It was a cool, fall evening just after the solstice. As I walked slowly down the sidewalk, I felt my stomach growl again. It had been twenty-four hours since my last meal, provided by the shelter I’d been frequenting for the past few weeks. Despite my intense hunger, I continued to move towards my destination, understanding regrettably that some cravings took precedence over my urge to feast.
“Besides,” I thought, “soon I won’t be hungry anyway.” That was a primary side effect of my newfound love, my sole interest, and the reason for my current situation. I was a recent convert to the big city; as soon as I entered, I was entranced by the pace, the style, and the collective consciousness present in my country’s largest metropolis. An epidemic was in progress: a drug called Cye — short for Cylidine — had its grip on half of us. Junked out zombies stalked the streets, twitching, mumbling, and covered in tracks. I was equally addicted, but despised the majority of my fellow users, considering myself above such diseased behaviors as stealing and killing, both of which were rampant.
I refused to lower myself to most popular hustles, opting to get my fix through earning my own cash. Well, “earning” is maybe too strong a word. I was a panhandler, a windshield washer, and — at my absolute worst — a reluctant middleman. I found violence repulsive, but it surrounded me constantly. I wondered if, perhaps, my strong feelings about this subject stemmed from my abusive childhood, which I often flashed back to. These memories, while painful, had an easy enough cure. Twenty dollars would purchase enough dope to last an entire day; my source had the best stuff in town (or so he told me).
I was rather new to the scene and was often referred to as “green”. All I really knew was, when I smoked Cye, my pain disappeared. That was enough convincing for me. I rounded a corner, stepped down off the sidewalk, and was instantly surrounded by a makeshift suburb. I walked down a dirt pathway that led through rows and rows of patchwork tents. As I approached my dealer’s spot, located in the heart of “The Burrow” — the local term for the largest homeless encampment on our continent — a host of disturbing smells, sights, and sounds entered my periphery. A baby’s screams were just audible, masked behind a collection of barely intelligible junkie banter. Rotten, putrid trash lay all over the ground, including human waste and used syringes.
“This is the worst place on Earth,” I muttered to myself. It was true, too. This part of the city was repulsive to me. It was built by violence.
“Needs to be burned to the ground.”
Finally, I arrived; my supplier’s tent was large and in relatively good shape when compared to those surrounding it. Two thickly muscled thugs stood just outside, each with both hands concealed underneath filthy trench coats. They were users too — albeit large and useful ones — who were employed to guard the door. I shuddered, momentarily wondering how many these two had murdered in cold blood. I put on a brave face as I approached them; they recognized me and let me inside. I was a regular.
The tent was decked out from top to bottom. Towels and discarded rugs hung from the rods that supported the ceiling, cordoning off the space into different sections. I had never been allowed behind them, but I assumed that the makeshift rooms contained the product and profits.
Jack sat in a folding lawn chair towards the back of the main area. We had known each other since before I moved to the city, since before Cye had grabbed ahold of both our lives so viciously. We hailed from the same province, way, way up North, a sparsely populated and rural place where everyone knew everyone else. We were like-minded in many regards — both slaves to Cye, both brought up similarly — but differed on the issue of means to getting our fix. Unlike the scene outside, his tent was not dirty, he paid his whores in dope to clean daily. Despite our relationship’s origin, I knew he had been overtaken by the life. If I burned him, he would end me without hesitation. Still, we acted cordial, even friendly when we met up each day.
“Yo man? What’s going on?” I asked, casually.
“Regular shit, getting money bro.” I could tell by his eyes that he’d been awake for awhile. They darted around, rarely meeting mine, and his head twitched slightly every few seconds. He was on one.
“I got $20 for ya,” I said, extending a crumpled bill I’d gleaned from a kind and sober stranger towards him.
He snatched it up immediately, and replied, “Bet, I’ll be right back.” He stood and turned around, then pulled aside the divider and disappeared behind it. For a moment, I caught a glimpse of it. His stash spot and bedroom. A cot, occupied by a drooling, wasted woman of the night, stood next to a rusty gun safe around 4-feet tall. The curtain closed, but I could hear him behind it, cranking the mechanism to open the safe that was surely stuffed full of hot weapons, dirty cash, and his special batch of product. I heard the heavy door swing shut and moments later he returned.
He tossed me a small ziplock stuffed full of gray powder: “Here’s your shit. Be careful, it’s extra potent.” He always said that, but I’d never been screwed by him, so I kept coming. Plus, it was safer this way. Buying from the corner-boys is how you get busted. The cops couldn’t care less what we did, as long as we stayed hidden in The Burrow. As I held the bag, I noticed that it was a bit more substantial than usual.
I wondered why: “Jack probably needs something.” As soon as this thought came across my mind, he spoke.
