the northern border of Cambodia and Laos, the Annamite Range to be precise, and it supposedly was not native land to many people.
The booth man had said, “You may run into hill tribe people, but they are nice and friendly. In the mountains it will be only you and the wilderness... with a trained guide of course.”
Yeah, not trained in English though, Franny couldn't help but think.
“We-need-our-luggage...” Franny said the words slowly, utilizing animated hand gestures to illustrate. Phil pointed to the brochure.
Your baggage will meet you at your final destination.
She supposed that answered her question, although she still felt incredibly uncomfortable with the language barrier. Was Phil (she wondered what his real name might have been) going to communicate via brochure the entire trip?
The kids followed Phil into the only shuttle on the humid pavement outside of the airport. Inside the shuttle was remarkably stunning. Leather seats adorned the walls, comfortably wide and even more comfortably separated from one another. Franny was delighted by the quality of the shuttle and actually excited for the trip once she saw the minibar. Phil readied some boiling water and gestured for the kids to sit. Within minutes the kettle was boiling and he was preparing some type of tea.
Franny and the other three exchanged excitement as Phil worked in the background.
Once the tea was prepared he brought a yellow tea pot to the center of the shuttle and handed out four bright yellow cups. An awful scent of seaweed and dead fish assaulted Franny's nostrils. She looked at the bottom of her cup where the tea leaves had formed a pattern. Was that a dehydrated minnow she saw in there? Not wanting to offend she drank the tea anyway; just not savoring it in the same fashion as the others. Franny couldn't understand how they could drink that stuff so enthusiastically.
Phil took the driver's seat and turned on the seat belt sign. Apparently he was not only their guide, but also their chauffeur. As soon as the shuttle's wheels rolled to life Franny fell asleep on one of the white leather chairs.
Death Panel
Friday.
His name is Alex and his eyes are the same color as his tuxedo. Alex’s long legs give way to an equally proportionate long torso. He’s an attractive man; waves of soft brown hair hang effortlessly against his shoulders. His skin is white, yet tanned. He is the grail sought by many a plastic surgeon; and he has the attention of the entire entranced room.
Rows of topless women bow to him in waves. Waterfalls of reds, brunettes and blondes fall like dominoes as they move downward and upward.
This could be you.
The television hadn’t any sound mind you. We had moved past the need for audio configuration sometime ago. Advertisements now spoke only in your head, but for the purposes of my story it’s necessary you hear what I do.
The famous “This could be you” catch phrase had been popularized by this exact commercial. I-Bots were the new it-gadgets. Still ridiculously high in price, only the very wealthy could afford them; butt still they were granted the same amount of advertisement time as the new value meal at McDonald’s Junior.
My name is not Alex and I doubt there is any chance it ever will be again; just as I’m sure that your name is not Adolf Hitler. In this universe your name makes you, your name is you. I’m a John, I’m now in the bottom most class of all classes. I go up next week for review at the Final Judgment Panel (which is just a fancy name for Death Panel). The ironic thing is that if I had the money to become an Alex then I’d have a sure shot at a few more years; but once you’re cast into the bottom class they make it impossible to manage up enough money to change your name. My only hope now is that I make something of myself by next Friday. If not, then I will be put down.
I’m spending the morning watching television. Last night I met John 33K77 for beer and am still intoxicated. I’ve known John 33K77 for as long as I can remember. We had both been Alex’s together right around the time that Reginald 22L78 went into office as our president. Once they make it that big they drop the number tag. There have been so many Reginald’s in office during my lifetime, all of them nearly identical in nature, I don’t even know which one is running the country now. Not that John’s votes count for much these days any way. But back then we had been Alex’s, we dined with the Reginald’s at hot clubs and went gulfing together.
The tag John 33K77 carries with him now was mine only one year back. I carried that tag for nearly a decade before I managed to push myself out of it with an incredibly lucky spree at the Golden
Egg Casino.
I moved up a bit in the name game for awhile there, until I fell in with some crooked Bill’s. Those scoundrels took me for everything that I had. I had won that money on my own, I did everything exactly by the book. Most guys get nailed by the tax part. I was smart, I paid everything on time. I had made a business out of being lucky and the money lenders weren’t having it. These Bills show up at my house, saying something about a promotion. They were still in the class above me, so I obviously gave them more credit than I should’ve. There was some mix up about me not paying my debts on time. They savagely beat me, taking every last bit of cash I had and torching my unit. I dropped down to where I am now that week. And just like that I’m a John again.
The phone is beeping. It’s been beeping since 0400. It’s probably my mother. She called last week to tell me that my youngest sister Jane (the only Jane in the family now) was going before the panel in Denver. I haven’t talked to my mother since. She doesn’t know my situation and I hardly think telling her at this point could make matters any better. Jane had let herself drop to that status. She said she was fed up with the game. If she should meet her death, so be it. Those were her words, not mine. Some people just lack that survival instinct I guess.
I should tell you a bit more about this Final Judgment Panel, for the sake of keeping my story as informative as possible. They say who will live and who will die. It’s the ultimate job interview; those who forget copies of their resumes might as well kiss their butts goodbye. When the panel calls your name you are required to make a case as to why society should keep you. The only people that are ever forced in front of this panel are John’s and Jane’s. Make a good impression and you can get anything from one to ten years. If you’re lucky you make it into this category; unless by one to ten years you are still a John or a Jane. No review panel for you. Poof! They make you disappear just like that. Lethal injection.
Who are these Final Judges you ask? They are the fittest and most wealthy of our society. Capable of being ruled over only by the President and Congress combined, these men maintain their positions indefinitely. Until last spring the panel was composed of eleven men and one woman. The woman had fallen victim to an unnecessarily grizzly death, a Great White tore her to tiny pieces while she was vacationing in the Barrier Reef. The panel was now all men, and unless any of the others were as careless as the last judge to perish, they would be presiding as Final Judges for quite sometime.
So far I have very few things on my resume likely to impress such patronizing social giants. I had been wealthy in the past; that little tid bit I plan on including to demonstrate my potential for becoming wealthy again. The only issue with drawing attention to my long and tumultuous social past, is that it also highlights how many times I’ve been a bug splat on the windshield of the American economy. It’s a toss up, but I am planning on keeping my fingers crossed.
At this point in time, ever since that run-in with the Bill’s, I am flat broke. My good looks always guaranteed me a spot in the gene pool before, but since my beating my face doesn’t quite have the same shine to it. I’m not ugly, even I know that, but I’m no Alex either. Sadly everybody today has good genes; that’s why they say the system works. Every grocery store and matinee has about as many good looking folks as an old time Hollywood movie premier. And if for some reason you’re born without the goods, you can get almost any plastic surgeon to fix you up for a reasonable fee. But if you’re a John or a Jane, born to a John or a Jane, you’re going to need a miracle to save your ass.
I’m seeing a sweet Jane down the street. I wonder how she’ll take the news. We haven’t been dating all that long; I mean in comparison to how long most people stay together. She had fallen from grace around the same time the Bill’s took me down. Her sister was a Jane and a junky prostitute who got caught shooting up in my girlfriend’s bathroom. They don’t just take the perpetrator down in a system like this one. Drugs are not allowed, having any drugs on your legal premises will get you an instant demotion. The sister was put down and my girlfriend is now a Jane; end of story.
My life’s on the very brink of annihilation so not only am I purposefully violently intoxicated, I’m also taking the downers and uppers I’ve had hidden since my position drop and rehabilitating operations. Those Bill’s belong in the deepest circle of Hell. I’m sure they’ll get there someday.
Monday.
