The Hauntings of Playing God (The Great De-Evolution) (18 page)

37

The things she longs for these days, as an old woman, would make the teenage version of herself burst out laughing. She dreams of having a day without chores so she can watch the sun rise, watch its progress in the sky all day, and, finally, watch it set. All without worrying about anything else. Even in her fantasy, the idea that she could somehow be free of all responsibility just for one day, and just so she can watch the way the sun changes the appearance of the city’s skyline, seems absolutely ludicrous, like winning the lottery or finding a magic genie. But now, with only fifteen Blocks to care for, she at least has enough free time to see the sun as it comes up over the ocean and watch it again as it sets behind the gymnasium.

Maybe life starts with your first fantasy, ends with your last fantasy, and is measured by all of the hopes and dreams in between.

The glowing EXIT sign shows her where a different world can be found. She goes to the door there and pushes, but it doesn’t budge. It takes her entire weight against the metal door for it to open. Sun bursts forth. Her hand goes in front of her eyes, forcing her to squint. For once, it’s not pouring outside. It’s the same sun she has seen all of her life, but after being indoors for so long, she is mesmerized by it all over again.

All of life, everything on Earth, has been made possible because of that orange circle in the sky. That should never be taken for granted. But sadly, it is. The lights above her in the group home have become her norm. So used to experiencing only two levels of light these days—the yellow glow from the florescent bulbs above her, and the pitch black of night—she almost cries at the sight of the sun again. The light makes her squint, but she craves it.

The city calls to her. It’s overgrown with trees and weeds where streets used to be. It resembles a rainforest in which someone tried their best to erect a city. And yet it calls to her. She shuffles forward, only a couple of feet closer, toward the remnants of high-rises and parks, enough to satisfy a tiny part of her desire to see the bustling city she once knew.

With the hinge pulling it closed, the door slams shut behind her. It is solid, heavy. A loud bang startles the surrounding birds into flight. The sky is filled with black dots as they retreat to some other forgotten city.

Cursing herself for craving a glimpse of the city, she shuffles back to the door. It’s locked. As much as she pulls on it, even with all of her weight, the door doesn’t budge. With the sound of one door slamming, she has gone from being mesmerized by the sun and the light to realizing she is separated from the people who need her care.

Banging on the door is useless. No one on the other side can let her back in. The Blocks will not magically awaken just to preserve themselves and excuse their caretaker for her mistake. She bangs on the door anyway. But at her age, with barely enough strength to reposition a deathly thin mannequin lying on a cot, her fists cause nothing more than gentle clacks against the thick metal.

There are doors to the gymnasium on two other sides of the building. There is still hope. Walking through tall grass where the sidewalk used to be, around the side of the facility, she sees the overhang where some of the caretakers used to read books during their breaks and where others waited for phone calls from family members migrating south. Three bird’s nests exist where the overhang is pulling away from the brick wall. On the ground, a cat, too thin, only fur and bones, looks up at the nests, waiting patiently in hopes that the wind will knock an egg to the ground. So hungry is it that it ignores this strange old woman walking near it.

Just beyond the overhang, she finds the side doors. They are locked too. The windows are too high to reach, and even if she could reach them, she doesn’t have the strength to lift herself up or pull herself through the opening. Even when she was seventy that would have been a task above her capability.

Standing there, looking at the building where almost three quarters of her life have been spent walking back and forth in the same room, caring for the same people, she thinks about what else she can possibly do. If there is a large truck nearby, maybe she can drive it into one of the exterior walls and create her own opening in the brick. But she knows this is wishful thinking. More likely, she will be killed when the truck drives head-on into the barrier.

Even if she does survive, the new opening can’t be sealed once she knocks down part of the wall. She has all the extra sets of bed sheets she could ever want, but they will not keep the wildlife outside. Rats and crows will flood the group home. The next day, during her rounds, her Blocks would have rodents scurrying on their chests and faces, little pockets of flesh eaten away from the people she has spent her life caring for where the disease-ridden pests have feasted. Vultures would tear juicy eyeballs out of their sockets, would dine on the Blocks’ tongues after ripping them away.

She turns her back on the building, tries to make herself simply walk away from it and from her Blocks. If she does, she can spend each day in quiet. Get up whenever she wants. Nap whenever she wants. Worry about only bathing herself and no one else. Keep herself healthy. But she cannot do this. She cannot walk away.

It’s pointless to do so, but she hobbles as quickly as she can back to the very door she exited from and bangs on the metal again. As her little hands hit the door, she begins to yell for someone to let her back inside.

“I’m sorry,” she screams to her Blocks on the other side of the door, each waiting for care that will never arrive. “I’m sorry. I’ve messed up so badly.”

She is crying now. Her Blocks will all starve to death because she wanted to reminisce about a city that hasn’t existed in decades. Her wrinkled hands bang against the door with no results.

“Please, somebody let me in. Please.” She screams this through her sobbing.

She awakes back in the group home. The sky is black. The sun is gone. Rain patters against the metal roof. Her mouth is open. She was in the middle of a scream in her nightmare, and the echo lets her know she was screaming in her sleep as well. If a tape recorder were there, next to her pillow, it would have recorded her yelling in her sleep, “Please, somebody let me in. Please.”

Her hands are curled into balls as if they had been lashing out at the door she saw in her nightmare. Her face is covered in tears.

It’s only four o’clock in the morning, but she gets out of bed and begins her chores anyway. If she gets an early enough start to her day, she can eat dinner outside on the steps while it’s still sunny. This is the goal she has in mind for herself: eating a meal out in the fresh air, the sun shining down on her, reminding her that there is still life everywhere, even when it seems like there isn’t.

