Welcome to Dystopia
Page 30
I’m sorry you aren’t feeling well. Call me, okay? It sounds like a cold. My mom texted my dad’s sick. She’s going to look after him at home because the hospitals are terrible. On the news they showed people lying on stretchers in the corridors, doctors as sick as their patients. Mom promised me she’d wear a face mask. I hope that helps.
God, I can’t wait to get out of here.
Thinking of you,
Sophie
From: Sophie Goldstein
To: Emily Wilson
Date: July 27, 2020
Subject: Get better!
It was great to talk with you! I’m glad my “adventure” is a distraction. Colds are awful, and I’m super glad it’s nothing worse, but probably not as glad as you are! LOL! What a relief!
On the emergency channel the National Guard advised healthy people in non-essential jobs to leave the city. Krystal texted, she’s joining her parents at their place in Moclips on the coast. Jennie’s going with her.
Yesterday Livia and Mr. Jeffers handed out key codes for all the offices in the building. We split into 16 teams of two. I wanted to be with Peter, but I was paired with Eddison, a real estate broker working at Cromwell & Reed. We were told to collect stuff—food, medicine, clothes—that kind of thing.
Eddison and I were assigned the 6th floor, which is where Cromwell & Reed’s office is, along with four other businesses. We found food in all the kitchens—some gone bad, but there were canned goods as well, and they all had aspirin and Tylenol and bottled water and pop and coffee.
We also grabbed gym bags with workout clothes and toiletries, and lots of office sweaters, and some women had tampons in their desks, thank God! I kept some for myself. Then we piled everything in front of the elevator for collection up to Kindness Labs.
I found seed catalogs, a gardening book, and seed packets in one office. Mostly flowers, but some vegetables, too. He (the name on the door was Drew Nguyen) had a windowsill garden with an ornamental orange tree and a bunch of wilted pot herbs. We took those, too.
Some of the lobbies had comfy, comfy couches. I’ve been sleeping on the floor in the Patterson office, I think I’m going to move my stuff down to Eddison’s floor, and see if Peter will come, too. There’s no reason for us to stay in the Patterson offices, not when other places have nicer sofas to sleep on!
The haul got sorted in the Kindess Labs conference room. In addition to the rice, canned meat, and cheese that the National Guard gave us, we have tons of snack food, pop, and coffee. Most offices had a few canned goods, tuna and chili and things like that.
Every office kitchen has a coffee pot and a microwave so cooking isn’t a problem, and there’s the rooftop barbecue. We found tons of Tylenol and Advil. People had prescriptions stuffed in their desk drawers—anti-depressants, pain killers, allergy pills, and insulin. Most places had earthquake kits with bandages and anti-bacterials. I kept my private stash of tampons, peanut butter, and chocolate secret.
Tomorrow, Livia’s handing out work assignments. The building does a lot, but it doesn’t clean itself, or add chemicals to the composting vats. Lightbulbs need changing, and all the other work normally handled by maintenance needs doing.
Let me know how you’re feeling. I can’t believe I’m stuck here for two weeks!
Love you and get better soon.
Sophie
From: Sophie Goldstein
To: Emily Wilson
Date: July 31, 2020
Subject: Dad
Mom called. My dad didn’t make it. When the National Guard picked up his body, they put mom on a bus going to the Kitsap Peninsula. She emailed me from home right before she left, said she’d send an address as soon as she had one.
That was two days ago. I haven’t heard from her, or from my brother, or any of our friends.
I can’t believe dad’s dead. Folks in here are really depressed. Everyone knows someone sick, everyone knows someone who didn’t make it. Livia’s offering antidepressants to those of us who’ve lost family members, but I refused them. I need to feel what I feel. I have to be strong so I can find mom when we get out.
My “job” is bringing clean compost to the roof where we’re making more vegetable gardens. Work keeps my mind off things, also I’m getting really strong. Livia rations food as if we’ll be here for months, so I’ve lost weight too. Fortunately, she doesn’t know about my stash.