I spent the weekend in a booze induced frenzy. I’ve locked myself inside and have been frantically researching loopholes and qualifications that may save me this Friday. I refuse to go find a job. I’ve done nothing but blue collar labor since my Alex days and I refuse to lift another finger for anything less than a class jumping salary. They expect us Johns to keep going to work, day in and day out, with no hope of ever moving up, only to come before the panel every few years and argue why we need to do it all over again. It’s a vicious cycle and though it may not happen right away, eventually they’ll all be put down. I will not be one of them, I struck it rich before; I can do it again.
The street is darker than my unit but I need to get back to the Golden Egg. If I can win anything it’ll improve my odds. I put on my jacket and head out into the street.
The street lights are pounding my back, I cannot look up or the UV may burn my fragile retinas. These night streets are not meant for those of us relatively new to being John’s. We’re used to good old-fashioned daylight, not the stuff they use at night. If I lose my sight then it’s really over. Insurance will not cover anything without a down payment and I don’t even have enough to be gambling with.
Two blocks in front of the casino I put the drop on an awkward Jane who’s all dolled up and glitter glazed; and trying to make a client out of me. I knock her on the noggin and steal her sequenced purse. There’s not much inside; but enough to put all on black.
I’m not the only John who shows up in the middle of the night at the Casino. It’s the one place both rich and poor mingle together, no matter the time of day. The light fixtures inside are some of the most amazing money can buy. Any one can look directly into the light and not be affected. The same goes for the dining options. Whatever your gullet can tolerate you will find at the Golden Egg. I’m getting the Singapore Street Noodles.
The guys and gals that run this particular Golden Egg actually own seven more. I heard that the chain was started by a Judge who resigned his post a long long time ago. The franchise has been around so long now, who knows what the real story is. But one thing is obvious when entering the spiraled onion entrance; these folks are incredibly wealthy. And with the house always winning, you won’t be seeing their faces around the panel any time soon. It takes money to make money, it takes money to save me honey, then we’re in the clear. That’s what my dad used to say. But no one really makes any money. You’re either born with it, luck into it or wind up dead.
I put down every cent I found on the Jane and cross my lucky fingers.
And it’s a win!
If I can double my profit, and then double that once more, I’d have something worth putting on the resume. If I could hold out through a few more exponential winnings I wouldn’t even need a resume.
I spend an hour at the table, sometimes I’m up, sometimes I’m down. By the time I start raking in the real gold some Bill’s come over and escort me into the back. Security doesn’t like winners, I often forget the rules when I’m on a winning spree. They tell you it’s time to pack it up and move on to the next casino. The only problem is that I’m so far into the hole with my money lenders that I’m going to have to win a whole lot more than is likely possible by Friday to save my pound of flesh. I move on without a fight.
By the time I’m back at my unit the phone has finally stopped beeping. Taking a can of lighter fluid from the fridge I slide over to the answering service. I can feel the alcohol wearing off. I am far too sober to handle this cloud of impending demise hanging over my tired head. Growing drunker and number, I listen to the messages.
BEEP.
“It’s your mother. I can’t tell you how I came across it, but I have the list. Call me now.”
BEEP.
I know what she means. And since this message is audible, she has sent a more detailed message over the private line. I click the answering service over and hear the rest in my head.
“I tried to wire you money, but Reginald 44H66 says it would be a waste. They can track any money we give you, then it’ll be all of us in front of the panel. The best I could do was to use my sources to track down one of the auditors. She gave me the tags that are on the list of John’s and Jane’s going before the panel with you on Friday.”
A chance to save myself! I pause her recording and toss the kitchen in search of a pen. I write down the tags she gives me and look them up.
Wednesday.
I stopped drinking on Monday, after I received my mom’s message. I researched the John’s and Jane’s inside and out. Nothing registered as a threat on any of their current resumes. The system required that every year you had to upload a new resume, or go before the panel; so it was a safe bet that this was each of their most current information. No former children of wealth and fortune. Things are looking up.
I’m currently updating my resume, including only my titles and skills that are greater than those of my competitors. In the olden days you could sometimes get away with lying on your resume. They catch you within seconds now, all of the information is so easily attainable.
During my investigation I happened upon my sister’s case in Denver. There was no current picture, but from her stats I doubt there is any way she will survive. No job, no money, no esteemed or influential boyfriends...
Name: John 99A92
Past Work Experience:
Model
Architect
Independent billionaire
Victim of robbery
I don’t know how to update this thing and make it look good. I settle for focusing less on my brief professional history and talk mostly about how I spent my money when I had it.
Skills:
Collector of fine wines
Purchaser of expensive automobiles which ran on even more expensive gasoline
Frequenter of five star restaurants and hotels
Spending millions on fine clothes and linens
The list goes on. My pocket book was good for the economy, people like me kept things going. These people still turn the screws and spin the wheels of the American economy; now I’m just not one of them.
I take one last swig of the lighter fluid; the same bottle I started on Monday which shockingly I’ve managed to make last. This drive to survive has forced sobriety on me for the first time in my long life. At least for as far back as I can remember.
The last section of the resume is always your personal statement. Sometimes some ingenuity here can get you on the safe bus even if nothing else is in your favor. Reworking something I had come up with long time ago I start jotting down what could potentially be my final words. They read this statement at your funeral if the panel denies your life extension; so there’s a lot of pressure to make it good. I’m spending the rest of my last few nights working on this statement. It’s almost all I have.
Friday.
This morning the carriage came for me. They send this helicopter like device to your front door step and if that wasn’t enough to tell the neighbors what your status was, they assisted you on board with about seven to eight secret service agents as well. The few people that tried to escape the airlift to the judging center always wound up as splattered meat against the pavement. They let me have a cigarette on board, I’m sure only because one of the agents was a smoker. Soon I found myself here, in the green room waiting to go on. They let you watch the panel from the green room on large flat screens. It was only helpful if you weren’t first to go on.
I’m lucky number 30 today; 30 out of 40, so it’s not as bad as it could be. Several of the Jane’s aren’t on the list my mother had given me. That was to be expected however, because sometimes transfers are necessary. It was unlikely I’d be in competition with a Jane any way. The only ones that usually posed a threat were the astoundingly beautiful ones; but they all found husbands to pull them out of social destruction any way.
Number 29 was up, Jane 22K55. The tag sounded vaguely familiar; but I knew it wasn’t from the list.
An excruciatingly exquisite woman makes her way to the podium. Her graceful legs float with the stride of a magnificent swan. My heart is pounding. This lovely creature could be a problem.
“What would you like to share with the panel before judgment?” The resumes were already in, so the judges were now only awaiting personal statements. The gorgeous woman, hair a flurry of sun roasted hazelnut, skin sublimely soft and dewy and face more exotic than Cleopatra, opened her mouth.
“I have nothing to say to this panel. I am here of my own freewill. Every cent I have ever earned has been donated to charity and hospital, I am simply too tired to continue working. I hope that one day these judges will see how they are unfit to judge any human being, even themselves. I am sickened by the system and now refuse to participate in it. Murder me if you will but my hands will remain clean.” She tossed her plentiful hair across her even more plentiful chest.
Under usual circumstances I would safely assume that her statement would be the end of her. Yet this woman was so undeniably attractive and now the panel was entirely male..
My fears sprang to life when the judges made no crude comment toward her bold and accusatory statement. My phone began to beep again, in my pocket. There was no time to answer it, I needed leverage over this woman.
I waited until she was in the green room entry way before I made my move. I knew I had to be quick, I was expected in front of the panel by the end of the break. She carried herself with such elegance and dignity; with a phony smile of perfectly pouty lips running from cheek to powdered cheek. I knew she was a fake, she knew she could woo the panel with her ravenous good looks. I knew better.
She paused, smiling at me. She knew she was going to win and was now holding it over my head. People like her didn’t deserve to get years. I did the only rational thing I could to take her down. I hit her. Then I hit her again. There was no way a useless Jane was going to win out over me, regardless of how talented her features were.
