The End Is Nigh

Matthew Mather — ENLIGHTENMENT

The ancient subway car rattled toward me, its wheels squealing. An encircled “Q” glowed on the front of the driverless lead car. It was the express train, rolling without stopping on its way past the 29th Street station. I was standing near the end of the platform, next to the far wall. The squealing stopped as the train began to clear the station and accelerate back up to speed.

The lead car was almost at me, and I stepped onto the edge of the platform, staring at the empty driver’s seat of the subway car as it rushed closer.

“Hey, lady!” someone called out.

The train was now just feet away from me. I stepped toward the ledge and the empty space beyond.

“Lady, watch—”

The squealing began again, this time ear-shattering, but it was too late. I leaned in, feeling the train crash into me. There was no pain, just a flash of white before blackness descended.

One Year Earlier

I first met Michael at a “How Can I Believe?” church meeting on the Upper East Side, at the third in a series of presentations about coming to intellectual grips with the divine, of how to believe in miracles. The real miracle was that I managed to get out of the house. A gaping hole had opened in the fabric of my life, so there I was, hoping to find…

Something.

The scene that evening wasn’t inspiring, however: a collection of ill-fitting people clinging to jackets and mittens, asking if this seat or that was taken and sharing blank smiles. The woman beside me glanced my way, as if to start small talk, but I looked away. This was a mistake. Checking my phone, it was two minutes past eight. Yawning, I reminded myself that even Einstein believed in God.

It was hot in the church basement, and coming in from the cold outside I squirmed. Sweat pooled in the small of my back. Should I remove a layer? I’d taken off my winter coat, but still had on a shirt and sweater with a scarf wrapped around my neck. Watching bulges of fat spring free as the people around me stripped down, I decided against it.

A cup of translucent coffee hung between my hands—I’d brought my own calorie-free sweetener—and despite the heat I took tasteless sips that burnt my tongue. Did I lock the door when I left home? I resisted the urge to leave, to go home and check. I’d already checked twice. Looking at my phone again, they were already five minutes late in starting. I was about to leave when a voice behind me said: “So, what do you think of these meetings so far?”

I strained to look around and found a man smiling at me.

A very attractive man.

I smiled back. “Um, well, I’m getting something out of it.” Swivelling sideways on my chair to face him, I noticed his hair was graying at the temples, just like my dad’s had. I hadn’t noticed this man at any of the other meetings, but then I usually had my social blinders on.

The man’s smile curled up at its edges. “Is that what you came for, to get something?”

Why else would I be here? But he was right. I shouldn’t just be here just to get something. “I mean, I’m here to try to make myself a more whole person.”

He nodded. “I know exactly what you mean.” Shifting in his chair, his coat fell to one side to reveal his right arm below a short sleeve shirt. The arm shone dully in the fluorescent light: smooth metal and wires. He saw me staring and pulled his coat back up.

My cheeks burned. Why did I have to say ‘whole person’?

His smile wavered, but only for a moment. “I was in the wars.”

I forced a grin. “Of course.” I’d heard the stories of veterans returning with mangled bodies mechanically reconstructed. If only my brother had been so lucky. I shook off the thought.

He extended his robotic arm. “Don’t be embarrassed. My name is Michael.”

I took his hand. It was cool and hard. “Effie,” I mumbled, wondering what his eyes saw when they looked at me. Fat and frump, answered a voice in my head. My body tingled as I touched his prosthetic.

“Very nice to meet you, Effie,” Michael whispered, still holding my hand.

The speaker at the head of the room announced the start to the session. “Today we will be discussing the role of original sin,” he said, and the murmur of conversation stopped.

I let go of Michael’s mechanical hand and turned to listen.

After what seemed an eternity, the meeting came to an end. People were standing and gathering their belongings, checking that they hadn’t left anything behind.

Even struggling to keep my eyes open, I’d been thinking about Michael the whole time.

Was I rude? I knew I should’ve worn something more flattering. I frowned. Did I lock the door? Resisting the urge to bolt, I pretended to check my pockets for something while I listened to Michael chatting behind me. I waited until he fell silent, and then turned as casually as possible.

“So what did you think?” I asked. I winced. I should’ve come up with something more intelligent. It never ceased to frustrate me how I could be so brilliant in the lab, yet so useless in a room of people I didn’t know.

