Seconds To Zero

CHAPTER 4

The rain in the lower city did not wash things clean. It only made the dirt wet. It turned the dust into gray mud that stuck to boots and tires.

Evan pushed his bicycle through the mud. The bike was not new, but it was fast. It had a frame made of blue metal that shone even in the dark. He had built it himself from scrap parts over three years. It was his freedom. It was the only way he could travel to the upper levels to look for work.

Today, it was just money.

He stopped in front of a shop with a blinking yellow sign. The sign said: GRIX’S GOODS – WE BUY ANYTHING.

Evan took a deep breath. The air smelled like burning plastic and old oil. He pushed the bike through the door. A bell rang above his head.

Inside, the shop was full of junk. There were piles of old clothes, broken toasters, and screens with cracked glass. Behind a tall counter sat Mr. Grix. He was a large man with grease on his chin and a robotic eye that zoomed in and out with a soft whirring sound.

"I don't need wheels," Grix said. He didn't even look up from the small screen in his hand.

"It is a good bike," Evan said. His voice was steady, but his stomach hurt. "The gears are custom. It can go forty miles an hour."

Grix looked up. His robotic eye spun. He looked at the blue metal. He looked at the tires. "Five hundred credits."

Evan felt cold. "I need two thousand. The motor alone is worth eight hundred."

Grix laughed. It was a dry, ugly sound. "Two thousand? You are dreaming, boy. Look outside. Everyone is selling today. Everyone needs money for the air tax or the water tax. I have ten bikes in the back. I don't need eleven."

Evan gripped the handlebars. His knuckles turned white. He thought about the hospital bill. He thought about the medicine his father needed tonight. "Please. Fifteen hundred."

"Five hundred," Grix said. He leaned back. "Take it or leave."

Evan looked at the bike. He remembered the day he found the blue paint. He remembered feeling the wind on his face as he raced down the highway, pretending he was rich, pretending he was free.

"Okay," Evan whispered.

He pushed the bike forward. It felt like giving away his own leg.

"And this," Evan said. He pulled his datapad from his pocket. It was his personal computer. It had his photos. It had messages from his mother before she passed away. It had his journals.

Grix took the pad. He tapped the screen. "Old model. Slow processor. Two hundred credits."

"It has my life on it," Evan said.

"I am buying the plastic and the chips, not your life," Grix said. "Wipe the memory, or I won't take it."

Evan’s hand shook. He pressed the button. A message popped up: DELETE ALL DATA?

He pressed YES.

A loading bar appeared. Then, it was done. The screen went blank. His memories were gone.

"Seven hundred credits total," Grix said. He swiped his hand over a scanner.

Evan checked his wrist account. The number changed. +700.

It felt like nothing.

Evan walked out of the shop. He had no bike, so he had to walk through the rain. The mud sucked at his shoes.

He found a public terminal on the street corner. It was a screen built into a concrete wall. He pressed his hand against the glass to log in.

USER: EVAN K.

CURRENT DEBT: 45,000 CREDITS.

INTEREST RATE: 12% DAILY.

Evan stared. He transferred the 700 credits he just made.

The number changed.

CURRENT DEBT: 44,300 CREDITS (44.3 YEARS).

He stared at the red numbers. He had sold everything he owned. He had sold his transport and his memories. And the number had barely moved. It was like throwing a cup of water onto a forest fire.

The interest alone would eat that 700 credits by tomorrow morning.

Panic rose in his chest. It felt like a bird trying to escape his ribcage. He had nothing left to sell. He had no furniture. His clothes were ragged. His apartment was rented.

He was drowning, and he was still standing on dry land.

The City Hospital was a fortress of white concrete. It was where the poor went when they had no other choice.

The automatic doors slid open. The smell hit Evan immediately. It smelled of strong cleaner, sickness, and too many people in a small space.

The corridor was packed. There were no chairs left. People sat on the floor. Some were crying. Some were sleeping with their mouths open. Doctors in gray scrubs ran past, looking at clipboards, ignoring the hands reaching out to grab them.

Evan stepped over a sleeping man’s legs. He kept his head down.

Near the reception desk, a loud argument broke out. A woman was screaming at a nurse.

"He needs the surgery now!" the woman yelled. She held a sick child in her arms.

"I cannot unlock the door without a credit confirmation," the nurse said. Her voice was robotic, tired. "The system will not allow it."

"I will pay you next week! My husband is working double shifts!"

"The system does not accept promises," the nurse said. She turned away.

Evan felt sick. This was the world they lived in. If you had numbers in your account, you lived. If you had zeros, you waited in the corridor until you stopped breathing.

He walked toward the elevators. He passed two men standing near a vending machine. One man wore a sharp suit that looked too clean for this hospital. The other man looked like Evan—tired, dirty, and desperate.

Evan slowed down.

"It is a simple procedure," the man in the suit said. He held a lit cigarette, even though smoking was not allowed. "You go to The Exchange. You sit in the chair. You give them five years off your lifespan. They give you fifty thousand credits. Cash."

The desperate man rubbed his face. "Five years? That is a long time. Will it hurt?"

"You won't feel a thing," the suit said. He smiled, showing white teeth. "Just sell five years. People do it all the time. Think about it. You can pay your debts. You can buy a nice meal. What is five years when you are old and tired anyway? Sell the bad years to enjoy the good years now."

Evan stopped walking.

“Just sell five years.” The words hung in the air.