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The Suicide Pod

by Antwan Crump

It’s just a job.

Something stable to pay the bills.

An income stream. No more. No less.

“Please press your thumb on the scanner.”

“Like this?”

“Perfect. We’re live.”

Up North, we’re called shepherds. In the South, we’re deathers. In the West, we’re deliverers. In the East, I’m an Anpu. No matter the title, end-of-life representatives have a single goal in mind: death. Quick. Painless. All sales final. Payment due at departure. 

“Hardly a hiccup.” The old woman smiled. “Thank you.”

I smiled back. Toothy and wide. “It’s my pleasure.”

Anubis Technologies is the largest stateside conglomerate dealing in transitional services. Our entire industry was born out of the ‘Right to Die Act’ of 2032. Passage of the RDA was footnoted by long lists of loiterers looking to end their nightmare. A lot of people died very quickly. So they made rules. Regulations. Limitations.

“Alright,” I said. 

“What’s next?”

A few states cover the cost. Most don’t. The powers that be can be convinced to let the poor subsist, but killing good human stock? No. Too far. That’s just immolating the inventory. Financial restriction keeps a sound lid on excess death. Most people simply can’t afford to die. Makes sense. Capitalism. Paying cash? Private insurance? Step right up and claim your prize.

“Have you given more thought to post-mortem?”

“No. I couldn’t care less.”

The motivated without coverage are left to seek alternatives—drugs, guns, knives, gas, or whatever does the trick. Those who succeed are posthumously fined for the inconvenience. Families are compelled to cover those costs. The ‘unlawful death’ penalty was meant to deter illegal suicides. State-sponsored media frames it as “saving lives” by “preventing temptation.” That’s horseshit. You can’t stop someone who wants to die. You can slow them down, but you can’t stop them. The government knows that. Everyone does.

“Clean cut.”

“I’m pretty tidy.”

It’s an intentionally flawed system—a cash grab. Even distant relatives can get a piece of the fee if your death is deemed unlawful. Those fees have had the unintended effect of putting mourners in debt while their dead decompose. If you can’t pay, the obligation falls to your next of kin. Then the next. Then the next. The compounding debt can wipe entire families off the map, whole generations. Always read the fine print.

“No problem.” I smiled again. “I’ll set you up with the standard.”

“What’s that?”

“Mulch,” I said, too crass, and pulled back. “You’ll be rested in a garden.”

“Oh…” she gasped, then conceded with a wave. “Better than a box.”

“Much better.”

Debt. Depression. Crisis. Suicide. Understandable. Imagine barely scraping by, only to find Uncle So-and-so’s death bill of doom in your inbox: “PAY NOW OR BE FINED.” “PAY NOW OR JAIL TIME.” Who wouldn’t prefer to see the last light? 

It’s a national issue—voluntary death fueled by inherited hardship and criminal destitution. ‘Death debt’ spooks enough people to fuel the bureaucracy. There are corruption complaints. False claims. Internal errors. Mischief. Revenge. Stupidity. One bad click on the file and little Timmy doesn’t get to go to college. Anyone or anything could go wrong and you’re screwed. There’s a better way to die. An easier way. Anubis Technologies takes you there.

“What now,” the woman asked.

“Pick a date,” I said. “Mondays are popular. Gives you the weekend for goodbyes.”

She laughed. “I don’t have anyone left to farewell.”

“Well…” I laced my hands together. “—could I interest you in a companion?”

“A companion?”

Greenlit clients don’t need any special circumstances or terminal diseases—just the will to die and clearance from two relevant professionals. One for the medical record and the other for legal scuffles. They were easy enough to buy. As an Anpu, I function as a human counsel, facilitator, and bureaucratic safety net. We’re paid via commission—ten to fifteen percent of the total disposal cost. Not bad. Not great. Better than hard labor and corpse management. They’re always hiring. Great benefits, but the pay is shit.

“We have physical and virtual options,” I said.

“For what, exactly?”

“Whatever you need!” A practiced smile. “Company. Intimacy. Deep intimacy.”

“No,” Myra rebuffed with a giggle. “I’m too frail for ‘deep’ intimacy.”

“We’ll put a pin in it,” I said. 

“I hope not.” Myra smiled.

I met Myra Benson in a hospice care center a few miles away from the office. Our unmarked building is within striking distance of obvious targets: three cemeteries, two retirement homes, a hospital, a homeless shelter, off-track betting, a courthouse, etcetera. The point is, we don’t have to look far for clients. We’re even considering ‘pact packages’ so that folks can transition together. People hate being alone in the end, especially the tough ones.

“What about your delivery method? Still partial to the gas or—?”

“Absolutely,” she fawned. “I have trouble with pills and needles.”

“Don’t we all?” I scrolled through the prompts on my screen. “Memory pull?”

“What’s that?”

“It’s like a personal highlight reel. You can even narrate for posterity.”

“No, no,” Myra dissented. “I want a nice Caribbean sunset on the beach.”

“We can do that,” I said. “Great choice!” There are worse things to see when you die.

Myra and I got to talking about her situation, terminal cancer. She was so soothed by the thought of retaking control that we started her paperwork that day. Fifteen or so minutes of jokes and sweet talk, and she was well-greased for the grave. Sane. On board. Fully covered. 

Full coverage meant the gold package. Standard burial. Residential cleaning. Corpse pickup and drop-off. And oversight of her choosing—someone to make sure things got done as planned. Myra chose me. She doesn’t speak to her kids. I forget why. Money? Property? Lies? Doesn’t matter. Myra and her daughters used to meet for dinner twice a week. She eats alone now. Old. Broke. Dying. Who wouldn’t speedrun to the end?