She uses this goal to get herself through the day, but she can’t help but think, as the hours go by, that she is being punished. This was the first dream she has had that doesn’t involve the Blocks coming to kill her, and instead it has her accidentally abandoning them and realizing, with its own special kind of terror, that leaving them is just as scary as seeing them move toward her in the middle of the night. One nightmare is exchanged for another.

That’s what I get for complaining to Coelho.

She cleans the remaining fifteen Blocks. Refills their nutrient bags. Repositions them. At the end of her chores, it is still light out, and there is enough time to make a meal and eat it outside.

Just remember to get a doorstop so I’m not locked out,
she thinks, carrying a plate with her to the exit.

38

Her parents believed everything has a reason and a purpose. They raised Morgan to believe the same thing. Birds, they said, kept the insect population in balance and helped flowers and plants spread into new areas. Flowers exist to give bugs food. Without one piece of the cycle, the entire process falls apart. Everything has a purpose and things exist to serve that purpose. They smiled as they told their daughter she also had a purpose—she just had to find what it was. They made this declaration with a grin, as if it wasn’t absolutely horrifying for a little girl to hear these types of things. What child wants the pressure of knowing they exist for a single reason and it’s up to them to find it?

She grew up wondering what her purpose could be. Even after ninety-three years of life, she still wonders. Is it still to come? Has it already passed and she missed what it was? Maybe her purpose became voided when the Great De-evolution started; the thing she was supposed to do disappeared from the realm of possibility when people who couldn’t move or talk were all that could be born. A scientist? A teacher? Perhaps she and the other regular people born just before her, the last generation, had a different course lined up for their lives, but because Blocks replaced normal people all of those purposes vanished. Maybe Morgan was meant to be a doctor and help cure the sick. Maybe she was supposed to be a politician and help lead her country. Or be a lawyer and free wrongly convicted people from jail. Or be a journalist and expose some great fraud. Or maybe give birth to children that would one day accomplish these things.

All of these possibilities vanished before she was even old enough to understand they had ever existed. Instead of her mom asking her what she wanted to be when she grew up, her mom looked sad and said she had no idea what the future would hold. This was back when lawyers had stopped taking new clients, politicians were disappearing in the night, and doctors were closing their practices to move south with their families.

Instead of being told she could be an astronaut or President of the United States or anything else she wanted, her father told her that an entire new set of possibilities would be created due to the changing world. He didn’t know, though, what those possibilities were. Looking back, she thinks he was just trying to be optimistic. Probably, he wouldn’t have mentioned anything about new options if he knew schools were going to be turned into food processor factories and power generator assembly lines.

As she walks amongst her Blocks, she finds herself wondering if she was born just so she could take care of these people at the end of their lives. Is she on this earth just to provide for people who can’t take care of themselves? She has never had kids. She never saved someone’s life or inspired someone to do something greater with their time on this planet. She never, really, did anything except grow up from being a kid to an adult, move south with her parents, and then begin watching over these people. Was that her purpose: to have a normal life before caring for the bodies all around her?

What kind of purpose is that
? she thinks.

Maybe she never had a set expectation at all. Her parents were just being encouraging, or were just plain wrong. There was never any grand scheme in the universe for what she would do. She was born one day and it was up to her to create the life she wanted and to avoid the life she didn’t want. There is no destiny guiding her life, no predetermined ending.

Back when she was younger, healthier, and had help taking care of all the Blocks residing in this home, she went through a phase when the only books she would read were real-life accounts of people surviving disasters. This was, of course, to help her decide if her life was one of free will or if it had a predestined course.

She read about a man who drifted at sea for nine months, living off nothing but rainwater and raw fish. She read about a small group of men who journeyed across the Gobi Desert without any supplies. One book told about a woman who survived in the frozen wilderness for two weeks, the lone survivor of a plane crash. And another told of a man who should have frozen to death on Mount Everest but who survived with only minor frostbite. Her hope was that these accounts would convince her whether survivors lived because they were destined to live, or if they had made their own fate. Was she living in this group home, only a few years short of one hundred, the last woman in the world, because she created this outcome for herself, or was it nothing more than luck and happenstance?

The stack of books did not help. Half of the survivors came away feeling like they had not only survived the disaster, but had also experienced it in the first place, because God had a plan for them. The other half felt like life and death were nothing but a pair of dice cast without their having any say in the roll. They had lived while their loved ones had died because they simply refused to give up, not because God had chosen one instead of the other. She finished the books with no more or less of an answer than she had started with. Was she merely drifting through life or was she being guided?

Was the weather a hint? She can’t decide if the hurricanes barely missing Miami are a sign that she is lucky or that God is protecting her. Probably, it’s a matter of time until a storm hits squarely on top of their group home. She tried to find a message in the eyes of the Blocks, both the ones she still cares for and the many she had to sacrifice for the benefit of the group, but she couldn’t tell if their silence was to force her into figuring out God’s plan for herself, or if there was nothing to figure out at all. Maybe silence is just silence.

She is sure, though, beyond all doubt, of one thing: she was not created just to be the final living person at the final settlement. There has to be a better reason. Whether it’s God or destiny or happenstance or whatever else might be guiding her life, she is sure she was not put on this earth just to be the last person at the end of everything. It’s a coincidence that she is here instead of Elaine. It’s mere chance that she is alive after Daniel grew old and passed away.

But what a coincidence that is… some might even call it miraculous. A great sigh comes from her throat.

She will never be able to decide if she has a purpose in life, and if she does, if this is it, or if it was something else that has already passed her by.