My name is Martin Graves. Was Martin Graves. I don't know anymore. I don't know anything anymore. It started when the dead began to mail me postcards, from Hell, filled with things no one knew except them and me. My brother, my sister. The secrets siblings share. I never told anyone they were doing that, it didn't seem proper. And, besides, I am/was the head of security, at Nullsoft. Genetics stuff, mostly. Trying to conquer death, to make us immortal.
But there is more to life that life. There is death. Without it, there is just living, forever. And ever.
I see that now. Gerard died firs, then Blinkins. McGover was never, in his sleep. All the scientists. All the researchers. It was like a plague had struck us. Some talked about nanovirii and the like, but no one knew. We just knew we were dying, one at a time, a piece at a time. Death was coming for us.
Henderson had a theory, that we were all machines, infected with Spirit, the spark of life. That without it we'd just keep going and wind down, like clockwork toys. That it kept us here, and burning like sparks in an empty void. He'd been really drunk. He'd died first, his heart failing. 26, and a heart attack. No one could explain it, though we tried.
The government has quarantined us. Rogers has been stalking the hallway, claiming he's Death, and come to take us back home. It would be funny, if he hadn't died last week. No one else seems to notice this. It's not like he's changed. Even dead, he's still an asshole. I'm scared to bring this up with the others, in case they think he's alive. But I know he's dead. He made a break for the door, and I shot him. I was following orders. Only following orders.
They might take my gun away, if I told them. And I think he's waiting for that, waiting for me to be alone. I've been trying to read the notes the others left, deciphering them for hidden meanings, but I can't make head or tails of it, or anything else. We're dying, for something we never did, accessories to the murder of death.
We were just trying to wipe out the virus. Only now I wonder which was the virus, death or life. The walls have been changing lately. I can see other places, other people, like veils are being pulled back. I think I have a fever. Sometimes, I wonder if I'm already dead and just don't know it. I'd like to ask someone.
I put the gun to my head, to see if I'd felt it before. I wonder if I can kill myself, if I'm dead, if death will let me die that easily. I don't do it. I think Rogers is laughing, but I can't hear him. I think they're all dead, and I'm the virus sent for them, and I don't know it. I think I'm insane. I think I'm the only living person in the world, surrounded by robots.
I want to take them apart and see if they bleed, but I could be the robot. It might all be a trick, and I don't know it. They're all rotting flesh sacks, the stink of death and fear like a drug in the air, and I'm the same. Oh God. Oh God. I need help. I help need.
It's almost a relief, when Henderson comes in, with the shotgun, and tells me he's God. It's so much easier now, cleaner. All my problems melting away. I'd lie and say it didn't much, but it did.
I cut myself with a paper clip, of all things. I'm not sure why. My name is Martin Graves. Was Martin Graves. I don't know anymore. It started when the living began to send my postcards, from Hell, the kind of things only they knew. My wife, my son. The secrets families share. My new bosses discovered out I was getting letters, and they'll be next. I've been told it has to be this way. I'm doing a job now. Following orders. Only following orders. I'd eat my gun, but it wouldn't taste good, would just be symbolic. Just be another thing that doesn't mean anything, like their letters I kept hidden in my trunk.
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