“Alright.” I looked up. Another grin. “Just need final approvals and we’re set.”

“What now?”

“Check your messages. Call me with any questions.”

“Oh.” She glanced at the time on her wristwatch. “That wasn’t long at all.”

“Life’s hard.” I sipped my coffee. “We make it easy.”

***

“GOLD FUCKING PACKAGE!” Brian slapped my back. “Lucky motherfucker!”

“Not luck,” I said. “Skill.” Then brushed his hand away. “Stay jealous.”

Our intake floor is quaint enough—one long hallway with small offices on either side, where we shift in six days a week. Sundays are for God. The hall leads to a claustrophobic common area where we let bashful clients stew. The room has too few folding chairs, a wobbly coffee table, two old coffee makers, and a too-loud TV that plays Groundhog Day on a loop. The air is always thick with lemon scent and wet linoleum, like a grade school or grocery store.

“Lunch?” Brian asked and checked his watch. “I’m at quota, so we can mingle.”

“Your quota,” I said, and stood from my chair. “Maye wants a puppy.”

“Come on!” Brian’s chunky cheeks rattled. “Three rounds. On me.”

“One.”

“Two.”

“Fine. But you got lunch. You owe me for Tasty’s.”

“We were celebrating,” Brian growled. “Fucking cheapskate.”

“I’ll be that.” I put on my coat. “My cards don’t decline.”

“Fuck you.”

“Fuck you.”

“Ugh,” Brian groaned. “Fine. Deal.”

Brian Tomsin was a friend from college and a third-year dropout. Though he planned to spend his life in accounting, self-service systems kneecapped the need. AI killed just about every worthwhile career path in the same way. Oddly enough, people prefer a human touch when it comes to matters of life and death. I couldn’t tell you why, but ‘people’ is a booming industry. 

Brian and I reconnected after I graduated with a now-useless arts degree. Pretty words don’t pay the bills unless you’re slinging dirt or propaganda. I made it six years in digital communications before bots gave me the boot. Brian referred me to Anubis Technologies after a joke about killing myself. That’s how I got in. He saved my ass. I swore that I’d never go hungry again. “What are you thinking?” I asked, loosening my tie. “Chinese? Italian? Soul food?”

Brian grinned. A devilish stare.

“Oh, fuck off!”

“You can’t stop love!”

We were going to Tasty’s—again. That asshole was addicted.

***

In a world run by machines, people are restricted to a handful of roles and occupations—the ‘human experience’ industries. While teachers, lawyers, doctors, brokers, drivers, and city workers tried to outpace the great replacement, most found themselves unemployed before leaping to the investor class. Some might have had a drop in the bucket, just enough to stave off the streets for a while. Sooner or later, the money dries up, and they find their way to us. Better to die secured than to leave debt behind. Better me than autocratic autopsies by corrupt city coroners. Hard times. Hard decisions.

“Janet!” Brian shouted and waved his cash. “Come here, sweetheart!”

The young woman winced and then waved. “Hi, honey! Be right there.”

“You’re fucking embarrassing,” I said. “You know her schedule?”

“Calm down, nerd.” Brian turned and sipped his drink. “I got the app.”

“You downloaded the app?” I sneered.

“That’s what it’s for!”

“I hate you.”

“—and?”

Human presence is additive in most places—feel-good more than must-have. A ‘want’ more than a need. Politicians, end-of-life reps, natal care specialists, maintenance technicians, toothless managerial positions, massage therapists, strippers, prostitutes, and of course, the sweet C-Suite. Drug dealers and pharmacists can do well in cities, but they’re glorified vending machines. It’s the same with weed and alcohol. All of their days are numbered. Humanity’s role in the world essentially boils down to pain, pleasure, consumption, and extinction management.

Tasty’s is an extension of that—a high-end gentlemen’s club slash quiet brothel with good food and great service that aims to please. Marketing is everything. Their performers did well, thanks to cash payments, consistent work, and gracious tips from desperate dicks with money to blow. Brian liked to nest there and spend his last cents on beer and deep intimacy. They’d drain his balls and wallet, then break his heart. He was aware of the pattern but didn’t care. A drowning man seeks any shore.

“What you eating, baby?” Janet sat on his lap, caked in makeup and glitter. “The usual?”

“You know it.” Brian slapped her ass. “With a side of you.”

She giggled. “And your friend?”

“Burger and fries. Real beef,” I said. “No clone meat.”

Brian’s eyes shifted my way. “You’re killing me.”

“No,” I said. “I’d charge you extra.”

Unlike the shoddy shotgun approach in most dive bars, Tasty’s could pass for a reputable place. They’ve got leather-lined booths, black tiled floors, nice wooden tables with soft matching chairs, and three stages that are always occupied—part-timers on the sides, blue chips in the center, shining gold poles on each. The vibe is more like an auction than fine dining, but you get used to it. If you don’t, the music is loud enough to disturb the thought.

“I’ll get your order.” Janet stood and brushed back her hair. “Another round?”

“Please,” I said. 

“You got it.” She winked.

“Don’t forget our room,” Brian ordered. “Daddy needs dessert.”

“I won’t forget…” Janet kissed him. “‘Daddy.’” The thin girl swiveled away.

“No way she’s eighteen,” I said. 

“Complain to HR.” Brian downed his drink. “I’m enjoying a meal.”

“Until it enjoys you.”

“God… I hope so.” Brian looked over the stages. “Hear from Trent?”

I looked too. “Thought he quit.” Beautiful women. Healthy. Exotic. Clean.

“I don’t know, man.” Brian’s head fell. Squinting. Thinking. “Quit and do what?”

