u/qu33n94

Every phone in the room buzzed with catastrophic urgency, each pair of eyes glued to those screens in a split second.

Their hands were clammy around their devices, their voices increasing in volume as the realization had sunken in. Some accepted it while the other few pondered a tangible escape.

They started to shout at each other until a crowd was exiled from the building they were in, and into the outside where they became victims to nature. The winds heavily battered the crowd until it thinned out. They left in their cars and raced back home, not sure what kind of time they had left.

Oblivious to them, someone was watching.

His thumb was steady and firm on the trigger

He pushed it softly and pressed himself back against the seat carrying his body.

He knew how important he was.

Then there was a blinding flash of light that engulfed the residents below.

They didn’t have time to scream.

There was a sudden silence and then a beckoning peace.

The sun finally arose and the enchanting melody of birds tweeting in the distance replaced the chaos merely seconds before.

The residents had woken up peacefully from their beds and turned on their television monitors. A new day had begun, and the next three months would go on without another event on the horizon.

He stared at the horizon and contemplated his next move, his fingers itching over the trigger. He caressed it like a newborn and remembered how it felt to be in control without being seen.

The residents remained in a blissful whirlwind of purely ignorant content.

The world had started over.

It was only the first time.

Then the world awoke with a ruthless thunder.

They screamed, they ran to their houses, they found safety in repetition heedless of their true predicament.

They moved in unison, mindlessly following the chorus.

He didn’t worry about changing their instructions, no use in rearranging the code that plugged their collective consciousness to the Hive that dictated their bodies.

Their sleeping carcasses rested in artificial permafrost.

Then the world started over again.

And again.

And then it continued until he began to ponder sleep, the long-awaited slumber beckoning him to its warm embrace.

He wanted to close his eyes; he wanted to dream of his new paradise. A paradise in which others would call it an unforgiving purgatory, if they weren’t unsuspecting of their subconscious prison.

It was the world that kept ending on repeat.

Every phone in the room buzzed with catastrophic urgency, each pair of eyes glued to those screens in a split second.

Their hands were clammy around their devices, their voices increasing in volume as the realization had sunken in. Some accepted it while the other few pondered a tangible escape.

They started to shout at each other until a crowd was exiled from the building they were in, and into the outside where they became victims to nature. The winds heavily battered the crowd until it thinned out. They left in their cars and raced back home, not sure what kind of time they had left.

Oblivious to them, someone was watching.

His thumb was steady and firm on the trigger

He pushed it softly and pressed himself back against the seat carrying his body.

He knew how important he was.

Then there was a blinding flash of light that engulfed the residents below.

They didn’t have time to scream.

There was a sudden silence and then a beckoning peace.

The sun finally arose and the enchanting melody of birds tweeting in the distance replaced the chaos merely seconds before.

The residents had woken up peacefully from their beds and turned on their television monitors. A new day had begun, and the next three months would go on without another event on the horizon.

He stared at the horizon and contemplated his next move, his fingers itching over the trigger. He caressed it like a newborn and remembered how it felt to be in control without being seen.

The residents remained in a blissful whirlwind of purely ignorant content.

The world had started over.

It was only the first time.

Then the world awoke with a ruthless thunder.

They screamed, they ran to their houses, they found safety in repetition heedless of their true predicament.

They moved in unison, mindlessly following the chorus.

He didn’t worry about changing their instructions, no use in rearranging the code that plugged their collective consciousness to the Hive that dictated their bodies.

Their sleeping carcasses rested in artificial permafrost.

Then the world started over again.

And again.

And then it continued until he began to ponder sleep, the long-awaited slumber beckoning him to its warm embrace.

He wanted to close his eyes; he wanted to dream of his new paradise. A paradise in which others would call it an unforgiving purgatory, if they weren’t unsuspecting of their subconscious prison.

It was the world that kept ending on repeat.

I’m on the way to the job, the next house on my list. When I roll up to the driveway, there’s a man standing there with his shorts halfway down his ass while he’s moving in slow, rhythmic motions. He has a pair of headphones on while holding a small radio in his hand. The headphones are unattached to the device, so who the hell knows what he is listening to. Maybe the scrambled thoughts of what is left of his lucidity.  

I hop out of my car with a clipboard in hand and approach the man. The stench of tuna fish hits my face and I wrinkle my nose in disgust.  

“Yo, you must be the guy,” the man says, slurring his words. He has sunglasses on so the obvious is well, obvious.  

