The Friedman Agency

It was another scorching day outside the ventilated zones. Alex was watching the broadcast through the opaque heat on one of the billboard monitors. The eerie countdown had been perpetually enshrined in the right-hand corner ever since the world found out it was ending. Alex had become cynical, often questioning why people even bothered to continue following the news. By now, everyone was aware of the situation, and at least there was some relief in finally understanding what all the plagues were about. The only reason to keep updated was to prepare for another disaster but it had been months since anything catastrophic had happened. Most people believed they just had to wait out the timer.

Alex looked across the street where the lineup for the agency was long and full of lugubrious faces. “Even if those poor idiots get in, they won’t have enough time to alter their fate.” The new lottery system allowed people to submit one ballot entry per quarter and the winners would be displayed weekly on the telecast. The grand prize winner would get to join the VIP party with all the benefits of ultraviolet glasses, air conditioning, and samples of Vincarnis. The agency promised to provide each client with a personalized MQ score and instructions on how to maximize it before the end of countdown. This was the only way to accurately calculate your fate. Although Alex often sneered at the lost souls waiting in line, they were even more disgusted at the people flocking to the churches and temples in a futile attempt to be redeemed. They figured if you haven’t done much good your whole life, a Hail Mary won’t save you.

Alex was on the way to the Federal Hospice Care Center. They went daily to bring extra food for Mother because the nutritional mush they poured out there was foul. Whenever they got their hands on a little something special, like a can of sweet peas, Mom would be first to get it. After all, this was the only way to give back to the person who birthed them. Out of love, Alex would attempt to sacrifice a little food, but they knew Mother would only accept on the condition that they ate together. The thought that this simple act of kindness might get some extra Morality points really bothered Alex. They’d be doing this even if it lowered their score, and out of spite, sometimes they wished it would.

Mother was in bed on the ventilator since the third wave of Covid-20. That was the last plague on record, and it had been quiet since. Things almost felt like they were back to the new normal. “Hey Ma! Guess what I got for us today?” Alex said gleefully.

“How many times do I have to tell you not to waste food on me, child? You’re skin and bones. And I don’t need it. I get plenty of nutrients here on my tube,” Mother replied.

“The government stuff can’t even be called food, Ma. Plus, I don’t like to eat alone. You know that. And today I got something real special, so just hush.” Alex pulled out a can of boiled potatoes from their satchel.

“Oh, my lord. I don’t remember the last time I had potatoes,” Mother said with watering eyes.

Alex remembered when they were little and would bring Mother two potatoes, one in each hand, to make fries. Mother said she ate so many fries when she was pregnant that she got the poor child addicted prenatally. It was both their favourite food, but you couldn’t get raw potatoes anymore. Nothing would grow in the heat and hydroponic foods were luxury items. So, the canned ones were still a rare delicacy. Alex opened the tin and savored the smell of starch and salt. Five white potato balls floated in brine.

“Where on earth did you get these?” Mother asked.

“Found someone online and traded my coffee maker for it.”

“Now why would you do that?”

“Without coffee, it's useless, Ma. Now here, try it,” Alex said, extending a plastic fork with a potato ball. Mother took a bite and closed her eyes. Alex repeated the ritual and said, “Ok, you go first.”

“Your father and I are on a bus. Someone across from us is opening up a greasy paper bag from some fast food chain. I’m watching them eat each fry, one by one, salivating. The smell is intoxicating, and I can hear the crunch in each bite. Well, you know your father, he always said you never let a pregnant woman suffer through cravings ‘cause it hurts the baby, so he goes and asks for some fries for his wife. I immediately turn crimson, but this person takes one look at me, smiles from ear to ear, and gives me the entire bag. It was more than half full. I can’t get a word in to say thanks because your father, of course, is already taking out money, but they won’t take it. Says the reward is knowing they’re feeding a baby. I asked their name and they said…”

“Alex. I remember.”

