Credits
Author: DouglasLiu DouglasLiu , author page at here
Image modifications based on the following pictures, all from Pixabay, Pixabay License:
Desert,Rain,School,Rail,Whisky,Screen
You are a truck driver. You are on your last run of the day. The road to the landfill is bumpy and full of potholes; with every jolt, you feel like you hear a few moans coming from the cargo container behind you. This is, of course, an illusion—the container is as well-sealed as ever. You just can't help thinking about its contents. Wrong word. Those aren't contents; that's a pile of living people. You're used to it. You no longer feel the nausea and disgust you felt when you first took this job, but it's impossible to say you feel nothing.
Another jolt. The pothole is a bit big; your butt even left the seat. The people in the back must be feeling even worse. But thinking about it carefully, those destined to be transported by you to the landfill must have already suffered for many years and are doomed to suffer for many more. In comparison, this little bump is utterly insignificant.
You are thinking more about yourself. You've lost count of how many times this gastritis has flared up. Although it's much better than in the morning, your abdomen still aches faintly. Irregular meals, poor routine—you know all this. But what can you do? You need a salary to get by. You don't want to end up piled together with other unlucky souls, transported by another truck driver to the landfill. But honestly, with your current income, you need to work even harder. You don't want to think about this anymore. You turn on the truck's radio and randomly select a station. A music channel, perfect. You turn the volume up to max. Corny love songs fill every corner, an unknown singer desperately hoarse about unrequited love, missed connections, and scalding hot tears, leaving you with nothing to think about except watching the road.
You've arrived at the destination. The half-full landfill pit is filled with squirming bodies. It's not a pretty sight, but naturally, you're long used to it. You turn off the radio, stop the truck, and prepare to execute the final steps. Right then, you notice a body lying prone by the edge of the pit. Someone climbed out. Your heart skips a beat. This is an emergency situation you've never encountered before. Did the manual say how to deal with this? Maybe, but you don't remember. You feel your heartbeat accelerating. You look around and only find a wrench. Better than nothing. You get out of the truck with the wrench. Even with three layers of masks, you can still smell the sour stench permeating the air. Slowly, trembling with fear, you walk towards the body by the pit.
The body isn't moving. You poke it with the wrench. No reaction. Gathering your courage, you feel its wrist. Cold. He's dead.
You let out a long sigh of relief and wipe the mud off your hands onto your pants. This guy got lucky, you think to yourself. You've been doing this job for almost three years, and this is the first time you've seen someone successfully die at the landfill. You study the corpse's face. Caked in sludge, the expression is unclear, but you can still see the shriveled lips curved into an arc. He's smiling. Understandable. You imagine his last moments must have been filled with the joy of relief.
But that's enough. Empathy has its limits. Right now, you just want to finish the job quickly, hoping to get home early today and go to bed early. You can't be bothered to deal with this corpse by the pit. For one, you don't actually know how to dispose of it. For another, you glimpse a few vultures behind the grass in the distance. Poor scavengers. They must not have had a feast in a long time. For them, the body of an elderly man is a veritable banquet in the desert. The sun is about to set; all that's missing are candles and wine glasses.
You put the wrench back in the truck and realize the pain in your abdomen is gone. Hard to say if that's a good thing or a bad thing.
You walk to the back of the truck and open the container door.
You are a drug-addicted prostitute. You walk as close to the edge of the building as possible, trying not to get your nightgown soaked by the cold night rain. Withdrawal has started. You smell blood in your nasal cavity; your spasming legs make every step difficult. You know the cure. Most of your brain is urging you to go back, back to that gloomy unfinished apartment, 15th floor, second door on the left, let the tattooed bald guy inside give you a fix. You crave that white powder, like salt and sugar, one dose and it's heaven, bliss. But you can't. You don't have a single cent on you; you were just thrown out. Your heart pounds wildly; stomach acid surges up. You force yourself to swallow it back down; your entire esophagus burns as if sizzling.
A car drives past, its headlights stabbing straight into your eyes. You are momentarily blinded, flailing your hands in the air disorientedly. Once you regain your footing, you find most of your body covered in sticky rainwater. You take an alley. It's dark and stinky; a nest of rats runs past right in front of you. But you can't care about that anymore. You don't want to take one extra step. You just want to find a dry place to lie down and leave the rest to fate. A shadow in a corner squirms. You let out a scream and see that decayed humanoid form huddled in the corner. You look at its hands covered in rotten flesh, its chest where bone is visible, its eyes a turbid milky white, mottled like mold. It has no mouth; where the mouth should be is just a black hole. It sees you. The black hole begins to make a sound:
"Ah...... ah...... ah......"