“Yes, I just need to get a few details first before I proceed.”  

“Yeah, man, for sure.” He shakes his head, moving to the sound of absolutely nothing. 

I swallow hard, chuckling nervously, “Okay, so you’re the owner of this property? Or I should say, the landlord?” 

The man pauses for a moment, lifting one of the earphones off his head, as if to listen to my question, “Yeah, that’s me. You know what happened to Mr. Reiner?”  

I scrawl quietly on my clipboard as I have one ear open to hear him, my eyes down on the paper in front of me, “Yes, sir, we’ll get to that in a moment. On the lease of the property, they have you as Mr. Charbonneau. Is that correct?” 

 He nods his head, placing the earphone back on his temple.  

I finally look up to meet his eyes and try to look through the tinted lenses. I can’t properly read his expression, but I could feel his nonchalant behavior was going to make this whole job more complicated than it should be. Good mother loving grief.  

“So, Mr. Charbonneau, what are you listening to?” I briefly shout at him, just raising my voice a little in frustration. Warranted, for sure, but I can’t help feeling the agitation turning in my chest, watering my eyes. My cheeks are flushed and frankly, I don’t have the time or patience for this shit today. I just want to drop sloppily on my lazyboy, one leg crossed over the other with my eyes glued to the tv. I’m watching my favorite movie, Rain Man.  

The landlord, high as hell, says in his unintelligible voice, “Yeah, Bruno Mars! That man is the SHIT!”  

I furrow my brow in disappointment, feigning interest in this brain-dead conversation, “Oh, yippee.”  

I finally enter the house after a few more minutes of unintelligent banter. The landlord leads me to the upstairs bathroom, the door wide open with a gaping hole in the middle. I could see the fresh wood sprinters strewn across the blood soiled carpet leading into the marble tiled bathroom. I peer inside and see blood continuing onto the pristine white countertop, trailing into the sink and around the bidet. I turn around and see the same amount of blood splatter on the shower curtain, which was once white embroidered with red roses and yellow daisies.  

“I guess I have a lot of work to do.” 

The drugged-up landlord turns to me and smiles insidiously, “Yes, you do.”  

I groan, feeling the soreness of a headache and the pounding of a drill bit through my skull. My eyes are pressed shut and my lips are quivering. The pain is intolerable.  

I try screaming out for help, but when I do, a ball of damp cloth is shoved into my mouth. My pleads are muffled and this thing just tastes awful, like wet paper and cigarette ash.  

“Shut the fuck up, man. God!” I hear a familiar voice, and I try opening my eyes, realizing they are glued shut. I feel a dripping of blood from my eye lid, the skin torn by the forced stretching.  

“Who the fuck are you?” Using my tongue, I force the wet ball from my mouth, thrashing my legs outwards, or what I think to be outwards. I feel my feet hitting against something hard, hearing an audible crack. A petrifying wail leaves my mouth, and I curl over in body-splitting pain. My ankle feels like it’s broken in several pieces.  

“Haven’t figured it out yet?” It’s an older man, with a husky but dreary voice. It sounds like each word is dragging on forever, reminding me of a drunken man with a joint between his lips, and then I remember who this man is.  

Mr. Charboneau.  

“Son of a bitch…” I mutter, crawling using my knees while my hands are tied behind my back. Feeling disabled by the situation, I try to twist my fingers around a loose piece of rope that is hanging from the poorly made knot. My fingertips barely grab hold.  

“Oh, now you remember me. They call you Mr. Manville?” 

I look up with a threatening expression, though blind, “Martin Manville, asshole.” There’s a blunt kick to my stomach, and I fall over to my side, crying out. 

“I would bite my tongue if I were you,” he chuckles coldly. I can feel worn, lived in, calloused hands grab my shoulders and forcibly pull me up. He sits me against what feels like a broken cabinet door because of the ragged edges where wood had split away. I feel the same sandpapered hand tear at my buttoned shirt, now ripped off and exposing my chest. He’s going to rip my heart out and eat it, I thought. 

“If you’re gonna kill me, Mr. Charboneau, just do it already,” I spit at him, kicking my feet aimlessly in the air.  

He snatches my ankles, one of them being dislocated, and drags me against the floor, “Do you want me to hurt you? I need you to stop moving!”  

“Fuck you!”  

