In the shadows, it looks as though a big smile breaks across Rachel’s face. She is taking delight in Morgan’s helplessness. Maybe the veterinarian can see how badly Morgan wants to plead on her own behalf and likes seeing someone else vulnerable for a change. The coldness in those eyes! It’s as if Lady Death herself is there, taking her time to enjoy the moment.
Please, no!
Her scream—there is one this time—is still echoing in the gym when her eyes fly open. Finally, she’s awake. Rachel is lying on her cot, motionless, thirty feet away. Morgan’s scream echoes back and forth from one wall to the other, as if it will never end.
“Please, no!” followed by a softer, “Please, no!” and then another, “Please, no!”
She cries into her pillow while the echo fades and she is left, once again, to the silence of the gymnasium.
33
Moving from cot to cot, she cannot help but wonder where all the souls have gone since the Great De-evolution started. Whatever people call it, their soul or their life energy or whatever, she is inclined to believe more exists of people than the little you can see of them. It isn’t an issue of missing loved ones but of wondering what is in store for all of mankind, especially all the Blocks who populated the earth. What happens to their souls? She doesn’t ask if they have souls, the way some clergymen did when the Great De-evolution began; she knows the only difference between herself and the people around her is that they cannot speak or move. In all other things they are the same. If she has a soul, they have souls, too. If she doesn’t, neither do they.
Different people around the world believe—believed—in different things. This was obvious, even when she was young. But it wasn’t until she went to college that she learned about other beliefs than the ones her parents had taught her. That was when she changed from automatically accepting what her parents said and learned to respect the unique beliefs each religion held sacred. It wasn’t that she had thought other religions’ ideas were silly prior to that, it was simply that she didn’t know anything outside of her own sheltered life. Her professor reminded the class that the majority of his students only held their religious views because they had been taught to them at an early age.
As he walked the room, the professor said, “If you were born somewhere else in the world, you might believe that spirits are reborn over and over again, just as kids on the other side of the world might be attending a class similar to this and learn all the crazy things you believe. This doesn’t make what they hold to be true any more or less correct than what you believe.” Her professor smiled. “Just different.”
Morgan didn’t leave the class believing she would come back in her next life as a zebra or a bird. Nor did she come away believing there were a hundred different gods, a single god, or no god at all. She left the class understanding that any of it was possible. All she could be sure of were the things she saw and learned for herself. For everything else, for all the things she didn’t know, how could she be so egotistical to think one thing was right and another thing wrong?
Sometimes, she finds herself walking amongst what is left of the group home’s population, thinking about what it will be like to meet each of these Blocks in the next life and finally be able to experience them as normal people. Instead of pretending what Cindy and Irving and Algernon might have said, they would actually be able to speak to her.
And sometimes she thinks about how everyone might die and simply stop existing. The Blocks she has sent to the incinerator will never have a chance to hear her apologize for selecting them. Everything will go quiet. There won’t be pain in hell or joy in heaven, there will only be an absence of everything. Their entire lives will have consisted of being motionless in bed until Morgan sent them to their deaths. Nothing else.
She is also fond of imagining her Blocks and herself as far-off animals in their next lives. Occasionally, instead of carrying on fictitious conversations with the men and women she looks after, expanding the story of their lives, she imagines them as reincarnated animals in the Serengeti or the Amazon. She thinks of Richard, the grumpy pilot, as a snake, and Roger, the happy pilot, as a prairie dog. She thinks of Aristotle, her world traveler, as a dolphin, and Justin, her mountain climber, as a goat.
When she’s in a particularly good mood, she imagines that all the Blocks in the world were people who reached enlightenment in their previous life. Her Blocks have never complained about anything. They have given up everything that could cause sorrow. Maybe the Blocks, she fancies, are those people who were more spiritual than everyone else and reached a higher consciousness. They are the ones who have reached nirvana.
“I like that thought,” her Zen master Block says. “You know, desire is nothing but the search for pleasure, and fear is nothing but the memory of pain. Both lead to suffering. And the Blocks are free of both.”
“Very true,” she says.
But on the occasions when she is tired or can’t stop coughing or is feeling sorry for herself, she thinks humanity was a waste, that people never came close to reaching the potential they were given. Surely, humans hadn’t evolved enough if they spent thousands of years killing each other. What was the point of human invention and ingenuity if it only led to more brutal ways of killing someone or to the corrupt and ruthless ruling over everyone else with more efficiency?
Too many people spent their entire time on this planet living thoughtlessly, giving in to impulses without having a meaning to their lives. These are the times she thinks the Great De-evolution came about because humans were a failed creature. Everyone she once knew, all the spirits that were recycled for thousands of years, have one less species to inhabit now.
She has no idea what she really believes.
34
On her walk through the rows—she keeps forgetting she can no longer call them that; they are a mere splattering of dots—she breathes deeply, trying to take in the incense wafting through the air. After an hour of the little stick burning, sending its puffs of smoke every which way, she is able to convince herself that the smell of death and human waste are slowly drifting away. The entire gymnasium begins to smell like Arabic Cinders or Ocean Salt or whatever fragrance she picks for the day. Every corner of the enormous room must smell like a campfire in the desert or the mist coming in from the ocean. The smells were assigned names by random people decades earlier, but they still somehow seem to fit.