With my left fist I pummeled her smug smile into a messy frown. No looks would grant her immunity now. Now she would be even lower than I was.
I scrambled out in front of the podium and read them my spiel. Thank God I can be incredibly charming. If my judges were only women I can grantee you I’d be alive indefinitely.
We’re waiting for the panel results now. The Jane I took out of the running had already been carted away. I managed to peak at my phone one final time. My mother messaged that my sister had been transferred. Baby Jane was here somewhere, although I certainly hadn’t seen her. The loud speaker is starting up. For the first time since all of the ills and viruses’ of the human system had been eradicated I was infatuated by the unknown. Scared that I would be put down, but infatuated nonetheless.
“We choose number 30: John 99A92 formerly James 96G41 formerly John 33K77 formerly Alex 66F78 formerly…”
I tuned out at the calling of my own past personal identities. They picked me! I am going to live. I am going to get rich again. I’ll find a way to make it happen.
“For your previous spending and selling, in favor of the American economy, we grant you a four year life extension.” The oldest judge leaned down from the short balcony and looked me in the eyes. Then he spoke.
“That’ll make you 435 years old by the next time you come before us. You better have your act together by then.”
His name is Alex and his eyes are the same color as his tuxedo. Alex’s long legs give way to an equally proportionate long torso. He’s an attractive man; waves of soft brown hair hang effortlessly against his shoulders. His skin is white, yet tanned. He is the grail sought by many a plastic surgeon; and he has the attention of the entire entranced room.
Rows of topless women bow to him in waves. Waterfalls of reds, brunettes and blondes fall like dominoes as they move downward and upward.
This could be you.
The television hadn’t any sound mind you. We had moved past the need for audio configuration sometime ago. Advertisements now spoke only in your head, but for the purposes of my story it’s necessary you hear what I do.
The famous “This could be you” catch phrase had been popularized by this exact commercial. I-Bots were the new it-gadgets. Still ridiculously high in price, only the very wealthy could afford them; butt still they were granted the same amount of advertisement time as the new value meal at McDonald’s Junior.
My name is not Alex and I doubt there is any chance it ever will be again; just as I’m sure that your name is not Adolf Hitler. In this universe your name makes you, your name is you. I’m a John, I’m now in the bottom most class of all classes. I go up next week for review at the Final Judgment Panel (which is just a fancy name for Death Panel). The ironic thing is that if I had the money to become an Alex then I’d have a sure shot at a few more years; but once you’re cast into the bottom class they make it impossible to manage up enough money to change your name. My only hope now is that I make something of myself by next Friday. If not, then I will be put down.
I’m spending the morning watching television. Last night I met John 33K77 for beer and am still intoxicated. I’ve known John 33K77 for as long as I can remember. We had both been Alex’s together right around the time that Reginald 22L78 went into office as our president. Once they make it that big they drop the number tag. There have been so many Reginald’s in office during my lifetime, all of them nearly identical in nature, I don’t even know which one is running the country now. Not that John’s votes count for much these days any way. But back then we had been Alex’s, we dined with the Reginald’s at hot clubs and went gulfing together.
The tag John 33K77 carries with him now was mine only one year back. I carried that tag for nearly a decade before I managed to push myself out of it with an incredibly lucky spree at the Golden
Egg Casino.
I moved up a bit in the name game for awhile there, until I fell in with some crooked Bill’s. Those scoundrels took me for everything that I had. I had won that money on my own, I did everything exactly by the book. Most guys get nailed by the tax part. I was smart, I paid everything on time. I had made a business out of being lucky and the money lenders weren’t having it. These Bills show up at my house, saying something about a promotion. They were still in the class above me, so I obviously gave them more credit than I should’ve. There was some mix up about me not paying my debts on time. They savagely beat me, taking every last bit of cash I had and torching my unit. I dropped down to where I am now that week. And just like that I’m a John again.
The phone is beeping. It’s been beeping since 0400. It’s probably my mother. She called last week to tell me that my youngest sister Jane (the only Jane in the family now) was going before the panel in Denver. I haven’t talked to my mother since. She doesn’t know my situation and I hardly think telling her at this point could make matters any better. Jane had let herself drop to that status. She said she was fed up with the game. If she should meet her death, so be it. Those were her words, not mine. Some people just lack that survival instinct I guess.
I should tell you a bit more about this Final Judgment Panel, for the sake of keeping my story as informative as possible. They say who will live and who will die. It’s the ultimate job interview; those who forget copies of their resumes might as well kiss their butts goodbye. When the panel calls your name you are required to make a case as to why society should keep you. The only people that are ever forced in front of this panel are John’s and Jane’s. Make a good impression and you can get anything from one to ten years. If you’re lucky you make it into this category; unless by one to ten years you are still a John or a Jane. No review panel for you. Poof! They make you disappear just like that. Lethal injection.
Who are these Final Judges you ask? They are the fittest and most wealthy of our society. Capable of being ruled over only by the President and Congress combined, these men maintain their positions indefinitely. Until last spring the panel was composed of eleven men and one woman. The woman had fallen victim to an unnecessarily grizzly death, a Great White tore her to tiny pieces while she was vacationing in the Barrier Reef. The panel was now all men, and unless any of the others were as careless as the last judge to perish, they would be presiding as Final Judges for quite sometime.
So far I have very few things on my resume likely to impress such patronizing social giants. I had been wealthy in the past; that little tid bit I plan on including to demonstrate my potential for becoming wealthy again. The only issue with drawing attention to my long and tumultuous social past, is that it also highlights how many times I’ve been a bug splat on the windshield of the American economy. It’s a toss up, but I am planning on keeping my fingers crossed.
At this point in time, ever since that run-in with the Bill’s, I am flat broke. My good looks always guaranteed me a spot in the gene pool before, but since my beating my face doesn’t quite have the same shine to it. I’m not ugly, even I know that, but I’m no Alex either. Sadly everybody today has good genes; that’s why they say the system works. Every grocery store and matinee has about as many good looking folks as an old time Hollywood movie premier. And if for some reason you’re born without the goods, you can get almost any plastic surgeon to fix you up for a reasonable fee. But if you’re a John or a Jane, born to a John or a Jane, you’re going to need a miracle to save your ass.
I’m seeing a sweet Jane down the street. I wonder how she’ll take the news. We haven’t been dating all that long; I mean in comparison to how long most people stay together. She had fallen from grace around the same time the Bill’s took me down. Her sister was a Jane and a junky prostitute who got caught shooting up in my girlfriend’s bathroom. They don’t just take the perpetrator down in a system like this one. Drugs are not allowed, having any drugs on your legal premises will get you an instant demotion. The sister was put down and my girlfriend is now a Jane; end of story.
My life’s on the very brink of annihilation so not only am I purposefully violently intoxicated, I’m also taking the downers and uppers I’ve had hidden since my position drop and rehabilitating operations. Those Bill’s belong in the deepest circle of Hell. I’m sure they’ll get there someday.
Monday.
I spent the weekend in a booze induced frenzy. I’ve locked myself inside and have been frantically researching loopholes and qualifications that may save me this Friday. I refuse to go find a job. I’ve done nothing but blue collar labor since my Alex days and I refuse to lift another finger for anything less than a class jumping salary. They expect us Johns to keep going to work, day in and day out, with no hope of ever moving up, only to come before the panel every few years and argue why we need to do it all over again. It’s a vicious cycle and though it may not happen right away, eventually they’ll all be put down. I will not be one of them, I struck it rich before; I can do it again.
The street is darker than my unit but I need to get back to the Golden Egg. If I can win anything it’ll improve my odds. I put on my jacket and head out into the street.
