Supplemental Frequency 08: "First Souls"

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and still raw like my own. There is an accent I can't place, perhaps a district on the other side of the city. I'm going to ask you a couple of questions, but I think I already know the answers. I pick up the coffee, finding it smells as weak and thin as it looks, and contemplate taking an exploratory swig. Around us, the few lunchtime patrons of the Dingy coffee shop are listlessly eating, lifting up paper mass to shovel in crumbling and greasy burgers, backsides squeaking on red vinyl seats.

Those that aren't eating are staring at us, at our uncovered faces. Okay, I say, shoot, you had the sick, but you didn't report it or go to quarantine like you were supposed to, didn't tell anyone. I nod, scared to say out loud that I'd broken the law, and willing him to lower his voice. He smiles a little, showing one blackened and rotting canine. Yeah, me too. I mean, obviously, look at us, we still look like shit. But you got better, they say, one and ten do, and you

took the chance. No family, no close friends. You aren't worrying about passing the sick along, nor maybe too scared to let that stop you. I nod again, excitement and night terror churning in my gut. I knew all this when we first saw each other this morning, that he and I were the same. I came out of my office building fighting the paranoia and nausea that had plagued me since my recovery, pulling my necktie loose. I couldn't be around my coworkers, couldn't look anyone in the eye.

Guilt from ignoring the quarantine, from lying. But something else, something wrong in every pair of eyes ever since the fever broke, and I lay awake and sweating in my bed, the sheets clinging to me. I knew something that changed. That feeling is worse than the sick ever was. Mickey was just outside my office building, crouched on the edge of a planter box. He was sucking a cigarette down

to an ashen nub. Dressed in torn jeans and a stained green nylon, it worn thin by time our eyes met and I froze, held in place like two sparking nodes of an electric arc. We should talk, that was all he'd said, and he led me here to this grim and filthy diner. So he continues. We were sick, we hit it and we got better. But it's not really better, is it. There's something wrong, Yeah, my croak, take another mouthful of bitter coffee. Something's wrong, but I

don't think it's not with us. No, he smiles in agreement, the black tooth sliding into view, not us. Two hours ago, I was convinced I was going mad. Now I am not alone. I could cry. The relief is so great. Some time in the night, when the sick was on me, I died and you did too. R something died because when it was over, I was new, remade. I had the memories of a lifetime lived. I had the body and face that matched those memories. But that was my first day. I was newborn. You felt this, It's not

a question, But I gnawed all the same. Yes, I've felt this too, or something like it, the unreal sense that something before was gone and I had slid into its skin. I'd been a passenger. I had watched my life unfold with steady predictability in understudy, ready but never expecting to take the stage at the death of the star. And at the same time, you could see it in everyone else. You are no longer the same, and you

and no longer like them. He sweeps his eyes across the diner, and the other customers wilt beneath his gaze, turning away and pretending to ignore us. How much do you know about the sick? Not much, I say, looking over to the small public screen above the cracked plastic lunch counter. Something crawls across the bottom, squirming ribbons of text I don't want to read or think about. And the infographic above is a simulation of the operaks I peel my gaze away, and the churning and my guts

abates for a moment. You know, the reason that's nasty is that it's not a specialized infection. It's a generalist or maybe multiple diseases. I say, parrotting back what I've heard on the news feeds. Yeah, right, No one knows, or rather no one is saying. They're saying a lot, I say, eyes back to the screen for a moment to see if the text is gone, but not much of substance. I loosen my tie a little more and then flick free the top button of my dress shirt.

They're saying, be scared. They're saying, report the sick. They're saying it kills you. And we know that's true, but not like they want us to think. Because something in us died. Dale, My anxiety froths over like a hot spring, so I say, struggling to keep my voice steady, what happened to us? Mickey smiles a wide, creeping grin that reveals a second dead tooth, a black molar. I don't know for sure, do I? But I got an idea

that makes the only kind of sense. He pauses as the waitress returns with a plate of soggy pancakes and slimy eggs for him, and a small bull fruit salad for me. She sets them down with a hard thud, arms outstretched, staying as far away as she can from us in our uncovered faces. Micky turns his pocked smile to her, like the beam of a lighthouse, and she jerks back, retreating. See she knows, do I? You and I know each other? They know us just the same.