Mr. Jeffers says she’s crazy because we’re only here for a week. The NG said so. He stays in his office working on the case. People don’t like that he won’t pitch in, but I’m going to believe he’s right because the idea of being stuck here for months, I just can’t.
Anyway, because everyone is so down, we had a barbecue with cultured meat. Livia’s very proud of it, but Peter wouldn’t eat any. He called it Frankenmeat. In the end, she left him alone saying, “More calories for the rest of us.” Then her lab guys, Joey and Darryl, grilled up small burgers for everyone, and we split two bottles of wine. So many offices had liquor in them, we have quite a bar.
The vat meat wasn’t terrible, but it wasn’t hamburger. Chewy and dry, but it’s been so long since we had any meat not from a can, and like I said, there was wine.
While we were on the roof I noticed the downtown buildings still have lights on. Eddison said that was automatic systems doing their thing, which bummed me. Peter and I did move to Eddison’s floor, and a girl named Julie from a CPA firm joined us. She’s nice.
We’re not the only ones. Everyone has moved into empty offices, mostly on floors with unshuttered windows. It’s kind of like having your own apartment. Each company has a kitchen, and you can make a bed out of sofas. Every floor has two bathrooms, men and women, not that it matters anymore. There’s hot water so washing is awkward but possible. It’s not terrible, which shows how my standards have dropped.
Hey, as soon as you’re feeling up to it, please ping me. Did I miss your call yesterday, or maybe you were out? Have you left Chicago? Let me know what’s going on, okay? I’m worried about you. One more week!
Love,
Sophie
From: Sophie Goldstein
To: Emily Wilson
Date: August 1, 2020
Subject: Peter
Last night, Peter and I slept together. OMG, I’d forgotten what happiness feels like! He’s such a great guy. We had dinner with the group, then Peter took a bottle of wine from his private stash, and we went down to three, to one of the Core Green conference rooms to talk.
It was quiet. Peter played a sound file on his phone of night noises—crickets and frogs and a distant thunderstorm. I imagined us sitting around a fire. I could practically smell the smoke. Then he kissed me.
Things went from there.
We showed up for breakfast rations holding hands, so we’re officially a couple. Be happy for me! It may not last, but for now, it’s nice not to be alone.
<3
Sophie
From: Sophie Goldstein
To: Emily Wilson
Date: August 6, 2020
Subject: Fires
The NG set the hospitals on fire, at least that’s what we think happened. It started this morning with Harborview, which is just a mile west of us. I was throwing compost into one of the new raised beds when Peter shouted to look. The whole building was ablaze.
Then Swedish General went up, then Virginia Mason. Everyone came up on the roof to watch. We could hear the roar. No one even tried to put the flames out. The smoke smelled like chemicals and meat. Betsy screamed, then ran for the edge, but Darryl grabbed her. A lot of people were crying. We were all wondering the same thing: who was inside?
When the smoke got really bad, the building started closing all the shutters, and Livia yelled we had to go inside. As we herded down the stairs, she kept repeating, “It’s containment. It’s a safety precaution. It’s just containment.”
When I went to the bathroom, there was ash in my hair and on my face. I threw up.
From: Sophie Goldstein
To: Emily Wilson
Date: August 8, 2020
Subject:
No one is coming for us.
From: Sophie Goldstein
To: Emily Wilson
Date: August 9, 2020
Subject: Done
I have to stop fooling myself. You’re dead. My parents are dead. My brother’s dead. I thought I’d feel sad, but mostly I’m angry. Angry that I wasn’t with them. Angry I’m trapped in this stupid building. Angry at the people here for not trying harder to get us out. Peter says it’s better to be angry than sad. What good does feeling sad do?
So why write to you? Because it makes me feel better. Because I think there should be a record for when things are back to normal. The building won’t fail. It will store these emails as long as there’s sunlight.
Livia thinks we can manage for a long time with the roof garden and her meat lab, as long as everyone works together. The real message is that she controls the food. Go along with Livia, or don’t eat.