“Your father thought it was a beautiful name too. Strong, simple, and sweet” Mother said, still swishing the piece of potato in her mouth.

“I know, Ma,” Alex said smiling.

“Your turn.”

“The first thing I remember is grandma making her home fries over that old wood oven in her tiny kitchen. The whole place would smell so good. It’s the smell that would wake me up. I’d run into the kitchen screaming—Fries!—and grandma would laugh and tell me to brush my teeth first…I miss her.”

“Me too baby,” Mother said mournfully, “I guess our little addiction runs in the family,” she added with a wrinkled smile.

They sat together eating the potatoes and reminiscing. It was a small escape from reality both of them could afford. At four o’clock the nurses had to come in and disinfect. Alex wanted to hug Mother so badly. It had been too long.

“Before you go, I need you to do something for me,” Mother said.

“Anything Ma.”

“Now don’t get upset, but I got you a ballot for the next draw.”

“Goddammit, Ma! Why?”

“You’re my child and I’m still responsible for you. It’s the only way I can protect you. You know it’s your best chance.”

“How did you even get a ballot?”

“You’re not the only one who knows how to find what they want.”

“Who helped you?”

“That doesn’t matter. I just need you to promise me that you’ll watch the results and claim the prize if you get in! I went to hell and back to get this for you.”

“Very funny…”

“I’m serious. You need to promise me you’ll do this. When I told you to stop wasting good food on me, you said I had to let you do something good for me. Now you must let me do this for you.”

“You know how I hate the agency.”

“Promise me.”

“Fine, Ma. I promise. Not like I’m gonna win anyway.”

“You just watch the draw.”

***

On the way home, Alex passed by the agency again. The lineup was even longer. Alex just shook their head and sighed. They had absolutely refused to participate in this misery but now they’d made a promise to Mother. Worst of all was the thought of having to make a profile on the agency’s app. That’s the only way to claim a prize. Then they’d have access to all your information, which meant you’d be bombarded with paywalls to access your MQ score and risk becoming one of the obsessives, checking it every five minutes to see how close you are to being saved. The next draw was the following evening at six o’clock, which meant that Alex still had one last night of privacy.

On draw nights everyone would stop whatever they were doing, phone in hand, and watch the telecast intently with their fingers ready to hit accept should they win. If you didn’t accept in six minutes, the prize would be given to someone else. Alex had the app open for six o’clock and watched the draw casually. “It’ll be over soon and then I can delete this stupid thing.” Tonight, was a special draw for the VIP grand prize, which meant you’d be given the exclusive tour that very few people could afford at a six-million-dollar admission price. Even the regular admission was just over a million. Alex wondered why people pay so much money to see a place like that.

The familiar jingle for the draw results reverberated from every telecast heard throughout the city. Alex read the words. The VIP all-inclusive grand prize winner is…

…and stopped at seeing their name buzzing in gold and red, with a trembling finger hovering over the accept button on their device. The timer was counting down from 5 minutes and 59 seconds. The only thing Alex could think of was Mother trapped in that ventilator watching the same timer with absolute joy. “She must think she’s saved me.”

***

The week leading up to the trip had been hectic, from getting a background check, and a full physical, to a meeting with the Friedman Agency to sign contracts with a very stern focus on the nondisclosure agreement overseen by a horde of lawyers. The prize included free access to Alex’s MQ score—a 115. This was just one standard deviation above the mean. Alex wasn’t surprised that their morality quotient was in the orange category. It basically meant their fate was unpredictable, much like everyone else’s. They’d never actually met a green, but stories circulated about what it took to be a so-called “saint.” However, Alex was relieved at not being in the red.

 On the day, Alex, wearing a sleek hazmat suit, was escorted through one of the large Edison Inc. facilities. They were impressed by the sterility. It was unlike anything outside the ventilated zones, which had a perpetual layer of debris and dust. This place was sanitized and filled with workers in full protective gear. Alex was brought into a decontamination room and told to remove the hazmat suit. The four other VIP guests were already inside. Alex immediately recognized one of them but couldn’t remember from what TV show. The doors sealed and a light mist dropped over the room followed by a loud fan, then a vacuum. On the other side of the room, a large metal door slid open, and Alex could see an agent waiting on the other side in a bright white reception room.