That's all the sound it can make. A hollow guttural sound hovering on the boundary between human and non-human.
"Ah...... ah...... ah......"
You are terrified. You are scared. You run away hard. Its sound continues incessantly behind you.
You cry. You've glimpsed your own fate. Your brain buzzes; you can directly see the future you lying in a corner, voicelessly roaring. You know it. You are trash. You are the lowest drug addict in this city. Your body, full of holes, has no resistance. "Carcinoma" can manipulate you at will. You have already seen the endless hell waiting for you ahead. You are sliding down rapidly with nothing to hold onto. You keep running, running, running. You dash into the rental room, take out the key to open the door. The key drops to the ground. You let out a cry; tears and rainwater mix into a paste on your face. Picking up the key, you finally open the door. You collapse inside, leaning against the door, crying silently.
What can you do? What can you possibly do? No way out. No cure. You sent yourself down this dead end with your own hands.
No. You remember. There is one way.
Trembling, you walk to the corner of the room. There's a rice cooker, two plates of cold, sour green vegetables, and a kitchen knife. You pick up the kitchen knife and point it at your wrist. You are scared. You start having a nosebleed. Are you ready? Are you really ready? You are not ready. You have never been ready for anything. But you have no choice. What other choice do you have? You need to see blood. This is your only way out.
You chop down with the knife.
Your scream echoes through the entire rental room, continuous. But in this slum with its torrential night rain, haphazardly stacked buildings, and spider-web-like crawling wires, whose attention can a woman's hoarse scream possibly attract?
You are a middle school teacher. This Friday is particularly beautiful, with sunlight lazily spilling onto the corridor railings. "Alright, settle down," you say to your students. "I know nobody likes boring classes like sex ed. But trust me, today's lesson is important. It's time I told you about this thing called 'Carcinoma'."
You click open the prepared slides.
"You're all smart kids. I'm sure you've all heard of 'Carcinoma'." You walk down from the podium, moving between the desks. "Yes, it exists in almost all of us. No, there are rare exceptions. No, there are no exceptions in our class. This is something we all need to face together. Children, this is a heavy topic. But you've reached the age where you need to seriously understand this. I have an obligation to teach you how to correctly face 'Carcinoma'."
You press the remote in your hand. The slides move to the next page.
"The first point that needs clarification is that 'Carcinoma' is not a disease, nor is it a parasitic or symbiotic—you've learned this concept in biology, right? Good.—parasitic or symbiotic external organism. It is a part of ourselves, generated from within, possessing vitality. And its effect, I think you all know, is that it can repair damage to our bodies, like cuts, burns, or invasions by any external pathogens. The specific repair speed depends on the degree of damage and varies from person to person, but 'Carcinoma's' regenerative ability is extremely strong. It can be said that, so far, we have not found any damage that 'Carcinoma' cannot repair."
You flip through the slides page by page. The wall clock ticks away, recording the passage of time.
"…In summary," you read from the slides, "due to the widespread existence of 'Carcinoma', human lifespan has seen unprecedented growth. The longest known human lifespan has already reached over 200 years, and this number is still increasing because that person hasn't died yet. I bet Qin Shi Huang would have loved to live in our era."
A burst of cheerful snickers.
"Another point," you continue, "during the process of repairing damage, 'Carcinoma' itself also grows. That is to say, the more we get injured, the more repairs are done, the stronger 'Carcinoma's' vitality becomes, and the harder it is to eliminate. Yes, I know what you're thinking now. You're thinking, why would we want to eliminate 'Carcinoma'? Isn't immortality a good thing? Yes, children, this is a cruel fact. I don't expect you to understand this fact deeply right now, nor do I want you to start considering death too early. But I have an obligation to let you see clearly that striving to eliminate our own 'Carcinoma' is something we should all strive to do. I'm sorry this is the first class after lunch; I didn't make the schedule."
You take a deep breath and switch to the next slide. Half the class gasps; a few more timid girls scream and cover their eyes. The projection screen shows photos of several broken, decayed bodies: atrophied, festering limbs, sunken eye sockets, and fleshy growths that look moldy. You know you've achieved the effect, and you're glad you gauged the scale correctly; the students' reactions aren't too extreme.
