Seconds To Zero

 The rain was not just water. It was liquid ice. It fell from the black sky like heavy stones, hitting the pavement with a hard, slapping sound.

Evan pedaled. His legs burned. The muscles in his thighs felt like tight ropes, pulling and releasing, pulling and releasing. He was eighteen years old, but tonight, he felt old. 

The heavy silver bag on his back weighed twenty pounds. Inside the bag were boxes. Small, sealed boxes. They held DNA samples—spit, hair, blood. In this city, biology was the only thing that was real. Everything else was digital. Everything else was a gamble.

The city of Neo-Veridia did not sleep. It did not even blink. Giant neon signs towered over the streets. They glowed pink, green, and electric blue. They cut through the thick rain and the fog. Every sign had the same message, just different words.

BET YOUR SECONDS. WIN A DECADE.

SPIN THE WHEEL. CHANGE YOUR LIFE.

ARE YOU FEELING LUCKY?

Evan kept his head down. He wore thick goggles that protected his eyes from the freezing rain, but they fogged up with his breath. He wiped them with a gloved hand. He did not look at the signs. He hated the signs.

He turned a sharp corner. His bike tires slipped on the wet metal of the road. The bike jerked sideways. Evan gripped the handlebars tight. He shifted his weight. The tires found a grip, and he straightened out. He did not slow down. If he was late, he lost credits. If he lost credits, he lost time.

And time was the only money that mattered.

Ahead of him, a crowd had stopped in the middle of the street. They stood in the rain, looking up. They did not care about the cold. They were staring at a screen the size of a building.

It was The Exchange. It was the biggest game in the city.

Evan tried to go around them, but the crowd was too thick. A delivery truck blocked the other lane. He was stuck. He squeezed his brakes and stopped. He put one foot on the wet ground to balance.

On the giant screen, a face appeared. It was a boy, maybe nineteen years old. He had wild eyes and a sweaty face. He sat in a metal chair. Cables were plugged into his temples.

The announcer’s voice boomed from speakers that shook the ground.

“DARIUS VANCE! HE IS ALL IN!” the voice screamed. “He has bet his remaining forty years! All of it! For a chance at the jackpot! FIVE HUNDRED YEARS!”

The crowd on the street cheered. They raised their fists. Some held up their own wrist-comps, betting on the outcome.

"Do it! Do it!" a man next to Evan shouted. The man had holes in his coat and gray skin. He looked like he had only a few weeks left on his account.

On the screen, the boy named Darius screamed. It was not a scream of joy. It was a scream of pain. The numbers on the screen spun so fast they were a blur.

SPINNING... SPINNING...

Then, the numbers stopped.

WINNER.

Gold confetti exploded on the screen digitally. The number 500 flashed in bright yellow.

“HE WON!” the crowd on the street roared. People hugged strangers. They acted like they had won the money themselves.

But Evan watched the boy’s eyes.

On the screen, Darius tried to smile. He tried to raise his arms in victory. But then, his left eye twitched. His mouth drooped to one side. The massive influx of time-data, the sudden rush of five hundred years downloading into a human brain, was too much. The neurological backlash hit him like a hammer.

Darius shook violently. Then, he went stiff. He fell forward out of the chair. He hit the floor of the studio with a dull thud.

“Five hundred years,” Evan whispered to himself. His voice was lost in the rain. “But he won’t be awake to spend a single minute of it.”

The man next to him turned. “What did you say, kid? He’s rich! He’s a king!”

“That’s not winning,” Evan said. He pushed his foot against the pedal. “That’s just dying with a full bank account.”

The traffic cleared. Evan stood up on the pedals and rode away. He left the cheering crowd behind. He left the bright lights. He rode toward the darker part of the city, where the lights flickered and the hope was gone.

The delivery depot was a concrete box. It smelled of wet rubber and old coffee.

Evan rolled his bike inside. He leaned it against the wall. He took off his helmet and shook his wet hair. It was dark hair, plastered to his forehead. He was thin, but strong. His face was serious. He rarely smiled. In a city of gamblers, a serious face was rare. Everyone else was always manic—either too happy from a win or too desperate from a loss.

“Yo! Ev!” A voice echoed from the break room. Marco walked out. Marco was short and had a wide smile. He was wearing the same gray uniform as Evan, but he wore it loose and messy.

“Hey, Marco,” Evan said. He walked to the counter and placed the silver bag on the scanner.

BEEP. DELIVERY COMPLETE. 0.5 DAYS ADDED TO ACCOUNT.

Evan looked at his wrist. His Life-Clock glowed faintly under his skin. It read: 22 Years, 4 Months, 11 Days, 8 Hours.

He had worked all day, in the freezing rain, for half a day of life. It was slow. It was painful. But it was his. He earned it. He didn’t gamble for it.

“Did you see?” Marco asked. He was bouncing on his toes. “The kid on the broadcast? Darius?”

“I saw him fall over,” Evan said. He began to unclip his heavy wet jacket.

“He had a seizure, so what?” Marco waved his hand. “The medics will fix him up. He has five hundred years now! He can buy a new brain if he wants! Man, I was so close. I bet two hours on him losing. I lost.”

Evan stopped. He looked at Marco. “You bet two hours? Marco, that’s your rent for the sleep-pod.”

“I’ll win it back,” Marco said quickly. He pulled a small device from his pocket. It was a gaming tab. “Look, there’s a micro-bet happening right now. Dog racing in Sector 4. I just need to put in... thirty minutes. The odds are three to one. Easy money.”

Marco held the device toward Evan. “Come on, Ev. Just once. You have twenty-two years saved up. You’re the richest delivery boy in the depot. Just bet ten minutes. Just for fun.”

Evan looked at the screen. Little digital dogs were running. It looked colorful. It looked exciting.

“No,” Evan said.

“You’re boring, man,” Marco said. “You’re the boy who never bets. You’re going to live to be a hundred, and you’ll have done nothing but ride a bike.”

“I’ll be alive,” Evan said. He zipped up his dry hoodie. “And I’ll be free. I don’t owe the House anything.”

Marco laughed. “Nobody is free, Ev. We’re all just waiting for the big win.”

“I’m going home,” Evan said. “See you tomorrow.”

“Wait,” Marco called out. “Seriously. If you lend me an hour... I can pay you back double by morning.”

Evan paused at the door. He felt a pang of pity for Marco. Marco was a good guy, but he was sick. The whole city was sick.

“Keep your time, Marco. Don’t bet the rest.”

Evan walked back out into the rain.

The ride home was quieter. The adrenaline of the work day was fading, leaving only exhaustion. The cold seeped into his bones.

Evan lived in the Stacks. It was a massive, crumbling apartment complex on the edge of the city. The neon signs here were broken. The streets were dark.

He carried his bike up four flights of stairs because the elevator had been broken for ten years. The hallway smelled of boiled cabbage and damp carpet.

He reached door 404.

Usually, he could hear the television. His father, Arthur, watched the old history channels. He liked to watch shows about the time before the Time Currency. He liked to watch shows about when people used paper money and coins.

But tonight, it was silent.

Evan unlocked the door. “Dad?” he called out.

The apartment was small. A tiny kitchen, a living area, and two small bedrooms. One light was on in the kitchen. It cast a yellow, sickly glow over the room.

“Dad, I brought dinner,” Evan said. He held up a protein bar he had bought at the depot. “It’s the chicken flavor you li—”

Evan stopped. 

The protein bar dropped from his hand. His father was lying on the kitchen floor.