by Drew Magary
While the police questioned me, I realized that what I’d done to the troll would be considered a death-penalty offense in Texas. I wish I were a Texan. I have become unhinged. I have to leave here. I have to get away from the world I’ve made for myself, lest it engulf me. I need to get away now, so that all that remains is a quickly dissipating apparition and nothing more.
DATE MODIFIED:
6/23/2031, 3:07 A.M.
III
SATURATION: MARCH 2059
(TWENTY-EIGHT YEARS LATER)
“The cure for the cure”
The address on the slip of paper led me to a garage door that was painted green. It was one of several garages littering the B side of the street—the alley that runs behind the storefronts. At first I thought I had the wrong address, since most of the garages were plug-in body shops. I double-checked the number on the scrap paper.
JonesPlus End Specialists, Inc.
206-B W. Martinson St.
Falls Church, VA
I knocked on the door. No one answered. I took out my WEPS and punched in the number I was given. After half a ring, someone answered.
“Yeah?”
“Yes, is this Matt?
“Yeah.”
“My name is John Farrell. We have an appointment.”
“Well, where are you?”
“I’m outside your door.”
“Why haven’t you come in yet?”
“Because no one answered the door when I knocked.”
The door opened. Standing before me was, presumably, Matt. He had orange hair mussed atop a big round head. He had an orange goatee. He had a bright-orange shirt and orange clogs on. He looked like a goddamn orange. He was tall, yet somehow still managed to appear schlubby. He peered at me over his orangeframed glasses. “Dude, I don’t have time to be answering the door all day long. Get in here.”
I walked into the space. In place of cars and auto lifts was an open bullpen with three mismatched dining room tables lined up on each side. Odds and ends littered the tables and shelves: old Coke machines, ancient stereo equipment, very large red-painted springs, woodblock carvings, and the occasional dusty toy. Four people were using the tables as work spaces, typing and iFacing. No two of the work chairs were alike. A pair of very small dogs immediately rushed at me and began licking my knees. Matt snapped at them, “Pepe! Daisy! Knock it off!” They retreated. Matt yelled to everyone in the room, “Everyone! This is John Farrell.”
No one said anything. Matt beckoned and started in the direction of a small room attached to the back of the garage. On the way we passed—smack-dab in the middle of the office—a bright orange boat.
“What’s with the boat?” I asked.
“Ugh. That goddamn thing. You wanna buy it?”
“No.”
“Someone’s gonna say yes to that question one day. I have to get rid of that thing by next month, when the new boat comes in. Where the hell is Bruce?”
A quiet man with a stubbly beard raised his hand from one of the stations. “I’m right here.”
“Well, come on! Let’s do this!”
I followed Matt to the back room. There were two couches. Both old. One of them had visible dog-urine stains. Matt lounged across that one. Bruce opted for a modest straight-back chair over in the corner. I sunk down into the other couch, my ass now three inches from the ground.
“So,” Matt said, “you’re the guy Jim recommended, right?”
“Right.”
The power went out for two minutes. Matt cursed. The lights came back on. “Goddamn grid. How do you know Jim?”
“Through an old work friend.”
“Did Jim say anything about what we need you for?”
“No.”
“Hang on. Lemme look at your résumé again. You haven’t worked in nearly thirty years. These goddamn résumés, Bruce. Every single one has some giant gap in it. Everyone’s gotta have their hobo period now. So, you were a lawyer?”
“Yep. Divorce and cycle marriage.”
“Ha. Cycle marriage. I tried that. Twice! What a load. Never made it past ten years either time. You should have seen the second woman I tried it with. Came from a family of the biggest Arkansas rednecks you will ever see. I mean, we’re talking people who play the fiddle with their goddamn teeth. Why did you quit?”
“Because I didn’t want to do it anymore. I didn’t like what I was helping facilitate.”
“So you cashed out.”
“Yeah. I took the money and I spent some time just . . . out there.”
“So why start work now?”
“Well, I got tired of drinking. And I ran out of money.”
“Yes, I’m sure you did. I mean, why start this job? Why do this? I mean, this is a weird job. You know that, right? We’re end specialists here. That means you’re basically half angel of death, half event planner. What about that appeals to you? And don’t say the event-planning part, because no one likes the event-planning part. That part is shit.”
I answered him carefully. “I’ve had people in my life who got to die on their own terms. And I’ve had people in my life who didn’t have any say in the matter. I don’t want anyone to have to go out that way if they don’t want to. I want to help.”
He cocked his head. I thought, for a brief moment, that he took me for being full of shit. “Jesus, that’s a good answer. Ninety-nine percent of the time when I ask that question, the answer I get is ‘Durrrrrr, I just like killin’ folk’—which is fucked! It’s good to know you aren’t a complete chucklehead. Besides, that’s not the role Bruce and I have sketched out for you. Let me ask you this: Do you have any military experience?”
“No.”
“Do you have any police experience?”
“No.”
“Do you have any experience working in surveillance?”
“No.”
“Do you have any experience working in medicine?”