Michael flashed his warm smile again. “It was” —he shrugged— “interesting.” In a hushed voice he added, “But I do have a hard time with the way evangelicals make such literal interpretations.”

“I know what you mean.” If he’d noticed me nodding off he didn’t say anything. I glanced around. “I mean, do they think Moses literally split the seas and walked along the seabed to freedom?” I felt guilty as the words came out, wondering if anyone else heard me. But then I realized this was why I’d come here, to find ways to talk about my over-intellectualized feelings about the Bible.

We began to walk toward the door of the now empty room.

“I love the Church,” Michael said, “but I have a bit of a problem with the way they’re selectively metaphoric.”

“How do you mean?”

Michael opened the door for me. “Like insisting on a literal interpretation of Moses splitting the seas, yet on Sunday mornings drinking wine and claiming it’s the blood of Christ.”

I hadn’t thought of it like that. I took another look at him as he held the door open. Good-looking and smart. There’s no way he would be interested in me, the voice in my head told me, but we continued chatting as we wound our way out of the building, my rubber boots squeaking across the linoleum floors while our voices echoed through the empty hallways.

It was dark outside. Snowflakes appeared in the conical pools of bioluminescent street lighting that glowed bright as we approached. I looked down at my footprints in the newly fallen snow. I used to love snow as a child, but now winter was just cold. I shivered. We stood and faced each other.

“Goodnight, Effie.”

A moment of silence was filled with the hum of automated car-pods sweeping down Second Avenue.

“Goodnight.”

Michael glanced away and then back at me. “See you next time?”

Warmth blossomed in the pit of my stomach. “Yes, next time.”

With a nod, Michael walked off into the thickening snowfall. I walked the opposite way to make for the subway home, and for the first time in a long time I watched the falling snowflakes and marvelled at their quiet beauty.

Then I did something I never did. Turning, I called out, “Michael, do you want to get a coffee or something?” Even in the cold my face flushed hot.

In the distance, Michael turned around. He didn’t hesitate. “Sure.”

We found a coffee shop on Second. There was a line at the counter.

“Even a slime mold,” Michael said as I stomped the cold and nerves out of my feet, “even a single-celled organism can solve a maze to find food.” He pointed at some icing-laden muffins. “Speaking of rewards, want one?”

I shook my head. “I’m—”

“Vegan?” Michael finished my sentence for me.

I nodded. How did he guess? But more than that, the label under the muffins said four hundred calories. Four hundred.

“Don’t worry, they’re vegan muffins.” Michael was already holding up two fingers.

I hadn’t noticed the small print under the caloric label.

“Come on, it’s the holidays,” he added cheerfully.

The server had already pulled the muffins onto a plate. I shrugged okay, then peered through the window of the café as a heavy transport roared down Second Avenue. Not for the first time, I imagined how easy it would be to trip in front of one.

“You okay?”

On a video panel above and behind the counter, a news anchor was in the middle of a story, “… unexplained disappearances continue throughout the five boroughs, police are now investigating what they describe as a cult…”

I blinked, pulling my attention away from the video to look into Michael’s eyes. He glanced at the news report as well. “Yes, I’m fine,” I replied.

“You sure?”

Nodding yes, I smiled and took the coffees while Michael took the plate of muffins. We wound our way to a quiet spot in the corner, away from the noise and the holographic Santa sleigh weaving its way through the bustling crowd of shoppers. I disliked crowds of people, but then I also hated being alone—my life was a slow bleed on the knife edge between the two.

A simulated fire crackled in our corner, and we sank into armchairs. Pushing the plate toward me, he picked up his muffin. I leaned forward and began crumbling mine into pieces, taking a morsel to eat while grabbing my coffee for a sip.

My chest tightened. What should I say?

“So what do you do for work?” Michael asked.

I smiled with relief. Something I knew. “I’m a lab monkey. I work in research.”

“Oh? What kind?”

“I’m sure you’d find it boring.”

Michael smiled and waved me on, his mouth full of muffin.

“Right now, I’m researching airborne transmission methods of viral gene therapy in conspecific populations, it’s a way…” Wait, what am I doing? There’s no way he could—

“To introduce gametes that take precedence over heterospecific ones?” Michael said around his muffin. He swallowed and sipped his coffee. “Targeted auto-distribution of vaccines, huh? Very interesting, would save billions of dollars.”