“I guess we’re doing this the hard way then,” He twists the leg with the screwed-up ankle, breaking it despite my shouts for him to stop. I squirm in my restraints but at this point, I can barely feel any part of my legs, even my feet. I’m feeling faint, slowly passing out from the unbearable pain.  

I wake up with a start, my eyes now open, barely. They burn as if acid had been thrown into them, recognizing the familiar scent of paint thinner.  

“I thought nail polish would be easier to get the glue off without completely burning out your corneas,” says the psychopath just sitting across from me. He sits arrogantly on a wooden chair, fiddling with something between his bony fingers. I can’t tell what he’s playing with.  

“I can’t see for shit,” I moan, my vision hazy at best. I can make out his withered features, the wrinkles that contoured his forehead and the corners of his lips, but the rest of him was a dully colored blob. He looks like a watercolor painting, lazily shaded with the wrong hues and strokes.  

“I figured that much,” he quips and throws a foil ball in my direction, hitting my head.  

“What the hell is that for?”  

“I thought you were the trash.” 

I laugh mockingly, “Ha, very funny. Now fucking let me go, you deranged bastard.” I throw myself towards him and I fall flat on my face, giving myself a nosebleed. My wrists are still bound and my ankles broken. I’m too injured to escape so I begin to pray for my death, having mentally given up and resigned myself to an inevitable fate. It’ll be a miracle if I make it out alive. A dead man is better than a crippled one.  

The asshole pulls me up from my limp arms, throwing me back onto my ass. I press myself against the wall and try stretching my legs out, but a stabbing feeling stops me from moving my limbs any further.  

“Wrong place, right time…” he whispers coldly and kneels in front of me, leaning in as close as he can until his face is merely half an inch away from mine. I can smell rusted metal and dried sweat coming off his skin and his breath stinking of an old beer can mixed with stale menthols.  

“What the hell are you talking about?” I snap at him, moving my face away from his and looking for anything that looked like a weapon in the room. It looks like I’m in a tool shed, but without the tools. Only narrow rays of sunlight are the things left in this place. He knew I’d try to find my way out of here. Shit out of luck, as they say.  

“Did you think you’d just walk out of here? I mean, the old man didn’t.” He smiles cruelly and wraps his dirty hand around my neck, squeezing it until I choke.  

“W-what? Mr. Reiner?” I cough, struggling to catch my breath. I continue to kick at him, but he jabs a metal ice pick into my legs. Blood gushes out as I scream, horrified.  

“Yes! That motherfucker! Figured it out yet?”  

A wave of black washes over me again and I slip away. I watch as a massive pool of blood surrounds and covers my legs, spreading out until I’m floating in it.  

 

TWO DAYS LATER 

 

It is a sweltering afternoon, and the next-door neighbor tends to his lawn. He feeds the soil and waters the plants, even the succulents. The red ones that line the outside of the windowsill, facing the front porch. He then moves to his backyard where he is taking care of a small pen of animals. He gathers their feed and places it in a large metal tub sitting in front of a wired fence with an opening in the middle. The man rubs his stubbled chin and whistles, a single pig running from its pen to the front of the fence. The pig looks up to the man, its’ beady black eyes staring into the man’s face. Its’ eyes twinkle as a single tear runs along its pale pink snout. It then shoves its face into the gray sludge, digging and snorting into it. The man smiles and places a wrinkled hand on the pig’s head, rubbing it softly.  

He mutters, “Wrong place, right time… Martin.”  

I’m on the way to the job, the next house on my list. When I roll up to the driveway, there’s a man standing there with his shorts halfway down his ass while he’s moving in slow, rhythmic motions. He has a pair of headphones on while holding a small radio in his hand. The headphones are unattached to the device, so who the hell knows what he is listening to. Maybe the scrambled thoughts of what is left of his lucidity.  

I hop out of my car with a clipboard in hand and approach the man. The stench of tuna fish hits my face and I wrinkle my nose in disgust.  

“Yo, you must be the guy,” the man says, slurring his words. He has sunglasses on so the obvious is well, obvious.  

“Yes, I just need to get a few details first before I proceed.”  

“Yeah, man, for sure.” He shakes his head, moving to the sound of absolutely nothing. 

I swallow hard, chuckling nervously, “Okay, so you’re the owner of this property? Or I should say, the landlord?” 

The man pauses for a moment, lifting one of the earphones off his head, as if to listen to my question, “Yeah, that’s me. You know what happened to Mr. Reiner?”  