“Fuck himself,” I said. “Who cares?”

Brian turned to me. “Do you think he—?”

“He would’ve invited us.”

Trent was our co-worker and reluctant cohort—the runt of our pack. By then, we hadn’t seen him in weeks. He ducked us with excuses for weeks before that. We assumed that was due to the teasing. Boys play rough. Figured he’d get over it. A few months ago, he’d have been right there with us—eating, drinking, cursing, and living. His absence was odd, but what could I do? People fold. People run. People hide. Real life ain’t for everyone.

“But…” Brian worried. “—he mentioned it.”

“If Trent wanted out, that’s his call.” I sipped my drink. “Let the man breathe.”

“And Laurie?”

“Laurie’s a cunt. Probably got fired.”

“Alex…?”

“—is a lazy prick.”

“Three people. Not one homecoming? Dead accounts. That’s not weird to you?”

The ‘Right to Die Act’ gave birth to countless and common pre-death rituals. Live wakes, funerals, last rites, and things of that nature. Death parties amount to a final bow for the anticipated dead. They give things away, run up their credit, experiment with drugs, commit light crimes, and whatever else they can get away with before biting the dust. To us, the death crash-outs are as normal as weddings and birthday parties. Weird to skip. Not unheard of. Some people like to go quietly. I respect that. It’s their life. Not mine. Not yours. Why care?

“I wouldn’t spend my last day with you either.”

“Ha-ha.” Brian drank. “I’d spend mine with you.”

“Really?”

“Nah.” He smiled. “I’d traumatize Janet.”

The bikini-clad girl returned and set down the drinks. “Room’s ready.”

Janet offered her hand. Brian popped to his feet. “Bout time. Almost got deep.”

“I like deep.” Janet tugged his belt buckle. “Show me.”

“Later,” Brian said.

“Have fun,” I answered.

He was gone for five songs. 

We ate, then I went back to work.

***

“You smell like a bar,” Teresa said. “Brian or Trent?”

“Brian,” I said, rubbing my eyes. “He’s in love again.”

“Oh, lord,” Teresa scoffed and hung my coat. “He needs to grow up.”

“I know. Not our business.”

Teresa and I got married five years ago, after I started making real money with Anubis. The probation period is excessive, but if you survive it, the sky’s the limit. We dated on and off before that—cycling through incompatible stages of life. Then she got pregnant. Single parents are treated like fucking pariahs. That would’ve been horrible for the kid. A wedlock baby made us favored by the state. The reigning government wanted more families. Those families got special treatment. Marriage was an easy decision. We learned how to love each other after that.

“Where’s Maye?” I asked.

“In her room. Homework.”

“Ah, okay.”

Sometimes, your soulmate is just the sole person willing to welcome you home. A fellow passenger. A teammate. In the end, a reliable partner is worth more than new romance or mind-melting fucks. Those are temporary. Teresa’s my rock. Family keeps people sane.

“Dinner?”

“On its way.” She kissed my cheek. “I missed you.”

“Missed you, too.”

We own a connected townhome on the expensive side of Brooklyn. I wanted Maye to grow up with a yard. As a freelance interior designer, Teresa fashioned our home as a live-in calling card—‘modern aesthetics with medieval trappings and hints of sleek futuristic flair’. A lot of angles, space, drapery, and miscellaneous shit I’m not allowed to touch. Black, grey, and white. Some red. I never understood it. Not my thing. It’s nice when the extra cash rolls in.

“I’m gonna do some trading.”

“Which ones?”

“Bytecoin. Maybe Zelenium.”

“Okay.” Teresa turned toward the steps. “Do mine, too.”

“You got it,” I said, and Teresa was gone.

***

We put Maye to bed after dinner, as per our ritual, and then I got back to the trades. Anubis was fine for paying the bills, but good money makes money. Buy low. Sell high. Get out before it shits the bed. Retailers get fucked. Hobbyists can get lucky. The obsessed turn a regular profit—at the cost of sleep. I make up for the loss on my off days. Due to that, I was wide awake when the phone rang at three in the morning.

“Hello,” I said, annoyed by the private number. “HELLO.”

“Bobby,” the voice cracked.

“Trent?” I answered. “Where the fuck have you—?”

“I’m sorry.” Commotion. A struggle. “No! PLEASE.”

The line went dead. I called Trent’s work phone. Someone else answered.

—breathing…

—breathing…

—breathing…

“Purge yourself,” the gravelly voice demanded. “—or die.”

“What?”

The call disconnected.

Trent was an occasional prankster. 

I didn’t think much of it. “Jackass.”  

It was bedtime. I don’t remember falling asleep.

***

I picked Brian up for work the next morning. It was an ongoing favor that’d become routine. He was regularly hungover and, like it or not, I owed him one for the job. When we got to the office, the building was surrounded by flashing cop cars and ambulances. Not the strangest thing, considering that we often deny hopeful prospects. We’ve seen our fair share of fickle sickos make a feckless spectacle of their freeform suicide. This wasn’t that. Too big. Too loud.

“Should we go in?” Brian asked. 

“I am.” I shrugged. “It’s probably nothing.”

The ‘nothing’ in question was Trent’s dead body, filleted in a puddle of blood.

The elevator was out of commission. We trekked up the steps of seventeen floors and were met by a sea of badges, stares, and sprawling walls of caution tape. Trent’s corpse was displayed in the waiting room beneath the now blood-stained television. It ran on a timer. Bill Murray was driving off a cliff with Punxsutawney Phil.

“You two know anything about this?” an officer asked, incredulous.