I stared at him, dumbfounded. “How do you… I mean… ?” My voice trailed off.

“I apologize, I’m just excited to meet a woman of your intelligence. I have many interests, but I am merely an amateur.” Michael smiled and took another bite of his muffin. “Please, continue.”

Taking a deep breath, I sat upright, parting my legs to slide closer toward him. “You’re right, but it’s not about the money.”

“Saving millions of lives, then?”

I crumbled more of my muffin. “I’m more interested in animal life. What’s happening to frogs, to thousands of other species, whether there might be a way to save them.”

Michael moved closer to me. “Amazing. And you have funding?”

I looked at the floor. “For human research, but I’m hoping…”

Again I paused. He’d already finished his muffin. I leaned forward to pull the last of mine apart, sweeping some crumbs into my hand that I dropped onto the floor when Michael looked away.

He looked back at me and slid forward in his chair. “All living creatures share intelligence and emotion, with differences being in degree, not in kind.”

I nodded. “Exactly. I mean, a human baby isn’t any smarter than an octopus, yet people are okay with killing and eating them. But killing a baby, oh, no, that’s not allowed.” I tensed. Was that too much? “I mean like when Jonathan Swift said—”

“That a young healthy child, well nursed, is a most delicious and wholesome food, whether stewed, roasted, baked, or boiled… ?”

I laughed out loud before I could contain myself, earning the stares of people looking to see what was so funny. Nobody I knew would have even understood that reference, never mind being able to come up with the quote.

Michael smiled at our shared secret. “I realize you’re being dramatic to make a point.” He shook his head and his smile disappeared. “Original sin. If anything, we should be atoning for the sins we’ve committed against all the living creatures we’ve murdered to satiate our own appetites. Speciesism is a terrible thing…”

A warm tickling began in my toes, rising up through my groin and into my cheeks. Did he really just say that?

We chatted about our feelings toward food and what food had feelings until Michael had to go. I bid him farewell, then rushed to the ladies’ room. I waited until it was empty, leaned over a pee-spotted toilet, and stuck a finger down my throat.

A few weeks later, the meetings and coffees had become a regular thing; Michael and I even joined the next church session together. He shared some of his war stories, and I shared how I’d lost my brother over there, even opening up about my parents and the recent accident that had stolen them from me. I was busy demolishing another muffin, pecking crumbs from it, when Michael finally asked.

“Do you want to join me for dinner at my place next week?”

“I’d love to,” I answered. I felt a flush. I tried to remember if I’d turned down the heating when I left the house. Had I locked the door?

“Wonderful. I’m having some friends over for a special meal.”

I looked down, knocked a few crumbs into my lap. “Of course.” I’d thought he was inviting me there alone.

“On one condition.” Michael glanced at my muffin. “You must eat absolutely everything that I serve.”

I couldn’t tell if he was trying to be funny or serious. Nodding, I pulled my hands back and burrowed them into the pockets of my coat.

Michael raised one hand like an oath. “Promise.”

Forcing a smile, I pulled out one hand and raised it. “I promise.”

Excusing myself, I headed for the bathroom.

I stopped at the top of the subway stairs, my teeth aching from sucking the cold winter air. My stomach hurt, but not like usual. I wasn’t good with new people. At the lab, this worked in my favor. Just me and my slides and whirring centrifuges. No idle chitchat needed, and most of my colleagues fell into this same spectrum of awkwardness.

A fresh coating of snow squeaked underfoot on the sidewalk outside. At his address, I looked up and saw lights on, people framed in the window, talking, holding drinks. Maybe I should go home, tell him I wasn’t feeling well. I looked at his door. Did I lock my door? Stop it. Even if you didn’t, you can’t go back now. And then his door opened, spilling bubbling conversation onto the street.

“Effie! Come in. Come in!” It was Michael.

Smiling, my internal debate settled for me, I trotted up the stairs.

Michael took my coat and hung it in an entrance closet, then ushered me inside. The entranceway led into a large main room with high ceilings and ornate moldings. He led me to a side table where a cauldron was steaming on a hot plate. Dipping a ladle into it, he filled a small china cup.

“Mulled wine,” Michael explained, offering it to me.

I nodded and accepted the cup from him.

“I thought it would be a nice antidote to the cold,” Michael added. “Glogg you Scandinavians call it, yes?”

I didn’t usually drink much, but I could use one now.

