Authentic (1/2)
Prompt: memory
Genre: horror
Let me tell you about September 3, again.
It was a Wednesday, so I was on my way to work, you know, like any regular person. My place was about fifteen minutes from the nearest train station. I walked past residential high rises and nothing else. When I was about five minutes away, I suddenly realized my train pass wasn’t in my pocket—I was wearing the trench coat I just took out that morning. Anyway, I stopped and fished my wallet out of the briefcase, found the ticket inside, all good, and I kept on walking.
Then this young man fell straight from the sky and landed less than ten feet in front of me. It was so fast that I didn’t even see the fall. It was like there was this empty pavement, then I blinked, and then he was there.
You can see what I’m getting at: If I didn’t stop to check my train ticket for those two extra seconds, that guy could’ve—
“Beep—”
The sampler stops me before I even get to the part where the pedestrians screamed and fled. It’s rejecting my upload faster and harsher, even after several reboots, like a gum-chewing high schooler who’s tired of the same war stories from Grandpa at the Christmas reunion. I read the boilerplate message on the screen one more time and wonder if, below the minimalist interface, this thing really has a mind.
Authentication failure. Please revisit your experience and reattempt your archiving later.
I switch to my “Live Feed.” The imaging of my brain activity shows an uninspiring pattern. I’ve got a “normal” head; anyone with basic neuroscience training would tell you that as they point at every compartment that’s supposed to be packed inside my skull in pretty much the right proportion. The spot glowing faint yellow is my amygdala—the tiny magic bean that dances to strong emotions. Given the amount of anger and frustration accumulated in the last few days, shouldn’t this bit light up like a fireball? I slam the side of the monitor as if that could be the problem, but it’d only give me more trouble if I broke this thing, so I stop.
Under my headshot on the dashboard, a cluster of green dots highlights what I have achieved so far and gives me some encouragement. “Joy,” “Sorrow,” “Surprise,” “Contempt,” “Pride,” “Resentment,” “Disgust,” even “Shame.” A near perfect spectrum, successfully reenacted and safely archived, except for one grayed out token at the bottom. Next to it, a single word—
Fear.
Just this last damn hurdle.
For optimal transformation, we strongly discourage the use of synthetic emotion indicators. The sampler warned me after the first failed authentication. Synthetic feelings. I didn’t even know that was a thing. Maybe it’s the way I’m reliving that memory. After all, it was a whole year ago. No matter how much trauma it created back then, I’m supposed to be over it by now. Trauma is one of the fastest things to lose its impact these days.
I tried the customer service number a couple of times. All I got after the seemingly eternal hold music was prerecorded instructions read out in a lazy robotic voice. It took me several tries to realize that even the people making this system had moved on, to the virtual promised land where joie de vivre is abundant and the ethereal soil is rich, without the constraints from this finicky container of flesh that needs constant maintenance.
Lucky bastards. Meanwhile, I’m stuck in this reality because some metal junk thinks my fear is not “real” enough.
I tear the sensors off me and fling the fridge door open. The single rotten apple on the top shelf reminds me that I finished my groceries, including my last breakfast beer, this very morning, so I grab the handset of the sampler and stumble out the door. Behind me, the base of the machine spits out helpful tips for increasing my chance of a successful authentication.
“Take a break from your archiving when you feel less motivated. Go for a walk or eat an orange. Do things that inspire you and come back later. Bring us everything you have lived and all that you have felt, so you remain your true self. We will see you on the other side of the mountains.”
The 24/7 supermarket around the corner still has some stock, but it will run out in about a week. Something happened to the power supply, as the freezers with lukewarm ice cream slush suggest. Maybe a rat chewed up the cables somewhere in the back before getting itself electrocuted—that would explain the smell. Or, it could just be the spoiled produce in these all-lights-out freezers.
I took a pack of digestive biscuits and a box of cereal off the shelves, then put the cereal back. Milk and juice are gone too. Without them, granola is just mini chewable stones.
As I make my way to the exit, I swing by the spirits section to grab a bottle of vodka: for inspiration. Even the sampler would agree that a little bit of relaxation helps. You want unfiltered emotions? You need a passed-out brain.
I have my eye on the bottle sticking out among a line of cocktail liqueurs. Before I get close enough to reach for it, it moves on its own, then tumbles off the shelf. Instead of a crash and a splash, I hear a groan, then a burp. Between the bottles and the wall, a homeless guy who seems to be in his fifties twists off the cap and shoves the vodka inside his mouth like sticking a gas pump into a starving car.
Ah, maybe he’s the real source of the smell.
The streets have only been empty for three weeks, yet I’ve already forgotten there are people who will never leave.
