Breathe

It’s a lonely walk to the end of the world.

Some people wouldn’t call this place “The End of the World.” To them, it might merely be “Downtown” or “Nowhere.” The phrase “end of the world” can mean so many things that it really doesn’t matter what it actually is.

If 3140 Rockwell Road is the end of the world to me, then so it is.

Somewhere between Rockwell Road and the edge of the city’s suburbs—on an old unnamed street lined by hulking, leafless, knotted trees—everything dies. Ancient houses with their brick facades and stylized wooden frames rot in rows on crumbling streets, bricks cracked and falling, rooves caving inwards like cavities. They had too many decades wearing on their bones to justify saving, but nostalgic enough that no one was willing to tear them down. The colored plants all withered and died ages ago, from what Momma told me. Only weeds grow along the old walls and in the cracks on the sidewalks.

I’m finding that I’m rather fond of the weeds. It’s a satisfying feeling when they crumple beneath my flimsy shoes, the imprint a lingering scar on their pliable green.

I should’ve brought my jacket. The wind’s got a bite here that it loses in the suburbs. But it’s a long walk back home, and the sun will start its downward fall soon enough.

It’s not much further now. I can see my destination rising out of the foggy nothing around it.

Four streets left.

Three streets.

Two.

One ringing chime on the silent air. It echoes into the sky for several moments before I realize it’s my phone. Momma’s name flashes in the light of the caller ID.

“Pum’kin? Where are—where are you? I couldn’t find you, your room’s empty and you’re not in the backyard and I didn’t know where else to look, but the fridge sign says to call your phone—”

I can’t help my sigh. Hopefully the phone didn’t pick it up for Momma to hear. “I went out for the day. I’ll be home tonight sometime, alright? You remember, I put notes around for you.”

“You did? Oh, but honey, did you take Clover with you? I don’t see him anywhere, and he’s not coming when I call. I think he got out, and we don’t have any more food for him so I have nothing for him to smell if he’s lost. Do you have Clover? You have our good boy?”

“I’ve got Clover, Momma. Don’t worry.”

“Good, good. Then I guess I’ll see you…later, yes? You’ll be home, right? I love you, Pum’kin.”

“Yes, Momma. I’ll be home for dinner. Remember that, read the notes. Love you too.”

With a final click, I stuff the phone back into my pocket and cross the final street that leads to 3140 Rockwell Road.

Alone.

* * *

The end of the world is a perfect cube.

Pristine white concrete walls rise upward towards the sky, shining in their cleanliness despite the dilapidated landscape surrounding them. No windows or balconies in sight. Just a single door with a solid blue heart above its frame, illuminated by a solitary hanging light. I only find the door because of the light—too many clouds and too much damp fog.

“Come on, Zoe, just walk through the door.” My hands are tapping a rhythm against my sides. “You came all this way.”

It swings open with a squeal, leading me into a near-empty waiting room and reception desk straight ahead. A couple of empty chairs sit off on either side of the desk, facing doors that presumably lead further into the facility.

The wall behind the desk boasts a frosted glass sign, with the words “Welcome to Triskelion Healing Centers” barely visible in its white font. Just beneath that are simple instructions: “Please sign your name on the sheet, and a receptionist will be with you shortly.”

No one else sits in the surprisingly tiny waiting room. You’d think with three or four stories in the building that they’d expect a lot more patients, but the handful of chairs remain peacefully empty. And when I step up to the sign in sheet on the desk, only one other name has been recorded all day. Black marker has crossed it out, and her time in was early in the morning.

Whoever they were, they must’ve been gone for a few hours by now.
I’m all alone.

I scribble out a quick “Zoe Barlow, 1:15 p.m.” onto the second line of the sheet before finding a seat in the right back corner. It’s not a large waiting room, but with no one else here, the emptiness stretches out like a never-ending yawn of silence and blank, sterile-white walls.

After a short bit—twenty minutes, if the clock on the wall is to be trust—the faint clicks of evenly timed heels echo in from behind one of the closed doors. It takes a while for the tip-taps to close in on the waiting room.

“What kind of hospital makes their receptionist walk all that way? They’ve got a desk right there for goodness’sake.” Though upon closer inspection, it’s less of a desk to be sat at and more an elongated table stretched between the two doors.

“Wacky. Shoulda invested in a better interior designer, guys. Receptionist with no desk? Like a sandwich with no bread, the nerve.”

Eventually, the left door swings open, and a lady in a pristine suit and pencil skirt marches her way over to the sign-in desk-table-thing.
With a methodical glance around the room (a bit redundant; it’s not hard to tell there’s only one person here), her eyes finally land on me. She’s got a medical mask on her face. I can’t tell if she’s smiling or not.

“Zoe Barlowe?”

“I mean, yeah? Not unless you named one of the chairs Zoe, in which case, what a coincidence, amiright?”

