The Erasure Initiative

by Lili Wilkinson

  I’m not the one with the take-down-the-system attitude.

  And I’m not the one with a tattoo of a blue fairy on my thigh.

  I choose NO again, which means I save the dogs. Nia chooses cats, along with Catherine. The cats die.

  I wish I had a book or something. Why don’t the seatback displays have an entertainment system?

  Another file decrypts.

  ‘This one is just a PDF full of cat pictures,’ Nia says, baffled.

  I look over her shoulder as she scrolls through about twenty pages of cat photos.

  ‘Maybe it’s obituaries for all the ones we’ve killed today,’ I suggest.

  Nia ignores me. ‘Nawww,’ she says. ‘Look at this little muffin stuck in a jar of pretzels.’

  Of course she’s a cat person.

  ‘Why are there cat photos in an encrypted folder?’ I ask.

  Nia shrugs. ‘I dunno. Maybe the evil mastermind behind this whole thing loves cats?’ She chuckles again as she pauses on a photo of a cat having a bath.

  I do not like cats.

  The next photo is of a cat wearing a purple bow-tie. Nia tilts her head as she considers it, a weird expression on her face.

  ‘Not a fan of cats with accessories?’ I ask.

  ‘No …’ she says slowly. ‘I know this photo. I’ve seen it before.’

  ‘You remember it?’

  She nods. ‘And not just from general pop culture. It … it means something to me.’

  ‘You think it might be your cat?’

  ‘Maybe? I don’t know.’

  I peer at the display. There are white letters printed on the purple bow-tie.

  ‘CATCLOUD. That’s what this file is called. Do you know what it means?’

  Nia shakes her head. ‘No idea.’

  Yet another question appears.

  You are in a moving vehicle. Before you the road forks. Ahead, there is one human. On the side road there is the last white rhino in the world. You can press a button and the bus will turn off onto the side road. The bus will not stop.

  Do you press the button?

  YESNO

  0/7 responses logged.

  ‘I’m not going to be responsible for the extinction of a species,’ Paxton says, and presses NO.

  ‘What good is the last member of a species?’ Sandra asks. ‘It’s not like it can breed. It’s already extinct.’

  ‘How can they be sure it’s the last one? There might be others that we don’t know about,’ Nia argues.

  Sandra shrugs and presses YES.

  Riley looks between Paxton and Sandra, like he’s really considering it. He’s taking this whole thing way too seriously. Eventually he chooses YES.

  I press NO, because I still don’t care.

  Catherine presses YES as well, leaving Edwin to be the tiebreaker once more. He goes through his incommensurability procedure again, and a lime-coloured patch of upholstery decides the woman in the yellow dress’s fate, and the white rhino lives to fight another day on the critically endangered list.

  Nia and I scan through more files, but it’s more meaningless data. Numbers and statistics. There’s one that is promisingly titled Criminal_Data.pdf, but it’s just a dry report on increasing rates of recidivism.

  I should tell Nia about the tattoo. I know I should.

  But I don’t.

  Because if Nia is the Blue Fairy, then I don’t know if I can trust her.

  …

  The displays change again.

  ‘One person versus the last one hundred white rhinos,’ Nia reads out loud. ‘Easy.’

  Everyone chooses to save the white rhinos this time, except for me because I am stubborn and peevish.

  The projection of one hundred white rhinos clustered on the side road is pretty impressive. I can almost smell their zoo-manure scent, and hear them stomping and snorting. I feel a prickle of fear at the idea that they could stampede the bus and tear it to pieces with their sharp horns.

  But of course they aren’t real. As the woman in the yellow dress explodes, the rhinos all flicker and vanish.

  More text appears on the displays, and we all groan.

  ‘It’s the same as last time,’ Nia says.

  ‘No it isn’t,’ Paxton argues. ‘Last time it was the last hundred rhinos. Now it’s the last hundred small orange-spotted sun-moths.’

  ‘It’s essentially the same.’ Nia presses NO.

  ‘Moths aren’t the same as rhinos,’ Riley says. ‘Rhinos are cool. Moths are gross.’