“No,” Brian and I said in tandem. His skin flushed pale. “We work here.”

“Then you need to leave,” the officer said, turning away. 

“And do what?” Brian said. “I need the money!”

“Call your superiors,” another officer chimed.

I pulled Brian back. “Field day.”

It happens. People die. Sometimes, it’s people you know.

Sometimes there’s nothing to do but say ‘goodbye’ and rest in peace.

***

“He didn’t deserve that.” Brian puffed on a cigarette. “Nobody does.”

“Not our call,” I said. “Maybe it was his.”

“People don’t do that to themselves!”

“Calm down.”

“Fuck you! Be human.”

“We don’t know the situation, Brian. It could be anything.” When suffering is abundant and money is tight, the unseemly becomes mainstream. Gambling. Extortion. Blackmail. Scams. People do nasty things to get ahead. Those things go wrong. “You didn’t even like him.”

“BUT I KNEW HIM.”

“So did I.”

“Then why aren’t you freaking out?”

Because I didn’t care. “Because it doesn’t help.” Because it’s not me.

We arrived at Safeway Hospice Care and parked in our reserved spot in their lot. After a half-hour of Brian’s bitching and moaning, I’d had about all I could take. I just wanted to work. Sometimes, ignored things go away.

“You’ve got thirty seconds. Pull your shit together.”

“—or what?”

“—or you can join Trent in my past.” Tough love. A little harsh.

Then it was quiet. Silent seconds of Brian’s rebooting.

“You good?” I asked.

He made a strange face. Fear. Pure and primal panic. 

“He called me last night,” Brian said. “I thought he was joking.”

“Who?”

“Trent.” Brian sipped his cigarette and exhaled. “Doesn’t matter.”

“Good. Let’s get this over with.” I got out of the car. Brian followed.

Fieldwork is different from our standard counsel and approval process. Rather than the low-hanging fruit of potential commissions, the field was paid by the hour—garbage wages for scouting, grooming, and recruiting. Anubis has ongoing arrangements with various entities that grant us access in exchange for cash. It’s a tactical advantage over the competition. Field agents handle legwork and intake. The process requires tact, nuance, and calm—which cryin’ Brian would’ve fucked up. That’s why I didn’t bother telling him Trent called me, too. Tubby was teetering. Why make things worse with the truth?

“I lead. You follow.”

“Got it.” Brian flicked away his still-burning cigarette. “I’m good.”

***

Networking is key.

Most fieldwork is blunt small talk with the sad, sick, and senile who need permission to die. Thanks to our history and reputation, an Anpu just needs to show up and be convincing. I keep a list of outsourced affiliates, at my expense, to pinpoint potential cases. Never kids. Never brokes. Just lonely folks with damn good coverage. I met Myra that way—at the same facility, actually. I met Vanessa there, too.

“Deeper,” she moaned. Clenching her jaw. “—hurt me…”

“It’s stabbing my dick,” I groaned. “I can’t go any—”

“DEEPER.” She was close. Thighs trembling. “HARDER.”

I’ve been fucking Vanessa for about a year. Nurse. Mid-twenties. Cute face. Olive skin. She’d do well at Tasty’s. We played coy for a while, flirting and petting, playing the cat and mouse game. We were platonic, more or less—until a new wave of fresh clientele kept us both working late. Holidays are our busy season. After work, we’d meet at her place for drinks and chit-chat. That’s how it started. Now she makes demands. “—fuck me.”

“I’m gonna—”  

“Wait, baby—”

“FUCK.” I came. Shivering and tingling, while an IUD stabbed my dick. “…fuck.”

I’d made a playful suggestion after one passive comment about her new birth control. “We should test it” evolved into ‘our little secret’. Karma’s a bitch. Despite that, it’s nice to be around someone who sees life and death like I do. Who understands what people like us do. What that means we are in the grand scheme of bullshit. What the world really is. Brian helped cover my ass—fucker loved to keep me in his debt.

 “Disappointing,” Vanessa teased as we pulled up our pants.

“Bad day,” I said. “Needed the win.”

“What happened?”

“Nothing. Life.”

“Life?” she mocked and grabbed my face. “Come to Barbados with me.”

“You know I can’t.”

“Scared of vacation…” She kissed my lips. Cherry-flavored. “—or being in love?”

“Neither.” I’m not an idiot. “I’m scared of the price.”

“You can afford it.”

“You deserve better.”

“I don’t want better,” she said. “I want you.”

Three knocks hit the door—Brian saving my ass, again. “All set.”

I opened the utility closet and held the door for Vanessa to exit. She sucked her teeth. I followed her out as Brian ogled her swaying curves. Vanessa and I keep our distance in public. We’re professionals first, after all.

“Can’t blame you,” Brian quipped. 

“Shut up,” I answered. “Let’s meet the newbies.”

We got a decent haul for the time. A grandmother of twenty-six. A sick construction worker who was tired of court. A would-be widower with daughters and debt. Finally, a paralyzed sexual predator whose former life had been coming to light. Not bad. Call it a win. Split the take.

“What the fuck,” I snarled and looked around. The parking lot was empty. “FUCK.”

My car was totaled—vandalized and inoperable. Broken windows. Missing tires. Stripped and beaten to hell. Dents paraded around the Cadillac’s frame like craters on the moon. Brian moved in to investigate while I cursed the sky. I just bought the damn thing.

“Yo,” he called. “Look.”

“I can’t.”

“You need to.”

I stood where his finger pointed. Something was sloppily scrawled into the car’s front hood, outlined by crispy shards of black debris that blew in the midday breeze. The scrawl read familiar words: PURGE YOURSELF—OR DIE!