Michael turned to a small man standing next to us. “Ah, Martin, I’d like to introduce you to someone. Effie is a synthetic biologist…”

Blushing, I glanced at the floor and took a sip from my wine.

Michael grimaced. “I meant Dr. Hedegaard is a synthetic biologist, please excuse my familiarity, I didn’t mean—”

“Don’t be silly,” I whispered, leaning in and grabbing his arm. “I’m just embarrassed at the attention.”

“Synthetic biologist. Very interesting,” said the small man, smiling and ignoring our exchange. He was short—stooped—with gray stubble atop his head and photoreceptors shining in his empty eye sockets: artificial eyes. He looked familiar. “Do you view your work as a continuation of natural evolution?”

I nodded and tried not to stare at his synthetic eyes. “Depending how you think of it. If you think a termite mound is natural, then so is a machine gun. Everything is natural.”

“And what do you think of the natural state of human evolution?”

“A dead end,” I said without hesitation.

The man’s artificial eyes glittered.

“Dr. Hedegaard is a very passionate,” Michael laughed. “And on that note, I must attend to dinner.” He disappeared into the kitchen.

Left alone in a room of strangers, I’d usually melt into a corner, but here I became the center of the party, dragged into one fascinating conversation after another. It was a breath of fresh air to be in a room of intellectual equals, somehow feeling like I was back in my lab, safe and in control.

While we chatted, I inspected the guests. Many had a prosthetic limb, and not hidden, but exposed. Proud, even. One of them ventured that he was in the wars with Michael. Makes sense. I didn’t mention that I’d lost my brother there. Wrapped in my layers of clothing, I began admiring their sleek metal prosthetics.

Michael swept back into the room.

“Dinner is served!” he announced.

Smiling, the small man with artificial eyes bowed to allow me to walk ahead of him. The guests moved into the dining room, and aside from the chair at the head of the table, only one other seat was left empty. I sat and arranged myself, smoothing the napkin in my lap. The first course was served, and I nodded thank you as a waiter placed a plate before me.

I recoiled.

It appeared to be some kind of meat, but perhaps it was imitation? Michael appeared from the kitchen and sat beside me, hoisting his champagne flute into the air. “A toast!”

Everyone else raised their glasses. I fumbled for mine.

Michael looked around the table. “A toast to old friends.” He made eye contact with each person in turn, nodding and smiling, and finished by looking at me. “And to new.” He clinked my glass. “A toast to the truth, to sacrifice, and to the brotherhood of all things living!”

“To sacrifice!” erupted a chorus around the table.

I raised my glass and took a sip before inspecting my appetizer again. Everyone else began eating.

Michael was watching me. “Trust me, Effie.”

The way he looked at me made me think of my father when he’d taught me to swim, late in my childhood. I’d been terrified. Let go, Effie, my dad had whispered, holding me close, trust me. Swimming was now one of my greatest pleasures.

Picking up my knife and fork, I sectioned off a piece of the thing on my plate and placed it in my mouth. I chewed. The texture was soft and salty, recalling a distant memory of pork. I hadn’t eaten meat since I was a pre-teen and had declared my parents murderers. The memory made me ill.

Michael’s prosthetic hand, now oddly warm, was on my forearm.

“Trust me,” he repeated.

I made a promise, I reminded myself, and so I smiled and swallowed and began carving off another piece. I fought down each bite, resisting the urge to escape to the bathroom. Just when I’d finished it, the main course was served.

My heart sank.

In a large serving dish in the middle of the table, a bone protruded rudely from flesh that fell away into caramelized onions and roasted potatoes. The circling waiters began serving thick slabs of what must be meat.

Is Michael making fun, taking advantage? I panicked, with only Michael’s steady gaze keeping me from flying into space. Poking at my potatoes and carrots, I ventured to try a scrap of the meat.

Popping it into my mouth, I chewed, tears in my eyes, but I couldn’t stand it anymore. Pulling Michael to me I whispered, “What is that?”

He smiled. “The more relevant question is: Who is that?”

“What do you mean, who?” I hissed.

“Effie, I think you have just tasted human flesh for the first time.”

The conversation around the table stopped.

I gagged. “Is this some kind of joke?”

Michael remained still. “In fact, tonight you are part of a very special evening. Tonight I am sharing my flesh, my body with all of you.”

I looked around the table. Nobody else was even surprised. They looked pleased.