  Catherine agrees. ‘Holes in all my jumpers,’ she says, and presses YES.

  I join Nia on NO, and Paxton, Edwin and Sandra press YES. The moths flutter up to the windscreen in a greyish-orange cloud, then spatter into nothing.

  Immediately a new question appears. The moths (again) versus the three criminals from last night. I growl and smack the palm of my hand against the seatback.

  ‘Okay, that’s enough,’ I say. ‘I’m done. No more answers. I’m going on strike.’

  ‘But I’m hungry,’ Riley protests. ‘We might get lunch with the next one.’

  It’s nearly four in the afternoon. I don’t think we’re getting lunch today. I feel lightheaded from hunger, but I don’t care anymore.

  ‘Let’s go on a hunger strike. Protest until we get some answers.’

  I look over at Nia for support. Striking seems like the kind of thing she’d be into. But she’s not listening to me. She’s leaning forward to peer at the seatback display.

  ‘Calm down, Cecily,’ Sandra says. ‘Nobody’s going on a hunger strike. We’re going to keep answering these questions, and before long we’ll be out of here.’

  ‘Says who?’ I stand up, ready to make a rousing speech. ‘We don’t know if we’re ever going to be out of here. It could be days, or months, of driving down this road, watching pretend people and moths explode. I’ve had enough. I’m not playing anymore. I didn’t ask for this. I don’t want to be here. I didn’t consent to this.’

  ‘Yes you did.’

  It’s Nia. She’s staring at her seatback. The others fall silent.

  ‘What?’

  ‘You did consent to this. We all did.’

  She points to the display, and I lean over to read the text. It’s a consent form, but almost all of the text has been redacted. Pretty much the only thing that’s legible is the name at the bottom.

  My name.

  CECILY CARTWRIGHT is printed underneath the stylish looping curves of a signature. My signature.

  ‘Cecily Cartwright,’ I murmur. Cartwright. My surname is Cartwright.

  ‘Ring any bells?’ Nia asks.

  ‘I don’t know.’

  I trace my finger over the signature. I don’t remember it at all.

  A baby is crying, but I can’t find it. I open door after door, searching for the baby.

  I’m in a wardrobe, but the baby isn’t here.

  My wrists hurt.

  Light glints off her glasses as she hands me the pen.

  The baby is still crying.

  ‘Are the rest of us in there?’ a woman asks, jerking away from the crying baby.

  I’m on a bus.

  I stare at the woman for a moment, before I notice her nametag.

  Sandra. Her name is Sandra. She’s sensible, and she has magic boobs.

  I’m on a bus.

  The despair that comes rushing back with each memory glitch is almost unbearable. It’s not enough. The last thirty or so hours isn’t enough. I want more to come back. But every time it’s the same.

  ‘I think so,’ Nia is saying. ‘Although there are others, too. Lots of others.’

  I see NIA ONGOCO below a spiky, angry-looking signature. A childish scribble above RILEY LEE MARTIN. Then there are other names I don’t recognise.

  RAFAL AKEMI GAJOS

  JEREMY CHIANG

  JARETH EVERLY

  LI ZHONG YOH

  KORE LAAKKONEN

  QUINN PAGET

  ‘Who are they all?’
Riley asks, looking around as if expecting new people to jump out from under the seats.

  ‘Maybe other participants in the Erasure Initiative … whatever that is,’ says Sandra. ‘If we really have done this before, who’s to say it wasn’t with different people?’

  Nia scrolls through the other forms. ‘Here’s you, Sandra,’ she says, and points at a very grown-up signature above the name SANDRA YATES.

  ‘What about Paxton?’ I ask. ‘Was Catherine right? Does he have the same surname as Sandra?’

  Nia frowns. ‘This is the last one,’ she says. ‘I didn’t see Paxton.’

  She scrolls back through the other names. ‘No Paxton,’ she says again. ‘No Edwin, either. Or Catherine.’

  ‘Could they be in another file?’ Edwin asks. ‘Perhaps we sent them in late.’

  ‘That does sound like something I would do,’ Paxton agrees.