“Oh…That’s nasty.” Brian lurched back and covered his nose.

“What?” I didn’t want to know.

“There’s SHIT in the BACKSEAT.”

“What kind of shit?”

“HUMAN SHIT!” Brian dry-heaved. “Doo-doo!” Then a wet heave.

Repairs would be expensive. 

So would the cleaning bill. 

All that overtime for nothing.

***

Anonymity is company policy. No social media. No named accounts. We file documents with codes and only use first names. The mandates are enforced to keep us safe from the usual suspects—vengeful family members, hostile debt collectors, or just some nut with a grudge. ‘Safe’ until somebody wants to hurt you. A quick search could find the building. After that, it was all about space, patience, and opportunity. ‘Anonymous’ doesn’t mean “hard to find.” Whoever trashed my car had a problem. Personal? Lethal? Who knew? It happens. It’s the city.

I tried to push the thought out of my mind. Sometimes, ignored things go away.

“Did you call the cops?” Teresa asked. “You should file a report.”

“For what?” I said. “Won’t cost any less.”

I got home late for dinner, but before Maye’s bedtime. We agreed on the routine while Teresa was pregnant. Start every day with love. End every night as a family. It didn’t matter who fucked up or slept on the couch. I kissed my daughter’s forehead, my wife kissed her too, and then we were bickering in the hall. Nipping over nothing. Making sure the other still cared.

“I don’t like it when you shut me out.” Teresa crossed her arms. Annoyed.

“I don’t mean to,” I said. “I’m—”

“Don’t say you’re sorry.” She waved the words away. “Change the behavior.”

“I will.” 

“I’m going to bed,” she said. “You coming?”

“Yes…” I stepped into my office. “—in an hour or two. Light load tonight.”

“Good.” She flashed a smile, uncrossed her arms, and vanished as always.

I didn’t plan to do much. Some trades. Some booze. Then sleep.

—oh, and Myra! Her requests were approved.

Cha-ching.

Cha-ching.

I needed the money.

***

I was in bed when the phone rang again. Three in the morning. Private number. I told Teresa that everything was fine and moved the call to the living room—unsure if threats or reason were the better approach. I wasn’t going to offer him snacks.

“You made your point,” I said. “I’m sorry you’re upset.”

“You have a beautiful family,” the gravelly voice said. “I envy that.”

I swallowed the chill. “What do you want?”

“Purge yourself…”

“Of what?”

“—or die.”

“Look, buddy, I don’t know what you think I did, but—”

“Don’t know?” He laughed like a rabid hyena. “You people love to lie.”

“Lie about what?” I lowered my voice. “Vanessa? You the ex or something?”

“No,” he said. “I don’t care about your whore. Your wife, however—”

My heart skipped a beat. “WHAT DO YOU WANT?”

“I want you to suffer,” he said. “All of you must be judged.”

“Listen, you fucking psycho…!”

Something tore loose in the background. A rip. A thud. Wheezing. Then. “BOBBY!”

“Brian…?” Fuck. FUCK. FUCK. FUCK! “It’s gonna be alright, man. Just—”

“Lying again,” the gravelly voice said. “Does it ever end?”

“CALL THE COPS!” Brian screamed. Something smacked him to the ground.

“How much?” I asked.

“‘How much?’” the stranger repeated.

“HOW MUCH DO YOU WANT?”

“You’re trying to buy me?” the stranger whimpered. Then laughter. “I wish you could.”

“What?”

“I DON’T WANT TO DIE!” Brian sounded drunk. Maybe high. “PLEASE!”

“SHUT UP,” the stranger roared. “YOU’VE HAD YOUR CHANCE.”

“You don’t have to do this,” I said. “We can work something out.”

“Like what?” The stranger was actually curious. “Gonna bring back the dead?”

“Um—I? We can…” I had nothing. Nada. Goose eggs. Stalling. “Maybe… We could.”

“BOBBY!” Brian slurred. “THEY’RE KILLING ME!”

“I’m sorry?” I said. “I’M VERY SORRY.”

“Not yet,” the gravelly voice answered. “We’ll get there.”

“PLEASE! GOD!” Brian screamed. “NO MORE!”

The call disconnected.

***

I told myself it was a bad dream—liquor and denial can convince you of anything. I called the cops to check Brian’s apartment, but stopped short of the word ‘suicidal’. “Hey, officers! I haven’t seen my buddy in a while. He won’t answer my calls. I’m afraid to look.” Not the best excuse, but it was enough to get a car over there, eventually. I wasn’t exactly dripping in options.

“You Robert Price,” the detective asked. 

“Yes,” I said.

“I’m sorry for your loss.”

I woke up at my usual time, just after sunrise, and went about my morning routine—kiss the wife, wash my ass, wake the kid, make the coffee, check the trades, and out the door by seven. I hailed a ride to Brian’s on my normal schedule. Normal. Normal. Normal. That was the goal. If I was normal, maybe everything was. ‘Faking it’ is a convenient distraction. 

But reality bites.

“Thank you,” I answered. “Sorry… I’m just—”

“I understand,” the detective said. “I have a few questions.”

“Okay.”

When I got to Brian’s place, a so-so seaside condo, there were two cop cars outside. There was also an ambulance loading up a corpse—Brian’s. The EMTs wheeled him up and shipped him out like a package at the wrong address. Fresh mulch. Janet was there too, flailing and screaming while officers tried to restrain her. 

“IT WASN’T ME!” Janet cried. Too dramatic. “I DIDN’T DO IT!” 

They stopped me at Brian’s apartment door. Scanned me. Then let me in.

Just like the office. Blood, badges, and caution tape everywhere.