The joke was on me.

I fought back the simultaneous urge to throw my plate against the wall and to empty the contents of my stomach all over the table. The cloying smell of decay rose up from my plate. Without realizing it, I was already standing.

“This is sick,” I cried, staring into Michael’s blue eyes, “I thought—”

“You thought you were eating an animal? Some poor creature who could not choose this fate? No, Effie, I choose this. I give freely—”

I convulsed. “No. Nobody would—it’s too disgusting.” Now I was sure I was going to throw up.

But Michael held me. “Since time began, we’ve been consuming the Earth, consuming our fellow living creatures. Now we have the ability to sate our hunger by consuming ourselves. It’s the only way.”

I tasted bile in the back of my throat. “Why would you do this?”

“Because I’m a Christian. Are you not?”

I nodded.

“Is Christianity not a cult of cannibalism? Do we not make a weekly pilgrimage to eat the body and blood of our savior? We…” He extended his arms, palms up, toward his guests. “… have made our religion even more personal. Every one of us is our own savior containing that same spark of the divine. Just as consuming Christ is sacred, so consuming ourselves is a symbolic act that brings us closer to the god living in all of us—sacrificing a part of ourselves to atone for our sins, eating a small part of ourselves to atone for our share in mankind’s sins.”

The blood drained from my face. “This is crazy.” But everyone was staring at me like I was the crazy one. “This is—”

But I didn’t finish my sentence. Tears streaming down my face, I ran for the door and out into the cold, ripping my coat from its hanger on the way out. Pounding down the stairs, I skidded onto the sidewalk and sprinted away. Catching the cold metal of a railing at the subway entrance, I leaned over and began retching and crying in heaving sobs. An automated transport growled past, and I imagined myself falling in front of it. The stars were bright diamonds overhead, out of reach in a dead black sky.

I stared at my reflection in the bedroom mirror. Flaccid skin hung in bunches from my knobby bones. That’s not me, that can’t be me. In disgust, I covered myself with my gown and shuffled to the closet to begin layering up. It was past noon already. I hadn’t been out of my apartment in days, had been forcing my dog Buster to do his business on my tiny fifth floor balcony. Everything was an effort. During the day, I could barely keep my eyes open. At night, I’d lay awake, my thoughts swirling and frustrations mounting.

My phone chimed. I groaned but accepted the call. My boss’s face appeared.

“Dr. Hedegaard, will we be seeing you in the lab today?” He wasn’t buying my excuses anymore. “I don’t need to remind you that you’re the leader of this project team. A physical presence is still required from time to time.”

“Yes, yes,” I scowled. Even working from home, exhausted, I was keeping up with my workload, probably putting in twice the number of hours as anyone else. While not everyone had God-given intelligence, everyone could at least work hard, and my boss failed in both categories. For the hundredth time I asked myself why I submitted to working for him, for them.

Weeks had passed since the dinner. I was ignoring calls from friends. When isolation overcame exhaustion, I’d take Buster out for short walks. The people passing me on the streets, the cars, the looming lampposts, the newspaper boxes with their horrific headlines—I saw everything as though from the bottom of a well. How can these people just chit-chat with each other? How does the world make any sense to them?

I finally decided to attend another church meeting. I needed to find strength and salvation, to find some way out. Before arriving, I’d built up scenarios of how I would ignore Michael if I saw him, how I would give him a perfunctory hello and behave as if nothing had happened. As it turned out, he wasn’t there, and after the meeting, a desperation seeped in. Did something happen to him? Now I needed to know he was okay, even if I thought what he was doing wasn’t.

Or was it?

Who was he hurting? Nobody. I’d played back his phone messages over and over, his apologies, his clarifications for where the meat came from, that it was lab-grown replacement organs, that they weren’t butchers. Perhaps it was my own failure, my own closed mind that was the real problem. He might have explained it all to me first, but then I’d never have gone to his home. I thought about his friends that I’d spoken to there, how intelligent they were. Eating lab meat didn’t harm any animals, and it was genetically pure. The idea did make a certain… sense, I had to admit.

After church, I rushed home and called him to accept his apology, to offer one of my own, but Michael didn’t answer.

And he didn’t return my calls.

“Five thousand dollars for peace of mind,” the med-world avatar said. I scrolled through the list of options: five grand for a liver patch, ten for whole one, twenty-five for a kidney and two hundred for a heart.