He’s crafted a decent shelter in the corner, making good use of the joining walls and the shelves. Half-sitting, half-lying, splayed across the bizarrely clean mattress, he has a paper plate next to his thigh. On top lies a fistful of meat, grilled to warm pink with, presumably, the kitchen torch beside his pillow. So this is how he’s been sustaining himself.
“Better find new sources of protein, buddy.”
I crouch down and pull the plate away from him. If this stuff is from the freezers over there, it could kill him. He puts the bottle down and stares at me out of the corner of his eye as he swallows, doing nothing to stop me or protest, making me see the idiocy in my half-assed gesture of kindness. At this point, I suppose “diet” is his last concern.
“There’s more,” he finally speaks. “You don’t need to take mine.”
Between his slurred words, I catch a whiff of sophistication in his accent. He parts his lips and I see his teeth through his crack of a smile. They’re stained, but they used to be arranged to a perfect curve before the rotting crept in. This man wasn’t born into this life.
“What do you mean—”
For reasons beyond me, my hand mindlessly fumbles the undercooked meat on the plate as I ask him that question. As soon as I turn the steak over, I flinch and drop everything on his mattress.
In the center of this man’s dinner, partially charred yet still distinguishable inks of vermilion and sap green draw out what is, without a doubt, a tattoo of a rose.
The homeless man cackles and chugs the vodka to his face. With the bottom of the bottle, he points at the storage behind me, where they used to keep in-store stock. I face that direction and listen. Plastic curtains sway to breezes from nowhere. I swear I’ve heard something humming.
Slowly, my feet carry me into the room, past the empty racks, past the empty crates, and plant me in front of the stainless steel commercial freezer the size of a wardrobe. I take several quick, sharp breaths to bump my heart, then bust the doors wide open and gasp.
Faces, brains, taut and once tanned limbs, fingers that look like cocktail sausages—no longer assembled, but meticulously stacked on the shelves according to their shapes and sizes. Then there are chunks. Just chunks. I can’t deduce their original positions on a human body, but at least, with the frost melted, you can tell they’re not from the same person.
Those who have abandoned this world for a new beginning do not carry baggage. They’ve left their skins on earth to rot, and those with needs have found them. Sounds fair.
As the pungent odor hits me and a whimper drifts out of my throat, I snatch the sampler handset out of my pocket and prick my thumb with the needle at the tip. The reading shoots straight through the midpoint; I watch the evaluating strip climb.
Come on, I tell myself. Be scared, so you can get the hell out. Just remember to leave your skin at home, so you don’t end up like these.
The reading marches into the green range. I’m almost done with this. I clench my fist tight, not noticing the dry chuckles slipping through my nose.
Then, the strip pauses, and retracts back to its starting point like a pendulum that’s lost its momentum. The initial shock has worn off, and I have once again hit the wall. I guess I have seen too many things, or maybe lived through too many strange times. Even a fridge full of human remains can no longer frighten me.
Right there, an alternative rock version of Happy Birthday blows out of the overhead speakers. It’s six o’clock. This supermarket used to play this stupid jingle every weekday at six to get the staff ready for the evening peak. I step out of the storage room and find the homeless guy bouncing between the shelves, doing what appears to be a strange sequence of exercise moves. He lunges forward at the first note of every sentence, arms paddling and neck stretching as far as his spine allows, like a bird about to take off, then he returns to the original position after four beats, switches sides, and repeats. Close to the end of the music, he spreads his legs wide open and hops from left to right with his eyes closed. When silence re-cloaks the space, he stands still with his head hung low, gazing at the tips of his shoes, and ignoring the drool dripping down his chin.
I glide one hand across his face, but it’s only when I try to take the near-empty vodka off his hand am I able to wake him from the stupor that he sank into. He grumbles and struggles a little, but eventually lets me have the bottle. He has short bursts of strength, but no real muscles around his arms. The sight of the stash inside the storage fridge flashes through my mind, drawing my attention to the clean edges of those chopped up chunks.
No way this man did all that on his own.
The automatic doors at the entrance chime once, which gives me a virtual punch in the back. I snap around and see no one coming through. Chains of small steps tap across the floor and disappear on the other side of the glass. Rats. Only bloody rats. I draw a deep breath and shoot one more glance at the doors. Not another soul, but there is something worth noting—
It’s getting dark.
“Are there other people?”
The homeless man does not respond, so I rephrase the question:
“Is anyone coming for you?”
He makes a snort inside his throat and drifts back to the blissful daze he bought from the vodka. Two seconds later, he regurgitates the absurdity of that question and has a few hearty laughs to himself.
It doesn’t matter who this man used to be. He doesn’t have anyone waiting for him.
I have.
(Part II coming.)