“What time did he call?”

“Around three in the morning.”

“Was he distraught? Panicked?”

“I’d say so. That’s why I called you.” Twenty years of friendship. Gone. Debt cleared, I guess. “He was my friend. I was worried.”

“Was he under duress?”

“Duress?”

“It would suggest foul play.”

“Was it not?”

“Inconclusive but…” The wide man cleared his throat. “Looks like suicide.”

“What?” I snapped clear of the fog. “Can’t be.”

“Sorry, son. The needle was in his veins. Self-applied,” the detective said. “The way I see it, we’re looking at an accidental overdose or some slick maneuver gone wrong. Our prime suspect is the half-naked honeypot out there. She’s a Tasty’s-girl, right?”

“Yeah.” 

“Anything else?”

“No.” He wouldn’t believe me if I told him. “I’m just a buddy.”

“Not just a buddy,” he said. “You’re listed as an emergency contact. That’s why I let you in—figured you could square some corners. Maybe you know where he got the stuff?” The detective paused and stared. “Do you?”

“Not my thing.”

“I can smell that,” he said. “Not what I asked.”

“No,” I said. “The drugs are news to me.”

I left the detective in Brian’s apartment as the scene played out in my mind: Brian bound to a chair, beaten, and poisoned until his heart stopped. I needed to think. I needed time.

***

“Come on, motherfucker,” I said to no one and threw a shoulder into the door. “What the hell was his code?” Our office was closed due to the crime scene and yet-to-be-cleaned mess. I crossed the yellow tape, stepped over Trent’s blood, and went into the hall, where the offices are. As a security measure, each stall-sized space is sealed by biometrics. You could also use the manual passkey. Digital pad. You get three attempts before it locks you out. After that, you need either a manager override or heavy tools and persistence. I failed twice. 

“Bitch,” I muttered. “Think!”

I wasn’t sure what I was looking for. Maybe a hint? Some kind of clue? Some sort of direction to feed the questions? Someone wanted me dead. That person killed Brian, may have killed Trent, and who knows how many others? Was I next on the list? Was this what they went through? Was this why they disappeared and why Brian was dead?

“Got it!” 

The code was sixty-nine, sixty-nine—should’ve known. I popped open the door and peeked inside. Nothing amiss. All as it had been. I entered and closed the door behind me. I didn’t know what the fuck I was doing. 

“Desk,” I muttered and charged ahead. Messily searching. Praying for scraps.

Lo and behold, among the manila folders and coffee-stained papers, was an envelope marked ‘REJECTS’. Normal enough. Cases get dumped. The government gets the invoice. Families get fucked. Unavoidable. You’ve got to break eggs to make an omelet. But we’re not monsters. Reversals are supposed to be rare. This file was thick.

Fifty-five in six months. Not good. Why didn’t he say something?

Rejections are flagged. Too many and you’re toast. Did he just find out?

“What the fuck were you doing?” I said, then thought: he needed the money. Maybe.

“END THE NIGHTMARE!” The commercial aired on most channels and streamers after midnight. It also ran between repeats of Groundhog Day. It’s Anubis Technologies’ flagship ad. The TV was off when I got there. Don’t know who turned it on. I blamed the timer. Dumb. I know. “ARE YOU READY TO TAKE CONTROL?” The volume was loud. The motivating voice echoed. I searched Brian’s desk for his weapon. He kept a little gun in his drawer for the bums and sadists with nothing to lose. It was there. Loaded. Safety off.

“Hello?” I peeked into the hall. “Jack? Mike? Leah!” Nothing.

“HAVE YOU HAD ENOUGH?” the commercial played.

“I left something here.” I led with the pistol. “Just getting it.”

Nothing. No one. Just me and the commercial. I can usually ignore it. Couldn’t.

“LIFE’S HARD. OUR END-OF-LIFE REPRESENTATIVES MAKE IT EASY!”

“Hello!” I entered the waiting room. Nothing. No one. Loud TV. Bloody.

“CALL US FOR YOUR FREE CONSULTATION!”

“Television off,” I ordered. The screen went black. Silence again. 

My phone rang. I shot the TV, caught my breath, and then answered the call.

“You’re supposed to text first,” I said.

“I need you.”

“Okay. I’m close.”

***

How long has it been going on? How many cases? How far back?

How many did I have? Who paid attention to that? Was that it?

“Nobody checks in on themselves,” I said. “We’re supposed to get flagged. Stopped.”

“Maybe they’re not connected,” Vanessa said. “Brian was a wild one.”

“Not that wild.”

“We don’t know anyone until they’re gone.”

“Foul play? Revenge? Did he owe someone money?”

“You’re in shock,” Vanessa said. “I’ll help you relax.”

We met at her place, a two-mile walk. I let her get me tipsy. She was wearing a thin velvet robe with pink and black lingerie underneath. Lace. My favorite. She had her hair tied back for easy pulling. It was our anniversary. I didn’t really want the ‘win’. Neither of them.

“I should go.” I stood up.

“No.” She pulled me back down. “Stay.”

“I can’t.”

“Why not?”

“You know why!”

“YOU DON’T LOVE HER!” I’d never seen her cry. “Stay with me.”

“I’m not doing this.” I rushed to the door. “I’ll call you.”

“Wait!”

I just wanted to go home. Normal. 

Normal. Normal. Normal.

***

I hailed a cab home. It was a half-hour drive. Forty-five minutes with traffic. The hope was that I could use the time to pull my thoughts together. If this was revenge and a murder—several murders—then the calls were just part of the game. Something to keep me shook. Unfocused. Brian tried to warn me. I called him a bitch. Boys play rough.