Organ replacement was a big business.

I’d done some research. Almost every time a human population faced an environmental collapse, it resorted to cannibalism as a way to rebalance: central Europe in the fifth millennium BC; the Anasazi in the 12th century; Papua New Guinea and Ukraine in the 20th century. The list went on and on as if it was a hardwired response to human-induced local ecosystem collapse. Now that local system spanned the entire planet. Human biomass would soon exceed 500 billion tons, more than any other single species, even Antarctic krill.

What am I doing? I sighed and closed my tablet. Without missing a beat, the voice in my head answered, Why not, though? It’s not like I’d hurt anyone, and nobody needed to know.

I made my decision.

I logged back on and the med-world avatar said that I needed a medical center if I wanted a delivery made. One phone call later and I’d set-up a drop-off at a local clinic with my friend Mary. I finished our call with a promise to plan an evening together soon.

Next thing, I was heading into the bathroom, wiping the inside of my mouth with a cotton swab and placing it into a double-sealed plastic bag. Moments later, I’d filled in the med-world forms and left the bag out on my balcony for a delivery drone to pick up.

It was done.

My phone rang. Michael’s number popped up. “Michael, hello! How are you?” I answered before the first ring had finished.

His face appeared on my screen. “Very good. Sorry about not calling back right away—”

“Don’t worry, I was just making sure you were okay.” I paused. “I didn’t see you at the church meetings” —another pause— “and I’m sorry about your dinner. About the way I acted.”

He took a deep breath. “That’s not why I didn’t return your calls.”

My heart was in my throat. “No?”

“No.” He wiped his face with his biological hand. “You have your own path to follow. Self-discovery is an important part of my faith.”

“That’s… well… I understand.” I wanted to tell him how much I missed our chats—how much I missed him.

“I’ve been thinking about you, Freyja. I wish you luck in finding what you’re looking for.”

It was the first time he’d ever used my full name. The tingling warmth I’d felt when I first met Michael returned. “Thank you.”

“You take care.”

With a smile, he severed the connection.

Fat snowflakes fell outside my kitchen window while jazz played inside. A real fire crackled in my old fireplace, the first time I’d used it in years. Buster was laid out at my feet as I prepared dinner. I dropped down scraps of veggies from time to time that he snapped up.

An entertainment show was playing on the wall of my living room. “… billionaire Martin Ludwig is continuing his buying spree… ” said the reporter. I glanced at the display, into glittering photoreceptors. It was the same face of the small man I’d met at Michael’s party.

I knew he’d looked familiar. Returning to preparing my dinner, the voice inside my head said, You see? Those are the kinds of people you need to surround yourself with.

Delivery of my liver patch had taken two weeks. During the wait, I’d started taking Buster for long walks, waking up early to get back on track with my gene therapy research work. I even attended a rally for ending animal farming.

Slitting open the thermal bio-containment packaging that my liver had arrived in, I removed the organ. It was cold and wet, tinged purple and reddish brown. Closing my eyes, I squeezed it, trying to see if my proprioperceptive sense would magically expand to contain this new chunk of my flesh. I waited, eyes closed. Somehow it did feel like a part of me; somehow my skin sensed this wasn’t alien flesh.

This thing was a part of me.

I dropped it into the frying pan.

An intense hunger gripped me. I was used to being hungry, but this was different. Watching my liver sizzle, I began salivating painfully. My nostrils flared. Picking up a fork, I turned it, trying to brown it evenly, but then, unable to wait, I used the side of the fork to nip off a piece and popped it into my mouth.

At first I rolled it around my tongue. Then I chewed, sucking the juices from it; I moaned as I swallowed, remembering guilt-free days of eating meat as a youth, eating and enjoying. Stabbing and ripping with the fork, I ground off another piece against the bottom of the frying pan. It was still raw. Pinpricks of blood popped from the edges of the ragged meat, but I gobbled it down.

The pan was empty before I realized what I was doing. Using the back of my hand, I wiped a streak of spittle from the side of my mouth.

Buster whined at my feet, sensing something was going on. I looked down at him.

“Not for you, little Buster, this is all for mummy.”

He always preferred human food to his own food. Human food. And for the first time in longer than I could remember, I laughed, and then another thought: You are what you eat. I laughed again.

