The Hauntings of Playing God (The Great De-Evolution) by Chris Dietzel Page B
Authors: Chris Dietzel
Tags: Literary, Science-Fiction, Literature & Fiction, Science Fiction & Fantasy, Literary Fiction, post apocalyptic, Dystopian, Metaphysical & Visionary
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own bed, gives a groan as she lowers herself onto the skinny mattress, and closes her eyes. The longer she stays up and dwells on whether Elaine’s remarks were due to fever-induced hallucinations or were the scared thoughts of a dying woman, the less time she has to rest her body before she must once again start making her way from cot to cot, body to body.
11
She cannot keep up. The first few days of taking care of all of the Blocks wasn’t too bad because the responsibility was still fresh and she was focused on Elaine’s health. The next week, as she waited for a reply from Daniel, she pushed through the chores just so she could finish the day by checking her e-mail. But even then, as she forced her way through each row of beds in anticipation of the little reward she allowed herself, she noticed the rounds taking a little longer each day. The change was almost imperceptible at first. She finished by eleven o’clock at night. The next day, ten minutes later. The day after that, eleven-twenty. By the end of the first week, she wasn’t finishing until midnight. After two weeks, she isn’t done cleaning and repositioning the final Block until one in the morning.
When will it end?
I can’t keep doing this , she thinks.
But she persists. Another week goes by. She is tired before she even starts her rounds. It is two o’clock in the morning when she finishes. Exhausted, her attention to detail fades. Late at night, only three Blocks away from being done for the day, she looks back at the previous Block she has just finished caring for and realizes she forgot to screw the tube to the Block’s IV back into his nutrient bag. Without it, he would starve and quickly die.
I must be getting tired. Where is my mind?
Little mistakes keep occurring. In the middle of her rounds, she can’t remember which Block she has just finished cleaning and which was to be cared for next. She imagines herself, an old woman shuffling slowly around the room, being recorded on some security monitor in a back office. How absurd she would seem. How futile her task.
I’m killing myself. I can’t take this much longer.
She still gets up at six every morning. If she sleeps in after a long day, it just means she either finishes even later the next night, or some of the Blocks go uncared for.
She has barely begun her chores the next day before the first mistake occurs. When she looks back at a Block she has just finished repositioning, she realizes she left the body facedown. The Blocks cannot do anything for themselves; a mouth and nose pressed into a pillow could very well lead to a slow suffocation for the poor man. She shuffles back to the bed, turns the man’s face to one side, then moves on to the next cot.
I can’t keep doing this. I’m going to drop dead and then everyone here will die.
She spills the contents of an entire nutrient bag on the floor. Clear plasma splashes on two beds, all over her feet, up her legs. Defeated, she walks across the gym and gets a mop. By the time she is done cleaning up the mess she has made in her drowsy, zombie-like stupor, she is an hour behind her already lagging schedule.
I’m not going to get to bed until 4 o’clock. And then the thought: I can’t do this anymore. I just can’t.
The situation does not seem fair. She has only gotten herself into this spot because she lived when everyone else passed away. It is a burden she was never ready for, does not think she could ever be suited for.
She tries to think of a way to continue caring for each Block. Her predicament only exists because she can’t move fast enough to tend to so many people. Even though they are sixty-four people that require very little attention, a woman of her age was never meant to perform these chores at all, not to one person, let alone row after row of them. She changes their nutrient bags once a day. This gives them hydration and nutrition. She changes their Block diapers once
11
She cannot keep up. The first few days of taking care of all of the Blocks wasn’t too bad because the responsibility was still fresh and she was focused on Elaine’s health. The next week, as she waited for a reply from Daniel, she pushed through the chores just so she could finish the day by checking her e-mail. But even then, as she forced her way through each row of beds in anticipation of the little reward she allowed herself, she noticed the rounds taking a little longer each day. The change was almost imperceptible at first. She finished by eleven o’clock at night. The next day, ten minutes later. The day after that, eleven-twenty. By the end of the first week, she wasn’t finishing until midnight. After two weeks, she isn’t done cleaning and repositioning the final Block until one in the morning.
When will it end?
I can’t keep doing this , she thinks.
But she persists. Another week goes by. She is tired before she even starts her rounds. It is two o’clock in the morning when she finishes. Exhausted, her attention to detail fades. Late at night, only three Blocks away from being done for the day, she looks back at the previous Block she has just finished caring for and realizes she forgot to screw the tube to the Block’s IV back into his nutrient bag. Without it, he would starve and quickly die.
I must be getting tired. Where is my mind?
Little mistakes keep occurring. In the middle of her rounds, she can’t remember which Block she has just finished cleaning and which was to be cared for next. She imagines herself, an old woman shuffling slowly around the room, being recorded on some security monitor in a back office. How absurd she would seem. How futile her task.
I’m killing myself. I can’t take this much longer.
She still gets up at six every morning. If she sleeps in after a long day, it just means she either finishes even later the next night, or some of the Blocks go uncared for.
She has barely begun her chores the next day before the first mistake occurs. When she looks back at a Block she has just finished repositioning, she realizes she left the body facedown. The Blocks cannot do anything for themselves; a mouth and nose pressed into a pillow could very well lead to a slow suffocation for the poor man. She shuffles back to the bed, turns the man’s face to one side, then moves on to the next cot.
I can’t keep doing this. I’m going to drop dead and then everyone here will die.
She spills the contents of an entire nutrient bag on the floor. Clear plasma splashes on two beds, all over her feet, up her legs. Defeated, she walks across the gym and gets a mop. By the time she is done cleaning up the mess she has made in her drowsy, zombie-like stupor, she is an hour behind her already lagging schedule.
I’m not going to get to bed until 4 o’clock. And then the thought: I can’t do this anymore. I just can’t.
The situation does not seem fair. She has only gotten herself into this spot because she lived when everyone else passed away. It is a burden she was never ready for, does not think she could ever be suited for.
She tries to think of a way to continue caring for each Block. Her predicament only exists because she can’t move fast enough to tend to so many people. Even though they are sixty-four people that require very little attention, a woman of her age was never meant to perform these chores at all, not to one person, let alone row after row of them. She changes their nutrient bags once a day. This gives them hydration and nutrition. She changes their Block diapers once
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