“You alright there, son?” the driver asked. Southern. Talkative. “Ya look pale.”

“I’m fine.” I wiped my face. “Forgot my anniversary.”

“Lord, lordy… Been there. Doghouse?”

“Doghouse.”

“If you don’t mind me saying…”

“I do, actually.” 

“—you gotta consider emotions. Not a ‘feelings’ feller, are ya?”

“Not particularly,” I said. “Empathy is a weakness.”

“Up! There it is! Found the devil,” the Southern man said. “Empathy saves your bacon.”

“From?”

“Yourself, dummy.” He laughed. “Imagine the whole world just said ‘fuck it’. Imagine falling with no one to catch you. God’s earth would be a land full of fools, tripping over themselves to trip someone else. That makes life hell for everyone.” 

“Isn’t it?”

“Not when you give a damn.”

“That doesn’t make sense.”

“Empathy means: that’s not a stranger. That’s YOU. How you would feel is how they likely feel.” Holy shit. The hick was right. “What you might do, given similar circumstances, is what they might do. Empathy is choosing not to be blind, son. Keeps us aware. I suppose you could use it for good,” he cackled. Then a hiccup. “You get me?”

“I think so.”

If I had rejects, those rejects had families. If I was on the psycho’s kill list, his family name was on mine. I could track them down from there. Find the rejects. Phone the families. See who picks up. I remembered the voice. Make the connection. Send the cops. Done by bedtime. 

Rejections are auto-flagged, but that doesn’t mean follow-through. A high performer, like me, could get away with a handful of ‘oopsies’ before hearing a word from upstairs. I wondered how bad it was, then tossed the thought. I HAD A PLAN! That’s what mattered. I imagined getting a key to the city—thinking positively—until we pulled up in front of my home.

“You’re all set, Robert.”

“Did I tell you my name?” I reached for the pistol. Left jacket pocket. “DID I?”

“Rude,” the driver said. “It’s on the app!” he cackled.

“Oh.” I got out of the car. “Sorry… doghouse.”

“Doghouse,” he repeated and smiled. “You take care now, Bobby.”

“Will do.”

The Southern man with a wrinkly face pulled off and his cackle melted in the breeze. He drove a tan sedan that didn’t look like he owned it. Guys like him drove gas-guzzlers and rusty classics. I didn’t think about that until later. You see strange things in the city.

I used the app to call a ride. The request never went through. There was a message from Lanez that the next ride was free due to the confusion. I told myself it was a glitch, blamed machine error, and moved on. There was a killer to find. I was excited.

An excited dumbass.

***

“Oh, thank God!” Teresa said, rushing around. “I need a favor.”

“Right now?”

“Right now.” She was tense. This was important. “Please get Maye.”

“Where is she?” I was worried. 

“School… idiot.” Disgust. Teresa hates dumb. I do, too. Usually. “There was a threat. Shooting or something. K through fifth grade are being dismissed.” Happens all the time. Not a big deal. “LISTEN.” Teresa put on her ‘good’ earrings and straightened her shirt. “I have a tour. We’re debating aesthetics.” She looks good in expensive clothes. “Are you here? With me?”

I have a listening problem. “Yes. Are they on their way?”

“No. Virtual. Duh.” Teresa kissed me. “Don’t drive.” Again, she was gone. Up the stairs.

“Headstart Academy,” I said to myself and checked my phone. Bit of a walk. Not bad.

Teresa makes things hard sometimes.

***

“Hi, Daddy!” 

“Hi, Princess!” Maye is my everything. “How was school?”

“Short.” A mix of me and Teresa. Perfect. “But long,” she laughed.

We had Maye registered at Headstart Academy before she could walk. They test infants and toddlers on basic acuity and other measures of predictive assessment. Few applicants get that far. Even fewer can afford the tuition. We made the necessary sacrifices. Worth it.

“Where’s the car?” Maye looked up. Then she looked around. Curious. “Daddy?”

“We’re walking today,” I said. “—or are your legs too tired?”

“My legs aren’t tired,” she argued. 

“Good,” I said. “Then we can get ice cream.”

“YES.”

Headstart Academy was the best that money could buy. Friends. Connections. Networking. A world-class education. A golden ticket to prosperity. Places like Headstart are popular terrorist targets. Crime. Protest. Guns. Bombs. False alarms. Private schools are offered state and federal funding to take the proper precautions. We don’t pay that damn tuition for nothing. Kids are safer there than anywhere else in the country—most of the time.

“Daddy?” Maye looked behind us, then at me. “Who’s that?”

Dark face. Big scar. White hat. Dirty. “Nobody. Just a walker.”

“Oh.”

The walker followed us for two blocks.

He made a left while we continued forward.

Quiet. Hands in pockets. I still had Brian’s gun.

“Come on, sweetie.”

“Slow down.”

***

We got ice cream at a corner store near home. Teresa doesn’t like spoiling, but Maye can keep a secret. Clever. Crafty. Like me. Why pass up double dessert? She got vanilla with rainbow sprinkles. I got chocolate with cookie crumble. Maye had some of mine, too.

“Your daughter is lovely,” the pale woman said and sat. “Reminds me of mine.”

The lady was ancient. “Say thank you, Maye,” I said.

“Thank you,” Maye smiled. Then back to her treat. Sticky. Happy.

“How old is she?”

“Five.”

“—and a half,” Maye protested. 

“Five and a half,” I corrected. “Yours?”

“I remember that age,” the old woman fawned. “She passed away recently.”

“I’m sorry.”

It’s like she didn’t hear me beneath her wool hat and puffy coat. “Suicide. Forty.”

