The Solution Page 2

  “The foundation of depression is certainly happiness,” Dr. Reverence said, “Depression is a fallacious ingredient of experiencing reality wrongly. In a life void of Solution refinement you would know depression and not know jubilance and mirth, therefore the remaining emotions are chimerical and there is only one proven source from which your mentality sustains. The Solution is that source. It is crucial, Miss Reznick, that you remain in the sustenance from which an unadulterated wellbeing thrives—especially in today’s world. We are sending a Consulate to help you along and an ambulance to take the body away. The ambulance will arrive soon and the Consulate should arrive precisely within the hour.”

  A half-hour slipped by and the therapy ended. Solution EMS had already come and gone, taken the body, but the Consulate had not yet arrived. Elizabeth went back into the master bedroom, expressionless while looking over the vacant bed. All the crossword puzzles in her head neared completion. She hoped and was certain the Solution would have her mother cremated. The services would be classy but quick—none of Anne’s friends had contacted her after she became sick, anyway, or they had simply fled to a better place.

  Elizabeth saw the mirrored angel figurine on the nightstand. As she picked it up and held it tight in her hand, she saw a pale light reflecting in it. Elizabeth whipped around, near frightened.

  The Consulate, Mr. Spires, had finally arrived. He was a tall man wearing a charcoal gray suit and had big brown eyes. There was neither a friendly or deceptive air about the man. While his face appeared kind and attractive, there was also a peculiarity about him, as if a faculty that would complete him was missing. He could go either way, and she couldn’t figure it out, but Mr. Spires was a Solution Consulate and she found herself trusting him regardless.

  Mr. Spires spoke with a steady voice, rhythmically, “I let myself in,” he said, “Is that ok?

  She said nothing.

  “Elizabeth, we are sorry for your loss. There was only so much anyone could do. This is historical, you do understand. Your mother, Anne Margaret Reznick, was one of the final victims suffering from Cash Disease.”

  “I know,” she said.

  “I see you are … surviving the Dysfunction Grief. I implore you to continue. There’s not much use for dysfunction in general. It’s natural, but it's a hindrance.”

  Elizabeth stood silent, staring at the Consulate. She noticed he carried a black, slim briefcase.

  He said, “If you don’t mind, I’ve been ordered to remain here until I can assure the authorities you are psychologically fit—not many are, mind you. So no pressure,” he said with a smile. “I’ve got to perform a safety procedure to ensure there’re no contagions in your home as well, or in you. Per course, the odds of a contagion are nil, non-existent these days, really.”

  “That’s fine,” she said, “I mean, I know it’s no longer contagious since what, like a year ago?”

  “That’s true. We put a stop to the spread as fast it came out but sadly we couldn’t save the ones that got it. Like I said these are simply routine procedures—overkill as some call it. I’m going to download some information from you later.

  “Like?”

  “I can record your biorhythms, dreams, and life. There’s nothing to worry about. It’s protocol as well. We can take our time.”

  “How long do you think?”

  “Hmm, one night. I’ve got to monitor your sleep. You will be able to sleep, yes? You appear fine mentally, but looks can be deceiving as they say. Even though we might hide and repress certain emotions the brain still registers them, see, and can affect the body and manifest no matter how far into the mind they are tossed down. Hidden things can create literal monsters, in the new condition of the world, at least—the inside makes its way to the outside. This is a dysfunction we are just now beginning to understand, but there’s much we don’t yet grasp. No matter, when it comes time I’ll give you something to make you sleep. Actually I prefer it that way to expedite the process. We have lives, don’t we?”

  “Why do you have to—”

  “It’s a requirement. Do you object?”

  “No, not at all.”

  "Splendid,” then Mr. Spires gave a grin as to say it truly wouldn't matter if you did object.

  * * *

  A little white dot expanded until it turned into a flickering screen. On this screen a sequence displayed. Electricity ran through a series of wires which morphed into human veins. The veins, carrying a spark of electricity, lead to the mainframe of a computer that transformed into the delineation of a human brain. This was Elizabeth’s brain. Mr. Spires had turned on his tablet computer and wirelessly tuned into Elizabeth’s head enough to discern what might be going on in there.