“No.”
“Do you have any experience working in journalism?”
“No.”
“Good. Have you ever killed anyone?”
“No.”
“Do you own a gun?”
“Yes.”
“Have you ever used it?”
“Yes. The butt end, anyway. I’ve never shot it at anyone. I’ve had to pull it on gangs from time to time.”
“Ugh. We get gangs once in a blue moon around here. That’s the real reason I don’t answer the door. If you ever see some shady homeless nutjob busting into this garage, use that.” He gestured toward an ancient-looking shotgun on the wall. I was surprised he spoke of it as if it were still functional. “I’m not losing my life just because some jackass needs a sip of water and won’t take no for an answer. Anyway, keep your gun. You’re gonna want to have it on you at all times. If you need ammo, we have plenty here in the garage. We’re gonna be sending you to dangerous places every now and then. Don’t get me wrong—most of the time you’re gonna be servicing the chronically old or losers with depression or something like that. But sometimes you’ll have to go to the slums or to some creepy walled-off town in Bumfuck, Egypt. Really hairy places. The other thing you need to know about are the collectivists. Sometimes they throw false leads our way in order to sucker us. Two years ago, when we first started this business, one of our guys was kidnapped by them, and we never heard from him again. So be aware. I don’t want them shooting you in the foot, and then dancing some dipshit prayer circle around you.”
“Okay.” Minutes in, and I already liked Matt immensely.
“Now, the most important part of this job involves three things. First, verification. We don’t treat anyone whose cure age is unverifiable. When you field a call from a client, you get their full name and driver’s license number if they have one. If they don’t have a license or address, you get their mother’s maiden name. You send that to me with your WEPS, and I can get it instantly verified in the government cure database.”
“There’s a cure database? Wha
t about doctor-patient confidentiality? Isn’t it illegal for the government to do that?”
“Oh my God! You’re right! I can’t believe I didn’t realize that! Hey, Bruce, go alert the feeds! The government is doing illegal shit! Of course there’s a database. Only those backward idiots in China would brand a kid physically when you can do it digitally. Now, the second-most-important part of this thing is estate planning. Jim says you did a lot of that when you were Mr. Big Shot Lawyer, correct?”
“Yes. Before I went into divorce law.”
“Good. Perfect. Every client needs to have a will. If they don’t have one, your job is to produce one for them. Most of them have nothing to pass down, so it shouldn’t be hard. Use our template if you need to. Last part of the job: exit interviews. This is going to be your biggest thing. All exit interviews must be conducted in person and alone. No one else present except you and the client, and Ernie over there.”
Matt gestured toward a muscular bald fellow with a black goatee, who was eating from a giant plastic container filled with nothing but chickpeas. He smiled and waved back at us. That was Ernie.
“One time,” Matt continued, “we let the brother of a deaf guy stay in the room to do sign-language interpretation for him. Well, it turned out the brother was translating everything wrong on purpose. Goddamn deaf kid thought it was an ear-implant consult. The brother was schtupping the deaf guy’s lady and wanted him out of the picture. So do not allow anyone else in the room. Witnesses can come in when it’s done. And when you conduct the interviews, you use this app to record and stream. The conversation will be transcribed in real time on our server. I upload it directly to Containment, and you can get approval right on the spot. We do not perform an end specialization without that clearance. Ever. Containment assumes all legal liability once they’ve approved the interview, and it becomes a matter of public record right away. After that, you can get paid and Ernie will perform the end specialization. He’s the closer. Don’t do it yourself. Ernie’s the one with a nursing degree, which means he’s the only one allowed by law to perform it. Then you upload an end report, get the signed waivers from the witnesses, and call our boy Mosko to pick up the body. Then the relatives get their precious little tax rebate and insurance kickback, and the whole thing is over.”
His WEPS rang. He took the call and went off for thirty minutes, leaving me to sit there and do nothing. He came back and acted as if no time had passed at all.
I had questions. “What do I ask people in the interviews?”
“Oh, the standard crap. ‘Hey, buddy, why you wanna die?’ That usually does the trick. Bruce and I have a list of sample questions you can use.”
“What does Ernie use to perform the end specialization?”
“Eh. It depends on what they want. Everyone usually asks for the quickest, most painless route, in which case we always suggest this.” He held up a very small, torpedo-shaped plastic tube with a lance on the end. “This is sodium fluoroacetate. Highly diluted. Stick and squeeze, and we’re done. No muss, no fuss. I would suggest you steer everyone toward this option. Don’t let some idiot talk you into having Ernie shoot him in the head.”
Ernie spoke without looking up. “I don’t like shooting people in the head.”
“See? He doesn’t like shooting people in the head. Besides, violent end specializations are bad for our brand image. We want to be perceived as the warm and friendly end specialists. Like Saint Peter. Another thing: Please, under no circumstances try to talk a client out of it. That’s not your job. Your job is to prove that they are making a sober, rational decision that’s entirely their own. If during the course of the interview they decide, ‘Whoa, hey! I don’t wanna do this!’ that’s fine. Whatever. But do not try to be Mr. Nice Guy and rescue them.”
