The Hauntings of Playing God (The Great De-Evolution)

by Chris Dietzel

  It won’t be anything personal, it will only be done because it is what’s best for the rest of the group. That is what their unfeeling eyes tell her.

  The thought is not comforting, however, because the next nightmare will surely be the last. In the first nightmares, the Blocks were all the way across the room. In this one, Brad was standing right over her. The next dream will surely start with one of her Blocks standing close enough to end it all. What should she do? Kill them all before they can get her? Never go to sleep again? Neither option is realistic.

  Has everything about life always been this inevitable, or only since the Great De-evolution began? Is life measured by the amount of times you feel in control of your future and the amount of times you feel powerless?

  45

  Everything is more difficult on one foot. She can barely move the Blocks into new positions, and, more often than she cares to admit, leaves their bodies in the same fashion as she found them. It takes longer to get from one bed to the next. She almost breaks her neck trying to climb into the forklift so Chris’s body can be taken out to the incinerator.

  Halfway through her chores, she rests her head on the chest of the Block she is currently cleaning. It feels good to close her eyes and listen to the heartbeat against her ear. It’s one of the most calming things she can think of.

  Thump-thump, thump-thump.

  Outside the gymnasium, she can hear birds calling to each other. It must be a nice time in history to be a bird, with the world almost completely returned to what it once was. With her eyes still closed, she remembers one of the nearby parks she visited with her parents when they first came to Miami. She saw more types of birds in that one place than she had seen anywhere else in her life. But as her memory takes her back to that park, she thinks of herself as she is now, an old woman walking through the sand, rather than the woman she was at the time of her visit.

  She is walking in Cape Florida State Park. To the west, separated by Biscayne Bay, sits the Miami skyline, sparkling against the sun. To the east, there is only water. She walks through sand and grass, blended together the way she has always loved. Cranes and flamingoes lift their heads just long enough to acknowledge her presence, then go back to their own routines.

  McArthur, her Block who has always been undecided on what he should believe, appears next to her. Both of them went through life hearing all the things they should and shouldn’t believe. Although none of it had ever sounded very convincing.

  They walk together across the sand. The warm, golden grains rub between her toes. This is the first time she has seen McArthur since sending him to the incinerator. Indeed, it’s the first time she has dreamed, both in her nightmares and in her daydreams, of being reunited with one of the Blocks she has euthanized.

  “Beautiful place,” McArthur says, seemingly not interested in exacting revenge the way her living Blocks do when they haunt her sleep.

  “Yes.”

  Unable to control where her memory takes her, or the things her consciousness wants to focus on, she finds herself preoccupied with contemplating whether or not the park actually looks anything like this anymore. Maybe after nearly one hundred years of the Great De-evolution, it looks nothing like it had when she was younger. She likes to think, though, that this is one of the few places that has never changed, will never change, even though mankind is gone.

  What does it matter how it looks in real life? she thinks. Just enjoy the moment.

  McArthur looks over at her and smiles as if he can sense what she is thinking and agrees with the sentiment.

  “I haven’t been here for fifty years,” she says. “I’m glad I finally get to see it again.”

  Even as her imagination creates wind blowing and sand that is just a little too hot, ensuring she doesn’t stand in one place for too long, the obsessive part of her mind wonders if this is really what the park looked like or if her memories are making her dream into something slightly more enchanting than the park she actually visited. (If it had been this nice, why had she never returned? Why does she always think of the Grand Canyon and not this place, which happens to be so much closer?) The park is six miles off the coast of Miami, but even as recently as twenty years ago she is sure it would have been easy to find a boat able to take her that short distance.

  “It’s a shame more people didn’t visit here,” McArthur says, causing Morgan to nod in agreement.

  Looking at the outline of the city in the distance, the glare of the setting sun makes it impossible to tell if they are looking at the world the way it used to be or how it is now. The sun does her a favor in this regard. It keeps her from seeing the details of each building, from seeing high-rises that might be missing their windows, from seeing apartment buildings with cracked and crumbling walls. With the sun in her eyes, it’s as if the Great De-evolution has never happened. Maybe the park is not void of human life; maybe it was always this vacant and peaceful. How wonderful it is that a simple glare of light can allow someone to hope an entire city might be different than it really is. A crowded city full of every type of person, every skin color, every background, every religion. All types of music echoing through the streets. The smells of every type of food wafting through the air. The world, even in decline, had seemed so full of possibility at one time.

  “Don’t worry,” McArthur says, noticing how her eyes refuse to veer from the nondescript outline of the buildings. “The way you remember things is much more important than how they actually end up.”

  “Thank you. I appreciate that.”

  A pelican lands near a group of flamingoes, then flies away a moment later. The sound of water crashing against the park’s eastern shore is constant and soothing. A flock of white birds circles the surf.

  “I’m scared,” Morgan says. “I don’t know what’s coming next.”

  “No one does.”

  “Doesn’t that scare you?”

  “Whatever it is, billions of other people have already experienced it. We just happen to be the last ones.”