“Right this way, please,” the agent said with a forced smile, “here are your complementary ultraviolet glasses. We recommend that you wear them for the duration of the tour. Before we begin, would you like any coffee or tea?” Alex vaguely remembered the aroma of coffee. It had once been their morning ritual. The others ignored the question, eager to get on with the show. With a lump in their throat, Alex put on the UV glasses and sighed. “Before we begin the tour, I must first go over the rules” the agent began. “What you will experience is a full sensory simulation of the post-countdown scenario. As VIP guests you will have the exclusive option to control sensory input with your personal touchpads. This includes temperature and volume controls, as well as smell and graphics for gore. Please remember that your nondisclosure agreements prevent you from discussing absolutely anything you experience on this tour with anyone, any visual representations of your experience, or any suggestions as to what the Friedman Agency offers. Any infraction will result in a permanent zero MQ and immediate detainment.”

Following the briefing, the guests were ushered through another door into a pitch-black enclosure. Once the door had closed behind them their touchpads displayed the familiar countdown, only now the timer was blinking with four red zeros. Gradually light began to appear around them, and faint screaming could be heard incrementally as the temperature began to rise dramatically. Alex saw familiar streets and buildings, but they had decayed considerably. Animal bones littered the streets and languid barely human figures shifted about uneasily. The temperature had reached an unbearable high and it was almost too bright to see, even with the UV glasses on. Alex was tempted to press the temperature control on their touchpad. They noticed that unlike them, the other guests weren’t sweating. “What’s the point in experiencing this if you’re going to avoid what it feels like,” they said under their breath. Alex saw food bays automatically serving biscuits to lineups of disgruntled figures standing six feet apart. The enormous billboard screens that had once broadcasted the news had the stagnant message ‘Zero Contact Policy Enforced by Law.’ Armored units patrolled the streets with taser beams locking on to any person approaching the six-foot parameter of another. “And I thought the third wave was bad.” Alex remembered when the death toll had finally slowed down and the survivors, for the first time, realized that the world was beyond saving. Even when the virus was finally under control, the droughts and famine continued to plague everyone outside the ventilated zones. Alex never understood the point of wasting resources on policing the dead zones. “It’s absurd to maintain order on a sinking ship.” The faint ambiance of screaming and crying increased to a deafening pitch followed by a white flash.

The VIP guests were transported to a vast indoor facility that looked like an encampment. Here people were huddled together—no distancing—working indistinguishably in vast pools of flesh, cloth, and sweat between intricate machinery. Scenes flashed in an immersive montage of humans making textiles, electronics, working natural gas, and alcohol. A final flash and the guests were standing on a riser above a factory floor with a single sign that read, ‘Survival Biscuits’ with a cogwheel logo. Alex remembered a similar cogwheel logo in the Hospice Care Center on the nutritional mush dispenser in Mother’s room. The mush was introduced as part of the rations protocol in the Pre-Countdown Deal with the Friedman Agency. “They needed to keep us alive long enough to exploit us.” A notification appeared on the touchpads offering a sample. Alex overheard some of the others giggling at the prospect of consuming a stale cracker. This prompted them to stubbornly press the accept button. The other VIPs turned to Alex as a conveyor brought out a single survival biscuit on a small plate. They watched intently with smirks on their faces as Alex bit and chewed, waiting for their reaction. “What’s it taste like?” one of them asked. “Why don’t you order one and find out?” Alex said, still chewing through the fibrous cracker. It tasted like hay and wheat. “You wouldn’t catch me dead eating that thing,” a blonde VIP member snarled. “Maybe you’ll be the one making them,” Alex replied to the bristling blonde. The room flashed white and the guests were transported again.