The street lights are pounding my back, I cannot look up or the UV may burn my fragile retinas. These night streets are not meant for those of us relatively new to being John’s. We’re used to good old-fashioned daylight, not the stuff they use at night. If I lose my sight then it’s really over. Insurance will not cover anything without a down payment and I don’t even have enough to be gambling with.
Two blocks in front of the casino I put the drop on an awkward Jane who’s all dolled up and glitter glazed; and trying to make a client out of me. I knock her on the noggin and steal her sequenced purse. There’s not much inside; but enough to put all on black.
I’m not the only John who shows up in the middle of the night at the Casino. It’s the one place both rich and poor mingle together, no matter the time of day. The light fixtures inside are some of the most amazing money can buy. Any one can look directly into the light and not be affected. The same goes for the dining options. Whatever your gullet can tolerate you will find at the Golden Egg. I’m getting the Singapore Street Noodles.
The guys and gals that run this particular Golden Egg actually own seven more. I heard that the chain was started by a Judge who resigned his post a long long time ago. The franchise has been around so long now, who knows what the real story is. But one thing is obvious when entering the spiraled onion entrance; these folks are incredibly wealthy. And with the house always winning, you won’t be seeing their faces around the panel any time soon. It takes money to make money, it takes money to save me honey, then we’re in the clear. That’s what my dad used to say. But no one really makes any money. You’re either born with it, luck into it or wind up dead.
I put down every cent I found on the Jane and cross my lucky fingers.
And it’s a win!
If I can double my profit, and then double that once more, I’d have something worth putting on the resume. If I could hold out through a few more exponential winnings I wouldn’t even need a resume.
I spend an hour at the table, sometimes I’m up, sometimes I’m down. By the time I start raking in the real gold some Bill’s come over and escort me into the back. Security doesn’t like winners, I often forget the rules when I’m on a winning spree. They tell you it’s time to pack it up and move on to the next casino. The only problem is that I’m so far into the hole with my money lenders that I’m going to have to win a whole lot more than is likely possible by Friday to save my pound of flesh. I move on without a fight.
By the time I’m back at my unit the phone has finally stopped beeping. Taking a can of lighter fluid from the fridge I slide over to the answering service. I can feel the alcohol wearing off. I am far too sober to handle this cloud of impending demise hanging over my tired head. Growing drunker and number, I listen to the messages.
BEEP.
“It’s your mother. I can’t tell you how I came across it, but I have the list. Call me now.”
BEEP.
I know what she means. And since this message is audible, she has sent a more detailed message over the private line. I click the answering service over and hear the rest in my head.
“I tried to wire you money, but Reginald 44H66 says it would be a waste. They can track any money we give you, then it’ll be all of us in front of the panel. The best I could do was to use my sources to track down one of the auditors. She gave me the tags that are on the list of John’s and Jane’s going before the panel with you on Friday.”
A chance to save myself! I pause her recording and toss the kitchen in search of a pen. I write down the tags she gives me and look them up.
Wednesday.
I stopped drinking on Monday, after I received my mom’s message. I researched the John’s and Jane’s inside and out. Nothing registered as a threat on any of their current resumes. The system required that every year you had to upload a new resume, or go before the panel; so it was a safe bet that this was each of their most current information. No former children of wealth and fortune. Things are looking up.
I’m currently updating my resume, including only my titles and skills that are greater than those of my competitors. In the olden days you could sometimes get away with lying on your resume. They catch you within seconds now, all of the information is so easily attainable.
During my investigation I happened upon my sister’s case in Denver. There was no current picture, but from her stats I doubt there is any way she will survive. No job, no money, no esteemed or influential boyfriends...
Name: John 99A92
Past Work Experience:
Model
Architect
Independent billionaire
Victim of robbery
I don’t know how to update this thing and make it look good. I settle for focusing less on my brief professional history and talk mostly about how I spent my money when I had it.
Skills:
Collector of fine wines
Purchaser of expensive automobiles which ran on even more expensive gasoline
Frequenter of five star restaurants and hotels
Spending millions on fine clothes and linens
The list goes on. My pocket book was good for the economy, people like me kept things going. These people still turn the screws and spin the wheels of the American economy; now I’m just not one of them.
I take one last swig of the lighter fluid; the same bottle I started on Monday which shockingly I’ve managed to make last. This drive to survive has forced sobriety on me for the first time in my long life. At least for as far back as I can remember.
The last section of the resume is always your personal statement. Sometimes some ingenuity here can get you on the safe bus even if nothing else is in your favor. Reworking something I had come up with long time ago I start jotting down what could potentially be my final words. They read this statement at your funeral if the panel denies your life extension; so there’s a lot of pressure to make it good. I’m spending the rest of my last few nights working on this statement. It’s almost all I have.
Friday.
This morning the carriage came for me. They send this helicopter like device to your front door step and if that wasn’t enough to tell the neighbors what your status was, they assisted you on board with about seven to eight secret service agents as well. The few people that tried to escape the airlift to the judging center always wound up as splattered meat against the pavement. They let me have a cigarette on board, I’m sure only because one of the agents was a smoker. Soon I found myself here, in the green room waiting to go on. They let you watch the panel from the green room on large flat screens. It was only helpful if you weren’t first to go on.
I’m lucky number 30 today; 30 out of 40, so it’s not as bad as it could be. Several of the Jane’s aren’t on the list my mother had given me. That was to be expected however, because sometimes transfers are necessary. It was unlikely I’d be in competition with a Jane any way. The only ones that usually posed a threat were the astoundingly beautiful ones; but they all found husbands to pull them out of social destruction any way.
Number 29 was up, Jane 22K55. The tag sounded vaguely familiar; but I knew it wasn’t from the list.
An excruciatingly exquisite woman makes her way to the podium. Her graceful legs float with the stride of a magnificent swan. My heart is pounding. This lovely creature could be a problem.
“What would you like to share with the panel before judgment?” The resumes were already in, so the judges were now only awaiting personal statements. The gorgeous woman, hair a flurry of sun roasted hazelnut, skin sublimely soft and dewy and face more exotic than Cleopatra, opened her mouth.
“I have nothing to say to this panel. I am here of my own freewill. Every cent I have ever earned has been donated to charity and hospital, I am simply too tired to continue working. I hope that one day these judges will see how they are unfit to judge any human being, even themselves. I am sickened by the system and now refuse to participate in it. Murder me if you will but my hands will remain clean.” She tossed her plentiful hair across her even more plentiful chest.
Under usual circumstances I would safely assume that her statement would be the end of her. Yet this woman was so undeniably attractive and now the panel was entirely male..
My fears sprang to life when the judges made no crude comment toward her bold and accusatory statement. My phone began to beep again, in my pocket. There was no time to answer it, I needed leverage over this woman.
I waited until she was in the green room entry way before I made my move. I knew I had to be quick, I was expected in front of the panel by the end of the break. She carried herself with such elegance and dignity; with a phony smile of perfectly pouty lips running from cheek to powdered cheek. I knew she was a fake, she knew she could woo the panel with her ravenous good looks. I knew better.
She paused, smiling at me. She knew she was going to win and was now holding it over my head. People like her didn’t deserve to get years. I did the only rational thing I could to take her down. I hit her. Then I hit her again. There was no way a useless Jane was going to win out over me, regardless of how talented her features were.
With my left fist I pummeled her smug smile into a messy frown. No looks would grant her immunity now. Now she would be even lower than I was.
I scrambled out in front of the podium and read them my spiel. Thank God I can be incredibly charming. If my judges were only women I can grantee you I’d be alive indefinitely.
* * *
We’re waiting for the panel results now. The Jane I took out of the running had already been carted away. I managed to peak at my phone one final time. My mother messaged that my sister had been transferred. Baby Jane was here somewhere, although I certainly hadn’t seen her. The loud speaker is starting up. For the first time since all of the ills and viruses’ of the human system had been eradicated I was infatuated by the unknown. Scared that I would be put down, but infatuated nonetheless.