Julie moved out today. She’s moving into a marketing company on 17 called BetterU. Terry, who worked PR there, asked her. She said it’s because the shuttered windows are too depressing. I think it’s because we’re anti-L. Julie didn’t want any part of that. Better Terry than trouble with L
I hope you’re okay.
Sophie
From: Sophie Goldstein
To: Emily Wilson
Date: August 11, 2020
Subject:
Yesterday while I was working with Peter and Helen (an older woman with a private banking firm) on the roof garden, a caravan of three pickup trucks and a red station wagon spotted us as they drove west on Madison. It was a group of ten, maybe twelve people. We ran to the roof’s edge yelling, hoping they could help us. They tried to break open the doors. Fail!
Then one guy climbed the tree out front. He crawled out on a branch to reach the 6th floor terrace where he tried to force the shutters open. He couldn’t. After he climbed down, they took out their guns and shot at us. WTF! That was the first time I’ve been glad the building’s secure.
They hit Peter in the shoulder. Helen and I took him down to 18. Livia has the medical supplies in a sterile lab. After we told her what happened, she took Joey and Darryl up to the roof to “assess the damage.”
Peter’s shoulder was a bloody mess. Helen thought maybe they bullet shattered the bone. There’s no exit wound, so the bullet’s still in there. She cleaned it really well, even though Peter hurt so bad he was screaming. But she had to. What if it got infected?
I helped with the bandages, then we made a splint following the directions in one of the earthquake kits. I gave Peter an oxy scrip that belonged to Ruby Johnson, whoever she was, and then I settled him to sleep in our room. I’m frightened. If we don’t get help soon, he could be crippled. He could die.
That night, L called a meeting in the atrium. She told everyone about the shooting, and that the building had protected us. Feelings were mixed. I mean, yay we didn’t get killed or kidnapped, but boo, if they can’t get in, then we can’t get out.
Sophie
From: Sophie Goldstein
To: Emily Wilson
Date: August 16, 2020
Subject:
We’ve been trapped here for a month. Things are not good. A couple of days after the hillbillies, Betsy jumped off the roof. A garden gnome that I used to think was cute held down her suicide note.
She couldn’t live knowing her daughter died alone, crying for her mommy, not understanding why she wasn’t there. Betsy’s body lay on the street for two days, then it was gone. I don’t know which was more upsetting, that she killed herself, or that her body disappeared. Animals? People? What happened? We’ll never know.
Mr. Jeffers is also dead.
L says it was a heart attack. I call BS. I saw him every day, putting together stats for him. He was fine Monday evening when I brought his rations. I ate with him, and we talked about the case. He said he was out of coffee. I promised to bring some in the morning.
I found him when I brought the coffee. It was awful. I collapsed, weeping. Peter came looking for me when I didn’t show for work. Mr. Jeffers’ arms were bruised. How did that happen?
Eddison and I told L that Peter needed more antibiotic ointment. When she ok’d that, we went to the med lab. Once we were in, we searched all the drawers. The insulin was gone.
I think L, with Joey and Darryl, or maybe Lee who’s her new ass kisser, I think they held him down, then injected him with insulin causing a heart attack. I can’t prove it, but that’s what Eddison and I think. Peter says we’re nuts, and that I’ve read too many mysteries.
L called a meeting in the Atrium after rations. She said that while these deaths were terrible, they improved our chances for survival—it means more food for the rest of us. She argued there wasn’t enough for everyone to make it over the winter.
Total bullshit.
The gardening book I found says you need 200 square feet to feed one person, and that’s not taking into consideration our amazing compost. It may be gross, but the plants love it.
Eddison and I measured out the new garden area on the roof (including the greenhouse) while Peter did the math. We have just under 7,000 square feet. That’s enough for 34 people. And we still have a lot of canned food. We could make it.
I don’t want to live like this. I don’t want to live with people who think like this.
From: Sophie Goldstein
To: Emily Wilson
Date: August 9, 2020
Subject:
What did L do with Mr. Jeffers’ body?