This time they found themselves inside the ventilated zones. The air was cool and considerably easier to breathe. One of the guests exclaimed, “Finally a modicum of civility,” as he fanned himself with his hand. Before the agency, Alex had never been inside the ventilated zones. They were areas reserved mostly for people working on government-related projects, corporations, and media. On occasion, something on the broadcast would reveal some of the work being done inside the ventilated zones. It looked like a large indoor city, or what they thought a mall looked like back in the day. Alex never understood the appeal of living life indoors aside from the temperature control. They hadn’t realized the full breadth of benefits of indoor living. Scenes flashed of humans working in the hydroponic bays growing real food, team meetings in media centers, various business dealings, police and military operations, and government proceedings. Alex had only witnessed this in old films and the stories they heard growing up. It always felt like old-world mythology to them. They watched the montage continue with well-dressed people energetically going about their business. “It seems air conditioning is necessary for stressing over ideas but not for physical labour.” Despite their resentment, Alex noticed that the people here did not appear any happier than the miserable figures outside the ventilated zones. “Ha! They look just like the hopeless dopes in line outside the agency.” Another flash.

As the scene settled in and Alex’s eyes adjusted, they could hear some of the other guests cheering. For the first time, Alex witnessed lush green grass and trees, rolling hills, rivers and lakes, houses like they’d heard about in stories with backyards and pools, and portly humans chortling over clinking glasses. The VIPs settled into a backyard party with people barbecuing meat and drinking by a pool of clear blue water. It was perfectly warm with a welcoming breeze.

“This can’t be real!” Alex said.

“It’s very real honey. Why do you think people pay so much for this experience?” another VIP said condescendingly.

“But how?”

“So, you can believe there’s something after the end of the world, just not grass?”

An alert on the touchpad offered a sample of Vincarnis. Everyone eagerly accepted, apart from Alex. As conveyors produced several glasses filled with red liquid, Alex remarked, “You know what that stuff is made of?” The other guests raised a toast as one of them replied, “That’s just a myth. You know how expensive Vincarnis is?” Alex turned away from the party and looked out toward the rolling hills and trees. They wanted to absorb every ounce of it. Only in pictures and videos had they witnessed scenes like this. They thought again of Mother laying in that bed with a smile on her face knowing that this would be the closest her child would get to experiencing what life had once been. “Ma even had a bit of this life and then watched it all crumble.” Tears welled up in Alex’s eyes as the lights slowly faded to nothing. A final flash and the simulation was over. The lights came on and the sweet dream of nature was replaced with a cold grey enclosure.

An announcement came on asking the guests to proceed through a doorway and file into individual lines. Alex followed the instructions and parted from the group toward a reception desk. A clerk behind the desk provided a quick debrief with another reminder of the nondisclosure agreement, then instructed Alex to read over the options on their touchpad. Packages for a variety of categories were available for purchase with a one-time VIP discount of 20% that included placement in the green category. Beside the green category, Alex saw an image of the houses with the green grass and the trees. There were cheaper placements in the yellow category inside the ventilated zones. In the top corner, Alex’s MQ score displayed the 115 with an orange marker and a cogwheel logo like the one inside the biscuit factory. Some buying options were displayed to switch between the biscuit, alcohol, and textile factories.

Alex looked up at the clerk, “What is this?”

“You have experienced the post-countdown scenario and now have the option to purchase premium placements inside the yellow and green categories. Unfortunately, you are not eligible for the gold category reserved for our exclusive members but…”

“Who can even afford this?”

“If you are unable to afford any of our premium placements, you can subsidize a limited contract placement in the yellow category by signing a work contract with the Friedman Agency. We have openings in enforcement, public service, administration…”

“This just looks like a shittier version of the world we’re leaving behind! How is this even fair? And what’s the point of a morality quotient if you can buy better options?”

“Whoever said this was going to be fair? What did you imagine it was going to be—fire and brimstone?”