  ‘Maybe,’ says Nia.

  ‘Hey,’ says Riley. ‘Is it just me, or are we slowing down?’

  He’s right. The bus is decelerating.

  ‘Maybe it’s run out of fuel,’ I suggest hopefully.

  With a hiss of brakes, the bus stops.

  CONSENT FORM

  THE ERASURE INITIATIVE

  Responsible Researcher:

  Additional Researchers:

  1. I consent to participate in this project, the details of which have been explained to me by

  2. I understand that the purpose of this research is to investigate

  3. I understand that my participation in this project is for research purposes only.

  4. I acknowledge that the possible effects of participating in this research project have been explained to my satisfaction.

  5. In this project I will be required to

  6. In the event of

  7. I understand that in exchange for my participation in this study, I will be granted

  8. I understand that the data from this research will be stored at and will be destroyed after 5 years.

  9. I consent to the sharing of data produced during the course of this experiment with any and all relevant bodies in the legal, commercial, government, scientific or media industries.

  10. I understand that after I sign and return this consent form, it will be retained by the researcher.

  11. I have signed the enclosed Non-Disclosure Agreement.

  CECILY CARTWRIGHT

  6

  DAY 2

  16:00

  ‘Is it over?’ Sandra asks, a tremble in her voice. ‘Are we there?’

  The bus is suddenly filled with tension, and we crane our necks to see if there is anyone approaching – a person or another car.

  But there’s nothing.

  We don’t appear to be anywhere interesting – all I can see is the same beach and jungle.

  It feels weird not to be moving anymore. I can still feel the aftershocks of vibration in my thighs and feet.

  Riley lopes down to the door at the front of the bus. ‘Is it going to open?’

  ‘Look,’ Nia says, pointing at her seatback.

  You are in a moving vehicle. Before you the road forks. Ahead, there is a man in a red shirt. On the side road there is a woman in a blue shirt. You can press a button and the bus will turn off onto the side road. The bus will not stop.

  Do you press the button?

  YESNO

  0/7 responses logged.

  ‘This one seems … weirdly simple,’ Paxton observes, staring at his seatback. ‘Where are the endangered rhinos or puppy-kicking cancer researchers?’

  ‘We should all use Edwin’s random technique for this one,’ Sandra says.

  ‘Not me,’ says Nia. ‘I’m killing the guy. Men are significantly more likely to be criminals, to commit homicide. Domestic violence. I’m taking him out.’

  ‘What about the colour of the shirts?’ Paxton says. ‘One red, one blue.’

  Nia groans. ‘Not this again. Red-shirts are criminals, blue-shirts are innocents. Give it up already.’

  ‘It’s a plausible theory,’ says Paxton.

  ‘Ugh, you would say that.’

  ‘He’s right, though.’ A frown is creasing Riley’s forehead. ‘I mean, I don’t remember anything about my life, but look at me. I’m covered in dodgy tatts. I definitely look like a guy who has done some time. Then look at her.’ He nods at Sandra. ‘She looks like a nice mum from a TV show. Can you imagine her committing a crime?’

  ‘So what?’ Nia says. ‘Edwin doesn’t look like a criminal either, and he’s a red-shirt.’

  Uneasiness rumbles in my gut. Something isn’t right about this. The simplicity of the problem. The stopped bus. Almost unthinkingly, I tease another thread from the hem of my T-shirt and start tying knots.

  Edwin does his random selection thing and chooses to save red. In the end, the red-shirts all choose red, and Paxton, Sandra and I choose blue.

  ‘Your turn, Catherine,’ Sandra says gently.

  Catherine is half asleep. Her head jerks up and she looks around, disoriented.

  ‘Where’s my cup of tea?’ she asks.

  Paxton leans down and puts a reassuring hand on her arm. ‘It’s okay,’ he says, and his kind tone makes me feel irrationally jealous. ‘Just pick one.’

  Catherine holds out a trembling finger and taps the display. I don’t think she even looked at it.

  ‘What did she choose?’ Edwin asks.

  Paxton shakes his head. ‘I didn’t see.’