Personal organ stockpiling was something everyone with money was doing, I’d found out. I talked about it with anyone who would listen. I was finally sleeping at night. Michael got back in touch with me, and our coffee dates became regular again.

“Sharks kill eleven humans a year on average!” I exclaimed to him one evening, startling some other customers. “Do you know how many sharks humans kill?”

He shook his head.

“Eleven thousand an hour!” I slammed my coffee down. “What are we going to do about this?”

Michael shrugged and took a sip from his coffee. “What can we do?”

“Stop being hypocrites,” I said, sipping my coffee and looking back to my tablet. I had an order page up. A liver and a pound of thigh muscle. I chose two-day delivery to the clinic to make sure I would get them in time for my next private Sunday evening dinner party.

“What do you mean, you won’t let me send them there anymore?”

“Effie, I can’t imagine what you must be going through…” My friend Mary’s face grimaced in my phone’s display. “… but this is getting weird. My boss is wondering who all these packages are for. I thought this was just a once or twice thing? Why don’t you get them delivered to your own lab?”

I couldn’t tell her that half my deliveries were already going to my lab, and that my boss was growing suspicious as well.

“This project is just taking longer than we thought.” I used the royal “we” without explanation. My little white lie was becoming a big one, even with my credentials to back me up. “You’re right. Sorry. Listen, we should go out like we said.”

“Uh-huh.” She arched her eyebrows and disconnected.

Sighing again, I looked down at Buster. “Do you want to go out?”

Buster barked yes, and I went to fetch his leash. Spring was here, but outside it was still chilly, and we made our way into the small wooded park near my apartment. Walking through the bare trees, I remembered stories my mother had told me about the myling, the ghosts of babies who were abandoned in the forests at birth, left to die in the frozen wilderness, their souls forever doomed to wander alone.

I began scheming for ways to keep my packages coming.

It wasn’t fair. Any idiot could feed themselves like a pig and get millions from medical insurance to fix their diabetes. But ask them to cover the cost of artificial organs, and there were forms and questions. I made a stab at requiring the deliveries for religious reasons, but this just elicited “You’re kidding, right?” from my insurance adjuster.

After engineering an intricate web of delivery routes, they were all getting closed down, one by one. Even if I could find a way to keep the packages coming, money was becoming a serious issue. Custom-grown organs weren’t cheap. I’d used up my savings, maxed out my credit lines, and I was dipping into my retirement savings, eating away at my future.

Desperate, I tried Michael.

“Effie, you’ve come a long way since I met you,” Michael replied after I asked him for a loan. “I’m sensing a real transformation.”

“I don’t know what to do.” I hated myself for asking for money, for appearing weak.

We were back in our coffee shop. The heat of summer was gone, replaced with the chill of coming winter. Red leaves were falling from the skeletons of trees outside.

“Money,” said Michael, “is not the solution to any of life’s problems.” He held my hands in his. Both of his arms were prosthetic now. “I applaud the enthusiasm that you’ve taken to our holy sacrament, but you need to find your own way through this.”

There was only one way—had always only been one way—I realized now.

Michael squeezed my hands. “The only constant in life is change. Life is ever evolving. It’s not about being something; it’s about becoming something.”

I nodded. “Can I come for dinner with the Church again?”

His eyes seemed to stare through mine, seeing through me into my soul.

“Only you can answer that,” he replied.

The ancient subway car rattled toward me, its wheels squealing. An encircled “Q” glowed on the front of the driverless lead car. It was the express train, rolling without stopping on its way past the 29th Street station. I was standing near the end of the platform, next to the far wall. The squealing stopped as the train began to clear the station and accelerate back up to speed.

The lead car was almost at me, and I stepped onto the edge of the platform, staring at the empty driver’s seat of the subway car as it rushed closer.

“Hey, lady!” someone called out.

The train was now just feet away from me. I stepped toward the ledge and the empty space beyond.

“Lady, watch—”

The squealing began again, this time ear-shattering, but it was too late. I leaned in, feeling the train crash into me. There was no pain, just a flash of white before blackness descended.

A keening whine woke me. Opening my eyes, I could see snow falling outside my window, but it wasn’t enough to stop emergency services. I hadn’t been at my office in months—on sick leave, or, more accurately, rehabilitation leave—so I brought my work home. Glancing at my side table, the cover sheets of the latest data downloads glowed on my tablet: Structural basis of lentiviral subversion in cellular degradation, genomic sequencing of flesh-eating bacteria, and new trial results of viral gene-therapy.

