
Oliver read the fortune a third time, then tossed a look over his shoulder. Somehow his empty house felt a little more occupied than usual. Wake up. Usually he only ordered one fortune cookie but heโd decided to indulge himself today and so had ordered two. He swallowed hard, trembling hand reaching for the second one. Deep breath; breath in, breath out. Wake up. He jumped from the couch and paced the living room.
One could maybe be written off as a weird joke or mistake; twice was intentional. Someone out there wanted himโor the population in general, yet that didnโt seem as likely in his mindโto wake up. What from, he didnโt know. Nor did he have the slightest clue how heโd go about waking up. A more innocuous interpretation crossed his mind. Perhaps the writer had meant it in a social sense, as in they wanted everyone to be aware of the inequalities plaguing society.
He knew damn well that wasnโt the case. This was more a matrix situation, stuck in a simulation, and apparently he was the chosen one of some sort, if those existed in real life. Made more sense to reckon some individuals received the long end of the stick based on nothing but luck purer than Colombian cocaine. He paused for a moment and ran a hand through his thinning hair. Mildly thinning hair, in fairness. Wasnโt even really that noticeable to be honest. He placed a hand atop his head; okay, so it was a tadโ
โWait, what am I doing? I need to focus.โ
He picked up the fortune again and frowned. It now read, the narrow path is your salvation. That wasnโt a case of misreading it the first time unless heโd hallucinated an entirely different set of text the first time. The walls of reality were breaking down then. Heโd known for some time this would eventually happen, just not so soon, certainly not in his lifetime. The text on the fortune changed before his eyes, morphed into gibberish.
The bottle of pills on his coffee table grew a pair of eyes and sprouted arms. โThe world needs your saving, but it can only happen if you wake up.โ
He scratched his chin. โHm. Thatโs a tall order. Iโm sure I can do it but Iโm gonna need some help.โ
โPut me in your pocket and allow me to guide you throughout this wonderful journey weโre about to embark on.โ
He tossed the bottle into his pocket and nodded. Made enough sense. He cracked his neck, grabbed his gun from under the couch, and strolled outside into the chill morning air. Bob from across the street smiled and waved. Heโd always been kind to Oliver, waving like that every time they saw each other. He smiled and waved back.
โDispatch him,โ the bottle said.
He frowned. โWhy would I do that? He hasnโt done anything bad to me.โ
โNot yet, no. But are you really content to just wait for him to stab you in the back someday?โ
โHm. Good point,โ he said before shooting his neighbor three times in the chest.
โYeesh, that was a little personal.โ
He shrugged and continued walking down the street. โPerhaps. But it felt good. You had the right idea by telling me to off him. What. A. Rush.โ
โYes, probably felt better than huffing paint cans ever did.โ
โYouโre not wrong about that.โ
For a brief moment that gave him both literal and figurative pause, he wondered if what he was doing might have been the result of unchecked mental issues including extreme paranoia and agoraphobia. He dismissed the idea as soon as it occurred to him. Made more sense that heโd discovered, before anyone else, all of existence was a simulation. One where only death liberated trapped souls, so in that sense heโd become something of a universal savior.
That made him feel much better about the whole ordeal; he was doing the right thing after all, saving more people than anyone else ever had or possibly could even if they tried. Itโd take a lot bigger equipment than what he currently possessed to make any progress, though. He shrugged and trudged forth. Thereโd be plenty of time later to affect greater change with larger toys.
He popped in his earbuds, cracked his neck, and waved at an elderly woman crossing the street. Hard to say whether she was a construct of the matrix or another trapped soul, although it ultimately didnโt matter because she had to perish regardless. He brought his arm down fast and rushed her like a quarterback, tackling the old bitch before he shoved the barrel of his gun into her mouth.
โAny last words, granny,โ he asked in a gruff voice.
She merely disrespected him by making a bunch of offensive noises as if her mouth were full of food.
โGood enough,โ he said and pulled the trigger.
His eardrums nearly popped from the noise at the same time the back of her head did. He stood up, disoriented, and blinked rapidly until the ringing disappeared. The bottle of pills vibrated in his pocket, so he pulled the little guy to get some fresh air.
โGood, good. The one liner, thoughโthat was eh. Wasnโt really feeling it, Oliver.โ
He shoved the bottle back into his pocket and stole the womanโs wallet. โMaybe so. But we all gotta start somewhere, no? Nonetheless, noted.โ
He stopped in front of a woman pushing a stroller. Her red dress was a dead giveaway sheโd been created in a simulation. The baby looked sort of off too, like a piece of clay that had been tossed to the ground before the creators finished molding it. He shook his head and sighed. A weaker man might have qualms about exterminating a baby; him, not much.
Two shots later he was on his way to his buddy Dylanโs house. That dude managed to be more prepared for an awakening like this than Oliver ever could have hoped to be. Crazy motherfucker possessed all sorts of shit that would make an apocalypse nutโs dick harder than fucking after a night of drinking.
As he walked up to his door, fist raised and ready to knock, he wondered if Dylan wasnโt a part of the simulation too. The door swung open and who might have been his old friend or who might have been a bunch of numbers and code all along greeted him with what might have been a warm smile or what might have been the result of a programmer moving a model just the right way.
He sat across from Dylan, coffee table between them. โIt happened. I got the signal.โ
โNo shit, bro?โ
He examined his body language for any signs of deceptive behavior. โYeah. Yeah. Itโs justโโ He whipped his gun out and aimed the barrel at Dylan the same time as his old friend pulled out his own pistol and pointed the barrel at Oliver.
โLooks like weโre an even match.โ
โI guess so,โ Oliver said.
โPut the gun down, man.โ
โBetter idea. We both shoot each other. If death is the only way to escape the simulation, then I scratch your back, you scratch mine. Weโll do it on the count of three.โ
โFuck. Okay, fine. Fuck it,โ Dylan said. โOne.โ
โTwo.โ
Dylan took a deep breath and closed his eyes. โ
They both pulled their respective triggers.
* * *
Oliver turned his head and groaned, then attempted to move his arms but couldnโt on account of them being chained to a rusty metal wall. He looked down and saw a pool of dark red liquid on the black floor. There were people to his left and right also chained to the wall, naked save for a scrap of fabric wrapped around their torsos. The expressions on their faces were content or happyโeven the ones on the edge of his vision having their limbs sliced off and their organs harvested.
โJesus fucking christ,โ he whispered and strained harder.
One of the captors, dressed in red robes that covered their entire bodies minus their green scaly feet, rushed towards him and placed a clawed finger on his mouth. It cocked its head and called another one of its kind over. They looked at a blueprint, then the original one shook its head.
โNot enough juice to put him out again,โ it said. โWeโll have to perform the surgery while he is conscious.โ
They walked back to the other end of the room, leaving him to scream for help until his raw throat burned more than if heโd swallowed a box of lit matches. No help came, but another member of the ship did with a mobile cart full of sharp and dull instruments of torture alike.
Alejandro Gonzales is a horror author residing in Northern California with stories in publications such as Trembling With Fear, The Drabble, and Cerasus Magazine.
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