  It was five past midnight, and Mr. Spires had asked Elizabeth to swallow two sleeping pills thirty minutes ago. She had agreed. Now he watched and waited, the screen casting blue light against the wall of Elizabeth’s bedroom. She was in her pajamas, this one with cartoon owls, and she was covered by a down comforter.

  Mr. Spires said, “A few weeks ago I was on assignment in the Eastern region. I stayed four days. There’s still conflict there. Everyone’s just scared, but we initially mean no harm. When one is consumed and controlled by any emotion, they may as well be possessed. Men and women out there were fighting our RMS. Do you know what RMS are?”

  “Yes,” Elizabeth said, “but I’ve never seen one.”

  “Good. You’ll never want to see one. If you encounter a RMS you know you will … die, for lack of better terms. It was slaughter out there. RMS pounded heavy artillery rounds shredding the small army of bandits into pulp. Bullets ate flesh and metal. No human lived, literally or figuratively. The RMS destroyed as few homes as possible though, but they stole—no, confiscated— these people’s nightmares and everything human about them. It’s what they’re built for.”

  The screen showed an area of Elizabeth’s brain lighting up brilliantly, the area she heard Mr. Spires call the limbic region under his breath.

  Nodding, Mr. Spires said, “Violence is another disease. Yes, another disease that needs to be wiped out. Do you agree?”

  “Of course.”

  “Indubitably," Mr. Spires said, nodding, "And so many lives lay entirely in the hands of the Solution. The era we live in is the most significant period of our civilization, Elizabeth. It’s a thing of beauty, much like every morning you wake up and breathe oxygen—complicatedly simple, completely magnificent. As Dr. Reverence says, ‘Live your dreams well with us, for all of our resources are yours.’ Do you dream, Elizabeth?”

  “At times.”

  “Of what? Don’t be deceitful. I’ll watch them regardless. It’s important for you tell the truth.”

  “What is this?” She said drowsily, the gravity of sleep beginning to pull her down.

  “As I’ve previously said it’s protocol, and for this procedure to go smoothly you should tell the truth.”

  Elizabeth distantly considered lying, but she saw no point. But she didn’t want to particularly say anything about it either.

  “Never mind. I’ll see soon enough.”

  She closed her eyes and time passed. An hour after she went under Mr. Spires saw nothing unusual, at first. He sat, staring at the screen. Not budging. There was only a black void where her dream was supposed to be. This was so until the black on the screen (he realized when it rippled like water), became a sort of living abyss. There was movement. She was indeed dreaming. Naked, an image of Elizabeth appeared in the distance of the abyss and began walking toward the screen, as if she were aware Mr. Spires spied on her. Her green eyes radiated like phantoms.

  “Well aren’t you a peach,” Mr. Spires said.

  If the Consulate was startled or excited, he didn’t show it. He immediately got out of the chair and stood over Elizabeth’s sleeping body. He opened the briefcase and pulled out a device shaped like a small, metallic wand. It was a device that Mr. Spires used rarely but had wished to use more often. He read the results
on a small purplish hologram on the side of it, and if anyone had blinked they would’ve missed the flash of delight in his eyes.

  He twisted the end of the wand, switching it on, and the sound of power whirred. He reached the wand over her chest, looking at her face to see what sort of response he’d get. She gritted her teeth. After a few seconds Elizabeth began shaking in her sleep, as if something were being drawn out from her that didn’t want to leave. The hair on the nape of Mr. Spire’s neck stood and coldness swept over his body as the dark around him cracked zigzagging lines of light, as if a mirror had broken. Mr. Spires backed away as he watched something like a figure, starting from a concentrated point of energy, slowly trace itself just above Elizabeth. It expanded, undulating and breathing until it formed into a cyan ghost of Elizabeth and her glowing green eyes. Mr. Spires knew he didn’t have much time.