  Catherine slumps back into her doze, and we turn back to our seatbacks.

  7/7 responses logged.

  Nothing happens. The bus doesn’t move. There are no figures on the road. We’re right at the fork – I can see the road ahead and the side road. But there’s nobody there.

  ‘Is it broken?’ Riley asks.

  I look over at Edwin, and the expression on his face makes my blood run cold. He looks genuinely terrified. Something about this trolley problem is different, and I’m pretty sure I know what it’s going to be. I shove the knotted thread into my back pocket.

  The seatback display changes again, and something heavy drops into the pit of my stomach.

  Riley and Cecily, please disembark and stand on your allocated marker.

  Riley, your marker is red.

  Cecily, your marker is blue.

  No one else is to exit the bus at this time.

  The bus door opens.

  Air gusts around us, along with the rich earthy scent of a rotting rainforest floor, and the sharp tang of the sea.

  I breathe deeply – the air is humid, but it’s a billion times better than the stale refrigerated nothing we’ve been breathing for the past thirty hours.

  ‘Come on!’ Paxton yells, and rushes towards the open door.

  It swings shut fast and tight.

  ‘Only Riley and Cecily,’ Sandra reminds him.

  Paxton steps back, and the doors open again.

  Riley bounds down the steps onto the road. ‘Are you coming?’ he calls over his shoulder.

  I hesitate. A part of me wants to tumble off the bus and breath the fresh air and run down to the ocean. But I can’t believe that anything good is going to come of this.

  I know how the trolley problem works. It’s one thing to smash a bus into a bunch of pixels. Are they seriously about to do it for real?

  Am I about to get hit by a bus?

  ‘Go on,’ Sandra says. ‘I’m sure everything will be fine.’

  I look at Nia, whose forehead is creased in a frown.

  I look back at the road.

  It promises me … what? Freedom? Death? More mystery meat sandwiches?

  Surely they wouldn’t go through all this nonsense just to kill me. Surely it’s another part of the experiment.

  Surely.

  I step off the bus.

  My feet hit the cracked bitumen, and for a moment I’m distracted by the novelty of being outside. The humidity is profound, like I could wring water from the air around me. There’s no breeze to speak o
f – everything lies hot, heavy and tropical. It’s like stepping into soup, and after the refrigeration of the bus, it’s actually quite pleasant for about thirty seconds, which is how long it takes before I start feeling sticky and uncomfortable.

  For the first time I can see the bus from the outside. It’s sleek and white, with no logos or markings anywhere. It looks more like a spaceship than a bus – all smooth lines and curves. Nothing like what I expected from the lurid upholstery and stinky toilet inside.

  There’s a red X spraypainted on the road ahead of us.

  I glance at the ocean, perfect glinting blue. It’s calm, the waves lapping gently at the shore. No rocks, no seaweed. It’s like someone imagined a perfect beach, and conjured it into being, right here. I long to race past the sparse scattering of palm trees, over the strip of powdery white sand and plunge into the water. I can almost feel the cool water flowing around me, and I imagine leaping and diving like a dolphin.

  I want a cute bikini, a beach towel, a cooler full of drinks and snacks. I want oversized sunglasses and a flowing kaftan. I want to recline on that beach looking glamorous, taking occasional cooling dips in the water.

  Is that something I’ve done before?

  Can I even swim?

  The door swings closed behind me, and the bus immediately reverses back up the road and out of sight around a bend.

  Riley is staring off into twisted branches and vines on the other side of the road.

  ‘What d’you reckon’d happen if I just piss-bolted into the jungle?’ he asks.

  I follow his gaze. The jungle is thick and seemingly impenetrable – looping lichen-covered vines wrap around tree trunks, strangling and squeezing. The tree trunks are straight and tall, reaching up higher than I would have thought possible, stretching towards the sun. The undergrowth is dense and violently green. Huge leaves, wider than I can stretch my arms, spray out from tightly clustered stems. Ferns and fronds and spikes fight for space and the filtered light. Only a few metres away from the road, everything is swallowed in green and brown darkness.