  “If you aren’t scared, why am I?”

  “Guilt,” McArthur says, pausing to let Morgan disagree or, if she wants, change the subject completely. She remains silent and continues walking through the sand. Eventually, he adds, “There is no need for it, though. You did what you thought was best. Through everything, you handled yourself with grace. That’s all you can ask of yourself. Don’t blame yourself based on what others would have you believe. Guilt is a mechanism to control you, not to make you a better person.”

  “For someone who was supposed to have all the same questions I have, you seem to have everything figured out.”

  McArthur smiles. “I don’t have everything figured out. I just know everything will be okay. People like you and me, we just need to see things for ourselves if we’re going to understand it. There’s nothing wrong with that, nothing to be ashamed of.”

  “I’m sorry about what happened,” Morgan says, remembering back to when she disconnected his nutrient bag and left him alone to die.

  The Block smiles. “Don’t be sorry. You did the best you could.”

  “What do you think is next?”

  “After this?” he says, motioning all around them at the ocean and the birds and the sand. “I have no idea. That’s what makes it so exciting.”

  “Exciting? You’re crazy.”

  McArthur only laughs, and Morgan finds herself thinking how amazing it is that the same person she left for dead is now amused at the things she is saying.

  “Whatever it is that happens, we can’t control it,” McArthur says. “So why worry? No matter what, a part of me will always be with you. Just like a part of you will always be with me.”

  A set of fins appear in the water, and Morgan somehow knows they belong to playful dolphins rather than predatory sharks. The fins circle the water, glowing white and orange in the sun before going back under the surface and disappearing.

  “I can guarantee you one thing,” McArthur says. �
�Whatever happens next, there won’t be some fiery pit or some eternal damnation. The same guys that created that concept are the same guys that want you to feel guilty all your life.”

  They reach the park’s southern tip. From where they stand, water separates them from the rest of the world in three different directions. She can’t help but wonder how many other sets of feet have stood in the exact same spot she is standing now. There was once a world full of billions of people, all trying to find their way in the world, all trying to figure out for themselves what they were supposed to be doing each day, each year, with their lives.

  “Let’s just enjoy the rest of our walk,” McArthur says.

  And he and Morgan curve along the coast until they are walking back toward the direction they came from.

  She opens her eyes. Her head is still resting on the Block’s chest. The heartbeat is still soothing in its steady pattering.

  Thump-thump, thump-thump.

  Back to her chores.

  46

  Her foot is just as swollen and purple as it was the day before. Her eyes close, allowing her to remember her dream and how nice the sand felt on her bare feet, how she had been able to walk without shooting pains. Another day on the crutches will do her no good, but does what she has to do.

  Neither the scuffing of her feet nor the thud of her crutches can be heard over the howl of the wind and rain. Water is trickling in through one of the windows where the seal has deteriorated.

  Oh well, she thinks. Luck doesn’t last an entire lifetime.

  A towel collects the drops as they fall, but it is only a temporary solution. Soon, the thick cotton is completely saturated and a puddle spreads out across the floor.

  None of her Blocks are concerned about the hurricane. If they aren’t worried, she tells herself, she should try not to be either.

  Although another Block is gone, she still has no chance of getting to everyone in one day. Her foot ensures that much.

  What’s next? If I’m not sick, my foot hurts. And the Blocks are the ones who always pay the price. Unless I die first, this is just going to keep happening until I can’t even take care of one person.

  She finds herself at the bed of Tori, her famous chef. Tori used the Great De-evolution to her advantage the way all great artists found inspiration from hard times. As other people were closing their restaurants, Tori decided it was the perfect time to finally open the restaurant of her dreams. With farms going out of business, with grocery stores and butcher shops closing their doors, Tori turned to the food processor for salvation.

  Her restaurant used the same model of food processor that everyone else was provided with, but Tori turned the generated meals into works of art. The same way a trash collector recreated a Picasso with random junk, Tori used the food processor to recreate famous meals that used to be found in five-star restaurants around the world. She didn’t just present a plate of Maine Lobster with butter, she took the time to make the same citrus butter sauce that Chef Pietro had used for so many years. She didn’t just present her customer with glazed chicken, she took the time to make each individual ingredient needed to bake the chicken in a sweet champagne glaze, the same way Chef DeAngelo made famous.

  The restaurant didn’t turn a profit. In fact, most of her customers didn’t even pay for their meals. This was back when currencies around the world were almost worthless, so receiving money wouldn’t have made much of a difference. But that didn’t matter to her. She hadn’t opened the restaurant to become rich, she opened it because it had always been her dream and she wanted to achieve it before it was too late.

  Tori says, “It wasn’t the famous Parisian café I dreamed of as a kid, but it was enough.”

  “I wish you would have taught me some of your tricks. I’ve gone through every standard recipe the food processor can make.”

  “I would have liked that.”