"'Carcinoma' is not omnipotent." You switch away from that slide and continue, "It can keep us alive, but being alive is really a very, very low standard. If you let 'Carcinoma' grow unchecked within you, in the end, you will only become a walking corpse. 'Carcinoma' can pull you back from the brink of death, but you will linger on that brink. It will be a long and painful experience because we don't even know the upper limit of 'Carcinoma's' vitality yet. Nobody wants this. Believe me."
This time you pause a little longer.
"Regrettably, we haven't yet developed drugs that can efficiently eliminate 'Carcinoma'. Fortunately, we indeed can eliminate 'Carcinoma'. The method is as simple as if it were designed: maintain bodily health, don't give 'Carcinoma' the chance to repair us. Our body's original immune system is still functioning normally. As long as we can ensure it operates unimpeded, given time, we can eliminate 'Carcinoma' on our own and then welcome the outcome we are willing to accept. According to current research, for a normal person, even with some minor illnesses and pains, but generally healthy, usually by around 100 to 150 years old, 'Carcinoma' is mostly gone. This is our most correct path."
You glance at the wall clock. 12 minutes left before the end of class.
"Okay, classmates, I've finished today's lesson. Do you have any questions?"
A girl raises her hand: "Teacher, does 'Carcinoma's' regenerative ability really have no upper limit? For example, if someone is decapitated, can 'Carcinoma' still repair that?"
"I haven't looked into the specific situation," you reply, "but the answer is 'yes'. In that case, 'Carcinoma' can keep that person conscious at a minimal level until the wound can be reconnected. I don't know what that would feel like. But I hope I never find out."
A boy raises his hand: "Teacher, I know there's another way to eliminate 'Carcinoma'. Why didn't you mention it?"
Smart kid, you think to yourself, he chose not to say it outright. "You are right," you say. "There is another way. This isn't in the syllabus, and in principle, I shouldn't tell you about it. But, you are the top students in this school. I believe you have the ability to decide for yourselves after hearing it."
You check the clock. 8 minutes left. No students from other classes are walking around in the corridor outside yet.
"'Carcinoma' doesn't always gain growth from every repair. If the injury is severe enough to be 'fatal', like the decapitation just mentioned, although 'Carcinoma' can repair it, it itself will suffer some consumption. But children, this is not a good path. This process is inevitably accompanied by intense pain, and the consumption of 'Carcinoma' isn't even that much. I don't know the exact numbers, but to eliminate 'Carcinoma', I imagine the number of 'suicides' wouldn't be less than twenty. I hope none of you consider doing this. Understood?"
5 minutes left before the end of class.
"Alright, that's about it," you say. "Any more questions?"
Another boy raises his hand. The school doesn't allow jewelry, but you can see the cross hanging on his neck through his uniform. "Teacher, do you think this is a punishment from God?"
You know, as a middle school teacher, what the politically correct answer is: "As an atheist, no, I don't believe this is some divine punishment. Before 'Carcinoma' appeared, we had to fight countless diseases and disasters; they brought us no less suffering than 'Carcinoma' does. The Black Death in Europe, SARS in Guangdong, the incurable AIDS, and countless genetic diseases. 'Carcinoma' eliminated them all. It itself is not entirely evil. It is an existence, and we must adapt to this existence. We humans have always done this—adapt to our environment to achieve a better future. That's all."
But privately, you yourself feel that this is a joke played on all humanity by some indifferent deity.
You are a station security guard. The sky isn't light yet; there's over an hour until the first train. This is troublesome because you are currently aiming a gun at a man lying spread-eagled on the railway tracks. The man is skinny and reeks of alcohol, but you think he knows exactly what he's doing. You click off the safety on your pistol. The man doesn't move a muscle. He's determined to lie here and wait for the train to run him over. He came here for this. He drank to bolster his courage.
"Come on, buddy. I know what you're here to do," you shout at him. "I don't have time to waste with you here, and I won't shoot you in the head because that's what you want. Time is tight, so I'll shoot your leg, and drag you away while you're cursing in pain. So get up! Do you fucking hear me?"
The man says nothing.
"Are you deaf? Then can you understand what this is, huh? This is a gun. If you don't get up, I'll shoot your leg." You kick his calf hard. "Well? Got it?"