“That’s young.”

“Not when you’re dying, dear.” Tears. “Death is the great equalizer.”

“Was she covered?”

“She was—” More tears. “…until she wasn’t.”

“I’m very sorry.” It was time to go. “Maye,” I said and she stood up too.

“Nice talking to you,” the woman said. “Goodbye, Maye.”

“Bye!” Maye waved and took my hand. 

I picked her up. We jogged.

***

I was on daddy duty until Teresa was free. More money was coming. Good.

I helped Maye with her homework, the parts I understood, and pretended like things were normal. Normal. Normal. Normal. Some ignored things go away. We spent the afternoon together, all three of us, just enjoying each other’s company. We helped Teresa make dinner, ate, watched a show, and put Maye to bed on time. Normal. Normal. Normal. 

Family keeps people sane.

Then I was in my office—drinking and picking through pages of past clientele.

My active account goes back five years. They all do. That’s the statute of limitations for malpractice. Archives go dark after that. We keep older records on paper to free up data. You’d have to consult with management and a cleric to dig things up at that point. That could take weeks. Months? Years? Eternity? Code names expire. Things get lost. People die. Bugs eat paper. Floods are inevitable. Etcetera. Disorder keeps us ahead of the law. ‘Sorry for your loss, now kindly fuck off.’ That’s the message. A little shitty. Never thought about it. Hadn’t.

Seventy-five cases a year. Six a month. That’s the quota. I beat that.

Last year. Three hundred cases. Fifty insurance reversals. All post-mortem. Fuck.

Next was to contact the families. That’d take a while. I didn’t have that long. 

“Come to bed,” Teresa said and smiled. “You were good. Let’s be bad.”

Teresa makes things hard sometimes. 

Whatever. I like double dessert, too.

***

The phone rang at three. I was waiting.

I put the pistol in my pajama bottoms and took the call. The damn thing was cold.

“It’s not my fault,” I said. “I work with insurance. Not for them.”

—breathing…

—breathing…

—breathing…

I kept on. “GO AFTER THEM. I’m just doing a job.”

—breathing…

—breathing…

—breathing…

“Hello?” I said. Harsh. Overconfident. “Do you hear me?”

“BOBBY!”

They had Vanessa. Shit. “SHE’S NOT A PART OF THIS!”

“Isn’t she?” The gravelly voice said. “Aren’t you all?”

I paced the living room. Thinking. Spiraling. Blank. “NO.”

“Vanessa feeds us to the wolves…to predators like you.”

“You’re insane!”

—breathing…

—breathing…

—breathing…

“BOBBY!” She cried for me. I imagined her bound and bleeding. “HELP!”

“Listen, if it wasn’t me, it’d be someone else,” I begged. “Try to understand.”

“You want empathy?” the raspy voice mocked. “Pathetic.”

“YOU’RE FUCKING PATHETIC!”

“Me?” He was surprised. It was quiet.

“YES. YOU.”

A smack. Vanessa screamed. Crying. “Stop! Please!”

“Your actions feed the disease,” the stranger said. “YOU HAVE BEEN JUDGED.”

“Please…” I considered dropping to my knees. Too dramatic. “I have a family.”

—breathing…

—breathing…

—breathing…

“So do we.”

“NO!” Vanessa screamed. The call disconnected.

The last thing I remember is a shock in my neck.

Someone must’ve broken in. 

I didn’t hear the alarm.

***

I woke up here, locked in the chamber. 

The ‘Anubis’, or “suicide pod,” is a last-generation euthanization device. It’s designed for human use. The original was named by its inventor, the “Sarco pod” or “Pegasos,” but marketing said ‘hell no’. Too many negative connotations. Its inception was brought about by the need for humane means of execution—feral beasts and death row inmates. Same thing. It’s a clean death. Quick. Efficient. Never really thought about it. I put people in. I don’t get in myself.

“Robert Price.” It’s my secret caller. Speaking from the dark. “You have been judged.”

I think we’re in my building. On one of the pod floors. I work on seventeen, but we keep back inventory on the lower levels. We used to keep them in warehouses throughout the five boroughs, but those locations kept getting attacked. Looted. Raided. Bombed. Burned down.

I never told you. Didn’t want you to worry.

Teresa… I hope you see this. I’m sorry if you do.

“For the crime of serial murder, you must be purged.”

“I told you everything!” Screaming doesn’t help. Doesn’t hurt to try.

Raspy’s still going. “You can purge yourself and be absolved—or die by our hands.” They’re all here: Janet, the detective, the driver, the old woman, the guy with the scar from the park…they’ve been closing in on me. I’m already dead. I’ve been dead for a while. Fuck.

“Which do you desire?” Raspy stepped forward. Hooded. Masked. Cold.

“I’ll do it.” There are worse ways to die. At least I’m insured. “I’ll do it.”

“Very well.”

The pod’s sealing. Airtight. My memories should be saved to the hard drive.

Now the prompt. “If you would like to die, please press this button.”

Please call Myra. Her contact is on my desktop. Invite her for dinner. Soon.

Please don’t show this to Maye. Maybe when she’s older. Tell her I love her.

“We’re waiting, Robert.” They’re waiting with weapons. Waiting for me to back out.

“I’m doing it!” Sweat. Panic. I’m scared. “FUCK ALL OF YOU!”

I hit the button. Gas is filling the chamber. Colorless. Odorless.

It doesn’t hurt. I’m okay. It’s okay. I love you, Teresa.

“May God have mercy on your soul, Robert.”

It’s peaceful.

Quiet. 

Dark.

Easy.

END

—————————————————————————————————

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