I scrawl quietly on my clipboard as I have one ear open to hear him, my eyes down on the paper in front of me, “Yes, sir, we’ll get to that in a moment. On the lease of the property, they have you as Mr. Charbonneau. Is that correct?” 

 He nods his head, placing the earphone back on his temple.  

I finally look up to meet his eyes and try to look through the tinted lenses. I can’t properly read his expression, but I could feel his nonchalant behavior was going to make this whole job more complicated than it should be. Good mother loving grief.  

“So, Mr. Charbonneau, what are you listening to?” I briefly shout at him, just raising my voice a little in frustration. Warranted, for sure, but I can’t help feeling the agitation turning in my chest, watering my eyes. My cheeks are flushed and frankly, I don’t have the time or patience for this shit today. I just want to drop sloppily on my lazyboy, one leg crossed over the other with my eyes glued to the tv. I’m watching my favorite movie, Rain Man.  

The landlord, high as hell, says in his unintelligible voice, “Yeah, Bruno Mars! That man is the SHIT!”  

I furrow my brow in disappointment, feigning interest in this brain-dead conversation, “Oh, yippee.”  

I finally enter the house after a few more minutes of unintelligent banter. The landlord leads me to the upstairs bathroom, the door wide open with a gaping hole in the middle. I could see the fresh wood sprinters strewn across the blood soiled carpet leading into the marble tiled bathroom. I peer inside and see blood continuing onto the pristine white countertop, trailing into the sink and around the bidet. I turn around and see the same amount of blood splatter on the shower curtain, which was once white embroidered with red roses and yellow daisies.  

“I guess I have a lot of work to do.” 

The drugged-up landlord turns to me and smiles insidiously, “Yes, you do.”  

I groan, feeling the soreness of a headache and the pounding of a drill bit through my skull. My eyes are pressed shut and my lips are quivering. The pain is intolerable.  

I try screaming out for help, but when I do, a ball of damp cloth is shoved into my mouth. My pleads are muffled and this thing just tastes awful, like wet paper and cigarette ash.  

“Shut the fuck up, man. God!” I hear a familiar voice, and I try opening my eyes, realizing they are glued shut. I feel a dripping of blood from my eye lid, the skin torn by the forced stretching.  

“Who the fuck are you?” Using my tongue, I force the wet ball from my mouth, thrashing my legs outwards, or what I think to be outwards. I feel my feet hitting against something hard, hearing an audible crack. A petrifying wail leaves my mouth, and I curl over in body-splitting pain. My ankle feels like it’s broken in several pieces.  

“Haven’t figured it out yet?” It’s an older man, with a husky but dreary voice. It sounds like each word is dragging on forever, reminding me of a drunken man with a joint between his lips, and then I remember who this man is.  

Mr. Charboneau.  

“Son of a bitch…” I mutter, crawling using my knees while my hands are tied behind my back. Feeling disabled by the situation, I try to twist my fingers around a loose piece of rope that is hanging from the poorly made knot. My fingertips barely grab hold.  

“Oh, now you remember me. They call you Mr. Manville?” 

I look up with a threatening expression, though blind, “Martin Manville, asshole.” There’s a blunt kick to my stomach, and I fall over to my side, crying out. 

“I would bite my tongue if I were you,” he chuckles coldly. I can feel worn, lived in, calloused hands grab my shoulders and forcibly pull me up. He sits me against what feels like a broken cabinet door because of the ragged edges where wood had split away. I feel the same sandpapered hand tear at my buttoned shirt, now ripped off and exposing my chest. He’s going to rip my heart out and eat it, I thought. 

“If you’re gonna kill me, Mr. Charboneau, just do it already,” I spit at him, kicking my feet aimlessly in the air.  

He snatches my ankles, one of them being dislocated, and drags me against the floor, “Do you want me to hurt you? I need you to stop moving!”  

“Fuck you!”  

“I guess we’re doing this the hard way then,” He twists the leg with the screwed-up ankle, breaking it despite my shouts for him to stop. I squirm in my restraints but at this point, I can barely feel any part of my legs, even my feet. I’m feeling faint, slowly passing out from the unbearable pain.  

I wake up with a start, my eyes now open, barely. They burn as if acid had been thrown into them, recognizing the familiar scent of paint thinner.  

“I thought nail polish would be easier to get the glue off without completely burning out your corneas,” says the psychopath just sitting across from me. He sits arrogantly on a wooden chair, fiddling with something between his bony fingers. I can’t tell what he’s playing with.  