From: Sophie Goldstein
To: Emily Wilson
Date: August 21, 2020
Subject: A way out
I found out what happened to Mr. Jeffers. While I was carrying buckets of compost for the garden I got to know this guy Brandon. One of his jobs is monitoring the compost vats. He adds chemicals and makes sure they’re turning and stuff like that. He told me L added Mr. Jeffers to the vats.
OMG I felt sick. If that doesn’t prove she killed him, I don’t know what does. Brandon wept when he told me. He said he couldn’t stop thinking about it, and felt like puking every time he went into the basement. He’s a good guy, so I suggested the four of us—Peter, Eddison, Brandon, and me—hold a wake for Mr. Jeffers. Eddison pulled out Scotch from his private stash. We all got drunk.
Peter and Brandon tossed around ideas about escaping. A lot of them were dumb—make parachutes, jump from the roof into the tree—stuff like that. Then Peter had an idea that could work: start a fire.
It makes sense. The building’s programmed for our safety, which means if there’s a fire, the doors unlock so we can get out. The more we talked, the more we wondered why no one thought of this before.
Tomorrow, after we finish our work assignments, we’re going to collect paper. The cleaners came in on Sunday nights to clean up for Monday; the trash is still there. We should be able to get enough scrap to start a bonfire, then the sprinklers will come on, the doors will unlock, and out we go.
Peter and Brandon said since this was their idea, they’d start the fire, and keep it burning until we tell them the front door releases. So tomorrow may be the day we leave!
From: Sophie Goldstein
To: Emily Wilson
Date: August 25, 2020
Subject:
I hate this building. Peter’s dead, and so is Brandon. The building killed them. L insisted I take antidepressants, but I’ve stopped them. Maybe it’ll help if I write it all down.
We decided to set the fires on the 3rd floor in the four Core Green conference rooms. We spread out paper under the conference room tables so the sprinklers or the foam wouldn’t extinguish the fire before the doors unlocked.
Once that was done, Eddison and I stood by the stairs. Our job was to keep people out when they came to investigate, and let Peter know when t
he doors unlocked. Peter and Brandon lit the fires. The fire alarm went off as planned. Then the building said, “Gas fire suppression activated. You have one minute to exit.” Eddison freaked, screaming at Peter and Brandon to come out.
I don’t think they heard us. I don’t think they understood the danger. When the fire door auto-closed, we grabbed the handles to keep it open, but the metal turned red hot, burning us. I guess it’s wired to do that so you can’t hold the fire doors open. When we let go, the doors locked with Peter and Brandon inside.
L came running down the stairs, with Lee and Darryl behind her. Eddison told her our plan. She was furious. Of course we didn’t know. How could we know? She’s never shared the building manual. Everything she knows about the building, she’s kept secret.
They waited with us. After half an hour, the building told us the fire was suppressed and the room clear. The handles cooled. The doors unlocked.
Peter and Brandon lay just inside. They used the sling from Peter’s shoulder to insulate the handles, but they couldn’t force the door, not after the building locked it.
L said the building uses a gas suppression system during lockdown. Carbon dioxide, which is very green. She added, “Next time you have an idea. Don’t be stupid. Talk to me first.”
I lost it. I lunged for her. Eddison grabbed me, dragging me away. While I was still screaming, calling her a murderer, a bitch, she told Lee and Darryl to take the bodies to the composter. Then as she walked upstairs, she said, “I’m sorry. I really am. I’ll send Julie down with burn cream for your hands, and something to calm down Sophie. Everyone who dies means more food for the survivors.”
I hate her.
From: Sophie Goldstein
To: Emily Wilson
Date: August 30, 2020
Subject:
It’s been a week since Peter died. Terry, Julie’s BF, took me aside for a talk. L must’ve put him up to it, thinking he’s a friend. He explained something had to be done with the bodies. It would be worse to throw them off the roof, and the building has no cold storage. Composting is the logical choice.