Taking in the flavorful smoke, she closes her eyes and imagines herself under a tarp so the sand doesn’t get in her eyes, or with a blanket around her so the mist doesn’t get her too wet. It’s a nice thing to imagine. When Bay of Bengal Breeze is wafting through the gym, she imagines herself walking through an endless marketplace, baskets full of fish and herbs, instead of walking by what remains of the world’s quiet population. When Mount Everest Air is sending little bits of smoke throughout the facility, rather than seeing herself surrounded by Blocks who are all as old as she is, she imagines herself amongst little Tibetan boys and girls, all eager to be old enough for the day that they too can attempt to climb the great mountain.
Her mood depends on how exhausted she is as she makes her way from cot to cot. The smells can make her feel like she is able to live out one tiny aspect of the world that not even mankind’s extinction could take away from her. But they can also make her lonely, cause her to long for the days when a group of thirty caretakers would laugh and joke with each other as they replaced nutrient bags and changed bedding.
The incense belonged to a helper who passed away nearly ten years ago. Morgan uses the sweet-smelling sticks frugally because there aren’t many left, and once they are gone another aspect of life will fade away. The food processor can do many things, but it can’t make her anything resembling scented sticks to burn. Back when the processors were first distributed through the country, everyone took turns finding new codes and recipes to make items that the machine’s creators hadn’t intended. She can go online and find codes to make just about every over-the-
counter medication and just about any illicit drug. Never, though, did anyone waste time trying to figure out if the machine could produce incense. Understandable, given how many more important things there were to think about in those days. But these little things are all she has left.
No one has arrived in Miami for twelve years. The final nomads have long since passed away. Family, everyone she has ever loved, is dead. Everything Stanley Steinbecker wrote about in Mapping the Great De-evolution, the nonfiction account of how one sociologist thought the declining population would play out, has already happened. His last chapter, about the world’s last people, about even the final settlements becoming ghost towns, has already come to fruition. And yet, she is still here. Leave it to Morgan, the last of the last, to live past what even Steinbecker could foresee. Leave it to her to live through the unwritten chapter, after everyone else has passed away and not a single other person is there to offer support, not even on the other side of the world. She has thought of trying to write her own chapter to his book, an addendum to the last New York Times Bestseller ever published, a chapter which summarizes the little things that not even a sociologist could fathom: rows of Blocks dying when the only living caretaker falls ill, the way her music echoes through the empty gymnasium, and yes, even the last sticks of incense.
By the time the final bit of the wood burns to ash, she is done caring for twelve of her sixteen Blocks. It makes her happy, though, that the smell lingers the rest of the day. Even at seven o’clock, as the black of night begins to creep through the rafters, the smell of Turkish Wood still floats in the air.
She imagines walking the streets of Istanbul, even though she really has no idea what the city is like—was like, when people still lived there—and, discouraged, realizes, her mental Istanbul is the same as her mental Bangladesh and her mental Budapest. They are all the same place in her daydreams because she never got to see them and distinguish them for herself.
For the duration of her life, the majority of the earth’s wonders have been accessible to her only in pictures. It is impossible for this realization not to upset her. As the odor dissipates, her chest feels heavy and she cannot help but feel like the smell might as well have been named Smell 237 or Smell 4-F6 because random laboratory names mean as much to her as any far-off land’s name. And she resents ever finding pleasure in a smell just because it’s different than the smell she has to breathe every other day.
None of her Blocks care what the gymnasium smells like anyway. Why should she? They all probably think she is crazy for burning the scented sticks of wood in the first place. With three-quarters of her Blocks dead, she finally has time to slow down, can finally finish her chores at a reasonable hour. And what does she do? She doesn’t cook herself a grand meal. She doesn’t go for a walk in the neighborhood. No, she burns a stick of wood and makes herself sad.
“You can’t keep doing this to yourself.”
She turns and looks behind her to see who has said this. Gault, her mad scientist, the one who tried to cause chaos during the end of the world, is lying there.
She tries to smile, says, “You know I’m one step away from madness when an evil mastermind is concerned about me.”
With his feelings hurt, he doesn’t offer a reply. Probably, he is plotting how to blow the entire group home to smithereens.
When she sleeps that night, her dreams are fitful. She wakes in a sweat, gasping for air, but cannot remember what the dream was about. Her clock tells her it’s the middle of the night. There are still another three hours of possible sleep remaining if she wants it.
Please don’t let the nightmare start right back up.
She closes her eyes again.
35
However, the nightmare, or a similar one, does continue. And as the dreams have progressed—from an initial unidentified Block watching her in the night, to one staring at her, to one gesturing toward her—the pattern of what occurs is part of what she dreads: they are getting closer. They will continue to approach until they are close enough to do to her as she has done to them.
