Flesh-Eaters Anonymous - pt 20
The elevator wouldn't go to eighty-one. I looked at the keys and slid the small one in the keyhole and turned it, then the button for eighty-one lit when I pressed it. My ears popped several times as the car went up and as soon as I stepped off on eighty-one I collapsed in agony as a thousand pins stabbed into my brain.
The bug was going into overdrive translating dead-speak. I caught brief words here and there, but there was just too much of it for me to handle. I writhed on the floor as the voices got louder and louder until I passed out.
When I woke up I was deaf. The one doctor I managed to find a day or two later told me it was some kind of sympathetic deafness in my right ear considering the bug was only in my left. They say it was because that high up brought me too close to a signal tower. The eighty-first floor is totally empty—I know it's kind of sacrilegious to say that, but there's nothing up there. Living or dead, there's only me. They never finished construction, the naked concrete walls and foundations are draped with sheets of plastic. Buckets of dried plaster, a stack of drywall sheets and thick spider webs are the only things up there. Oh and a little green chair like grade school kids sit in at their desks. I used that, two buckets and a drywall sheet to make a desk.
It's a figurehead position, really. Sure, it's their way of honoring me, but it's also how they keep me out the way while they go on their next Great Conversion. I don't play a part in any decision—I don't know why I even come in every day. When I leave I just roam the streets until it's time to come back. I don't remember the last time I slept.
Termacil is only available by prescription. I'm sure a doctor administered it to you all, injecting you with the diluted version of what Jack gave me. That way they can control the ratio of undead to living. No doubt all of you get regular shots of the follow-up drug, Endurapro to maintain your healthy appearances.
If you see a prol nowadays, you're one of a few. Shuffling, rotting z-words have fallen from fashion and you only occasionally hear of a hoi attacking an arist.
My position does have its perks. I can get as much Termacil as I want, no questions asked. If you look at my arms you can see I got over my fear of needles, but I am not one of you. I should have been dead back at my house with Ollins. I didn't realize until later that I'd cut myself on the glass of the syringe before stabbing that one feral in the eye. A drop would have been enough, Jack said. I've intentionally injected myself with Termacil a dozen times. At first I thought the drug just didn't work because of my body's chemistry, but I tried suffocating myself with a plastic bag, slitting my wrists and sitting in an idling car in a garage, waiting for the carbon monoxide to overwhelm me.
I don't know why I'm alive.
I left work early this afternoon to come here. I was sitting at my desk and dug into my pocket and found this card Jack had given me. I know I'm not one of you… people. I know I'm disgusting to you or you revere me or whatever. My name is John Clusterfeld and I am not a flesh-eater. But I'm so tired of living. The only thing I can think would work is if someone ate me. You're all so fresh-faced, like you haven't been dead a day. Haven't you been tempted? Just for a taste? Some of you had to have given in before—you could slip, just this once, and be doing the greatest favor for someone in need. Please, if any one of you is feeling weak, I won't resist.