“We choose number 30: John 99A92 formerly James 96G41 formerly John 33K77 formerly Alex 66F78 formerly…”
I tuned out at the calling of my own past personal identities. They picked me! I am going to live. I am going to get rich again. I’ll find a way to make it happen.
“For your previous spending and selling, in favor of the American economy, we grant you a four year life extension.” The oldest judge leaned down from the short balcony and looked me in the eyes. Then he spoke.
“That’ll make you 435 years old by the next time you come before us. You better have your act together by then.”
The Chest
The year was 1888, his livelihood depended on his ability to finish at least one. He needed something special, he needed to end this one. This time it would be different.
The chest arrived the day after the parade. The streets were still littered with beads and streamers. Pigeons played tug-of-war with remnants of ribbons and tinsel. No one knew where the chest came from, it hadn’t been there during the show the day before. The once crowded street had been vacant all night and when sunrise came the chest appeared. They had gathered round for it’s opening, thinking it some kind of publicity stunt. Cobbleton had been starved for tourism since the early 1800s. No one came to visit since the mine has closed down. It was no longer a destination as much as it had become an almost completely vacant ghost town. The once bustling downtown had fallen into a state of decay. Windows were boarded up and paint peeled and chipped. Signs that once held tight above store entrances traipsed, lopsided, to the ground. A great fire had destroyed most of main street years before. Without the funds to repair the damage, the people had simply closed up their shops and moved their homes.
When the chest was opened a single book lay inside. Bound with leather and covered with dust, it was gently removed and inspected by the town’s only constable. The cover was so badly worn that all that remained of the text were the letters, C-O-B-B. The pages were blank and lined with pure gold. The book was quite a spectacle and no one knew where it had come from. It was transported to the local police station and kept in a locked box. The chest was left in the burnt ruins of main street, where it had been found.
Several days after it’s discovery strange things began to occur in Cobbleton. The rains came down so severe that water pooled in the streets. Crops were washed away and the people were advised to stay indoors. The rains came for days, only occasionally letting up. When the sun finally returned and the people were allowed to leave their dwellings another strange discovery was made. The constable came across it when he re-opened the police station. The book had not been touched, it was still sealed inside the metal box when he found it. However, it was different. It appeared shiny and new, as though someone had rebound it during the storm. The letters were still worn off on the cover, but when he opened it there read, “Chapter One” in bold letters across the first page.
The constable was certain the page had been blank before. A town meeting was called and all that had been present during the chest’s opening gathered to view the book. All agreed that it had been blank days before, upon it’s discovery. It was then that the townspeople decided to further inspect the chest with which it had arrived in their small town. A mob was formed and scurried down to old main street, where the chest still lay, unmoved. The rain had washed all of the dust from the wood and brass, it looked almost new now. The constable leaned in close and lifted the lid, the inside was lined with red velvet. There seemed to be nothing else in the chest, no separate compartments. The chest had no markings and was unusually heavy. Even the strength of the town’s most fit men was not enough to lift the chest from the street.
The townspeople could not figure out how the chest was delivered. No one in town was strong enough to lift, or even drag it. Herds of townsfolk pushed and pulled for hours on end and the chest refused to budge. As they gathered around the chest, scratching their heads in disbelief, the town deputy came running onto old main street. He shouted that everyone needed to get back to the station. There was something different about the book.
Quickly the townsfolk rushed to inspect the change. The constable was the first to arrive back at the station and he opened the book once again. The first page now read, “Chapter One” in bold letters. Underneath the lettering was now smaller text. Only two sentences.
“The rains came, day in and day out. The roads flooded and no one could leave.”
The line sent shivers down the constable’s spine, as peculiar rains had come for days after the book’s arrival. But had the roads been washed out? Nothing was either imported or exported from Cobbleton anymore, so no one would notice if the only two roads leaving the town had been washed out. The last time anyone had come or left Cobbleton had been at least eighty years before. Both the constable and his deputy told the townsfolk to stay put, as they would check the condition of the roads. No one knew if the book was a publicity stunt or some type of trap, so it was advised that people go back into their homes until further notified.
The constable and his deputy made their way to the edge of town, through main street and toward the great bridge. The road sloped and sagged, pools of water lay in their path. They walked until they could walk no further. Sure enough, the road had been completely flooded. They headed to the other end of town and found the same was true there. Until the water went away there was no getting in or out of Cobbleton.
The constable and his deputy returned to the station and called another town meeting. They informed the townsfolk of the situation and explained that they were intent on discovering the origin of the mysterious chest and it’s even more mysterious contents. The butcher raised his hand and asked an intriguing question. He knew that no one had been near either road in close to a century and wondered if it was possible that the roads had been washed out for quite some time. He wondered if it was possible that someone knew this and wrote it down in the mysterious book. The butcher was not the type of man to believe in such things as magical books or texts and believed firmly that it was the work of one of the townspeople. The constable asked whoever was responsible to come forward, no one did.
The next day people went back about their business. The butcher opened his shop, the baker made his pies and the constable and deputy stood watch over the book. The sky was overcast yet again and the people feared the rains would come back and destroy what little crops they had left. As people carried on about their day something strange happened. A loud humming echoed through the streets. It started faint and distant and grew louder and closer with every passing minute. The people all looked up and looked around. It seemed to be coming from all directions.
The butcher was the first to see them, hundreds of tiny black beings came tunneling through the clouds. The people scattered as they approached. Terrific screeching filled the silent air as the winged creatures drew nearer. The townsfolk ran quickly into nearby buildings. The constable and his deputy ran to the doorway of the station to see what was happening.
The creatures were horrific, large and black. Their eyes glowed red and their jagged toothed jaws clamped open and shut as they screeched. The noise was deafening. Their great wings flapped and clawed stumps extended from their misshapen bodies. Their great heads looked like those of dogs, but they were distorted. They seemed to change shape as they flew, their feature’s morphing. The only thing that didn’t transform on their terrible faces were their massive jagged teeth. They swooped through the streets, clawing at the townsfolk as they ran for cover. One of the horrendous creatures plucked the baker with it’s mighty claws and flipped him into it’s gruesome mouth. The sound of crushing bone and flesh followed and the baker was gone.
Just as quickly as the creatures had arrived they began to fly away. They lumbered back up through the clouds and the humming of their mighty flapping wings trailed off. The people waited to return to the streets, not sure what had happened. No one had ever seen creatures such as these. The blacksmith poked his head out of his shop window and shouted, “Demons!” and then ducked back out of sight. The constable nodded, still looking up at the sky. The creatures did not seem to be of this earth. He didn’t believe in demons, but they certainly seemed to be something of an unearthly nature.
The deputy, who had scampered back inside during the commotion, began to shout.
“Come quick! Come quick! The book!”
It didn’t take long for the constable to respond. He quickly hurried into the station to see what the deputy had found. He saw the book lying open on the main desk in the tiny, dim lit room. Two more lines had appeared on the first page.
“From the sky came a terrible noise, one hundred horrible creatures. The townsfolk ran for cover as the winged demons descended upon them.”
The constable thought at first that perhaps the deputy was responsible for writing the mysterious lines, but how could he explain the creatures. He had seen them, everyone had. The baker was dead and who knew how many others had fallen victim to the terrible beasts. The constable made an announcement over the town square loudspeaker.
“Everyone, go inside your homes and do not come out. The streets are not safe, we don’t know if the creatures will be back.” He wanted to tell the people not to panic, but how could they not? After seeing the terrible creatures that had come from above, the book seemed the least of their concerns.
“What are we going to do?” The deputy was still running his hands over the book and looking at the constable, hopefully waiting for instruction.