“I can’t see for shit,” I moan, my vision hazy at best. I can make out his withered features, the wrinkles that contoured his forehead and the corners of his lips, but the rest of him was a dully colored blob. He looks like a watercolor painting, lazily shaded with the wrong hues and strokes.  

“I figured that much,” he quips and throws a foil ball in my direction, hitting my head.  

“What the hell is that for?”  

“I thought you were the trash.” 

I laugh mockingly, “Ha, very funny. Now fucking let me go, you deranged bastard.” I throw myself towards him and I fall flat on my face, giving myself a nosebleed. My wrists are still bound and my ankles broken. I’m too injured to escape so I begin to pray for my death, having mentally given up and resigned myself to an inevitable fate. It’ll be a miracle if I make it out alive. A dead man is better than a crippled one.  

The asshole pulls me up from my limp arms, throwing me back onto my ass. I press myself against the wall and try stretching my legs out, but a stabbing feeling stops me from moving my limbs any further.  

“Wrong place, right time…” he whispers coldly and kneels in front of me, leaning in as close as he can until his face is merely half an inch away from mine. I can smell rusted metal and dried sweat coming off his skin and his breath stinking of an old beer can mixed with stale menthols.  

“What the hell are you talking about?” I snap at him, moving my face away from his and looking for anything that looked like a weapon in the room. It looks like I’m in a tool shed, but without the tools. Only narrow rays of sunlight are the things left in this place. He knew I’d try to find my way out of here. Shit out of luck, as they say.  

“Did you think you’d just walk out of here? I mean, the old man didn’t.” He smiles cruelly and wraps his dirty hand around my neck, squeezing it until I choke.  

“W-what? Mr. Reiner?” I cough, struggling to catch my breath. I continue to kick at him, but he jabs a metal ice pick into my legs. Blood gushes out as I scream, horrified.  

“Yes! That motherfucker! Figured it out yet?”  

A wave of black washes over me again and I slip away. I watch as a massive pool of blood surrounds and covers my legs, spreading out until I’m floating in it.  

 

TWO DAYS LATER 

 

It is a sweltering afternoon, and the next-door neighbor tends to his lawn. He feeds the soil and waters the plants, even the succulents. The red ones that line the outside of the windowsill, facing the front porch. He then moves to his backyard where he is taking care of a small pen of animals. He gathers their feed and places it in a large metal tub sitting in front of a wired fence with an opening in the middle. The man rubs his stubbled chin and whistles, a single pig running from its pen to the front of the fence. The pig looks up to the man, its’ beady black eyes staring into the man’s face. Its’ eyes twinkle as a single tear runs along its pale pink snout. It then shoves its face into the gray sludge, digging and snorting into it. The man smiles and places a wrinkled hand on the pig’s head, rubbing it softly.  

He mutters, “Wrong place, right time… Martin.”  

A glass of orange soda, a half ham and cheese sandwich, and a bag of veggie chips my girlfriend never liked. I thought about the times we would argue over an undercooked steak or a poorly made cherry pie. I told her to grab a cookbook and learn. She told me to get an iota of respect. I left her behind and went to a friend's house that evening to enjoy their homemade beef lasagna. I checked through the sandwich for hidden razors and nail clippings, finding none of the sort. I shrugged and brought my dinner to the den. My den, not our den. We lived in the same house, sure, but let’s just say my girlfriend found her way to a new home.  

I sat cross-legged on the floor as I switched on my game console, booting another round of SoulSucker. The only thing I could play for hours before I began to stop tolerating it; the gruntled chatter of annoying zombies, never talking about anything else other than their affinity to eat brains. It ruined the fun, but I could never stop playing it, though I wondered why I kept putting up with it. I played with friends until midnight and I shut off the console, slipping into the sheets of my queen-sized bed. Peacefully asleep and not trapped by groping hands. My girlfriend could never get hers off me. I can’t say I missed that.  

Squelch, squelch, squelch... I woke up to the sound of soft thudding in the room, like a bowl of sludge being churned with a wooden spoon and carefully scooped onto the floor. It became louder until it turned into a steady drip. Plop, plop, plop... It kept going for another hour and unable to sleep, I left the comfort of the bed and investigated the noise.  

It was Huburt. My pet Guinea pig, who preferred to swim in its own shit. I changed the cage and cleaned Huburt, gliding back into my sheets and falling back asleep. 

