The Countdown

19 hours.

The noise was always deafening.

When the wires crossed, the other Pacers ticked so loudly it was hard to bear. But here, in The Facility, I am in the countdown to the final tick.

Here, the rooms are filled with others waiting to retire, all of us having reached our 36 years. All having fulfilled our pre-determined hours to The Leaders. This floor, in this facility, almost one hundred of us wait and count down the final pre-determined hours. Each of us alone in the cubicle, segregated only by four flimsy plywood walls. Segregated intentionally to re-enforce the knowledge, we were always only ever alone. And in a final hurrah to The Leaders, segregated by walls so thin the signal of the pacers get twisted and falters as a reminder, we exist merely to fulfill the assigned purpose. We or I or her or he, were neither a recognized nor valued individual. But for the most part, most of us, would never even know to question this.

18 hours.

Here I lie.

As the crossed signals of the multiple Pacers cause mine to dance in various poly-rhythms, seemingly intentionally to cause my Pacer to malfunction – the beats slowed to a pace that pains like my blood has congealed in my veins, as thick as the night air is hot.

Stifling wisps of breeze ruffle the window blinds, the flickers of lights a watchers pace the hall outside the room. Biding their time. As I bide mine.

15hours.

Too long to knowingly wait.

Can you think? Thirty-Six years of being conscious in this phase, think back to the first memory you have. It still feels like a dream. It could have been.

Sweat drips from my neck, and I try to focus on the feeling of the bead as it trickles past the scar on my chest. ‘Do you remember what she said? Try to remember.’

12 hours.

The future is my death.

They’re asking about her, about me, about whom I used to be. I know this makes no sense. The visceral feel of the sheets on my skin, connecting with the millions of electrodes programmed to allow me to ‘believe’ I can feel. I want my own thoughts again, the way I used to think. The sweet memories; the way she looked at me. Her body- lying next to mine. Her smell; her smile. The soft skin of her hands as she was gently fondling that heart-shaped locket between her fingers. Her hair fell in my face, she giggled. The smell of her breath, as her hair falls over her face, so close to me, it tickles my skin.

Her heart shaped locket…

I don’t think I know who I used to be. And I don’t think I know if this is even my memory.

When the Pulses started, those who were living began to fall. They had hearts that were corrupted by the electro-magnetic fields of The Pulse. Many fell. The Leaders, over many years, built devises to override the signals and sustain ‘life’. We are indebted to The Leaders. They implanted the Pacers, and those who received - worked to repay The Leaders to whom they owed the very existence of ‘life’ itself. And the cost of such a thing? Was to give up what it was to feel. So in time those who couldn’t afford a new Pacer were eventually given used Pacers from those who’d succumbed. Occasionally, those who were second or third generation Pacers rebelled. They claimed they could remember what it was like to ‘feel’, to know something the revolutionaries called ‘Love’.

So for me-her hair; her smile; her smell. I didn’t know. It could have been me. But then; it could have been a memory of whoever owned this Pacer first.

8 hours.

The watchers are here.

Questioning. Probing.

4 hours.

It didn’t matter. It never mattered.

The watchers take their sharp needle and pierce my skin, injecting a cold metallic tasting substance into my veins. This is always the way. Pacers are valuable. This same Pacer that sustained me will be the Pacer that will sustain the next host.

Somewhere in my mind, a thought, almost a feeling, has overridden the commitment to The Leaders duty I have been trained to live.

I couldn’t tell them what they wanted to know.

What was her name, who was she? Did I think she, or I, believed in this thing called ‘Love’? The watchers are trained to seek those who may have been revolutionaries. Dreamers. Heretics. Her soft brown hair, the glimmer in her eyes, the heart shaped locket she carried around her soft delicious neck. She was one of them. And they want to know: ‘Was it me who knew her?’ Or the memory of someone who carried my Pacer; my ‘heart’, before I did?

1 hour.

The taste of her lips.

Now my final words I speak:

“I concede I have entered the final phase of my systematic useful-ness. I pass on my gratitude to Our Leaders and willingly allow this pacer to enter the body of a new-spawned host”.

If I tell them anything… the watchers will retire my pacer. In a futile attempt to retire the hope of those who dare to dream, to believe. That a heart could ever be more than the programmed pacing of a machine. To sustain the life of a citizen- whilst at their prime capacity- to fulfill their obligations to The Leaders. Those revolutionaries who dare to believe, that a heart could ever feel. As the last breath exhales from my lips I finally feel something real, I feel her words, as they left her lips, so gently, so close to my ear. ‘The reason is always love. Remember this. Remember me.’