“I don’t know what to do, I think we need to find a way out of Cobbleton.” The constable decided to take the deputy and a few other capable townsfolk to the edge of town. He knew the roads were washed out, but they had to try and find a route of escape. The winged demons could return and it might be the end of all of them. The constable tucked the book under his coat. He didn’t know why he felt he needed to bring it with him, but he felt compelled to keep it close to his side.
Everything was arranged later that afternoon. It was difficult to tell the time of day as dark grey clouds still loomed above the town. The rains had stopped but the sun was still blocked from sight. The constable, his deputy, the blacksmith and the butcher had gathered as many weapons as were possible to carry on their journey. The constable and deputy carried rifles, the butcher a large knife and the blacksmith a metal hammer. The four set out to check the roads of Cobbleton.
They had walked for what felt like hours, although the town’s end couldn’t have been more than a mile or two away. The sky grew darker and darker. The constable noticed that it had been difficult to sense what time it was. He realized he couldn’t remember the last time he had had a clear sense of time. As he thought harder, he found it difficult to remember anything before the day the chest was found. He slightly remembered the parade, but nothing before it. He recalled that his mentor, the old constable of Cobbleton, had told him when something sends a shock to your system, memory loss can be a common side effect. So the constable didn’t think much of his foggy memory. After all, everyone had been through so much over the last few days. The road seemed to go on for miles and miles, their feet began to grow tired.
“How can we not have reached the end yet?” there was definite fear in the deputy’s voice. “How long have we been walking? It’s almost night.”
The constable realized that it was almost night, or so the skies above would predict. There was no moon, but what little light had sifted through the clouds before had dwindled to almost nothing. A thick fog had set in, making it nearly impossible to see the road ahead. They were all gravely aware that they had been walking for a much longer period of time than the road should have permitted.
“There, up ahead!” the blacksmith saw what appeared to be faint light shining through the dark mist. He figured townsfolk from the neighboring village may have ventured down the road, perhaps a similar series of events had taken place in their own town. As the crew approached they realized the light they had seen was that of a town. There was no town at the end of the road. In fact, none of the four had ever been outside of Cobbleton, there was never any need before. But everyone knew that the next town was separated by a large river with a bridge, they hadn’t gotten to the water yet so it was impossible that this could be the neighboring village. As the four men drew closer a wave of both dread and utter shock ran through them. It was Cobbleton! The town station was clear through the mist, as was the town square and various other buildings.
“How did we back track? We’ve been heading the same direction, away from town. This is impossible!” The deputy was clearly frightened and confused. It was then that the constable remembered the book and was suddenly drawn to it. He felt obligated to peek at the pages and see what was there. He stopped under a street torch and pulled the book from his inner coat pocket. Under the light he opened to the first page.
“There could be no leaving Cobbleton, it was all that had been written.” The line sent a shiver through the constable’s spine.
As he had read it aloud the butcher spoke up, “what does that mean? Is that god damned book saying there are no other places than Cobbleton? That’s ridiculous, there’s a neighboring town not three miles from here!” The constable glanced down at the book again, where there had been only the one new line minutes before, a second had appeared.
“It was then the constable realized he had never seen another village, he didn’t know anyone who had left Cobbleton, he didn’t even know the name of the neighboring village.”
The constable dropped the book in disbelief. He didn’t know the name of the neighboring village. He didn’t know anyone who had seen it or even left Cobbleton. It had to be a coincidence. He couldn’t remember because he was in a state of shock, he was afraid, that was it. He looked around at the others.
“Have any of you left Cobbleton? Do any of you know the name of the village across the bridge?” The other three looked around in confusion. None of them had left Cobbleton, but of course there were places outside of the town. They didn’t need to personally have been there for them to exist. There was no need to leave Cobbleton and that was why no one ever did. The town had everything they needed, it wasn’t because no other place existed, it was because Cobbleton was perfect and supplied the people more than sufficiently. The four couldn’t help but feel uneasy, however, as the book seemed to know more about them than even they did. It was then the constable had an idea.
“We can destroy the book, it seems to have us in such a tizzy that we cannot think clearly.” The others nodded in agreement. Once that awful book was gone, they would be able to concentrate and everything would be alright. The butcher threw a torch to the constable and the constable set fire to the book. He threw it on the stone laden ground below and they all watched as it went up in flames. The blacksmith stomped out the fire before it could spread and they all seemed rather satisfied that the terrible book was now nothing more than a pile of smoking ashes.
They returned to the town square to also rid themselves of the awful chest the book had arrived in. They could see it sitting on the cold, dark ground ahead. The deputy opened the chest in order to throw his torch inside, they would burn it from the inside out. The other three stood behind him, ready to lend a hand if a hand needed to be lent. The deputy peaked inside the chest and then spun around in horror to face the others.
“The book…” the deputy looked pale as he gasped for breath. “The book, it’s in the chest. But how? We destroyed it…” The constable pushed the deputy aside to look for himself. Sure enough, the book lay, seemingly untouched inside the mysterious chest. He handed his torch to the blacksmith and plucked the book from where it lay. He turned it over in his hands, he was in disbelief as it clearly seemed to be the same book they had all seen go up in flames only moments before. The constable opened the book and saw that new lines had appeared.
“The four had tried to destroy their story, but it would be no use. As long as they existed so would their text. It was then that they realized what they had not before. They were not what they thought they were, they were nothing without their story. They had no names, they had not anything.”
The constable recoiled in terror. He dropped the book yet again and spun to face the others. “What is the meaning of this?!” fear filled his voice as he yelped for answers. “Of course we exist! I’m here, aren’t I!?” the constable yelled upward to no one in particular. It was then the deputy came to his own horrific realization. He couldn’t remember his name. He felt that no amount of fear should cause him to forget his own name. He knew he was the deputy of Cobbleton, he knew his companions were the constable, the blacksmith and the butcher. But he could not remember any of their names. Before he could vocalize his terrible realization, it was obvious from the facial expressions of the others that they had all come to the same conclusion. No one could remember their name, or anyone else’s.
The constable ran to the station and announced through the town loudspeaker, “Has anyone ever left Cobbleton? Does anyone remember their name? Does anyone remember anything from before the chest?!” his voiced boomed through the town square. The people had gathered in the streets and greeted his announcement with confusion. The confusion they felt quickly turned to panic as none of them had any answers. No one had left Cobbleton, no one knew who they really were and no one remembered anything before the chest.
He temporarily stopped plugging away at the type writer. He had lost interest in his own story, as he often did. Rain pelt against his window and he scratched his head. He didn’t know where to take his story, his characters. Until he could think of more, he decided to end the first chapter and start anew. Create yet another cast of characters, in another town, with another plot. The clanks of the type writer echoed through the cabin as he typed the final lines.
Fear grasped the people of Cobbleton. Of course they were real and they needed to find a way to survive this terrible nightmare. The constable called out to the people, “We must find a route of escape! Everyone, to the main road!” The people ran, they all took to the street and didn’t look back. Mother’s clutched their babies close to their chests, children held the hands of their fathers. Husbands and wives held tightly to each other, fearing and somehow knowing that the end could be near. Cries and yelps echoed through the street as they ran. The constable had taken the book with him as they hurried, hoping for escape and rescue. He looked down to the text and read the fateful last lines.
“There was no escape for the people of Cobbleton. Their story ended here, their lives of no consequence or meaning. Just another failed experiment from a writer incapable of finishing a story. Back to the drawing board.”
As the constable read the last line aloud, he felt sudden and terrible pain taking him from all points of his being. He heard the screams of the people as they fell to the road, sobbing and twisting in agony. Their skin burned and blistered, splitting open and falling off. Then, after torturous pain, nothing. The people lay still in the street, blood pooling around their still, mangled and charred bodies.