“I gave you some extra. I need a favor.” Outwardly, my expression stayed stable; internally I rolled my eyes.
I was instantly nervous; “This can’t be good.” He proceeded to explain that one of his girls was in the hospital downtown. She had been beat up while tricking and was fiending bad. He handed me a much larger bag full of Cye, along with a clean dope pipe from the exchange two blocks over.
“Take this to her. I’ll give you double next time if you get this done.” Jack was used to people doing exactly what he wanted. He had the dope, the money, and muscle to manipulate us junkies into anything he wanted. I wasn’t happy about it. I wished I could say no, but the promise of a heavy sack tomorrow was an offer I couldn’t refuse. I nodded, pocketed the drugs, and exited.
An hour later, I was walking out of the hospital, my mission complete. I had yet to smoke. I wanted to wait until the last moment before withdrawal to maximize my rush. As I exited through the lobby’s automatic doors, excitement and anticipation filled my body. Soon, I would be high.
Back on the streets, I traversed two blocks east, then ducked off into an alley containing dumpsters for the nearby Chinese restaurant. I’d forgotten about my hunger for food; the only pang I felt in my stomach now was the gnawing, aching feeling produced only by Cye detox. My mind was racing as I knelt down behind the trash bins.
The collective point behind all of my thoughts was, “I need to be high.” So, I withdrew my pipe, a glass tube packed at the far end with charred steel wool and ash. I took a fat pinch of dope from the baggie, intending to rocket myself into space with this next hit.
As I moved to grab the lighter from inside my jacket, my head was empty, finally freed from the impulse to use even before I took my first inhale. This was typical. My body was so accustomed to taking the drug that it felt pleasure at Cye’s mere presence. I lifted the pipe to my lips, flicked a flame from the lighter, and time slowed as the pair prepared to meet. I closed my eyes.
Seconds later, the cracked pavement beneath my feet crawled with thick, white smoke. Ecstasy engaged my neurons in a tango, and I felt peace. For just a moment, peace. My head filled with blood; I felt my cheeks flush and my pupils increase in size. This was the feeling I never wanted to lose, the reason I fell so hard for Cye in the first place. I felt valuable — for once — and beautiful despite my ragged clothing and sunken facial features. Life was no longer a mystery I struggled to solve, but rather became a game of which I was the master.
Then, the ground shook violently. Already off-balance, I fell to the asphalt below, smacking my forehead on a large piece of gravel.
“What is happening?” I wondered, entirely frightened by the quaking ground. Earthquakes were not possible inside the city, which sat on top of massive iron supports that held it stable at all times.
“If not an earthquake, then what?”
My question would soon be answered. The shaking stopped, but the damage had been catastrophic. I was plunged into complete darkness as the artificial city lights completely disappeared. I lifted a hand to my head and felt hot blood pouring out. I began to panic when — from the ether — a voice emerged.
“Inhabitants of Earth. We have been watching you. Your species has become corrupted.” I looked around frantically, grasping in the dark for something, anything to help pull me to my feet. I grabbed ahold of the dumpster and yanked myself up to my knees, bewildered and terrified.
The voice continued: “The infection your race is suffering is fatal. Extinction is definite. We will spare you this fate.” Where the voice came from, what exactly it spoke of, both were nebulous and unclear.
“This has to be a joke or something,” I said aloud. This was insane; had I taken too much Cye? Was this all a fever dream or the incomprehensible side effect of an overdose?
Suddenly, I was bathed in maroon light. I glanced frantically around for the source, but nothing around me could produce such a vicious, blinding color. Then, I saw it. Above us, in the sky, amongst the smog and skyscrapers, was a floating digital display. It blinked “03:00” five times, bathing the gleaming buildings below it in mysterious red photons. Then, it began to count down. Instinctually, I instantly knew what this meant.
I never thought it would happen like this, the end of the world. I prayed to gods I didn’t believe in to save us from disaster, but the clock above just continued to count. For the first minute, I crawled along on my hands and knees begging something, anything out there not to let me die in this filthy alley. I made it to the sidewalk and collapsed again, this time on my back.
I had so many regrets, I suddenly realized. My father was dead already, but my poor saint of a mother must be terrified and alone. So was I, to be fair. I heard screaming coming from all directions. The clock didn’t care. Tick, tick, tick. Escape, impossible. Resistance, futile.
“Maybe this is good,” I convinced myself, “maybe they’re right, whoever they are. Maybe we do deserve to die.” This city was the heart of evil and I knew it. More bad than good by a wide margin. No more suffering, no more killing, yes, maybe this is what we need.
The clock counted down our final seconds. I closed my eyes, relinquishing control of my mind to the Cye still filling my bloodstream.
“At least I’ll go out how I lived.”
Then, everything went black.