The man gives you a sidelong glance, still lying on the tracks, looking at the dimly brightening sky in the east. He's betting you don't dare to fire, the old way of thinking. He doesn't know the railway department's rules and regulations have long changed. With 'Carcinoma' backing them up, many violent law enforcement actions are already ethically permitted. Of course, many people still can't bring themselves to do it; it requires a certain mental fortitude after all. But today he's out of luck because you're not one of those people.
You pull the trigger. The bullet pierces through his calf, spurting a bright red flower of blood. He lets out a pig-slaughtering howl, piercing your eardrums. You spit on the ground and, taking advantage of his screaming and struggling, grab his shoulder and pull him to the side of the tracks. As expected, he's as light as a half-filled sack of sand. You actually didn't need to shoot to subdue him. But no one will care about that detail.
Ignoring his miserable screams, you press the button on your walkie-talkie and report the situation to the station master.
"Done on my end. The guy was weak as a chicken. I need assistance."
"Copy that. Wong is done on his end too. He's coming over now."
He's not the only one who came here seeking to be crushed. He's not even the only one today. There are always people who want to find release here, those weaklings who desperately want to die but lack the courage to do it themselves. You deeply despise such people. They are the dregs of society, lacking either the strength to live or the courage to kill themselves. If you didn't know this wouldn't kill them, you'd really want to put a bullet in such trash's heads. Goddamn it, can't they just hang themselves with a rope in their room, or burn charcoal, or drink a cup of Paraquat? They haven't considered at all how many people's travel plans this method of lying on the tracks affects. They probably don't have enough brain cells left to think about these things, you think to yourself.
You look down at this man. He's throwing his final drunken fit. But unexpectedly, he doesn't do anything to you. He waves his arms, continuously shouting incoherent words. He cries, he convulses, swallowing saliva in large gulps, like a three-and-a-half-year-old child whose favorite toy has been snatched away.
Actually, this situation could easily be avoided. You vaguely remember news last year about plans to build soundproof walls around the railway. They don't even need to be soundproof; just taller than a person, anything would do. Yet a year has passed, and nothing has happened. So there have to be people like you, getting up early and working late, driving the human scum away from this suburban railway line every day. You don't know why it's like this, but honestly, you don't really care either.
You wait quietly for your partner. You don't want to spend one more second with this person.
You are the director of the regulatory bureau. The night is deep but not yet over; outside the window, bustling vehicles still drag long streaks of light. You swirl the glass in your hand; the ice cubes clink against the side, melting subtly into the Lagavulin 1995 whisky. You love this sound to death, and you immensely enjoy the tranquility of the night. And in a few days, it will be the long-awaited vacation you've been looking forward to. You've already arranged the itinerary. Italy, Cinque Terre, the seaside at Monterosso, and the seafood feast prepared for you and your wife by Chef Marino. You imagine yourself, well-fed and wined, burying your toes in the white, blazing hot sand, feeling the Mediterranean breeze gently brush past. Perfect. You can't wait.
"Honey, I'm going to bed. Are you coming up?" your wife calls to you gently from upstairs.
"OK, sweetie. I'll be up in a bit." You raise your glass to her. Your wife gives you a charming smile and turns into the bedroom.
You want to stay a little longer, to properly enjoy the peace of the night. After all, today wasn't exactly peaceful. You read many documents, you signed many papers, and you had a meal with another director that wasn't terrible but couldn't be called pleasant either. And tomorrow you have to read more documents and sign more papers. You also plan to flirt with that new secretary; the body tightly wrapped in that suit skirt is truly intoxicating. You yawn slightly; the alcohol is starting to take effect. It's almost time for bed. You really hope you'll dream of Italy.
Oh, one more thing. You almost forgot. You put down the whisky, take out a small medicine bottle from the drawer by the fireplace. You shake out a small, pale yellow pill and swallow it with the whisky.
To be honest, you don't like the pharmacist who sells this medicine. He's crazy, and his way of speaking is strange. But his medicine works. While you sleep soundly, one half of the medicine's components will corrode your stomach, drilling millions of holes, causing 'Carcinoma' to waste away in its frantic efforts to repair. The other half of the medicine's components will gently anesthetize your brain, bestowing a gentle pleasure, making you feel nothing of all this. At least that's what the pharmacist says; you haven't looked deeply into the specific ingredients of the medicine. Judging by the current effects, you tentatively trust him.