Squelch, squelch, squelch... 

A mug of black coffee, a plate of scrambled eggs and white toast, and a banana nut muffin my girlfriend never cared for. She used to fight me for who got to cook breakfast every morning, but I told her she always burnt the bacon. She threw a tantrum, and a pan at my head. Let’s just say that she decided to never lift a finger again.   

Knock, knock, knock... I wasn’t expecting guests, but I did invite my cousin Rudy for lunch later that afternoon. Maybe he came to visit early. I washed the remaining dishes, feeling the rapid pattering of my heart, and I shut off the faucet. It must have been the third cup of coffee I drank that morning. They continued to knock on the door, and I could hear faint voices right outside. It didn’t sound like my cousin Rudy, though it was possible he brought his pothead friends in tow for a couple drinks and a quick game of Toxic Cavalry.   

I felt so underdressed, only a pair of black boxer briefs and a dark green t-shirt with yesterday’s spaghetti stains. I steadied my breathing and focused on the words in my head, each letter like puzzle pieces placed in the right spots. I couldn’t forget about my girlfriend; she told me she was going to stay with her parents for a while at their lavish beachfront five miles east. No, she said she met a guy at her job and wanted to elope with him, carrying nothing but her shitty android phone, pink wallet, and a suitcase of period-stained underwear.  

I threw the door open wide and two finely aged men stood to tower me in my doorway. I blinked twice and swallowed once, doing so in neatly spaced intervals. Blink again, now swallow. Stop. Blink twice more, swallow softer. Now clear your throat and smile slightly. Blink one more time. Now speak, not too forced.  

“Howdy, officers! What can I get for ya?” I chirped and the two men stared fiercely at me, studying my expression, the follicles on my scalp, and the greasy pores on my unwashed skin. Oh no, they’re gonna notice the sta- 

“Are you Damien Gage?” asked one of the officers, his arms akimbo on his loaded belt while his partner clicked on his bodycam, steadying it to be pointing.  

At me.  

One of them was wearing dark shades and a five-o clock shadow. I sized him up in my head, and I figured to use the other tool in my arsenal. The charming male gaze.  

I nodded and cheerfully smirked, “Yes, that’s me, I’m Damien Gage. Is there something I can help with, guys?” 

The two men looked at each other briefly, exchanging morse code through their eyes. I didn’t do enough, oh fu- 

“Mr. Gage, we understand that you know a Miss Nina Ford?” 

Swallow harder. Only blink ONCE! 

“Yes, s-she's my girlfriend,” I stammered, my fingers twisting into knots in my palms. Beads of hot sweat trailed down my temple, my cheeks and my chin. The noise from last night returned louder than before.  

SQUELCH, SQUELCH, SQUELCH... 

The officers’ expressions changed into perplexion, and I pressed my back up against the doorway. 
One of them glanced past my shoulder, an eyebrow firmly raised, “Well... she’s been missing for two weeks now, and no one has heard from her. What is that noise, Mr. Gage? And that smell...”  

“Oh, it’s my pet Guinea pig, Huburt. He likes to sit in his own shit.” 

They returned glares again and suddenly bursted into boisterous laughter.  

I cleared my throat and laughed along with them, “We broke up a while back and honestly, we haven’t spoken or seen each other since.” The officers kept laughing as they bid me farewell, urging me to call them if I knew anything else.  

Relieved, I shut the door and returned to my game console, the FleshStation, built with only the best parts of my girlfriend.  

A glass of orange soda, a half ham and cheese sandwich, and a bag of veggie chips my girlfriend never liked. I thought about the times we would argue over an undercooked steak or a poorly made cherry pie. I told her to grab a cookbook and learn. She told me to get an iota of respect. I left her behind and went to a friend's house that evening to enjoy their homemade beef lasagna. I checked through the sandwich for hidden razors and nail clippings, finding none of the sort. I shrugged and brought my dinner to the den. My den, not our den. We lived in the same house, sure, but let’s just say my girlfriend found her way to a new home.  

I sat cross-legged on the floor as I switched on my game console, booting another round of SoulSucker. The only thing I could play for hours before I began to stop tolerating it; the gruntled chatter of annoying zombies, never talking about anything else other than their affinity to eat brains. It ruined the fun, but I could never stop playing it, though I wondered why I kept putting up with it. I played with friends until midnight and I shut off the console, slipping into the sheets of my queen-sized bed. Peacefully asleep and not trapped by groping hands. My girlfriend could never get hers off me. I can’t say I missed that.  