She gives me a blank stare before turning on one heel and walking back to the door.

“Sorry miss, was just trying to lighten the mood.”

The hallway she leads me down is just as long as it sounded when she clacked her way to me. Sunken tube lights in the ceiling glow down on vinyl tiles and bland walls as we pass doorway after doorway, never stopping for any of the perfectly available patient rooms until we reach the end of the hall.

“Please wait here, Miss Barlowe. The doctor has been very busy today, and will be with you shortly.”

“Busy” must mean something different at the end of the world.

Only now do I finally realize my mistake. I didn’t bring anything to do, and I can already feel my heart trying to pound its way out of my chest. I could call Momma, but…well, it’d probably just confuse her again, not knowing where I am or why I’m calling.

Thankfully, this room is special. It’s got a uniqueness not seen anywhere else in this facility.

There’s a piece of paper on the wall. A news clipping from a few years back, when Triskelion was brand new and everyone wanted to know about the people with the Everlasting Cure. The page is a comforting sight—I have that same newspaper article tucked under my pillow at home. A hopeful story about the perfect cure and the company that was making it, along with the billions of dollars pledged to fund the initial research. Health and long life delivered to you from the convenience of the Triskelion Healing Centers popping up in every major city.

Now, I just need them to approve my request.

I don’t know how I knew she was standing there. She didn’t make any noise. But I turn from the paper to the doctor standing in the doorway, wrapped in a white lab coat and smiling, hands folded behind her back.

“Good afternoon, Miss Barlowe. I’m Dr. Eve Adler.” She didn’t offer a hand to shake. “What brings you here today?”

I squirmed in my seat. Dr. Adler made no move to enter the room. “I mean, obviously the Cure…?”

The doctor huffed a chuckle. “Obviously, yes. But why do you want the cure? For screening purposes, of course. All candidates must be evaluated by their attending doctor prior to reception of the Cure. So I ask again.” She finally steps through the doorframe. “What brings you here today?”

“Terminal illness.” I’m wringing my hands. “Huntington’s. But, it’s not for me.”

A pause. “Is that so?”

“It’s for my mom.”

“Well, then. Why are you sitting here, and not your mother?”

I can’t tell if it’s displeasure or curiosity on Dr. Adler’s face.

“She doesn’t believe in you. Triskelion, I mean. She thinks it’s unnatural and a hoax, but you can save her. And the disease is dominant, and they already know I have it, so maybe—I thought—that I was a good enough substitute? For evaluation?”

“Hm.”

Dr. Adler falls quiet, staring at the newspaper on the wall, clicking a pen procured from her pocket.

“Zoe—can I call you Zoe?”

“I mean—”

“The thing is, Zoe, that we can’t agree or recommend treatment without patient consent. Things get kind of…sticky, otherwise.”

“Could you tell me what the Cure is then? So I can tell her, and then maybe she’ll be convinced and come here herself? Her memory’s been fading for a while, it shouldn’t be hard if I just have some answers for her.”

“Oh, Zoe,” A little laugh, and she gently places her hand on my shoulder, “if we told anyone who asks what the Cure is, do you know how many corporations would catch wind and try to replicate it? They’d fail, you know. It’s safer for everyone if Triskelion is the only one that does this, which means I can’t tell you unless you agree to the Cure yourself.”
My hands finally still. “Me?”

“Yes, you. Of course, you’d have to sign an NDA since you’re an adult. Our lawyers made good work of those, but the best salesman is the one who’s experienced the product for themselves, wouldn’t you say?”

“Maybe, but Momma needs it more. I’m not dying—”

“Yet.” She raises one long finger in the air. “You’re not dying yet, but it will happen at some point. Unless you’d rather your mother survive long enough to bury you first?” Her eyes have a quizzical sorrow in them as she asks, head tilted in my direction.

Dr. Adler has some good points. At least, good enough to consider. The NDA might be a problem, but they wouldn’t be able to prove it if I told Momma about anything. Why shouldn’t I try it first, just to be safe? What’s wrong with…

“Money. No, sorry, I’m not asking for money. How would I pay for this?”

A slow grin replaces her concerned frown. “Accept the Cure as a test subject, and it won’t cost you a dime.”

“Test subject…?”

“It’s a new thing still, Zoe. Did you really think it would receive approval for dissemination so soon? Triskelion does not have that kind of power or influence yet, try as they might.”

No. No, she’s right. But that doesn’t mean it’s bad. It’s just new—like she said.

“You’ve made up your mind, haven’t you?”

I hesitate, but nod after a moment. For Momma.

She’d do the same for me.

Dr. Adler pulls out a sheet of paper and a pen, and I sign on the tiny line at the bottom of the page. An oath to not speak about what happens to me with the Cure.

“Arm out then, Zoe. We start now.”