It was nearly 9 a.m.

I sat up in bed and arched my back. My whole body ached. Swinging my legs off the bed, I stood and wobbled, still not quite used to it. I pulled down the blinds to cocoon myself.

Again the whining. “Buster, baby, please stop, someone will be here in a few minutes.”

Walking into the bathroom, the lights glowed on by themselves. I reached my arms above my head in another stiff-morning-stretch and stopped to inspect myself.

In the mirror I gleamed like a silvery spider, my slender arms glittering in the light reflecting from overhead. I’d chosen to keep my prostheses with exposed metal, wiring junctions and all, to keep the weight down.

My legs were now lithe titanium-alloy slivers that supported the stump of my body between them. The meat of my midsection was criss-crossed with angry red scars where organs had been removed and replaced.

The first steps had been easy.

After some haggling, I’d convinced a doctor to amputate both of my arms, even gaining possession of them after the fact. I hosted my first Church dinner with my bicep as the main course. It was my coming out party. Eating my own flesh—my own true flesh—made my spirit soar, the cracks in my soul closing with each piece of my body that I consumed. As I devoured myself, I filled myself, making myself both more and less at the same time.

When it came to my legs the doctors had balked. They’d refused more amputations, and I couldn’t afford a trip to one of the far-off places medical tourists could go to have this sort of work done.

But…

Just one misplaced step on the subway, and a leg was severed. Slip in the shower at the wrong angle and you could rupture a kidney. I always refused the insurance payments, only asking for the prostheses and organ replacements. I arranged for a round-the-clock medical monitor so that every accident brought near-instantaneous responses by emergency teams.

The pain was excruciating but cleansing.

I admired myself in the mirror, my misshapen torso laced with the cuts and lashes of my salvation. Taking a deep breath, I prepared for perfection, taking one final look into my eyes before closing them tight. Slowing my breathing, my mind filled until it was a cool, calm lake.

“If thine eyes offend thee…” I intoned over the yelps of Buster. Reaching toward my face with my hands, I paused, and then dug my spiny metal fingers into my eyes.

The world exploded in a rapture of pain. Black circles danced in my vision as my eyesight faded. I screamed. Tightening my grip, I pulled harder, feeling the optic nerves resisting my efforts. Finally, with a wet pop, one and then the other snapped elastically. Blood coursed down my face. Dropping to my knees, I stuffed my eyeballs into my mouth and began chewing. Gagging, crying, I tried to swallow, and with a final effort managed to get them down.

“Don’t worry, Buster,” I choked out between sobs, “someone will be here soon, baby!”

Already the paramedics had been alerted by my health monitoring service. They’d arrive in five minutes, and by tomorrow I would be seeing through new eyes.

A chime signalled an incoming call.

“We are so proud of you,” announced a familiar voice.

My heart filled with a bliss that blotted out the pain. I wanted to cry, and maybe I did—it was hard to tell. With the back of one mechanical hand, I wiped away my bloody tears of joy. “Thank you, Father Michael.”

I felt as light as a feather.

“I have spoken to God this day,” Father Michael continued. “Mankind’s depravity has once again permeated every part of his being, every man’s heart so sin-stained that nothing they touch is not evil. A new Flood is coming to cleanse God’s Earth, but not one of water, this deluge will be one of flesh and blood…”

He wasn’t just speaking to me—he was addressing the whole rapidly growing body of the Church, assembled virtually around the world to observe my ceremony. He took control of my robotic prostheses, and I could feel myself standing.

“Freyja, you are accepted into the Church of Sacrificial Atonement. You will be the knife that cuts the rotting flesh from our God’s Earth. In your own blood I baptize you reborn, from now on to be known as Saint Freyja.”

“Freyja,” he repeated, “archangel of love…”

He paused, holding me high for all to see in my glory.

“… and of death.”

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Matthew Mather is the author of the bestselling novel CyberStorm and the acclaimed Atopia Chronicles science fiction series. CyberStorm was optioned by 20th Century Fox in 2013 for a major film production, and his works have been translated into over a dozen languages worldwide. He started out his career working at the McGill Center for Intelligent Machines, and among other things is an award-winning videogame designer. He spends his time between Montreal, Canada and Charlotte, NC.