  Morgan begins to say something else, but a great howl of wind makes her shudder. A second puddle is forming, this one on the other side of the gym from where the soaked towel is no longer controlling the first leak. Where are the buckets? She cannot remember the last caretaker that needed a bucket or what they might have done with them. There is no time to investigate; she has to keep moving.

  She looks down at her content chef, takes comfort in knowing the woman lived the life she had always wanted, then reaches over and disconnects the nutrient bag keeping her alive.

  The thought re-enters her mind: How long can this keep going on? This is just going to keep happening until I can’t even take care of one person.

  In the morning, if there is still a roof over them, if they aren’t flooded out altogether, she will take Tori’s body out to the incinerator.

  47

  When Morgan opens her eyes, Erin has already crossed most of the room. She is only three feet away from where Morgan is lying in bed. The marathon runner used to jog through miles of land during her races. Now, her feet shuffle the same way Morgan’s do when she is caring for each Block. Soon, she will be at Morgan’s side.

  Erin’s feet bring her another foot closer.

  There is no telling what she will do. Her eyes, like all the rest, are emotionless. They are eyes capable of anything.

  Now, she is only one foot away.

  This is only a dream. This is only a dream. The thought does not slow Morgan’s soaring heart rate.

  In her mind, Morgan is screaming for help, she is pleading not to be hurt. She is asking for forgiveness. But in the reality of her dream, she is doing none of this. Her body is still. She doesn’t get to plead her case. Tears pour from the corners of her eyes, the only response of any kind she is capable of offering.

  Erin is here now, standing over her. Their eyes meet. There is no more time for begging or prayer. There is no more time for regret or self-pity.

  The runner’s eyes are still void of any emotion. There is no telling what Erin has planned.

  Please, just make it quick.

  But Erin doesn’t reach for Morgan’s throat. She doesn’t produce a knife from behind her back. She lowers herself until she is sitting on the edge of Morgan’s bed.

  I did my best. I did what I thought was right for everyone.

  Erin looks around the room, then back at Morgan. The gym is perfectly quiet.

  I’m suffering as much as you. You don’t know what it’s been like. I know I was responsible for caring for all of you, and I know I failed. But I did my best. I swear, I did.

  “Quiet,” Erin says, even though Morgan has not actually said anything.

  Morgan’s eyes stop darting around the room. Her heart skips a beat. She wonders if Erin really said something or if she imagined it the way she imagined the other Blocks’ threats and, really, the way she has imagined their entire lives. If she could just close her eyes and make all of this go away she would.

  Erin is still sitting on her bed, but now, instead of looking down at Morgan, she is looking around at the expanse of the mostly empty gymnasium. At various times during its existence, the room has held screaming and laughing kids, each having all the fun a child could ever hope for. It has held hundreds of retired teachers and other out-of-work professionals, no longer needed once the world started changing, all working toward one goal. And it held all the Blocks who were abandoned by their families as mankind faded away.

  This is what Erin seems to be thinking about when she says, “There are only a few of us left.”

  Morgan looks at Erin’s lips. She is sure these words were really spoken. These actually are Erin’s words, not the things Morgan might have imagined. In the confines of her sleep, there may be no difference between what Erin says and what she might have said—both are created by Morgan’s brain and delivered by her subconscious—but the difference is distinct in her dream.

  Please, Morgan thinks, wishing she could force her lips to move. Please don’t hurt me. I did my best.

  She is crying again. A steady trickle of tears is running down her cheeks.
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  “Quiet,” Erin says again. “I know you did your best.”

  Then why are you doing this to me?

  “What am I doing to you?” Erin says.

  The runner stops looking at the few remaining cots spread out across the otherwise empty floor and turns once again to look down at Morgan.

  “Yes, I hear you,” Erin says, although Morgan still has not said anything.

  Then you have to know I didn’t want anyone to die. I didn’t want anyone to suffer.

  “I know that. Of course I know that.”

  Then why are you doing this to me? Why do you want to hurt me?

  “I don’t want to hurt you.”

  Erin puts her hand on Morgan’s shoulder. But instead of holding Morgan in place while the attack commences—as if Morgan could move if she wanted to—the hand rests there, gently.

  Morgan is crying harder now. Her chest heaves with the force of her sobs, her throat gurgles, her eyes close. Without even thinking, she wipes the snot away from her nose.

  She can move.

  Through it all, Erin’s hand remains delicately on Morgan’s shoulder. The runner’s eyes are still without emotion, but what Morgan once saw as cold hatred seems more like a sense of acceptance with the world and with everything that must happen in it.

  Morgan wipes another batch of tears away from her eyes. When she can see clearly again, she notices Erin is sitting there as if there is nothing to be sad about, or happy or afraid or anxious or anything else; there are only the things you allow to have power over you, and if you don’t allow them to affect you, they aren’t really there at all.

  A new round of sobs comes over Morgan. She is not crying because she is afraid, though. She is not crying because she feels vindicated. She cries because of everything she has ever done in her life—the good parts, the bad parts, the things she wishes she could do all over again. All of it.