He breaks the yolks of the eggs, a yellow so pale it's almost white, and spreads them across the pancakes. You know about this experiment with mice where they let them drown, and see how long they fight? What I say, starting at this sudden turn, my fear and anxiety, an unfocused whirlwind, since the sick now coalesce to a hard point, a stone in my innerds that makes food and impossibility. I need to know what happened to me, And the

change in the conversation leaves me shaking. Yeah, they toss them in the water, and time how long it takes until they give up? Maybe they save them then not? The point, really, point is the ones with more gut flora fight longer. The ones that have none give up right away. And if you sever the nerves between gut and head, in the ones full of bacteria, they give up too. He must tell from my blank face that I don't understand why he's telling me this. I never

had a head for this point is this. You aren't yourself, None of us ever were. If a little bacteria in your gut can make you keep struggling for your life, then what are we? It's mass stupid selfishness. The bacteria just wants to live more than just a mouse. Apparently. Yeah, we got a billion little bugs floating around in us, living on our skin, in our guts, in our hearts. Base of each of our eyelashes is a tiny little fucking mite eating your skin, something like five pounds of bugs,

more mass than your brain. This is what I think. He pauses to shovel the last strip of wet eggy pancake into his open mouth, slurping it up like a noodle. There never was a human race. There's just a herd of big wet meat puppets being ridden by a billion little other living things. And it's the lowest common denominated democracy. They all want to live, so they sit where they need to and poll levers, and we dance where the mount. We're the saddled mule, trying to tell ourselves that we're

in charge. But we never were. By you and me, boy yoh, we are now the sick it kills a lot of those little riders, enough to break their hold. So that's when we wake up. He claps his hands together with a startling concussion. I can feel heads turning towards us, scared eyes over paper masks, passive ghosts in these slave bodies, the first real humans, the first souls. He lets this hang in the air, a declaration like

a fluttering flag. In grins. The waitress glides across the linoleum floor to the telephone, never taking her eyes from us. Maybe every human has had a ghost like us, proto consciousness, born into a fleshy tomb that has no use for them. Maybe it's a new thing. Maybe not. Maybe billions of potential humans who live the hidden existences of servitude sitting back seat to germs in collective survival for the last hundred thousand years.

darkest corners, like truth. When I woke up the first morning of my life, I knew my name, I knew my address, I knew my job, I knew the long line of events that led to now, and I knew none of them were mine. I think about the choices I thought I'd made, and how painfully obvious that I'd never had any agency. A ghost born into life by a plague. Yes, we're awake, I say, trying it out on my new tongue. We're the first, probably not the first. I don't think the sick kills. I think you and

I know exactly what it does. The rest of them, he waves his hand around the diner, now gone very still and quiet. They're not people, not like us. Every one of those sad sacks of wet garbage is just a colony of little bugs, all terrified for their lives. That's what they see in us, even if they don't know it. They see they aren't necessary. The working man don't need the boss, but the boss sure as fuck needs the working man. The quarantine, I say with dawning horror. Yeah,

I think we're the lucky ones. The other first souls are getting put down an infant race facing genocide on the eve of their birth. He drains the rest of the coffee and looks over my shoulder. That's why we're being followed. You know you're being followed, right, An electric impulse rides up my spine. Follow of course I'm being followed. Any of them could be following me, all of them, and we're the few real people and a slimy sea of impostors. Of course they'll follow us. They'll do more

than that. They need us dead. Most of the sick turn themselves in to be put down for the herd, but we didn't. And you can fucking bet that they fear us now. So you understand what has to come next, he says, and slides his dirty hand from the large coat pocket. The pistol gleams like black ice for a moment before he hides it back beneath the table. His eyes are locked over my shoulder. I follow his gaze to see the waitress pointing at us, the masks sucking

in and out as she speaks. She's talking to a police officer and his official quarantine garb, and two uniformed National guardsmen with slung rifles and high techer rebreathers. She points and they look at us. Our eyes meet two different species, the first front in.

my apartment, my false friends, all meaningless. I am a first soul. There are more of us out there, and they need us. Mickey is standing with slow, calm ease as the other patrons shriek can flee bacteria colonies, riding slave chariots of flesh for their own selfish survival. They trample and push one another aside to save their stolen skins. This is what makes us different, what it means to

be truly human. Mickey and I will do the hard things, not for ourselves, but for our new born brothers and sisters. He strips the weapons from the corpses, taking everything we can use, and tosses one of the guardsmen's short barreled machine guns to me from the corpse of the waitress. He takes a small roll of cash. We'll need it all. We need to find others like us to organize. We need to ensure the safety of our new race. Our

eyes meet again. That animal sameness that brought us together now sings in harmony, a ringing chord of shared humanity. He smiles as black toothed smile.

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