  “Who are you?” Mr. Spires said. “We’ve been looking for you a long time.”

  “No!” Elizabeth’s image turned to static and dissipated before Mr. Spires could ask another question.

  “A peach indeed,” he said, “I’ve found you.”

  He looked over at Elizabeth. She was sleeping peaceably again. He placed the wand back into the briefcase, then grabbed and plunged a needle into her arm and drew some blood, letting the red stuff pump into a vile.

  Mr. Spires said, “Hidden things do make monsters, but you’re much more than that, aren’t you? You’re practically glowing in it more than most anyone in your condition.”

  After enough blood was collected Mr. Spires wiped her arm with an alcohol pad and covered the insertion point with a cotton ball and bandage. He sat back down, reopened the program, and watched Elizabeth dream of the Lightning Fields and her family, knowing in the morning she’d be riding with him to the City.

  Chapter Three

  Randal Markins, Lupercalia, Ultimate Reality

  The City.

  Trails of hot pink and neon green sketched the night. Pleasured faces swamped the streets with drunken smiles and leers induced by quality drugs. Each harlot projected a pornographic holoflick which hovered behind them like lascivious spirits, displaying what pleasures he or she could bestow upon potential customers; it’s simply advertisement, baby. A few musicians played instruments from violins to holokeys and let fly three-dimensional notes which surrounded listeners with a euphoric, personalized virtual reality—some of the listeners fell into distant imaginings where they rode unicorns, others were on a tropical beach. But all this was accompanied by the scent of star-crossed couples fornicating in alleys where halogen lights dimly illuminated them. Tonight was a celebration in remembrance of Lupercalia, a festival the ancient Romans eventually made into Valentine's Day. A block of the City had been closed off for the event.

  Among the festivities lumbered Randal Markins, appearing quite opposite of the celebration’s grandeur. He wore flannel pajamas and a white T-shirt, wrapping his arms around his chest to keep warm. No one really noticed, and if they did no one really cared.

  Randal was pale, tired, and wasn’t sure exactly what was happening to him—as a matter of fact he had no clue at all what happened to him. He was having a normal day. Everything normal. Normality was his thing. After work he had come home to his one-bedroom, near bare and claustrophobic apartment. He had one green houseplant beside his threadbare couch. He ate pasta for dinner, drank sweet tea (then one gin and tonic), and while lying down on his twin bed in his too small room he watched a report on a tsunami in the Pacific, then he for a few moments he read a Solution book written by Dr. Reverence called How to Find the Center of Self, then, listening to the drone of the air conditioning and the distant sounds of the festival, he fell asleep soundly, and he snored. Randal dreamed of a green-eyed and auburn haired girl calling from deep in the dark, but he could not understand what she was saying. Her image was one of the most vivid he had ever seen, and the feeling of her—her presence—, even though only in a dream, intrigued and consumed him. And if he dreamed of anything else afterwards it was of nothingness.

  For all Randal knew he would sleep for millennia, and he’d never care if he had to work again. Then, suddenly he had woken by pulsating, bashing noises—penetrative static blasted in his head, popping and cracking as if someone were attempting to invade and tune into his mind and scramble his brain.

  He had no choice but to grit his teeth as acute pressure began building between his temples until it reached a crescendo. Yelling, Randal rolled off the bed and fell flat on his back knocking the wind out of himself for a moment. When he got it back and took a breath he put his hands over ears in hopes of drowning out the hellish noise, yet the distortions kept increasing in volume until they eventually formed into a single, concentrated male voice.

  The voice said, “You’re under control.”

  “What!”

  Then it was like channels repeatedly changed in his mind until a female voice came in, though her sentences were choppy and broken, “Operator, we’re experiencing interference . . . Is that necessary . . . not sure I can . . .”

  The operator, a wiry male voice, responded brusquely, “Follow orders.”

  A battle of voices began.

  “We’ve lost him.”

  “I’m dispatching Tetrax.”

  “Leave there. Leave there now, Randal. Go.”