“Why not?” I asked.
“Because screw them—that’s why. That’s lost revenue, lost time, and another mouth breather walking around, not fully appreciating what’s left of our water, and eating what’s left of our bacon. Now, I can’t have you go out on any client visits until you pay me two hundred bucks so I can enroll you in Containment’s end specialization course. Then you have to take the certification test. After that you’re certified.”
“What if I fail?”
“Don’t worry. I take the test for you. Just give me the money, and you’ll be a certified end specialization consultant five minutes from now.”
I handed him the money.
“Excellent,” he said. “Now, do you know what soft end specialization is?”
“Yes. Soft end specialization is voluntary. Hard end specialization is not.”
“That’s right. And hard end specialization is, as you know, not legal as of yet. Everyone here knows that will change at some point. However, Bruce and I made the decision when we started this business that we would always deal in soft end specialization. So, are you okay with never having a chance to do hard end specialization? Or do you get your nut off being Mr. Bounty Hunter?”
“No. I’m fine with soft. This is good.”
“Goddamn! You are the only person who hasn’t bitched about that. I can’t believe it. Jim must have given you the answers in advance.”
Matt got up and went to eat a donut. It appeared our conversation was over.
“Does this mean I’m hired?”
“Well, I’m gonna send you out on a call with Ernie and see how you do. If you’re fine, then we’ll give you more work. If you suck, then it’s back to drifterland with you.” He walked back, mouth full of crumbs. “Now, one last thing: You were a lawyer. I’m told you were very good. Right?”
“Yes.”
“Good. That means you know when people are bullshitting you. That’s why Bruce and I brought you in. If you’re out on a call with Ernie and sense that anything is weird, follow your instincts and bail. Got it?”
“Got it.”
“Okay. First place you’re going to go is the car graveyard in Bowie. Some hippie jackass filed an RFE. Do you have a plug-in?”
“Yes.”
“Where’s it parked?”
“About a mile away.”
“That’s pretty good. You live in it?”
“No, I’m staying with a friend. Maybe for good.”
“Okay. Ernie’ll be ready to go with you in fifteen minutes. Always wear this hat when you go out on a call.”
He threw me a big orange baseball hat emblazoned with the company motto:
JONESPLUS END SPECIALISTS. PROVIDING THE CURE FOR THE CURE SINCE 2057
“It’s good for branding,” he said. “Get back in time and we’ll order dinner for you. You have any questions?”
“Yeah. Do I get a house discount?”
He let out a mighty chuckle. “Are you kidding? If you’re any good at this, I’ll never let you croak.”
DATE MODIFIED:
3/2/2059, 9:08 P.M.
The Hippie in the Graveyard
The biggest car graveyard I ever saw was along I-76 in Nebraska. People came from as far as Florida and the Texas coast to live there. They had no money, no home, and nowhere else to turn. And every day they showed up, in increasing numbers, to settle down in a formerly barren stretch of the Nebraska plains, now a dead sea of old cars that lined the road.
That place used to be drive-through country. Motorists on their way to Denver or the West Coast—or anywhere more interesting than Nebraska—could drive through that expanse for hours and hours and see nothing. Spotting a cow counted as a legitimate event. But when I showed up, it was clear that a giant migration was unfolding. It was as if the whole country was in a massive inward retreat. Along the shoulder you saw a washed-out kaleidoscope of people, tents, windscreens, bonfires, and clotheslines.
And cars. From the road to the horizon, on both sides, stretched an enormous, undulating metallic quilt—a mix of vapor greens, galaxy whites, Icelandic blues, and thousands of other colors found nowhere in nature. The old limos were dubbed McMansions by the people living there. And the c
ampers and Winnebagos were like forty-four-acre estates. It was the world’s largest used car lot, petrified in amber and transformed into one of the more unpleasant cities you will ever visit. The Nebraska car yard is supposedly where the D36 gang began. It formed well after I left, but apparently some of the vagrants decided the best way to survive was to join together and start pillaging the hell out of everything. Then the drug dealers joined in, and the whole area became a giant black tumor on the landscape.
The Bowie car yard was nothing like that. When Ernie and I showed up in the plug-in, we got out of the car (Ernie grabbed a duffel bag with two shotguns and his closing equipment) and surveyed the landscape. It was a fairly small car yard, maybe a thousand vehicles total, with various cheesy rock songs blasting out from each one. Prince George’s County made from concentrate. Steakheads wore wifebeaters and drank cheap vodka while trying to hook up with any chick in sight. I saw at least two touchfootball games going on. It was a perpetual tailgate party without any real game to play, which I found to be a solid concept.
Matt told us to look for the microbus. It was the only one of its kind in the lot, once white and now the color of a quail’s egg. We spotted it in short order and advanced. We knocked on the door. A soundboard recording from an MMJ show blasted from inside. The whole thing reeked of hydro. We knocked again. Someone inside turned the music down a bit, then a voice said, “Hello?”