Squelch, squelch, squelch... I woke up to the sound of soft thudding in the room, like a bowl of sludge being churned with a wooden spoon and carefully scooped onto the floor. It became louder until it turned into a steady drip. Plop, plop, plop... It kept going for another hour and unable to sleep, I left the comfort of the bed and investigated the noise.  

It was Huburt. My pet Guinea pig, who preferred to swim in its own shit. I changed the cage and cleaned Huburt, gliding back into my sheets and falling back asleep. 

Squelch, squelch, squelch... 

A mug of black coffee, a plate of scrambled eggs and white toast, and a banana nut muffin my girlfriend never cared for. She used to fight me for who got to cook breakfast every morning, but I told her she always burnt the bacon. She threw a tantrum, and a pan at my head. Let’s just say that she decided to never lift a finger again.   

Knock, knock, knock... I wasn’t expecting guests, but I did invite my cousin Rudy for lunch later that afternoon. Maybe he came to visit early. I washed the remaining dishes, feeling the rapid pattering of my heart, and I shut off the faucet. It must have been the third cup of coffee I drank that morning. They continued to knock on the door, and I could hear faint voices right outside. It didn’t sound like my cousin Rudy, though it was possible he brought his pothead friends in tow for a couple drinks and a quick game of Toxic Cavalry.   

I felt so underdressed, only a pair of black boxer briefs and a dark green t-shirt with yesterday’s spaghetti stains. I steadied my breathing and focused on the words in my head, each letter like puzzle pieces placed in the right spots. I couldn’t forget about my girlfriend; she told me she was going to stay with her parents for a while at their lavish beachfront five miles east. No, she said she met a guy at her job and wanted to elope with him, carrying nothing but her shitty android phone, pink wallet, and a suitcase of period-stained underwear.  

I threw the door open wide and two finely aged men stood to tower me in my doorway. I blinked twice and swallowed once, doing so in neatly spaced intervals. Blink again, now swallow. Stop. Blink twice more, swallow softer. Now clear your throat and smile slightly. Blink one more time. Now speak, not too forced.  

“Howdy, officers! What can I get for ya?” I chirped and the two men stared fiercely at me, studying my expression, the follicles on my scalp, and the greasy pores on my unwashed skin. Oh no, they’re gonna notice the sta- 

“Are you Damien Gage?” asked one of the officers, his arms akimbo on his loaded belt while his partner clicked on his bodycam, steadying it to be pointing.  

At me.  

One of them was wearing dark shades and a five-o clock shadow. I sized him up in my head, and I figured to use the other tool in my arsenal. The charming male gaze.  

I nodded and cheerfully smirked, “Yes, that’s me, I’m Damien Gage. Is there something I can help with, guys?” 

The two men looked at each other briefly, exchanging morse code through their eyes. I didn’t do enough, oh fu- 

“Mr. Gage, we understand that you know a Miss Nina Ford?” 

Swallow harder. Only blink ONCE! 

“Yes, s-she's my girlfriend,” I stammered, my fingers twisting into knots in my palms. Beads of hot sweat trailed down my temple, my cheeks and my chin. The noise from last night returned louder than before.  

SQUELCH, SQUELCH, SQUELCH... 

The officers’ expressions changed into perplexion, and I pressed my back up against the doorway. 
One of them glanced past my shoulder, an eyebrow firmly raised, “Well... she’s been missing for two weeks now, and no one has heard from her. What is that noise, Mr. Gage? And that smell...”  

“Oh, it’s my pet Guinea pig, Huburt. He likes to sit in his own shit.” 

They returned glares again and suddenly bursted into boisterous laughter.  

I cleared my throat and laughed along with them, “We broke up a while back and honestly, we haven’t spoken or seen each other since.” The officers kept laughing as they bid me farewell, urging me to call them if I knew anything else.  

Relieved, I shut the door and returned to my game console, the FleshStation, built with only the best parts of my girlfriend.  

Small cylindrical vials rattle against each other as the cart rolls down the narrow, white corridor. The medical assistant in navy blue scrubs scans his ID card through the checkpoint, double doors opening towards him. He has headphones on, his fingers lightly tapping along the cart’s handle to the rhythm of the music playing loudly in his ears. He keeps walking until he reaches a side door, scanning the card in again. It clicks open, and he passes through with the noisy cart, parking it in the corner of the room. The assistant switches the light on and moves toward a table, shuffling through its cabinets and finding a stash of gauze and sterile needle tips. He gathers his items and leaves the room, leaving the cart of vials behind.  