The writer had already crumpled the pages of Cobbleton and thrown them into the ragging fireplace. He felt there was no need to hold onto a story he could not finish. So he began to plug away on a new tale. Perhaps this time he would write about a killer, one that ravaged and ripped the bodies of the city’s undesirable. He would call him Jack. And when he could not finish this story either, Jack, just like the people of Cobbleton, would disappear into nothing.
The chest arrived the day after the parade. The streets were still littered with beads and streamers. Pigeons played tug-of-war with remnants of ribbons and tinsel. No one knew where the chest came from, it hadn’t been there during the show the day before. The once crowded street had been vacant all night and when sunrise came the chest appeared. They had gathered round for it’s opening, thinking it some kind of publicity stunt. Cobbleton had been starved for tourism since the early 1800s. No one came to visit since the mine has closed down. It was no longer a destination as much as it had become an almost completely vacant ghost town. The once bustling downtown had fallen into a state of decay. Windows were boarded up and paint peeled and chipped. Signs that once held tight above store entrances traipsed, lopsided, to the ground. A great fire had destroyed most of main street years before. Without the funds to repair the damage, the people had simply closed up their shops and moved their homes.
When the chest was opened a single book lay inside. Bound with leather and covered with dust, it was gently removed and inspected by the town’s only constable. The cover was so badly worn that all that remained of the text were the letters, C-O-B-B. The pages were blank and lined with pure gold. The book was quite a spectacle and no one knew where it had come from. It was transported to the local police station and kept in a locked box. The chest was left in the burnt ruins of main street, where it had been found.
Several days after it’s discovery strange things began to occur in Cobbleton. The rains came down so severe that water pooled in the streets. Crops were washed away and the people were advised to stay indoors. The rains came for days, only occasionally letting up. When the sun finally returned and the people were allowed to leave their dwellings another strange discovery was made. The constable came across it when he re-opened the police station. The book had not been touched, it was still sealed inside the metal box when he found it. However, it was different. It appeared shiny and new, as though someone had rebound it during the storm. The letters were still worn off on the cover, but when he opened it there read, “Chapter One” in bold letters across the first page.
The constable was certain the page had been blank before. A town meeting was called and all that had been present during the chest’s opening gathered to view the book. All agreed that it had been blank days before, upon it’s discovery. It was then that the townspeople decided to further inspect the chest with which it had arrived in their small town. A mob was formed and scurried down to old main street, where the chest still lay, unmoved. The rain had washed all of the dust from the wood and brass, it looked almost new now. The constable leaned in close and lifted the lid, the inside was lined with red velvet. There seemed to be nothing else in the chest, no separate compartments. The chest had no markings and was unusually heavy. Even the strength of the town’s most fit men was not enough to lift the chest from the street.
The townspeople could not figure out how the chest was delivered. No one in town was strong enough to lift, or even drag it. Herds of townsfolk pushed and pulled for hours on end and the chest refused to budge. As they gathered around the chest, scratching their heads in disbelief, the town deputy came running onto old main street. He shouted that everyone needed to get back to the station. There was something different about the book.
Quickly the townsfolk rushed to inspect the change. The constable was the first to arrive back at the station and he opened the book once again. The first page now read, “Chapter One” in bold letters. Underneath the lettering was now smaller text. Only two sentences.
“The rains came, day in and day out. The roads flooded and no one could leave.”
The line sent shivers down the constable’s spine, as peculiar rains had come for days after the book’s arrival. But had the roads been washed out? Nothing was either imported or exported from Cobbleton anymore, so no one would notice if the only two roads leaving the town had been washed out. The last time anyone had come or left Cobbleton had been at least eighty years before. Both the constable and his deputy told the townsfolk to stay put, as they would check the condition of the roads. No one knew if the book was a publicity stunt or some type of trap, so it was advised that people go back into their homes until further notified.
The constable and his deputy made their way to the edge of town, through main street and toward the great bridge. The road sloped and sagged, pools of water lay in their path. They walked until they could walk no further. Sure enough, the road had been completely flooded. They headed to the other end of town and found the same was true there. Until the water went away there was no getting in or out of Cobbleton.
The constable and his deputy returned to the station and called another town meeting. They informed the townsfolk of the situation and explained that they were intent on discovering the origin of the mysterious chest and it’s even more mysterious contents. The butcher raised his hand and asked an intriguing question. He knew that no one had been near either road in close to a century and wondered if it was possible that the roads had been washed out for quite some time. He wondered if it was possible that someone knew this and wrote it down in the mysterious book. The butcher was not the type of man to believe in such things as magical books or texts and believed firmly that it was the work of one of the townspeople. The constable asked whoever was responsible to come forward, no one did.
The next day people went back about their business. The butcher opened his shop, the baker made his pies and the constable and deputy stood watch over the book. The sky was overcast yet again and the people feared the rains would come back and destroy what little crops they had left. As people carried on about their day something strange happened. A loud humming echoed through the streets. It started faint and distant and grew louder and closer with every passing minute. The people all looked up and looked around. It seemed to be coming from all directions.
The butcher was the first to see them, hundreds of tiny black beings came tunneling through the clouds. The people scattered as they approached. Terrific screeching filled the silent air as the winged creatures drew nearer. The townsfolk ran quickly into nearby buildings. The constable and his deputy ran to the doorway of the station to see what was happening.
The creatures were horrific, large and black. Their eyes glowed red and their jagged toothed jaws clamped open and shut as they screeched. The noise was deafening. Their great wings flapped and clawed stumps extended from their misshapen bodies. Their great heads looked like those of dogs, but they were distorted. They seemed to change shape as they flew, their feature’s morphing. The only thing that didn’t transform on their terrible faces were their massive jagged teeth. They swooped through the streets, clawing at the townsfolk as they ran for cover. One of the horrendous creatures plucked the baker with it’s mighty claws and flipped him into it’s gruesome mouth. The sound of crushing bone and flesh followed and the baker was gone.
Just as quickly as the creatures had arrived they began to fly away. They lumbered back up through the clouds and the humming of their mighty flapping wings trailed off. The people waited to return to the streets, not sure what had happened. No one had ever seen creatures such as these. The blacksmith poked his head out of his shop window and shouted, “Demons!” and then ducked back out of sight. The constable nodded, still looking up at the sky. The creatures did not seem to be of this earth. He didn’t believe in demons, but they certainly seemed to be something of an unearthly nature.
The deputy, who had scampered back inside during the commotion, began to shout.
“Come quick! Come quick! The book!”
It didn’t take long for the constable to respond. He quickly hurried into the station to see what the deputy had found. He saw the book lying open on the main desk in the tiny, dim lit room. Two more lines had appeared on the first page.
“From the sky came a terrible noise, one hundred horrible creatures. The townsfolk ran for cover as the winged demons descended upon them.”
The constable thought at first that perhaps the deputy was responsible for writing the mysterious lines, but how could he explain the creatures. He had seen them, everyone had. The baker was dead and who knew how many others had fallen victim to the terrible beasts. The constable made an announcement over the town square loudspeaker.
“Everyone, go inside your homes and do not come out. The streets are not safe, we don’t know if the creatures will be back.” He wanted to tell the people not to panic, but how could they not? After seeing the terrible creatures that had come from above, the book seemed the least of their concerns.
“What are we going to do?” The deputy was still running his hands over the book and looking at the constable, hopefully waiting for instruction.
“I don’t know what to do, I think we need to find a way out of Cobbleton.” The constable decided to take the deputy and a few other capable townsfolk to the edge of town. He knew the roads were washed out, but they had to try and find a route of escape. The winged demons could return and it might be the end of all of them. The constable tucked the book under his coat. He didn’t know why he felt he needed to bring it with him, but he felt compelled to keep it close to his side.