Why is it never the Blocks who have a right to be upset with her that haunt her nightmares? Why is it always the living? Part of her thinks the nightmares would terrify her less if they at least featured people who should rightfully be seeking revenge. At least that would make sense. At least that would give the episodes a purpose that could be explained away. But having Blocks appear whom she still cares for each day, who should be grateful to her, who have no reason to despise her, makes her even more anxious.
Her first thought after each dream is always, Am I making the wrong decisions? I must be doing something wrong.
She goes through the rest of her day trying to figure out where she could have done things differently. Surely, the Blocks would not be haunting her if she were doing what she was supposed to be doing. People don’t seek revenge without having a reason. By its very definition, revenge requires that she do some amount of wrong before they come to get their recompense.
The Block in this nightmare is Coelho, her Zen master. As she watches, Coelho’s head turns and stares at her. He props himself on one elbow, then looks directly into her eyes.
It’s okay, Morgan thinks. He would never hurt me. Not my Zen master.
So relieved is she by the identity of the man who occupies this night’s dream that she actually lets out a sigh. But her Zen master’s eyes narrow when she does this. Her comfort agitates him. There is nothing Zen-like about him in her dream, nothing peaceful. Even his breathing, usually calm and steady, becomes a series of angry huffs though his nose. Just looking at her is enough for him to forget who he is, for him to give up his tranquil nature. The same man who wouldn’t hurt an insect wants to see her dead.
Coelho doesn’t waste time putting his hand to his own neck to let her know strangulation is in her near future. Nor does he run his thumb from one side of his neck to the other to let her know how soon it will be until a dull knife is tearing chunks of flesh away from her throat. There is none of this.
Morgan has the gall to think, Well, this dream won’t be too bad then.
Just as this thought enters her mind, she gasps. Coelho is getting off the bed. He is coming toward her. Slowly, as if unsure of his balance after being motionless on the mattress for so long, the Zen master lets one leg hang off the side of his bed, then the other.
She wants to yell at him that he has no reason to be angry with her, wants to tell him that she is doing the best she can. But of course not a single muscle will move, not even in her throat.
Once both feet are touching the floor, Coelho uses an elbow to push himself into a seated position so he is facing her. He doesn’t pause on the edge of the cot to threaten her, to growl, or to look for a weapon. These are all wastes of time compared to actually closing the distance between them and doing what all the other Blocks have merely threatened. Immediately, one foot moves ahead of the other, only inches, but enough to let her know he is coming in her direction.
And like that, Coelho is standing. His left foot creeps toward her. Then his right foot.
No matter how hard she tries to scream, no sound will come. Not even a gurgle or a groan. She tries to push herself off the bed so she can run and get away from him, but none of her muscles respond.
The Zen master’s feet shuffle closer to her. He is only thirty feet away. Now twenty-eight feet. His toenails, long and curled, scuff against the floor each time he takes a small step toward her. Twenty-six feet.
He’s going to kill me.
By now, she has witnessed all too frequently that what happens in her dreams happens in real life. This means that when Coelho chokes her to death in her nightmare…
He’s going to come over here and kill me.
Any comfort in knowing this is a dream has completely vanished.
She stares into his eyes. Usually, they are at peace. If the eyes are the gateway to the soul, Coelho’s usually reveal a soul who has found answers to all the important q
uestions in life. But now, the eyes are different. They don’t sparkle. They are unflinching. They want blood. They want her to cry. And they never deviate from her, not even for a moment. He doesn’t look down to make sure the path is clear or to aid his balance after walking for the first time in all his life. He only stares right into her, cruelly, as if to let her know he may not have decided yet just how, exactly, she will die—maybe by being starved to death; maybe from blood loss after pricking her with a pin thousands of times and watching little drops of blood form from each of unseen hole in her old body. No matter what, though, she will be dying very soon.
One foot shuffles in front of the other—a patient zombie. Another foot closer.
He’s going to cut my ears off, sew my eyelids shut, put a gag in my mouth. He’s going to show me what it’s like to be a Block, to be helpless.
If she could yell just once, he would blink back into being the Zen master she knows. He would see how wrong this all is. Surely, he would know she hasn’t done anything wrong. Why can’t she scream?
Instead, she is crying. Tears pour from both eyes, streaming down her cheeks and onto her pillow.
Coelho’s feet shuffle closer. He is half the way to her now.
He wants me to be like him. He’s going to stick a pin in my ears and burst my eardrums so I go deaf. He’s going to force a spoon behind my eyes and pop them from the sockets so I go blind. He’s going to pull my tongue out, right as I watch, so I go mute. Please, no.
But if Coelho can hear her thoughts, he is not letting on. She cries and cries.
Another foot closer.
Her eyes burst open. Immediately, she darts upright and looks at Coelho lying motionless on his bed. Her face and pillow are soaked. Tears. Her throat is sore as if she has been yelling all the things she wished she could have screamed in her nightmare. Falling back on her bed, her neck is cold against the wet pillowcase. All she can do is sob.
The Hauntings of Playing God (The Great De-Evolution) Page 15