  Whether for fear or an attempt to maintain a sense of sanity, Randal pushed himself up from the floor, his head continuing to pound with the transmissions, having no idea why they were there or what in particular they could really be. He ran out of his apartment, down the stairwell four stories and eventually onto the streets and into the festival.

  Now Randal made a clumsy beeline toward an alleyway through the floods of people, thinking he had just opened his eyes underwater because everyone seemed to smudge into light-stained inkblots. His thoughts continued clashing like steel beams and he imagined his body smashing between them. He attempted to clear his head and put back together the mangled image of himself, but his mind was constantly twisting and reality itself seemed to morph into something phantasmagoric and terrible.

  As he lumbered onward Dr. Reverence’s voice floated down from above, cutting through the cacophony in his mind and the roars of Lupercalia. She was beyond loud; she ruled all sound. Randal looked up to where the psychotherapist displayed on a holographic billboard, commencing the usual Solution cautionary speech:

  “Welcome, you will find all your necessities are in order. This is Lupercalia. Remember, no cash. If you see anyone using this illegal means of exchange, it’s your civic duty to report them to your local Solution operatives. Live your dreams well with us, for all our resources are yours.”

  Dr. Reverence’s voice soothed him momentarily, but it wasn’t enough. Randal made it to the alleyway, walking into the blackness and disappearing within it, the rumble of the festival dampening behind him. Woozy, Randal sat down and leaned against the alley wall. He stared into the blackness, hoping maybe either silence or sheer oblivion would come but instead he heard more voices inside his skull repeating his name. They would not stop.

  “They’re coming for you.”

  Concentrating on the acidic burn in his throat and the yearning in his veins for something, though he couldn’t tell what, Randal began passing out. It seemed to be the better option.

  The universe unravels to reveal its abomination. Those words echoed in Randal’s head as he went under. Two minutes went by but it could have been an eternity for all Randal knew. “Wake up, man! You’re going through it! You’re almost done. You’ve been streaming the All.”

  Randal heard the voice distantly, and understood it, and he wondered what the All could be. It sounded like Randal surfaced from underwater, coming closer to shore until he woke, groggy, head pounding, still lying in the black alleyway and Lupercalia booming a ways out with an ambient cadence. Life had become a vicious anomaly. Randal had asked for none of it. He already didn’t want it. Where was his normality? Where was his couch
? His sweet tea? His TV? His nerves grew worse, his fear and confusion intoxicating.

  “Randal. Tetrax has been ordered to kill you!” the little voice inside his head yelled. “We’re coming to get you. We’re on our way.”

  “Go away!” Randal screamed. “I didn’t do anything! I want tea!” He wasn’t sure exactly why he’d thought of tea.

  He propped himself up and set his back against the wall, attempting to gather his wits—an act he began to think was impossible. Randal tried breathing steadily, to calm down, and for short-lived time it did. Until a putrid stench, which seemed to float down from above, suddenly burned Randal’s nostrils. He looked upward to the side of the building, focusing his eyes in an attempt to see past the black and slivers of red and green neon light. He heard something moving, like footsteps on the alley wall. The second he noticed them the footsteps ceased, but as cold wind funneled through the alleyway carrying the sounds of the festival a thought came to Randal: death.

  Suddenly from the blackness a charred arm clutched Randal’s shoulder with such brute strength he was surprised his bones didn’t immediately snap. Frozen by fear (a near irreparable but tamable Dysfunction according to Dr. Reverence), Randal didn’t move or fight back. He wasn’t sure he knew how to. He still wanted tea. His job was soldering computer boards. He was not a fighter. He had never been in a fight, not even in grade school. No one ever cared enough. So he said nothing, did nothing. He stared upward. Randal could see the thing’s slender, inky shape. Its skin seemed to be woven with squirming things and black corrosion. Then, he could see it almost wholly. Worms acted as teeth and the creature’s entire visage was made of rows upon rows of infected and abscessed incisors. Randal saw gleams of moisture and yellow throughout its body, and he realized they were toothless, puckering mouths.