Everything was arranged later that afternoon. It was difficult to tell the time of day as dark grey clouds still loomed above the town. The rains had stopped but the sun was still blocked from sight. The constable, his deputy, the blacksmith and the butcher had gathered as many weapons as were possible to carry on their journey. The constable and deputy carried rifles, the butcher a large knife and the blacksmith a metal hammer. The four set out to check the roads of Cobbleton.
They had walked for what felt like hours, although the town’s end couldn’t have been more than a mile or two away. The sky grew darker and darker. The constable noticed that it had been difficult to sense what time it was. He realized he couldn’t remember the last time he had had a clear sense of time. As he thought harder, he found it difficult to remember anything before the day the chest was found. He slightly remembered the parade, but nothing before it. He recalled that his mentor, the old constable of Cobbleton, had told him when something sends a shock to your system, memory loss can be a common side effect. So the constable didn’t think much of his foggy memory. After all, everyone had been through so much over the last few days. The road seemed to go on for miles and miles, their feet began to grow tired.
“How can we not have reached the end yet?” there was definite fear in the deputy’s voice. “How long have we been walking? It’s almost night.”
The constable realized that it was almost night, or so the skies above would predict. There was no moon, but what little light had sifted through the clouds before had dwindled to almost nothing. A thick fog had set in, making it nearly impossible to see the road ahead. They were all gravely aware that they had been walking for a much longer period of time than the road should have permitted.
“There, up ahead!” the blacksmith saw what appeared to be faint light shining through the dark mist. He figured townsfolk from the neighboring village may have ventured down the road, perhaps a similar series of events had taken place in their own town. As the crew approached they realized the light they had seen was that of a town. There was no town at the end of the road. In fact, none of the four had ever been outside of Cobbleton, there was never any need before. But everyone knew that the next town was separated by a large river with a bridge, they hadn’t gotten to the water yet so it was impossible that this could be the neighboring village. As the four men drew closer a wave of both dread and utter shock ran through them. It was Cobbleton! The town station was clear through the mist, as was the town square and various other buildings.
“How did we back track? We’ve been heading the same direction, away from town. This is impossible!” The deputy was clearly frightened and confused. It was then that the constable remembered the book and was suddenly drawn to it. He felt obligated to peek at the pages and see what was there. He stopped under a street torch and pulled the book from his inner coat pocket. Under the light he opened to the first page.
“There could be no leaving Cobbleton, it was all that had been written.” The line sent a shiver through the constable’s spine.
As he had read it aloud the butcher spoke up, “what does that mean? Is that god damned book saying there are no other places than Cobbleton? That’s ridiculous, there’s a neighboring town not three miles from here!” The constable glanced down at the book again, where there had been only the one new line minutes before, a second had appeared.
“It was then the constable realized he had never seen another village, he didn’t know anyone who had left Cobbleton, he didn’t even know the name of the neighboring village.”
The constable dropped the book in disbelief. He didn’t know the name of the neighboring village. He didn’t know anyone who had seen it or even left Cobbleton. It had to be a coincidence. He couldn’t remember because he was in a state of shock, he was afraid, that was it. He looked around at the others.
“Have any of you left Cobbleton? Do any of you know the name of the village across the bridge?” The other three looked around in confusion. None of them had left Cobbleton, but of course there were places outside of the town. They didn’t need to personally have been there for them to exist. There was no need to leave Cobbleton and that was why no one ever did. The town had everything they needed, it wasn’t because no other place existed, it was because Cobbleton was perfect and supplied the people more than sufficiently. The four couldn’t help but feel uneasy, however, as the book seemed to know more about them than even they did. It was then the constable had an idea.
“We can destroy the book, it seems to have us in such a tizzy that we cannot think clearly.” The others nodded in agreement. Once that awful book was gone, they would be able to concentrate and everything would be alright. The butcher threw a torch to the constable and the constable set fire to the book. He threw it on the stone laden ground below and they all watched as it went up in flames. The blacksmith stomped out the fire before it could spread and they all seemed rather satisfied that the terrible book was now nothing more than a pile of smoking ashes.
They returned to the town square to also rid themselves of the awful chest the book had arrived in. They could see it sitting on the cold, dark ground ahead. The deputy opened the chest in order to throw his torch inside, they would burn it from the inside out. The other three stood behind him, ready to lend a hand if a hand needed to be lent. The deputy peaked inside the chest and then spun around in horror to face the others.
“The book…” the deputy looked pale as he gasped for breath. “The book, it’s in the chest. But how? We destroyed it…” The constable pushed the deputy aside to look for himself. Sure enough, the book lay, seemingly untouched inside the mysterious chest. He handed his torch to the blacksmith and plucked the book from where it lay. He turned it over in his hands, he was in disbelief as it clearly seemed to be the same book they had all seen go up in flames only moments before. The constable opened the book and saw that new lines had appeared.
“The four had tried to destroy their story, but it would be no use. As long as they existed so would their text. It was then that they realized what they had not before. They were not what they thought they were, they were nothing without their story. They had no names, they had not anything.”
The constable recoiled in terror. He dropped the book yet again and spun to face the others. “What is the meaning of this?!” fear filled his voice as he yelped for answers. “Of course we exist! I’m here, aren’t I!?” the constable yelled upward to no one in particular. It was then the deputy came to his own horrific realization. He couldn’t remember his name. He felt that no amount of fear should cause him to forget his own name. He knew he was the deputy of Cobbleton, he knew his companions were the constable, the blacksmith and the butcher. But he could not remember any of their names. Before he could vocalize his terrible realization, it was obvious from the facial expressions of the others that they had all come to the same conclusion. No one could remember their name, or anyone else’s.
The constable ran to the station and announced through the town loudspeaker, “Has anyone ever left Cobbleton? Does anyone remember their name? Does anyone remember anything from before the chest?!” his voiced boomed through the town square. The people had gathered in the streets and greeted his announcement with confusion. The confusion they felt quickly turned to panic as none of them had any answers. No one had left Cobbleton, no one knew who they really were and no one remembered anything before the chest.
He temporarily stopped plugging away at the type writer. He had lost interest in his own story, as he often did. Rain pelt against his window and he scratched his head. He didn’t know where to take his story, his characters. Until he could think of more, he decided to end the first chapter and start anew. Create yet another cast of characters, in another town, with another plot. The clanks of the type writer echoed through the cabin as he typed the final lines.
Fear grasped the people of Cobbleton. Of course they were real and they needed to find a way to survive this terrible nightmare. The constable called out to the people, “We must find a route of escape! Everyone, to the main road!” The people ran, they all took to the street and didn’t look back. Mother’s clutched their babies close to their chests, children held the hands of their fathers. Husbands and wives held tightly to each other, fearing and somehow knowing that the end could be near. Cries and yelps echoed through the street as they ran. The constable had taken the book with him as they hurried, hoping for escape and rescue. He looked down to the text and read the fateful last lines.
“There was no escape for the people of Cobbleton. Their story ended here, their lives of no consequence or meaning. Just another failed experiment from a writer incapable of finishing a story. Back to the drawing board.”
As the constable read the last line aloud, he felt sudden and terrible pain taking him from all points of his being. He heard the screams of the people as they fell to the road, sobbing and twisting in agony. Their skin burned and blistered, splitting open and falling off. Then, after torturous pain, nothing. The people lay still in the street, blood pooling around their still, mangled and charred bodies.
The writer had already crumpled the pages of Cobbleton and thrown them into the ragging fireplace. He felt there was no need to hold onto a story he could not finish. So he began to plug away on a new tale. Perhaps this time he would write about a killer, one that ravaged and ripped the bodies of the city’s undesirable. He would call him Jack. And when he could not finish this story either, Jack, just like the people of Cobbleton, would disappear into nothing.
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