Of course, this medicine isn't cheap, but you've never worried about money. Who are you? You're the director. As long as you remain in this position, there will always be people continuously sending you money, hoping you might turn a blind eye to certain matters from time to time. When was the last time? Something about a railway wall? You can't remember, and you don't care. In an era where people don't die easily, what impact could a little corruption possibly have? Why bother caring about these things?
You down the last of the whisky, put down the glass, and walk upstairs to the bedroom. So what about 'Carcinoma'? It doesn't disturb this beautiful world around you.
You are a Foundation archivist. You don't know what time it is; the office lights are off. But it doesn't matter; you're not sleepy anyway. You continue organizing the documents assigned to you by your superiors. Routine work, nothing more than synchronizing with the main site's database, checking update logs, supplementing links to related research, and inputting some handwritten research reports into the archives. Standard procedure.
Right now, you are looking at the Foundation's K-Class Event database. This isn't the first time you've organized this list. The list updates much faster than you imagined. The Foundation researchers have a keen eye for talent, frequently discovering new anomalous effects that could potentially affect all of humanity. You can't help but sigh; humans are really too fragile, especially from the Foundation's perspective. A slight error, a containment breach, and the magnificent civilization we built over millennia could collapse. You scroll the mouse wheel, browsing the descriptions of various K-Class scenarios and their sometimes straightforward, sometimes obscure names. Finally, your gaze stops on the second-to-last item on the list. You let out a bitter laugh.
Scenario Designation: ΨK-Class
Likelihood: Occurred
Severity:Survivable, but requires moderate adjustment of human civilization.
Description:A ΨK-Class ("Death's Fatigue") scenario refers to a situation where humans (or all life) find it difficult to die. Biological death is not entirely impossible under these circumstances, but the conditions for death are extremely stringent, while the conditions for survival are exceptionally simple. All protocols for this scenario assume the Foundation has taken measures to avoid a Broken Masquerade situation. This scenario also assumes the Foundation maintains its current structure and branches.
Note that a ΨK-Class scenario may be a precursor to an ΩK-Class ("End-of-Death") scenario.
Priorities:
1. Veil Control: Normalcy has been redefined. Modified research reports have been disseminated to explain the effects of the ΨK-Class scenario. Veil control is good. Public acceptance of the ΨK-Class scenario is good. Containment continues as usual.
2. Death Condition Research: Research progress on death conditions is good. Death conditions, while more demanding than pre-normalcy, are within controllable limits. Civilian participation in research has been permitted to improve efficiency.
This isn't the first time you've seen this entry. Every time you see those three blue words "Occurred," you feel like you can see the helplessness of the first researcher who wrote them. Sometimes you wonder, if a K-Class scenario has already occurred, does it still need to be recorded in the database? Currently, the Foundation does so, but perhaps it's because humanity hasn't been completely defeated yet; it's just that we need to try much harder than before.
Just then, you notice an update to this entry that you haven't seen before.
Cause:
> Research Report R-ΨK-19032135.doc
You are slightly surprised. A research report linked here necessarily implies a breakthrough discovery. If the Foundation has fully elucidated the cause of the ΨK-Class scenario, then perhaps a cure to reverse it is within sight. The Foundation never gives up. Secure. Contain. Protect. The Foundation upholds this motto always. You feel a glimpse of hope. You even feel a hint of pride at being part of the Foundation.
With a small surge of excitement, you click the link. A pop-up window appears.
By Order of the O5 Council
This file is restricted to those with Yellowstone Clearance
Unauthorized Access Prohibited
.
.
.
System does not detect Yellowstone Clearance
If you confirm you hold Yellowstone Clearance, please click here to manually enter credentials
Regrettably, you do not possess the corresponding clearance. You don't even know what "Yellowstone Clearance" is. The Foundation has many secrets, and you are just an ordinary archivist. You are destined to miss out on many secrets; you've long known and grown accustomed to this. Some things are better left unknown. You're not a fan of Lovecraft, but you feel that, at least for yourself, you really shouldn't sail too far or probe too deep.
Besides, even if you knew the truth, so what? The world has already changed. Normalcy has been altered. We must ultimately work extremely hard to die without effort.
The truth isn't important anymore, is it?