* * *

A needle slides into my arm—a quick sting, a squirt of blood. Then cold. There’s something flowing through the little tube sticking out of my veins. It happened so fast.

“What?—”

“Calming meds, sweetie, to dull your nerves. Don’t fret, just follow me.”

“Aren’t ya s’pposed ta whill me?”

My words come out slurred. It’s like my tongue is weighted jelly in my mouth, and the room wobbles ever so slightly. Just enough to make my feet unsteady, like I’m suddenly a top-heavy balloon.

“Why would you want a wheeling bed over your own two feet? No need to be lazy. Walk, please.”

The hallway passes in a blur. We’re floating somehow—no, what was that dinging noise? We’re in an elevator going up, up, up into the sky then forward step by step and it’s so, so cold. There’s another room, and I think it’s mine now because Dr. Adler sits me on the bed flat on my back and flings an oxygen mask over my mouth. Someone else is mumbling in the distance, but the doctor is talking over them.

“What you really need, sweet Zoe, is a new brain. But we haven’t really mastered that well enough yet to try it—brains are so complicated, you know? Oh well. What we’re going to do is replace your lungs today, instead. There’s quite a market for respiratory treatments. If this
goes well, we can start advertising it properly. Should help with the funding on the brain research, right, Callum?”

More mumbles, and clanking noises. They’re moving metal around, bringing it closer, closer, stop. The lights are getting brighter. Something is hissing air near my head.

No, wait. What did she just say? It was something like, “Replace?”

The doctor laughs. Or maybe sighs. Her voice is starting to sound a little wavy. “Yes, Zoe. Replace. When biological organs go bad, what better option than to replace them with metal ones? Triskelion is going to save the world, Zoe. One organ at a time. And all we ask in return is
to be given the power and influence to do what we want when we want to with all of our research projects. Such a simple price for biological perfection and eventual immortality, isn’t it?”

The hissing grows louder, whining in my ear like air grating over metal, and I twist my head to the sound. Dual metal containers sit on a silver tray, globular masses aggressively breathing in squealing, jagged motions. A man stands over them, scrubbed and posed like a statue waiting for a command from his master. I know the master is not me.

Metal lungs. They’re giving me metal lungs.

Monstrous.

“No, stop. I don’t need those, you said—you said I need a different thing. I don’t want them.” I try to swing my legs back to the floor. “Please, let me go home.”

Dr. Adler lifts me back onto the table, holding my arms lightly. “Just think, Zoe. If this works, then we know you can probably handle the brain transplant, once it’s ready. Then you’ll be saved, and we can help your mother. Isn’t that what you want?” She nods to the man, and he
loads a fluid-filled needle into my IV.

“But I won’t be me anymore.”

“Maybe not. But you’ll be better. Now, breathe in, and out. It’ll all be over in a moment.”

The darkness in my vision whispered otherwise.

* * *

I woke up by myself in a hospital bed, dressed and cleaned, gauze taped to my arm where the IV had been. Stiff white bandages curled around my torso, a line of red bleeding from the center where they had cut me open and stitched the jagged pieces back together.

I didn’t feel a thing.

A blue bottle of pain pills rested at the foot of the bed, along with a note, off to the side where I wouldn’t kick them. I grabbed the bottle and skimmed the note, but it was only aftercare instructions and some recommendations for “when I want more medical treatments.” Perhaps
that was part of their goal all along, to get people addicted to replacements and modifications. Like tattoos. An endless supply of patients to line their pockets and support their rise to power. Why they care so much about Triskelion’s global influence is beyond me, but they clearly have other “projects” in the making, if Dr. Adler is to be trusted at all. The kook. Whatever. It’s not my problem.

I think I threw the note away—I’m not sure anymore.

After finally standing up (how was this not hurting me?), all there was to do was wander back down the long hallway, empty and silent as before, back into the waiting room.

No one sits in the chairs.

The old sign-in sheet has another name scribbled in the third line, checked in sometime around six. The clock on my phone says it’s eight now. It’s too late to help them. My name has been blacked out, a nobody who came and went without a sound. Maybe one day my ghost will haunt this place, my warning screams unheard by the desperate petitioners.

Maybe this place wasn’t as empty as I believed it to be.

I don’t remember how long it took me to get home. I remember I took 812 perfectly timed breaths between leaving Triskelion and stepping through my front door, counting the individual rattles and hums of my new lungs.

I remember Momma’s shoes weren’t by the door when I stepped in, but on her feet, like she meant to come looking for me in the dark night.

I remember her taking the pill bottle from my hand, the Triskelion logo stamped across the front in black font.

I remember her prodding the bandages, hearing the mechanical breaths, and then screaming as she fled to her room.

I remember thinking it was convenient, the metal lungs, because their unfaltering rhythm left my cries silent and unheard.

And then, I remember nothing else.

The end of the world is such a lonely place.

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