The speaker on his com pager crackles, and he answers the call, sliding the headphones down to his neck. 

“Mckenna, we need you here STAT,” the voice on the other end urges, the sound of crashing objects sounding in the background. Mckenna quickens his pace and realizes he’s forgotten the cart. He runs back to the room and searches for it, frantically scanning the area. He rushes to the cart once he notices its awkward placement, firmly pushed against the edge of the table. A small, dark figure leaps behind him and strikes Mckenna with a needle, stabbing deeply into his wide neck. His pager calls in, and Mckenna, passed out unconscious on the floor, is left defenseless to the mysterious figure now standing over him. The small figure panics and runs out of the room, leaving the door wide open. It triggers the alarm system, and the entire building is lit up with red signal lights and blaring sirens. The intercom switches on, a warning message booming through the speakers and throughout every hallway: CONTAINMENT BREACH.  

 The small figure hides in an unlocked storage room, staying hidden behind a pile of rotten mop heads and empty jugs of bleach. He curls into his body, holding his clasped hands against his chin, rocking himself back and forth. Tears stream down his reddened cheeks and onto his knees, cradling his chest as tight as he can. He murmurs through quiet sobs, “I need you, mommy.” 

Assistants in black scrubs run down the hallways, speaking into their com pagers as they search every locked and unlocked room. They sweep each room with infrared scanners and pocket flashlights, checking every corner for Mckenna, and the little boy hiding terrified in the storage closet just a few feet away from where they are. The boy shifts against the wall, moving his feet outward until they barely touch the door. The area is smaller than a utility closet, and his short stature matches the length of the room. He knocks over a bucket of cleaning bottles as he attempts to move his legs into a bent position, the sound alerting the assistants nearby. A rush of footsteps is heard approaching the closet and fists, harder than rocks, slam against the door, shaking it violently. The boy cries out loudly and screams as they burst through the broken-down door, arms wrapping around his small frame and brutally yanking him out of hiding. They thrust him against the floor, his head hitting the wall. The assistants hover over him and drag his limp body across the ground, calling in for a gurney and medic. The boy twitches, groaning in pain, his legs broken nearly in half and arms covered in bleeding lacerations. His face is pale, his cheeks sunken in, and his eyes surrounded by days old bruises. An assistant in dark green scrubs grabs one of the boy’s arms and searches for a vein; the Green scrub’s fingers trace along cut scars and healed over needle marks. They find a vein and puncture him, draining his blood into bags hooked onto IV poles. They bring the boy into the operating room, throwing his fragile body onto the table and connecting him to beastly machinery and soulless computers. The assistants clack their fingers along keyboards; their unwavering eyes planted intently to the screens in front of them. The haunting harmony of vital signs melodizes the insidious silence. The doctor enters and holds up a vial, bright red, and glistening. The lights from the monitors flash off and only the vial between the doctor’s fingers beams like a beacon in the pitch black of the room.  

“Salvation in a vial, my fellows,” announces the doctor. He smiles widely and the boy, lying on the cold, metal table, suddenly flatlines. The assistants hastily work on him, placing the flat sides of the defib machine to his delicate chest, pumping bolts of electricity into his body. The doctor walks over and shuts off the machine monitoring his vitals, the boy’s heart continuing to flat line. The assistants look at the doctor in silence and slowly back away from the table. 

“We have what we need. Discard him, immediately,” the doctor whispers. The assistants quietly nod, removing the IV line from the boy’s arm.  

“Time of death: 10:55 PM. Cause of death: cardiac arrest.”  

 

In the aftermath of a global catastrophe, every government around the world clamored for a cure to humans. Yes, a cure that would eliminate all human life on earth as they knew it, and therefore all human suffering is eradicated. A cure to banish all of humanity and start anew, a self-annihilation of sorts. They proclaimed that the only way to do this is to recruit one young healthy male and one young healthy female, below the age of ten, drawing their blood and creating a vaccine for the human experiment. These last two humans on earth would be raised by automation dictated by the collective digital consciousness of those leftover to save the world from itself. In the period before, selfish consumerism and the reckless homicide of nature pushed the world onto the brink of environmental cataclysm. 

They finally found the answer.